Calumet City by Charlie Newton Page B

tattoo tears. After four minutes it’s obvious that there’s no way to deny my past to Danny D if he decides to talk about it—to me or anybody else. He finishes with "Religion’s a go-rilla in here."
    We’re here to talk about Richard Rhodes the ASA, and I want to say that, but Danny keeps going.
    "Like
PTL
was, you know? Jim and Tammy and ’send us the money.’" He bites his lip at the corner where it’s scarred thick. "You and I gotta talk about it some, or I gotta. You don’t look so good; maybe you just listen."
    Not if I can help it.
PTL
, television’s
Praise the Lord Club
.
    "Maybe you just nod."
    Glare reflections slide across the glass in the door.
    "When I ran, you was what, thirteen, fourteen, twelve? Richey ten or eleven."
    Nod.
    "Roland do
PTL
to you, like he did me and Richey?"
    I squeeze the table leg hard enough to break my wrist.
    "See, I don’t know when you got out, just that you did. You know, all the cop stuff in the papers. I knew it had to be you." He stops and squints. "You okay, Patti?"
    "Uh-huh."
    Danny’s voice is too calm for the pictures I see: Roland and Annabelle, the faces they made.
    "When I heard somebody capped Roland at the house in ’87, I figured it was Richey. Woulda been me if I’da stayed in that basement."
    Somebody uses my voice to say, "It wasn’t Roland, initial ID was bad. It was a friend of his…a guy Roland worked with."
    Danny adds prison to his face. He leaves it there while he sees something unpleasant, then regroups when I mutter us back to Richey. Richard. Danny wonders out loud about any others at the foster home.
    "There was another girl," I tell him and me. "Little Gwen. But she came after you ran."
    Danny drifts again. I don’t want to ask any more but I do. "So, Danny, about Richey—"
    "Recognized him from a picture they printed—big fucking deal assistant state’s attorney, or thought I did." Danny reaches for his shirt pocket and produces a new Polaroid. He slides it halfway across the table.
    It’s a photo of a prison cell wall.
    "Had a guard take it." He nods at the big guard with his hand on the knob.
    The wall is ordered, five rows of clippings and photos and articles. I look close. It’s me. I can make out the Paul Elledge photo when I was named Officer of the Year the first time. Danny talks while I blink.
    "See, I sorta pretend you’re my little sister. Wish I woulda come back for you after kicking Roland’s ass." His face hardens again. "But I got jammed up pretty quick, life of crime and all that…"
    I stare. At the picture. At him.
    "Man…that ain’t right. Faggot motherfucker being alive…All this time I thought Roland was gone." Danny D looks like who he is now. He says,
"Faggot motherfucker"
to his hands, then composes himself, folding his arms. "Roland was an accountant or bookkeeper, somethin’ like that. Worked for hospitals, mostly. Kind of a weekend missionary too…but that ain’t news to you." A red swastika ripples across Danny’s forearm. "Should know both him and his ol’ lady better—been killing the same two people all my life."
    I remember to ask the superintendent’s question. "Who grabbed the ASA?"
    "No idea."
    The picture of Danny’s wall is still in my hand. "Then why call me?"
    "A guy hears things. Most of it bullshit in here.
Most of it
." Danny takes a long look at me for emphasis. "There’s money out on you. And soon."
    The guard knocks on the door’s glass and spreads his palm; five minutes.
    "
Somebody’s hunting me?
Like they did Richey?"
    Danny D shrugs. "Don’t know shit about Richey-the-big-deal-ASA." Pause and another long stare. "You, I know about."
    I sit back like I’ve been shoved and take him all in, then lean forward because I’ve forgotten seventeen years of street smart. He leans at me and whispers,
    "An Arizona-Idaho whiteboy shows up, starts buying crystal, met some people, hired himself some accomplices." Pause. "He puts money out, wanting your particulars. Good-sized money."