Frederick Douglass Reynolds Reynolds

STICKS AND STONES

STREET LAMPS IN THE inner city were never on the same page.

Most of them were nothing more than decorations and distant memories of a time when city government functioned the way it was meant to. Now, it was not unusual to find only one fully functioning streetlamp on an entire city block, the others either dead or on their way, sizzling and spraying sparks. They played their roles to perfection in neighborhoods where sirens and gunshots were but ambient noise in a theater of the forgotten. When it was foggy, like it was tonight, the ones that worked became dirty yellow dots peering out from the abyss.

The dim light of one of them shone briefly on little six-year-old Anjanae Thomas as she walked under it, holding a ragged teddy bear by its arm. Her stomach growled. It was as loud as the sporadic barking of yard dogs growing fainter the further she got from her neighborhood. She started to get worried. Maybe she’d taken a wrong turn. The store should’ve been just ahead, but instead all she saw were several boarded up warehouses marred with graffiti. She looked behind her when she heard a car engine and a white van pulled next to her. A woman wearing a black hoodie and a black mask was driving.

“What are you doing out here in your pajamas?” the woman asked.

“Miss King fell down. She couldn’t get up.”

The woman got out and towered over her.

“Who is Miss King?”

“The lady who take care of us.”

“So why did you leave her?”

“I got hungry.”

“Humph. Little boys don’t play with dolls.”

Anjanae pulled a short braid from behind her head and showed the woman an attached barrette.

“I’m a girl. See? And her name is Belinda.”

“What is your name?”

“Anjanae. What’s your name?”

“That doesn’t concern you. What happened to the doll’s eye?”

Anjanae didn’t reply, instead giving the standard response of a child who thought they were in trouble, shrugging and poking out her lower lip. The woman’s bright green eyes narrowed and the crow’s feet next to them clawed at her leathery skin. A lock of blond hair fell from the side of her hood and hugged her chin.

“Oh, I see,” she said. “You did a boy thing.”

The sound of a foghorn in the distance startled Anjanae and she hugged Belinda.

“Come,” the woman said, extending a gloved hand. “I’ll take you back to Miss King.”

She led Anjanae to the rear of the van and opened the door. When Anjanae hesitated to get in, the woman carried her inside and silenced her screams with a strip of masking tape. After covering her with a weighted blanket attached to eye hooks in the floorboard, the woman climbed into the driver’s seat. She put in a CD with “3-1-1-1-1-1-1’s greatest hits” written on it and looked to her right.

“How about some music, papa?”

She drove off, pleased with her good fortune. As the van's tail lights disappeared into the fog, a small flame highlighted the face of a gaunt man sitting in a doorway of one of the buildings.

2

Xiomara Santiago, called “Mara” by everyone except her papi, hugged herself while walking to her late-model BMW. It was Southern California cold in a way that would surprise most people who weren’t from there. The people who thought that it should be warm year-round, that it never rained there, and that Los Angeles was a city filled with movie stars. But those beliefs were nothing more than fallacies. In truth the city was merely an ugly green screen for the flickering fable of ephemeral dreams, a poorly written script detailing an untenable fairy tale that rarely, if ever, had a happy ending.

Mara’s car was one of the few remaining cars in the parking lot of the Fitness Center she’d just left. She pulled out her cellphone after getting in, checking for missed calls or text messages. Still nothing. It was after midnight now, the realization bringing with it a heavy sigh as she pulled the hood of her oversized sweatshirt down and adjusted her rear-view mirror. The diamond stud in her nose glinted in the mirror, accentuating her hazel eyes. Combined with full, cupid’s bow lips suspended over a deep cleft in her chin, she was a study in subdued beauty masquerading as just another gym rat.

She took a semi-automatic pistol out of her backpack and put it in her waistband before driving to a nearby 7-Eleven a few minutes later. After sidestepping a man sleeping on a cardboard box in front of the store, she bought a bottle of Fiji water and a Greeting card and sidestepped him again on the way out. This time he was sitting upright and asked her for five dollars in a voice bordering on a demand. Mara glared at him, and he lowered his head and returned to the nod of someone who had long been guided by heroin and a missing state of grace.

“Hey Siri,” she said after starting car.

“Um hum?”

“Play Mara’s Rap favorites.”

“Playing, Mara’s Rap Favorites.”

Mara headed for the Sixth Street Bridge, the connection between the Boyle Heights neighborhood she’d just left and the Arts District Downtown. A red light caught her at an intersection littered with gang members hanging out in front of a corner liquor store. The moon was like a bronze orb being swallowed up and spat out continuously by a miasmatic fog that had rolled in. It shone down on her intermittingly through the car’s glass ceiling. She imagined herself the doomed star of an Avant Garde stage play preparing for the final act.

A few of the gang members walked toward her car. The gun felt like it was vibrating now, cold and hard and reminding her of the reason she’d been having trouble sleeping for the past few weeks. She eased through the intersection when the light turned green, watching the gang members grabbing their crotches and contorting their fingers in the air.

What are you doing, Mara? she thought.

She didn’t have long to ponder her question. The boundaries between gang-infestation and the privileged are nebulous in the city of Angels and within ten minutes, she pulled up to a luxury high-rise where a middle-aged valet opened her car door.

“Evening, Miss Santiago.”

“Good evening, Jake. It’s a cold one, isn’t it?”

“It sure is. Like my daddy used to say, ‘The devil’s out tonight.’ Oh, by the way: Happy Valentine’s Day, ma’am.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too, Jake.”

3

Reinier Duplantis leaned back in his seat and smiled. A gold upper tooth winked at the woman sitting next to him as he tried to remember her name. He was a handsome man, his cacao-colored face framed by a well-groomed salt and pepper beard. The woman was attractive, but only in a way that made her appealing to men disinterested in long-term relationships. Rein had met her a little over an hour ago at a local VFW in Compton, and three or four drinks later, he’d wooed her into joining him for breakfast.

“I know you said you ain’t hungry, but you want some of this?” the woman asked as she removed a brown paper bag from her faux Louis Vuitton purse.

“No, darlin, I’m good for now.”

“Suit yourself.”

She held an empty coffee cup under the table and looked stealthily around as she filled it from a bottle of liquor contained in the bag. She took a healthy gulp, exhaled a fireball, and put the now red lipstick-stained cup on the table. Rein huffed at her indiscretion, given the strong odor of marijuana coming from a nearby table. Rap music from a Bluetooth speaker on it was so loud that the waitress had to raise her voice slightly to take food orders from the two men and three women sitting there. Rein knew that she didn’t dare tell them to turn the music down. At this time of night, most of the patrons in the Funky Chicken Restaurant in Paramount were either drunk or high, and some of them weren’t good people.

But Rein was used to it. He’d seen their kind countless times. If you didn’t disrespect them or get into their business, they were harmless. They were the new generation; unwitting prototypes of plebeianism who believed that laws and rules were only to be obeyed if they felt like doing so. The men wore baseball caps, expensive sneakers, excessive jewelry, and pants sagging so low that their underwear was visible. The women wore the same type of shoes, yoga pants so tight that you could see every dimple in their ass, and cleavage revealing tops. And they all had cellphones, hypnotized by the screens unless engaged in infrequent conversation which usually consisted of short bursts of gossip or profanity.

Rein looked at the platinum Breguet Classique Complications Tourbillon model watch on his wrist. Fools like them wouldn’t look at it twice. It didn’t have diamonds or the word ‘Rolex’ on it. It was subtly elegant and didn’t look anywhere near as expensive as it was. No matter. If you know, you know, which most people didn’t, even the ones who worked with him.

Not that he cared how much it cost. He hadn’t paid for it anyway. The person he took it from no longer had a need for it, so he’d “liberated” it. Funny how using a certain word can make something seem less insidious than the act itself. But that had been years ago when he was a different person. He was better now and had kept the watch to remind himself just how one-sided the system was. At least that’s how he justified his continued possession of stolen property.

“You got someplace to be, Mister man?”

“Well, it’s real late now,” Rein replied. “And I was try’n to figure out how long its gon’ take you to get me outta’ these clothes.”

“Now, ain’t you something?”

“Me and Jesus, chère. Me and Jesus.”

The woman smiled, took a healthier gulp, and exhaled a smaller fireball than before. She winked and said, “Jesus I know. But it’s you old Pearl wanna’ find out about.”

“What you wanna’ know, Pearl?”

“Okay. How long you been in L.A.?”

“Since Katrina. Where you from?”

“How you know I ain’t from here?”

“Shiiid,” Rein scoffed. “Er’body here from someplace else, and they all tryin’ be somethin else.”

“Humph. Well, I’m from Tennessee.”

“And what brung you out here? You star struck? Looking to get your name on the walk of fame?”

“Shit. More like trying to get away from an abusive man. I had relatives out here.”

“Lucky you. I ain’t had nothing but a lil’ money and ill intent for boyfriends and married men.”

Pearl’s eyes bucked, her lips just wide enough to suck in a donut hole. “Um, um, umph,” she said. “What am I gonna do with you?”

Rein didn’t answer her question. He let it linger between them, like a mob of Jehovah’s Witnesses waiting for someone to answer the door. He said, “Anything else you wanna know, Pearl?”

“Matter of fact, there is. How’s it somebody as good-looking and old as you ain’t hitched? I mean look at you, sitting there in that fine blue suit. Even got a vest on, to boot. And not many men wear those type of hats anymore.”

Rein tilted his brown felt Biltmore. It was one of his favorites, and the right type for this time of year. Pearl swallowed another mouth-full and put her hand on his thigh. It was hard and muscled.

“Why you ain’t hitched yet?” she asked, nodding at his left hand.

“I guess I’m just lucky.”

“Well, if you married and lying ‘bout it, at least you ain’t one of those snakes that take they wedding rings off just for the night, cause you ain’t got no tan. I can’t stand those type of men. If you married, all you gotta do is tell me. If I like you good enough, we’ll figure something out.”

“Okay, Miss Pearl,” Rein said, joining her in a burst of laughter. “You got me. I’m married. Matter of fact, I get married every weekend.”

“You need to stop.”

“No lie. I usually get married every Friday night, and then I get divorced every Monday mornin. Got me an early start this week, though.”

More laughter. Hers was louder, almost comically so, the way women laugh at mediocre jokes told by men they want to fuck. Rein flashed gold and finished his coffee. He slid the cup toward her and said, “Maybe I will have a tee-tot of what you got in that lil’ bag, darlin.”

Pearl held Rein’s cup below the table and poured a robust shot. He took a sip. Hennesy, he thought. As the liquor burned his esophagus, he heard Pearl mutter something and laugh. Not knowing if whatever she’d said needed an answer, he took another sip and segued into a safe topic.

“Where you put all that food, Pearl?”

“Please. I know you done seen this caboose I’m dragging. Don’t take much imagination to figure that one out.” She burst out laughing again and poured the rest of the liquor into her cup. She lifted it to her mouth and looked at him over the top of it. “Sides. I ain’t even had my dessert yet.”

Loud laughter from the group at the table next to theirs broke her gaze; smoke from their vape pens drifted throughout the restaurant as their vulgarity and use of the ubiquitous “N” word became louder than the music coming from the speaker.

Please, don’t do anything stupid, Rein thought. The weight of the blue-steel Colt Python in his shoulder holster suddenly became very heavy. While most everyone else preferred exotic semi-automatic pistols with 17-round magazine clips, Rein had a predilection for revolvers. They always went bang whenever the trigger was pulled, no matter what, and they required little maintenance. He breathed a sigh of relief when the group got up and left a few minutes later. The waitress picked up their tab and a few bills of various monetary denominations from the table. Her facial expression screamed no tip. Rein got her attention and waved her over.

He could tell that when she was younger, before she’d had to deal with whatever curveballs had been thrown her way, she was a knockout. Even now, as she stood there with gossamer wings on her back and a temporary tattoo of cupid on her cheek, she was a Valentine’s Day Hallmark card waiting to happen.

“Can I get a to-go cup for my coffee?” Rein asked.

“Coming right up.” The waitress walked away like she was leaving a casting couch. She came back the same way, putting Rein’s request on the table with a wide smile.

“Here you go, sir. Can I get y’all anything else?”

“No, darlin,’” Rein said. “I think we good.”

Pearl cleared her throat loudly, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and dropped it on her plate. The waitress put the check on the table and smiled at Rein. Then she smiled at Pearl before walking away. The smile directed at Pearl said, “What in the hell are you doing with him?” The one directed at Rein said, “The next time you come, come by yourself.”

Rein paid the check with cash and left a $20 tip. Pearl referred to the waitress as a “thirsty bitch” and stood up, wobbly, and unsteady. Rein grabbed her arm and held her straight before helping her put on her overcoat. She ran a Lee Press-On nail along the side of his face and said, “My knight in shining armor.”

“That’s me, alright,” Rein said, putting on his own coat now. “I’m a downright chivalrous motherfucka.”

Pearl drained her cup and stood on her tiptoes. She took Rein’s hat off and put it on her head.

“How I look?”

“Like Dick Tracy done had a baby with Betty Boop. Now come on. Time to go.”

Rein dropped two more $20 bills on the table where the unruly group had sat. The waitress saw it and mouthed “thank you” before he and Pearl walked out the door. They hurried to his silver Dodge Magnum and Pearl slid into the front passenger seat, flashing a wide expanse of creamy thigh. Rein closed the door and while walking around the back of the car, he fished out a blue diamond pill and swallowed it with the rest of the Hennessy in the paper cup.

“Where to, chère?” he asked as he got in the driver’s seat and fastened his seatbelt.

“Ummm,” Pearl moaned, putting her head on his shoulder and her hand on his crotch. “Where you think, lover? Show me our honeymoon suite.”

It was drizzling now. Rein turned on the wipers and winked at Pearl as he drove off, hoping that if they got pulled over it wouldn’t be by the wrong cop. Times had changed in America, but he couldn’t help but think that even now, in the year 2024, a Black man riding with a drunk white woman was probable cause for further investigation in the minds of every overzealous cop in America. And this time, his badge might not save him from having to take part in another Field Sobriety Test.

4