Cry Havoc

'It's history.' Frank shrugged. 'You should know it too.'

'Hmph,' Lewis snorted.

'What?'

Lewis shifted irritably, snapping, 'I’ma be history if this crazy bitch don't open up soon.'

Frank had seen Lewis's testy side—she was already notorious at Figueroa for her knee-jerk response to any perceived racial slight— but this nervousness was curious. Frank had thought her made of sterner stuff.

'The old lady got you spooked?'

'I ain't spooked' Lewis spit out. 'I just don't like havin' my ass hangin' out in a dead end alley, standing like some two-bit hustla in front a crack house that's probably frontin' more firepower than we got back at the station. And this damn witch's wind don't help any,' Lewis added, plucking her damp blouse away from her chest.

Frank smiled. Lewis was right. Logistically they were vulnerable, but Mother Love's posse had nothing to gain by fucking with two homicide cops. Frank had seen Mother Love over the years and had heard the talk on the street about the Mother's prowess with hexes and charms. Like most of her colleagues, Frank had thought Mother Love harmless enough. That was until she had established herself as the largest crack dealer in town and protected her interests with a loyal swarm of well-armed followers and highly-paid lawyers. The Mother didn't have to bother with characters like Frank and Lewis.

'Don't you get scared?' Lewis hissed. 'I mean, you know, being white an all? I mean just in general.'

'Nope. I'm too mean and too ugly. Ain't nobody wanna mess with me.'

'Damn,' Lewis said, wagging her head. 'You got game, Lieutenant.'

As Frank said, 'Pound on that door again,' they heard a series of locks and bolts being turned. The heavy metal door screeched open, revealing two huge, ear-ringed, bald men. They stood impassively, twin black Genies- in-a-Bottle. A third man operated an arm that worked the door.

In a voice like gathering thunder, the genie on the right said, 'Mother Love will receive you.'

He tilted his head and the other twin led the way across the cavernous, barely lit room. Frank's loafers echoed loudly. Hulks of car bodies materialized against the murk. The place smelled like warm bricks, gasoline, and musty blood. The room's chill was in keen contrast to the outside temperature. Frank shivered, aware of the Beretta's bulk against her ribs. She picked her way around oil spots, very aware of Lewis and the twin behind her.

The genie ahead of her stepped through a door, ducking a little. He emerged into a narrow brick hallway lit with bare bulbs, and stopped behind a closed door. He waited until his twin entered the hall, sandwiching the cops between them, then continued to lead Frank and Lewis through a maze of hallways and flights of stairs. Finally he stopped. His bowling ball fist knocked lightly on a door.

Frank was caring less and less for her position in the cramped corridor and was relieved when she heard a woman's voice announce, 'Come.'

The genie pushed the door, tipping his head at the opening. Frank stepped inside, surprised to be in a jungle. Palms and ferns reached over rubber plants and dumb canes. Flowering vines crawled over all of them, aspiring to a row of skylights. Behind her, the genie closed the door. Frank felt trapped. She peered through the shadowy foliage, trying to see Mother Love, or whoever it was that had said 'Come.'

Her eyes lingered on an altar. The white cloth covering it was as streaked and dotted as a Jackson Pollock canvas.

Gotta tell Picasso that, she noted automatically. Picasso was Bobby Taylor, who held a fine arts degree, and appreciated artistic description. The thought passed as she studied a dozen candles burning on the altar. Their flames were sure and straight, yet feathers stuck in the cloth around them fluttered softly. Frank glanced for a fan or air vent but didn't see any. In fact the room was warm and swampy. The swaying feathers and motionless candle flames nagged at her while she searched for the person that had said 'Come.'

As if reading her mind, a smoky voice intoned, 'Over here, child.'

A flame seared the gloom and Lewis flinched. Frank stepped toward a table hidden by the greenery. Behind it, the Mother cast a quick look from the shadows. Frank watched as she lit an assembly of black tapers.

Well into her fifties, the Mother was an imposing woman, slim and elegant. Flares of white at her temples set off beautiful, high cheekbones. They jutted like mountain peaks over a strong chin and full, wide, burgundy lips. The slight hook to the nose, and deeply set amber eyes reminded Frank of birds of prey. The Mother watched Frank as if she were indeed prey.

Frank could hear her heart beating. The air felt supercharged and crackly, as if lightning were about to ground. A light draft slid across the back of her neck and Frank's hair stiffened. Her mind didn't know what it was yet, but her body sensed trouble.

What is it? she worried, casually flashing her ID. Frank's senses prowled the room as she introduced herself and Lewis. The Mother dismissed Lewis with a quick glance and Frank's prior confidence in Lewis evaporated—Mother Love would eat that girl alive then pick her teeth with the rookie's bones.

In a thick, low voice, the Mother started their conversation.

'I know you,' she claimed.

The two older women stared hard at each other. Frank realized the advantage she'd given the Mother by confronting her on her own ground. The Mother studied Frank behind hooded lids. She tilted her head, stating more than asking, 'You're quite the warrior, aren't you? You took on your own institution. Turned on one of your brothers.'

The Mother clucked her tongue, smiled teasingly, 'That was shameful.'

Frank didn't know if she meant Ike's behavior or her ratting.

'I know you too,' Frank said, seizing the moment. 'There's not a cop in South Central who doesn't. But frankly, that's narcotic's business. I'd like to talk about your nephew, Danny Duncan.'

Nodding, suddenly doe-eyed, the Mother agreed, 'A tragedy.'

She flattened her hands on the white tablecloth, flexing long, red nails like bloodied talons.

'Do you know who killed him?' the Mother asked.

'No. We were hoping you might be able to help with that.'

'I wish I could,' the Mother answered. Frank had seen her shift effortlessly from an initial wariness, to disdain, then sadness, and now weariness. She was good. Very good.

'His sister tells us you were close to him, that he spent a lot of time here.'

'Danny was a good boy,' she offered. 'He ran errands for me, helped with the church. It's a tragedy that he should have been taken so early.'

'Yes it is. When was the last time you saw him?'

'I'm not sure,' the Mother considered, smoothing the tablecloth. 'Maybe last weekend. I couldn't say for sure.'

'Oh. Your niece said he was here last night. Around ... ?' Frank knew very well what time, but prodded Lewis, 'What time did she say?'

'Around eight o'clock.'

'That's right. Eight o'clock.'

Frank let that hang there. The Mother shrugged innocently.

'I don't know what happened. I never saw him.'

'You must have missed him somehow,' Frank offered. 'Where were you around that time?'

'The church,' she said easily. 'He must have come by while the boys and I were preparing for Saturday's service. I don't suppose you've ever been to our church, have you, child? Saint Barbara's Spiritual Church of the Seven Powers? Hmm?'

'I don't believe I have. You, Lewis?'

'No, ma'am.'

Frank continued, 'We'll have to drop by sometime. Now, who are these boys you were with, last night?'

As the words came out of her mouth, a powerful deja vu swept over Frank.

She was watching the Mother over the table, the plants and the gloom thick upon her. She'd just asked the Mother a question. The Mother laughed, candlelight glinting off gleaming white teeth. She looked like an animal about to devour something warm and still moving. Frank watched, curiously repelled and