Richmond Noir Read online

  The dead were buried on the western slope of the island. That’s what the sign said. Over a hundred prisoners of war dumped into the dirt. Nothing but burlap wrapped around their bones—the lice wriggling free, trying to hop out before the earth got shoveled over. The bodies remained on Belle Isle until 1864—not long at all. Just a few years in the ground before they were dug back up and reinterred on the mainland. Their bones were taken away, while their ghosts got left behind.

  Corporal Edwin Bissel from Iowa. Company D, fifth infantry.

  Captain Spencer Deaton. Company B, Tennessee infantry.

  Lieutenant J.T. Ketchum. Company M, Richmond artillery.

  And now Benny. Couldn’t tell you where she was from. Couldn’t say if she had any family around here or not. Never mentioned any kids of her own to me. But Benny was my friend. She’s the only one buried on Belle Isle anymore, her grave unmarked, her body resting inside the vacant spot of some dug-up soldier. Only person who knows she’s out there is me.

  I stuffed her photographs into my pockets, layering up. Every jacket was padded with pictures, a Kevlar vest of Benny’s memories to protect me. Hadn’t left Belle Isle for over a week. The footbridge felt like it was about to snap, rocking under the weight of the traffic passing overhead. I was a bit wobbly at first, setting foot back onto the mainland, as if I’d been at sea all this time. First place I went was Monroe. Make an appearance for the police. Send a message that I was looking for them. When you’re after the brass, it’s better to let them come to you. So I just rested myself on a bench along the northern portion of the park, right under a magnolia tree. Couldn’t have closed my eyes for more than an hour before I got my wake-up call. Nothing but a wooden baton in the ribs, two boys-in-blue encouraging me to move merrily along my way.

  Time to get up, one of them said. Sleep somewhere else.

  I’m looking for my friend.

  Who’s your friend?

  Benny.

  He loiter around here too?

  If I was going to find out what happened to Benny I would have to go through it myself. Couldn’t just waltz into the hospital and ask for a lollipop, expecting them to tell me what the doctors did to her. The only way I was slipping past those sliding glass doors was with an emergency. And for that I needed a little help from my friends. So me and the boys-in-blue did a little Civil War reenactment of our own right there in the heart of Monroe Park. Sure were looking like soldiers to me, more and more, anyhow. Their cadet-blue uniforms. Their Jefferson boots. One stripe on their shoulder for every five years of faithful service. I went ahead and shoved my elbow into the stomach of the closest artilleryman. He buckled over, leaving me and the other soldier to share a few fists back and forth. Got a baton straight across the face. Busted my nose right open. Wasn’t long before the other soldier got his breath back, swinging right along. Some swift hits to the stomach came my way. Then the chest. Before I knew it, I was on my knees, this heat swelling up in my gut.

  We catch you in the park again—next time, we’re arresting you.

  Where’s Benny?

  Fed a few loose teeth to the pigeons, spitting them to the ground like bloody bread crumbs. Watched the birds scurry up, pecking away. Must’ve been hungrier than me.

  Not gonna tell you again.

  What’d you do to her?

  I blacked out after that. It gets a little patchy from here on. Memories begin to blend together; it was pretty difficult to tell whose history was whose anymore. I woke up in a waiting room. Could’ve been there for hours, staring up at the ceiling. Hum of fluorescents might as well have been flies buzzing about my body. Felt this fire inside my stomach. An oil lamp had busted open in my belly, kerosene leaking from my spleen. Nurses hovering over my head. None of them liked the smell of me.

  One of them said, Got another homeless here.

  Speaking like I don’t understand English.

  Humana? Unicare?

  Acting like they couldn’t hear me. Where’s Benny?

  Blue Cross?

  What’d you do with Benny?

  Kept hearing the same word, over and over—Insurance? Insurance?

  All I had was an eagle and an anchor.

  Another asked, Name?

  I answered right back: Lieutenant J.T. Ketchum. Company M, Richmond artillery.

  She called out, This one’s a vet, I guess.

  Damn right I’m a vet. I served my country. I fought at the Battle of Belle Isle. I have defended this city my whole life. I have given Richmond everything. My daughter. My best friend. I’ve got nothing now. What’s left of me to give?

  My colon, apparently. Had something hooked up to my side—I could feel it. A plastic bag. Reminded me of one of Benny’s bags with all her junk. One of Benny’s bags was attached to my abdomen, itching like a son of a bitch. Every time I tried scratching, some nurse slapped my hand away.

  Just trying to help, I said.

  Help yourself is more like it, she shot back, easing a needle into my arm. Suddenly the room went all soft. My tattoos felt fuzzy. The eagle on my forearm sank deeper into my skin, its talons dragging the earth down with it.

  Just when you think you’ve got nothing left to give, there’s always something more for this city to take away. Even your history. I’m back at the prison camp. Gangrene’s lingering in the air. Rotten cheese. Got to keep the flies off—otherwise, they’ll lay their eggs in my wounds. Neglected men everywhere, suffering from exposure. Fingers and feet lost to frostbite. Typhoid fever. Dysentery. My miserable comrades are dying all around me as the morning shift takes over, new nurses asking the same questions—Anthem?

  What’d you do to Benny?

  Carefirst?

  What’d you do to my friend?

  Clothes are gone. My shoes are gone. Got me in this green paper gown now.

  Green paper gown. Green paper gown.

  I’m in a wheelchair, rolled out into the parking lot. It’s morning. Sun’s just rising. An ambulance pulls up in front of me. I’m told to hold my colostomy bag as it drops into my lap. Feels soft inside. The guy behind the wheel’s asking for an address.

  Where you want to go? You got to give me an address, pal.

  Only address that’s coming to mind is Freedom House. On Belvidere.

  There’s no shelter on Belvidere anymore, he says as we drive off. Shut that one down a long time ago.

  The ambulance stops. Back doors fan open. I’m met with the winter sun. I can see my breath fog up before me. I see the James.

  I see the river.

  Richmond could’ve cared less about Benny. She was just another blip of banal city bureaucracy. They dumped her along the river—up and dumped her as far away from themselves as they could, hoping the currents would carry her the rest of the way. What happened to her must happen in that hospital all the time. Because here it is, happening to me.

  The driver won’t let me keep the wheelchair. All I get is my colostomy bag. He tosses a Ziploc next to me, full of photographs. None of these faces look familiar. Can’t tell if they’re my family or not. I slip the edge of the pouch between my teeth, carrying it in my mouth as I crawl across the rocks. My green paper gown softens in the water, adhering itself to my body like a second layer of skin. The river’s cold—but before long, all feeling is gone. I know I’m moving, I know I’m on my back. I can see my arms pushing through the water. My colostomy bag must be keeping me afloat, bobbing along the surface. Everything I own is inside.

  A few photographs loosen themselves from the Ziploc between my teeth, floating along the water without me. Suddenly I’m surrounded by spinning pictures, swirling over the surface, moving downstream. One of them floats up in front of me. Black-and-white. Cute little brunette smiling for the camera. Reminds me of someone I used to know. Lost her in this river, long ago. Never been able to get her back. And here’s history repeating itself again. Like getting caught in a whirlpool. Sucking me under. Looking at that photograph, bobbing through the water—I’m watching my daughter
swim downriver with me, the two of us drifting along together.

  That’s Richmond for you. This city’s built upon bones. What isn’t buried simply washes downriver. It’s a matter of hitting the right current. Ease myself to the southern side of the James. Keep to the right and I’ll make it.

  Got to make my way back to Belle Isle.

  Got to head home.

  A LATE-NIGHT FISHING TRIP

  BY X.C. ATKINS

  Oregon Hill

  It was around the hour when the sun began to sink into the James River and the lights of downtown Richmond came on and made the city look as big and grand as it wished it could be. The air was warm and thick. It made me think of maple syrup. There was a small breeze that picked up when I pushed my good foot on the accelerator. One arm hung out the window, the other with a hand on the wheel and a smoke between the knuckles. I was driving into Oregon Hill and I wasn’t happy about it.

  Denby and Reggie Baker had just moved into the neighborhood. Cheaper rent, they told me. If you happened to be meandering through on a shiny afternoon you might see why. Oregon Hill was a dirty place and it was a nasty place. It was a place where stray cats could raise families. The gaunt houses were packed together and looked like the trees out in front of them: old, tired, and resentful. The porches sagged into themselves like wet cardboard, and Confederate flags hung with no wind to give them false glory. The lawns, if they had anything growing in them at all, grew wild and unkempt. Random objects stuck out from these yards, rusted machinery that had long since ceased to operate, children’s toys. There were families here, white families, that hadn’t yet moved out into the depressing alcoholic counties beyond Richmond, and they had a hell of a chip on their shoulders. The nights were deathly quiet but there was always something moving, shadow-to-shadow, and whatever it was knew when there was someone in the neighborhood who didn’t belong. It was the feeling I had every time I paid a visit. And every time it felt like I was sneaking in.

  I made a right onto China Street and parked a half a block down from where the brothers lived. I got out of my beat-up burgundy Dodge slowly, with my wrapped left foot in the air. I pulled out a pair of aluminum crutches, stood up, also very slowly, locked the door, and moved onto the sidewalk.

  Many of the red dusty bricks that made the sidewalk were broken or missing and in between them grass sprouted. I tried to step quickly on my crutches without looking like I was in a hurry. Denby and Reggie might have been all right in the neighborhood initially because they were white. But it was their visitors who were going to end up getting them in trouble.

  As I was coming up to the brothers’ house, I could make out two people sitting on the porch of the place next door. No light illuminated the porch and I couldn’t see their faces. Two men, from the looks of them. They sat in their chairs, smoking cigarettes, as silent as the neighborhood around them. I could tell by the direction of their heads that they were staring at me. I didn’t stare back. This wasn’t anything new. My skin couldn’t help but get that crawling feeling, a feeling that made me very aware of that same skin’s color. The two men could have been a part of the house if not for the smoke twisting into the air and the rising and falling red dots of cigarettes held by invisible hands. Behind their screen door, past the darkness, I thought I could hear something growl. It was a low growl that sounded like it came from something big. Maybe it was the house. I kept going and got to the place I meant to get to.

  Denby and Reggie’s house didn’t put on much of a front. A pair of beat-up sneakers sat next to the door that had no screen and the address was missing one of its golden digits. I was coming up the three steps of the porch when the door flung open, smacking against the rail of the porch. A girl came stomping out.

  It was dark so I couldn’t quite make out the hue of her eye shadow but I could tell it was Ebone and she wasn’t happy. It was all the swearing that gave it away. I’d always found it amusing to hear people with British accents swear.

  Her hair was short and sleek and a golden bird shook violently under each earlobe. She wore a zebra-print tank top and black hot pants, all of this showing a lot of the dark smooth skin I had found myself admiring the one night we had gone out for drinks with some mutual friends. That night, she’d been dancing on top of a bar with a drink in each hand. Now, her heels ground into the porch wood and she came down the stairs and went right past me without any word I took as directed to myself. She headed on down the block and didn’t trip once.

  When I turned back to the door, Denby Baker was standing there.

  “Hey, bo.” His voice was raspy, as if it’d been rubbed raw with a Brillo Pad. It matched the beard on his face and the Newport hanging from his bottom lip. He readjusted his Yankees cap, adorned with the brothers’ trademark golden fish hook on the bill, and showed a perfect row of teeth while he held the door open for me to come through.

  “Hey, Derb,” I said, and passed him on the way to the kitchen. I leaned against the counter in the middle of the room next to an empty sink and a large microwave. The only thing on top of the counter was a set of jade dice. “Thought you were done with her.”

  “I am. That’s why she was all in a huff. I can’t even stand to listen to her talk. The accent lost its charm probably around the third time she scammed me. Ain’t no way I’ma hook her up with nothing. Told her to beat it. It’s nothing. Hey, how’s life on the crutch though, Levy?”

  “Hell on the armpits. But at least now I can grow out my beard like you two bozos seeing as how I can’t work. I try to be a glass-half-full kinda guy.”

  “Speaking of glasses half full, how about a beverage?”

  “Night’s getting better already.”

  He stepped past me and opened the fridge. All that was inside of it was a twelve-pack of Milwaukee’s Best, a jar of mayo, a loaf of bread, and a very large plastic bag full of marijuana. He grabbed two cans of beer, opened one, and handed it to me.

  I took a healthy sip out of the can and said, “Your neighbors aren’t creepy at all, by the way.”

  “Yeah. They’re backwards as hell. But they’re all right. Just sit on the porch and drink. See some dogs in the backyard here and there. Big boys.” He took down practically half of his beer in one extended gulp. “Crazy thing is though,” he continued, “me and Regg see girls come over there every now and again. Half decent too—I mean, no peg leg or hook at the wrist. It’s suspect, real suspect.”

  “Kiddin’ me?”

  “Nope. Ain’t no gun to their heads neither.”

  I gave him an unconvinced, “Huh.”

  Reggie came running down the stairs. He looked almost identical to his brother except his hair came down to his shoulders, he was taller, and he was lighter in the paunch. He entered the living room wearing a ridiculous outdoorsman vest and no shirt underneath, long jean shorts, and sneakers with socks pulled up right under his knees. In his hand he had a plastic container with what looked like dirt in it.

  “Let’s go fishin’, boys!”

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “Docks on the James.”

  “I’m with it,” I shrugged and looked at Denby.

  “Lemme grab the kush.” He took a small plastic bag out of a drawer and went to the fridge, filling it with marijuana from the larger bag. He stuffed that in his pocket, grabbed his beer, and we were out the door. The neighbors were no longer on the porch smoking.

  We took their car. I kept my beer can low in my seat as we made a left onto Belvidere. In five blocks only six police cars passed us. We made a right onto Cary and slid down hills that brought us downtown. The streets and buildings looked like a world inside a lightbulb, all yellow and empty. Further down, past all the buildings occupied by suits in the daytime, the road became cobblestone.

  Hotels and restaurants provided a different kind of light in Shockoe Slip. A group of brightly dressed young people stood outside of Tobacco Company contemplating where to get their next cocktail.

  We made a left onto 14th and t
hen a right on Main. The train tracks were raised into the sky above us, along with I-95. They created a dark ceiling, illuminated dimly by streetlights to give everything the grainy look that always made people from the West End reluctant to visit. When they did, they had to get drunk, and fast. The droves weren’t parading the streets this night, however. It wasn’t yet the weekend. But the traffic was still heavy.

  We went past downtown, riding east on Main Street, past Church Hill, away from the city. Everything became very dark and the night lost the sounds that people made. There were more train tracks down this way and the James River became visible as we passed through or under a large building that must have served as a kind of gateway at some point in history. Now, it was only a shell. Richmond had a lot of that kind of history.

  A large white yacht was harbored on the docks. During the week it gave tours. Tables with white cloth draped over them could be seen inside the yacht through the windows. We parked the car a little ways down from where the boat was docked and unpacked the fishing rods, tackle box, bait, and booze. In the daytime it was fine to fish next to the yacht. People from all walks of life came out, set up chairs, and spent long hours fishing amiably. We wouldn’t fish there though. Several lights set next to the boat and in the parking lot made the whole area very bright. There weren’t any other cars out there, which wasn’t any surprise, considering the hour. Still, it was too out in the open for what we had in mind.

  Reggie took us away from the yacht toward where the trees came in and the river narrowed. We could hear the current rushing past in the dark. There was just enough light from the moon to make out a path. It wasn’t a long walk before we got through the trees and had to work down a thin path that took me awhile to navigate on crutches. The path led to a smaller dock with no one else in sight.

  We set everything down on the dock and I started on a new beer. The brothers began to rig the rods. They used a Carolina rig, which had a weight on the line that would sink to the bottom of the river. There would be enough line after the weight that the bait we put on the hook would float up several inches. The moon was bright over the moving river, causing the rocks that protruded from it to glow. It seemed like the arrangement of the rocks changed every summer