Bull City

By Stuart Albright

Sid Ellison believes that he’s left Durham, NC, for good. He lives a safe, quiet life in the Appalachian Mountains teaching high school English. But when his older brother, Tyrell, is charged with the murder of a Pakistani woman, Sid has no choice but to confront his troubled past. With ambitious scope, Bull City moves from the gritty tobacco factories of Durham to Pakistan and finally to the inner-city streets of Boston before returning to the South for a dramatic and unexpected climax.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stuart Albright
• Release date: Apr 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476384580

Stuart Albright

Stuart Albright earned his B.A. in English and Creative Writing from UNC Chapel Hill and a M.Ed. from Harvard. When he was only 26, Albright published Blessed Returns, a memoir about a summer he spent working in the slums of Camden, New Jersey. In 2009, Albright published Sidelines, which was hailed by the Sun Journal as "the definitive word" on high school football. His work has appeared in the News and Observer, Herald-Sun, and Independent Weekly. Albright currently teaches English and Creative Writing at Jordan High School in Durham, NC, where he also coaches football. In 2006, Albright was named the Durham Public Schools Teacher of the Year. In 2008, he received the Milken National Educator Award, dubbed the "Oscars of Teaching" by Teacher Magazine. In addition to teaching, Albright is a freelance editor and a regular guest lecturer on issues of urban education. He lives with his wife and son in Durham.

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BULL CITY

Stuart Albright

Copyright 2012 Stuart Albright

Published by McKinnon Press at Smashwords

To Brett

Prologue

Meena’s ears were still ringing from the pounding music of the club. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the leather seats of Jimmy’s Cadillac Escalade. Or was his name Jackson? Meena had already forgotten. She’d met him that night at the Bull City Lounge, an upscale nightclub in the heart of downtown Durham. It was her favorite spot, a place where she could abandon her worries and become someone else. The Escalade gently rocked up and down as they left the parking lot and sped across the empty streets.

So, Jimmy said. Your place okay?

Meena knew that Jimmy was staring at her. He was just like all the others, with gelled black hair and a slightly unshaven face, tailored slacks, a crisp button-down shirt with gold monogrammed cufflinks, and the overpowering scent of Armani cologne.

Meena nodded without looking at him. Duke Street, across from Central High School.

Meena could feel his eyes moving from her neck down to her cleavage, where her skin was glistening from two hours of swaying and grinding to Lady Gaga and the Black Eyed Peas. Meena wore a sleek black dress that accentuated her body in all the right places. She was pretty, not beautiful, but she knew how to attract men. The dress slid high on her thighs to a curvy waist and an ample chest. At first glance, men didn’t know what to make of Meena. She wasn’t white, or black, or Latina, and the strobe lights of the Bull City Lounge made her skin tones shift even more. Meena never wore lipstick; men didn’t care about that anymore. Just a thin layer of lip gloss and the faintest sprinkle of glitter on her forehead. But Meena’s eyes were a work of art. Her two unremarkable brown irises were transformed by the deepest, darkest eye shadow and mascara she could find, making her eyes pop out with vibrancy and mystery. The mascara was her shield. Men never knew what she was thinking, and that’s exactly how Meena liked it.

At this point, Meena hadn’t made up her mind about Jimmy. Her thoughts were still in the Bull City Lounge, replaying the humming bass lines and flickering strobe lights that transported her from Durham to a far-away world.

You look beautiful in that dress. You know that, right? Jimmy said.

Meena opened her eyes and stared at him without speaking. He looked handsome and confident, albeit a bit dazed from the shots of vodka at the bar. He was used to getting what he wanted. She could see it in his posture as he glanced at her and then back at the road. One of his hands was on the steering wheel, while the other brushed lightly against the hem of her dress.

As the brick factories of the tobacco district appeared in the distance, Meena knew she had to make a decision. She always hated this moment when fantasy gave way to the reality of a cold December night at 2:00 a.m. in a Cadillac Escalade next to a man she didn’t even know. There had been so many of them. Gladiators at night who became ordinary men once the early light of dawn arrived. She loved the way they made her feel beneath the darkness of her sheets. She became beautiful and wanted. But most importantly, she loved the overwhelming sense of power.

Jimmy, or Jackson, or whatever the hell his name was, continued to stare deeply into her eyes. Meena looked straight ahead and motioned to the warehouse across the street. In an effort to revitalize downtown Durham, many of these century-old buildings had become high-end loft apartments. Meena was a city girl at heart, a Manhattanite trapped in the belly of the South, so she didn’t hesitate to move downtown. Living here made her feel sophisticated. So what if the rent was more than she could afford? Meena always found a way to make it work.

The Escalade pulled up to the front entrance of Meena’s apartment and took up two handicapped spots. Jimmy didn’t seem to care. He had more important things on his mind. Just as he unbuckled his seat belt, Meena placed her hand delicately across his wrist. Her touch made him freeze instantly.

Such power, Meena thought, and for a moment, she almost reconsidered her decision. But the moment quickly passed. I can’t tonight, she said.

What? he replied. The first hint of annoyance appeared on his forehead.

I’ve got an early morning flight, Meena lied.

Jimmy slumped back in his seat. The air seemed to deflate around him.

Meena stepped in quickly. Can I get your number? I’d love to see you when I get back in town. She’d spoken these lines many times before. For added emphasis, she placed her hand on his thigh and gave him a little smile.

He fished around in his money clip and handed Meena a business card: David Grierson, Attorney at Law.

Damn. Not even close on the name.

I’ll call you sometime, she said. Another lie. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and opened the car door before he had a chance to respond. As she unlocked the iron gate, Meena could hear the screeching tires of the Escalade begin to fade into the night.

Meena smiled to herself as she walked up the two flights of stairs to her floor. Her high-heeled shoes echoed across the hallway, a sound that was as familiar to Meena as breathing. When she unlocked her door at the far end of the hall, she didn’t bother to turn on the lights.

The loft was one long room with partition walls stretching three quarters of the way to an exposed ceiling. Pipes and wiring crisscrossed the original wood panels of the room. A floor-to-ceiling window stood at the far end of the room, with an impressive view of the twinkling downtown lights no more than a mile away. Meena loved to sit on the ledge of this window and create stories for the people of Durham. She’d see the solitary light in a penthouse office of the North Carolina Mutual building and picture the overworked insurance agent sitting at his desk and thinking of his beautiful wife and their four kids back home. Or the janitor down at the minor league ballpark picking up hot dog wrappers and popcorn, singing a gospel song to himself as an outbound train rumbled nearby. On particularly lonesome nights, Meena would think about her childhood home only five miles down the road. She wondered what her parents and sister were doing. Would they ever forgive her? Would she ever forgive them?

Just the other week, Meena witnessed an unexpected snowfall from this window ledge. She wished her younger sister Malika was there to see it. Malika would have recited some poetry to mark the occasion – Robert Frost’s Walking Through Woods on a Snowy Evening or something like it. Her head was always buried in some book. Meena used to tease her little sis, but she secretly envied Malika’s wisdom. She wanted Malika’s knowledge, but without all the hard work. Boys and weed were always so much more interesting. That night, the snowflakes danced around the window, a fluid painting of a thousand white crystals falling silently across the black sky, spinning left and right in the wind before melting far below. For a moment, Meena understood what it must feel like to be truly happy. But like everything in life, the following morning brought with it the dreary sameness of another day.

Meena tore the business card in half and placed it in the trashcan by her kitchen sink. She kicked off her shoes and sat on the window ledge. The downtown lights of Durham created a cold glow across her den, with shadows covering the hard pine floors and brick walls on either side of the window. It felt good to be alone.

Meena broke from her daydreams and opened the drawer of her coffee table. Her pulse quickened as she removed the jewelry box and placed the familiar items on the window ledge: a hand mirror, a razor blade, and a small vial of white powder.

Meena inhaled the soft, pearly substance and waited. Her eyes traveled to the ceiling, taking in the shadows playing around the rusted pipes. She heard a train whistle in the distance. Probably the Norfolk Southern, making its nightly run through central North Carolina. The train was often Meena’s background music as she waited for the drug to take effect. She never knew exactly what would happen. Sometimes she felt happier than she ever thought possible. Other times, the powder made her senses acutely aware of every sound in her apartment, as if the hardwood floors were groaning to life. Occasionally, she simply fell into a deep sleep.

Meena felt the drug taking over. The shadows on the ceiling began to sway from side to side. She closed her eyes and let her chin fall loosely to her chest.

Several moments passed before Meena felt the cold metal blade against her cheek. She opened her eyes and saw a tall figure standing above her.

Say a word and I’ll cut your pretty little throat. The voice was deep and calm.

Meena squinted through the fog and the darkness. She recognized that voice.

I can kill you right here if you’d like.

But how did she know him? Her memories were jumbled and distorted. She couldn’t think fast enough. There were too many shadows and sounds and emotions at once.

Raise your head, he demanded.

Meena did as she was told, and the knife slowly slid away from her cheek. She began to shake uncontrollably, with fear and cocaine blending together in a nightmare beyond all nightmares. Meena didn’t want to die. Not now, at least, when no one in the world gave a damn about her. She took a deep breath and prepared to scream, to alert the twinkling lights of the city that she was alive and that she was here. But before the words could leave her lips, a gloved hand came down hard across her face. Meena’s silent cry evaporated.

Three hours later, as the first rays of sunlight crept below the horizon, a young man buried his head in a McDonald’s dumpster on West Morgan Street. His long braids poked out of a Pittsburgh Steelers skull cap, and his frail body was hidden by an oversized bomber jacket that he’d stolen in Richmond the year before.

Even after all these years, McDonald’s was still the best place in the Bull City for leftovers. When he returned home last month, this dumpster was his very first stop.

Home, he sometimes thought to himself in the cold hours of these winter nights. What kind of home was this? When it came down to it, every city looked the same. Half-dead bodies roaming from one street corner to the next, looking for a hit or a warm room or, in his case, a half-eaten Big Mac with pickles and onions. After a couple of years on the street, the faces around him looked the same no matter where he lived. Richmond or Winston-Salem, Charleston or Atlanta. It didn’t matter. When the Norfolk Southern brought him past the Lucky Strike tower and the tobacco warehouses, he didn’t think twice about staying. Not because of any longing for childhood. That would be too romantic, and when you live on the street, there’s no such thing as romance. He simply knew of a good place to get a Big Mac and some chicken nuggets. It was as simple as that. His stomach told him where to go.

The street light behind the McDonald’s made it easier for him to sift through the greasy paper bags, hoping to strike gold.

Shit, he said aloud as several large globs of ketchup dripped on his hands and the sleeves of his jacket. He knew he should have worn gloves for this.

And that’s when he saw her. Those deep, dark eyes. Those cheeks covered in lines of dried mascara. An expression of pure surprise on her lips. He uncovered her body from the garbage. He wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. Her black dress was soaked in blood – the same blood that was now covering his hands and sleeves. When he checked her pulse, he realized that she wasn’t even cold yet.

He needed to leave. He needed to run like hell to the nearest Greyhound bus and kiss Durham goodbye forever. He’d seen some shit in his life, but nothing like this. And what the hell was he thinking, coming back home after all these years? He’d ditched this city once before. Now he’d have to do it again, and fast.

He wiped the blood on his jeans and slammed the dumpster shut. The noise pounded into his temple like a gunshot, sending a shiver down his spine. He’d go somewhere far away this time. Los Angeles. Maybe Miami. Somewhere warm and tropical and far from the tobacco warehouses and smoke stacks and awful ghosts of this city. He’d start over. For once in his life, he’d be somebody. Not a gang banger, not a beggar, not an addict. But he had to go right now.

At that moment he felt the bright car beams on his back. He froze, and the hairs on his neck stood up. Nothing was ever going to be the same again; he knew that instantly. Slowly, he turned to see the blue and red lights spinning all around him.

Part 1

Chapter One

Sid Ellison sat on the edge of his bed, squeezing the sheets until his knuckles turned white.

A steady snowfall covered his bedroom window, blurring the ridges of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance. Sid loved this view. It was a big reason why he and his wife moved to Asheville in the first place. The city was unlike anything they had ever known. There were other reasons, of course, reasons that he couldn’t begin to put into words.

It was an early Saturday morning, a day to recover from a semester’s worth of headaches. Sid was looking forward to a steaming cup of coffee, maybe reading on the couch for a few hours.

But after the phone call from Durham, Sid knew that he wouldn’t be resting anytime soon.

Sherilyn stirred under the covers next to him. The phone call didn’t wake her, but she twitched ever so slightly as she held the sheets around her chest. Her mouth opened and closed slightly, exhaling air. Sid loved to watch his wife sleep. He’d lie close to her, gently twirling her hair with the edge of his hand, lifting the tiny strands into the air before allowing them to fall back down across her face. After three years of marriage, Sid still believed that she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

When Sid picked up the phone on the first ring and hurried into the hallway, he was careful to close the bedroom door so that Sherilyn wouldn’t wake up.

The voice on the other end of the line was unmistakable.

Got some bad news for you, Sid.

Spencer? Is that you?

Yep.

It’s six o’clock in the morning.

Spencer paused on the other line before speaking again. This couldn’t wait.

Sid sat against the bedroom door and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

We found your brother, Spencer said slowly. His thick drawl had deepened over the years.

Alive?

Barely.

Where is he?

Durham County Jail. At least for now.

It didn’t seem possible. Tye was more of a memory than a living, breathing human being.

When can you get down here? Spencer asked.

This afternoon.

I’m real sorry, Sid.

Sid shook his head slowly. It was bound to happen.

Sid stared at the wall in front of him. Just the other week, he and Sherilyn had spent the afternoon covering this wall in a fresh coat of light green. To match your eyes, she’d said to him. Before he met Sherilyn, Sid hated this legacy from his father, a man who was even more of a ghost than his older brother. But Sherilyn found a way to make everything seem beautiful. Even his eyes.

When was the last time you heard from Tye?

Sid’s mind drew a blank. Six years ago. Maybe seven. Had it really been that long? So many wasted years.

It’s not your fault, Spencer said.

I know.

With those parting words, Sid placed the phone in his pocket. He slowly rose to his feet and opened the bedroom door, careful not to wake Sherilyn. He wanted to prolong this moment a little while longer.

When he first fell in love with Sherilyn, Sid came to believe that a simple life was possible, that all the pain from his past could finally melt away. The memories used to wake him in the middle of the night, cloaking him in sweat. He’d hear the dull thud of boots against cracking ribs. The sound of gunshots. The rumble of a Greyhound bus in the middle of the night. He’d feel the crippling heartbreak of lost love, a pain so sorrowful and empty that it took his breath away. In that bedroom, with their bodies locked in a tight embrace, Sid could erase the anger that had filled so much of his youth. He could forget.

One simple phone call had brought everything back. Sid couldn’t deny it, even as he sat on the edge of the bed and admired Sherilyn’s fluid curves. Her fingers were marked by a single shining diamond, a gift from his Grandma Addie. Addie’s husband, Grandpa Cecil, worked for thirty years in a Liggett and Myers tobacco factory to pay for that ring. When Cecil died, Addie gave the ring to her only known grandson. By that time, Tye was long gone.

Honey, Addie said to him back then, when you find the woman of your dreams, give this to her right away. You never gonna be sorry for it. I promise.

Addie was right.

Sid felt the delicate touch of his wife’s fingers as she squeezed his hand.

What’s wrong, baby? Sherilyn mumbled as she began to stir. Then he saw her deep, brown eyes.

It’s Tye, Sid replied. They found him.

In Durham?

Sid nodded.

Sherilyn sat up in bed, fully awake. Sid envied her for this. It took him a good hour to wake up in the morning. Sherilyn, on the other hand, did her best thinking in the early hours of dawn, when the outside world was silent and the streetlights continued to bathe the old bungalows of their neighborhood with fluorescent light.

Sid squeezed her hand more tightly. I need to go there this morning.

What happened? Sherilyn asked.

Sid’s eyes traveled to the window once again. The limbs from a large maple tree blocked his view of the mountains. That perfect, peaceful view.

They charged him with murder.

Spencer had said more, but Sid didn’t tell Sherilyn about the victim, Meena Latif, who’d been shot to death with three bullet wounds to the chest and dumped behind a downtown McDonald’s. Sid could picture her clearly, even after all these years. He didn’t know Meena well, but her sister…Sid didn’t even know where to begin.

The streetlights suddenly clicked off, and the home of Sid and Sherilyn Ellison was blanketed in snowfall and the weak light of dawn. Sid slipped into Sherilyn’s arms and tried to recapture that feeling of peace. He squeezed her tighter. Their life here was so simple, so perfect. Nothing was going to change that; Sid wasn’t going to let that happen, not after living in fear for so many years.

But Sid’s thoughts kept returning to Meena Latif and to her younger sister, Malika. When Sid thought about Durham, Malika was always there. On the periphery, perhaps, but she was always there. Malika defined his teenage years in the Bull City. She haunted him with guilt.

Sid knew that by returning home to his brother, he would have to deal with Malika as well.

Sid kissed Sherilyn goodbye before he trudged through the snow to his light blue, 1990 Ford truck. He carried a single suitcase full of clothes, enough to last him for four days, maybe longer.

For years, the contents of his life could be neatly packaged into a suitcase no bigger than the one he was carrying in the back seat of the Ford. The beat-up truck was the only car he had ever owned, bought with his first modest paycheck as a teacher. He loved the steady hum of the car’s engine, the snarling and dented front bumper, the worn seats that sank under his weight like a good friend’s welcoming embrace. He loved the fact that the car was his, free and clear. Not a cent owed to anybody. After thousands of miles along mountain roads and congested highways, the Ford still ran with flawless precision.

Sherilyn asked if she could go with him to Durham, but Sid said no. He knew how busy she was at her job with the YMI Cultural Center, where she was in the middle of a massive research project on Asheville’s segregated schools.

But that wasn’t the only reason Sid asked his wife to stay back home. It was a feeling, more than anything else. He sensed it whenever they made the 200-mile trip to Durham. A fog, perhaps, a certain heaviness that lingered like the vomit-brown tobacco smoke that used to hover over the city. Through Sherilyn, Sid was able to reinvent himself. Every time they went to visit Granma Addie in Durham, Sid felt the sensation of falling into quicksand, as if by staying too long, Sherilyn would be infected by his own past. When they were newlyweds, Sherilyn used to tease him about it.

What’s wrong with Durham? she’d ask him. We could live there just as easily as Asheville.

And they could have moved to Durham if Sid wanted to. Sherilyn didn’t have any close family, so she was adaptable. Sid couldn’t put a finger on it. In spite of himself, Sid always jumped to the city’s defense whenever someone tried to give Durham a bad rap. Outsiders loved to point out that Durham didn’t have the culture of nearby Chapel Hill or the financial prosperity of Raleigh. Sid firmly believed that the stereotypes ran deep into the heart of race and class. Whenever a major crime happened in Durham, it made the front page news. Anywhere else, and the story typically appeared in the local section and faded away quickly.

Maybe it’s just not possible to go home, Sid thought. To really go home. But the finality didn’t set well with him. While Sherilyn knew Sid better than anyone, there were parts of his life that Sid refused to talk about. She had no idea how he came to the Bull City in the first place. One day he was living in Boston with his mom and brother, and the next day he was sleeping on the hardwood floor of Grandpa Cecil’s cramped mill house in the Bottoms of Durham.

Sid wasn’t going to tell his wife about those horrible days any time soon. He was 17 years old back then, scared out of his mind, and, aside from his immediate family, he was completely alone. As the old Ford truck rattled along I-40 heading east, Sid allowed these memories to enter his mind, and with them came the faces and moments that defined who he once was and who he would always be.

Chapter Two

Malika Latif stepped away from the chalkboard and allowed the words she had just written to sink in. Her students were silent.

The Self.

The Outside World.

The Effective Writer.

Malika knew she wouldn’t have to wait long for a response. This was a good class, perhaps the best group of graduate students she had taught in her three years at Columbia University. They were bright, inquisitive, willing to take intellectual risks. Model students all around, from the wide-eyed kids right out of undergrad to the seasoned veterans looking for that extra edge. This was important, because teaching didn’t come naturally to Malika. She preferred to be out in the thick of things, breaking a story or coaxing out just the right information from a skittish source. But these students made her job easy.

Is it really possible for a writer to be objective? Malika asked as she wiped the chalk from her fingers. She was careful not to smudge her black designer skirt.

Sure it is, said a young woman in the front row. Her name was Martha. Always eager, always tapping her pen with nervous energy.

Go on, Malika said.

I mean, a writer has to lose herself in the story, to let it take on a life of its own. It’s not about you; it’s about the facts.

I disagree, said a slightly older and disheveled man in the back. It was Hassan, the classic contrarian. He loved to get a