Brighton (23 page)

THE SHELF
was still heavy with Hemingway and Steinbeck, the kitchen had all its pots and pans, and the Red Sox schedule was taped to the wall. But Bobby was gone as fuck. Just like he’d promised. Kevin walked over to Bobby’s desk and opened a drawer. Inside was the usual—pens, pencils, rubber bands, a handful of old bills. Kevin could almost hear his friend chuckling as he pulled open the rest of the drawers, then ran his hands underneath the desk and down the back and sides, looking for anything that might be taped there and knowing there was nothing to be found. He rummaged through the kitchen drawers and Bobby’s only closet, then returned to the books, shaking them out one at a time before cracking open the trunk under the bed. Kevin was on his hands and knees tugging at a loose floorboard when the barrel of a gun nuzzled his ear.

“He kept something down there, but it’s empty now. Get up.”

Kevin got to his feet. Someone gave him a shove in the back and he stumbled across the room.

“I found a rag and half-empty bottle of bleach on the counter. Sit down.”

Kevin took a seat at Bobby’s kitchen table. The man with the
gun walked over to the windows and pulled down the shades. Danny DeVito. He was a dead ringer, except instead of crazy
Taxi
eyebrows this guy just had crazy eyes—amber with traces of current and a little bit of the end of the world running through them.

“Why do you suppose your friend . . . he is your friend, right?”

Kevin nodded.

“Why do you suppose he had out the bleach?”

“I don’t know.”

The man leaned neatly against the window frame, holding the gun across his wrist like it was an extension of his hand. “I might wipe down the place with bleach if I didn’t want anyone to know I’d been here. But this is your buddy’s apartment, which leaves one other possibility.”

“What’s that?”

“He killed someone here.”

“I doubt it.”

“You want some coffee? One thing he left behind was the coffee.”

“No, thanks.”

The man stuck the gun in his belt and rummaged around, whistling some sort of old jazz tune as he found filters, measured out coffee, and filled Bobby’s machine with water. He stopped at the bookshelf and pulled out an album—Bach’s mass in B-minor.

“The most perfect music ever written,” Kevin said.

The man looked up from reading the back cover. “Your buddy tell you that?”

“He did.”

“Yeah, well, he’s right. Except it’s composed, not written. Bach composed.”

“I think that’s what he said.”

The man grunted and put the album back where he’d found it. He didn’t seem concerned that Kevin might make a dash for the door. When the coffee was ready, he poured himself a cup in a chipped mug and took a seat at the table. “It’s not bad. You sure you don’t want some?”

Kevin shook his head.

“Suit yourself. So what were you looking for?”

“The police are gonna search this place tomorrow. I wanted to see if there was anything here . . .”

“Fucking with the cops. I like it.” The man showed a quick grin full of thick, white teeth. “What do they want with Scales?” It was the first time he’d mentioned Bobby by name, and the sound rang like a hammer striking stone.

“They think he killed some people.”

“People?”

“Yeah.”

“My theory with the bleach doesn’t look so stupid after all.”

“Bobby’s not a killer.”

“What’s your name?”

“Kevin.”

“Kevin, that’s the first lie you’ve told me. Tell me another and I shoot you in the knee. Tell me a third and I put one in your head. Then I wrap you up in plastic and stick you in the back of my car. You want to walk over to the window with me and see my car?”

“No.”

“It’s got a big fucking trunk.”

“I believe you.”

“So we understand each other?” The man studied Kevin like a butcher might study a cut of meat.

“Yes.”

“Tell the truth and I’ll be on my way. Maybe I find your friend, maybe I don’t. To be honest, it makes no difference to me.”

Kevin wasn’t sure why, but he believed the man and felt himself relax a fraction. “I was looking for a gun. Thirty-eight caliber. Maybe a knife.”

The man nodded. “My name’s Lollipops, by the way. Don’t ask why.”

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“Good. I already searched the place. No gun. There’s some knives in the kitchen. You wanna take a look, go ahead.”

“I already did.”

“Why would your friend leave a gun or a knife behind?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“But the search made you feel good.”

Kevin flicked his shoulders. “I guess.”

“Maybe there was something else you were looking for?”

“I’m an investigative reporter. Going on fishing expeditions is pretty much what we do.”

“Who do you work for?”

“The
Globe
.”

“Cops interested in you as well?”

“Probably. That doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.” Lollipops took another sip of coffee and waited for the story he somehow knew was coming.

“Bobby saved my life when we were kids.”

“How’d he do that?”

“He killed a man.”

“And now you want to make everything square?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I was fifteen and the guy killed my grandmother. Cut her open and left her on the floor of her apartment. I went after him and Bobby followed.”

“He wound up doing the killing?”

“I pushed when I shouldn’t have and the dominoes just started falling.”

“Tides shifted, lives changed. Your buddy became what he became. Shakespeare already wrote the fucking play.” Lollipops slipped the gun from his belt and placed it flat on the table. “I’m sixty-three years old. Killed almost two hundred men, mostly for money. I came here to kill your pal. And if I find him, that’s what I’m gonna do. You know why?”

“Cuz someone’s paying you.”

“We don’t push dominoes. We are dominoes. Me, you, Bobby Scales. We get pushed, we fall, and there’s not a damn lot any of us can do about it.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe. It doesn’t matter what you choose, or what you think you’re choosing. The dominoes are gonna fall like they fall. People live, people die. And we all go kicking and screaming, even the ones who don’t say a word. Now leave and don’t come back. Otherwise, I drop you in the trunk.”

Lollipops got up and opened the door. Kevin wanted to stay, but his feet carried him into the hallway, then down the stairs. He walked numbly across the street and slid behind the wheel of his car. The passenger’s door opened and Gemele Harper got in beside him. She pointed straight ahead.

“Drive.”

From the high window, Lollipops watched the two figures in the front seat of the car. He hadn’t been able to see who climbed in but hoped it was a woman. He hoped they were talking about getting on a plane. Somewhere warm. Drinks at sunset by the pool, late breakfasts, long lunches, walks on the beach. He hoped for all of that but read something different in the reporter’s face. Something Lollipops knew all too well. Brake lights flickered and the Volvo pulled away from the curb in a soft prowl. Lollipops took down the tag number, then let the shade drop. The kid with the Yankees hat was wrapped in plastic and stashed in the tub. Lollipops would have to wait until dark to move him. The professional unbuttoned his coat and sat down again at the table, sipping at his coffee and enjoying the peace and quiet.

GEMELE WALKED
through Fidelis like it was her backyard, taking the same crooked path to the same brick building Kevin had visited two days prior. They passed through the empty lobby and up two flights. Kevin counted footsteps as they went.

“Where are we headed?”

She stopped at an apartment and opened the door. The room had a single window with a table and two chairs beneath it. Kevin walked in and felt the walls exhale. He rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead and thought about blood pooling and soaking, filling dark cracks in the linoleum floor.

“Sit down.” Gemele swung the door shut and took a seat—her neat, sturdy figure limned in a final rush of sunlight pouring through the window. Kevin sat across from her.

“We could have met at Electric Avenue.”

She shook her head. “This is better. This was the apartment Curtis died in.”

“You knew Curtis Jordan?”

“He was my uncle.”

He searched her face, eyes older than age, smile creased like worn leather.

“You wanna hear about it?”

Kevin nodded.

“It was the fall of ’75. I was fourteen and lived across the hall. My moms had gone out.”

“No kidding.”

“Police talked to me. I told ’em I saw nothing, but that wasn’t true. I heard a big bang. Two or three in a row. When you live in Fidelis, you get used to the bangs.”

“And what did you do?”

“What we always did. Got away from the doors and windows, hid under the bed. There was a lot of running, then it was quiet. After a couple of minutes, I went to the door and stuck my head out. That’s when I saw this skinny white boy come out of Curtis’s apartment. About my age. Eyes big and round as dinner plates.”

Kevin studied the curve of her mouth as she spoke, the high cut of cheekbone and slightly turned-up nose. His mind subtracted years and added braids, ones with pink and white bows in them. And then he was there, standing in the hallway, face-to-face with fourteen-year-old Gemele Harper.

“When did you know?” he said.

“First time you showed up at our door and wanted to investigate James’s case. You got pretty eyes, Kevin. Nice and soft. Women gonna remember them.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. I knew you were the white boy I saw that day.”

“And you didn’t care?”

“You wanted to help James. That was enough for me. Besides, when you came out of this apartment, you didn’t have no gun in your hands so I knew you didn’t shoot Curtis.”

“You heard about the cop that was killed the other day? Black woman?”

“Saw it on TV.”

“The gun that was used in that crime was also used to kill your uncle.”

Something naked moved in her face. “Guns floating all over the place. Don’t mean nothing.”

“If you gave a statement in Curtis’s murder, you’re probably gonna be questioned again.”

“You worried I’m gonna talk? Tell ’em I saw you?”

“Did I say that?”

“Uncle Curtis used to have a guy, only job was to take care of the cash. He’d set up right here in this room with an ironing board. Iron twenty-dollar bills all goddamn day. Then we’d stack ’em and wrap ’em. Bundles of twenties rubber-banded in plastic grocery bags.” She got up and walked behind Kevin, to the spot where Curtis Jordan was sitting when he caught two slugs in the chest. “Curtis stored the bags right here.” Gemele pointed to the ceiling above her. “He’d give me a twenty every time I went up. But the money wasn’t for climbing into the ceiling.”

“It was for keeping your mouth shut.”

She circled back and sat down again.

“What’s going on, Gemele?”

“You know James loved you.”

“What’s going on?”

“I run the show here. All the dope in and out. James was in it before me. And before that, Curtis.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Rosie used to work for James. Everyone in the projects worked for James. And now they work for me.”

“What about Electric Avenue?”

“Living simple keeps me off the radar.”

“And your kids don’t know what you do.”

She leaned forward, small, hard hands planted on small, hard knees. “They’re gonna have a life, Kevin. A real life. You don’t like it, then fuck you, too. Now, you gotta leave. And don’t come back.”

“A cop was killed, Gemele. There’ll be others, asking more questions. Harder questions.”

“You were there. If anyone knows who shot Curtis, it’s you.”

“Is that why you brought me here? Just to warn me off?”

“I sent a kid looking for you.”

“He never found me.”

She raked her lips with her sharp teeth and clenched and unclenched her fists.

“Say what you need to say, Gemele.”

“Then you leave?”

“Then I leave.”

“I know about your grandmother. I know Curtis robbed her. And I know he killed her.”

“Everyone in the neighborhood knew that.”

“My uncle got his information from a white kid. Older than me, desperate for a bag. Told Curtis where your grandmother kept her money, the hours she worked, all that stuff. I was here when he told Curtis. Right here in this apartment.”

“You got a name?”

She shook her head. “Lemme finish. The people who killed your cop are pushing dope into the suburbs. Causing a lot of problems. Lot of people getting smoked. But you probably already heard all about that?”

Kevin nodded.

“Whoever’s running that show keeps a low profile. They do that cuz they’re smart like me.”

“So you don’t know who they are?”

“No, but I know who they’re gonna hit next. Yesterday I saw his picture. Been a couple of decades but I damn straight recognized the face.”

Outside, the sun was all but gone and Kevin could just make out a pale moon bathed in a pink froth of sky. He pulled a photo from his pocket. It was the snap of himself, Bobby, and Finn in the bleachers at Fenway. Gemele studied it without touching it.

“You a smart boy, Kevin.”

“How smart?”

“I’ll tell you cuz it was your grandmother and cuz you deserve to know.” She tapped the photo with a finger. “That’s him right there. The one who told Curtis where your gram kept her money. The one who’s gonna get clipped himself. Real fucking soon, too.”

Kevin held up the photo in the first flush of evening and stared at the smiling face of Finn McDermott.