Snowden broke in only to save him. "Madame, you got some nice furniture and all, but oak? Don't you think it's a little .
. . how do you say . . . heavy? You know, Wal-Mart does some lovely things with plywood nowadays."
Snowden just got the first laugh. So that's how that started.
"See, this brother knows how to get a good tip," Piper Goines pointed out to Bobby. "He understands you have to
charm
a client." Her hair hung in soft bush behind her head, too much Euro in her blood to make a proper Afro.
"Ms. Goines, you have my humblest apologies. I'd like you to have this as a peace offering," Bobby leaned forward,
The Great Work
in hand. Snowden hadn't noticed it on him, but with the way his outfit fit, Bobby could have concealed a whole library inside
its folds.
"Oh. OK. Is it any good?" Piper reached out and took it from him, inspected its front and back, flipped the pages like that
would tell her something.
"I hope so. I wrote it." Bobby beamed back at her.
"Cool. I write too. I just started as a staff reporter for the
New
Holland Herald "
was Piper's response, and Snowden looked up to see Bobby's earnest reaction, as if they hadn't sat around his apartment on
several occasions drinking while Bobby read the rag aloud and goofed on it. "What the hell, you go put this on the window
ledge in my study and when I get a chance, I'll read it."
From the look on Bobby's face, Snowden could tell he was confused. He seemed to think Piper just said "I love you" from the
way his lips quivered, his eyes instantly teared. Bobby's speed in disappearing down the hall to perform the task was the
only thing that saved him from melting down completely before her.
As soon as Bobby was gone, Piper Goines turned to Snowden, grabbed him by his wrist and smiled, "OK, muscle man, I've got
another task for you to do besides standing there and looking cute."
"You want me to sit down?" Snowden asked. There was guilt over flirting with Bobby's latest obsession, but it was reduced
considerably by his certainty that he would take it no farther.
"I got some heavy boxes in the living room I want you to help me peek into, figure out what's inside so we can move them to
the proper room before you abandon me."
"Ah, but my Nubian queen, that's why you're supposed to mark your boxes when you pack them," Snowden smiled back at her as
Piper began to drag him toward the front of the apartment.
"You're right, moving man, I could have done that, but that would take away the thrill of surprise," Piper told him, squeezing
Snowden's arm and winking over her shoulder on the last words.
Horus Manley was on his knees facing the wall, head in his hands. Bobby walked quietly behind him to drop off
The Great Work
by the window, thought Horus was praying until he turned around and saw that he was actually holding something to his face.
It was a shiny emerald fabric, poking out of the spaces between his fingers and rumpled in a bunch around his snorting nose.
"What the hell are you doing?" Bobby demanded. When Horus took the cloth away, Bobby saw a look of pure joy, an innocent,
ecstatic excitement as Horus quickly stuck a finger to his mouth, lightly shushing him.
"Yo kid, this box, it must have got crushed open in the ride. It's all panties in there! Victoria's Secret and everything.
And guess what? They're
dirty"
Horus added with clear glee, throwing the pair he had down and reaching for another.
"Put that back!" Bobby insisted, stepping forward to yank them away from Horus's face. Horus snarled and butted his head forward
and Bobby remembered himself, pulled his hand back, unsure if Horus had just tried to bite him.
"Don't do this, Horus. What do think the congressman would say if he found out?" Bobby asked him. Horus responded to the threat
by further snarling, but a few seconds later the pose disappeared completely, was replaced by a disappointed sigh and the
comment, '"You're no fun, man," as he shoved the panties back in the box before him. Emboldened by the passive stance, Bobby
continued.
"Look, as long as we're on the subject of our hostess, Piper Goines, I want to ask you a little favor. I know we all just
met her, OK, but I'm really interested. Long term, you know what I mean. I think . . . I think I could have something special
with her and I would really appreciate it if you gave me a clear path on this chance."
Horus really thought about it. Cocking his head to the side and squinting his eyes a bit in consideration before nodding his
head. "That's a good trade. The bitch for the drawers. Then I'm trying to find me a thong," his hands shooting back in the
box, pulling out another pair and inspecting them.
Bobby Finley was not a strong man, but he was a quick one, flying across the room to grab Piper's undergarments out of Horus's
clutch before he could shove them in his pants pocket. Bobby was good at leverage too — it's what helped him carry all that
heavy furniture —and by placing his foot on Horus's thigh and pushing off with his full weight, he was able to effectively
counter the larger man's advantage. It was the equal grips, Horus with one hand and Bobby with two, fabric wrapped around
his back fist, that made the tug-of-war a draw, stretched the garment out like a flag for those seconds before Piper Goines
herself walked into the room and broke the standstill.
"You shiftless bastards," Piper spit at them. When Piper stormed over, Horus let loose his grip first, leaving a mortified
Bobby holding the panties when Piper snatched them from him. Stomping away, each footfall an assault, Piper almost made it
out of the room before she turned around again. "You know what the worst part of this shit is? My sister
told me
not to hire a black company for this move, and I made a big fuss too about using Horizon. Then you no-account Negroes had
to go fuck things up, didn't you? Why can't we ever do a goddamn thing proper? Be
ashamed,
you hear me?"
They did. Piper charged forward, her finger pointing, sending Horus scuttling away from her wrath and Bobby spewing frantic
explanations.
Piper ignored Bobby's excuses, screamed louder to drown them out. "Be ashamed for yourselves. Be ashamed for your people."
Snowden, who'd trailed into the room on Piper's heels, was too stunned to follow them back out or make any comment at all.
Even Horus didn't say anything until Piper had slammed the door behind her, then turned to Bobby to yell, "Look what you did!
You had to go mess things all up. After work, punk, you're getting a beat down."
"Stop threatening him." Snowden stepped forward. "He doesn't have to take that shit from you."
Horus seemed surprised, even amused at Snowden's defense, walked close enough in front of him to whisper, "That's cool, dog.
Then you can just take my shit instead. After work, when the truck's unloaded, don't go nowhere. Because I just scheduled
you in for an ass whupping."
Snowden took his time working for rest of the day. Walked slow, took breaks, asked far more questions than he needed to. Piper
Goines herself was no longer available for answers, so irate her sister was keeping her down in the back of the lower house
so she didn't do something stupid and make them all vulnerable to a civil suit, putting her husband on guard in the apartment
instead. Regardless of all the stall tactics, a point came when the back of Horizon's truck was empty, the receipts had all
been signed, and the sole tip for the evening had been placed discreetly in Snowden's hand.
Fighting was stupid, there was nothing to be gained from it, it put both their bids for the lead candidate in jeopardy. This
much Snowden told Horus when he approached him on the sidewalk halfway down the block, but Horus's response was just, "Yeah,
you might got some points there, but what can you do? I got disrespected, so somebody's got to pay for it."
Horus popped every knuckle in his right hand individually, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, before going over to his left hand,
Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, and then cracking his neck sharply left and right, Eleven, Twelve. Snowden stood waiting patiently
to be beat up, but Horus seemed in no particular rush, like he wanted to do things right. Finished his stretching, Horus began
unbuttoning the length of his Horizon uniform, from his neck down to his groin, revealing a pair of blue and green striped
boxer shorts. It was Horus's very flesh, however, that made the biggest impression on Snowden. Not his prison muscles, taut
tributes to boredom and vanity, nor the tattoos Snowden recognized as having been etched into his skin with sewing needles
and the ink of cheap pens, but Horus's unintentional ornamentation. It was the scars. The flock of thick, keloid slashes from
all the knives that had tasted his blood. The dark, dimpled caverns from all the bullets that had failed to kill him.
"What are you doing?" Snowden asked nervously.
"I don't want to get any blood on my work clothes," Horus told him, balancing on one leg to pull his booted foot through the
outfit's cuff.
Snowden sought his own anger, that electric green rage that was always begging him for freedom. It was still there, but its
hate was focused on Snowden himself for getting into this situation. When Horus was pulling himself out the sleeves, both
arms tangled behind him, Snowden sprung forward and punched his opponent in the stomach with all his might. It was a cheap
shot, free even, one Snowden would have never considered if he wasn't fairly sure it would be his last chance at a shot at
all. Horus collapsed to the sidewalk, gasping, spending a few seconds learning to breathe again.
A sucker punch was a shameful thing, completely without honor, so little face could be lost succumbing to one. It was Snowden's
hope that Horus would realize this, give them both an out from this situation, and keep his ass down. It was a faint hope,
quickly dashed when Horus's hand shot out and grabbed a broken half of brick discarded by the curb, one of those blunt instruments
he was so fond of.
In one move, Horus was on his feet, the look on his face saying whatever rage had dissipated over the last hours had now been
completely replenished. His arm pulled back, brick in hand, and it was very clear what Horus's intentions were. Horus was
going to bash Snowden's skull in.
"Cease!"
The command came from behind Snowden. Snowden didn't move to see the source because Horus froze when it was yelled so Snowden
assumed the person had a gun and worse, a badge that would actually let him shoot it. Tai chi slow, Horus dropped the rubble
and let his arms glide up into a Y
"Mr. Snowden, at ease," Lester ordered.
I've never been fired from a
job by gunpoint,
Snowden was thinking, but when he turned around it wasn't the snub-nose he'd seen in the truck's glove compartment. Lester
held a hundred-dollar bill over his head with both hands.
"Mr. Manley, I do believe we can resolve this in an immediate and nonviolent manner, don't you?" Lester shook the note before
him, the bill was crisp and new, and it crinkled as it flapped. Lester in lavender, immaculate with jacket and purple shoes
on. A grin exploded across Horus's mug, erasing all trace of the homicidal mask of moments earlier. Coming closer, Horus snatched
the money out of Lester's fingers like it might be a trick, gave a victorious yelp before offering his thanks, examining the
C note up to the sunlight as he walked off.
Lester made the dazed Snowden sit in the truck's cab while making sure everything was OK with the customer. It took that smell
of brave Wendell to reacquaint Snowden with his senses, an entirely uncalled for, overdone remedy in Snowden's opinion. Wendell
had all the regular canine odor expected from such an active dog, but his more disturbing smell was of cologne. It lay on
him so thick you could smell the alcohol in his fur. This was not a new discovery, Bobby had mentioned it weeks ago and the
two of them had a running bet on what brand it was. The wager was doomed to remain unresolved. Neither one would dare ask
Lester about it, let him know they had the image of him down on his knees, spraying his ridiculous dog. Snowden was in the
process of trying to roll up the window when Lester yanked the door away from him, pulled on the fabric above his knees before
bending his legs up and inside.
"Mr. Finley called me, told me what was happening. I was waiting here in the cab, I wouldn't have let it get too far." Lester
scratched at Wendell's ass as he talked. Wherever you put your hand on Wendell, he always moved so that it was soon on his
ass.
"If you know what happened, then why'd you just give Horus that money?" Snowden asked.
"Sometimes you have to throw a dog a bone," Lester told him, falling into a baby voice right after to ask Wendell, "Isn't
that right?" repeating this until the dog licked his face in response.
"Protecting the weak, taking a stand against the odds, that's what Horizon's all about. The congressman would be very proud.
So as a reward, I'm giving you a special project from now on. It'll provide you an additional opportunity to learn the business
and earn some extra dough," Lester said, Snowden's acceptance of the offer assumed. "Tomorrow, six A.M. Not in front of the
office, but at the lodge entrance. This is
your
special project, so keep this to yourself. And you don't wear your uniform for this job."
NOTHING RAGED LIKE a Harlem night. There was no quiet acceptance of the day's end, no dying of streetlight. Through his shades,
an orange, hopeless glow landed in strained parallelograms across Snowden's walls and ceiling, keeping his room lit like it
was dusk till dawn. Harlem at midnight was louder than some parts of Midtown during the day. Noise as consistent as boisterous,
a seamless stream of audio pollution, poor people loud because sound was the only thing they could afford in quantity.
Snowden had a game. Lying sideways in bed, pillow pulled over the ear exposed upward, midnight hours behind him, the goal
of his game was to count ten seconds of silence to fall asleep within. Hours of reaching to three or four before being halted
by conversations yelled from one end of the street outside to the other, honking livery cabs too lazy to ring a bell, kids
screaming in joy or horror. One, two, three, four, then something. Always something. It was almost magical, how one sound
would die down always to be replaced by another, just as piercing, just as inconsiderate.
Snowden preferred obsessing about the literally disturbing sounds outside his window. If he got angry about them, made them
the focus of his frustration, he was less likely to notice the sounds emanating from the apartment below. The vibrations of
shrieks that rose through the ceiling, through insulation to floorboards, trailed up the post of Snowden's bed to tremble
his mattress in sympathy. The beatings. Lying there, Snowden waited for the next percussion of skin on skin, for it to shut
up the yelling or ignite more. Eyes closed, wishing ears had the same option, Snowden's mind could provide information his
senses couldn't. From the sound of the hit, Snowden could tell impact location, force, and source. In his mind he could clearly
see Jifar, the boy who lived down there, taking the blow. Snowden could differentiate the resonating smack of open hand to
the side of the face from the quick thud of a palm thrust to the back of the head, and remember exactly what it felt like
to be something small and confused as someone impossibly large and inconceivably hostile assaulted you.
Worse, the sounds that followed. The father, Baron Anderson, made a habit of singing to his karaoke machine in the shower
after most skirmishes, belting out canned tunes with a guilt-free and joyous enthusiasm. Pleased, wailing vocals over music
caught and gutted of voice and harmony. Snowden hated Baron Anderson for being tone deaf, felt it was deliberate, felt it
was gloating. A list of music Snowden was slowly beginning to detest as much as the man who mangled it: every single track
of Marvin Gaye's
Forever Yours
(despite himself), all Smokey Robinson's post-Miracles creations and even some before that ("
People say. .
." People say shut the hell up it's two o'clock in the morning), every top ten hit between 1981 and 1987.
Snowden awoke at five-thirty A.M. to the sound of crickets. They weren't really there, but with the window closed and rain
muting the neighbors outside, his room was quiet enough to hear the sound of home on a summer morning, light chirping of crickets
in his mind. After over a month in Harlem, Snowden's Philly seemed in contrast impossibly southern, spacious, slow, and behind
him. Out his front door half asleep, his waking mind lost in memory, Snowden nearly tripped over the bundled body lining the
top of the stairs in the hallway, clutched desperately at the rail to keep from falling over it, through the wide stairway
shaft, and five stories down.
The memories of a child's screams that had plagued Snowden's dreams were understood as he kneeled next to the little figure,
lifted off the cloth at the end he assumed was covering Jifar's head, just like he always did when he found the boy sleeping
in the hall.
"Little man." When Snowden lightly squeezed Jifar's cheek, the boy's eyes began to open, looked up at him blinking, pupils
barely lifted from lids. Jifar yawned, the hot smell of morning blowing across Snowden's face.
"I was camping. You woke me up." Maybe it was the light lisp of his voice that doomed the boy, maybe it was that simple. Maybe
the sound reminded the brute who was his father of the wife Snowden deduced had left him far behind. Or maybe Jifar's father
was one of those people who didn't need a reason, just enough drink to bring out his character. Maybe he was just bad, like
there are some people who are just good in this life.
"You can't stay out here like this, somebody's going to trip over you and fall down the stairs, break their neck."
"Somebody did fall once, right before you moved here. The woman who used to live where you do, she jumped right down," Jifar
said, staring at the stairs beside him. "She was lonely. And mean."
"You want to go back downstairs and get back in your bed? He's probably passed out by now." Jifar pulled his blanket over
his head again, its cartoon pattern faded and dotted with fabric pills instead of pixels. Snowden looked at his watch, thought
of Lester doing the same in front of the office, pulled his keys out and into Jifar's hand.
"Now listen. These are yours. Anybody gives you trouble, you ever need to get away, you use these. This apartment is your
safe place, OK?" Snowden told him, wishing there was someone he could call instead, wishing that he hadn't been through the
foster care ring himself and could believe it was that simple. That this was a world in which you could pick up the phone
and then find yourself in a better situation than the one you were already trapped in.
Jifar glanced down at the keys before pulling them within the blanket without comment. If he'd bothered to shrug, even that
message of ambivalence was lost in the folds of the cloth. Lester and Wendell paced in circles in front of the lodge, the
man absentminded and heavy footed, the dog intense and intent on finding a square foot of concrete good enough to poop on.
The dog was surrounded by young admirers, children in maroon blazers with gray shorts and skirts who called Wendell by name
as he ignored them. Lester shooed them off as Snowden approached, and the children shot up the lodge's steps, the last boy
making a great effort to close its towering door without slamming it.
The lodge was also Cyrus Marks's home, in addition to being Lester's and the property the Horizon storefront was connected
to, so Lester made sure to get his newspaper down before Wendell's feces landed so as not to leave the slightest stain behind.
"Who are those kids? Are they visiting from a Catholic school or something?" Snowden asked, but Lester ignored him, focused
instead on the dog crap being excreted, carefully bagging and removing it when Wendell was done. The storm grate on Horizon's
facade was still down, locked. Compared to the other buildings on the block the lodge was not only much larger but also immaculate,
as if some local superstition protected it from vandalism.
In the truck, Wendell sat on the floor beside the stick shift, staring at Snowden. Snowden couldn't figure out if the dog
was looking to be entertained or was considering lunging at him. Lester began making a series of sudden, fast turns that forced
Wendell to lie down, his paws outstretched for balance. After ten minutes of driving, Lester had managed to put only six blocks
between them and the office, and Snowden was about to ask if they were lost when, before a red light at Adam Clayton Powell,
Lester pulled the gear into park.
"We're being followed." Lester's hand shot in front of Snowden to reach in the glove compartment. Even Wendell was surprised
by the action, bouncing to his feet to get away. Removing a heavily rumpled brown paper bag, Lester slammed the little door
shut again.
"Listen, when I jump out this car, you get in the driver's seat. As soon as I get back in, you pull off." Then Lester jumped
out, slammed the door behind him.
Snowden scooted over, looked out the side mirror. Lester was talking to the second car that was stuck on the narrow street
behind them, the passenger responding with motions of misunderstanding and denial. Snowden watched as Lester lifted the brown
paper bag and pointed it right up against the driver's head.
There was no job on earth, no dream Snowden could imagine, that would keep him from hitting the gas if he heard a shot ring
out. It was a one-lane road, cars parked on both sides, and there was a little Toyota in front of the truck that he'd just
have to roll over. Wendell started barking and then Snowden couldn't think straight, told him to shut it, please just shut
up. When Snowden looked back in the mirror, Lester was gone. The driver still sat in his white Taurus, wiping the sweat from
off the top of his bald pink head, his other hand dialing a cellphone.
"Drive to 345 East 117th Street. Between Park and Lex." Wendell stopped barking. Snowden jumped, but when he turned and saw
Lester sitting at his right he played it off like he was adjusting his seat. Snowden pulled out halfway into the intersection
before checking to see if the light was green. In the rearview mirror, the white car screeched into a right and was gone.
"These real estate agents from downtown, they have no ethics, no morals. He thought he was going to ghost us, cherry pick
some new properties for his clients downtown. Just an opportunist. There's no love there." The explanation was unsolicited
and pretty unwanted. Snowden's only desire was to drive, to get to fresh air to cancel out Wendell again.
"My man, you hungry? You need some breakfast before we get busy today?" The affection, concern, Snowden didn't for a moment
think Lester was talking to him. Out of the corner of his eye, Snowden was almost sure he saw Wendell nodding yes. Lester
reached in the brown paper bag just as Snowden was stopping at the next red light and removed his weapon from it: a shiny
glazed cruller, already bitten into. Lester ripped another bite away, pulled the piece out of his mouth and threw it to his
dog. Wendell ate it in desperate, choking gulps, immediately begging for more.
The apartment building was much like Snowden's own, a four-story tenement with kids and debris blowing around outside. From
the look of the block, its narrow street of renovated townhouses, the shining doorknobs and newly stripped doors of the recent
arrivals, Snowden knew that this was the building they all looked over at and wished they could blow up.
The only buildings in the world dirtier than New York City tenements didn't count because they were made from dirt itself.
Floors, ceilings, and walls encrusted in thick, multilayers of scum, the product of a century of tenants too busy and exhausted
to take care of anything beyond their own apartment doors, a testament to supers who were so in name only. That's why this
building looked so dramatically different inside, why Snowden's neck rotated from awe. It was simply clean.
Lester on its pale white marble stairs, hand on the freshly painted rail, turned to see the frozen figure behind him.
"You look shocked. This is what it's supposed to look like." Lester kept climbing, his voice reverberating in his wake. "This
is Horizon property now. You're looking at the new Harlem."
"What's up with it? We upping the rent?"
We.
Always use first-person plural when you refer to Horizon, a habit encouraged since training day. For Snowden, a lifelong
I
,
it was more uncomfortable than wearing the banana outfit. It said,
Erase the border between your own
objectives and that of the company, loose your individuality in the sentiment of the
many.
"Rent stabilized. Even if we wanted to up the rent, we can only do it by the allotted citywide percentage for the year, understand?
Even on new tenants, we can only raise it fifteen percent of the existing rent." His suit was the color of dried roses, his
shirt and tie variations of lighter petals. Lester wore many suits but was always a champion of scorned colors. "Even if random
evictions were legal, we still wouldn't make money off of them. But see, it's not about the money." If they said it wasn't
about the money, they were either lying or they wanted something even more valuable from you, Snowden thought. Dreams, time-shares,
God, whatever they were pushing, salesmen always inspired in Snowden the same feeling of revulsion.
Lester stopped in front of a door on the third floor, dropped his tool bag and started unzipping it.
"You want I should ring the bell?" Snowden put his finger on the black button, looked over in anticipation of clearance.
"You can if you want to, but he won't be able to hear you." Snowden did, so did so, hearing the stiff chime echo on the other
side.
"Why's that, he deaf?"
"No.
He dead."
Lester stood up with a crowbar in his hand, poking its bucktooth into the minute separation between the doorknob and jamb.
"Oh shit. I'm sorry." Snowden heard himself and immediately wondered who he was apologizing to.
"Don't be. He was an asshole. He wasn't supposed to change the locks," Lester strained as he leaned into the metal. The sound
of his actions and words echoed from the tin ceiling to the marble floors around them.
Snowden took hold of the middle of the crowbar, leaned his own weight into it as well. The wood around the lock began to splinter
along with the doorframe it was attached to. Before they could get theirs open, another door unlocked and opened three yards
to the right of them. The head was so close to the knob, Snowden thought at first the person was elderly, but when a voice
called behind her, a moment of distraction let the door drift inches farther. Though a child, the first stages of puberty
had already begun elongating her legs out of proportion with the rest of her body, the man's T-shirt that already hung far
above her knees would clearly cease to serve as a nightgown by the following summer. Her braids were the long elaborate strands
of a woman, but the yarn woven in, its pink and primary colors, was more representative of the girl who wore them. Lester
said, "Horizon Property Management, nothing to worry about," but the girl was already closing the door, disappointed by the
sight of them.