In This Rain (27 page)

She turned and, knowing what he was about to say as he knew she did, she touched a finger to his lips. Her touch was impossibly soft, as though a petal, after dancing in a whirlwind, had come to rest on a stone.

*

Three times in the night he awoke. The warm silk of Ann’s skin, the soft rise and fall of her breath, did not surprise him, so natural did it seem to have her next to him. That fact itself dismayed him. All his old reasons and all his new ones, his towering, impassable mountain range, nothing but a trick of mist, dissipated this easily.

*

He awoke a fourth time just before dawn. Ragged black branches snaked through gray sky in the squares of his windows. Beyond the ridge, an edge of burnt rose; he knew where to look for that. She wrapped an arm around him. In the first light her skin seemed to glow.

“Ann,” he whispered.

She smiled and pulled him closer. “Yes, we can.”

“No.”

“Yes.” She touched his face. “Yes. It was always you, Joe.”

He wanted to say “No” again, but to what?

They sat with coffee on the porch while the climbing sun pointed out certain trees and blooms, until finally it burst from behind the rocks and flooded the yard with light.

“I can hear the creek,” Ann said. “Can you climb down to it that way?”

“I don’t go down there much,” Joe told her.

“I’m this close,” she said. “To taking up Walter Glybenhall.”

He looked to where he’d planted violets at the edge of the wood; whether they would survive or not, he didn’t know. “You can’t.”

“You’re very negative this morning.”

“Be serious. Whatever you have, it won’t be enough. They’ll stop you.”

“They’re already trying. Lowry ordered me to drop it.”

“And you took that like a bull takes a red flag.”

“What do you think? He should have known better.”

“Ann— ”

“He said to give it to Perez. So the NYPD could bury it.”

“Perez doesn’t sound like that kind of guy.”

“He’ll get orders too! No one wants to screw up his career over something like this.”

“Except you.” She stood. He twisted to watch her as she went inside, came out a moment later with the coffeepot, as though she did this every day.

“Joe?” she said as she sat. “I’m right. I know I am.”

“Even if you are, you have nothing on him.”

“I will. I’m waiting for ballistics on the bullets. That kid Kong.”

“You have a gun?”

“Walter does. A Wilson Combat .45. A four-thousand-dollar handgun. Carry permit, too, on the basis of being an envied public figure. Bastard.”

“You can’t think Glybenhall shot Kong himself?”

“I’m hoping.”

“Ann— ”

“And if not, maybe a night in jail with people he wouldn’t let clean his bathroom— ”

“He won’t spend the night. He won’t spend an hour.” Joe looked at the dicentra, patient in its pot. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

“If Walter Glybenhall has an under-the-table deal with the mayor, why endanger it this way?”

“Because he needs the money. Because he’s greedy and arrogant. Because he thinks he can get away with it.”

Joe shook his head. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“You’ve been away too long!”

That was true. He had been; too long, and too far, and too completely.

She turned to him and the texture of the silence changed. “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding tentative. “I didn’t mean— ”

“You’re right.” He felt a surge of anger and wondered at its source. Because of what she’d said? No: because suddenly she didn’t sound sure of herself. Certain things were expected to be dependable, like the seasons. “To me this sounds crazy. But I’ve been away.”

“Everybody’s always said it’s crazy. Going up against Walter. That’s why he gets away with things. Not anymore. This time, I’m going to shut him down.”

Joe waited and watched: Ann in the early-morning sun. “You ever have a home?”

“What are you talking about?”

“All those places you lived as a kid. You ever feel like any of them was home?”

After a pause she said, “All of them.”

“How can that be?”

“What do people mean when they use that word? A place where you’re safe? Where you don’t need a back door out of, because you don’t ever have to leave unless you want to? That’s how it felt everywhere we lived when I was a kid. As long as my dad was there.”

“And after he was gone?”

“Then it was different.”

He let the silence flow, let the rustling leaves and the whisper of the creek fill it. After a while he said, “They planted a dozen pear trees in front of that theater. They’re in bloom now. White flowers. Beautiful in the morning light.”

Her eyes flared. “At Skidmore? How the hell do you know?”

“It’s half an hour from here.”

“You’ve been there?”

“A student orchestra concert. Pretty good.”

A moment; he thought she was going to get up and storm away. Then her smile flashed and she shook her head. “A concert in the beautiful morning light?”

He smiled, too, and shrugged. “I wanted to see the building.”

“I don’t.”

“You could stop on your way back to the city.”

“You could mind your own business.” She emptied her mug and stood. “I have to get back. It’s a long drive. And you have work to do.” She gestured out over the garden.

He stood also. “Be careful.”

“Driving?”

“That too.”

They kissed long and slow. The beat of his blood mixed with the racing of the creek, and the warmth of the sun on his back underlined the heat of Ann’s arms around him.

He walked her to the driveway, stood and watched as she drove away, and for a while after. Before he went back to the garden he tried to straighten the “Heart’s Content” sign on the mailbox, but it kept slipping and he gave it up.

Harlem: Frederick Douglass Boulevard

“You have a visitor.” Yvonnia’s call found Ford in the gym office, where he and Coach Fagan were going over the midnight basketball schedule.

“We’re almost done here,” Ford told her. “Who is it? Can they wait?”

“Probably. But I’d rather you came up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. He says his name’s Blowfish and he has information for you.”

Blowfish. The park, Ford thought. Carlo’s crew. Not surprising that Yvonnia, generally hard to rattle, sounded tense.

“Okay, I’ll be right up.”

As Ford stepped into the office Yvonnia’s eyes flicked to a chubby young man in Knicks colors and a do-rag. He stood examining the photos on the wall: Ford with politicians, funders, and public figures. Those pictures were there to impress other politicians, funders, and public figures, and the fact that they worked always seemed to Ford both reassuring and ridiculous.

“You’re looking for me?”

Without haste the young man turned to Ford and smiled, showing a row of gold-capped teeth. He tapped one of the photos. “Hey, man. You really know Tyra Banks?”

“She’s given us some generous donations.”

“I’d like to give her a donation. Be damn generous, too. You got her number?”

“No, sorry. That what you came to ask?”

“Didn’t come to ask nothing. Came to give you the wire.”

“On what? Come inside.” Blowfish followed Ford into his office. He dropped into one of the armchairs by the window, swung his puffy, untied sneakers onto the coffee table.

Ford sat in the other chair, put his feet on the table, too. “You go by ‘Blowfish’?”

“What my boys call me. It’s a poison fish. You could eat it, but you don’t know how to handle it right, it gonna kill you.” Blowfish grinned. “Sometime, don’t matter how you handle it, it kill you anyway. How about you?”

“I go by ‘Mr. Corrington.’ ”

Blowfish laughed. “Damn! Well, listen here, Mr. Corrington, ’cause I got some shit you want.”

“What’s that?”

“Four-one-one. You was asking A-Dogg about Kong.”

“Who said?”

“A-Dogg told me. We tight like that.”

“All right, suppose I was. You know something A-Dogg didn’t?”

“Got to, because my man A-Dogg, he don’t know shit. Except about Kong’s bling, and his bragging on the cracker he workin’ for. Told me he told you that.”

“You can do better?”

“I seen him. The cracker.”

“You know who he is?”

“You mean, his name? Naw. But I could tell you some shit about him.”

“You can describe him?”

“Ain’t no thing.” Blowfish shrugged, but he didn’t go on.

“I see. What’s it going to cost me?”

“Tyra Banks’s phone number?”

Ford stood. “See you around, Blowfish.”

“Yo, man, why you buggin’? I’m just messing with you. This one’s free.”

“How come?”

“Carlo, that’s my main man. Kong’s brother, dig? Carlo can’t get no read, what happen to Kong. This vanilla fucker, I tell Carlo about him, but what he gonna do? How he gonna find out shit? Now you, Mr. Corrington, you a guy hang with white bread with money.” He thumbed over his shoulder, toward the outer office and its photos.

“This guy has money?” Ford sat again.

“Got the ride, got the threads. Got to get ’em somehow.”

“Tell me about him.”

“S’pose I do, what you gonna do?”

“If he had anything to do with Kong’s death, I’m going to find out about it, and he’s going to pay.”

“You mean, the police? I got a better idea. You tell me who he is, where he hang, me and Carlo take care of it.”

“No.”

“You think nine-one-one gonna come down on him? He prob’ly own every cop he ever met.”

“I have some people who listen to me, Blowfish. I promise you, if I find out this man was involved, he’ll pay. But if he’s not, I sure as hell don’t want you and Carlo hunting him down.”

“Hey, he guaranteed mixed up in some shit, with my man Kong. You could take that to the bank.”

“Doesn’t mean he had anything to do with killing him.”

“Why you was askin’ about him, then?”

“I wasn’t. I was asking A-Dogg if he knew what Kong was mixed up in, and this white man was what he told me about. Look, you have something to say or not?”

Blowfish rubbed his mouth with a pudgy hand. “People listen to you, huh?”

“Some do.”

After another few moments, the kid said, “Yeah, okay. That’s dope.” He nodded. “Tall guy, white hair, sharp nose. Always look like you smellin’ bad to him.”

“You saw this man with Kong?”

“Down to the river. Maybe last week. I’m gettin’ next to my woman, I see this big slick limo pull up. White bread gets out, walks to the rail. Leans there next to a brother. I squint my eyes— it’s just getting dark, you know?— and fuck if it ain’t Kong. I’m thinking, damn, what business do he got going and how can I get him give me a piece of it?”

“Did you find out?”

“Naw. Ask Kong next day, he tell me the same shit he tell A-Dogg, ’bout how good he bein’ paid, but he ain’t never said for what or by who. My first idea, this cracker some new supplier in town and Kong movin’ his product. But if a new operation start up, everyone hear about it, and no one ain’t heard shit. And if Kong movin’ product, why he cut me and A-Dogg out? He gonna need a army, come to that.”

Blowfish grinned, but his eyes were ice, as though challenging Ford to pass judgment. Ford met his stare. “How long were they together, this man and Kong?”

“Quick. Five, maybe. Vanilla get back in the limo, drive away. Kong leave right after, over the bridge.”

“Anyone else with them? T. D. Tilden?”

“T.D.? You shittin’ me. My old daddy, rest his soul, he used to call suckers like T.D. ‘no-account punks.’ ”

And mine used to use the same words for gangbangers like you, Ford thought. “T.D. was into something with Kong. You know anything about that?”

Blowfish shook his head. “A-Dogg tell me you say that. How come you think that?”

“I heard it.”

“From where?”

“I heard it around, Blowfish. You know anything about it?”

“No, but can’t be nothin’. T.D. strictly small-time.”

“All right. Back to this white man: you know anything else about him? I don’t suppose you got his license plate?”

“What I look like to you, five-oh? He ain’t on your wall, neither. But I seen him around, before.”

“Where?”

“Couple blocks from here. Seen him get out that damn limo over by that lot on 128th. Where them four buildings is standing in all that shit? He just look through the fence and smile, like them rats and alley cats better watch their asses because they ain’t got much longer. Like he got some plan, and they just totally fucked. Tell you something.”

“What?”

“I ain’t never wanted to be no old alley cat. But I never been so glad I ain’t one before, till I seen that smile.”

City Hall

“Edgar.” Charlie Barr strode briskly into the conference room. “Good to see you.”

“Charlie.” Westermann didn’t get up. He was dunking a cookie in his coffee and kept at it. “Glad you had time for me.”

“For a Borough President? Always. Okay if Don sits with us?”

“Sure, you feel like you need someone to watch your back.” Westermann grinned. “Morning, Don.”

Don nodded his hello and took his usual seat at the end of the table.

“What can I do for you, Edgar?” Charlie asked.

“It ain’t what you can do for me, Charlie. I’m here to do somethin’ for you.”

It was true Westermann had been born and raised in Harlem. But it was also true, according to both his official bio and Charlie’s quiet digging, that his home had been and continued to be a brownstone his doctor parents had owned on Strivers Row; that he’d spent his high school years at Fieldston; and that he had both a BA and a master’s in public administration from SUNY Albany. And true, too, that like fat in milk, the percentage of street in Edgar’s conversation varied wildly. His talk could range from completely skimmed to full, rich cream, depending what, or whom, he was pouring it on.

“I’m all ears,” Charlie told him.

“It’s come to my attention, you got DOI investigatin’ this construction site situation up to the Bronx.”

Half-and-half, Charlie thought. Could mean trouble. “That’s DOI’s job. And from your press conference Saturday— not to mention yesterday’s— I’d have thought you’d be pleased.”