My Brother's Keeper (24 page)

They'd drink and Larry would get dreamy and begin to talk about the old days, preaching to Lou like he did to the kids in the neighborhood. He'd tell them about a time when Philadelphia had real greatness, when the jazz clubs on South Street rang all night, the biggest names in the business making the rounds. And when the clubs closed they'd take it out on the street, their voices carrying through the neighborhood. And soon there would be a crowd gathered around, listening to the music, letting it get inside them. People weren't afraid to be out on the street back then. It didn't matter what time it was. Even the cops that came to break it up were touched by the sound and could only just stand there and listen.

Larry would have a few more drinks and his head would start to droop and then he'd start in on the prostitutes and the transvestites up in Judy Garland Park and how many dead kids there were that year and that if they didn't get out of Point Breeze pretty soon they'd end up dying there and how nothing would ever be the same unless someone did something about it.

But no one ever did, except maybe Larry in his small way. Lou knew that Larry Staples would never have left Philadelphia, even if he'd known what the future would bring. He just ran out of time.

‘What do you think Larry would say if he could see the two of us driving around Grays Ferry like a couple of lost souls?'

‘He'd say we were crazy.'

‘You think?'

‘He'd tell us to go home and forget the whole thing. No matter what we do, we can't bring Jimmy back, can't change what happened. And Larry Staples isn't comin' back either. He'd say we're just spinning our wheels.'

‘Then why are we here?'

‘We're crazy. Remember?'

Joey took 27th Street down to Grays Ferry Avenue and then onto 30th where he pulled into the lot at St Andrew's. He circled slowly through the lot and stopped. He rolled down his window. The last time they sat in that lot they were wearing the uniform of the Philadelphia Police Department.

Lou looked up at the old church, the red brick and jagged gray stone and the school next to it and the dark, deserted playground next to that. Shadows from a couple of shaky wooden backboards spread across the lot. Rusted rims with no nets on gray, metal poles, loose in the ground, wobbling as if a stiff wind would bring them down. A sagging fence surrounded the lot and the playground, making it look like an old reformatory, a forsaken scrap yard of condemned men, where prisoners were allowed out of their cells once a day and would spill into the yard and glare at the ravaged baskets and the razor wire wound atop the ten-foot fence. And they were left alone for that hour to fight amongst themselves until some semblance of order was achieved. And the wind that spun the gilded weather vane balanced on the vaulted spire of St Andrew sounded like laughter from the sky.

The Holy Fathers had planted a row of cherry blossoms along a cramped portion of barren dirt on the fringe of the lot. Thin, twisted trees that had once bloomed in spring, the tender pink petals unfolding timidly, had soon gone dormant. The withered bark had sloughed off, revealing the stunted trunk underneath. They hung on like that for a decade, Lou remembered, gray and forlorn, their meager branches frozen and stunted.

Lou noticed a light on in the rectory. A woman had set her face against a second-floor window. A vigilant nun finishing her evening prayers and spying on the white Cadillac in the lot. St Andrew's seemed to have the city of Philadelphia under surveillance, judging it and its many crimes.

Lou snapped open his cell phone.

‘Who you calling?'

‘Information. See if they have a listing for a Mary Grace Flannery.' He listened and then snapped it shut. ‘No dice.'

‘How about we hit the Golden Rose? If she's from the neighborhood, someone over there'll know her.'

‘And if not, I can always go for a good, old-fashioned Irish car bomb.'

‘You are crazy.'

He snapped open the phone again and waited until he heard Maggie's voice on the other end.

‘How you making out, honey?'

‘Fine. I'm over at the hospital.'

‘Why are you at the hospital?'

‘I felt like paying Catherine Waites a visit.'

‘At this hour?'

‘They never were able to get hold of her mother. She's got no family here.'

‘OK. I understand. But I'm going to be late.'

‘Your friend Betty said she'd give me a ride home.'

‘She did, did she?'

‘She's a very nice lady, you know. You should give her a call sometime. You two have a lot in common. And she likes you.'

‘Maybe I will.'

‘Can you call me when you're on your way home? It doesn't matter what time.'

‘You're something else.' Joey stopped at a four-way stop sign. A primer-gray, two-door Oldsmobile sped past with the music blasting. The driver was wearing one of those beaver-fur hats and gloves and a T-shirt with no coat. ‘Yeah, I'll call.'

The Golden Rose didn't look like much from the outside. There was a lighted sign with a few burned out letters and a worn wooden door with an opaque square of green glass about nose high with an iron grate over it. A lot of red and green neon in the window made it look like some drunk's idea of a cheap Christmas.

‘Did you ever think that the guy who killed Larry Staples could be sitting at the bar in there and we'd never know it?'

‘And if you found out, what would you do about it now?'

‘Lock him up.'

‘You need proof for that.'

‘Maybe I'd take him for a ride, leave him under the bridge.'

‘You don't mean that. I agree with you, but you don't mean it.'

‘Hypothetical question. Right, Joey?'

‘You think that's what Larry would have wanted?' Joey found a spot on the street and parked the car. ‘I was just as angry as you were when Larry died.'

‘Larry was murdered, Joey. That never sat well with me.'

‘Someone gets murdered in this city every day, Lou.'

‘And whose fault is that?'

‘Not yours or mine.'

‘Larry never would have been out there on the street if it wasn't for me.'

‘That's where you're wrong. Larry would have been there no matter what. His neighborhood was on fire. When the riots started Larry chose what side he was on.'

‘He should have stayed in his shop, locked the door like I told him.'

‘Larry picked his battles, Lou. He wasn't about to give up. He'd stand up to his own people if he had to. We know what Larry Staples was all about. He was willing to die for something greater than himself. It could just as easily have been me trying to break up that mob. I could have been the guy on the ground getting his ass kicked. There was good and bad on all sides back then, Lou. Larry was on the side of good.'

‘The man was a fucking saint.'

‘He was.'

‘And what can we do about it? Canonize him at the Golden Rose?'

TWENTY-TWO

T
hey went inside and grabbed two stools at the end of the bar. The place was going pretty good, plenty of locals primed and ready to go the distance. There was a pool table in a back room and the hard tapping of the balls reached them through the music. Last call was coming up quickly. Joey and Lou hadn't caused much of a stir when they walked in; they must have looked like a couple of regulars.

Two guys got up from a table and walked out. Another guy got up off his barstool and headed to the men's room. Joey and Lou settled into their spots at the bar. A middle-aged guy in a blue flannel shirt with dark gray hair under a Phillies cap and three-days' growth on his face came up behind them and tapped Lou on the shoulder. Lou checked the guy out in the mirror behind the bar before turning his head.

‘You got a lot of fucking nerve comin' in here.'

‘I didn't think anyone would mind. It's been a long time.'

‘You don't remember me, do you?'

‘Afraid not.'

‘Denis McNulty. You put my little brother away for five years. Been a long time but not that long. Not long enough. I don't think my brother would've forgot about you while he rotted in a cell up at Camp Hill.'

‘The McNulty brothers. Yeah, I remember. Armed robbery, right? We caught him buying a bag of crack with the stolen money, the stupid shit. You were too smart for that, though. You got away and laid low. He could have rolled over and it would have been you in Camp Hill. But he was afraid of his big brother, wasn't he, afraid of what would happen to him if he came back to Grays Ferry after squealing on Denis McNulty.'

‘A lot you'd know about it.'

‘I know you could have come forward and taken responsibility, saved your little brother. Done the time yourself.'

‘It don't matter anyway. My brother's dead. Never made it out of prison.'

‘Well, I hope you see his face every time you look in the mirror,' Lou dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, slid the pack of cigarettes in behind it, ‘if you're looking for someone to blame.'

Denis McNulty's face burned red. He exchanged a glance with Joey and walked back to his table in the back. Lou waited for the bartender to notice them. She was a redhead, middle-aged and built like a linebacker in eighties spandex, black and tight from her neck to her ankles. She was putting out a cigarette in a dented tin ashtray, ignoring them and waiting for them to leave after their encounter with Denis McNulty. When she figured they weren't going anywhere, she pushed the ashtray away and strolled to the end of the bar.

They ordered beer and she put the glasses down on two –lime-green napkins. Lou slid the twenty in her direction and told her to keep the change. The smirk on her face didn't move a muscle but her eyes opened a little wider as if she hadn't seen a twenty-dollar tip since she'd been doing lap dances at the Arramingo, which would have been a very long time ago.

‘What's this supposed to buy?'

‘Answers.'

‘I thought as much. What are you guys, cops?'

‘Ask Denis McNulty. He'll tell you.'

‘I don't need to ask Denis nothing. What the hell you want?'

‘Mary Grace Flannery.'

Lou took a long drink. He eyed the woman over the glass. She was still in pretty good shape, probably mid-forties, bleached blonde hair. A little too much make-up but she needed it to cover the nicks and scars and the wrinkles from all the long nights she'd spent on both sides of the bar. She was just as tough as she looked.

‘What would she want with you?'

‘Then you know her.'

‘Sure I know her.'

‘I was just wondering what happened to her. I haven't seen her in a long time.'

‘Nothing happened to her. If I see her, I'll tell her you were asking. What'd you say your name was?'

‘I didn't say. When's the last time you saw her?'

‘Don't remember.'

‘But she comes in here?'

‘She used to come in all the time. Not so much anymore.'

‘You said you knew where she lived.'

‘I never said that.' She lit another cigarette. One of the other patrons called to her and she filled a few glasses of beer from the tap and came back. ‘Gracie used to cover for me once in a while. That's it.'

‘Listen, honey. Your friend could be in danger. Why don't you quit the act and help us out. You'll be doing her a favor.'

She was wiping her hands on a wet towel and then used the towel to wipe the red lipstick that had run to the corners of her mouth and formed little concentric circles, making her look a little like a clown: a sad, old clown.

‘I think we have her on file in the back. Give me a minute and I'll check.'

‘Thanks.'

Joey polished off his beer in two quick swallows. Lou took his time, the alcohol slowly catching up to him. The place was starting to clear out. A few couples, talking secretly in the dark booths, packed up and crept away with their heads averted. A guy fell off his bar stool but managed to stay on his feet, grabbing for the stool next to him and making it to the door. Lou could hear the guy throwing up on the sidewalk outside.

The door opened again and a black guy in a worn consignment shop overcoat came in. His blue jeans were brand new but three sizes too big. They hung dangerously low on his hips and the wide cuffs were rolled up at the bottom. He wore a pair of black hi-top sneakers unlaced on his feet. His gait was uneven as if one leg was longer than the other and he seemed to drag the shorter one along, his sneakers sticking to the floor. He pulled his bare hands out of his pockets and blew on them. His chin was covered with gray stubble and he was wearing a purple Minnesota Vikings cap perched high on his head.

He made his way to the bar and the first thing he did was bum a drink from the guy next to him. Lou could hear the garbled din of his voice and turned to see the guy's broken-toothed leer. He finished his drink and moved on, bumming another drink from the next guy and making the same drunken speech. It wouldn't be much longer before he reached Lou.

‘You ready to get out of here?'

‘And miss the opportunity to buy this gentleman a drink?'

‘What the hell's wrong with you?'

‘Maybe it's this place, Joey. I never liked it. I thought I could come back here and just do a job and just talk to people and gather the information I needed and walk away. But I can't. I'm looking into the faces of these people and I see myself in their eyes and I don't like what I see. I hear their conversations, how petty they all are and how empty, and it pisses me off. In all these years not a damn thing has changed.'

‘As soon as the waitress comes back with this Flannery girl's address we're out of here. That's all we came here for. I don't like hanging around this dump any more than you do.'

‘I don't know. Maybe it's not just this place. Maybe it's me. I don't have the right to judge anyone. You wonder what happens to places like this in between visits, you wonder if anything changes other than the rotting wood and the crumbling sidewalk outside. Do the stories ever change? Do the voices ever change? Do the people change?' He looked toward the man bumming drinks. ‘I guess I got used to avoiding places like the Golden Rose. And I guess now that I'm here, I have my answer.'