Love and Death in Brooklyn

by Glenville Lovell

  “How’s that?” I said acidly.

  “Your tone. It’s very aggressive. Combative.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t come here to analyze me.”

  “It’s not an analysis, Mr. Overstreet. Just an assessment.”

  “Meaning what? A judgment without cause?”

  “No need to get defensive.”

  “Are you telling us that Ronan was suffering from paranoia?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “Ronan had a lot of issues.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  Her eyes grew eager. “Don’t you feel a need to talk sometimes? Ronan did.”

  “What are some of the things Ronan talked to you about?”

  “I can’t go into details. I’m sure you can appreciate that. But I can tell you this. He had a deep distrust of some of the people around him. He often said he was surrounded by spies. He fired his personal assistant because he thought she might be a spy. He believed someone would try to assassinate him because of his views, the way they did Malcolm X.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say who this personal assistant was spying for?”

  “No. But he did say he had to call the police to get her off the premises. She became belligerent and abusive.”

  “Did she threaten him?”

  “Yes. But I’m sure he didn’t take her seriously.” Her eyes wavered. “Ronan came to me because he needed help with personal problems. In hindsight I realize the threat he felt must’ve been real. At the time it didn’t seem that way. I’m sorry about what happened to him.”

  “Is that why you’re here? You feel bad?”

  Instead of answering she picked up her wine glass. I picked up my margarita, which looked even more appealing after staring into Dr. Heat’s cold eyes. I licked the lip of the glass once then drew a mouthful of the tangy liquid. I could feel the slender woman’s eyes on me.

  Noah got up. “It was good of you to call me, Dr. Heat. Thanks for coming.”

  She stood up. “No trouble. I’m very sorry for your loss. Ronan was an extraordinary man. I just wish . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  They shook hands behind me.

  “Thank you,” Noah said, and walked over to the rack to get her coat.

  “I wish we could’ve met under more pleasant circumstances,” she said. She turned to face me and was smiling. “Likewise for you, Mr. Overstreet.”

  She extended her hand and I took it. It was small in mine, and her skin had a cracked luminosity under the yellow light.

  “Same here,” I said nonchalantly.

  She looked at me and her mouth moved as if to say something; nothing came out. Stiffly, she turned to Noah, who was holding her black wool coat in his hands. For a moment it looked as if she wanted to take the coat from him. She placed her pocketbook on the chair and allowed herself to be fitted.

  She walked crisply out, her flowing black coat almost touching the ground.

  Noah ordered another beer and scooted over into the seat next to me. “Why the hell didn’t you rip out her throat while you were at it?”

  I turned to face him. “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean? Jesus, could you’ve been more contemptuous? If I didn’t know better I would say it was something personal. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t like her.”

  “That’s no reason to try and stuff your dick down her throat.”

  “Do you believe Ronan was crazy?”

  “Look, Blades, you need to be more open minded sometimes, you know.”

  “Open minded about what?”

  “Therapy does help some people.”

  “Did it help Ronan?”

  “How the fuck should I know? The boy didn’t talk to me for years.”

  “I’d like to talk to this personal assistant he fired. Can you find out who she is and how I can get in touch with her?”

  “I’m sure his office would have that information.”

  “How’s Donna holding up?”

  “Her sister just came up from Detroit. And her brother is flying in from California. There are times when having a big family helps.”

  “Have you decided on a date for the funeral?”

  He shook his head slowly. “You hungry?”

  “Not hungry enough to eat here.”

  He laughed. “Man, you need to come down off that gourmet high horse. Your mom’s from New Orleans, isn’t she?”

  “She was born there, yes.”

  “She grew up there, too. And your grandmother was West Indian, so I know fried food can’t be foreign to you. What the hell do you have against food that comes with a little grease?”

  “Lots of grease and no taste, that’s a bad combination.”

  “Nothing tastes better than grease. Ask the folks who eat at McDonald’s.”

  “I’m not eating here, Noah. There’s Tutta Pasta down the street. And there’s Jyoti’s Indian Palace on Seventh Avenue South.”

  He crinkled his eyes. “I’m not hungry anyway. Haven’t had an appetite since this shit happened.”

  “Did it surprise you that he was seeing a psychologist?”

  Noah tied his brow into a dark knot. “I don’t know. It’s the thing to do now, I guess. You can’t function in this country now without a therapist or pills, it seems. I mean, that’s the way white people been doing it for years. Black people who couldn’t afford a therapist have been reaching for the bottle and the occasional crack pipe. Either way, everybody in this country is on something. Something to get them high. Something to get them around the monsters of life.”

  “Have you ever been in therapy?”

  “Naw, I’m old school. I’d rather drink.”

  “Why’re we so unhappy, Noah?”

  “That’s what capitalism does to people, man.”

  “Capitalism makes people paranoid?”

  “You can never be happy if your moral base is tied to the production of capital and convincing other people that they can’t be satisfied with what they have. That they must always have more. That it’s their right to have more than the next guy. That in order for the system to survive they need to buy more. Even if they don’t really need it. It’s the American way, but it’s fucked up and wasteful.”

  “Look at the alternative.”

  “What?”

  “Look at what happened in Russia.”

  “Who says that’s the alternative?”

  “Then what’s the alternative?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe there’s no alternative. I know this. We gotta rediscover the meaning of the word contentment or this planet is doomed. Contentment is a word whose true meaning runs counter to the rampant acquisition of capital. ’Cause if that’s your purpose in life how can you be happy? You can get rich, but that don’t mean you’ll be happy.”

  “It don’t mean you’ll be unhappy either, professor.”

  “Yeah? Professor this.” He grabbed his crotch.

  We both laughed.

  Noah continued, “Suppose after all the buying and accumulation of capital and stuff, you’re still not happy. What then? You start looking around for answers, asking questions. Then somebody calling herself a therapist tells you it’s because of your parents. And since you can’t do anything about your parents, since you can’t go out and punish them for fucking up your life, for turning you into a consumer, there’s only one thing left to do. Sedate yourself. That’s why the rich and poor alike make drug dealers rich. Some legal. Some illegal.”

  I always got a kick out of Noah’s riffs on American society. I didn’t always understand or agree with him but the thing about Noah I loved was that he never held back. His tongue was always loaded and he sprayed everyone.

  “You think Ronan was blaming you?” I said.

  He looked at me then his eyes wandered off. “I just read a book called the Founding Brothers. You should read it.”


  “What’s it about?”

  “The Founding Fathers. Get it? Washington. Jefferson. John Adams. Alexander Hamilton. That crew. The people who put slavery and liberty in bed together and begat America. Land of Freedom and Racism. You don’t think those contradictions are enough to send us all to the funny farm? It might all make some sense if a president had the balls to stand up and offer a real apology to black people for the holocaust of slavery.”

  “I thought Clinton did that.”

  “Then I musta missed it.” Noah was now pretty drunk.

  “So we’re not eating, right?” I said.

  He laughed. “We’re drinking.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “You’ve only had one drink.”

  “I’m done. So are you. In fact I think we should leave.”

  “If you wanna leave. Leave.”

  “I said we. Did you drive?”

  “We? I ain’t married to you.”

  “I’m taking you home, Noah. Where’s your car?”

  “You ain’t taking me nowhere.”

  “I’m not letting you drive that truck in your condition.”

  “What’s wrong with you, boy? You lost your mind? You don’t know nothing about my condition.”

  “Do you want me to call Donna?”

  He turned away from me and got up off the seat. I watched him sift through the pockets of his lined jacket, coming up with a bunch of keys, which he threw at me.

  “If you ever threaten to call my wife on me again I’m a kick your ass.”

  ELEVEN

  s aturday. I took Anais to Danielle B. on 57th Street in Manhattan, where I bought a diamond ring for her birthday, which had fallen on one of the days she had been away. Afterward we lunched at Fireman’s, a hotbed for tourists, a place I would not ordinarily be caught dead in at lunchtime, but Anais’s cousin was the director of sales and, well, the lunch was free.

  Anais leaned over to kiss me soon after the waiter had delivered our appetizers and left. The dark pupils of her eyes sparkled as bright as the diamond on her finger and I got an irresistible urge to ride my fingers along the ridge of her clavicle. The thought induced me to smile.

  “What’re you smiling at?” She reached across the red tablecloth and clasped my hands, linking her fingers through mine.

  “I love you,” I said.

  “In that case, you wouldn’t mind telling me what Noah wanted last night?”

  “He just wanted to talk.”

  “Any genius could’ve figured that out,” she responded with a wry grin.

  I picked at my salad. “He’s my friend, Anais. What do you want?”

  “I want you to look at me.”

  I turned to face her. A splinter of sunlight bounced off the wall, splattering haphazardly on her neck, highlighting the smooth swell of her jawline. She chewed patiently, as if waiting for me to say something.

  “I’ve got to help him,” I said.

  “Help him do what?”

  “Get through this. He’s hurting right now.”

  “And you didn’t discuss investigating Ronan’s murder?”

  “Back off, Anais.”

  “Blades, you’ve got your own family. You’ve just become a father yourself. You hardly know your daughter. You expect me to be a mother to this girl that I don’t even know. I’m not complaining about that. But don’t you think you should let the police find Ronan’s killer and concentrate on keeping this family happy?”

  “Noah is like family.”

  She released my hand. “There’s no reasoning with you, is there?”

  “Just give me some time, Anais.”

  “You’re like a damn pit bull, Blades. When you clench your jaws around something you’d rather die than let it go.”

  “I cannot desert him now, Anais. I just cannot.”

  “What about me? You’d rather desert me?”

  “Let’s just drop this before . . .”

  “No, damn you! I don’t want to drop it.”

  I jumped up. “Fine, then I’ll drop it!”

  Heads snapped in our direction at the raising of my voice. I picked up my hat. Anais looked at me stunned, but her eyes never left my face. I felt as if I was on stage and didn’t know my lines. Fumbling for words that wouldn’t come, I flopped the black Kangol backwards on my head and went to get my coat.

  IT WAS stupid of me to storm out of the restaurant leaving Anais behind. I knew it the moment I stepped out onto the sun-washed pavement, into the thicket of New York tourist traffic. I turned around to go back to apologize, but before I could move I saw her coming out. Expecting her to approach me, I stopped. But she passed without a glance in my direction, in fact, as if we were strangers, bustling down 57th in the direction of Broadway. Too surprised to do anything, I stood bewildered for what may’ve been no more than a few seconds, but what seemed like minutes, before I set off after her.

  I caught up with her at Broadway and 57th, as she was about to enter the drugstore on that corner. Clutching her arm, I tried to arrest her flight, but she slithered out of my grasp and went inside.

  I remained outside. The carvings on the new hi-rise artdeco apartment building across the street spat sunlight into my face, though not enough to burn away the humiliation I was feeling. Roadwork in progress a few blocks south on Broadway created a traffic jam, piling cabs on top of limousines, and buses on top of delivery trucks. Impatient drivers honked their horns, competing with the jabbering jackhammers for decibel supremacy.

  Anais did not stay long in the drugstore. She came out with a small gray shopping bag in her hand, the color matching the scowl on her face. She stood on the steps looking down on me; the whites of her eyes clear as fresh snow.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “What do you think would happen if you went skydiving without a parachute?”

  I stared mystified. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You figure it out.”

  She walked past me and stood at the curb and stuck her hand out to hail a cab.

  “Where’re you going?” I said, my voice still apologetic.

  “Home.”

  “Why’re you taking a cab? The car is parked two blocks away.”

  “Because if I got into a car with you right now we might end up in the East River. I’m not going to listen to you try to convince me that what you’re doing is honorable. I don’t want to hear it, Blades. You still think you’re a cop. Be a cop, then. But don’t expect me to load your gun.”

  A dirty-looking yellow cab pulled up close to the curb. I strained to find a suitable response to delay her flight, but Anais wasn’t about to wait for bricks to fall from my clogged brain. Before I could reply she jumped into the cab, which drove away with a spurt of blue smoke.

  IN MANY parts of the country the onset of darkness prompted citizens to rush indoors. Not my city. The absence of daylight in New York City was celebrated by the unleashing of a mad rush of creativity; thousands of volts of electricity pouring into golden filaments hanging all over the city powering zillions of electrons, driving the wheels of commerce. Dazzling floodlights on Broadway shows. Dizzying strobe lights in discos. Office lights on Wall Street. Blue lights in jazz clubs. Dim romantic lights in restaurants. The glow of crack pipes heating up.

  As the sun was disappearing I went running in Prospect Park. The park’s lilac lights spread through the empty arms of giant oaks and sleeping elms, stripped of their foliage since November. The evening was raw and cloudy, the wind whipping around me with the fervor of a spurned lover, quaking leafless branches, stirring up dirt and dust along the path. It wasn’t good running weather, but I needed to shake off my anxiety. I hadn’t seen Anais since our fight this afternoon. She hadn’t come home and hadn’t answered any of my calls to her cell.

  I ran about five miles, almost twice around the park. Despite the weather, there were enough runners and cyclis
ts to keep me company. Running hard, I pounded my anger into the asphalt with such passion that my knees hurt, but I continued running until my chest ached, my heart throbbing violently against my rib cage. Gloveless, my fingers burned as if on fire and the wind scraped my face like the knife of an angry mugger.

  I finished my run and tottered in a stupor down Lincoln Street. Opposite the Prospect Park subway station I stopped, hunched over, my chest heaving, trying to stave off the prickling urge to puke as I scarfed frigid air into my lungs.

  Underneath my black tracksuit the fitted biker shorts and sweatshirt were soaked through. My wool cap was damp; my wet face was chilling quickly. Babbling riders spilled from the subway station. I stood upright, having scuffed the urge to gag, and zigzagged through the crowd on the sidewalk, crossing Flatbush.

  About ten yards away from my house I sensed someone coming up on my left shoulder. I turned abruptly.

  “Blades Overstreet?”

  Her voice was rich and deep, which seemed about what a voice coming out of such a large body should sound like.

  I stopped walking. “Do I know you?”

  She brushed aside my gruffness. “Did you enjoy your run?”

  “I’m sorry, but my mother told me not to talk to strangers.”

  She spooned yogurt from a plastic cup. “Sallie Kraw. FBI.”

  “You’re alone? I thought you feds traveled in herds.”

  She smiled, licked her lips. “Budget cutbacks. But as you can see, I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

  She opened the way for a million other intriguing questions. Like, how did a big girl like her get mixed up in that racket. But I was out of deep questions. And I was tired as hell. I just wanted to get into my damn house, take off my wet clothes and have a shower before supper, and with any luck my wife might actually be inside waiting for me.

  I rubbed sweat from my neck. “Are you lost or something?”

  “I was waiting for you. The young lady in your house said you’d gone running. I’d say she’s too old to be your daughter.”

  “Babysitter.”

  She licked the white plastic spoon. “Yes. So, how was your run?”

  “Lonely.”