Love and Death in Brooklyn

by Glenville Lovell

  “Is it wrong to wanna help my friends?”

  “Why don’t you change your name to St. Bernard?” She got up and picked up her robe from the foot of the bed. Caped in the long black gown she strode stiffly out of the room.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  t he two bodies were found the same day at almost the same time in different parts of Brooklyn. Marjorie Madden’s pregnant body was discovered by police after a neighbor complained of a dog barking nonstop through the night. She’d been strangled and had been dead for six hours. The police were still gathering evidence and interviewing possible witnesses but it appeared to be a push-in robbery; the place had been ransacked. When I read the news story I thought of telling Noah about the child Marjorie had been carrying, but what would that accomplish now?

  A SANITATION WORKER, walking his dog on a deserted stretch of the Coney Island boardwalk early in the morning before he set off for work, saw something in the sand that aroused his suspicion. It could’ve been a piece of wood. But driftwood that size was not common on that beach. He whistled for his dog and together they walked down the steps onto the sand. As he suspected, it wasn’t driftwood. The naked frozen body lay face up and the sanitation worker wondered aloud to the police that only a crazy person would kill somebody and then cut off his dick. Cause of death had not been determined by press time.

  I CALLED a trusted friend to do some digging for me. Semin Gupta, a respected Pulitzer Prize–winning reporter with the New York Times, and I went back a ways. She’d come from India on an H-1 visa, contracted to work for a software company, and after six months she’d had enough. She got married, and having always fancied herself a writer, she wrote a number of freelance articles on technology for webzines before enrolling in the journalism program at Columbia.

  After graduation her technology background landed her a job at the Times. Soon her reporting skills were being noticed and she got to do feature stories, one of which, a series on brutality in the NYPD, brought her to interview me. We’ve stayed in touch ever since.

  I asked Semin to find out what she could about Dr. Billie Heat. Did she have a track record of getting involved with patients? A push-in robbery seemed too convenient an explanation for Marjorie Madden’s murder. I had nothing to go on other than Marjorie Madden’s word that Dr. Heat saw her as a rival for Ronan’s affection. Now Marjorie Madden was dead. And I wanted to be sure Dr. Heat didn’t have a reason to kill her.

  I WAS waiting for Baron Spencer when he arrived at his office that morning. A light snow flurry had begun, but if the forecast was correct it would only last a short while, leaving barely a deposit of the white stuff. Spencer’s two bodyguards stiffened like lead soldiers when they saw me standing outside the door, and from the change in their expressions I suspected they were beginning to harbor ugly thoughts about my demise.

  The three walked toward me, Spencer behind, shielded by his two robots. They stopped no more than a foot away, their eyes hollowed out with repressed rage at my insolence.

  “What’re you doing here?” the broad-chested bodyguard said.

  “Have you ever watched the snow fall through the air?” I said. “The tiny flakes look like a swarm of flies.”

  “Fuck you,” the man said. “Get out of our way.”

  “Mr. Spencer, I’d like to speak to you for a couple of minutes,” I said.

  The cool air was like silk across my face, as the wisps of bright snow fell freely around us. A thin bluish line of smoke coming from a building about a block away trailed across the sky. I watched it thinking it was such a blemish to a beautiful morning, almost as much a blot as the faces of the two ugly bodyguards.

  “What did we tell you last time you were here?” the older bodyguard said. He wore a thick down coat, keeping his hands in his pockets the whole time.

  Spencer sliced through the two guards like a weary halfback, crouched and circumspect. “Are you a student of history, Mr. Overstreet?”

  “You can call me Blades.”

  “What do you think America would be like today if the Black Panthers had succeeded in its mission to liberate black people in this country?”

  “If they hadn’t self-destructed, you mean?”

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “You’re right, we self-destructed. We had a lot of help but we fucked it up.”

  “The history books are closed. You can’t go back and change it now.”

  “But that’s where you’re wrong. We can’t go back but history isn’t done with the Panthers. Because the spirit of the Panthers isn’t dead. Do you know what effect your father’s betrayal had on our New York chapter?”

  “I’m not here to talk about that.”

  “Do you know of the many programs we had thriving in this city? The free clinic. The breakfast program. The literacy program. Do you know what happened to those programs after our chapter was decimated by the fallout when our brothers were convicted?”

  “You can’t blame my father for that.”

  “We were afraid to trust anybody. Even our wives.”

  “Did you know Marjorie Madden was found murdered last night?”

  “I knew your father. Fancied himself a ladies’ man, you know. Dick Harder, we used to call him. He must’ve fucked half the women who worked with us in the breakfast program. I would never have suspected he’d flip like that.”

  “Did you think Marjorie Madden would flip on you? Sell you out to Ronan?”

  He puckered his mouth like a blowfish and then spoke through a vexed smile. “Do you want to know what I did last night? I watched a program on TV called Where Are They Now?”

  The wind changed direction and the fine snow drifted across my face, brushing against my cheek like feathers.

  Spencer came closer to me, standing now just a foot away, his face tilted upward, his silent eyes radiant as a cat’s. “I know you’d like to take me down. But you can’t. Ronan tried. And failed.”

  “This isn’t personal, Mr. Spencer.”

  “Then why’re you harassing me?”

  “You have a motive for killing both Ronan and Marjorie.”

  “Listen to me, Mr. Overstreet. My life’s work, my mission until I draw my last breath, is to continue what the Panthers started. We had high expectations and fell short. But as long as I’m alive I will work to empower black people. Today I’m prepared to work within the system. Or make the system work for me. People like Ronan who only care about enriching themselves can never stop me.”

  Cars whisked by in heated surges of noise. Flickering swirls of snow blew past me as the diminutive Spencer followed his bodyguards into his office.

  IT WAS LATE in the afternoon when I showed up at J’Noel’s apartment unannounced. I had called several times but no one answered the phone. The sun had just tucked itself away in the folds of dark clouds, and as I rang J’Noel’s bell I was thinking to myself that I wished the show wasn’t tonight because it meant I had to be out late and right now I was feeling like shit. My body was getting too old to recover from a beating without the benefit of three nights of solid sleep.

  But J’Noel didn’t answer her bell. I took out my cell to ring Susan Zenaro at the Crime Victims Counseling Center. Susan, sounding stressed and agitated as usual, informed me that she’d been trying without any luck to reach J’Noel for the last two days and suspected that she might’ve moved.

  I walked back to my car parked one block away. My call to Toni Monday caught him coming out of the shower.

  “Blades, I’m happy you called. There’s an art show and party tonight at Leon Dupri’s loft in Williamsburg. You wanna come?”

  “Who’s Leon Dupri?”

  “I thought you were into Caribbean art, Blades.”

  “I’ve never heard of this person.”

  “He’s a young Haitian artist. Very arresting stuff. Lots of bold voodoo imagery.”

  “I’m busy tonight. But it’d be great if you can help me find a girl, Toni.”

  “What kind of girl you look
ing for?”

  “Young. Battered. With a little boy about two years old.”

  “Jesus! Blades, with your looks you can do better than that.”

  “You might’ve known her boyfriend. Malcolm Nails-Diggs. He was found dead on a Coney Island beach.”

  “What’s this chick’s name?”

  “J’Noel Bitelow.”

  “What makes you think I knew this Malcolm Nails whatever?”

  “He was dealing out of the Coney Island projects.”

  Toni cursed. “You seem to think I know every lowlife in Brooklyn.”

  “And some in Queens.”

  “I’m off to sample the creative talent of this city. Later for you, dawg.”

  RIVER HAD A certain look in her eyes that made you take notice of her even if you didn’t want to. As if she’d already gobbled up half the night and planned to gobble up the rest when it suited her fancy. She watched me in sullen silence. I watched her in amazement. Her black eyes were restless as if under assault from the wind. There was something violent and stunning about the way she was dressed. All leather. Black. Stilettos. She looked like a large animal, a swift leopard resting before a journey across the plains.

  I did not expect to see her here. She sat alone at my table in a dark bay near the stage. A little after eleven. Show was an hour away. The large crowd we’d anticipated had begun to arrive. People fluttered about the large space like butterflies among branches.

  She twitched when our eyes met. The solemn mask that locked her face made her look gaunt.

  I walked over and sat at the table. For a moment language abandoned me as we stared at each other. I felt as if the air had turned to ice. A memory weaved itself into my consciousness. Playing hide-and-seek with my father when I was a little boy. Why that memory I couldn’t say. But like a fire it jarred my voice back from its cage.

  “You’re stupid to come here,” I said.

  “You look handsome, Blades.” Her smile seemed to multiply in my brain and then it dispersed like rain.

  “Cut the crap! What’re you doing here?”

  “Negus invited me.”

  “I don’t want any trouble in my club.”

  Her body was tensed, her eyes intent. “Relax, I wasn’t followed.”

  “You’re trouble, River.”

  “Coming from you, I take that as a compliment.”

  “Take it how you like, but I want your ass outta here.”

  She blinked, her eyes becoming diaphanous spaces. “Are you ordering me to leave, Blades?”

  “You bet your ass. You’re a menace to my business.”

  “Did you consult your partner?”

  “I don’t have to consult anybody. Negus is a silent partner. On these matters he remains that. Silent. You haven’t been straight with either of us, River. I’ve tried to be your friend but you have no respect for friendship. And I hope I’m wrong, but if you’re not careful you’re gonna get Negus killed.”

  “This thing will blow over soon, Blades. Trust me.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I suppose the bear who just walked up to the bar is just here to bury his food for the winter.”

  She did not turn around, which told me something else about River. She’d spent some time on the street or had surveillance training. Most people would’ve fallen prey to their curiosity and turned around the minute I mentioned a mark. Only someone trained in surveillance techniques or someone accustomed to being watched would’ve had the discipline to sit tight.

  I said, “Does he know what you look like?”

  “We’ve met.”

  “Get up and don’t turn around. Walk past me toward the dressing room. If he turns this way I’ll cut him off.”

  The DJ started to play Gabby’s “Dr. Cassandra” as River got up and quietly eased past me. It amazed me how cool she looked. Inside my brain silent black explosions were taking place. A hollow fire had started in the pit of my stomach. A bad thing. There was no way to control the rage once I overheated. I was pretty close to blastoff. More than anything I wanted to throw that lizard-face fuck out on his head myself.

  I was pretty certain he couldn’t have made it past my security with a gun. Throwing him out might stifle the bile churning in my gut, but the commotion could also prejudice arriving patrons from entering, and hasten a stampede from the club. The best thing would be to get River off the premises quietly.

  I turned to follow River, who’d drifted away to the back of the club toward the bathrooms and dressing rooms. Two exits back there led into the alley on Hoyt Street.

  The tall woman’s stilettos morsed a hauntingly defiant code on the hard oak floor. As I made my way along the narrow passageway near the main dressing rooms I kept hoping a vapor of clarity would make its way to my clogged brain to help me figure out why I kept pulling this woman out of shit. By the time I caught up with her my brain was still as soggy as a squeegee’s sponge.

  I turned to see if we’d been followed. No one behind us. River had stopped ahead. In the pale light the black walls on either side of us seemed to be moving, creeping closer, cutting off the air. I breathed deeply in and exhaled, as if to defy the shadows threatening to render me breathless. River’s dark eyes lit up the passageway, and their defiant fire was reassuring.

  She reached out and touched my arm. “I know the way out. You can go back.”

  “You got wheels?”

  “Negus’s Bronco.”

  “Where’s it parked?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Blades. I’ll be okay. Tell Negus I had to leave. I’ll call him to hook up later. And thanks. Good looking out, babe.”

  She hugged me and her wispy perfume danced across my palate. I watched her dark silhouette disappear down the stairs leading to the exit before turning to make my way back to the dance area. I was halfway down the passageway when black-suited Lizard-Face appeared, blocking my path.

  He halted when he saw me and in his eyes I saw the struggle to decide whether to stay and wage war or turn tail. His body stiffened. A decision to fight, I presumed. I was confident he was unarmed but I was taking no chances. Reaching back I slipped the Glock from my waist holster, holding it down at my side parallel to my leg.

  I stopped two feet away.

  He saw the gun and folded his arms across his chest in mock self-embrace, flashing large tobacco-stained teeth. “You know I’m unarmed.”

  I tucked the gun back into its sheath. A smile grew on his face, obliterating his tiny eyes. I feigned a left and when he stepped in to parry I smashed a right elbow into his beefy neck. His knees buckled. From a crouch he lofted a straight right at my face. I weaved left, crunching a right hook into his Adam’s apple, a blow that would’ve knocked out most men. He sat on his ass coughing involuntarily. With a snort he swept his right leg out catching me above the ankle of my bad leg. Needles of pain shot through my knee and up my leg. I fell on top of him, my good knee burrowing into his chest. Air and spittle spurted from his mouth like the breath of a dying whale. Keeping him immobile with my knee in his chest I reached for my gun. He gasped for air, his slanted eyes vacant as a desert. I ground the nozzle into his forehead.

  “All I want is the girl.” He sputtered blood. “The longer you hide her the worse it’s going to be for everybody.” Grinding his face into a ball of anger, he spat more blood and grinned. Behind the red smile I could almost hear the murmuring of his rage at being humiliated. I eased off him as it was becoming too difficult to balance myself on my weakened knee. The pain there had almost numbed my leg. I steadied myself, keeping the gun aimed at his bullet head. He sat up, smoothing his hair. I reached for my cell phone, taking my eyes off him a second to dial 411.

  The electronic voice asked: What listing, please?

  I said, “Eighty-fourth Precinct.”

  Lizard-Face was now on his feet.

  Hold for the listing, please.

  “I think it’s unfair that I know your name and you don’t know
mine,” Lizard-Face said.

  I grimaced in pain. “I don’t wanna know your name.”

  He grinned and bit his lip, backing away. “It’s Parkoff. We’re becoming so intimate you can call me Andre.”

  I limped toward him. “Don’t move.”

  He rippled a laugh. “You ever shot anyone in the back?”

  He turned and started running along the tight corridor, his hips dipping and swaying disjointedly. I closed the phone and limped after him but couldn’t keep up. By the time I reached the dance area he had filtered through the crowd. I saw him going out through the entrance.

  Soca music had stirred up the crowd. The dance floor was jammed up with vibrating bodies, women gyrating ferociously as if their hips were pneumatically connected to the rest of their limbs. This tangle of flesh hummed together as if searching for some communal secret, a spirit that the ancestors had emptied or flung into the air which could only be retrieved when all of them came together like a flame.

  I ordered security to call the police. Then I hobbled back to the bar. After swallowing a shot of Jack Daniel’s I stood there, my mind suspended. I was a swimmer in rough seas unable to get a fix on the horizon. I had made little headway in finding Ronan’s killer. Was he killed by a jealous lover or was his death the result of a political vendetta?

  In the meantime I was sinking fast into the dark puss of some deadly mind game between River and Lizard-Face, whose trail I did not have time to follow. Except that the black clot of this dangerous game seemed ready to close around me.

  TWENTY-SIX

  p apa Smooth’s hourlong show was a charismatic mix of romantic lover’s rock reggae and rueful self-effacing dance-hall lyrics. He pranced and jumped and ran around the stage like a man in a voodoo trance delivering his iron lyrics with airtight precision. His style was that of an old storyteller, quick to compliment the women near the stage, but watchful that he wasn’t dissing any of the brothers whose girlfriends might be the ones undulating to his hypnotic voice and over-the-top flattery. Then there was the cold hostility in his voice when he sang about growing up without a father in Jamaica, or the personal sorrow of having to watch his best friend die of a drug overdose.