Love and Death in Brooklyn

by Glenville Lovell

  Parking the Volvo opposite an elementary school, I got out and leaned against the school perimeter fence to watch the kids in uniform play in the yard. Two adults, puffing on cancer-rods in one corner of the tiny schoolyard, supervised the boisterous activities. I walked back one block to a bodega at the corner, where I got a pack of plantain chips, a pack of gum, and a newspaper.

  Outside the bodega I dropped a dollar in the dirt-packed palm of a homeless man even as the greasy-looking owner of the establishment tried to shoo him away. The coatless man, his shirt tattered, ranted on in a wild Jamaican accent about the many wrongs foisted on him by the world.

  Stoking a wedge of gum into my mouth, I continued along the block of clean-looking frame houses. I passed the eaten skeleton of one of only two trees on the entire block. The other one stood at the other end of the block. I suspected that when the Italians and Jews lived in this neighborhood there were many more trees.

  I reached the house I was looking for. An American flag flapped from the awning over the front door. In bright gold lettering the house number, 667, was plastered on the door. Music blared from the house next door.

  I passed through a black metal gate and walked up the yellow-painted cement steps to the front door, where I pressed the buzzer. The semi-attached frame house had a tiny garden that was empty except for stalks. A woman wearing a bloodred tracksuit, whose face had that slack I-had-a-hard-night appearance, came to the door and looked out. I waved a phony badge in the air.

  “Can I help you?” The right side of her mouth drooped heavily.

  “I’m looking for Tracy DeRoguet.”

  “Wrong house.”

  “Big-Six?”

  She frowned and pulled her head back to further assess my entire stature. “What’s a big six?”

  “I got this address from his probation officer, who said he dropped him off here just a few days ago. Tall dude. Albino-looking. Freckles.”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Blades Overstreet.”

  “Detective?”

  I nodded vaguely.

  “You’re kinda cute for a detective.” She glossed a smile. “You look like an actor.”

  “I’m not an actor.”

  “I’m just saying. You coulda been an actor if you wanted to. I mean you got the looks. Though dark-skinned black men is the thing in Hollywood these days. You know, Wesley and Taye. I’m studying acting in Manhattan, you know.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. That’s right.”

  “I have a friend who’s a playwright and a director.”

  “That’s awesome. Is he looking for actors?”

  “Actually he is. He runs a playwriting workshop and he’s always looking for actors.”

  “My name is Julia Wells. That’s not my real name. I changed it. How can you become a star with a name like Mabel Grimsley? I can give you a headshot and a bio. I’ve done off-off Broadway. I did a few Caribbean plays in Brooklyn, but that don’t count, I don’t think. Caribbean people don’t understand good theater. You wanna come in while I get my headshot?”

  I stepped through the door and into a foyer packed tight with potted plants. Stepping over a fat gray cat lying on the pink carpet I followed her into the living room with several movie posters on the walls, a bright Indian rug in the middle of the floor, and a sofa with an intricate Japanese design in a corner. Julia disappeared into a back room and returned quickly with a nine-by-eleven manila envelope.

  She handed it to me batting her eyelids and curling her mouth in a seductive smile. “You want something to drink?”

  “This is six sixty-seven east one-oh-three, right?”

  Her voice broke with frustration. “What?”

  “This is the address I was given.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear it right.”

  “How long you been living here?”

  She hesitated. “Two years.”

  “You own this house.”

  She paused again. “Yes.”

  “And you live alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess you’re right. I must’ve heard it wrong.”

  She sat down on the couch and crossed her thick legs. “That’s what I said.”

  “It’s a big house for one person.”

  Her face grew tight. “Are all detectives this pushy?”

  “Actually, I’m not a detective.”

  “You have a badge.”

  “It’s not real.”

  “You see, you could be an actor. You had me thinking you were a detective. You played the part real good. So who are you?”

  “Wasn’t that hard a part to play. I used to be a detective.”

  “What kind of plays does your friend write?”

  “Plays. I don’t know. He sold a movie once too. And I think he’s writing another one.”

  “Awesome. Tell him I can play anything. Prostitute. Businesswoman. Drug addict. Anything.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  “No bother at all. Maybe we’ll meet again.”

  She led me out and shook my hand at the door. I walked back to my car and sat for a while thinking about my next move. I tore open the bag of chips, grabbed a handful, and stuffed my mouth full. The children had gone back into school and the street was as quiet as night.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  l ater that morning I went running in Prospect Park, which was already alive with the cold-beaded faces of men and women jogging and walking their dogs. My knee loosened up halfway around and I was able to finish my run without pain. Patches of blooming mist covered the park; the asphalt was rain-speckled from an early shower as I breathed thick air pungent of horse manure into my heavy lungs. A cross-eyed fellow passed me going in the opposite direction. And the wild wind puffing the mist across the treetops also seemed to be blowing dark thoughts because I looked back to see if he had turned around to follow me.

  Blown particles of dirt had mixed with my sweat to form a thick paste on my face by the time I’d circled twice around the park. I refueled on bottled water from a nearby bodega before limping across Flatbush Avenue, tired but spiritually reenergized. The muscles in my legs tingled and there was tightness in my back, but the sweat pouring down my face and body was elixir to my soul.

  AT FIVE in the evening I came out of my office at the club to find Special Agent Kraw sitting on the hood of a black Malibu. She was dressed in blue jeans, black boots, and an ill-fitting aviation jacket, her blond hair stiff bristles sticking out in the wind. I could see the bulge of her shoulder holster. She wore no makeup, and there was a rigidity to her eyes and jaw, indicating to me that she might not be in a good mood. But she smiled and jumped to the ground and thrust out her hand.

  “How’re you, Blades?” she greeted.

  “I wish I could find the time to cruise around making social calls like you do.”

  She laughed. “You’re irresistible, you know that?”

  “Wanna go grab a coffee? I need to ask you a favor.”

  “I don’t have time. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “You’re refusing to have coffee with me? I’m hurt.”

  “How long is your father planning on staying?”

  “He is an American, you know.”

  She leaned closer. “His life might be in danger.”

  I shifted my stance, scrutinizing her austere face. “Care to elaborate?”

  She rested her elbow on top of the car. “You keep this pretense up, it’s gonna get your father killed.”

  I shrugged. “You’re obviously playing in another field.”

  “Okay, since you wanna play ignorant, let’s recount the history. Twenty years ago your father testified in the trial of two Panthers who were convicted and got life. About nine years into his sentence, one of them escaped. In case you don’t remember or this is news to you, his name was Carlos Peterson. Two weeks later when the police tried to recapture him there was a shootout. He got away again, but his
wife was killed in the gun battle. He skipped the country with his two children. Ended up in Cuba. He managed to slip back into the U.S. at some point without us knowing. We’re not sure what happened to his son but his daughter worked for the Dade County Sheriff’s Department before being fired for violations involving excessive use of force against suspects. It was her troubles with the Sheriff’s Department that allowed us to pick up Carlos Peterson’s trail. Before we could close in he was killed by an unknown gunman on South Beach. After her father died Regina Peterson, a.k.a. River Paris, worked as a bail bondsman, bodyguard, and club manager in Louisiana and Miami before moving to New York. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  I must’ve had a stupid look on my face because I felt like a jerk. Boy, had I been played. A soft rain began, raindrops kissing my face, but they felt like rubber bullets. I wiped my face with my sleeve. River was Carlos Peterson’s daughter. Well, fuck me.

  Kraw circled around me. “Do you still want to protect this woman?”

  “Did you know who she was all along?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How long were you going to let me blow in the wind?”

  “You’re such a self-righteous bastard.”

  “I still don’t know where she is.”

  Her stare threatened to slice me in two. Without another word she opened her car door and slid behind the wheel.

  I leaned in through the open window. “I’ll make you a deal.”

  “You think I’m worthy?” Her smile was framed in sarcasm.

  “I need a printout of all outgoing calls for these two numbers the night Ronan was killed.” I handed her a piece of paper with J’Noel’s home telephone number and Malcolm’s cell phone number.

  “What do I get?”

  “Regina. The queen herself.”

  “I need her alive.” She put the paper in the top pocket of her flight jacket and started the engine. “You better not try to fuck me, Blades.”

  “Bite your tongue, Kraw.”

  I stepped back and watched as she drove off toward Flatbush Avenue.

  THAT NIGHT my father was playing chess with Noah in the den. Anais was upstairs studying lines for the new play. I wanted to talk to her about what Special Agent Kraw had told me before I broke the news to my father but didn’t want to interrupt her.

  I bathed, washed and dried my hair, got dressed, and went downstairs.

  The effort of my morning run was now beginning to exact its charge on my body. I felt drained. But I knew it was more than the run which was responsible for my lethargy. An anger brewing inside me was also sapping my energy, as was the prospect of raising the specter of the past and the imminent threat of revenge and death.

  I peered over my father’s shoulder the way I did when I was a boy watching him paint in our backyard in Park Slope. It always amazed me that he could sit for so long doing nothing, just staring at the canvas, deep in concentration. He was the same over the chess table, his broad back tense in concentration. Noah was about to checkmate him. No amount of concentration could save his game and he soon gave in.

  “You still talk a better game than you play,” Noah bragged.

  My father leaned back in his chair. “You’re still a lucky dog.”

  Noah took off his horn-rim glasses and rubbed his chin. “Another game to rub in my luck?”

  “I’ll take you into the park tomorrow for a game of hoops.”

  Twirling his glasses around, Noah said, “Now you really want me to kick your ass.”

  My father reached back and tapped my leg. “Listen to this fool. What do you think, Blades? University life may’ve sharpened up your mind, Noah, but it’s left your body on the doorstep.”

  “I hope I’m not like you two when I get old, man,” I said.

  My father swiveled around to face me; Noah lifted his eyes, a sneer twisted on his face.

  “After all this time, you two still trying to figure out who’s got the biggest dick,” I said.

  “Well, we already know who that is,” my father laughed.

  “Carlos Peterson’s daughter is in town,” I blurted out.

  Silence echoed like a cowbell in a chapel.

  Noah was the first to respond. He fixed the horn-rims back on his face and stood up. “The Carlos Peterson?”

  “The Carlos Peterson.”

  “The one you killed?” Noah said.

  I said nothing.

  Noah continued. “Listen, we’re all big men here. Let’s stop fucking around. We all know that Carlos vowed to kill your father for ratting him out. And Blades, I know you were in Miami around the same time Carlos was killed. You two want me to think that was a coincidence?”

  “What’s it to you how he died, Noah?” my father said.

  “I just feel like I should know the truth.”

  After the loud throttle of a helicopter overhead passed, I turned and spotted my eyes at Noah. “If I tell you it wasn’t me, why isn’t that good enough for you?”

  “I’m a part of the shit, too, you know. I’m the one who convinced your father to testify.”

  “But my father was the one who left the country. You got to live your life.”

  “That was his choice, Blades. You understand what I’m saying. His fucking choice.” Noah raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “You know this bitch, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. That’s why you’re scared.”

  I didn’t answer. The question had caught me unprepared. There was no way to answer without sounding like a chump.

  “What’s the story, Blades?” My father said.

  I said, “This girl’s a trained killer, Pop.”

  “You think I’m gonna let a woman take me out?” my father scoffed.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “What?” My father squared his shoulders. “I heard you. She’s still a woman.”

  “This ain’t your average bimbo.”

  “Where’s she now?” said my father quietly.

  “I’ll handle it, Pop. But you should lay low for a while. If you gotta go out let me know. I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

  “I don’t need no bodyguard,” my father said.

  “Call it what you like, but you’ve got me,” I replied.

  “You think I came back here to hide?”

  “Why did you come back, Pop?”

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked across the room. Erect as a post, he turned his back, staring out the window. Hard light bounced off the side of his face, and a limp shadow fell at his feet. He turned around, his lips pursed.

  “I came back because I was tired of living a lie.”

  At that moment he became the father I remembered. I was looking at the man who’d left twenty years ago. The calmness of his eyes was back. The toughness in his voice was there. And though his face had been reshaped over the years by the burden of shame and now looked as though the flesh would soon fall off, that barren, grotesque remoteness had disappeared.

  He folded his arms. “I used this threat against me as an excuse to run from my own self. I’ve failed at everything I’ve ever done in my life. I wasn’t even good at being a rebel. And I certainly wasn’t any good at being a husband or a father. So after Peterson escaped it was easier to run. I could’ve stayed and fought for the things that should’ve mattered. You. Your mother’s love. Even your sister and brother. I didn’t fight for their love.” My father came back to the center of the room. “I had a long talk with your mother the other day. She’s an amazing woman. She told me that though everyone told her to do it she refused to declare me dead. Not because she was expecting me to come back to her. She did it for you. Said she couldn’t declare your father dead unless she saw a body. I’m not running anymore. After running so much there comes a point when you realize that you can’t run away from death. Eventually death will catch up with you. And as you get older you realize that the only way to face death is with courage. And because it’s inevitable the best you can do is prepare to l
eave by making the burden less for the people who love you. The people who will grieve. Have all your papers in order. Have enough money to bury you. Those things you can do while you’re alive.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something, Pop?”

  “I’m not afraid. I let Noah here talk me into ratting out my friends. My brothers. Well, you know what? It looks like I’ve come full circle. But I promise you, if I gotta die, I ain’t dying running. Like a rat.”

  “Let me tell you something, Madison,” Noah exclaimed. “I’m not ashamed nor will I apologize for what I did back then. We’re talking about two men who ambushed a cop and killed him. Any way you smoke that it’s cold-blooded murder. Brother or no brother, they got what they deserved.”

  “I’m not blaming you, Noah. It’s on me,” my father said.

  Noah jumped up, knocking the chess pieces off the board. “That sounds very noble and shit, but it’s a bunch of crap. If you didn’t blame me how come all these years you never once sent me a fucking postcard. Tell me that.”

  The chess pieces had rolled across the polished floor, the queen coming to a stop near my father’s feet.

  “Gentlemen, it’s too late for all this soul-searching,” I said. “Tomorrow I will go climb a tall mountain and shake a tree. Hopefully nothing will drop.”

  “What if something does?” Noah said.

  “I’ll have to sweep it up.”

  I left them to their memories and regrets and went upstairs to kiss my daughter goodnight. I wanted to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow was shaping up to be a trying day.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  d ay dawned with a slimy coal-gray scowl on its face, its breath frosty as glass with portents of snow. After downing a piece of toast and coffee I drove Chez to school, kissed her before she got out in her bright Red Riding Hood coat, and told her Anais would pick her up. I waited for her to enter the school door before driving off.

  Waiting for the lights to change at Franklin and Union I noticed something that made me smile. On this Friday morning, cold and ugly as it was, a crowd clogged the sidewalk to watch students reenact the crucifixion story on the steps of the Middle School of Brooklyn. Noah would’ve been proud, because here was theater as pageant, theater for the people; the kind of theater he’d always advocated.