Love and Death in Brooklyn

by Glenville Lovell

  “Then I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  I did not see how it got there but the gun was in her hand.

  It was not the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me. More often than not, however, I was the one who got the drop on my adversary. For a second I considered going for my Glock. In a dark room sudden movement might make it difficult to get off a good shot. But I was a big target. And the steadiness with which River held that gun, and the calm directness of her eyes, told me I’d be taking a big chance.

  “I don’t think you want to kill me,” I said. “You and I have a different history from our fathers. We don’t have to repeat their mistakes.”

  “My father lived his life for revenge. And more than anything else that’s what he taught me. Revenge is good. Revenge is cleansing.”

  “Your father abandoned his country. My father abandoned his family. I think you got the better of the deal. At least your father took you with him.”

  “I would rather have stayed behind. Playing with my dolls. Double-Dutching in the rain. Making ice cream and cake with my mom. But I had no mom. They took her too. All because of the lies your father told.”

  “Let’s end this, River. Right now. Without any more killing.”

  She flinched slightly and opened her mouth to speak, then closed it moistening her lips noisily. But a sliver of doubt seeped through the cloud of her hard stance. Her eyes wavered. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “The thirst for revenge is self-destructive,” I said. “Look at what happened to your father. If you kill me and my father, how long will the satisfaction last? Where will it end? Will my daughter grow up to hunt you?”

  “Your father cost me my family. My mother. My friends. Took away my life and sent me to hell. I hated Cuba. Hated the language. When we hopped over to Jamaica that was no better. I wanted to be in America. I wanted to be home. I hated everybody. So, you see, my father didn’t have to work too hard to convince me that your father didn’t deserve to live.”

  “Walk away from it, River.”

  “I’ve never walked away from anything in my life.”

  “Have you ever killed a friend?”

  “I don’t want to kill you.”

  “I’ve stuck my fucking neck out for you. The FBI or the Russians would have your ass right now were it not for me. My father has lived a miserable existence since then. Killing him will bring you no peace because you must kill me too. Can you really do that?”

  My phone rang. The musical chime made her flinch. I put my hand up to say take it easy.

  “Can I answer my phone?” I said.

  She nodded. “Unbutton your jacket and open it so I can see where your hands are going.”

  I stooped to put the mug on the floor, then I opened my jacket. My phone hung from my belt. I unclipped it slowly, flipped the mouthpiece down. “Yeah?”

  From the other end came a sneering voice that raised the hair on my arm. “I warned you about fucking with me, Blades.”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “How else? Your darling wife. She’s here shitting her panties.”

  “You better be kidding.”

  “Tell me where the bitch is and you just might see your wife and daughter alive.”

  “I will shit on your coffin, you lizard.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Let me talk to my wife.”

  “Right now the only chips you have are the ones I loan you. Get me the girl or my money. Then we can play swap. You’ve got four hours.”

  “How do I know you have my wife?”

  “Are you a gambler?”

  The line went dead. I stared helplessly at River. The gun was still pointed at me, but it didn’t matter anymore. I was walking out of there. If she wanted to shoot me, then that was her choice.

  “He’s got your family?”

  I nodded. “He wants you or my family is dead. You wanna shoot me you’re going to have to shoot me in the back because I’m going to get my family.”

  She lowered the gun. “I’m coming with you.”

  “I don’t need you.”

  “You do. I have information that might help you.”

  “Like?”

  “How to find Parkoff.”

  “You know where he is?”

  “Remember I told you I wasn’t running because I was afraid for myself? I knew he was capable of doing something like this if he found out that Papa Smooth was my brother.”

  By now I should’ve been immune to her surprises, but the shock must’ve registered on my face.

  “I’ll explain on the way,” she said.

  THIRTY-SIX

  i hated leaving my car 300 miles away in the middle of nowhere, but taking the more powerful Bronco made sense. River drove like the devil had his horns stuck up her ass.

  The Bronco was equipped with radar jammers and could easily notch 120 on six of its eight cylinders. River busted 90 before we hit the highway, tripping the speedometer as high as 110 as we flew down I-87. Her face was as intense as I’d ever seen it.

  I called my house. Nobody answered. Next I called Kraw. Gave her a description of my wife’s car. Parkoff claimed he had both my wife and my daughter, which meant he must’ve grabbed them sometime after three, the time Chez got out of school. My last call was to Captain Terry Doyle in Queens. I explained what was going on. By the time I hung up an APB was out on my wife’s car.

  When I finished my calls River began to speak.

  “Smooth and I are very different.”

  “Meaning he’s not as bitter as you?”

  “He’s found an outlet for his pain. He sulked just about every day of the three years we spent in Cuba. But he liked Jamaica. Took to the culture right away. The music. The food. Didn’t wanna leave. To him that’s home. He thinks of himself as a Jamaican. I never forgot America. I never forgot what it did to my father.”

  “Who does Parkoff work for?”

  “Some people in Miami. Maxwell was a consular officer stationed in Miami before he became deputy ambassador. Maxwell loved the good life. His wife had even more expensive tastes in clothes, jewelry, and all things luxurious. They had a house in Boca Raton and one in Long Island. Plus a bank account in Switzerland. But he was lazy. And had a pimp’s mentality. The life of a diplomat for a tiny Caribbean island isn’t very stressful, but it also doesn’t pay all that well. He was always looking for another hustle.”

  “You said he was a transporter.”

  “For a few special clients.”

  “And his cargo?”

  “Mainly dirty laundry. But he’d take anything as long as the money was right. Even drugs. The night he got popped he was bringing three-quarters of a million dollars he’d picked up in Arizona to be deposited in a bank in the Bahamas.”

  “Belonging to Parkoff’s people?”

  She nodded.

  “Did Parkoff kill Ronan?”

  She took her eyes off the road momentarily to look at me. “I don’t know.”

  “Did he kill Chernin?”

  “I don’t know that either. He could’ve. That’s what he does.”

  “So where’s the money?”

  “Maxwell didn’t have the money when he got to New York. The bag he was carrying was stuffed with paper.”

  “Wouldn’t he have checked to see what was in the bag before he left Arizona?”

  “He never checks the bag. Principle.”

  “Why would they give your boyfriend a bag of tissue and then pop him?”

  “Maybe they knew something was wrong.”

  “Something like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would Parkoff be after you for money they’ve already crooked?”

  Then I recalled the story she told the night her boyfriend was killed. The bag had been switched in flight. I would bet anything the young man who’d sat next to Maxwell on the flight was her brother, Smooth.

  “Did Smooth and your boyfriend know each other?” I said.


  She took a while before answering. “No.”

  “You had Smooth switch the bags, didn’t you?”

  She stared straight ahead, but her body had momentarily stiffened, that telltale sign of being caught unawares.

  “That money is tainted with FBI blood. It’s probably marked. It’s no use to you.”

  She glanced sharply in my direction but said nothing.

  “What’s your involvement with these people?” I said.

  “None. Not anymore. They own the club I used to manage in Miami. That’s where I met Maxwell. And that’s where I met Ronan.”

  I tried to keep the shock from infiltrating my voice. “You knew Ronan?”

  “How do you think I found you? Ronan came into the club one night with Maxwell. Maxwell invited me over to their table. But he had to leave early. Ronan stayed. He was pretty drunk. Started talking about his father. It was just another story to me. I’ve heard them all. Until he mentioned that his father used to be a cop and had helped catch the infamous Carlos Petersen. After I got what I wanted I drove him back to his hotel.”

  “Did you fuck him?”

  “Didn’t have to. He’d already told me what I needed to know. How to find you.”

  WE MADE IT back to New York City in two and a half hours, having to cut across town because of an accident on West Street. The city seemed less alive. The lights had lost their dazzle, the people on the street were lethargic, without rhythm. New York had no vigor and I was deaf to its music.

  There are times when your life is like a crippled animal dragging a steel trap through the woods. It needs help but can’t ask for it. And it can’t escape without help. And without help it will die. I was lucky to have people to go to for help. I called Kraw and Captain Doyle. Nothing had changed. Neither the FBI nor the police had located my wife or her car.

  “So how do I find Parkoff?” I said to River.

  “He’s got a joint in Red Hook. I’ll take you there.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  r iver piloted the Bronco toward Brooklyn. The heavy truck scrubbed the frozen crust off the New York night, the vivid scrawl of lights on the Manhattan skyline receding in the background as we boomed across the Brooklyn Bridge. At any moment I expected to hear police sirens chasing us. But River didn’t seem to care. Neither did I. I was determined to find my family. Nothing was going to stand in my way. And knowing I had a kindred spirit in River, someone as stubborn as I was, comforted me.

  My throat got dry and bubbles of sweat broke out all over my body as we blasted through Boerum Hill’s hive of streets closing in on Red Hook. I was beginning to feel light-headed, part tension, part hunger, as I hadn’t eaten in a while.

  We crossed beneath the elevated highway separating Red Hook from Carroll Gardens and drove for six or seven blocks along a quiet stretch of dark warehouses. At the next light we made a right turn onto Dikeman Street and crawled along.

  “Right there on the right,” River sang out. “Two twenty-four.”

  She drove past to the next block and stopped.

  “You stay here,” I said, unlatching my seat belt.

  “You shitting me, right?”

  I turned around to look at her. “My family might be in there. I don’t want them dead.”

  “You think I’ll screw things up?” She stared at me as if measuring my resolve. “I’m coming in with you. What if the cops roll up and see me sitting here like a shithead?”

  “The cops don’t venture into this neighborhood unless they’ve been called.”

  “I got you into this, Blades. And fuck me if you think I’m gonna sit here while you go in there alone.”

  “How’d you know about this house?”

  “Maxwell brought me here once. He had to pick something up from Parkoff.”

  I readied my Glock, racking the slide to send a jacket into the chamber, and stepped out of the truck.

  THE COBBLESTONE STREET was uncommonly dark; it appeared that several streetlights were dead. Red Hook was a rough neighborhood, long the domain of street gangs and wannabe wiseguys. Recently I’d read that similar to what was happening in Williamsburg, gentrification was beginning to sink its teeth in the tattooed ass of this neighborhood, as young artists shut out from SoHo—drawn by Red Hook’s empty warehouses they could rent for a song—were settling in large numbers. You couldn’t tell from surveying this street.

  The air smelled of burning gasoline. A Pabst Blue Ribbon sign dangled from a building. Country-and-western music spilled out into the night but I couldn’t tell where it came from. A pack of stray dogs steamed along in single file in front of us. The amplified whoosh-whoosh of fast-moving cars tearing along the highway overhead made the darkness more disquieting.

  Walking quickly, upright, River was two lengths ahead of me, her right hand holding her pistol straight down at her side. She glanced left to right intermittently as she raced toward the detached brick ranch house.

  I caught up to her on the frozen front lawn. We slid up to the front door in single file, our eyes tuned to the darkness by now.

  No lights in the house.

  I leaned ear to door listening for movement, but not a mouse squeaked.

  I tested the door. Locked.

  “Step aside,” River whispered.

  I turned. She was stuffing the gun into her waist. A tiny penknife appeared in her hand. She moved forward to the door, thrusting the tiny point into the keyhole. In a few seconds, plick, the lock released.

  A helicopter appeared, its engine barking overhead. I stepped inside. River eased in behind me. We stood in the darkness; our ears testing the air for sound anywhere.

  It smelled of paint or turpentine inside the house, but it could’ve been my senses still locked on the burning gasoline smell from outside. We were standing in a large room containing a sofa and little else. When my eyes had grown accustomed to the dark I stepped tentatively to the right, up one step into the kitchen. I could feel River’s warm breath on my neck as she followed close behind.

  My phone rang.

  “Shit!” I yanked it from my belt and turned it off. We hunched down expecting lights to be turned on. But nothing happened.

  “I don’t think there’s anybody here,” she whispered.

  My gut told me she was right, but I had to be sure. “I’ll check the back. Stay here.”

  She tapped my shoulder.

  Wind blew in through an open window somewhere; I could almost taste the cool slap on my face. I crept along, my back stapled to the wall, my eyes focused down the corridor ahead. I reached the first bedroom. The door was open. I stuck my head inside. No sign of life. I crouched to one knee and peered inside to make sure there was no one hiding. The bed was made up with shiny white sheets. Through an open window I could see a woman moving in the house next door.

  I backed out of that room. Two steps down the corridor was another bedroom, smaller than the first, but just as empty. Across the hall was the bathroom. I could hear the heavy drip of a leaking faucet.

  It took only a few minutes to determine there was no one inside the bathroom either. From the unlived-in look it was clear that nobody had been in this house for a while.

  I stepped into the hallway and felt a gray clamping pressure in my head. It wasn’t a headache. It was as if someone was inserting bubbles into my skull. On the edge of panic I was having trouble breathing, keeping my focus. Where was my family?

  I walked back along the corridor. River was not where I’d left her. I heard scuffling feet to my left and dipped to a knee, the Glock ready in firing position. River came out of the kitchen, her gun hanging at her side.

  “Anything?” she said.

  “I thought I told you to stay here.”

  “I was checking around. There’s a little storeroom behind the kitchen. It’s empty.”

  “I told you to stay here!”

  “Jesus! What’s your problem?”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  She stuffed her gun into h
er waist and cleared her throat but said nothing. We stepped outside into the clear cool night. The wind blew up hard from the east, releasing the smell of gasoline trapped over the highway. I reached for my phone to call Kraw. Before I could dial it rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Blades! Oh thank God!”

  “Anais! Where’re you?”

  “Home. We got away. Oh, Blades. I’ve never been so happy to hear your voice.”

  “Who’s there with you?”

  “The police. There’re here.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “I love you, Blades.”

  I rang off from Anais and fell into River’s arms.

  BUSTING JUST ABOUT every traffic light or sign on my way, I made it home in fifteen minutes. Several police cruisers were parked on the block. One cop in uniform stood on the sidewalk, his fingers hooked inside his gun belt.

  “I’m not coming in if that’s okay with you,” River said.

  “That’s fine. And thanks.”

  She smiled and patted my hand. She was really a beautiful woman when that savageness was gone from her eyes. I got out.

  The uniformed cop on the sidewalk started to yell at me as I raced across the lawn. Several more policemen in uniform guarded the door; one of them went into a crouch, reaching for his weapon when he saw me barreling toward them. Then as if he recognized me he straightened up and stepped aside, opening the door. I ran straight into the living room, past my father leaning on the doorjamb.

  Flanked by two detectives and a sergeant with notepads, Anais scotched on the edge of the couch as if she was an intruder, a criminal waiting to be hauled away by police. She stood up when she heard me come in. I ran to her, clasping her in my arms. Feeling her heart throb against the force of my body took my breath away.

  After a while I said, “Where’s Chez?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “How is she?”

  “Asleep.” She began to cry.

  She had just picked Chez up from school after purchasing dark unsweetened chocolate and a few other items at the gourmet market on Court Street.

  After making sure Chez was buckled into her seat she turned around to start the car. But she had made a mistake not locking the doors right after getting in.