I nodded, though I hadn’t seen her victory.
“So she was really getting rough. And then she fucking—”
“We don’t have to talk about this anymore,” I said, trying to be the sweet girl my mother remembered.
“She pulled my top down. I kept telling them I wanted to stop. But they were yelling so loud. And Adam was cheering me on. It was so—” Aja’s voice seemed to swell with tears, but her eyes remained empty.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, and we were quiet for a moment. The din of the visiting room filled the space between us.
“But Jess was my best friend,” she said. I had come to be good to her, yet I wanted to shake her by the shoulders until her teeth chattered.
My brother was able to convince the police that he hadn’t done it. But he not only needed an alibi, he also had to rat out the Gutter Boys, with whom he’d apparently tried to go into business. Tried, I say, because he was such a crummy drug dealer that he had to steal to make up for what he couldn’t sell. Dahani told the police what he knew about the small operation, and after that, a couple of Jeeps slowed down when he crossed the street, but he didn’t turn up in the Schuylkill or anything. He got his old job at the video store back, but he got fired after a couple of months, and then our VCR disappeared. After two weeks in a row when he didn’t come home, and my mom had called the police about sixteen times, she changed the locks and got an alarm system.
Sometime after that she looked at me over a new tradition—a second nightly beer—and said, “Nzingha, I know we should have talked about this as soon as I knew what was going on with your brother. But I didn’t want to say anything because I know that you love him.”
The scandal didn’t break the pool. They held a floating memorial service for Jess and hired a real security company. The scandal did, however, break the news of the pool to the neighborhood. But at $1,400 a year, none of the black folks we knew could afford to join it anyway.
DEVIL’S POCKET
BY KEITH GILMAN
Grays Ferry
Since Charlie died, I’d been spending a lot of time at Johnny Izzard’s. I’d walk through the front door of his tailor shop and that bell he still had hanging over the door would ring and Johnny would look up from behind the counter and smile out of the corner of his mouth. I’d told him more than once to keep the door locked at night. Point Breeze alone seemed to be averaging a couple murders a week. But he didn’t listen.
He’d be fiddling with a pair of trousers on a wooden hanger, running his hands gently down one leg at a time, the soft cool fabric sliding between his bony fingers as he adjusted the hem with a few straight pins between his lips and his glasses sliding down his nose. I’d lean on the counter and watch him work and when he was done, he’d pull out a bottle and a few glasses and start to pour. We’d pick up where we left off, the conversation always turning to our old friend Charlie Melvyn and the barber shop he had on Tasker Avenue and the way he died and whether he was better off dead than alive.
The barber shop had been boarded up like many of the storefronts in that neighborhood. Since then, I’d been getting my hair cut at the Gallery Mall by a twenty-something girl with breast implants, a tattoo of a snake on her neck, and a man’s haircut of her own, parted on the side and trimmed neatly around the piercings in her ears.
Johnny’s tailor shop was a little farther up on 25th and tonight we were celebrating his eightieth birthday. Johnny’s son had been trying to get him into one of those assisted living places out in Delaware County, get him a nice clean room with a view of the Lexus dealership across the street and a rotating shift of nurses and aides to take his pulse and do his laundry and wipe his ass. I think he was actually considering it.
“Look what the cat dragged in. My, my … another Irish cop with a bad attitude. You come to roust me, officer, or just steal my liquor?”
“Ex-cop, Mr. Izzard. With a capital X. I’m not playing that game anymore.”
“It was fun while it lasted, though. Wasn’t it?”
“It had its moments.”
“You smell nice. You got a date?”
“Meeting an old friend.”
“A woman?”
“She asked me to do her a favor. That’s it. It’s not what you think.”
“It never is.” Johnny’s eyes lit up, a greenish tint coming through the clouded glasses like dusty emeralds. He unplugged a hot iron that sat on an ironing board behind him. Next to that was an old sewing machine that rested on black iron legs with a heavy square pedal the size of a sewer grate and a black spinning wheel and a sewing needle secured to a silver arm like a glistening metal spike. Johnny ran his hand over his bald, chocolate-brown head, wiping away a layer of cold sweat. The wrinkles around his eyes smoothed out as his smile softened.
“He was like a father to you, huh?”
“Yeah, he was.”
“Still ain’t over it?”
“Are you?”
“We lookin’ at the same thing, right? But we don’t see it the same.”
“How do you see it?”
“After Chawlie died, I was angry. We both were. But I’m trying to think what Chawlie would want us to do?”
“Charlie didn’t die, Johnny. He was murdered.”
“And you think I don’t know that. But if he’s looking down on us right now, what’s he thinking?”
“He knows I’d like to catch the guy that shot him.”
“And do what with him? Lock him up? And for how long? What good will it do?”
“Maybe I’ll save the taxpayers of Philadelphia the expense of a trial.”
“You don’t mean that, son.”
“I’m starting to think I do, Johnny.”
“And what if it turns out to be some sixteen-year-old kid?”
“So be it.”
“You changed that much? You really that hard? What, Chawlie Melvyn gets killed and suddenly there’s no hope left in the world? You know, son, when I’m talkin’ ’bout carryin’ out the wishes of the deceased, I mean more than just buryin’ him next to his mother or crematin’ him and dumpin’ his ashes into the Delaware River or puttin’ a tombstone on his grave the size of the goddamn Washington Monument.”
“I heard George Washington had over two hundred slaves. Did you know that?”
“Don’t change the subject, son.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Only two hundred?”
“Maybe more.”
“What I’m sayin’ is that Chawlie didn’t die in vain. He didn’t believe that and neither should you. That’s the truth.”
“If you saw his blood on the sidewalk, Johnny. It was there for days, like a black stain.”
“Chawlie was fightin’ a war, Seamus. Like a lot of us are. Like you are. Otherwise, we’d pick up and go. It’s a war of attrition, son. Chawlie was just hangin’ on and then he saw the chance to do somethin’ real. He died savin’ a bunch of kids who’d never have learned what Chawlie Melvyn was all about. He put himself in the line of fire. It wasn’t an accident, what he did. He saw a gun and chose to shield those kids. He was willin’ to die saving someone else. That means somethin’.”
“You mean he’s a martyr?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Well, the cemetery is full of them, Johnny.”
We sat there in silence for a few minutes, not looking at each other but aware that we were both thinking the same thing. Charlie’s barber shop had instilled itself in our common memory, a dream of a better time when the old men sat around that place telling stories about how great Philadelphia used to be, about South Street in the summer, about the fish market and the Phillies and the old singers that stopped coming around and the prostitutes on Lombard and how many more dead cops there were with each passing year and that if they didn’t get out of Grays Ferry soon, they’d end up dying there, and how nothing would ever be the same unless someone did something about it.
I raised the glass of whiskey and held it up in fro
nt of me. Johnny did the same. We nodded and drank. I wished him a happy birthday and went out the door with the bell ringing in my head.
I took 27th Street through the heart of Point Breeze and onto Grays Ferry Avenue and then onto 30th, where I pulled into the lot at St. Gabe’s. There was a church, a monastery, and a school, all made of redbrick and jagged gray stone, the three buildings surrounding a parking lot and a deserted playground. At night, the shadows from the old church spread across the lot and the nuns would creep to their second-story windows and peer out at the sun sliding behind the gray skyline, and in the darkness it wasn’t unusual to see a car pull in and park at the far end of the lot. St. Gabriel’s seemed to be looking down on the entire city of Philadelphia with a weary eye.
Millie Price had asked me to meet her there at ten. I was early.
I looked across the lot at the flimsy wooden backboard and the rusty rim clinging to it. The metal pole swayed in the cold wind. The concrete that held it in the ground had long since turned to dust and been blown away. A wall of chain link made the whole place look like an old prison, where inmates might have come out into the cold air once a day and stared at the broken basket and laughed like crows at a rankled scarecrow. And the crooked weather vane sitting at the top of the arched steeple of St. Gabe’s would point down at them and laugh back.
The diocese had planted trees along a narrow strip of lawn bordering the playground. Thin dogwoods that bloomed in spring, the delicate white flowers emerging shyly for the first few years and then going into a kind of permanent hibernation, the dried bark peeling away and exposing the speckled, wind-blown skin beneath. They stood like that year after year, leafless and gray, their thin, petrified branches frozen in place.
I’d pulled my ten-year-old Jeep Cherokee into the lot. It was navy-blue, with an exhaust system that made it sound like a tank. The front wheels grinded as I circled toward the back. It had been making that same noise for two months. I’d taken it to Eddie’s garage earlier that day and he’d told me it needed bearings on both sides. It was a three-hundred-dollar job, the same amount of money Millie Price had offered me to take an old boyfriend off her hands.
“He just won’t take no for an answer,” she’d said.
“He’ll scare easily,” she’d said.
I turned the key and the Jeep went suddenly quiet. It was a sound that made me nervous. It made most cops nervous, and though I wasn’t a cop anymore, there was nothing like a quiet night to start me thinking. I’d put my time in with the Philadelphia Police Department, most of it spent right here in the 17th Precinct. I’d paid my dues and all I had to show for it was the Jeep and a pension that qualified me for food stamps and Section 8 housing. I lit a cigarette and rolled down the window. I imagined Father Kane up there in the rectory sipping a hot toddy and thinking maybe he should call the cops about the guy in the lot, sitting in his car and chain-smoking.
My father had grown up in the same parish and he’d told me there had been a shallow pond in the small courtyard between the monastery and the old cathedral. The priests had kept swans there. On Sunday afternoons the parishioners would stand around the pond as solemnly as if they were still in church and watch the swans glide effortlessly over the clear water. Some of the women would bring stale bread from home to feed to the hungry birds. They’d keep it wrapped in a napkin in their purses until after mass when they’d tear it into small pieces the size of a host and watch as the long curved necks of the swans bent for the soggy bread, their heavy-lidded black eyes almost haughty as they fought for every scrap.
It’d been like that for years, my father had said, since before he’d joined the force, young mothers pushing their babies in strollers along the narrow path, the babies pointing with their chubby little fingers at the swans floating across the glassy pond. The kids would all be wearing red baseball caps, as if everybody expected their child to be the next great third-baseman for the Phillies. Even the old folks came out to see the swans, congregating around the pond when it was warm and sunny and the glare from the sun off the water brought them to tears.
But it wasn’t very long before the Inquirer ran the story of the dead swans. Some people in the neighborhood were calling it murder, as if killing a swan was the same thing as killing a person. To some it was worse. I guess it depended on who was doing the killing and who was getting killed.
Someone had come in the middle of the night with a crossbow and killed the swans, every last one of them, leaving their blood-stained bodies, impaled with arrows, for the children and young mothers and old folks from the neighborhood to find the next morning. Their white feathers were the color of rust, their wide staring eyes like glass.
My father had been the first responding officer and he’d called the detectives in as if it were an actual homicide. They never caught the guys and for a lot of people in Grays Ferry, including my old man, it was the last straw, time to get out. They could have dealt with the beer cans in the park and the dog shit and the garbage lining the streets and an occasional strong-arm robbery and the sirens at all hours of the night, but they couldn’t deal with butchered swans, not even in Grays Ferry.
That was the first time I’d heard my father refer to our square patch of neighborhood in Grays Ferry as Devil’s Pocket. I wasn’t sure what it meant back then. I am now.
A week later he was killed responding to a domestic dispute on Christian just off 25th and I knew we weren’t going anywhere. Devil’s Pocket would always be my home. They drained the pond and filled it in with gravel and turned it into a rock garden with a small fountain and a statue of St. Francis with the pigeons flocking to his outstretched arm and the water rolling gently off his back.
I went through four or five more cigarettes when I began to think that maybe Millie wasn’t going to show. It shouldn’t have surprised me. From what I remembered, she never was known for her punctuality. She wasn’t usually too hard to find though. There were only a couple places to look. I decided to hang in there a little longer, nurse one more cigarette and then take off. Millie had my cell number and could have called if she was going to be late. But Millie was never known for her consideration either. She’d been working behind the bar at the Arramingo Club for a long time. She lived only a few blocks away on Catherine. That’s where I was headed.
I parked in front of a vacant lot on 24th and walked the rest of the way. I’d grabbed a fresh pack of cigarettes from the glove compartment and tapped it against my palm and peeled it open and lit up a cigarette as I walked down the dark street. I passed a couple of black-haired Asian girls leaning against a brand-new red Camaro. Their short skirts and high heels and red lipstick matched the car perfectly. They were a little out of their territory, I thought, and I wanted to say something to them. I wanted to tell them what could happen to a girl in a miniskirt and high-heel shoes and naked legs leaning against a red-hot Camaro. I wanted to tell them all that I’d seen but I knew it was no use. I’d never really been able to speak their language, and even if I said something, they wouldn’t listen.
Millie Price lived in one of those buildings where you ring the doorbell and they buzz you in. The problem was there were rarely any names under the mailboxes in the vestibule, and even if there were, it was often too dark to see. I struck a match and noticed that someone had wedged a crushed beer can into the door jamb. I pushed through and into the dark hallway and started up the stairs. I remembered Millie lived on the second floor but I wasn’t sure which apartment was hers. The door on the left had a peace sign spray-painted on it in a fluorescent yellow. The door on the right hung open a few inches.
I was starting to get a bad feeling. It was the kind of feeling cops get just before something bad happens, an intuition you develop after a few long years on the street. Some guys are just born with it. Either way, if you don’t develop it sooner or later, you might just find yourself dead.
And that’s how I found Millie Price, in a heap on the floor just inside her front door. She was wearing a thin leather
jacket and jeans as if she was just about to go out. She probably heard the knock and opened the door and the gun was the only thing she saw. She was lying on her back with two bullet holes in the Snoopy shirt she was wearing under the jacket and a dark bloodstain spreading over two well-formed breasts. She was still as beautiful as I remembered.
I looked down at her, at the blood on her chin where it had spilled from her mouth and the blood pooling on the floor beneath her, and I felt a little ache in my own chest. I was thinking I should have felt something more, and maybe I would have if things had been different between Millie and me all those years ago. Now, she was just another corpse in an apartment on the border of Grays Ferry and Point Breeze, where stray corpses were becoming more and more common.
I phoned it in and Detective William Trask showed up in record time, only about an hour after the first uniformed officer arrived and handcuffed me in the backseat of his cruiser. I showed him my retired Philly Police badge but it didn’t seem to change his mind. It was for his protection and mine, he said. I didn’t think I had anything to fear from the police, so he must have been protecting me from myself.
While the steel bracelets were cutting into my wrists and my fingers were going numb, I thought about Millie, up there growing cold on her living room rug. She’d be going rigid by now. They could probably stand her up and lean her against the wall and fit her with the perfect size body bag and walk her down the stairs. I wiggled my fingers and fidgeted on the hard plastic seat, thinking now of all the prisoners I’d had in my backseat and how many times I’d told them to shut up and sit still and how many times they’d puked and pissed themselves along the way.
Just then, the door opened and Detective Trask yanked me out of the car, spun me around, and unhooked my wrists. He didn’t look happy, but as I remembered, William Trask never looked happy.
“What the hell, Seamus! How are you involved in all this?”
Philadelphia Noir Page 6
