Queens Noir

by Robert Knightly

  "Do you take sugar?" the woman asked haltingly.

  I shook my head.

  The man sat down beside me, and the woman took a seat across the room at a dining room set of heroic proportion. It spoke of some other time-a time in which there were castles and feudal systems-with elaborate inlaid carvings, mounted on claw feet. An unframed oil painting of a Caribbean landscape hung above it.

  "The Bel-Air Mountains, yes," the man nodded approvingly as I studied the painting. "That was once the view from my own window. See there?" He rose to his feet and approached the image, pointing. "Those mules, those pigs foraging in the garbage pits? Those palms, those coconuts? Is all Haiti. Is my home."

  He turned to face me, scrutinizing me.

  "I am Mr. Stuckey," he said finally. "And this is Mrs. Stuckey."

  I nodded and waited for him to continue. He did not.

  "You say your son was murdered," I ventured.

  Mr. Stuckey nodded, satisfied with my inquiry. "In that room, there." He pointed down a darkened hallway.

  Now it was my turn to give him the eye. What's going on here?

  Noting my skepticism, the man rose to his feet. "Follow me.

  Midway down the hall, he paused and flicked on a light switch. A door stood open adjacent to it, though the other doors on either side of the room were closed. Warily, I peered into what appeared to be a child's bedroom or, rather, the room of an adolescent boy. It was painted a dense, cornflower blue, and decorated with outdated pop culture posters. A large, weathered Table of Periodic Elements hung on one wall, attached with brittle and yellowed tape.

  "That once was mine," Mr. Stuckey noted proudly, indicating the poster. "When I was a boy, it hung in the classroom of my secondary school, the Petion National Lycee." His back stiffened with pride at the mention of the name. "It was given to me by the headmaster, a gift. I was to be a great scientist, then." He paused. "As was Edwin too."

  The room was small. Shoved under a window that opened onto brick was an unmade twin bed, and not two steps from it stood a modest desk, bowed by a stack of books whose titles were turned away from me. A boom box also sat perched atop the desk, and there-How had I not seen that!-rested an overturned chair and a noose hanging limply from a light fixture above it.

  "Jesus!" I stepped backward and clutched the doorframe in reflex.

  "Yes," Mr. Stuckey nodded solemnly. "My son was murdered right here. He was twenty-two years old."

  "Same age as me," I whispered.

  Mr. Stuckey turned off the light and we returned to the front of the house in silence. I took my seat back on the couch. My tea had grown cold.

  "You will help us?" Mrs. Stuckey piped up.

  "What time did the police arrive tonight?" I asked, pen poised to record the details in my notepad.

  "The police," she clucked dismissively with a wave of her hand.

  "The police do not come here anymore," Mr. Stuckey added.

  Anymore? "Were you home then, when the intruder broke in?"

  "The intruder was already here," Mr. Stuckey corrected.

  "So there are suspects?"

  "Oh," he nodded enthusiastically, "there are suspects."

  "'Nice," I added, in spite of myself. "If you could give me a list of the names you gave to the police ..."

  "The last time the police were here, they took no names. No. Nothing from us," Mrs. Stuckey fumed.

  "The last time one month ago," Mr. Stuckey said stoically.

  "A month ago?" I closed my notepad. "Sir, listen. I'm not sure what exactly is going on here, or what it is you want me to-" I fell silent as I shifted my position on the sofa, making sure that I had all of my belongings. The Stuckeys looked at me helplessly, and I was beginning to feel spooked.

  At that, a girl stepped into the room from the hallway.

  "I'll talk to him, Papa," she said. "I'll tell him what he needs to know." The girl was brazen. She stood with her hand on one hip, and she blinked her eyelashes once she was done taking me in. She wore denim cutoffs and a T-shirt that was knotted tightly in the center of her back. Her speech was not the patois of her West Indian parents, who only nodded as she signaled me with a beckoning finger to the door.

  Once we stepped off the porch, she immediately lit a cigarette. "I heard everything," she said, exhaling.

  "I'm a reporter for the-"

  "I said everything." She rolled her eyes. "Walk with me."

  The girl pirouetted gracefully as a ballerina and took off down the block. She was short, like her mother, barely over five feet, and though I was nearly six feet, I had to jog to keep up with her.

  "So, you from around here?" I asked, falling back on my usual opening line. Dumb! Some reporter I was, but I didn't know where to begin with this girl. I was ecstatic just to be walking with her. In an instant, my street cred had risen to the umpteenth degree, and the few brothers hanging out seemed to be getting a kick out of watching a dude like me, in my skippies and Polo, pursuing a sister like her, whose mane of naturally red ringlets blew behind her like a superhero's cape.

  She didn't respond to my lame attempts at flirting, and we walked along Jamaica Avenue in silence, passing the gated entrances of fast-food restaurants, 99-cent stores, and discount clothing outlets with names like Foxy Lady and Tic Tock. The sky above its had a chunky, textured look about it; mounds of cloud clung stubbornly to the midnight blue, as often happened after a storm. It had been an uncharacteristically stormy summer. A crushed can of Colt 45, however, still balanced precariously on the fence post of King's Manor.

  "I don't know why people drink that swill!" I knocked the can over in an attempt at irreverence, accidentally splashing my sneakers with stale beer. Shit.

  The girl led me a little further to a Salvadoran cafe with Christmas bulbs and plastic flowers in its window.

  "I'm Janette," she said, as we slid into an upholstered booth.

  "Dougie," I grinned.

  "Dougie, huh? That's cute." She drummed her fingernails on the table between its. "I hate that you can't smoke anywhere anymore."

  "Been smoking long?"

  "Since I was thirteen."

  "Nasty habit."

  She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. I ordered beer for both of us. Music and words incomprehensible to me floated from a juke box somewhere in the place.

  "My brother committed suicide," Janette said suddenly. My beer caught in my throat and a bit of it dribbled down my chin. "You're conducting an investigation here, right?"

  "Yeah, but-"

  "So, here." Janette reached into her back pocket and shot a scrap of paper across the table at me. "That's the name of the detective."

  "Detective?"

  She shook her head at me in disbelief. "What the fuck? Are you a reporter or what?" She rolled her eyes. "The detective working my brother's case, you moron."

  "Right, right." I took a pull on the neck of my beer, trying to recover. "Here's the thing," I said, leaning toward her across the table. "Your pops said this happened a month ago."

  "A little less than a month ago. We're just really stressed about how long all this is taking, you know?"

  "Right, but a month ago?" I sit up straight. "A month ago is not a story today. After a month, there's no story. I'm sorry."

  "But my brother is dead." Janette's aggressive demeanor crumbled.

  "You're talking suicide here." I shook my head sympathetically. "That's tragic, but I can tell you straight up: If your brother chose to kill himself, we ain't gonna run it in the paper now, know what I mean?"

  "My brother did not choose to kill himself." Janette's eyes flashed angrily.

  "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying, call the detective."

  "Wait." I wave the waiter over for another round. "If you already have a detective working the case, why the call on the scanner?"

  Janette ignored my question and turned to the waiter. "I'll have a Jack and ginger."

  "And," I continued, "if you already know he took his
own life, why not just grieve and clean out that bedroom and move on?"

  She remained silent.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

  "I'm not offended," she shrugged. "Your questions are valid."

  "Any answers?"

  "If I had answers, would I be sitting here talking to you?" She smiled slyly. "I think not."

  I never cared for police precincts. Not that I'd had much experience with them.

  Occasionally, I was sent to the local station house to clarify a fuzzy docket that'd come over the teletype, but the officers always seemed less than welcoming. I usually got out of there as soon as I could, which was what I intended the afternoon following my interview with Janette. In a moment of hopeful lust, I'd promised I would speak to this Detec tive Spurlock, and she, in turn, promised she'd speak to me again. So here I was in the 103rd Precinct at the detective squad.

  "Come on back." Detective Spurlock motioned toward one cluttered desk among many. With a swish of a burly arm, he cleared a chair of paperwork for me to sit. "You got good timing, kid. Caught me right before sign-out. Minute later, I'd a been gone for the night ... Coffee?"

  I glanced over his shoulder at a stained-glass pot that contained what looked to be black sludge. "No thanks."

  "Smart," he shrugged, sipping boldly from a chipped mug. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm here about the Stuckey case."

  "The Stuckeys." Spurlock ran a pink hand through a thick head of white hair. "Listen, I don't know what your connection to this family is, but-"

  "I'm a reporter for the Weekly Item," I interrupted.

  "That so?" He nodded. "Well, good luck. Once they've got your number, you're getting no peace from then on. My advice: Steer clear. There's no story there."

  "That's what I'm thinking too, but if there was," I lean in, "what would it be?"

  Spurlock furrowed his brow. "Meaning?"

  "The parents seem to think their son was murdered."

  "Okay, kid, I'll indulge you, I've got nothing but time, right?" He shuffled through a stack of bulging file folders before selecting the thinnest one. "Here we go." He took a swig from his mug and whipped on his reading glasses. "Edwin Stuckey, age twenty-two, found hanged in his own bedroom, March 2." He paused at the date, gave me the once-over, continued reading from his notes. `Apparent suicide, no suspicious circumstances, blah, blah, case closed."

  Spurlock sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

  "Wait a minute." I flipped through my own notebook. "If you began your investigation on March 2, why did the call come over my scanner just two days ago?"

  "Ahh," the detective laughed. "They won't stop, these people. I closed this case one week after it happened, and they've been phoning 911 ever since." He shook his head. "Hell, I'd arrest the two of them for Aggravated Harassment if it weren't so damn sad."

  "So there's nothing? Nothing to suggest the murder that the family thinks occurred?"

  "Nope." Spurlock reopened the folder and flipped through the paperwork. "The sister gave me a couple a names of some friends of his, who turned out not to be friends at all. The boy didn't have any friends." He handed me the list. "Church members. A bit too pious for my tastes, but hey, to each his own." He closed the folder and switched off his desk lamp. "Like I said: case closed."

  Of course, there was no story. But I went ahead and crafted a lead and pitched it to my editor.

  Jamaica, Queens-A twenty-two-year-old man was found hanged in his bedroom under mysterious circumstances. Family members suspect foul play.

  He glanced at it before tossing it aside. "We don't do suicides."

  Still, I wanted to see Janette again. I steeled myself for the journey. It took me nearly two hours: the F train, then the Q76 bus to the end of the line. The bus wove its way down residential streets before groaning to a halt at the concrete 165th Street terminal in Jamaica, Queens.

  It was bedlam. Greyhound on crack. People mobbed each designated bus slot, frantically directing the drivers into their respective spaces. An open, buzzing vegetable market operated behind the commuters, and as the day was a hot one, clouds of flies swarmed crates of long onions and collard greens. An old woman wearing a hairnet sat on a folding chair selling spices and exotic remedies sealed in plastic baggies. There was too much going on here; I was used to separation: a bus terminal being a bus terminal, a vegetable market being a vegetable market. Here, in Janette's neighborhood, everything was everything all at once.

  I cut behind the terminal through the Colosseum Mall and down tight aisles displaying brightly colored skirts and cell phone accessories. Out on the other side stood the First Presbyterian Church of Jamaica; Edwin's funeral had been held there.

  "Yo, man, you good?" A guy about my age peered at me from beneath an open car hood.

  "What? Oh, yeah man, yeah." I kept moving.

  Jamaica Avenue, almost there. On the "Ave," all the girls resembled Janette, with their manicured hands, toes, and eyebrows. Women sashayed bare-legged, wearing tight clothes; streaked, braided hairdos; metallic purses; chatting casually on headsets while munching on meat kebobs and cubes of sugared coconut.

  I was tripping.

  "Help? A little help?" A thin, thin, thin woman with a red cap pulled so low that she had to raise her chin to look at me blocked my path. "Ice-e?" She extended a cart toward me with a brutal shove. A regulation grocery cart, sealed in duct tape, enclosed with a plastic lid, a cardboard cut-out of brightly colored ice creams taped to its sides.

  "Whoa," I muttered, gripping the cart to keep from being run down. A plastic wheel jumped the rim of my sneaker, leaving a marked trail.

  "Ice-e?" the woman repeated sternly.

  I hadn't noticed the man next to her. The old cat was just squatting there on the balls of his feet, arms extended at awkward angles from where they rested on each knee. In front of him stood a stack of newspapers and, atop the stack, a neat pile of quarters. I recognized the paper, a freebie like mine, but here on the street it cost a quarter.

  I slapped some coins in his palm and snatched up a copy. The lead caught my eye:

  Jamaica, Queens-A young man recently found hanging in his bedroom has been identified as Edwin Stuckey, age twenty-two. Family members say the list of suspects is numerous and have sealed off the scene of the crime-the home-until further notice. The police have no comment.

  The Crusading Home of Deliverance was located in a sprawling Victorian residence. It wouldn't have been recognizable as a church were it not for the small cardboard sign and handmade cross posted in a none-too-clean bay window. I checked Detective Spurlock's directions several times before rapping on the front door.

  I'd tried to contact Janette after seeing the brief article about her brother in the competition, but she wasn't taking my calls. So what was I doing? Seems I needed to know what happened to Edwin Stuckey after all.

  "Are you here for evening service?" A smiling elderly woman dressed in white opened the door. I could see behind her into a drab parlor containing metal folding chairs, a podium, and what looked like a small organ.

  "No, ma'am," I said. "I'm here to see Reverend Pine."

  Did I have an appointment? she inquired, continuing to smile.

  I admitted I didn't but assured her it was important, that I was here about Edwin Stuckey.

  "Edwin. Yes." She bowed her head. "We are still mourning his loss, but happy for his deliverance."

  "Yes, well ... Reverend Pine?"

  I followed the woman into the room and took a seat in the back row. The room was large and half-filled, all its occupants black, conversing in hushed voices.

  "Son?" A slim, natty man dressed in a three-piece suit charged toward me with his hand extended. "I'm the Reverend Pine, and I welcome you to our sanctuary." He shook my hand with an intense vigor before adjusting his chunky glasses and straightening his tie. "We can speak briefly in my office. I've got service in an hour and I must prepare." He cleared his throat. "You under
stand."

  I studied the hallway he led me down. On either side of the wall were photographs of the reverend with parishioners and community dignitaries. His office, lined with two bookcases of theological texts, contained more of the same.

  Reverend Pine took a seat behind his desk. "You're here for Edwin?"

  "Yes, sir." I shifted in my seat. "I'm a reporter for the-"

  "Weekly Item. I know." He smiled wryly.

  I peered up at him sharply.

  "I keep myself informed, son." He laughed and adjusted himself in his seat. "See, my congregation is this here commu nity, and we are all interested in Edwin's well-being. We even trust that you are interested in his well-being."

  I was suddenly growing wary of this man and his glib talk of dead Edwin's well-being.

  "Look, I don't know what kind of shop you're running here-"

  "There's no need to be disrespectful." Reverend Pine pinned me with his gaze. "What do you want to know? Edwin Stuckey saw a flyer for our church revival last summer, showed up at our doors, and we welcomed him."

  "So why does his family think he was murdered? Why did his sister give the names of members of your congregation to the police?"

  Pine shrugged nonchalantly. "Why? You best ask Edwin's sister, Janette, yourself. Before he came to its, Edwin had no friends. He had no interests. He had no hope. He was very depressed. We tried to comfort him."

  "He killed himself."

  "No, he didn't." Pine took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. "There's a problem in our society, son, that I'm sure you're familiar with. Loss of hope."

  I stared at the man, attentive despite myself.

  "Let me be clear here." He held up his hands in a defensive gesture. "I do not advocate suicide. I did not encourage Edwin Stuckey to kill himself. I pray for his soul every day. But Edwin and his family are the reason I do what I do: People do lose hope and not all of them regain it. And not all of them can accept when hopelessness claims one of their own."

  "Look, Reverend Pine, that's a nice sermon and all, but I'm just here for the facts," I said.

  He opened his arms. "Sadly, those are they."

  To my everlasting surprise, I sat through all three hours of Reverend Pine's service. It was motivating, it was uplifting, it was hopeful. The tears, the tambourines, the shouting. Most importantly, though, it did not compel me to commit suicide. It made me want to get on with my life.