by Parnell Hall
The black cab driver—Jones on his license—didn’t know all the details, but he read my paranoia correctly. “Don’t sweat it, bro. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. Keep your head down, if it make you feel better. I let you know if he’s wise.”
The cabbie was so agreeable and reassuring I had a sudden flash of paranoia. They’re all in it together. Charles Olsen, Alan Harrison, the cranky Mr. Walsh and my guy. After the scene in the lobby Harrison had gone upstairs, called Olsen and said, “Some private dick’s wise. He’s waiting to tail me when I leave.” And Olsen said, “No problem. Go out to the corner of 13th and Sixth. I’ll have Walsh and Jones pull the two-cab scam on him. Take care of him good.”
All right, so I didn’t really believe that. But I have to tell you, I sure felt jinxed.
If Harrison was suspicious, he sure wasn’t showing it. The Checker was just sailing along, straight up Sixth Avenue. That was good. I figured if Harrison was suspicious, he’d have the cab make a few figure eights. Then I realized, no, he wouldn’t. The cranky Mr. Walsh wouldn’t make them. No destination, no ride.
I wondered what the destination was. Most likely nothing helpful. He said he was going out. Most likely he was picking up a girlfriend and going to the movies. Or maybe a Broadway show. If they did, they could see it alone. I wasn’t forking out fifty bucks to watch him watch a play. I didn’t even have fifty bucks.
That started an unsettling chain of thought about whether I could cover the meter. I checked my cash, figured I could. Unless the guy went out of town. That would be the ultimate indignity. “Let me out here, cabbie, before the meter clicks over.”
We tooled uptown through the forties and fifties, washing out the Broadway play theory, and hit Central Park South. We crossed it, drove into the park and kept on heading uptown. We were now on the drive that makes a huge ragged oval around the perimeter of Central Park. It’s a one-way road running uptown on the east side and downtown on the west. I never use it myself, because during certain hours it’s closed to traffic to accommodate the bicyclers and joggers, and I can never figure out just when. That’s too bad, ’cause it’s a very convenient road if you want to get from midtown to the Upper East Side.
Only we weren’t going to the Upper East Side. When the cab didn’t get off at 90th Street and kept tooling uptown toward 110th, I started to get excited. It seemed too much to hope for, but it sure looked like we were going to Harlem.
We were. We came out of the park at 110th, went straight up Lenox Avenue and hung a left on 147th. The cab went halfway down the block and stopped in front of the building Charles Olsen had gone to the night before.
It was too good to be true. On the other hand, it occurred to me since Poindexter and Melissa Ford didn’t want my help, it was only natural every lead I followed would happen to pan out.
Alan Harrison didn’t want the cab to wait. Well, actually that’s a conclusion on my part—he might well have wanted the cab to wait, only the cranky Checker driver wouldn’t do it. At any rate, when he got out, the cab drove off.
But did I want my cab to wait? That was the question. If Harrison was going in and out again, I sure did. But with him dismissing his cab it didn’t look like he was. Unless, as I say, that was just Mr. Walsh being persnickety. But should I really gamble on that?
The click of the meter turning over made up my mind. I wasn’t gonna sit here and piss away any more unredeemable expense money. I paid off the cab, shuddering at the amount, and got out. The cab drove on down the street, turned the corner and was gone.
So. Just like that. The cranky Mr. Walsh and the agreeable Mr. Jones, my two imagined potential saboteurs, were out of my life and gone just like that. And here I was, once again, hanging out on the street in Harlem with night coming on.
Yeah, I was hanging out in the street. Much as I would have loved to know where he was going, I wasn’t following Alan Harrison in. Now that may seem chickenshit to you, but the guy knew me. And if I were to run into him on the stair, what the hell could I say? Sorry to bother you, Mr. Harrison, but are you sure you didn’t see that accident? Somehow, I couldn’t imagine that was gonna play. At any rate, I hung out on the street.
He was out in twenty minutes. Carrying a paper bag. Just like the one Charles Olsen had. But that wasn’t the half of it.
He wasn’t alone.
I took one look and gasped.
The man was black. All black. Black T-shirt, black jeans. Full-length, black leather coat. Black boots.
He was also huge. He wasn’t as tall as Alan Harrison, but he probably outweighed him. Massive chest, protruding belly, tree trunks for arms. A bull-neck. And then the head. Black hair, black beard, black skin. The hair an irregular Afro with spiky points. A hell of an apparition coming at me out of the twilight.
Well, not exactly at me. I was across the street behind a parked car. I ducked down behind it so Harrison wouldn’t see. He didn’t, but the two guys coming down my side of the street had to wonder what the hell I was doing. If they raised the alarm I was sunk. But they took it as a matter of course. They passed right by me without breaking stride, and as they did I heard one of them say, “Drug bust.” No sweat for them. Just another routine day in Harlem.
Harrison and the Black Death, as I dubbed his companion, walked down the street toward Lenox Avenue. I gave them a good head start before tagging along behind. It would be one thing to have Alan Harrison spot me. I didn’t even want to imagine what it would be like to have the Black Death on my case.
At Lenox Avenue they parted company, Alan Harrison downtown and the Black Death uptown.
Decision time. Who do I take?
No problem. I know where the Black Death lives. I want to know where Harrison goes.
I followed him about a block down Lenox when he stepped out in the street and hailed a cab. That caught me up short. He’d made no sign he was gonna do it, and I hadn’t been looking for any, expected any, really, cruising Harlem. But there one was, a yellow with its light on and Alan Harrison climbing into it. And no other cab in sight.
Ever try to follow a cab on foot? I did, for about half a block, then stood there watching to see where it went. No apparent help. Down Lenox Avenue till it went out of sight.
All right. Change of plans. I’ve blown Alan Harrison, let’s settle for the Black Death.
I hotfooted it up Lenox Avenue as fast as I could without actually running. I was trying to be inconspicuous, but I could almost swear I heard the words “drug bust” at least one more time.
I crossed 147th, headed uptown in the direction the Black Death had gone. “Had” was the operative word. So was “gone.” By the time I reached the corner of 148th, it was clear the gentleman in question was nowhere in sight.
So what did I do now? Look for him. A black man in Harlem, shouldn’t be that hard to find,
Fuck that. I was right by the subway station. That was for me. I wasn’t taking a cab if I wasn’t following anyone.
I went down in the station, bought a token. There was a train coming in. I went through the turnstile and got on. It was the number 3 express, of course. There were no tunnel delays and we hit 96th Street, which was my stop, in record time.
Only I didn’t get off. Because I was on the express. And without tunnel delays, going uptown and downtown an express train can usually beat a cab.
I rode the express down to 14th Street, got off, sprinted out of the tunnel up to the street and flagged a cab. It was a Checker, and if it had been the cranky Mr. Walsh again I’d have nearly died, but it wasn’t. I hopped in and said, “Grand and Wooster.”
The cabbie made good time and we pulled up on the corner five minutes later.
It was a hell of a long shot, and I figured I’d just wasted the six bucks I’d just handed the cabbie, but as I closed the door another cab drove by us and pulled up in front of the loft on Grand.
Holy shit. Was it possible?
My cab drove off, leaving me exposed for all to see. I shrank back into the sha
dows around the corner.
It’s a good thing I did, because Alan Harrison, still carrying the paper bag, got out of the cab, walked up to Charles Olsen’s loft and rang the bell.
22.
HOW MANY TIMES DOES a guy have to get kicked in the face before he learns? I don’t know what the answer is, but what I’m trying to say is, I knew calling Poindexter again wasn’t going to do me any good. But I just couldn’t help myself. I didn’t beg and plead this time, though. Just dropped the bomb and hung up.
“Yes?” Poindexter said.
“This is Stanley Hastings,” I said. “Just calling to tell you another drug deal went down last night.”
“What?”
“Just wanted to let you know. Incidentally, it was a different party this time. I have now I.D.’d two separate drug runners, plus I can personally I.D. the connection they’re scoring from. It’s been nice talking to you, beep me any time.”
And I hung up the phone.
I felt pretty good about the whole thing. Of course, it occurred to me if Poindexter could put me on the stand and make me talk, I was just telling him what questions to ask. But at the moment I didn’t care. At the moment it was fun just twisting his tail.
And anyway, what the hell could I say on the stand? I mean all that shit about dope deals and connections, that was pure speculation on my part. I had no hard evidence. At least, nothing I could testify to. I mean, what had I seen? A guy carrying a paper bag. If that was all it took, you could bust half of New York City. No, when came right down to it, the whole Charles Olsen, Alan Harrison, Black Death drug connection was nothing more than idle speculation, and there was no reason for me to testify to it when I got on the stand.
Which would be Monday. I found that out right after I talked to Poindexter. I got beeped, and when I called in Wendy/Janet told me the cops had called and wanted to know where they could find me so they could serve me with a subpoena.
I wasn’t looking for trouble. I called right in and spoke to Sergeant Thurman himself, told him I wanted to cooperate. He was pleased to hear it, but wasn’t about to take my word for it. They were putting together a grand jury to indict Melissa Ford, they’d be calling witnesses on Monday, and they wanted to subpoena me to be sure I’d be there. I told him that wasn’t necessary, but he allowed as how it was, and wanted to know just where the hell I was gonna be. So I gave him the address of my first signup in Queens, and when I pulled up in front of the building an hour later, damned if there wasn’t a process server standing right there.
I’m always apologetic about serving subpoenas, but this guy wasn’t. He was a tough son of a bitch who looked like an ex-cop, most likely one who retired from the force after being shot a few times. When I admitted to being Stanley Hastings, he slapped the subpoena in my hand and glared at me in a way that might have made sense if I’d been the defendant in the case instead of just a witness. Then he hopped in his car and drove off, leaving me standing there on the sidewalk holding the subpoena.
Son of a bitch. There it was, all official and everything. Nine-thirty Monday morning, Criminal Court building, 100 Centre Street, Stanley Hastings is hereby ordered to appear.
I sighed, shoved the subpoena in my pocket, went inside and signed up Delbert Cross, who had had the misfortune to ride his bicycle into a pothole, resulting in a broken wrist. I signed him up, fired off some pictures of his cast, then went out with him to scout the offending pothole. I can’t say I was too impressed. It was a simple indentation in the street—no cracks, no break in the asphalt—just a smooth, rounded dip, none of which was gonna show up in the pictures. I took them anyway, knowing even if they stunk I’d still get paid for the job. Hot damn. It occurred to me it was about time I got paid for a job.
I bid a fond farewell to Delbert Cross and headed up to the Bronx to sign up Harold Burlson, who’d been the victim of a hit and run.
I was not happy. Not that unusual a condition for me, but this time my unhappiness had a specific focus. The subpoena in my jacket pocket.
A grand jury. What the hell was a grand jury? I mean, I knew what they did, they handed down indictments. That was the way you always heard of them. “The grand jury handed down an indictment today in the Gotsagoo case.” Handed down? Handed down to whom? A younger brother? No, that’s hand me down. But that’s how they say it on the news: handed down an indictment. Why handed? Was it a slip of paper, this indictment, something they could hand? And why down? Because they’re a grand jury, a lofty jury, way up there, that they have to hand something down? No, I’m confusing them with a high court. Not to be confused with a supreme court. Supreme court, high court, grand jury. What the hell did all that mean?
Well, I knew who made up a grand jury anyway. I knew that from my stint on jury duty. I wasn’t called for a grand jury—which was a miracle, since I was called for everything else—but I heard other prospective jurors being interrogated by the lawyers, and one of the questions they were all asked was, did you have any previous jury experience, and if so, was it criminal, civil or grand? And several of them stated they’d served on grand juries. So that was something. This would not be a star chamber with a panel of high judges listening to me testify, it would be a panel of my peers.
How big a panel, I didn’t know. A criminal jury’s twelve, a civil jury’s six, but a grand jury I had no idea. As to the rest of the personnel, the prosecutor would be there, but not the defense attorney—Poindexter had said that much. And the prosecutor would call me to the stand and start asking me questions about my relationship with Melissa Ford. About the work I did for her. And I would have to answer.
But what about the work I didn’t do? The work I did for myself. Would I have to answer about that? I had no idea. On the other hand, the police didn’t know about the other work I’d done, so they wouldn’t be asking about it, would they?
Or would they? Would they ask for a blanket statement giving everything I know? Surely they couldn’t do that. But what about specifics? I have to tell ’em about David Melrose meeting Charles Olsen. Suppose they ask me if that’s the only time I ever saw Charles Olsen? Well, it sure wasn’t, but could they ask me that? And if they did, would I have to answer?
And what about the stuff I told Melissa Ford? I suppose I’d have to state it. After all, that was the crux of the matter. I gave her the information and she acted on it. Yeah, they could ask me about what I told her.
But what about what she told me? Would that be hearsay? Or would it be an admission against interest? Aha, my years of reading murder mysteries pay off.
No, they don’t. Schmuck. You don’t want to be able to testify about that, and if it’s an admission against interest you can.
So, my years of reading murder mysteries dork me. A much more natural consequence.
But was it true? Was that the case? As a witness before the grand jury, just what the hell were my rights anyway?
It was right about then that two things occurred to me.
One was that I was in the EXACT CHANGE ONLY lane of the Triboro Bridge, and I didn’t happen to have exact change, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want to pay it because I’d get dorked out of it because I couldn’t get a receipt.
The other was that I really ought to consult a lawyer.
23.
ANYONE WHO HAD NEVER MET Richard Rosenberg would probably have trouble thinking of him as small. He was certainly a giant in the industry. In terms of settlements, he was second to none. That’s percentage of settlements, by the way—I’m sure there are larger firms that handle more volume, and Richard’s a one-man show. Even so, his volume ain’t bad either. But of the cases he takes, the percentage he wins is phenomenal.
And for good reason. For one thing, Richard is very sharp at weeding out clients and turning down cases that aren’t worth his time—when Richard files suit, it’s there. For another thing, Richard is the consummate showman. Put him in front of a jury, and nine times out of ten that jury is going to give him exactly what he wants. The tent
h time, while it won’t do that, it will still give him something. Though only in his thirties, his exploits are already legend.
But I was talking about size. See, Richard Rosenberg is actually rather small. He is short and slight of build. But you would never know it. Even people who have met him have trouble thinking of him as small. Because Richard compensates so well. If that’s what you could call it. If you can imagine an intelligent pit bull on speed, that’s Richard. His mind is going a mile a minute, his body is going a mile a minute, if he gets hold of something, forget it, he ain’t never gonna let go. So talking to him is always a challenge. There’s no use trying to keep up. All you can do is watch and wait and hope somehow, some way, some part of what he’s doing relates to you.
Richard had helped me out in the past when I’d had trouble with the police. Partly because he’s a frustrated Perry Mason who would love to take part in a murder trial, and partly because he just naturally loves bopping cops around.
But in this case I wasn’t accused of anything, so I couldn’t count on him giving a shit. In fact, that was the first thing he said to me when I walked into his office and asked for his help.
“Are you accused of anything?”
“No,” I said.
