by Parnell Hall
Why the hell had she called us? Why had she demanded my presence, which obviously embarrassed her so much? I mean, she knew as well as I knew his story about falling down was bullshit. Anyone would know that. She knew it wasn’t a legitimate case. And yet, here she was, calling a lawyer, filing suit. Why? Just to get the money? I couldn’t buy that. Not that woman. It wasn’t in her nature. It wasn’t the sort of thing she would do. And yet, here she was doing it.
It was going down the stairs that I realized why. Raheem, walk the man down. Why? Like I couldn’t get out of the building myself? Like I couldn’t find my own car? In all the hundreds of cases I’d handled, no parent had ever asked their child to see me out. Except for Sheila Webb. And in that sickening moment, I understood why.
It was a cry for help. Sheila Webb was a single mother with a lying, dope-dealing ten-year-old kid she didn’t know how to handle. Then he got hurt and told a stupid lie. So what did she do? She called a lawyer. She called a lawyer because the lawyer wouldn’t believe Raheem’s story any more than she did, and the lawyer would know what to do. The lawyer would protect her, protect her son. Any lawyer would. No lawyer could be so stupid as not to see. Imagine her chagrin when I showed up, appeared to take Raheem’s story at face value. That must have been a shock. But then a second chance. The accident photos. Surely when I see the scar on his forehead I won’t be able to just let it go.
But I do. So what’s the upshot? “Raheem, walk the man down to his car.” One last stab. One last desperate hope. A chance for me to question the boy. A chance for the boy to open up to me.
And what made me sick, of course, was the fact that it wasn’t gonna happen. I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t my job. Because I wasn’t the lawyer, as Sheila Webb assumed, I was merely the private detective investigating the case. Richard was the lawyer. And Richard didn’t give a shit.
But that was a lame excuse. I might be working for Richard, but I was still my own man. I shouldn’t do anything to undermine Richard’s case, no, but aside from that, whether I helped Raheem Webb out was entirely up to me.
And I wasn’t gonna do it. As I tramped down the stair, watching the back of Raheem’s knit cap bobbing down in front of me, I knew that bad as Sheila Webb might need help, bad as Raheem Webb might need help, and bad as it made me feel, there was no way in hell I was getting involved in all this.
Raheem reached the front door, pushed it open, stepped outside.
I half expected to hear a voice yell, “Hey nigger,” but none did. I stepped out on the step next to Raheem.
They were right at the bottom of the steps. Raheem’s pusher and one of the kids who’d been hanging out on the step when I went in. The kid had just handed something to the pusher.
The kid saw me first. He said, “Oh, shit!,” turned and ran.
The pusher looked up then. He saw me and our eyes met. I don’t know how to describe the look he gave me, but I have to tell you, it was hard to keep from pissing in my pants. The guy looked like he would have loved to squash me like a bug.
I did my best to stare him down. That was the best I could manage at the moment—to stand still without moving. I doubt if I did that good a job, but the net result was it worked. I was a white man in a suit and tie, probably a cop. The guy was obviously carrying, had obviously just taken drugs from his mule, and didn’t want to mess with me.
He wasn’t about to run, though. That wasn’t his style. He just stared back, haughty, proud, insolent. Then he looked from me to Raheem. He shook his head, slightly, slowly, deliberately, glaring straight at Raheem. He looked back up at me, shook his head again. Then he turned and walked away, slowly, insolently, as if daring me to follow.
Naturally, I didn’t. I just stood there watching until he went around the corner and out of sight. Then I turned to look at Raheem.
He looked like he’d just seen a ghost. He stood there swaying slightly, his eyes blinking. He wet his lips, blew out a breath.
One of the kids at the bottom of the steps looked up and said, “Shit, man, you done it now.”
It wasn’t my problem. And there was nothing I could do. If Raheem’s pusher beat him up again because he thought I was a cop and Raheem had sicced me on his case, damn it, that wasn’t my fault. And even if it was, what the hell could I do?
Nothing. That was the answer, and it was the only answer. I’d been doing this job for a while, and if there was one thing I’d learned in all the cases I’d handled, it was that a private investigator can’t let himself get involved. Because if you did, you’d go nuts. You just harden yourself, put it out of your mind, and get on to the next case. And bad as it made me feel, I knew damn well that was the only thing to do.
Like hell.
I took Raheem Webb by the shoulders, turned him around, and piloted him back upstairs to his mother.
25.
NOTHING PROPINKS LIKE PROPINQUITY. Now there’s a phrase you don’t hear too often. Like you’re sitting in a bar watching a Mets game, and the guy next to you leans back on his stool and says, “Nothing propinks like propinquity.” It just doesn’t happen. Though, to be honest, I don’t sit in bars watching Mets games. I gave up drinking years ago, and I’m a Red Sox fan. But if I ever did sit in a bar watching a Mets game, I’d be willing to bet you that phrase wouldn’t come up.
Nonetheless, that’s what occurred to me as I walked down the street away from Raheem Webb’s building. Which was strange, ’cause to be honest, I don’t know what those words mean. I don’t even know where they come from, though most likely I read them in an Agatha Christie novel. But maybe not. Anyway, what I think they mean is something like if you put a man and a woman together on a desert island they’d fuck each other’s brains out. But that’s a rather vague definition, and probably not the one found in Webster’s. Or in Agatha Christie, for that matter. And I’m not sure getting friendly is the intended meaning either. Maybe it really means they’d beat each other’s brains out. But either way, I figured it had something to do with nearness. But then again, it occurred to me maybe I was just confusing propinquity with proximity.
No matter. The simple fact is, as I walked away from Raheem Webb’s building, the phrase “Nothing propinks like propinquity” flashed in my brain.
The reason was simple. I had just realized something. Raheem Webb’s building was only a block and a half from the Black Death’s.
You might think it strange I hadn’t realized this before, but it wasn’t really. The first time I’d called on Raheem Webb was before I’d tailed Charles Olsen to the Black Death’s. And the night I did that there was no reason for me to think, gee, I must be really near Raheem Webb’s. Because he wasn’t important. The only way I would have realized it would have been the other way around.
And the reason I didn’t realize it today, when it was the other way around, was I was daydreaming. I was so preoccupied with Richard and the grand jury and fantasizing about confessing to the murder and getting away with it because I had immunity, that I was driving on automatic pilot and had no idea where I was until I pulled up in front of Raheem Webb’s door. At which point I was too concerned with my problems with him to stop and realize where I actually was. So it was only after I came downstairs again after a half-hour session with Raheem and his mother and started to get in my car that it suddenly occurred to me.
A block and a half from the Black Death. And my beeper quiet as the grave and no pending assignment for Richard to do.
Now I knew there was no use doing any more work for Melissa Ford. There was no way on earth I was ever gonna get paid for it. But I had that grand jury appearance hanging over my head. And all that information I had that was so close, that was almost there. And I couldn’t help thinking it would be really nice to wrap things up, to nail it down before Monday, to come walking into that courtroom with every ace in the deck.
Not that I really thought that possible. It was just that, hell, a block and a half. It was almost like a free shot. Almost like it had been planned that way.
As part of the grand design.
Plus, I was psyched for it. Psyched up by my half-hour meeting with the Webbs. Which was, after all, not the sort of thing that I’d usually do.
But I’d done it. I’d taken Raheem back upstairs and I’d called his mother in and I’d said, “All right, Mrs. Webb, these are the facts of life.”
I’d spelled it out for them plain and simple. If they wanted to file a claim that they knew to be bogus, well, fine, I couldn’t stop them.
But I knew what was going on. And they knew what was going on. And it was time to cut the shit and talk turkey.
I told them I wasn’t the lawyer on the case, just the private detective. That lowered me some in Sheila Webb’s eyes, but not in Raheem’s. His actually grew wide. Holy shit, a private eye. I could thank TV for the buildup, but suddenly I was a lot more interesting than Raheem Webb had ever thought I was, and I played it for all it was worth.
I never got Raheem to change his story, we never got as far as all that. But I left there with his beeper, which he had indeed been wearing under his shirt. And I left them with instructions that if that pusher (whose name Raheem still wouldn’t tell me) ever hassled him again, they were to call the office and inform me right away.
Of course, I had no idea what the hell I was gonna do about it. But sayin’ it sounded tough, and tough was what I was going for just then. I was playing macho private eye. Not that I’m good at the role. It was just that was what a ten-year-old laid needed to see.
Anyway, the point is, I was riding a high leaving Raheem Webb’s. And while I was in a kick-ass mood, it seemed a good time to check out the Black Death. Besides, nothing propinks like propinquity. Whatever the hell that means.
I walked down the street, around the corner and down 147th to the building, the home of the Black Death. I stood there watching it from across the street.
I wasn’t sure what I was gonna do next. I hadn’t thought that out yet. But odds were, I was gonna go in. As I say, I was psyched for it. Plus it was broad daylight, which made it a far less scary proposition. And I sure wasn’t gonna accomplish much on the sidewalk.
I’d just had time to think that when the front door opened and the Black Death came out.
Son of a bitch. What a fantastic, amazing coincidence. Did I need anything more than that to convince me that this was fated, that this was meant to be? That the gods had somehow decreed that I was to be the one to bring down the Black Death, to smash the drug ring, and free the fair Melissa Ford?
Damn. That fucked up the fantasy. Having to think of Melissa Ford as fair. How about unfair? And free the unfair Melissa Ford. Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.
Believe it or not, the Black Death had not been standing in the doorway waiting for me to think all this. He’d come down the front steps and started down the street. I followed from across the street and slightly behind. I wasn’t taking any chances of being spotted, but I sure as hell wasn’t letting him get away.
One reason was, the Black Death was carrying a bag. A paper bag. Similar in size and shape to the one Alan Harrison had the night he’d come out the front door with him. And I sure wanted to know where that package was heading.
It headed over to Lenox Avenue, then down a block, then turned right, heading back west again. I ran to the corner just in time to see the Black Death cross the street partway down the block.
We were in a section with a lot of bricked-up buildings and empty lots. It was at the edge of one of the bricked-up affairs that the Black Death suddenly foxed me. Before I knew what he was gonna do, he suddenly turned and walked around the corner of the building out of sight.
I was about two building widths behind. Not wide ones, but still. And of course I was across the street. I sprinted to cover the distance. Stopped and peered out from behind a parked car.
There was the Black Death, walking casually down along the side of the bricked-up building. On the other side of the building was merely a rubble-filled lot. Where the hell he was going, I had no idea. All I knew was in that open area there was no way in hell I could follow him.
I crossed the street, got closer, to try to see where he’d go. I peered around the edge of the bricked-up building. He was still walking down along the side of it. In the direction he was heading there was nothing. Just the back of another bricked-up building that must have fronted on the next cross street.
As I watched, he walked up to this bricked-up building, suddenly turned right, and disappeared.
What!?
This was not like he walked out of sight. Around a corner, through a door or anything of the kind. Facing me was a blank wall with bricked-up windows. The Black Death had not gone anywhere, he had just vanished off the face of the earth like a magic trick.
A more prudent me would have let it go. But, as I say, I was all psyched up. And confronted with an optical illusion, it was too much not to check it out.
Not that it didn’t take guts. Guts I didn’t really have. Discretion is the better part of valor, and no one knows it better that I. But I just had to know.
I crept along the side of the building, slowly, looking all around. There was no one in sight. Nothing in sight. I was in a goddamned empty lot.
I kept going. Reached the bricked-up wall.
Sure enough, optical illusion.
There were two walls. Or at least two depths to the wall. With a difference of about four feet. The main wall ran the length of the building. But there was another wall about twelve feet long running parallel to it in the middle. In the distance these blended into one and looked like a solid wall. Between the two, perpendicular to the main wall, was a bricked-up doorway, the bricks of which had since been knocked down. And that was where the Black Death had disappeared.
Holy shit.
I could see the doorway from twenty feet away. Did I want to get any closer? If I stopped to think, I sure didn’t. But I wasn’t stopping to think, I was a bloodhound on the scent. I crept up to the open door, peered inside.
Black, but not pitch black. There was light coming from somewhere, obviously another bricked-up door or window that had been smashed in. I peered in, let my eyes grow accustomed to the light.
A small, empty room, rubble-filled floor, bare walls. No surprise there. A door on the far wall. And one on the side wall. Both apparent sources of light. Which way had the Black Death gone?
I froze. Listened for footsteps. Heard none.
I crept slowly into the room. Paused. Listened again.
I heard what sounded like a faint noise off to my right. That’s pretty stupid—how does something sound like a noise? What I mean is, I think I heard a faint noise. It could have been a footstep. It could have been a rat. It could have been my imagination.
I chose the door in the direction of the sound. I crept to it, peered around.
Another empty room. A bricked-up window with two bricks missing, letting in light. A door on the far wall. A door on the left wall.
I stopped. Listened again. Another faint sound, this time to the left.
I crept in, made my way to that door. Peered in.
An interior room. No window, but three doors. None bricked-up, of course, as they were interior doors. All wide open.
Shit.
It flashed on me then, it’s a maze. I’m a rat in a maze and this is an intelligence test. I gotta get through the maze and get the cheese or the Black Death or out again alive or whatever the hell the goal is in this stupid game.
I crept into the center of the room, stood quiet, tense, looking around at the three doors. I thought I heard a sound, but by now I couldn’t be sure. It could just be my ears playing tricks on me. And if it was a sound, I had no idea from where it had come.
Pick a door, any door. Just like taking an exam back in high school—multiple guess.
I crept to the center door, peered in.
Pitch dark. No light at all. Whatever the hell was in there, I didn’t give a shit.
Backtracked to the door on t
he left.
A thin ray of light. Coming from where? Shit. Can’t tell. Must be a bend in the wall somewhere. An L-shape, a corner. What the hell was it?
Another sound, like a crunch on gravel. Or rubble. A footstep. From where?
I felt a cold chill from head to toe.
What the fuck was I doing here?
Was I out of my mind?
Well, probably. The odds on insanity were running pretty high at the moment.
Well, what the hell did I do?
Schmuck. You need a written invitation? Get the hell out of there.
I crept out of the room with the unexplained source of light. Now I was back in the interior room with three doors. It really had four doors, of course, the three I’d encountered and the one by which I’d come in.
Which one was it?
I must have been really scared, because I was starting to lose it. Damn it, get your bearings! Which door did you come in?
This one. The one to the right. I checked out the one across from me first and then the one to the left. Coming from the one to the left, I have to want the one on the right. This is it.
Isn’t it?
Shit.
I crept to the door.
Peered out.
Couldn’t see a thing.
Dark. Pitch dark.
Damn. The wrong way? No, it had to be right. My eyes just aren’t accustomed to the light yet and—
Wrong. It was lighter here than there. It should be lighter still. Something’s blocking the light, and—
There came a sound like thunder, then a blinding flash of light. I felt a dull thud in my chest, then a sharp, searing pain.
Then nothing.
RAMBLINGS IN THE ETHER
bumping thumping crash smash turn me over turning turning widening gyre and gimbel in the wave storm seascape escape rap song rhapsody wrap me in white linen no hands helping hands hans brinker look ma no hands mutilated amputee get the picture gotta shoot it don’t shoot no floating flying half-done half-finished half-baked whole loaf none what am I dizzy doing loony tunes shrieking reeking sirens wailing sirens failing sirens luring ships to rocks rough ride rough rider big stick boom streaking from the Dakota too late too late if not him how me misspent life poor wife we are the hollow men draining blood sweat tears what goes up must come down jackhammer fast in vain in vein insert qua qua qua in spite of the tennis six love lost love’s labors bank and shoal of time jump the life to come jump jump jump it’s all right ma I’m only bleeding bleeding leading punctured junctured sectioned like an orange peel peel peel bell peel bells toll for whom astronaut what your country can can can kick line kick back kick off kick the bucket kickstart false start fast start if only but no no no void avoid a void annoyed don’t do that ow that hurts or does it who cares who dares who wears where’s wares whoops goes whoops goes don’t go do not go do not go gentle gentlemen gentle ben bear bare don’t care don’t wear not fair over over over easy scrambled sunny side funny side not really not real no deal into that good night
