“I won‘t lie."
“Then answer my questions."
“I, I can‘t. I can‘t say something like that to you. All I can say is that you are the centerpiece of my life. Without you I would go out of orbit and crash and die. You being in my life is what holds me in place."
It was my turn to be quiet. I knew that Jo was trying to get out of the sexual tangle she found herself in. I knew that her life might really be threatened. But all I could think about at that moment was Celia: her milk running down my face, her contorted, satisfied look as I licked the air below her breast.
I had always been afraid to find out what my desires were. It was easier to be with a woman like Jo who kept her life in sensible compartments, who had secrets that were ground-shaking but who never wondered how the world shifted in me.
“I don‘t want you to die, Jo,” I said. “But if you can‘t tell me that you need something from a man that I can‘t give, then how can we talk?"
“You don‘t know that,” she said angrily.
“Am I wrong? Can you at least tell me that you didn‘t call Johnny? That you won‘t see him again? That you don‘t need to see him?"
This time she only took thirty seconds or so to respond. In that time I wondered what it would be like to see Celia, to know that she was with many men, and probably women, but always came home to me. Was that any different from me with Jo and Johnny?
“I can‘t tell you but I can show you,” she said.
“I don‘t understand."
“Come over to my place, and I‘ll show you how I feel."
“I‘m a little busy for the next few days,” I said.
“With your new girlfriends?” she said, in a derisive tone that I didn‘t think I deserved.
“No,” I said. “Just some people I have to see and, oh yeah, I quit being a translator. Now I‘m a photographers‘ agent. I have a client that I sold to a Midtown gallery. I have to work on that."
“You quit? When?"
“They day I saw you."
“But how will you live?"
“As best I can. I‘ll come to your place in two days,” I said. “In the afternoon. If you need to talk or want to talk before then, all you have to do is call."
It was almost noon when I walked out the front door of my building. I don‘t know if they were waiting there or if they‘d just arrived when I was leaving.
“Cordell Carmel.” The big cop that came into my apartment earlier was standing there with two uniforms. One of these was a black man.
“Yes?"
“We‘re taking you to the station for a talk,” he said.
“What‘s your name?” I asked him, as the black cop put handcuffs on me.
“Detective Jurgens,” he said, quite civilly.
When the cop standing behind me went through my pockets, I was relieved that I‘d left the pistol upstairs.
They locked me in a room that had a faint odor to it. Actually it was a combination of scents. There was something chemical, acrid, and then there was a stale smell that hovered between vomit and sweat. The final element that bound the stench was sweet like vanilla flavoring. It was this sweetness that fouled the chamber. It reeked of a cover-Up; the attempt to hide the truth of that room.
It wasn‘t a big space, and there were no windows. By that time my feet were also manacled. So I sat in the straight-backed chair behind a table with a heavy black phone on it. Jurgens had read me the story about my rights, and now I was alone.
But I wasn‘t afraid. I was used to jail cells.
I had been to see my father in jail many a time. He‘d get arrested for drunk-and-disorderly and fighting, mainly. He was a brutal man, but my mother loved him as a god incarnate. If he was in the room, her eyes rarely left him. If he was gone, she‘d sit in his chair by the phone, waiting for him to get in touch. That‘s why I was so surprised that they‘d never married.
He was always friendliest when they had him chained and behind bars. He‘d smile for me and ask about my day. He‘d say that he was sorry I had to go through this and ask me to forgive him.
Once, when he was in for thirty days, he told me that I was a bright boy and he wanted to see me in the university. That‘s the word he used: “university,” not college. I was only nine, but from that day on I applied myself to schoolwork, and when I was admitted to U C Berkeley, I went to visit my dad, Carson Carmel, at Soledad Prison, where he‘d been sentenced for twelve years for manslaughter.
“What the fuck I care about some school?” he said to me after I proudly told him about my admission. “Did you bring me the fuckin‘ cigarettes?"
All those years of hard work to make him proud, only to realize that my father hadn‘t cared past the moment he told me that he wanted to see me in the university.
That was my life, I thought, in that small interrogation room, years of unconscious darkness marked by scattered flickerings of light.
After what seemed like a very long time, Detective Jurgens and a sergeant, Jorge Mannes, came to see me. Sergeant Mannes was slight of build and painstakingly neat. During the thirty-minute interview, he found seven pieces of lint on his dark suit. He removed every one, placing them in a plastic wastebasket that sat in the corner behind him.
“Did you have anything to do with Sasha Bennett‘s death?” were the first words out of Jurgens‘s mouth.
“No."
Mannes smiled. He had red-brown skin and a razor-thin mustache.
“Did you know her brother?"
“Last Friday I helped her bring him up to her apartment. He was drunk, and she couldn‘t manage him."
“Did he say anything?"
“That he loved his sister,” I said, thinking that I loved my father. I would have traded places in Soledad with him if I could. I would have taken on the cancer that killed him without a second thought.
“You ever see him again?” Mannes asked.
“He came down to my apartment that night, really in the early morning, about two I think."
“What for?” Jurgens asked. He seemed not to want Mannes to talk.
“He was drunk, more so than before. He was upset."
“About what?” Mannes asked quickly, to be a part of the case.
I hesitated. I didn‘t owe Sasha anything. But I didn‘t want her to seem like a bad person. She had been mangled by life like I had, and Jo and Sisypha. She wasn‘t someone to be blamed.
“Speak up,” Jurgens said.
“He had had sex with Sasha. I guess they‘d been doing that since they were kids, and he didn‘t know how to stop."
“Except with a pistol,” Mannes said with a sly grin.
“If we check her cunt, do we find you or him up in there?” Jurgens asked.
I tried to leap at him, but it was futile. I couldn‘t even turn my chair over.
“Maybe both,” Mannes said, smiling.
They rose together. At the door Jurgens said, “Hang out here for a while until we know what‘s what."
“Can I make a call?"
Jurgens walked out, but Mannes came back and unlocked my handcuffs.
“Don‘t worry,” he whispered. “He just wants his report to look like he did something. If you were white, he would have left you alone."
As Mannes walked toward the door, he said, “It‘s only local and toll-free numbers you could call."
He closed the door and left me in the bright light of the dingy room.
My hands felt swollen, but that was only an illusion brought on by the numbness. I relished the feeling as the painful prickles of sensation came back into my fingers. I closed my hands into fists to increase the sensation.
Pain was my friend. He reminded me that I was alive. He came to me when no mother or father or minister would. He was why I loved Sisypha and why I would always refrain from having sex with her.
Jo was a local call, but instead I called Cynthia‘s main line and entered her name.
“Hello?"
“Hi,” I said, exhaling the word hea
vily.
“How are you, L?” she asked. “Brenda said that you two got very close."
“I‘m in jail."
“What for?"
“There was a murder in my building. A murder-suicide, I think, but I had been with the woman a few nights before, the night you told me that I should get out there and experience my desires."
“A husband and wife?"
“Brother, sister."
“Oh,” she said. “What can I do for you?"
“Sisypha gave me her numbers, but I don‘t have them on me. Can you call her and tell her where I am?"
“Sure, Cordell. Anything else?"
“I told Joelle that I knew about her and Johnny Fry."
“How was that?"
“I don‘t know. I mean, I think deciding to tell her was more important than our talk. She, she‘s really fucked up about this stuff. We‘re gonna talk again in a few days. That is, if I can get out of here."
“Tell me where you are exactly,” she said.
I gave her what information I could.
“I‘ll call Bren right now."
When I got off the phone, I realized that Cynthia hadn‘t asked me if I was guilty. The truth of her omission was like a physical thing in my mind. It was like a compass or a beacon. For Jo, there was something past love that left me behind, but for Cynthia, there was something past innocence, and that was me.
An hour or so later, the door opened. Three men entered. One was Jurgens. He seemed cowed, somehow. With him came a police officer in an ornate uniform with lots of medals and shiny buttons. Next to the uniformed officer was a pudgy little man in a lavender suit.
“Mr. Carmel?” the pudgy man asked.
“Yes."
“Are you all right?"
“I guess I am. My feet are a little numb in these shackles, though."
“You have him chained?” the small man asked the uniform.
“Take ‘em off, Mike,” the uniform told Detective Jurgens.
Seeing the big cop negotiate with his belly to get down on his knees and unshackle me was funny, but I didn‘t laugh.
“My name is Dollar, Mr. Carmel, Holland Dollar. I‘ve been retained to get you out of here. Do you wish to press charges against the department for false arrest?"
It must have seemed to Jurgens and his superior that I was considering Dollar‘s request, but in reality I was thinking that Sisypha had laid out serious money to get me released. Here a lawyer that looked like a fop had gotten Jurgens to get on his knees to set me free. He was there in what must have been record time and got right to me. I remembered a time when it took three days just to get the pass to visit my father in jail.
“My name is Captain Haldeman,” the uniform said. “I apologize for any inconvenience you‘ve had, Mr. Carmel."
Mr. Carmel.
Sasha and her brother were dead. I was used as proof that the police didn‘t take the case lightly. I had been chained and arrested, but in suffering that minor bother, I found that Sisypha would move to save me.
Why?
“Do you wish to press charges?” Dollar asked again.
“No, sir. I don‘t. My neighbor and her brother are the ones who have suffered. Their parents will have to bear this weight. I don‘t mind if I can just go home now."
“There‘s a car waiting downstairs."
After my belongings had been returned, I found myself standing with Holland Dollar outside the police station. He handed me a lime-green card.
“Any trouble, any time, all you have to do is call. This number is twenty-four hours."
“Thank you, Mr. Dollar."
“Any time,” he said, and then he left me.
Once again Wan let me off in front of my building. While I was climbing out, he was running to get back, to open the door for me, I suppose.
“Good-bye, Mr. Cordell,” he said.
“Excuse me, Wan, but can I ask you something?"
“Yes?"
“Are you a driver for hire?"
“No, sir. I work for the company Ms. Landfall owns."
He left me wondering about the porn actress, director, and Internet mogul. She was obviously a millionaire.
In my apartment I called to make a reservation for dinner and then showered. Standing in the prefabricated plastic stall that I had washed in for a dozen years I achieved an erection without intending to. My cock was as hard as it had ever been. The balls were tucked up tight underneath. The water hitting my erection made it jump now and then.
I wanted to masturbate but didn‘t. I didn‘t hold back because I expected to be having sex soon; it was because I was enjoying the excitement. I thought about Celia and Lucy and poor Sasha. They were all in that shower with me.
Jo was completely out of my mind.
When I got to the little Italian bistro, Monica was there, waiting at my usual table outside. She was wearing an old-time dress, white with a few big black polka dots here and there. It was a dress that a French model would have worn in the fifties. The full-length skirt flared out, and the bodice was tight around her bosom. She also had on white high heels.
“Am I late?” I asked, coming up to the table and sitting across from her.
“I got off my job at five today,” she said. “I just came down here early, is all. I asked them if you had a reservation, and they Just put me here an‘ gave me a glass of wine."
She touched the glass with one finger, and I reached over to touch that finger with mine.
“I‘m sorry,” I said. “If I‘d known, I would have made an earlier reservation."
“I wanted to come early,” she said. “I thought you was gonna forget or just not come."
“Why?"
“I just thought that you was flirtin‘, tryin‘ t‘see if the poor black girl on the train would go out with you. But then when they had your name waitin‘, I knew you were serious, so I just sat here an‘ read my French book."
She touched my finger, and the waiter came to leave us menus.
“Damn,” Monica said. “This expensive."
“The food‘s good and I‘m paying,” I told her.
“But what‘s this?” she said, pointing to an entry on the typed specials list. “It says a hundred dollars."
“It‘s a pasta. You know, spaghetti."
“For a hundred dollars?"
“It‘s made with real French truffles,” I said. “They‘re very expensive."
“Do they taste good?"
“Why don‘t we split an appetizer of the pasta and then you can order something else for the main course."
Monica loved the truffles. She ate most of that dish. She told me that she knew there was a reason for learning French and now that she‘d tasted good French food, she knew what that reason was.
After dinner we went to a movie on Sixth. I don‘t remember what it was about, because we started kissing the moment the lights went down. They were deep soul kisses that tasted like hunger. I didn‘t know if it was Monica‘s longing or mine, but when I was kissing her, there was nothing in nay past or my future.
When I moved to touch her breast, she took the hand and moved it.
“I want you t o , “ she whispered, and then tongued my ear until I was squirming in my seat. “But if you make get me excited, the whole place gonna hear it."
Then she put her hand on my erection and squeezed it.
I sat up a little, and she said, “Sit back."
The film was either six hours or ten minutes long. Her hand did not leave my cock the entire time.
When we got on the street, she took my hand, and we walked westward through the dark lanes of brownstones and small apartment buildings. We stopped now and then to kiss. I was breathless whenever we did that.
“I‘ll put you in a taxi whenever you need to get home,” I told her when we got to Hudson Street.
“You live around here?” she asked.
“A little south."
“Let me see your front door and then you can get me a taxi."
>
We walked slowly, holding hands and stopping to kiss at every intersection. She didn‘t seem to mind walking in those uncomfortable shoes.
I never wanted that walk to end.
When we got to my door, she looked up and asked, “Which one is yours?"
“Third floor."
“Mmm. You can come on and get me that taxi now."
I took a deep breath and made to walk east with her. But she stopped, pulling on my hand.
“So after you get rid‘a me, you gonna go call one‘a those girls you been seem‘?"
“ No . “
“You sure?” she asked, with no hint of a smile.
“Yeah. Why?"
“I think you might be a little excited after all that kissin‘ . . . an‘ stuff."
I squatted down and wrapped my arm around her thighs. She gasped as I stood up with her hanging over my shoulder.
“What are you doing, Cordell?"
I didn‘t answer. I just took out my keys and worked them in the locks.
On the way up the stairs, she said, “Put me down or I‘ma scream, Cordell.” But she never raised her tone, even when I began unlocking the door to my apartment.
I didn‘t put her down until we got to my sofa. Then I got down in front of her on my knees and raised that French hem.
“Cordell,” she complained, but when I pulled her thonged panties to the side and pressed the flat of my tongue against her enlarged clitoris, she raised her white high heel to nestle against my shoulder, situating her bared pussy so that I could lick it from top to bottom.
“Oh shit, Cordell. Damn, niggah, you know the spot. Shit."
When she came, I wondered if Martine would call the police. I didn‘t care.
“Stop, stop, stop,” Monica cried. “That‘s too much. Too much."
I moved back six inches, watching the pink insides of her pussy pucker in and out like a hungry mouth chewing on something good.
“Let me up, Cordell,” she breathed.
“No,” I said, looking up into her eyes.
“Why not?"
“It tastes too good to me, baby. I need more."
“Oh shit,” she said, her ass clenching and hot liquid running down from her vagina onto my sofa.
With that, I stuck my tongue up inside her. She reached down and grabbed my head pressing it hard against her flesh. Her thighs sandwiched my ears, and I was trapped by her second orgasm.
Killing Johnny Fry Page 23
