Blood Count

by Reggie Nadelson

  All the time I had been on the roof, then with Celestina Hutchison, he had been with Lily.

  “I thought you had a bunch of fucking cases to work?” I said.

  “I had to take a break. I’m going to be on all night,” said Virgil. He looked up. The snow had finally stopped; the temperature had dropped. “Jesus, it’s cold.”

  I didn’t know if Lily had told him about Simonova’s letter, that the Russian had left her everything. I didn’t feel like sharing, not then.

  “How do you think Lily is doing,” said Virgil.

  “I don’t know. You?”

  “I think she’ll be fine once the funeral is over. Tomorrow, it’ll be better,” he said and then I knew she hadn’t told him, not about the letter, and I wondered why.

  “I have to go,” said Virgil. “You have my numbers if you need me, right? Listen, Artie, you should go the party with Lily. I’ll probably be working all night.”

  Nice to have the boyfriend’s permission, I thought.

  “If you drive, take it easy. Lot of black ice under the snow.”

  “Right.” I knew he wanted something.

  “Streets up here can be bad. Hills, inclines can deceive you. Weirdest damn thing happened on election night, you know? Just a few blocks south.”

  “What’s that?”

  “So, there was this van that was parked on that street, and some asshole left the hand brake off, and it just slid down the street, and around the corner.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “There was nobody in it. Nobody. It was just this empty silver van.”

  “So?”

  “I think we caught most of the event on camera. Not usually a lot of cameras up around here, nobody bothered for a long time, but that night there were plenty. We think some film crew caught it—they were passing, filming on their way to 125th street, and they caught it.”

  “I have to go.” I was going home to change for the party, to look good for Lily.

  I looked at Radcliff. He’d mentioned the silver van casually, brought it up almost as an afterthought. But why? Did he know I’d been there? Was my red Caddy—you couldn’t miss it—on a piece of tape, caught by some passing film crew by chance on election night? I’d half forgotten the fucking thing, out of control, passing me like some crazy ghost van.

  Did Radcliff want me to know he knew, without actually saying it? Why? To put me on edge? Was he fishing? Was it just conversation?

  “No kidding,” I said. “Yeah, weird, right, so see you.”

  “Worse, Artie. I was telling Julius Dawes over at my house the other day you know, we were talking about it, how this van just keeps going, gets up speed, turns the corner and pins a young guy against a lamp-post.”

  Dawes, I thought. Dawes had mentioned my car, the paint on my car.

  “And?” I turned up my collar, tried to stay cool, though I could see in Radcliff’s face something bad was coming, some piece of news I didn’t want to hear.

  “It kills him,” said Radcliff. “Even if it was an accident, even if it was just some fool left a hand brake off, or a drunk in another car who nudged the van out of place and set it rolling, we’re into vehicular homicide. Either way, I mean, that’s jail time, Artie, isn’t it?”

  CHAPTER 27

  There was already a crowd when I got to the Sugar Hill Club at ten, people looking for a good time. In the corner was a tall Christmas tree, blue and white lights looped through the branches, a silver star on top. Last time I’d been here was election night, six weeks ago. It seemed like years, but hard to forget—the joy, the celebration, and Lily.

  I leaned on the bar, ate some peanuts from a bowl, and listened to the conversations swirl around me.

  “Fucking Madoff. They should crucify him.”

  “You saved anything when the shit came down?”

  “So not, but I’m stacking cheese like crazy now. Gotta save it.”

  I needed a drink. I called out to Axel, the bartender, who crossed to me and said,“You wanna hear the one about the guy goes into a bar and drops dead…?”

  “Zip it, man,” somebody shouted. “We heard that one already a hundred times. Enough!”

  With his big soft shoulders, Axel was a chunky young guy built like a rugby player gone to seed. German mother, black GI dad, a crew cut dyed platinum, a red and white bandanna around his forehead, he was working on his routine as a stand-up comic. “So the other guy goes into the bar—Oh, fuck, I forgot the end,” Axel said. “What are you drinking, Artie? Man it is cold out there. Cold as you-know-what, witch’s tit in a brass bra—my old man used to say that in Berlin when I was a kid. He hated that weather. He wasn’t crazy about the Germans, either.” He laughed. “Have one on me, Artie.”

  I asked for a beer. Axel set a bottle and a frosty glass on the bar.

  “Ain’t seen you since, what was it, election night? I’m glad you brought your ass over here. It’s good to see you, man.”

  I drank, looking at the door. I was waiting for Lily.

  On the sound system Oscar Peterson was playing his elegant version of Christmas music, an album Lily once gave me. The six-piece combo played “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” as such a lovely piece of music, it made me believe for a minute in the whole holiday thing.

  I had a second beer. Somebody switched the sound system off and a guy went to the piano, and started to play. I’d heard him the summer before when I’d been at the club.

  He was probably seventy at least, but when he played “You Took Advantage,” he ran through it like a virile young man, smiling, singing to himself.

  I signaled to Axel. I wanted to know the piano player’s name, but a familiar voice interrupted.

  “Martini please, Hendricks gin, straight up, very dry, with a twist. Make it a double.” It was Virgil Radcliff.

  Radcliff, who’d said he’d be working all night, was sitting with Carver Lennox, the two of them talking and laughing. I was pretty surprised. Radcliff had told me he didn’t like the guy.

  “Artie, come join us,” Lennox called. He held up his glass, a smoky, golden single malt in it, and offered me one.

  The whiskey was good. Radcliff wore the clothes he’d been wearing all day, but Lennox had on a beautiful black custom-made suit, the wool as fine as silk, and a pristine white shirt, open at the neck. On the bar was a red Santa hat.

  After a minute or two of “how you doing” talk—we talked malt whiskey—Radcliff got up. “I have to go. Thanks for the drink, Cal.”

  “Not at all, Virgil. Please, Artie, have another one. I had better do some circulating; there’s a big group coming on later.”

  “Not everyone’s from the Armstrong?”

  “From the Armstrong, plus other friends,” said Lennox, who picked up his Santa hat! “I’m hoping the mayor will show. He’s been so good to us up here, he’s a man that understands development. Helps out, attends the black churches. He gets it.”

  “You want to walk me out, Artie?” said Radcliff.

  “I thought you were working?”

  “I’m on my way,” he said, as we made our way through the crowd. “I just checked up on Ms. McGee at the hospital, by the way; it was dehydration, heat got turned up so high in her place she passed out, wasn’t drinking enough water. They’ll have her home in a few hours.”

  “Good. What’s with the ‘Cal’ business? I thought you didn’t like Lennox.”

  “Friends call him Cal. Name’s Carver Antoine Lennox. Sometimes you need to make friends with the enemy, right?”

  “He’s the enemy?”

  “I’m speaking metaphorically. More or less,” Radcliff said. “Can you do me a favor? I mean, no reason you should, Artie, but I would like to ask you to do something for me.” He was hesitant, formal.

  He was going back to work. Lily was on her way to the club. I felt generous.

  “Sure.”

  “My dad will probably stop by. I asked him to come before I knew I had to work tonight, and I can’t get hold o
f him. Can you just make sure he gets a drink or something?”

  “There’s something else you want, isn’t there?” I saw it in his face.

  “Since you were asking, Artie, yeah. You could tell my dad being a cop is OK. Maybe if he meets you, he’ll stop getting on me to quit and go back to grad school.”

  “Why don’t you tell him?”

  I saw that Virgil was nervous about his father. He was fearful, not that his dad would beat him or ignore him, but of the pressure. I knew about that. I remembered my own father pushing me at school, wanting to turn me into a linguist or a scientist, something important, useful, something that would aid the socialist cause we believed in—or that he did. He was dead before I became a cop, so it didn’t matter.

  “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” Virgil said. “Ever since I was a kid, I did stuff they didn’t approve of, couldn’t even fathom. My idea of connecting with what my dad called ‘my people’ was wearing big satin basketball shorts and gold chains that made my parents go nuts, I mean, their Virgil, in bling? And us living in Cambridge when he taught at Harvard, and then on Riverside Drive? God, were they disappointed in me,” he said, lighting up a cigarette as we reached the door of the club. “Christ, I shouldn’t have had that drink with Lennox, not when I’m working.”

  He was on a roll. I was guessing he’d had more than one drink. Told me that as a kid, he had been crazy about basketball and Tupac, and his parents always saying, “Can’t you find something that doesn’t involve criminals or ball players?” and he thought to himself he needed some culture and started listening to MC Solaar.

  “I can imagine.”

  “Yeah? My dad dragged me around Harlem as a kid; he showed me the old buildings, the Jumel Mansion, that kind of thing, and eventually I fell in love with them. I guess he knew me better than I knew myself. So I majored in the history of architecture, and I figured afterward I’d get a degree in architecture, which I did, and then I was going for one in urban planning because by then I realized my big love was New York City, the city itself. Still is. Still love it, the good, the bad, the ugly. Then it was 9/11,” said Virgil. “I was on the subway. I was heading to the Trade Center to get some air tickets, going over to Italy to look at old buildings. I made it out of the train just in time.” He paused. “I saw them jump. The smoke made me blind, I fell over, got up, thought I was somehow in a pile of cattle, legs all sticking up, you know?”

  “Yes.”

  “I realized it was people. They were all dead. I couldn’t shake that,” said Radcliff. “I had to do something. You worked the pile, didn’t you?”

  Yeah, I said. Yes. I knew where he was coming from. I couldn’t help it but I was getting to like him. Virgil. I’d stop calling him Radcliff. I didn’t want to look like a jealous old man, not with this guy who was one of our own, who had done the thing.

  “Man, you guys were the heroes,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me on, so I worked night shifts at some of the shelters the cops and fire guys used. I served meals and whatever else they let me do. I didn’t have any other skills. I was useless. I thought, Fuck architecture, I want to do something, and I got myself into the police academy. I guess they were happy to have a black guy with a college degree.”

  The club was packed now. The mix of music, laughter, chatter, made it hard to talk. We were standing near the door, and now Virgil said, “Let’s go outside. I need a smoke. It’s suffocating in here.”

  I followed him into the street, he lit up a smoke, offered me one. I shook my head. He glanced up and down St. Nicholas Avenue where the club was, a few doors down from St. Nick’s Pub, a few blocks from the Armstrong.

  “You know, Artie, I’ve only been in Harlem a couple of years. I feel like a fish out of water some of the time,” said Virgil. “You should hear me trying to talk with some of my ‘homies.’ People piss themselves laughing, or they get mad. White men can’t jump; black men don’t talk good English. Right? Never mind,” he added. “My dad went nuts. ‘You’re gonna be a cop?’ he said, and I said, ‘Listen, it’s that or I’m going into the military, OK?’ First time in my life I went up against him that way, you know, Artie? He blew his top. The idea of me going into the military was too much.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t know. Had something else in mind for me I guess. I better get going.” He looked at the street. “Maybe he’s not coming. But if you see him, say it’s OK, will you? And you can talk jazz with him. He loves that music. You guys can talk the talk.”

  “Listen, there’s something else,” I said. “What do you know about Lionel Hutchison and his obsession with suffering? That stuff about euthanasia?”

  “He had a brother who died young, I know that,” said Virgil. “Can we talk about it tomorrow? I’m gonna be dead meat if I don’t get back to the station house soon.”

  “Right.”

  “By the way, Artie, I have something for you.” From his pocket he took a small package wrapped in red tissue paper and tossed it to me.

  “What’s that?”

  “Consider it a Christmas present. I mean, Merry Christmas.” He zipped his jacket.

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  I’d been holding back. I wanted to tell him I thought Lionel Hutchison had—what? Killed Marianna Simonova? Released her from her pain? That maybe Lily had helped him? Did Virgil know?

  “Can it wait?” Virgil asked, seeing my hesitation.

  “Sure,” I said.

  CHAPTER 28

  I ripped the paper off the package Virgil had given me. It was a DVD. In the Heat of the Night, the movie where the Southern sheriff played by Rod Steiger says to Virgil Tibbs, the northern black detective, “So what do they call you, boy?” And Sidney Poitier, young, dazzling, tall, superior, looks down on this redneck and says, in his own particular Philadelphia don’t-mess-with-me way, “They call me Mr. Tibbs.”

  He knew. Virgil knew all along. He played me for a fool. Worse, I had deserved it.

  Where was Lily?

  People were streaming into the club, some I recognized from the Armstrong lobby. A group of women in down coats went through the door; behind them a quartet, the two men black, white haired, distinguished, both in suits as if they’d been to a board meeting, their while wives in for coats. Behind them, a crowd of younger people, guys in Sean Johns, the long-legged girls in tiny skirts, denim jackets, huge earrings, high heels, expensive bags. Almost all of them were black. I followed them in. I was freezing.

  The pianist swung into a great version of “Take the ‘A’ Train,” as if by way of welcome to the new cluster of guests.

  At the bar, Axel was filling an order from a piece of paper, mixing cocktails, glancing again at the paper, making things that were pink and green, and placing the glasses on the tray a waiter held. He manipulated bottles and shakers and crushed ice like a juggler at a circus, stirring, mixing, pouring, adding cherries, lemon peel, slices of pineapple and lime.

  I climbed on an empty bar stool. A white man in a black turtleneck with light hair climbed up next to me. He nodded pleasantly.

  He had an expensive haircut. He was around forty. He kept quiet, just drank, finishing one vodka, ordering another, and listened to the music, and from time to time pulled his sleeve down, as if to hide some defect, eczema, a scar, a wound. It was the kind of tic you noticed.

  “You like the music?” I said.

  “Yes, good stuff,” he said, and we made some small talk about jazz. I noticed the accent.

  “Where are you from?” I said.

  “Excuse me?” He seemed not to have heard me.

  “Where are you from, originally, I mean?”

  “Oh, from St. Petersburg, but a very long time ago.” He laughed. “The music wasn’t nearly as good as this.”

  We raised our glasses to the music. It was Christmas, after all.

  In the mirror behind the bar we both looked pale as ghosts in the dim light, like guys who spend too much time
indoors. But he liked the music; he was tapping his foot on the bar rail and nodding his head. As I got up and started for the door, cell phone in hand, about to call Lily, the Russian guy turned to look at me. He smiled slightly and raised his glass again.

  Half an hour later I was beginning to worry. No Lily. No call. Instead of leaving her another message—she’d be furious if I bugged her—I left one for Tolya. Send one of your guys, I said; tell him to stick around the Armstrong. See if Lily’s OK. Tolya always has guys to help out; guys with muscle, if necessary.

  I stayed outside, I wanted some air. My head hurt. I reached into my pocket. I changed my mind. The painkillers made me crazy.

  At the curb, along St. Nicholas Avenue, a guy was dragging a shopping cart. The snow had stopped, but it was cold and on impulse I went over and shoved five bucks into his hand.

  The bright lights, the party, the successful people at the club were real enough, but most of Harlem stretched out for miles, hidden, back streets, rough avenues, dark, poor, cold, shabby at best.

  Cars pulled up, people got out, patted their hair or their clothes, and went into the club. I noticed when an old Mercedes 380 SL, lovely dark blue, pulled up; because it was a car I had always wanted. The headlights went off, the door opened, a tall man, white guy, unfolded himself from the seat, got out, locked the car, looked around as if he wasn’t sure of his surroundings.

  “Is this the Sugar Hill Club?” he said

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and went inside, and a few minutes later, because it was cold as hell, I went in, too. I saw the guy looking around, looking a little lost.

  “I’m just looking for somebody,” he said.

  “Can I help?” I said.

  “It’s my son,” the man said.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Virgil Radcliff.”

  I did a double take and tried not to let it show. This guy was white as me. I picked up my drink. “He just left,” I said. “He asked me to tell you he tried to reach you on your cell, and that he had to go. He’s working tonight.”