Hard Luck And Trouble

by Gammy L. Singer

  Reba spat back at me, “No. I reported her missing when I found out you was Zeke’s kid.”

  “Montcrieff told you, didn’t he? When I was seven. That’s when he changed his will.”

  Reba’s eyes widened. “Montcrieff knew Elizabeth had been raped, but it was years before he suspected Zeke. Even then, he forgave him, but he always blamed him for Elizabeth’s disappearance. He never knew Elizabeth was dead. But he did his duty by you. Every month without fail he gave me money for your keep, anything you needed. I think he loved you.”

  “Reba, he never had anything to do with me. How in hell did you figure he loved me?”

  “That part don’t matter. He cared about you. Better that than someone that never owned up to being your father, that never loved nobody ’cause they too busy loving themself up.”

  “Talking about Zeke?” I said.

  Reba nodded. “He killed her, you know. When you told me she had been strangled, that’s when I knew. The crushed bones in her neck ... cemented my sister up in that wall ... When you saw us the other day in my kitchen? Zeke admitted it—and he laughed about it. Laughed ... to my face.”

  “That’s why you killed him.”

  “Lies. Made me believe I killed my own sweet sister, held it over my head all these years. He was the one wouldn’t leave Elizabeth alone. Deep down I knew that, always knew that. Her trying to do the right thing, and he wouldn’t let her. I know that now. He killed her because she threatened to tell Montcrieff everything, and he was depending on Montcrieff to bail him out on his house.”

  “The bottle of rum?”

  “Yes. It didn’t take no effort. Mixed a potion, poured it in the rum, and gave it to Zeke. For over thirty years I growed that man’s herbs, gave him money every time he needed it, cooked his meals. He leaned on me for years, and lied to me just as long.”

  I sighed. She looked at me. “He would have destroyed you too, you know, and I couldn’t let him do that.”

  Like a balloon deflating, Reba shrank into herself and we sat, quiet as growing grass, deep in our own thoughts, as day broke into a thousand pieces and crumbled away.

  I mused, Reba threw her life away—for nothing. Well, I was determined not to make that mistake. Outside, the twilight deepened and Reba made no move to turn the light on. Finally I brushed off my pants and got up to go.

  Reba said, “I’m gonna call the police, turn myself in.”

  I looked down at her. “Why, Reba? What good would it do?”

  “Police will be looking for me.”

  “For Zeke’s death? No, I don’t think so. They’re looking at drug dealers. Won’t find them, but they’ll be looking.”

  “Amos? Stay to dinner?” she asked.

  I looked at her frail body and a surge of the first real feeling I ever felt for Reba surfaced. Too bad it was pity. I declined the invitation, and left that house and Reba. On the porch, Reba’s rhododendrons had lost their spirit—like the woman inside, drooped over and bent. They were wilting from the July heat. She must have forgotten. I picked up a watering can, filled it with water, and the flowers greedily sucked it up. As I left that house for the last time they lifted their leaves in farewell.

  Chapter 49

  I was exhausted beyond belief, my eyes scratchy, and I was almost dizzy from lack of sleep. But I had to do this. It didn’t take long to locate Hocks at her stomping grounds in front of the Mount Zion Temple of God, and with some prodding, she led me to a place in Harlem that resembled a WWI bomb site, which even she scurried away from. Her Hockness wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this. I wondered if my search would be futile.

  The smell of garbage and decay around the building’s perimeter offended, the sight depressed. The reality mirrored my remembered nightmares when I was surrounded by stench and filth. In front of me was the embodiment of that dream, a former hotel that housed the lowest of the low, the addict. Its waste and rubble reeked. From where I stood, it appeared to be unoccupied. Nothing stirred.

  I fidgeted on the street, making up my mind. Patty couldn’t be here. I walked away, but got no farther than half a block before I changed my mind again and turned back. I couldn’t face myself in the mirror if I didn’t at least make a stab at finding the girl.

  The chances of succeeding were about a million to one. Even for a gambler like me, the odds stank. Patty might be anywhere, even downtown, in alphabet city. Ironic, wasn’t it, the fabled borough of Manhattan, book-ended uptown and down by two drug hamlets?

  But as Ham Hocks pointed out to me, this building wasn’t far from the neighborhood, so maybe ...

  My skin itched in distaste. I climbed over I don’t know what-all piled high around the outside of the building. It occurred to me I might be stepping on someone’s remains hidden under the rubbish. In a place like this, it was possible.

  I stepped through a hole whose opening was larger than the door beside it. The gloom inside contrasted sharply with the brightness of outdoors. I went deep into the interior and couldn’t see my hands in front of me. My fingers touched the walls, which offered braille directions to where I headed. Skittering noises around me let me know the rodents had been disturbed.

  I made my way through ink, down a hallway, stumbled over something lying in my path, caught my balance, and jumped back in horror. A body of a woman lay stretched across the concrete floor. Cautiously, I knelt beside the body and turned it over. Shit, the woman was breathing. I shook her. She smiled a lazy smile. I let her drop. Stoned out of her mind. I wiped my hand on my pants.

  Above me I heard noises. My eyes had gotten used to the dark and I found the staircase, next to an elevator shaft, and climbed to the second floor. I inched along the corridor, ears alert, listening for sounds, and turned right. At the far end of the hallway, a door stood open. I moved forward and entered a suite of rooms.

  The most god-awful sight greeted me. Zombie junkies sat on the floor, leaning against faded rose-patterned walls, nodding, or sleeping on rotted mattresses. Broken needles littered the room. Hard to believe, but two people in the corner were fucking, unconcerned about an audience, their rhythm lazy and loose.

  I described Patty and asked if anyone had seen her. All I got was an “it’s all good” from an emaciated “Rufus” slouched near the door. I pulled a bill from my pocket. Wrong thing to do. Two of the more alive zombies stirred, eyes snapping to attention, their bodies agitated. They jabbered separate lies at the same time. In stereophonic sound, talking shit. Junkies will tell you anything. It was no use. I threw a five-dollar bill into the center of the room and turned to go. Three of them lunged for the bill, like dogs after a bone. I left and hustled back down the hall to the stairs.

  Coming down, I heard movement behind me. I turned just in time. Rufus had followed me. He reached for me. I knocked away his arm, grabbed his shirt, and threw him headfirst down the stairs. He rolled and bumped past me, his knife clattering to the floor. What the fuck was I doing here? I picked up the mean-looking stiletto, closed it, and slid it into my pocket. I ran down the rest of the stairs, before the zombie horde above got the same idea, stepped over his body, and strode out of the building.

  Not until I was several blocks away did I begin to shake the experience. Harlem at its worst. I hoped to God that Patty wasn’t in a place like that.

  Chapter 50

  I surfaced at Lenox Boulevard, stood and looked up and down the street. Street sounds, a vibrant symphony, accosted my ears. I watched people drift past me, smiles on their faces, their energies raising my own. In spite of everything, in spite of the casualties like Patty, this was a people that survived. Could I do any less?

  Okay, so my buildings were trashed. They could be fixed. Josie was without a mother. Wilbur was on the case. My relationship with Catherine was in the toilet. That could be mended. I stank. A bath could fix that. Harry was out of my hair. Ahh ...

  My mood altered. I chuckled, and that felt good. And then James Brown started singing in my head—I feel good. Yep, in sp
ite of everything, I did feel good. On an impulse, I kicked my leg, spun around, and squealed, and was rewarded with more than a few stares.

  Never mind. I tipped through Harlem, light as a biscuit. The night air was an Easter Bunny, all soft and warm and close around me. Nights like these were made for fools like me. Life was kind, and people were good. I followed my feet and let them lead me.

  I felt good.

  Hey, Brother-Man, how you doing, son? Evening, sweet Mama. Yo, cool, how it is? Greetings rippled from a sea of faces, in this, my Harlem Village.

  And you know, walking wasn’t such a bad thing. Catherine’s apartment was west and that’s where I was headed. When she opened the door in her robe and I asked to see her mama, she was speechless. I took advantage of that and laid a big one on her, her lips soft and full under mine. Trash indeed. Never mind what her schooling had taught her up to this point, this woman was about to receive a full-blown education from this Harlem brother, a-what-you-say, don’t-take-no-stuff, Nigger Landlord.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  DAFINA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  850 Third Avenue

  New York, NY 10022

  Copyright © 2005 by Gammy L. Singer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  ISBN: 978-0-7582-8675-8