by Neil Plakcy
“I’m Shenetta,” the woman in the blouse said. I had gone to graduate school with a Jamaican woman named Sheryl Cohen, and she had told me all about the Spanish and Portuguese Jewish entrepreneurs who’d fled the Inquisition for the islands, which were then under Spanish rule. So that’s most likely why Shenetta had a Jewish last name.
“I haven’t seen DeAndre in months,” she continued. “And he owes me money.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s—”
“Dead,” the other woman interrupted. “I knew it.”
“Be quiet, Laquisha,” Shenetta said. She turned to me. “Is it true? DeAndre’s dead?”
I nodded.
“You’d better come inside then,” she said. She called her son and when she saw Jamarcus still had hold of Rochester, she said, “That dog isn’t going to tear up my house, is he?”
“He’s very well-behaved. I promise.”
Jamarcus, Rochester and I followed Shenetta into the tiled foyer of the building, and then into a first-floor apartment. Jamarcus tugged Rochester over to a corner of the floor, and he sat down. Rochester sat with him and put his big shaggy head in the little boy’s lap.
“Who are you exactly?” Shenetta asked me. She sat at a linoleum-topped table in front of the galley kitchen, and I sat across from her.
“My name is Steve Levitan, and I work for Eastern College, in Leighville, Pennsylvania. The college just bought this neighboring property from the Benedictine monks who lived there.”
I took a deep breath. I could have gone into a long explanation about Tony Rinaldi, and the way that Rochester and I had helped him in the past. But instead I lowered my voice so that Jamarcus couldn’t hear and said, “Rochester found him. DeAndre, I mean. Someone had buried him in a shallow grave and with all the rain, the soil above him had started to wash away.”
Shenetta shook her head, and the beads in her hair made a soft, musical sound. I saw her brush away a tear from her eye. “How did he die?”
“I don’t know. The police were still waiting for the autopsy results, the last I heard.”
“Why aren’t the police here, then?”
I didn’t have a good answer for that. “The detective is a friend of mine,” I said. “He asked me to come up and talk to the people at the Brotherhood Center, see what I could find out about DeAndre. They gave me your name.”
I leaned forward. “I’m sorry. I should have called my friend and given him your name so you could hear directly from him.”
“Was he at peace?” she asked me. “DeAndre?”
“I hope so,” I said. “It’s very pretty down there, right by the lake.”
“Friar Lake?”
“You know about it?”
This time her beads clattered when she shook her head. “It’s all that fool talked about. How there was some treasure there he was going to find, and then he was going to buy me and Jamarcus a big house out in the suburbs, have his half-brother’s hand fixed and send him to college, even send some money to Merline, the little Haitian girl he got pregnant when he was sixteen.”
“DeAndre had another child besides Jamarcus?”
“Not that lived. When he was sixteen he went out to the Bronx to stay with his aunt for a while. He never would tell me how he met Merline—usually he didn’t like Haitians at all. Used to say they had HBO.”
“Is that why he dated her—to watch cable TV?”
Shenetta looked at me like I was a fool. “HBO means Haitian Body Odor. But DeAndre must have liked her well enough. She was a skinny little thing, didn’t want anybody to know she was having a baby, so she didn’t eat. By the time the baby was born he was all stunted and underdeveloped. Something wrong with his heart, his lungs—you name it. Poor little thing died in the hospital.”
I saw her glance tilt toward her own son, who was giggling as Rochester sniffed his hands. Poor DeAndre, to have suffered so many losses in his life – no father in place, then his mother leaving him. And to lose a son as well. No wonder he seemed to have been a magnet for trouble.
I thought I ought to ask, for Tony’s sake. “What happened to Merline?”
“DeAndre wouldn’t talk about her so I don’t know. But as soon as I was pregnant with Jamarcus, he was after me to take my vitamins, to eat right and all that. It’s because of him that I went into nursing school. He made me learn so much so I could make Jamarcus healthy.”
That was nice, I thought. That DeAndre had learned from what happened to Merline and his first child, and used that to help Shenetta. She reached for a tissue and blew her nose. Jamarcus was sitting on the faded carpet, tickling Rochester under his chin. The dog was loving the attention.
“This place, Friar Lake,” I said. “It’s pretty hard to get to. Did DeAndre have a car?”
She laughed, though it was part sob as well. “DeAndre drive a car? How would he learn to drive, here in the middle of the city?”
“Well, he got out there somehow,” I said. “He have a friend with a car? Somebody who could have driven him out there?”
Shenetta dabbed the tissue at her eyes and then blew her nose again. “He was a good man, DeAndre. I know he got himself into trouble in the past, but he was trying to turn things around. You say somebody buried him out there?”
I nodded.
“Well, that’s good. Around here, a lot of boys like DeAndre end up dead, and they bodies get left by the side of the road.” She blew her nose again. “At least someone cared enough to bury him.”
I thought that the person who buried DeAndre wasn’t trying to be respectful, but I didn’t say anything. Jamarcus giggled as Rochester began licking his face. He held out his little palm, and it reminded me of DeAndre’s hand, sticking up out of the dirt. I reached for a tissue myself.
“DeAndre went out there a couple of times,” Shenetta said. “To that Friar Lake place. Once I know he got a ride from the Jesuits. Then he tried to get out there himself, by train and then by bus. Ended up in some little college town nearby.”
“Leighville?”
“That’s it. DeAndre loved that little town, those big old school buildings up on top of the hill. He said it was so pretty there, so clean and nice. He wanted to take me and Jamarcus out there. Said it would be a good place for Ka’Tar to go to college.”
“Qatar, like the country?” I asked.
“Didn’t know there was a country named that.” She spelled it for me – Ka’Tar, with an apostrophe in the middle. “DeAndre’s half-brother. Same dad, different mom. Story of life around these parts. When Ka’Tar was born with a deformed hand, his fingers fused together like a flipper, she said she was gonna give him a Klingon name, so he could be strong.” She held up her hand in that Vulcan salute, the second and third fingers together, then the fourth and pinky.
“The police are going to want to talk to you about DeAndre,” I said. “They’re going to have a lot of questions. Is there anything I can do to help you with that?”
“I already told you everything I know. I’m going to school nights, and I work most days. I don’t get much time with Jamarcus. I can’t be running around to the police.”
I was sure that the police would find Shenetta once I told Tony Rinaldi about her. But in case they didn’t, I thought I ought to ask her as many questions as I could while I had her.
“Did DeAndre live here?”
She shook her head. “Only me and Jamarcus.”
“You have an address for him?”
“Yeah. But you don’t want to go over there. Bad people.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll leave that to the police.”
She sighed and reached for a pen with the name of a medical clinic on the side, and a piece of yellow lined paper that Jamarcus had scribbled something on.
“Ka’Tar’s address, too, if you have it.”
She nodded. She wrote down both addresses and pushed the paper over to me.
“When was the last time you saw DeAndre?” I asked.
“Mother’s Day. He brought me
that big old teddy bear over there.” She pointed to a pink and white stuffed bear that had to be at least three feet tall, sitting on the floor in the corner of the room. “He said he knew I was going to be the best mom ever.”
She began crying, and Jamarcus left Rochester and came over to her. “Don’t cry, Mama,” he said, tugging on her knee.
She lifted the little boy up to her lap and he snuggled against her shoulder.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said. I stood up, and pulled a business card from my wallet. “If there’s anything I can do, please call me.”
She nodded, and sniffled. I picked up Rochester’s leash and we left her and her son to their grief.
16 – Blunt Force
I was tired of playing detective. I had plenty of information to bring back to Tony Rinaldi, and I couldn’t bear any more sadness. Rochester and I walked back to where I had parked.
Back when I lived in New York, Tor and I used to joke that “BMW” meant “Break My Windows.” But I was lucky, and my old sedan was still intact. I even had a few minutes remaining on the meter to leave as a gift for the next driver.
The access roads to the Holland Tunnel were jammed with tractor-trailers, decrepit sedans even older than mine, and a mix of luxury cars and SUVs. A pizza delivery guy on a beat-up bicycle threaded his way through the traffic.
I plugged my cell phone into the adapter that fits into the cassette tape deck (yes, the car is that old) and scanned for music. I needed something to raise my spirits and settled for the soundtrack to the movie Welcome to Woop-Woop. I barely remembered the movie any more, but the bouncy score never failed to cheer me up.
By the time we cleared the tunnel, I was feeling better. I paused the music to call Tony Rinaldi and pass on the names and addresses I’d collected.
“I’ll type up some notes on what I heard when I get home,” I said, “and email them to you.”
“That would be great,” he said. “I knew you’d be able to get some information out of those people. Any idea what DeAndre was doing down here?”
“Looking for a thumb,” I said. “It’s complicated. I’ll talk to you tomorrow after you read my notes.”
“Thanks, Steve. I’ll catch you later.”
I had spent so much time in the city that I was mired in rush hour traffic most of the way home, and it was nearly seven o’clock by the time I pulled off I-95 at the Yardley exit to head upriver to Stewart’s Crossing.
I picked up the phone once more, this time to call Rick Stemper. “You have dinner yet?” I asked.
“Just got home and I’m walking the Rascal.”
“How about if I pick up a pizza and bring it to your place?” I asked. “You have any beer on hand?”
“If the beer’s on me, the pizza’s on you.”
“Deal.” I hung up and placed an order from Giovanni’s, in the shopping center in downtown Stewart’s Crossing. Luckily Rick and I both liked the same kind—a thick crust with spicy Italian sausage crumbled and scattered over a base of homemade tomato sauce, freshly sautéed mushrooms and shredded mozzarella from an artisan cheese maker in New Hope.
The pizza was ready by the time I got there. I slid the box into the trunk to keep Rochester from attacking it, and drove to Rick’s. The goofy dog jumped into the back seat and kept pawing toward the trunk.
Rick still lived in the ranch house where he’d grown up, which he’d bought from his parents when they retired to Florida. I pulled up in the driveway and let Rochester out. He peed as I was opening the trunk, then rushed to the gate into Rick’s back yard. Rascal was on the other side of the gate, and they began barking at each other.
I opened the gate and let Rochester in. Rascal took off, Rochester right behind, and they raced around the yard, darting between the apple and pear trees Rick’s father had planted when his son was a kid. I followed the dogs in, closing the gate behind me, then walked into Rick’s kitchen through the back door.
His kitchen hadn’t been changed much since the house was built in the fifties; he’d put in a new fridge, oven and dishwasher, but the Formica cabinets were original, as was the big stainless steel sink and the brown and tan patterned linoleum floor. He already had an open bottle of Sam Adams Cherry Wheat on the counter, and was pouring two bowls of chow out for the dogs.
I got myself a beer, then let the dogs back in. They both chewed noisily as Rick and I sat down at the kitchen table with the beer, the pizza and a roll of paper towels.
“Went into the city today on an errand for Tony Rinaldi,” I said, between bites. I told him what I’d learned about DeAndre Dawson and his connection to Friar Lake.
“How do you keep on doing it?” I asked him eventually, when the pizza was gone and we were on our second round of beers. “Talking to people who’ve been victims of crimes? Today wore me out, talking to DeAndre’s girlfriend.”
“You want to be a Hardy Boy, you gotta take what comes with the territory,” he said. “It’s hard sometimes, sure. When you talk to people who are sad, you get sad, too. It’s human nature.” He took a swig from his bottle. “But I remind myself that I’m helping people get over that sadness, or that fear. What you did today was good. Even though you didn’t know this guy, it’s better for that woman to hear from someone who cares, not an anonymous New York City cop sent to notify her.”
“If you say so.”
He looked over at where the two dogs had settled down together to snooze. “I’ll bet having Rochester around helped, too,” he said. “Especially with the little boy. The dog is what he’ll remember about this day.”
Cleaning up was easy—we tossed the pizza box and the empty bottles in the recycling bin, and the used paper towels in the trash. “I’d better get going,” I said. “I promised Tony I’d type up what I learned today while it’s still fresh.”
I was about to walk out when he said, “Saturday night. You and Lili want to have dinner with me and Paula?”
“The Drunken Hessian?” I asked.
“Paula may not be a girly girl, but she likes a good meal,” he said. “I was thinking of Le Canal in New Hope.”
“Fancy. You must really like her.”
“It’s one of the only nice places around that’ll let her bring the dog.”
“Not…” I motioned toward Rascal and Rochester.
“Absolutely not. But Lush sits in her shoulder bag. As long as she feeds him he keeps quiet.”
Rick used a term for people like himself and me, who were ruled by their dogs. Puppy-whipped. Sadly, I could understand Paula Madden completely.
“Have to check with Lili,” I said. “But it sounds good.”
“I’ll make reservations for eight,” he said. “Meet you up there.”
On the way home, I called Lili. She was in the middle of some research, so we didn’t talk long—but I did confirm that she was okay for dinner on Saturday night with Rick and Paula.
“She told me she was dating someone new the last time I was in the store, but I didn’t realize it was Rick,” Lili said. She shook her head. “Paula’s a trip. But her and Rick? I don’t see it.”
“Well, you’ll see it on Saturday night.”
We exchanged a few sweet nothings and then ended the call. Back home, I opened my laptop and typed up as much as I could recall of my meetings that day, regretting that I hadn’t taken notes while I was talking to people. I emailed it all to Tony, then yawned. It had been a long day.
As Rochester and I walked down Sarajevo Way in our nightly before-bed ritual, I thought about my deepening relationship with Lili. I’d only known her for six months, but already I felt like she was the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. We had both been burned by divorce, so we’d been taking things slowly. But at some point we’d both have to consider making changes.
Now that I had a more secure future with Eastern, I could consider moving upriver to Leighville. Or I could invite Lili to give up her apartment and move in with me in Stewart’s Crossing. The townhouse was v
ery comfortable for one human and one dog, but was there enough room to add Lili into the mix? We’d share the master bedroom, of course, and I didn’t need to use the second bedroom as an office, as I had been.
With Lili around more often, perhaps I’d be less tempted to go online and snoop in places I didn’t belong. That was one of those double-edged swords. Would I have to hide from her, and would that drive a wedge between us? Or would I be able to give up what I had already acknowledged was an addiction?
When we got home, I tried to read more of The Hunger Games, but I was beat, and instead turned on my side and went right to sleep.
The next morning I got a phone call from Elaine in HR. “The job is going to be posted this morning,” she said. “If you get your application and resume in right away, I can ask President Babson if he’ll sign off without a formal hiring committee. Because this was his idea, he should – but you never know with that man.”
I felt a hollow place in my stomach. I knew well how capricious John William Babson could be. Suppose he changed his mind about me, or decided he wanted to hire someone with experience to run Friar Lake?
The first thing I had to do, before I could fill out the online application, was update my resume. Fortunately, I had put one together when I began working with Santiago Santos, and I had a copy of it on the jump drive I carried around with me. I pulled it up and began updating it, using all the action words and quantification I taught my students about in the tech writing class.
I was still working on it when Tony Rinaldi stopped by. As usual, he was starched and pressed, in khaki slacks and a military-style white shirt with epaulets and buttons. He wore a light sports jacket, which shifted when he sat down to reveal the gun on his belt.
“Good work yesterday,” he said. “Had a couple of questions I wanted to ask you, though.”
“Sure.”
He had printed out the email I sent, and we went through it line by line. “His girlfriend couldn’t give you names of any of his associates?”
“I didn’t press her,” I said. “I wasn’t even sure I should be talking to her.”
