by Rick Bennet
He looks at this girl crushed by her losses, and part of him, bitterly, thinks, So what, she’s crying like a baby, like a spoiled child who thought—what?—that it couldn’t happen to her? That she was somehow special and protected? That she was better than him?
But also, part of him sees only a child, maybe one he’d not have been so different from, if he’d grown up in different circumstances; a child hurt as he himself was, even if he never admitted as much.
He reaches out. Puts his tremendous hand on her shoulder.
She turns. Looks at him. Stops crying.
For the first time in his life, he recognizes the face of innocence when he sees it.
She says, “I even wish my brother was here. Even if he’s mean to me, I wouldn’t care. I just wish he was here.”
Long nods.
“Will you find him for me? Hey, Grandmommy, maybe Uncle Long can find him! You said the police might be bad, so maybe Uncle Long can find him!”
Mrs. James says, softly, Maybe.
Long looks at her. At his mother. At the pictures of Henry and Jessica on the end table.
Mrs. James takes the girl back to her room, puts her to sleep. Long looks around his mother’s living room while she’s gone. At the knickknacks. The nice, well-kept furniture. The painting of a white Jesus. The photos of family. None of Long. He told her to take them down because he didn’t want anyone who visited her to find out Henry had a brother and start asking questions. Long told her to take his pictures down, to not visit or call him in jail or prison, to not come to his trials. He wanted her to forget him. Bad enough he hurt himself.
He looks around the room and thinks for the millionth time how different his life is from everyone else’s, in the little ways, in the physical objects surrounding them.
His mother returns; invites him into the kitchen for tea. They sit there a moment before Long asks, “What’s going on with the boy?”
“I don’t know. The police were here for hours, asking questions.”
“What did you say to them?”
“There’s nothing I can tell them. I don’t know anything. I don’t even know if I can trust them. I know Henry didn’t.”
“Mr. Law Enforcement himself didn’t trust the police?”
“Not since the Mayor got reelected. I think Henry was handling a real big corruption investigation into the Mayor’s office and the police and all.”
“Ain’t no shortage of shit in this city. Was he working with the FBI?”
“Was Henry? You know, he didn’t talk to me much about these things, but once in a while he’d say some little thing. I remember him once saying that the Mayor was a thief and had the police in his pocket, and when I said I bet the FBI was looking into it, Henry got a funny look on his face and got real quiet.”
She sets a cup of tea on the kitchen table in front of Long. Sits across from him, not drinking anything herself. Long sips from his cup. She cries silently.
“I can’t sleep,” she says. “Can’t eat. Knowing that boy might be out there somewhere. Dear God.”
“They got the guy who killed Henry.”
“Yes. They say so.”
“Is there anyplace the boy might go besides here?”
“No. That’s why I’m so scared. He knows how to get here. It’s only a mile. If he didn’t come here, and he wasn’t at the house, and if the killer didn’t take him, then I don’t understand what could have happened.”
“Is there a friend or someone he might have gone to?”
“No. The police have questioned all his classmates and friends.”
“And they’ve searched the neighborhood. I saw that on television.”
“We had the whole congregation out looking too.”
Long shakes his head. He wants to give her hope. But he has none himself.
“The one thing I can think of,” she says, “that I didn’t tell the police, because it didn’t come to me then, the one name, is a man called Chavez. Arcides Chavez.”
“Spanish?”
“From El Salvador.”
“All the same to me.”
“This man, his wife got raped and killed last year, and Henry prosecuted the case. Lost. He almost cried about losing that case, the evidence was so clear. But you know how things are with city juries. That’s been going on a long time now, even if it wasn’t publicized before O.J. Anyway, when the defendants heard they were free, oh, they high-fived and cheered and laughed. One of them looked Chavez in the eye, grabbed his crotch and licked his lips. But Chavez, I remember watching his face when the verdict was read. Chavez, he had pride. And he told Henry thank you. Henry was saying how sorry he was, but Chavez said it was okay, thank you, you are a good man. Then, later, Chavez had something to do with Henry. I don’t know what. The boy told me, one night when he and his sister were sleeping over, that Chavez was working for Henry, or doing something. And I remembered this afternoon, because I was thinking about everything, that the boy said Chavez wasn’t afraid of anything. I think he said that Henry said Chavez was a hero, or people like Chavez are heroes. And he also said something about going to Chavez, or calling Chavez, or something, if he got in trouble.”
“You didn’t tell the police this?”
“No, I don’t know that it’s important, although just now, talking about it, I think more of it. Maybe I should call the police back? But you know, Chavez, he hated the police in this city. I mean, really hated them. And somehow I think there might be a connection between whatever it was he was doing for Henry and the police. It’s probably nothing. I don’t know how it could be something. I wish I could remember exactly what the boy said. Do you think you could ask around?”
“I’m going to tell you the truth, Mama. I don’t think there’s any chance the boy’s alive. If he just ran away, just escaped, he would have turned up, he’d have no reason not to. And he can’t be hiding. The whole city is looking for him. Somebody got him, and it couldn’t have been anyone good.”
“But maybe he’s afraid. He’s a smart boy, and if he’s afraid of the police, then he won’t come here.”
Long sighs. In his heart he knows the boy has to be dead. Long knows too much about criminal realities to believe otherwise.
He says, “I’ll go on the street. I’ll ask around about what might be up. I’ll even call the Mayor.”
“Did you meet him in prison?”
Long laughs. “Mama, I ran that joint. He’s the mayor out here, but I was the mayor in there. He owes me. And I’ll get the New Africa people on the job too. You know who Khalid is?”
Her face tightens. Long realizes the error in mentioning Khalid, because Khalid has long been Henry’s most vocal critic.
“You know him?” she asks angrily.
“Forget it. Anyway, about Chavez, I don’t know. I’ll try to find him, but I don’t know any of those people. And remember, it was only a few years ago that they threw that riot against ‘our’ police.”
5
AN OLD BLACK MAN IN A CHEAP SUIT stands at the microphone, peering out into the dark room at the smoke-hidden customers. Without particular enthusiasm, he introduces the jazz quartet behind him. Without particular enthusiasm, the club’s customers clap. Without particular enthusiasm, the bass and the drums start in, and the keyboards tinkle a slight contribution. But the boy on the tenor sax, he ignores everyone else’s jaded hindsight and lets loose, lost in a dreamy-dream future of Harlem and Chicago and L.A. gigs. He stays in that dreamland for two minutes, three minutes, four and five and six minutes, and by seven the vets have picked things up, the customers are tapping their feet and nodding their heads, and Kevin Kellogg, way in the back, drinking his whiskey, smoking his Kools, smiles, eyes closed, grateful for the minor miracle of a heartfelt wail.
It’s DeJazBa. Thirty-three years on U Street, through all that thin to find itself finally tasting some thick again as the neighborhood bounces back. Kellogg looks around and for the first time in a long time sees he’s not the only white cus
tomer. Isn’t sure he likes that.
He listens to Kid Horn; stares into his whiskey. Sips the last of it. Stares into the empty glass. Jerks his head off its drunken doze to call for the waitress but finds she’s already there, setting his next shot on the table.
He thinks about things—what drunk doesn’t; remembers things—what drunk doesn’t; remembers a waitress he had here two years ago. She came up to his table that afternoon. He ordered his whiskey straight up then too.
“I heard about you,” she said.
“What?”
“The last man in America drinking whiskey like that.”
“The last one not on skid row anyway.”
She went off to get his drink. He checked her out. She was a tough make: part black, part white. Some Mex, maybe. Some Asian.
She came back. Put the glass on his table.
“What all are you?” he asked.
She stared at him. She’d heard the question too many times not to be annoyed by it. Said, in perfect TV-white English, “What do you think I am?”
“You can’t work here if you’re not black.”
She said, in exaggerated city-black accent, “Dat a fac, ofay-pattay?”
“I’m not Irish.”
In a perfect Irish accent, she said, “Ay, me mother in Dublin would cry if I could not tell that.” He laughed.
She didn’t.
“Where you from?” he asked.
“L.A.”
“Where in LA?”
“Hollywood.”
“You grew up there?”
“People do.”
“It’s a tough neighborhood.”
“Yep.”
“You got some Mex in you?”
“Si Senor Vendejo. Soy Mexicana. Por que?”
“Nothing. Calm down.”
Back to a street black’s voice, she said, “Motherfucker, don’t be telling me to calm down. I be as mad as I wanna be, you know what I’m saying? I’ll fuck your white ass up.”
He smiled. “How long you been in Washington?”
Only because it was her first night on the job and she didn’t want to offend a regular customer, she sighed and answered, instead of shrugging and walking off. “Three weeks.”
“What brings you here?”
“A guy I met in New Orleans. From here. When he wanted to come back here, I came along. Hadn’t been east before.”
“You with the guy now?”
“No. He was an excuse, not a reason.”
“I understand.”
“Shit you do.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I would.”
“And what do you want to be when you grow up?” he asked.
She looked around the room, hoping to see another customer needing attention. But there were only a few people in the club that early that night, and the other waitress had them. “A writer,” she said, not really wanting to tell him or anyone else that, but not wanting him or anyone else to make her lie, either.
“Oh, yeah? Ever read Raymond Chandler?” Kellogg asked. “He lived in L.A.”
“Ever read Dashiell Hammett? He was born in Maryland.”
“You’ve read Hammett?”
“Yas, suh. I be an ed-chu-cated nee-gro.”
“But you’re working in a dump like this.”
“And you’re drinking in it.”
“I’m a dump kind of guy.”
“I can see that.”
“You know, I could use someone like you.”
“For what?”
“Why do you think I asked you about Chandler?”
“What, you’re a private investigator?” He nodded. She laughed.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“If you’re any good, you can find that out on your own. And if you aren’t any good, why would I want to work for you?”
“I’ll give you a call.”
“Sure.”
“And when I do, I’m going to ask for someone named Passer.”
“Why?”
“Because if you ain’t that, you’re not what I need.” She stared at him. Took him in. Said, “Think I haven’t been called that before?”
And now, on this April night two years later, Catherine “Passer” Jones is taking a seat next to him.
“You found me,” Kellogg says, loudly. “You ace skip tracer, you.”
“Shut up, Kevin.”
“You drinking?”
“I’m here on business.”
“Great,” he says.
“We got a customer.”
“Great. You drinking?”
She sighs. Concedes. Kellogg waves to the waitress, who motions to the bartender, who pours two whiskeys, one straight up for him, one on the rocks with soda and two cherries for Passer, both of which the waitress, a black woman Kellogg’s age and mind-set, brings over and sets down.
Kellogg lights two cigarettes. Gives one to Passer, which she takes and drags deeply from before sipping. “You hate it here, don’t you?” he asks. “Don’t start on that again.”
“But you do. You hate places like this.”
“I worked here, remember?”
“For three nights.”
“Still, I worked here.”
“Slumming. Still are.”
“Okay”
“That kid’s got a special horn.”
“He is good.”
“I sit here two, three nights a week, getting shit-faced, hearing dead-end jazz, just hoping that once in a while I’ll hear something special.”
“You get drunk here because it’s walking distance from that thing you call an apartment and you can’t afford another DWI.”
“That, too.”
“I just talked to Sue. She said a man named Jimmy Close called.”
“I know that name.”
“Founder and president of the League of True Colors.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s looking for a private investigator. Told Sue he’s been turned down by the first six places he called.”
Kellogg laughs. “Gee, I wonder why that might be.”
“Well, like you like to say, private investigators should be dicks, not pussies.”
“Actually, what I say is that people should have genitals and not be them.”
“Okay. Anyway, Sue said he sounded desperate. And she’s from West Virginia, and he is, and LTC started there, and so she wants you to take him on.”
“Shit, take him on and the whole city will close down on me. Fair or not, the press has demonized the man. Blacks in this town think he’s Hitler come home.”
“So where does that leave us?”
Kellogg stares down into his glass, which is empty again. A sick smile comes to his face. “Call him. Now. Tell him to meet us at the office. No, downstairs, at the diner. I’m hungry.”
She gets up. Walks to the pay phone back by the rest rooms. Every man in the joint watches her.
Kellogg takes a deep breath, slowly lets it out. Stares up at the ceiling. Down at the floor. At the customers, the employees, the tables, the bottles behind the bar. Thinks, Yeah, I’ll take on Mr. Jimmy Close. Why not? Kellogg Investigations. Known throughout the city as the place to go for the street work. The pimp, dealer, gambler work. The after-hours, gutter-time, downside work. Kevin Kellogg. King of shit hill. Fuck my drunk white ass.
6
ONE IN THE MORNING.
Kellogg and Passer, he in his black slacks and white shirt and loose red tie, and she in her black jeans, sneakers, and windbreaker, drink coffee, wait. They look out the window at the empty, steel-and-glass-office-lined downtown street, headlight lit and oil rainbowed; look at the few other customers and the diner employees, all tired, slumping, downward-gazing, up too late.
Kellogg chain-smokes. Passer occasionally smokes. They don’t talk much but don’t feel uncomfortable in the silence. He told her long ago that they’d go nuts trying to fill their time together with conversation, so just shut up and daydream. Listen
to the jazz on the radio.
A taxi pulls up outside, and Kellogg and Passer watch the middle-aged white male passenger pay the driver, get out, come in.
“Yo,” Kellogg calls out with a wave as Close enters. Close comes to their booth. “Mr. Kellogg?” he says.
“Come on, man, who else is going to call you over?” Kellogg says, looking annoyed.
“Have a seat,” Passer says, friendly.
Close sits by her. Puts out his hand to her, says “Jimmy Close.” She takes his hand, shakes it, smiles.
“I’m Catherine Jones. This is my boss, Kevin Kellogg.”
Kellogg grunts, looks away from the hand Close offers.
“You’re from West Virginia?” Kellogg asks.
“Yes,” Close answers.
“Went to Princeton? Rutgers Law?”
“Yes.”
“How you like it down here?”
“Washington? It’s nice.”
Kellogg looks out the window at the taxi that dropped Close off. The driver, a Middle Easterner, is filling out a log sheet.
“My father was a cabdriver,” Kellogg says. “Here in D.C. I grew up here. Does that surprise you?”
“Why should it surprise me?” Close asks. “A lot of people think D.C. is all black.”
“It is mostly black.”
“It is now. Wasn’t always. In this city, when my father was a boy, if a black looked at a white the wrong way, the black could get beaten or killed. If you don’t know Washington was a segregated Southern city, you don’t know Washington.”
Kellogg now looks Jimmy Close in the eye. “But now it’s the other way around. You can take everything you think you know about race in America and throw it out, because you’re through the looking glass here. This is a black city. You’ll see, if you look for it, that whites don’t make much eye contact with blacks on the street. That whites are the ones to move out of the way on the sidewalk if a black is walking toward them. You’ll see, if you look for it, contempt in the eyes of the black city workers if your white ass ever asks anything of them. And if you get mugged, what are you going to tell the police—-that a black male stuck a gun in your white face? That description, that crime, it isn’t worth their time. Some of them might even be thinking that it’s good you got mugged. Serves you right. Whitey.”
