The Lost Brother

by Rick Bennet

  He sets out at a run for his brother’s house. Goes to the alley behind the house. Looks around. Sees no one. Goes down a block, sees no one. Back up a block, sees no one. Crosses the street. Down the street, sees a couple of black men passing a bottle in a brown paper bag, drinking from it. He goes to them.

  Long has spent too much time on the street and in the joint not to know how to handle such men as these.

  “Hey,” he says, coming up to them.

  They eye his gaunt figure and stern eyes. Nod.

  In a deep, serious voice, he asks, “You going to tell me something?”

  One of the men drawls out, “Shit,” and Long grabs the man by the throat, stares ferociously down into his eyes.

  That man, and the other, have spent too much time on the street and in jail themselves not to know that a man such as the one confronting them now will do what he needs to get what he needs.

  “What’s up?” asks the other man.

  “I need some information/’ Long says. “That ain’t hard/’ says the man whose neck Long is letting go.

  “I want y’all to tell me who you ain’t seen for a while. I mean, out here. Who hanging out here, round here, you ain’t seen for about a week.”

  “Man, that’s some people, you know,” says the second man. “But now, don’t get mad, let me think. You mean, like the white folk living here? You wanting to know who’s on vacation so you can take their house down?”

  “I’m talking about the brothers that hang here.”

  The two men think. Look at each other. The first man, the one Long grabbed, says, “Ain’t seen Preacher for a while.”

  “How long a while?” Long asks. “Like you say, about a week.”

  “He hang around here?”

  “Here. Downtown some. He ain’t checking in, though, you know.”

  “I know. What’s his thing? Wine?”

  “Oh, wine, sure. Whatever. He’s a case. Upstairs.”

  Long takes that to mean he has some mental illness. “But is he together?”

  “Yeah, he stays together well enough.”

  “Violent?”

  “No, no. Not Preacher.”

  “You know him to sleep in that alley back there?”

  “He’s got that one doorway staked out. Back door to the Thai place. Stays there when it rains. Rest of the time, I think he’s got some place he goes to. His grandmother’s place. She got some basement in her house I think he stays wintertime. That house might be abandoned now, though, because I think he said she died a few months ago and that old house wasn’t worth nothing, out in nowhere.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “I don’t know. Never been there. He ain’t going to bring no one there, ‘cause his grandmother didn’t even want him there. She was ninety year old and didn’t hardly trust him. Sure wasn’t going to trust me. She only let him in the basement. Not upstairs. I think that what he told me.”

  The other man says, “Maybe he just don’t want to bring you over.”

  “Fuck you,” the first man says.

  “I need to know where it is,” Long says.

  “Don’t know. Northeast, all I know.”

  “What’s his whole name?”

  “Oh, man, don’t be asking me nobody’s whole name!” He points to his companion. “I don’t even know this motherfucker’s whole name.”

  “His name’s Bobby Jay,” the other man says. “I mean, that’s what he says it is, don’t he? Preacher Bobby Jay?”

  Long gets a description, approximate age. Can’t get any other hard Information.

  Rain has fallen much of the day, and the streets are wet, shining under headlights, glistening under lamps. The warm yellow windows of homes sparkle with tense drops. The air is cool, clean; the sky cloudy, orange-tinted from the underflow of the city’s lights.

  Long passes his brother’s house. Murder site. Looks at the darkened windows.

  He jogs quickly back to his mother’s house, a spectral form in his black jeans, black jacket. The few people on the sidewalks step aside well before they’re in his way, if they see him before he’s on them.

  He tells his mother what he found out, then opens a phone book. Looks for a Jay listed in Northeast.

  Finds only one. Calls it.

  A young woman answers. Babies are crying in the background. Long asks just a few questions before he’s satisfied it’s not the house he’s looking for. The young woman also claims no knowledge of any elderly female relatives in the city, especially none that died lately. She’s never heard of a Preacher Bobby Jay.

  Long hangs up. Thinks. Grimacing, calls Kellogg.

  Kellogg is in his booth in the diner. He answers on the cellular phone, thinking it’s probably Passer. He’s surprised it’s Long.

  Long: Listen, man. I need an address. Kellogg: Whose?

  Long: If I give you the last name of a person who’s supposed to own a house, can you find their address?

  Kellogg: If it’s that simple. If they own the house, not rent. If you got the name right. Sure. Why?

  Long has been hesitant to ask for help his whole life, always.

  Long: I think I got the last name of a place where the boy might be.

  Kellogg inhales sharply.

  Long: He’s alive.

  Kellogg: How do you know?

  Long explains. Tells him the name, Bobby Jay. Kellogg shakes his head, feels a rush in his blood.

  Kellogg: Call me back from a pay phone in five minutes.

  Long leaves the house. Goes to a phone. Calls.

  Kellogg: You?

  Long: Yeah.

  Kellogg: I got it.

  Long: Give it up.

  Kellogg: I’m coming too.

  Long: Ain’t your place.

  Kellogg: Fuck you.

  Long: Shit, motherfucker, what are you good for? Kellogg: The address. Long: Shit.

  Kellogg: You got a car? Long is silent.

  Kellogg: I’m on the job here. Long: Is the address in Northeast? Kellogg: Yeah.

  Long: Around CU or the Soldiers Home? Brookland? Kellogg: No.

  Long: Then your white face is going to queer my play. Kellogg: This ain’t a debate, asshole. It’s a fact. I’m coming. Long: All right. Fuck. Silence.

  Long, conceding: We need some more people. Where’s your girl Passer?

  Kellogg: Working. Long: Can you get her? Kellogg: No.

  Long: This might be too ugly for her anyway. Shit, man, all the motherfuckers I could trust in a spot this hard are in lockdown. You got anyone you can really trust here?

  Kellogg: Yeah.

  Long: I mean, man, with a gun if it comes to it? Kellogg: Yeah.

  Long: I’m serious, man. This ain’t no time for a folder.

  Kellogg: Nah, the man I’m thinking of, he won’t fold. It’s the only man your brother would trust with this. Chavez.

  Long, solemnly: Yeah.

  Kellogg: He’s working, but I know where.

  Long: Get him. Fast. I don’t know how much time we got, but it might be none. What guns you got?

  Kellogg: I don’t use guns. Don’t you have some?

  Long: I’m on parole. You don’t have a gun? A redneck motherfucker like you don’t have a gun?

  Kellogg: I got an old rifle.

  Long: Bring it, then. You got fifteen minutes to get here.

  Long gives him the street corner he’s calling from. Kellogg: Be there.

  Long: I’ll be there. I’m going to get me a piece first, but I’ll be there.

  Kellogg hangs up. Gets moving. Doesn’t doubt that Long can find and buy a gun in fifteen minutes.

  Kellogg goes to his office. Gets the rifle and bullets from the closet.

  He moves as quickly as his body lets him to his fake taxi. Drives as quickly as the streets let him to Georgetown. Blocks the alley when he parks behind the restaurant where Chavez works. Stomps up the steps of the restaurant’s back door, opens it without knocking, sees Chavez in dirty white work clothes, scrubbing pots.


  Chavez looks up when the back door opens. Sees Kellogg. Sees the look on his face. Comes instantly when Kellogg silently beckons him out. Without a word, gets in the car with Kellogg. Only when they are moving does he ask, What?

  Kellogg tells him.

  Long is hidden in an unlit alley across from the corner where Kellogg pulls up for him. He looks things over before stepping out of the dark. Calls out “Yo” as he comes up to Kellogg, so as not to startle the man.

  He gets in the back seat. Nods to Chavez when Kellogg makes the introduction.

  Kellogg pulls away. Heads across town.

  Long: He know what’s up? (To Chavez) You know what’s up?

  Chavez: Yes.

  He holds up Kellogg’s rifle. Long: You know how to use that? Chavez: I know how.

  Long: Kellogg, when’s the last time you cleaned it? Kellogg: Never. Long: Great.

  Kellogg: You seem awfully anxious to fight. Long: I just want the boy. Kellogg: Me, too. Chavez: Me, too.

  Long: You do know who you’re fucking with, don’t you? Both of you? The FBI. The police. Maybe New Africa. Seriously backed-up motherfuckers. They can make anything that happens look like anything they want. Especially if no one’s around to dispute them.

  Kellogg: Don’t be so naive.

  Long: What? I’m the one telling you not to be naive. Cop-trusting white motherfucker like you, you the naive one.

  Kellogg: I ain’t naive, I’m saying, don’t you be naive. I mean, they don’t have to kill us. Think about who we are: an alcoholic detective run off the police force, a three-time convicted murderer, and a wetback dishwasher.

  Long: So I’m saying we go, I make a play to get the boy out. You guys back me up.

  Kellogg: You got a play?

  Long: You got a phone?

  Kellogg hands it to Long, who takes it, dials.

  Long: Tell me the address.

  Kellogg does.

  Khalid, in his office, sweating, answers his phone when it rings.

  Long: Hey.

  Khalid, who was expecting a call but not from Long: Where are you, man? You ain’t doing nothing stupid, are you?

  Long tells Khalid the address. Long: Is that it?

  Khalid, sighing: Yeah. How’d you get it? Long: Don’t worry about that. Khalid: You’re not going there, are you? Long: I’m on my way now.

  Khalid, frightened: Listen, brother, you got to think on this. Those men over there, they are scared and stupid, and that’s the most dangerous combination there is.

  Long: Call them.

  Khalid: And tell them what?

  Long: Tell them you’re sending a man over there to take care of the boy. Tell them it’s a stone killer you know will do it right and who, even if he does get caught, will gladly take the rap with his mouth shut because he’s such a brainwashed New Africa fuck. They knifed the man who took care of the boy, right? Tell them the guy you’re sending over, me, has a prior for knife murder, so he’s perfect to take this heat. Tell them they’re to give me the knife they used, and the boy, so if I get caught later I’ll have the murder weapon on my person. Tell them to let me take the boy away because I’ve also got a string of molestation charges on my record and one conviction. In fact, tell them you’re going to let me take the boy in the woods, do shit to him, kill him, and then they can be hero police and come get me, killing me when I resist arrest. Okay? I know a tall guy just got out of Lorton with this sheet, so if they check their computer the story will fly.

  Long gives Khalid that ex-con’s name.

  Khalid: And what happens when this don’t all come through?

  Long: You the man, motherfucker. This’ll all just give you more shit on the big shots. More control over them.

  Khalid: What’s going to keep the boy quiet? He saw all the tapes. Saw the homeless man who took him in get cut. How we going to keep him quiet?

  Long: I’ll keep him quiet. I’ll tell him if he talks, he dies. With what he’s seen this last week, he knows what death is. I ain’t worried about him. He’ll be leaving town anyway. I talked with his grandmother, and she’s taking him to England, of all the fucking places. Believe me, she’s going to back us on this. She’s as scared that he’ll talk as you are. She wants him alive. She won’t let him say boo. Khalid is quiet.

  Long: Do this, man. Come on. I’m the one swimming in the shit. You just get me in the door.

  Khalid, sighing: Okay.

  Long: I’m on my way, so call them now.

  Khalid: Yeah, okay. Okay, man. That is, if they ain’t done the boy yet.

  Long: Call them now. Right?

  Khalid: You just play your end right. I’ll take care of my part.

  Long turns the phone off.

  Khalid dials a number for the cellular phone the men at the house are using. A man answers with a grunted uh-huh.

  Khalid: Mallory? Mallory: Yeah.

  Khalid: I got a problem and a solution at the same time.

  Mallory: What?

  Khalid: The boy say anything new?

  Mallory: We haven’t gotten to him yet. We’re still working on this Preacher guy. I should say the FBI agents are working on him. He told them the boy didn’t call anyone except his sister. I believe him. He said the boy was in shock the night his parents got killed, and he found him wandering down the alley, and the boy wouldn’t let him take him home or to a hospital or the police because he was too scared. I told you all this.

  Khalid: This Preacher guy, he saw the tapes, though? He admit that?

  Mallory: Yeah. Not at first, but eventually, because he had to explain why he didn’t call the police or the FBI, and it’s only seeing the tapes that would scare him off doing that.

  Khalid: He’s still alive? The Preacher guy?

  Mallory: I told you, we need him alive when we shoot him, because an autopsy can determine if the shots were postmortem.

  Khalid: We can cover that if we need to.

  Mallory: Of course. But the fewer people in on this shit the better. Bad enough I got to deal with these Goof Squad idiots. They’re scared shitless about getting caught.

  Khalid: Aren’t you?

  Mallory, laughing: I got the tapes, dickwad.

  Khalid: Your boss, the Mayor, is going to want them.

  Mallory: For a cool million, they’re his.

  Khalid: I’ll give you a million.

  Mallory: I knew you didn’t make copies!

  Khalid realizes he’s blown his earlier bluff on that point. Realizes again how incredibly stupid he was not to have made copies.

  Khalid: I’ll give you a million and a better ticket out of all this. ‘Cause you got trouble coming. Mallory: You said that before.

  Khalid: Henry James’s brother, Long, got the address somehow. He’s on his way over right now. He is the meanest motherfucker you’re ever going to meet in your life, and that’s his nephew you got there.

  Mallory, anger jumping into his voice: You cocksucker, you told him!

  Khalid: No.

  Mallory: Bullshit! How else could he find out?

  Khalid: I don’t know. He’s smart. Anyway, he’s on his way over. Now, if you agree to sell me the tapes, I won’t call him back and tell him I’ve warned you he’s coming, if we got a deal, I’ll make everything come out right.

  Mallory: You cocksucker, you gave him the address to get leverage on me, to make me make this deal.

  Khalid: Sounds like something you’d do.

  Mallory, angrily conceding: All right. What’s up?

  Khalid: He expects me to tell you to let him take the boy. You’re supposed to trust him to finish the boy off and take any rap there might be for Preacher’s death too. So that plays into us. When he gets there you tell him Preacher’s not dead and that he has to finish him off, so that it really will be him who killed the man.

  Mallory: Can this guy Long, can he kill someone with a knife? That ain’t the same thing as shooting them.

  Khalid: He won’t have no trouble with that part. He’ll
be happy to, to prove his story to you. So you let him in. Let him finish Preacher off. Let him go in the room where you got the boy. Let him get the boy. He’s holding a knife in his hand. He’s a bloody mess from the first killing. You see him. Shoot him. Then kill the boy, with the knife, and say that Long killed Preacher and the boy, and you killed him.

  Mallory: I told you before, I’m not killing the boy. It’s hard enough for me to let it happen. I’m sure not doing it myself, and I’m sure not doing it with a knife. I told you, there’s this one FBI fuck here who’s anxious to do it. What a sick fuck. A genuine bigot, if you know what I mean.

  Khalid: And you thought they didn’t exist anymore.

  Mallory: No, I just thought they were all black now.

  Khalid: Fine. I don’t care. Let him do it. Just make sure the Preacher and the boy and Long get set up the right way And bring me the tapes. I got your money right here.

  Mallory: And I’m not shooting Long. It would be too conspicuous. I’m going to let the FBI handle the whole thing, and I’ll just be around to supervise things for the Mayor. The FBI guys, they got their story together without me in the picture. They say they got the address from the wiretap on the grandmother’s house. Came over. All the killing started when they knocked on the door and the kidnapper panicked and they had to shoot him, but it was too late to save the boy. Now I guess they’ll say Long got here when they did, saw what the Preacher did to the boy, and went crazy stabbing him, and they had to shoot him. No, even better—Long, he kidnapped the boy, killed the Preacher when he came around, and killed the boy when the FBI showed up, and then they killed him.

  He pauses.

  Mallory: Man, call Long back and tell him not to come. Khalid: It’s too late.

  Mallory: Do you have any idea what a house of cards this all is? What if someone saw us all come in when we did and later testifies as to the discrepancy with our reported time of arrival? That’s just one thing. There’s so many things that can go wrong. The last thing we need is a new factor. This is all too tender, man. It’s too tender to be fucking with.

  Khalid: It’s too late. Deal with it. With him.

  Mallory laughs nervously. Turns off his phone. Shakes his head. He knows the realities. Knows how many fires he’ll be putting out and how little chance he has of keeping it together. Thinks about running but knows he has no chance if he does that.