by Angela Dews
He said, “Miss Washington, I’m tempted to lock you up just to teach you that you don’t have a role here.”
“Don’t you worry. The only role I’m playing is journalist. Being arrested was an accident—yours and mine.”
I didn’t tell them about Bobby Bop. It felt like information I might be able to use. Maybe for a newspaper story when I got back. And I didn’t leave the police station because I wanted to see about Al and because of my fascination with characters, probably the fascination that I turned into being an actor.
Thank goodness I didn’t have the gun.
They gave me back the little pocket camera, and I didn’t use it to take a picture of somebody’s grandmother named Pinkie and her daughter being booked for selling drugs. But I did shoot the confiscated movie loot and the crowd of camera people.
That’s why I was there when Adrianne showed up. They allowed her to go into the back and let me go with her.
Al stood up and shouted at me. “Did you have anything to do with them being there. Did you bring them?”
“Hardly. I had no idea. I’m just finding out about this business of yours.”
“Your employers should be able to help get you out of here,” Adrianne told him.
“I’m waiting for Reverend Garrison,” Al said. “I called his office and they said he was coming.”
“Why don’t you leave word you’ll be at the newspaper office?” I asked. “We’ll see if we can speed things up.”
“I prefer to wait for the reverend.”
“He’s a busy man. It may take a while.”
“He said he was coming,” Al said.
“First, how do you feel?” Adrianne said before I could continue arguing with him. “Then tell me what they’ve been asking you. It will give me an idea of the direction the investigation is taking.”
I trusted Adrianne to get what Al was saying, while I let my mind chew on how my real life in New York was beginning to remind me of the make-believe I had left back in California.
They suddenly glanced over at me, pulling me back.
“It’s hard for them to believe that people can change,” Adrianne said.
I wouldn’t have thought they had enough in common to be so intimate. She was gentle with him, and he was talking a lot but low enough to keep what he was saying between them. I felt left out, and I left them to it.
When Adrianne joined me in front she said she was going to wait, in case the reverend didn’t make it.
“You care about him,” I prodded.
“I just want to make sure they don’t traumatize him. They’re used to him being an addict. He’s not anymore.”
I decided to wait with her, and we were still there when the reverend arrived. He came in bellowing: “Where is he? Why won’t you allow these men their recovery?”
You wouldn’t guess he had an explosion like that in him. It happened when he started preaching too, all power and perfect pitch.
A young policeman stood up to confront the reverend and to block his entrance into the back. “You’ll have to wait to talk to Carter.”
The sergeant intervened and put his hand on the cop’s shoulder. “Al Carter’s in the back, Reverend Garrison,” the sergeant said. “Maybe he can tell you why he can’t stay out of trouble.”
“Maybe you can tell me why you target the men in this community.”
“Target is not the right word. Try keep an eye on or even attend to. That’s how we do our jobs. Keeps you all safe and keeps us alive.”
“The reverend is doing the Lord’s work today,” Adrianne said as we watched him fussing at the police.”
“Is it the Lord’s work that has him taking the coins out of his Harlem bank that are meant for redeveloping and growing the community?”
“Gary and the rest of the board are not the enemy.”
“But he’s not a hero.”
She looked at me. “Yes. He is. Yes, they are. They’re not perfect. But they’re taking care of business.”
“TCB,” I said. “But without respect.” Feeling a little proud of myself for making the Aretha Franklin reference, I slipped away without answering any more questions about Lt. Knight, action figure.
A shaft of sun emerged through the rain clouds. It was startlingly. I wondered why police stations in New York don’t have windows? Is it because they’re afraid people will jump out? Or are they the fortresses they appear to be, built with civil insurrection in mind? I turned around to look again and discovered the whole top of the wall was filled with windows. Weird. It had felt so dark.
C H A P T E R • 25
* * *
When I hit the lobby, one of the day guards ran up to me, like he’d been waiting.
“What are you hearing about Captain Bailey?”
“He’s stable,” I said. The standard routine.
He rolled his eyes. “What was that asshole after?” He asked. “You keep money up there?”
“Not money.”
As I started to walk away, I thought to tell him, “Send someone up later. I want to change the locks.”
“I was thinking it looks like he got in here with a key. And he ran out the back and got away right under the noses of the cops. They’ve been here all morning. Embarrassing if you ask me. Max too. He said he must have been upstairs when the punk got in and then somehow missed him when he made his rounds.”
“Must have.”
“And let me know if there’s anything else,” he said.
If you could banish the image of Obsidian bleeding on the floor, I thought, that would do it for now. But I didn’t let the guard know that I needed more than he could deliver. There was no point.
“They’ve been calling from the bank,” Adrianne said in the way of a greeting when I got upstairs.
She handed me a cup of coffee and a pile of notes. ‘Irate’ she had scrawled across the top of the bank president’s messages. He had called early.
Reverend Garrison had also called some time before I saw him at the precinct. I tried to imagine him running down the back stairs late at night with the incriminating bank folder in his hands.
Calls from some other board members and the head of a Harlem-based state agency were also noted.
“Samantha took these before she left. She’s at the precinct,” Adrianne said.
“Why?”
“They’re talking to everyone with keys. The locks on the doors weren’t forced.”
“You have keys.”
“I have to go once you get settled,” she said. “And I called a temp.”
“You gave the police the list of people with keys?” I asked her.
“Of course.”
“Give me that list. And anything you have that will help me make sense of this. Could you tell if anything else was missing from the safe?”
“Pearl, I think we should let the police do the investigating.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe if Captain Obsidian Bailey was on the case.”
There was no reason to let Adrianne, a key holder, know what was on my mind. And I didn’t consider, even for a minute, telling her about the money.
“Thank you for the coffee Adrianne. And for being here this morning. We can trade lists. I found these withdrawals at Cecelia’s just now. See if you ever heard of the companies on the list. And check the addresses. I noticed at least one is supposed to be located at the empty building that went down last night.”
She read and said, “Very Harlem. Very cool. Very odd.”
We walked back to the production room where the tables were moved away from the windows and where police tape stretched across the area near the door. Although no one was there, whoever had been there wasn’t finished.
“I think Sam cleaned up the part they would let her clean this morning,” Adrianne said. “Max said you had to be disarmed. I didn’t know you could shoot a Luger.”
I forced myself to look into her face and away from the distraction of the doorway and the memory.
&nbs
p; “I practiced with my father since I was a little girl. I would have shot the sucker with Obsidian’s gun if he didn’t escape out the emergency door.”
“Let me know if you need anything,” she said.
“Like we talked about, I need you to do this job until I get back,” I said. “And to tell me what’s happening. I’m sure I’ll hear plenty from the board. They want to take over. But I’m going to trust you to do what needs to be done in this interim period.”
“I’m ready,” she said.
“It seems so,” I said. “I’m going to take the risk. I have been impressed with you over the couple of weeks, actually. We will be in constant contact. And I’ll be back very soon.”
In the general clutter and mustiness of the production room, Al’s territory was stark and modern. Inside a big empty frame on the wall he had pinned odd landscapes, magazine ads and sketches, including the fantasy office and entertainment towers proposed for the empty lots. I recognized some of them. It would be nice to shop and see movies in places like that if they ever actually got built. Fat chance.
His desk was a slab of butcher block set on file cabinets. It was neat on top.
The temp showed up and she seemed genuinely pleased with herself to have landed a position at the Journal.
“Miss Washington, I’m Lois. Happy to meet you. I see Reverend Doctor William Garrison himself called.”
“Pleased to meet you too Lois. I just talked to the right reverend.”
“Really? He’s my pastor,” she said, all giddy.
She took a breath. “I heard you all were robbed. Do you think it’s safe here?” She was tiny and neat and probably not as timid as she seemed.
Still, I was glad to reassure her. “There will be police officers around today. And remember to keep the door locked and to use the intercom. But I don’t expect any trouble.”
“I’ll introduce you to the people working in the other offices,” Adrianne said. “You can call them if you feel afraid.”
As I walked away, I heard, “Oh, Miss Washington!” The temp was a little too exuberant for my taste. “The pastor had left his office when I called him back,” she said.
“Don’t return any other messages until I tell you to.”
I went into the publisher’s office to call California.
“Hi love,” Roger said. “I saw you getting arrested just now in a raid on what they’re calling a black-market video factory. Hands behind your back. The whole thing. Very sexy.”
“It’s a national story? Good.”
“Lt. Summer Knight involved in a bust in Harlem. Great publicity. How’d you manage that?”
“Everything is connected. In fact, I’ve got a job for you. The newspaper’s production manager is selling movies on the street. I took some pictures. Can you check to see where the post-production work was done? He said they were made from masters and haven’t been released yet. Someone out there must be slipping him copies.”
“Sure. I can do that.”
“When we got busted just now, I was listening to him talking about selling hundreds of copies of some of those movie masters. It’s also part of a story I’m interested in about the street vendors.”
“I thought you were keeping your distance.”
“My friend died in a hit-and-run murder. And Obsidian’s in the hospital.”
“Obsidian? The old boyfriend?”
“Yes. He was shot last night.”
“I’m sorry, Pearl.”
“Thank you. And also, Roger, tell my California meditators I’m going to lead a meditation class at the 28th Precinct in Harlem. And remember the merits of our practice benefit all beings. Of course, also tell them to be still and breathe.”
“We’ve been doing a lot of walking meditation. I think they miss you.”
When I hung up, I called Harlem Hospital but Obie was asleep.
C H A P T E R • 26
* * *
When I got home, I called Mister Bell.
“I want to talk to you. Are you going to the Stop the Violence concert?” I asked.
“Liz and I were supposed to go. But maybe I will. I’m going a little crazy and she has her friends to look after her. Meet me at the bookstore. I want to talk to you too. Then we can walk over together.”
I went upstairs and repositioned the fancy money bag where it landed when I passed it through the opening in Ceel’s adjoining wall and where it was concealed behind the cabinet on my top floor. It was safe there until I could figure out what to do with it.
To get dressed for my date with Mister Bell, I found in the closet one of the outfits from the old days—an evening suit that I wouldn’t be able to move in easily. It felt like I wouldn’t need to move much just to hear some music. I felt exposed somehow in the little skirt and I felt a chill when I remembered Bobby Bop and his gun.
But, since I had no plans to be rummaging around in any of Harlem’s houses or alleys in the few days I had left, I decided again not to arm myself. Instead, I picked up the small beaded evening bag that wouldn’t have held a gun if I had a permit to carry one.
I took a car to the bookstore in the drizzle. Mister Bell was debonair, in deep blue velvet with a white shirt and a Kente cloth tie and cummerbund.
“You look marvelous,” I said.
“As do you,” he said. “We can talk in the back.”
We left the young woman at the cash register and the readers and browsers and shoppers to their stories.
Books and newspapers and flyers were balanced precariously in piles on all the surfaces, including the chairs. But Mister Bell had obviously done this before and he set one stack on the floor to make room for me. The Broadway playbills and issues that concerned him were taped all over the walls.
He sat in his overstuffed chair with more books as backdrop.
“I’m only here because I trust you. Am I wrong?” I asked.
“You can trust me,” he said.
“I found some cash at Cecelia’s. And I was wondering how does somebody get big chunks of cash like that any way but stealing it. I wouldn’t have expected that of her.”
“I wouldn’t either. What did you do with it?”
“It’s in a safe place for now.”
He leaned toward me. “This is important. I need you to tell me what you’re doing. I don’t want you to get hurt. Don’t go freelancing on me. I need to know how this is unraveling. Can you do that?”
“I can let you know what I’m doing. But Daddy used to say I have talk face. People love to tell me stories. And I have Charles Washington connections. I can do this.”
“But you need people. We all do. I know I always need my posse to cover my back.”
“I envy you. It feels like I’m losing the few people I have. Obsidian and Ceel were both my people.”
“Yes. But Obsidian is still alive. And you and Ceel will always be connected. I remember when you were girls. You were funny little people. Busy with your plans. Daring each other to do the scary things.”
He stood and waited to give me a hand to get up.
“I’m not finished with this conversation, this remembering. But let’s go hear some music. We deserve it.”
∗ ∗ ∗
When we got to the Apollo, we watched Adrianne, a showstopper in a purple pants suit, walk into the elevator with Reverend Garrison, while we were stuck waiting in line in front of a tiny woman all in black, including lipstick. The bit of brown-skinned beauty blocked the elevators with attitude and with an ominous male, also in black, who stood behind her.
The sister was having none of a small group who swore they were invited guests. She said something to her partner who went to check out their story and, after she had banished them to a corner away from the roped entrance, she turned her attention to us.
“Yes?” It was just the right suspicious touch.
“Marcus Garvey Bell, Freedom Bookstore, and Pearl Washington, publisher of the Harlem Journal.”
“You should stand at the s
ide there while we check the list,” she said and I, who have stood before the Hollywood best of them, thought I had never felt so dismissed.
When we got upstairs to join the inner circle, Mister Bell and I separated to mingle. I didn’t see him again until I joined him standing in the aisle between our well-worn seats in the beautiful theater.
He waved his arm at the stage. “I used to stage manage here,” he said. “I remember once we had a blackout during a Gloria Lynn concert and put on the show with flashlights and candles. It was beautiful.”
I hugged him. “Thank you. I love those stories about the old days. I’m going to get a drink before the show starts. Can I get you something?”
He looked at me without smiling. “The old days? That is not all the information I have that you’re going to need. And no, I don’t need anything to enjoy this music.”
The first set started sweet and smooth and when Bobby came on we were more than spectators, moving as he played us. And we only let his group go when the stage hands and tech started setting up for the headliner. The anticipation was palpable and full of the energy and the magic of the haunted space. And it was crowded with James Brown and Dinah Washington and Billy Holliday and the kids who won Amateur Night and the ones who lost, and it was sacred. I remembered being there as a little girl with my father. I finally released for those hours and let it all go.
I was getting my one-for-the-road just before they closed the bar at the end of the show, when Adrianne walked up.
“Al was supposed to be the stage manager tonight. But he’s still on the rock,” she said. “They let him call his job and he got word to me that he wants me to go to his crib to see how ‘the company staying at his house is doing’ is how he put it. I figure it’s to see about Heavy.”
“Why?”
“Al’s clean. Your father hired him when got back from rehab and he’s excited about his life. He’s afraid Heavy is using and bringing dope into his house. I don’t want to go alone. Will you go with me?”
“I’ll come.”
“Hurry.”
“Are you sure?” Mister Bell asked when I told him I needed to take care of some newspaper business, and he didn’t have to go with me.
