child abuse. It used to be called BCW, Bureau of Child Welfare. Now they call it CWA, the Child Welfare Agency. That's a politician's idea of social change— change the names. You can tell when someone first got stuck in the net by the name they call it. Same way you can tell how long a man's been in jail by his prison number. I didn't ask where Jacques got the records.
We took Atlantic all the way through East New York, turned left on Pennsylvania to the Interborough, found the Grand Central. Clarence pointed the Rover's nose to La Guardia.
We exited at Ninety-fourth Street, crossed over the highway. The hotel was a long, thin rectangle, the narrow piece fronting the service road to the highway. Clarence pulled in the back way. Plenty of parking.
'She's inside. Still lives here. You want to start with talking to her?'
They don't let you stay in those hotels once you lose your meal ticket— maybe the Sherlocks at SSC thought the baby really had run away on his own. 'Let's wait a minute,' I told him. 'Get the smell.'
He nodded agreement. I lit a cigarette— Clarence tensed, like something was going down. I pulled out the ashtray— it was a virgin. I rolled down the window, blew the smoke outside, felt him relax.
A corroding van sat diagonally across from us, grounded on four flat tires, an indistinct figure behind the wheel. An orange BMW approached. Stopped. Man on the passenger side stepped out, went over to the van. Money showed. A hand extended out of the van, a Ziploc bag held aloft. The streetlights caught the vials of crack inside, sparkling. Street diamonds.
'Rastas,' Clarence said. Yeah. Ganja for fun, hard stuff for money.
A dog barked, close by.
A woman staggered out the side door, high-yellow complexion, wearing white shorts and white spike heels, her makeup as sloppy as the cheap wig sitting lopsided on her head. She stumbled, one hand against the wall to guide her.
'Crack whore.' Clarence's flat, uninflected tour guide voice.
Four boys came out the same door, wearing black vinyl jackets draped to their knees. They swept the street with hard looks, challenging. The leader crossed over to us, the others flanking out behind. He stopped in the street, waiting. Clarence watched him the way a gorilla watches a jackal. I'm a vegetarian, you understand, but if you insist…
The leader veered to his right, moving off, shooting a last warning look. Clarence held the automatic calmly against his thigh, looking nowhere special.
28
The security guard at the door was a careful man, watchful that no visitor meant him harm. The tenants had to look out for themselves.
'Room 409,' Clarence said, letting me lead the way. The same way you did in the jungle: point man on the alert, next man up with the heaviest firepower.
The stairs smelled of human waste. A large pile of it was on the second landing, wearing a blue-and-orange Mets baseball cap with matching jacket. He completed the ensemble with a regulation Louisville Slugger.
'What you want here, whitey?'
Clarence slid in next to me, pointed his 9mm automatic at the pile's face. 'Business,' he said, soft-voiced. 'Maybe business with you. What you say, mahn?'
The bat clattered as it bounced on the concrete floor. The waste pile backed away, mumbling something.
Carpet runner on the corridor floor as thin as stockbroker's ethics. The walls were beige filth, the doors the color of starving roses. Numbers scrawled on their faces with black grease pencil. Murky light fell in spotty pools, most of the overhead fixtures wrecked— pre-mugging preparation.
We found the room near the end of the corridor. 'When we get inside, follow my lead,' I told Clarence, motioning him to one side in case they answered my knock cowboy-style. I put my back against the wall, reached over, and rapped lightly on the door.
Nothing.
I rapped again, hard. The door opened a crack.
'Who is it?' Woman's voice, phlegm-clogged.
Clarence answered her. 'We come from your mother, Miz Barclay…she sent us. We have something for you.
'Emerson, he ain't here. I
Clarence pushed the door with his palm, gently. I followed him into the room. The woman walked ahead of us. Sat down on the bed. The room was long and narrow, dominated by a double bed. Bathroom door stood open to the right, Hollywood refrigerator against the other wall, two-burner hot plate on a shelf. A small color TV set sat on a black metal stand, complicated arrangement of antenna loops on top, looked like a model of the solar system. On the screen, cops wearing suits they would have had to explain to Internal Affairs were chasing drug dealers in their Ferrari.
'We need to ask you some questions, ma'am. This guy, he is from Jacques. Understand?'
'Yeah.' She never took her eyes from the screen.
I walked over, turned it off. Anger flickered in her eyes— she wasn't drunk.
Clarence drifted over to where he could watch the door, hand in his pocket. The woman lit a cigarette, retreating into dullness.
'The night Derrick disappeared,' I asked her, 'tell me when you first noticed him missing.'
'I dunno. Maybe nine o'clock, ten.'
