during the investigation, Wit found something to grab onto, something to stop his slide into an early grave and snickering obits. I think maybe he remembered his grief and forgot about his rage.
“Not only is it of consequence,” I said, “there might even be a book in it for you.”
“Enlightened self-interest is what makes the world go ’round, my friend. Maybe you should begin speaking now.”
“Anyone ever tell you you were more fun when you drank?” I teased.
“I tell it to myself every day when I gaze into the mirror. Then I’m reminded that I would not be here at all had I continued my lifelong quest for the perfect gallon of bourbon. Or maybe, sir, you are looking for me to thank you once again for saving my life.”
“You know better than that, Wit.”
“Yes, I do. How are the lovely Sarah and Katy? Well, I hope.”
I didn’t answer. “Go get your morning paper. I’ll wait.”
He put the phone down. I listened to the retreating slaps of Wit’s slippers against his hardwood floor. A minute later, the sound of his slippers returned.
“Oh, I am so sorry, Moe. I rather liked Larry, though I wouldn’t have trusted him as far as I could drop-kick a polo pony.”
“I know a lot of people who might say the same thing about you.”
“And they’d be right. But you and I needn’t worry about that. I owe you more than I can say.”
“Save it for my eulogy.”
“Let us not discuss such things,” he chided. “Is this call about the late Chief McDonald?”
“Yes and no. Yes, in that he’s part of it. No, in that he’s not nearly all of it.”
“We’re being rather cryptic, are we not?”
I could only laugh.
“Do I have a career in stand-up, do you think?” he asked.
“Maybe, but it’s just that I said the same thing about being cryptic to Larry the last two times I saw him.”
There was an uncomfortable silence on the line. Then, “You know, Moe, I don’t think I can recall the last thing I said to my grand-son.”
“Probably, I love you.”
“Yes, probably.”
“I think I told Larry to go fuck himself.”
“Well, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but he seems to have taken your advice quite literally.”
I hadn’t really thought of it that way, but I wasn’t exactly consumed with guilt.
“I think that’s what I’m getting at, Wit. I’m not sure he did the fucking himself, if you get my point. And there’s too many of your
“Say no more. I’ll handle it. Give me a day or two.”
“Thanks.”
“None required, my friend. I’ll get back to you.”
He was off the line.
As soon as I placed the phone down, it rang. It rang until I left the house. First, it was Aaron calling, then Klaus, then Robert Gloria, the detective who originally caught the Moira Heaton case, then Pete Parson, then. . They were all calling to say they were sorry and all wanted to know what had happened. Popular question, that. I took
No one on Surf Avenue had hung black bunting out their windows or off the railings of their terraces for the late chief of detectives. I made sure not to crane my neck as I passed West Eighth Street to see if the old precinct had so honored him. My soul, at least, was at half staff. Grief is a harder hurdle when it’s for someone you’re unsure of.
The block was once right in the heart of what we used to call the Soul Patch, but the drugs of choice back then-pot, ludes, black beauties, acid, mesc, a little heroin and even less coke-seem almost innocent by today’s standard. Crack-coke’s ugly little brother-and junkies sharing needles in the time of AIDS had ravaged much of the area. The row houses all looked on the verge of collapse. But all was not lost. On some of the surrounding streets, signs of rebirth were taking root and, if the sea breeze blew just right, you could detect the chemical scents of vinyl siding and construction adhesive.
I pressed the three bells at the row house that Malik Jabbar had listed as his last worldly address. None of them worked.
Such was the nature of poor neighborhoods-lots of bells, none of ’em work. So I pounded the door. Black faces stared suspiciously out dirty windows and through frayed curtains. I could feel their eyes branding the word COP on the back of my neck. Hell, I was white and pounding on a door like I owned the place. Old habits die hard. So much of what you do as a cop is a matter of training and practice. I stopped pounding.
I heard light footsteps coming down the hallway toward the door.
“Who is it?” a muffled and unexpectedly polite woman’s voice wanted to know.
“I came to talk about Malik.”
A lock clicked open, but the door didn’t immediately pull back. I heard the telltale scraping of a wedge pole being removed from its place. To most folks outside big cities or high crime areas, the thought of gating your own windows in steel and keeping a metal rod wedged
Finally, the door opened. A slender black woman of sixty dressed in a tidy flowered house frock and incongruous white socks stood before me. She was all of five feet tall and wore half-rim spectacles tied earpiece to earpiece around her neck with a cheap silver chain.
“My name is Moe Prager.”
“Are you from the police?” she asked, her eyes wary.
“No, ma’am. I retired years ago.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“I’m not sure I do either, Mrs. . ”
“Mable Louise Broadbent. I am-I was Melvin’s mother.” That shook her some. “I don’t know how to say that yet. How is a mother supposed to talk about her own dead child? He is alive to me. I have gotten used to a lot of hateful things in my lifetime, but this. .”
“May I come in, Mable? I only want to talk.”
She didn’t answer. She stood aside and made a weak gesture pointing down her hallway to the parlor. The apartment was a reflection of the woman who lived within its walls: tidy, small, incongruous. The furniture had survived more presidents than I had, but it was clean, the upholstery worn shiny in spots, the wood polished, and the air ripe with the tang of artificial lemon. The wall art was of sailboats and Caribbean fishermen. The rug, however, was a Day-Glo orange shag that matched very little I’d seen in my lifetime, other than a hunter’s vest. Mable noticed me taking stock.
“This is my apartment. We let the basement apartment sometimes. Melvin lived upstairs with that whor-with his girl.” She soured with that last word. “Can I offer you something to drink, Mr. Prager?”
“No, thanks. You call him Melvin, but he changed his name to Malik Jabbar.”
“I’ll never get used to-” She caught herself. “For his sake, I called him Malik, but now. . He’s my Melvin. Melvin got involved with some ungodly people who put bad ideas into my child’s head. He was weak that way.”
“He was easily swayed?”
“Like a blade of grass.”
“But you continued living with him.”
“Where was I supposed to go? This is my home. I own it. I let Melvin stay, even with that sassy whore he calls-called a girlfriend. When I’m done mourning, she’ll be on the street where she belongs. Girl’s got no more morals than an alley cat.”
I pointed up. “What’s her name?”
“Kalisha.”
