“Your friend that wants to buy into the Armstrong.”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?”
“She’ll be fine,” Wagner said. “There’s always been white people this part of Harlem, a few now, a few more came in the housing boom, you know, fixing up stuff, designer types, actors, like that.”
“I didn’t really think about color when I asked about the building.”
“No? Well, you should always think about it, man, no matter who we elect president, and don’t get me wrong, I like Obama, OK? But no matter how many brownstones are on the market for a mill, or how many gay guys fix them up, or how many celebrities once lived on Sugar Hill, it is what it is,” he said. “This is Harlem.”
I knew that some of Wagner’s views had been formed by his time in Crown Heights, back when the Hassidic Jews and local blacks decided to try and kill each other. Back in the day, back in Brooklyn.
“You manage OK here, even with those young guys you mentioned, the kind that want to solve a homicide in a TV hour?”
“Yeah, sure, and I got at least one that’s smart as hell.” Wagner looked at me. He had an old cop’s instincts. “Maybe you know him.”
“What?
“Yeah, well, I mentioned you to him, in fact, when was it, yesterday, I was trying to get hold of you to translate that Russian thing, and he said he met you once. Name’s Radcliff. Virgil. Black guy. Very educated. It rings a bell, Artie?”
I paused, pretending to try to place Radcliff. “I don’t know, maybe I met him over at John Jay when I gave some lecture.”
“He partnered with Dawes for a while. It didn’t work out. Dawes said he wanted to work solo.”
“How come?”
“You’d have to ask him. He just said he didn’t want to work with Radcliff, and I let it lay because Dawes earned a right to what he wants.” Wagner was clearly itching to get back to work now. I asked for a cigarette. I stalled.
“So go on,” I said.
Jimmy looked at me as he tossed over a pack of smokes and I lit up. “Listen, Radcliff, he’s a good cop that joined up right after 9/11, worked like a dog, walked the beat. Dawes just doesn’t think Radcliff will stick around long. Probably go to law school or become DA. No sense of humor,” said Wagner whose phone rang again. He picked it up, listened, grunted, set it down.
“How’s that?”
“First time I met him, he tells me his name is Virgil and I say, ‘So what do they call you, do they call you Mr. Tibbs?’ From that movie. He just looks at me like I’m some weird racist motherfucker or something and says, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ In that real nice voice, no acrimony, but I got the picture. I was just kidding around, no disrespect, you know? Gives you an idea how things go up here.”
“So, if you’re white, people figure you for a racist?”
“What do you think, Artie?” said Wagner, looking toward his half-open door, where a Latino detective in a suit was waiting. “I have to go.”
I got up.
“Anything else you need, Art, you know, just let me know,” Wagner said.
“Thanks. By the way, I was looking at that picture on your wall. You know, I used to read about Earl Monroe. You knew him?”
“I was a big fan when I was younger-I mean huge. I’m telling you, I never saw anything like him. Earl the Pearl, they used to call him, or Black Magic. The crowds would just go silent, and you could hear them gasp when he was on the court.
“Who’s the other one?”
Was there a slight pause?
“Amahl Washington, played on the same team as Earl. Amahl-it was his real name. He was a gent. Matter of fact, he lived over at the Armstrong.”
“Lived?”
“He passed.”
I was interested now. “When?”
“Six months, seven.”
“What did he die of?”
“Lungs. Then liver. Cancer spread everywhere, but I never knew how sick he was. I felt really bad. But you know how us cops are, crybabies about stuff when we care. You know that, Artie. ‘You cops are such bleeding- heart liberals some of the time,’ Well, anyhow, Jesus, I hope they just give me a shot and put me out of my misery when the time comes. Poor Amahl. I really loved that guy. What a fucking talent!”
“So it seemed sudden?”
“I don’t know, these things go real fast some of the time.”
“Can you get me the name of Washington’s doctor?”
Wagner looked surprised. “Sure,” he said. “I sent some money for us over to the hospital when they set up a fund, so yeah, I got it some place. I’ll call you. What’s this about, man?”
“I’ll let you know.”
I stood out by the front door of the station house and tried to get my bearings. My car was parked at the curb. Again, I wondered vaguely why Julius Dawes had taken an interest in it, but I had something else on my mind.
Amahl Washington had died in the Armstrong from lung disease. Jimmy Wagner had been surprised he went so fast. Lily had already been in the building when it happened. She had never mentioned it. I was zipping my jacket when somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped.
“You OK, man?” said Wagner, and I turned. He had a piece of paper in his hand. “I got it for you, Artie. To tell the truth, the whole thing with Amahl, it all stuck in my craw. I didn’t fucking like it, the way he went so fast. It gave me pause, you could say,” Wagner added. “Still, there was no evidence of nothing, not so far as I could see.”
“But it bugged you?”
“Maybe I just didn’t want to believe it, end of an era.”
“So it was the cancer that finally killed him?”
“They said it was his heart gave out; he couldn’t breathe.”
“But there was something else?”
“I saw him one day, it’s a Sunday when I go over, and he’s OK. I mean, he’s sick, but he’s walking and talking, and the next day, that Monday, I get a call that Amahl passed. Fuck. You get older, it happens,” he said. “You wanted the doc’s name, I found a thank-you letter she sent us when we gave some money in Amahl’s name.”
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
“Name’s Lucille Bernard. Dr. Bernard. That help you out, Artie? That works for you?”
CHAPTER 14
In my hand was a hot pretzel with yellow mustard I bought from a guy on the corner near the hospital. I was hungry as hell. I hadn’t eaten all day. I sat in my car and ate, and tried to process what Jimmy Wagner had told me. The pretzel tasted fantastic. I washed it down with a Coke.
Lucille Bernard was Marianna Simonova’s doctor. She had treated Amahl Washington. Both of them died at the Armstrong.
As soon as I’d left the precinct, I’d tried to call Lily, see if Dr Bernard had been over to sign the death certificate. No answer. Bernard didn’t answer her phone, either. I finished the pretzel, wiped my hands on a Kleenex, and got out of my car.
Two patients stood outside the main door at Presbyterian, leaning on walkers, coats over their hospital
