when I’m working.”
He was on a roll. I was guessing he’d had more than one drink. Told me that as a kid, he had been crazy about basketball and Tupac, and his parents always saying, “Can’t you find something that doesn’t involve criminals or ball players?” and he thought to himself he needed some culture and started listening to MC Solaar.
“I can imagine.”
“Yeah? My dad dragged me around Harlem as a kid; he showed me the old buildings, the Jumel Mansion, that kind of thing, and eventually I fell in love with them. I guess he knew me better than I knew myself. So I majored in the history of architecture, and I figured afterward I’d get a degree in architecture, which I did, and then I was going for one in urban planning because by then I realized my big love was New York City, the city itself. Still is. Still love it, the good, the bad, the ugly. Then it was 9/11,” said Virgil. “I was on the subway. I was heading to the Trade Center to get some air tickets, going over to Italy to look at old buildings. I made it out of the train just in time.” He paused. “I saw them jump. The smoke made me blind, I fell over, got up, thought I was somehow in a pile of cattle, legs all sticking up, you know?”
“Yes.”
“I realized it was people. They were all dead. I couldn’t shake that,” said Radcliff. “I had to do something. You worked the pile, didn’t you?”
Yeah, I said. Yes. I knew where he was coming from. I couldn’t help it but I was getting to like him. Virgil. I’d stop calling him Radcliff. I didn’t want to look like a jealous old man, not with this guy who was one of our own, who had done the thing.
“Man, you guys were the heroes,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me on, so I worked night shifts at some of the shelters the cops and fire guys used. I served meals and whatever else they let me do. I didn’t have any other skills. I was useless. I thought, Fuck architecture, I want to do something, and I got myself into the police academy. I guess they were happy to have a black guy with a college degree.”
The club was packed now. The mix of music, laughter, chatter, made it hard to talk. We were standing near the door, and now Virgil said, “Let’s go outside. I need a smoke. It’s suffocating in here.”
I followed him into the street, he lit up a smoke, offered me one. I shook my head. He glanced up and down St. Nicholas Avenue where the club was, a few doors down from St. Nick’s Pub, a few blocks from the Armstrong.
“You know, Artie, I’ve only been in Harlem a couple of years. I feel like a fish out of water some of the time,” said Virgil. “You should hear me trying to talk with some of my ‘homies.’ People piss themselves laughing, or they get mad. White men can’t jump; black men don’t talk good English. Right? Never mind,” he added. “My dad went nuts. ‘You’re gonna be a cop?’ he said, and I said, ‘Listen, it’s that or I’m going into the military, OK?’ First time in my life I went up against him that way, you know, Artie? He blew his top. The idea of me going into the military was too much.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. Had something else in mind for me I guess. I better get going.” He looked at the street. “Maybe he’s not coming. But if you see him, say it’s OK, will you? And you can talk jazz with him. He loves that music. You guys can talk the talk.”
“Listen, there’s something else,” I said. “What do you know about Lionel Hutchison and his obsession with suffering? That stuff about euthanasia?”
“He had a brother who died young, I know that,” said Virgil. “Can we talk about it tomorrow? I’m gonna be dead meat if I don’t get back to the station house soon.”
“Right.”
“By the way, Artie, I have something for you.” From his pocket he took a small package wrapped in red tissue paper and tossed it to me.
“What’s that?”
“Consider it a Christmas present. I mean, Merry Christmas.” He zipped his jacket.
“Wait.”
“What?”
I’d been holding back. I wanted to tell him I thought Lionel Hutchison had-what? Killed Marianna Simonova? Released her from her pain? That maybe Lily had helped him? Did Virgil know?
“Can it wait?” Virgil asked, seeing my hesitation.
“Sure,” I said.
CHAPTER 28
I ripped the paper off the package Virgil had given me. It was a DVD. In the Heat of the Night, the movie where the Southern sheriff played by Rod Steiger says to Virgil Tibbs, the northern black detective, “So what do they call you, boy?” And Sidney Poitier, young, dazzling, tall, superior, looks down on this redneck and says, in his own particular Philadelphia don’t-mess-with-me way, “They call me Mr. Tibbs.”
He knew. Virgil knew all along. He played me for a fool. Worse, I had deserved it.
Where was Lily?
People were streaming into the club, some I recognized from the Armstrong lobby. A group of women in down coats went through the door; behind them a quartet, the two men black, white haired, distinguished, both in suits as if they’d been to a board meeting, their while wives in for coats. Behind them, a crowd of younger people, guys in Sean Johns, the long-legged girls in tiny skirts, denim jackets, huge earrings, high heels, expensive bags. Almost all of them were black. I followed them in. I was freezing.
The pianist swung into a great version of “Take the ‘A’ Train,” as if by way of welcome to the new cluster of guests.
At the bar, Axel was filling an order from a piece of paper, mixing cocktails, glancing again at the paper, making things that were pink and green, and placing the glasses on the tray a waiter held. He manipulated bottles and shakers and crushed ice like a juggler at a circus, stirring, mixing, pouring, adding cherries, lemon peel, slices of pineapple and lime.
I climbed on an empty bar stool. A white man in a black turtleneck with light hair climbed up next to me. He nodded pleasantly.
He had an expensive haircut. He was around forty. He kept quiet, just drank, finishing one vodka, ordering another, and listened to the music, and from time to time pulled his sleeve down, as if to hide some defect, eczema, a scar, a wound. It was the kind of tic you noticed.
“You like the music?” I said.
“Yes, good stuff,” he said, and we made some small talk about jazz. I noticed the accent.
“Where are you from?” I said.
“Excuse me?” He seemed not to have heard me.
“Where are you from, originally, I mean?”
“Oh, from St. Petersburg, but a very long time ago.” He laughed. “The music wasn’t nearly as good as this.”
We raised our glasses to the music. It was Christmas, after all.
In the mirror behind the bar we both looked pale as ghosts in the dim light, like guys who spend too much time indoors. But he liked the music; he was tapping his foot on the bar rail and nodding his head. As I got up and started for the door, cell phone in hand, about to call Lily, the Russian guy turned to look at me. He smiled slightly and raised his glass again.
Half an hour later I was beginning to worry. No Lily. No call. Instead of leaving her another message-she’d be furious if I bugged her-I left one for Tolya. Send one of your guys, I said; tell him to stick around the Armstrong. See if Lily’s OK. Tolya always has guys to help out; guys with muscle, if necessary.
I stayed outside, I wanted some air. My head hurt. I reached into my pocket. I changed my mind. The painkillers made me crazy.
At the curb, along St. Nicholas Avenue, a guy was dragging a shopping cart. The snow had stopped, but it was cold and on impulse I went over and shoved five bucks into his hand.
