Clarence had admitted abusing drugs in his younger years, but recently had begun to wean himself off of them. No doubt having a dealer as a father exacany curiosity he had. And even though Butch was a supposedly 'clean' dealer, being exposed to that kind of trade could stir a desire that wouldn't have existed otherwise. The temptation was there. His father put it there, and Helen Gaines had become a victim of it as well.
Maybe Helen and Clarence had actually bonded over this. Perhaps it was even Helen who, after Butch was gone, tempted Clarence. But looking at them now, young man and older woman, they needed each other more than anything in the world.
'Helen,' I said, 'I need to know why you got in touch with my father. After all those years, why did you suddenly need the money?'
Helen removed her head from Clarence's shoulder.
She wiped her eyes, only succeeding in smearing the mascara she had on. Clarence took a tissue from his pocket, handed it to her. She thanked him, cleaned herself up.
'The money wasn't for me,' she said. 'It was never for me. It was for Stephen.'
'Rehab?' I asked.
'No. That ship sailed a long time ago. We tried- both of us, actually. But it's easy to say you want to stop, it's another thing to do it. It'd be like rewiring your brain. When you have two people so close, both addicted, you can either band together and use each other for strength…or you can slip into the comfort of nothingness. We chose the latter.'
'So you know your son was using, and that he probably started because of you.'
Helen nodded. 'I was young and stupid when I came here. Do you know what it's like to be nineteen years old with a baby? To have to leave the only place you've ever known and go somewhere where you don't know anybody? To raise a child in a different world? I couldn't handle it. So I escaped. But Stephen could have made so much more of himself.'
'Stephen wasn't just some street dealer,' I said. 'He was much higher.'
Helen blinked. 'I knew he wasn't standing out on corners. He had nice suits. Lots of them. He would wear them during the day, even though I knew where he was going. I always found it strange that someone in that…line of work would get dressed up so nicely.
We never had money for anything else.'
I thought about the building in midtown. All those suited young men entering to get their daily packages.
A horde of young, urban professionals. Only the defi nition had turned a one-eighty.
'How long had he been selling?' I asked.
Helen looked at the ceiling. Wiped her eyes again.
Clarence was staring at her as well, his eyes soft. I wondered if he'd ever heard these stories.
'Screw this,' Bernita suddenly announced. 'I'm getting a beer and watching Judge Judy. ' Her pink bathrobe turned with a flutter, and she left the room.
'She's a great cook,' Helen said. 'Made chicken a l'orange last night.'
'I have about ten pounds of leftovers in my fridge at home,' Clarence said with a laugh. 'I know what you're saying.'
'How long?' I repeated.
'Almost ten years. He dropped out of CCNY after his sophomore year. I worked about a hundred differ ent jobs over the years, but even with that and the money
Stephen made, with his student loans, there was no way we could ever really make ends meet. Not in this city.
That's actually where I met Beth. We were both secre taries at a public-relations firm. They fired us both within the month when we came to work high. So
Stephen dropped out. Partly because of the money, partly to take care of me. He said the only experience he needed was in the real world. And I was too stupid to stop him. And besides, he was making more money doing that than I ever did working real jobs. And none of it was taxed.'
'So he was working for ten years, making good money, obviously moving up the ladder,' I said. 'Again, why did he need the money?'
'We went through it fast,' Helen said. 'Stephen started using more, and I was a mess. We never saved much. One day, about a month ago, Stephen came home from work. I remember him coming in the door with this look on his face, and I just froze. He was so scared…oh
God, his eyes were wide and his face was pale and I thought he might have overdosed. He collapsed on our sofa and asked for a glass of water. When I brought it to him, he just sat there with the glass in his hand. Not drinking, just staring at the wall. Then my boy started to cry.'
'Why?' I asked. 'What happened?'
'He didn't tell me,' Helen said. 'All he said was, 'We need to leave. We need to get far, far away from this city.
When I asked him what the matter was, he just said,
'You're safer if you don't know. We'd both be safer if I didn't know either.' I looked into his eyes. They were bloodshot. Not from drugs, but from crying. He'd never spoken like that before in his life. I'd never seen him so scared, so terrified. So I told him we'd find a way.'
I said, 'My father told me he found a notepad in your apartment. It read 'Europe' and 'Mexico.' That's where you were thinking of going. Right?'
Helen nodded. 'We didn't know where to go. What city or country. We wondered if Europe was too far, or if Mexico was far enough. Stephen just wanted to go far, far away. We barely had enough money to cover the rent.'
'And that's why you called my father,' I said. 'For money to leave the country.'
'It was a one-time thing,' Helen said. 'I figured after all those years, after what he'd done to me and our baby-that's right, our baby-the least he could do was help us start a new life.'
I couldn't really argue with that. My father owed them far more than he could ever make up for.
'So you threatened to sue him,' I said.
'I didn't know any other way. The old James Parker
I knew would rather burn his money than give it away.'
'You couldn't say something a little more noble, like you needed it for a kidney transplant or something?
Maybe that would have tugged at his heartstrings a little more than the rehab story.'
'I don't know how well you know your father,'
Helen said sardonically, 'but he's not exactly the senti mental type.'
I couldn't argue with that either.
'So he came into the city to see you, then what?'
'How much did he tell you?' she asked.
'He told me you pulled a gun on him,' I said. 'Is that true?'
Helen nodded. 'Yes. But it was Stephen's gun. He kept it for protection. He taught me how to use it, just in case. I was scared, of your father and for Stephen. I got carried away.'
'Where was Stephen during all of this?' I said.
'I'm not sure,' Helen said. 'He told me he was going to try and talk to someone. He said there was one person who might be able to do something if he knew the whole story.'
'Oh God,' I said. 'He was with me. He was at the
Gazette waiting for me.' I felt sick. I put that from my mind, tried to focus.
'My father said he took the gun from you. Is that true?'
'It is,' Helen said.
'Would you be willing to testify to that? The police say my father's fingerprints were found on the gun. If you testify that they got there another way-other than him actually firing it-it will help his case.'
'I don't know if I want to help his case,' Helen said.
'As long as he's locked up, the cops aren't hunting the person who really killed my son.'
'So you know it wasn't my father,' I said. Helen said nothing. She turned away. Didn't even look at me. I was taken aback by this indifference. Stunned, I said, 'Don't you care about your son's killer getting what he deserves?'
