21
Like Hannibal’s building, the old brownstone had once been someone’s home. Now it was divided into a number of apartments that college students shared. As he parked across the street from Dani Gana’s address during his college days, Hannibal thought that luck was with him at last. An older black man sat on the stoop with his feet two steps down, watching everything in his little slice of the world. His hair was now a gray laurel wreath that reached three quarters of the way around his head, leaving the front open. His top front teeth were gone.
This was almost certain to be the man Hannibal wanted to see. He crossed the street, walked up the steps just high enough to put one foot on the stoop, and offered the older man his hand.
“How you doing, brother? My name’s Hannibal and I’m betting you’re the owner of this place.”
The return shake was firm and energetic. “What’s up, there? No, I don’t own the place, I’m the super. Folks call me Junior.”
“The superintendent? Even better, man. I needed the man who runs things.”
“You with the insurance?” Junior asked.
“Me?” Hannibal chuckled. “Oh, hell no. I just need some help. A guy who used to live here might be in some real trouble. I figure you’re in and out of the building whenever anything breaks down, so you have to know what’s going on in there on a day to day basis. Am I right?”
“Well, I can probably tell you a little about every young man who’s lived here in the last ten years.” Junior shuffled over a few inches on the stoop.
“I kind of figured you could,” Hannibal said, sitting on the stoop beside Junior. “I think if you see this guy you’ll know him right away. I think his name’s Roberts.”
Junior accepted the picture that Hannibal had begun to think of as the class photo. He could see Junior’s mind working behind his clouded yet perceptive eyes, taking in the faces and backing down their ages.
“Yep, that’s him all right,” Junior said with a smile. “Had a wild ass first name. Yeah, Gar-tee.”
“Yep, that’s the guy,” Hannibal said. “You act like you might have known him.”
“Oh, yeah.” Junior laughed. “I usually get to know the boys.” A student burst through the door behind them. Junior and Hannibal shuffled to opposite sides to let him pass. “That there is Sonny Woods. Plays baseball, studies archeology.”
“Really?” Hannibal said, leaning his arms on his knees. “And what was young Mr. Roberts into?”
“Him? His thing was history,” Junior said, smiling his open smile. Hannibal caught the tang of cheap wine on his breath. “Crazy about history, that boy. And what a talker. Jesus.”
Hannibal laughed along. “What did he talk about?”
“Wild, crazy stories,” Junior said, shaking his head at something he must have heard years ago. “He was a runaway, you know. Spies were chasing him, from his real home, back in Liberia he said. Like, how would a guy from Liberia have a name like Roberts, right?”
Hannibal shook his head, wanting Junior to continue. The super didn’t know Liberia’s history, that the African nation was founded by free blacks from America in the mid-1800s. But Roberts was a history major, so he would know that history well. It seemed the odds were about even that he really was from Liberia, but Hannibal could see how that might be the lie and Algeria the reality. Right then, it didn’t seem to matter much. Either way he was a liar, and there were more pressing questions to ask.
“I guess he talked a lot about where he was from,” Hannibal said. “Did he say anything about where he was going?”
“Not a word.” Junior leaned to one side and took his chin in his hand. “You know, he left in a hurry, all in one day, smack in the middle of the term. Maybe somebody was after him after all.”
“So he left suddenly,” Hannibal said, staring forward trying to see Gana’s future path.
“Uh huh. In fact, I think it was them two helped him pack. I’m thinking they drove him away too.”
Hannibal’s head snapped around to share Junior’s view of the photo. The cracked nail of Junior’s index finger indicated the central couple.
“These two?” Hannibal asked. “You sure, Junior?”
“Brother, you don’t forget a woman with a body like that one,” Junior said, grinning again. “And the man’s name stuck in my mind. Boris, just like the little guy in Rocky and Bullwinkle. Kind of looked like him too, only taller of course.”
So they go back to his college days, Hannibal said to himself. Then to Junior, “You sounded surprised that he left.”
“Oh, yeah,” Junior said. “I’m surprised he left the girl behind. He was crazy about this broad, Vicky. He always said he was going to go off, get rich, and come back and marry that girl. So I guess he’s out making his fortune somewhere, huh?”
“Maybe,” Hannibal said. “And I just might know somebody who knows where the fortune was supposed to come from. The more I hear, the more I want to find Gartee Roberts.”
“Well, when you do, say hello for me,” Junior said.
The short drive to Georgetown University Hospital gave Hannibal just enough time to think about what he wanted to say to Ben Cochran. A brief telephone call confirmed that Cochran was awake and able to receive visitors. Hannibal hoped that Cochran was getting plenty of pain medication, but then cursed himself for the thought. He didn’t really want the man to be injured and in pain just so he would be easier to question. Besides, after having his head handed to him by Gana, he might be more than willing to share the truth even about personal matters like how he ended up with Boris Tolstaya’s woman.
Hannibal had spent too much time in hospitals to suit him, almost always visiting someone who did not deserve to be there. Hospitals always seemed too bright to him, as if someone thought the light would kill germs. Or maybe it was just all that white. Walking down the sterile halls he knew he would never get accustomed to the smell. Why, in the high-tech twenty-first century, did hospitals still have to smell like alcohol. Did they even use alcohol anymore? Maybe the odor was all in his head.
At Cochran’s door Hannibal took a moment to remember him as he had seen him last: vital, alive, and frightened. Then he walked into the room. There were two beds, and Cochran’s was nearest the door. His watery brown eyes wandered to Hannibal and one eyebrow lifted toward the bandage on his forehead. His sandy brown hair was a loose mop scattered around the pillow. His nose was swollen the way noses are when they’ve been broken and reset. The purple around his left eye and split lips told Hannibal that he had been worked over by an amateur driven by anger, someone not well versed in the science of hurting. Hannibal rested a hand on Cochran’s arm, careful not to disturb the tube running into it.
“Hey, man. What happened to you?” Hannibal asked.
“Walked into a door.” The right corner of Cochran’s mouth tried to support a smile. Hannibal didn’t credit him much for brains, but he had to admit the man had more heart than expected.
“How?” Cochran asked. It took Hannibal a second to guess the full question.
“How’d I find you? Gana disappeared and I hoped you could help me find him. Didn’t see you around anywhere, so I reported your car stolen. Cops found it, and you.” Cochran nodded his thanks. Then his eyes focused past Hannibal. He tried to pull them back but it was too late.
Hannibal spun around and almost bumped into Queenie Cochran.
22
“It’s hard to see you as a Renata,” Hannibal said. He settled into the cafeteria booth with the two cups of coffee.
“I’m as American as you are,” Queenie said, cupping her hands around her cup. “I grew up right here in the District. It’s not my fault my mother gave me that Old Country name.”
“And you ran as far from your culture as you could, didn’t you?” Hannibal looked at the cowboy boots and blouse, tight jeans and bottle-red hair, searching for the Eurasian features he knew they must hide. “But you
