Love and Death in Brooklyn

by Glenville Lovell

  “Next week, I think.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “If you wanna talk, I’m here. You know that I like you a lot . . .” She stopped and dropped her eyes to the floor. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I almost fucked it up.”

  “Fucked what up?”

  “You know, when I met you I was glad that you were married. Now I’m not so sure.” She laughed and picked up her bag. “What should I do with this bottle of wine?”

  “Save it. I’m sure we’ll get a chance to drink it sometime.”

  She tugged idly at her dreadlocks. “I suppose you’re right.” She came toward me and stopped a few inches away, looking deeply into my eyes. “How does Anais keep other women away from you?”

  I laughed. “That’s not her job.”

  She winked. “See you at the club.”

  I watched her walk out and followed her graceful stride down the driveway to her car.

  WATER CONSERVATION had been the political theme song all winter in the city. At every press conference the new mayor urged New Yorkers to limit their water consumption. The reservoirs were so low a drought emergency had been called because the city’s Department of Environmental Protection had calculated that it was impossible that the reservoirs could be at one hundred percent capacity by June 1.

  From around ten o’clock that night it rained. Heavily. Water thudded through the streets and raced across my roof like wild horses. At any moment I expected my house to collapse around me. I faded in and out of sleep, never getting more than ten minutes of shut-eye at any one time.

  By morning the streets were flooded; the mayor must’ve been happy. It was still raining when I left my house.

  FIVE

  t oni Monday was a six-foot, three-hundred-pound transvestite whose long blond hair (that was the color the last time I saw him) and charcoal skin made him more of a spectacle than the clothes he wore, if such a thing was possible. Toni’s mother died when he was ten, leaving him in the care of his tough-talking Trinidadian grandmother, who started a roti shop in her basement and in ten years had built up a restaurant business boasting three locations in Brooklyn.

  Before he was thirteen Toni realized that not only was he attracted to boys, he was also convinced that he was meant to be a girl: a discovery he couldn’t share with his ultra-religious grandmother. From then on Toni lived a double life. At the High School of Performing Arts he studied dance, though his grandmother thought he was being trained in music. He also got turned on to drugs. Addicted by eighteen, his weight ballooned and he gave up dance.

  His grandmother died when he was twenty, leaving Toni a business worth nearly half a million dollars. It took him just over a year to run the restaurant into the ground because Toni was more interested in selling dime bags than rotis. By the time I’d collared him for drug possession the restaurant was bankrupt.

  He became my snitch, helping me break up a drug ring run by the Bloods in the Washington Houses. In return I got him into rehab and stayed on him until he was cleaned up. Toni was now a hairdresser, with a unisex salon in Brooklyn and one in Manhattan catering to many Broadway stars.

  Toni may’ve gotten off drugs but he didn’t get out of the business. He became smarter, elusive, ruthless, trusting no one, but kept plenty of people on his payroll if only to get information before it became stale. The salons became fronts for his other activities.

  I drove through Prospect Heights, reaching the corner of Underhill and St. Marks where I hoped to find Toni in his salon. The rain was only spotting now. The mayor and the DEP might be rejoicing, but not the drivers I passed. Many streets were submerged under eddies; in some places the water rode above the fenders. Cars stalled. Fortunately I was driving the SUV.

  Toni was not in his salon. I was told he was eating lunch across the street at a small restaurant called The Nob. I spotted someone with red hair at the counter. As I crossed the street the person stood up, wiping his mouth with a yellow napkin. Toni.

  He tried to smile when he saw me, but I could see he was having difficulty. His mouth was too full. He chewed rapidly, trying hard to swallow.

  I hadn’t seen him in about a year. His permed hair was now cut short and dovetail-shaped in the back. Heavy makeup had turned his face into a flawless satin mask and his drooping eyelids threatened to obscure the green lenses hiding the true color of his eyes.

  He batted his long eyelashes and finally swallowed. “Blades, I could’ve choked when I saw you. You look so fucking good! Come here and give me a hug, baby.”

  “Hello, Toni.”

  We pounded. Sweaty alcohol fumes evaporating from his pores threatened to intoxicate me. I stepped back to look at him again.

  “What?” he said, and his throat trembled. “I know. I’m getting fat. I can’t help it. It’s my fucking genes. You shoulda seen my grandmother. A bear. But I’m going to have my stomach stapled.”

  I sat on the stool beside him.

  The cheerful smile painted on his face never dried. “You been working out, haven’t you?”

  “A little. My wife is into hard bodies.”

  “So am I, honey. You look awesome.”

  “What happened to your hair?”

  He took a sip of his Snapple. “I got tired of all that mess all over my neck.”

  “I like the new look. But red?”

  “My boyfriend doesn’t like it, but he can go to hell. He’s too controlling if you ask me. He doesn’t want me to have the operation, you know.”

  “What operation?”

  He put his hand to his mouth in drama-queen surprise. “I didn’t tell you?”

  “I haven’t seen you in a year.”

  His eyes lit up, he started to laugh. “It’s the most important thing to me, Blades. You know me. What’s the most important thing to me?”

  I paused. “Oh that. Are you serious?”

  He cupped his breasts. “These aren’t fake anymore. These are mine.”

  I stared at him with doubt in my eyes. He grabbed my hand and put it to his chest.

  “Touch them,” he said. “You don’t believe me? I started taking hormones six months ago.”

  I withdrew my hand. “I believe you.”

  He laughed. “I told my boyfriend I needed to do this. He said he’ll leave me. That if he wanted a woman he would’ve married one. But I’m doing it. Even if he leaves me. My dream is to live my life as a woman.”

  I couldn’t think of a response to that, so I said, “What’s that you’re eating? I’m hungry.”

  “Pesto chicken sandwich. You want some? I went out all night last night. This is breakfast.”

  I waved to the guy behind the counter, a tall man with a light complexion. He left his conversation with a ruddy-faced white man at the other end of the counter and came over.

  “Coffee. Black. No sugar,” I said.

  “Anything else?” the man said. His eyes were hard and unfocused, as if he wanted to chide me for drawing him away from his conversation.

  “That’s all for now.”

  He turned away with a muted grunt.

  “So did you come looking for me or were you just driving by?” Toni said.

  “You didn’t return my call.”

  “You called me? When?”

  “Yesterday. Left a message.”

  “I’m sorry. I haven’t been home in a while. Let me give you my cell number.” He opened his purse and took out a purple card and handed it to me.

  “I want your opinion on something,” I said.

  “What? You planning to let me get my hands in those curls?”

  I waited until the counter guy had settled the cup of coffee in front of me and had walked away.

  “Who would want to kill an important politician?”

  Toni stared at me, his eyelashes flickering. “How the hell would I know?”

  I took a sip of coffee. It was too hot. “Who would know?”

 
“I don’t hang around people like that anymore, Blades. I got a successful business.”

  “This is important, Toni. I really need your help.”

  “Christ! I thought you were my friend, Blades.”

  “I am your friend.”

  “So why you here trying to dust off my old fingerprints?”

  “I’m just asking you what’s on the street.”

  His shoulders hunched and his face clouded. “I used to sell drugs. I used to be an addict. You know all about that. That’s in the past. I certainly don’t know anything about a hit on a politician.”

  I ran my hand through my hair and smiled. “Toni, I’m here as a friend, not a cop.”

  Sweat began to deface his creamy mask. “You’re beginning to piss me off, Blades.”

  “Look, Toni, I’m exhausted. I didn’t sleep but a few winks last night. There’s this thing on my mind. It’s not doing anything for my disposition. Don’t make me spoil your day. Don’t make me come into your hive and drag you out.”

  “Ha! Ha! Very fucking funny,” he mocked. “Where’d you hear that one? Letterman? You’ve already spoiled my day, Blades. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

  He got up to leave.

  I grasped him firmly by the wrist. “Sit down, Toni.”

  “You gonna arrest me?” His mouth twisted in aped shock. “Oops, I forgot. You can’t do that anymore.”

  Then a black veil of anger descended on his face. He flicked my hand away and picked up his bag from the counter, staring at me all the way before walking out. I slapped two dollars on the counter and followed him into the street.

  “I know your drug outfit is still in place, Toni.”

  “You better back off, Blades.”

  “I also know you iced Fat Joe.”

  “What was that?” He stopped in the middle of the street to let a car go by. For a second I thought he was going to continue across. But after the car passed he turned and trudged back to where I was standing on the sidewalk.

  “Fat Joe controlled the action around the Marcy Houses. A year ago someone burned his bacon while he was getting a haircut. Ironic, huh? Two men walked into a barbershop on McDonald Street and shot him three times. Weeks later you’re controlling all the action in the Marcy Houses. My guess is that’s no coincidence.”

  “Your guess? Fuck you, Blades. We’re not on Hollywood Squares. I don’t care about your guesses.”

  “A politician was killed in a Fort Greene restaurant two nights ago. Have you heard anything?”

  His face remained stiff, his mouth twisted as a corkscrew, but he said nothing.

  “This is important to me, Toni.”

  “I told you, Blades. I don’t know anything.”

  “Toni . . .”

  “Just leave me alone, Blades.”

  I watched him cross the street and enter his salon. The rain had all but stopped. Only the slightest of drizzles now. But the sky was still engraved with dark clouds moving in circles like spinning black disks descending from some alien spaceship. A few feet away an emaciated black-and-white cat lapped from a pool of clear water. Deeply I breathed in spent carbon monoxide from cars idling in shoals of water, filling my lungs with millions of invisible toxins, which, if you believe the experts, would one day form an army and stamp out my life. But right now I wasn’t interested in my life ticking away. I was thinking about doing bodily harm to Toni Monday. That sudden flash of irrational anger scared me. I was going down that lonely road again. A trail I hoped to avoid after I’d left the NYPD. A trail I last walked in Miami.

  I WAS FIFTEEN when my father dropped out of sight. That was twenty-two years ago. When I caught up with him in Miami after years of searching he tried to explain to me why he’d run away. It was not a believable story.

  He must’ve thought he’d found the perfect place to hide on Miami Beach. One of his artist friends owned a house that was hardly ever used. The house had been built in the 1940s and had been redesigned by a famous interior designer. From its grassy courtyard to its concrete fireplace and its gourmet kitchen with graphite black slate from Brazil, it was a house no one would’ve expected to find my father living in.

  Just after sundown about a week later we were walking on the beach about half a mile away from the house. Quiet whimpering waves shadowed our trail. The beach was empty for most of our stroll until a man in a tracksuit wearing a wide Panama hat, a cigar fixed at the corner of his mouth, passed us, nodding as he went by. I had noticed him coming toward us in the distance, walking with his head down until the moment he reached us. That’s when he lifted his head, made eye contact, and smiled. I turned my head to watch him go past, a habit acquired from working New York’s streets late at night. The man had stopped and was unzipping his sweatshirt. I saw the gun flash in his hand. Instinct took over.

  I pushed my father to the ground and dived to the sand, clearing my gun from my waist. The quick movement startled and flustered the man. He got off one shot at my father, which was off the mark. My shot severed an artery in his neck.

  My father thought he recognized the face but it was a little too dark to be sure. We left the scene quickly, sure that no one would’ve been able to identify us, even if anybody had seen what had gone down.

  The next day we read that the man was Carlos Peterson.

  CHESNEY WASN’T happy that I arrived late. But I knew the box of chewy chocolate cookies hidden behind my back would be enough to mitigate my error. Soon she was hugging and kissing me the way grateful children do.

  I chatted with my mother for a while, listening to the latest triumphs and conquests of my brilliant lawyer sister out in California. She had recently been made a partner at the firm she’d been with since graduating law school. My mother was proud, and though our relationship sucked, I was proud of my sister.

  We left New Jersey just before nine and met little resistance as we clipped through the traffic back to New York. Chesney fell asleep as we approached the tunnel and didn’t wake up until we’d reached home.

  It was past ten when I parked the Volvo in the garage and entered the house through the side door from the attached garage with Chesney in my arms.

  She woke up long enough to get herself ready for bed, kissing my cheek before sliding under the covers. I crawled back downstairs where I flicked on the television to watch the news, which was half over. I watched three badly written horror tales passing for news stories about murder and rape, including a surveillance tape of a man who kidnapped a Columbia University student, raped her, and then forced her to withdraw money from an ATM before killing her. I turned the television off in disgust as the phone rang.

  “Hi, baby.” Anais’s cozy voice settled into the empty space in my brain reserved for her pitch, immediately soothing me.

  “How’s it going, superstar?” I joked.

  “Let’s see if my scene makes the final cut before you go nominating me for any awards,” she said. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too. When’re you coming home?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Really. I thought you had another week.”

  “They’re wrapping early. How’s Chez?”

  “She asked about you yesterday.”

  “Really? That’s nice. How’re you? You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “Missing you, that’s all.”

  “Save some of that loose saliva for when I get home, bad boy. Something’s wrong. Let’s have it.”

  “Everything is fine. Do you want me to pick you up at the airport?”

  “Blades, the last time I went away I came back to an eight-year-old stepdaughter. I’m almost afraid to think of what you might be hiding this time. Out with it.”

  I attempted a disarming laugh, but my voice failed me.

  “I’m not joking,” Anais said. “Tell me what’s going on, Blades.”

  I paused, struggling to find words to tell her what was on my mind.

  “Blades? You still there?”

  I sighed lo
udly. “Noah’s son is dead.”

  Anais gasped, then I heard her breathe out loudly. “Jesus! What happened?”

  “Shot in the head. I was there. I saw it happen.”

  “Was it an accident?”

  “Murder. It was a hit. The shooter got away.”

  There was a long pause before Anais spoke again. “I know exactly what’s going on in your head, Blades. And I want to tell you right now to forget it.”

  “I’m sorry, Anais. I can’t.”

  “No, Blades. I’m not going to stand for it.”

  “Noah is my friend. He’s like a father to me.”

  “Let the police take care of this shit, Blades. You’re a father yourself. Remember?”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “Well.”

  “What time should I pick you up?”

  “I’m not done, Blades. I want you to promise me . . .”

  “Not this one, Anais.”

  “Don’t bother picking me up. I’ll take a cab. Good-bye.”

  Anais had hung up the phone.

  SIX

  a white limousine had picked her up from the Bronx at nine to take her to the airport. Though it was cold outside she rode the heated leather seats in the back of the limo with the windows down. Soggy wind splashed through the window, flailing her loosened locks and tickling her nose cavity, making her smile because it reminded her of sea-spray at the beach. Snow was in the forecast and she hoped it would wait until she and her lover were securely ensconced in his Queens home, where they could watch the snow fall after what she hoped would be a night of intense lovemaking. She’d been horny all week.

  Judging from his accent she suspected the driver, a tall thin man, was of European origin. With a leaden tongue he asked if she wanted the window closed, repeating it a number of times before she understood what he was saying.

  No, she said, and leaned her head out the window as the car pounded across the Triboro Bridge, heavy and solid as an armored truck.

  They reached the American Airlines terminal at JFK airport around nine-forty. A black Lexus cruised slowly by. Its driver eased his window halfway down and smiled. She saw his eyes and immediately felt a chill course through her.