Love and Death in Brooklyn

by Glenville Lovell

  As she exited the limo the Lexus drove off.

  The cramped arrivals hall was bright, but damp and dusty. JFK airport had been under major renovation for years and dust was everywhere, making her cough several times. Just as she decided it might be better to wait outside, even in the cold, the man she was expecting appeared.

  He was about fifty, handsome in a colonial way with a clipped mustache and well-dressed in a black buttoned-down wool suit. The product of a British high school and university, he walked stiffly, without that air of casual rhythm that might’ve identified him as being from the Caribbean. But she liked this about him. It was his camouflage. He wasn’t stiff at all; far from it. But in keeping with his professional stature as deputy ambassador, his public demeanor was always businesslike.

  Excited, she waved her hand in the air to get his attention. She did not see the man who blindsided her, knocking her to the ground in his haste. But he was nice enough to help her up and then he looked so intently into her eyes she thought he would kiss her. Then he was gone, rushing outside. Her eyes followed him for a brief second, then returned to the tall man coming to greet her.

  Maxwell, grinning like a teenager, swallowed her up in his long arms. She twined hers around his neck, kissing him unrestrainedly. Over a week since she last saw him.

  “Not here, honey.” He uncurled her arms from around his neck.

  Trying to check her passion was like attempting to stem a tornado with a flag.

  She reattached herself to him. “I missed you so much.”

  “I missed you too, darling, but we’re in public.”

  “I don’t care.”

  A laugh came from his chest, deep and resonant as a dog’s growl. Flattered that his absence for a week could have this effect on her, he returned her kiss, experiencing a familiar surge of energy in his crotch.

  “Let’s get to the car,” he said, sucking on her earlobe.

  Linked arm in arm, together they walked toward the exit. To anyone watching they were an elegant couple. He walked upright, his head tilted gently as if listening to a special rhythm—the same rhythm she created with her high prancelike steps.

  “How was the flight?” she asked.

  “Horrible.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  “I was sitting next to this clumsy idiot, that guy who ran you over just now. He spilled coffee all over my suit.”

  She stopped and turned to face him, examining the front of his suit. She saw the stain on his pants leg, a patch the shape and size of a mango just above his knee.

  “I went to the bathroom to try and get it out but couldn’t,” he said.

  “It’s not that bad,” she said.

  Outside, puffy flakes settled on their heads. The limo pulled up next to them.

  “Come on,” she said. “This is it.”

  As they got inside she saw the black Lexus roll up and stop behind them. Maxwell immediately closed the glass partition separating them from the driver. She thrilled to his hasty, though expected attack. His lips smacked against hers; she opened her mouth for his tongue, which butterflied around hers with fluttering strokes. His wide mouth clamped hers open, his tongue scraping the back of her throat. The limo swerved onto the highway. Max parted her legs, his fingers beginning their seductive dance on her inner thighs, seeking the warm thicket of her crotch.

  Spreading herself out on the leather so he could remove her panties, she tried not to think of the black Lexus or the possibility that someone might be following them. She lifted her left leg and leaned on her side to give her lover access to her pussy, which had been wet ever since she got into the limo. He leveraged himself against the front seat and entered her forcefully. After a few thrusts she told him she wanted to sit on him.

  He did not argue and leaned back in the seat. Facing the rear window, she eased herself onto him. But it was not the position, she soon discovered. It was her mind. She was distracted and no matter how vigorously she bounced up and down on his dick, or rocked back and forth, she could not find a rhythm or become fully engaged in his sexual zeal. Getting her freak on had never been a problem. Especially not with Max. His voice alone could get her juices flowing. And fucking in the limo was one of those perks she looked forward to when he came to New York. But try as she might, she could not shake the sense of foreboding that had dropped like a wrecking ball on her head ever since she saw the eyes of the driver of the black Lexus.

  While she absorbed his climax—she figured she could get her groove on later—she peered out the back window to see if the black car was following them. In the frosty darkness she saw knuckles of snow dissolving into the cavernous night but little else. She rode him as well as she could; he came quietly, effusively, leaving a trail of thick cream on her leg and skirt.

  Ten minutes later the limo slid to a stop in the wet snow; they had arrived at their destination. She peered outside. Forest Hills Estate was one of the better neighborhoods in Queens, its redbrick houses and immense thick-hedged gardens reminding her of England.

  She watched tiny cotton balls float to the ground. The once naked boughs of thick elms had sprouted white blossoms, swaying and bending in the wet breeze. The sidewalk was a white carpet. Throughout the neighborhood houses were dark and quiet.

  The driver got out to open Maxwell’s door. She scouted the floor for her panties. Still on hands and knees she heard a vehicle approaching. How did she know something was wrong at that instant? Instinct. What wasn’t right?

  Lights! The approaching vehicle had no headlights.

  She bolted upright as the first shots rang out. Kicking open the door closest to the sidewalk she dove outside head first. Several more shots exploded in the night. A jolt of fear zipped through her stomach as breaking glass crackled and metal chinked under the impact of bullets.

  She vomited.

  Hunched near the rear wheel of the limo she peered under the car. Maxwell and the driver were sprawled on the ground. Neither moving. A car had stopped several yards behind the limo. She saw the grill. It was a Lexus.

  Someone got out and began walking slowly toward the limo. In the frightening quiet gunshots echoed in her brain. But the shooting had stopped moments ago.

  Her feet were wet and cold. She’d left her shoes in the limo. The thought of dying here in the snow without her shoes gave her an instant headache. She heard herself breathing and her chest tightened as the heavy sound of boots crunching snow got closer. Mouth open, she snatched air to calm herself. Snow-thickened air burned her lungs.

  The sharp sound of boots biting through snow came closer, obliterating the echoing fear. She ripped her purse open trying to block out the sound of death approaching. She threw the bag into the car after yanking the snub-nosed .38 automatic from inside. Bracing herself on her knees, she held her breath.

  How close was he?

  A whiff of his cologne.

  Close enough.

  Like a black cobra she sprang up firing, the .38 jerking, spitting deadly venom.

  The man fell to a knee, rolled over a few times, and rose up firing. She ducked down until he stopped to reload. Up she sprang again, firing angrily. He tried to run, stumbled a few more steps, then slumped to his knees.

  The Lexus sped away. Left hand to right wrist, the gun held stiffly in firing position in her right hand, River kept her eyes glued to the fallen shooter, advancing slowly toward him. Her heart bounced against her chest like a rubber ball.

  She stood over him. At the flicker of an eyebrow she would blast him again. He wasn’t moving.

  Retrieving his silver-handled .45 from the ground, she ran back to the two men sprawled in crimson snow behind the limo. Both dead. The limo’s trunk was open, Max’s luggage still inside.

  She slammed the trunk closed. Lights were popping on in the surrounding houses like bulbs on a Christmas tree. In this neighborhood it would not be long before cops arrived.

  The keys were in the ignition. She fired the engine, flicked on the wipers, a
nd floored the gas. The white car plowed through the snow like a Hummer.

  Taming her ragged breathing was more difficult. Her whole body trembled as if she was in a vibrating chair. She fought the urge to glance behind for one last look at her lover.

  She abandoned the limo at the first subway station she came to after retrieving her belongings. All except her panties, that is; still couldn’t find them. She threw the gun into the sewer and went to catch the train.

  SEVEN

  w hy did you come to me?”

  I needed to hear this story like I needed to get an audit from the IRS. It seemed too incredible to believe. But my skeptical mind couldn’t deny her presence in my house, bleeding; her face scorched with what looked like the evidence of her experience. Her hair was wet, her sweater ripped in the front; her black knee-length leather skirt covered in mud. Secluded under long curled lashes, her dark eyes were fixed remotely on my face.

  Unable to stand her cold stare, I got up and went to pull the thick yellow damask curtains. The ground outside was marbled with wet snow. Bright light reflecting off the snow filled the room with an intense orange glow.

  She had told her story in a gentle and strangely calm voice. That in itself was unsettling. How could she be so calm after killing a man?

  I began to think back, searching for clues I might’ve missed, something to leaven the shock that I’d hired a killer to manage my club. I hated feeling like a jerk. But that’s exactly how I felt.

  She’d done such an excellent job running the joint I now had plenty of time to scout new acts for the nightclub with Negus. It never would’ve dawned on me that she was capable of firing a gun, far less shooting and killing a man. I didn’t even know she carried a gun. I carried one, and had a permit to do so, though the last mayor had tried to have it revoked after I sued the city.

  River sat with her back upright in the chair. She was looking in my direction, but her eyes were blank as if she were looking through me. I was having a hard time digesting what she’d told me. She’d been working for me for six months and I thought I knew her pretty damn well, but clearly not. She’d never mentioned a lover of any kind. And we’d gotten drunk together on more than one occasion.

  She stood up and walked toward me. “I’m having another drink. You okay?”

  I looked up. “Am I okay? About what?”

  She turned. “Your drink?”

  I nodded. She stumbled when she leaned over to pick the bottle off the table and clutched at my arm to steady herself. I held her by the shoulder and she straightened up, her eyes locking onto mine with a fire that appeared to have no end. There was a savageness, too, about her face, about her eyes, something I’d never noticed before, that compelled me to stare at her. She was a tall woman, almost six feet, with immense hands. Skin the color of nutmeg. For the first time I noticed blood on her elbow and forearm where the material of her sweater had been ripped away, hanging like flesh from a wound. Her perfume was sweet with a snatch of wildflowers.

  “Thank you,” she said, blinking repeatedly, as if her eyes were blurred. She poured her drink and went back to her seat.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I said.

  “What question?”

  I sipped my drink trying to bridle the self-righteousness that was beginning to soar though me like an overflowing river. What was I supposed to do now?

  Her muffled voice, muted as if coming from inside a paper bag, stopped the train of my thoughts. “I can’t go to the police.”

  Usually, it does not take long for me to adjust to shifts in personality, but with River I wasn’t sure if I was walking on the bank or slipping into a riptide. The savagery of her face had disappeared, replaced by a look of egg-white innocence, a look even the Marquis de Sade would’ve pitied. I didn’t know what to say.

  “And I can’t go to my house. I’m sure they’ll be looking for me there,” she said.

  “Who’re they?”

  “The people who assassinated Maxwell.”

  “And who’re these people?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “They know you, know where you live, but you don’t know them, is that what you’re telling me?”

  She coughed hard; her body shook. Hunched over her knees, her body looked like a ball of solid iron.

  “Are you okay?” I said.

  Still coughing, she rose, unfurling herself like a bad memory, and walked to the window. I turned my head to follow her path and saw that she limped slightly, but not from injury. The heel of one of her shoes had come off. She turned in a circle like a tired animal after a bruising fight and looked at me. Behind her I could see the brilliant snow dripping like hot wax from the trees.

  “They must’ve followed me to the airport.”

  “I’m still trying to get past who’re they.”

  She licked her lips slowly, ignoring my tone of annoyance, speaking as if I was no longer part of the conversation. “Which means they know where I live.”

  I sniggered. “Is this the part where you tell me you’re leaving town?”

  She smirked. “Why’re you being such a dick?”

  “I am being a dick?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “You come into my home, tell me you shot a man to death, and expect me to act like we share some kind of bond?”

  Her voice snapped like a firecracker. “You’ve never killed anyone?”

  “This is not about me. Don’t act like we went through boot camp together. I don’t recognize you. You’re not the woman I hired.”

  “Yes, I am. You just didn’t know everything about me.”

  “I’ve heard enough, thank you.”

  “Sometimes I moonlight as a diplomat’s bodyguard. What’s wrong with that?”

  “A diplomat with enemies. That doesn’t explain why you didn’t wait for the police.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “I’ve got that down. I’m still trying to swallow the rest. The why part. Why would anybody kill a diplomat from the Bahamas? Does anybody in this country even know where the Bahamas is?”

  She leaned forward, shook her long locks, and let out a sigh. “Look, Blades, these people know where I live. There’re not above assassinating a diplomat on the streets of New York, what the fuck you think they’d do to me if they find me? Once I go to the police I’m a sitting duck.”

  “You may not have heard of it, but there’s such a thing as police protection, you know.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Trust me, Blades, I know as much about the police as you do. They can’t even protect themselves against the common cold. All I need is a place to lay low for a while. You’re the only friend I’ve got in this town.”

  “Would you like to hide under my bed?”

  She cocked her eyes and smiled mockingly. “That’d be fine with me, but I don’t think Anais would want me to listen to you two make love.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about this gig when we hired you?”

  “It was a part-time thing. Only when he was in New York. And he wasn’t here that often. He was stationed in D.C. I didn’t see the need.”

  “You didn’t see the need?”

  She glared at me as she walked back to the couch, her eyes like hot branding irons. “No. I didn’t see the need.”

  Somewhere outside a dog began to bark. I reframed the images I’d stored of her scrambling about in the snow, shooting her way out of trouble. And the calmness of her eyes as she related the story came back to me. Perhaps I didn’t want to admit that I admired her courage and coolness.

  I didn’t want to care what happened to her. And I suppose I had good reason to feel that way. At the very least she misled me, and may’ve lied too. Shit like that pissed me off. Not only was it disrespectful, it was a sign that she thought I may’ve been a chump. And I never thought of myself as a chump.

  Besides, whatever she’d gotten herself involved in, she’d done knowingly. Why the hell should I care what happened to her? But I did
. Maybe I was a chump after all.

  I looked out the window. The redbrick church across the street stood out against the white-blossomed trees, its spire rising like Excalibur in the lake. The dog continued to bark and I felt nausea stirring in my chest, the kind of treacherous feeling I used to get when I prepared to go out onto the streets to set up a buy and bust. Behind me I heard a droning sound. I turned around. River was sitting on the couch curled up like a hermit crab. She was crying and clawing at her face like a wild animal.

  EIGHT

  t here are parts of Brooklyn that look like wasteland. Especially on a rain-clouded day. Even though you know that before you stands a structure designed to hold inhabitants—a store, a restaurant, an apartment complex—there is something about the scarred face of these buildings, the dingy dust-colored bricks, the cracked, oil-caked sidewalks that shriek of neglect. Many of these areas are in East Flatbush and East New York, home to many immigrants who become victims of crime.

  A sixteen-year-old girl on her way from school in East Flatbush was snatched off the street and raped several times before being thrown down a flight of stairs. With information gathered at the scene and the girl’s account and description of her assailant, the police quickly nabbed the suspect. This young girl was one of many such victims who found their way to Susan Zenaro, director of the Crime Victims Counseling Center at Long Island College Hospital, but she was not the person I drove up to CVCC’s offices to see.

  Susan once worked for the Crime Victims Unit of the NYPD and we’ve been friends since then. She knew as much about me as any woman outside of my mother and wife. During that bleak period of my life after Anais left me to live on the West Coast, I spent quite a few boozed-up nights in Susan’s company, but throughout our relationship remained platonic. She was hard on men but tougher on booze, with a capacity to drink copious amounts of alcohol without getting drunk.

  A year ago I helped her secure temporary rental space in Carroll Gardens on the second floor of the building owned by a friend of mine, while a permanent home for the Crime Victims Counseling Center was being constructed on the campus of the Long Island College Hospital.