Love and Death in Brooklyn

by Glenville Lovell

  “Did you ever threaten him?”

  “She’s been spreading those lies to anyone who’d listen. The police came to my house. Asked me that same question.”

  “So, did you?”

  “No, never. You see, Ronan fired me from his office, but he didn’t fire me from his life.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, he was all up in my shit the night before he was killed. He wanted this child. He told me he had stopped seeing Dr. Liar. That he was going to find another therapist.”

  “Did he ever tell you what made him decide to see a therapist?”

  “Not really. But I think it had something to do with his father. There were things he couldn’t talk about.”

  “Who else knows you’re carrying Ronan’s child?”

  “Other than Dr. Liar? I don’t know.”

  “What’re you doing now? Work-wise?”

  “Teaching.”

  “College?”

  “High school.”

  “Does that pay well enough to take care of you and a baby?”

  Her eyes hardened. “I’ll be fine. I don’t need any help if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “I was just wondering what Ronan’s father would say.”

  “I’d thank you not to say anything to him or anybody in Ronan’s family.”

  “I’ll try to keep your secret. Do you have a name picked out?”

  “If it’s a girl I’m going to name her Sylvana. If it’s a boy, Sylvan. That was my grandfather’s name.”

  “Nice name.”

  “You have any kids?”

  “A girl. Name’s Chesney.”

  “I want a girl.” She paused and sipped hot chocolate. “I don’t know why. Just do.”

  I rose from the table. “I’ll be getting along. Thanks for meeting me.”

  She looked up at me. “If you say anything about the baby I’ll just deny everything.”

  I went down the stairs and out through the door into the hazy cold. For a moment I stood there watching as young men and women who likely didn’t make the passing grade for entry milled about, hands in coat pockets, their faces screwed up against the bitter wind as if wondering if they might’ve had better luck if they’d brought a gift. I wondered if it would snow. It seemed a perfect evening for snow.

  TWENTY

  p ryce Merkins owned a town house on Charles Street in the Village. I’d bet he owned several other homes in different parts of the country. Men like him always do. According to newspaper legend he was one of those shrewd self-made immigrant millionaires trotted out by conservatives to tout the pervasiveness of the Almighty American Dream. Arriving from Russia at the age of six with his mother, he grew up somewhere in Brooklyn spending summers and evenings working in his uncle’s hardware store, while studying computer science at Brooklyn College. Opened his own electronics store on Pitkin Avenue in Brooklyn at twenty-two. Sold that store before moving to Manhattan to start a software company. Made a ton when that went public ten years later. Became a darling with the black-coutured downtown crowd when he financed a fringe musical based on Alice in Wonderland with Alice as an immigrant Russian girl in Brooklyn to rave reviews, moving it uptown to Broadway. Plenty of champagne-filled parties later, the show had won a Tony and Pryce Merkins found himself munching beluga with puff-shouldered Hollywood moguls, sleeping with coked-out, burnt-out stars, and playing dream-maker to young waifs with gold statuettes dancing in their eyes.

  He made the most of it. People like him always do. He understood that Broadway was New York. And New York was Broadway. He staged free concerts in city parks throughout the boroughs and cozied up to politicians, getting himself sweetheart real-estate deals for his other businesses for enticing movie production to New York. He sponsored a theater scholarship in his name at the New School, pouring money into plays and musicals, looking for that next Broadway hit. At one point he was even mentioned as a possible running mate for the governor.

  But people like Merkins don’t run for political office when they can stuff a few stiff shirts into their pockets. From time to time his business dealings came under scrutiny. Investigated twice by the SEC for insider trading but no charges were ever laid. He never left a warm enough trail. People like him never do. Between offshore accounts and shell companies guarded by a bullpen of aggressive lawyers and accountants, Merkins’s financial lair was so complex that even Theseus with his ball of twine would’ve had difficulty navigating that labyrinth.

  Charles Street was one of those Village blocks where nothing seemed to be going on until you took a stroll down its narrow confines. Then you’d see the cozy restaurants or colorfully decorated stores selling old greeting cards and posters tucked away in basements. Merkins’s town house at the end of the quiet block of redbrick buildings had wide ground-floor windows outfitted with rich purple blinds. The recently repaired cement sidewalk had been roped off but someone had already initialized the artwork with a handprint in the wet cement.

  Carefully I balanced my way across the bridge of raised planks above the moat of drying cement and took the red steps to the front door two at a time. I rang the buzzer twice, stepped back, and waited.

  A glancing wind swept off the Hudson River, whistling noiselessly through the empty branches and above the low apartments, rotting to nothing as it smacked into the high-rises on the east side. I glanced self-consciously down at my shoes and began to ruffle specks of dirt from the cuffs of my black corduroy pants as the door clacked open.

  The man at the door barely reached up to my chest. He was much too young to be Merkins, flamboyantly dressed in a purple sweater and shiny green satin pants. He had raccoon eyes, his skin much too pale to be healthy, almost bleached to the point where there was no tone whatsoever.

  “Yes . . . Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Pryce Merkins.”

  “So’s everybody else in theater. What’s so special about you?” His voice was as pale as his face, high-pitched like the aftershock of an electronic flute.

  “Name’s Blades.”

  “Blade. Hmm! You don’t look like Wesley Snipes. And the vampires around here don’t come out ’til Halloween. Come back then.”

  I wedged my foot at the base to stop him from closing the door. “Tell him it’s Anais Machel’s husband.”

  His amber eyes floated over my face. “You have to get your foot out of the door.”

  “Will you tell him I’m here?”

  He flinched. “Yes.”

  I let him close the door. For a while I just stood there staring at the detailed carving of the doorpost, then I turned to the street, fishing through my pockets for gum. It was moments like these when I wished I hadn’t stopped smoking.

  A couple was arguing on the steps of the building across the way. The woman, looking all business in a stone trench coat flapping over a hazy blue pants suit, was screaming and waving a newspaper back and forth under the man’s eyes as if trying to deafen and hypnotize him at the same time. She’d caught him with her cousin in their apartment.

  Loser!

  He stood quietly, letting her perform her wronged-woman ritual, a scene out of a bad Ntozake Shange play.

  People passed and stared, and one kindly old woman inquired of the woman if she needed assistance. I couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

  The door opened behind me and I turned around. The Harlequin imposter stood there hand to hip, his lips tight and pursed.

  “Come in,” he said.

  I entered and he closed the door with a shot of anger. I towered over him, yet he took the time to look me over before moving past me and up the stairs. I followed, up the serpentine stairs with wooden handrails and iron spindles.

  At the top of the stairs he turned left, marched a few feet along a wide corridor armed on both sides with large black urns. He opened the double wings of a black wooden door onto a large room with a terrace, which was flooded with light from large sunlamps. For a moment I thought I’d stepped onto a movie set.<
br />
  The grand expansive room itself had a swirling high ceiling, perhaps twenty-five feet or more, framed with thick red timber. The walls were angel white, graced with large modern paintings. A chocolate German pointer was curled up on a yellow lounge chair next to a lacquered grand piano with antique legs.

  Pryce Merkins was an aggravatingly handsome man. The thought of him slobbering over my wife made my head spin. I don’t know how long I stood staring at him as if I was lost. He stood swirling cognac in a glass. It was a cognac glass, so I assumed it contained cognac. People like him would only put cognac in a cognac glass. He was dressed like a man who held himself in very high esteem, perhaps higher than he should, higher than most people would, in fact. The collar of his pink shirt was finely pressed, and he wore cuff links that glinted in the sharp light. His pants were black, linen, shiny, and expensive looking. He wasn’t as tall as me, but being slender and holding himself aloof like a dancer, he appeared taller. The skin of his face crusted like overdone quiche, showing the effects of too many hours of leisure, too many hours under an ultraviolet lamp.

  He beckoned me to him with a pompous wave of his hand, exhibiting long delicate fingers. His lips were full and dark, his chin curved; his small pulverized eyes the only mistake in an otherwise perfect face.

  “I’ve always wanted to meet Anais’s husband,” he said, extending his hand.

  I took his hand. His grip was powerful, assured.

  “I won’t take more than a few minutes of your time,” I said.

  “I have no pressing appointments,” he said jovially. “Would you like a drink? Some cognac?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Sit down then. Come . . . How about something to eat? You like caviar?”

  “No, this won’t take very long.”

  “Mister . . .”

  “Overstreet. But you can call me Blades.”

  “Blades, I get very offended when people refuse my hospitality.”

  “That’s all right. I’m used to offending people.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, you used to be a cop, right?”

  “Five years. Narco.”

  “I bet you offended a lot of people.”

  “Only punks and shitbags.”

  “How is Anais?”

  “You just saw her.”

  His eyes wavered but he recovered quickly and smiled. “Yes, I did. And she looked fine. As always.”

  “Well, you see, Mr. Merkins . . .”

  “Please call me Pryce.”

  “Well, you see, that’s what I’m here about.”

  “What?”

  “My wife . . . She told me about your meeting the other day.”

  He walked away to sit in a beige leather recliner. “Yes, I have this great play that we think would be wonderful for her.”

  I walked over and stood behind him.

  He swiveled around to face me. “I’d rather that you sit, Blades.”

  “I want you to stay away from Anais.”

  He stood up. “Did she send you here to tell me that?”

  “She doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “I suspected that. I’m not surprised she left you awhile back, Blades. You seem like a man with little self-control.”

  “I use it when I need it.”

  “Then I’ll let Anais tell me if she wants to see me or not.”

  “You don’t understand. I’ll break your fucking legs if you don’t stay away from my wife.”

  His throat tightened and his nostrils flared. “Be careful. You don’t want to threaten me.”

  “Just stay away from her.”

  I headed for the door leaving him staring into space.

  “Mr. Overstreet . . .”

  I turned around.

  “Did she tell you about the time we spent in Los Angeles when you two were separated? Is that why you’re so upset?”

  I wanted to go back and punch him in the face, but I kept it together and went out the door and down the stairs. If my calculation about Pryce Merkins was correct the chance would come again. Sooner than later. With men like him, it always does.

  TWENTY-ONE

  a nais had gone to bed early that night and didn’t hear me come in. After showering, I snuggled up to her in our canopy bed, listening to her even breathing, hoping she would wake up, but not wanting to be so obvious about my intentions. She must’ve been exhausted because ordinarily my presence this close would’ve stirred her. This time it didn’t and I was forced to resort to more aggressive tactics.

  She was lying on her stomach. Under the down comforter her short chamois had ridden up past her hips exposing her smooth ass. Leaning on my elbow I surveyed the mountains and valleys of her body; the high rise of her butt leveling off in the plain of her muscled lower back. I slid my hand along the back of her leg, up along her thighs, coming to rest on the peak of her buttocks. Her legs were far enough apart for me to dip a finger between the gulf of her thighs. She was moist. I became enthused by this discovery. But my insistent finger did not have the effect I hoped. She neither stirred nor sighed in any somnambulist pleasure. I gave up trying to wake her and rolled over to dream.

  BROOKLYN IS the home of the bargain shopper. Walk along Church or Nostrand Avenues and the number of stores advertising the lowest prices in New York would make your eyes sweat with fatigue. From shoddy 99-cent stores to real-estate offices advertising foreclosure specials.

  Next morning Anais and I strolled along Church Avenue, charmed to smiles by the passion of the brilliant accents around us. Silver clouds drifted across the sky like wayward gulls. A dog slept at the foot of an Asian youth sipping from a Snapple bottle, wearing Number 23 as fluently as any black kid in Harlem. The sound of someone playing keyboards drifted across the street. Inside a car a woman sat peeling a yellow-skinned mango with a smile on her face so elegant it could only be explained by conjuring images of angels. Old women hunched over to keep warm at the bus stop. Young men with the fabulous elongated bodies of athletes or models sauntered enterprisingly down the sidewalk, appropriating all the space without regard for the elderly couple approaching. The beautiful people chased around Manhattan by paparazzi didn’t have anything on these folks.

  We bought some vegetables and fruit from a Korean grocery and took a chance buying fish from a market next door before walking back to the car parked on a quiet side street a few blocks away.

  I opened the trunk to put our purchases inside. Leaving Anais to pack and close the trunk, I went to open the passenger door. Having spent so much time as an undercover cop, I’d developed a great set of instincts. With my keys in my hand poised to open the door, I got one of those sixth sense flashes: Somebody’s watching you.

  I spun around. Across the street, standing next to a black SUV, was Lizard-Face.

  Before I could do anything he raised his right hand. A silver flash. I flew to Anais screaming, “Get down!” For a second she stared at me, her eyes frozen in shock. I dragged her to the ground, groping for my Glock.

  But Lizard-Face did not open fire.

  I knelt behind the still-open car trunk. Anais was somewhere under the back of the car. I could feel her legs against mine. I fought the dizzying rush of blood to my head. Steadying the gun by bracing my left hand under my right wrist, I aimed it across the street.

  Lizard-Face had disappeared.

  Frantic, I scoped left and right along the drab street. No Lizard-Face. I scanned the block again. Passersby who’d heard me scream and who may’ve stopped to see what was happening had scampered when they saw my gun. I stood up and crossed the street at a dead run to the SUV. Nobody inside.

  We were on a block of quiet flat redbrick semi-detached houses. A clean-looking block. Lizard-Face could’ve slipped in between the houses and through a backyard and gone without anybody really noticing. I rushed back to Anais, still lying under the car.

  Kneeling down, I spoke to her softly. “Come out, babe. It’s safe now.”

  She was sobbing. “What the fuck was th
at all about, Blades?”

  “I’ll explain on the way home.”

  “I’m not coming out from under this car until you tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “I don’t want to stay around here, sweet-pea. It might not be safe.”

  She stopped crying and slowly inched from under the car. The front of her coat was lashed with dirt. Her moistened cheek was speckled with granules of red sand. There was a laceration in the palm of her right hand that seeped a tiny amount of blood. She looked at her hand, wiped it on her coat, and hugged me.

  “Are you okay?” she said, swiping her coat arm across her cheek.

  “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  Her eyes were as wide as lakes and I wanted to throw myself inside. Just lose myself in all of her. I suppose it’s normal for a man to feel this way after he and his wife have just escaped death.

  AS I DROVE, checking my mirror for a tail, I told Anais about Lizard-Face coming to our home. In a span of three minutes the man had boiled me into a paranoid lather.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” Anais cried.

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “I warned you about that woman, Blades. Didn’t I warn you about her?”

  “Don’t blame this on her, Anais.”

  “Don’t blame this on her! What’s wrong with you? This asshole threatens your family because of some situation he got with this bitch and you telling me not to blame her?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Let the police handle it, Blades. What am I going to do if the next time that nut job sees you he just shoots you dead? What then?”

  I glanced over at Anais. She will be forever beautiful in my eyes. But right at that moment as the crusader, the passionate champion for my safety, she was never more stunning, with the handsome sweep to her forehead, insolent lips, and big wide-set eyes.

  “Nothing’s gonna happen to me, Anais.”

  “I don’t want to hear that, Blades.”

  “I promise.”