New York City Noir

by Tim McLoughlin

  She didn’t respond to my lame attempts at flirting, and we walked along Jamaica Avenue in silence, passing the gated entrances of fast-food restaurants, 99-cent stores, and discount clothing outlets with names like Foxy Lady and Tic Tock. The sky above us had a chunky, textured look about it; mounds of cloud clung stubbornly to the midnight blue, as often happened after a storm. It had been an uncharacteristically stormy summer. A crushed can of Colt 45, however, still balanced precariously on the fence post of King’s Manor.

  “I don’t know why people drink that swill!” I knocked the can over in an attempt at irreverence, accidentally splashing my sneakers with stale beer. Shit.

  The girl led me a little further to a Salvadoran café with Christmas bulbs and plastic flowers in its window.

  “I’m Janette,” she said, as we slid into an upholstered booth.

  “Dougie,” I grinned.

  “Dougie, huh? That’s cute.” She drummed her fingernails on the table between us. “I hate that you can’t smoke anywhere anymore.”

  “Been smoking long?”

  “Since I was thirteen.”

  “Nasty habit.”

  She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. I ordered beer for both of us. Music and words incomprehensible to me floated from a juke box somewhere in the place.

  “My brother committed suicide,” Janette said suddenly. My beer caught in my throat and a bit of it dribbled down my chin. “You’re conducting an investigation here, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “So, here.” Janette reached into her back pocket and shot a scrap of paper across the table at me. “That’s the name of the detective.”

  “Detective?”

  She shook her head at me in disbelief. “What the fuck? Are you a reporter or what?” She rolled her eyes. “The detective working my brother’s case, you moron.”

  “Right, right.” I took a pull on the neck of my beer, trying to recover. “Here’s the thing,” I said, leaning toward her across the table. “Your pops said this happened a month ago.”

  “A little less than a month ago. We’re just really stressed about how long all this is taking, you know?”

  “Right, but a month ago?” I sit up straight. “A month ago is not a story today. After a month, there’s no story. I’m sorry.”

  “But my brother is dead.” Janette’s aggressive demeanor crumbled.

  “You’re talking suicide here.” I shook my head sympathetically. “That’s tragic, but I can tell you straight up: If your brother chose to kill himself, we ain’t gonna run it in the paper now, know what I mean?”

  “My brother did not choose to kill himself.” Janette’s eyes flashed angrily.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, call the detective.”

  “Wait.” I wave the waiter over for another round. “If you already have a detective working the case, why the calI on the scanner?”

  Janette ignored my question and turned to the waiter. “I’ll have a Jack and ginger.”

  “And,” I continued, “if you already know he took his own life, why not just grieve and clean out that bedroom and move on?”

  She remained silent.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I’m not offended,” she shrugged. “Your questions are valid.”

  “Any answers?”

  “If I had answers, would I be sitting here talking to you?” She smiled slyly. “I think not.”

  * * *

  I never cared for police precincts. Not that I’d had much experience with them.

  Occasionally, I was sent to the local station house to clarify a fuzzy docket that’d come over the teletype, but the officers always seemed less than welcoming. I usually got out of there as soon as I could, which was what I intended the afternoon following my interview with Janette. In a moment of hopeful lust, I’d promised I would speak to this Detective Spurlock, and she, in turn, promised she’d speak to me again. So here I was in the 103rd Precinct at the detective squad.

  “Come on back.” Detective Spurlock motioned toward one cluttered desk among many. With a swish of a burly arm, he cleared a chair of paperwork for me to sit. “You got good timing, kid. Caught me right before sign-out. Minute later, I’d a been gone for the night . . . Coffee?”

  I glanced over his shoulder at a stained-glass pot that contained what looked to be black sludge. “No thanks.”

  “Smart,” he shrugged, sipping boldly from a chipped mug. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m here about the Stuckey case.”

  “The Stuckeys.” Spurlock ran a pink hand through a thick head of white hair. “Listen, I don’t know what your connection to this family is, but—”

  “I’m a reporter for the Weekly Item,” I interrupted.

  “That so?” He nodded. “Well, good luck. Once they’ve got your number, you’re getting no peace from then on. My advice: Steer clear. There’s no story there.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking too, but if there was,” I lean in, “what would it be?”

  Spurlock furrowed his brow. “Meaning?”

  “The parents seem to think their son was murdered.”

  “Okay, kid, I’ll indulge you, I’ve got nothing but time, right?” He shuffled through a stack of bulging file folders before selecting the thinnest one. “Here we go.” He took a swig from his mug and whipped on his reading glasses. “Edwin Stuckey, age twenty-two, found hanged in his own bedroom, March 2.” He paused at the date, gave me the once-over, continued reading from his notes. “Apparent suicide, no suspicious circumstances, blah, blah, case closed.”

  Spurlock sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Wait a minute.” I flipped through my own notebook. “If you began your investigation on March 2, why did the call come over my scanner just two days ago?”

  “Ahh,” the detective laughed. “They won’t stop, these people. I closed this case one week after it happened, and they’ve been phoning 911 ever since.” He shook his head. “Hell, I’d arrest the two of them for Aggravated Harassment if it weren’t so damn sad.”

  “So there’s nothing? Nothing to suggest the murder that the family thinks occurred?”

  ‘’Nope.’’ Spurlock reopened the folder and flipped through the paperwork. “The sister gave me a couple a names of some friends of his, who turned out not to be friends at all. The boy didn’t have any friends.” He handed me the list. “Church members. A bit too pious for my tastes, but hey, to each his own.” He closed the folder and switched off his desk lamp. “Like I said: case closed.”

  * * *

  Of course, there was no story. But I went ahead and crafted a lead and pitched it to my editor.

  Jamaica, Queens—A twenty-two-year-old man was found hanged in his bedroom under mysterious circumstances. Family members suspect foul play.

  He glanced at it before tossing it aside. “We don’t do suicides.”

  Still, I wanted to see Janette again. I steeled myself for the journey. It took me nearly two hours: the F train, then the Q76 bus to the end of the line. The bus wove its way down residential streets before groaning to a halt at the concrete 165th Street terminal in Jamaica, Queens.

  It was bedlam. Greyhound on crack. People mobbed each designated bus slot, frantically directing the drivers into their respective spaces. An open, buzzing vegetable market operated behind the commuters, and as the day was a hot one, clouds of flies swarmed crates of long onions and collard greens. An old woman wearing a hairnet sat on a folding chair selling spices and exotic remedies sealed in plastic baggies. There was too much going on here; I was used to separation: a bus terminal being a bus terminal, a vegetable market being a vegetable market. Here, in Janette’s neighborhood, everything was everything all at once.

  I cut behind the terminal through the Colosseum Mall and down tight aisles displaying brightly colored skirts and cell phone accessories. Out on the other side stood the First Presby
terian Church of Jamaica; Edwin’s funeral had been held there.

  “Yo, man, you good?” A guy about my age peered at me from beneath an open car hood.

  “What? Oh, yeah man, yeah.” I kept moving.

  Jamaica Avenue, almost there. On the “Ave,” all the girls resembled Janette, with their manicured hands, toes, and eyebrows. Women sashayed bare-legged, wearing tight clothes; streaked, braided hairdos; metallic purses; chatting casually on headsets while munching on meat kebobs and cubes of sugared coconut.

  I was tripping.

  “Help? A little help?” A thin, thin, thin woman with a red cap pulled so low that she had to raise her chin to look at me blocked my path. “Ice-e?” She extended a cart toward me with a brutal shove. A regulation grocery cart, sealed in duct tape, enclosed with a plastic lid, a cardboard cut-out of brightly colored ice creams taped to its sides.

  “Whoa,” I muttered, gripping the cart to keep from being run down. A plastic wheel jumped the rim of my sneaker, leaving a marked trail.

  “Ice-e?” the woman repeated sternly.

  I hadn’t noticed the man next to her. The old cat was just squatting there on the balls of his feet, arms extended at awkward angles from where they rested on each knee. In front of him stood a stack of newspapers and, atop the stack, a neat pile of quarters. I recognized the paper, a freebie like mine, but here on the street it cost a quarter.

  I slapped some coins in his palm and snatched up a copy. The lead caught my eye:

  Jamaica, Queens—A young man recently found hanging in his bedroom has been identified as Edwin Stuckey, age twenty-two. Family members say the list of suspects is numerous and have sealed off the scene of the crime—the home—until further notice. The police have no comment.

  The Crusading Home of Deliverance was located in a sprawling Victorian residence. It wouldn’t have been recognizable as a church were it not for the small cardboard sign and handmade cross posted in a none-too-clean bay window. I checked Detective Spurlock’s directions several times before rapping on the front door.

  I’d tried to contact Janette after seeing the brief article about her brother in the competition, but she wasn’t taking my calls. So what was I doing? Seems I needed to know what happened to Edwin Stuckey after all.

  “Are you here for evening service?” A smiling elderly woman dressed in white opened the door. I could see behind her into a drab parlor containing metal folding chairs, a podium, and what looked like a small organ.

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “I’m here to see Reverend Pine.”

  Did I have an appointment? she inquired, continuing to smile.

  I admitted I didn’t but assured her it was important, that I was here about Edwin Stuckey.

  “Edwin. Yes.” She bowed her head. “We are still mourning his loss, but happy for his deliverance.”

  “Yes, well . . . Reverend Pine?”

  I followed the woman into the room and took a seat in the back row. The room was large and half-filled, all its occupants black, conversing in hushed voices.

  “Son?” A slim, natty man dressed in a three-piece suit charged toward me with his hand extended. “I’m the Reverend Pine, and I welcome you to our sanctuary.” He shook my hand with an intense vigor before adjusting his chunky glasses and straightening his tie. “We can speak briefly in my office. I’ve got service in an hour and I must prepare.” He cleared his throat. “You understand.”

  I studied the hallway he led me down. On either side of the wall were photographs of the reverend with parishioners and community dignitaries. His office, lined with two bookcases of theological texts, contained more of the same.

  Reverend Pine took a seat behind his desk. “You’re here for Edwin?”

  “Yes, sir.” I shifted in my seat. “I’m a reporter for the—”

  “Weekly Item. I know.” He smiled wryly.

  I peered up at him sharply.

  “I keep myself informed, son.” He laughed and adjusted himself in his seat. “See, my congregation is this here community, and we are all interested in Edwin’s well-being. We even trust that you are interested in his well-being.”

  I was suddenly growing wary of this man and his glib talk of dead Edwin’s well-being.

  “Look, I don’t know what kind of shop you’re running here—”

  “There’s no need to be disrespectful.” Reverend Pine pinned me with his gaze. “What do you want to know? Edwin Stuckey saw a flyer for our church revival last summer, showed up at our doors, and we welcomed him.”

  “So why does his family think he was murdered? Why did his sister give the names of members of your congregation to the police?”

  Pine shrugged nonchalantly. “Why? You best ask Edwin’s sister, Janette, yourself. Before he came to us, Edwin had no friends. He had no interests. He had no hope. He was very depressed. We tried to comfort him.”

  “He killed himself.”

  “No, he didn’t.” Pine took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. “There’s a problem in our society, son, that I’m sure you’re familiar with. Loss of hope.”

  I stared at the man, attentive despite myself.

  “Let me be clear here.” He held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “I do not advocate suicide. I did not encourage Edwin Stuckey to kill himself. I pray for his soul every day. But Edwin and his family are the reason I do what I do: People do lose hope and not all of them regain it. And not all of them can accept when hopelessness claims one of their own.”

  “Look, Reverend Pine, that’s a nice sermon and all, but I’m just here for the facts,” I said.

  He opened his arms. “Sadly, those are they.”

  * * *

  To my everlasting surprise, I sat through all three hours of Reverend Pine’s service. It was motivating, it was uplifting, it was hopeful. The tears, the tambourines, the shouting. Most importantly, though, it did not compel me to commit suicide. It made me want to get on with my life.

  When the door of Deliverance closed behind me and I stepped onto the cracked sidewalk beyond its front stairway, I decided to phone Janette one final time. I watched a group of middle school girls skip double-dutch further down the street. The clothesline they were using for a jump rope slapped the pavement fiercely and their chants rippled down the block: “All, all, all in together, any kind of weather . . .”

  The father answered, said Janette was out. “Mr. Stuckey, this is Douglass, the reporter,” I began.

  “Yes?” His voice rose to an expectant pitch. “Any progress?”

  “See the teacher looking out the window. Dong, dong, the fire-bell . . .” The girls picked up their volume, feet racing the rope.

  On the line I let out a sigh, and I heard Mr. Stuckey deflating in the silence. “Unfortunately, sir, I am no longer able to pursue this story.” Across the street, a dude carrying a basketball under one arm shouted after a car rolling past on a wave of bass line.

  “That boy who did that to himself was not my son, he was someone else. Somebody did something, or said something that—” Stuckey cleared his throat. “Someone should be held responsible.”

  I hesitated, then snapped my phone shut.

  “How many ringers can you take? One, two, three, four . . .” The girls ticked off their chant behind me.

  INTRODUCTION

  AN ERRINGLY PERFECT LANDSCAPE

  In the always entertaining send-up known as the Urban Dictionary, "Staten Island" is defined as "a floating dump that sits in New York Harbor. Often mistaken for a populated borough." Alternate definitions include: "Brooklyn with parking," "recepticle [sic] of New York City's garbage—paper, plastic, and human," "where the hair is high and the IQ is low," and "name given to the small pile of gristle, burnt ends, and spit-out left on the edge of your plate at the end of a meal," as in:

  Have you finished your dinner?

  Yep.

  What about that last mouthful?

  Nah, that's just Staten Island.

  Incensed? Insulted? Then you're probab
ly not a native of the island. Some of Staten Island's most vocal detractors are those who grimly populate its clutter. They're the ones spewing expletives after a snowy-white Escalade or a tricked-out Camaro smushes them against the railing on the Outerbridge. They're growling because it's August and there's that certain fragrance wafting on the breeze. They're the ones who consider their entertainment options for the upcoming weekend and realize, once again, that the choices are 1) the mall; 2) the mall; or 3) hop the ferry and get the hell away from . . . the mall.

  Next time you're on the island, slow your stroll and take a good long look at the oft-falling faces of its citizenry. There is very little veering toward glee. Sure, you can find giggling children romping in a kid-sized anthill at the Children's Museum or picture-book couples strolling hand-in-hand through the Greenbelt. There are raucous side streets that feel like a family reunion, with neighbors conversing from their stoops and a cool clash of salsa and Sinatra blaring from open windows. Indeed, there are sometimes whole gaggles of happy people doing apparently happy things and looking damned pleased to be living in . . . in . . . uh, that other borough.

  But in front of, behind, and on either side of these perky few plods a Greek chorus on Thorazine, shuffling in the shadows and moaning a soundtrack of regional discontent. The tragic chorale seems to be made up mostly of my writing students at the College of Staten Island. When I ask them to write anything about where they live, they sigh and roll their eyes so dramatically they can see who's behind them without turning around.

  Each semester I confront a different group of eye-rollers, but when the topic is Staten Island the consensus varies only slightly:

  "Nothing ever happens."

  "Nothing ever happens."

  "Nothing ever happens."