“Art Lewis was a friend of mine.” A long pause. “He was a builder. He was a fighter. He was a thinker. He was a reader. He was a sailor. He was a dancer. He rode a Harley. He was a man’s man. And he was a woman’s man.”
In the first pew Eileen Klasky, in black widow’s weeds and veil, stifled a tragic sob.
“Art Lewis lived. Art Lewis lived. And he was an example of life well lived. He was a great, great human being.”
And so on and so on.
That and other cut-rate encomiums wafted up through the afternoon heat as a long parade of celebrated, sanctimonious half-wits climbed to the pulpit. Robert Patrick, Nedra’s persecutor, introduced himself. Art had some compassionate finger in the Azure Gardens pie. Art cared deeply for something or other. Was committed to it. Lived for it. Died for it.
The show went on. Art Lewis was a nice guy, Puss had told me so, but these professional ass-lickers pegged him somewhere between George Washington and Mother Teresa. He had chopped down the cherry tree, true—but only in order to construct a artful crucifix for the visual edification of the starving.
Finally Nursie, heavy with grief, every step an ordeal, made the ascent.
“Hi.” Some snuffling. “T-thanks for coming.” Sniffling. “I . . . I loved Art so much. He was . . . he was such a man. Such a man. He was kind. He was, uh, generous.”
What else might she say about a man she’d never known?
“He was, uh, he was . . . many things. He was fair, he was . . . he was tall. He was a tall man.”
He was tall. Maybe she meant tall allegorically. But, fuck it, I’d heard as much as I could without puking. It was time to disrupt the circus and alarm the citizens. I pulled out my phone and dialed.
“Hello?” said a whispering voice.
“Commence Operation Lazarus.”
“Commence Operation Lazurus, aye.” In the Navy, exact repetition of an order was called verbatim compliance.
Meanwhile Nursie-at-the-pulpit continued the ramble and bamble. “Art was far-seeing.”
No shit. He was tall.
Then a loud thud was heard.
If some of the nearby churchgoers didn’t know better, the sound seemed to emanate from the casket. But maybe it was the acoustics and the PA system.
Nursie had paused, but now resumed. “Art was far-seeing and he—”
Two loud thuds. A few roses fell off the casket. Heads turned.
Nursie, unaware of the source of the interruption, and finding no orders on the face of her sister, soldiered on. “He was far-seeing and he saw far. One time Art said to me—”
Now a muffled shout was heard. Followed instantly by a scream from a pew close to the casket. All heads rotated toward the casket and a buzz rolled through the congregation. An older woman, holding her veiled hat to her head, hurried out, dragging her hapless husband.
In a seat toward the rear, where less-important mourners were to be found, a half-smile, quickly extinguished, passed over the face of Pussy Grace. She remembered Dick’s odd command. Go to the funeral and enjoy. Enjoy?
Nursie struggled on. “Is everything okay?”
Now a voice was clearly audible. “Lemme out of here!” With more bangs and blows. Then, to wide horror, the lid of the casket rose a few inches before falling shut with a metallic clang.
Nursie hung desperately on to the pulpit.
In the face of the miracle, fear spread like gas through the church. There was a controlled yet concerted movement for the exits.
“Lemme out of here!” cried the voice. Again the casket opened and fell shut.
Then, with a roar and a mighty push, the casket was thrown open entirely. The pleasant effluvium of well-spoiled meat rushed into the room.
This was all it took. The congregation abandoned all order in a frantic, roiling, heaving drive for the light of day. Shrieks, hollers, imprecations, and cries to God could be heard amidst the running, the shoving, and the trampling. But Blessed Sacrement had only four exits, one on each side and the main doors toward the rear, so a great stacking-up occurred. A bullop, I mused. A Navy definition. Ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag.
Then, and only then, casket gaping, did Rutland Atwater, hair dyed white, face black with apparent rot, sit up, grinning in his funeral suit, the man whose time had come.
“Where is my wife?” shouted the dead man, climbing out of his eternal resting place with rotting hands. “Where is beautiful Eileen?”
But Eileen was crawling toward the sacristy on her hands and knees, as her legs had lost the power to assist her in their normal fashion.
By this time the dead man had fully resurrected and walked the earth, arms outstretched like a TV mummy. “Where is my beautiful wife?” he shouted, “and where is my toe? Who cut off my toe?”
In the church parking lot, fourteen accidents took place, and it was claimed by some that the mummy, laughing, had commandeered the Pontiac hearse and disappeared down Sunset Boulevard in the direction of the Whisky a Go Go.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
A Hit Before She Split
Forty minutes later, in apartment 3G, Bobby opened the door, admitting Ellen Glidden.
“That motherfucker! That motherfucker!”
Bobby was in the middle of cooking up a few grams. “What motherfucker?” He swirled the vial around.
“Dick Henry, that son of a bitch. He ruined everything. The funeral was a disaster.” She was almost crying with rage. “A fucking disaster.”
“I think I heard something on the radio. There was a miracle, right? The Jesuits raised the dead?”
“It isn’t fucking funny, Bobby.”
Bobby poured off the water and let two sludgy boogers roll out on top of Art Pepper Meets the Rhythm Section. “Raising the dead on Sunset Boulevard has elements of humor to it. Where’s Bob Hope when you need him?” He snickered. “But he was dead three years before he was dead.”
“This isn’t fucking funny, Bobby. You know what this means?”
Bobby lit up, exhaled. Here was a small miracle. On Cherokee Avenue, for fuck’s sake. Crack cocaine would combust even before it was dry. “Listen, bitch, I know what it better not mean. It better not mean, Bobby, I’m so sorry. Bobby, I fucking apologize. I don’t give a fuck what went wrong. I did my part. You promised me a million dollars and I want my million dollars. And that’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“I want my million dollars. You promised and there’s no going back. Or I go to the fucking cops.” He filled his pipe again, lit up.
“Fuck you, Bobby.”
“Fine, Ellen. But you got a lot farther to fall than I do. Mrs. Glidden.”
He refilled and lit up one more time. The pleasure rolled through him, perfectly, evenly, spherically, completely. Whatever happened to him, whatever price he would come to pay, he wouldn’t complain. It was worth it. It was worth it.
“Are you threatening me, Bobby?”
“What would you call it?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw his revolver. On the bottom level of the coffee table. He reached for it, slid it across the table.
“Yes, I’m threatening you. And I’m giving you a solution at the same time. But you don’t have the guts.”
From a small bag of rocks in his leather case, he filled a second pipe and slid it across the table. “And here’s a little courage, too.”
Ellen picked up the gun, hefted it. Form and function comprised a perfect heaviness. On the table her phone vibrated. Harry. Weak- sister Harry. And now all the shit, all the shit that would come down. Well, she would deal with it. Sort things out. Because that’s what she did. Some people did things, figured things through, made decisions. Others sat around puling and whining.
Her arm straightened and, as if of its own accord, the weapon pointed itself at Bobby’s head.
“I’m sick of you, Bobby. You’re a leech and you’ve been sucking off me for fifteen years. I’m cutting you loose.”
“Fuck if you are.” He lit up and the p
urple kingdom was his.
“We’re through, Bobby.”
Bobby, supremely unfazed, looked up at the gun, exhaled. He refilled his pipe, reached for his Bic. “You don’t have the guts.”
The Glock 17 had a muzzle velocity of eight hundred feet per second. Meaning Bobby was dead in forty-five thousandths of a second. The pipe fell from his fingers, dark red blood welled up from the small hole in the exact center of his forehead.
What did she feel? Nothing. She felt nothing. Step-on-a-bug nothing. The sound of the gun hadn’t been that loud either. She went to the filthy sink, wiped off the gun with some 409 and a paper towel. Just like the criminals did on Special Counsel. Perfect. No prints.
She laid the gun on the coffee table, grabbed up her purse and coat. Then she saw the pipe that Bobby had prepared for her. That fragrance filled her mind. Of course, a last hit. A hit before she split. No, she shouldn’t. But why the fuck not? Dead Bobby wouldn’t object.
She set purse and coat aside, sat down, lit up.
But the taste—what was this shit?
She couldn’t seem to draw breath. She arched her back in her effort, saw the yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling . . . and then she . . .
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
A Gray Kitten with One Eye
The early news on Channel 9 allowed me to relive the resurrection I had fomented. Apparently, with the exception of Lazarus, Paul McCartney, and Jesus Himself, something unique had been achieved. Certainly in modern times. Ted Sargent did not mention my name.
But victory left me restless. Kiyoko maintained her intransigence and time hung heavy on my hands. I decided I would head down to Bledsoe and get it over with.
Nedra answered her phone on the fourth ring. I told her something important had come up. Robert Patrick’s appearance had reminded me directly.
As important as the resurrection in Hollywood?
I professed ignorance and was believed.
She’d made a pot of coffee and poured me a cup.
“So, how are things going? Latrell told me Mr. Ket had put a lid on the intimidation aspect down here.”
Nedra sat back, studied me. “Mr. Ket is a five-star phony. I don’t think he’s set a single foot in Africa.”
She was right, of course. I’d met Bosto Ket in his loose role as a Nigerian prince. Kufi, dashiki, an accent from somewhere. We had embarked upon a shortcut adventure but, during a surveillance interlude, Bosto had stepped on a nail. Without thought, he had given voice to a florid stream of expletives in Brooklynese.
I looked over at him. “If I didn’t know better, Bosto, I’d say you were from New York.”
Bosto swept off his kufi and threw it on the floor. “I’m from Crown Heights, Dick. And I miss it.”
“It’s not a man’s name that’s important,” I paraphrased. “It’s the content of his character.”
Bosto took a deep breath, explained. “My name is Nile Benson. Which served me well enough in the Navy. But after I was out for a while, and things weren’t going so good, I thought that maybe I’d just start over.”
“And you saw that Eddie Murphy movie.”
Bosto grinned. “I did see it.” He took off shoe and sock, squeezed a little blood out of the puncture. “My girlfriend had just kicked me out. She lived in El Segundo. I was driving home in the rain. Marine Avenue. Manhattan Beach. I forget what year it was but it was a hell of a winter and we had six or seven straight days of rain. In town I passed a business and some of the sign had shorted out. And that’s where I saw my new name, my future.” Bosto picked up his kufi, slapped the dust off of it, put it back on his head.
“What business was that?” I guess I was slow on the uptake.
“Boston Market.”
BOSTON MARKET
BOSTO KET
Thusly, a Nigerian prince entered the universe. “What do you want me to call you, Bosto? Bosto? Or should it be Nile?”
“Call me . . .” Here he paused, if not at the Rubicon, at least the East River. “Call me . . .”
“Why don’t I call you Bosto? That’s how we met. That’ll keep things simple.”
Bosto grinned, we shook hands, had enjoyed each other’s company ever since.
“Where’s Bosto from, Dick?” asked Nedra. “Did he say?”
“Nigeria. But maybe it’s Gambia.” I shrugged.
“Nigeria, Gambia, all the same to you,” said Nedra, parsing her displeasure. “Now why are you here?”
I looked deep into her dark eyes. “Business. I’ve been asked to ask you a question.”
“By whom?”
“By the man building Azure Gardens.”
“You’re a traitor.”
“I’m a businessman.”
“What does he want, Dick?”
“He wants to know why you’re insisting on staying here. Bledsoe Park.”
Anger narrowed her eyes. “Do I really have to explain a black woman’s connection—”
“A black person’s connection to the land and all that stuff.”
“All that black-tragedy stuff.”
“I’m not going there. I’m appealing to your intellect. Bledsoe is doomed. Azure Gardens is coming. You must know that. You must see that. It can’t be stopped. Why are you holding on?”
“Why don’t you leave, Dick.”
I pressed on. “Mr. Patrick has offered you a hundred thousand dollars. This place, on the tax rolls, is worth eighty-two fifty. Why are you holding on?”
“Get the hell out of here, Dick Henry.”
“I’ve heard you talk about schools and clinics and after-school programs. Cash money would give you an opportunity to do all those things.”
Nedra took a deep breath, exhaled as if she were concentrating her essence. “This woman won’t be pushed off her land.”
“Not for a hundred grand.”
She held her forehead in her right hand, looked down at the tabletop. Her voice was a whisper. “Not for a . . . for a measly hundred grand.”
“Okay. For a measly two hundred?”
“Two hundred?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars. Is that enough?”
She looked up at me. “No. It’s not enough.”
“Okay. Three. Three hundred thousand. Is that enough?”
I saw her eyes fill with tears. “No,” she said. Like there was a nail in her guts. “It’s not enough.”
Her little gray, one-eyed kitty took that moment to run through the kitchen. He looked at me, scuttled behind the refrigerator. In that instant, all was revealed to me.
“Four. What about four hundred thousand, Nedra?”
Tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks. “No, Dick. I can’t do it. Can’t do it.” Her hands were knotted together and she lowered her head, between her arms, facedown, to the tabletop.
“And what about five?” I knew what her answer would be.
Nedra sobbed as if her heart would break. “No, Dick, no. I can’t.”
I checked a final time. Just for drill. Or perhaps the Shortcut Man was getting a small, hard, cruel piece of his own. “A million dollars, Nedra. A million. What do you say to that?”
She groaned a terrible groan from the bottom of her soul.
But I’d had enough. It was time.
“Why don’t you tell me, Nedra?” I said quietly. “Tell me who’s under the house.”
Nedra raised her head up, looked at me through centuries of pain. Then she lowered her head back to the tabletop, and the torrent was loosed.
I put my hand on her shoulder.
Her brother, she later explained, was under the house. Under a thick layer of home-laid concrete. Poured by her father. Her brother had come home very high, disappointed and enraged with something that had gone wrong. An argument had broken out with his father. The argument had turned violent. It had been the culmination of years of argument and her father had only meant to wave the gun.
Nedra had been trapped in the house ever since. For twenty years. Maintaining her d
eceased father’s reputation and, by extension, polishing the urban legend that her brother had become. A brother taken down by the man.
The FBI and the CIA denied responsibility. But no one believed them. There were the Tuskeegee Airmen, after all. There was Rosewood. There was Emmett Till. There were a million horrors that had turned into statistics. Strange Fruit.
Not that Nedra disbelieved the precepts she proclaimed from Pulpit Bledsoe. She did believe them. But there was no choice as to her espousing those principles.
“What do I do, Dick?” A great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. In sharing, light had pierced the darkness.
I looked at her. “Obviously, the truth isn’t going to be good for much of anything,” I began.
Her solemn dark eyes regarded me. Then that melodious laugh bubbled out of her throat and she laughed and I laughed and we laughed. It was probably hysterical but we couldn’t stop. Until tears began anew. “What do I do?”
“I’ll think of something,” I said. Because I would. Because I’m the Shortcut Man. And, suddenly, there it was in my mind.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Public Property
Six months had passed and the morning was sunny and brisk, just the way I like it. My 1969 Cadillac Coupe de Ville, perfectly tuned, rolled down Sunset Boulevard on the way downtown.
Perfect justice is impossible but I had put matters in the ballpark.
Pussy Grace married Clark Peach and was now Pussy Peach. Excuse me, Penelope Peach.
Ellen Glidden had inhaled some kind of poison and Hangin’ Harry had swallowed his gun.
Art’s death had been reexamined by the coroner’s office and certain questions had arisen concerning his late and surprising marriage. Various liars and prevaricators sought refuge in amended versions of the truth, and somewhere, I knew, an altar boy was taking it in the can for Almighty God. All was right with the world.
Commensurate with Art having died twice, a second funeral had been scheduled. It was extremely well attended, SRO, and a good time was had by all. Clifford Spence again presided from the choir loft. For a few minutes during the service I felt as if I knew the deceased. Art sounded like a nice guy, a man I would’ve liked. Happy trails, Mr. Lewis. May the road rise to meet your step.
Tribulations of the Shortcut Man Page 18