“Just to talk a few minutes. It’s about family. Nothing official.”
“Maybe if somebody be good to us, take care of our thirst and maybe a couple lottery tickets. Maybe we hungry.”
So if I furnish the refreshments, maybe they’ll tell me where she lives. If they know. If this isn’t a petty con game. Am I desperate enough to buy two Colt 45s, two lottery tickets, and take-out chicken?
Yes.
After a couple of minutes, I hand out the bribes while juggling Biscuit in one arm. “But this here bottle ain’t cold, lady. This here feels warm as spit.” With my neck and face flushing hot, I go back inside to exchange the warm bottles for iced.
“Tha’s better.” The short one scrapes his scratch card with a fingernail, which a manicurist would admire. Both men clink bottles and chugalug and peer into the bag of buffalo wings. Finally, the short one points to a sky-blue duplex midway in the next block. “Try up there.”
By now, it feels like a Grail quest. The woman who answers the door won’t say her name. She’s medium height, mid-thirties, her skin a golden bronze, hair in close-cropped black waves. She stands in ironed jeans and a ripped white T-shirt, her legs planted wide apart as if the porch is a rolling deck. Big-frame dark glasses hide her eyes.
“I’m looking for Kia Fayzer. Are you Kia?”
“You a caseworker or a cop?”
“I’m Reggie Cutter. If you’re Kia, I’d like to ask about your brother Henry.”
She ignores the dog. Her eyes say don’t waste my time. Biscuit yips. She folds her arms across her chest.
“I’m here on my own. I’m not a law enforcement officer. Somebody thinks maybe Henry is innocent of the crime that sent him to prison. Somebody wants to look into it. I agreed to help. Are you his sister?”
“So you not a cop?”
“Citizen” sounds righteous, but “psychic” is loony. Words do fail. “If you’re Kia, would you give me fifteen minutes?”
In a movement that is both sinuous and cynical, she rolls her hips and lets me into a room that’s crammed with clothes and cosmetics. Her T-shirt, I see, is not simply ripped but torn cleverly. The dark glasses are unnerving.
She clears an armload of nylons and lingerie from a chair. I recognize a certain Victoria’s Secret black lace bra—the Very Sexy Seamless Plunge—which also nestles among my own lingerie, with tags still on. Mine awaits debut on a romantic night, an act of faith in my future.
“What’s on your mind?”
She sits on the edge of the mattress of a pullout sofa. I perch on the chair and speak to the lenses. “I understand Henry lived at a house on Eldridge Street thirteen years ago, before the mur— before a young man, Peter Wald, was killed. The house had a preacher named Big Doc. He was a Rastafarian. Was your brother a follower?”
“Was Henry a follower?” She snickers. “You could say he followed a boom box voice inside his head.”
“Was it Rasta music?”
“His own kind of music.”
“He was a musician or… did Henry hear voices?”
“He went his own way, did his own thing.”
Is this possible: a loner in a group house? An individualist in a cult? “I understand he had an arrest record.”
“Sure he did. Get arrested, that’s how you qualify, you hear what I’m saying.” The lenses flash.
Maybe I don’t really hear. We could easily talk past one another for the whole fifteen minutes. “What did Henry do for a living?”
“You do what you gotta do.”
“Jobs?”
“Henry was self-employed.” She falls silent. I remind her I’m trying to help. I ask for specifics. “Like when he was little, he got old sandwiches from 7-Eleven and sold ’em at beauty parlors for double what they cost.”
“And when he got older?”
“He sold some clothes.”
“He clerked?”
“He went moppin’.”
“Cleaning floors?”
She laughs loud and hard. Biscuit cocks her head and barks once. I shush her and pat her head. Her cutest expressions are going to waste. The woman is dogproof. She says, “Henry filled orders.”
“You mean he made deliveries?”
The angle of her jawline says she thinks I’m hopeless. “He delivered what you want. You want Fendi? You got it. Gucci, Manolo. What you want.”
“Stolen? Shoplifted?”
“Takin’ care of business. Look, if you’re not in school, there’s the elements—the gangs and the streets. Henry didn’t waste his time flippin’ burgers. When it comes to something hard-boil, he had his ways.”
“Was he recruited? Did Big Doc recruit him?”
“Like in the army?” She shakes her head no. “More like, when it’s cold outside, where’s he gonna stay?”
“With family?”
“We got split up a long while back. I don’t know where all Henry stayed. But when it comes down to it, if somebody’s got a house, maybe that’s cool.”
“Shelters?”
“Shelters,” she says with a sneer. “You get robbed and hit on. Juvie, they treat you bad.”
“So you think maybe he pretended to be a Rastafarian to have a place to live? He pretended to go along?”
“Did what he had to do.”
“With no limits?”
“Henry didn’t shoot nobody.” Her voice sounds disembodied. “How about drugs?”
“How ’bout ’em?” She tilts her face, and my own reflects double on the lenses. I try not to fidget.
“Wasn’t he arrested and charged with narcotics violations?”
“They never got him on that. If they got him, that’s it. Five years for five grams. If you black, they get you. That’s a fact. You know what five grams of crack look like?”
“No.”
She reaches for a suede purse, and a wave of dread rises in my stomach. She’s going to show me actual crack. Am I complicit in something? Aiding and abetting? Do I glance at the crack, then shut up about it? My palms break a sweat.
“Look. Look here.”
Is this entrapment?
She opens her palm to reveal two pennies. “Weight of five grams of crack. You lookin’ at five years hard time. That’ll get you five years stuck away. Five years for sure.”
A five-year sentence for selling just five grams of crack cocaine, the approximate weight of two pennies?
“Odds of a black man spending time in prison today is one in four. One in four.”
Surely an urban legend, but I won’t dispute her. “They get sick in there. They get TB, hepatitis. My brother’s sick.”
“I heard. Do you visit Henry?”
“Out there in Norfolk, yeah, I go out Saturday mornings when the ‘F’ visitors are allowed. I go when I got money for the debit card.”
“What do you mean?”
“Henry likes his treats, you know, like everybody. Candy, cologne, soap.”
“You can’t take him a package?”
“Lady, what planet you on? They make you buy a debit card.”
“Who, the guards?”
“The guards, the warden. Prices jacked way up. Toothpaste, a pair of socks, they got a gold mine goin’ in there. Somebody’s making big money out of prisons. No phone cards, no weekend low rates. Henry gets to feelin’ bad, he call us collect, and the real crime is the phone bill. You know who ought to do hard time? The phone company.”
Her lip curls. If she escalates this rant, I’ll lose the moment. “Tell me, was your brother an athlete? Was he a runner?”
“No.”
“A stopwatch was found near the gun that killed Peter Wald.”
“Henry played ball. That white boy got shot by a white man in a running suit. Henry told me true. He wouldn’t touch a gun, no, ma’am. That’s how I know he didn’t shoot nobody.”
“What about the stopwatch?”
“Watches, now, if you wanted Rolex, he get you one. His price was right. You want Cartier, you got it. Maybe what
they found is Henry’s merchandise.”
That cheap plastic thing? Not for a trafficker in Rolexes. No way. “Do you have a picture of Henry? I’d like to see it.”
She pauses, finally shrugs, and goes to a closet door hung with a thick wedge of clothes. She feels in pockets for a key, then unlocks a bureau drawer and returns with a black-and-white school photo of a serious, thin boy in his late teens with short hair, not dreadlocks. He has soft, liquid eyes and a diamond stud in his left ear. His smile is shy and a bit sly. I wonder who’s treating his hepatitis.
“May I hold the photo?”
“It’s a old one.”
Her sisterly undertone is wistful. Kia gently hands me the photograph, and I hold it carefully. Seconds pass without one psychic vibe. Zero. Those liquid eyes prompt a perverse thought: had Henry Faiser been imprisoned for selling two cents’ weight of crack, he wouldn’t have been near Peter Wald on Eldridge Street. He’d be out now, a free man.
“So who is this lookin’ into Henry’s case?”
I hand back the photo. “I can’t say. It’s someone in the justice system.”
“They catch the one that did it? They got some DNA?”
“Not that I know.”
“Then you playing games.”
“No, I’m helping an investigation.”
“With cops?”
“I can’t tell you. And I can’t promise Henry anything. We’ll have to see.” I pick up Biscuit. “Maybe it’s best not to tell your brother.”
“ ’Cause it’s lies.”
“Because it’s complicated.”
We’re at the front door. I step onto the porch and thank her. Kia’s taunting voice follows me down the sidewalk past the liquor store where the two young men loiter with bottles and losing scratch cards.
“They got him in there ’cause that boy got killed was a white rich man’s son. One of ours is goin’ to pay for that. They’re makin’ money off us. They got our people locked up to make money.”
“Reggie, Mattapan is off-limits. Where’s your learning curve?” Meg Givens and I are lunching in a bookstore café near Copley Square. It’s nearly 1:00 p.m., and we’ve chatted and browsed bestsellers while waiting for the table. Meg likes my turquoise sweater set. I’ve admired her russet jacket. Her earrings are tiny red hats. We’re both famished and irritable.
“Dangerous parts of Boston, Reggie, you have to be careful.”
“Like the Back Bay?”
“Oh, you still think you heard somebody mugged in the fog?”
“And dragged off. With a horrible sound, like strangling.”
“Mattapan is not for a white woman like you. Too much crime. What were you doing way out there anyway?”
“I was trying to find the sister of a man who…wrote a letter.”
“To your aunt? I guess you’ve got to go through her things sooner or later.”
“Actually, it was a letter from a man in prison.”
Meg looks up sharply. “Your aunt was a saint, Reggie. She championed underdogs. She fought for good causes morning, noon, and night.”
“It energized her.”
“But she was one of a kind. Her files are probably chock-full of wacko pleas for help, and you can’t be responsible. Not to smudge Josephine Cutter’s memory, Reggie, but my advice is, ignore those letters. I’ve read that prisoners send them like dogs shed fleas. They’re more or less bulk mailings, and if the prisoners don’t have real paper, they use toilet tissue. Was this one?”
“Prison-issue Charmin? No, Meg, this letter was on notebook paper. The lettering was vivid and blocklike. The wording was basic.”
Inside I hesitate. Did Henry Faiser send out lots of letters just like the one he mailed to Frank Devaney? What if the same plea went out to prison support groups, to ministers, to random names in the phone book? The man is a hustler. His sister admitted it. The plea for help and proclamations of innocence could be his latest scam.
The con game of a murderer?
Just then, however, as I take a bite, the air begins to feel heavy, and a certain pressure builds at my side. It takes effort to swallow. “Oh, ouch.”
“What’s wrong?”
An acrid odor hits my nostrils, and the air thickens. Meg’s face blurs. “My side, my rib.”
“Reggie, you look pale.”
“It hurts—”
“Drink some water. Here.”
I watch a turquoise sleeve reach for the water glass. It’s my own arm. My rib is actually…burning. I manage an icy swallow, but in my field of vision, the light shimmers and waves, although Meg seems not to see it. I set down the ice water, but my rib is on fire. Breath held, I am seeing the letter that Devaney put into my hands. It’s as if I hold it even now, as if it is part of me: “Do something. HELP ME.”
“Reggie, are you okay?”
Heat warps the light like a mirage, and my rib is scorched. I smell smoke. I haven’t touched anything to prompt this, but maybe the memory of Henry’s letter is a trigger. Or maybe Henry beams his psychic energy at me, targets me.
Meg speaks from a distance. “Reggie, do you need help? Can I help you?”
“Just a minute. Give me a minute.” But the words of clocks and timekeeping are not real. One moment melts into the next. I am suspended in smoky vapor. Meg’s face is near yet far-off. I take shallow breaths and wait until the block letters begin to fade and the burning along with them. Slowly, the heat recedes, the air clears.
“Do you need a doctor?” I manage to shake my head no. “Do you feel okay?” I nod, but my rib is still pulsing. “Reggie, for a minute there, you looked like somebody in another world.”
My mouth is dry, my voice thin. “Just a random twinge, Meg. I should’ve eaten breakfast.”
“It’s the stress. Listen, you’re not responsible for the stuff in your aunt’s files. She wouldn’t want that. Barlow Square is your home now. You need to meet new people, make new friends. Like the Red Hats, wonderful women. Another year or two, you can join. You’ll love us. Now you need to gear up, jump-start. That guy who promised to call you after his trip—have you heard from him?”
“One postcard from Hong Kong, one postcard from Cairo.”
“That’s it? Well, never mind. I say it’s time for a clean slate. Toss Jo’s files. You can use my office shredder. I’ll get a bottle of chardonnay. We’ll make it a party.”
Determined to steer me out of the weird episode, Meg chats and jokes but also watches me, ready to call for help at the first sign of trouble. I reach for a pumpernickel roll to show good faith with my new friend. “Molly’s coming up from Providence for dinner this weekend,” I say. “And I’ve got to get Jack a birthday present.”
“If he’s like my Skip, clothes are out.” I nod and ask about Meg’s son. “I just sent a check for his health care and car insurance,” she says. “It’s a whole new world out there for young adults, isn’t it?” Meg spears a blue cheese crumble. “Reggie, can I bring up something? Are you sure you feel okay?”
I butter the roll with lavish swipes. “I feel absolutely great.”
“Okay, good. I hate to do this, but there’s something I’ve got to ask you… another favor.” Meg glances sideways at the next table to be certain no one is listening. “I have to because I’m at wit’s end.”
She leans close and lowers her voice. “Just for the record, Reggie, I’ve been in real estate here for over fourteen years. I’ve rented and sold places where awful things happened—heart attacks, fatal accidents, like the hair dryer that fell into the bathtub or the ladder that collapsed on a stair landing. One of my clients even fell from a rooftop. Nice woman, full of fun. The husband decided to sell the penthouse floor and buy a whole building once he got the insurance and the new live-in girlfriend. My commission paid Skip’s tuition for a year.” Meg looks me in the eye. “But this haunted house is something new.”
“Marlborough Street?”
She nods. “The doors keep slamming. Now the crystal and china objets d’
art are falling off the shelves. The lights flicker even though electricians have checked the wires. That night, are you sure you felt nothing paranormal?”
“Nothing at all. I tried my best. Maybe all that Black Power wall covering jammed the radar. Or maybe that chandelier is bad luck. Have you ever seen such a gruesome home accessory?”
“It’s the husband’s pride and joy.”
“And those chunks of armor on the walls…it’s as if a knight had been cut in pieces with a welder’s torch.”
“They’re authentic, very valuable.”
“So are dinosaur skulls, but who’d want them on their wall? It’s not about market price, Meg. It’s about taste.”
“Reggie, let me tell you a little about these people. Their name is Arnot, Jeffrey and Tania. He made his money in franchises and nightclubs. I hear he also owned a women’s pro wrestling team that folded. He’s on a few boards around the city.”
“And Tania?”
“She’s an Ivana Trump type. She collects antique china and crystal but likes shopping at Target with an entourage and a camera crew taping.”
“Maybe they both crave publicity. Maybe the ‘ghosts’ are a stunt.”
“No. They want to be in the Boston social whirl, not ridiculed as nutcases. No offense, Reggie, but most people still think the paranormal is somewhere in left field.”
As if I don’t know. “Meg, you can probably find a dozen New England psychics eager to take a reading on the Marlborough house.”
“Too awkward, Reggie. Too tacky. The Arnots would feel insulted. They want discretion.”
I nibble the roll. I know just what’s coming. “Reggie, won’t you give it another try? Maybe the fog blocked the message. If you could just try one more time? Tania Arnot phones me nearly every morning in tears. Her husband is talking about filing suit. They’re afraid to go to sleep. They’ve spent the past four nights at the Four Seasons.”
The Four Seasons as homeless shelter? “You’ll pardon me, Meg, if my sympathies fall a little short.” Or is this personal jealousy, with my own five-star hotel days a thing of the past? Of course, the favor is for Meg, not the Arnots.
“They’re hosting another fund-raiser next week, and she’s terrified something will happen.”
“A political fund-raiser?”
Now You See Her Page 7