Closing Time

by Fusilli, Jim;

  I let it pass.

  “You want to know if one of our guys picked up a man off Little West 12th and brought him to Fort Washington Ave.”

  “Right.”

  “And he’s got to ID the guy?”

  “At some point …”

  “You realize there are twelve thousand medallion cabs in New York City,” he said.

  “My bet is that a black man—a nervous, frightened black man—who wants to go to Washington Heights from Little West 12th isn’t going to get a yellow cab to take him.”

  I stood and stretched. If none of Jackson’s counterparts in the livery business could find out what I wanted to know, I’d ask Sharon to call the TLC. She was bound to have a tap there to pull. Whether the tap at the Taxi & Limousine Commission would be willing to toss 12,000 logs …

  “All right,” Jackson said again.

  I gave him my cell number and thanked him. He hung up without another word.

  I went to the closet. There’s a blue blazer somewhere in here …

  As I went outside, I saw that the Monday morning sun was still bright, still defiant, as if it intended to repudiate the crisp autumn nip in the air. I sat on my front steps and blew into my hands, rubbed them together, then watched the steam rise as I exhaled.

  I was thinking about Diddio, who somehow went home yesterday with only one sock. Diddio, who, in gratitude for a night’s sleep, offered to walk the dog, “if you ever get a dog, I mean; you know, something little, like a Sparky or a Frisky, like. Yip-yip,” when the nondescript black car with a steel-plated underbelly came the wrong way on Harrison.

  I heard him throw the big car into neutral and saw him fling open the driver’s-side door. I came down and slid in, careful not to bang my knees on the glove compartment, the short-wave radio under the dash or the bottle of Snapple Diet Peach he had in the cup holder. For some reason, he hadn’t cranked up the heat, but it was warm enough inside, and I could feel the blood again in my hands and on my cheeks.

  We bolted from the space near the yellow hydrant and flew onto Greenwich.

  I drew the seat belt across my shoulder and lap, careful not to crease my jacket. “We’re in some sort of hurry, Luther?”

  “It’s time to move,” he grunted.

  “I like to move,” I replied, as we went west on Vesey, along the north rim of the World Trade Center complex. Scores of commuters, their faces blank, briefcases at the ends of their arms, emerged from the subway station and waited for the light to change. Others headed east, toward the sun, toward Wall Street, shuffling with little enthusiasm.

  He ignored the red light and, sliding into the traffic flow, headed us north on West Street.

  “Luther, if you’re not going to talk, you might as well put on the radio.”

  “We can converse, Terry,” he said coldly. “Always room for civility.”

  On the left, the New Jersey waterfront shimmered as if it were a mirage, and a crowded passenger ferry chugged across the calm water, coming toward the World Financial Center. I looked to my right and saw that we were passing the area I’d walked Saturday night: the car wash, the SRO flophouse, close-at-midnight garages, Superior Printing Ink, the Hotel Riverview, Charles Street. And then, the Gansevoort Market, alive again, with squat, refrigerated trucks crowding the sawdusted docks, and dozens of men with rubber gloves, sharp, threatening hooks and bloodsmeared aprons over soiled white uniforms handling huge sides of beef. Pallets of whole chickens waited to be loaded, as two men pottered with the stubborn engine of an outdated forklift, and a big, long truck sat idle as a man in heavy boots and a stocking cap used a thick hose to wash away the blood and marrow, if not the scent.

  We waited out the red light.

  “We stopping here first?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Just what do you think goes on in there?” He reached for the bottle of iced tea and nodded toward the activity.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  The light popped to green and we zigzagged onto Tenth Avenue, continuing north.

  He put the nearly empty bottle back in the cup holder and he looked over at me. “I’m going to do you better than you’re doing me.”

  “I’m not doing anyone. I’m doing what I do. And I told you that.”

  “You went to see Everett Langhorne.”

  “He wasn’t going to keep that a secret,” I said. “Harlem’s leading educator calls the head of the Black PBA. Natural.”

  We reached the 20s on Tenth, passing orange cones, sentries around a crater-sized pothole.

  I said, “And what did you tell him? ‘Ignore that amateur.’”

  “Didn’t have time to. Your godmother called him.”

  “Sharon?”

  He nodded. “She vouches for you. Told Everett you’re a good man.”

  Though not happy, I thought. “So where are we?”

  Traffic queuing for the Lincoln Tunnel spilled onto Tenth near Chelsea Park. Addison pushed the car to the right, put the wheels on my side up on the curb and got us around the gaggle.

  “We picked up your friend Mangionella sitting on 14th.” He shook his head and tapped the steering wheel. “Neighbors complained, him pissing in the street.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. Noon.”

  “Great, Luther. You fucked up my play.”

  He snorted derisively and to himself said, “His play.”

  “Amaral. You know that now.”

  “Amaral went nowhere. In fact, he’s at the school.”

  “You tell your buddy Langhorne we’re coming?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “If he tells Williams, Amaral is gone.”

  We blew past 42nd Street and headed toward John Jay.

  “So you had Tommy Mangionella’s brother sitting on Amaral and you went after the kid,” he said. “And you found him.” He gestured with his thumb. “That little Band-Aid on your chin could be a crude row of medical staples I’d be looking at in the morgue.”

  I said nothing. He hadn’t told Langhorne we were going to his school. Addison knew about the thing between Amaral and the vice principal. He knew Amaral was worth talking to.

  Sharon’s call to Langhorne put Addison in a box. He had to check out how I saw it and there was a good chance he now saw it my way.

  “It’s a god-damned miracle your little man didn’t go right to him,” he said.

  “No, he’s smart. He knows somebody’s sitting on the teacher.” I drummed the dash with my index finger. “By staying away, the kid confirms that Amaral’s involved.”

  “Or maybe he took off ’cause he’s afraid you’ll hang a frame on him. Maybe you’ve lost your only witness.”

  “Where’s he going to run to? This kid knows nothing but here. He’s uptown or over in Alphabet City. No, he’s not gone.”

  We had passed the backside of Lincoln Center and now crossed in front of Martin Luther King High and the Red Cross offices.

  “He makes his way as a prostitute,” I continued, “and he’s got a very distinctive scar. Your guys can pick him up in a heartbeat.”

  “So you admit you need my guys.”

  “Go bring him in,” I said. “That’s your job.”

  He hit the blinker at 72nd, and made the illegal left turn and sent us toward the entrance to the Henry Hudson going north.

  Addison made a squealing U-turn on 125th and bounced the car onto the sidewalk in front of the squat, broad-shouldered bank that was now home to the Zora Neale Hurston Elementary School. Slamming the car’s gears into park, he cut the engine and squeezed himself out.

  “Don’t mention Knight,” he said over the roof of the black car. “We’re in my house now.”

  “Luther, what are you talking about?” I said as he came around toward me. “You don’t live in Harlem.”

  “All black men live in Harlem,” he snapped. “You’re about to find that out.”

  I followed him into the vestibule, under the “Education/Articulation” banner. He walked
hard with a blend of élan and bravado, conveying a sense of confidence and authority, and a touch of intimidation.

  He was marking his turf.

  The security guard, Mabry Reynolds, was at his station. When I stuck out my hand, Reynolds shook it, and I let my gaze drift, first to the microphone pinned to his open-collared shirt, then to his Beretta nine.

  “Mabry Reynolds,” I said, “this is Luther—”

  Addison interrupted, “Everett Langhorne, please.”

  Reynolds nodded, stepped back toward his area and spoke into a telephone handset. I heard him clearly: He knew Addison’s full name and rank.

  I peered into Reynolds’s office, at the three small TV monitors that displayed the parking lot behind the building and the two entrances, back and front, where I could see a furry, black-and-white image of Addison’s car shot from above.

  “Your escort will be here in a moment,” Reynolds said to the lieutenant.

  I turned from the monitors to the immaculate corridor, its posters and other handmade tributes and decorations in autumnal browns and oranges, in anticipation of a young student arriving to meet us, one not unlike Delroy Henry: well-mannered, attentive, studied, someone who had a sense of his own worth. As Andre Turner Jr.—Montana now; Scarface—may have had, until his father destroyed his family and his life.

  I shoved my hands into the pockets of my slacks and turned. At the end of the hallway, coming toward us, wasn’t a student but a man in his mid 60s with a narrow face and close-cropped gray hair styled into a sort of flattop. The slender man wore a three-piece camel-colored suit, a dark brown bow tie and high-glossed brown wingtips.

  As he drew closer, he smiled and said, “Luther Addison. As large as life.”

  “Everett, good morning,” Addison replied.

  The two men greeted each other warmly: shoulder taps followed double-clasp handshakes.

  “A nice surprise, Luther.”

  “Everett, this is Terry Orr.”

  He looked up at me and nodded politely. “Yes, the young man we’ve heard so much about.” Langhorne let his smile dissipate as he extended his hand. “I understand you have been diligent on our behalf.”

  I looked over at Addison as I nodded.

  “Let’s retire to my office,” Langhorne offered, adding, “Mabry, thank you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Reynolds said. He had his thick arms behind his back as he struck a military pose.

  Addison and I followed Langhorne past Andre Watts, Shirley Chisholm and Luis Muñoz Marin, past classrooms of vigilant boys and girls immersed in education, fulfilling the promise that creates a new future, acting, not dreaming. They seemed content and proud, as if they already understood the liberating sense of satisfaction that achievement brings.

  With a thin finger, Langhorne held my business card against the blotter on his oversized, antique desk. His large, well-appointed office was tidy, so lined with awards and grip-and-grin-type photos with U.S. presidents and senators, familiar business leaders and the Harlem cognoscenti, that it appeared to be a ceremonial suite. Yet Langhorne had an undeniable presence that went beyond image, and it was clear that he knew how to subtly advance in his favor, and his students’ favor, any discussion in which he participated. He had on his desk a silver marker that repeated the school’s motto, and I understood by the directness of his questions and nuanced comments that, for Langhorne, articulation wasn’t a matter of display, but a way to convey a trim intelligence while eliciting information that was essential to his position.

  I sat in front of him with my legs crossed, feeling oddly ill at ease as Addison paced behind me. If I was finding Langhorne cryptic, he and Addison were thoroughly in sync.

  “Curiosity can be a power ally,” Langhorne said.

  I’d told him how I came to find myself looking for Brown’s killer, and how I found Andre Turner off Little West 12th.

  “I have to say Terry has put more than curiosity into this, Everett,” Addison said.

  “Then I must confess to a certain confusion,” Langhorne said. “Our great good friend Sharon Knight says Mr. Orr is determined, thorough. Dependable. And yet I’ve been told he is inexperienced.”

  “Dependable and inexperienced aren’t mutually exclusive,” Addison replied.

  “Well, there may be a reason why the murder of Aubrey Brown didn’t merit a formal investigation as determined, as thorough,” Langhorne said. “I am not eager to offend your colleagues in blue.”

  Addison didn’t bite. “At any rate, now I’ll be speaking to Perry Amaral.”

  Langhorne kept his finger on my card. “I suppose someone should say a word about the students.”

  “Is it unusual for you to call a teacher to your office?” Addison asked.

  “Actually it is, when classes are in session.”

  Addison turned to me. “Terry, you watch the door to the parking lot. Everett, your man out front, can we count on him?”

  Langhorne closed his eyes as he nodded.

  “You still having that problem with the kids on your roof?”

  “Chained and locked, fire code be damned,” he replied, adding, “And they weren’t our children.”

  “No need to eye the roof,” Addison said, as he came from behind me and rested his hands on the empty chair. “Everett, pull this Amaral’s file. Let’s get a look at this young man.”

  Langhorne nodded slowly and he used his phone as an intercom, asking Miss Oliver for Amaral’s records.

  As we waited, Addison said, “Terry, if he breaks your way, stay cool. Grab him and hold him.”

  I nodded. There was little risk: Amaral killed Brown with something he’d found in the cab. It was unlikely he’d be carrying a weapon now.

  Addison added, “Don’t let him get off school grounds.”

  “Do you think he’ll run, Doctor?” I asked.

  “I have to admit that I’ve had a very different view of Perry Amaral,” he replied. “My opinion has little merit, I’m afraid.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Addison said. “Everett—”

  The door to Langhorne’s office. It was Denise Williams, not Miss Oliver, who carried the manila folder.

  “As you requested, Doctor,” she said.

  Langhorne took the file. “Mr. Orr. This is Denise Williams, our vice principal.”

  “We’ve met,” I said.

  “Hello, Luther,” Williams said, as she shook Addison’s hand.

  She gave me a short, wary glance and walked toward the door, past a narrow credenza on which sat an engraved silver bowl.

  Langhorne passed the file to Addison, who, after a moment, handed me a color head shot of a light-skinned black man in his mid 30s. Despite a sheepish expression under tortoiseshell glasses, Amaral was a man who could be called attractive, more pleasing than handsome under a receding hairline, and the Windsor knot of his club tie was tucked perfectly into the gap in his white, button-down collar.

  “Small,” Addison said, as he peered over my shoulder.

  “Could be swift,” I said as I stood.

  I passed the photo to Langhorne, who again picked up his phone’s handset. “Excuse me again, Miss Oliver,” he said. “Would you please ask Mrs. Williams to go to see Mr. Amaral.”

  “She already has,” I said to Addison.

  “I don’t get you.”

  “Williams is tipping off Amaral right now.”

  “How …” Addison began.

  “Let’s go.”

  It hadn’t gotten any warmer, and the narrow parking lot was still marked with angular shadows and stark sunlight. I stood with my back against the front end of a yuppie wagon with Connecticut plates, a four-wheel-drive something-or-other that was forest green and beige and had big tires that someone had polished to a glow. If this thing goes off-road, then I’m Dennis Rodman, I thought, as I stared at the school’s back door, its thick, opaque glass, its high-tech alarm box, its recent coat of black paint.

  I looked at my watch: Ten minutes had pass
ed and I’d figured if Amaral didn’t appear in another minute or two, it meant he’d gone directly to Langhorne’s office. I wondered if he’d break down, and how Addison would get him there, and I wondered about a man who could kill someone, then continue with his life as if nothing had happened; who would stand in front of his students with blood on his hands, offering lessons that in one way or another celebrated life, with hypocrisy dripping from him like so much rank sweat. These students were clever, I thought; would they know? And if not, how will they feel when they learn they’ve been deceived?

  As I started to glance at the sweeping second hand of my watch, I heard the bar on the back door chuck and thud, and then the black door opened, and it was Reynolds. I went to him.

  “He’s gone,” he said.

  I put up my hand to shield my eyes from the cold, harsh sun. “How?”

  “Boys’-room window, second floor, 126th Street side.”

  I looked left past the steel, spike-topped fence that opened toward the light on 126th. “I didn’t see him.”

  “That means he went toward X. Or the subway at Frederick Douglass.” He gestured for me to follow him. “We’d better go back inside. You’ll want to see this.”

  Williams lay on the floor of the empty, second-floor classroom and there was a wide splash of blood under her head. She held a towel against the side of her face. A coffee mug lay in pieces near the open door.

  When the vice principal went to adjust the towel, I saw that a thick shard of the white porcelain cup was lodged in her cheek.

  One of her shoes rested at an odd angle on the light tile. Perfectly sharpened pencils were scattered by her legs. A few had rolled under the small desks in the front of the classroom.

  “Christ,” I said.

  Down the hall, Langhorne comforted a small girl in a uniform. Crying, her shoulders shaking, she held on to the principal’s legs. As she turned, I saw that she was about eight years old. Langhorne dabbed at her nose with his handkerchief.

  “Terry.”

  I turned to see Addison. He was wiping blood from his hand with a handkerchief of his own. “Let’s walk,” he said.

  I followed him to the stairwell. As we reached the landing, I saw Miss Oliver lead the two-man EMS team along the hall. Surprisingly—or perhaps not so, given the level of discipline Langhorne advocated—none of the students were at their classroom doors to peer at the unexpected activity.