Blood Count ac-9

by Reggie Nadelson

  I wasn’t sure how to answer him.

  He asked what I did. I told him I was a detective.

  “Like my son, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe my son has a chance, as an African American, as a black man, of making a real career in the police department?” He looked at me. “For me, the police were always the enemy, you see, never on our side. Maybe I’ve lived too long in the distant past-the classics, that’s what I’ve always loved. Poor Virgil, he always hated his name. I suppose it could have been worse-he could have been Achilles.” He chuckled to himself.

  I asked if he wanted another drink, and he thanked me. It gave me a chance to go back to the bar, but Lily wasn’t there. I tried to call her on my cell, but the signal in the bar was lousy.

  “Do you think I’m just out of touch?” Mr. Radcliff asked me when I came back with the drinks. “Can I tell you a story, Artie?”

  He leaned forward a little, elbows on the table, glass in one hand.

  “I was the only black boy in my dorm at Columbia. There were a few Jewish boys I could hang out with,” he said. “Steve Middleberg, who is still my great friend, a dean down at NYU, we both became academics and stayed close. Virgil still calls him Uncle Steve. And Max Zwerling. Next door was Jackie Finkel and a Southern boy in the room beside his. Name of Billy Wilkes. He was from North Carolina. Like you, I suppose, he assumed I was white.” He leaned forward a little more, finished his wine, and went on.

  “One night we were all in Billy’s room, and he asked what we were doing that Friday night. Jackie says he’d be studying, and Billy told him studying was for fags and weekdays,” said Mr. Radcliff. “Then Billy said he had come to New York for its cultural delights, and I could see Jackie thought he meant museums, but Billy said he was speaking of dark flesh.” Joe Radcliff looked at me. “Poor Jackie. I think he thought that meant some kind of chicken dish. But what Billy had in mind was some black women who would initiate us boys. He told us Southern boys understood these things, understood about a certain intensity in the ways of love. He meant rape, of course. Paid for, but rape.”

  Mr. Radcliff paused.

  “Anyway, it was chilly in those Columbia dorms, and Billy Wilkes saw we were cold. He got out some sweaters, and Jackie, who was next to the closet, saw something and asked what it was. Wilkes said, ‘It’s not for you boys,’ then looked right at me. Jackie wanted to know. Wilkes turned to the closet, slipped on the garment, and turned to us. It was a sheet with a hood and those familiar eyeholes. ‘This is something every Southern gentleman is proud to be part of,’ Wilkes said. ‘That’s right, boys, the Ku Klux Klan.’ ”

  I finished my drink and was silent.

  “I never knew for sure if Wilkes had figured out I was black until a few days later, when I told him and punched him out,” said Joe Radcliff. “I should go now. Thank you for listening, Artie. I must sound like the Ancient Mariner. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m wrong about Virgil. Maybe being a cop is just what he wants, and he’s entitled to that. I can’t believe it’s the best he can do, but it’s his choice now. Please ask him to call me when you see him.”

  “Of course.”

  “And give him my love.”

  I said I would.

  And then Lily arrived.

  CHAPTER 29

  Y ou look beautiful,” I said.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Sorry I’m so late, couldn’t decide what to wear. You look nice, too. New jacket, right?”

  Her red hair was up, diamond earrings-I had given them to her a long time ago. She wore a plain black dress, and the skirt swayed when she walked. It had a low back and long, tight sleeves. Around her neck was a gold necklace I didn’t recognize.

  In high heels, Lily was as tall as me. I put my arm around her waist. She didn’t push me away, only leaned against me slightly.

  By now a band had replaced the pianist. They were good, playing standards, new stuff, Latin tunes. A few people danced. Waiters swooped through the crowd like birds, with trays of champagne and eggnog. Lily and I talked, laughed, drank. For a little while it was as if we were back where we had once been.

  Then I saw Carver Lennox signal the band, there was a little drumroll, he put a rectangular package on the bar, and started to talk.

  He made a speech about community and Christmas and how he planned to return Sugar Hill to its former greatness, listing the greats who had lived here, how the Armstrong would be the center of it-and 409 Edgecombe, of course, he added, acknowledging those of its residents who were present. He talked about how hard various organizations had worked to bring in supermarkets, and drugstores, how over the last few years everybody in the city had realized what great housing stock Harlem had, and how it was time to honor the past, but also to move on, to stop living in the 1920s, and celebrate a New Harlem Renaissance. He wished everyone a good holiday, and singled out some of the famous and the nearly famous in the room.

  He was persuasive; it would have been hard to guess there had been a financial meltdown, that everybody was scared of the coming year. Finally, Lennox picked up the package from the bar, unwrapped it, and held a bronze plaque up over his head, like a trophy. It was the plaque he’d showed me earlier.

  “Our new name, to honor our new president,” he said. “We are now the Barack Obama Apartments.”

  There was some applause, but a few people turned away.

  Somebody behind me said in a low voice, “I heard Lennox is in trouble.”

  “Money?” someone asked.

  “What else?”

  “I heard if he doesn’t turn the Armstrong around before the end of the year, he’s fucked. He’ll have to sell those apartments.”

  “He’ll find a way.”

  “No, seriously, he is fucked, man. He’s running out of cash.”

  “He thinks he’s in with Bloomberg, thinks the mayor will bail him out.”

  “Mayor only interested in those church guys, the ones who own big pieces of Harlem, you know? He’s always going to church around here-I mean, Jesus, man, the guy is Jewish.”

  When I turned around, I saw it was two elderly guys I didn’t recognize, leaning together, holding drinks.

  “Why should we change our building’s name?” one said.

  “For Barack,” said the other one.

  “I love that man, sure I do, but we’ve had our name too long to change. I don’t like Carver Lennox, the way he just takes hold of everything, the way he just bought his way in, got himself elected president of the Armstrong board, members are all his people,” said one of the old men. “Says it’s to restore the building to his glory days. Truth is, that fellow’s just waiting for us to die.”

  “Let’s go eat,” his friend said.

  “You’re having fun, Artie?” Lily put her hand on my arm.

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too.”

  As if she’d finally left behind the business with Marianna Simonova, Lily looked happy.

  I was guessing she’d had some wine before she came out, and she was lit up. She knew everybody in the room and was flushed with the attention, the way people greeted her, kissed her, shook her hand, beamed at her. She stood near me for a while and kept up a running commentary. “You know who that is, right Artie?” she said, pointing out S. Epatha Merkerson, the police lieutenant on Law and Order.

  “So you watch cop shows behind my back?” I said.

  “Only once in a while,” she said, turning to greet somebody else.

  “You love it up here.”

  “Yes, I love the history,” said Lily. But I knew what she had fallen for was a sense of community.

  We could live here, I almost said. We could move uptown together. Have a life. Be part of it. Live in a brownstone, on a pretty street with trees. A dog, if you want-Lily’s always wanted a dog. But I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to scare her.

  “Merry Christmas, Lily,” said a familiar voice, a man’s voice with a Southern accent. I watched as she turned and was em
braced by a tall white man in a very good suit, a white man with silver hair and blue eyes like flashbulbs.

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. President,” said Lily, flushed with pleasure.

  When I spotted her, Celestina Hutchison was crossing the room with Carver Lennox at her side. He showed her to a table as if she were royalty, and she lapped it up.

  I went over, admired her silver dress, which was covered with sequins. On her head was a red satin hat, a jeweled Christmas tree pinned to it. People flocked to her, fussed about her.

  “Is your husband with you?” I heard somebody ask.

  “Lionel? He’s asleep. He was not feeling well. You see, he hasn’t my stamina,” she said, turning away to greet a young woman who came over to kiss her cheek as if paying homage to a grandee. I thought the girl might curtsy. Celestina was holding court now, and I moved away.

  Among the crowd I saw more people from the Armstrong. Lily introduced me to a couple from her floor. Massimo, an Italian, was a designer, his partner Sam Cowan, was black, a plastic surgeon. Standing with them was Jeff Smith, a guy with a pleasant face, a goatee, and a big afro, the kind they’d worn in movies like Shaft. He was tall and thin and wore a slim cut brown suit with high lapels. He told me he taught semiotics at City College, something to do with French rap, or Algerian rap, something like that.

  Lily told me he’d been a serious radical once, had called himself Jeffrey X. I got the feeling she admired him for it, or once had. Jeff’s Moroccan wife, Amelie, joined us, and so did their two teenage boys, who looked desperate to get away from the grown-ups and were eyeing the other kids bopping around between tables.

  “God, I love this city, Artie,” said Lily. “I love the crazy mix of people. I’ve had a lot to drink, you know.”

  “Me, too,” I said, and she pulled me along with her as she went to greet still more people.

  Earlier in the day, I’d spent as much time as I could talking to people in the Armstrong, people I saw in the elevator or the lobby. The building itself was a favorite source of gossip, complaints, ambition-for a new washing machine, repairs to the roof, irritation at a neighbor’s dog or child. Kids make the best spies; they were always happy to talk. I glanced at the Smith boys, but they had finally crossed the floor to join some other teenagers.

  Not everybody in the Armstrong was as prosperous as Carver Lennox, far from it. I recognized a guy from the third floor who was a retired subway worker, a guy named Bassey. I’d run into him in the little parking area out back of the building. Now he told me he was waiting for his girlfriend, a nurse called Shirley. Apparently Mr. Bassey proposed to her regularly. She could be Shirley Bassey, he always said.

  Others in the crowd simply hung back, watching. Some made repeated trips to the buffet table, and I saw one elderly woman slip dinner rolls into her handbag.

  Latinos, a few Asians, a few whites, and from the chatter you could hear some had been to an opening party at the Studio Museum. Art dealers. Lily pointed out DJ Spooky, a trio of drop-dead-gorgeous girls hanging off his arm.

  We giggled, and eavesdropped. Lily had always loved sitting in bars and cafes, listening to people talk. We had confessed to each other a little guiltily that we preferred it to visiting museums or galleries. I’d always thought that some day we’d visit cities I longed to see-Rome, Venice, Rio-and spend all our time sitting in cafes. Or in bed.

  Around midnight, Lucille Bernard stopped by with her daughter. In a red dress, Bernard looked fabulous. Younger people streamed in, including one dazzling girl in a jean jacket, a big skirt, and lime green stilettos.

  “You’re staring at her,” said Lily, laughing, leaning closer to me. I could feel her breath. I didn’t want anything else.

  A short white man in a leather jacket and a tie with vertical stripes, a white soul patch on his raddled elderly face, wandered by, holding hands with a woman who wore a lot of stuff she must have gotten in India-big paisley shawl with glitter on the fringe, hanging gold earrings, some kind of pink silk top. The guy knew everyone, talked loud, used the lingo, dropped the names of musicians, some dead, some still alive. After the next number, he looked at the pianist and said, “Smokin’!”

  One of these days I’d find myself jiggling my head and my foot, eyes closed, thinking “Smokin’!” or, worse, saying it out loud. I’d be a finger-poppin’ daddy-o, an old white guy wanting to listen to this music and to be with Lily and not much else.

  “He really likes to run the show, doesn’t he?” Lily was looking at Carver Lennox, who seemed to be everywhere, greeting people, seeing them off, dancing with the little girls, pressing flesh. I saw him talk to Jimmy Wagner, who had dropped by. I saw him with Lucille and their daughter. The girl put her arms around both her parents, as if she were the grown-up.

  “Are we drinking too much?” said Lily.

  “Yes,” I said. “Let’s have some more.”

  “Did you see that weird guy?” She took another glass of champagne from Axel.

  “What guy?”

  “He wished me Merry Christmas, which is why I noticed, and he had such light hair, he looked like an albino. He kept looking at you.”

  “I talked to him earlier. He told me he liked the music.”

  CHAPTER 30

  T he Russian with the light hair was by the door, and I saw him look at me. He looked at me then looked away, leaned down to talk to a short woman in a white dress. When he had finished, he glanced up again-and I saw his face, saw something on it I couldn’t read-or maybe it was just the distance between us, and the crowd and the booze. I lost sight of him. I was distracted by Tolya’s arrival.

  It was some arrival. He wore the huge black fur coat I’d seen him in once before. On his head was a sable hat. As he moved through the club to the bar, he swept the coat off to reveal he was wearing a bright red silk jacket, a Nehru jacket, and in one hand was the wine case he always carried with him. As he got closer, I could see the large emerald in his ear.

  The dimples in his face deepened when he saw Lily. He set his hat and the wine on the bar, tossed the coat over a stool, pushed the black hair from his forehead, leaned over and kissed her. Then he kissed me three times, Russian style.

  “Merry Christmas, Artyom” he said. “You’re feeling better?” His face was pink, his eyes were glistening, he’d been drinking, and drinking plenty. Softly, in Russian, he added, “You noticed this guy with pale hair, black sweater?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “He was going out when I arrived, he wished me good evening in Russian, I didn’t recognize him, but he seemed to know me, I don’t know. I’m not sure. Also, I saw him say something to Carver Lennox, and Carver, something suddenly makes him nervous.”

  “The guy seemed OK,” I said. “We talked about music earlier. Lily said he was looking at me.”

  “Maybe he’s gay,” Tolya said. “Maybe he liked your looks.”

  “Fuck off,” I said, and we both laughed, and then Tolya extracted his cigar case from his pocket, the solid gold case with a cigar engraved on it, a large ruby for the glowing tip.

  “You can’t smoke in here, darling,” said Lily.

  He put the cigar case back.

  “Let’s drink my wine, then.” He set a pair of bottles on the bar and asked Axel for glasses.

  Everybody in the club was looking at Tolya as if Santa Claus himself had arrived.

  “Chateau Lynch-Bages, 1982.” Axel whistled. “Fuck me, man.”

  “Please, help yourself to glass,” said Tolya. “And serve this to my friends, please.”

  “You’re nuts,” I said.

  “You look so beautiful, Lily,” he said to her and then described the house he’d bought.

  “You’re nuts,” I said again.

  “That’s so nice,” said Lily.

  “OK, so I give you house if you like, for Christmas present, or I buy you one same as mine.”

  “Thank you, darling,” said Lily.

  There had been a time when I’d thought they might get t
ogether. Tolya would take care of Lily; she would be loyal. It never happened.

  “Please, Lily, you will introduce me to these nice people, now I am neighbor?” Tolya took her arm.

  “Of course,” she said, and they made their way into the crowd. I saw Tolya talking to a tall black woman with short hair and a great face. She was almost as tall as he was, and they looked good together. Lily left them and came back to me.

  “What are you thinking about, Artie, darling?” she said.

  I was thinking about my father.

  The music he had learned to love during his year in New York had saved him, had made him human even though he was a KGB agent, a man who was famous for interrogations.

  I missed him. He was a wonderful father. Even after I understood what his job was, that he spent some of his time interrogating suspects in the Lubyanka-no, not interrogating, not just asking questions, something probably much worse; even now I couldn’t bear to imagine that about my dashing father.

  I still loved him. With me, and with my mother, he had remained sweet and gentle and full of interesting stories. He gave me his jazz records. We listened together to anything we could, on records, on illegal radio stations. There had been some jazz musicians in Russia, and he took me to see them all.

  In Israel, too. After we were kicked out of the USSR-my mother had become a refusenik by then, my father had lost his job-we listened in Israel, where you could get all the music you wanted.

  How many hours did we sit in his tiny study in our apartment in Tel Aviv, listening to his Blue Note albums? He listened to other jazz, too, taught me to love the earlier stuff: Armstrong’s Hot Five and Hot Seven; Benny Goodman; Ben Webster; Lester Young. We listened to Ellington and Artie Shaw, Sinatra and Ella, Sarah Vaughan, and Billie Holiday. My dad had listened to Ella every single day of his life.