Catherine’s voice interrupted my thoughts. She said, “Zeke has Harry bamboozled as far as I’m concerned. Harry’s used Zeke for years. And after my mother’s heart attack, Zeke got her to believing.” Catherine offered the bag.
I stared at the bag and turned it over in my hand. The power of belief. Mrs. Walters wasn’t happy—she snatched it from me.
“Don’t be messing with magick,” she said.
I sat down at the kitchen table, across from Mrs. Walters. “Are you telling me Harry believes in voodoo?”
Mrs. Walters continued to eat, and Catherine stood behind her mother and gave her a squeeze. “Him and Mama. I’ve tried to talk her out of it. Won’t work. Mama’s become a believer, just like Uncle Harry. And it’s not the good kind of voodoo, it’s bad voodoo.”
Mrs. Walters could hardly contain herself. She sputtered, and the vegetables she had ladled into her mouth shot across the table. Some of them landed on me. She declared, “Brought me back from death’s door, you can’t argue with that.”
Catherine shook her head. “Good doctors and good medicine brought you back, Mama.”
Mrs. Walters sucked her teeth and dabbed her napkin at soup trickling down her chin. “That’s what you say. Her don’ believe in the magick, but I know what’s true.”
Head deep in her soup she added, “Hear what I’m saying. Your mama be alive today if she’da used some of Zeke’s magick.”
Bull’s-eye. Right between the eyes. I leaned across the table. “What do you know about my mother?” I said.
Mrs. Walters stopped her slurping. The whole room got quiet. Overhead, the fluorescent light hummed like dozens of bumblebees. She said carefully, “Everybody know her threw over Zeke to be with Montcrieff—everybody know that.”
Catherine was caught off guard; I blinked in shocked surprise. I said slowly, “Not everyone.”
Mrs. Walters raised her small head. “No?
I blinked again and responded, “No.” And then, “What else do you know?”
“You play canasta?”
I eyed the old woman. “No,” I said carefully.
“Good time to learn, don’t you think? Catherine, get the cards and go back to school. Mr. Brown, him gone sit with this here old lady and play she some cards. Yes?”
She cast a sly eye at me. “Maybe I tell Mr. Brown some stories, eh?”
After Catherine left to go back to the hospital, I hunkered down to an afternoon of canasta. And Mrs. Walters didn’t lie—she told me a whale of a story and advised me to put it in a pipe and smoke it. I did.
By late afternoon, I had learned the game and whupped Mrs. Walters’s butt in canasta—many times and soundly. She didn’t complain and seemed pleased as punch—so much so, she started calling me Amos. Go figure.
When she bedded down for her nap, I snuck out and headed for Brooklyn. Reba had some questions to answer, and I had discovered questions to ask.
Chapter 36
“ Didn’t I tell you to call before you came?” Reba said, as she swung the door wide to let me enter.
“Remember me, Reba? Hard head and a soft behind?”
A smile threatened at the edges of her frowning face. In fact, she seemed eager and excited. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought she was happy to see me.
This time she led me to her kitchen and sat me at the kitchen table while she poured iced tea into a large glass. It was a pleasant room, sunny and large, with herbs growing on top of every windowsill. I didn’t wait; I slipped the sucker punch.
“You never told me my mother and Zeke were an item.” If a nut-brown woman can turn white, then that’s what Reba did. Her eyes blinked rapidly; I had caught her off guard.
“Where’d you hear that?” she demanded.
“Does it matter?”
She collapsed into the chair opposite me. “Guess not,” she said.
“Want to tell me about it?”
Her face turned hard. “My sister was a silly girl and didn’t know what she wanted.”
“And what happened?”
“What do you mean? She changed her mind and married Montcrieff. That’s all.”
Reba’s face shut like a trapdoor. The snap, sparkle, and vinegar fell away from the edges of her mouth and nostrils. I said, “Inform me, what the hell did my mother ever see in Zeke?”
She snapped, “If you were a woman, you’d know. He was handsome, had property, had money, and damn well knew how to spend it. In those days he was a catch.”
“A lot of money to be made in chicken feathers?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The voodoo.”
Reba reacted as if I had shot her. “You know about that?”
“Sure I know. He tried it out on me.”
Reba recovered, crossed to the refrigerator, and began pulling food from it. “Black magick came later,” she said. “After he got out of jail. After he lost his property. After he lost ... everything.”
“Why black magick?”
“Bitterness. Suited him. He’d always dabbled in it. He studied, became a bokor, and sold his services.”
Services, I thought. For services rendered?
“What’d he do time for?”
She threw me a sharp look. “What do you think? Selling drugs. A black man’s ticket to big money.”
So that was the hookup to Harry, something more mercantile than the mere fact that they were countrymen. As Harry’s personal sorcerer, Zeke had less mess, no stress. Like a parasite, he fed off of Harry. Zeke had secrets that he hadn’t revealed.
Reba continued, “But he wasn’t slick enough. Never slick enough—he was a fool.” The slam of the refrigerator door punctuated her sentence. Reba was talking about something else now. I didn’t comment; I let it ride.
And then I asked the question I had meant to ask Zeke—but in light of what I had found out from Mrs. Walters, seemed more important now.
“Which property did Zeke own?”
She hesitated a second before she spoke. “The one across the street from where you’re living.”
“The one where my mother was killed?”
“Yes.”
So ... Montcrieff wasn’t the only one with a motive. I stared at her, my voice a whisper, and said, “You think Zeke killed my mother?”
Maybe she reacted to the intensity of my look. Maybe it was the harshness of my voice. She stuttered, “I—I ain’t saying. All I know is Zeke was crazy jealous of everything your father had. Always taking from Montcrieff and pretending to be his friend.”
“Well, Montcrieff did take his woman. Zeke had to be pissed. But why kill my mother? Why not kill the man—Montcrieff?”
Reba slammed a pot down on the stove. “Why you asking these questions now? It’s forty years too late and won’t do nobody a lick of good.”
“Look, Reba, my mother was murdered. Strangled to death. Don’t you think I deserve some straight answers?”
Reba gasped. “Strangled? My sister was strangled? Who told you that?”
I looked at her, puzzled by this outburst. “You didn’t know that? Didn’t the police tell you that?”
A whimper escaped from her throat. “No. Nobody told me nothing like that. They told me her neck was broken—they didn’t say strangled. Lord Jesus.”
“Reba,” I said, “what difference does it make? That’s how her neck got broken, by strangulation. Their forensic people could tell by the crushed bones in her neck.”
At the last bit of news Reba got more agitated and slammed pots and banged pans around the kitchen, a whirlwind of activity. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought tears glittered at the corners of her eyes. Had her sister’s death all at once become real to her?
Silver threads of tears spilled down Reba’s wrinkled cheeks—resignation and confusion fought for space inside her. “Some things ...” she said, “... take a lifetime to learn.” Then she turned back to a heartless stove and stirred the gravy that bubbled in a skillet.
“You�
�re staying to supper.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. A terrible sadness cloaked Reba’s form and bent her body farther, head facing the floor as she shuffled around the kitchen. Reba in pain was something wondrous to behold—something I had never seen, and I admit I was shocked. Did she mourn her sister, or her own life?
I relented. “Sure, Reba, I’ll stay.” She shot a grateful look my way. I buried the rest of my questions and stayed for dinner.
Chapter 37
After I left Reba, I drove around Brooklyn, taking stock of my situation and figuring out what the next step should be. Tall and Short were probably hot on my trail, and home, sweet home didn’t seem like a good place to be right now.
I didn’t pay attention to the gas gauge and drove myself right out of gas, and ended up stranded in a quiet Brooklyn neighborhood. From the fenced yards and all, it looked like I was deep in a white hood, and as far as I could tell, it was lights out for most of the people that lived there.
By my watch, it was only eleven o’clock. Still, not a good time to knock on white folks’ doors, say I’m out of gas, can I use your phone? Big black men and nighttime create instant panic in white people. I didn’t want to get shot, or worse, land in the pokey again.
So I spent the night in Hotel Stepchild, and squeezed my large frame into the back seat of the Cadillac and tried to stretch out. Tomorrow morning I’d look for a friendly face and borrow a gas can.
Sleeping in the car was rough going. I had to plant my feet up against the window, with my legs bent—which, of course, made my knees ache. Plus, the night was another muggy one, and my skin stuck to the seat. With each toss and turn, my skin went rip as I pulled sweaty arms, hands, and parts of my face off the seat like surgical tape.
Daybreak came before I knew it. I had just gotten to sleep when I felt a thump on the bottom of my feet. Somebody beat against the windows as if they were playing bongo drums. I snapped awake and looked out at one butt-ugly white man wearing Coke-bottle glasses with pockmarks the size of golf balls.
His pissant dog yipped like a nutcase at his side and scratched slivers of paint off Stepchild’s doors with his paws. Motherfuck. I rolled the window down, shouted “Hey!” to the both of them, and leaped from the car like an attack dog.
Pockmarks was no fool—he wasn’t looking to take me on. He cringed and pulled back five feet when he saw me coming and sputtered, “What was I doing in his neighborhood?” I told him the truth—I got lost and ran out of gas.
Even though daylight burned hot around us, the man was nervous in the service, you could tell. Still, he told me to hold on, and went off to his house; came back five minutes later with a can of gas. What do you know? A good Samaritan. In Brooklyn. I thanked him, said adios, and drove off.
Pockmarks watched me depart—huh, damn well made sure of it. I hoped like hell he hadn’t taken down my license plate number.
I glanced at my watch—6:45 A.M. What does anyone do at 6:45 A.M.? At the nearest filling station I gassed up. Jesus, I thought, couldn’t drive around all day. What to do? I found a coffee shop with a pay phone inside, dialed Seltzer, caught him at home, and came straight to the point.
“Anyone been looking for me?” I asked him.
“Love a parade?” he said.
I asked him for specifics and he laid it on me—city inspectors, Miss Ellie, Gloria, Wilbur, and oh yes, Harry’s Blood Clots. The net was tightening.
I told him about my run-in with Short and Tall and instructed him to take a couple of days off, until I could find a way to remove those DEA bee stingers from my behind.
He asked me if I had a plan. I told him yeah, but not as good as the last one I had. Silence. Then a groan, and I told him I’d be in touch.
Seltzer said he’d make it a holiday, take his wife to the Bronx Zoo. Why the zoo? I asked. I ragged that if his wife wanted to look at animals, she didn’t have to go far, she had a bugger bear at home. He hung up on me. No sense of humor. My man Selz.
Since I was in a coffee shop, I ordered coffee and breakfast to go with it. I put a hurt on some melt-in-your-mouth waffles, ham slices, grits, eggs, and toast. And while I cogitated, smacking and snacking, my brain cells percolated.
Elizabeth and Zeke, I mused. Didn’t seem possible. I couldn’t fathom the two as a couple. What was my mother thinking?
And then I choked on my coffee as I had a god-awful thought. The waitress came to the table and slapped me on the back. She was a first-string linebacker type, so her slap brought tears to my eyes. I thanked her, paid the check, and split.
Reba. I had one final question to ask her. I didn’t know if I was up to it, but the question had to be asked and answered. I was in Brooklyn anyway, so I had no excuse.
With me dressed in yesterday’s rumpled clothes, Reba might wonder why I hadn’t changed, but I didn’t figure that to be important. While I drove I ruminated about Reba’s reactions yesterday. She had surprised me. I frowned. Had age and circumstance softened Reba or had I been wrong about her all these years?
Sure, she had been hard on me when I was growing up, but had it been for my benefit? Had she been trying to protect me, after all? Reba was all I had of family, no matter what happened in the past. In her own way she offered a peace pipe. Was I big enough to accept it?
Twenty minutes later I pulled up on Reba’s street. It was almost nine and hard to find a parking place. Down the street from her house I found a space, got out, was about to lock Stepchild’s door when I got the shock of my life. A familiar figure thumped down the street, head down, cane in hand, coming toward me from the opposite direction.
Stunned, I watched him turn into Reba’s walkway and up to her front door. He pulled out a key and entered. I made no attempt to hide myself, but he hadn’t noticed, so focused was he on his destination.
I stood frozen, hand on the handle of Stepchild’s door, while traffic whizzed past. I saw my future—a confused old man, standing in the middle of the street, bewildered, wondering who I was, where the hell I was going, and what the hell I was going to do.
In the end, I decided to find out what Zeke and Reba were up to and approached Reba’s house. I bypassed the front, went through a side gate whose lock I easily opened, found the living room window, and peered through it. No luck. No one visible. I circled around the back of the house and trampled a rosebush planted next to the house, and then grappled for purchase on the ledge of a window that looked into the kitchen.
The scene looked domestic, the parties familiar as Reba moved about the kitchen, putting bundles of plants into a large grocery bag. Zeke sat and ate at the kitchen table, his moustache circling around and around as he chewed the breakfast laid in front of him.
I was confused. Yesterday Reba had made it clear that she suspected Zeke in her sister’s murder—although now that I remember, she had done the same about Montcrieff. But here she was today, all cosy with Zeke. It didn’t add up. But I could see that I had been a fool to entertain any idea of forgiveness with this woman. Reba couldn’t be trusted—that was certain. What to do now, confront them?
I watched Reba reach into a cupboard and pull a bottle of rum, three-quarters full, off a shelf, tighten the cap, and then wrap newspapers around it and stuff it into a shopping bag. Then she shuffled toward the window where I was. I didn’t budge. Belligerent, I wanted her to see me. I wanted her to know she had been caught at her game.
Startled at the vision of me in her window, she hesitated for only a second, then continued moving forward as if I weren’t there. Her back toward Zeke, she picked the fresh herbs that grew in a box in the window while staring out at me and touched a finger to her lips. She wrapped the herbs carefully in more newspaper, and then she turned and shuffled back to Zeke. I didn’t know what to think. I climbed down from my perch and returned to my car.
Sitting in the car I expelled a long breath and contemplated the situation and came up with more questions unanswered. What was Reba up to? I wanted to snatch Zeke by his collar and pummel h
im. It’d give me satisfaction, but it wouldn’t give me proof of anything.
Maybe Reba had a better way. She was working on something, that was for sure, and she obviously knew things that I didn’t. Leave it to her? Okay—for now. I had plenty else to take care of. I turned over Stepchild’s engine. If Reba came up with something tangible to cook Zeke’s goose, I’d turn it over to Bundt. Get him working on it.
I had to get back to my place. The guns were there and it was looking like I’d have to use them. Best to return home under the cover of night. Where to go until then? The zoo? And then I thought, Canasta anyone?
Mom Walters—that’s what she had wanted me to call her when I left her yesterday afternoon—was tickled pink when I drove up.
I took a shower at her place, made a few calls, confirmed that I could catch Steadwell later that evening, and Mrs. Walters—Mom—broke out a bottle of sherry. We raided the refrigerator and I threw together some leftovers. She called Catherine to let her know she had a date for lunch, and not to bother coming home. After that we settled in for a long afternoon of cards. Whipped her ass again. She loved it.
I left Mrs. Walters at dusk, missed Catherine on purpose, and headed over to see Steadwell, who lived in an apartment off St. Nicholas and 140th Street, keeping one eye peeled for the dark blue sedan or the Clots’ Cadillacs.
Chapter 38
“ What I want to know is, what made you think you could get away with something like that with Harry? Boy, thought you had better sense than to be messing with some dope.” Steadwell paced the floor of his small studio apartment, puffing on a cigarette and stinking up the place. In the fifteen minutes I had been there, he had consumed four cigarettes, and a haze hung from the ceiling like a fog. It was his apartment, so what could I say?
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