Restoration Heights

by Wil Medearis

  “How do you know Harold anyway—he didn’t know your name when I brought you up.”

  “He don’t know me. I know him but he don’t know me. He’s always hanging around, talking about how things used to be, dropping every hard name from back in the day like he was one of them.” He saw Reddick’s sympathetic look, and softened his tone. “I’m not trying to diss the man, he just can’t get out the past. That world is gone. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re all good with the Genie now.”

  “You picked up the money on Thursday.”

  “That’s just creepy, dude, that you know all this stuff. But yeah, Thursday. Mia paid it out of the money her store brings in—she knows Tyler and me are gonna find the dudes that jacked her and pay her back. So we’re all set, except for your nosy ass stirring shit up, causing problems, not knowing what the fuck you’re even talking about.”

  Reddick backed away, so far that Ju’waun nearly followed, and looked down his street, where he first saw Hannah, with the half-finished colossus of Restoration Heights rising behind her.

  “Was she still at the party?” he asked. “When you and Tyler finally left, was she still there?”

  Ju’waun shrugged again, untethered by the distance between them, nearly adrift. “I think so. Yeah. Yeah she was there.”

  “What time was that?” Reddick’s defeated voice barely reached him.

  “About midnight, I guess.” Reddick turned and started to walk home, but Ju’waun interrupted him. “Hey, yo, Reddick.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Keep your head up, man. It’s not as bad as you think. I promise you that. It’s not at all like you think it is.”

  Sixteen

  In the space occupied by his adrenaline—once he was home, once he had accepted Ju’waun’s revelations—there was an encompassing fatigue, and the remnants of a resurfaced hangover. He finished his tepid coffee. First he verified Ju’waun’s story, looked up a neighborhood crime report—a woman mugged Sunday night on the edge of Fort Greene, no name given but the details fit. He wrote it all down on the case map—the two halves pulled even now, but disconnected, a pair of circles whose edges barely crossed. All the connections were severed. He rummaged in his drawing table until he found an X-Acto knife, unscrewed the knurled grip and slipped in a fresh blade. He returned to the map, placed a metal straight-edge against it and cut the paper in half. On the left he had Bed-Stuy and the Genie, Ju’waun and Tyler—all of them now free from Franky and Buckley, from Mrs. Leland and her son and their grasping wealth. He gave Hannah to her fiancé and her lover. He split Restoration Heights in half—conceived by one side, endured by the other. He wished he could have carved it out.

  The operation left him with almost nothing. In Bed-Stuy he had a story that didn’t need him, that he had no claim to. On the other side was a class of people who cared about him only insofar as he might be used—rearrange the furniture, hang the walls, run errands. None of what he had learned was of any use to him, and worse, none of it was of any use to Hannah. She was fading—she existed a little less by the minute. He couldn’t stop it.

  His phone buzzed—Sarah.

  hey what are you up to tonight.

  trying to put an end to a very long day.

  She sent back a frowning emoji, and after a few minutes:

  this might cheer you up. you still interested in Franky Dutton? because I’m at a party with his ex-girlfriend.

  * * *

  It was a shotgun apartment, first floor; the press of bodies generating so much heat that someone had propped open one of the wooden windows, spilling music and conversation onto the sidewalk. Reddick came in through the kitchen, went to the rear bedroom and added his coat to the pile on the bed, then went looking for Sarah.

  He sorted through the thicket of mostly white faces—the crowd almost entirely under thirty, young enough to neglect their ambitions without guilt, untroubled by the prospect of a late Sunday night. The men with thick mustaches or square beards, the women in clinging dresses or high-waisted jeans. He found Sarah in a crowd near the window, the oldest person here by nearly a decade but untroubled by it, like a guru or revered elder, a forerunner. She wore a slick dress, a 1950s cut, and had combed out her braids.

  She hugged him. “I can’t believe you came out. You never come out.”

  “I needed some good news.”

  “Was your day that bad?”

  “We can talk about it some other time.”

  “Are you trying to make a date?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “This is like our third time seeing each other in a week, I thought you might want to keep the momentum going. You used to come by all the time. It’s almost like you’re not interested in horse pornography.”

  “It’s not that, it’s—”

  “I’m joking. Come on, let’s get you a beer.”

  She took his hand and led him into the kitchen. He had drunk a second cup of coffee on his way over, trying to revive his lost focus, but it had only ramped up his anxiety. He wanted to learn what he could from Franky’s ex and go home, sleep it off.

  She handed him an open bottle of beer; they toasted and drank.

  “So where is she?” he asked.

  “Guess.”

  “Guess?”

  “We can see her from where we are standing. You’ve been playing detective for a week now, right? Let’s see what you’ve learned.” She laughed. “Find the ex-girlfriend.”

  “I don’t think I’ve learned anything, is the problem.”

  “How do you know unless you try?”

  “Sarah.”

  She grabbed his biceps, shook and didn’t let go. “Humor me.”

  He sipped his beer and relented. “Fine. We can see her right now?”

  “Clear as day.”

  “Alright, so there are...twelve girls. At least half of them we can eliminate right away, for obvious reasons.”

  “You’re so shallow.”

  “Not me. Franky. He went out with her more than once, right? He’s too insecure to spend that much time with a woman who isn’t an obvious looker. So that leaves...five. Now, when you saw the photo of Hannah you said she was too all-American, so that’s two more gone.”

  “Which two?”

  He pointed out two white girls, a blonde and brunette, sorority types whose classic looks had nonetheless drawn a crowd of hip young suitors.

  “Alright.”

  “How am I doing so far?”

  “It’s too easy.” She still hadn’t let go of his arm.

  “So we have three candidates. They all have style. They all have the traditional attributes you might expect Franky to be drawn to.”

  “Tits and ass, you mean.”

  “Also nice smiles, pretty eyes.”

  “This is what it’s like on the other side of the male gaze? I feel dumber already.”

  One of the girls felt them staring, turned toward them. Sarah smiled and waved. The girl didn’t react, returned to her conversation.

  “That’s one more suspect eliminated,” Reddick said.

  “Are you always this lucky?”

  He looked at the other two, a tall Latina and a pale white girl, both with petite faces and an avalanche of thick black hair.

  “Her,” he said, pointing at the white girl, who was standing in the den, near the speakers.

  “Okay, but why? Because guesses don’t count.”

  “See that tattoo on her forearm? Je est un autre.”

  “I am an other.”

  “That’s Rimbaud.”

  “So?”

  “So anyone who dated that asshole knows how to appreciate a season in hell.”

  She laughed. “Come on, I’ll introduce you. But I don’t think that counts.”

  Her name was Marie, and she was French. She had dark eye
s rimmed with shadow and an ankh tattooed behind her earlobe. They pried her from her conversation, tried to move away from the thumping speakers.

  “This is the guy I told you about, who wanted to know about Franky.”

  “Oh right. What do you think he did again? Kidnapped your girlfriend or something?”

  “No, I—It’s complicated.”

  “You know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t actually give a shit. Ha ha. What do you want to know?”

  “How long did you two date?”

  “We still kind of do, really.”

  “You told me that he was your ex?” Sarah said.

  “Ex is maybe accurate? In the beginning we saw each other a lot, but now it’s more off and on.” She caught concern in Reddick’s expression. “I’m not going to tell Franky about this, unless you want me to. It’s not like that. There are no emotions. It was mostly last spring but also a few times since then. I saw him...two?...yeah, two weeks ago.”

  “Two weeks? Do you know this girl?” He showed her the photo of Hannah. The caffeine was making him jumpy, slightly manic. He tried not to appear crazed. “Were you friends with her?”

  “Oh, that’s Hannah. No, I only met her a couple of times. She wasn’t around when Franky and I started. She’s your friend? Not to be a cunt but I didn’t like her. She’s one of those girls who doesn’t want other girls around—she was needy? She wanted all the attention, from all the men. Even having a lapdog for a boyfriend wasn’t enough.”

  “Buckley?”

  She sneered. “He was wrapped around her finger—but he seemed like that kind of man, like it would be easy. The kind who wants to follow but feels as though he is supposed to lead—so she just treated him like a lion and then he would do whatever she wanted. This is basically how Franky deals with him, too. A little flattery and he abases himself for you. Some men have a cheat code. Hannah knew his, and she didn’t like having me around to watch her work.”

  “Do you think Franky was sleeping with her?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. He is cruel that way—it’s one of the things I find sexy about him. But it’s also one of the reasons why there are no emotions. Buckley brought it out of him especially. There is history between those two, and Franky envies Buckley’s family, his position—also of course his money. I think this was why he tormented him, to alleviate that jealousy. He told me—I shouldn’t say this.”

  “Really?” Sarah said. “After everything you’ve said already?”

  “You’re right. Fuck it, I don’t care.” She took another drink from her Solo cup. “Franky told me that Buckley sucked his dick in college. That they were drunk, and he asked him to, said if he loved him he would do it. Mostly just to torture him, not thinking he would go through with it, but then he did. And they don’t speak of it. But it’s not like they have to, it’s still another knife Franky can twist.”

  “Really?” Sarah rolled her eyes. “I thought the only people who cared about a little cock-sucking anymore were Republican politicians.”

  “You haven’t hung out with these old money types,” Marie said. “They reserve separate morals for themselves. They want gay artists, gay friends, but not gay sons. There is a legacy to preserve.”

  “And Franky used his family’s bigotry to control him,” Reddick said.

  “Toy with him, more like. Don’t look at me like I’m horrible. Like I said, that kind of disregard—it can be very sexy. It’s like pounding your fists against a wall. It’s frustrating and painful but the strength of it, the implacability...” She smiled and finished her drink. “It doesn’t even matter that he’s broke.”

  “Franky is broke?”

  “Yes. Look, I need another whiskey.”

  They followed Marie into the kitchen. The liquor was on the table, the ice bowl empty. She poured three Jamesons neat while Sarah and Reddick went to the refrigerator. Their beers were opened before they realized what she had done.

  “No, it’s perfect,” Marie said. “Get me a beer, too, and we’ll all go two-fisted.”

  The crowd had swelled while they talked, leaking into the rear bedroom. They went in and sat on the bed, among the coats. Marie raised her cup.

  “To lousy men with good dicks,” she said.

  Sarah laughed and lifted her drink. A group of girls standing nearby whooped. Reddick shook his head.

  “You brought him up,” Marie said.

  He raised his cup. “To hard truths.”

  They emptied their whiskies and chased them with beer. Reddick felt instantly better, buoyed by the liquor and the rush of information. “So Franky is broke? What about his company? His properties?”

  “I don’t know the details. He never copped to it exactly, but you can tell. The circular way he talks about money, the excuses. He tries to find ways to impress you without actually paying for anything.”

  “Like taking girls to buildings his company owns?”

  “He did that with me. Because the company is doing fine. It’s just that he doesn’t have any cash—he’s always borrowing money without paying it back. I found out pretty early on. We were at a bar once, maybe our second date, and this guy came up to him, yelling about some deal, and having to pay somebody right away. Franky got pretty upset.”

  “Did you catch his name?”

  “Yeah. Mitchell something. Yang? Mitchell Yang. He looked a little of some kind of Asian, but he talked just like Franky and Buckley, you know, that Ivy League like...” she pinched her fingers together. “Very precise. No accent.”

  Reddick’s thoughts felt soft, furry—it made them difficult to retrieve. “Mitchell?” he asked, slowly.

  “Yeah. Kind of a husky guy, thick dark hair,” Marie said. “You know him, too?”

  He caught up, finally. Mitchell Yang—the photo from Buckley’s desk. “He’s another friend of theirs,” Reddick said. “From school.”

  Sarah frowned. “At Penn? I don’t think I ever met him. How do you know him?”

  “I don’t. I saw a photo in—never mind where.”

  Sarah frowned again, unhappy with his secrets, and he slid his hand to hers and squeezed, to reassure her. The bones in her fingers felt thin and fragile, the skin around them rough from years of dexterous work. She squeezed back.

  Marie continued. “Mitchell wasn’t the only one, though—I guess he and Buckley got into it also.”

  “Franky and Buckley argued about money?”

  “Franky told me about it the last time we went out—they got into a huge fight at some holiday gala.”

  “That was about money?”

  “You knew about this?” Sarah asked.

  “The fight, sure. But I thought it was about Hannah. I just assumed.”

  “No way,” Marie said. “Buckley doesn’t have the backbone to make a scene about a woman, not with Franky. He told me it was business, he tried to be vague—but it definitely had something to do with some money that Buckley had given him.”

  Reddick thought about the check stub that he found, from three years ago. If Franky was broke, could he have been bleeding his friend for cash?

  A man entered, whiskey bottle thrust aloft like a trophy, and was greeted by cheers. He circled the room, splashed a few ounces into everyone’s cups and then joined the group of girls.

  “So we’re done?” Marie said. “I don’t want to spend the whole night in the coatroom.”

  Sarah looked at Reddick. “I’m good,” he said to Marie. “Can I get your number in case I think of anything else?”

  She punched it into his phone, kissed them both on the cheek and left.

  “If I didn’t have a conscience,” Sarah said, “that girl and I might end up best friends.”

  “Could happen anyway.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’m a libertine, not a libertarian. I don’t see how anyone could tolerate someone
as selfish as Franky.”

  “She was pretty clear about why she does it.”

  “There are plenty of good dicks out there that aren’t attached to assholes.”

  “Anatomically speaking.”

  “You’ve seen my paintings. I’ll put them wherever I want.”

  They shot their whiskey, and Reddick waited while she fetched two more beers. Half an hour later the guy with the whiskey bottle poured them another shot as he and the girls left the room, leaving the two of them alone. Half an hour after that they were kissing.

  He wondered why they hadn’t done it sooner. It was easy, almost rehearsed, her mouth wily and pliant. He felt rubbery from the liquor, numb; they pressed harder to override it. It went on. He put his arm around her. The kisses carried into her body, her shoulders arcing like wings, her spine undulating like ribbon. She nipped at his ear, his neck; he mirrored her, like playing Horse—match the shot, raise the stakes. Touch my thigh and I’ll touch yours.

  Finally they stopped to catch their breath. “Which one of these is yours?” she said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your coat. Which one of these is your coat?”

  He found his puffer near the pillows, under a stack of wool overcoats. She got hers and they walked through the dissolving party toward the door.

  “I’m not that close,” she said. “Do you want to take a car?”

  Her phone was already in her hand, the car already summoned, before he could answer. “I don’t have any cash for my half.”

  She pulled him into another kiss. “Buy me coffee tomorrow.”

  She lived in a fourth-floor walk-up in Greenpoint, small and airless as a casket. Her roommate was asleep, or gone, she said. She filled two glasses with water from the tap. They drank and refilled them.

  “Do you want a smoke?”

  He was spinning. “I’m good.”

  She opened a window by the couch. The brick wall of the neighboring building was almost close enough to touch. There was a glass bowl on a nearby table, already packed. She picked it up and lit it.

  Reddick had his head out the window. “How do you even get back here? If you dropped something it would just be gone.”