The agency’s past mattered to me, especially when it landed on my desk uninvited. The rule of threes said bad news came in bunches: first Annie, then Dreamie. Did Smoke make three? This universal law had wound itself into a nub of sorrow. My job was to untangle it and kick the past behind us. I was looking for a thread to pull apart this sad knot. So, I nodded and hummed while Smoke jabbered.
Brina blew into the office at ten, easing the atmosphere. She was wearing turquoise trousers and a red peasant blouse tied under a navy blazer. No striped mini-skirt, no unlawful thoughts for Smoke to wallow in. She greeted him with a squeal and a hug, then planted a kiss on my cheek. I twitched at the unexpected contact. She never broadcast our relationship, not in the office, not on the street. Public displays of affection were out with us. Smoke scooted on the sofa to make room, but she pushed aside files to sit on my desk. Next to me. Shoulders touching. Smoke was a savvy detective. The hop in his left eyebrow said he got the message about our connection.
“Sabrina, girl, it does this old man’s heart good to see you again. You’re as beautiful as the day I left. Maybe more. These New York City boys treating you alright, I can see that.”
He winked at me; his lips dropped into a leer that vanished after a few seconds. I focused on a spot in the center of his moustache. No response needed from me: Brina was off-limits. After routine chit-chat, she pushed the talk to the visitor’s current occupation.
“Smoke, you’re a blast from the past, for sure! What brings you to Harlem? I heard you’d landed in L.A., then Chicago. Are you out west again?”
“Nah, I gave up that west coast scene a few years ago. Too freaky for me. You know me, I’m a simple boy at heart. Traditional values, home cooking, and all that.”
“All that bull, you mean. You’ve never been simple or a boy. And home is wherever you drop your latest pair of overpriced sneakers.” Brina’s eyes crinkled with smiles and laughter rippled from her throat as she turned to me. “You know why they call him ‘Smoke?’”
As I sighed, she continued: “Because he’s as hard to pin down as smoke. Shows up one day, fades the next. Reliable as exhaust fumes and just as impossible to hold. The original man of mystery, that’s Smoke.”
“That why you got rid of me, Sabrina? Because I was unreliable?”
Before she could answer, he turned to give me more history. “Never could get Sabrina to go out with me. Not dinner. Not a concert. Not a club. Not even a movie. Goose eggs every time.” He shook his heavy head as he added up the zeros. “Oh, I tried, believe me, I tried. But she was having none of my nonsense. Not one bit. Sabrina’s got rules, and heaven help the dude that breaks even a single, solitary one. Man, I’m telling you, I got no mercy from this beautiful lady. None whatsoever.”
Rather than feeling depressed by this story of past frustrations, Smoke seemed in high spirits. Twinkling eyes, curving lips, shiny cheeks, the works. According to him, sentiments on both sides never progressed beyond vague flirtation. Smoke was signaling the field was clear. Brina hadn’t been involved with him. He might be a player, but Smoke was generous and fair too. I tipped my chin to let him know I got his message.
Brina rolled her eyes, picking up on the message too. Her honesty forced a reverse to a previous comment. “Just so we’re clear, Smoke. I never said unreliability was why you left the agency. You’ll have to sort that out with Daddy. That’s between you and him. I had nothing to do with it. As you well know.”
“Sure, I know. Just enjoy hearing it from you direct.” Smoke’s eyes shut over a broad smile. “When’s the old man arrive?”
My cue to start the long-delayed pot of coffee. While I was in the break room, Brina could fill him in on the recent discovery of Dreamie’s body and the misery swirling around her father. I knew she wouldn’t mention Annie; that was my loss alone. We didn’t have trays to carry mugs and I wasn’t a secretary. So, when the coffee was brewed, I shouted the invitation. Smoke followed Brina to the break room and filled up on black coffee. The three of us, fortified with high-test brew, took seats around the small conference table to continue the catch-up talk.
“So, Smoke, you never did answer my question: what brings you to town?” Brina in bull-dog mode was a sight to behold: keen eyes, fearsome red pout, jabbing finger. “And where’ve you been since you left the agency, anyway? What’s up with Comet Security?”
“Like I said, I tried L.A. for a few years, but it didn’t suit me. So, I rolled home to Chicago to see what I could scare up in the way of business. I took after your daddy’s trade and started a little security company. The Comet Agency. Small-time gigs at first. But enough to get me noticed. First in Park Manor, Englewood, Chatham. Then all around the city. Two years ago, I landed a gig as personal bodyguard to an up-and-coming young musician. Local concerts, clubs, small venues on the South Side. Good work, not too demanding. Until the brother hit the big-time. Then, boom! Watch out! Maybe you heard of him: 2-Ryght?”
Brina squealed. Coffee sloshed over the lip of her mug. Once again, I was stuck in the outermost rings of pop culture ignorance. I’d never heard of this young rapper. But Brina gushed. Then she swooned. Then she babbled. When she recovered her voice, she spelled the name for me: 2-Ryght with a Y.
“Is he English?” My question was dumb enough to wrinkle Smoke’s dusky brow. “I mean, the name and all. Like a Brit phrase.”
“What the hell you talking about? English? Boy’s a South Side dude, like me.” Smoke bugged his eyes at Brina to check if I was kidding. Or truly as stupid as I sounded. She shrugged, unwilling to defend me.
Brina explained 2-Ryght was the hottest thing to hit music in the past ten years. Cool, blistering, sorrowful with a justified touch of violence. The ultra-fresh 2-Ryght told the story of the streets from a new angle. According to Brina’s glowing report, politics wasn’t divorced from everyday life for 2-Ryght. Culture and class were core parts of how everybody lived and died. From the young bloods to the cops, from the angel babies to the do-wrong women, from the gangstas to the pastors, 2-Ryght’s lyrics captured the rich array of life on the rough side of town. His first album, “Ryghteous,” went triple platinum. And rumors that 2-Ryght was on the verge of dropping a second album had the whole world ablaze. Or at least, a part of the world I didn’t inhabit.
Ignorant, I asked basic questions that would have embarrassed a hipper person. “Does he have a real name, or is 2-Ryght what his mother called him at birth?”
Brina’s scrunched nose indicated I was a hopeless geezer. She looked to the expert for details.
Smoke answered without an edge to his voice. “Now I know you pulling my leg, man! Nobody can be that ignorant. Name is Dwayne Reynolds. Sweet kid. A baby really. Takes care of anybody needs help. But don’t let that get out. It’d spoil his street cred if people found out 2-Ryght isn’t a borderline psycho with a long rap sheet.”
Lines drooped beside Brina’s lips at this disappointing glimpse of the real 2-Ryght. Tame and timid is nobody’s ticket to fame. But she recovered to ask about Smoke’s assignment in New York City.
Smoke puffed his chest. “You probably heard 2-Ryght is diversifying his business opportunities. He’s not kicking music to the side. But he’s looking to find other ways to bring his outlook and personality to the public.”
“Cashing in on his fifteen minutes of fame?” Cynical was my role in this conversation, so I delivered.
“Yeah, you could look at it that way.” Smoke was in a forgiving mood. And he was showing off for Brina. His arm almost broke as he patted himself on the back. “Dwayne’s developed a new line of sneakers with a major company. They’ll have his 2-Ryght signature on the side and he picked out the color combinations and leathers too.”
Smoke lifted his left foot to table height so we could admire the prototype: smooth black leather uppers with chocolate suede caps and red laces with scarlet patent leather tips. An inch of white foam swooped over bl
ack rubber outsoles. Corrugated heels made the shoe look dangerous, like high tops Satan would wear for a night of clubbing in Hades. The rapper’s name was scrawled in green patent loops along the ankle.
“Comes in red with yellow suede and an all-white snakeskin version too, with a pink sole. Nice, hunh?”
Brina gushed over 2-Ryght’s edgy design choices. Then Smoke returned to the story of young Dwayne’s business plans. “Today is the big launch of the new sneaker line. A collab with the biggest shoe manufacturer in the biz. They call the line, ‘Science Class,’ ’cause 2-Ryght’s taking everybody to school. And they’re dropping here in Harlem. You know that shoe store up the boulevard at West 145th? That’s where it’s all going down. Four this afternoon. You all need to come, check it out.”
I cut through the bull. “You mean, you want us for back-up and crowd control? That’s what you’re looking for, right, Smoke?”
He frowned at my jab. But he didn’t deny the truth of my guess when he turned to Brina. “I’m not asking for nothing for free, Sabrina. Paper’s no problem. You know 2-Ryght is good for it. You’ll get a solid payday. I just need to make sure everything goes smooth this afternoon. Bringing in local security from the Ross Agency is the way to make sure the whole event goes off without a hitch.”
Smoke laid out his case, stroking agency ego and curiosity at the same time. Brina’s bright eyes said she was hooked before he’d completed the pitch. She let him finish anyway.
“I know you got a better handle on local troublemakers now than I do. If it comes down to it, you can spot a neighborhood thug looking to make a name for himself by busting up the ceremony in front of the cameras. Staging a beef with somebody big like 2-Ryght could be some stupid joker’s idea of a ticket to fame. I need to stay on top of that and I’d sure appreciated help from you all. That is, if you’re available, Sabrina.”
Brina’s eyes glowed with excitement, her voice piping high and sweet. “Sure, we’re available. I’ll check with Daddy when he comes in. But far as I know, we’re clear for the afternoon. Right, Rook?”
Yes was my only option, as she well knew. The twist to Smoke’s moustache said he enjoyed seeing her play me.
But he had other plans for my time. “Actually, Rook, I got something else I want to run by you. A little case my cousin tossed at me night before last. She knew I was coming to town and hoped I could stop by and look into it for her. But obviously, I’m tied up pretty tight with the shoe launch today. And I’m outta here tomorrow morning. We got a meeting in L.A. with some producers 2-Ryght’s discussing a movie part with. That boy is red-hot, I’m telling you. Multi-talented threat.”
Before Smoke could launch into another hyped-up cheer for his celebrity client, I asked about his cousin’s case. “Is this a for-real cousin, or a little something-something you got going on the side? Just checking before I decide to look into the case for you. Pardon my skepticism, but I just met you, and…”
“Yeah, it’s okay. You have to test and verify. I get that.” He stretched his pudgy fingers towards me, smoothing the air between us. “No, Galaxy is my actual, for-real cousin. Straight up. Her mother and my mother were sisters. We came up together in Englewood, on the South Side. But took different paths, I guess you could say. Galaxy is a professor with a degree from Northwestern in some flubber-jubber about Africa. She’s here at Alexander University now. A dean of whatchamacallit over there.”
Smoke’s concern seemed authentic, if vague. I pulled Brina into my office for a consultation. I needed her approval before I took this side gig for her former colleague. We agreed she would bring her father to cover the shoe launch. Brina was happy for the chance to give Norment another distracting task. Pile on the work, put Dreamie in the rearview mirror. That was the plan.
After Smoke and I shook on the job, I phoned the office of Dean Galaxy Pindar for an appointment. I recognized the unusual name. This dean was at the top of Professor Gerald Keith’s list of campus enemies. He and the devoted Sally Anastos had spent lots of energy slamming Dean Pindar the night before Annie’s murder.
That afternoon, I scanned the Internet for details about Galaxy Pindar, scholar in trouble. I hoped Brina was right: the fastest exit from mourning was work. Annie was eight days dead. Forgetting wasn’t an option; revenge topped my agenda. This visit to Alexander University might yield new information about Gerry Keith and his research project. Even new insight into his relationship with my wife. Rather than a detour, this trip to campus could forge my path to payback. I wanted to kill two academic birds with one stone.
Chapter
Eighteen
The twenty-minute taxi ride to Alexander University’s uptown campus gave me time to review the information I’d gathered about Smoke’s cousin.
Dr. Galaxy Pindar was Dean of Arts and Humanities at the university, a position she’d held for six years. She was also Distinguished Professor of African History and past chair of the history department. Her resumé listed books, articles, presentations, awards, and even an art exhibit she’d curated on West African textiles. Smoke said Galaxy was a few years older than him, putting her in the late fifties. In her formal photo on the Arts and Humanities website she looked a decade younger. Maybe academic life really was a splash in the fountain of youth. Now my destiny was lock-sure: when I reincarnated for a cushy second crack at life, it would be as a tenured full professor.
Smoke said his cousin was worried about a threat to her personal safety. But he couldn’t get more specific than that. Galaxy sounded spooked by some trouble in the office or at home, he wasn’t sure which. She knew he was in private security, so she’d brought the issue to him. Smoke said even though he didn’t know me well, the Ross Agency stamp of approval was good enough for him. He was sure I could handle whatever problem cousin Galaxy threw my way. I was happy for a jaunt through the leafy quadrangles of Alexander University. Better than joining the mob at the shoe store. Standing on a street corner swamped by the surging hormones of fans of 2-Ryght the Rapper was my idea of hell.
Concrete barrels decorated with purple creeping vines and golden mums blocked vehicle access to the campus. The cab dropped me in front of the library, and I strolled fifteen minutes to Randolph Hall, the location of Dean Pindar’s office.
I could have made the walk in less time. But the warm September sun inspired undergrad women to make one final glorious display in cut-off jeans. Long legs, long hair, sultry pouts, steamy gazes. Every girl lounging under the lofty trees seemed mesmerized by a phone, tablet, or iced latté. Expanses of skin shone vanilla, margarine, almond, meringue, and buttermilk in the sunlight. I looked them over; they looked me over. I nodded; they smirked. I blinked; they fluttered. We agreed to be agreeable. Only a few boys joined the basking girls. I wondered if one of the boys might be Sally Anastos’s kid brother, enjoying his first semester of college. Banners in violet, white, and gold flapped over the pretty scene declaring the longevity of Alexander University. The scrolled motto on the pennants was brief: Labor in the sun, learn in its light. That brutal tour in ninth grade Latin with Sister Margaret Agnes finally paid off.
The festive academic atmosphere put me in a good mood, which was punctured by the arrival of a campus cop.
“You looking for something in particular, mister? Or just sightseeing?”
Stuffed into a navy uniform that was too tight across the chest and too baggy at the knees, his scowl screamed killjoy. The offer of guidance was proper, but the cop’s tone foamed with suspicion. I was two decades older and two shades darker than the students draped across sunny patches of grass. In black trousers and black button-down shirt, I looked like a stranger. His challenge was expected.
Still, it set the hairs dancing at the back of my neck. Getting profiled was never fun. “Thank you, officer. I have a three o’clock appointment with Dean Pindar in Randolph Hall. Is it that way?”
I pointed down the dappled gravel path in the d
irection I was going. I’d studied an online map, so I knew the campus layout. I didn’t need his help, but playing a confused visitor was best in this situation. Better than the purse-snatcher or rapist of his imagination.
“Yeah, straight ahead, then through the arch on the left. Big, gray, lots of stone. You can’t miss it.” He settled a pudgy hand over the radio at his waist. Which was crammed next to the gun on his utility belt.
“Thank you for the help. Officer.”
I toddled away, exaggerating my limp to give him a sense of physical superiority: I was tall, but no threat; muscular, but I meant no harm; good-looking, but innocent anyway. Without turning my head, I could feel Officer Friendly fall into line behind me. We proceeded in single file until I reached the stone arch separating the quadrangles. As I made my left turn and passed under the massive gate, I waved at my personal bodyguard. He halted, looked both ways to see who might be watching. Then he waved back. Another victory for town-gown relations.
Try as he might, the campus cop hadn’t discouraged me. I hoped Galaxy Pindar’s problem wouldn’t deflate my spirits either.
Despite my dawdling stroll, I arrived five minutes early at the dean’s office. Her administrative assistant radiated good cheer when I pushed into the suite. According to the nameplate on the desk, this was the Nathalie Kwan I had spoken with on the phone. She had soft brown eyes under a matching mop of wavy bangs. Her outfit of white t-shirt and gray slacks seemed informal; the denim jacket and purple paisley scarf slung over the back of her chair increased the casual effect.
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