Harlem Hit & Run

by Angela Dews

  At the back of the church, I could see the reverend through the wooden doors just outside his inner sanctum. I joined a hodge-podge of people, the men and women of the church—deacons and deaconesses, secretaries and Christian congregants.

  I told the secretary I’d like to see the reverend for a moment and I showed her my expired Harlem Journal press pass. She didn’t look at it.

  “He’ll be right with you, Pearl Washington. Come with me.”

  C H A P T E R • 41

  * * *

  “He’s in God’s hands now,” Reverend Garrison said to an aged couple, stooped in their Sunday best. “We will only say the words on Wednesday to help us acknowledge as a community what you already know so well.”

  He turned to me. “Pearl Washington, I want you to meet Clarence Jackson’s mother and father. This is Pearl Washington, now publisher of her father’s Harlem Journal newspaper.”

  I reached out my two hands, one to each, and thought to say, “I’m so sorry. It’s like the reverend said, we are devastated to lose our precious future.”

  I didn’t tell them I knew how they felt because my father just died. I hate it when people do that because then it’s about them and the dying and the grieving is personal. I also didn’t tell them I was the one who found their boy dead.

  “Thank you,” his mother said, and they left the office holding hands.

  Gary closed the door to the vestibule sounds and anybody who might be curious about what he was up to. His bow was blue, tied under his stupid beard.

  “That was sad. Heavy’s parents are so old.”

  “I’ll need to talk to Pearl alone, Deacon,” he said. And the man who was busy at a table piled with blueprints on the other side of the office left without a word.

  “They had Clarence late and he has been quite a handful. But we thought he was coming around. And now this. If you’re writing a story, make sure and write about Clarence being an artist and funny. I talked to him the day he died. We talked about how hard it was for him and how much support he was going to need. But he didn’t say it was life and death.”

  “You talked to Heavy? Where?”

  “He called me but he wouldn’t say where he was.”

  He motioned me toward a group of chairs as he answered the phone and said something into it I couldn’t make out. His rosewood desk caught my attention. I think I know why he had replaced the huge oak monster that used to take up almost half the space. Sitting behind his father’s desk would probably have felt like sitting behind my father’s—like our feet wouldn’t touch the floor.

  “If you have a question, ask me now. I need to get this over with. Sunday is not my day of rest.”

  “What I want to know about is Viola and Ceel money laundering. I saw cash in your office and I found wrapped bills that had to have been withdrawn from the bank. And I also saw another list of bank withdrawals, but from companies with music names like Louis Armstrong Associates. Fake companies. They were money laundering and that would require a cash business to channel the money through. Was that you?”

  “If you’ve got Viola, you’ve got your cash business. My deacons and board make sure I don’t have access to money. Our church organization is structured to keep me from temptation. And my money is not just what I get out of the baskets on Sunday. It’s also government and corporate philanthropic money. I have to keep a shit-load of records.”

  “So you knew about it.”

  “I’m not admitting it even happened” he said.

  “We both know it did.”

  “It’s your job to spread rumors, not mine,” he said.

  “The Journal does not print lies. That’s one of those urban myths,” I said. “Like the myth about your bank supporting community businesses.”

  “But we do. When nobody else will. We’re just not in the business of throwing money away.”

  You don’t get one of those bank jobs by running off at the mouth. He stopped. “When will this story come out?”

  “In Tuesday’s special edition about the bank with follow-up stories in the regular edition on Thursday.”

  “Ceel used to say she wanted to have your life,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me that. That’s terrible.”

  “She was going about it all wrong.”

  “What do you mean? What would be a good way to go about having somebody else’s life?”

  “That’s not what I meant. But it’s an excellent question,” he said. “Harlem is getting ready to be a destination. The white boys can’t do it without us and we can’t let them take it from us. Pay attention. Ceel isn’t the only one. In fact, Viola and your father were expanding the Kit Kat. It’s a jazz spot that already pulls the downtown crowd. I heard she was there at the hospital with you when Captain Bailey was shot. That’s all right. She made your father laugh.”

  “He loved to laugh.”

  “And she played the hell out of the damsel in distress,” he said.

  Gary’s image was sure and annoying.

  He paced. And when he turned to me, he said, “Viola got Cecelia in more trouble than they could get out of. She was trying to extricate herself when she was killed.”

  “Extricate just herself? What about Viola?” I asked. “Did her partner agree it was time to give up all that money?”

  “Viola and I both disagreed and tried to get her to stop calling attention to the bank. It was foolish and dangerous.”

  I hated that I had to keep the notebook in my bag.

  “Cecelia had a fiduciary responsibility. She broke several confidentiality agreements with these leaks to the newspaper and these charges. She was on my church board and I was on the bank board. We were interconnected in so many ways.”

  “And that’s how she figured it out.”

  “She got it wrong. And you have stolen property. I’d be careful if I were you. I’m warning you. The bank’s board of directors is not going to sit still for this.”

  “If you don’t tell me something else, I’ve got me a story.”

  “You can’t do this. Especially not now. Not this week. We need to be sure the bank looks as good as it is.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Off the record?”

  “Don’t tell me anything you don’t want in the paper.”

  “Then we don’t have anything else to talk about.”

  He pushed a button on his desk. The big deacon came in and Gary told him, “See Miss Washington out.”

  I stood against the wall in the corridor and was writing down some impressions and images while they were fresh. Until the presence of someone who had stopped in front of me caused me to raise my attention from the notebook to the space my body was inhabiting.

  “I’m Janice. Obsidian’s,” pause, “friend,” she said.

  “I’m Pearl.” I gave her a semblance of a smile.

  She raised a perfect eyebrow. “Of course, I knew you were Pearl. Thank you for being there at Harlem Hospital with him. I couldn’t get out of my commitment and get a flight back until this morning and I hate that I was away when he needed me.”

  “He’s better, mending, it seems,” I said.

  “Yes. He’s coming home from the hospital today. I’m going over after church. I’ll tell him we met.”

  “Yes, do tell him that.”

  I watched her walk away and wondered if there was something else I should have said. And, if so, what it might have been. Perhaps my best over-the-top Hollywood scream.

  “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” I jumped but didn’t give the reverend the satisfaction of seeing my face and walked the other way.

  C H A P T E R • 42

  * * *

  I was not in a great mood to lead a meditation on calming the mind. And they were not loving me at the 28th Precinct, where I got to be the interruption to some of them going home.

  Obie told them the 30-minute training session at 3:30 would include meditation. And they didn’t have to stay or come early for it. I had about six,
sitting on chairs. And a few wandering in and out.

  “You know me. I’m Lt. Summer Knight. I play a cop in the movies in my other life. I also teach meditation.”

  “I know some of you have a martial arts practice and already know that in order to be a complete martial artist you need to know your mind as well as your body. But knowing your body as a tool is different from knowing your body as home. That self-awareness will help us find calm and compassion, including for ourselves.”

  “That’s the WHAT of what we’re doing.”

  “The WHY of this experience is that stress is the mind killer. This is a stress reduction exercise. When stress lands in your belly and chest and neck, it will travel with you to the next experience or the next person you meet, and it will follow you home. But you know that.”

  “That brings us to the HOW of what we’re doing here.”

  “On the street, you’re always aware of what’s happening around you. And just for this moment, I invite you to turn that incredible awareness inside. Fold your attention into your body. Breathe. I’ll walk you through what I do and you can join me. Try it. See what happens when awareness touches your body. Where it lands. How it changes.”

  I rang the bell.

  “Hearing. How did that feel? Don’t say it out loud. Just be with the feeling. Hearing the sound of the bell landing and touching your ear.”

  “I’m sleepy,” somebody said. Somebody else laughed.

  I gave them and me a moment of silence.

  “How does sleepy feel? No judgement.”

  I heard a deep sigh.

  “Just breathe. Know the in-breath and the out-breath. Don’t think about it. Be aware of how the breath feels entering your nose and traveling down the body to the belly.”

  I took them through a body scan from the top of the head, the face, jaw, shoulders, arms and hands, front and back upper body, belly, and only got a laugh when we got to the butt.

  “Shhh,” somebody said to whoever was chuckling.

  We made it through the 20 minutes. I rang the bell.

  “How was that?”

  “It was nice. It felt good. But it doesn’t have anything to do with me. Maybe if I was somewhere else. Not here in this precinct.”

  “He’s right. It’s not real,” another one said.

  “Can you imagine anything more real than us sitting here right now? Everything else is not happening yet or it happened already. We’re just left thinking about it right now. Our thoughts are with us. Our thoughts are in the present. So is the breath. So are our feelings, the sensations touching our body. They come, they go, they’re not permanent. And they’re not who we are.”

  “Can you recommend any books?”

  “I’ll send a list.”

  “Are you coming back?”

  I looked over at Obie who had walked in and was standing in the back.

  He told them, “Not right away. But I want to know how that landed for you. I’ll talk to any of you who want to talk about it over the next few days.”

  Afterwards, one of my meditators came up and thanked me. He called Obie “Captain.” Another one just called him “Bailey.”

  Disrespect. Interesting. Obsidian’s jaw tightened and he walked away from us.

  C H A P T E R • 43

  * * *

  I waved walking to avoid talking to the Sunday guard standing at the back of the lobby and took the elevator to the Journal office suite. Seeing Daddy’s name was a tiny, quick comfort. In fact, Daddy could have just stepped out to take a walk—nigger watching he used to call it. It was meant with love that was as deep as it was perverse. I shared enough of it to make me glad to be home and then glad to be running away again.

  Samantha was beaming. “Imagine. We’ve got two so far. But you know these things come in threes.”

  Her body-count didn’t seem to need or deserve a comment. I only shook my head as I went to my office to call Roger in California.

  “I found out some more news,” he said. “Not about the bank. But the movie theater complex is real. They’re trying to decide which empty lot to put it on.”

  “Those lots have been empty for a long while waiting for a deal like this. They call it land-banking. Are you sure?”

  “I got it from an insider.”

  “You’re good at this reporting.”

  “People like to tell me stories.”

  “Me too, actually. That’s how I landed in the middle of that bootleg bust. I found myself in the middle of two murders too.”

  “You don’t sound like an interested outsider anymore.”

  “Harlem is a universe of small worlds. Everything is connected. It’s amazing.”

  “When are you coming home? I thought you were only going back East to take care of your father’s affairs.”

  “I’m staying through the Veteran’s Day holiday and to see what happens when the bank opens on Tuesday.”

  The pause took a little longer while I decided whether I needed to say it and if I could bring myself to do so. “And, Roger, I’ve spent some time with Obsidian.”

  “The old boyfriend.” He whistled. “I thought he was in the hospital.”

  “He’s mending.”

  “Spent some time? Did you forget the precepts? The training to avoid sexual misconduct is on the Buddha’s list of five training precepts.”

  “Damn Roger. What kind of passive aggressive bullshit is that? You’re not mad?”

  “I’m mad. I need to squirrel this information back up in my hidey hole to see how it really feels. And you need to stop.” He slammed his phone down.

  “Can I make a suggestion?” I jumped. It was Samantha standing in the doorway.

  “You have quite an annoying way off sneaking up on a person.”

  “That’s how I do my job.”

  “You are not using anything you heard on that call. Understood?”

  “Damn. I walked in too late. What did I miss?”

  She was not a convincing liar.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  It was almost an hour later when I looked up from my screen to notice the street sounds from across the room through the windows, opened a crack to let some air in.

  I reread what I’d written. Then I had to unfurl my brow and relax the grim line my mouth was making. Okay.

  I printed both my stories and the caption and popped the floppy disk out of the computer, feeling like Fred Flintstone for having to carry by hand what could have been done so easily electronically. Maybe Daddy was selling the paper; inefficient was not like him. And not telling me?

  It was a bittersweet moment to take the familiar walk down the long hallway. I walked slowly and noticed the plaques and framed pages lining the dull lime walls.

  DISTINGUISHED NEWSPAPER PUBLISHER CALLED HOME

  Charles Washington

  November 21, 1925 to October 22, 1990

  JESSE THROWS HIS HAT IN THE RING

  WHY DID MEDICAL EXAMINER REMOVE DEAD MAN’S EYES?

  SUMMERTIME

  The first was the latest. The last was a front page with two wide-eyed kids, who were called colored in the paper then, sitting on the curb eating watermelon. The other half of the page was full of bathing beauties busting out of bits of bathing suit.

  A Bootsie cartoon by Ollie Harrington floated in a wooden frame.

  During the Journal’s heyday in the 50s and early 60s, there were foreign correspondents on staff, at least monthly a highly salacious front page, and at least once a fistfight in the newsroom.

  But Daddy had let the paper drop to second place. A man once thanked me at an awards dinner because the Journal gave him the idea for his successful business. He produced plaques. The Journal is full of photographs of the bestowing of plaques for a job well done, money well spent, or for the hell of it.

  In its silver frame was the quote by Russwurm and Cornish from the opening editorial of the original Freedom’s Journal, from which Granddaddy had taken the name of his newspaper:

  We wish to
plead our own cause. Too long have others spoken for us. Too long has the publick been deceived by misrepresentations, in things which concern us dearly . . .

  C H A P T E R • 44

  * * *

  When I got to the production room, the floorboards creaked, but there was no one in the large room to hear it. Without Al, our layout was uninspired, but the articles crackled. Handwritten at the top of a page was one headline:

  Fed Shuts Down Our Bank

  Below the fold was a banner.

  INDEPENDENCE INSIDERS

  WITHDREW $$$$ AND RAN

  Adrianne walked out of her office. “Damn! This is some prizewinning journalism happening here, if I do say so myself,” she said.

  “I like that we blame the distant racists in the banner and question our own below the fold. It will be a sort of dueling of ideas about who is responsible for what happens around here. It’ll be a nice counterpoint.”

  I showed her my draft. “This belongs in the local section too. It’s not finished yet.”

  SOME DEPOSITS WON’T BE CLAIMED

  “I finally figured out the significance of all those withdrawals from companies with music names. They’re fake. Cecelia was money laundering. That would also explain some cash I found and the money she was spending on art and vacations and things.”

  “At least it isn’t stealing,” Adrianne said.

  “You don’t seem very surprised.”

  “She didn’t hurt anyone.”

  “You really believe there’s a hierarchy of illegal activity?”

  “Seriously. Who did she hurt? Tell me how it worked.”

  “It was probably illegal drug money they had to clean up by running it through a cash business where it would blend in and then into a bank. She would be the insider who shuffled the money through a made-up bank account, always less than ten thousand dollars at a time.”