Gray Night (7 page)

 He went to a cabinet built into the wall at the back, opened it, and grabbed a stack of folded clothes. He pushed them into my arms. “Here,” he said walking out. “You have work to do, doctor.”

 I followed him out. “What do you mean
I
have work to do?” I snapped.

 “I’m meeting a contact. Very shy. Won’t come close unless I’m alone. We need to start making phone calls. I left a list of the contacts I have that might hear something over on the desk. Give them a call after talking to yours. Tell them you’re calling on my behalf and they shouldn’t give much trouble.”

 “You are
no
t leaving me here.”

 He walked over to the desk and opened the unlocked top drawer. “Nick’s .38 is in here. It’s loaded. You shouldn’t need it, but I want you to know where it is. Double-action, so all you have to do is pull the trigger. Almost no one ever wanders in here, so if you hear someone on the stairs you get ready.” He turned away and then quickly spun back to face me. “But the ones who do are normally kids off the street, or someone in trouble. In that case, you know, don’t shoot them.” He leaned over the desk, grabbed a pen, and scribbled a number down on the top paper. “That’s my cell, in case you need me.”

 “I need you here now, doing your job!”

 “I am doing my job,” he said flatly, looking right into my eyes. Then he left.

 I could have screamed. And of course, the universe chose that very moment to cause every spot that had itched on my body to need scratched, immediately.

 
Aaaaaaarrrrrrgggghhhh
…If those sweat pants and socks didn’t smell so clean and feel so soft, I would have chased him down the stairs to verbally destroy him and everything he stood for!

Chapter Six

 I took the stairs two at a time. I didn’t think she would come after me, not with how important the investigation was to her, and not with how much she wanted out of that trench coat, but I’d been wrong before. As long as I left quickly, she would stay and make those calls. I needed to get to the Jordan’s neighborhood. I know Claire didn’t understand why I wasn’t staying to help find Henry and George’s killer. They were my friends, or as close as I had, but I’d taken the boy’s money first. I couldn’t save my friends, but the girl could still be alive. But even if not, I’d find her. And Claire was right. Too much time had gone by. It could take days, weeks even, to get the right leads in the museum case. I could work on both. I would do both.

 I jumped the last three steps, landing so loud on the lobby floor even Abner heard me.

 “Is everything all right, Mr. Knight?” he asked as I passed.

 “Yeah. Fine,” I stopped a second to catch my breath. “On a case.”

 “And the lady is working alone up there?” he asked.

 “She’s a specialist in her field. Helping me with some research,” I checked the stairs behind me. I didn’t hear anything. “Don’t suppose I could trouble you to stick around a while longer, keep an eye on her?”

 Abner lit up. “Yes sir. Adams has me here most of the day anyhow in case the repairman can come by. I’ll run to Joe’s and grab a sandwich. Maybe ring Miss Claire and see if she would like something. Haven’t had a lunch date with a beautiful woman I wasn’t married to since the Eisenhower administration,” he winked.

 I slapped him on the shoulder. “Good man.”

 It took a half hour to get to the Morrisania area of the South Bronx. On the way I phoned local hospitals, checked for any Jane Doe’s matching Ruby Jordan’s description. There were none. Now for the fun part…finding a pimp in the Bronx.

 I wanted to talk to the boyfriend, Brandon, too, and head out to the shelter to see whatever there was to see, but this guy M&M would know the streets. If he kept a close tab on his girls, then he had eyes out, people he trusted. If the neighborhood were his, then word of anything happening here would get around to him. I thought of looking for one of his girls. She could find him, and may know Ruby. However, I didn’t know this part of town well, and I’d lose a lot of time. I needed a more direct approach. The diner. It was the only place I knew the location of anyway.

 When I heard, The Box, I pictured one of those old boxcar diners. Like the ones where they literally use an old dining car that’s out of service. This wasn’t anything like that. The Box was a hole-in-the-wall café made from a big converted garage. By converted, I mean someone put mismatched tables and chairs inside a garage and attached a small kitchen area. It still had the garage door. And oil stains on the concrete. And no windows, excepting of course the open garage door. The place was packed though; always a good sign, especially with noon come and gone. The more people around, the more chances for information. Would it be weird to just walk in and ask for a pimp? Yeah, but subtle isn’t always my strong suit.

 I circled the block until I found an opening to park along the curb nearby.

 I stepped out of my car and into a wave of mouth-watering goodness. The ambrosial aroma emanating from the diner taunted me with reminders of having skipped lunch. So maybe I have an addiction to good food. Sue me. Some people spend a decade overseas and come home with different tastes. I wasn’t one of those people and I had a lot of time to make up for.

 I navigated the tables, aiming for the bar in back. Most everyone was busy eating, but one or two turned to stare. I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t heard them laugh when the big guy at the counter said “
Nadhani mtu nyeupe ni kupotea.
”

 What was that? Bantu of some kind. Swahili. The white man is lost? No. I think the white man is lost. Right. I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d spent nearly my entire adult life in Africa. I was more comfortable walking in here than I ever had at those museum events. But, this wasn’t Africa. This was New York.

 I sat at the bar and smiled. “
Si woliopotea. Njaa!
” Not lost. Hungry!

 
My Yoruba was better than Swahili, thanks to Djimon, but I could manage. The big guy was well spoken, which helped. Not the Kingwana or bastardized Bantu-French I was used to hearing.

 The big man stared at me when I turned back to the bar. I’ve had no end of intimidating looks leveled at me over the years, and his was one of the best. And when I say the guy was big, I’m not saying large and round, nor am I saying huge and muscular. He looked like a normal guy. Just, you know, times two. No one else seemed to have any idea what we were talking about.

 “
Jinsi gani unajua Swahili?
” he asked. I couldn’t tell if he was surprised or angry. If he wanted to know how I spoke the language, there was only one way I could think of to prove the truth. I had a scar, a very unique scar, that would settle the matter. But that was dangerous in the wrong company. I could have lied, but I’ve always believed if there’s going to be trouble it should at least be over the truth.

 “
Baba yang alikuwa missionary,
” I said. My father was a missionary
.
There. True. Believable. And sort of the reason I knew Swahili, in a roundabout way.

 He continued to stare a moment considering, then smiled and laughed. I guessed that meant we were good. It was better than a gun in the face. That happens to me more often than you think.

 “What can I do for you, priest?” he asked with his back turned to the grill, which consisted of bars laid over a series of oil drums filled with charwood.

 “There’s something I want and something I need. I know you can help with the one, and I’m hoping for the other.”

 He turned around and leaned over the counter. “All right, priest. What do you want that Jabari can provide?”

 “I want an order of the worst barbeque you serve.”

 Jabari laughed so hard the bar shook. “And so you shall have it,” he said, slapping the counter before ducking into the back. When he returned I didn’t watch what he was doing. Sometimes it’s better not to know.

 I busied myself looking at the old photos, news articles, posters, and billboards on the walls. Everything was old and faded except one bright white paper pinned in an open space. It had a big picture in the middle and handwriting beneath it. I reached into my jacket pocket and slid out the photo of Ruby that Thomas had given me. It was the same. Looked like Thomas didn’t waste any time with those fliers this morning.

 I kept the photo in my hand and turned back around. Jabari called out an order and walked over to me.

 “And what is it you need?” he asked.

 I caught his eyes and motioned towards the flier on the wall. He didn’t miss the look. Jabari grabbed a newspaper and flipped through it until he came to the page he wanted. He folded it over, laid it on the counter, and pointed to a photo of a cop. I shook my head no. Interesting. He could have asked in Swahili. But he didn’t.

 “What is your interest here? What do you care?” he whispered over the counter.

 I laid down the photo of Ruby I had. The same photo in the flier. I waited until I was sure he recognized her then flipped it over. It said
To Tommy, Love Ruby
in a flowery script. Beneath it was
Ruby Jordan 12
^th
Grade
in a different handwriting; the same handwriting on the flier.

 “He asked me to take a look around,” I said.

 Jabari waited until the folks at the table behind me left. When they did, he brought out a stereo from the back, to cheers no less, and set it on the table and started some music. I didn’t recognize it. Some old blues song. I only caught the part ‘me and the devil, walkin’ side by side’.

 “I don’t know if I believe you,” he said, coming back around the bar. “But Thomas is a good kid. The girl too. Maurice—the girls call him M&M—is about to have a breakdown. This is the fourth or fifth girl, all in the last several weeks. Her boyfriend searches with his friends. And of course, Maurice always has his eyes out. I cannot say if they’ve found anything or not, but both still search.”

 “Did you see what happened? The evening she ran off?”

 “No. I did not see it. Brandon came in and told me. He was angry.”

 “Could you tell me where to find Brandon?”

 “I do not think he has anything to do with her disappearance.”

 “I don’t either, but I still should talk to him. It would be a big help knowing what direction she went off in. What she was wearing. Where he’s searched. And if you could point me towards M&M, I’d be grateful.”

 “I understand. Brandon works at a garage about two blocks south. As for M&M, your guess is as good as mine, but if I may, you might have better luck at the shelter.”

 “Thomas mentioned Ruby volunteered there. For a Mr. Sawyer.”

 He nodded.

 “And why might I have better luck there?”

 “As I said, Ruby is not the first to go missing. I am sorry this has happened to her. But no more so than any of the others. This isn’t about a missing girl, priest. This is about why there are no longer people out at night. Yes, I know what you are thinking. In this neighborhood, only the underworld would be out. It’s true. I tell you even they are not to be found. Or they travel in large groups when they do. This is about why there are a half dozen pushers that have operated around here for years and are nowhere to be found these past months. This is about the stories everyone hears yet no one tells. The monsters that come out at night.”

 Well, that wasn’t a disturbing thought. Neighborhood like this could be messy at the best of times, but he seemed to be getting at something else.

 “I don’t understand,” I said. Because I didn’t.

 “Neither does anyone else.”

 I nodded. “And you think these answers can be found at Mr. Sawyer’s shelter?”

 “Roman Sawyer,” he said, “is an interesting man. Educated. Caring. He is in a good position to hear news from those on the streets. Perhaps even more so than Maurice, who spends his time looking. Even if Roman cannot help you, there are those there who could. They will know more about what is going on in the night. There will be many addicts. They may be able to shed light on where the old pushers and dealers have gone. They’re closer to it than the rest of us, being vulnerable out on their own. They may have useful information and not even realize it.”

 “I’ll make the trip to see this Roman a higher priority, but I can’t afford to get involved with a bunch of missing dealers.”

 He paused a moment to sniff at the air, then smiled. “I understand. You want to find the girl. That is good,” he said, shaking my hand. “And now I declare my lowest quality barbeque finished!” He turned to work at the grill, and soon delivered me a masterpiece of culinary delights on a platter; his worst meats, the worst roll he could find, and the last corn on the cob in the warmer. I took one experimental bite and knew exactly why Brandon ate all his meals here.

 Jabari tapped on the bar to get my attention and pointed to a tall, muscular kid who had walked by in a red t-shirt and jeans, talking to an older couple outside.

 “Brandon?” I asked.

 He nodded.

 I looked again and the three were still talking. “Jabari, can I get this to go?”

 He smiled and nodded, took my platter, and transferred it into some styrofoam contraption. He slid it back over to me and put down a big styrofoam cup full of sweet tea as well, with lid and straw.

 Brandon said his goodbyes. “What do I owe you?” I asked.

 “Find the girl,” he said. “And next time you order the most expensive dinner I have.”

 I bowed gratefully. “Thanks, Jabari,” I said, grabbing everything and heading out of the big garage. Well, that had turned out easier than I thought it would.

 “Brandon!” I called out to him. He turned around and waited.

 “Yeah?” he asked.

 I caught up with him. “Hi, Brandon. I’d like to ask you about Ruby Jordan.”

 A gust of wind blew my jacket back and Brandon’s eyes went wide. He dropped his gaze to my chest and stared at my gun. Crap, he was going to run. I took a step closer.

 “Brandon,” I started as I took a second step. He leapt forward and slapped his hands beneath mine, sending styrofoam, tea, and ambrosia everywhere, then tore off down the sidewalk. Son of a bitch!