Man Gone Down (53 page)

“Bus station. Four-thirty.”

“How about the post office? People get bad ideas in their heads hanging around bus stations.”

“Okay.” I climb the stairs and turn back to Gavin. He's not looking, but I thumb at the door anyway. “You want to come in?” He waves and shakes his head. He stands slowly and creaks to the gate.

“See ya, captain.” He cuts across the street, still keeping his face from me, still stooped, moving slowly. He disappears behind the trees and parked cars on the other side.

I shower, shave, put on the wool suit again, and pack my things. I start to write a letter to Marco about what has happened, what will happen, but it turns into a quick thank-you note—telling him obliquely that I will call him from wherever I land and straighten it all out.

I lay out all my money on the bed according to denominations and count it. It doesn't look like much spread out, so I put it in one stack. It's impressive, but when I count it again, it still comes up short—and gone—and I start to add up what they'll need next month, stop and redivide the pile, put it in separate pockets. I look around the room. Thomas's bowl is still there, cloudy water. I dump it out, take it with me downstairs to the basement, where I repack my tool box. I leave the bowl down there, put it in the box where Lila was. I haul the box up the stairs, scan the house for anything I may have left and anything that Marco may not miss—books, CDs—no, just change in the bowl. I take the quarters this time. Then I call a car and wait outside.

I go back to Flatbush and sell him everything. He gives me a ticket and four hundred dollars and swears to me through the Lexan that he “holds everything for thirty days.” He slides the ticket to me under the shield, gravely nods, and pinches his mouth in a pucker for added assurance. I walk out into the harsh light and sound of Flatbush—cars and trucks crashing over steel plates, a traffic cop's shrill whistle, the bang and whirl of the never-ending construction. First they built an ill-planned mall, complete with ghetto-high prices. What are they building here now in Claire's and the kids' new neighborhood?

I walk west down Atlantic, cross the street just before the near-defunct jail to the other side, where the soon-to-be-defunct bail bondsmen are. He isn't there, but there's a note taped to the door—“Back in fifteen minutes.” It's a crappy little place, jammed in between a closed bail bondsman and what looks to be a new boutique. There are two metal desks, one covered by manila folders and stacks of paper. The other is mostly filled by a computer approaching obsolescence.

A pack of kids storms down the avenue, trying to upset what little balance there is out here. There are about eight of them—preadolescent, black. They curse, either at each other or at everything else. Kids roaming the summer urban badlands. They're the kind of pack everyone
despises—too old to discipline, too young to openly want to have shot or jailed. And I imagine my children watching them from the window above, wondering about the nature of freedom—the gang's, their own. I rarely saw kids like this. The cops broke them up. But these kids get a free pass past the jail—their brief reign of terror goes unnoticed by the cops. And I can't help but think that this is the new shit being pushed on the streets: rage—its instant gratification and momentary power. The latest trend in cost-effective policing—let the little niggers find another way to get themselves killed.

He turns the corner, pretends not to see me, so that he can act surprised when he gets to his door.

“So, I'm glad you came back.”

I don't answer him, but I get out a blank check to hasten the process.

“So, you're interested?”

“You said to make an offer.”

“Yes, I did.”

I write out the check for $6,300 and hand it to him.

“What's this?”

“It's to hold the apartment.”

“But this isn't the number we talked about before.”

“You invited me to make an offer.”

“How can you call this an offer?”

“It's what I'm offering you.”

He rolls his eyes and tries to hand the check back to me. “It's not enough.”

“Yes, it is. It's first, last, and security.”

“But he wants three months.”

“Well, he can go fuck himself, and I can call the housing authority to tell them about his discriminatory practices. And then I can go after your license.”

“What are you trying to say?”

I point at the check. “That's my offer.”

He looks it over again, looks at me, for a moment like he's thinking about screaming or throwing a punch. He thinks better of it, wipes
his face, and tries another tact. “I asked for the security because of your employment status.”

“I have a job.”

He holds out his hand. “Pay stub? Letter?”

I scan the room quickly. “I'll fax it to you.”

He nods skeptically. “When?”

I look at the clock. “By the end of the day.”

He takes a step back, nods once. “Okay, get it to me and I'll run it by him.”

I go to a live teller to deposit the money because I want to see someone react when I hand them all that cash, but she gives me nothing, not even a good-bye, just a receipt. On the way out I take my bank card out again, pinch it from each end between my thumb and index finger, raise it over my head and bend it in half. Then I stare at the balance as I make my way through the Heights, trying to reconcile the account—but I'm not really sure what I'm doing other than adding and subtracting arbitrary amounts. I bend the card in half a few times, tear it at the new seam, and throw it into the sewer.

I reach the school and when I walk in on the assistant, she hardly looks up.

“Would you like to see her?”

“Yes, please.”

“I'll see if she's in.”

“Yes, thank you. She may have slipped by.”

She shoots me a look before she dials, and I meet her with a diffident stare. She quickly looks back down and dials.

“You can go right in,” she sings. Her attempt to look and sound pleasant is awful.

Jean Ray pushes a pile of papers away and stands when I enter her office. She tries to lean across the desk, realizes she's too short, and extends both hands instead—tiny, peach, freckled. I take one. She stares at the shake with a raised brow, perhaps wondering about her
missing hand. I release her, and she relaxes her face when she sees it's still there.

“Good afternoon.”

Before she can say anything else I hand her the check. She pretends to be confused—wrinkles her wrinkled brow again. She takes it from me but leaves it folded, places it on her desk and frowns at it, as though commanding it to stay. Then as she looks back up, her face goes light.

She extends her hands again. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. And you?”

“Me,” she touches her collarbones. “Thank you. I'm quite well—just the rush of the late summer, preparing for everyone's return. I always forget how busy it is.”

She looks to me for agreement.

“Yes, well, you must be busy. Good afternoon.”

She lets a smile grow wide. “I'm looking forward to seeing your children this year—really.” She extends one hand, palm down this time, as though I should kiss rather than shake it. I take it. Give it an awkward squeeze and wave. Her smile widens and she squints at me with approving eyes. Her face goes solemn. She closes her eyes and nods slowly. “Your mother would've been proud.”

I drop her hand and go.

Pincus was always there waiting, sometimes trolling the pages of a book or scrutinizing a student, sometimes staring down the hallway, fixed on an idea. And he's there when I come out of the elevator. He seems different than I remember—a bit lost and dreamy. His eyes look smaller. He's smaller, having entered since I last saw him that period in a man's life when things openly fall apart—once discreet failings now apparent. His lotion is accomplishing less. Gray hair and mustache—they're still immaculate. It takes a little too long for him to see me, but when he does, he opens his arms and smiles broadly.

“My boy. My boy.”

He takes me gently by the wrist while slowly shaking his head and leads me into his office. He pauses in front of his assistant, almost introduces me, but inhales deeply instead. He wraps what he can of his arm around me, gives a squeeze and a chuckle. The assistant looks up—just enough to make her believe that she can pick me out of a police lineup.

“Come in, son, come in. What brings you back?”

He sits down at his desk and, annoyed that I'm still standing, motions for me to sit. His office clutter is the same—perhaps not the exact components, but there are still stacks of books and photocopies of essays. The photograph of him and King is gone, however—replaced by a small bust of DuBois and a smaller picture of an older man I don't recognize.

He catches me looking for the missing photo.

“Stolen. Can you believe that? Well, I suppose it's easy enough to believe that people steal.” He goes to pound one of the bare spots on his
desk, but slaps it lightly instead—checks his nails by rubbing the meat of his thumb across them. Then he sets both hands down, as though he was about to begin a piano concerto. “I tell you, son, dark days have come down on us—dark days, indeed.” He points up at the drop ceiling. “They came in through there. They took a panel out in the hallway, slinked above, and then dropped down in my office.” He points down. “Just this past Christmas. There were footprints on my desk when I came in, footprints and that damned security force they keep around here—you know, the white shirts, the black shirts, the blue shirts. They even sent some suits up here, too. Here come I, with a poinsettia and a shoebox of cookies for everyone. Absurd. I thought of calling you for a moment there. I really did.” He gestures across the room with an opening then closing hand, as if to scoop a sample from the air. “No number for you, though, no e-mail, either—nothing. I bet those cookies are still here somewhere.” He brings his hand down on the desk, really hitting it this time, exhales, closes and opens his small eyes, and fixes them on me.

“Still married, I hope. How's your wife?” He points at me. “Claire, right?”

“Yes. She's well, thank you.”

“I heard you were expecting a child—a while ago, I suppose?”

“Yes, Cecil, he's six now.”

“Well, a belated congratulations to you. What are his interests?”

“He loves soccer and is beginning to like baseball. He's quite a painter.”

“Really, any visual artists in the line?”

“Yes, his maternal grandfather was.”

“Well, a real art pedigree. Where do you have him enrolled?”

“Saint George's.”

“Well, that's a trick. Quite a school. I read about it—dragon-slaying artists. Are they teaching him draftsmanship—how to
really
draw—or do they let them muck about abstractly?”

“Both. He has a good line.”

“Excellent.” He checks his mustache. “Well, what else have you been doing for nigh a decade?”

“I have two other children—another son, three and a half, and a daughter who's eighteen months.”

“Well,” he sits upright. “You
have
been busy. I never thought of that strategy—overrun the planet with your progeny.” He lets out a low chuckle and smoothes the sides of his hair this time. He folds his hands, puts them in his lap. “But, what else, what else?” He unfolds his hands, puts his elbows on the desk, his chin in his hands, and leans in.

“I've been working.”

“Working on what?”

“Just working.”

He smiles softly—unexpectedly—and almost whispers, “How's the writing? What are you working on?”

I feel a sudden jump of dull heat inside, as if someone tried to light a wet match in my throat. “I've been
working,
Doctor Pincus. I've been trying to stay afloat.”

He loses his smile. “I don't want to sound coarse, but—why are you here?”

“I need a letter, if it wouldn't be too much trouble.”

His eyes widen. “A letter? No trouble, none at all.” He looks around the stacks on his desk as if one was already there. “I'll do you one better. I'll make some calls. Are you planning on coming back here? I can certainly squeeze you in, but the funding . . .”

“No, sir.”

He stops searching. He seems a little hurt and tries to hide it. “No, somewhere else.” He nods. Points. “That makes sense.” He cocks his head and drops his voice. “Ivy?”

“I need proof of employment. I'm sorry I have to ask.”

Now he looks confused. “You need a job,” he says unsurely. Then he brightens. “Did you finish your doctorate somewhere else and not tell me? I won't have you be an adjunct any longer.”

“No, sir, just the letter.”

His face turns, and he leans back in his chair like someone slowly realizing he's been insulted. He covers his mouth with his hand and looks away from me, out the window, down Lexington.

He speaks through his fingers. “You know, since you left here, I've been keeping an eye and ear open for your name. Silly, I suppose, but I thought by now that I'd have seen you in print, or that you would come out of that elevator,” he gestures at the suit. “And you would be well.”

“I am well.”

He nods, unconvinced. He rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “You know, after the break-in, I wracked my brain trying to understand why they chose to take what they took: the computer, the printer, a radio—I think I got it after you left; it was a good one—some other things, which strangely enough, I don't recall ever having here, ever owning. So I know it was, and forgive me for saying this, someone I know. And I'm no amateur sleuth. I've never found that world intriguing. But I can't help but think that whoever it was took all of the other things to get that picture. Every other item had value
out there.”
He points at the window, then waves at it. He covers his face, rubs his eyes, pushes away from the desk, and then resumes his watch over the avenue.