Nocturne (14 page)

“I still don’t understand about the bag.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“How will it link him to the accident?”

“Well, his
prints
are on it.”

“Yes, but …”

“The prints will
link
him to it.”

“But if we go to the police with her bag …”

“No, no, no, we can’t do that.”

“Then what?”

“We leave it alongside the body.”

“You think it’s still there? She’s probably in the morgue by now, don’t you think?”

“I’m not talking about
her
body, Richard.”

Paul Blaney was trying to determine which had come first, the chicken or the egg. Had the white female corpse on his autopsy
table suffocated to death, or had her death been caused by severe hemorrhaging from the genital area? He had already determined
that there was a sizable amount of cocaine derivative in the girl’s bloodstream. The girl had not died of an overdose, that
was certain, but the detectives nonetheless would want to know about the presence of the drug, which could mean that the murder
was drug-related—so what else was new? He wasn’t confident that the detectives would care a whit whether she was so badly
injured below that she had bled to death or whether the bag over her head had caused her to suffocate. But it was Blaney’s
job to determine cause of death and to establish a postmortem interval.

He was not paid to speculate. He was paid to examine the remains and to gather the facts that led to a scientific conclusion.
Suffocation in his lexicon was described as “traumatic asphyxia resulting when obstructed air passages prevent the entrance
of air into the lungs.” But if the girl had suffocated, then where were all the telltale signs? Where was the cyanosis of
the face, the blue coloration he always found somewhat frightening, even after all these years of performing autopsies? Where
were the small circular ecchymoses on the scalp, those tiny bruises indicative of strangulation, smothering, or choking? Where
were the minute blood spots in the whites of the eyes? Lacking any of these certain indications, Blaney cut open the girl’s
chest.

What black Richard was thinking as he lugged the water back from the car wash was he would go to the police and tell them
these four rich kids from a prep school in Massachusetts someplace, Connecticut, wherever, a school named Pierce Academy—stitched
right there on the front of their parkas—these three rich white football players had come to him to see did he have any dope
to sell, which of course he did, you all
know
I deal a little dope every now and then, who’s kidding who here? I’m not here to lie to you, gents, I’m here to help you.

Cops lookin at him like Sure, the nigger’s here to help us. Started as a mere clocker in the hood, and now he’s dealing five,
six bills a day, he’s here to help us. Get lost, nigger.

Hey, no. I seen these boys do a
murder
.

Ah?

Ears perkin up now.

“What’re you smiling at?” Richard the Third asked. Hulking along in his blue parka with the big white P on the back, little
football right under the P, carrying two pails of water, same as black Richard himself. Both of them with clean rags from
the car wash stuffed in they pockets. Shagging along under the expressway. If it was nighttime stead of mornin right now,
they could both get killed, this neighborhood.

“Whut I’m thinking,” Richard said, “is soon as we finish here, you go your way, I go mine.”

And never the twain shall meet, he thought.

“It was a shame what happened to the girl,” the other Richard said.

“Mm.”

“But it wasn’t our fault.”

Sure as shit wasn’t
my
fault, Richard thought.
You
were the ones holdin her down, doin her with the bag. Which is why I’ll feel safe goin to the police. By then, my car be
all spic-and-span, my apartment clean as a whistle, my bedsheets burned to ashes along with all the rags we used. Get
that
little bonfire started soon as we finish with the car. Watch it all go up in smoke. Then kiss the boys goodbye and go straight
to the cops.

“Still,” the other Richard said, “I feel sort of sorry for her.”

Oh, man, you don’t
know
how sorry you gonna feel, Richard thought. Cause what I’m goan do is
sell
you to the police. I’m going to trade you ass for money, white boy, whatever the traffic will bear. Cause this is going to
be a
big
bust, three rich white kids from a fancy prep school suffocating a white
hooker
? Oh, this is a
dream
bust, cops up here in the asshole of the universe would
kill
for a bust like this one, never mind just layin out three, four large from a slush fund they keep handy for hot information
like this. Might be worth even
five
grand, information like this, three rich white kids? I can see the motherfuckin cops salivatin.

Just got to keep clear of it, is all.

Keep myself out of it.

Make it plain I had nothin to do with it.

I only
seen
them do it.

Which, anyway, is the truth.

“I wish you’d stop smiling that way,” Richard said. “You look like a hyena.”

Oh yes, Richard thought.

There was something that kept troubling Jamal about the picture the cops had shown him. Well, sure, Yolande being
dead
and all, that was very troubling. Laying on her back there in the alley, skirt hiked up over all that blood on the inside
of her legs, plastic bag over her head, that was troubling. To see her that way. Beautiful young girl, dead that way. Man,
you never knew.

But there was something
else
troubling him about that picture and he didn’t realize what it was until he was back in the apartment again, telling Carlyle
all about his encounter with The Law.

“Thing they do,” he said, “they tries to wait me out, like I don’t know they got some
reason
to have me up the
pre
cinc, like I’m some dumb nigger fum Alabama visitin Granma the big city. They finey gets aroun to Yolande …”

“Are you telling me she’s dead?” Carlyle asked.

Sitting at the kitchen table eating one of the croissants he’d brought back from the All Right Bakery on the Stem. Sipping
coffee the color of her skin. Café au lait was what you could call Carlyle Yancy, who was Sarah Rowland when he first met
her fresh and sassy at nineteen. Twenty years old now, a firecracker pussy and a dedicated crack addict, thank you, Jamal
Stone.

“Yes, she is dead,” Jamal said, affecting a pious tone and a mournful look. Carlyle kept eating her buttered croissant. She
appeared thoughtful for a moment, bad failing for a hooker. You never wanted them to start thinking about the perils of the
occupation. But then she gave a slight shrug and took another bite of the croissant. Jamal went back to his tale of Derring-Do
in the Face of Imminent Arrest and Incarceration.

“They had these two big dudes from headquarters there, I knew this was something big even before they brung up Yolande’s name.
Then they lays her B-sheet on me, and asts when I seed her last and whut she was wearin an all that shit, and they thows a
disgustin pitcher of her dead in a alley on St. Sab’s, bleedin from her snatch.”

“Urgh,” Carlyle said, and bit into the croissant again.

“Yeah,” Jamal said, “with a plastic bag over her fuckin head.”

Carlyle got up and went to the stove. She was wearing just this little silk wrapper he’d got her from Victoria’s Secret, floral
design on it, all lavender looking, and high-heeled bedroom slippers, she looked as delicious as any of the croissants on
the table. Man, he loved this girl. Yolande had been a good moneymaker, but this one he loved. Even if she never again made
a dime for him, he’d keep her and take care of her. Well, maybe. He watched her as she poured more coffee into her cup. Watched
her tight little ass, actually. Wouldn’t care if she never brought home a
nickel
, this one.

Which was when he realized what was wrong with the picture the cops had shown him.

“The bag,” he said.

Carlyle turned from the stove, puzzled.

“Yolande’s bag. That red bag she has.”

“The patent leather,” Carlyle said, nodding.

“She was carryin it last night.”

Carlyle sipped at her coffee.

“But it wasn’t in the pitcher.”

“What picture?”

“The one they showed me. Ain’t them crime scene pitchers spose to show
jus
how everything was?”

“I don’t know.”

“They can’t touch no thin before they take they pitchers, can they?”

“I don’t know.”

“So where was the bag?”

“Whoever done her must’ve taken it,” Carlyle said.

“Yeah, with
my
fuckin money in it,” Jamal said.

He started making his calls at ten minutes past ten.

“Hello,” the recorded voice said, “welcome to the Mayor’s Action Center, the front door to city government. If you are calling
from a touch-tone phone and you want to continue in English, press One.”

He had dialed 300-9600, and now he pressed One.

“We aim to guide you if you don’t know where to go, to listen thoughtfully to your opinions, and to help you if you have a
problem. We can’t promise to always solve what’s wrong, but we can promise to do our best. By pressing selected buttons on
your phone, this twenty-four-hour-a-day service can answer many of your questions without your speaking to an operator. It
also allows you to leave your opinion of city policies. To speak directly to one of our representatives between the hours
of nine and five, press Zero at any time. However, if you choose this option, please understand that you may need to hold
for a while.”

He chose the option.

He pressed Zero.

“You will experience a slight delay on the transfer. Please do not hang up.”

He did not hang up.

“Hello, you have reached the Mayor’s Action Center. All service representatives are currently serving clients. Your call will
be handled by the next available representative. Please make sure that you have all the materials relevant to your request
available. Please provide as much detail as possible so that we can serve you promptly.”

He waited for exactly thirty seconds.

“All service representatives are still busy. Please continue to hold for the next available representative.”

He waited another thirty seconds.

The same announcement repeated itself.

He waited again.

Five minutes of utter silence. Then:

“Mayor’s Action Center. How may I help you?”

“Hello, my name is Randolph Hurd? To whom do I speak about noise pollution?”

“What kind of noise pollution?”

“The honking of horns in the vicinity of the Hamilton

“The honking of
what
?”

“Horns. Car horns, taxicab horns, truck horns …”

“You want Environmental Protection. Let me give you the number there.”

She gave him the number.

337–4357.

He dialed it.

“This is the Department of Environmental Protection. If you are calling about a water or sewer problem, air or noise pollution
…”

Good, he thought.

“… asbestos or hazardous materials, please hold. Our customer service agents handle calls in the order they come in, twenty-four
hours a day. We will get to your call as quickly as possible. Thank you for waiting.”

He waited for a minute or so.

“All of our agents are still busy,” the recorded voice said. “would you please continue to hold?”

The announcement repeated itself a moment later.

And then there was silence for two or three minutes.

“Environmental Protection,” a man’s voice said.

“Hello,” Hurd said, “I’d like some information about noise pollution?”

“What type of noise pollution?”

“The honking of automobile horns? Taxis, trucks, cars? In the vicinity of the Hamilton Bridge?”

A silence. Then:

“
What
type of noise is that again?”

“Horns. Taxicab horns, truck …”

“You want the Taxi and Limousine Commission,” the man said. “That’s 307–8294.”

He dialed the number.

“This is the Taxi and Limousine Commission,” a recorded voice said. “If you are calling from a touch-tone phone, press One
for further information.”

He pressed One.

“If you are calling to report a complaint, press One. If you are calling regarding property left in a taxi, press Two. All
other inquiries, press Three.”

He had a complaint.

He pressed One.

“All complaints must be made in writing,” a recorded voice advised him, and then went on to give him an address to which he
could write.

“To return to the main menu,” the recorded voice said, “press Eight.”

He pressed Eight.

He listened to the options again. “All other inquiries” suddenly sounded very good. He pressed Three. A recorded voice said,
“If you are calling for licensing or owner information, press One. If you have a question about a hearing, summons, or appeal,
press Two. If you have an inquiry regarding driver medallion renewal …”

He thought it over for a moment, figured that what he most certainly wanted was a hearing of
any
kind, and pressed Two. There were yet more recorded options. Did he want to reschedule a hearing? Did he want to check his
subpoena status? Did he …?

“If you are calling regarding an appeal,” the recorded voice said, “press Four.”

He pressed Four.

“Please remain on the line. There will be a brief moment of silence.”

He felt as if he were standing at the Tomb of the Unknown Solider.

He waited.

The brief moment of silence passed.

“Appeals,” a voice said.

“Are you a recording?” he asked.

“No, sir, I am a person.”

“God bless you,” he said, and eagerly told her that he wasn’t calling regarding an actual
appeal
as such, but that he just wanted to talk to a human being who might be able to give him some information about motor vehicles
blowing horns in the vicinity of the …