The Vulture (19 page)

‘I care about you.’

‘But you don’t love me.’

‘Why do women always ask so many questions after they’ve made love?’

‘I couldn’t ask you this before.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well . . . I didn’t know how you felt.’

‘Wasn’t it more important to know before you slept with me?’

‘I couldn’t ask.’

‘Because if I had told you this, you weren’t supposed to get in bed with me.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you wanted to be in bed with me.’

‘I loved you.’

‘And now . . .’

‘Now, I still love you, but I know you don’t love me.’

‘I care about you.’

‘Is that supposed to be the next best thing?’

‘Meaning that that’s all I have.’

‘And you won’t ever love me.’

‘Ever is a long time.’

Pause.

‘Will you ever get married?’

‘There’s that word “ever” again.’

‘Have you ever been in love?’ Stop. ‘Have you been in love before?’

‘When I was eight I loved a girl who was sixteen.’

Giggle. ‘Did she love you?’

‘She didn’t know I was alive. I loved her because she wore pretty dresses and had long pony tails that I would’ve loved to yank.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘I don’t know. Somehow I knew it wouldn’t work out for us. But wow! My hands used to itch sometimes because I wanted to pull her pony tails.’

‘For attention?’

‘Yes, and because that was the only expression of love that I knew. In school, if my friends ever saw you pull a girl’s pony tail, she was immediately your girl.’

‘And that was all the love you had?’

‘That was
the
crisis. I’ve had women. We always understood each other. We needed each other, and we made love. That was all there was to it. I really wanted to love some of them. Either because . . . It was always gratitude, because they understood the fact that I needed them, and they came with me. Knowing that there would be no wedding bells and knowing everything else about me, I guess.’

‘And me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you think that I would be like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Keep coming and coming because I love you, knowing that
all you want to do is sleep with me and then erase me from your mind?’

‘I can’t erase you from my mind.’

‘But, you’re not in love with me?’

‘I guess I don’t really know what love is.’

July 8, 1969

‘Good evening, brother,’ the voice said. ‘So glad you could make it. As you noticed, we were waiting for you.’

I glanced around the room, and the three brothers nodded at me.

‘Your work concerning Mr Valsuena was recognized, brother. Believe me, it was a credit to the people of your community and a step forward for black people everywhere in America who are victims of the Beast.’

The voice was coming from the head of the table. I could see that he was seated, but all there was was a silhouette and no more. I wanted to see his face.

‘Unfortunately, brother, there was someone else in your area who took up where Mr Valsuena left off, and there must be something done about him. Are you any less willing to help your people now than before?’

‘No.’

‘Pass the picture to Brother Hall,’ the voice commanded. A large blowup the same size as the picture of Isidro was handed to me. The shock on my face must have been plain.

‘You know this brother?’

‘Yes. I do.’ It was John Lee.

‘There are two things that we have in mind for you, Brother Hall. One, of course, you have before you. The other is a trip to Detroit. We will discuss the other matter with you later in the week.’

I didn’t know if he was through or not. I simply got up and headed for the door.

‘I assume, Brother Hall, that everything will be taken care of?’

‘Yes,’ I said in monotone. ‘Everything will be fine.’

I didn’t think ‘fine’ was the word I wanted to use. I climbed the stairs in a hurry. The night air was hot, sweltering, blanketing, smothering me, and choking off the air. I wanted to run. I wanted to run because the air currents go by faster and you feel cooler. I wanted to run because I didn’t feel well. I felt like I was going to be sick. I wasn’t going to throw up, I was going to be sick in my mind and my heart and my soul. Where are you, other man? Where are you, man who knows all about me? Where are you, man who killed Isidro, because I need you to kill somebody else for me. God knows I don’t want to kill John Lee. John Lee! John Lee is a fat boy who lives around my block and used to work at the food market, bringing stuff to my mother on that bicycle with the big tub in front where the food is kept. John Lee is the guy who invited me to his house for a party . . . Why? Why is he so stupid that he has to keep on dealing those goddamn pills and shit? Why is he so crazy? Why can’t he just stop?

I think I know all the answers. He’s on a merry-go-round, and he can’t get off. Now, that’s very funny, John, because so am I! Well, in a way I am. The brother asked me if I would do it, but why should anyone else have to do it? You would be just as dead. Well, now that you mention it, I’m not on a merry-go-round at all. I’m out here in this world. That’s just about the same thing, because I don’t know if this is real. I don’t think it is. I think that we are puppets, and someone is pulling the strings on us all. I don’t think I can do what I want out here, but I think that there are some things that have to be done. That’s what you think? You think that even if you don’t see any drugs, let alone sell them, that there will
be someone selling them and I’ll have to kill anyway. KILL? John, do you know what you just said? You just said the word. Damn! I think I am a dedicated man to the cause of uplifting black people . . . I said I
think
, John, because sometimes I just don’t know. Like I just don’t know right now. I know I don’t want to kill you, but I know you have to die.

Then all at once it hit me. John Lee doesn’t have to die! I think I can scare John Lee into stopping. Maybe I can just talk to him. And say what? And say that if he doesn’t stop, I have to kill him. And he’ll laugh and say that I’m his boy. I’m a friend of his. He’ll say I couldn’t kill him. He’ll be right!

July 9, 1969

I went to see a guy that I knew on the block named Game. He was called Game because he was a con man. I knew that he would be able to help me with the problem I was having.

‘Look, I need to talk business,’ I said. ‘Where can we talk?’ For the moment we were in the middle of a crowd of crapshooters in the crap corner at the 17th Street park.

‘Business?’ he asked. ‘Brother, you just said the magic word.’ He picked up a five-dollar bill from the center of the pile and walked away with me.

‘I need a key to put a thing together. Can you help me?’

‘What kind of key?’

‘Door key. A master for an apartment.’

‘Frame-up?’

‘Yeah.’

Game smiled a bit and pulled out a pack of Luckies. ‘I didn’t know I had competition in the neighborhood.’ He laughed.

‘It’s not really comp,’ I said. ‘Just a small thing.’

‘What’s it worth to you?’

‘A yard.’

‘Whew! Can’t be that small if it’s worth a yard to you. A hundred dollars ain’ no small action. Why don’t you cut me in?’

‘A yard for the key. Your help I don’t need.’

‘Where’s the place? What kinda joint?’

‘Brownstone walkup. Three to a floor. Even corners coming off the stairs.’

‘A yard?’ Game came out of his pocket with a key ring that must have contained at least a hundred keys. He shuffled through them while we strolled to the shade of the park maintenance house. The New York heat was merciless. I was watching the smaller children run through the afternoon spray from the sprinklers and wishing I could do it without looking like an ass.

‘In advance, brother,’ Game said.

‘Half and half,’ I told him. ‘You take all, I keep the key.’

‘What if it wouldn’t work an’ you paid for it?’

‘I know how to find you.’

He wiped his forearm across his face. ‘This is it. She gonna work every time out of a million.’ I handed him fifty dollars.

‘I’ll see you tonight in the Cobra. About eleven bells.’

He nodded and walked away.

I headed toward 15th Street. The way I had things set up, John Lee had left his house near noon and was still gone. It was almost two o’clock. I had called N’Bala and told him I wouldn’t be working today.

I had found out from Nissy what John’s main play was in terms of pills. He told me, for the price of a bottle, that John dealt more Blue Heavens than anything else. Our conversation also pointed out that John’s parents had left the day before for Syracuse or Buffalo or somewhere. That was why I went to Game and borrowed the key, or should I say rented the key?

The key slipped perfectly into the lock and brought a
satisfying click from the middle of the door. I opened it and slid inside. I noticed quickly that the apartment had been recently painted and that the Lees lived well. I passed through the living room to the back bedroom, where I saw John’s clothes all over the bed. I was searching for almost ten nervous minutes before I found what I wanted.

Inside his closet was a brown paper bag, stuffed under a tall stack of boxes full of old clothes and games and baseball gloves. Inside the bag was an entire cuff, twenty-four packets of pills. I stopped at the four packs labeled: ‘Immies. Ivy Hall. July 9.’ That was more or less exactly what I wanted. When John delivered the pills and they were no good, he would be threatened, maybe even beaten. The possibility came up that he might be killed. Anything was better than my having to do it.

I took the four packs that were to go to Immies and substituted my own special Blue Heavens. The ones I fixed up, filled with salt. I was very careful to leave things the way I found them. I didn’t want John to know.

Phase Five

July 13, 1969 / 3:50 P.M.

‘Are you Mitchell?’ the captain asked the officer seated at his desk.

‘Yes, sir,’ was the reply.

‘I read your name on the report we had last night about previous narcotic arrests in the district. I thought you might be able to help us if we talked and compared some notes.’

‘I understand you went to see Paco Valsuena and his brothers,’ Mitchell commented.

‘We went to see them, but that’s about all,’ the captain said, leaning backward in the chair. ‘If the info we got is correct, the trip was a definite dead end.’

‘Why so?’

Lieutenant Thomas sat across from the captain’s desk in his usual chair, right in front of the fan. Mitchell, the young Narcotics detective, sat in the guest chair that had been occupied earlier in the day by a man named Watts. Captain O’Malley got busy on the phone.

‘Sergeant, give me Manhattan State Hospital, please. . . . Yes, I’ll hold on.’ The captain started unbuttoning his jacket and tie while he waited for a reply. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Yes. This is Captain O’Malley of the Tenth Precinct. I’d like to have your records on a man named Paco Valsuena. Yes. That’s P-a-c-o, Paco; V-a-l-s-u-e-n-a, Valsuena . . . Yes, I’ll hold on.’

‘Did you bring those things that we asked you for, Mitchell?’ Lieutenant Thomas asked.

‘They’re outside at the desk,’ Mitchell said, getting up.

‘Yes,’ the captain said into the phone. ‘He was admitted on May 19, 1969, and has been given no definite release date. Thank you.’ The captain wrote down all of his information in a notebook.

‘Dead end?’ Thomas asked.

‘Yeah. Paco has been in Manhattan State ever since May 19.’

‘What about Jessie and Slothead?’

‘I’ll call,’ O’Malley said.

Mitchell came back into the room carrying a small leather case. He flattened the case on the captain’s desk, opened it, and pulled out several pads and other notes.

‘Give me TWA at Kennedy International, please,’ Captain O’Malley said into the mouthpiece.

Mitchell looked questioningly at the captain.

‘Jessie and Slothead left for San Juan on July 4, according to their mother, and haven’t been back yet. We’re trying to clear them. If they were on the flight they were supposed to be on, they couldn’t have been on 17th Street last night.’

‘Right,’ Mitchell agreed.

‘I’d like to have you check your passenger list for July 4. This is the ten-fifty-five flight to San Juan, Puerto Rico. The two names I’m looking for are Jessie Valsuena and Francisco Valsuena. That’s V-a-l-s-u-e-n-a.’

Pause.

‘They were on the flight?’ Pause. ‘Thank you . . . I will be sending a man named Conroy to your offices at Kennedy later on during the day. He will be checking all of your return flights since then. Is that okay? . . . Thank you.’

Captain O’Malley hung up the phone and turned to the two officers.

‘They weren’t in the States?’ Thomas asked.

‘Evidently not. I’m going to have to do some tighter checking, of course. I know that it’s possible that they came through without using their proper names. The way I understood it, neither of them would move without receiving the word from Paco. He hasn’t been available.’ The captain turned and spoke into the intercom. ‘Sergeant. I want you to send
Lieutenant Conroy in here as soon as he returns from dinner.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The three men looked at each other for a second. It was a time of year when no one likes to just sit and think. They were doing a job that always seemed to have too many loose ends and too many details to check.

‘What help can you give us?’ Thomas asked Mitchell.

‘Not too much on this one,’ Mitchell admitted with a sigh.

‘What about Isidro?’

‘Isidro was killed approximately twelve-thirty A.M. on the morning of January 4, 1969. He was shot once with a .32-caliber automatic pistol. There was a silencer on it . . .’ Mitchell continued reading. ‘There was no sign of a struggle, and his mother testified that to her knowledge nothing was missing from the room to indicate robbery as a motive . . .’

‘Clues?’ Thomas asked.

‘One .32-caliber automatic bullet was found. According to our reports, the gun it belonged to was sold by order to a Robert Miller, 169 West 113th Street. We looked into it. There was no such person at that address, and according to the landlord, never had been.’

‘Had this bullet been fired?’

‘No. If you care to look at the photographs that were taken at the time the body was discovered, you see where the bullet is in relation to the body.’ Mitchell passed the two officers a blown-up photograph with the bullet outlined in chalk.

‘If the bullet hadn’t been fired, how did you trace the gun?’

‘The gun was found the next day in a trashcan on Eighth Avenue,’ Mitchell said.

‘Fingerprints?’

‘Clean as a whistle.’

‘We got the word this morning that John Lee and Isidro
were having some hassle because of territory and this kind of thing,’ O’Malley told Mitchell. ‘What about that?’

‘John Lee’s name never entered the conversation before,’ Mitchell said.

‘When you searched the room, did you find any narcotics in quantity?’ O’Malley asked. ‘Such that would indicate that Isidro was a pusher?’

‘No, sir. We found his works rolled up in a sheet in the bureau . . . The one over here.’ Mitchell pointed again at the photograph. ‘He had the usual needles, eye dropper, syringe, cotton, and alcohol . . . Oh, here’s something. There were ashes on the floor, and we took them to the lab to determine whether or not they were from marijuana or what, but they were from regular cigarettes . . . The only reason I mention it was because Mrs Valsuena said that Isidro had developed a light attack of asthma and didn’t smoke cigarettes at all. I asked her who had been in the room with him visiting, and she said that Isidro didn’t allow his visitors to smoke either.’

‘So you think that the killer smoked a cigarette while he shot Isidro?’ Thomas asked sarcastically. ‘What brand?’

‘We didn’t find any cigarette butts in the room,’ Mitchell said.

‘The killer didn’t leave his cigarette butt, either?’

‘He left the bullet instead,’ Mitchell said.

The intercom hummed for a second, and then the sergeant’s voice broke through. ‘Lieutenant Conroy is here, sir.’

‘Send him in,’ O’Malley said.

‘What do you have on John Lee?’ Thomas asked Mitchell. The younger man shuffled through the papers in the valise and came out with a sheet.

‘Practically nothing. All of this is information we started running down since this morning. No arrests. No pickups. Nothing.’

‘We’re going to go and visit Mr Lee after we talk to
Conroy,’ the captain told Lieutenant Thomas. ‘We’ll see what he knew.’

A young plainclothes detective came in. He was about thirty years old, black, and wore horn-rimmed glasses.

‘Lieutenant Conroy,’ O’Malley said, ‘This is Lieutenant Thomas of Homicide and Lieutenant Mitchell of Narcotics.’ The three men shook hands.

‘What else do you have on Lee?’ O’Malley asked.

‘Autopsy says that the time of death was approximately eleven-twenty-five. Lee was first hit on the head at the base of the skull, causing unconsciousness and second-degree concussion. He was then shot with ten c.c.’s of pure heroin. The direct result of the injection was a heart reaction, causing his left ventricle to explode under the pressure.’

‘Could the lab boys give anything about the murderer?’

‘Whoever it was weighed about one hundred and fifty pounds at least. This, of course, is a very rough approximation. The blow was struck at an angle of forty-three degrees, which means the killer was right-handed, or at least used his right arm to strike the blow. The weapon was a piece of clean wood, like a billy stick or a broom handle. There were no chips of wood implanted in the skull from the contact . . . When we went through the assumed murder routine, it took us seven minutes to strike the blow, prepare the injection, and then shoot the victim with the solution.’

‘A calm bastard,’ O’Malley said.

‘We think they were trying to make it look like a suicide. There were no prints on the needle that was taken from the arm.’

‘What was the cloth that they used for a tourniquet?’

‘An undershirt. Been through about thirty washings. It was shredded, and we couldn’t uncover any laundry marks.’

‘Damn!’ Thomas said. ‘This is as thorough a thing as I have
ever seen. A dozen possibilities, and we don’t know much more than we knew before.’

‘Robbery?’ O’Malley asked. He was enjoying Mitchell’s in-depth, detailed report, and was adding the facts that he did not have to his own report.

‘There was $28.42 found in the victim’s wallet. Evidently that was all he had. There was a picture of a girl named Debbie Clark. You can check her. Also some
Bambú
, cigarette rolling paper that the block uses for reefers. A library card for the library on 23rd Street and Seventh Avenue. A card that names the food market on 28th Street as his employer. A ticket to see Peter, Paul, and Mary in Central Park . . . that’s about it on that . . . If there was a robbery, it wasn’t for money or concert tickets.’

‘The brown paper bag,’ Thomas said.

‘Sounds like a winner,’ O’Malley said. ‘Probably some dope.’