Blood Count

CHAPTER 13

I told Wagner a string of little lies, just knit them together the way an old aunt of mine used to knit the hideous brown wool scarves I had to wear as a kid. “I’ve been hearing this area is really good now-they call it the New Harlem,” I said to Wagner.

He shrugged. “Lot of people coming uptown, buying in, before the crash, I mean. Nobody’s buying nothing with this subprime shit, with those bastard fucks downtown on Wall Street. I know a lot of good cops gonna lose their houses. All they care about, those fuckers like Madoff and the others, sharks, you know, bastards, is money. I’d fry them if I could, motherfucking bastards,” he said, echoing the fury of working guys all over town. “They just pocket the bonuses and leave us all swinging in the wind.” Crushing out his smoke, lighting up a fresh one, he leaned back in his chair, told me his guys had been told to give the Armstrong special attention, in case I wanted to tell my friend.

“Who told you?”

“Somebody on the City Council, far as I recall. But the Armstrong residents usually call the firehouse anyway. People don’t like calling cops, you know, Artie, not in Harlem; no love lost, right? I hear people say, ‘Well, the fire guys always show up if you’re stuck in an elevator.’ There’s people around here that still think of us as pigs, you know? I can’t help it if we have other things to take care of, like homicides, instead of getting a cat out of a tree.”

“They got cats in trees in Harlem?”

“Metaphorically, man. I mean, some old lady needs help because she got locked out, you know, Artie?” Wagner was irritated. “Me, I don’t understand if you got the dough and you could buy a house, why would you want an apartment? Everybody stacked up in boxes, one under the other, like those graves where they stick in extra people when they run out of space,” he said. “Manhattan! Well, whatever, maybe I’m just a suburban asshole that likes my privacy. My house on Staten Island is free and clear. It took me thirty years to pay it off,” he said. Wagner’s cell phone rang. He picked it up, turned to me and said, “Excuse me a sec, Artie. I got something to take care of.”

After Wagner left his office, I noticed a picture of the Twin Towers on the back wall of the office. Beside it was one of George W. Bush. Frank Sinatra was up there, the heavyset Sinatra with the rug on his head, and his signature in white. I’d seen it on a lot of walls. Also there was a color picture of Jesus with a bleeding heart, same as I always see on the wall over at Pino’s, the butcher on Sullivan Street. Finally, there was a photograph of a pair of basketball players, signed and framed. In between them stood Jimmy Wagner.

I got up and looked at it closer. The players were Earl Monroe and Amahl Washington. Both black. Both a lot taller than Jimmy.

I was interested in it because I’d always been a fan of Monroe, at least from what I read, because I never saw him play.

“She white? If you don’t mind my asking,” said Wagner returning to his office.

“Who?”

“Your friend that wants to buy into the Armstrong.”

“Yeah. Is that a problem?”

“She’ll be fine,” Wagner said. “There’s always been white people this part of Harlem, a few now, a few more came in the housing boom, you know, fixing up stuff, designer types, actors, like that.”

“I didn’t really think about color when I asked about the building.”

“No? Well, you should always think about it, man, no matter who we elect president, and don’t get me wrong, I like Obama, OK? But no matter how many brownstones are on the market for a mill, or how many gay guys fix them up, or how many celebrities once lived on Sugar Hill, it is what it is,” he said. “This is Harlem.”

I knew that some of Wagner’s views had been formed by his time in Crown Heights, back when the Hassidic Jews and local blacks decided to try and kill each other. Back in the day, back in Brooklyn.

“You manage OK here, even with those young guys you mentioned, the kind that want to solve a homicide in a TV hour?”

“Yeah, sure, and I got at least one that’s smart as hell.” Wagner looked at me. He had an old cop’s instincts. “Maybe you know him.”

“What?

“Yeah, well, I mentioned you to him, in fact, when was it, yesterday, I was trying to get hold of you to translate that Russian thing, and he said he met you once. Name’s Radcliff. Virgil. Black guy. Very educated. It rings a bell, Artie?”

I paused, pretending to try to place Radcliff. “I don’t know, maybe I met him over at John Jay when I gave some lecture.”

“He partnered with Dawes for a while. It didn’t work out. Dawes said he wanted to work solo.”

“How come?”

“You’d have to ask him. He just said he didn’t want to work with Radcliff, and I let it lay because Dawes earned a right to what he wants.” Wagner was clearly itching to get back to work now. I asked for a cigarette. I stalled.

“So go on,” I said.

Jimmy looked at me as he tossed over a pack of smokes and I lit up. “Listen, Radcliff, he’s a good cop that joined up right after 9/11, worked like a dog, walked the beat. Dawes just doesn’t think Radcliff will stick around long. Probably go to law school or become DA. No sense of humor,” said Wagner whose phone rang again. He picked it up, listened, grunted, set it down.

“How’s that?”

“First time I met him, he tells me his name is Virgil and I say, ‘So what do they call you, do they call you Mr. Tibbs?’ From that movie. He just looks at me like I’m some weird racist motherfucker or something and says, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ In that real nice voice, no acrimony, but I got the picture. I was just kidding around, no disrespect, you know? Gives you an idea how things go up here.”

“So, if you’re white, people figure you for a racist?”

“What do you think, Artie?” said Wagner, looking toward his half-open door, where a Latino detective in a suit was waiting. “I have to go.”

I got up.

“Anything else you need, Art, you know, just let me know,” Wagner said.

“Thanks. By the way, I was looking at that picture on your wall. You know, I used to read about Earl Monroe. You knew him?”

“I was a big fan when I was younger-I mean huge. I’m telling you, I never saw anything like him. Earl the Pearl, they used to call him, or Black Magic. The crowds would just go silent, and you could hear them gasp when he was on the court.

“Who’s the other one?”

Was there a slight pause?

“Amahl Washington, played on the same team as Earl. Amahl-it was his real name. He was a gent. Matter of fact, he lived over at the Armstrong.”

“Lived?”

“He passed.”

I was interested now. “When?”

“Six months, seven.”

“What did he die of?”

“Lungs. Then liver. Cancer spread everywhere, but I never knew how sick he was. I felt really bad. But you know how us cops are, crybabies about stuff when we care. You know that, Artie. ‘You cops are such bleeding-heart liberals some of the time,’ Well, anyhow, Jesus, I hope they just give me a shot and put me out of my misery when the time comes. Poor Amahl. I really loved that guy. What a fucking talent!”

“So it seemed sudden?”

“I don’t know, these things go real fast some of the time.”

“Can you get me the name of Washington’s doctor?”

Wagner looked surprised. “Sure,” he said. “I sent some money for us over to the hospital when they set up a fund, so yeah, I got it some place. I’ll call you. What’s this about, man?”

“I’ll let you know.”

I stood out by the front door of the station house and tried to get my bearings. My car was parked at the curb. Again, I wondered vaguely why Julius Dawes had taken an interest in it, but I had something else on my mind.

Amahl Washington had died in the Armstrong from lung disease. Jimmy Wagner had been surprised he went so fast. Lily had already been in the building when it happened. She had never mentioned it. I was zipping my jacket when somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped.

“You OK, man?” said Wagner, and I turned. He had a piece of paper in his hand. “I got it for you, Artie. To tell the truth, the whole thing with Amahl, it all stuck in my craw. I didn’t fucking like it, the way he went so fast. It gave me pause, you could say,” Wagner added. “Still, there was no evidence of nothing, not so far as I could see.”

“But it bugged you?”

“Maybe I just didn’t want to believe it, end of an era.”

“So it was the cancer that finally killed him?”

“They said it was his heart gave out; he couldn’t breathe.”

“But there was something else?”

“I saw him one day, it’s a Sunday when I go over, and he’s OK. I mean, he’s sick, but he’s walking and talking, and the next day, that Monday, I get a call that Amahl passed. Fuck. You get older, it happens,” he said. “You wanted the doc’s name, I found a thank-you letter she sent us when we gave some money in Amahl’s name.”

“Thanks, Jimmy.”

“Name’s Lucille Bernard. Dr. Bernard. That help you out, Artie? That works for you?”