Blood Count

CHAPTER 42

T he face that looked out through a crack in the door belonged to a little kid. He was about six. I showed him my badge. He looked terrified. He let me in, then scrambled back to the chair where he had been watching an ancient black-and-white TV set perched on a shaky table.

I could see a bedroom through a partly open door. At one side of the main room was a kitchen, and another kid, a gangly teenager, was constructing sandwiches for himself and his younger brother. Both boys, skin dark like their mother, were polite, as if they had learned manners in some fancy school.

Putting a sandwich on a plate, pouring a cup of milk, the older kid gave them to his little brother and spoke softly to him, then stood and faced me and asked if he could help. He had a faint French accent. I tried speaking French with him. I gestured for him to sit down and eat while we talked.

He was thirteen, he told me, and he always took care of his little brother when their mother was at work. His name was Luc Semake, he told me, and his brother was Olivier Semake.

I knew Luc wanted his brother to see he wasn’t afraid of me, though I knew he was scared and desperately shy. I tried to keep it short. I hated this.

“Where is your mother?” I said, gently as I could.

“She is at her work,” said Luc, while Olivier just stared at the TV, his sandwich untouched.

“Do you know where she works?”

“Yes.” He told me the address of the Armstrong. He asked if he should phone her. I said it wasn’t a big deal.

“It must be hard taking care of Olivier by yourself,” I said, and thought to myself: I’m not going to do this anymore. I don’t want to be in a shabby apartment, making two kids tell me about their mother so I can get the goods on her. I don’t want this.

“It’s OK,” said Luc. “It’s fine. I can take care of him.”

On a shelf were a row of medical books in French, a few magazines, a few albums, music from Mali, by Amadou and Mariam. I picked up a CD.

“You know this music?” said Luc.

“It’s good,” I said.

There were pictures of the kids near the CDs, and a photograph of a good-looking young guy, maybe thirty, in a T-shirt and a Yankees cap. Luc followed my gaze.

“This was our father,” he said.

“I see.”

“He was American.”

“Where is he?”

“He is gone,” he said. “Dead.”

I got the feeling Marie Louise had maybe invented the American father so if anyone asked, the boys would say they were Americans.

As I asked questions, the kids were polite and attentive, and it made them seem even more lost, these two skinny boys alone in a room in Harlem on a freezing day when it was already dark outside at four in the afternoon and their mother was away cleaning apartments.

“So you visit Mali?”

“Yes,” said Luc. “Soon we will go home, my mother says so. This morning she tells to me that we will go soon.”

“Does that make you happy?”

He nodded.

“You don’t like it here?”

“It is bad for Olivier. We are Muslim, and people here do not like us, and we are not permitted to pray at school.”

“Why did your mother say that this morning?” I said.

“I don’t know. She comes in very happy, she brings us a nice breakfast, and she says soon we will go.”

I didn’t want to ask. Olivier had been listening hard, and he came over to the kitchen. I was sitting on a stool, my jacket unzipped, my elbows on the counter, and the kid came over and leaned against me.

He was still a little boy. In my jacket pocket, I found a candy bar I’d forgotten about and offered it to him. The older boy just shook his head and refused politely, but Olivier leaned against me some more, maybe for the warmth or the safety or just because he was a friendly kid, and he took the candy.

“You take good care of your brother,” I said to Luc. “I’m sure your mother works very hard.”

“Yes. Sometimes she works all day and also in the night.”

“That’s rough,” I said, seeing the kids were getting comfortable with me. “May I have a glass of water?”

Luc got the water. Olivier sat eating the candy bar. “Would you like to see a picture of our mother?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He got a snapshot off the bookshelf and gave it to me. In it were Marie Louise and the two boys posing on the Staten Island Ferry, the city in the background. Just tourists for a day, they were smiling and mugging for the camera.

“She’s nice,” I said. “And she works really hard, I know. You said sometimes she works in the night?”

“Sure,” Luc said. “Sometimes she works as a babysitter for people.”

“But you’re OK to take care of Luc all night?”

“Yes. We have her phone number. I’m grown up,” he said. “Last night, she was away so I made Olivier do his homework, and I made supper, and then when our mom comes in the morning, everything is nice for her.”

“What time did you have breakfast today?” I said.

“I think eight.”

“OK, well, if you just tell your mom I was here.” I took my card out and put it on the counter. I wanted to do something, give them something, take back all the questions. But all I did was say good-bye and run down the stairs.

Marie Louise had been out all night. I had seen her leave the Sugar Hill Club party, but she wasn’t home until morning.

Where was she during that time?

Plenty of time to get to the Armstrong and Lionel Hutchison.

Who could she have been babysitting for? Who?

At a local candy store, I scooped up candy bars, comics, and a box of chocolate, put it all in a bag, ran back to the apartment, went upstairs. I felt shitty about the stuff I bought-it was only a bribe after the fact-so I just left it by the Semakes’ door. I didn’t go in.

On my way back to 116th Street, my phone rang. It was Virgil.

“Where are you?” he said.

I told him.

“Can you get over here? The Armstrong.”

“Soon as I can.”

“No. Now. Just come.” His voice was tense.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the Armstrong, in the basement,” said Virgil. “Please just hurry the fuck up, OK?”

“Where’s Lily?”

“With me.”

“What’s going on? What happened?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone,” he said.