All I Did Was Shoot My Man

32

I’ve always liked the West Village, through all of its varied incarnations. When I was a kid it was a wasteland, with lots of factories and old Italians, the Meatpacking District, and even a few private homes. As time went on would-be artists, aspiring models, and prostitutes (of various persuasions) moved in. There were late-night clubs where jazz musicians sometimes showed up after their uptown gigs.

Back then it wasn’t a tourist destination, with overpriced trés chic clothes shops and big hotels; you didn’t have to plow through crowds of tourists or the investment bankers who transformed every building into million-dollar plasterboard condos and seven-thousand-dollar-a-month one-bedroom apartments.

The West Village had changed, and changed again, but it still had charm. After a little wander I sat myself down at an outside café on Hudson south of Christopher. There I ordered a café au lait with almond biscotti and waited for inspiration.

I missed the old West Village. I missed my fever too. Both felt like history to me; places where I could hide.

“Hello?” she said.

“It’s me.”

“Mr. McGill?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there something wrong?” Zella Grisham asked.

“No. I’m just sitting here on the street, waiting to meet a friend of my father’s.”

“Oh. Then why are you calling?”

“This and that. I might have a line on the people who adopted your daughter. I’m going to get in touch with them in a few days, saying that you’d like to meet.”

“What are their names?”

“I need to make the first contact, Zella.”

“She’s my daughter.”

“Not in the eyes of the law, and we need to keep the law from looking too hard at you.”

She had no words to say about that.

“What else?” she asked. “What else did you have to say?”

“How are they treating you there?”

“Mr. Nightly has been very kind. He’s had family that spent time in prison.”

“You should keep your head down,” I said. “Lotsa people interested in that heist. Some of them still think you might know something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, keep your head down. I will find out what’s goin’ on and tell you when you can come back up for air.”

“What about Harry?” she asked quickly before I could disconnect.

“He went missing right before your trial.”

“Killed?” There was real distress in her voice.

“I doubt it. Usually when somebody’s murdered there’s a body or at least a complaint about a missing person. I think he must have moved away. But don’t worry, I’m still looking.”

“Um.”

“What?”

“I don’t really understand why you’re helping me but Johnny says that you’re somebody I can trust... so... thank you.”

“No problem.”

While i was composing a text message a call was coming through. I sent the text and answered, “Hello, Breland.”

“Mycroft called and asked where we were on the case. He wanted your number but I told him that it would probably be better for me to be the go-between.”

“Smart.”

“Do you have anything?”

“Tell me something, Breland.”

“What’s that, LT?”

“Is this like the other thing we did with this guy?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you want me to save an innocent boy or to get a rich kid out of a jam of his own making?”

“You think that Kent isn’t just a kid out of his depth?”

“Might not be.”

There was silence on the other end of the wireless connection. Breland Lewis had a brilliant mind; a lawyer’s mind, but brilliant still and all. It felt good that he was using that intelligence on my question.

“I guess that would just be a case of a silk purse and the sow’s ear,” he said.

“Glad to hear it,” I said, “because you know I’m plum out of spot remover.”

“Keep me informed.”

Talking about the billionaire made me think of my father. As much as I disliked the arrogant Mycroft, at least he was trying to help his son; at least that.

My father had taught me to hate the rich. He called them the enemies in a class war that every man, woman, and child was a part of because the division of labor was the Maginot Line between us and our destroyers.

I loved my father and so believed him. And because I believed him I hated men like Mycroft. It took me a long time to understand that I stood on both sides of the battle that every resident of the modern world faced. I was a grown man before I understood that Mycroft, in spite of his privilege, could have luck just as bad as Zella’s. His money was a force to reckon with but it could not shield his soul.

“Hey, Pops.”

And there Twill was. Even though I had sent him the message to meet me at the outside café I was surprised and delighted to see him.

“Have a seat.”

He pulled up a chair, motioned at our waitress, and ordered a Chinotto soda.

“How’d it go?” I asked.

“I don’t know, LT, I think maybe we should bow outta this one.”

“Your first case and you want to let it go?”

He held out his left hand; a gesture of offering.

“Mr. Mycroft said that he thinks that his son is just caught up in something he don’t get, but the way Kent tells it he’s the big boss. He told me that him and his crew started out robbin’ pimps and drug dealers and small gambling operations. Then, after a while, they started runnin’ their own businesses. He told me that he killed two men himself.”

“You believe him?”

“I believe he’s crazy. Don’t get me wrong, Pops. He’s just another dude doin’ business, as far as I’m concerned, but you the one told me that you cain’t save a fish from drowning.”

I laughed, and the waitress came up with the small bottle of bitter Italian soda and a chilled glass. She was short and wide, with a yard-long smile for my son.

“And that’s not all,” Twill said when the young woman went away.

“What else?”

“Kent told me that him and his father hated each other, that they been at each other’s throats forever.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t even wanna go into it, man. Just a lotta gossip, as far as I’m concerned. But we shouldn’t get in it. I know that much for sure.”

“Tell me something, Twill.”

“What’s that, Pops?”

“Why would a guy you just met give you all that?”

“He knew who I was.”

“What?”

“Not that you’re my father or that I’m workin’ for his father,” Twill said, putting up both hands and tamping them against my palpable anxiety. “I’ve done a few things down around the Village. They know me pretty good in his circles. That’s why he had his girl tap me. He thought I was usin’ his sister to meet him so that we could do some work together.”

My son the gangster. I hadn’t brought him in to work for me a moment too soon.

“You should let this drop, Twill. If he’s running a violent crew, I don’t want you to get in the crosshairs.”

“That’s cool. So you gonna drop it?”

“I can’t do that. I promised Breland to see it through.”

“So you gonna keep on workin’ it?”

“Until I agree with your conclusion at least.”

“Well, then... maybe I could get at it another way.”

“What do you mean?”

“If Kent knows who I am, that means I know people that know him and his. I could ask around. I mean, if you still wanna do this thing.”

“You could ask and he wouldn’t know?”

“I can be as quiet as a midnight owl on a garter snake.”

What kind of bedtime stories had I told my son?