Blood Count

CHAPTER 28

I ripped the paper off the package Virgil had given me. It was a DVD. In the Heat of the Night, the movie where the Southern sheriff played by Rod Steiger says to Virgil Tibbs, the northern black detective, “So what do they call you, boy?” And Sidney Poitier, young, dazzling, tall, superior, looks down on this redneck and says, in his own particular Philadelphia don’t-mess-with-me way, “They call me Mr. Tibbs.”

He knew. Virgil knew all along. He played me for a fool. Worse, I had deserved it.

Where was Lily?

People were streaming into the club, some I recognized from the Armstrong lobby. A group of women in down coats went through the door; behind them a quartet, the two men black, white haired, distinguished, both in suits as if they’d been to a board meeting, their while wives in for coats. Behind them, a crowd of younger people, guys in Sean Johns, the long-legged girls in tiny skirts, denim jackets, huge earrings, high heels, expensive bags. Almost all of them were black. I followed them in. I was freezing.

The pianist swung into a great version of “Take the ‘A’ Train,” as if by way of welcome to the new cluster of guests.

At the bar, Axel was filling an order from a piece of paper, mixing cocktails, glancing again at the paper, making things that were pink and green, and placing the glasses on the tray a waiter held. He manipulated bottles and shakers and crushed ice like a juggler at a circus, stirring, mixing, pouring, adding cherries, lemon peel, slices of pineapple and lime.

I climbed on an empty bar stool. A white man in a black turtleneck with light hair climbed up next to me. He nodded pleasantly.

He had an expensive haircut. He was around forty. He kept quiet, just drank, finishing one vodka, ordering another, and listened to the music, and from time to time pulled his sleeve down, as if to hide some defect, eczema, a scar, a wound. It was the kind of tic you noticed.

“You like the music?” I said.

“Yes, good stuff,” he said, and we made some small talk about jazz. I noticed the accent.

“Where are you from?” I said.

“Excuse me?” He seemed not to have heard me.

“Where are you from, originally, I mean?”

“Oh, from St. Petersburg, but a very long time ago.” He laughed. “The music wasn’t nearly as good as this.”

We raised our glasses to the music. It was Christmas, after all.

In the mirror behind the bar we both looked pale as ghosts in the dim light, like guys who spend too much time indoors. But he liked the music; he was tapping his foot on the bar rail and nodding his head. As I got up and started for the door, cell phone in hand, about to call Lily, the Russian guy turned to look at me. He smiled slightly and raised his glass again.

Half an hour later I was beginning to worry. No Lily. No call. Instead of leaving her another message-she’d be furious if I bugged her-I left one for Tolya. Send one of your guys, I said; tell him to stick around the Armstrong. See if Lily’s OK. Tolya always has guys to help out; guys with muscle, if necessary.

I stayed outside, I wanted some air. My head hurt. I reached into my pocket. I changed my mind. The painkillers made me crazy.

At the curb, along St. Nicholas Avenue, a guy was dragging a shopping cart. The snow had stopped, but it was cold and on impulse I went over and shoved five bucks into his hand.

The bright lights, the party, the successful people at the club were real enough, but most of Harlem stretched out for miles, hidden, back streets, rough avenues, dark, poor, cold, shabby at best.

Cars pulled up, people got out, patted their hair or their clothes, and went into the club. I noticed when an old Mercedes 380 SL, lovely dark blue, pulled up; because it was a car I had always wanted. The headlights went off, the door opened, a tall man, white guy, unfolded himself from the seat, got out, locked the car, looked around as if he wasn’t sure of his surroundings.

“Is this the Sugar Hill Club?” he said

“Yes.”

“Thanks,” he said, and went inside, and a few minutes later, because it was cold as hell, I went in, too. I saw the guy looking around, looking a little lost.

“I’m just looking for somebody,” he said.

“Can I help?” I said.

“It’s my son,” the man said.

“What’s his name?”

“Virgil Radcliff.”

I did a double take and tried not to let it show. This guy was white as me. I picked up my drink. “He just left,” I said. “He asked me to tell you he tried to reach you on your cell, and that he had to go. He’s working tonight.”

The man reached in his pocket for his phone, “You’re right, he sent me one of those text things. I never looked. Damn,” he said, but it seemed to cheer him up that Virgil hadn’t lied about the message. “You’re a friend of his? I’m Joe Radcliff.”

I introduced myself. Asked if I could get him a drink, and he thanked me and said he’d like a glass of red, a cab, if they had any.

I asked if he was OK at the bar or wanted to go into the next room, where there was food. He said he’d like to eat something.

In a room off the bar, Marie Louise stood behind a long table heaving with platters of food. She nodded at me, asked Mr. Radcliff what he wanted, served him turkey and salad.

“Shall we sit?” he said.

We crossed to a small table. I put down my drink.

“You’re surprised by my color? I really am Virgil’s father,” he said. “My parents were much darker than I, my siblings, too, my children. Genes are a funny thing. My ancestors came from Nova Scotia, there were plenty of Scots and Irish there. I always could pass, you see, as white I mean, but I didn’t want to be white, my family are not white, my children aren’t white, so it’s always been complicated, you might say. I couldn’t go around with a sign, a letter on my forehead, could I?” He smiled slightly. “How to tell the world you’re a black man. It’s an odd problem, wouldn’t you say?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer him.

He asked what I did. I told him I was a detective.

“Like my son, then?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe my son has a chance, as an African American, as a black man, of making a real career in the police department?” He looked at me. “For me, the police were always the enemy, you see, never on our side. Maybe I’ve lived too long in the distant past-the classics, that’s what I’ve always loved. Poor Virgil, he always hated his name. I suppose it could have been worse-he could have been Achilles.” He chuckled to himself.

I asked if he wanted another drink, and he thanked me. It gave me a chance to go back to the bar, but Lily wasn’t there. I tried to call her on my cell, but the signal in the bar was lousy.

“Do you think I’m just out of touch?” Mr. Radcliff asked me when I came back with the drinks. “Can I tell you a story, Artie?”

He leaned forward a little, elbows on the table, glass in one hand.

“I was the only black boy in my dorm at Columbia. There were a few Jewish boys I could hang out with,” he said. “Steve Middleberg, who is still my great friend, a dean down at NYU, we both became academics and stayed close. Virgil still calls him Uncle Steve. And Max Zwerling. Next door was Jackie Finkel and a Southern boy in the room beside his. Name of Billy Wilkes. He was from North Carolina. Like you, I suppose, he assumed I was white.” He leaned forward a little more, finished his wine, and went on.

“One night we were all in Billy’s room, and he asked what we were doing that Friday night. Jackie says he’d be studying, and Billy told him studying was for fags and weekdays,” said Mr. Radcliff. “Then Billy said he had come to New York for its cultural delights, and I could see Jackie thought he meant museums, but Billy said he was speaking of dark flesh.” Joe Radcliff looked at me. “Poor Jackie. I think he thought that meant some kind of chicken dish. But what Billy had in mind was some black women who would initiate us boys. He told us Southern boys understood these things, understood about a certain intensity in the ways of love. He meant rape, of course. Paid for, but rape.”

Mr. Radcliff paused.

“Anyway, it was chilly in those Columbia dorms, and Billy Wilkes saw we were cold. He got out some sweaters, and Jackie, who was next to the closet, saw something and asked what it was. Wilkes said, ‘It’s not for you boys,’ then looked right at me. Jackie wanted to know. Wilkes turned to the closet, slipped on the garment, and turned to us. It was a sheet with a hood and those familiar eyeholes. ‘This is something every Southern gentleman is proud to be part of,’ Wilkes said. ‘That’s right, boys, the Ku Klux Klan.’ ”

I finished my drink and was silent.

“I never knew for sure if Wilkes had figured out I was black until a few days later, when I told him and punched him out,” said Joe Radcliff. “I should go now. Thank you for listening, Artie. I must sound like the Ancient Mariner. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m wrong about Virgil. Maybe being a cop is just what he wants, and he’s entitled to that. I can’t believe it’s the best he can do, but it’s his choice now. Please ask him to call me when you see him.”

“Of course.”

“And give him my love.”

I said I would.

And then Lily arrived.