Blood Count

CHAPTER 31

W hat did he want?” I said to Carver Lennox.

“Who?”

“The guy with light hair, a Russian? Tolya said he made you nervous.”

“It’s nothing. He was interested in an apartment, I said they weren’t for sale, it pissed him off a little, but it was no big deal,” he said. “Nice of you to ask. He had too much booze is all, and everybody’s getting crazy about the financial meltdown, now people think we’re screwed, and they think I know something. If I knew something, I’d do something, my brother.” He looked around the club. People were beginning to leave the party. “I don’t know, man, most of last century, black people lived in an alternate universe in this country. We had our own schools, clubs, neighborhoods, everything, you know, and whatever was going on in America, it had its mirror image in black America, banking, baseball, all of it. So if it’s bad for the country now, it’s worse for Harlem. I thought we were on our way; we even got a Starbucks,” he said, not without irony. “We were keeping those real estate companies like Pinnacle out and putting in our own people, and now, who the fuck knows? I’m sorry. I think I had too much to drink.”

“How are things with you, speaking of the financial fuck up?”

“You want the truth? They could be better. I lost a ton in the market. I’m just moving fast as I can to get things right with the Armstrong. Thanks for caring, man,” said Lennox. “Glad you could come, glad your pal Sverdloff made it. I like this dude, you know that? He’s your pal, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good party, right?”

“Very good.”

“You met my little girl?”

“I saw her with her mother.”

“Lucille is great with the kids, I’ll give her that. Did you know that Alex, my daughter, she’s getting straight A’s at Brearley. Best high school in the city. And beautiful, too, right?”

“She looks like a great kid.” I thought I might need his help, so I dropped compliments, and, anyhow, his kid probably was great. “What about your wife, you and her still friendly?”

“Why?”

“A matter of interest. A guy thing.”

“I don’t know,” said Lennox. “She gets on my nerves. She was always wanting to know where we were at, and I used to say we’re at this particular place, we’re married, we’re making great money, we have fabulous kids, you enjoy cutting up people over at Presbyterian, you run a free clinic for people who can’t afford you to cut them up otherwise, you do good work, what else is there? ‘That’s what I’m asking,’ she used to say; Lucille would say that. She was never content, you know?”

“I get it.”

“Glad to see you’re with your lady, by the way,” he said. “Couple of times we met by the elevator, and Lily kept saying Artie this and Artie that, and I said, who’s this Artie dude?”

I didn’t say anything.

“You’re thinking about her and Virgil? He’s a nice guy, but he’s not right for her.”

I called over the bar for another drink.

“On me,” he said, and I knew he was pretty boozed up. “You can’t pay anyway. The whole night’s on me. Christmas party. What do you feel like?”

I said I’d have what he was having, and he got a couple of malt whiskeys and we sat at a little table for a while and toasted some musicians I discovered we both liked.

“Lily was very sad about old Mrs. Simonova, I know,” Lennox said.

“You can get hold of her apartment, now, right?”

He shrugged. “I do what I do for the neighborhood. I grew up here when the whole of Harlem was desolate-crack and cronyism, murders, rapes, gangs, old ladies who couldn’t leave their houses at night, no investment, no jobs, white cops who went home before dark, rats in the schools-now we’re pulling ourselves up; we’re doing it. I found out at Princeton there’s a different way to do things, there,” he said. “I met with President Clinton, you know, when he first moved to his office down on 125th Street, and he says to me, ‘Carver, I like your approach.’ This is a year to celebrate, don’t you think, now we have President-elect Obama,” said Lennox.

“And you see yourself in his footsteps.”

He didn’t rise to the bait easily; he was a cool customer. Raising his glass, he just smiled. “Drink your whiskey, Artie. This is an excellent one I got over in Scotland, one of those glens, Glenfiddich, Glenallen. What about we brew up some Glensugarhill or something-We got glens, right?” He went on making up names for whiskey, and I drank. “I knew an old guy said once upon a time back in the day, him and a couple friends made wine in Harlem.” He laughed.

I drank. He gave me a guy hug, thumped my back, did a knuckle bump as a follow-up, let me know I was OK. “Good to have you on our side, my brother. Isn’t that right? Hello, Lily,” he said, as she came up alongside me and took my glass and drank from it.

I put my arm around her.

“Lionel Hutchison’s here,” she said.