Soul Patch

CHAPTER NINE

For some inexplicable reason, I’d slept well. Neither Larry’s question nor his ghost kept me from sleep. I was vaguely aware of Katy tossing and turning. Her relationship with Larry Mac was less complicated than mine. Because my wife offered Larry no usable career commodity, they were free to enjoy each other’s company without holding bits of themselves back for purposes of negotiation. And for this reason, Katy felt Larry’s loss in a way I was incapable of. I envied her that.

The morning was not quite so peaceful for me. Larry McDonald’s name and face were splashed all over the TV, news radio, and papers like green on St. Patrick’s Day. A regular cop’s suicide is big news, never mind a chief’s. When a chief does himself in, it’s a cross between the first day of hunting season and a shark feeding frenzy. Every aspect of his life becomes fodder for speculation. And the fact that the police had yet to turn up a suicide note only added to the smell of raw meat in the air.

I had called Margaret as soon as I got into the house yesterday afternoon to tell her the bad news, to warn her before the pit bulls could latch on and pull. I was too late. Police Commissioner Cleary had laid the word upon her. Between her tears, all Margaret could do was ask me the same simple question over and over again. Why? Questions are often simple, I thought. Answers seldom are. It was just so weird, but a line from a Beatles’ tune rang in my head: And though I thought I knew the answer, I knew what I could not say. Funny, in that same song they sing about leaving the police department to find a steady job. Moe Prager, my life in imitation of song.

Then there was the earlier exchange between Melendez and me as we both searched along the curb for the car keys she had earlier tossed out her window.

“You still haven’t told me why you were at the Six-O yesterday.”

“I didn’t, did I?”

“Don’t be smug, Mr. Prager.”

“This isn’t smug, it’s silence.”

“Yeah, well, before this thing is through, we’re gonna need each other.”

Detective Melendez didn’t seem interested in explaining herself any further. I found my keys. We left it at that.

I did what any self-respecting detective would have done when investigating the suicide of his friend-I ignored it. With the press so busy crawling over Larry’s corpse, I figured there was little to gain and a lot to lose by my nosing around. The press tended to use cleavers when scalpels were called for, but they could be pretty effective. The problem was that they, too, often left huge scars on the lives of people they mowed down as they struck out blindly in pursuit of the story. Time was a luxury not afforded the press, so they sacrificed innocence for expediency. Other people’s innocence, their expediency.

I was also worried about being noticed. It was one thing for me to show up at Larry Mac’s wake, at the cemetery at the memorial, if there was to be one. But if some stringer or crime beat reporter caught wind of me nosing around in Larry McDonald’s past, the red flags would fly and it would only serve to confirm any suspicions about dirty dealings in my dead friend’s closet. Instead, I called in a favor.

There was noise on the other end of the phone, but not human speech.

“Wit? Wit, for chrissakes, is that you?”

“God’s day may launch come dawn, but mine does not get into swing till well after morn.” You had to admire an angry man who woke with poetry on his lips. “This had better be of consequence.”

Yancy Whittle Fenn, Wit to his friends, was like Truman Capote pulled back from the abyss. Well, that’s an inexact description if you knew the man, but it served those unacquainted with him. When I met Y.W. Fenn in 1983, he was just as famous for his brand of celebrity pseudo-journalism as his taste for Wild Turkey. That’s the kind you

Never quite as beautiful or wealthy as the company he kept, Wit had invested unwisely, married badly, and began drinking. He became a hanger-on instead of one of the crowd, but as I was once told by a crony of his, “He used to be fun back in the day, a life of the party sort-funny, biting, and bitchy.” Then his grandson had been kidnapped and brutally murdered. Wit had always done crime reportage, but dealt with his grief by becoming vindictive and focusing on the rich and infamous. He’d write exposes for the big magazines whenever crime-murder in particular-money, and celebrity aligned.

He had been assigned to the Moira Heaton investigation. By Esquire, as I recall. Of course, neither Wit nor his editor gave a flying fuck about Moira. It was the wealthy and handsome State Senator Steven Brightman who had their eye. Until Moira Heaton went missing, Brightman had been the up-and-comer, the next Jack Kennedy. Talk about a curse. Somehow they all begin as the next Jack and end up as the next Teddy. But during the investigation, Wit found something to grab onto, something to stop his slide into an early grave and snickering obits. I think maybe he remembered his grief and forgot about his rage.

“Not only is it of consequence,” I said, “there might even be a book in it for you.”

“Enlightened self-interest is what makes the world go ’round, my friend. Maybe you should begin speaking now.”

“Anyone ever tell you you were more fun when you drank?” I teased.

“I tell it to myself every day when I gaze into the mirror. Then I’m reminded that I would not be here at all had I continued my lifelong quest for the perfect gallon of bourbon. Or maybe, sir, you are looking for me to thank you once again for saving my life.”

“You know better than that, Wit.”

“Yes, I do. How are the lovely Sarah and Katy? Well, I hope.”

I didn’t answer. “Go get your morning paper. I’ll wait.”

He put the phone down. I listened to the retreating slaps of Wit’s slippers against his hardwood floor. A minute later, the sound of his slippers returned.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Moe. I rather liked Larry, though I wouldn’t have trusted him as far as I could drop-kick a polo pony.”

“I know a lot of people who might say the same thing about you.”

“And they’d be right. But you and I needn’t worry about that. I owe you more than I can say.”

“Save it for my eulogy.”

“Let us not discuss such things,” he chided. “Is this call about the late Chief McDonald?”

“Yes and no. Yes, in that he’s part of it. No, in that he’s not nearly all of it.”

“We’re being rather cryptic, are we not?”

I could only laugh.

“Do I have a career in stand-up, do you think?” he asked.

“Maybe, but it’s just that I said the same thing about being cryptic to Larry the last two times I saw him.”

There was an uncomfortable silence on the line. Then, “You know, Moe, I don’t think I can recall the last thing I said to my grand-son.”

“Probably, I love you.”

“Yes, probably.”

“I think I told Larry to go fuck himself.”

“Well, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but he seems to have taken your advice quite literally.”

I hadn’t really thought of it that way, but I wasn’t exactly consumed with guilt.

“I think that’s what I’m getting at, Wit. I’m not sure he did the fucking himself, if you get my point. And there’s too many of your mishpocha around for me to-”

“Say no more. I’ll handle it. Give me a day or two.”

“Thanks.”

“None required, my friend. I’ll get back to you.”

He was off the line.

As soon as I placed the phone down, it rang. It rang until I left the house. First, it was Aaron calling, then Klaus, then Robert Gloria, the detective who originally caught the Moira Heaton case, then Pete Parson, then. . They were all calling to say they were sorry and all wanted to know what had happened. Popular question, that. I took

No one on Surf Avenue had hung black bunting out their windows or off the railings of their terraces for the late chief of detectives. I made sure not to crane my neck as I passed West Eighth Street to see if the old precinct had so honored him. My soul, at least, was at half staff. Grief is a harder hurdle when it’s for someone you’re unsure of. How much of it was I supposed to feel? How much would he have felt for me? For how long? Why? There were those easy questions again, the ones with the complex answers.

The block was once right in the heart of what we used to call the Soul Patch, but the drugs of choice back then-pot, ludes, black beauties, acid, mesc, a little heroin and even less coke-seem almost innocent by today’s standard. Crack-coke’s ugly little brother-and junkies sharing needles in the time of AIDS had ravaged much of the area. The row houses all looked on the verge of collapse. But all was not lost. On some of the surrounding streets, signs of rebirth were taking root and, if the sea breeze blew just right, you could detect the chemical scents of vinyl siding and construction adhesive.

I pressed the three bells at the row house that Malik Jabbar had listed as his last worldly address. None of them worked.

Such was the nature of poor neighborhoods-lots of bells, none of ’em work. So I pounded the door. Black faces stared suspiciously out dirty windows and through frayed curtains. I could feel their eyes branding the word COP on the back of my neck. Hell, I was white and pounding on a door like I owned the place. Old habits die hard. So much of what you do as a cop is a matter of training and practice. I stopped pounding.

I heard light footsteps coming down the hallway toward the door.

“Who is it?” a muffled and unexpectedly polite woman’s voice wanted to know.

“I came to talk about Malik.”

A lock clicked open, but the door didn’t immediately pull back. I heard the telltale scraping of a wedge pole being removed from its place. To most folks outside big cities or high crime areas, the thought of gating your own windows in steel and keeping a metal rod wedged

Finally, the door opened. A slender black woman of sixty dressed in a tidy flowered house frock and incongruous white socks stood before me. She was all of five feet tall and wore half-rim spectacles tied earpiece to earpiece around her neck with a cheap silver chain.

“My name is Moe Prager.”

“Are you from the police?” she asked, her eyes wary.

“No, ma’am. I retired years ago.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do either, Mrs. . ”

“Mable Louise Broadbent. I am-I was Melvin’s mother.” That shook her some. “I don’t know how to say that yet. How is a mother supposed to talk about her own dead child? He is alive to me. I have gotten used to a lot of hateful things in my lifetime, but this. .”

“May I come in, Mable? I only want to talk.”

She didn’t answer. She stood aside and made a weak gesture pointing down her hallway to the parlor. The apartment was a reflection of the woman who lived within its walls: tidy, small, incongruous. The furniture had survived more presidents than I had, but it was clean, the upholstery worn shiny in spots, the wood polished, and the air ripe with the tang of artificial lemon. The wall art was of sailboats and Caribbean fishermen. The rug, however, was a Day-Glo orange shag that matched very little I’d seen in my lifetime, other than a hunter’s vest. Mable noticed me taking stock.

“This is my apartment. We let the basement apartment sometimes. Melvin lived upstairs with that whor-with his girl.” She soured with that last word. “Can I offer you something to drink, Mr. Prager?”

“No, thanks. You call him Melvin, but he changed his name to Malik Jabbar.”

“I’ll never get used to-” She caught herself. “For his sake, I called him Malik, but now. . He’s my Melvin. Melvin got involved with some ungodly people who put bad ideas into my child’s head. He was weak that way.”

“He was easily swayed?”

“Like a blade of grass.”

“But you continued living with him.”

“Where was I supposed to go? This is my home. I own it. I let Melvin stay, even with that sassy whore he calls-called a girlfriend. When I’m done mourning, she’ll be on the street where she belongs. Girl’s got no more morals than an alley cat.”

I pointed up. “What’s her name?”

“Kalisha.”

“Is she home?”

“No, thank the lord. She’s out doing who knows what with God knows who. Good riddance!”

“Melvin had trouble with the law.”

“Son, every young black man on these streets has trouble with the law. Some of it deserving. Some not.”

“Okay, Mable, you got a point. But Melvin had a lot of drug arrests and petty thievery and all.”

“Like I say, Mr. Prager, he was easily swayed. He hungered to be accepted, so he did stupid things.”

“Did you know he was arrested a few weeks back for half a kilo of cocaine?”

“When was this?” She screwed up her face and twisted her head to one side as if trying to avoid a punch and failing.

“I’m not sure exactly. Two, three weeks ago, maybe.”

“He never said word one about it, but it does explain some things.”

“Like what, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“That other police.”

“No offense, Mable, but when a family member is murdered, the cops have to come ask about-”

“Not those police!” she cut me off. “I know they had to come. I’m talking about that pretty chiquita.”

“Detective Melendez?”

Mable twisted her head to one side again. This time to stare at me, cold and hard, to see if she had been right to trust me.

“I thought you said you weren’t from the police.”

“I’m not. I swear.”

“Then how would you know about this woman, this Detective Melendez?”

“We’ve met. Was she with a skinny, older, white guy?”

“She came alone. Why? Who is she?” Mable’s voice trembled slightly.

“She was the detective who arrested Mal-Melvin for the cocaine.”

“I keep telling you, he didn’t say anything about such an arrest to me. And besides, where would Melvin get the kind of money it would take to buy a half kilogram of cocaine? I may be just an frumpy old church lady, but I am not a naive nor ignorant soul, Mr. Prager. I know that drugs cost lots of money and I know money was something that my son never had much of.”

She had a point. “Did Melvin know a man named Dexter Mayweather? He used to be called D Rex around this area.”

“There’s not a person over the age of twenty-one who lived on these streets who didn’t know of Dexter Mayweather. To hear the fools talk about him, you’d think he was Robin Hood.”

“Yes, but did Melvin know him, not just of him?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why’s that? I know there would have been a big age difference, but your son would have been thirteen or fourteen years old when D Rex was killed in the spring of ’72.”

“Because after he got into his first serious trouble as a boy of eleven, when he got out of Spofford, we sent him down to Georgia to live with his aunt, my sister, Fiona. He didn’t come back home till the fall of 1972 to go back to school.”

“You’re sure?”

“A mother remembers when her child comes back to her.”

“I suppose it’s still possible they knew each other, but I guess you’re right.”

“Of course, I’m right.”

“Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill Melvin?”

“I’m no policeman, Mr. Prager, sir, but I would think maybe I would start with the people who had the money for half a kilo of cocaine.”

“Could be.”

“And like I say, Melvin knew some ungodly people.”

“As you say.”

She stood to signal her time and patience had run out. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to my house chores.”

“Not at all, Mable. Thank you for your time. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Do you have children, Mr. Prager?”

“A little girl. She’s eleven.”

“Same age as Melvin when. . You hold on tight to that little girl.”

“I promise.”

“No parent should outlive her child.”

I agreed. “Just one last thing before I go. Do you have a ballpark figure of when Kalisha will get back home?”

“When the alley cats are finished screeching in heat is usually when she crawls back in.”

“Thanks again.”

There was a grieving woman, but a woman with dignity. You needed a lot of that in order to survive in such a hard place, with a son in trouble with the law. In a way, she reminded me of my old friend Israel Roth. Mr. Roth was a camp survivor who had made a meaningful life for himself, a man who had literally breathed in the ashes of his dead family and come out the other side mostly intact. I’d met him in the Catskills in 1981 when I was working an old arson case. He had pretty much adopted my family as his own and had tried, with some success, to have me meet God halfway. I’d have to call him. I pulled away from the house and decided that I’d come back and talk to Malik’s girl, Kalisha. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but sooner rather than later. In the meanwhile, I decided to kill some time at the local park. I knew there’d be some games to watch and information to be had. There’s always information floating around the park-you just have to know how to listen.

The courts in the shadows of the big housing project built at the west end of Coney Island were the best kept outdoor courts I’d ever seen anywhere. We’re talking glass backboards, padded support poles, unblemished court lines, and not a piece of litter on the playing surface and surrounding area that wasn’t windblown. There were two full-court runs in progress, but it was a little quieter than I expected. Only a few guys waiting “winners,” spying their likely competition and contemplating who they could pick up from the losers to give them the best shot at staying on. Some of the guys on the sidelines were no

My appearance caused about as much commotion as a passing cloud. Mostly, the players just shook their heads. My guess was their assessment of me fell into one of three categories:

I was a cop come to bust their balls.

I was an old, washed-up white guy come to tell war stories about how I had played against Lew Alcindor, Connie “The Hawk” Hawkins, and Preacher “The Creature” Simmons when I was younger.

I was some recruiter or street agent come to spot and exploit young talent.

I just sat down on one of the benches and watched. If there was information to be had, my announcing my interest in it was not the way to go. Curiosity would eventually take hold, and then I might have a shot at learning something.

The games were typical Brooklyn street fare-a lot of tough, one-on-one defense and hardass rebounding. Shit, even the guys I grew up playing with believed in the No Autopsy, No Foul rules of the street. But there was a whole lot of trash talk, too. Way too much dribbling, very few picks, not enough distribution or movement without the ball. Almost every trip down court featured a hesitation move, a crossover dribble, a drive to the rack, and a dish. Now and then there’d be a steal in the backcourt and someone would fly down the other end for a showy jam.

There was a big range in talent level and size, but the best player on either court was a fifteen-year-old kid with a close-cropped do on a too-big head atop a stumpy body. Everyone called him Nugget-for the size of his head, I guess. Nugget didn’t have the body, but he had game. He saw the whole court, could handle the ball, had range on his shot, fast hands, and was deceptively quick to the hole. His defensive footwork left a lot to be desired, but a good coach and an ounce of desire could fix that. Nugget had the gift. What Nugget didn’t have was the best squad. He sat down next to me after his team got their asses handed to them.

“Whatchu want, grandpa?” Nugget asked, slapping the bench in frustration. Good, he was curious. “You ain’t no coach. I seen every white high school, AAU, and church coach in the five boroughs.”

“Maybe I’m not from the five boroughs.”

“Nah, man, you all Brooklyn. I seen how you carry yourself, how you come in here. You police?”

“A long time ago.”

“So, whatchu think a my game?”

I told him. He was less than thrilled with my assessment of his defensive liabilities.

“Man, you seen how many balls I steal? Shit! You ain’t no coach is right.”

“Keep playing defense with your hands and not your feet, you’ll never get a full scholarship at a big-time school. You’ll score a million points at some NAIA school and never get drafted. You’ll wind up like the rest of these guys, playing ball when you should be out earning some money. You want that for yourself?”

“Das bullshit, old man. You don’t know the game.”

“Nugget,” I said, looking at him fiercely so that it made him uncomfortable, “I know a whole shitload about this game that you may never know. On the other hand, I never had one quarter your skills. You have what can’t be taught, but you don’t have what can be.”

He waved at me dismissively, “Later for dis!” And walked away.

I’d blown it. Whoever said the truth shall set you free didn’t gather information for a living. If I had kissed up to Nugget a bit, stroked his ego just a little, I might have gotten somewhere. But once I alienated him, I’d alienated the park. I was dead in the water. No one was going to talk to me now, but I had a way to remedy that. Maybe I’d be seeing Nugget sometime soon.

When I got back to my car, Carmella Melendez was sitting on the hood. She was in her off-duty duds: tight jeans and a silky black halter covered by a loose denim jacket with exaggerated shoulders and silver studs. Her hair was pulled back tightly and corralled into a pony tail with a red band. Expensive sunglasses with opaque lenses covered her eyes. She wore running shoes, but it didn’t kill the effect. Even if she were wearing my dad’s brown vinyl slippers, it wouldn’t have detracted from her raw beauty.

“Detective Melendez.” I nodded. “You working undercover?”

“I’m not working.”

“Maybe not officially, but you’re working.”

“So you gonna tell me what you were doing at the precinct the other day, or what?”

“Or what. Maybe it’s like you said, I was stalking you.”

“You didn’t even know I existed.”

“You’re wrong about that. I knew. I just didn’t know what you looked like.”

“You know, Mr. Prager, you talk in riddles a lot,” she said, sliding down off the hood. “That’s not polite.”

“I thought you were good at reading between the lines, Detective.”

“I said I was good at it. I didn’t say I enjoyed it.”

“If you’re really not working, then let’s call each other by our first names, okay? Mine’s Moe.”

“Carmella,” she said, offering me her hand.

It was all I could do not to bow and kiss it. My heart was actually racing as I grasped her hand, but I managed to shake it, not too firmly, and give it back.

“Come on, Carmella, you like walking on the boardwalk?”

“Sounds good.”

We walked east along the boardwalk toward Nathan’s. Maybe she was finally learning her lesson about the effectiveness of silence. I’d learned it a long time ago, but I spoke first.

“Where you from?”

“I grew up in Flatbush on Lennox Avenue till I was about eight. Then my mother took me back to Puerto Rico to live with my grandmother. When I turned eighteen, I came back with my abuela and we lived with my pops. You?”

“From right around here. Ocean Parkway.”

We stopped and stared out at the Atlantic, much like I had with Larry the last time we were together.

“So why become a cop?” I asked.

“Always wanted to be a cop and do good.”

“Is that what you’re doing, good? I thought you were just following me around because you were bored.”

“Look, Moe,” she said, taking off her sunglasses and catching my eyes. “I had a case, a big fat, juicy fucking case and then it disappeared. Everyone, I think, is too happy about that.”

“Everyone except you.”

“Except me, that’s right.”

“Is that why you went and talked to Melvin’s mom on your own?”

If I thought I was going to get her off balance with that, I was wrong. “You blame me?”

“Not really, but I don’t know what detectives should or shouldn’t do. I don’t even play one on TV.”

“That’s almost funny. You mentioned something about making detective in the car. What really happened?”

“It’s not worth talking about anymore. That’s all in my past.”

“Suit yourself,” she said. “So how’s it you even know about Melvin?”

“The same way I knew about you.”

“Riddles again. Come on, Moe. We’re gonna need each other before this is done.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that, but I don’t see why.”

“All right, be like that.” Her sunglasses went back on and she turned to go.

“First Melvin gets whacked. Then Chief McDonald does himself in and everyone seems more relieved than sad. Makes you wonder,” I said. That stopped her in her tracks. “And you don’t like it, do you?”

“Hell no, I don’t.”

“Come on, walk me back to my car.”

As I started back across the street to where my car was parked, Melendez lagged behind to retie her sneaker. Suddenly, I was conscious of screeching tires, but I was distracted, turning back to see after Carmella. Instinct and engine noise made me stop and look to my right. A blur was coming at me and I froze. A split second is enough time to think of a thousand things. All I could picture were my knees being crushed beneath the weight of the car. All the long forgotten pain came rushing back in like an insistent sea.

Bang! My head snapped back and my body tumbled forward, arms flailing. I tucked them in time and hit the pavement with a shoulder roll. Something fell on top of me. Melendez! I came up with my wits and reached around my back for my.38. Detective Melendez had already assumed firing position and had her off-duty piece aimed at the rear end of the fishtailing Camaro. I slapped her arms down as the car sped away.

“Conjo! What was that for?” she growled.

“Ricochet. It’s not worth the risk. Did you get the plate number?”

“No rear plate.”

“Fuck!” I slipped my.38 into its holster. “You saved my life, Carmella.”

“I couldn’t afford to let you get killed. Not yet.”

“That’s a real comfort.”

“You seem to be the only fucking person who gives a shit about what’s going on, but maybe now you’ll share with me a little.”

“If I was a cynical bastard, I’d say you staged this. I mean that untied lace was pretty convenient.”

“Fuck you, Moe! Just go fuck yourself!”

“Did I say I was a cynical bastard?”

“Are you?”

“Yeah, but I don’t believe for a second you had anything to do with that.”

“Then why say it?” she asked, dabbing blood off her scraped knees with the sleeve of her jacket.

“Because you make me a little nervous.”

“I make you nervous. Why?”

“I may be invisible to you, Carmella, but you’re not to me.”

“Am I supposed to understand that?”

“Yeah, you are.”

She just shook her head. “So we’re just gonna forget about this little incident, right?”

“Why bring any more attention to what we seem to be doing than we have to?” I said.

“Okay, I’ll be in touch.”

“You okay?”

“It’s a scraped knee,” she said. “I’ll live. Watch your back.”

By the time I was fully across the street and to my car, she had moved to the boardwalk side of the street. When I looked again, she was gone. I was none the worse for wear, not even a ripped jacket or pant leg. Maybe a little dusty, but basically intact.

Why then, I wondered, did my hands shake so when I clamped them around the steering wheel? This time the answer was as easy as the question. Someone had just tried to kill me. That’s why.

Only once before had anyone tried to kill me, and that was six years ago in Miami Beach. After the night of the shooting I’d barely given it a second thought. And now it seemed so unreal to me that I found myself questioning whether it had actually happened. It had, of