X. Atkins - Richmond Noir

Beau and I stood there for a long time. Looking at Marwan, looking at each other, feeling bad, but not as bad as we might have.

Bobby Harvey came wandering through after a while, making his last evening check of the trailer park.

“I didn’t see anything,” he said to us. “Did y’all?”

We both shook our heads.

“Good. Now get on inside before somebody does.”

There are some things that don’t warrant much investigation. A dead strip club manager in a shiny tie on Jeff Davis Highway is one of those things. Particularly if nobody in the trailer park heard anything or saw anything. And, not to gild any lilies, but just suppose there was a crack rock or two in his hand when the police got there, well, these things happen in trailer parks all the time . Such is life. I’m sure the Arabs have a saying about it, and it’s probably close to what my Arab said when he realized that the body he’d been called out of bed for was one of his guys. “Rahimahullah! His daddy should have beat him harder.”

The police took a report, but beyond that there was no investigation to speak of. The man’s wallet was empty. According to the girls at the club, he usually kept about five hundred dollars in cash on him — usually meaning on the nights he didn’t drop seventy-two dollars at a hookah bar on baba ghanoush and shoulder shimmies — so robbery was the obvious motive. The police made a point of coming around and reminding us to lock our doors. They were especially concerned about me, what with it happening right outside my place. I told them not to worry, that the Arab was letting me move to a bigger trailer in the back of the park. Same rent, more room — and with nobody next door, I could play my cymbals as late as I wanted every night.

Now, instead of waiting tables, I dance two nights a week at the hookah bar for better tips than I ever got slinging eggs when it was a diner. Word’s gotten around and the place is usually packed — Muhammad actually pays me now, and he’s even put a picture of me in the window, next to the picture of his famous kebabs. I still clean a trailer for the Arab every couple of months, not so much for the money but just to keep my title and help out. Because that’s what I guess family does. Saleem talks to me in my dreams every now and then, mostly to call me Jamila and ask me when I’m gonna get married. And sometimes he tells me I should eat more, I might blow away.

Jackson Ward

An uneasy silence engulfed him. Occasionally, he would glance toward the driver’s seat and stare at Janie, who still wore her factory clothes. She didn’t look at him. Sighing, he moved his eyes back to the window. They flew past abandoned buildings, past Ebenezer, where he found God, and Armstrong, the school where he discovered Janie and everything else. Men sat on curbs heading nowhere, complacent. He knew them intimately — knew their stories, their fears, and their delusions. “So you ain’t gonna talk to me?” he asked, finally.

She hesitated. “What you want me to say? You don’t wanna hear what I gotta say. I ain’t ready to talk to you yet.”

“Well, you could say somethin’.” Her eyes narrowed. Still, he pushed the conversation: “How’d you pay the light bill?”

Words flew from her mouth like venom. “You ain’t gotta worry ’bout that, Jayden! I found a way. Not that you helped me. Not that you care.” The silence lasted until she pulled onto Marshall Street. She slammed her car door and pushed past him, through the overgrown grass and the trash people constantly threw into their yard. He followed close behind.

Once inside, he rushed to the back room. He opened the door. Nothing.

“Janie!” he screamed. He found her on the living room floor peeling potatoes into an aluminum bowl. He could barely breathe. “Where’s my piano?!”

She didn’t look up. “We need to do somethin’ ’bout all these holes in the roof. Don’t make no sense. I wake up every mornin’ and start my day covered in—”

He squatted in front of her, lifting her chin until their eyes met. “I said, where’s my piano?”

She smacked his hand away. “You ain’t gonna put your hands on me. You better get that idea out your head right now.” Her voice intensified. “Don’t you dare disrespect me, Jayden. Today is not the day.”

He paced, hands shaking. A lump grew in his throat.

Janie sighed. “Naw, I ain’t sell your piano. Things hard but they ain’t that hard. All these damn holes in the roof. I had to move it.”

“Where?”

“Back there.” He raced to the bedroom, where he saw it pressed against the window. He collapsed beside the doorway, smiling. But his smile didn’t last long. He walked back into the living room, dragging his feet. Janie looked up momentarily, then continued her work.

“I’m sorry,” he stumbled, “guess I overreacted a little. Who helped you move it? Quincy?”

“It got wheels.”

“Guess it does. So how’d you pay the light bill?”

“That was Quincy.”

His eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“I called my mama, Jayden.”

“Oh. You want help with them potatoes?”

She shrugged. Jayden grabbed a knife and sat beside her. They peeled together in silence, the tension building with the rhythm of the wall clock.

Then she exploded. “Where were you, Jayden? You couldn’t call me and let me know where you were?!”

“I was over Charlie’s place.”

“For a week? Tonya told me she saw you over on Belvidere talkin’ to Angelo. Called me all frantic, told the whole neighborhood, making me look like a fool. I rush from work, drive up and down the street tryin’ to find you, beg you to come with me, and for what?”

Jayden gawked but said nothing.

She slammed her knife into the bowl, producing a harsh ring. “You ain’t gonna say nothin’, Jay? You gone for a mutha-fuckin’ week and you ain’t got nothin’ to say?”

“It was only five days.”

Tears fell, but she wiped them away. “Don’t you know how worried I was? What am I supposed to do with you? What am I supposed to do?”

“I’m sorry, baby—”

“You’re sorry?”

The words slid off his tongue as if rehearsed. “That was the last time. I promise. You know I got that big audition comin’ up soon—”

“It’s always the last time. Always for some reason or other.” Their eyes met. “It’s always a lie.”

He dropped the knife and hurried down the hall. He made his way to the piano, tracing the contours of the keys before he pressed down. A minor chord rang out. He exhaled, then modulated. Notes at first, then the sounds became something deeper. Ellington. “In a Sentimental Mood.” After some time, he sensed Janie in the doorway watching him; sensed her anger, her sadness, and her love. He played harder, letting his soul seep through the music. “I’ma change, baby. You wait and see.”

“What are words?” she replied, and walked away.

“Don’t forget I got you booked at the Hippodrome. The gig’s tomorrow.” Quincy mixed bacon into a sea of hard-cooked eggs. He barely swallowed, yellow bits sprinkling an unkempt goatee. He wiped it away, greasing crisp sleeves.

Jayden tried to lift coffee to his lips but his hands shook uncontrollably. Coffee spilled down his shirt before the cup finally made its way to his mouth. He gulped, then placed the cup back on the table. “I’ll be ready.” He smiled uneasily. “Ain’t no thang, you know? I was born to do shit like this.”

Quincy leaned back in the booth and laughed. “Fuck. You can’t even drink coffee, let alone play some keys.” He pointed his fork toward Jayden. “I can’t have you embarrassin’ me, man. I have a reputation.”