Уолтер Мосли - Down the River unto the Sea

“Yes, I am, Officer,” I said. “It’s just that I had to stop a minute and put my head together.”

“Can you walk?” the shorter, white cop asked.

I smiled, nodded, and then moved away from the big building that made humanity seem like the last dying colony of prehistoric ants.

I could have taken the subway, but instead I walked up to Eighth and Seventy-Third. Down Seventy-Third, about half a block, stood a seven-story brownstone apartment building that was very old.

I climbed the stoop, pulled open the outer door, and then searched the list of names for Thurman Hodge. I pressed the button for twenty-seven, Thurman’s designation, and waited.

“Who is it?” a gravelly voice asked over a staticky intercom connection.

“Smith,” I replied.

The address and the names Thurman and Smith were all sent by text to me by Melquarth. The fact that I was there meant that I had abandoned and very possibly betrayed the world I’d known.

“Be right down,” the rough voice told me.

The vestibule smelled of mold. Some people might have been put off by the odor, but for me it was a pleasant reminder of the apartment building where I lived with my mother, brother, and sister after our father was sentenced and before I was old enough to run away.

“Yeah?” a man said from the other side of the apartment building’s windowed door.

He was five eight in shoes, with coarse salt-and-pepper hair that he brushed equally to either side. Wearing a paint-stained, once-white artist’s smock, he looked like some villain from Dick Tracy in the old newspaper comic strips: Flattop, or maybe, because of his scowl, Gruesome.

“I’m here for the bargain basement,” I told the beady-eyed comic strip villain.

He squinted a little harder and then opened the door.

“Follow me,” he said.

We walked down a slender corridor to a flight of three steps, out a door that led to an especially small courtyard, and across the yard to another door.

While Hodge, if that was his name, searched a large key chain, he said, “You can tell Moran that this is the last time I can rent the place. The owners want to put some kinda IT center down here and ain’t nuthin’ I can do about that.”

I had no idea who Moran was, but Mr. Hodge didn’t need to know that.

He found the key and worked it on the lichen-crusted white-enamel-painted door.

He gestured for me to walk in and turned on the light after I realized that there was a series of stairs leading down. I stumbled only slightly but was reminded of the day before, when, on a similar set of stairs, I shot a man in the head.

Fifteen steps down, I found myself in another cellar. This one had been transformed into a studio apartment designed for men and women on the run. This reminded me of Mel’s connection to the Underground Railroad; made me think that I was fighting a war beyond the laws that once claimed my allegiance.

“No TV or radio reception down here,” the man who might have been named Hodge said. “The hot plate works, but there’s no good ventilation so don’t cook anything you don’t want to smell for the next few days. The space heater works. And here’s the keys for the apartment and the front door. There’s a bell for the super up front, but don’t call her. It’s me you deal with.”

I nodded and handed Mr. Hodge one of the hundred-dollar bills that Antrobus’s purple-garbed goon had given me. Hodge took the tip with an expression of surprise.

“Anything you need,” he said. “Just ring.”

“Do you get cell phone reception down here?” I asked before he could depart.

“Not unless Jesus Christ gave you the phone.”

Two blocks away I found a coffee shop that served glazed meat loaf and sour mash. I got the taste for the whiskey at Miranda’s apartment and wanted to follow it down a ways.

“Hello?” Andre Tourneau said.

“Hey, brother.”

“Joe. How are you?”

“Feel like I went to sleep on the ground and woke up in a coffin.”

“I get that way every time I go home to Port-au-Prince. What can I do for you, my friend?”

“Call Henri and tell him to call this number from a pay phone.”

“You’re not gonna get my boy in trouble, now, are you, Joe?”

“I remember why you bought that pistol, Mr. Tourneau, don’t you worry about that.”

The meat loaf tasted better with every sip of whiskey. I was feeling almost jocular when the cell phone sounded.

“Hello?”

“Joe,” Henri Tourneau said. “You still hiding?”

“I called Natches.”

“And what did he have to say?”

I told him as much as was necessary and added, “I think he might be able to figure out our connection so I wanted to ask you if you had some friend who could look up a street name for me.”

“Anything, Uncle.”

The familial endearment touched me. I don’t think it was just the whiskey. The days I followed down my expulsion from the police and the Man conviction I was also learning that I had a multifaceted life with many planes of beauty to it.

An hour later I received a text that said a junkie called Burns was a regular at the Bread and Bees Homeless Shelter on Avenue C in the East Village.

When I got that message I was already on Seventh Avenue at Christopher in the West Village. There I was waiting outside a nameless fortune-telling parlor.

Through the glass wall facade was a shallow room done all in reds. There were various crystals and two plush chairs, a calico cat, and the framed photograph of a large-nosed man with a receding hairline.

I walked in and was assailed by a sweet brand of incense that I recognized but could not name. The electronic announcement of my entrance was the sound of a solitary lark calling out for an old friend or a new love.

Through red curtains came a plump woman with pale skin dressed in a green wraparound that was festooned with tiny round mirrors.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Lackey,” I said.

The woman’s face didn’t have far to go for the glower she gave me.

“Tell him it’s Seamus from the Southside.”

She sneered but went back through the curtains.

I waited there wondering what kind of prison time I could expect after I’d finished with my investigations.

The woman opened the curtains without entering the spiritual consultation room, saying, “Come.”

We passed through a short dark hall into a bright kitchen where two women and three children were either cooking or eating. One dirty-faced little girl looked up from the dining table, smiled, and stuck her finger in her nose.

The frowning woman took me through another door into what I could only call a sitting room.

There were two stuffed chairs therein. One was yellow with big dark blue polka dots. It was of normal dimensions and looked quite comfortable. The other chair was twice the size of its little sister and might have been black. I couldn’t make out the full design or color because they were obstructed by the impossibly fat man who sat there.

Kierin Klasky weighed well north of four hundred pounds. He could have willed his face to be sewn into a basketball after he died; it was that large and round. The features of his physiognomy were mostly just fat, as were his bloated hands and ham-round thighs.

Kierin was a white man in a blue suit wearing a red tie. There was a black Stetson on the table next to his sofa-size chair. I wondered if he ever donned the hat and stood up.

“Joe!” he bellowed.

“Kierin.”

“I heard you got fired.”

“That was eleven years ago.”

“I’m still here,” he said. “What do you need?”

Back before my dismissal from the force I saved Kierin from a bust that would have put him away for years. He had information I needed about the heroin connection at the Brooklyn docks and I got a friend in records to taint his most recent arrest report.