Brad Parks - Eyes of the Innocent

Each believed it was independent, thus avoiding any conflict-of-interest laws. Each was encouraged to find as much outside work as it could, adding to the air of their legitimacy. But each answered to only one man, and that man was Primo.

Between the melodrama in Sweet Thang’s voice and the unsightly number on my clock, it took me a few moments to parse her first utterance. And, in true Sweet Thang fashion, she was frantically piling more words on top of the initial ones, creating a verbal traffic jam that was causing extensive delays in the non-E-Z Pass toll lane that was my early-morning brain.

Somewhere in the midst of a detailed description of all the items on her charm bracelet-just after the “oh-so-cute sombrero” she got on a trip to Puerto Vallarta and during the “darling little gondola” her father brought her back from Venice-my overloaded ears got the message to my slumbering vocal cords that it was time to wake up.

I shoved aside Deadline, who had taken his half of the bed out of the middle, and willed myself to sit up.

“Slow down, slow down, slow down,” I begged. “Your jewelry is gone?”

“I already said that!”

“I know, but I just now understood it,” I said. “Don’t you know what time it is?”

“What does that matter?”

“It’s”-I looked at the clock again-“six-nineteen A.M. This is not an hour of the day when I function.”

“But I’m in crisis!” she whined. “And Akilah is gone.”

“Wait, Akilah? As in Akilah Harris?” I asked. “What does this have to do with Akilah Harris?”

“Weren’t you listening?”

“I thought we already established this: no.”

“I just told you, Akilah spent the night…” she said.

I said a word that would need to be bleeped on network television, then added several more. But Sweet Thang, unheeding of my profanity, had already set her mouth back to the races.

“… I was at the bar last night, waiting for you-I don’t want you to think I just stood you up for no reason-and I got a call from her. She said she didn’t have anywhere else to go and I couldn’t just turn her out on the streets. So I picked her up in Newark and drove her back to my place in Jersey City…”

“You did not. Oh, my God, you did not.”

“… and I just felt like after her hard day, she shouldn’t have to sleep on my pull-out couch, because it’s kind of lumpy in spots and the mattress is kind of thin because it has to still be able to tuck in when it’s in couch mode…”

“I can’t believe this,” I was mumbling, entirely to myself. “I can’t effing believe this.”

“… so I told her she could sleep in my room. Because I have this Select Comfort bed. You know, that’s the kind with the sleep number on it? And I told her if she wanted more firm she could dial a higher number, and less firm she could dial a lower number. My Gram Gram got it for me for graduation; it’s totally the best present ever, because it’s like having your own personalized, individualized bed…”

“This just is not happening,” I continued. “Even you’re not this dumb.”

“… so I let her borrow some pj’s-and I heard that, it’s not dumb to be generous, it’s Christian-and she seemed to be settled in just fine. I went into the living room and pulled out the couch and was watching reruns of The Hills and she was dead asleep. I mean, I heard her snoring and everything…”

“Just let me know when I get to say ‘I told you so,’ ” I interjected.

“… and then I went to sleep-not yet, by the way, let me finish-and in the morning I got up and she was gone. And so was all my jewelry. I have one of those jewelry boxes that’s sort of like a little armoire, with little cabinet doors you can swing open and the little knobs on it, you know? It’s really cute. Anyway, I leave it out on my dresser, which is where I like to keep it, so I can see my jewelry when I get ready in the morning and envision how it’s going to look with my outfit…”

“Of course you do.”

“… also, I hate tangled jewelry, it drives me IN-sane. So the way I lay it out, with the earrings on their trees and the necklaces on their stands and the bracelets arranged in chronological order of when they were given to me and the rings laid out alphabetically by color? Well, that and the jewelry box, it kind of takes up most of the dresser. But when I came in just now, the dresser was bare. And the jewelry box was gone. And Akilah was gone. And I don’t care about most of the stuff-it’s just stuff, after all-but I really, really have a sentimental attachment to that charm bracelet. It just reminds me of all the places I’ve been and all the things I’ve done and I’ve had it since I was a little girl and it’s pretty much my most treasured possession.”

She hesitated, and not knowing how long it would be before she actually came to a full pause, I interrupted.

“So, to sum up, your stuff is missing…”

“Primarily my charm bracelet, yes.”

“… and you called … me?” I said, laying on the incredulity as thickly as possible. “Shouldn’t you call the police? Or your insurance company? Or, hell, Zales or something?”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you already. It wouldn’t be Christian. I can’t do that to Akilah.”

“I’m sure Jesus would have reported the crime,” I said.

“I’m sure He would have turned the other cheek.”

“No, Jesus Christ would have thrown His weight around with the Jersey City Police Department to make sure they were looking into it, maybe even used His influence with the Hudson County Prosecutor’s Office,” I said. “You need to read the Old Testament more. Sometimes God gets good and pissed off and it only makes sense His only begotten son would be a chip off the old block.”

“Don’t blaspheme,” she said curtly. “And I am absolutely not, under any circumstances, going to tattle on Akilah.”

“Tattle?” I spat. “What’s next? She didn’t commit larceny, she’s just a bad sharer?”

“That poor girl has enough troubles in this world. I am not going to add to them simply because I have been deprived of a few material possessions.”

“So, again, why are you calling me?” I asked.

“Because I didn’t”-I could practically hear her lower lip begin quivering-“I didn’t have anyone”-cue the sniffles-“anyone else to call,” she finished, and began bawling.

But, of course, she was still talking.

“I’m”-gasping inhale-“scared and I”-shuddering exhale-“don’t want to be”-tiny stifled sob-“alone.”

Over the next six tearful minutes, we agreed that I should drop everything else I was planning on doing, not pause for breakfast, take the briefest of showers (I won that battle despite a fierce onslaught of whimpering), and come over to her apartment.

It wasn’t exactly what I planned for my morning, but there’s something about the weeping, frightened, vulnerable female that this particular Heroic Male simply cannot ignore. Saddle the gallant steed, shine the armor, locate the damsel, and Mrs. Ross’s boy will always ride to the rescue.

Mrs. Ross’s boy is a sucker that way.

* * *

I was shaved, showered, and dressed in fifteen minutes-no real man needs more time than that-and out the door in sixteen, pausing only to make sure Deadline had enough food to maintain his inactive lifestyle.

As I backed down the driveway, I briefly glanced at the newspaper loyally waiting for me on the front porch and felt a pang at leaving it there. Long before I started writing for one, starting the day with a daily newspaper was a cherished habit. I was raised to believe it’s just one of those things a decent, educated citizen does. Then it became my profession, and it became a kind of necessity: the reporter who doesn’t know what’s in the paper is not a very good reporter. I once had an editor who was known to quiz people as they came in the door to make sure they had read that day’s edition before they arrived at work. For me, reading the paper in the morning is like religion.