Brad Parks - Eyes of the Innocent

“I, ahh, was just asking a ques-”

“That’s it,” she declared. “You’re taking me to dinner tonight. You can’t possibly expect me to have The Conversation at any less than a four-star restaurant. Pick me up at eight.”

And that was it. Had I, in fact, escaped? Was I free to continue my burrowing and gnawing? For the moment, I must say I felt safer. Warmer.

Which probably just meant I was already in the owl’s stomach.

* * *

For whatever Tina’s thoughts on the absurdity of my task, I was still under orders to track down a charm bracelet-and, I must say, was getting nowhere in a hurry on my assignment.

Asking Akilah directly was out of the question, unless I was ready to commit to some serious cardio training or, at the very least, buy a stun gun. I tried reaching Sweet Thang on her cell phone-both of them-to see how she was coming along with Mrs. Harris. But when “Thang, Sweet” and “Thang, Sweet 2” went to voice mail, I hung up rather than leave a message, slightly annoyed I hadn’t heard from her yet.

Not knowing what else to try, I called Tee to see if he was getting any traction.

“Yeah,” Tee said. His typical salutation.

“Hi,” I said. “It’s your white friend.”

“You know, I do have two of them, so you’re going to have to narrow it down.”

“You’re cheating on me? I had no idea. Who’s this other honky in your life and why have you never spoken of him before?”

“Well, I don’t really consider him all that white. Not like you,” Tee said. “He’s a bit of a wigga.”

“I’m sorry, a wigga?”

“Yeah, a white dude who act like a nig-”

“Got it,” I said quickly. “Anyhow, talk to me. Tell me some good news.”

“Well, I made some calls.”

“And?”

“It look like Maury don’t got too many friends. At least he ain’t got the same friends I do.”

“Oh” is all I could think to reply.

“I reached out to brothers who know everyone, and they still don’t know Maury,” Tee said. “I mean, everyone knows him, but nobody knows him. Not well enough to make an introduction, you know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I think I got you,” I said. “Well, thanks for the effort.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he said. And I was about to bid him farewell and hang up, except he added: “How bad you need this jewelry back, anyway?”

I thought about those Hunterdon County Girl Scout meetings with which Szanto threatened me. After the second or third year, the annual cookie sale story was going to get pretty stale. Not even I liked Samoas that much.

“I would say I’m pretty desperate at this point.”

“So you got an emergency, huh?”

“I do.”

“All right,” Tee said. “I didn’t want to do this. But if you say it’s an emergency, I’ll break the glass.”

“Shatter it.”

“I mean, I ain’t got no choice.”

“None.”

“Okay, I’ll get right on it.”

“Super.”

“Because it’s an emergency.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I have to.”

“Right.”

“Okay then. I’m going to do it.”

“Fantastic,” I said, then just had to ask: “Tee, what are we talking about?”

He paused dramatically.

“I’m going to call Mrs. Jamison,” he said at last.

Tee always referred to his wife as “Mrs. Jamison.” He tries to lead people to believe he’s just being cute. But, really, he’s afraid of her.

“And what’s Mrs. Jamison going to be able to do?” I asked.

“You haven’t met her yet, have you,” he said, more as a statement than a question.

“No.”

“Wait until you meet her. You’ll understand.”

“She’s that tough?”

“She’s so tough she can slam a revolving door,” Tee said ominously.

“Well, then I’ll be glad she’s on our side.”

“Meet us outside Maury’s in fifteen minutes,” Tee instructed me.

“You sure she’ll do it?”

“I’m a man. My woman do what I tell her to do.”

“In other words, you already called her and she already said yes,” I said.

“Exactly. See you in fifteen. Don’t be late. Mrs. Jamison don’t like waiting.”

By the time I made it to Maury’s and parked, Tee was already out front, dressed in camouflage wind pants and a puffy black jacket. Tee is about five feet ten. The woman standing next to him was nearly as tall, with tight blue jeans, a New York Knicks jacket, and her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She looked like she could boil water just by staring at it.

“Hey Tee, thanks for doing this,” I said, shaking his hand then turning to his wife. “You must be Mrs. Jamison. I’m Carter Ross. Nice to meet you.”

I reached out my hand to shake with her, but she left it hanging there like she was trying to figure out if I carried a deadly strain of avian flu.

“So, you lost a necklace or something?” she said. She had a big, resonant voice. I was betting a choir somewhere would have been thrilled to have her in their alto section.

“Well, it’s actually a whole lot of jewelry-an entire jewelry box full,” I said. “But the one piece I really have to get back is a charm bracelet.”

“And this belongs to your … girlfriend, is that right?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tee nodding.

“Yes, ma’am, my girl … girlfriend.”

“And you’re planning on marrying this girl?” she demanded. Again, I saw Tee nodding, this time with more force.

“Yes, yes, ma’am.”

“That’s good. Because I don’t want to be doing no favors so you can get some cheap booty call. I do not condone intercourse unless it is going to lead to marriage. You hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, then willed myself to sound more convincing. “I’m going to make an honest woman out of her, just as soon as I save up enough money for a nice ring. I don’t want to make it some cheap thing. I was thinking two, three carats.”

“You hear that, Reginald! He’s going to get her a nice ring,” Mrs. Jamison boomed, backhanding Tee in the gut. Tee’s stomach, much like the rest of him, is pretty solid beef. But he still grimaced a little.

“I swear to you, this man, if I hadn’t told him exactly what to get, he would have gotten me a ring out of a cereal box,” Mrs. Jamison continued, then stuck out her left hand so I could inspect it. “As you see, he came though in the end, didn’t you, baby?”

She gave Tee a quick, full-lipped kiss. Tee appeared grateful he wasn’t getting smacked again.

“C’mon,” she said, as she headed toward the entrance. “Let me do the talking.”

* * *

Maury’s Pawnshop, Check-Cashing, and Payday Loans was what you might expect from a hock shop buried deep in a Newark neighborhood, only more disgusting. In front of the semishattered glass door were three concrete steps, each crumbling at the edges. A WE’LL BE BACK sign with a clock face on it was attached to the inside of the door, but the plastic hands had been ripped off, leaving one to guess when, if ever, someone might return; or, for that matter, why they’d want to.

Inside the cramped waiting area, I got the distinct impression little about the place had been updated since the original Maury opened shop-sometime shortly after he returned from the war, judging from the decor. It had that Norman Rockwell feel to it, except this was the version Rockwell painted when he was old, bitter, and off his antidepressants.

The faux wood paneling had several fist-sized dents in it. The linoleum had been scuffed straight through to the plywood floorboard in spots. In one corner, there was a gumball machine without a lid-and, therefore, without gumballs. The chrome-framed chairs bolted to the floor in the middle of the room had all lost their arms, and their seat cushions had taken a beating through the years. On the wall, a poster produced by the American Pawn-Owners Association-featuring a smiling, Stepford Wife-looking woman saying, “We buy and sell your finest previously owned merchandise”-had been thoroughly and profanely vandalized.