Brad Parks - Faces of the Gone

“She’s got a point,” Tommy said. “She’s a lot hotter than you are. If anything, she should be embarrassed to have slept with you .”

“Thank you, Tommy,” Tina said self-righteously.

Tommy moved to Tina’s side and put his arm around her to emphasize that I was now facing a united front. This was clearly going nowhere good. I was outnumbered in a hypothetical debate about something I hadn’t even done. And, on top of that, my head was pounding, my mouth was dry, and my stomach was still feeling all those potholes.

“If I were you, I’d be proud to have slept with such a fine-looking woman,” Tommy said. “Well, I mean, I’d rather be sleeping with her younger brother. But I’d still be proud.”

“Can I just please surrender?” I asked. “This is too much to handle before I’ve showered for the day.”

Tina narrowed her eyes and shook an index finger in my direction.

“You’re lucky I’m only after your sperm,” she said.

“Men,” Tommy huffed.

They turned and walked into the office together without another word.

I thought about following them, then remembered my clothes still smelled like happy grass. So I returned to my peaceful Nutley bungalow, where Deadline was pacing nervously in front of his empty food bowl. I poured in an extra helping, and he hungrily attacked. Eating was one of the few things Deadline did well. Sleeping and pooping were the others.

A day of sleeping, eating, and pooping was sounding like a fine idea at the moment. But I forced myself into the shower. I was the toughest man alive. It was the 1970 NBA Finals and I was Willis Reed. I would play hurt.

By the time I completed my heroic comeback, it was after eleven, which I deemed fashionably late enough to call Tynesha.

I deemed wrong.

“lllo?” her sleepy voice answered.

“Tynesha, I’m sorry. It’s Carter Ross from the Eagle-Examiner . I thought you’d be up by now.”

“Not unless the building’s on fire,” she said, coming to a little.

“Right, sorry. I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t worry about it, baby. What’s up?”

“I was wondering if I could talk to Wanda’s mama. You said Wanda lived with her mama, right?”

“More like her mama lived with her,” Tynesha said, not bothering to stifle a yawn. “Wanda paid the rent.”

“Think her mama knew what was going on?”

“Her mama’s a pretty sharp lady. Miss B knew a lot, probably more than Wanda realized. But I’m not sure she’ll talk about it with you.”

“I’ll take my chances, if that’s all right.”

“I’m supposed to see Miss B this afternoon to help her pick out a casket at the funeral home. You want to come with us?”

Picking out caskets ranked pretty low on my list of favorite activities. Funeral homes ranked even lower on my list of favorite places. But it was either that or hang around the office and duck under my desk whenever Szanto came near.

“Do you think she’ll mind some random white guy tagging along?” I asked.

“It’s okay. You’re with me. Besides, she ain’t got no car and neither do I. Without you, we’d be taking the damn bus.”

A half hour later, I met Tynesha in front of the Stop-In Go-Go. She tumbled into my car offering several choice complaints about the cold, which felt like it had come to New Jersey on a Get Out of the Arctic Free card. I cranked up the Malibu’s heater a little more, and we made our way to Wanda’s place, a rundown, four-story brick apartment building on South 18th Street.

Out front were three obvious markers of urban malaise: the obligatory NO LOITERING sign; another sign that read WE ACCEPT SECTION 8, the federal rent vouchers given to low-income families; and, finally, a pair of teenaged boys-lookouts-who might as well have had bullhorns and been screaming, “Drugs here. Get your drugs here.”

We got out of the car and walked up the front steps, hearing the familiar tweeting of Nextel phones on walkie-talkie mode, the preferred method of communication among the well-connected gangsta set. The alert was being sent out: a white man was entering the building.

Once inside, we were serenaded by another familiar song on the urban soundtrack: the chirping of smoke detectors in need of batteries. A landlord once explained to me the tenants stole the batteries almost as fast as you could put them in, so most landlords stopped bothering.

Knocking on the door to Wanda’s apartment, I was expecting the worst-trash-strewn floors, leak-stained ceilings, the stench of ages-and instead got June Cleaver’s house. The smell of baking pie practically knocked me over as the door opened. Fresh flowers were tastefully arranged on a tiny table in the alcove. Framed artwork decorated the wall above it.

“Hi, Miss B,” Tynesha said.

“My baby,” Miss B said, smothering Tynesha with a motherly hug. Not many women would have been big enough to envelop Tynesha that way. But Miss B was living on the bottom right corner of the panty hose size chart.

“Hello,” she said to me as soon as she released Tynesha. “I’m Brenda Bass.”

She said it cordially enough, but it had a steely I’m Brenda Bass, who the heck are you? ring to it.

“Hi, Miss Bass, I’m Carter Ross, I’m a reporter with the Eagle-Examiner . I’m writing a story about Wanda.”

“Oh, no thank you,” Miss B said instantly. “Wanda doesn’t need any stories written about her.”

“It’s okay, Miss B,” Tynesha said. “He wants to write about the human side of things-like a personal story.”

I bounced my head up and down in earnest agreement.

“And how’s he going to do that?” she said, talking as if I weren’t there.

“He just wants to chat with you a little bit, maybe look around for clues.”

More head bouncing.

“I don’t like the idea of some man”-she looked at me and downgraded my status-“some reporter going through her things.”

“It’s okay, Miss B. He’s all right.”

Miss B gave me a once-over, starting at my toes and working her way up, which I took as the cue to begin my sales pitch. Any reporter who doesn’t know how to sell himself is going to end up being a reporter who doesn’t get many good stories.

“The police are just ready to sweep this thing under the rug,” I said. “And they’re going to get away with it if we let them.”

Miss B had made it up to my shoulders by this point.

“They’re trying to push this story that your daughter held up some bar,” I continued. “I don’t think that’s true, but I need to prove it and I need your help.”

She was now at eye-contact level, which she held for a moment. Her next question took me off guard.

“Do you like apple pie, Mr. Ross?”

I grinned. “It’s Carter. And, yes, I adore it.”

“Well, good. When I grieve, I bake. Except with my diabetes, I can’t eat it. And Lord knows those children get too much sugar as it is, especially now. You want some pie, Tynesha?”

“You ever know me to turn it down?”

“Good girl. Come on in, you two. But keep your voices down, the baby is asleep.”

Miss B limped toward the kitchen, leaning on a cane and flinging the right side of her body forward. I swear, Newark might lead the nation in limpers. It seems like most adults of AARP-eligible age have developed one. Decades of dreadful nutrition and poor health care tend to do that.

Tynesha and I followed slowly behind. The Bass apartment was every bit as well kept inside as it was in the alcove. Everywhere I looked, there were nice little touches-and pictures of a young woman that stopped me cold.

It was Wanda. And she was gorgeous: dark, flawless skin; warm, brown eyes; high, perfect cheekbones; long, thick eyelashes.