Brad Parks - Faces of the Gone

“Yeah, got him,” Tommy said. “Hector I. Alvarez. Born 10/25/1963. Hired 11/01/2003. He made $38,835 last year.”

“Excellent. Can you get an address for him?”

“Hang on,” Tommy said, and I heard his keyboard chattering away. I cupped my cell phone and turned upside down so I could look at Rashan.

“When you get out of here, you might want to send a thank-you note to Tommy Hernandez, care of the Eagle-Examiner,” I said. “He just saved something precious to you.”

It didn’t take much convincing to get Rashan to join my field trip to Hector Alvarez’s house. Anything that didn’t involve his penis in close proximity to Kevin Mack’s hunting knife sounded like a pretty good idea to Rashan.

By the time he was untied, redressed, and debriefed-a short, scary lecture from Bernie Kosar about the consequences of ever again tussling with the Browns-it was after five. A cold, blustery night was settling in outside. Rashan had his backpack returned to him, soda can tabs still attached, then was blindfolded and released into my recognizance. As an honorary member of the Brick City Browns, I was bound to protect the secrecy of Brown Town’s location. So I escorted him to my car, then drove around for a few blocks before allowing him to remove his blindfold.

It wouldn’t have surprised me at any point if Rashan had simply bolted. After all, it was clear I wasn’t the muscle. It was possible Rashan was afraid the Browns would hunt him down if he ran. Or he might have felt beholden to me for having helped save him from horrible disfigurement. Either way, he had become quite docile, even cooperative.

And as we drove across town toward Hector Alvarez’s home-the address Tommy gave me was on Sanford Avenue, in Newark’s West Ward-he seemed amenable to chatting.

“So tell me again how Alvarez picked you out,” I asked.

“I don’t know, man. I was just going through the program like everyone else. I was getting toward the end. I think he knew I was about to be released. And he asked me what I was planning to do when I got out. I told him I didn’t know. Then he started telling me about The Stuff.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That it was the best. That I’d make a lot of money. That junkies went wild for it.”

“Did they?”

“Oh, hell yeah. I got out like four months ago. My first contract was for two bricks-I was a little worried about biting off more than I could chew. But I didn’t have no problems selling it. So I went up to four. I sold out every week. I didn’t even have to find customers. They was finding me. I was thinking about going up to six or eight bricks, but now I don’t know. I might quit.”

“Why?” You know, besides the fact that it was illegal, immoral, and dangerous.

We idled at a stoplight. Rashan was staring out the passenger side window as he spoke. “That Ludlow Street thing, man,” he said. “That’s some cold business. I don’t want to end up like that because some dude thinks I didn’t follow my contract.”

“Was that really in the contract you signed? The part about not cutting?”

“Yeah, man. I mean, I guess it was. I didn’t realize they were that serious about it, though.”

“You keep a copy of the contract?” I asked hopefully.

“Nah.”

“Too bad,” I said. There’s something about documents supporting a story-any kind of documents-that editors absolutely love. I would estimate documents were the source of a third of all Brodie’s newsroom erections.

“So did you know any of the Ludlow Four?” I asked.

“Nah.”

“None of them?”

“Nah. I don’t know any of the other dealers,” he said. “It’s like we all got our separate little things going on. The guy who gives me The Stuff, he tells me I’ll never have to worry about competition. He said we all got our own turf and we’ll never bump into each other.”

“So that’s why you don’t quit?”

“Yeah, man,” he said. “It’s like guaranteed profit. Where else is a guy like me going to make that kind of money?”

Twenty lousy grand a year? How about down at the ports. In a trade union. Driving a truck. In fact, there were dozens of jobs where a young man like Rashan Reeves could make much better money and do it legally-but only if he was willing to be a little patient, get some training, and establish a decent work history.

“I think this is it,” I said as we pulled up across the street from the Sanford Avenue address Tommy had given me. It was a two-story duplex with separate entrances adjacent to each other. Both sides were dark and there were no cars in the short driveway.

“Hang here for a second,” I said.

I got out just in time to get sideswiped by a cold gust of wind. I walked quickly up the five stairs on the front porch. Hector Alvarez’s address had an A after it, so I rang the doorbell on the left.

I hadn’t necessarily formulated a plan for what I would do if Alvarez actually answered but it didn’t matter. There was no one home.

Still, there were signs of continued occupancy: only one day’s worth of mail in the box, a girl’s bike chained to the railing, jackets hanging in the foyer. There was definitely a lived-in aura. It seemed worthwhile to stay for a while to see who might show up.

“Mind hanging here for a little bit?” I asked when I returned to the warmth of the Malibu.

“You mean, like a stakeout?” Rashan asked.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Cool,” he said, sounding genuinely enthused. “You got yourself a pretty cool job, huh?”

“There are lots of cool jobs out there, Rashan,” I said. “We’ll have to find you one someday.”

Ten minutes later, I was in the midst of explaining to Rashan the process of how a story got into the newspaper when a brand-new red Audi A4 rolled slowly past us and turned into the driveway. A short, round, middle-aged Hispanic man got out and Rashan practically jumped over the dashboard.

“That’s him,” he said. “That’s Mr. Hector.”

“Come on, Rashan,” I said. “If you want to see how a reporter gets a story, this is a good place to start.”

Or at least it was a good start if he wanted to get a feeling for ambush-style journalism, which is what this situation demanded. I closed in fast, with Rashan right behind me. Alvarez was barely out of his car when we were already on top of him.

“Hi, Hector, Carter Ross from the Eagle-Examiner, ” I said. “And I’m sure you remember Rashan here.”

Alvarez rocked back on his heels. He pretty clearly did remember Rashan and was too stunned to open his mouth.

“Rashan tells me you recruited him on behalf of a local drug syndicate,” I continued. “You want to tell me who you’re working for?”

Rashan and I had Hector more or less pinned against the open door of his Audi, which still had a faint new-car smell to it. Alvarez had a broad, fleshy face that was registering complete surprise.

“I, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, trying to recover from his shock but not doing very well.

“Well, then, let me remind you: Rashan was one of your patients in a drug and alcohol rehab program at East Jersey State Prison. When you realized he was nearing the end of his sentence and going back home to Newark, you offered to hook him up with a source for heroin.”

“I don’t know who he is. He’s got me confused with someone else,” Alvarez said halfheartedly. Rashan just scoffed.

“Sure, sure he does,” I said. “Let me lay this out for you right now, Hector. You’ve been doing something very bad, something I’m sure the commissioner of the corrections department would be eager to hear about. Now, if you can help me out and tell me who you work for, maybe I can forget your name, you can forget your little sideline business, and everyone can move happily on with their lives. Or if you don’t tell me who you’re working for, I’ll plaster your name in a nice big headline, and you’ll not only lose your job, you’ll end up serving time with some of the very same people you’re counseling now.”