Brad Parks - Faces of the Gone

“Now, we wasn’t out of the buildin’ mo’ than three minutes and, WHAMBO, the whole damn place done gone sky-high, and then it fell down, jus’ like it was a deck of cards fallin’ in on isself. It was a terrible noise like you ain’ never heard. And you know what?”

“What?”

“It wasn’t no man from the city after all. Folks here is sayin’ it was jus’ a man up to no good, jus’ wantin’ to blow up our buildin’ because he don’ wan’ it here no more. Can you believe that?”

“Actually, I can,” I said. “He blew up my house, too.”

Red couldn’t have looked more surprised if a bottle of Majorska vodka up and started talking to him.

“You don’ say!” he said. “Mary, you hear that? Remember that white boy who got us the food? That big feller with the dy-no-mite, he done blowed up the white boy’s house, too!”

“I heard him the first time,” Mary said tersely from inside the building.

“Well, don’ get all sore. I was jus’ sayin’,” Red said, then turned and gave me the universal male shrug that loosely translated to, Women, what can you do?

“Red, tell me something. The guy with the bunch of dynamite, how big was he?”

“Little bit taller than you an’ about twice as wide. He had hisself a neck like a bull.”

Red held his hands a fair distance apart to signify a substantial width. That sounded like Van Man to me.

“Did you get a good look at him?” I asked.

“Sho’ as I’m lookin’ at you right now, youngster.”

This was getting too good to be true. Not only was Red alive, he was possibly the only living witness who could ID a serial murdering arsonist. And, yes, there was the small problem of what, exactly, Red had managed to see through his Mad Dog 20/20 goggles. But it was still a hell of a lot better than nothing.

“What did he look like?”

“Well, like I said, he was a big feller an. .”

“Do you think you could describe him to a sketch artist?” I said, cutting to the chase.

With that, Red leaned back from the window for a moment, straightening himself.

“Well, now,” he said. “That all depend, don’t it?”

I caught his drift immediately.

“Another trip to the store on me,” I said.

Red flashed a smile that displayed his teeth-both of them-and said, “Make it three.”

With the issue of compensation settled, Red and I hopped into the Malibu, which I turned in the direction of police headquarters. I drove quickly, mostly because Red was stinking up my car so badly I was afraid the upholstery might need to be detoxed if he stayed in there too long. With my non-driving hand, I called Tina.

She answered the phone with all the warmth I expected.

“You’re a total ass,” she said.

“I know, I know.”

“No, you don’t know. I’m sitting here wondering if you’re dead or alive like I’m some kind of damn war bride. I am not a damn war bride! ”

Tina was clearly a little crazed (is there such a thing as mind-altering ovulation hormones?). And while in my younger days I’d tried reasoning with crazy women, I had reached the conclusion, sometime in the wisdom of my late twenties, that it was simply not possible. As long as she was immersed in crazy, it was better to just agree with whatever she said until she emerged from said state. I guess you could say I had become a conscientious nonobjecter.

“You’re right,” I said. “You’re not a war bride.”

“If you think you’re getting any tonight, you are so mistaken.”

“I never thought that for a moment,” I said.

“For a while, I was thinking about teasing you and leaving you with a crippling case of blue-balls. But the fact is, I am so repulsed by you right now, I’m not sure I even want to be in the same room with you.”

“Definitely separate rooms,” I concurred.

“Make that separate zip codes.”

“So should I find another place to spend the night?”

“Of course not,” she spat. “Don’t be an ass.”

“Sorry.”

“You have no idea how sorry you are!” she said, and then all I heard was the slamming of a phone.

I looked over at Red, who had this knowing smile on his face.

“I’m not sure I understand what just happened,” I said.

“Sounds like you got woman problems,” he observed.

“I suppose I do.”

“Ain’ nothing you can do ’bout it,” Red said with what was, for him, a philosophical air. “Sometimes those women, they jus’ love you so much they gotta yell at you to show it.”

“Is that so?”

“Trus’ me. I’ve had mo’ women love me like that than I can count.”

I nodded. Red started scratching himself. And we left it at that. I found a metered space not far from the Green Street entrance to police headquarters and herded Red inside.

After sliding my business card through a slot in the bullet-proof glass, I explained to the desk sergeant that the musty-looking gentleman with me had gotten a good look at the guy who blew up the Booker T building this morning.

The desk sergeant, an older guy with a white flattop who was probably just trying to hang on for another year or two until retirement, gave me this you-gotta-be-kiddin’-me look and picked up the phone. He talked for a few moments, then clicked on the microphone that allowed his voice to be heard in the lobby.

“One minute,” he said.

Red had already settled into the ancient couch in the lobby. He probably knew as well as anyone, when you were waiting for the Newark police, you might as well get comfortable.

“So, have you always lived around here?” I asked.

“Naw, I been all over,” he said. “North Carolina. Maryland. Georgia. Served in Germany when I was in the army.”

“You were in the army?”

“What? You think I been a bum all my life?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I began.

“Tha’s okay,” he said, laughing. “I’m jus’ messin’ witchya. I like bein’ a bum. Can’t nobody tell you what to do when you don’t got no boss to please and no landlord to pay.”

Tough to argue with that worldview. . y’know, as long as you don’t mind sleeping in abandoned buildings in Newark.

“So how long have you, uh. .”-been a bum-“lived in Newark?”

“I dunno. What year is it now?”

“Two thousand and-” I started.

But he was laughing again. “Come on, now, still messin’ witchya. I guess I been here, off an’ on, for ’bout twenty year. Used to go down South for the winter, jus’ thumb my way down then thumb my way back. But I’m getting’ too ol’ for that. Thumbin’ ain’ what it used to be. An’, besides, Mary’d miss me.”

“How long you and Mary been, uh. .”-knocking boots-“with each other?”

“Oh, I’d say fo’ or five year now. Off an’ on. Can’t tie me down to jus’ one woman, you know. But sometimes I wonder what woulda happen if we met when we was younger. Maybe things woulda been different. Maybe we woulda had a family. .” Red said, his voice trailing off.

How about that. Red Coles was not only homeless by choice, he was also a bit of a romantic. I was about to comment on it when Hakeem Rogers emerged from behind a door and motioned toward Red.

“Three shoppin’ trips, right?” Red said.

“Three trips,” I said with a nod, and Red bounced off the couch and through the door. I gave chase but was stopped by the lieutenant’s outstretched hand.

“You his daddy?” Rogers asked.

“Huh? No.”

“His mommy?

“No.”

“Then you can’t come with him,” Rogers said, pleased with himself.

“No fair outwiseassing a wiseass,” I said.

“They give me bonus pay for pissing you off,” Rogers replied. “Can’t wait to spend that check.”