Jeffery Deaver - The Twelfth Card

Harlem. Didn’t you just fucking love it?

Inside, just before he’d been released, he’d tapped DeLisle Marshall for some help and the brother had told him to hook up with Ralph. Lisle had explained why the little skel was a good man to know. “That man hang out ever’where. Like he be ownin’ the streets. Know ever’thing. Or can find it out.”

Now, the blood-painting Graffiti King sucked hard on the cigarette and got right down to it. “Need you to set me up, man,” Jax said in a soft voice.

“Yeah? Whatchu need?”

Which meant both whatchu need and what’m I going to make from it?

Fair enough.

A glance around. They were alone except for pigeons and two short, fine-looking Dominican girls striding past. Despite the cold they wore skimpy tops and tight shorts on their round, knock-me-down bodies. “Ay, papi,” one called to Jax with a smile and kept going. The girls crossed the street and turned east into their turf. Fifth Avenue had been the dividing line between black and Spanish Harlem – el barrio – for years. Once you were east of Fifth, that was the Other Side. Could still be down, could still be phat, but it wasn’t the same Harlem.

Jax watched them disappear. “Damn.” He’d been in prison a long time.

“Word,” Ralph said. He adjusted how he was leaning and crossed his arms like some Egyptian prince.

Jax waited a minute and bent down, whispered into the pharaoh’s ear, “I need a piece.”

“You fresh, man,” Ralph said after a moment. “Yo’ ass get caught with a piece, they violate you back in a minute. And you still gotta do a annual in Rikers fo’ the gun. Why you wanta take a chance like that?”

Jax asked patiently, “Can you do it or not?”

The scrawny dude adjusted the angle of his lean and looked up at Jax. “I think we phat, man. But I ain’t sure I know where to find anything fo’ you. A piece, I’m saying.”

“Then I ain’t sure I know who to give this to.” He pulled out a roll of benjamins, peeled off some twenties, held them out to Ralph. Being real careful, of course. One black man slipping another some money on the streets of Harlem could raise a cop’s eyebrow, even if the guy was just tithing to a minister from the nearby Baptist Ascension Pentecostal Church.

But the only eyebrow going up was Ralph’s as he pocketed the bills and looked at the rest of the roll. “You got yourself some tall paper there.”

“Word. And you’ve got yourself some of it now. And a chance for more. Happy day.” He put the wad away.

Ralph grunted. “What kinda piece?”

“Small. Something I can hide easy, you know what I’m saying?”

“Cost you five.”

“Cost me two, I could do it.”

“Cold?” Ralph asked.

As if Jax would want a gun with a registration number still stamped on the frame. “Whatta you think?”

“Then fuck two,” said the little Egyptian. He was ballsier now; you don’t kill people who can get you something you need.

“Three,” Jax offered.

“I could do three and hemi.”

Jax debated. He made a fist and tapped Ralph’s with it. Another look around. “Now, I need something else. You got connections at the schools?”

“Some. What schools you talkin’ ’bout? I ain’t know nothin’ ’bout Queens or BK or the Bronx. Only here in the hood.”

Jax scoffed to himself, thinking, “hood,” shit. He’d grown up in Harlem and never lived anywhere else on earth except for army barracks and prisons. You could call the place a “neighborhood,” if you had to, but it wasn’t “the hood.” In L.A., in Newark, they had hoods. In parts of BK too. But Harlem was a different universe, and Jax was pissed at Ralph for using the word, though he supposed the man wasn’t disrespecting the place; he probably just watched a lot of bad TV.

Jax said, “Just here.”

“I can ask round.” He was sounding a little uneasy – not surprising, considering that an ex-con with a 25-25 arrest was interested in both a gun and a high school. Jax slipped him another forty. That seemed to ease the little man’s conscience considerably.

“Okay, tell me what I supposed to be lookin’ fo’?”

Jax pulled a sheet of paper out of his combat jacket packet. It was a story he’d downloaded from the online edition of the New York Daily News . He handed the article, labeled Breaking News Update , to Ralph.

Jax tapped the paper with a thick finger. “I need to find the girl. That they’re talking about.”

Ralph read the article under the headline, MUSEUM OFFICIAL SHOT TO DEATH IN MIDTOWN. He looked up. “It don’t say nothin’ ’bout her, where she live, ’bout her school, nothin’. Don’t even say what the fuck her name be.”

“Her name’s Geneva Settle. As for everything else” – Jax nodded at the little man’s pocket where the money had disappeared – “that’s what I’m paying you the benjamins for.”

“Why you want to find her?” asked Ralph, staring at the article.

Jax paused for a minute then leaned close to the man’s dusty ear. “Sometimes people ask questions, look around, and they find out more shit than they really ought to be knowing.”

Ralph started to ask something else but then must’ve figured that, even though Jax might’ve been talking about something the girl had done, the Graffiti King of blood could also mean that Ralph himself was being too fucking nosy. “Gimme a hour or two.” He gave Jax his phone number. The little pharaoh pushed off from the chain link, retrieved his bottle of malt liquor from the grass and started down the street.

Roland Bell eased his unmarked Crown Vic through central Harlem, a mix of residential and commercial buldings. The chains – Pathmark, Duane Reade, Popeyes, McDonald’s – existed side by side with the mom-and-pop outfits where you could cash checks, pay your bills and buy human-hair wigs and extensions or African arts or liquor or furniture. Many of the older buildings were run down and more than a few were boarded up or sealed with metal shutters covered with graffiti. Off the busier streets, ruined appliances awaited scavengers, trash was banked against buildings and gutters, and both weeds and impromptu gardens filled vacant lots. Graffitied billboards advertised acts at the Apollo and some other big uptown venues, while hundreds of handbills covered walls and plywood, hawking the acts of little-known MCs, DJs and comedians. Young men hung tight in clusters and some watched the squad car behind Bell’s with a mix of caution and disdain and, occasionally, raw contempt.

But as Bell, Geneva and Pulaski continued west, the ambiance changed. The deserted buildings were being torn down or renovated; posters in front of the job sites showed what sort of idyllic town houses would soon replace the old ones. Geneva ’s block, not far from steep, rocky Morningside Park and Columbia University, was beautiful and tree-lined, with clean sidewalks. The rows of old buildings were in good repair. The cars may have sported Clubs on the steering wheels but the vehicles the steel bars protected included Lexuses and Beemers.

Geneva pointed out a spotless four-story brownstone, decorated with carved facades, the ironwork glistening black in the late-morning sun. “That’s my place.”

Bell pulled his car two doors past it, double-parked.

“Uhm, Detective,” Ron Pulaski said, “I think she meant the one back there.”

“I know,” he said. “One thing I’m partial to is not advertising where the people we’re looking after live.”

The rookie nodded, as if memorizing this fact. So young, Bell thought. So much to learn.

“We’ll be inside for a few minutes. Keep an eye out.”

“Yes, sir. What for exactly?”