Mat Johnson - Hunting in Harlem

Ms. Bell's apartment was done by one-thirty P.M. It was small, and Snowden was getting good at what he did. Sometimes Lester didn't even stay around anymore, just let him in and came back around the time everything was ready to be loaded, and Snowden didn't mind. Lester always put the soft rock station on the radio, and with him gone Snowden could listen to whatever he liked. In addition, Snowden had decided that all coinage on the floor (or not already in a purposed container) was his tip money, and isolation made the acquisition that much easier. Also, Snowden sometimes caught Lester staring at him.

At first Snowden thought it was to make sure he was doing the job right, and when he caught the older man doing it he would ask politely just that, and the answer was always pretty much the same: yes, that's it, good job, that's right. Then Snowden would pass a mirror and Lester would be in it, looking at the back of him like Snowden had a movie projected between his shoulder blades.

There were so many Lesters, Snowden began to feel, and some times all they seemed to share was a fashion sense. The regular workday version of Lester barely talked, only smiled for the customer, spent his time either off showing properties or showing up late and falling asleep in the back of the cab while the work was getting done. Not just naps, full-fledged sleeps, some going six or eight hours if the time allowed, waking up just before the sun went down again. The classroom Lester was a set persona as well, the interpreter of the real estate portion, the pulpit inferno for the historic and philosophic conclusion. Tuesday's "special project" Lester Snowden found a bit more laid-back, casual clothes that still managed to cover his body completely: turdenecks with elbow-patched sports coats, slacks. On especially hot days, sandals. For some reason, Snowden found the site of Lester's hairy feet particularly disturbing, perhaps because it was the only part of him approaching nudity. This Tuesday Lester had, on more than one occasion, referred to his charge as "Snowball." Even Wendell seemed more informal on their Tuesday encounters, walking over to Snowden's legs and leaning his weight into him as he slowly pushed pass. At night, Snowden's calves reeked of the mutt.

When Lester came back that afternoon, Ms. Bell's life had become orderly. She had gone to her grave, the clothes worth saving in the bags to the Salvation Army off Third Avenue, electronics in a box to the 135th Street Y, the personal items in a long plastic storage container just like the others, ready to be retrieved by whoever they held meaning for. The furniture was in two piles on opposite sides of the room, the larger of which was headed for the Dumpster, the smaller one to the prop warehouse on Twenty-fifth and Tenth, proceeds going to the rent Ms. Bell had apparently intended to catch up on before her fate caught up with her. The rest, which was most of it, garbage. Wendell immediately located the bag that held the former contents of the refrigerator, took a long snort, and walked away without being told to. When Snowden returned from his first trip down to load the truck, Lester was standing over the pile of wallets that Snowden had dumped in the bathtub pending further instruction. Snowden watched as the older man churned the pile, searching.

"Crazy, right?" Snowden asked. "She must have been cleaning up for years. You should see some of the Afros in the pictures of the older ones. A lady, too. From what I saw in her pictures, looked perfectly normal, like a schoolteacher or something. Has to be a thousand of them there. Not one credit card in the bunch; she must have sold them. Can you believe that shit?"

Lester offered nothing in response. He kept shoving his hands in and up the pile like he was tossing a salad. After a minute, Snowden began wondering if he'd actually just said anything at all.

"I saw her," Lester offered. Snowden replied with a polite affirmative; the woman had framed pictures of herself all over the house.

"No. In person I saw her. Just a little while ago."

"You know what, that's funny because I definitely think I saw her too, probably when we moved that guy in on the third floor two doors over a couple weeks past."

"I saw her then, but before that," Lester said, still looking, still churning. Wendell was pushing up against him, annoyed that the expected hand with scratching fingers didn't come. "I was at the Schomburg, in the reading room. I was at the shelves. I saw her reach right into a man's blazer and remove his billfold from its inside pocket. Right there, in the Schomburg Library of all places. You'd think that all those books, all that history and knowledge, that it would keep the ignorant at bay, wouldn't you? That it would just repel a nigger like a church would a vampire." Wendell, either in agreement or impatience, started barking. The bathroom was small, lined with graying tile, amplifying the sound and sending both men's hands to their ears in unison. "Fucking bitch," Snowden heard Lester say as he reached for Wendell's mouth, but he was pretty sure it wasn't the dog he was talking about.

When everything was dumped and loaded, Snowden suggested they drop the licenses in the mail, that someone had done that for him once and he was sure the former owners of Ms. Bell's booty would be just as appreciative. Lester loved the idea and took it even further, ordering that Snowden pack up the lot of them, wallet and all, and mail each one to the address listed. Snowden spent the first moment proud that his input was being respected, the next pissed at what the job would entail, and then the next six hours doing it.

After Lester dropped off the box of envelopes, he left Snowden there in the apartment of the recently departed. All the furniture was gone, so Snowden sat on the toilet as he worked, discovering the mailing address of each bit of stolen property and repeating it on the manila, sealing the package and throwing it in one of the white postal crates. Dizzy from the repetition, Snowden forced himself to speed up as the night approached, feeling increasingly certain he didn't want to be in the dead woman's apartment when it was dark.

By the time he got out the door and turned the final lock behind him, he was determined to start smoking. Its promise was the only thing that got him through the hours before. He would start smoking, not just an occasional puff, he would buy his own pack and take it up seriously this time. He would not fear the valley of death, he would buy a ticket to it, bring a reclining lawn chair, two towels, a Bo Shareef book.

Lester insisted that Snowden deliver the packages to a post office downtown. He did not want the reputation of Harlem to be sullied when the recipients saw the 10027 zip code, and Snowden agreed. Snowden pulled the lumbering truck onto the narrowness of the FDR, driving as slowly as he safely could in the newborn fear he would die with this cargo and be posthumously blamed for each of Ms. Bell's crimes, getting off at the first exit he could in midtown. After the job was done, Snowden double-parked in front of a kiosk on Fifty-seventh, still enamored with the idea of his new hobby. What better way was there to be rid of one's fear of death than to just embrace it and be done with the matter? Snowden stared solemnly at the packs lined topside out behind the attendant, understanding that the first pack would probably solidify a lifetime of brand loyalty and addiction. Momentarily overwhelmed with the feeling of incompetence, Snowden banished the fear with the firm declaration, "A pack of True Greens."

The statement came from memory, in which it was accompanied by himself barely as tall as the counter at the corner store, a dollar and a quarter hot in the tight grip of his little fist. It was a later time, and these cigarettes cost more than those did, but when the guy handed the pack over to him, Snowden recognized them as his father's brand. He knew he'd asked for them, he knew that the guy inside the wooden box was not his dad but just another fathead man, but for a moment it was like he had asked for a smoke and his father had reached out and given these to him. A gift, or revenge. Snowden asked for matches.