Mat Johnson - Hunting in Harlem

"Jesus Brian, those were supposed to be sealed juvenile records, the mayor broke the law just by leaking them, and they were almost a decade old. Are you going to tell me you're as gullible as those cynics think?" Piper rolled her eyes for emphasis. Dumbass didn't know what he was talking about. Piper would consider that a general assessment of her brother-in-law's worldview, but in this instance it applied more specifically. Brian hadn't spent the afternoon shifting through files at City Hall, pulling evidence on past building code violations of 437 West 121st Street's contractor. Brian had no idea who Maverick Construction was, let alone that it had been cited on four different occasions in five years for using subgratle insulation, including Propex, a highly flammable form now banned. Brian hadn't spent the week learning what burn points or burn patterns were, or had a connection from his alumni association who worked in the arson division whisper that there'd been only one of the former, and the latter was defined by the ignition of the insulation in the interior basement walls. The fire had shot up a crawl space that went — against several building codes uninterrupted from the foundation to the roof. No one else knew these things, either, or, she hoped, would until the New Holland Heralds next edition.

Brian also didn't hug Greg Tanen's mother every time she broke down describing her son's life, see the photo from Quinn Jefferson's prom where he smiled as big as the date his arms could barely wrap around, or listen on the phone as Dio Demilo's sister kept repeating, "He was just turning around his life, you know?" so Piper tried to forgive him for saying the following:

"An armed burglar, a telephone con artist, and a habitual car thief, and a center that was going to bring more of the same if it stayed open the rest of the week, I mean, come on. It's messed up, sure, but you can hardly be surprised the Red Cross isn't handing out Kleenex on 125th Street."

"I don't know if you know this, but not everybody got to have both parents around growing up, OK? Not everybody got to belong to Jack and Jill. There are actually some people out there who don't have private school educations, who didn't get to go to college, or have their frat brothers hook them up with high-paying jobs for the rest of their lives."

"No! Really?" Brian jumped up, leaned out the bathroom door to see Piper sitting on the couch in the living room, his shirt wet and monkey wrench in hand. "Are you sure about this? Oh my God! Honey, quick, get me Cornel West on the phone. Underprivileged black people — why, who knew of such nonsense? I tell you, once my man Cornel hears about this, there's going to be some changes around here!"

"Leave me out of this. Do you want onions in this?" Dee asked her sister. Dee was in the kitchen cooking omelets. They weren't for her. They were for Robert M. Finley, author of The Great Work, and for her sister who would leave them on the skillet and pretend to reheat them when he got there.

"Yeah, but could you caramelize them separately before adding the eggs to the pan?"

"Oh right. Isn't that funny how someone who claims not to cook knows how to properly prepare caramelized onions?"

"I can't cook," Piper told her, "but if I could cook, that's how I'd do it. I hate it when they throw in pieces of raw, crunchy onions. It's tacky. Who wants to seem tacky?"

"I thought you weren't interested in this guy," Dumbass chimed in. "This is the mover, the guy you wanted me to punch in the mouth if he kept calling the house a couple months ago, right? See honey, I told you it was that guy. So what, he broke down your defenses?"

"This is not someone I'm interested in, OK?" Piper protested. "This is a talented published author, someone whose work I admire. We had a very long, very enjoyable conversation at the Horizon Ball, and he turns out to be a very sweet guy. He enjoys my work as well. We have an artistic connection."

Brian came back out from under the sink again for this one. "Wait a minute, he told you he likes your paintings? Those paintings in there, the ones I've seen? Fascinating," he said, hand on chin. "This guy must really be in love."

"Stop," Dee ordered, distracted by her attempt to wrap both ends of the egg evenly underneath it as instructed. "You guys want to talk about art, look at this, this is art. You sure you don't want these on a plate? I'm feeling very homemakerish at the moment. I could make a garnish with toothpicks and turnip shavings."

When Piper's phone rang, Dee picked up because she was the closest and it was her habit if not her privilege. By the time Piper had risen to take it out of her hand, the person had hung up. Dee handed the dead phone to Piper anyway, along with the message that Robert M. Finley, author of The Great Work, had canceled.

"Forget him. That's rude, that's not how a man handles things. If he was considerate, he would have called hours ago," Brian offered. "If you want I can still go and beat him up. Uh, he was that real skinny one, not that big, mean-looking bastard, right?"

"No, it's not like that," Piper responded. "The guy like had this huge crush on me. I mean, why would he just blow me off after I've gone to the trouble of preparing a meal and everything? Did he say he was sick?"

"No, he didn't say anything. Just, 'I am Robert M. Finley and I will not be leaving my apartment.' Then he hung up."

Piper ate both omelets. Then she went back to work, more determined than before. It was difficult reaching contacts on a Sunday, but she searched the Internet for home numbers. On her next job interview, if they asked her what her weakness was, Piper would say, "I work too hard. I'm too thorough. News is the compilation, synthesis, and disbursement of information. I can't stop looking until I know everything, and there is always something more to know, another facet to uncover, which changes the view of the whole. I live for deadlines," Piper would tell them. "It's the only way I can stop myself from looking."

The doorbell rang and Piper's first thought was, It's him. Jumping down the steps, surprised at her elation, the nature of it, trying not slip or produce a rhythm that betrayed excitement. At the door, it wasn't him. It wasn't Snowden either. It was just odd.

The reason Piper unlocked the door wasn't that she recognized the man. She did, but he wasn't the type with whom familiarity bred comfort. He looked like someone who would hurt someone. He didn't look particularly mean, not like he brought pain out of any sadistic enjoyment or malice. It looked like his nature, as if soft things bruised and hard things just broke in his hands. No, the reason Piper opened her door was that not even the most criminally insane would come to do someone harm dressed like that. Like an admiral in the Martian army.

"You're Horus, aren't you? The underwear freak. Did Robert send you over with those?" Those were flowers. Birds of paradise, Piper assumed a dozen, their screaming red beaks just adding to the messenger's otherworldly presence.

"You mean Bobby? Hell no. I was sent here by the man. The man!" Horus pushed the flowers forward. When Piper didn't react by actually taking the massive vase, Horus just pushed it toward her farther till she did, then removed a letter from inside his jacket.

" 'Former Congressman Marks of New York City's Fifteenth District and current high chairman of the board and COO of the Horizon Foundation, hereby formally invites you to join him in a moment of fine conversation at the company office this very evening. On behalf of Congressman Marks, I, Horus Manley, his humble servant, have been empowered to both invite and escort you. Let me add that the congressman would be greatly honored by your presence, and that he apologizes in advance for such short notice, as it in no way was intended as a slight against your person.'"