Richard Price - The Whites

Walking down the room-length particle-board partition that divided the chapel from a line of office cubicles, Billy passed Redman’s elderly father in the first cubicle, Redman Senior leaning back in his chair playing computer poker. In the second cubicle, Redman’s twenty-three-year-old fifth wife, Nola, was lying on a daybed reading a book in her Côte d’Ivoirian accent to Redman’s seventh or eighth son, Rafer, a toddler with a gastrointestinal feeding tube inserted into his stomach. And then finally, in the last cubicle, was the man himself, all six foot five of him, hunched over his desk slurping lo mein from a take-out carton, the spindly wire bookcase behind his back filled with unclaimed cremains in cardboard urns going back to the 1990s.

“There he is,” Redman said, extending an absurdly long-fingered hand but remaining in his chair due to the bullet that had drilled him through both hips five years earlier.

“Christ,” Billy said, waving away the chronic in the air.

“They pay like everybody else.”

“You ever hear of secondhand smoke?”

“That’s just a story they tell you.”

“A conspiracy, you mean.”

“You said it, not me.”

“Like seat belts?”

“Government can’t tell me to buckle up. I break some bones, that’s my problem.”

“Don’t tread on me.”

A toddler wearing a Hi-Life T-shirt down to her sneakers wandered in, then wandered back out unattended.

“How was dinner last night?”

“Not to be funny,” Billy said, “but it was like a funeral.”

“Not over Bannion, I hope. You all should have been Riverdancing up and down the block.”

“What can I say, the whole thing was just off.”

“I heard he was exsanguinated?”

“Never seen anything like it. Apparently he just bled out in midflight, came down like a shop sign.”

“Exsanguinated… Makes my job easier.”

“Not mine. I had me a blood trail long as a Nantucket sleigh ride.”

An elderly woman, also in a Hi-Life tee, wandered the hall while coughing up her lungs. They both watched as she pulled back a heavy curtain drawn across the end of the corridor and found herself staring at a legless body lying on a prep table like a three-hundred-pound mound of pancake batter, a nine-inch steel syringe jammed into the jawbone through the side of the gape-locked mouth.

“Oh.”

“Bathroom’s near the front,” Redman said. “The other way.”

“Oh.” She turned and wandered off without looking at them.

“Got to get a door put up,” Redman said, resuming his dinner.

Rafer, now in a wheeled Elmo activity baby walker, came flying into his father’s cubicle and had to be intercepted before he crashed into the cremains stand.

“Slow your roll there, Little Man,” Redman said, wincing from the sudden movement.

It pained Billy to see him so fragile; back in the early days, Redman had once saved his life by catching him one-handed after he fell from a corroded fifth-floor fire escape while they were trying to hit a dope apartment through a bedroom window. Redman, coming up behind him, had been one story below, and he had snagged one of Billy’s arms on his way down and held him like that, Billy’s feet pinwheeling forty feet above the sidewalk, until he could grab onto something with his other hand. The memory of that aborted plummet could still make him shoot up in bed at four in the morning.

“Is he getting any better?” Billy asked, nodding to Rafer and unconsciously touching his own gut.

“No.”

Redman had never been one to countenance blather, so Billy was at a loss for something else to say on the subject.

“See that shine-head nigger in there?” Redman pointed out a trimly built middle-aged man seated in the chapel sporting a bow tie and an inexpensive but impeccable white suit, his shaved scalp gleaming under the cheap chandelier as if Turtle Waxed. “Antoine Davis-Bey. That’s the eel that got Sweetpea Harris out from under the rock.”

“I fought the law and the law lost,” Billy said, bracing for another Sweetpea diatribe.

“You know, I saw him last week, Harris. Came right in here for a friend’s funeral, had the gall to come up to me at my desk and ask me how I’ve been, you believe that? ‘Detective Brown! That leg still hurting you?’” Redman rearing back from his dinner in disgust. “He’s been locked up a few times since killing Salaam, but I heard the last time he was smart enough to claim he had a drug problem, avoided jail for rehab, although some people would say sitting in a group circle eight hours a day and getting yelled at by every idiot and their cousin is worse than six months on a prison barge.”

In Billy’s estimation, Redman, for all his unrelenting focus on bringing Sweetpea Harris to justice, was less obsessed with his homicidally peevish White than he was with the victim, Salaam Pridgen. Like Redman himself way back when, Salaam had been a fifteen-year-old high school phenom already being courted by college scouts, a too-skinny kid with cheetah speed who, as Redman would tell anyone who would listen, owned the most explosive first step to the basket he’d ever seen. A detective in Harlem at the time of the murder eight years earlier, Redman had been watching the boy play since ninth grade, for Rice, for the Gauchos, and even, now and then, in pickup games, anywhere from Marcus Garvey Park to some random one-hoop half-court attached to the ass end of an elementary school.

Redman had no trouble talking about these things to one and all, including the mute bodies he daily prepped for Homecoming, but only Billy and a few others knew that in addition to his interest in the kid, he had been sweet on Salaam’s mother. In between wives at that time of his life, Redman had struck up a casual friendship with her while going to her son’s games. For a while it looked like the friendship would lead to something more, but then her son’s death turned her from a smart and vigorous woman with an appetite for the world into a dead-eyed stutterer who took forever to turn to the sound of her own name.

“You repped this piece of shit too?” Redman grunted to Antoine Davis-Bey, who had materialized in the doorway of the cubicle.

“Black and poor,” Davis-Bey said, winking at Billy.

“Black and poor, huh? That’s a eight-thousand-dollar casket, and his people paid in cash.”

“You’re up, you’re down. See how they’re doing six months from now,” tossing Billy a second wink, as if getting Redman’s goat was everyone’s idea of fun.

“You know what they call four hundred lawyers chained up and thrown into a volcano?” Redman said.

“Hey, guys,” Billy said.

“And let me just ask,” the lawyer checking the time on his oversized watch, “that eight thousand dollars, whose pocket is it in now?”

“How about I take that bow tie, twist it around your neck a few times, let go, and see if you spin around the room.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Billy said, “you’re like my kids.”

“He started,” Bey winking at him one last time and then heading out.

Watching him go, Billy looked toward the chapel and saw one of the eulogizers take the pulpit, three gold teeth and a blue Giants cap.

“Hi-Life, one thing about Hi-Life, he had jokes, man, he always had jokes. Like, he was always complainin’ how his teeth was cold, right?”

“Fucking Sweetpea,” Redman said, offering a strand of lo mein to his g-tubed toddler. “I keep waiting for someone to cap his ass.”

“He’s still living in the neighborhood?”

“122 West 118th, third floor rear, but I hear he spends most of his time with his quote unquote fiancée up in the Bronx.”

“Well, if the Bronx is good at one thing, it’s hurting people,” Billy said. “He’ll get his.”