Condemned (38 page)

Hettie shrugged. “Not much to tell. Not much to remember.”

“What kind of childhood did you have?” Sandro asked easily, searching for mitigation, facts, if any, which might show that Hettie was not such a monster as the raw, unvarnished facts and circumstances suggested.

Hettie shrugged. “Nice.”

“You had a nice childhood? Is that what you're saying?” said Sandro.

“You remind me of my Daddy,” said Hettie.

“I remind you of your Daddy?” said Sandro, purposely entering a reflective conversational mode, reflecting the prisoners own words back into a question, to keep their thoughts going, to draw their thoughts out of themselves.

Hettie nodded her head quickly this time, almost a real smile on her lips for a second. “He was a nice man.” The smile disappeared. “Didn't know him too much. He lit out when I was four. We lived at 465 West 147th Street, in a little apartment on the top floor. That was before the trouble.”

“The trouble?”

“Trouble 'tween him and my Mom. He come up the stairs one night. You could hear him shouting from downstairs. ‘Bitch', he shouted. ‘Whore bitch', too. My mother and him had a big fight. He saying my mother was selling herself in the street, saying he wouldn't stand for it, saying he was a man. And, then he was gone.” Hettie was staring at the table again, nodding slowly.

“He said she was selling herself, and they had a big fight, and he was gone?”

Hettie kept nodding silently, rocking on her seat now.

Sandro watched her silently, waiting for her to finish her thoughts. Hettie just kept rocking forward and back.

“What about your mother, Hettie? What happened after the big fight?”

Hettie kept rocking silently, shaking her head.

“Does she still live in the same place?”

Hettie nodded, still rocking, then shook her head again, slowly, over and over as she rocked.

“We're going to have to talk about these things, Hettie.”

A flicker of a smile appeared when he spoke her name, then a tighter pursing of her lips.

“I need—I want you to sign something for me, Hettie.” Sandro took an authorization form out of his briefcase. He wanted to begin searching into her past, into the past of her parents, her grandparents, her brothers, sisters—everyone and everything that had gone into making her Hettie Rouse, sitting across from a lawyer, charged with an unspeakably horrible crime.

“What's it for?”

“It's an authorization form. I want to get your school records, your medical records.”

“Nothing wrong with me,” she said curtly.

“I know that. I have to get your school records, other old records, for the case. You have to sign this so I can get them.”

“You going to talk to my Momma?”

“Not unless I tell you first.”

She looked into Sandro's eyes for a moment. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Don't forget, you promised, right?” said Hettie, looking at the table again.

“You ever a Girl Scout?” Sandro raised three fingers of his right hand.

“Un, unh,” she shook her head negatively. She looked at Sandro's hand, making the three finger salute, then at Sandro for a long moment now. “You a nice man, Mister Luke. I'm glad you my lawyer.”

“Me, too, Hettie.” Sandro smiled at her softly.

“You funning me, Mister Luke?”

“I'll never fun you, Hettie, never. I'm glad I'm your lawyer, too.”

“You not going to bother my Momma, or nobody?”

“Not right now. I will have to at some time—” She studied Sandro's face again, “—not unless I tell you about it first.”

“Nobody? Not my Momma. Or Father, or my Brother?”

“Not no one, not no how,” said Sandro. Hettie did not pick up on the Wizard of Oz language.

Hettie studied Sandro's eyes for a few seconds more, then reached with her left hand toward the piece of paper he had put on the table.

Sandro handed Hettie his pen.

Flash Inn : July 27, 1996 : 2:45 P.M.

“I don't have much time,” said Money Dozier, his eyelids fluttering. Awgust Nichols sat across the table. “I'm on my way from the lawyer's office, and I have to be home in about an hour or the bracelet people'll report me missing.” They were seated in the side dining room, at the back of the Flash Inn. There were no other customers in the area. Soft light from the tin shaded lamps that hung over each table cut silent, v-shaped swaths through the wood of the decor and the red of the table cloths. “Red called me and told me he wants you to rearrange his finances, get him more liquid. He's got things he has to do, things to take care of.”

Nichols nodded.

“He also said he wants you to visit him at the M.C.C.—he's putting you on his visiting list—he'll explain everything to you hisself.”

Nichols nodded again. “When should I go?”

“It takes a little time for you to get approved for his visiting list. When you coming up for sentence?” he asked Anton Taylor, who was seated on the left side of the table, between Money and Awgust.

“My lawyer—Mr. Darrow, I call him,” said Taylor, making a derisive sound, “he asked for a postponement. Needs time to get me buried.”

Money nodded. “Whatever you do with Red's holdings,” he said, turning his fluttering eyelids back toward Nichols, “do the same for me.”

The men stopped speaking as the old waiter walked toward the table, balancing a tray of drinks held at shoulder level. He swivelled his wrist slowly, bringing the tray down to his waist. “There you are, Mr. Money,” he said, placing a drink in front of Money, “a very, very, very dry martini, stirred, not shaken, just like Mr. Red and you likes.”

“Thank you, Matthew. Best waiter in New York. Not Harlem, mind you, but in all of New York.” Money sliced a quick smile, accompanied by fluttered eyelids.

“Thank you, Mr. Money.” He placed a drink in front of Anton Taylor. “I sure hope Mr. Red is okay.” The waiter shook his head. “Terrible thing, Mr. Money. Terrible. Mr. Red sent my daughter to school, you know,” he said to Nichols and Taylor. “Fine man, Mr. Red. Arranged her to get in and paid the tuition hisself, Mr. Red did.” Matthew stood nodding his appreciation for another moment. “I hope your friend's girlfriend from the other day is feeling better,” he said to Nichols as he placed a drink in front of him. “The one with the Long Island Ice Tea.”

Nichols looked blankly at the waiter, then glanced at Money.

“Trouble?” said Money as he sipped his drink.

“No trouble. Just some friendly I-talians from up in Pelham, going to the game the other day,” Nichols said. “They get so carried away when they talk that I-talian. Their hands always movin' an' all. One of them had a girlfriend that had a little too much to drink, that's all.”

“Mmmm.” Money lifted his glass. “Better days.” He winced a smile, then closed his eyes thoughtfully. “Days could hardly be worse.”

“Better days,” said Nichols, touching his glass to Money's. Taylor did the same.

“I'll be up in the front if you want anything, Mr. Money. Gentlemen.” The waiter moved slowly back toward the bar.

The three men sat silently at the table for a few moments. “Everything else okay?” Money said absently to Nichols.

“It's a struggle keeping everything balanced,” Nichols smiled, shrugged, “but it's okay.”

Money nodded. “Mmm. Don't like thinking about Mr. Red sitting there in that jail.”

“No,” said Nichols.

“No.” Money looked off toward the far wall. “Well, I guess I better be getting back to my apartment before the bracelet people miss me,” said Money, rising. “Don't forget what Mr. Red wants,” he said to Awgust. “Good luck,” he said to Taylor.

“Maybe something good'll happen for Anton we don't even know about,” said Nichols.

“Yeah, like maybe that Judge'll fall down, break her skinny neck,” said Taylor.

“Mmm. Stopped expectin' miracles a long time ago. Excuse me, gentlemen.” He walked toward the bar. When he reached the partition that separated the dining area from the bar, Matthew, the waiter, stepped out of the alcove where coats and hats were checked. His unexpected appearance made Money hesitate momentarily.

“Sorry, Mr. Money,” said Matthew. “Just wanted to tell you. Them folks that were here the other day with—” he nodded his head toward the back dining area “—they were not I-talians.”

“The ones with Awgust?” Money's eyelids fluttered as he glanced toward the ceiling.

“Yes sir, Mr. Money. Just now I overheard Mr. Nichols tell you his friends were I-talian.” Matthew shook his head. “I worked in a I-talian restaurant, down in East Harlem. And Mr. Danny and Mr. Joe here are I-talian. I know how I-talian sounds. And them folks that was here wasn't talkin' no I-talian.”

“Hmmmm. Interesting. What were they talkin', Mathew? You know?”

“Can't say exactly, Mr. Money. Not Spanish neither. Somethin' strange's all I know. Positively sure it was no I-talian.”

“Hmmmm. That's very perplexin' Matthew.”

A nearby telephone rang. Matthew, standing right next to the desk where the phone was located, picked up the receiver. “Flash Inn.” He listened, then smiled. “He's standin' right here,” Matthew said into the phone. Money looked quizzically at Matthew. “It's Mr. Red.”

Money took the receiver. “Hello?” His eyes fluttered as he tilted back his head.

“That you, Money?” said Red.

“It's me, Mr. Red.”

“I thought you'd be there for a very, very dry martini. Am I right? Is that what you're drinking?”

“You got it exactly,” said Money.

“Have one for me, while you're at it.”

“I surely will, Mr. Red.”

“You see Awgust?”

“He's here now, Mr. Red. I was just talking to him about those things you and me talked about on the phone.”

“Excellent. Excellent. You tell him I want him to come to see me?”

“I did that as well. Just as you asked.” Money motioned to Matthew, the waiter, who was standing near the end of the partition, watching the dining room.

“Yes sir, Mr. Money?” said Matthew.

“You sure those people speaking to Mr. Nichols were not speaking I-talian?”

“Positive, Mr. Money. They were speaking some foreign language, but definitely not I-talian. And they weren't talking with their hands, except one of them gentlemen smacked a lady that was with them right in the face. Pretty good slap, too.”

“Mmm. Mr. Red,” Money said into the phone softly. “I got something for you to cogitate.”

“What's that, Money? Who was that you were talking to?”

“Matthew, the waiter.”

“Let me say hello to Matthew.”

“Mr. Red wants to say hello,” Money said to the waiter.

The waiter smiled as he took the phone. “Yes, sir, Mr. Red. How are you? Guess not so good, being where you're at.”

“No, no, it's fine, Matthew. Cooking and drinks are not as good as I'd like, but, tips and all, we're getting along.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Red.”

“How have you been, Matthew? How's your family?”

“Real fine, Mr. Red. Real fine. Daughter Ruby was asking about you when she heard on the news about you.”

“You say hello to Ruby for me, hear?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Red. Her little girl is almost all grown. Thirteen, now. Mostly 'cause of your help.”

“You say hello to that young lady, too. What's her name?”

“Evangeline,” said Matthew with a proud smile.

“Evangeline. Lovely.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Red.”

“Let me talk to Money, again.”

The waiter handed the phone back to Money.

“What's that you were saying I should think about?” said Red.

“Matthew was telling me he was here the other day, and Awgust and Anton was with some people. He says these folks became somewhat agitated. So much so that one of them slaps a girlfriend in the face, or something. So he says, just now, Matthew does, to Awgust, as he putting down his drink, ‘I hope your friend's girlfriend is feeling better'. And I say to Awgust, just in passing, ‘any trouble?' And he says to me, ‘no, just some I-talians from Pelham'. He said they got all excited and all, like I-talians get when they're talkin'. Then Matthew takes me aside just now and tells me he knows I-talian, worked in some places, listens to Danny and Joe over here. He says they weren't no I-talians. Some foreign language—but definitely not I-talian.”

“Matthew is a good man. Knows his stuff. Used to be a collector for the number with us in the old days, remember?”

“I remember—Forty-Ninth Street.”

“Never made a mistake with the count, never a penny off.”

“Mmm, I remember. That's why I thought I'd tell you.”

“Never knew Matthew to miss anything. Some foreign language, he said, but not Italian? Is he sure?”

“He said he's positive.”

“Positive,” repeated Matthew.

“And Awgust lied about it when you asked him?”

“That's what he did,” said Money.

“That is something to think about.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Money's eyelids fluttered at the ceiling again.

“Give Matthew a hundred,” said Red.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Red.”

“Don't say anything to Awgust, while I sleep on it,” said Red.

“No, sir, I won't.” Money cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder, turned his back to Matthew, and fished into his pants pocket for a roll of bills. He peeled a hundred from the center.

“I'll call you at home later on,” said Red. “I want to think about why my nephew is lying.”

Money hung up the phone. He folded the hundred small in the palm of his hand. “Thank you, Matthew,” he said, shaking hands with the waiter, transferring the folded bill into the waiter's hand. “Keep the faith, Matthew.”