Hardware (16 page)

“I reach in, with my jacket wrapped around my arm so the glass does not cut me, and open the door. I release the lock and I find Jean.”

From the other room I could hear faint noises, as if Jean was pacing, listening.

“He is without clothing, naked, so cold he shakes. He is tied with harsh rope, rough like you would use to bind an animal. The rope is wound around his legs and around his neck so that when he kicks to make the noise to save himself the rope tightens around his neck. His neck is all blood, covered with blood. If I do not come, he would be dead. He would struggle, keep on struggling. Jean would never lie still like that, in a pool of stink.”

“Was he gagged?”

“Gagged?”

“Was something covering his mouth, so he couldn't scream for help?”

“Nothing. He had yelled for some time, till he was—how you say?—hoarse, given up. He decide to kick. Why?”

“Never mind.” If Jean's attackers meant to ensure his death, they'd have taped his mouth. I wondered who knew about the twosome's walkie-talkie connection.

“Please, go on,” I said.

“I cut the ropes and cover him with a blanket.… He tells me, a very long time later, after he bathes and bathes, he tells me the three men jump in the cab, they take him to a park, they beat him and threaten him, order him not to drive again or they will kill him for sure. They piss on him while he lies naked in the trunk of the cab, tied like a calf they will butcher. They park the cab on the street.”

“Did they rob him?”

“He had only a few dollars. We are cautious; often we bring money here and hide it. They take his clothes and his shoes, but they are worth less than nothing. They take them for sport.”

“Who?”

“Americans.”

“Black Americans, white Americans?”

“Jean does not talk about them.”

“Is it possible he knew one of them?”

“Why do you ask this?”

“One of the men who hurt me was a cabdriver, or knew something about cabs.” I hadn't said anything to Marvin at the time, but a guy who could reach in an open window and disable rooflights and radio with no direction from the driver had to have some experience with cabs.

Louis's dark face puckered in concentration as he considered the possibility that a fellow driver might be involved.

“The walkie-talkies,” I said, “the half-hour checkins. Were you always so careful?”

“No. But with so much hurting going on—”

“Do you know anyone else who's been beaten? Threatened?”

“Not one, but many.”

Jean came back into the room. From the few understandable bits of the ensuing argument, I got the feeling he'd followed most of what we'd said.

I decided to test my theory.

“Jean, would you agree to hypnosis? To identify your attackers?”

He stopped and faced me, fingering the noose mark around his neck. “I would not.”

“You understand what I say.”

“Louis is the older brother. It is better we speak with one voice.”

Louis continued to do so. “Jean believes this violence is directed against Haitians only.”

“I'm not Haitian. I'm not on any Tontons Macoutes hit list.”

“Then Jean believes you were unlucky.”

“Does he know of others who were unlucky? Any other non-Haitian victims?”

Another round of impassioned French passed between the brothers. Incomprehensible.

Louis said firmly, “We may know of others, but Jean does not wish me to speak of them. He believes they are only—how you say, the red fish? The red herrings. He says if you are an investigator—which he greatly doubts—you should investigate these hate crimes against the Haitian peoples. He says Americans believe the Haitians come here to spread AIDS, and someone must tell the world otherwise—”

“I'm not a politician.”

“I only translate for you what my brother says. I do not think he is right, although there is much hatred.”

“Were most of the victims Haitian?” I asked.

“Many. And they do not go to the police. Not without immigration papers.”

“Did all the victims work for G and W?” I addressed my question to Jean. He remained maddeningly silent, merely shaking his head in his brother's direction, ignoring me.

“No,” Louis said.

“Did any own their own medallions?” I asked.

“A medallion costs the earth,” Louis said. “We work for the company. The company owns the medallions.”

“I understand,” I said. “But there are independent owners. People who own their own cabs, or who share a medallion. Have any of them been beaten, threatened like Jean?”

Louis stared hard at Jean. Jean gave no sign.

“Perhaps,” Louis said. “I do not know.”

“Do you belong to the Small Taxi Association?”

“No.”

“Then you don't know Lee Cochran?”

“The name is not familiar. Jean,
tu le connais?
”

“
Non.
”

“Did you or your brother ever drive for a large company, a company owned by Phil Yancey?”

“Yet another name I do not know.”

“The big three: Yellow, Town, Checker?”

“When we arrive, our countrymen recommend Green and White. Because, they say, the owner, she is not so hard on drivers with bad papers. Also she is a woman of color. Jean, he would rather work for a man. But once he meets the lady, he, too, is charmed.”

My ankle throbbed with a dull ache.

I stared at Jean, spoke slowly, addressing my words to Louis. “If your brother changes his mind, Louis, or if you change your mind, call me. I could use a list of names. Haitians and non-Haitians. I guarantee no one will get in trouble with Immigration.”

I sensed that Louis was on my side. Unmoved by my plea, Jean fingered the damaged flesh on his neck.

I'd gotten nothing. Not a single victim's name. Not from Jean or Louis, who admitted they knew many. Not from Lee Cochran, who'd sworn he knew of three.

Nothing.

EIGHTEEN

Louis wished, please, to escort me to my car. His offer provoked agonized wails from Jean. Louis gravely apologized: he so regretted that his formerly brave brother was now afraid to be left alone after dark. I insisted I could make it to my car solo. Louis insisted I could not.

At a stalemate, we trooped downstairs, the two little men and I, one preceding me, one lagging behind, only to find my car secure and the desolate street empty. I admired the rosebushes, in a vain attempt to buck up the visibly trembling Jean. It didn't work, for him or me. I saw the carefully tended stalks differently now, in harsh counterpoint to the surrounding blight.

Decent gestures; they get driven off the six-o'clock news by constant calamities.

“
Merci,
” I said as I left. “
Au revoir.
” There. My entire French vocabulary. Except for
escargot
, which is harder to work into conversation.

I drove slowly, the stereo on full blast, Rory Block soothing my spirit, singing “Faith Can Lift Me Up on Silver Wings.” I didn't buy the Haitian hate thing, not with Marvin involved. Marvin's absolutely African American; aside from skin pigmentation he had nothing in common with the brothers I'd just interviewed.

He'd fought back; seized the initiative. Was there anything the three assailants could have done to scare Marvin the way they'd terrified Jean?

I considered simple racial hatred. A white supremacist thing. Except, according to Marvin, one of the perps was black. I couldn't see a black man fronting for a reborn KKK.

A cab is always risky. I've heard them described as automated teller machines on wheels. All the advantages of your local bank's ATM, no armed guards in the lobby. But these particular guys, the ones who'd hurt Marvin, spooked Jean, were not after money. They were salaried. Or paid for piecework. What was the goal? Scaring cabbies? Why? To get them off the street? Why?

Why hadn't Lee Cochran hired me? Because I'd refused to take his orders? Had Phil Yancey paid him a warning visit?

Who benefits when cabs disappear?

The question repeated itself over and over, keeping time to the music's insistent beat and the throbbing in my ankle. I drove faster, hoping Dr. Keith might make a late-night call to check on my foot.

Leaning heavily on the crutches, inching up the front walk, I thought seriously about ringing the bell three times, making Roz bolt downstairs. I was actually happy to hear the click of welcoming tumblers.

Until I realized who was opening my front door.

“Frank” had certainly spruced up his act since the drive-by. Gone were the leather pants and the cheap white shirt, replaced by Gap jeans and a light blue cotton chambray number. He was clean shaven, revealing a blunt chin that altered his appearance for the better. His hair had been cut short, shampooed shiny. The gray streaks had vanished.

I could see why Roz had succumbed.

“Welcome home,” he said. There was a florist's arrangement on my hall table. Exotic blooms laced with bear grass.

I listened for footsteps, for another voice: Sam's.

“Sam loaned me his key,” Frank said quickly, as if to forestall my question.

“Liar,” I said. I shrugged off his attempt to help, hung up my coat. My ankle felt like it was on fire.

“Ah.” He seemed pleased at my response.

“Ah?” I repeated.

He folded his arms smugly. “Either Sam doesn't have a key, which I like, or you don't trust me.”

“Roz,” I guessed.

“Your charming tenant.”

“Roz!” I hollered upstairs.

“She didn't let me in. Not this time.”

“No?”

“She graciously accepted the flowers on your behalf, but she was most hard-hearted concerning entry. I waited till she left.”

“You broke into my house.”

“You should have your security parameters checked.”

“I think I just did,” I said. “They're not up to par.”

“Don't get upset,” he said. “You're very well protected from the average thief.”

“Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy,” I said, “knowing the above-average can break and enter at will.”

“Your foot. Did that happen when we were shot at? I saw Sam tackle you.”

“It happened later. I lead an exciting life.”

“Please. Let me help you.”

“Leave me alone, okay?”

“Perhaps I should go.”

“Perhaps you should tell me how you got in first,” I said, “so I can make sure it won't happen again.”

“You're angry.”

“No kidding.”

“I thought I might be able to help—with your work.”

“Yeah, you've already done so much. I can't tell what the hell's on my desktop, much less what I should do with it.”

“That's why I'm here. To straighten things out about the computer.”

This Frank not only had clean hair, he had different mannerisms, a new body language. He'd acquired a nontechnical vocabulary, a slower, more relaxed speech pattern. Which was the real man? The one I'd met in Mattapan or this guy? Was he an accomplished actor as well as a computer nut?

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, my mother used to say. I wondered if she knew a similar saying about wolves. Don't look a gift wolf in the eye.

“I'm not paying more money,” I said. “If this is some kind of scam, some new con game, count me out.”

“You don't understand,” he said.

“No,” I admitted. “I don't.”

“You're Sam's friend, I'm Sam's friend. He's my
family
, for chrissakes, more than a friend. Anything I can do for
his
friends, it's like settling an old debt. A debt of honor.”

“So you honorably broke into my house.”

“Do you want to see how I did it?”

“Sure. Just let me get this splint off, and pack my foot in ice, and you can tell me the whole damn story.”

“Can I help?”

“Talk. I'll listen.”

I'd known the kitchen window was ripe for a burglar. I just hadn't expected one so soon, or one so determinedly friendly. Sam's buddy foraged for ice slivers in the freezer. He stuck them in Saran Wrap so that the ends of the ice pack adhered to each other, no paper clips required. We sat at the kitchen table while he described his B&E technique.

“Great neighbors I've got,” I commented when he'd finished. “You'd think one of them would have called the cops.”

“Don't blame them,” he said earnestly. “I wasn't furtive. I came in broad daylight. Just went up a ladder. I was a repairman, a phone lineman, a painter. Come on, tell the truth, haven't you ever forgotten your key and used the kitchen window?”

“To be honest, I haven't.”

“I'll bet Roz has,” he said. “It's a breeze.”

“Why do I get the idea you've done this sort of work before?”

“Your foot's swollen,” he said.

“I can see that.”

The silence in the kitchen stretched till I broke it, uneasy under his scrutiny.

“Why did you suddenly decide I needed a better computer?”

“I like your house,” he said.

We were having one of the least responsive conversations I'd had in a while, two kids in a sandbox each constructing a separate castle.

“Sam has good taste,” he said finally.

“In what?” I asked.

“Women.”

“Why don't you give me my computer lesson and save the shit? I'm tired. My dance card's full. I'm not in a flirting mood. Get it?”

“Are you ever in a flirting mood?”

“Are you Sam's friend?”

“Where is Sam?” he asked.

“I don't keep tabs on him.”

“He's spending a lot of time in Washington. You ever think about what he's doing there?”

I kept the memory of my recent phone call off my face. “I don't brood about it excessively.”