Hunting in Harlem (12 page)

"I'm not the problem! That child molester behind - " This time it just took a hand pulled back to shut Anderson up.

"No lying," Lester said before leaning in closer. "We know how you been treating that boy. The beatings. The insults. Evil.
It is the moral responsibility, the job, of the strong to protect the weak. How small are you, how weak must you be, to ignore
that?" Baron Anderson didn't look weak to Snowden at all. In fact, Snowden found the man rather threatening despite his current
situation. All he had to do was imagine the retribution the man would exact later to see him as strong. Of course, there would
most certainly be retribution after this performance. Lester was a fool, or insane. The only reason Snowden didn't stop him
was that the damage had already been inflicted and there was nothing to do but enjoy this section of the disaster that would
surely unfold.

"I'll assume for a minute that you don't know any better, that you were raised by a beast who did the same. That is a travesty;
one can only hope that you will fight to change your ways, because either way the cycle will be broken. Our people can't afford
another generation of males raised by wolves to drag us down. Don't you see that? We simply can't afford to waste our energy
on people who act like you. So I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Can you keep a secret?" Anderson nodded in response.

"That's good, because this is a big one. OK, here it is. It's about accidents. The thing about accidents is that the cops
never bother to look further. It's not like on TV - the police simply don't have the time. As long as there's no reason not
to, they just take it on face value and go on to more pressing matters. No investigation, no autopsy, nothing. But that's
not my secret, here's my secret: You keep treating your boy the way you been, the next accident's going to happen to you."
Baron Anderson was crying now. Not sobbing, just tears. Angry ones, like a pot boiling over. He was shaking as well; the way
Lester had his hand around his neck, it was like he was trying to keep him still. "Since we are decent people, were giving
you one more chance, one more opportunity to find salvation and change your ways. If we hear any more crap about you mistreating
that angelic little boy, though, see as much as a bloody knee, then we're going to kill you. You having an accident is as
easy as — ghost, get me that sing-along thing."

Snowden went over to where the karaoke machine sat on top of the toilet basin. It was as big as the thing it was sitting on,
covered in colored knobs that had been lit and flashing when they entered the room. Snowden picked it up. Might as well break
it, Snowden agreed. As long as they were here.

"Give it to me."

Snowden walked over. Still sitting on the edge of the tub, Lester kept his gun on their host, had one blind hand out to receive
it.

"It's heavy," Snowden warned him.

"I know what I'm doing. Give it to me, I can handle it," Lester told him. Snowden decided to agree with him, just because
he wanted to go home and have this be over. One hand armed and occupied, Lester reached down underneath the middle of the
machine with the other, balanced it against his arm. Lester turned back to Anderson, unsmiling. "If this monstrosity just
happened to crash down into the water and give your life a little poetic justice, no one would think to look for any other
cause of death, or want to." Baron Anderson, naked and fetal in the gray water, flinched, but it was because Lester didn't
really have a good handle on the karaoke machine, and its falling weight alone was capable of damage. "Put this back now.
It is important to respect the property of others." Snowden walked forward, tripped on its industrial cord. It was not enough
to send him falling, but was enough to do that to the large electrical appliance in Lester's hand.

To his credit, Lester compensated with his arm as the karaoke machine jolted away from him, but it was his overcompensation
that sent the appliance backward, down into the tub in little hops as it bounced off Lester's desperate hands. All he succeeded
in doing was knocking the power button back on, giving it a moment to flash frantic and scream wordlessly before going down
into the bathwater of Baron Anderson.

The white flashes came from the front of the machine as the water poured in the ventilation holes in the back. The blue flashes
came from where its cord met the socket in the wall, streaks that left smoke and brown marks on the surface around it. Snowden,
who kept shooting his hand toward the plug only to pull it back when an electric flame shot out again, was in part relieved
when Lester held him back from trying. Past him, Snowden could see Baron Anderson sharing his favorite place with his favorite
possession. He wasn't shuddering violently as Snowden expected. Instead, Snowden watched as Anderson remained nearly still
throughout the ordeal, every muscle clenched in unison until the lights went out.

In the dark, Snowden said: "Oh shit I think we just killed Jifar's dad."

Lester shuffled through his pockets blindly, responded by illuminating the room with a penlight. They walked over to the tub
together. The dim yellow glow encircled Baron Anderson's face. It stared intently at the side of the tub from beneath the
water.

"Accidents happen. You just tripped on a cord, no reason to suffer for that. Go down the hall, wipe off everything you touched
with your hands as we came in."

"I didn't touch anything," Snowden said. This was a plan. Plans were good in times like this one.

"The inside front doorknob, the space in the middle of the wall where you leaned to take your shoes off. I saw you. Start
with this door here and that monstrous noisemaker." Lester laid his flashlight down on the sink, aimed up toward the ceiling.
It didn't give much light but enough as their eyes swelled out of necessity.

Snowden rubbed hard. Snowden rubbed his way toward freedom, up and down the length of the door, in places he could have possibly
glanced standing. Lester took Anderson's pants from where they sat on the toilet seat, unfolded them, picked up the coins
that fell to the floor. Finding the wallet, Lester laid it on the sink's rim before putting the pants back. Pulling his own
wallet from his jacket pocket, Lester worked carefully trying to open it with his leather gloves on but gave up and took them
off. The faux Caucasian skin of latex gloves covered Lester's hands. "Germs," he said when he caught Snowden looking, and
began counting his money, whispering the sums as Snowden waited to move past him to rub down the murder weapon in the tub.

"Just give me a second. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five," Lester said as he tallied his bills. Snowden was still,
yet still managed to become frozen.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, we don't want this looking like a robbery, do we? Not even a murderer would resist stocking up on spending money on
the way out the door. Makes it look more like an accident, and that's good for us. It's what's best for the neighborhood."
Lester put the bills together neatly and placed them into Anderson's nearly bankrupt wallet, folded it up, and stuck the contents
back into the pants. Snowden took a deep breath after moments of no breathing at all, his lungs as preoccupied as the rest
of him.

"But why . . . why did you use all five-dollar bills?" Snowden managed.

Lester, realizing that the other had no intention of passing him and getting on with his job, relaxed back into the middle
of the small room once more.

"What? Does that really matter right now? No reason. All right, then, the only ATM I can use Uptown without the dollar-fifty
surcharge only carries fives - better to serve the broke, I imagine. Banco Republic, crappy services but the interest rate
on checking is way better than Chase." Lester laughed. Snowden didn't. Snowden was too busy grabbing the toilet plunger, aiming
the rubber end like a sword at Lester's head as he backed out into the hall.

"Get the hell away from me man, I don't believe this shit! You did this. You set me up!"

"Snowden please, this is a stressful situation, I know, but this is not really helping. This was just an accident, calm down."

"This wasn't an accident, none of them are accidents, they were you!" Snowden, overwhelmed enough that when the wall hit his
back it was a surprise to him, darted the plunger forward to stave off an imagined attack.

Lester looked back, shook his head in disbelief, folded the chinos in his hand to a perfect re-creation of how he found them.
Snowden saw himself reflected in the frown, saw that the one obvious madman in the room was the one who seemed poised to defend
himself with suction and potty germs. The deluded one. Snowden dropped the plunger on the floor, put that hand to his head,
started to apologize when Lester interrupted him jovially.

"Five-dollar bills! You know what, that is just too crazy. All night, ever since you came to me with this, really, I wondered
if you already knew. It's so wild how your mind plays tricks on you because part of me thought you were just playing along
the whole time." Lester, grinning, rubber-covered hands in the air in surrender, or as if he wanted to reach up and feel the
moment. "You got me! You really did. That's so funny because at times I feared I might be leaving behind some sort of unseen
connection on all these bits of social gardening, but I never would have caught that. I've got to tell you: You are going
to be such a fantastic addition to the Horizon inner fold. Five-dollar bills; you must tell me how you came across that connection.
Later, though. For now, finish cleaning up this place. Don't worry, I know you can do it. You've been doing a great job of
removing evidence from crime scenes for months."

SITUATION

HE LOOKS A little . . . peaked," Cyrus Marks noted. "Does he always look like that?"

"No, no, not at all. I think it's just the stress of the immediate situation. And I gave him a Valium as well." In response
to a look, Lester followed with, "Just a Valium, just one. Just to calm him down."

Snowden was sitting on his usual chair in the lodge's basement classroom, the other two men were in front of him. Cyrus Marks
with a brown yarn mane circling his head, whiskers drawn with greasepaint on his cheeks, a plastic cup of fruit punch still
gripped in one felt paw as it was when Lester pulled him from the children's party. Snowden was silent. Snowden had nothing
to say anymore. He kept thinking he would start talking again, but since they'd left Baron Anderson's it hadn't happened.

"If you're worried about the boy, don't be," Cyrus Marks consoled. "Of course he'll have some sad days ahead, but after that
his future will be brighter than it's ever been. Lester already introduced . . ."

"Jifar," a smiling Lester helped.

"Right! Jifar, already introduced him. A lovely, sensitive boy. Intelligent. You can see it in the eyes. He'll come here now,
and he'll fit into the little Leaders League perfectly. Several of our young ones were the offspring of accidents."

"Almost all, actually," Lester clarified. Cyrus Marks nodded in agreement, leaned in closer.

"It really is an amazing program, now that you're moving closer to the inner circle I can tell you. Some of the best tutors
in the city, museum trips weekly - we really take advantage of all New York has to offer. We're even planning a new language
component, we'll have them fluent in French in two years. Plus, of course - did you tell him about the scholarship fund?"

"No! Not yet, I didn't want to spoil it. Snowden? Snowden? Can you hear me? You'll like this, listen."

"All of their college tuition will be paid for. Horizon has done better than even I could have planned. I'm selling vacant
shells right now I bought at forty thousand dollars for ten times that! If the housing boom continues just a bit longer, we'll
even be able to set up graduate school funds as well. Imagine that. Not only are we breaking poverty's cycle of ignorance
and violence, we are literally producing the next generation of leaders right here."

"Why?" Snowden muttered. It was a breakthrough. Snowden said it several more times immediately after, each utterance bringing
his mind closer to the surface. Cyrus Marks is dressed as a lion, he realized. The congressman is dressed like a lion but
still reminds me of a hedgehog, only now he looks like a hedgehog dressed up as a lion.

"Why? I think I just explained a good enough reason to you. In the larger sense? It's time. Harlem, like so many black communities,
has just been getting by for years now. We've been treading water, focusing on keeping afloat. Thing is, we've never swum
ashore because so much of our energy goes toward overcoming the leaden weights - like your Mr. Anderson - that pull us down.
It's simply time to cut them loose, isn't it? Move on."

"There's something wrong with my ears. I hear words, but none of it makes sense. Lester? I think it was that pill you gave
me."

"I just gave you one Valium."

"Lester." Snowden turned to him not in search of a sympathetic ear but out of the hope that he was the less mad of the two
before him. "What you're talking about, what you're both being all matter-of-fact about, it's crazy. You know that already,
right? You're talking about killing people. Shit, you're talking about lynching! You can't commit . . . atrocities and think
that good can come out of that."

"Oh but Snowden, it does!" Lester said, looking to greet Cyrus Marks's gaze so they could nod back and forth their mutual
agreement. "It's very sad, really, but if you look at history, you'll see that almost all drastic social improvement is the
result of moments of inhumanity. It was the staunch disregard for the humanity of blacks and Indians that made America the
great nation it is today. The world can be changed. A terrible beauty is born all the time."

Cyrus Marks, hand on Lester's shoulder, interrupted. "This is a new age, Mr. Snowden, we need new ways of doing things. My
generation, the last of the civil rights warriors, we've done our part, but our way of thinking and fighting has become as
old and weak as our bodies. We were raised to fight white oppression, and guess what? We won! Not every battle, but that war
is basically over, as we knew it. Nowadays, black folks' biggest problem isn't white racism, it's
ourselves.
White people aren't breaking into our homes, attacking us on the streets, or selling drugs to our children, it's black people
who terrorize us, isn't it? You don't fight drug lords like Parson Boone with marches, sit-ins, or rallies. Harlem doesn't
need another mural or community center, another law or bill, we need new blood, new ideas to fight new enemies. That's why
you're here. This is your destiny. This is our last stand."

"But I don't want to stand. I don't want to stand for anything," Snowden told Marks, but the congressman wasn't listening.

"Those coons, those liabilities who hold us back, will be eliminated! In their place, we're bringing the best and brightest
of our people to make this place thrive again. We do a dark deed, my brother, but when the price is paid Harlem will become
the shining jewel of the black world it was meant to be. Harlem is a symbol! Imagine what it would mean to all those other
ghettos across the world if we could prove that it is possible for the oppressed to rise from the ashes, seize their own destiny,
and thrive like never before. Don't you want to be a part of that?"

"Wow. . . You're really fucking nuts, aren't you?" Snowden said. It wasn't even meant as an insult. It was an observation.
Either way, the older man leaped from his seat and in an instant had both thick hands around Snowden's neck, his momentum
knocking the two of them to the floor. Once there, Cyrus Marks continued trying to slam Snowden's head into the linoleum,
the smell of his boiled cabbage breath stronger with every word.

"Now you listen to me, you little shit! You're already so deep in this you should be breathing out the top of your head. We
could go to our friends in the police department and get them to book you for Anderson or any of the other executions you've
been cleaning up after and leaving fingerprints behind for months. Don't think we couldn't use a fall guy: No corporation
ever has enough insurance. In light of Lester's recommendation, though, I'm going to forget your attitude. I'm going to chalk
it up to nerves, little Cedric, give you a second chance to redeem yourself. You're going to pay me back with two - "

"Fuck you," Snowden managed to get past Marks's choking hands.

" — three more accidents. Lester needs a break anyway. If, at the end of that period you want to quit, I'll let you. I'll
have enough leverage on you to last a fucking lifetime. If you shock me and rise to the level of the challenge, learn to believe
in the wisdom and importance of our mission, then you will be a welcomed permanent addition to the cause. How's that? You
have my word. The choice is yours, then, so enjoy it. It'll be your only bit of free will for a while."

The congressman found his way back to standing, carefully brushed off his fur. Snowden stayed on the cold linoleum until Marks
had left. Lester offered his handkerchief, then his hand.

"Well, that certainly could have gone better, but surely it could have gone much, much worse too. Our congressman is a very
passionate, driven man, that's what makes him so good at everything he attempts. Does he remind you of your father?"

"What? No. Why would he? My father was a loser. He was vicious and crazy, too, so I guess there's some similarity if that's
what you're going to go by." Snowden wanted to cry. He scrunched up his face, tried to cry, but nothing came out so he gave
up.

"Come now, it won't be as bad as you think. I'll help you with your assignments, teach you the tricks. No rush, we won't be
dealing with any accident business for a while, anyway. You probably didn't see it, but an article slipped into the
New Holland Herald that
touched a little close to home on the topic; we're working to figure out its source. Just in case though, I think all around
a break is needed."

Snowden sat at attention. Snowden's mouth forced into its first smile of the evening. "I did see that but I'm sure it's nothing.
Nothing to be concerned about. I mean, let's face it, it is the
New
Holland Herald.
I mean, nobody actually reads that rag." Snowden tried to smile.

Lester covered his mouth to contain his laughter. "How irreverent, Snowden. You are just so bad," he giggled indulgently.

Snowden took Jifar back from the lodge with him. The boy had made friends, it was the first time Snowden had seen him with
children his own age or that happy. Back at their own building, he knocked on Jifar's front door like he actually expected
Baron Anderson to open it, thought he heard a noise on the other side and became utterly petrified that the knob would turn.
The image stayed with him in sleep, was not evaporated by daylight when he and the boy were back again, banging loud enough
to wake the dead if that was possible. Jifar slept on the couch, watched cartoons and three
Planet of the Apes
sequels, and didn't seem to get worried until it got dark once more.

Lester buzzed the cops in. The boy was upstairs eating the ordered pizza; Snowden spent most of the proceedings sitting on
the step Jifar used to sleep on. They walked in, they walked out, Snowden looked shocked when they told him. That wasn't hard,
the hard part was not seeming like he was in a state of shock when he called 911 and they showed up in the first place.

Lester went off to intercept Child Welfare, Snowden went back upstairs to tell the boy. Jifar took the news of his father's
death fairly well, Snowden knew, because he had no real understanding of what it meant.

Snowden knew what loss meant. Jifar's crying over the next two days, it was just the harbinger of the real pain. Snowden also
knew guilt and profound regret, and understood that as agonizing as it was to listen to, it was only the beginning of his
own suffering.

None of Jifar's cousins were prepared to take him in, but Horizon of Harlem was, and those relatives who cared in any way
about the boy were thankful for it. They toured its halls en masse after the funeral, marveled at the little Leaders League's
fully loaded toy room in the basement, the oak walls of their dining area, the luminescent glow of their computer room. Thank
God for these good people, they said to themselves as they signed the papers. Maybe they were right. Maybe some good can out
of this, they told each other as they left Jifar behind.