Eyes of the Innocent: A Mystery (11 page)

But then I reminded myself religion is all about being comfortable with hypocrisy and I kept driving. I’m sure there wasn’t anything so dire in there that couldn’t hold until after my white knight routine was done.

I made good time to Sweet Thang’s place, which was in the increasingly fashionable Newport section of increasingly fashionable Jersey City. She had given me the apartment number (12J) and her door pass code (90210—she assured me she wasn’t too young to have watched the show by the same name in reruns), and I soon found myself riding up a mirrored elevator to the top floor of a rather swank apartment building.

When Sweet Thang answered her door, she was still in her bedtime attire, which consisted of boxers, a ribbed tank top, and lots of creamy, perfect, youthful skin. She had a fresh, soapy smell and greeted me with a hug that made me a little light-headed.

“Oh, my goodness, thank you so much for coming over,” she murmured as she gave me one last squeeze, then released me. “It makes me feel like a thousand times better just to have you here. I can’t tell you how totally gross and violated I feel right now. I mean, I’m still not going to tattle on her to the police but, ewwww! How gross is it to have someone just come into your house and take stuff! Like, I would have totally given her some money if she asked for it, didn’t she know that? It’s just soooo uncool and—”

I put a finger to my lips and made a shushing noise.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I know. Babbling. Stop now.”

Her place was spacious, nicely furnished, and, I immediately surmised, not possibly affordable on her $500 weekly intern’s salary. If the ample square footage didn’t tip me off, the commanding view of Manhattan did.

“Nice place,” I said as I trailed her from the small foyer into the living room, where the foldout couch was still unfurled.

“I just painted in here,” she said. “Do you like the color? It’s from the Ralph Lauren Urban Loft collection. It’s called ‘Sullivan.’ ”

“Do you call it ‘Sulli’ for short?” I asked.

“No, but I think I’ll start,” she said, smiling.

“You’re lucky they let you paint it yourself. I’ve heard of places like this where they make you use whatever contractor the landlord prefers because they’re afraid the tenants will be too sloppy.”

“Well, my dad owns the building,” she said.

“Oh,” I said. I’d figured Daddy was loaded. I didn’t realize he was
that
loaded.

She added quickly: “I pay him rent, though.”

Market rate, I’m sure. She flopped down on the bed, propping herself on one elbow and stretching out her gorgeous, bare legs underneath her. She left room for me to sit on the bed.

I chose a nearby chair.

“Does your dad own other buildings?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to know the answer.

“A few. Real estate is just a hobby.”

“And his day job is…”

“Investing.”

“Riiiight,” I said.

“Don’t do that,” she snapped.

“What?”

“You’re making assumptions about me!” she said. “I only told you he owned it because I thought you wouldn’t make assumptions.”

“I wasn’t making—”

“I’m not a spoiled little rich girl,” she said. “I’ve worked for what I’ve gotten.”

“Okay,” I said, but apparently wasn’t convincing.

She eyed me.

“Look, everyone has a dad,” I said. “Yours happens to be filthy rich and friends with a guy who runs a newspaper. You don’t need to apologize to me for having advantages in life. I’d only hold it against you if you
hadn’t
done something with them. I didn’t exactly start this race in last place myself.”

“Thanks for understanding,” she said, and we bonded for a moment, just a pair of hardworking spoiled little rich girls—even though the only real estate my parents owned was a two-story colonial.

“So you can say it now,” she said.

“Say what?”

“That you told me so.”

“Well, I guess I did,” I said. “But I have to admit I’m feeling a little responsible for what happened, because I didn’t quite tell you everything.”

“What do you mean?”

I guided her through my discovery of Akilah’s nonorphan status, finishing it off with how I tried to get the story yanked but was overruled by Uncle Hal’s space heater fetish.

She pouted.

“I thought we were working on the story together,” she huffed. “You were going to have them pull the story without telling me?”

“I was planning to tell you everything at the bar,” I said. “But I guess I got there right after you left to pick up Akilah.”

“Oh.”

“About that…”

She rolled over on her stomach, smothering her face in her pillow. I couldn’t help but admire her tight little ass as she loosed a muffled scream and kicked her legs in a minitantrum.

“Ahh hhhann oooeee ahh ddiii daaa,” she said.

“Come again?”

She lifted her head: “I can’t believe I did that.”

“You want your lecture now?”

She nodded and fixed me with a big blue-eyed gaze.

“Okay,” I began. “It goes like this: as a reporter, you’re going to be constantly tripping on people who need help—sometimes a lot more help than you can possibly give them. You will, of course, care about them. That’s good. That’s human. But remember, it’s not your job to save them and you couldn’t if you wanted to. It’s your job to write about them. If someone else decides to save them after that? Bully for them—and bully for you, because your words obviously inspired someone.

“Otherwise? Lay off. You have to remember these are people who have been failed by a whole lot of folks in their lives, and one or two goodhearted acts by a stranger isn’t going to turn things around for them. You won’t last six months in this line of work if you make all the problems you see your business. Got it?”

She nodded again, blinking the big blue eyes several times.

“End of lecture,” I announced. “Now, why am I here again?”

“I was hoping you might have a few ideas how I could get my charm bracelet back.”

I started shaking my head and was about to launch into an explanation of how thoroughly improbable that was, when I heard the gallant steed whinny, reminding me sometimes the Heroic Male has to conquer long odds to fulfill his quest.

“Oh,” I said, sighing, “I guess I’ve got a few.”

*   *   *

My first idea was breakfast. I waited for Sweet Thang to shower and dress, failing miserably at filtering out the inappropriate thoughts floating through my head as she did so. I resisted the urge to sift through her things as she got ready, though I couldn’t help but marvel at the general
Martha Stewart Living
feel to her place. Every paint color appeared to have been deliberately picked and matched with some other fixture or accessory in each room. It was an impressive display of decorative genius—if a bit sickening.

Sweet Thang emerged from her bedroom in a light blue knit dress, and I tried to pretend like I didn’t notice how nicely it clung to her. We left her apartment and made our way to the nearest diner, which in the great state of New Jersey is never more than a few blocks away.

I went with the pancakes, always safe. Sweet Thang surprised me by ordering a No. 2—two eggs, two pancakes, two sausages, juice, toast, and coffee—and surprised me even more by finishing it. Breakfast, she explained between bites, is the most important meal of the day.

As we chewed, I formulated our strategy. Someone had to go see Bertie Harris, our only firm connection with Akilah. And, after the first impression I made the previous evening, we would be better off if the someone wasn’t me. I’m sure she and Walter the Beemer would make quite an impression at Baxter Terrace.

My assignment would involve a visit to Reginald Jamison, one of my best sources for all things hood related. He made a surprisingly good living selling silk-screened T-shirts out of a storefront on Clinton Avenue. Everyone called him “T-shirt Man,” which was then shortened to “Tee.” I was probably one of the few people who came into his store who knew his real name was Reginald.

Tee and I had gotten to know each other a few years back when I did a story that cast him in a favorable light as an entrepreneur. We had been buddies ever since. I liked having a guy plugged into the streets. He liked the novelty of having a white friend—in some parts of Newark, it was almost like keeping an exotic pet.

Tee was about 250 pounds of muscle, tattoo ink, and braids, all of which gave off the impression he was one tough gangsta, a front he maintained when it served him. In reality, the dude was about as hard as a roll of Charmin. He had a wife he doted on (mostly because she’d kick his ass if he didn’t). And he had a sentimental streak that was even wider than his biceps. I once caught him watching a bootleg DVD of
Love Actually
in the back of his store.

As a businessman, he was strictly legit. Still, he grew up with most of the illegitimate businessmen in the area, so he was well acquainted with the city’s informal economic infrastructure and didn’t mind sharing his contacts now and then.

By the time I made it to Tee’s place, it was about ten o’clock.

“Aw shoot, Whitey’s here, hide the weed!” Tee crowed when he saw me.

“C’mon,” I said, “since when does white man need to actually see the weed before he makes an arrest? You know I’ll just plant it on you later if I have to.”

“Good point,” he said as we shook hands, then slipped into his exaggerated white man’s voice: “To what do I owe the pleasure of your appearance, Mr. Ross?”

“I got a hypothetical question for you,” I said.

“Yeah, but it probably ain’t all that hypothetical, right?” he said, switching back to his normal voice.

“Well, let’s just say you’re a citizen of Newark who has recently come into a substantial amount of jewelry and you want to liquidate your holdings,” I said. “Is there a merchant in the city who provides such a service without probing too deeply into the origin of the items in question?”

“Now, why you think I know something like that?” he said in a fake rage. “Why is it anytime Whitey needs to know about stealing stuff, he come see his black friend, huh? Because that’s all the black man is good for, huh? How come you’re not coming here to ask me my thoughts on municipal bonds?”

“Because I’m not in a high enough tax bracket to take advantage of the benefits of munies,” I answered.

“Oh,” Tee said. “Well, in that case, yeah, I know the guy you gotta see.”

“Who?”

“This is off the record, right?”

“Of course.”

“Well, allegedly”—“allegedly” is one of Tee’s favorite words—“you go see Maury.”

“Maury?”

“Yeah, that’s the name of the pawnshop. The dude who own it ain’t named Maury—it’s named after some Jewish dude who owned it a thousand years ago. But people still call him ‘Maury’ anyway. Everyone in the hood knows: you got some stuff, you need some cash, you go to Maury.”

“And he’s, uh, not known to ask many questions?”

“Most of the rest of the pawnshops make you fill out all kinds of paperwork, do this ninety-day waiting period thing, all that. Maury is known to be a little less strict with his bookkeeping,” Tee said, then added, “allegedly.”

“And if I strolled in, asked for Maury, and inquired about some particular jewelry?”

Tee laughed.

“He’d assume you’re a cop and suddenly get real hard of hearing, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“I do. So what’s my plan?”

“Well, break it down for me here. What are we dealing with?”

I told Tee the whole sordid tale of Akilah and Sweet Thang, finishing with my frantic 6:14
A.M.
wake-up call and the small amount of culpability I felt in the whole mess.

“So you got yourself some tasty little honey and you’re trying to get her stuff back?” he cooed. “Oh, that’s sweeeet.”

“Yeah, I’m just made of cotton candy. Do you think you can introduce me to this Maury character?”

“Oh, I don’t actually know him,” Tee said. “I just know him by reputation.”

“So you know someone who knows him?”

“Let me make some calls,” Tee said. “I’ll holler at you later?”

I was about to answer when I was interrupted by the sound of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony coming from my pocket.

“That’s my editor,” I said. “Like the ringtone?”

“Remind me to download you some LL Cool J.”

“That’s, what, a drink or something?”

Tee just shook his head and muttered, “White people.”

*   *   *

I waved at Tee as I left his store and went into the street to answer the call.

“Good morning, sunshine!” I said.

“Tell me you got something,” Szanto barked.

“Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“Windy Byers,” Szanto said, exasperated. “Brodie somehow thinks there’s a Pulitzer somewhere in this. He’s got a boner that could win him the county pole vault championships.”

Wendell A. Byers Jr.—nickname: Windy—was a Newark councilman. He was a bit of an idiot and lot of a blowhard, the kind of guy who had the habit of talking when he should have been listening. I had met him enough times that a picture of him appeared in my mind. He was African-American, but he straightened his salt-and-pepper hair, which was brushed back across his head. He was in his fifties, but the weight he carried made him look older. And he had one of those meticulously groomed, pencil-thin mustaches, and it was etched across his fleshy, flaccid face.

His father, Wendell senior, had also been a Newark councilman. And that, apparently, was enough for the citizens of the Central Ward, who had been sending someone with that name to represent them for the last forty years or so. As a result of this honor, Windy Byers spent a long and thoroughly undistinguished political career being driven around in a city SUV, pretending he was important. It was unclear what the citizens got out of the deal.

“Uh, I’m sorry, what’s happening with Windy Byers?” I said.

“He’s missing. Didn’t you read the paper this morning?”

I cursed my lousy karma: of all the mornings to not glance at the paper before I left. I thought about offering any number of creative excuses—most of which would have required knowledge of viruses that cause temporary blindness—but decided on the truth instead: “No. I kind of had a little emergency this morning.”