All in One Piece (8 page)

“You didn’t know Steven Damelin?”

“The victim? ‘Know’ is a stretch. I saw him at the curb when I got home from work a couple times in the last month. That time
of the morning, there’s nobody out on Barlow Square. We said hi. He was waiting with a suitcase and a garment bag over his
shoulder. The cabs came. Off he went.”

“Any particular cab company?”

“In Boston? Among the million? Very hard to break into the cab business, tons of red tape. I looked into it. And the birdseed
project fizzled. For now, it’s Hershey and PayDays.”

“Trudy—” I pause to get her attention. “Two days ago, a small blue car nearly ran me down out front here at about two o’clock
in the afternoon. I was crossing the street, and it sped at me. Do you know anyone with a little blue car? It clipped my calf.”

“People on phones, worse than drunk drivers. I don’t mean to sound flip, Reggie. It’s just so awful that you can’t take it
in. I see everything in the hospital. I’m supposed to be shockproof. Another stupid myth.” She stares at Steven’s window,
shudders, and tells me to take care of myself as Kingpin says, “Pretty bird, kiddo, pretty bird deluxe.”

It’s almost 3:00 p.m. Back in my kitchen, I grab a quick sandwich. Somebody knocks, and I jump like a scared rabbit. It’s
Right True Clean, all done, including my door. Mercifully neither man comments on the blood marks. “You want to let the upholstery
and rugs dry out for about twenty-four hours. We put wood fill in the holes in the floor. It matches pretty good. We found
this behind the fireplace mantel.”

He holds up an envelope. “We think it slipped back there. The police probably worked that area, so I don’t know what you want
to do.”

I stare at the white envelope as if expecting blood to seep through in front of my eyes, a time-release hemorrhage. No, it’s
snow-white. “I’ll see the police get it. Just put it on the table.” I write the check. Huge. Worth every penny. Right True
Clean loads up and departs.

The envelope isn’t sealed, and so I peek at the single letterhead sheet from Corsair Financial, Steven’s employer. It’s just
a piece of paper with handwritten numbers and abbreviations in pencil. Holding it, I begin to feel dizzy. It’s that screen
thing, the water and log. The swirling currents. Steven—

Drop it. Drop the paper. I let it go. It falls to the floor, and I jump back and stand clear as if a whorl will suck me under.
Please, God, give my balance back. I wait. Tight throat, tight chest, stinging eyes. The drowning scene, I’m there again.
And crying, my cheeks wet with salty fat tears.

But I don’t weep for Steven now. These tears are shed for me, for the vertigo and the visions that overtake and drive me to
find out who killed him.

W
here did Steven go in the cabs? A month’s early morning fares from Barlow Square… maybe the cops can trace his whereabouts
through the labyrinth of taxi companies, not me.

I take Biscuit for a short walk to drop off my roll of film at One Hour Foto, then phone Harvard’s Department of East Asian
Languages and Civilization. The receptionist coolly informs me that professors are busy with the new semester, but she will
take my number and my request for a consultation in case any interested faculty or graduate students care to call me. Ditto
the departments of Asian studies at Boston University, Boston College, MIT, Tufts, Northeastern, and Wellesley. None are really
helpful. May they all nibble dim sum and sip tea at the Great Wall.

What now? An hour’s work on my column. As ever, the deadline approaches, in the newspaper meaning of the word “dead.” Stark’s
notion of tipping everybody in sight… I’m dubious. Aren’t employers responsible to pay decent wages? Won’t workers get
overly dependent on dollars at the drive-thru window?

Yet jobs aren’t what they were. A few of Molly’s friends are temping. One of Jack’s pals, a programmer, is clerking at Home
Depot after several layoffs. Maybe Stark has a point. I’m drafting “Tip Jar Tactics” when the mail arrives, a reminder of
my police errand. Imagine Maglia slipping me a dollar for every report on Steven’s mail: Reggie the McMail clerk.

Sorting through, I make two piles. For me, a subscription renewal reminder and specials on cosmetics with a free tote bag.
No card from the Middle East.

For Steven Damelin, a menswear sale, Visa offer, Save the Children. And a blue postcard from something called the Apollo Club,
with an image of classical Apollo, his marble abs cut sharp, a small fig leaf over ample endowment. “Entertainment, dancing,
valet parking.” Penned at the bottom is, “Hey, Steve, hope to see you soon—Matt.”

It’s definitely mail the police should know about. I start for the phone to call Maglia. Then I stop. Not so fast. Is this
message personal or only personal
ized
? A rub of a thumb across the signature, and the ink blurs. Okay, it’s for real… but suppose Matt jotted a few hundred
cards for a batch mailing? If I call Maglia about a promotional ad, he’ll demote me even further. Devaney will chortle. For
now, the Apollo Club card goes into the junk mail envelope, which I’ll send to Maglia as promised. A deal’s a deal.

With fingers crossed, I’m off to pick up my door photos, this time without Biscuit, because if they’re clear enough, I’m heading
to Chinatown, a twenty-minute walk at a brisk pace. I pay the clerk, then riffle through the photos. Yes, the three blood
mark snapshots are underexposed but clear. They look more than ever like Chinese characters.

It’s nearly five when I get to Stuart Street, then over to Harrison and the side streets where Vietnamese, Thai, and Chinese
groceries abound. The windows of golden Peking ducks, the bok choy in bushel baskets, and packets of five-star anise beckon
for occasional cooking sprees. Now they’re for language drill.

Inside the Lu Wan grocery, boisterous talk among a group in the back comes to a sudden halt when I enter, a Caucasian intruder.
A wizened man in a fedora comes forward as if to guard his real clientele. This is definitely not Tsakis Brothers. I show
the photos and ask, “Can you say what this means?” His eyes go blank. I nearly shout, the stupid tactic across a language
barrier.
“What-does-this-mean?”
He looks at the photos and says, “Door. You door. You want wonton wrap?” I’m not yet outside when the conversation bursts
anew.

Next stop, a produce vender, an aproned woman with wispy bangs who tumbles ginger into a bin while her little boy stacks some
sort of fuzzy root. She smiles broadly. A mother, good. I flash the photos. She nods, looks closer, takes one photo out into
the sunlight and studies it closely. Her son looks too, and they exchange words. Frowning, she returns and says, “Not have
this.”

“But what does it say? What is ‘this’?”

“Not have.” Her bangs move as she shakes her head no and turns back to the ginger.

At the corner, I go into a gift shop featuring satin pajamas and the black cotton slippers my Molly loved as a child. No clerk
appears, however, so I’m down the block to another grocery where a young couple uncrates what look like charcoal briquettes
but are salted duck eggs. This is the Ling Pan store, in which I’m the sole customer. Once again, the photos. Once again,
the conferring in Chinese. Then much discussion, debate, hand gestures, and pointing at the photos, followed by further debate
worthy of the U.N. To my ears, there’s not a familiar syllable. Finally agreement is negotiated between the couple. Both smile,
nod yes, and fetch me a pineapple.

“Pineapple?”

Beaming, they nod. They insist. The decision is final. My best effort to decipher the blood marks from Steven’s murder gets
me one overripe pineapple.

“Reggie, sit yourself down. You get light duty today, no heavy lifting.”

“Nicole,” I say, “I’m fine.” Which isn’t really true because it’s been wrenching to describe the murder, also wrenching to
see horror deepen on the face of Nicole Patrick, my boss. We’re in StyleSmart, the Roxbury clothing store where I work two
days a week. It’s Thursday, just past ten. I’ve summarized the last two days for Nicole.

“That poor young man, and Jo not gone a year. What a vicious thing, an evil thing. May justice be done. May God have mercy.
You need some tea right now.” Nicole brings me a cup of Earl Grey from our refreshment nook, her stance and stride confident
in slingbacks, an ankle-length black skirt, and carnation-pink silk jacket. She’s about five-eight, hair up in a braid arrangement
that sets off teardrop gold earrings. Her features are broad, her figure ample. She’s somewhere in her forties, her skin between
milk and bittersweet chocolate.

“Sip it slow, Reggie.” Nicole’s gaze is empathy itself. “You feelin’ the psychic spirit about this?”

My still-sore head is too much to go into, so I say no.

“I bet you haven’t slept a wink all week.”

Not true. The sound of a certain motorcycle circling Barlow Square in the depths of last night lured me into deep slumber,
as if the crackling exhaust of Stark’s Harley played Brahms’s lullaby. “Actually I feel better today.” We’re in the sofa area,
Nicole on a tufted chair.

“How ’bout getting iron bars for those first-floor windows of yours? Locks are good, but bars mean business.”

“I don’t know, Nicole.” Her goodwill makes my heart sink. StyleSmart, like every other business here on Warnock Street, has
a steel front grate for nighttime lockdown because of Roxbury’s crime rate.

“Nowadays they make ’em decorative, Reggie. Vines and leaves hide the bars. I can recommend a welder. You owe yourself the
best protection.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Police, you can’t just count on them. They got too much to do. You got to protect yourself. You hear?”

“I do.” I nod and set my cup on the coffee table with current issues of
Working Woman, Jet, Essence, Ebony.
I’d hoped for an escapist morning. StyleSmart, you see, outfits women who are recently off the welfare rolls. Nicole and
I are fashion consultants for women entering the workforce full-time for the first time in their lives. They need wardrobes,
and we provide them at low or no cost. The inventory is donated. StyleSmart is a not-for-profit.

“What’s up for today?” I try to sound chipper.

“You sure you’re fit to work?”

“Anything to get my mind off homicide for a little while.”

“Something I learned in my fifteen years as a caseworker, Reggie: you better face your trouble, or it comes back to bite you
hard.” Nicole appraises my outfit, a taupe two-piece. “I knew you weren’t feelin’ good the minute you walked in. You got on
those fog colors.”

I flush. This is about my wardrobe. As Gina and as Mrs. Martin Baynes, you see, I long favored tasteful neutrals and pastels.
This knowledge was eagerly sought at StyleSmart, or so my aunt told me in her last weeks when she summoned the strength to
put me in touch with Nicole Patrick, who in turn flattered and cajoled me into coming to work for her. My job was to create
office-ready ensembles for the entry-level women. So I’m second-in-command, but there’s a twist.

“Reggie, before you’re through today, let’s do a little something for your color palette.”

“Operation Peacock Reggie?”

She nods and points to a candy bowl. “Colors like those Jelly Bellies.”

That’s the twist, the nub of things: Nicole Patrick has taken charge of my makeover. I’m her coworker, but also, like the
welfare women, I’m her client.

“So meanwhile, Reggie, here’s today’s project. I’m thinking the store needs a supersize section for our full-figure ladies,
but something with a nice name, maybe Boutique Royale. Let’s look over here.” She leads me past racks of suits and jackets
to a corner of the store beside the fitting rooms. “Right here, let’s create a special spot, put in a few racks with the nicest
big clothes. And I got a trick up my sleeve: we’ll cut out the size tags. Nobody will feel like they’re getting on a scale.”

“How will they know what size?”

“Just hold ’em up and try ’em on, like we all do. With sizes as crazy as they are, why not?”

“Nicole, it’s a great idea. Terrific.” So I spend nearly two hours snipping out size tags while Nicole arranges the racks
and waits on customers, one woman hoping to pass a word-processing test, another training for restaurant hostessing. Nicole
calls me, allegedly to consult. “Miss Reggie, how about this emerald green? Fabulous with Keesha’s skin tone, don’t you think?”
Yes, I think. “And the sunflower yellow?” Absolutely. She winks to let me know this is a sly stealth exercise for Peacock
moi
.

At last we take a break back at the nook, and she refills the teacups. “Nicole, it’s been great to play with scissors all
morning, nothing but tags on my mind. It’s a relief.”

“Reggie, that poor young man killed right over top of you. You are sorely tested in these times. And him so close to Jo.”

“Close? What did you say?”

“Oh mercy yes, to hear Jo tell it, he was a son to her.”

“A son? Steven Damelin? They were that close?”

“Or maybe she meant sunshine.”

I nearly choke. “What did Jo say?” It’s against my grain to allow long pauses. It seems antisocial. But Nicole won’t be hurried.
It’s a long shot, but I ask, “I hear Steven traveled. Maybe his trips involved his special deal with Jo?”

Nicole adjusts her bracelets. “At least one of them did.”

“Which one? Where did he go?”

Nicole raises her cup, eyes me. “Reggie, I don’t know what the two of them were up to. But Jo said Steven took special trips
to fire up something they were working on.”

“And when was that?”

“Over a year ago. I was taking inventory, so it was probably March.”

“Was it something financial?”

She crosses her legs. “Reggie, let me tell you something. This part of Boston’s my home, and over my lifetime they’ve called
Roxbury a slum, a ghetto, a hood, a community. One name after another, all meaning pretty much the same thing.”

Time out for this lesson in urban geography.

“I taught second grade, and then I was a caseworker for fourteen years. Fourteen years. You see things from the inside. Every
kind of trouble, it’s all right there—drugs, drink, babies born to babies, guns, gangs, everything. I was in and out of the
triple-deckers, and believe you me, I saw it all.”