We found the room near the end of the corridor. "When we get inside, follow my lead," I told Clarence, motioning him to one side in case they answered my knock cowboy-style. I put my back against the wall, reached over, and rapped lightly on the door.
Nothing.
I rapped again, hard. The door opened a crack.
"Who is it?" Woman's voice, phlegm-clogged.
Clarence answered her. "We come from your mother, Miz Barclay…she sent us. We have something for you.
"Emerson, he ain't here. I tole you."
Clarence pushed the door with his palm, gently. I followed him into the room. The woman walked ahead of us. Sat down on the bed. The room was long and narrow, dominated by a double bed. Bathroom door stood open to the right, Hollywood refrigerator against the other wall, two-burner hot plate on a shelf. A small color TV set sat on a black metal stand, complicated arrangement of antenna loops on top, looked like a model of the solar system. On the screen, cops wearing suits they would have had to explain to Internal Affairs were chasing drug dealers in their Ferrari.
"We need to ask you some questions, ma'am. This guy, he is from Jacques. Understand?"
"Yeah." She never took her eyes from the screen.
I walked over, turned it off. Anger flickered in her eyes— she wasn't drunk.
Clarence drifted over to where he could watch the door, hand in his pocket. The woman lit a cigarette, retreating into dullness.
"The night Derrick disappeared," I asked her, "tell me when you first noticed him missing."
"I dunno. Maybe nine o'clock, ten."
"What did you do?"
"We…I went lookin' for him. Asked everybody. You ask them, they'll tell you."
"And then…?"
"We couldn't find him. So I called the cops."
"What time was that?"
"I dunno…maybe midnight."
The 911 call had been logged at 3:28 a.m.
"Where was Emerson?"
"Emerson don't stay here, mistah."
"Where was Emerson that night?"
"He wasn't here. I tole the cops. He wasn't here."
She wasn't going to tell us anything. Years of dealing with Welfare and Child Protective Services had perfected the sullen-hostile-stupid routine. The cops had already threatened her with a murder rap if she was shielding Emerson. She didn't look afraid of anything society had to offer.
"You got a silencer for that pistol?" I asked Clarence.
"I got this, mahn," he ice-whispered, taking a straight razor from his pocket.
"That'll do. Start on her arms— it'll just look like more tracks when they find the body."
She was off the bed, opening her mouth to scream as Clarence slammed her back down, driving his shoulder into her chest, stuffing a handful of the ratty bedspread into her mouth. He pinned her flat with one knee. The razor gathered light as if it were a crystallized gem, waving hypnotically before her eyes. Snot bubbled in her nose as she fought for breath.
I leaned over her. "You want to tell us, now? Before we start cutting?"
Her head nodded hard enough to snap her neck. Clarence pulled the bedspread from her mouth, shifted his hand to the back of her head, pulling hard on the hair to expose her throat. The razor was ready.
"You scream, it's your last one," I said.
"Emerson took him— I didn't do nothin'."
"I know. Tell me what happened."
"Derrick was bad. Emerson and me was…in the bed. Derrick wouldn't be quiet, so Emerson picked him up to give him a slap. Derrick wet on Emerson and Emerson punched him in the chest. When we got done…in the bed, Derrick, he was still layin' there. We couldn't do nothin' with him. Emerson put him in one of the bags."
"What bags?"
"Over there," she said, gesturing with her eyes. In the corner, a box of green plastic Hefty bags.
"Then what?"
"Emerson, he went out."
"What did he say when he came back?" I asked her, guessing.
"He say, nobody ever find Derrick. It's okay."
"How long was he gone?"
"I dunno."
Her theme song— but I believed her this time.
"Why'd you call the cops?"
"SSC was comin' the next day. To check on the baby. They took him away before."
"And cut your check, right?"
"Yeah."
"Does Emerson have a car?"
"No, he ain't got no car. He had a car, but…"
"Never mind. He calls you, right?"
"I ain't got no phone here."
"There's pay phones downstairs."
"He don't never call me. Sometimes, he come by."
"On check day?"
"Yeah."
I signaled to Clarence. He stepped away from her, wrinkling his nose at the smell.
My eyes caught a color photograph on the dresser, propped up in a goldtone frame. I walked over to it. The woman, standing next to a tall, sheik-handsome man with a mustache, wearing a cream-colored suit, panama hat.
I held it up. "This Emerson?"
She nodded.
I popped the picture out of the frame. "Fix it," I told Clarence. His razor sliced surgically, leaving me just the man's photo. I slipped it into my pocket.
"What gonna happen to me?" the woman asked.
"Nothing. You're okay."
"I'm pregnant, mistah," she said as we stepped out the door.
29
We exited the hotel into a blanket of misty rain. Clarence started to cross the street. I patted his arm to halt him.
"The car's over there, mahn."
"Emerson didn't have a car."
"So what we do?"
"What he did. Come on."
30
We walked down the block, heading for the lights of La Guardia Airport to the north. Pitch dark now, but the block was choked with humans. Wheeling, dealing, stealing.
"Too many eyes," I said to myself. We crossed the service road— stood on the other side. To our left, the bridge to the airport. A deep ravine underneath, cut down the middle by the Grand Central Parkway.
"Let's try down there," I told Clarence.
We stepped in carefully. The underbrush was so thick you couldn't see the ground. We worked our way downhill. I spotted a refrigerator crate lying on its side against a tree, motioned Clarence to be quiet. A man crawled out of the crate, shuffled off into the darkness. We followed a narrow dirt trail toward the highway. On both sides, humans. A whole colony of homeless, living in the jungle. I could feel the watching. No way Emerson buried a baby here without being seen.