Why me? There were tons of more capable people in New York, probably hungry and willing to do anything for him.
My plan had been to get out of this shady business. I hoped my art would be the train riding me away.
Fucking Darryl. How the hell did you get in trouble with them?
That was the biggest problem. I could wash the lion’s money. I could do any damn thing he needed, as long as my brother was safe.
But is he safe? And what did he do to get in the lion’s claws to begin with?
That was the biggest problem. The money was a task. The labyrinth of trouble my brother always had me navigating through was what would give me gray hairs before I reached my sixties.
Maybe that was why I loved moving through these dark tunnels. It was like life. I constantly navigated a network of darkness, structured like a spider’s web. It was easy to get lost and much easier to be bitten by spiders. One had to move through the deceitful corners and search out the passageways with no map at all, just instinct and the need to survive.
Fucking Darryl. If the Russians don’t kill him, I will.
Footsteps echoed through the tunnel. My flashlight served as my only guidance, creating a glowing path in front of me.
Kazimir’s sexy face appeared in my head. I didn’t want to admit it, but I couldn’t believe how handsome he was. His midnight-black hair looked like he’d been running his fingers through it. His slacks molded to his legs perfectly. Upon seeing him, I wanted to sleep with him. Had he been at my art showing for anything else, I would’ve fucked him.
Ignore the sexiness and focus.
I decided in that moment to never think of him as Kazimir. The name was just as hot and unique as the man, and I didn’t need to be thinking of sexy. I had to stay focused.
It took me less than twenty minutes to get to the pink ribboned ladder, signaling for my block. I’d tied the ribbons on years ago. Now they appeared frazzled and moth eaten. I shut the flashlight off and climbed up.
The cool night air hit my skin as I clambered out of the sewer and into an alley between 153rd and 155th street—three blocks down from my home.
After the silence of the tunnels, the city’s noise scratched against my senses. It took me time to adjust as I slammed the sewer top down and left the alley. Music and chatter blasted from the yellow painted Bodega across the street. I went in there all the time. The owner, Paco kept an old radio on the ice machine. On a Friday night like tonight, he loved to pop some cassette tapes in and talk crap and drink with the guys crowded in front.
A dirty, wrinkled newspaper rolled along the sidewalk. On the cover, there was a huge question mark dripping in blood. The headline read, “Who’s the Tinder Killer?”
The wind blew at the newspaper, turning the page.
A black man displayed on the next page talking about another story. I recognized the dead man’s face from the news. He and two men had been shot over fifty times by plainclothes police. It had sparked from some out of hand bar fight in Queens and then spun out of control. The worst part was that he died the day before his wedding. Everybody had been angry about it, causing long debates in laundromats and almost fist fights out in the streets.
I passed the paper and moved on.
Further down the side streets were old brownstones that had been purchased and renovated. FOR SALE signs sat in their front yards.
It took me ten more minutes to get to Xavier’s.
It was a lair. That was the only way to describe it. He didn’t live inside a house or building. Instead he’d used an old abandoned school bus—one of those small ones to transport disabled children. Holes decorated the sides. He’d taken off the tires, dragged it back into an alley on the side of our old building, and blacked out the windows. In the back of the vehicle, he’d made a bed of the seats. In the front, his guests could lounge on painted crates and check out his little makeshift shelves full of technical equipment. There were tiny hidden cameras planted on the top of the bus’s roof and in the headlights. He used a battery-operated hot plate for food. During the winter, he had a battery-operated heater. Usually, he hung out in the bus driver’s seat a lot, reading and checking his security footage every now and then. There was an outhouse that he’d hid further down in the alley. God only knew how and where he emptied. I damn sure never asked.
Xavier had been my neighbor long ago. I didn’t like to think about those times, when we all lived in that building. None of us liked the past. And even when I purchased the building, Xavier was the main person against it, refusing to move into the vacant apartments I’d had renovated for him.
“I’ll never go back there.” Xavier pointed at me. “Don’t you ever bring that place up to me again.”
And I never did. We pretended like the building never existed, that our past never happened. And I visited and brought him things when I could. Unfortunately, I had nothing to give this night. Instead, I’d come for advice and answers.
I entered the alley. The bus’s door was open. Maxwell stood next to the outside of the bus.
Xavier sat on the bus’s steps, scratching his salt and pepper beard. He’d gone bald and shaved the rough afro he usually wore. Due to the smooth cut, the tattoos on his head were exposed, all-star constellations inked on his dark brown skin.
Xavier ran his fingers through that beard again and sneered. “You two can’t stay out of trouble.”
“I see Max has caught you up.” I gave Xavier a hug, closing my nose to the funk and grime that covered him like a second skin. I let him go and stepped back. “What do you think about our situation?”
Xavier lit a joint and inhaled. “I knew something was odd when I saw a bunch of tech vehicles parked down by that place.”
That place was the building where I lived.
“Men were sneaking in that motherfucker like people aren’t going to notice.” Xavier offered the joint to Max.
Max shook his head and then looked at me. “The crime world doesn’t inspire trust. So, we’re sure they have cameras and bugs all in there. Be careful of what you say and do, Emily, but don’t act like you know they’re watching.”
I shrugged. “This isn’t the first time someone’s tried this. We’ll be fine. I’m more worried about why they want me to wash money for them.”
Max let out a long breath. “That’s what the fuck they want? Why you of all people? I mean you’re efficient, but—”
“It doesn’t matter why,” Xavier said. “All that matters is you need to do that shit, and do it perfectly. No half steps. No fuck ups or your ass is dead.”
“Great pep talk.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Have you heard anything around Harlem, X?”
“The biggest news is Rumi is dead.” Xavier blew out smoke. “TV and cops say it was a suicide. Everyone on the streets say he was killed. And it’s all types of stories. Some say the Jamaicans did it. Rumi never got along with them. Others say Rumi liked some nasty shit, when it came to sex, and it went too far. Motherfucker died orgasming.”
Maxwell shook his head. “Harlem has always had some of the best storytellers.”
My heart stopped for a few seconds. I had this awful anxiety in my gut. All of this was directly related and now everything was making sense.
“Who do you think did it?” I asked.