"Maybe you're that brother from another planet," cause she didn't know any brothers from the 'hood who talked to the police without a lawyer.
They had called him, he repeated. They'd asked if he wanted to clear things up. "I felt it could easily be resolved. This woman is my best friend. We're used to talking a dozen times a day."
"You broke up and still talked a dozen times a day?"
"Yeah."
"But she was cool with you not fucking her anymore, and you believed that?"
Nina started remembering threads of their early conversations last fall. Calling himself a free agent. Admitting, only when Nina pressed, that he did see one sister more than anyone else...
...and that Isaac had been in her car when an old boyfriend called to apologize for ancient misdeeds. It was one of those twelve-step-make-amends things. Isaac had said he thought that was nice. She'd agreed. "Especially since I stabbed him."
"She's my best friend," Isaac repeated.
Nina batted the air and a bit of forgotten strawberry flew. She needed to wash the smashed fruit off her hand. "Say goodnight, Gracie," she muttered, walking back to the kitchen.
"What?"
"Way before your time."
"Thanks for dinner," he called out from the doorway.
She ignored the lame farewell and wiped the fruit off the floor. The downstairs door slammed shut.
The night was cool and windy. Nina raised the slats of a shutter and watched Isaac disappear in the dark. It was a ten-minute walk to Dudley Station, past some very sketchy territory. Nina had escaped Boston in the '80s, the years when crack was king and a Roxbury zip code meant perpetual violence. Before the plague, she'd traveled Interstate 90 from Albany to attend Berklee, and had lived at a series of Roxbury addresses with no problem. She loved the familiar swagger and grace amidst despair. Some of those blocks had crashed and resurrected. Some meant constant crossfire still. Her new address was safe in the daytime, but a game try at night without klieg-light battalions. Nina wouldn't hazard a night stroll. But a Marine might make it.
It was past 11:00. Too late to take that second pill. The mood elevator needed to drop a few floors. Nina made a three-bag cup of Sleepytime tea and spiked it with thirty drops of valerian root. Better than Xanax and safer. She stuck a straw in the thermos mug she kept in the crib--the other stayed in the car--and popped a white noise CD in the boom box. Waves crashed. Seagulls cried. She logged on and sent an e-mail to Darcelle, the judge. Nina gave her the short of it, then wrote:
Don't know the "truth" of the situation, but his life story is admirable. Foster kid from the 'hood, East St. Lou
She stopped typing, grabbed a large pink Post-it, and scribbled a note to herself: Legal name? Isaac Elimu Sayif? She circled it, then wrote, AKA? She started typing again.
Works at Popeyes for years, looks in the mirror, decides to wipe off the grease, joins the Marines, goes to community college, St. Louis U, then chemical engineering at M.I.T. He's all but dissertation. Plans to teach at U of Cape Town this fall. Would hate to see him derailed by B.S.
Look forward to hearing from you and seeing you soon.
Nina
Nina had received a Welcome back message from Darcelle last month. An invitation too: the judge's annual Fourth of July Louis Armstrong Birthday Bash. Nina had been happy to get it but surprised. She certainly hadn't announced her return to Boston. She'd worked the East Coast as a jazz singer and the world as a backup singer all through the '80s. But touring wore her out. Lost too many friends to drugs. And she'd deliberately been under the radar for a decade. Teaching mostly. Private piano lessons. Music theory and history courses at assorted colleges. She'd just finished teaching a jazz history course at Roxbury Community College. But she got the biggest rush teaching music to disabled kids in the public schools. That had brought her back to Berklee. She was studying music therapy.
She wiggled deep into the feather body pillow on the futon and settled on her side, hands in prayer position between her drawn knees. "East St. Louis," she said out loud. What part of East St. Louis don't know not to talk to a cop? A seagull cried. "That's what I'm talking about," she told the bird. "Ain't he never seen Law & Order?" The woman who adopted him used to be crazy with the electric cord on his ass, Isaac had told her. "She bang your head up too, baby? That the problem?"
Her phone rang before the alarm clock. She ignored both and slept past 10:00. Her body required eight or nine hours of sleep and took it. That's one reason she'd stopped touring. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, gargled with hydrogen peroxide, then popped her morning elevator. She took her ritual cup of hot lemonade with honey to the computer and found a message from the judge. Darcelle was out of town but gave Nina the name of a female attorney in Roxbury. Nina forwarded it to Isaac, then tried his cell. She ignored his voice mail and tried the house.
"Hey, Miss Nina," Devon answered before the second ring.
"Now that's how I know you love me. You screened me in. What you been up to?"
"Working, working, working."
"One would have been enough. More makes me suspicious. How's the grades?"
"I'm passing."
He was a grown hard-back man now--or thought he was. She had to tread lightly. Concern without badgering. She asked about his plans for the summer.
"I'm going to work the rest of the year and go back full-time next spring."
She feared he would never make it back. "Not many students live rent-free. Do you really need to work full-time?"
"The rent's free, but that's not exactly money in my pocket."
Nina always thought his living arrangement curious. He and Isaac were quasi-superintendents. Handled trash, shoveled snow, showed units to prospective tenants in their building and other properties Mrs. Sheridan, the landlady, owned.
"What's the gig?" she asked.
Property management, he said. He was still showing Mrs. Sheridan's units. Painting them too. And he was getting his real estate license. "It's crazy out here, the money from flipping houses. Mrs. Sheridan's been cleaning up."
That's her main thing now? Nina wondered. Houses? Nina knew her as the wig lady. She owned one of the biggest wig and beauty supply stores in Roxbury and another on Central Avenue in Cambridge.
Of course, Devon didn't need a license to flip houses. But she told him it certainly wouldn't hurt to have one in addition to his degree.
"Exactly."
"Listen, I'm trying to catch up with Isaac."
"He was gone when I got up."
Nina didn't want to assume what Devon knew about Isaac's legal difficulties so she didn't mention the attorney. "When are you coming by so we can really catch up?"
Sunday's were usually good, he told her, though not today.
"Next Sunday work for you?" she asked. "Around 6?"
He said he'd be there.
Nina Sojo had first seen Devon Mack in a second-grade St. Louis classroom. She was the sub. He began the day beating on the kid beside him--any kid beside him. And the boy roamed. She tried to manage him by keeping him on task with challenging puzzles, painting, and storybooks. But there were twenty-three other kids with matching proclivities. Before noon, he had kicked the trash can at Nina's bent back. She'd spun around, dropped the loaded can on the boy's head, and made the terror clean the mess that rained down over him. "And don't you ever in your life even think of kicking me, or anything at me, again." Later, she took him aside and said that when little boys are so ready to fight it usually means they are unhappy about something. "Are you unhappy about something?" By 3:15 he was slumped in her arms, his eyes overrun ponds. Will you come back tomorrow? Are you ever coming back? Why can't you come back? The questions of too many sad children she'd meet year after year.
Nina had discovered his birthday was the following week and showed up that day with a cake, coloring books, and a box of Crayolas in a big red bag. The principal arranged for Nina to drive Devon home.
"Where you taking me?" the boy demand
ed, cringing in the backseat of her car.
"Your house. They know we're coming."
Four blocks later, Nina encountered a pregnant teenager and an older woman waiting with smiles. And Devon's hard jaw relaxed.
Nina sent the boy a card every birthday for three years. Then stopped for four. Nothing matched the way she felt those years. Then, early in '98, Devon's sister--the pregnant girl--sent Nina an e-mail. Her AOL address had been printed on the business card Nina planted in the big red bag. Tania Mack said her health wasn't too good and asked, Could you check on my baby brother time to time? He still lived with their aunt, but the aunt's new husband wouldn't mind seeing Devon gone. Tania died of leukemia shortly after that and Devon went to stay with Isaac. They were already living in the Roxbury sweet spot when Nina arrived.
She called their Fort Hill place sweet because of the area's history and the quality of the renovated housing. The Hill had been known for its tie-dye-and-dashiki brigades when she was at Berklee. The dissidents and artists remained, renovated and spurred investment from people like Mrs. Sheridan. Isaac and Devon's unit had elegant crown moldings, granite counters, a spa tub...in exchange for shoveling snow. And use of Sheridan's company vehicle: a 2001 black Durango. Nina wanted their gig.
Before taking Devon in, Isaac had been rooming with another student in a nice-looking space around the corner from Dorchester's "Hell Zone." Murder round the clock. After sundown, thugs ran the streets while owners of homes worth a half-million cowered in their parlors.
Tania and her baby-daddy had had an understanding. He'd made the hookup that put Devon and Isaac in the sweet spot. "He's friends with Mrs. Sheridan. Both of them are Korean," Isaac eventually explained, one long weekend months ago.
"Korean immigrants, you mean?"
"Uh-uh. Korean American." The man had big money and a big family, Isaac went on, holding Nina close. They were cuddlers big-time, for about four weeks.
"You know him?" Nina had asked.
"I know he had a thing for Tania."
Tania couldn't have been more than sixteen when Nina met her. She'd asked about Tania's baby and learned it had been put up for adoption. All of it arranged before the child was born.
These days, Nina was still suspicious of the living arrangement. She didn't tell Isaac, but she had met the landlady.
Mrs. Sheridan tagged her late husband's name to her real estate enterprise and Paradise to her beauty supply business.
Nina had been to the Paradise location in Roxbury. It was a long space, with three aisles. She'd barely been inside a minute when a stocky Latino guy coming one way fingered the crotch of a voluptuous Jamaican sister walking opposite him down the middle aisle. The woman wore black leggings and a smile. She tried to swivel around him while he held on a few more seconds. Evidently, the maneuver helped an itch get scratched. They both worked there. He custom-blended hair for weaves and braids. The woman cut and styled wigs. She had a busy operation. Two in chairs, four waiting. Her partner, built like a sprinter, cut hair like one too. Fast. Nina liked the way she was layering the cut on one customer's wig. They called the sprinter Rocket, Nina would learn later. And it had nothing to do with speed.
Juliette Choo Sheridan, the owner, clearly spent some time in the mirror. It reflected pinkish-red hair swept into a short, spiky ponytail. Blunt cut bangs that stopped short of her carefully placed false lashes--just a few spidery ones on the upper lids. And pouty pink lips. Between all that and the red boots with stiletto heels was a tight black dress to tone things down. Nina had eyed the plunging V-neck for signs of wrinkles. But Mrs. Sheridan didn't have enough tits for cleavage. Nina figured she was forty-three.
"You should try this," Mrs. Sheridan had suggested, pointing to a golden-hued version of the short dark wig Nina held.
Nina had smiled. "I don't think so."
"Ohhhh, you too conservative," Mrs. Sheridan scolded, scanning Nina's bare face. "You pretty lady. Don't be afraid to jazz it up."
Nina was standing in Bruno Magli pumps and wearing an Italian blue tweed suit worth several grand. The suit's short skirt proved one reason Tina Turner had hired her.
When Nina responded, "I'll bear that in mind," the temperature in that zip code dropped ten degrees.
Nina fell asleep after talking to Devon. It couldn't have been a deep sleep; her armpits woke her up. Or maybe it was deep and she was just one frowsy bitch. She hadn't showered and the stink enveloped her.
Suitably deodorized, she put on a T-shirt and yoga pants. Ate some yogurt and a banana. And turned on Betty Carter.
Nina checked her e-mail while Betty sang "Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most."
Isaac had sent a thank-you message. He and the lawyer connected. I'm seeing her Monday. I'll let you know what happens.
He did. The lawyer wanted cash up front, he explained in his next e-mail. He was a student. She said I was a little boy.
On Tuesday, Isaac's case was continued. Nina considered this her cue to wish him Godspeed. Heading over to the Newton courthouse had entered her mind. Get a peek at the Collar. Check out the public record. Read the complaint. But she was saved from herself when a Berklee prof and his wife invited her to Martha's Vineyard for a week. She rearranged her schedule and left Thursday.
From the ferry ride over to her last breakfast at The Grind, Nina continually ran into characters from her life's first act. Most significantly Barry. Her stabbing victim.
They stared.
He did a playful bob-and-weave. "Do I dare come closer?" he asked.
Why not? It was only a superficial wound. He had easily disarmed her.
He had been a player. Did time for a mob-related shooting in the '60s. Fresh out of Norfolk State Prison, he had cruised Boston with Nina in a spanking new '78 Corvette one week, a '77 Peugeot the next. Both cars compliments of the unofficial wives Nina knew nothing about. Barry was a decent bass guitarist and, these days, a vocational counselor.
It was late morning in Martha's Vineyard. They sat outside an Edgartown cafe. He remembered how she drank tea instead of coffee.
"You crossed my mind the other day," Nina told him.
"Why? Caught a foul smell or something?"
"I needed the name of a decent criminal attorney."
"I don't know any in Boston worth a dime," Barry charged.
She told him why she had been tempted to call and gave the case CliffsNotes.
Barry's lightning assessment: "This dude sounds like a jive turkey to me." Then he told her--two types of guys volunteer to talk to cops: the ones who really are stupid, and the ones who think that they're smarter than everyone else.
Isaac got a new lawyer. Juliette Choo Sheridan paid. The Collar asked for several more continuances. Too many and a case can get dismissed. But these gave Isaac more time to fuck up.
Late September, he and Devon came home to their Fort Hill sweet spot and couldn't get in: locks changed. Later that night, while crashing with friends: Durango reclaimed. Juliette Choo Sheridan owned the property and knew where the tapes had been buried.
The money shot: Isaac yanking the leash on a bitch blowing his cock. Devon's plugging her ass. The leash was black leather and thin; the collar rhinestone-studded and delicate. Nina cataloged the scene as S&M Lite, but still unbecoming a former Marine and M.I.T. scholar--especially one facing an assault charge and looking for a university gig. The action around Isaac was more damning. Rocket from Paradise--her tits were like missiles--was one of two women being gang-raped. For insurance, the video was all over the Internet before Juliette Choo Sheridan sent copies of it to the prosecutor and the Collar's home address. She and Sindi, former rivals, had become comrades.
Isaac took Mrs. Sheridan's money, fucked to her satisfaction, but refused to move into her Newton contemporary mansion--which Sindi had frequently cased. And Sheridan joining an African harem had never been an option.
Early in December, Isaac's attorney--he was back to the Roxbury sister--got a plea agreement. There was evidence o
f guilt but no hard proof. He could apply for a job and truthfully say he'd never been convicted of a crime.
By January, Devon was back in St. Louis and Isaac Elimu Sayif, a.k.a. Calvin Isaac Nethersole, a.k.a. Lite Dick Nethersole (most popular on the Internet), had unwanted websites sprouting like fungi after rain. The sexploits of Lite Dick streamed against the hazy image of his curriculum vitae and generated 87,000 hits on the worldwide web every day, 609,000 each week, 2,436,000 each month...
Isaac remains all but dissertation six years later.
TURN SPEED
BY RUSS ABORN
North Quincy
At the close of his twenty-third birthday, Michael Mosely sat behind the wheel of a 1968 Chevy Bel Air, looked around the empty bank parking lot, lifted a pint of vodka, and took a good slug. He screwed the top on and put it under the passenger seat. He sat up straight, shook his head like a dog drying off, pulled the shift lever on the column toward him, dropped it into drive, and eased the nose of the car out onto Broadway. Amped and fuzzy at the same time, he cranked the window down to let in the clammy night. The windshield wipers squeaked into action, smearing greasy mist into greasy streaks. He looked to the left, and cut the wheel hard right, making the power steering squeal and moan. He toed the gas. The right rear tire dropped off the curbstone, thumping into the gutter with a hollow, rubbery sound.
He inched along beside the high curb, rolled by the bank, and braked to a quiet stop in front of the steak house. Using his left hand, he pinched the fleshy web on his right hand. The pain yanked him back to his body and sharpened his mind.
A swirl of darkness exploded through the glass front doors of the steak house, and three men wearing Red Sox caps atop blurry faces rushed at the car. Two of the men held handguns, while the man in the middle clutched a satchel like it was Ann Margaret.