Lily seemed to know them all, seemed to have made a life in the building with them. In the snapshots on the dead woman’s mantel, there had been three that included Lily: Lily with the old doctor, Lily with Simonova, the dead Russian, Lily with the young cop-Radcliff-his arm around her.
I don’t like closed spaces. I couldn’t see a way out. Was I losing my mind in this basement in Harlem?
“Hello?” I started to jog down the long hallway. “Hello?”
There had been times the past year when I’d thought I was losing it. After Valentina was murdered; after I went to Moscow to find her father, my best friend, Tolya; after I made a deal with a bunch of creeps to get him free; after I got him home and thought he was going to die from a massive heart attack.
During the summer, I’d thought I was going crazy. I had found myself laughing at the wrong things, and more than once I just burst into tears. It was July, maybe August, when I’d started coming uptown, sitting drinking at the Sugar Hill Club, listening to the music and hoping Lily might show up. But she never had, not until election night.
Now, suddenly, there was a faint, long, low howl in the basement, or was it just a noise from the laundry room, one of the machines giving up the ghost?
I began to laugh again-nerves, fear-and then I started to run, chasing the thing, jogging toward it as it receded, running faster and faster until it was out of sight. I ran until I almost crashed into a young woman. She was picking up laundry she had spilled all over the concrete floor.
“Thank you,” she said when I helped her stuff the damp clothes into the yellow plastic basket she was holding. She thanked me, but she looked nervous. Her skin was very black, she wore a white shirt, a pink sweater, and jeans.
“I’ll take your stuff upstairs if you want.”
“It’s fine, thank you again,” she said. She had a French accent.
Somewhere a dog barked. She cringed.
“What is it?”
“There are djinn in this building and they take this form, of black dogs.”
“What?”
“Djinn,” she said again. “What you call evil spirits,” she explained, just as Virgil Radcliff appeared. He greeted the woman in French; she hurried away. “Marie Louise,” he said. “She’s from Mali.”
“She believes that stuff?”
“You think it’s stranger than believing, say, that Jesus was the result of virgin birth, then turned up again after he was dead? I mean, come on, Artie, religion, witchcraft, whatever. All the same.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I parked out back. Easier to get in through the basement. I left something upstairs.”
“At Lily’s?”
“Right.”
“The woman from Mali lives here?”
“Marie Louise cleans here for several of the inmates,” he said. “Did I say inmates? Residents, I mean, since you were asking. And you, Artie, you’re down here why, exactly?”
“You want to show me where you park?”
“Sure,” he said. “You got lost, right? Happened to me; it’s like an underground maze here. Even a cop can scare the shit out of himself, Artie, if he doesn’t know his way around.”
As we walked, Radcliff talked pretty much nonstop, telling me about the building as we passed spaces that had once housed shops, a cafeteria. One of the huge spaces had an empty swimming pool with blue-tiled walls.
He told me there’d been a hair salon where the owner ran a numbers racket. “You hear his ghost still hangs out down here,” said Radcliff.
“Squatters down here?”
“Probably. You can get in through the courtyard.” Suddenly Radcliff stopped. He looked up. So I did, too. Carver Lennox was coming toward us carrying a large rectangular box.
“Virgil, good to see you, my brother,” said Carver, stopping so he could put out his hand, which Radcliff shook briefly. He wore round horn-rim glasses. His mouth was full of expensive pearly veneers. He was an ugly young man, but he’d had himself polished and buffed, and he dressed with style. “Came down to get some wine out of my cellar. I keep a nice little wine fridge in my storage room,” he added. “Hello again,” he said to me. “You guys working on something here?”
“Just visiting,” said Virgil.
“Hey, listen, can I show you something? I think you’ll like this.”
Virgil shrugged.
From the box, Carver removed a heavy bronze plaque. He held it up with two hands. On it were the words: THE B ARACK O BAMA APARTMENTS.
“Nice, right?” said Lennox. “Good name change, don’t you think?”
“How do the residents feel?” said Virgil.
“A few of the older ones think we should keep the name as it is, that this is a landmarked building-it is, you know-and it’s wrong to change, but they’ll come around, you know? Most people think the president-elect is a little more important than a dead musician, don’t you agree?”
Virgil kept quiet.
“I know you do, Virgil. Of course you do,” he said, putting the plaque back in the box. “Yeah, and say hi to Lily,” he added. The low, polished voice had a tinge of, what was it? Menace? No, it was just a sense that Carver wanted his way and always got it. That he knew everything that went on in the building and that he was in charge. “Well, don’t forget the party tonight, Virgil.” Lennox’s voice was bland now, cool and smooth as pudding. “You, too, Artie. It will be a special occasion. Good food, plenty to drink.”
“You must be doing well,” said Radcliff.
“Surely, I’m a lucky man,” he said with a cocky smile. “Well, then, see you, my brother, I have to get along to a party at the Princeton Club first.”
“Goldman Sachs,” said Radcliff after the guy had gone. Said it like it was a curse.
“What kind of name’s Carver?”
“Named after George Washington Carver. Big African American hero. Revolutionized agriculture, cotton, back in the last century. He was like this Renaissance man, or so many people thought back in the day.”
“You don’t like it that he wants to change the building’s name?”
“It’s the high-handed way he just does what he wants. People here love Obama, of course they do, but they’re old, Artie, since you’re asking, and they don’t like change.”
“What’s Lennox’s deal with this building?”
“Says he wants to return the place to its former glory, which is why he’s trying to get his hands on as many apartments as he can, however he can.”
“Where does he live?”
“Up on the fourteenth floor, one of the big penthouse apartments up there with Mrs. Simonova, the Hutchisons, Lily.” Radcliff’s phone rang. “Give me a minute,” he said and wandered away to the other side of the hall, his back to me, talking into his phone. He turned. He had a cigarette in his mouth. He looked up at a No Smoking sign and shrugged.
When he finished his call, Radcliff led me toward the back door of the building.
“I was wondering, how come nobody knows Simonova is dead yet?” I said. “How come nobody stopped by her apartment if they’re all so cozy?”
“Yeah, I was asking myself the same damn thing, Artie. Usually, they’re all on the job, you know, checking up on each other, and if one of them even gets a cold, Lionel Hutchison is right there.” He paused. “It’s like Grand Central station up on that floor,” said Radcliff. “Everybody in everybody’s business. They visit, they listen for each other, soon as they hear footsteps in the hall, they pop out of their doors, you know? You stand there waiting for the elevator and somebody opens the door and leans out and says, ‘Oh, hello, I was just looking for my cat.’ There are no cats on the fourteenth floor,” Radcliff said. “Yak yak yak in the hall. The building’s their life. They can talk your fucking ear off.” It was the most pissed off I’d seen Radcliff yet.
“You’ve been in all the apartments?”
“I got asked by the Hutchisons for coffee and cake a few times, and every time Celestina Hutchison would mention they were expecting a visit from a niece or a granddaughter, and I knew she made me for a good catch, and she’s thinking, What’s he doing with that white woman who’s older than him?”