Lemmon's Journey

Chapter Thirteen

Lemmon occupied the backseat with one of the hoodlums while his partner, doo-rag, sat in the front making conversation with the driver. The radio played Hip-Hop music which sounded awful and foreign to Lemmon’s ears. He looked at the man beside him, but the hood was gazing out his window and didn’t pay any mind to Lemmon. A couple of times he chipped in on the conversation, but remained reserved through much of the ride. Lemmon knew they weren’t talking about him; it was hard following their gutter slanging. The car was moving fast along the busy motorway. Neither thought he might attempt jumping out while in motion. It never occurred to Lemmon to speculate how fast it had taken them to locate him, and he would have being agitated had the question crossed his mind at that moment—he did mention his name to Wilkes but never where he was staying—but as it never did, he kept mum, half-listened to the men’s chatter, and watched the city streets roam past his window. He ran his over his right wrist and groaned at having forgotten to wear his watch. Lemmon thought of Reggie and pictured what he was doing right now: at the bar serving drinks or maybe checking the clock and wondering where Lemmon was right now. He should have taken his offer to acquire the cell phone.

They passed one or two churches along the way and Lemmon thought he heard what sounded like services going on. It was then it dawned on him that the day was a Sunday.

They took a right turn into 125thStreet and drove under the elm train overpass and then after five blocks, pulled to the curb. The man beside him climbed out of the car and gestured at Lemmon to follow. Doo-rag too came down and stood by the curb and the Cadillac drove off as both men walked Lemmon into a deli shop. Neither noticed a nondescript vehicle with tinted windows parked across the street on St. Nicholas Avenue. A man occupied the backseat taking snapshots at the three men walking into the shop. The young detective in the front manned the wheel and kept obligatory watch on the street while his colleague took photos. He wasn’t blissful about the stake-out work, but consoled himself that it was worth being active at least for now. The walkie-talkie lying on the passenger seat emitted a squawking buzz. He picked it up and hiked up the volume.

“Unit two, come in for unit one,” a voice spoke to him.

“Unit one, this is unit two,” he answered.

“Unit two, what’s your sit-rep, over?”

“Suspects just arrived their destination. We’ve got snapshots confirming that.”

“Roger that, Unit two. Return to base.”

“Copy unit one,” he said, then switched off. He keyed the vehicle to life then half-turned to his colleague. “You ready, partner?”

“Yeah, I’m done.” He sat down and began taking his camera apart. “Let’s blow this joint.”

The detective put the car in gear and drove away.

* * *

Lemmon walked sandwiched in the middle as Wilkes’s men walked toward the end of the deli shop; the doo-rag came behind him. The customers in the shop and the people selling the counter went on with their business like Lemmon and both hoodlums were invincible.

Through a back door they made it into a narrow alleyway. A short walk and the hood in the lead came to a back door of another building and turned the handle. One of their colleague stood behind that door; they spoke with a head nod before continuing into a busy kitchen. There was a bedlam of activity happening in there, everybody talking and racing back and forth, frenetic like in a beehive. Lemmon inhaled garlic, onions and soup. He didn’t have time to look around as doo-rag pushed him to keep walking. They huddled past the row of cooking stoves and boiling pots, and like in the deli, no one working in the kitchen made like they noticed them. They went up a flight of stairs and entered a corridor. The one in front came to a stop at the end and tapped on a door. The door opened and he stepped aside and motioned Lemmon to enter.

A man stood behind the door cradling a machine pistol. His eyes sized Lemmon up before pointing where Lemmon should go: at the velvet curtain behind him. No word was exchanged as Lemmon followed where his finger and walked into the lion’s den.

It was a large room with open windows at every corner; a chandelier adorned the high ceiling. Wilkes’s bulky frame occupied a glass table where he was engrossed in a phone conversation. Two black women lay languidly on a sofa, their dainty clothes barely shielded their nakedness. One of them held a glass tube pipe in her hand, sucking on the thin handle. Their eyes were glazed and listless. They smiled at Lemmon; their smile turned to a girlish chortle. Lemmon wrinkled his nose and gagged from the portent smoke; he fanned the air in front of his face.

“What’s up, old man?” Wilkes bellowed in good humor as he came from behind the table. He wore a white shirt with suspenders. His shirt was open to display the gold neck chains dangling from his chest. “I was kinda looking for you last night. We were just getting to know each other.”

Lemmon shook his offered hand warily. “I said what I wanted to say. I had other matters to take care of.”

“Ain’t that so. My girls and I were having ourselves a party, I thought I’d have you around but I didn’t see your brake lights anymore. What was your name again, old man?”

“Lemmon Grandee,” he said.

“Lemmon. Kinda like the fruit, right?” Wilkes laughed.

“Yeah, kinda like the fruit. Except with a double ‘M’.”

“That’s a cool name. So what sort of business you want to pick with me?”

“You knew my daughter?”

Wilkes raised an eyebrow. “Knew?”

“Yes. Her name was Gloria.”

Wilkes made like he was trying to recall the name, then shook his head. “Tough titty, old man. You’re gonna have to try harder. I know plenty of bitches, and either could’ve been a Gloria. Catch my drift?”

“She had a friend named Shontelle. My daughter had a little boy named Randall.”

“Oh yeah, I think I know her. Yeah, I think I do now . . . that Gloria. So, you her old man?”

Lemmon nodded. “I am her old man. Before she died.”

“Ain’t that a shame,” said Wilkes. “One minute you’re here, and next minute your ass is off to God. Life’s a b***h, ain’t it?”

He motioned Lemmon to a couch next to the women, asked if he wanted anything to drink. Lemmon declined. They sat across from each other, a lion sizing up a lamb, while the women kept on their drug-induced socializing. One of them was concentrating on carving white perpendicular lines of coke on a glass surface with a razor. Lemmon couldn’t help watching how dedicated she appeared to be to the task. The other edged closer with a straw in her hand. Both women took turns snorting the lines of coke, giving a satisfying sigh, followed by repeatedly sniffles when they were done. Lemmon turned his eyes away from them, disgusted by the sight.

“You like what you see, old man?” said Wilkes.

Lemmon said nothing.

“Ain’t no shame being embarrassed, old man. You want a hit? It’ll take a lot of stress off your mind if you do.”

“What is that?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know what this is? Where you come from, old man?”

“I’m from a small town called Sheffield.”

“Where the f**k is that? Alaska?”

“Mid-west.”

“Never heard of it. A good thing you said it’s small. You ain’t never heard of coke before? That’s pure grade.”

“It’s poison,” Lemmon blurted. “That’s what it is. It’s what you got my daughter hooked on.”

“I ain’t no fisherman, old man. Ain’t no bitches getting hooked here. They can’t help but love what I’ve got, and I can’t help that.”

“My daughter’s dead because of you,” said Lemmon.

“What you say we talk other important things first. Who sent you, old man?”

“No one sent me. I’m here on my own.”

“Bullshit,” Wilkes turned cold. “You some hick who came here just to bug me about his b***h little girl?”

“My daughter was no b***h,” Lemmon emphasized.

“The f**k she was,” said Wilkes. “The b***h is dead, and that’s the way it’s going to be.”

“I didn’t come here to talk to you about her. I’m here for her son. My grandson, Randall.”

“Oh, so now we’re switching from bitches to grand kids now, is that it?” Wilkes waited for Lemmon to react. When he didn’t, he exploded into a chuckling fit. “I’m just f*****g with you, old man. You’re way too uptight for yourself, grandpa. What makes you think I’ve got her kid anyway? What do I look like to you, some lost child service program? You think I’ve got every b***h’s kid hiding in my closet somewhere?”

“I don’t care what you do with them,” Lemmon was getting tired with the running-around talking. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’m not with the police, Mr. Wilkes. I’m not here to judge whatever it is you do for a living or how you live. My daughter is dead because of you, and you know that’s the truth. Maybe someday you’ll answer for that. Right now, all I want is my grandson. Give me my grandson, and this will be the last time you ever see me.”

Wilkes didn’t say anything. His eyes bore straight at Lemmon, scrutinizing him for any flaws.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man. You’ve done nothing but waste my time talking with you.” Wilkes stood up. “It’s time you skip, old man. Take a hike and don’t ever come near me anymore. I ain’t into hurting old folks, but don’t push it next time. You try that s**t you did at the club again, and I ain’t gonna take it lightly.”

Wilkes returned to his desk and pressed a buzzer button. Two of his men bounced into the room from behind the curtain. They pulled Lemmon to his feet and pushed him toward the curtained doorway. Lemmon wrenched him arm free in one swift motion and ran to Wilkes’s desk.

“Where is my grandson?” Lemmon slammed his fists on his desk, his face pulsed with anger and hurt. One of Wilkes’s men fell on him and he cried when the man pressed his face down on the glass table and yanked his arm up his backside before pulling him upright. “Please, I’m begging you! Just give me my grandson.That’s all I want!”

“I ain’t giving you s**t, old man,” Wilkes growled. “That’s my boy, and he ain’t going nowhere!” He turned to his hoods. “Get this old man outta here, and cover his face up so he don’t find this place no more.”

“Please . . . please, I’m begging you! I’m f*****g begging you!”

They spurn him around and propelled him past the curtained doorway, still struggling to be free.

Out in the corridor, the one with the doo-rag stuffed Lemmon’s mouth with a piece of cloth, then tied another behind his head, muffling his screams. They bounded Lemmon’s hands behind his back and threw a cloth over his head, nearly pushing his glasses off his face. Gripping both arms, they lifted him off the ground and propelled him from the corridor. Lemmon trembled with fear under his blindfold and thought he felt the onset of another heart attack knocking in his chest. His captors cursed and snapped at him to quit struggling as they forced him down a flight of stairs. Lemmon couldn’t tell if they were leading him through the same route they had come from; all he heard was the shuffling of their feet.

They went through another corridor, past several doors before stepping into daylight. Lemmon jumped with fright when he heard a car tot its horn. A door opened then one of the men lowered his head and shoved him inside the vehicle. Everyone else settled in then the car went in motion. Lemmon kept his calm as they drove off, figuring no harm was going to come to him. The racing beat in his heart was starting to return to normal.

The ride felt long with all the turns they made. He was relieved when the car drew to a stop and the man beside him untied his wrists, removed the cloth from his head and undid the gag in his mouth. He blinked his eyes and coughed momentarily; the cloth in his mouth stank of someone’s sweat. His glasses fell from his face with the right handle broken off. They pushed him out of the car and he looked around surprised that they had returned him to his hotel.

“Don’t come back, old man,” the one with the doo-rag aimed a gun-shooting finger at him before they sped off.

Lemmon watched the car merge with the traffic and disappear from view. People walked past him, unmindful of what he’d just gone through. A wino stopped in front of him and asked if he had spare change. Lemmon shook his head dejectedly and entered the hotel, unaware he was being watched from a vehicle parked across the street.

* * *

Lemmon entered his room and stood by the table holding his glasses and the broken handle in his hand, wondering what he was going to do with both. It was the only pair he had. Abby had always pressed him to get a spare in case something like this happened. How stubborn he had being and how right she always was especially when it involved looking after him. He left everything on the table, took off his clothes and went into the bathroom to have his shower.

Someone knocked on his door minutes later while he was putting on fresh pair of clothes. Lemmon froze in his action, assuming Wilkes had sent his men back to fetch him once more . . . or maybe it was Reggie. That thought seemed to calm him down, but still he approached the door cautiously and pressed his ear to it as the knock sounded again.

“Who is it?”

A woman’s voice answered: “Open the door, Mr. Grandee. It’s Detective Miriam Quintez.”

Lemmon never thought he’d heard a sweet voice before. He undid the lock and opened the door for her. Detective Miriam Quintez entered his room and Lemmon offered her the chair. She unbuttoned her jacket as she sat down and crossed one leg over the other. Lemmon caught a peak of her gun wedged in its holster under her armpit.

“This is a comfy hotel you found yourself, Mr. Grandee,” she trailed her eyes everywhere. “Fancy location, too.”

Lemmon finished buttoning his shirt. “Yes, I love the view of the park from here. Can’t say I commend the neighbors, but who am I to complain. And please, I’d prefer you call me Lemmon or Lem. That’s what my friends call me.”

“Very well, Lem it is then. I see you’ve been having some fun making friends here and there in the city.”

“I’m open-minded to whomever comes into my life. My mission though is finding my grandson.”

“You went to see Shawn Wilkes today. Just as you went to see him last night at that rave club up in the Bronx. Remember the club?”

“I do,” he answered with a wary voice. “How did you know?”

“I’ve had my eye out on you since you left by my office. I figured you were going to do something grossly stupid like meet with Wilkes, and you’re lucky you’re still breathing. Do you know how much danger you brought to yourself, and what you undoubtedly started because of it?”

“I’m sorry you aren’t happy about my approach, detective,” said Lemmon. “When you and I talked, I got the feeling you and the police aren’t doing anything about arresting this scoundrel.”

“That doesn’t mean we aren’t working on something. What do you think we do, fall asleep on our asses in the station?”

“No, I don’t!” Lemmon roared with annoyance.

Miriam did flitch at his reaction, though resisted response. Lemmon saw he’d lost his temper and promptly reigned in on himself.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to speak that way.”

“Don’t be. We are doing all what we can, Lem. The wheel of justice grinds pretty slow, but it does grind forward. I do sympathize with what you’ve been through because of your daughter, I really do. But be as it may, that’s no right to take matters into your own hands. Tell me something, what did you think you were hoping to accomplish anyway? You think Wilkes was going to hand you back your grandson just like that scot-free?”

“To tell the truth, I wasn’t really thinking of anything, if not just to confront him, to let him know the girl he murdered had a father and I want what’s hers. Come to think of it, I’m surprised how he sent his men here to get me.”

“I know how,” she said. “And I promise you’re not going to like it.” She got up with his coat in her hand and threw it at him. “Put it on. There’s something I need you to see.”

“Is it something I’m going to regret?” he asked warily as he finished buttoning his shirt before wearing his coat.

“Probably, but it’ll give you a clear picture of what you’re dealing with.”

Lemmon didn’t forget his watch and hat this time. He was downcast when he picked up his glasses with its broken arm.

“Do you think we can stop somewhere so I can have this fixed?” he held them in front of her.

“I think I’ve got some glue in my car,” she buttoned her jacket. “Come on, Lem. Time’s wasting.”

Lemmon fixed his tie then followed her out of his room and locked the door.

Her cruiser was parked across the street. She opened the passenger door for him before going around to the driver’s side. She rummaged inside the glove compartment and found a small bottle of glue and gave it to him before starting her car. Lemmon didn’t think it would be enough to do the trick, and the handle kept slipping off as Miriam drove. He gave up and wore his glasses the way it was and pocketed the broken handle.

They made no conversation as she drove, and Lemmon was a little unsettled to ask where they were going. He presumed the station, but that idea gradually left his mind as they drove away from the city.

They drove north along 10thAvenue then Miriam took a left into 206thStreet and drove toward the north-east section of the Harlem River.

Lemmon passed block after block of warehouse buildings, each standing like lengthy squared building with the street cutting through their space. Trucks were parked beside the curb nearly blocking their path. Miriam drove to the end of the street which ended in a cul-de-sac. The end was enclosed by a chain fence, beyond which was the river. Several police vehicles were parked at the entrance. Miriam honked her horn and one of them reversed and made space for her to get closer. She brought her car to a stop ten feet from where a bunch of cops and plainclothes detectives were huddled together. They all looked grim with their hands stuck in their pockets. An ambulance parked near the chained fence with its back doors open. Its attendants stood beside it waiting on whomever.

Miriam gestured at Lemmon to come alone. He came down from the car and fell in step behind her, nervous like he’d never been. The detectives broke themselves up as they approached. Miriam confided with them while Lemmon stood aside, holding his glasses upright with one hand and stared at the flowing river and the cluster of tenement buildings beyond it. A blustery wind blew against him, circulating the awful smell of the river.

He felt a tug at his jacket and turned to see Miriam pulling him to come with her. They approached several park benches which stood on a walkway three feet from the chain fence. Something laid on one of the benches with a white cloth draped over it; it had the form of a human. A gust of bile percolated toward Lemmon’s mouth at whatever corpse hid under the cloth. Suddenly he didn’t want to be there; he wanted to turn around and walk away. He wanted Miriam to take him back to his hotel right away. The words weighted on his mouth but he couldn’t speak, cowering with fright that he knew whoever it was the cloth hid from his view.

Before he could protest, Miriam raised it and Lemmon’s eyes widened with shocking recognition at the sight of the dead man lying on the bench, his eyes closed as if he was yet to come awake; his nostrils and lips caked with blood. Lemmon’s features turned pale. He gasped and raised his arm to his mouth, fearing he was about to vomit. He backed away from the sight unable to stop moaning as he relieved the image of Reggie lying dead before his eyes.

Lemmon shuffled to the end of the walkway and reclined himself against the fence, still gagging and coughing. He spat phlegm a couple of times; he took no pleasure in the wind that threatened to blow his hat off his head. His hands shook as he delved into his pockets and found his handkerchief and wiped his mouth.

He was fighting to contain himself when Detective Miriam joined him. She felt sorry for him as she saw the stricken look on his face.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He nodded, though it was obvious he was far from all right. The shock of seeing Reggie’s corpse was going to add to his wall of haunting images.

“I know him,” he gasped, looking at the ambulance folks who now carried Reggie’s corpse on a stretcher away from the scene. “I know the kid. His name is—”

“Reggie Timmins,” Miriam said to him. Her voice was sympathetic. “Yes, I know him, too. Former junkie, he and his girlfriend, Shontelle Lowens. He once was one of Shawn Wilkes’ dealers. I’d hate to say it but his death is no way accidental.”

“What happened to him?”

“Someone beat him up seriously, and then drove a four-inch blade into his sternum. Coroner says it took him a while, maybe a half hour, to bleed out. One of the warehouse truckers found him lying here and gave us a buzz. What do you think are the chances that it wasn’t your friend Wilkes?”

Lemmon lowered his head. “Oh my God. He was with me last night, at the club. I wanted him to help point Wilkes out for me. He’d be alive if it weren’t for me.”

He looked at Miriam for confirmation. The look she gave him was all the conformation to let him know he was correct. If he’d remained in bed last night and consoled himself, Reggie would still be alive right now.

“It’s my fault,” he murmured. “It’s my stupid fault.”

Miriam didn’t say anything and didn’t need to; Lemmon saw the incriminating glimmer in her eyes.

“Come on, let’s go,” she said.

She took his arm and pulled him in the direction of her car. Lemmon docilely went with her.