I'm Glad I Did Page 12

  “You’re really upset about this, aren’t you?” Janny asked. Her tone softened ever so slightly.

  “I am,” I admitted. “I didn’t even want to tell you I knew her.”

  My mom thought a moment as she took a final sip of coffee. “The article said she jumped out of a window, right? In my experience, women rarely kill themselves that way. Too violent, too frightening. They usually choose pills or carbon monoxide, but someone on drugs …” She shrugged. “She might have fallen out the window in a stupor.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve been looking into it, and I read somewhere that one of the neighbors heard her screaming as she fell. That’s been haunting me.”

  “Screaming,” Janny remarked. “That’s strange. I’ve been told jumpers almost never scream. You remember Frank McGrath, don’t you? He was the one who mentioned that to me.”

  My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. Frank McGrath?

  “Mom,” I managed, “thank you. This has been one of the most enlightening conversations we’ve ever had.” And with that I folded my napkin, kissed my mother on the cheek, patted Jeff on the head just to annoy him and steeled myself for another long day at the Brill Building.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I knew Luke would be expecting me after work. I couldn’t wait to tell him about my conversation with Janny. I didn’t bother with the elevator; it would be too crowded. Instead, I took the stairs and exploded into Luke’s office—only to find someone sitting on the couch, one of the few surfaces not covered with paper or cartons.

  It was Nick. Damn. Still, I put on a big smile.

  “Hi, JJ,” Luke greeted me from his perch on the edge of the desk. I could tell by his fake-casual voice that something was up. “Nick’s taking a dinner break and telling me stories about my dad and your uncle.”

  I got it. Luke was on a mission to find information about his father and Dulcie any way he could. I knew that this was the time to summon my rarely used patience. If I hadn’t been able to keep my mouth shut last night, I could redeem myself now. Nick grinned at me, flashing strands of corned beef stuck between his teeth. He slugged down the rest of his Dr. Brown’s cream soda.

  “Hey, kiddo, did your uncle ever tell you about him and George and Gamblers Anonymous? You know GA?”

  “Um … no,” I answered. I couldn’t have cared less, but I figured he’d be gone faster if he had the chance to tell his story.

  “Well, they’d both lost so much money on the horses that they had to sell a few of their record companies. That’s when they decided they needed to join GA. They told me they thought they might have a gambling problem. They ‘thought’ ”—Nick made air quotes—“that’s funny right there. Anyways, they found a GA meeting in an office building a few blocks from here. The two of them set off with the best of intentions. I know they did, because in the elevator they practiced saying, ‘My name is Bernie, and my name is George, and I am a gambler.’ Only trouble was, once they got to the building and got on the other elevator, they thought it would be a great idea to bet on what floors it would stop on. Everyone in the elevator made a bet. Turns out they were all GA members. They went up and down, winning and losing until the GA meeting broke.”

  Nick burst out laughing. Luke shot a glance at me.

  “So instead of getting help, George and Bernie got every other degenerate gambler to start gambling again,” Nick added. “They felt bad. They swore they’d go back the following week and try again. I don’t think they did, though. The two of them were something else.”

  Luke laughed, but I could tell it wasn’t real. This was another part of his father’s secret life. “No, I don’t think my dad ever did go back to GA,” he said after a moment. “I remember guys who looked like Nathan Detroit from Guys and Dolls showing up at our place regularly and my dad handing over envelopes.”

  “Bernie and George were characters, all right,” Nick declared. “They were what made this building exciting.” He got up and headed for the door. “So long, kiddos,” he called back. “See you in my office.”

  I waited until I heard the door close. “What was that about?” I whispered.

  “He knows a lot about my dad.” Luke replied simply. “The more stories he tells the more I find out.”

  “That’s what I figured.” I took Nick’s spot on the couch. “So listen, I had a talk with my family’s resident criminal expert about suicide. My mom says, first of all, women rarely jump out windows to kill themselves. They’re much more likely to take pills. It’s less violent and scary. And two, jumpers never scream. That woman at the scene told me she heard Dulcie screaming all the way down. I was thinking of taking these thoughts of mine to Frank McGrath. He’s this cop my mom knows who happened to be the detective at the scene. What do you say?”

  “I’m a step ahead of you, Watson,” Luke said. “Chow down, because we have a meeting at eight tonight with Dulcie’s brother, Lincoln Brown.”

  My mouth fell open. “What? How?”

  “It was easy, actually,” Luke said with a shrug. “And don’t get me wrong. I think going to the police is a good idea. But I’m not sure the police will pay any attention to us unless we have some concrete evidence to show them. The more we can tell them, the more believable we become. So I did a little research and I tracked down Dulcie’s not-so-perfect brother. He had a pretty great football career at Ohio State, and there weren’t many Negro college players back then. Tracking him down was no problem. Guess where he is.”

  “Columbus? Cleveland? Oh, just tell me.”

  “He’s here in New York City. He’s one of two colored academics teaching at NYU.”

  I leaned back in the couch. “How’d you convince him to meet? Did you tell him who you were? You know, that you’re related?”

  “Hardly. My dear Watson, you and I are writing an article for our high school newspaper about Negroes in academia. We want to encourage our colored classmates to pursue higher education and academic careers.”

  I almost laughed. “And he bought that?”

  “Sleuthing is only one of my many talents.” Luke flashed a sly grin. “Acting is another.”

  I wanted to hug him, but I controlled my impulse. “May I suggest we take the subway, Sherlock? I turn into a pumpkin at eleven.”

  “I thought you turned into a bagel,” Luke said.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of a pumpkin bagel?”

  “Remind me never to eat at your house, Watson,” he said. And there was that smile.

  AS FAR AS MY family was concerned, NYU was considered a failsafe school, not in the same league as Barnard. I hadn’t even bothered to apply. But when I got down there, I had to admit that I was pretty impressed. For one thing, the campus was in the Village, right near some great clubs, and the faculty buildings were nicer than those I’d seen at Barnard. Professor Brown’s office was at the top of a steep carpeted stairwell on the second floor of an elegant brownstone near Washington Square Park.

  We were ushered into his office by an adoring female student intern not much older than we were. Dulcie’s brother was standing behind his desk when she introduced us, and it was obvious by the look in her eyes that she worshipped him. I had a feeling all his students, both male and female, looked up to him in the same way. He was an imposing figure, cool and elegant in a tweed jacket and bowtie. At forty-six, he had retained his athletic build and was well over six feet tall. The family resemblance was clear the second we laid eyes on him: he shared Dulcie’s razor-sharp cheekbones and hazel eyes.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice, Professor Brown,” Luke said, extending a hand. “I’m Luke Silver. This is the classmate I mentioned over the phone, JJ Green.”

  I shook Professor Brown’s hand. He graciously asked us to sit down, indicating two wooden chairs facing his desk. “I must say I’m a bit surprised, Luke,” he said, leaning back. “I was expecting to see Negro students writing this article.”

  There was a breath of silence. “I’m half Ne
gro, Mr. Brown.”

  The professor’s eyes briefly shifted to me. “I see.” He smiled warmly. “Now what would you like to know about me that you believe will inspire your classmates?”

  “We’ve researched your academic career,” Luke answered. “And we promise we won’t take too much of your time. We know you’re a busy man. But we would be interested in knowing more about your early life and family relationships. Young people like us are interested in knowing how that affected the direction you took. For instance, we know that your sister, Dulcie Brown, was once a successful singer and songwriter. Can you tell us a little bit about your relationship with her?”

  Professor Brown winced. “Are you aware that she just passed away?” he asked in a low voice.

  Luke nodded. “I read about it in the paper. My condolences. It was one of the reasons I contacted you. I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Professor Brown said gruffly. For a moment I wondered if he was going to ask us to leave. But Luke plowed forward.

  “We couldn’t help but wonder about the different paths your lives had taken. We’d like to know how to encourage our peers to look to you as a role model.”

  Professor Brown clasped his hands together. His eyes wandered to his bookshelves. “We grew up in a small town in North Carolina, and I loved my little sister very much. I took her under my wing. I tried to be a father to her as well as a brother. She needed that. I suppose we both did. But once I left home for college, I couldn’t stay connected to her as much as I wanted to, and eventually we drifted apart.”

  Luke nodded at me. That was my cue. I reached into my handbag and pulled out a notebook and pencil, per what we’d rehearsed. We wanted to look legitimate, and taking notes would do that. It would also help us remember what he said.

  “I know that she had a troubled life,” Luke continued. “It contrasts so strongly with yours. You went from college football star to a brilliant career in academia. Why do you think you navigated your life so smoothly and she had so many struggles?”

  Professor Brown sighed and closed his eyes as if searching for an answer in his memories. His forehead was tightly creased.

  “I don’t know,” he said softly. “Perhaps it helped that I’m a man. It’s easier for men, even colored men. I can only tell you that when she was lost in drug abuse, I tried to help. She rejected my efforts. She held on to a disagreement we had years ago and wouldn’t forgive or forget. It broke my heart to see her in a hell of her own making.” His eyes opened. “When she finally killed herself, I almost felt relief that she was out of her pain.”

  “Did you know that she was writing a memoir?” Luke asked.

  Professor Brown hesitated and for an instant I wondered if Luke had pushed his luck too far. “Yes, she called me wanting to know some information about our mother’s family history. I told her what I knew.”

  I saw by his face that something else had gone on in that conversation. Something that was still hurtful. I made a note of it.

  “Professor Brown, what else can you tell us about your youth that you believe might be helpful to our readers?” I asked to keep the interview charade going.

  Relieved, he launched into a history of his high school and college years, presenting himself as “someone who was always focused on the future, and what he could do in the present to attain his goals.” He stressed community work, integrity, and a proper balance of work and play. He put forth the usual “stay away from drugs” message but couched it in a way that wasn’t preachy or pompous. He seemed to like the sound of his own voice, but I couldn’t blame him. He was so sincere, I began to feel guilty about this not being a real interview. The bottom line was that after listening to him talk, I found him incredibly likable. I had to keep reminding myself that he had betrayed Dulcie.

  Close to half an hour later, he asked if he’d given us enough. Luke and I stood and thanked him. He reached across the desk and shook each of our hands. “It’s been a pleasure,” Professor Brown said. “Please send me a copy of the article. I’d love to show it to my own students.”

  I felt my stomach fall to my toes, but I assured him we would.

  Once we were back on the street, I sneaked a look at Luke. Night had fallen, and the streets were crowded with college kids.

  “What do you think?” I asked him.

  “He’s hiding something,” Luke stated without a hint of doubt.

  “Do you think he was worried about Dulcie’s memoir? Do you think he was afraid she might reveal something about him?”

  “I do,” Luke said. “The question is, was he worried enough to kill her to keep her quiet?”

  I paused at the corner under a streetlamp. “Listen, I’m calling McGrath tomorrow. It may not do any good, but it may get him back to thinking about Dulcie, if he isn’t already.”

  “What are you going to tell him?”

  “That he should be talking to the people we’re talking to. That Dulcie wasn’t in a frame of mind to kill herself. She was clean and having someone over for dinner, and that doesn’t add up. We can leave the neighbor out of it, but both Rosetta and Lincoln should be talking to the police, not to us.”

  Luke thought it over. “Okay. You’re right. Wanna share a cab, Watson?”

  “Only if—”

  “Only if you pay half,” he finished, looping his arm through mine. “I know.”

  “You use your powers of deduction well, Mr. Holmes,” I joked. But it sounded flat. All I could think of was how good it felt having him so close. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice. We walked arms linked, leaning against each other until we found a taxi.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The next morning, I called McGrath the minute I got into work. Luckily, Rona wasn’t in yet, so I could use her phone without being watched and judged. But the policeman who answered told me McGrath wouldn’t be in until one, so I left a message with Good Music’s number.

  Then I made another call. One that I’d been dreading.

  I hadn’t had lunch with Bernie since I broke the news to him about Dulcie’s death. Marla had called me to tell me that he wasn’t feeling well and that he wasn’t coming in to the office for a few days. I hadn’t minded; I’d needed some time off from my uncle after what I’d discovered about his shady dealings with Dulcie. But now I had to clear the air between us and get some straight answers. We set up lunch at The Turf.

  WHEN I SPOTTED BERNIE at our usual table, I was surprised at how tired he looked. He seemed to have lost some weight. His tan face was pasty. Something about him had changed. His sadness was almost palpable. He’d already ordered a drink, and it was half gone, even though I was only a minute late.

  “How’s it going, Justice, baby?” he asked as I sat down. “Writing any smashes?”

  “I’ve written one song I like a lot,” I told him. “Are you okay, Uncle Bernie?”

  “Fine,” he said, downing the rest of his stinger in one gulp. “What does Bobby think of your song?”

  “He hasn’t heard it yet. I’m saving it until just the right artist is looking.”

  Bernie nodded, rattling the ice cubes. “Good plan. Nothing older than yesterday’s song except yesterday’s news.” There was a silence as he motioned for another drink.

  I struggled to find a way to ask my question. “Uncle Bernie, I have something on my mind, and I don’t know quite how to say it.”

  “Well,” said Bernie with a little bit of his old twinkle, “I’ll tell you how to say it once you tell me what it is.”

  “Very funny.” I tried to match his light tone but couldn’t. “This is serious.” I took a ragged breath. “I need to know if you put your name on songs you didn’t write. Specifically on songs written by Dulcie Brown.”

  He blinked a few times at me, waiting for the waiter to return with his next stinger. Then he shrugged. “The short answer is yes.”

  My jaw tightened. “Please, if there’s a long answer, I want to hear it.”

  “Justice, baby, I can
see you’re upset. You have the same look on your face Janny gets.” He managed a sad chuckle. “But you’re still a kid. There’s a lot you don’t know. I found Dulcie Brown when she was nowhere, and I took her somewhere. She had the talent, but I had the smarts, and without me and George, she would have slipped into oblivion like hundreds—no, thousands—of good-looking colored girls who can sing.”

  “And that excuses you?” I returned, a little too loudly. The waiter brought his drink.

  Bernie glanced around and took another sip of his stinger. He lowered his voice. “You gotta understand, this is the music business. Why do you think I take you to lunch? Why do you think I’m trying to teach you everything I know? You have writing talent, but I had another kind. I took artists who didn’t know what they were doing or how to do it, and I invested my time and money in them. I had to find a way of sharing in their success.”

  I shook my head, trying to keep the disgust out of my voice. “But you were their manager and their publisher—and sometimes even their record producer and record company. So you got your own royalty. Why did you have to take theirs, too?”

  Bernie sighed. “Funny. I guess I really forgot that you’re just a kid. You’re too naïve to understand.”

  “So explain it to me.”

  His eyes hardened. “It wasn’t enough considering the investment I made.” He spoke coolly and crisply now, as if I were a business associate. He pulled out a gold toothpick and stuck it between his teeth. “I bet on the song,” he said as he chewed it. “The song is what lives on. After the records stop selling and the singer stops touring, people keep recording a hit song. It lasts a few lifetimes. I needed to be part of those hits forever. Make sense?”

  “What do you mean, ‘needed’?” I leaned across the menu I hadn’t bothered to open. “Uncle Bernie, you wanted to be a bigger part of those songs than you deserved to be. You bet on people who knew you and trusted you, not horses.”