Grave Apparel (59 page)

The cab stopped in front of a compact
fourstory
apartment
building
where the Lees had
lived.
It had a plain institutional look, squatting among more ornate neighbors. The brick had been painted
brown
once.
Now
it
was
chipping
off.

Lacey
stepped
into
the
small
entryway
between
the
front
door
and
the interior
door
and
buzzed
the
bell for
the
manager.
She
heard
a
slow
shuffle
of
flipflops
as
a
woman
took
her
time
walking
to
the
locked
interior
door.
A
kerchief
covered
her
hair
and
a
cigarette
dangled
from
her
mouth.
She
wore
denim
capris
and
a
red
sweatshirt
that
read,
WHAT
ARE
YOU
LOOKING
AT
?
Lacey
guessed her
age at
a hardearned
forty.

The
woman
cracked
open the door to the
foyer
and
parked
herself in the
doorway.
“Yeah?”
A lightskinned African Amer ican
woman,
she took a
squintyeyed
look at
Lacey
and
drew
on
the
cigarette.
“You
lookin’
to
rent,
I
got
nothing
for
you.
This
ain’t yuppieville.
Not yet, it
ain’t.”

“I’m a
reporter.
I’m not looking to
rent.”

“A
reporter?”
A
little
interest
flared
in
the
woman’s
eyes.
She
stepped
into
the
small
foyer,
opened
the
front
door,
and
scanned
the
street
for
the camera
crew.
“What kind
of
reporter?”

“I’m a
newspaper
reporter,”
Lacey
said. “I write for
The
Eye
Street
Observer
.”

The
woman
blew
smoke
from her mouth and nose, not quite in
Lacey’s
face,
but
close. “Not
The
Post
?”

“Sorry.”

“Me too.
Name’s
Thelma DelRio. Del, capital Rio. Spell it right if you use it.
Now,
whatta you
want
to
know?’

“A
family
was
evicted
here
recently.
The Lee
family.
Right after
Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah.
I hate it when
there’s
kids. Breaks my damn heart, it
does,”
Thelma said.
“Two
little girls. Nice. Quiet. But whatcha

gonna do? I
ain’t
the landlord. Lady
don’t
pay the rent, landlord
don’t
like
that.
’Fore
you
know
it your
butt’s
out in the
street.”

“What were the kids’ names?”

“Um,
Jasmine’s
the older one. Little
firecracker,
she is. Lit tle
one’s
quieter,
her
name’s,
uh—Lily something. Lily
Rose.”
Bingo.
“Can I see their old apartment?” It
wasn’t
likely
it
would
tell
Lacey
anything,
but
maybe it
would
give
her an idea of what kind of life
they
led.

“Nah,”
Thelma shook her head. “Occupied.
Folks
who actu ally paid
first
and last
month’s
rent and a security
deposit.”

“What kind of apartment is it?”

“What kind of dumbass question is that?” Thelma took an
other
drag
on
the
cigarette,
then
blew
it
out
with
her
next
words.
“What do you
expect?
An apartment. Bathroom, kitchen,
living
room, bedroom. Not bad as
they
go.”

“How
long did the Lee
family
live
here?”

“ ’Bout three
years,”
Thelma said. “Miz Lee, she had a
job.
Some restaurant
somewhere.
Then an
office job.
She tried hard for those kids. Then she stopped trying so hard. Drugs,
liquor,
lost her
job.
Arrested.
They
was
on food stamps. Stopped pay ing rent. I cut ’em some slack,
but
only so much I can do.
Takes
awhile
to kick ’em out, you
know.
She stopped coming home. Left the kids alone a lot.
She’d
come back, go
away,
come back.
She
was
sorry.
Anna
Mai
told
me
she
was
sorry
a
hundred
times.
Well,
ma’am, ‘sorry’
don’t
pay the
rent.”

“Oh, Lord, those poor
kids.”

“And
that Jasmine, what a little
grownup
she is!
Taking
care of her
sister,
making sure
they
get fed. More sense in her little
finger
than her damn mother has in her whole
body.
She’s
the parent in that
family.
And that Lily Rose, sweet little
girl.”

“Do you
know
if
they
had
any
friends in the
building?
Or in the neighborhood? Someone
they
might stay with? Perhaps a Miss Charday? Is there a Charday in your
building?”

Thelma
gave
her
a
sharp
look.
“I
mind
my
own
damn
busi
ness.
Don’t
know
no
Chardays.”

Lacey
was
pretty
sure
she
knew
Miss
Charday.
“Do
you
know
where the girls might be
now?
Where I can
find
them?”

“How
am I supposed to
know
that? Do I look
like
some kind of babysitter?” Thelma
was
back on her guard. She took a
final
drag and
flicked
the
butt
into a dead
bush
by the
door.
“I
don’t
know
nothing,”
Thelma said. “I
didn’t
know
nothing yesterday

when that man come
sniffing
around asking about the
Lees.
And I
ain’t
gonna
know
nothing if someone else come round my door
tomorrow.
Reporters or no
reporters.”

“There
was
a
man?”
Lacey
tried
not
to
show
her
alarm.
“Was
it a cop?”

Thelma thought about it, then shook her head. “He
wasn’t
no
cop.
Didn’t
look
like
no
cop.
Dressed
better.
You
know
cops.”
She
stepped
back
into
the
doorway
and
lit
another
ciga
rette, taking a long
slow
drag,
blowing
out
impressive,
foul smelling rings.

The
Santa
Dude?
Or
someone
from
DeadFed
dot
com
snooping
for
a
story?
“Have
you seen him around here before?”
“Don’t
know.”
Her
eyes
narrowed.
“White
guy.
All
look
alike
to me.
Sorry.”

“Look, Thelma, this is important. Those kids, Jasmine and her
sister,
they
could be in
danger.
I just
want
to help them. If that guy comes back,
would
you call me?” She pulled out her
business
card and
offered
it to the
woman.
“And
don’t
tell him
anything.
He’s
up to no
good.”

“Hell, I coulda told you
that.”
Thelma squinted and read the card.
“Lacey
Smithsonian.
Eye
Street
Observer.
That you?”

“That’s
me. I
have
some
new
coats for
them.”

Thelma
looked
at the bag. “Maybe I should hold on to them for the girls, if I see
them.”

“No thanks. I need to see the girls myself,
make
sure
they’re
okay.
Don’t
worry,
Thelma,
I’ll
tell the
world
how
good you were to them when
they
lived
here,
how
you tried to help
them.”
“Well,
don’t
tell ’em
that,”
the
woman
finally
said, smiling for the
first
time and
showing
her gold tooth. “I got a reputation to uphold.
Don’t
want
every
damn fool in the city thinking
I’ll
give
’em
a
handout.
But
long
as
you
ain’t
no
damn
social
worker.
It’s
Thelma DelRio, in case you put my name in the
paper.”
She stepped back into the hall and shut the interior door hard.

“Yeah,”
Lacey
said to the closed
door.
She turned and sur
veyed
the neighborhood.
“You’re
a peach, Thelma. And if the Santa Dude comes back around, I hope
you’re
even
less help to
him.”

She
walked
the couple of blocks to the little stoneandbrick church, and the Nativity where Jasmine had “borrowed”
the
shepherd’s
robe. It
looked
very
different
in the daylight without

the
Christmas
lights
and
the
crowd
milling
around
Vic’s
mother’s
wild
pink
Cadillac.
The
crèche
looked
forlorn
and
bare.

Lacey
knocked
on the
church’s
locked
door.
No
answer.
Per
haps
there
was
never
anyone
there
except
at
services.
She
walked
around the church. The
vacant
lot with the stable
looked
scruffier.
The Holy
Family,
the
Wise
Men, and the plaster shep herds were still
waiting
for the Christ Child. The missing robes had still not been replaced.