The Righteous Men (2006) (4 page)

The first crack in the ice came the way it always does from just one person.

Will found a man who had known Macrae. He seemed vaguely shifty but, above
all, bored, with nothing better to do than to while away a few daytime hours
talking to a reporter. He rambled on and on, detailing long gone and wholly
irrelevant local disputes and controversies as if they would be of burning
interest to The
New York Times
. ‘You want to put that in your
paper, my friend!’ he would say over and over, with a bronchial, smoker’s
laugh. Heh-heh-heh. Humouring folks like this was, Will concluded, an
occupational hazard.

‘So what about this Howard Macrae?’ said Will, when his new
acquaintance finally took a breath during an analysis of the flawed stop light
system on Fulton Street.

It turned out he did not know Macrae that well, but he knew others who did.
He offered to hook Will up with them, introducing the reporter each time with
the priceless character reference: ‘He’s OK.’

Soon Will was forming a picture. Macrae was a certifiable, card-carrying
low-life. No doubt about it. He ran a brothel; had done for years. The sleaze
community seemed to have a high regard for him: apparently he was good at being
a pimp.

He ran a functioning whorehouse, kept it looking all right even took the
girls’ clothes to the Laundromat. Will got inside, to see the rooms for
himself. The best he could say for it was that it was not nearly as disgusting
as he had imagined. It looked a bit like a clinic in a poor neighbourhood.
There were no needles on the floor. He even noticed a water-cooler.

The whores told him the same story. ‘Sir, I can’t tell you anymo’
than what the lady already told you: he sold ass.

Tha’s what he did. He collected the money, gave some to us, and kept
the rest for hisself.’

Howard seemed to have been a contented sort of pimp.

The brothel was his domain and he was obviously a genial host. At night,
Will discovered, he would put on loud music and dance.

It was late in the evening before Will found what he had been looking for
all day: someone genuinely mourning the death of Howard Macrae. Will had
contacted the undertakers, who were waiting for the body to be transferred to
them from the police morgue. He got the cab to drive over to the funeral home, a
rundown place that was depressing even by the standards of the rest of the
neighbourhood. Will wondered how many of these ‘garden-variety gangland
killings’ they had to clear up.

Only the receptionist seemed to be around, a young black woman with the
longest, most outlandishly decorated nails Will had ever seen. They were the
only spot of brightness in the entire place.

He asked if anyone had been in touch to organize a funeral for Howard
Macrae. Any relatives? No, none. The girl on the desk had the impression Macrae
had no family. Will tutted: he needed more personal detail, more colour, if
this piece was to work out.

Will pushed harder. Had no one been in touch about Mr Macrae, no one at all?
‘Oh, now that you mention it,’ said Nail Girl. At last, thought
Will. ‘There was one woman, called in around lunchtime. Asked when we
were going to have the funeral. Wanted to pay her respects.’

She found a Post-it with the woman’s details. Will dialled the number
there and then. When a woman answered, he said he was calling from the funeral
home: he wanted to talk about Howard Macrae. ‘Come right over,’ she
said.

In the cab, Will instantly reached for his BlackBerry, tapping out a quick
email to Beth. There was a rhythm to all this electronic communication: BlackBerry
by day, when he knew his wife was near a computer terminal, text message by
night when she was not.

Quick psychology lesson needed. Need
to get interview with woman who knew the victim. Have led her to believe I work
for funeral company. Will now have to reveal truth: how do I do that without
getting her so angry she throws me out of her house? Need yr considered opinion
asap, am just few mins away.

xx W

He waited; but there was no reply.

It was twilight when Will tapped on the screen door. A woman
poked her head out of the upstairs window. Early forties, Will guessed; black,
attractive. Her hair was straightened, with an auburn hue. ‘Coming right
down.’

She introduced herself as Letitia. She did not want to give her last name.

‘Look, my name is Will Monroe and I apologize.’ He began babbling
that this was his first big story, that he had only lied because he was
desperate not to let his bosses down, when he noticed that she was neither
doing nor saying anything.

She was not throwing him out, just listening to him with a faintly puzzled
expression. His voice petering out now, he gave her a pre-cooked line: ‘Look,
Letitia. This may be the only way the truth about Howard Macrae will ever come out.’
But he could see it was not needed. On the contrary, Letitia seemed rather glad
to have the chance to talk.

She gestured him away from the front door towards a living room cluttered
with children’s toys.

‘Were you related to Howard?’ he began.

‘No,’ Letitia smiled. ‘No, I only met that man once.’
That man. Here we go
, thought Will.
Now we’re going to get the
real dirt on this Macrae
. ‘But once was enough.’

Will felt a surge of excitement.
Maybe Letitia knows a secret about
Macrae dark enough to explain his murder. I’m ahead of the police
.

‘When was this?’

‘Nearly ten years ago. My husband — he’ll be back soon was
in jail.’ She saw Will’s face. ‘No! He hadn’t done
anything.

He was innocent. But we couldn’t pay the bail to get him out. He was
in that prison cell night after night. I couldn’t bear it. I grew
desperate.’ She looked up at Will, her eyes hoping that he understood the
rest. That she would not have to spell it out.

‘Everyone knows there’s only two ways to make quick money round
here. You sell drugs or …’

Now Will got it. ‘Or you sell … or you go see Howard.’

‘Right. I hated myself for even thinking about it. I grew up singing
choir in the AME church, Mr Monroe.’

‘Will. I understand.’

‘I was raised right. But I had to get my husband out of that jail. So
I went to … Howard’s place.’

Without looking down, Will scribbled in his notebook.
Eyes glittering
.

‘I was going to sell the one thing I owned.’ Now she was tearing
up. ‘I couldn’t even go in, I was sort of hiding in the shadows,
hesitating. Howard Macrae spotted me there. I think he had a broom in his hand,
sweeping. He asked me what I wanted. Kind of, “Can I help you?” I
told him what I wanted.

I told him why I needed the money. I didn’t want him to think, you
know. And then this man, who I never met before, did the oddest thing.’

Will leaned forward.

‘Right there and then, he marched off to what I guessed was his own
room in that … place. He unlocked it and, straight away, he starts
stripping the bed.’

‘Stripping the bed?’

‘Uh-huh. I was scared at first, I didn’t know what he was about
to do to me. He put these blankets in a pile, and then he gets to work on his
bedside table. Starts packing it up.

Starts unplugging his CD player, takes off his watch. It all goes in this
big pile. And then he begins moving all this stuff, shooing me out of the way.
Now this bed is one of those really good ones, big with a deep, strong
mattress, like a topof-the-range bed. So it’s heavy but he’s
dragging it and lugging it, till it’s outside. And then he opens up his
truck, a real beat-up old thing, and he loads up the bed — pillows and
all — into the back. Then all the rest of it. I swear, I had no idea what
in God’s name the man was doing. Then he winds down the window and tells
me to meet him just around the block, on the corner of Fulton Street. ‘See
you there in five,’ he says.

‘Well, now I’m mystified. So I walk round the block, just like
the man said. And I see his truck, parked outside a pawn shop. And there’s
Howard Macrae pointing at all the stuff, and men are coming out the shop and
unloading it, and the boss is handing Macrae cash. And next thing I know,
Macrae is giving the money to me.’

‘To you?’

‘Uh-huh. You got it. To me. It was the strangest thing. I wondered why
he didn’t just give me some cash, if that’s what he wanted to do,
but no, he insists on making this big sacrifice, like he’s selling all
his worldly goods or something.

And I’ll never forgot what he said to me as he did it. “Here’s
some money. Now go bail your husband — and don’t become a whore.”
And I listened to what the man said. I bailed my husband and I never did sell
my body, not ever. Thanks to that man.’

There was a sound at the front door. Will looked around.

He could hear several voices drifting through: three or four young children
and a man.

‘Hiya honey.’

‘Will, this is my husband, Martin. And these are my girls, Davinia and
Brandi and this is my boy — Howard.’ Letitia gave Will a firm
stare, silencing him. ‘Martin, this man is from the newspaper. I’m
just seeing him out.’

As they reached the front door, Will whispered. ‘Your husband doesn’t
know?’

‘No, and I don’t plan on telling him now. No man should know
such a thing about his wife.’

Will was about to say he believed the opposite, that most men would be
honoured to know their wives were prepared to make such an extreme sacrifice,
but he thought better of it.

‘And yet his son is called Howard.’

‘I told him it was because I always liked the name. But / know the
real reason, and that’s good enough. Howard is a name my boy can wear
with pride. I’m telling you Mr Monroe: the man they killed last night may
have sinned every day of his God-given life — but he was the most
righteous man I have ever known.’

T
hat night in the kitchen
where they did all their talking, Will followed traditional custom. Beth was
cooking pasta, he was tagging along behind her, washing each pan and spoon as
she finished with them. This was smart strategy, he reckoned: forward planning,
prevent the washing-up mountain after dinner. Will was talking Beth through his
day.

‘The guy’s a scumbag pimp, but when he sees this woman in
distress, he sells his most personal possessions to help her.

A woman he doesn’t even know. Isn’t that incredible?’

Beth was stirring, saying nothing.

‘I’m not sure what Glenn will make of it, but this woman, Letitia,
felt Macrae had saved her life. That he had saved
her
. That’s
something isn’t it? I mean, that will make a piece.’

Beth seemed faraway. Will took that as a sign of success, as if his point
had struck home, stunning his wife into contemplative silence.

‘Anyway, enough about that. How was your day?’

Beth looked up, her stirring hand stilled. She held him in a long, cold gaze.

‘Oh Christ, I just realized—’ Beth’s note from this
morning.
Big day today
. He had read it and forgotten it. Instantly.

Beth said nothing, just waited for him to explain himself. I went straight
to work and then I got stuck into this story.

I must have had my phone on silent while I was interviewing that woman. Did
you call?’

‘“I just realized.” How can you say that? You can’t “just
realize” this, Will. That’s not how it works. Not this.’

She was speaking with that voice of iron calm which almost scared Will. It
was reserved for when Beth was truly furious.

He imagined she had acquired this kind of steel as part of her psychological
training: never lose your cool. He admired it in the abstract, but could not
bear to be on the receiving end.

‘I’ve been thinking about nothing else for weeks and you “just
realized”. You completely forgot!’ Now the volume was rising. ‘You
had all day—’

‘I was working—’

‘You’re always working or thinking about work. You don’t even
remember what should be the most important thing in our lives, and I can’t
eat or sleep or shower or do anything without thinking about it.’ Her
eyes were reddening.

‘Tell me what they said.’

‘You don’t get off that easy, Will. If you wanted to know what
they said, you should have come to the hospital with me. You should have been
there with me.’

Each of those last four words were heavy as anchors. Of course he should.
How could he have forgotten? It was true what she said: he had thought about
nothing but this story from the moment he woke up.

He knew he needed to break out of this procedural stage of the conversation
— why had he missed the appointment? — and move fast onto the
substance: what had the doctors said? But how to make the shift? There was only
one person he knew who would instantly understand how to pull off such a
conversational manoeuvre, what psychological trick to play. That person was
Beth.

‘Babe, I am completely in the wrong. I can’t believe I missed
that appointment. And I don’t deserve to know what happened. But I really
want to. We will talk about this whole other thing — me obsessing about
work I promise. But, right now, I think you should just tell me what happened.’

She was sitting now, still holding the wooden spoon. In a barely-audible
whisper, as if the air had been sucked out of her, she finally spoke. ‘They
didn’t examine me; it was just a “chat”. And they said we
should keep trying for another three months before they’ll consider
treatment.’ She sniffed deeply, reaching for a tissue. ‘They said
we are both perfectly healthy, we should give it more time before “taking
the next step”.’

‘That’s good news, isn’t it?’ said Will, half-aware
that this was a tactical error — the premature move into cheer-up mode before
the silent, listening phase was complete. Rationally, he knew that what Beth
needed most was to talk, to get it all out. Not to have to argue, explain or
defend anything. He knew that in his head, but his mouth had had different
ideas, instantly wanting to make things better.