Cemetery Road by Gar Anthony Haywood Page A

was the little brother who had always been smaller and less muscular than me; the only physical advantage I held over my sibling today was in height, and that by only the merest of margins. He was hard and chiseled from head to toe, and his every movement transmitted a message of power and vitality that belied his age. Now he had smarts and good looks, and I couldn’t help but envy his incredible transformation.
    ‘You could have stayed with us, you know,’ he said after dinner, as his wife Andrea did the dishes in the kitchen and he and I sat in the quiet of his living room, absently watching a muted television. ‘We have plenty of room.’
    I shook my head. ‘I’d be too much of a nuisance. Coming and going at all hours of the night. I’m better off at a motel.’
    I had told him I was here on a rare parts search for a repair job I’d taken on back home, and if he had any doubts about this explanation, he had yet to let on.
    ‘I think you forget we have two teenage boys,’ he said, laughing. ‘People come and go in this house twenty-four-seven.’
    His wife chuckled from the kitchen, having overheard the joke. Andrea was a tall, big-boned Filipina with the face of a child’s doll, and I could picture her standing at the sink, her whole body trembling with genuine mirth. She too had made a transformation of sorts, in that I imagined the crying, grief-stricken woman I first met over the phone sixteen years earlier was also a thing of the past.
    ‘Where are the boys now?’ I asked. I had seen photos of my nephews but we had never actually met, and I’d been looking forward to finding out how their individual personalities meshed with the stoic, almost surly countenance they had in common.
    ‘In the street. Where else?’
    ‘It’s after ten. They don’t have curfew?’
    ‘Eleven o’clock, same as the one Momma gave us. But it’s flexible. Byron’s sixteen and Garrett’ll be fifteen in three weeks. Their mother and I figure as long as they keep bringing As and Bs home from school, it doesn’t much matter what time they get in.
    ‘So tell me again what you’re doing out here,’ my brother said, seemingly eager to dispense with all the small talk. ‘You said you’re looking for parts of some kind?’
    ‘Pieces to a set of lamps I’m refurbishing,’ I said, repeating the story I’d concocted on the drive over. ‘A company called Modeline made ‘em back in the sixties, and most of the few lamps still in existence are out here in LA where they were originally manufactured.’
    ‘The company’s no longer around?’
    ‘They went out of business years ago.’
    ‘You try looking on the Internet?’
    ‘I’ve tried everything. The things are all wood and brass with canvas shades, so units in any kind of decent shape are rare as hell. Hollywood seems to have a fondness for the brand as movie props, though, and if I’m lucky, I might be able to find one or two in shops that cater to that kind of business.’
    After a long pause, studying my face throughout, Chancellor said, ‘I see.’
    I had put a lot of time and effort into developing a lie elaborate enough to fool him, and in the end, I could have saved myself the trouble. He took a swig from his canned soda, turned to eye the silent television, and, keeping his voice down for the sake of his wife, said, ‘What happened to R.J. is none of your business, Errol. Why do you feel the need to get involved?’
    I went right on lying. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    ‘I think you do.’
    And then I gave up. ‘We were friends, Chance, and I owe him. Those are the only reasons I’ve got.’
    ‘You don’t think the police can solve his murder without your help?’
    ‘Not if they’re unwilling to look beyond the obvious.’
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘Meaning you don’t shoot a man one year shy of his fiftieth birthday four times if all you want is his coke or his money.’
    ‘You think it was personal.’
    ‘At least in part. Yes.’