Free The Lost Brother by Rick Bennet Page B

New African woman who got you involved gets nervous. She’d probably vouched for you with Khalid, and then when you got shy, she, or they, got nervous. Not drastically nervous, or they’d have killed you. Just a little nervous. Wanted a little insurance. Called me. Set it up in a manner in keeping with this woman’s position at BTN.”
    Ottaway nods.
    “Take the glossy,” Kellogg says. “And the letter. They’ll clear you with your wife anyway, if the subject ever comes up. And I will back you on the story, that the sexual harassment was just role playing. But do yourself a favor—get a job someplace else.”
    Ottaway nods. He knows.

10
    SOLEMN LONG RAY MOVES DOWN AN ALLEY, comfortable there, in the dark. He’s wearing blue jeans, boots, and a hooded sweatshirt, the hood pulled over his brow.
    He’s spent this day letting the city know he is back. Tracking down people he knows. Asking questions as coolly as possible. “What’s up with that murder? That Henry James murder? What you think about that boy being gone?” Asking like his is just the same curiosity everyone has, nothing more.
    But he’s only got rumors (those LTC people got the boy and tortured him/sold him/killed him; the police did it, ‘cause Henry James was investigating them). He hasn’t heard any stories he couldn’t have invented himself. And his attempt to find Chavez has been pointless. He went to an old address his mother had for the man, but no one there knew him, or would admit it to a six-ten black man.
    He called the Mayor’s office. Left a message. Called back. Left another message. Called a third and fourth time.
    Now he walks across the city, at night, looking in the windows of nice restaurants where well-dressed white people are eating; past emptying office buildings of the sort he’s never been in for any good reason; through the blacker and blacker, tougher and tougher residential neighborhoods of Northwest Washington, until he’s deep into Northeast Washington, on a commercial block off New York Avenue. Single- and double-story broad warehouse buildings, fast food, cheap motels. Skyscrapers aren’t allowed in Washington, so its buildings flow gently over its slight rises. It’s a beautiful, tree-filled city for the most part. Not this part.
    He comes to a new, red-brick, two-story building. The sign there says: N EW A FRICA . He peers through the dark glass windows, into the well-lit lobby. Sees four men in black suits, white shirts, brightly striped ties. The New Africa uniform.
    Long enters the lobby and the four men stand, move to confront him.
    “Can I help you, brother?” asks one, looking up at Long, as they all must.
    “I’m here to see Khalid.”
    “Do you have an appointment?”
    “No.”
    “You have to have an appointment.”
    “No I don’t.”
    The other three men stand behind the speaker, ready to back him up but not liking the prospect. The speaker takes a more aggressive posture and vocal tone. “If you don’t have an appointment, you have to leave, brother.”
    Long smiles slightly. Death-looks the four men, none of whom can hold his gaze. He comes from a place, has seen things, in himself and others, that set him apart and above other men in any situation of threat or fear. He’s hard at a higher level.
    “Pick up the phone,” he commands. “Call Khalid. Tell him I’m here. He’ll see me.”
    As an act of appeasement, looking put out, the man speaking for the four says, “What’s your name?” as he picks up the phone on the desk.
    “You just tell him what I look like. If he wants you to know my name, he’ll give it to you.”
    The man pushes a button on the phone. After a moment, he speaks into it, saying only, “It’s some really tall guy who says he knows Khalid.” After a moment, he says, “Yeah, I guess so.” After another moment, he hangs up. Looks up at Long with respect and relief. He lets his breath out. Says, to the others, “It’s okay.”
    The others also look relieved.