Chapter 11.

Peeved by the rude idiot, Frank gunned up Mayfield Avenue, bristling. Uncalled for, he thought, rolling down the window, spitting a phlegmy gob of tobacco juice, his jaw set in spite. And fucking Maddy giving me the boot. Jaysus, crappiest of crappy days and not improving.

At all.

He shook his head, cranking up the window.

Several blocks later, it got even worse, traffic crawling to a near stop at an intersection strobed by a cop car’s flashers.

A rueful chuckle escaped his clenched jaw. Can’t win for losing.

To avoid the “poor me’s,” he searched his soul for something to be thankful for. It took a beat, but a content smile tightened his eyes.

At least there’s tobacco, he thought, even if my egghead doctor wants me to quit on account of cancer.

He scoffed, hawking into the empty Coke can. Fuck that.

And then he groaned. Even his attempted positivity fell flat, Dale Carnegie failing him.

Been that kind of day.

A tow truck approached from the side street, its husky driver got out, bellowing to the cops interviewing the distraught driver. The cop motioned thumbs-up, so the tow truck driver hooked and hoisted an undrivable Cutlass Supreme Brougham, crawled into the truck, and unstopped the bottleneck, allowing Mayfield traffic to flow. Liberated, Frank punched the air in victory, gliding past the remaining mess a few beats later. And then he remembered the Sam and Dave 8-track, popped it in, and sang along, telling the world he was a soul man bringing good loving by the truckload down that dusty road.

A grin quirked the corners of his mouth, and he thanked God for Sam and Dave too.

Frank’s Ford turned onto Hayward, rumbling through the neighborhood of unkempt bungalows, multi-family homes, and apartment buildings interspersed with the flickering, half-lit neon signs of tiny groceries, liquor stores, and bars. Rundown, high-crime area, he thought, side-eying the mostly colored people bundled against the autumn chill as he zipped by.

He’d hate being caught here after dark.

He stopped at a light across from a beat-down bungalow, its paint faded, and lawn a rat’s-nest of grass, crabgrass, clover, and dandelions, neglect so deep it seemed criminal.

Frank snagged the empty pop can from the cup holder and spat, glancing around, and remembered Rubin lived near here when he was just another hardhat. The guy threw the epic parties, especially when the Browns played Shitsburg back then.

He replaced the can.

Those were the days. Before Rubin had kids. Before he finished his degree at Fenn Engineering College. Before he entered management. Before he moved to Chardon in bum-fuck Egypt, an hour from downtown, deep in the snow-belt.

Frank asked why you’d move that far from work, biting off a huge mortgage payment. Rubin grumbled about Judge Battista desegregating the schools and forcing kids to bus crosstown. Which struck Frank as silly, but his kids were older. Heck, his youngest, Pat, was almost twelve years older than Rubin’s eldest, so his experience was worlds different. But despite Umberto’s urging, he had stayed in Cleveland City Limits, his house paid off, and sent his children to mixed-race parochial schools, Holy Cross, Saint Joe’s, and Villa Angela, without incident. No big deal. They ended up fine, going to college or the service, stable family men and women.

Rubin heard none of it.

Frank sighed, shaking his head as the cross-light turned amber, and he readied to pop his clutch.

Rubin was Rubin, and Frank was Frank, he supposed.

He peered at the derelict house again, saddened by the neglect. What had happened to this neighborhood? he wondered, shrugging.

Hell if he knew.

Green light. The clutch popped, the truck lurching forward, the sudden motion swirling the lamb stew in his belly.

A few blocks further, his awareness snapped to attention: Corny’s place was near. Problem was, Frank could not remember the exact location. As he neared the bus depot, he slowed further, the traffic behind veering around him.

There, he thought, recognizing a five-story brick building, its first-story windows boarded up and painted with the same cheap, high-gloss black they’d painted the door trim with. He signaled, pulling to the curb to be sure, and read the sign: ‘NORTH POINT ESTATES,’ the ‘O’ in ‘NORTH’, a stylized compass.

Yes, the compass, that’s it.

Relief lifting a weight from his shoulders, Frank entered the potholed parking lot, easing into a visitor’s spot. He stepped from the cab, entering the burnt-out end of a smoky day and locking the door. A woman’s twittering laughter roused him, and he turned. A white woman clad in a ragged electric-pink ski jacket over a dress, pushing a shopping cart filled with discarded two-by-fours and plywood, grinned at him.

“Nice paint job,” she said, her eyes cruel and her sharp chin almost touching her sharper nose.

A shit-eating grin he couldn’t control tugged at Frank’s eyes. “Earl Scheib. Only forty-nine ninety-five.”

The hag’s face sparked, the harshness softening as she caught the reference, and they shared a cackle at the joke. And then her shoulders went stiff, her neck bowed as if escaping a blow, and she returned to her search for wood. Firewood… she’s homeless, Frank realized, his heart heavy as he opened the door.

A well-dressed, muscular colored man of seventy-odd years ran headlong into him, distracted by shoving an indigo velvet draw-string satchel into his pocket. The old man’s charcoal brown face went slack with surprise, his intense gaze softening to a soulful smile. “I am so sorry, sir,” he said, Deep Dixie tones tinged with Caribbean singing through in his deep, commanding voice.

Frank shrugged it off. “Forget about it, happens to the best of us.”

“Problem is, I ain’t the best, but a scoundrel.” The man grinned, his warm gaze focused on the middle distance.

“I can dig that, boss man, one reprobate to another,” Frank said, chuckling softly. “Say, you know a guy named Cornelius who lives here? With a cane, maybe nicknamed Bad Leg? I’m his buddy but don’t recollect his room number.”

The man winced, shaking his close-cropped silver hair. “Sorry, sir, but I’m from New Orleans way, an out-of-towner visiting. But there’s a manager in the lobby.”

“Thanks, and have a safe trip,” Frank said. “And New Orleans is a great town, with splendid music.”

“Indeed, sir.” The old-timer sunned Frank with a smile. “The best to you and yours, boss man. Best to you and yours.”

“Back at you.”

The door clanged shut, its hydraulic catch all-but shot, and Frank entered the lobby. A few paces in, he stumbled upon the frizzy-haired, furry-faced, fuzzy-chested manager in a white tank top behind a cage watching a Barney Miller rerun on the local UHF channel. Frank knocked, asking about Corny. After a derisive gaze, the manager stood, telling Frank that Corny’s name was Cornelius Keyes, his room 303. Frank walked towards the elevators, which he didn’t trust in the rundown tenement. So he opened the fire-door to the stairwell, climbing to the third floor.