The Lost Brother Read Online Free PDF Page A

Henry. I don’t know what. The boy told me, one night when he and his sister were sleeping over, that Chavez was working for Henry, or doing something. And I remembered this afternoon, because I was thinking about everything, that the boy said Chavez wasn’t afraid of anything. I think he said that Henry said Chavez was a hero, or people like Chavez are heroes. And he also said something about going to Chavez, or calling Chavez, or something, if he got in trouble.”
    “You didn’t tell the police this?”
    “No, I don’t know that it’s important, although just now, talking about it, I think more of it. Maybe I should call the police back? But you know, Chavez, he hated the police in this city. I mean, really hated them. And somehow I think there might be a connection between whatever it was he was doing for Henry and the police. It’s probably nothing. I don’t know how it could be something. I wish I could remember exactly what the boy said. Do you think you could ask around?”
    “I’m going to tell you the truth, Mama. I don’t think there’s any chance the boy’s alive. If he just ran away, just escaped, he would have turned up, he’d have no reason not to. And he can’t be hiding. The whole city is looking for him. Somebody got him, and it couldn’t have been anyone good.”
    “But maybe he’s afraid. He’s a smart boy, and if he’s afraid of the police, then he won’t come here.”
    Long sighs. In his heart he knows the boy has to be dead. Long knows too much about criminal realities to believe otherwise.
    He says, “I’ll go on the street. I’ll ask around about what might be up. I’ll even call the Mayor.”
    “Did you meet him in prison?”
    Long laughs. “Mama, I ran that joint. He’s the mayor out here, but I was the mayor in there. He owes me. And I’ll get the New Africa people on the job too. You know who Khalid is?”
    Her face tightens. Long realizes the error in mentioning Khalid, because Khalid has long been Henry’s most vocal critic.
    “You know him?” she asks angrily.
    “Forget it. Anyway, about Chavez, I don’t know. I’ll try to find him, but I don’t know any of those people. And remember, it was only a few years ago that they threw that riot against ‘our’ police.”

5
    AN OLD BLACK MAN IN A CHEAP SUIT stands at the microphone, peering out into the dark room at the smoke-hidden customers. Without particular enthusiasm, he introduces the jazz quartet behind him. Without particular enthusiasm, the club’s customers clap. Without particular enthusiasm, the bass and the drums start in, and the keyboards tinkle a slight contribution. But the boy on the tenor sax, he ignores everyone else’s jaded hindsight and lets loose, lost in a dreamy-dream future of Harlem and Chicago and L.A. gigs. He stays in that dreamland for two minutes, three minutes, four and five and six minutes, and by seven the vets have picked things up, the customers are tapping their feet and nodding their heads, and Kevin Kellogg, way in the back, drinking his whiskey, smoking his Kools, smiles, eyes closed, grateful for the minor miracle of a heartfelt wail.
    It’s DeJazBa. Thirty-three years on U Street, through all that thin to find itself finally tasting some thick again as the neighborhood bounces back. Kellogg looks around and for the first time in a long time sees he’s not the only white customer. Isn’t sure he likes that.
    He listens to Kid Horn; stares into his whiskey. Sips the last of it. Stares into the empty glass. Jerks his head off its drunken doze to call for the waitress but finds she’s already there, setting his next shot on the table.
    He thinks about things—what drunk doesn’t; remembers things—what drunk doesn’t; remembers a waitress he had here two years ago. She came up to his table that afternoon. He ordered his whiskey straight up then too.
    “I heard about you,” she said.
    “What?”
    “The last man in America drinking whiskey like that.”
    “The