Face Of Innocence

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THE FACE OF INNOCENCE An Ozias Williams Mystery

STEVEN CROSS

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Copyright © Steven Cross, 2007 All rights reserved by the author(s). No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any method or means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers and/or authors. Terra Press Publishing 3119 Cotswold Road, Tobyhanna, PA Visit our Web site at: www.terrapresspublishing.com Second Edition: March 2007 While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, Terra Press Publishing assumes no responsibilities for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of information contained herein. The appearance and contents of this book are the sole responsibility of the author. This book is a work of fiction. The people, places and events portrayed in this book are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to person(s) living or dead is purely coincidental and was not intended by the author. Library of Congress Control Number: 2007901570 Cross Steven The Face of Innocence: Steven Cross-2nd ed. ISBN 978-0-9793-5530-1 (Previous ISBN 978-1-4116-8323-5) 1. Ozias Williams—Fictional Character 2.Botanic Gardens—Fiction 3.Brooklyn, NY—Fiction 4. Bed-Stuy—Fiction 5. Pedophile—Fiction 6.World War II— Fiction 7. Murder—Fiction 8. Time Press Publishing—Fiction

Cover Design: Nichole Durant

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America

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Terra Press Enterprises, Inc If you brought this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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Dedication To my brother’s Raymond and Allen and my dear sister Regina. Thank you for your love and support. For my boys Philip, Jamel and Collin and my girls, Germaine, Nikki, Jalissa and Krysta you guys love a good mystery. Thank you all for being there for me.

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INNOCENCE: Free from sin or wrongdoing, sinless. Webster’s

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STEVEN CROSS

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1 EYES AS INNOCENT AS A BABY

It was strange seeing the one woman I never thought I’d see standing at my door. She was a memory long put to rest with the help of cheap Scotch and pints of two-dollar gin. But there she stood, as vivid as a dream, finely clad in a tan outfit with brown leather heels. Her skin was the color of honey; her eyes light brown. Her hair was a much darker brown than I had remembered. The perfume emanating from her wellpreserved frame, arousing memories of nights filled with passion and pleasure, sent chills through my spine and caused everything I had remembered about her to come rushing back. “Hello Oz,” she said from her opulent mouth. “Cymone,” I replied, as nervous as a choirboy in the presence of a pedophile priest. “This is quite a surprise.”

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“It’s good to see you, Ozias. Can I come in?” I hesitated, only for a moment, then I opened the door wide and she strolled in. We stood in the small space that was my vestibule. Staring each other down like two wiry animals, in a storm of uncertainty and anxiety. Before another word was conveyed, tears started welling in her eyes. She fell into my arms and wept softly. Without saying a word we walked over to the sofa and sat down together. My three-room flat was small, but neat. The living room doubled as both living room and dining room. There was a hard wood table and two fold-up chairs, where I had my meals, in a corner of the room. The sofa, which really wasn’t a sofa at all, was a tattered old love seat draped with a hunter green throw cover. The walls were a drab green and the floor was covered in pale green linoleum. There was a desk with an old typewriter, where I did my writing, when I wasn’t drinking, and a framed photo of newly inaugurated president John F. Kennedy. There was also an old beat-up bookcase filled with books by the likes of Melville, Defoe and Shelley among others. Cymone pulled out a cream colored handkerchief and stared at me with red swollen eyes. She was a woman in distress and I was always a sucker for a woman in distress. “Would you like something to drink? A glass of water, coffee?” I offered. “Do you have anything stronger?” I went into the square that was my kitchen, it was just big enough to cook up a decent meal, and returned with a half bottle of apricot brandy and a mayonnaise jar. It was all I had as far as glassware was concerned. I walked back into the living room, sat down next to Cymone, poured a two finger shot in the glass, and handed it to her. She poured it down in one gulp and asked for another. I poured another two fingers worth, but this time she took short sips.

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“You’re not drinking, Oz?” “No. I haven’t touched the stuff for six months.” “Have one with me,” she gestured. “You know I hate drinking alone.” “No thanks. You go right ahead. I’ll have some coffee later.” She finished her drink and stared at me with eyes as innocent as a baby and beauty as sharp as a knife. Even after fifteen long years she was still a handsome woman. Seeing her brought back feelings I thought had long dissipated. I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her that everything was going to be fine now that she was here. I was a fool to have let her slip away and into the arms of Melvin Walker. “What brings you out this way, Cymone?” “I had to see you,” she said putting a warm hand on my arm. “I need your help.” The thought of her needing me was exciting. I would have bent over backwards if she had asked me. “If I can, Cymone.” She moved closer and put her arm around my neck. Our faces were just inches apart. The warmth of her touch was exhilarating and the sweet smell of apricot brandy was intoxicating. “Make love to me, Ozias.” We made love all-night long and part of the next day. About twelve-thirty in the afternoon I got up, cooked a pot of grits, scrambled some eggs and made coffee. Cymone had just stepped out the shower about the same time I put the food on the table. Her brown body was moist and as iridescent as a gem. A towel clinging loosely around her solid frame couldn’t conceal her curvaceous body from my greedy eyes. She loosened the towel and let it fall to the floor. That was all I needed.

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Two and one half hours later we were both sitting in bed. She was sipping apricot brandy from a jam jar and smoking a Chesterfield. I was drinking lukewarm coffee from a mug. “You want to talk about it now?” I asked. I could see the apprehension in her gorgeous brown eyes. She was trying to avoid telling me what was going on in her life, but I was all sexed out for the moment. Another round of sex wasn’t going to happen for at least a half hour. The tears started welling in her eyes again. I couldn’t help being moved by an overwhelming feeling of compassion for her. “Listen Cymone,” I spoke low and soft. “What ever it is—” “It’s Sharon, Oz,” she said cutting me off in mid sentence. “She’s gone. Run off.” Sharon was Cymone and Melvin’s adopted daughter. They couldn’t have children of their own, for whatever reason, so they decided to adopt Sharon a year after they were married. She was a baby when they got her; she had to be at least fourteen now. “What are you telling me, Cymone?” “Sharon, Oz!” she wailed, through a flood of tears. “My daughter Sharon. She’s been missing for two weeks now!” “Run off? Missing? I don’t understand. Why would she do a thing like that?” Cymone didn’t answer. She sat silent looking vacantly into space, fighting back tears. Her expression was pensive; a woman lost in thought. “It was that son-of-a-bitch, Melvin,” she said in a low scornful voice. Melvin “One Punch” Walker married Cymone shortly after her and I parted. He was an ex-boxer who did well for himself in the booze business.

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In the ring, Melvin was a shrewd maniacal monster; he destroyed his opponents with extreme prejudice. Melvin finished the careers of many would-be champions, seeking a shot at his title, with one punch. He was the king of the ring for six years, that is, until some youngster ended his career the same way he did many others. When his boxing career ended he used what little money he earned, what he didn’t spend on booze and fast women, to open his own saloon. Melvin labored seven days a week selling watered down liquor and beer. He was as shrewd in business as he was in the ring. He pushed and muscled his way around until he had built a small empire for himself. Last I heard Melvin owned three brown stones, two nightclubs, a grocery store and a five-bedroom house, out on Long Island, where he, Cymone and their adopted daughter lived. Melvin was the kind of man that stopped at nothing to get what he wanted. Cymone was one of the things he acquired. Cymone, on the other hand, wanted stability in her life and that was something I just couldn’t give her at the time. I had dreams of becoming a writer and I didn’t want anything, not love, marriage, hell or high water to stand in the way of me being a success. Besides that, I was struggling. I could hardly make ends meet and sometimes I didn’t even have enough money to eat, pay rent or buy food. I told Cymone, in no uncertain terms, that she might be better off with someone else. It bothered me that I just wasn’t in any position to take care of her and be not just a good lover, but a good husband and provider as well. So she left, or maybe I should say I let her go. I put her out of my mind and went on with my life, but when I found out Cymone had wedded Melvin it devastated me. The pain of losing her to another man had manifested into a ten-year binge. Drinking became a regular part of my life. I told myself I needed the stuff to keep focused, but all I had done was create another problem. I became an alcoholic.

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It had never occurred to me that Cymone had been a viable part of my life and when she left, she took the best part of me with her. Throughout my ordeal I never blamed Cymone for marrying Melvin. She was only looking after her future and Melvin had all the money she could ever need. “What does Melvin have to do with all of this?” I asked. My question was more of concerned than anything else, but I couldn’t help feeling a bit angry about the whole thing. Cymone averted her brown eyes. She reluctantly avoided eye contact. She was cautiously thinking of a way to express what was on her mind and when she finally did speak it was as if she were talking to the wall. “Melvin and me been having problems for years,” she began, “it started with him staying out all hours of the night. Sometimes he wouldn’t even come home at all. I knew he had a woman on the side, but that didn’t bother me. We haven’t shared the same bed for five years. I told him I wanted a divorce. He said if I divorced I wouldn’t get a penny of his money. I don’t give a damn about the money. I just wanted out of the marriage. So I went ahead and hired a lawyer named Robert Dahill. One fine afternoon I got a call from Robert. He asked me to come to his office to sign some papers. It only took about an hour or so. When I returned home I heard moaning coming from the bedroom. I thought Melvin must have completely lost his mind, bringing some whore into my house. I opened that door and walked straight into that room—” She paused and wept bitterly. “Cymone,” I said trying to console her. “It ain’t worth gettin’ yourself all worked up over another woman.” “He was in bed with our daughter, Oz!” The pain was evident in her tone. “He and Sharon, as naked as the day she was born, were in bed!”

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She grabbed her stomach and withdrew into an emotional tidal wave. I took her into my arms and cradled her like a baby.

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2 A MANS REPUTATION

An hour or so had passed. I was up making coffee while Cymone slept. I poured a cup and sat down on my rundown old loveseat. Cymone’s problems made my own seem slight, but I still had my own set of miseries. I was struggling like hell to make ends meet. I hadn’t written anything worth publishing in ten years and even worse, I didn’t have a job. I did manage, from time to time, to do odd jobs for people in the neighborhood. Some painting, plastering and even some mechanic work, a trade I picked up while serving in the army, but it was just enough to keep a roof over my head and some food on the table. I was struggling as a writer too, but I kept at it. All I had ever wanted to do was write. Even as a child.

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When I was a boy, growing up in Louisiana, my grandmother taught me how to read and write. She learned the craft from her mother and her mother’s-mother, Haddi Mae Jacobs, my great-great grandmother, taught her. I heard stories about my great relative. About the sacrifices she was forced to make in the name of literacy. Haddi Mae Jacobs was a slave. She was highly prized by her rapacious slave master because she had been a very striking young slave girl. The slave master pursued Haddi relentlessly for her affections and even though, for a time, she had managed to keep him at bay she knew that one day he would take her by force. Black women in servitude didn’t really have a choice during, what could be considered, the darkest days of America’s history. So, having no real choice in the matter, my great relative compromised. It was sort of a quid pro quo. She persuaded the avaricious slave master to teach her in the ways of the literate, even at a time when it was against the law to teach a Negro in the ways of the literate, and in return she would give herself to him willingly. It must have been hard for Haddi to come to such a conclusion, at the tender age of twelve. It was a decision that gave rise to our generation and it explained why my grandmother was a fair skinned woman with beautiful blue-green eyes. What my precious great relative sacrificed to acquire was handed down to me freely and even though I had never gotten pass the eightgrade, I practiced writing every chance I got. During the war, I wrote and read letters for my army brothers who couldn’t read or write. After the war I wrote short stories and submitted some of my work for publication, but none were ever accepted. My work was good; it just never got passed an editor. They were either too busy or just too damned narrow-minded to even look at my work. I had been writing almost my entire life and at the age of thirty-five I was still unpublished. All I needed was a chance.

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When I looked up from my thoughts, the silhouetted figure of the woman that should have been my wife was standing in the doorway. She was fully clothed. Her expression was somber. A glint of melancholy was discernible in her stunning brown eyes. I had hoped she’d stayed the night, but it seemed that our time together had run its course. She walked over and sat next to me. Her baby brown eyes pierced straight through my heart. “I need you to find Sharon, Oz,” she said placidly. “When I saw her and Melvin in bed I went into a rage. I pulled Sharon from under him and almost beat her to death. Melvin had to stop me. I swear I was about to kill that child. Do you know she had the nerve to tell me if I were fuckin’ him right she wouldn’t have to do it? I told her to get the hell out my house, but I didn’t mean it. I was angry. I wasn’t—” she paused, closed her eyes to collect her thoughts and then she opened them again. “That was two weeks ago,” she continued, “and I just couldn’t sit in that damn house waiting to see if my baby would come home. I had to do something. It wasn’t her fault. That’s why I came here to you. I didn’t know where else to go.” “Did you report it to the police?” “No.” “Why not?” “I can’t afford to let a scandal like this ruin my good name. Besides, you know the police don’t give a damn ‘bout colored folks problems.” She was right. The police didn’t care if black people lived or died. People were robbed, beaten, raped, and murdered in the black neighborhoods all the time and for the most part nothing was ever done about it. “So what about Melvin?”

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“I left him. I’m not going back. I came to you because I heard about how you risked your life trying to keep them gangs from going to war. If you can stop them crazy hoodlums from murdering each other in the streets, something even the police couldn’t do, I know you can find my daughter.” A mans reputation is his calling card. People all over town knew about my exploits with the two most notorious street gangs in Brooklyn. All I done was to tell them about our heritage. About people I had read about in books: BLACK PEOPLE. They gave me two minutes, I talked for two hours, and they listened. Shit, I was scared as hell. I didn’t think I’d live pass those two minutes. But by the time I was done they started understanding our heritage, where we came from, and who they were. People called me a hero, but I didn’t think so. As far as I was concerned a hero was nothing but a goddamn sandwich. Why did I do it? Partly because I loved my black people and partly because I was sick of seeing us beat each other down. Racism was already kicking our ass, it didn’t need our help. I didn’t know a thing about looking for a missing person. Cymone, apparently, had confidence that I did. I couldn’t pass up the chance. It was an opportunity for me to get back into Cymone’s life. “I’ll find your daughter,” I said passionately. “But I want you to move in here with me. I’ll feel better knowing your safe.” For the first time since she had walked through my door, Cymone smiled. “No Oz,” she said beaming. “If Melvin come looking for me this would be the first place he’d look.” “Do you have a place to stay?” “I’ll be staying with my girlfriend, Lorraine. She got a place over on Halsey, in Bushwick. I just need to go get some clothing and a few things.”

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“Do you want me to go with you?” “No, I’ll be fine. I have the car parked downstairs. It shouldn’t take but a few hours or so. I’ll come straight back here and you can drive me over to Lorraine’s.” “No,” I suggested prudently. “Don’t come back here, meet me at Short’s place, he’s a good friend. He owns a little candy store on Macon.” I wrote down Shorts’ address and handed it to her. “You stay there, until I come pick you up.” “Okay,” she said. Then she opened her purse and pulled out a handful of bills. “Here, take this. Its two hundred dollars. That’s all I have right now, but I can get more.” “I can’t take your money, Cymone.” “Don’t be a fool, Ozias. You gonna need this money and here’s a picture of Sharon.” She handed me the picture and the cash. It was a monochrome photo. The young woman posing in the picture could have been a model, Miss America, or even a rocket scientist. “It’s five-thirty right now,” Cymone said checking her watch. “I should be back no later than nine.” I walked Cymone to the door, kissed her long and hard and then she was gone.