Protected Entity

Protected Entity Part 1 of 2

"They're not poor, Bart."

"Huh?"

"Here." I extend little man to Bart. He looks pleadingly at me for a second and then grudgingly reaches for the child. "I gotta go. Tell Riley to meet me uptown."

"Come back soon," Bart says, trying to keep the desperation from his voice.

***

This part of Harlem's mostly white now. Homeless black guys wander aimlessly, pretending they didn't get the memo to clear the fuck out. Cops wear vindicated grins as they stroll triumphantly up and down the quiet, sunshiny blocks. Comfortable young white people flutter around in sandals and shorts, doing little chores, heading to outdoor cafes, staying casually but carefully within the designated borders of their territory.

"Malcolm X Towers?" Riley scoffs. "Luxury apartments? Are you serious?" We're standing at the foot of a monstrous glass fortress on Fifth Ave.

"You know ghost Malcolm's ready to fuck a tower up," I say.

"If only..."

"Well, at least they had the decency to put in an exercise room, Riley. And a spa."

"Let's go, man. I'm 'bout to have a Nat Turner moment."

We wind westward through the sidestreets. I'm blending with the bums, a limping weirdo in a long leather jacket, talking and joking like there's some dude next to me. No one pays me much mind; strolling madmen are an endangered species in this part of town.

"Black people live here?" Riley says as we approach the first spiraling mansion. It's a holdout: Several of the richest black families got together and bought up all the property on this one block as a last ditch effort to hold on to the old spirit of West Harlem. "Shit, if I'd known that when I was alive I would've found a reason to come over and marry their daughter. This place is made outta money."

"Maybe you did," I say. "Hell, maybe you lived here."

"Carlos, I don't have to remember my past to know that this brother was broke, OK? Don't press me on it."

"I don't really see how..." I start, but then the door swings open and a tuxedoed white man appears.

"No...fucking...way!" Riley yells at the top of his lungs.

The butler can only see and hear me though, and he doesn't look amused. "How may I help you, sir?"

"These negroes went ahead and got a white man to serve them hand and foot!" Riley gasps, doubled over with laughter. "Son!"

"I'm Agent Delacruz with the NYPD's Special Crimes Division." I flash a fake badge that the Council of the Dead secured through one of their nefarious, un-talked-about connections with the cops. "Just want to ask Mister and Missus Ballantine a few questions about the disappearance of their son." It's utter nonsense of course but usually gets us in the door.

"The Ballantines have already spoken to the police," the butler says in a severe monotone. "They don't wish to be further disturbed."

Riley stops laughing. "Oh really, motherfucker?"

"I understand, sir," I say, "however, I'm afraid I have to insist. Given the recent media coverage about the number of kids gone missing on this block, it's crucial that we rule them out once and for all as suspects in the investigation."

The butler raises an eyebrow. I really haven't said anything, just laced the words "media" and "suspects" into a sentence together so Jeeves'll know I mean business. He chortles unintelligibly, opens the door and stands to the side. I walk in, exaggerating my hobble. I don't feel any imminent danger, but I've fallen into the habit of giving anyone I meet plenty of reasons to underestimate me.