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‘Lady, you sure this is the right address?’ the Sikh cab driver asked in disbelief, wondering what a fashionable Englishwoman might want this far uptown – unless it were drugs.
Susie peered up at the apartments above the garage: the large windows promised good light and she guessed the rent would have been affordable compared to SoHo or fashionable downtown.
‘I think so.’
‘You want me to wait? You know this ain’t a great ’hood for tourists?’
She double-checked the address – it was definitely 31, 125th Street.
‘No, don’t worry, this is the right place.’ Susie paid, then climbed out, the cab screeching away in hurried relief. Suddenly she was very alone. She stood in the doorway of the garage, the cacophony of the panel-beating and music rendering her invisible for a moment.
‘Lady, you need an auto fixed up?’ An older African-American man, grey peppering his tight curly hair, stepped down from behind one of the hoisted cars.
‘No. I’m looking for someone.’
‘Please let that someone be me!’ A youth, tall and gangly, cornrows plaited tightly to his scalp, gold earrings gleaming in both earlobes, appeared beside the older man, grinning cheekily. ‘A pretty lady like yourself shouldn’t have to do the lookin’.’
‘The lady was talking to me,’ the older man reprimanded, then turned back to Susie. He wiped his hand, which was greasy with car oil, and held it out formally. ‘Name’s Henry Firestone. I am the owner of this establishment.’ He indicated the youth. ‘This young brother with the mouth is Erin. Who you after?’
‘Actually I’m trying to find out about the last few weeks of my friend’s life. Maxine Doubleday, did you know her?’
The atmosphere immediately changed. Henry glanced sharply at Erin before addressing Susie: ‘We don’t know anyone of that name. Who are you? ’Cause if you’re press you’re out of here.’
‘No, no. I’m a close friend of Maxine, from London. I guess I’m just looking for some answers.’
‘There ain’t no answer to suicide.’ The younger man spat the words out like he really knew.
‘Erin!’
‘So you did know her?’
‘Maybe.’ Henry still sounded suspicious. Ignoring his boss, Erin jumped in again.
‘You need to talk to Miss Latisha.’
‘Who’s Latisha?’ Susie failed to keep a tone of jealousy out of her voice. The idea that Maxine might have moved to Harlem for a lover hadn’t occurred to her.
‘Miss Latisha lives in apartment seven,’ Erin explained. ‘Has done for forty-odd years. She’s an honest, God-fearing—’
‘Mountain of a woman,’ Henry cut in. ‘Who had no time for anyone until Maxine – your friend – put the soul back into a lonely, crippled, monster of a woman. We were real sorry to hear about her … accident.’
‘To be honest, I still can’t believe Maxine actually took her own life. Did she seem depressed to you?’
This time it was Erin who answered. ‘Not those last few days. If anything she seemed like she was excited about something.’
‘You have a loose mouth, Erin, I told you before.’ The older man put out a warning hand.
‘She’s a friend and we owe it to Maxine.’ Erin turned back to Susie. ‘Maxine was respectful, and she was a good artist – in the time she was here she gave back to the community. That’s a lot more than most.’ He was interrupted by a crash at the back of the shop.
Henry’s head whipped around. ‘Malik! I told you to secure that axle!’ He turned back to Susie. ‘Now, why are you really here, lady? I have a shop to run.’
‘Do you think I could see the apartment… where Maxine lived?’
‘There ain’t nothing to see. The police came and cleared some of it away, then a white man with a limo. There’s a new tenant in now – and nothing’s left of the studio Maxine made or anything she left hanging in the air – it’s all gone. That’s time: wipes life away like we was less than dust.’ Henry spat at a pile of tyres for emphasis, then began walking toward a small office tucked away at the back of the shop.
Erin swung around to face Susie.
‘See what you gone and done? Made Henry go philosopher on us. And he the most depressing philosopher this side of the Hudson, bar my uncle and he in jail.’
