Here's an early Jackson Donne story for your enjoyment:

More Sinned Against

A Jackson Donne Story

by David White

"I am a man more sinn'd against than sinning."

KING LEAR

Act III, Scene ii

"I enlisted in '54 when I was eighteen. I think I served everywhere we had a base. Germany and Kentucky. Christ, I was all over the place." Gerry hacked and spit onto the floor.

"I think the country has more military bases than just the ones in Germany and Kentucky, Gerry."

"Fuck you." He smiled.

The Olde Town Tavern was unusually quiet. Thursday was usually a party night, with students going in and out in various states of drunkenness. But tonight, late October, it was nearly empty.

The stools were clean, the floor had been swept, the jukebox was quiet and two girls played pool.  Probably midterms. The TVs were showing hockey, baseball, and some meaningless news.

Gerry and I sat at the bar. I was keeping one eye on the Yankees. He was reminiscing — again—about his days in the military and sipping his coffee gently. I had asked him once why he drank that way, and he'd told me he didn't want to disrupt the fragile mix of coffee, cream, and sugar. It had to be just right.

Artie brought me another Sam Adams. Jeter singled to lead off the third.

"But the thing I remember best is acting," Gerry continued.

"Acting? You were an actor?" I'd heard all his military stories, but I'd never heard him talk about acting.

"Hell yeah. I was good too. I was on Broadway for a few years even. Got my start right here in New Brunswick. At the City Theater."

There were probably some interesting stories there, but I was more interested in why we were here. Gerry had called my office early in the afternoon and asked me to meet him at the bar. We were both regulars, ended up here more nights than not, but he'd never called me before.

"So, what's up, Gerry? Why'd you call me?" I took a swig off the bottle.

"Can't I call a guy just to have a few drinks?" Gerry continued smiling, but it was strained. He had moist eyes that were dark brown, thinning hair of silver, and the rest of him looked like a prune. His feet didn't touch the ground; instead, they tapped the air in some unheard beat.

"We always end up here drinking, but you never call. So, what's up?"

"I want to hire you. You working right now?"

Tricky question. I had closed down the office for about a month to recover from a gunshot wound in my shoulder. I hadn't been doing much of anything lately except going to physical therapy and working on a few insurance scam cases — easy work done on the phone. But Gerry was a close drinking buddy, if not a friend.

"I'm not working on anything, no."

Jeter stole second. Williams hit a line drive to the center fielder, but it was caught. One out.

"Well," he said. "You think you could help me out?"

"With what?"

The ensuing silence lasted long enough for Justice to come to bat, take a pitch, and then hit one off the wall. Jeter scored easily. One-nothing Yankees.

"I live in this two family house on Somerset. This colored guy, he's my landlord. He's usually really nice, cheap rent, says it's because I'm a vet. Anyway, this colored guy says I gotta leave.  My lease isn't up, I pay my rent, but for some reason I gotta leave."

Sometimes, according to Gerry's vocabulary, it was still the fifties.

"He say why?" I asked.

"Nope. Says he has a right to break my lease. That it's in the contract. I don't really know if it is or not. I lost the thing I signed and he hasn't shown me it. I don't know. But something doesn't feel right about it."

Gerry used to be drunk all the time, so he could easily have missed something, but lately he'd been coming in and drinking coffee. He'd lost his son to cancer a few weeks ago, and since then he'd been laying off the beer. But I could tell he missed it. Whenever I took a sip of beer, he looked at me like a jealous lover in a soap opera.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Check the lease. Talk to him. Let me know if I can stay. Help me stay."

"You pay your rent every month?"

"Well...."

I stared at him.

"Yeah, of course I pay. It's usually on time. I do my best. Just that money's been a little tight since Steve died."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Martinez struck out. Spencer grounded to third. End of inning.

"What's your landlord's name?"

"Rick James. Lives downstairs."

I finished off the Sam Adams and thought I should probably order something to eat. "Rick James? Seriously?"

"Yeah. That who I write my check out to.  Why?" To Gerry, pop culture had halted in the fifties too.

"No reason. Okay. Here's what I'll do. I'll talk to Mr. James in the morning and get back to you."

Piece of cake.

* * *

The next morning came, cool and breezy. The sun was out, but the forecasters said it wouldn't last long. Since my shoulder didn't ache, they were probably wrong. It was a typical autumn day with students hurrying toward classes or work, paying no mind to anyone around them.

Dressed in jeans, maroon button-down, leather jacket, and fitted Yankees cap, I strolled down George Street toward Somerset. The roads were clean cobblestone. The buildings had been refashioned in brick or painted bright colors to give the area a colonial feel, matching the college.

Ten years ago, my high school buddies and I had come down here to catch a porno movie and then get drunk. But recently, Johnson and Johnson and Rutgers University had put an immense amount of money into refurbishing the city. Banks and businesses had moved in and the porn had moved out.

Unfortunately, this had also forced out the people who'd lived there, people who'd relied on welfare and minimum wage jobs to get by. I wasn't sure if it was worth cleaning up a neighborhood if it was going to leave tons of people homeless.

The housing west of the campus, where Gerry lived, had managed to remain somewhat low rent, though I didn't know how long that would last. Gerry's place was a gray two family, with chipping paint and a broken screen door. Junk mail, addressed to no one in particular, hung out of the mailbox. I rang the bell to the downstairs floor. I had to admit, I was slightly disappointed when it didn't play "Superfreak."

A tall, thin man I assumed was James answered the door promptly. "Who the hell are you?"

I held up my license and said, "My name is Jackson Donne. I'm a private investigator. I told your tenant I'd stop by."

"Gerry?"

I nodded.

He examined the license for a minute with dark, intense eyes. He was young and tired looking; too many nights checking clogged toilets. His hands were callused and dry, a sign of a man who worked with his hands.

He nodded, more to himself than to me, and handed my license back to me. "Tell him to pay up,"

James said and slammed the door. I rang the bell a few more times without any answer. Breaking the door down would probably do more harm than good. I walked away.

I wasn't sure what to do next. From the little information I had, I assumed Gerry owed rent money. He hadn't gotten any money when his son had died, and the funeral had taken a lot out of him. I figured he needed a job, something that would get his mind off his son and pay the rent.

For the hell of it, I decided to walk to the City Theater and find out if he was as famous as he had said.

I walked down George Street toward the theater district, such as it was. It consisted of one block: four theaters, a few upscale restaurants, and a fountain in the middle of the road. It also represented the last reaches of the University's rebuilding tentacles. Beyond the theater were the homeless, the drug dealers, and those who'd been gentrified out of their homes. I didn't want Gerry to end up with them.

The City Theater theater was a clean brick building which looked like it sold out every night.

The lobby was carpeted in red and had a few box office windows to the right of me. Behind a window, a college aged kid with dyed black hair and cold gray eyes read a book. I couldn't see its title.

"Excuse me," I said.

He sighed, dog-eared the page, and looked up.

"Can I help you?"

"Who do I talk to about getting a job?"

"What kind of job?"

"I'm not sure. Promotions sounds like it could work."

He looked at me curiously. "You'd talk to the director."

"The director of the next production?"

"No. The Theater Director. She's kind of like the president of a company."

"Is she in?"

"Yeah. She's in the back."

I paused and he opened his book. It was THE STAND by Stephen King.

"You a King fan?" I asked.

"Not really. Someone recommended it to me. It's okay. I'm reading it mostly because I needed a break."

"A break from what?" I asked, not really caring.

His eyes lit up. College kids love to talk about themselves. "I'm interested in the theater's history.  I'm working here under salary doing this, but that's not what I really do here most of the time. I'm interning here as well going through the theater's archives."

"The archives?"

"Yeah. I'm writing a thesis on the history of the City Theater and what it meant to New Brunswick over the past century. And what it'll mean to the rebuilding in the future. Did you know this place used to put on free shows for the soldiers when they returned from World War II? Performances just for them. A way to honor them."

"Good luck with that."

"Thanks."

"May I speak with the director?" I asked.

He sighed again and said "Hold on." He closed the book and walked away from the window.

I turned and looked at the posters on the opposite wall. They advertised classic musicals, experimental student plays, and a few has-been celebrities. Exciting stuff.

"May I help you?" a voice asked.

I turned to see a woman dressed in a brown business suit standing in the lobby behind me. She had short blonde hair that covered her ears. She looked a little like Hillary Clinton, but without the angered determination.

"Hi," I said. "I'm Jackson Donne." I showed her my ID.

She reached her hand out and we shook. Her grip was delicate but firm.

"I'm Leslie Stevens," she said. "How can I help you?"

"I'm wondering if you have any job openings."

"I'm sorry, sir, but with the economy the way it is now there is a freeze on, but if you give me your resume, I'd be willing to hold on to it, just in case something pops up. I suppose the economy's affected your field also."

I smiled. "It's not for me, but thanks. Have you ever heard of Gerry Figuroa?"

The box office kid, who had walked back toward the door, turned quickly. Stevens's eyes widened for a moment and then she squinted. "I've never heard of him. No. Why?"

"Wait," the box office kid said.

"Yes, Brian?" Stevens said.

"What did you say the name was?"

"Gerry Figuroa," I said.

"Oh, I've heard of him."

"You have?" Stevens turned.

"Yeah. He started out here. In the late fifties, early sixties. He was kind of like the house actor.

He found a role in every musical or play the theater put on. There are articles about him everywhere. On the net, in the archives. Everywhere. He's credited with making this place really popular during that time. The critics loved him and the fans loved him. If he was the star he made the show. If he was supporting, he stole the show. According to the reviews, he was great.  I think the critics were relatives."

I nodded, smiling.

"Well," Stevens said, "if you want to get him into a show around here, he'll have to attend auditions. The director of the next show could tell you when those will be."

"I'm not thinking acting. I'm thinking something a little more permanent."

"Well, then I'm afraid we can't help you, sir."

"Are you sure?"

"Give us his resume, and we'll see what we can do." She turned to the door. "But don't expect too much," she said with her back to me.

I hesitated, and she took that to mean we were done. She and Brian escaped into the theater, leaving me alone for the second time today in a lobby full of aged posters and mirrors. I looked at my reflection, wondering if I'd end up struggling for a place to live when I got older.

* * *

Around five that afternoon, I walked to the Olde Town Tavern to talk to Gerry. When I walked in, his face lit up. It made him look a few years younger, and it made me kind of wish I hadn't walked in.

"So, Jackson. How's it going? Do I still have a place to live?"

I sat down next to him and ordered a Honey Brown. I watched Artie move down the bar, pull a pint, and fill it from the tap. He did it easily, hardly having to watch the glass to know when it was full. I took the beer and plunked a few dollars on the bar.

"Want me to run a tab tonight?" Artie asked.

"Nah. Got some work to do."

Artie backed away, and Gerry looked at me expectantly.

"According to Mr. Rick James, you haven't been paying your rent. He says you can stay if you pay up."

Gerry's face turned green. "I have been paying my rent," he whispered.

"Gerry, you need to tell me the truth. If you can't pay, we'll figure something out. I can get you a job."

"Damn it! Listen to me. I pay my rent. I don't fuck around with that because I don't want to lose the only place I have to live. I don't think Artie would be really happy seeing me sleeping behind the bar when he gets here in the morning, do you? What the hell would I have if I didn't have my place? Huh? A fucking bottle in a paper bag and a nice little corner of George Street to sleep on. You think I want that?"

"Okay, Gerry. Okay."

"No! It's not okay! If you're going to work for me you're going to have to trust me. You understand? In all the years you've been coming here, have I ever lied to you?"

"Not that I know of."

"Not that you know of. Jesus Christ. No. I haven't lied to you. Okay? I'm not going to start now.  If I say I pay my rent, I fucking pay my rent." He waved his arms at me. The mug of coffee flew out of his hands, crashing to the floor, spilling into a brown puddle.

"Oh man," Artie said. "Gerry, am I going to have to cut you off?"

"From coffee?" he asked.

"Maybe you should lay off the caffeine. Drink something different."

"Like what?"

"Decaf?" Artie shrugged.

"Can't." Gerry voice began to recede to a normal level. "Gives me the runs."

Artie shrugged and went for a mop.

"Okay," I said, taking a breath. I hated when clients got pissed at me. I also just learned I hated when old men got pissed at me.

The other two patrons went back to their pool game. It was quiet except for the local news. Artie returned with the mop and started to clean up the mess, refusing Gerry's help.

"All right," I said. "You pay your rent. Then what was James talking about when he said you have to pay up?"

"He asked me for double my usual rent."

"Double?"

"Yeah. I told him that wasn't part of my lease, and he couldn't just up the rent like that. I'm rent controlled. So I kept paying my usual. Then last week he told me that if I didn't pay up, I'd be evicted."

"Why didn't you tell me that yesterday?"

"I don't fucking know. I didn't want to look like I was just some old man getting screwed and hassled. I figured maybe if you just talked to him, he would get scared and back off, without saying anything. That way both he and I would keep some face. My son is dead. I can't drink anymore. I barely have any money. I wanted to be able to keep some pride. Not look like a weak, senile, old man."

Which was exactly how I'd seen him yesterday. But today was a different Gerry. He surprised me. He wasn't just some old drunk trying to get back on the wagon.

"Well, maybe you need something else in your life."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Maybe a job, help pass the time. Give you a few extra bucks. A place to go. Keep busy."

"What do you want me to do? Go work at the C-Town, bagging like Morgan Freeman in that prison movie? That'll be the end of it. I don't want to sit around and do that."

"No. I went down to the City Theater today."

"You did? Why?"

I told him.

"I don't want to work for her. Leslie Stevens," he sighed. "Her father was a prick."

"Her father?"

"Yeah. I used to work for him. I was bringing in the dough then. He used to own the place. He didn't like some two-bit hack like me getting publicity. He wanted the publicity. For the culture he was bringing to this hell-hole. He thought that he should be getting credit. His name in the paper. Interviews."

"But he wasn't?"

"No. I was the one people came to see. I was pretty good. Everyone was taking pictures of me. I was the one on the marquee. 'Gerry Figuroa in A Streetcar Named Desire.' I had a contract with the theater. But Mr. Stevens — Roger, I think his name was — bought it out. He figured then he would get all the credit. But it didn't happen. Now, I don't know if it was because I left or not, but not long after that the theater went in the tank, and Stevens was forced to sell. Little bastard got what he deserved. So this Leslie Stevens chick owns it now? Runs it. Whatever the fuck she does. She's there now?"

"Yeah."

"Man, I remember when she was just a kid. Little ankle biter, but cute. She used to sit and watch all the rehearsals when school got out. Wait for daddy to go home. What's she like now? She hot?" He tried to leer at me. It was frightening.

"She's...." I paused. "She's classy."

"Classy, huh? Well, it could be worse." He smiled. "Tell me something. When you went down there today she said she didn't have any job openings. Did you get the feeling she might change her mind?"

Artie finished with the mop and got back behind the bar. I finished my beer.

"I'm not sure. I intend to talk to her again and find out."

"I really don't want to work for her. And who the hell says 'intend?'"

"I do. I'll talk to you soon."

As I was walking out, I heard Gerry say, "Hey Artie, gimme a decaf. I didn't have any bran today."

* * *

I was walking back to my office, across Easton, down Albany to George, when Leslie Stevens hailed me. She was standing outside Rafferty's Harvest, a new age restaurant, cigarette in hand.

I said, "How are you, Ms. Stevens," when I reached her side.

She wore a thick coat over her suit. It was cool out, but not that cold. She hugged her elbow with her free hand and dragged on her cigarette, then smiled shyly. "I was supposed to meet a man here tonight. But he's forty-five minutes late. I think I've been stood up." She tried to chuckle, but it sounded like a stutter. I couldn't tell if it was from cold or embarrassment.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said.

"Would you like to join me? I'd like the company." She dropped the cigarette and stamped it out.  I wasn't hungry for any new age food, but I wanted to talk some more to her. I didn't think she had anything to do with Gerry's problem, but I wanted to know more about Gerry. His outburst had surprised me.

"Sure," I said.

There was a wait for a table, so we both grabbed stools. She ordered something that was described in the menu as a sandwich and a glass of Fat Bastard wine. I ordered a Harp.

"Nothing to eat?"

"Nah. I just finished."

"Well, you don't have to stay if you don't want to." There was a hint of annoyance in her voice.  I just sipped my beer.

Behind us Sinatra sang about baubles and beads. Two waitresses moved around at the speed of light trying to serve all the crowded booths. The restaurant was a dark, atmospheric place, and that seemed to infect the customers. Everyone was talking at a whisper.

"So," she said, as her sandwich was placed in front of her. "Did you get your friend's resume?"

"Client."

"Ah. Yes. Needs a private detective to get him a job. Sounds like a promising employee."

"No. I don't have his resume. I don't think he's looking for a job right now anyway."

She crossed her legs and twisted towards me on the stool toward me. Her body was stiff with tension. "Really?"

"Yeah. He seemed to change his mind when I mentioned your name."

"Hm."

There was an awkward pause. I took the time to order another Harp.

"Let me ask you a question."

"Okay," she said.

"Why here? Why New Brunswick? Why not go for Broadway?"

"Well, getting a Broadway theater isn't exactly easy."

I sat back, watching annoyance burn in her eyes. "I figured that with your father's reputation behind you—"

"My father? What do you know about my father?" Annoyance turned to anger. Good. People talk when they're angry. Gerry had, now she would.

"I know that he owned the City Theater before you and was successful enough to think about—"

She laughed. Threw her head back and guffawed. "My father wasn't successful. He was lucky.  Lucky to have some hot actors to fill the seats. People wanted to see his shows. They didn't care about the theater. Now they care about the theater. They care about productions and appearances.

Our ushers are well dressed, spit shined, and crisp. That's why they come. My father was lucky.  I'm good."

I cleared my throat and finished my beer. "So, if you're so good, why not Broadway?"

She tapped her fingernails on the bar. In the quiet whisper of the restaurant, it sounded like gunfire. "New York is bullshit. New York is huge. We call it 'The City' for chrissake. Capital letters. Here is where I want to be. New Brunswick. Why be a big fish in New York? No one will know who you are. If I'm a big fish here.... No. scratch that. Since I'm a big fish here, people know who I am. I'm huge. That's why I won't go to Broadway. It's not worth it. I like this city.  People know me.

"Oh, shit." Her voice was shaky.

"What?" I asked.

She looked at me. Her sandwich sat uneaten. She chugged the rest of her wine. She took a deep breath, as if to stabilize herself. "How did you know about my father?" She pressed her palms against the bar. The bar was silenced. Her voice had raised enough above the whisper that everyone had heard her.

"I talked to Gerry. He told me about him. And you, when you were a kid. He said you were cute.  Why didn't you tell me you knew him?"

"Gerry told you about this? That bastard," she said, and stormed out. Leaving me with the tab.

Shit.

* * *

I felt like I had pieces of things, a landlord who wanted more money, a disgruntled ex-drunk, exactor who refused to pay. I wanted to get him a job, but he also refused that. The person I wanted to give him that job had a grudge against New York City. I needed a nap.

Instead, I decided to try and talk to James again. I'd have to surprise him this time. Knock the door down, threaten him. Or wait for him to stroll over to get a cup of coffee.

For once I got lucky. James was struggling down the driveway with a large plastic bag slung over his shoulder. Whatever was in it was stretching the bag — and his strength — to capacity, but he finally dropped it on the curb. When he saw me, the gaunt face turned angry, and he spun to walk away.

"Why are you charging Gerry double his rent?"

"I'm not talking to you."

I doubled his pace and beat him to the front door, leaning against it. I gave him the kind of sweet smile a customer service specialist gives when they really don't care about you.

"We need to talk.  Really. I know you don't want to, but when you've doubled your tenant's rent and then threatened to evict him, there is reason to talk."

"Man, there's no proof of any of this. Doubling his rent? I don't know what you're talking about."  His voice was a shrill whine.

"Well, is he paying his rent?"

"No," he said. He tried to sound strong now. And it seemed that, with some effort, he scrunched his face to look serious.

"Ah. So, if I were to go get Gerry and ask to see his canceled checks, there'd be no history of him paying you these last few months?"

The face broke again, looking afraid. "Well...." He trailed off.

"Okay. We'll take that as he has been paying his usual rent fee. Right?"

James looked away. Man, this wasn't even "Party All the Time" Rick James. This guy was pathetic.

"Then why is he being evicted?"

"He's loud. People can't sleep."

"He's loud? A sixty-five year old man who lives alone and spends most of his time drinking coffee in a bar is loud? I think you're reaching, Rick."

“Devon,” he said.

“What?”

“Devon.  I hate being called Rick.  Devon’s my middle name.”

“Now’s not the time to worry about it, Rick,” I said.

At first I thought he was going to cry, then his face scrunched up again into something resembling determination. He spat out the words "Fuck you, man," cocked his arm and swung at me. I adjusted my weight and took the punch on my shoulder. It was my bad shoulder, but the punch only hurt enough to make me angry. I tapped him in the sternum with the palm of my hand, knocking him down the steps of his porch and onto his ass. He coughed as he tried to catch his breath. I would have felt bad, except a stiff breeze could knock this guy over.

"Aw you mother fucking shit shithead cocked bastard!"

"Creative," I said, stepping down next to him.

"Damn it!" He slammed his palms on to the sidewalk in frustration

"Are we ready to chat now?" I sqautted next to him.

"You punk. That's all you are. A stinkin' punk. Fuckin' cop."

"I tapped you." It was getting hard not to laugh. I had to admit I was doing an admirable job.

"And I'm not a cop."

"Well, it hurt. Really hurt."

I sighed. It was like dealing with an eighth grader.

"Why are you charging double the rent to my client?"

"Fuck. You."

I flicked him in the forehead with my middle finger. He swatted at my hand. I waited. I could have beat the information out of him, but the eighth grade bully in me thought this was more fun.

I flicked him again.

"Quit it. Jesus."

I glared at him.

"All right. All right. It's this fucking city, if you have to know."

"The city?"

He shifted on the pavement, and brushed his shirt off. "Yeah. I used to own the Corner Deli. On George? I was a landlord, sure — owned this very house — but man, I had my own business. It was nice making sandwiches for the people as they came by. Sure, the neighborhood wasn't that great, but I never had a problem. People liked me. I wasn't held up. Nothing like that."

"So?"

"Then Rutgers comes along with Johnson and Johnson and their 'rebuilding' program." He made quotation marks with his fingers. "They bought me out. Cheap. They didn't care about me or what I was going to do. How was I going to make a living? The money wasn't enough to buy another lot to start another business. And even if it was, there weren't any places that Johnson and Johnson hadn't bought out and then sold at double the price. So all I had left was this landlord business. The economy sucks and nobody's hiring."

"So you decided to charge Gerry double? Because you had no cash you were going to scam an old man?"

"Well, no, not exactly."

"Tell me then. Exactly."

"Can I sit on the porch steps?"

"Uh huh."

He got up and limped to the steps. He sat gingerly.

The evening sky was clear. A breeze blew in from the north, tunneling down the road, blowing some empty cans and crumpled newspaper across the street. A few kids meandered up across the street, not making much noise. A class must have just let out. I kicked at some leaves. They crinkled under my foot.

"I'm waiting, Rick."

He seemed to be looking over my head, but he must have been looking at my hat. "Isn't there a Yankees game tonight? Can't you go watch that instead?"

"After we're done here."

"Fine. Fine. A few weeks ago, this lady comes to see me. She offers me five thousand dollars to evict your pal Gerry. I ask her why and she says she's just not one of his fans. I didn't like doing it and I didn't take the money right away. In fact, I haven't even seen it yet. But it gets me thinking. I kind of like the old guy. And I don't really want to kick him out. But I'm about six grand short of buying my own McDonald's. They say you double your investment in a year. I'll put it in Piscataway or Franklin. You know. I got the experience with the deli.

"So I tell him I want double his rent or else I kick him out. He's a drunk anyway. Or was. Of course, with my luck, he wakes up and realizes something's wrong. I thought he was going to go for it too. And if he didn't, I could take this lady's cash. I mean, I don't even know how long this house is going to be here. The old guy might not have long to live here anyway, once J&J and Rutgers decide they want some high class Wall Street condos in the area. I was trying to help him out."

"Help him out? You were trying help yourself out. Illegally, I might add."

He coughed a little, but he seemed to have relaxed and gotten his wind back. "Whatever," he said. "I could have just taken the money. I still might."

"I'm sure I could find a lawyer or two that would be willing to stop you. Maybe even the police."

"This is fucking racist, man!"

I sat next to him on the steps. Two ladies strolled by, walking a dog. One of them smiled at me. I winked.

"Who was this woman who came to see you?" I asked.

"I don't remember her name, but I think I have her card around here somewhere. Hang on." He pulled his wallet and started to sort through it. He found a card and handed it to me. "She sort of looked like Hillary Clinton."

* * *

I waited until the next morning before I did anything. After all, James was right; the Yankees were on. They lost 3-2 in eleven innings.

I needed to talk to Leslie Stevens. I couldn't figure out why she'd wanted Gerry evicted. I hate whys. People do things for stupid reasons. They says it's usually love or money that supports any criminal motive. But anger and pride are up there too. The why was always a pain in the ass.

It was a lot colder this morning. Fall seemed to want to give way to winter, and yet it was only mid-October. I could see my breath, and as I walked down George Street, a few people were scraping ice off their cars, or scrambling to buy coffee in one of the bagel shops. The cold made things crisper. The sky seemed a little more blue, the sounds of horns honking, people talking sharper, like it could cut through your eardrums.

I crossed the street and walked to the City Theater. The marquee advertised an upcoming Neil Simon play. Brian sat behind the box office glass again, this time reading the sports pages. I rapped on the glass, jolting him out of his playoff-induced trance. He looked at me, and recognition crossed his face.

"Back again, huh?"

"Yeah. Is Ms. Stevens here?"

"She's here. I still don't think we have any openings. You talk to Gerry Figuroa lately? I'd really like to interview him. Put a couple of quotes in my paper. Ya know?"

"I don't know what he'd have to say. But I'll let him know. Okay?"

"Sure. Cool. Let me go get her for you."

He got up and disappeared into the depths of the box office. I looked out the front doors watching the people meander by, nothing much to do on a Saturday morning. It was quiet -outside. But when nights rolled around it was a different scene. The "classy" people showed up for the theater and an espresso afterwards. It was just what Rutgers and Johnson and Johnson wanted.

Stevens came back into the lobby to meet me. She was dressed the same way as yesterday, except this time her suit was dark blue.

"How can I help you, Mr. Donne? Have you brought that man's resume?"

It was warmer in here than it was outside. I could hear the pipes filtering heat into the room. Her voice wasn't as sharp as it would be if we were outside. It was quiet and mellow, almost as if she were trying to lull me to sleep.

"I haven't brought his resume. I told you last night Gerry wasn't interested. Instead, I've come to ask you about him."

"Really?" She smiled.

"His landlord mentioned that you'd stopped by."

Much like water down a drain, the color ran from her face. But I gave her credit. Other than that she kept her composure. Maybe she figured she could talk her way out of this battle.

"He said I came to visit him? He's lying."

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Too many reasons. He described you. He gave me your business card. It's too coincidental that he would pick your name out of all the female names in the world. Or even the state. Or even—"

"Okay. I get your point." Her voice was tight, nervous.

"Anyway," I said. "He said you offered him five thousand dollars to evict Mr. Figuroa."

"I'm sure you have proof of that too?" It wasn't a statement, but a worried question. I had her. I stayed silent. Let her think what she wanted.

She looked around, eyes checking out the lobby. Maybe she could see the theater, everything she was in charge of slipping away. Whatever she saw, it scared her.

"Do you understand what my father would have become? He could have been huge. Move this dog and pony act to Broadway. Open a theater up and put on huge productions. Make millions. But no. To the critics there was no Roger Stevens, it was only Gerry Figuroa was great as Don Quixote. Or he was wonderful as Willy Loman or Nathan Detroit. Or anybody.

"The theater is in trouble. I may have said I was good last night, but I'm not that good. Not in this recession. And almost as an afterthought, I thought of Gerry. Revenge would have been good enough, but he could help me in other ways too. In order to stay afloat we need to be able to sell advertising for the playbills. We need to apply for grants. We need to sell tickets. Except no one is coming right now. No one wants to pay. The college kids are broke. The Wall Street people aren't coming to see plays because our production costs are down because we can't afford them. We needed to do something. We needed to drum up some sympathy."

"Now you had even more reason to evict Gerry? Revenge for your father and success for you, and no one would be the wiser."

"It would have been a great promotion. The people who review our grant request wouldn't be able to turn us down in our saddest moment. Just think of the headlines. 'Famous Actor from the Sixties Dies Homeless and Alone.' We could have done retrospectives, base ads around it. When Brian found Gerry Figuroa in the archives, I thought he was the best possible choice. I remember my father hating him. But he really brought the people in. The people who have been ticket holders since the sixties would remember him and feel sorry. Word of mouth would spread like wildfire. We would have been fine."

"But what about Gerry?"

"What about him? He's jobless, poor. Probably a drunk. No one cares about him now. But they would have. He would have been a martyr for the theater. I was doing him a favor. As much as I hated him for what he did to my father, I was still helping him."

"You're sick." Her plan wasn't going to work. There wasn't any guarantee that it would have worked. Maybe Gerry would have lived. Maybe James would have had a change of heart. But it was a frightening idea anyway.

She stopped talking and the lobby was quiet. For once I wasn't the one I was disgusted with.

"So what happens now?" she asked.

"I think we should go talk to the police."

She laughed. "About what? One thing I have is a good lawyer. Your word against mine? Even if you get that landlord to talk, who's going to believe him? He's weak, he's afraid and he's black. I don't think anyone would listen."

She was probably right. Until and unless Rick James decided to talk, there wasn't a lot I could do. And, even if he did, it was going to be awfully hard to prove Stevens had done anything wrong, though James might get in trouble over the rent control laws. She was right. The way New Brunswick was changing, race was becoming an issue again. I wasn't sure how many cops would believe a timid, black man over someone with as much power as Stevens.

"You'll be hearing from the police." I turned my back and walked out. It wasn't a good feeling in the pit of my stomach. I felt her eyes on my back as I left.

* * *

I sat in the Olde Town Tavern with Gerry. The bar was crowded and noisy, but the cover band hadn't started yet, so we could still hear each other. Saturday night the week after mid-terms ended. I don't know what I expected.

I was drinking, too slowly in my mind, a Harp. I only drank it because it was on tap. The stuff tasted awful out of a bottle.

"What's wrong with you?" Gerry asked. "A few weeks ago you would have started a tab and put away three beers by this time."

I smiled and rubbed my shoulder. "My physical therapist has me on antibiotics. I shouldn't be drinking." The truth was I was losing interest in drinking. Waking up with a headache every morning didn't do much for my mood. I wanted to prove to myself I could control it.

"Fucking doctors." Gerry finished his coffee. "So, am I going to have a house to live in?"

"Yeah, I think so." After my stop at the theater this morning, I'd called the police. The police and I were never on the same page, and after talking to one of the detectives, I didn't get the feeling they'd be doing much. I'd tried to talk to Rick James, but he wasn't around. With my luck, probably trying to find a lawyer to sue me. I felt bad for James. He had been taken advantage of, because people thought he was weak. And maybe because of the color of his skin. My stomach twisted. I didn't want to believe I had done the same thing, but perhaps I had.

"Good. So what do I owe you for this?" Gerry asked.

I smiled. I had a nice sized check coming from the insurance company I had been working for.

"You can pay my bar tab tonight."

"You just said you weren't going to drink much."

"I know."

"Well, if you say so." Gerry signaled Artie for another round. Coffee and a Harp.

We drank quietly for a while. I watched a few guys hit on a girl who wanted nothing to do with them. In the corner the band was setting up. They didn't look like they'd be quiet, but they might be good. I was hoping for a grunge cover. I was in a Pearl Jam mood.

Finally Gerry said, "You're going to have to tell me the whole story one of these days."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

The guitar player started to tune up.

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Well, I was thinking about what you said. About getting a job and all?" He watched me nod.

"I'm thinking maybe I'll write a play about all this. Sell it, see if I can get a production going.  Make some cash that way."

"Sounds good to me." I took a sip of beer.

Behind us the band broke into "Even Flow".