two of them watching a game show on the ceiling-mounted TV. Later, she’d found out that, knowing Nerese’s mother was in the hospital herself at the time and that her brothers were not exactly go-to guys, Sugar had taken it upon himself to be her very frightened boy’s stand-in parent, and had spent the better part of the last thirty-six hours pretty much holding Darren’s hand.
And for that, he could have waltzed in from the john wearing a Klan hood and cracking a bullwhip and Nerese would have done nothing more than call him an asshole before going back to work on the assorted doughnuts.
“Ready?” Sugar asked, reaching for a manila folder on the windowsill. Nerese opened a reporter’s pad.
“OK. Raymond Randolph Mitchell, born ’60 married ’91 divorced ’95, one kid Ruby Draw-Mitchell born in ’90. Last six addresses: 644 Broadway in New York, from ’88 to ’94—his ex and kid are still living there—10 Jones Street in Greenwich Village, from ’95 to ’98, then big move, 1330 La Cienega in West Hollywood, ’98 to the fall of ’01, then back to New York, the Gramercy Park Hotel mid-September to mid-October of the same year, then from there to current, residing in Little Venice at 44 Othello Way, right here in Dempsy. Questions? Comments?”
“Go ahead,” Nerese said, her pen motionless, suspended above the pad.
“OK, criminal—nothing on the NCIC computer, but you know that. And, checking in with One Police Plaza, with Hudson, Essex, Bergen, Dempsy County prosecutors offices and with the LAPD, there’s nothing, no open complaints, nothing charged then dismissed. Also, there’s no litigation, no torts, nothing in civil court and no tax liens.
“On medicals . . . No hospital admissions except for, you know, the present situation: no rehab clinics, no methadone maintenance, no psychiatric admissions, no HIV therapy and no lab work—blood tests, X rays, EEGs, EKGs, MRIs, CAT scans, nada.
“He doesn’t see a shrink and it looks like the guy doesn’t even have a regular doctor, which is none too bright once you hit forty. Questions?”
“Go ahead.” Nerese broke off a section of doughnut, put it down, picked it up, put it down.
“OK. Employment. And this is somewhat interesting. From ’87 to ’90 he was a public school teacher, English, Fannie Lou Hamer High School in the Bronx. Then from ’90 to ’93 he was driving a cab for an outfit called Orion, then from ’93 to ’95, get this, he was a polygrapher for an outfit, also New York, called Truth and Justice, did mostly employment screens, then from ’95 to ’97 he was back driving a cab for two garages, first DMG then Scorpio.”
“He went from teaching high school to driving a cab?” Nerese started doodling, a whirling stroke like a tornado.
“OK,” Sugar flipped a page. “According to the Special Investigations office over at the New York Board of Ed? He was facing some kind of disciplinary hearing, so it could have been one of those you-can’t-fire-me-I-quit deals.”
“A hearing for what?”
“Apparently, back in ’90 he took thirty kids and went AWOL on a class trip.”
“How’d you . . . They never release that shit.”
“Yeah, well, I was calling from the chancellor’s office, so it was strictly in-house.” Sugar patted himself on the head.
“Then drove a cab again after the polygraph gig?”
“Yeah, but then get this. From ’98 to 2001 he worked out in LA for a company called Satchmo Productions, was a staff writer on that TV show
Brokedown High
? The guy starts pulling down four, count ’em, four grand a week. Left
that
gig, God knows why, and other than the volunteer teaching thing over at the Hook? Basically, he’s been unemployed ever since. Or, given his financials, maybe a better word is ‘retired.’”
Nerese kept doodling.
“You want the financials?”
“Sure.”
“OK.” He turned a page. “AmEx and MasterCard combined averages from seven to fifteen hundred a month,
And for that, he could have waltzed in from the john wearing a Klan hood and cracking a bullwhip and Nerese would have done nothing more than call him an asshole before going back to work on the assorted doughnuts.
“Ready?” Sugar asked, reaching for a manila folder on the windowsill. Nerese opened a reporter’s pad.
“OK. Raymond Randolph Mitchell, born ’60 married ’91 divorced ’95, one kid Ruby Draw-Mitchell born in ’90. Last six addresses: 644 Broadway in New York, from ’88 to ’94—his ex and kid are still living there—10 Jones Street in Greenwich Village, from ’95 to ’98, then big move, 1330 La Cienega in West Hollywood, ’98 to the fall of ’01, then back to New York, the Gramercy Park Hotel mid-September to mid-October of the same year, then from there to current, residing in Little Venice at 44 Othello Way, right here in Dempsy. Questions? Comments?”
“Go ahead,” Nerese said, her pen motionless, suspended above the pad.
“OK, criminal—nothing on the NCIC computer, but you know that. And, checking in with One Police Plaza, with Hudson, Essex, Bergen, Dempsy County prosecutors offices and with the LAPD, there’s nothing, no open complaints, nothing charged then dismissed. Also, there’s no litigation, no torts, nothing in civil court and no tax liens.
“On medicals . . . No hospital admissions except for, you know, the present situation: no rehab clinics, no methadone maintenance, no psychiatric admissions, no HIV therapy and no lab work—blood tests, X rays, EEGs, EKGs, MRIs, CAT scans, nada.
“He doesn’t see a shrink and it looks like the guy doesn’t even have a regular doctor, which is none too bright once you hit forty. Questions?”
“Go ahead.” Nerese broke off a section of doughnut, put it down, picked it up, put it down.
“OK. Employment. And this is somewhat interesting. From ’87 to ’90 he was a public school teacher, English, Fannie Lou Hamer High School in the Bronx. Then from ’90 to ’93 he was driving a cab for an outfit called Orion, then from ’93 to ’95, get this, he was a polygrapher for an outfit, also New York, called Truth and Justice, did mostly employment screens, then from ’95 to ’97 he was back driving a cab for two garages, first DMG then Scorpio.”
“He went from teaching high school to driving a cab?” Nerese started doodling, a whirling stroke like a tornado.
“OK,” Sugar flipped a page. “According to the Special Investigations office over at the New York Board of Ed? He was facing some kind of disciplinary hearing, so it could have been one of those you-can’t-fire-me-I-quit deals.”
“A hearing for what?”
“Apparently, back in ’90 he took thirty kids and went AWOL on a class trip.”
“How’d you . . . They never release that shit.”
“Yeah, well, I was calling from the chancellor’s office, so it was strictly in-house.” Sugar patted himself on the head.
“Then drove a cab again after the polygraph gig?”
“Yeah, but then get this. From ’98 to 2001 he worked out in LA for a company called Satchmo Productions, was a staff writer on that TV show
Brokedown High
? The guy starts pulling down four, count ’em, four grand a week. Left
that
gig, God knows why, and other than the volunteer teaching thing over at the Hook? Basically, he’s been unemployed ever since. Or, given his financials, maybe a better word is ‘retired.’”
Nerese kept doodling.
“You want the financials?”
“Sure.”
“OK.” He turned a page. “AmEx and MasterCard combined averages from seven to fifteen hundred a month,
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