On the Surface

Contents

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DEDICATION

This novel is dedicated to my children and to my former students. My ambition was always to inspire them to do great things and to become great people.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I acknowledge the influence of my favorite authors: Walter Mosley and Dexter Colin. They have educated and entertained me, and I hope that this novel continues to exalt this genre.

CHAPTER ONE

12:01 am, June 7th

FROM PAUL’S VANTAGE POINT

John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme resonated throughout Paul’s apartment. Each chant, bam and musical chord entered Paul’s soul. Paul knew each nuance and inflection of this suite. Each time he played it, the journey and the destination were more spiritual and somewhat magical. Coltrane’s brilliant tenor sax; Garrison on double bass; McCoy at the piano; and Elvin Jones on drums, were as familiar to him as any childhood friend. And in the background, was the usual and familiar hum of CNN.

Paul could hear the reporter as she announced, Michael Block, highly acclaimed African American movie producer, Victim of car bombing in Hollywood, Dead at 51.

Paul experienced a familiar surge of apprehension and a trace of bizarre fascination—the same surge as when he once recklessly pursued news across continents, while defiantly flaunting his youth and his innocence.

But this time he sat with his hand over his mouth. Consumed by his memories, he wiped his forehead, took a deep breath and pulled himself together. Why does all this shit have to happen in the middle of the night? he asked. The consummate newsman he began to make phone calls.

Have you heard? Yes, I’m sure! Let me know what you hear! Yes, we went to Temple University together. Why would anyone kill Michael?

Immediately, Paul thought of Pete. I have to tell Pete, if he doesn’t already know.

Paul hadn’t spoken to Pete since last year when Pete was in New York trying to put together a real estate deal. He owned shopping centers and apartment buildings in Boston, Miami and Los Angeles. He had the whole smear: wife, kids, pool, dogs and everything Paul said that he had never wanted. Paul dialed the Boston number. It rang twice. Pete answered. When he told Pete that Michael was dead, Paul heard a small sound, almost like the screech of tires against asphalt. It was as if his breathing had been taken hostage. Quickly, it sputtered out like air escaping from a balloon.

Damn it! What the hell was Michael up to? Pete asked rhetorically.

Something got him killed. I wouldn’t live in Hollywood if you gave me the place, replied Paul.

Hell, you live in New York! said Pete bluntly.

Are you going to call his parents? Paul asked.

I’d rather just go. I’ll be flying down tomorrow, How about you? Pete replied.

I’m going to drive. I’ll probably get to Philly by lunch time. I need to drive down between the rush hours, said Paul reluctantly.

Well, I’ll see you in Philly, Paul, and we can have lunch and catch up; maybe, do something, like old times, said Pete.

Okay, Pete, see you soon, replied Paul.

Paul stayed up most of the night watching CNN, listening to his albums and reliving his college days. He listened closely whenever he heard Michael’s name. He was anxious to hear more details about Michael’s death. Occasionally, he glanced at the screen. And then he finally saw Michael’s image. The picture had to be a decade old. Michael resembled his father in some ways. He had his father’s powerful Jack Johnson-like build, and his broad nose and high cheekbones. Yet, Michael’s overwhelming essence was that of his delicate, blonde haired and blue eyed Swedish mother. His genetic makeup gave him an exotic and striking appearance, which both men and women found appealing. Damn, Paul said aloud. You would think that someone would have dug up a more recent picture.

CNN showed a clip of an interview with Harlan Williams, a thin, dark brown man with large brooding eyes. He was Michael’s assistant. He was being interviewed by a reporter. Obviously distraught, he said he had no clue why anyone would hurt Michael. As he spoke, Paul watched his eyes flash and dance mysteriously. The reporter asked him what had happened. He said that he and Michael had been working late, editing Michael’s new film. He stayed to lock up after Michael left. A few minutes later, he heard an explosion and ran outside to the gated garage. It was engulfed in smoke, flames and debris. I couldn’t do anything… he was gone, Harlan said. He choked up, moved the microphone away from his face and walked out of camera view.

This interview was superimposed over images of the police and FBI invading the studio and grounds of the Lotus Film Corporation searching for evidence. One report consisted of a biography of Michael’s life. It covered his life in Philadelphia, his education at Temple University and his career in Hollywood. The reporter listed the seventeen films he had made since 1972 and focused on his latest film Every Woman. It starred Genevieve, the world famous French actress and Michael’s fiancée. It contained a list of the many awards he had won, and recognized him as a humanitarian, citing the charitable work he had done with the NAACP and the World Relief Fund.

Finally, at about four o’clock in the morning, as the news flickered in the background, Paul dozed off. He didn’t get to work until after ten o’clock that morning. He was tired and sad. He called Helen, the woman who had run the New York headquarters for nearly ten years. She and Paul had been more than friends, and though she was not young, she kept herself made up and well coiffed. Helen had a decent body for a woman of her age, and she knew how to please a man.

Michael Block was a close friend… I need some time off, Paul said sorrowfully.

Helen had never refused Paul anything. Of course, you have to go. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Thanks, Helen, I knew I could count on you.

But on a more pleasant note, I’ve missed you! When you get back we’ll have to correct that.

Glad to comply, my dear, Paul responded in his Rhett Butler voice.

Paul rescheduled his interviews and had his stories reassigned. Then he checked the other news services to find out if there had been any leads in Michael’s murder. He remembered to make hotel reservations at the old Bellevue Stratford Stratton, renamed the Fairmount Hotel, since the Legionnaires’ death there in 1976. Finally, he phoned his mother, Adele Kline, and told her about Michael’s death. She had only met Michael two or three times, but she seemed upset. She wanted Paul to stop by homes since he had to drive through New Jersey anyway. On the way back, maybe, he told her, If I’m not too tired. She accepted this.

Adele had taught English at Eisenhower High School in Trenton and given Paul the best life she could. Paul loved the hell out of her, but he had spent all of his formative years comparing his life with those young men who had come from a two parent homes. The stories she told Paul of his father, who had died on some nameless island in the South Seas, had done little to ease his pain of being raised without him.

As a child, Paul studied the twelve inch Starlight Globe his mother kept on the bookshelf. It was magnificent with black seas and oceans, pastel tinted countries and pale green lines of latitude and longitude. He sought fruitlessly to supply a name for the mysterious island. If he could pinpoint it by labeling and plotting its coordinates, perhaps he would be able to come to terms with his father’s death.

From this preoccupation grew his love of traveling and investigating the unknown. From his mother, he developed a keen interest in literature, especially Greek mythology which told him that nothing was impossible and that heroes could exist. But he also loved the novels: Catcher in the Rye, Catch 22; The Great Gatsby; Portnoy’s Complaint; The Sun Also Rises; Crime and Punishment; etc. He had done well on his SAT’s, scoring a 780 on the English section, and had chosen Temple University because it was nearby and had a large Jewish population.

For the last eight years, Paul worked as a television anchorman on WTXY in Manhattan. In his old life, he traveled to every breaking story from Beirut to Beijing, investigating and reporting in the midst of gunfire and hostage negotiations. Fortunately, Paul was in New York when he had a heart attack. He was hospitalized for a week and had a stent put in his coronary artery. His physician, Dr. Bradley, told him that if he wanted to live, he’d have to make some changes, and so he had. He started using the gym at his condo, and he followed the healthy heart diet Dr. Bradley had given him. Every time he craved a cigarette or a drink, he’d remember the excruciating pain, and the craving would dissipate. Paul remembered how he felt when he used to inhale Cutty Sark to unwind. He didn’t miss the feeling, but every once in a while, he craved a Miller’s beer, especially in this hot weather.

Paul finished the Evening News, and told the crew and his other co-workers that he would see them in a few days, and left the building. Paul usually enjoyed his trek home. Carnegie Hall, the Museum of Modern Art, and Fifth Avenue were all in his backyard and at his disposal. There was always something to absorb, to be challenged by and to savor. But today he ignored the sights, the sounds and especially the faces, because Michael’s death was in front of him.

Three flights up, pass the doorman and everyone else who worked or lived in his condo, was Paul’s retreat. It was the one place for him to relax with his possessions, which were chiefly photographs and souvenirs. They chronicled his adventures and reinforced his memories. He collected photography and prized those he owned by Ben Shahn, the Jewish artist—story teller who told the same stories as Rivera, Lawrence and Tanner. He had learned that great art: music, sculpture, painting etc. were about the universal, but was conveyed through images of the particular. He felt connected to others when he related to their experiences.

Paul’s jazz albums filled the shelves of an antique Biedermeier bookcase. He had acquired some of them while enrolled at Temple University when he and Michael had sought them out in the second hand shops along South Street in Philly. His Miles Davis collection was huge, but since Miles was so proliferate and his career spanned so many years, he knew he would never own them all. Paul also revered and collected Coltrane, Monk, Dizzy, Rollins and many others as well.

As part of his ritual, Paul played his jazz albums as soon as he entered his apartment. He chose these albums according to his mood. He selected Relaxin’ with the Miles Davis Quintet, took it out of its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. This wasn’t his favorite Miles. He listened to Kind Of Blue and Sketches of Spain more often, but he wanted to hear Relaxin tonight. Paul was fascinated with patterns as well as coincidences. This recording was a perfect choice as were Miles on Trumpet; Coltrane on tenor sax; Red Garland at piano; Paul Chambers on bass and the phenomenal, Philly Joe Jones on Drums. Miles had finally found his perfect quintet. He began to get into it, anticipating every phrase.

When Miles died in 1991, Paul bought the CD collection, before the man was cold. He felt compelled, but he didn’t listen to the CD’s much. He wasn’t ready to give up his LP’s. No matter what the hype was about them, he felt like a traitor every time he listened to them. Two months ago, Paul finally decided to transfer some of his favorite albums to digital when he found one of his albums cracked. He was upset with himself for stacking it along with others he played often in a pile. Never again, he vowed. That was stupid, he said to himself.

Paul began to think about his plans for the evening. He promised Diane that he would take her up on her offer. Why today, of all days? he asked himself. Diane Steinberg was a young woman who worked at the station. She had a huge crush on Paul. She often invited him to meet him after work for a drink. He always had an excuse not to go. She flirted with him, threw him little kisses whenever she passed him, and would stop by his office just to say hello. Though he was flattered, he knew that she was much too serious and at least ten years too young for him. Just three days ago, she had cornered him, and so he had agreed to go out with her on Friday. One date, he figured, and she’d be satisfied.

He surveyed his extensive wardrobe which was mostly Armani and Perry Ellis. He chose tan linen pants; coordinating cotton knit shirt and a pair of Italian loafers. As he dressed, he kept thinking that it’s probably just a game with Diane. In the cab, he considered breaking his date with Diane. Too much of a hassle, he rationalized, especially when he had to be on the road tomorrow. Paul hadn’t been on a date in years. He associated with women who believed as he did, No strings, no commitment! He was far past thinking about marriage, and wished that he could get his mother to understand this. He could care less about bringing any more children into this world. The empty stares and broken bodies of the children he had seen in war torn and disease ridden countries had convinced him that he would remain a bachelor.

Time had gotten away from Paul. He had told Diane to meet him at an upscale jazz café in Greenwich Village. It lacked the intimacy and charm of some jazz clubs he had visited, but it was a great venue, if somewhat commercial. He loved that there was jazz there every night and that young musicians had the opportunity to perform. He hailed a cab. Diane was waiting at the bar drinking a brand of bottled water he didn’t recognize. Paul sat on the stool next to her.

How is it? he asked, pointing to the water.

Okay, but it’s still water, she replied.

She wore a tiny, white sleeveless tank top dress that was short, above her knees. Paul noticed how toned and athletic she was. He liked that. She was on stage two of her tan. Her long reddish brown hair was held up with one of those doodads you see advertised on television. She looked a little like Julie Roberts. For a while, he forgot why he had run from her so long. A new jazz group was playing some Fusion in the adjoining room. Paul recognized a few bars of it. He couldn’t name it. He ordered the same water Diane drank and pretended it was a Miller’s beer. The woman seated next to Paul was smoking. It was irritating as hell. Paul picked up his water and asked Diane if she was ready to eat. They moved into the non-smoking restaurant and got a table. Their conversation was easy since they both worked at the station. She worked in research or promotion, something like that, he thought. She was a good story teller. She strung together tidbits of gossip about the various executives: their nicknames, their quirks and their indiscretions. She was witty and hilarious.

When their waiter, Lorenzo, took their order, he ordered a pasta salad and iced tea. She ordered veal Parmigianino and a glass of Chianti. Lorenzo really hustled for his tip. He was a little too attentive and talkative, but this service was better than the alternative. In the meantime, Paul told Diane about Michael’s death, their friendship and his trip to Philly the next day. She was listening and saying all the right things at the appropriate times. Paul wasn’t prepared for