Bradhurst

Harlem

West 145th Street

Walking past the apartment building where Jesse Austin once lived, Leo resisted going in. He haunted the location as though he believed that some trace of the past remained, some imprint of the day when young Elena had arrived, with dreams of equality and fairness. His persistence had not yet been rewarded: queries had been rebuffed on every occasion with responses that ranged from hostile to blank incomprehension. There was no one in the building he hadn’t approached, acquiring a reputation with the inhabitants as a crank. When he’d knocked on what was once Jesse Austin’s door he’d addressed the current occupants, a young couple, in rudimentary awkward English, asking if they knew anything about Jesse Austin. They shook their head, seemingly under the impression that he was looking for someone who lived there now. Unable to articulate his real purpose, he’d taken out the newspaper clippings of the assassination. From their confusion, they had no knowledge of the event, no idea who Jesse Austin was, and certainly no idea why this strange foreign man was asking about him sixteen years after the murder. Though they’d been more polite than most, they’d shut the door and locked it.

Moving away from the apartment building, Leo walked down the street, clutching the articles that he showed to almost anyone, particularly those men and women old enough to have been adults at the time of the murders. While he’d been in the Soviet Union and Afghanistan, he’d always presumed that reaching New York was the main obstacle he faced. He was wrong, underestimating the difficulties an outsider would experience when trying to solve a sixteen-year-old case that no one wanted to remember.

There was a cafe on the other side of the street, always busy and something of a social hub in the neighbourhood, popular with an older clientele. He crossed over and entered. Filled with lunch time customers, it was noisy and lively, packed with small square tables situated so close together the waitresses needed to side-step between them, which they did with some lity. Wearing blue-and-white-striped aprons they delivered plates loaded with inelegant, delicious-looking food. The kitchen was visible, steam rising. There was an almost constant sound of plates clattering. Many of the men and women eating here were at least fifty years old. Surely someone knew Jesse Austin and the truth about his death, even if it were no more than a rumour. Leo would have gladly listened to even the idlest speculation.

Approaching the woman at the cash register, Leo felt frustrated by his limited English, verbal clumsiness that would not endear him to an already suspicious audience.

—I want to ask questions. About this man… Jesse Austin.

As Leo unfolded his newspaper articles, the woman cocked her head, a dumbfounded expression he’d seen countless times. She called out towards the kitchen:

—You better get out here!

An older woman emerged. As soon as she saw Leo she shook her head. Leo was out of luck, he’d asked for her help before. She’d declined.

—You got to leave!

—Please—

—I told you before. I told you no!

Leo decided to say aloud the man’s name, to see if anyone reacted.

—I want to speak about Jesse Austin.

—Get out, right now!

Her command was loud, silencing the entire cafe, customers staring at him, waitresses staring at him, everyone trying to figure him out. Leo observed one interesting point, no matter how much he annoyed her, no matter how angry she became, she never threatened to call the police. He held up the newspaper clippings, showing them to the customers, and repeating the name.

—Jesse Austin. Please. Someone. Talk to me.

He waited outside, loitering on the off-chance someone was going to respond to his request. No one did. He sighed. Hopefully that woman didn’t work every day. He would try again, and again. The breakthrough would come.