the PARTY
New York – November 1995
My brother Cullinan and I lived with our dad in a two-bedroom apartment. It was large by Manhattan standards, but not by the standards of anyone else living outside of Tokyo. Dad was out doing his cop thing and Cullinan was in the kitchen doing his kitchen thing when I answered the door.
“Happy Birthday, Mike!” Dave shouted.
Lucy thrust a paper bag at me. “We brought cupcakes! I wanted to get vodka, but ‘Mr. Thinks He’s A Hacker’ over here wants me to wait until his new IDs are finished.”
“Trust me, they’re going to be amazing,” Dave bragged.
“Thanks, guys. Technically my birthday isn’t until tomorrow, but whatever.”
“We’re not leaving until tomorrow, so that works,” Lucy said.
“Yeah, we’ve got to get our birthday punches in,” Dave said.
“You should be aware that I hit back,” I said.
“Maybe not so much with the punches, then.”
We moved into the living room as Cullinan began slicing the hell out of some vegetables in the dining alcove.
“What’s up with tall, dark and focused?” Lucy asked.
“Cullinan?” I asked. “That’s my brother.”
“You never told me your brother was a brother, Mike,” Dave said.
“Yeah, I was adopted,” I said. “Never met my birth parents. Now you know more than you’ll ever need to know about me.”
“You never told me you had a brother,” Lucy said.
“Don’t worry, he’s like the least cool guy you’ll ever meet. But he’s the only guy I know who’s smarter than I am.”
“So modest,” Dave said. “You’re such a dick.”
“Hey, I am being modest. I didn’t say I was the smartest person in the world. Just one of them. Come on, I’ll introduce you all.
“Hey, Culli. Meet my friends. Dave and Lucy.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Cullinan gave a little bow of his head.
“And you, good sir.” Lucy curtsied.
Dave gave her a look. “Wait, Cullinan? Like the Diamond?”
“Correct. Our father does have a sense of humor. It just takes some effort to find it.”
The intercom buzzed. I told the doorman to send the other guests upstairs.
“So what is there to drink in this place?” Lucy asked.
“Well, we’ve got water and six kinds of juice,” I answered.
“What kind of a party is it without alcohol?” Dave asked.
“Hopefully a fun kind where we can play darts without putting anyone’s eye out. Besides, SIX KINDS OF JUICE.”
“We’ve got apple, orange, cranberry, mango, and two brands of litchi,” Cullinan said.
“Have you ever tried a litchini?” Lucy asked. “They’re amazing.”
“No, but you can mix litchi with cranberry, and it’s pretty excellent,” I answered. “I’m afraid you’ll all just have to cope with sobriety. That’s how we roll in Casa del Diamond.”
“I can’t believe this is the first time you invited me over to your apartment,” Dave asked. “How long have we known each other?”
“I never have anyone over,” I answered.
“Our dad’s a cop - a homicide detective - so he likes to keep our home a private place most of the time,” Cullinan said. “Especially since Mom…”
“He’s got a lot of paperwork tonight,” I added, “so I figured we could all hang here for a few hours. Don’t mess shit up.”
“Don’t worry,” Lucy assured me. “I’ve got Dave housebroken.”
“So you’re like a forger now?” I asked Dave.
“More of a hacker, but let’s talk about that when we’re not in the apartment of an NYPD detective,” he responded.
“Good call.”
“So…didn’t you ever want to know who your biological parents were?” Dave asked. “You know, like, where you came from?”
“Not really. I mean, I thought about it a lot right after I learned what it all meant. But I am who I am. I don’t really care where I came from. It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re not curious?” Lucy asked.
“Of course I’m curious. But some things might be better left unknown.”
The bell rang as some other guests arrived. A rather tame party ensued. People who hadn’t seen me in months kept saying how much different I seemed. I chose to take it as a compliment. The apartment was full of idle chatter and party games, until everyone got bored and left in search of alcohol.
the BIKE
My dad and I walked towards the Hudson River, west on 43rd Street. When I was a kid, we used to take this walk over to the Intrepid Museum all the time. I felt there must be something special about the big grey aircraft carrier, but mostly we’d just sit in silence on Pier 84. As the pier deteriorated, so did our relationship. I was growing up, going through those awkward teen years everyone warns about, but there was other stuff going on, too.
We turned up 11th Avenue and walked by the Market Diner. There were not so many transvestite prostitutes hanging out in the neighborhood anymore, but the diner hadn’t changed in my lifetime. We stopped at the parking lot.
“We’re not going to the Intrepid,” my dad said.
“Why not?” I asked
“We can do that later, if you’d like. But I have something to give you first.”
He flashed his badge to the parking attendant, identifying himself as Detective John Diamond. The guy set down his magazine, led us to the back of the lot, and nodded to a filthy tarp.
“It’s not in great shape, but I wanted you to have this now that you’re eighteen.” He pulled back the tarp to reveal a red Kawasaki motorcycle. “I think your father would have wanted you to have it. Happy Birthday.”
I haven’t been stunned too many times in my life. When I was eight, I got hit in the face when a baseball took a wicked hop at first base. I was younger than that when I found out I was adopted. Not much of a surprise for a white kid raised by black parents. But finding my mom murdered when I was ten was. Nothing much fazed me from then on.
But this. This. My dad was talking to me about my father, after all of these years.
“I know you’ll have a lot of questions. But it’s a long story and I’m late for work. We can talk about it next week. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
That’s the sort of thing someone says on a TV show just before they get whacked. But don’t worry. This dad is still alive and giving criminals hell.
I tried to say something like, “You’re the only dad I ever needed,” because it was true. But instead I just said, “Okay.”
the SAFE
I sat alone in the living room, watching Empire Strikes Back for the third time in a week. I had already watched Godfather, Godfather II, and Terminator 2.
I was mostly just listening to Yoda now. During the Han/Leia scenes, I practiced my handstand, doing my best not to fall out of it and smash the coffee table again. Love stories were so last spring for me.
I had recently developed a fascination with telekinesis. No matter how much I meditated, I didn’t make any progress with it, but perhaps there was a metaphor in there somewhere. The ability to influence things from afar. That felt like something worthwhile to me. But for the time being, it was Darth Vader’s words that resonated with me.
Of course we all know that Vader is an anti-hero, and not a true villain. That much becomes clear at the end of Return of the Jedi. But even before that, I always thought he was misunderstood. He wants to bring peace to the galaxy and he believes that the ends justify the means. What’s so wrong with that?
When we were little kids, Cullinan and I spent a lot of time in our parents’ room. Dad would usually sit at his desk, poring over some police files. He wasn’t the best at leaving work at work. Our mom would read stories to us, then send us to bed in our room. She had a hard time getting around on account of her health, so story time was in her room.
After finding our mom murdered in her own bed, that room became John’s batcave. It was his dark place. I hadn’t gone in again until my 18th birthday.
I decided to find the truth about my biological parents. If there was information anywhere, it was in there. John said he would tell me everything, and I trusted him as much as I trusted anyone. But he trusted no one these days, and this was a truth I wanted to discover on my own.
The lock on the door was a simple one and gave me no trouble. I had picked a few locks in my childhood.
Inside, the room was literally dark. The walls were painted grey. The blood red drapes were pulled shut. The bed and desk were made of mahogany. The sheets were a dark blue and his desk chair was a deep green velvet wingback. I used to sit in that chair if Dad was out when Mom read to us.
I sat in the chair and faced the desk. No one was home, but I still slid the drawers open as quietly as possible, memorizing the location of everything I touched, being sure to place it back exactly where I’d found it. Not a millimeter out of place or a degree of rotation.
The drawers were filled with files. Mostly recent police files, news clippings. The top right drawer was filled with sentimentality. A newspaper clipping about our Little League team. A science medal that Cullinan had won and given to Dad for his help, even though C was explaining more to Dad than Dad was explaining to him.
None of this was what I was looking for. On the left of the desk was an old oak filing cabinet. The drawers were locked. When I found the key to the filing cabinet in the center drawer of the desk, I knew that I’d have to look elsewhere for what I wanted.
Still, I went through all of the files. More copies of police reports. The bottom drawer contained old clippings about the Vietnam War. Here was something I was interested in, but I didn’t have time for it now. Maybe another time.
To the right of the desk was something like an end table, with a red cloth draped over the whole thing and a small ficus tree on top. It was a weirdly-shaped piece of furniture.
I raised the cloth to reveal a heavy metal safe rather than an end table.
The large metal safe had one of those old dials with numbers and hash marks. This was not within my area of expertise, but I’d seen a few of these cracked in the movies. So I grabbed Cullinan’s stethoscope from our room and tried it out on the safe.
It turns out that this is not an easy thing to do. Cullinan was coming home sooner or later, so I decided to resort to guessing. Truth be told, I was a little sad when I guessed right. Mom’s birthday.
Inside the safe was an accordion folder filled with files on the murder of Ruby Diamond. I guess those were different times and I loved my mom as much as life itself, but what was she thinking when she changed her name?
Beneath the accordion folder was a slimmer file bearing the name Michael Lexington. Another murder. I read it front to back, shed a single tear, then tried to shake the papers dry.
Also in the safe were my adoption papers, listing the legal names of my biological mother and father.
I went back to the living room and my handstands. Being upside down gave me an idea and some perspective. I called Dave.
“Dave. I need your help.”
“What’s up Mike?”
“I need one of those fake IDs. There’s something I have to do.”
“But you don’t drink.”
“Make it a motorcycle license.”
“Have you been watching Easy Rider again?”
“No. And that’s not how my story ends, anyway.”
the RIDE
I walked over to Pier 84, shiny new motorcycle license in hand. I spent some time staring at the massive Intrepid aircraft carrier.
Despite being an inanimate object forged out of 24,580 tons of metal for the express purpose of sending aircraft off to war, the ship had a soothing presence. Reassuring. It told me that I could go off to battle and come out okay on the other side.
After my commune with the Intrepid, I walked over to the parking lot near Kraft Diner. The attendant recognized me.
“Hey, John Diamond’s kid. Michael, is it?”
“Yeah. I, uh, just got my license, so I thought I’d take my bike for a little spin.”
“He doesn’t want to be here when you first take it out?” He eyed me suspiciously.
“Yeah, he wanted to. But you know, work. Always work.”
“Keepin’ our streets safe, huh?”
“Always,” I smiled. “Hey, thanks for getting her road-worthy.”
“She’s been here as long as I have, kid. But that’s a badass vehicle you’ve got. You take care of her and she’ll take care of you. And don’t forget your helmet!”
I slipped the dusty helmet on and mounted the bike.
There were years when Cullinan and I would bike all over the city, regardless of the traffic, ignorant of the danger. They say a lot of things are like riding a bike. Learning to ride a motorcycle is a little different.
Still, I only tipped over once on the way out of the parking lot. That felt like a small victory. I tipped over twice on my way to the Lincoln Tunnel - ahead of rush hour traffic. Once I hit the open highway in New Jersey, I was doing okay, heading south.
I drove straight through Philadelphia, into Baltimore before the sun set. It got dark and I got hungry as I hit Virginia and went through to North Carolina.
I had been stopping for gas along the way. I was quickly depleting the bankroll I’d built up by playing poker and hearts with my friends, but I figured I could spare a few bucks for some chips and salsa. Breakfast of champions.
Sticking to I-95 did me well. I pushed the speed limit, occasionally gunning it up to 100 MPH on the flat open stretches with no hills, bushes, or curves to hide speed traps.
Rolling through South Carolina, I took a slight detour as I hit Savannah. The pull of the ocean, the scent of the salt water. I watched the sun rise over a boardwalk, and polished off my chips and salsa.
The fresh light reminded me of the lost night of sleep. rony and fatigue hit me as I hit the road again.
I managed to survive Georgia and get through Jacksonville before I wiped out. No broken bones, but I lost a lot of skin on my right side. It would scab up and eventually heal, but the remainder of the trip was more than a little uncomfortable.
Still, I got back on the bike and continued my journey until, finally, I rolled to a stop outside Miami.
the JOINT
I can’t imagine anyone enjoys walking into a prison. But for those of us who’ve committed substantial crimes, it’s hard not to imagine ending up there. It feels like entering enemy territory.
“I’m Michael Diamond. Here to see Madeleine McCullough. I called yesterday.”
The administrators and guards all felt like the enemy. It wasn’t their words. It was their tone of voice. The way they looked at me. Like I was a criminal just because I was there to visit someone. Like I was guilty.
It’s entirely beside the point that the law was no longer something I respected. It was not the point that I was the sort of fellow who would take the law into my own hands. That was not the point. The point was that I had come here of my own volition, and they were mindless slavers, doing a corrupt government’s bidding.
But I digress!
There I was, an 18-year-old boy in a women’s prison. The catcalls made me blush, but she didn’t look at me like that. No. She looked reserved and almost elegant in her orange jumpsuit and green bandanna. Composed.
Her clever green eyes melted when they hit me.
“Hello, Michael. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Hi, Mom.”
the END
That’s all folks! It’s called a short story because it’s short. And it’s a story.
Thanks for reading this second installment in Michael’s journey. If you missed the first one, it’s called First and it’s available for as little as nothing on Leanpub. Or you can pay $2.99. Or more. Or less.
If you enjoyed reading “Lexington,” leaving a review would be absolutely fantastic. There’s nothing I would appreciate more. Except sending me a vegan cheesecake. I love my vegan cheesecake.
Stay tuned for Michael’s further adventures in Valediction and keep your eyes peeled like a carrot for Madeleine McCullough’s mysterious backstory in The Keys.
the AUTHOR
I’m a writer. You’re a reader, so you’ve figured that out already. I write fiction, non-fiction, articles, blogs, scripts, and the occasional tweet. I also do copywriting, websites, and whatnot as a hired gun.
In addition to writing, I teach taekwondo and yoga, play poker and music, and eat as much vegan cheesecake as I can get my hands on. I think I mentioned that already.