Into the groove, p.1
Into the Groove, page 1
Lawrence Kelter
INTO THE GROOVE
A Steady Groove Deed
First published by Level Best Books 2022
Copyright © 2022 by Lawrence Kelter
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Lawrence Kelter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-953789-76-1
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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For the many who did the time but not the crime.
Inspired By Events Surrounding The Palm Sunday Massacre
Praise for INTO THE GROOVE and Author Lawrence Kelter
“Lawrence Kelter is an exciting new novelist, who reminds me of an early Robert Ludlum.”—Nelson DeMille
“That often smudged line between right and wrong is masterfully explored in this novelization of a true event—the infamous 1984 Palm Sunday Massacre in New York City. A man spent 34 years in prison for the crime, but the question still remains—did he do it? Find out the answer.”—Steve Berry
“Into the Groove is a time machine to a meaner, dirtier New York City, a city of corruption where some of the worst offenders wear badges. Parole Officer Steady Groove’s battle for his own brand of justice is one we want to fight with him.”—Joseph Finder, New York Times bestselling author of House on Fire
“You can tell that Lawrence Kelter knows how to craft a murder mystery with twists and turns. Expect the unexpected.”—NPR
“A little bit Shaft, a little bit Easy Rawlins, Steadman ‘Steady’ Groove is one bad-ass, rad dude. Kelter nails the art of blending fact and fiction in this masterful recreation of Brooklyn, circa 1984. Snappy dialogue straight from the era melds right into this atmospheric, emotionally-charged portrayal of a man living in two very different worlds. This is Kelter at his best.”—Lynn Chandler Willis, Award-winning author, SEMWA President
Chapter One
December 5, 1983
Feet flying skyward, panic and memories flooded back in the split-second it took for me to hit the ice—the twenty-foot fall from the masthead and the cry of a deckhand screaming, “Brace,” as I turned and grasped the scale of the giant sea swell thundering toward me. Fire sizzled through my back and radiated outward like a hundred fuses ignited by a single flame. And then came the darkness, the cold, soothing shadow sliding over me like the quiet following a storm.
Laying face-up on the frozen sidewalk my vision slowly cleared. Above me, I saw the faces of two concerned gents in the process of kneeling next to me on either side.
“You okay, buddy?”
“Can you stand?”
My pride said, “Yes,” even before I was able to assess my condition—while the depth charges were still going off in my back.
Each took hold of an arm and helped me to my feet.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“Should we call someone?”
“Been hurt worse,” I said. My eyes squeezed shut, I thanked them and hobbled off, my hurt pride one-upping my aching back. I pulled off my gloves and fished for the amber vial of Vicodin I kept in my coat pocket. Shaking two tabs into my mouth I mashed them between my teeth and swallowed. The fog hit me like that giant wave that had knocked me on my ass, the one that boxed me up like frozen mackerel and shipped me home.
I remember Auntie taking one look at my torn up hands and bought me that pair of gloves that I was quick to put back on. “To keep them warm,” she said—“help them heal faster.” They were soft and felt good on my skin. The small tag that rubbed against my wrist said that they were made out of something called polar fleece, and the packaging said that they were manufactured from recycled soda bottles. For all I knew I might’ve downed that bottle of cola my gloves were made from.
That’s some cycle of life shit.
Can you dig it?
I put my fingertips to my nose and sniffed for the lingering odor of fish that was always present in my mind, a smell I was always aware of, the odor of the sea that neither lemon juice nor a good soap and hot water scrubbing could get rid of. I could almost visualize the smell wafting right through the fluffy Coke-bottle fabric right into my nostrils. The fish smell was always there, the stink of crab and Rock Sole roe, of perch and mackerel. It was in the pores of my skin and in the wells beneath my fingernails, the stink rising to my nose whenever I let down my guard, reminding me of all the trips I’d made out to sea. I could purge it from my flesh but not from my mind. It was always there, trapped, lurking, reminding, and condemning me for not having done more with my life.
And always would.
I hadn’t been to sea in many months, and there was no going back—not back to fishing work anyway. That twenty-foot fall onto the deck after ice had fouled the masthead radar was the final nail in that coffin—it killed my seagoing career dead. I’d suffered many injuries aboard Mjolnir, the ship that had been so named because like Thor’s hammer, it always returned. None of my previous injuries had been game-changers—none that made me wince with every step. The doctors said the pain would improve with time, with exercise and rest. The rest and exercise helped to a degree but not nearly as much as the Vicodin. It was always in my pocket along with my house keys and wallet—my doctor-prescribed buzz in a bottle.
The smell of the sea embarrassed me, announcing to all who I was and where I’d been. I accepted the fact that the stench of the sea would linger until the day I died and would probably follow me into the hereafter. The hood folk knew me as “Steady” Groove, Steady being short for Stedman—the kid who graduated college and went nowhere, fast or otherwise, the first and only member of the Groove tribe with a real shot at becoming someone and just plain shit the bed.
They were right—I had a shot, and yes, I did blow it. Spin it any way you like, it makes no difference.
Bitter cold winds screamed in my face as I walked the blocks to the Brooklyn County office of the Department of Corrections and Community Supervision, the sky gray, the wind damp and howling as it had been out on the Bering Sea in the winter. For most people, all the day was missing was the salty brine of ocean musk. But me…I had that shit covered.
The gloves came off the moment I hit the elevator. They were soft as sponges—I was able to squeeze them into small balls and stuff them into my already crowded pockets. I hadn’t been in a municipal elevator in years, and it reminded me of the cabin I’d slept in on the fishing boat, which had been about three meters by four—just barely large enough for four men with our duffle bags stuffed into a nook within the bed compartment. One of the bulbs in the elevator was out, the interior dark and shadowy. The lighting reminded me of the small bulb that illuminated my berth on Mjolnir, and my small living space, my only personal space aboard the ship, which was delineated by a curtain that closed around my bunk.
You never knew who you were going to sail with. Every trip was different. We’d pull into port, offload the catch, and restock with fresh water, fuel, and supplies. Some men, those who hungered for money, went right back out to sea. Many of the rookies, the ones who didn’t have enough fire in their bellies to earn their keep, got the axe. Good riddance to them—their laziness meant extra work for everyone else, and God knows there was always more than enough to go around. There were always new men eager to sign up. Some who worked their first trip for free to gain experience and prove they had what it took. It was an apprenticeship of sorts.
There was always a different mix of men, hailing from points all over the world—men from Samoa, Mexico, the Philippines, Nigeria, Ethiopia. There were Muslims, atheists, Buddhists, vets, and ex-cons. We were our own little melting pot. Not a hell of a lot of men from the states, though. Most trips, it was just me and Uncle Barney representing for good old Uncle Sam, the college grad wasting his degree at sea and the tired old con man. Some of the men called him Sockeye because, like his scams, he was fishy, and his eyes bulged when he was tense. He was always running little scams, trying to score extra cash and cigarettes from his shipmates. Some of the mates would turn and walk in the other direction when they saw him coming.
Latinos might’ve hung out with Latinos and Islanders with Islanders, but no matter where any of them came from, there were traits we all had in common. No one was afraid to say anything straight up, and there was no jawing when it was time for work. Respect was earned with the sweat of one’s brow and not with bullshit. I figured maybe that was the reason I’d make a good parole officer (that and because the corrections department just happened to be hiring). I had learned the right reasons for respecting a man and that the overly friendly, touchy-feely kiss-ass types were the ones to avoid. As were the toxic ones, the ones who ate away at you like maggots at flesh. You could smell it on them, the hate they cast off—it stunk worse than the damn fish. Once their hate rubbed off on you, you were doomed because that shit never went away.
The smell was in my nose again. Checking for the smallest discernible scent of fish guts or scales, I put my fingers to my nost
Most often, the work was harder, a hell of a lot harder, and from November through February when the catch was crab…life was downright miserable. You were always cold whether you were on deck swinging an eight hundred pound crab pot or with scalding hot water running down your back in the shower. The chill was in your bones, and there was no way to get rid of it. Some filled their lungs with smoke. Others layered sweaters until they could barely move. Some slept with bricks they’d warmed in the oven. Nothing helped. It was just nasty, putrid cold. Some say that hell rages with fire, but I know different.
I identified myself to the receptionist and was asked to take a seat. Right away, my back stiffened faster than quick-setting concrete. I unbuttoned my coat and checked to make sure that the resume I’d stashed in my breast pocket hadn’t gotten creased when I fell. I checked, and it still looked crisp—a damn good thing because I’d worked days on getting it just so. I’d typed it at the unemployment office, where finding a Remington with a decent ribbon was a chore and a half. I’d forgotten to make a Xerox and hoped that Mr. Houck, the hiring manager, wouldn’t mark it up and would hand it back to me when he was done.
Just in case, right?
Don’t all black men get hired on their first interview?
I reviewed my strong suits, those qualities I’d recount to impress Houck and convince him that I was earnest and hard-working, someone who wanted to do a good job—all the crap candidates are told to say on a job interview.
And I needed a job badly.
I’d become a true fisherman, and the extended feel of solid ground beneath my boots meant it was time to forget the sea, to relearn the reasons for living, and forget the ones I’d had for hiding. I worked hard on the water and played even harder when on shore leave. There was a lot of booze, a lot of women, and carousing when we put into port. Time ashore was short, and if you were savvy, you learned how to make the most of it. I’d have to unlearn some of those ways, forget them and move on.
And yeah, I saved a little—too little. Believe it or not, they’ve got banks in the Aleutian Islands. Like roaches, banks are everywhere.
Money talks, don’t it?
A pretty little gal I once met on shore leave worked for one of them, Dutch Harbor Savings and Loan. She convinced me to open a passbook account even though I had practically nothing left by the time I was finished blowing off steam and had to head back to sea. Good thing she did, or I’d have had to drag my aching ass back to the Brooklyn from Cold Bay, Alaska, hitching rides every step of the way.
The pills were wearing off, and it felt as if someone was working on my back with a welding torch. I squirmed in my chair and shook the bottle in my pocket—I was always afraid of shaking it and hearing nothing. And the doc only dispensed thirty Vicodin at a time.
“So, you think you’ve got what it takes to handle parolees?” Houck asked as he took the envelope from my hand, practically tearing the resume in half extracting it. He was stocky with one of those military haircuts. His sleeves were rolled up, and his forearms were the thickness of steam pipes. He scrutinized the resume while I replied. Looked like he was gleaning what he thought he needed to know about the man sitting in front of him. He never once made eye contact.
“I do, Mr. Houck, sir. Yes, sir, As you can see from my resume, I’m not afraid of hard work, and living on a boat, you get to know men.”
He finally looked up, eyes wide. “Not in the biblical sense, I hope.”
The man has balls. I give him that. Or he’s just plain stupid talking shit to a man of my size. Bad back and all, at six-two, two-forty I could’ve jumped across the desk and twisted his bull neck until it tore. Instead, I replied with a polite, “No, sir.”
“Do me a favor, Groove, call me Harry or Mr. Houck. All this yes, sir-no, sir, coming from a black guy like you…it just rubs me the wrong way. This isn’t The Amos and Andy Show, and as best I know, slavery was abolished in Lincoln’s day. So, stop talking to me like I’m some kind of plantation owner. Can you do that?”
Like I said, the man has balls. “Yes, s—” I had to clear my throat just so that I wouldn’t say the wrong thing again. “Yes.”
“That’s better.” He went back to the resume. “Graduated CUNY with a major in sociology, I see.”
“That’s right, Harry, and you were right about Lincoln freeing the slaves.”
He shook his head. “Four-year degree in the social sciences, and that’s the most impressive thing they taught you?”
“No. I minored in English with a concentration in sarcasm.”
“Good…good,” he said, his expression hovering between holding back a smile and kicking my ass out the door. “I’d much rather hire ball breakers than bureaucrats. You ever been arrested, Groove? Now be straight with me because we run a background check, and it’s thorough.”
“Should’ve been—more than once come to think of it, but no, never.” There were times, shit, several, when it was a miracle I didn’t get arrested. You see, I’ve done some shit—shit I’m not proud of, stupid shit, the kind I should’ve been smart enough to stay clear of. But that’s what youth is for, right, to screw up and learn?”
Mistakes.
They can cost you.
Running my mouth—I had a feeling one was about to cost me this job.
“Speaking your mind, huh? Tell you what—I like you, Groove. You earned a degree and you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say about some of the Ivy League slackers I interviewed today. Why, some of those entitled bastards can hardly fog a mirror. So tell me, why fishing? Why does a man bust his ass to earn a college degree, then turn around and scoop up guppies?”
“She-it.”
“Shit?” His eyes grew large. “What happened to Mr. Polite? Feeling a bit relaxed, are we, Groove?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask—about the fishing, that is.”
“Isn’t that the kind of question that gets asked during a job interview? What makes you tick? What did you expect us to talk about, your fondness for peanut butter and banana sandwiches—whether you prefer tits or ass?”
“No. I’ll explain. It’s just that…it’s a long story.”
He rolled his head, then stood unexpectedly. “Ah, screw it. I don’t have the time to hear your entire life’s story. Follow me, Groove. We’ll get your background check started. It’ll take ten days or so before it comes back, but as long as the only living thing you’ve gutted is giant tuna, you’re hired.”
Chapter Two
It’s supposed to get warmer as the day goes on—isn’t that the usual way? The weather had an attitude problem and wasn’t cooperating. The sun wasn’t out to warm things up, and the temperature felt as if it was dropping steadily. And the subway car I rode to get home—damn if it didn’t feel like I was sitting inside a refrigerator. It was that dead cold that you felt in your bones more than on your skin like I was a side of beef hanging in a meat locker. I stood up and paced the subway car for warmth until it finally dragged its tired old electromechanical ass into the station.
Back on the street, my Coke-bottle gloves weren’t standing up to the dampness and cold. Out at sea we wore thick rubber mitts with a pair of woolen gloves underneath, not trendy recycled soda bottle gloves. Now, those mitts and woolies, they kept you warm and dry—they were close to bulletproof.
