No Time to Die Read online

  “I was there a few nights ago. For ice cream.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing particularly. Place had already closed but the manager let me in. Only one other person was in there. A man, but I barely glimpsed him. I was mainly thinking about Häagen-Dazs butter pecan.”

  He nodded and glanced at his watch. “Want to take a walk uptown?”

  “To see the bride?”

  “I was thinking about it …”

  “I also thought you wanted to work a solo thing.”

  He looked away, drew a breath of deep exasperation, then gazed at me again. “Mali. Don’t make this hard on me. I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”

  “So you did. Kinda …”

  I glanced down St. Nicholas Avenue while trying to make up my mind, trying to decide if the tension that had risen between us the last time was because of my attitude toward James or the fact that I was intruding into an area best left to the police. After all, Tad was the detective, and I was only—it took me a while to say it—only an ordinary person relying mainly on intuition and street smarts to get to the bottom of things.

  An ordinary person with an ounce of common sense would know to leave well enough alone and let the police do whatever they’re supposed to do. Stay out of the way.

  But to hell with it. Common sense was in short supply tonight, and when I gazed up into Tad’s deep, gold-flecked eyes, logic left also.

  “Aah, what’re we doing afterward?”

  “What would you like?” he whispered. His fingers touched the side of my face, describing a slow arc around my left eyebrow, ear, and under my chin. “Whatever you want, baby, you know I’m for it.”

  All I could do was smile as I grabbed his hand and moved away from the lobby door for the short walk uptown.

  The bride’s name was Isabelle Oliver and lived with her husband, Duncan, on Bradhurst Avenue near 148th Street in a small three-room apartment facing Jackie Robinson Park.

  When she opened the door, we saw that Billy had not exaggerated. She was five feet four and weighed somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds. Her face was dark and round and extremely pretty with large eyes and a mouth that seemed ready to let out a sigh, and when she smiled, she showed bright, beautiful teeth. She had a child’s face, and despite her size, it was evident that she was very young, maybe twenty, twenty-two at most.

  She looked at Tad’s shield and her eyes grew larger. “Oh, what happened? Somethin’ happened? Oh, God. Somethin’ bad happened. I know it!”

  Her voice rose, bringing her husband from out of the bedroom. “Muffin! What’s goin’ on? What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, Daddy. It’s the police. Somethin’ happened.”

  “Nothing’s happened,” I said, trying to calm her. “We simply need to speak to you about a video that was taken at your wedding. We need to—”

  At the mention of the video, Muffin’s hands flew to her chest. “I knew it, Daddy. That Billy has put the police on us. That dog!”

  She looked as if she was about to collapse and I stood near the door in mild anxiety wondering who was going to help Daddy catch her. But she managed to lean on his arm and make her way into the living room, where she settled into a black leather La-Z-Boy recliner.

  We stepped inside, following them. The living room was simply furnished with a green chenille-covered sofa, a small glass coffee table, and a dining table and two chairs which the kitchen was too small to accommodate. An old iron plant stand with a pot trailing bright green ivy down to the floor stood near the window, catching the fast-fading light. A small television was on a shelf over the dining table, and the recliner, with its new-leather fragrance, dominated everything. The place was crowded but clean.

  Daddy, who introduced himself as Duncan Oliver, went into the bathroom and returned with a wet cloth to place over Isabelle’s face.

  “You take it easy, baby. Daddy’s gonna see what’s what. You just relax.”

  We remained standing as he arranged the cloth, then adjusted the chair so that Muffin’s head rested back like she was ready for a dental exam. He patted her shoulder and then turned to us.

  “Have a seat. I’m sorry, but my wife ain’t able to take too much excitement. Blood pressure’s too high, is what it is. Plus her mama got heart trouble. So any little thing likely to set her off, you know.”

  He waited for us to sit on the sofa before he moved a chair from the dining table to sit facing us. Duncan Oliver was about five feet ten, 150 pounds, and appeared to be about fifty years old. He had strong features with a prominent nose and a gray pencil mustache that ended in a curve around the sides of his full mouth.

  “We only been married a month, and—”

  “Four weeks, three days, and eleven hours,” Muffin called from under the cloth draped on her face. “And you lovin’ every minute of it, ain’t you, Daddy?”

  “Aah, baby. We got company now.”

  He squirmed in the chair, smiling embarrassment but couldn’t quite pull it off. His smile could not conceal his enormous pride at having such a young and pretty wife. And he clearly liked women of substance.

  “Isabelle my second wife,” he said, aware that we were aware of the age difference. “First one died two years ago and I didn’t think I could ever be happy again till I met Isabelle.”

  “One Sunday at church, Daddy.”

  “Yeah. I heard this voice singin’ in the choir and I said to myself I got to meet this lady, I said—”

  “Well, that’s wonderful, Mr. Oliver. Congratulations,” Tad said, cutting into the testimonial that Mr. Oliver seemed prepared to deliver into the next hour.

  “We’re looking for a person who may be on the video that was taken at your wedding.”

  “Oh,” Isabelle groaned, removing the cloth from her face and adjusting the lever so that she sat upright. She was fully recovered and her voice now had enough timbre to give marching orders to a regiment.

  “Listen. I knew it was gonna be trouble. That was my cousin from Philly I wasn’t even speakin’ to. The woman showed up empty-handed—not even a motel ashtray for a present—then opened her pocketbook and pulled out a doggy bag the size of a shoppin’ cart.

  “I mean Mashika’s one triflin’ woman and I sure didn’t invite her. The minute I saw her so-called boyfriend, I knew stuff was gonna go down. He look like he just got cut loose from upstate and ain’t had a meal with meat in it since he been out. He wasn’t dippin’ in the food, he was divin’ in nose-first, stuffin’ his face like a pig.

  “I don’t know where she gets ’em from but I always say if you lay down with dogs, you gonna get up with fleas, and I mean when she wasn’t packin’ that doggy cart, she was scratchin’ mighty hard.”

  “Now, Muffin, don’t go gettin’ your pressure up,” Duncan whispered when she paused to catch her breath.

  “Well, it’s true and the truth is the light, ain’t it? The boyfriend started conversatin’ on a girl near the punch bowl and Mashika didn’t go for it. Came over and read the girl—Edna, I think her name was. Mind you, Mashika ain’t said boo to that dog, but gonna read the girl, tellin’ her she wasn’t all that.

  “Well, Mashika and Edna got into it. And Edna tore that worn-out weave outta Mashika’s head, ripped it right on out, which showed you what a cheap job it was. Probably one a them Monday Specials. How she could make such a fool of herself—and at my weddin’—is beyond me.”

  Isabelle fell silent, exhausted from the speech. She rested her head back against the recliner and her breathing was audible from where we sat.

  Duncan disappeared into the kitchen and quickly returned with a glass of water and a small bottle of pills.

  “Here, baby. Now, you just relax. Relax.”

  “Well,” Tad said as Isabelle was busy with the pills. She was having trouble swallowing and held the pills in her mouth, swishing them around a few seconds before squeezing her eyes shut and making an enormous gulping sound.

  “We’d like to take
a look at the video, if you still have it,” Tad said. “If the person is on there, and if he’s caught and convicted, you stand to get a reward.”

  “What?” Isabelle and Duncan stared at Tad.

  “You mean like $10,000 from that TIPS number?” Duncan added.

  “You mean he’s on America’s Most Wanted? I knew it. Looked like a criminal from the jump. What’d I tell you, Daddy? Didn’t I say he looked shaky?”

  “Well, Muffin, I only had eyes for you that day so it’s kinda hard to—”

  Tad cleared his throat. “So if it’s possible to get a look at the film, we’d be—”

  “Why, sure. Why didn’t you say so?”

  Isabelle rose quickly from the recliner. She was light on her feet and moved fast. She disappeared into the bedroom and we listened as she opened and closed the doors to a closet and slammed a dresser drawer or chest of some sort. Minutes later she emerged, smiling.

  “Here it is. We can look at it right here.”

  “I have to take it with me,” Tad said. “We may have to zero in on a face, enlarge it, and photograph it. We have the equipment to do that.”

  The smile disappeared and she stood in the doorway of the bedroom, trying to decide. She seemed disappointed that her big moment was slipping away. She had wanted to be the one to point out Mashika’s no-good man with his dusty jheri-curl and played-out plaid suit.

  Finally she said, “You gotta promise me one thing. This ain’t goin’ back to Billy. Me and him had some words and he got real ugly. Called me outta my name. Now he got me in court. You gotta promise me it ain’t gonna end up back in his hands.”

  “Not a chance. I received it from you. I’ll return it to you, okay? You got my word.”

  She handed the tape to him as if she were releasing a small child into the care of some unknown custodian. Tad saw her expression and pulled out his card.

  “We’ll get this back to you in a day or so. If you want to reach me, call this number.”

  The frown faded into a small smile. “We glad to be of help,” she said as we walked to the door.

  “Sorry I couldn’t offer you anything beside water to drink,” Duncan said, “but Muffin’s on a special diet and I quit drinkin’ and smokin’ …”

  “—since he met me. Ain’t that nice?” Isabelle said.

  “Now, baby …”

  It was dark when we stepped out of the house. We turned from Bradhurst Avenue and walked down 148th Street toward Eighth Avenue, passing the spot where the Peacock Bar once stood. Diagonally across, all the buildings fronting the avenue had been demolished to make way for a new police station.

  I studied its mammoth size relative to the surrounding structures and recognized the siege mentality built into each brick. I wondered why there were no slots from which the nozzles of heavy assault weapons could slide.

  “All they need is a moat and a drawbridge,” I said as we walked up the block toward Seventh.

  “The moat’s in the back,” Tad said, “filled with man-eating alligators.”

  I thought of what my Aunt Celia had gone through at the hands of the police in Charleston and I failed to find the humor in Tad’s remark.

  We strolled in the middle of the silent street because the buildings on both sides and the old P.S. 90 elementary school were vacant, awaiting renovation, and the sidewalk was a minefield of potholes. At Seventh Avenue we passed Thelma’s Lounge and walked downtown.

  “You were really cool with the Olivers,” I said. “Patience personified.”

  Tad shrugged. “Could’ve gotten a warrant but what the hell. Sometimes it pays to go slow and easy. And it worked out. Imagine banging on that door and sticking a search warrant under Muffin’s nose. Girl would’ve collapsed right then and there. And we’d have a nine-eleven, the medics, and possibly a lawsuit. And the media’d have a circus wanting to know what the hell we were looking for in the first place. Sometimes it pays to take it easy.”

  He said no more and we strolled down Seventh Avenue slowly. His arm came around my shoulder and I felt the tips of his fingers move around my ear like feathers. I glanced up and saw the smile shaping the curve of his mouth.

  “Listen,” he murmured, “speaking of slow and easy, I was thinking maybe we’d cut over to Wells for some of the chicken and waffles we missed the last time around. Then go back to my place—”

  My glands, all of them, had just begun to salivate at the idea when the ring of his phone interrupted. I felt the urge to grab it and grind it into the pavement under my foot, pulverize it and let the dust blow in the wind.

  But Tad was listening intently. His face changed and he spoke only to say, “Shit! Be there in a minute.”

  He snapped it closed, and before I could ask what had happened, he was already moving away from me.

  “Something just came in,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  He left me standing on the corner of 145th Street and Seventh Avenue light-headed with frustration. When I’d calmed down enough to find a phone, I dialed Elizabeth. I needed someone to commiserate with, to tell me that better days—and hopefully nights—were coming.

  She came on the line sounding so exuberant I was almost embarrassed to tick off my list of petty complaints. Elizabeth had started dating a school administrator, an assistant principal she’d met at an Urban League fund-raiser. I had not yet met him but he was keeping her so busy I had only heard from her twice since Claudine’s funeral. Once to tell me that David—that was his name—was six-three and had eyelashes so thick they curled back on themselves, and the second time to leave a message. “The man is interesting. Details to follow.” In-terest-ing was how she had broken the word up.

  Finally, when I’d finished my sad story about Tad leaving me high and dry, she said, “Listen, girl. You gotta have intestinal fortitude—guts—to work a relationship these days. Tad’s a special person and you know he loves you. You have to make up your mind to hang in there.” Then she added, “What are you going to do now? How about joining us for dinner? We’re going over to Wells. I want you to meet David, size him up.”

  I let out a groan.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m all right. Tad and I were on our way there when he got that call.”

  “Come without him. When did you ever let something like that stop you?”

  I thought about the crispy fried chicken and the peach cobbler with the sugary crust and nearly gave in.

  “I don’t know, Elizabeth. I don’t know. He just left a minute ago and my wound is too fresh to be objective about David. I’ll pass. Have fun.”

  I hung up and walked toward Lenox Avenue, hoping that Pan Pan’s had at least one slice of German chocolate cake left. The Better Crust Pie Shop had closed and I needed something to soothe my last frayed nerve.

  At Lenox Avenue and 137th Street I passed the crowded seafood stand where batches of porgies and whiting simmered in deep vats of bubbling oil and the vendors shucked clams and oysters for the waiting buyers.

  I strolled to the next corner and I suppose if I had concentrated less on the promise of the chocolate cake and more on my surroundings, I might have heard the car approach as I stepped off the curb. I might have understood how it materialized out of the darkness and that its headlights had been suddenly turned off.

  “Sister! Sister!”

  A warning drowned by the squeal of tires and my sudden scream.

  When I woke, I couldn’t move. I wanted to call out but my tongue crowded my mouth and I struggled against a mounting wave of panic. I was choking on dust and wondered if this was how people checked out. Choking on dust. Ashes-to-ashes dust. Images raced through my head and collided with a huge shocking riff of pain that cracked through me like a current.

  … I am not dead. What happened?

  Asking myself the question, even without articulating it, caused pain to speed-dial his cousin super-pain. Then I heard a familiar voice, my voice, from far away say, Ooohhh shit �
��

  I wanted to close my eyes to shut out the white ceiling but the ceiling was what connected me to life. Behind my closed lids lay a red darkness and a fear of remaining there. Something—a shadow—hovered, blocking the light, and a large stone settled in the center of my chest. The stone had fingers and another wave of pain hit and I heard the oohhh sound again, closer this time. Finally the light and the ceiling came back:

  “… eyes are clearing, pupils back to normal. Miss Anderson? Can you hear me? Blink twice if you can hear me.”

  … Blink twice. Why do I have to blink at all? Why not just say, Of course I can hear you?

  But my damn tongue was still stuck to the roof of my mouth. I blinked twice and the voice said if I felt pain I should blink again. I blinked like a broken traffic light, winked until my eyelashes hurt, flicked my lids until something warm flowed through my arm, then spread in my chest, and I floated off on an old and very mellow Joe Simon riff. Cruised away on an ancient plea that resonated down to my toes: “Let me rock you in the cradle of my love.” The voice was an echo fading in the wind.

  Dad had sung that song to Mom way back when. Why would I remember it now? It was old folks who remembered old things but couldn’t remember where they put their keys five minutes earlier.

  I still had more than thirty years until I’d be ready for Social Security but I couldn’t remember anything. I drifted deeper and another voice, a man’s voice, came in, sweet, low, vaguely familiar:

  “Baby, you look good enough to eat.”

  “Leg or breast?”

  “What’s in between?”

  “Dessert. Chocolate, low-fat, and guaranteed to satisfy your sweet tooth.”

  “Jesus, baby …”

  The voice sighed and drifted away. Then music, lower, slower, segued into some more old stuff: Aretha, the Dells, the O’Jays. Even Al Green before he met grits and God. I was in a timeless void and could have gone on forever.