No Time to Die Page 12

  I shrugged and leaned back on the sofa. The manager was right. It could be anyone. I’d shopped at several stores on sale days and saw guys who’d wandered in off the street to bag groceries just for tips. Grown men. Trying to survive in hard times.

  Frustration etched the curve of Tad’s mouth as he paced the floor just as Alvin had done earlier. Not only was he trying to chase down a madman but he was confronted with my problem with James as well.

  “Why don’t you let someone else in the squad look for James?” I said. “You’re handling a tough enough case as it is.”

  He stopped moving long enough to look at me. “Mali, I should’ve put you in a cab. But I left you alone on a corner. I rushed off without even thinking. This is my fault and I have to take care of it. See it doesn’t happen again.”

  I raised my glass then and tried to take a sip but the stuff was too strong. My cough was so deep it scared me into putting the glass down. Then the dull throb in my hip and leg which I’d tried to ignore had moved beyond mere aching. Geniune pain was back.

  “You all right?”

  “I don’t know. This news about Felicia. About James. So much stuff has happened and I feel as if I’ve been away, hiding out somewhere.”

  I leaned back against the cushions and studied Tad’s face. Frustration seemed to deepen the lines around his mouth, and his eyes—his flecked pupils normally so intense—now seemed dull and shallow. This problem was affecting him more deeply than I realized. I searched through the tangle of circumstance for something, anything, that might be helpful.

  “Did you know that Felicia and my dad once dated?”

  “He mentioned it, but didn’t go into details, except to say he’d bought a sculpture from her.”

  “There it is,” I said, pointing to the mantel. The statue wavered as my vision blurred and suddenly I was crying and couldn’t stop. It wasn’t the pain in my arm or leg that caused my outcry, although that was pretty bad. This was a different injury, knowing that I would never see or hear or speak to any of these women again.

  He leaned forward, gathering me to him. “Listen, Mali. I’m sorry. This was a lot to lay on you all at once. You need to relax, get some sleep.”

  We looked at the stairs and knew I couldn’t make it past the first step, so I stretched out on the sofa and he spread a light blanket over me.

  “I’ll sit here awhile in case you need anything,” he whispered. He settled in the chair and closed his eyes. I knew he was not asleep, but thinking of a madman, a serial killer on the loose, with no idea where or when he would strike again.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been?”

  “Okay,” Ache whispered as the waitress wiped the counter in front of him and placed a napkin and silverware near his right elbow. He leaned forward, carefully studying the menu, wondering what three dollars could buy. Pan Pan’s had good food but for him it always came down to the same thing: a bowl of soup, a cup of tea, and possibly one of those home-baked biscuits, if he left a smaller tip.

  The waitress lingered a minute, then moved to wait on someone else. Ache glanced around at the signs on the wall advertising the specials, and below the signs, the row of heavy waffle irons that sent out the sweet, steaming aroma every time a lid was lifted.

  The few times he ate here, he always sat on the end seat at the counter in the back. This way, he could scan the whole place. The only people he couldn’t see were the guys in the kitchen behind the high partition in back of him but he could hear their voices, hear the clatter of plates and brief and busy exchanges as the waitresses picked up the dishes. Other than that, he could see everybody. This made him comfortable.

  He stared beyond the print on the menu, adrift in his thoughts.

  Pass up those waffles. Ain’t no good anyway with all that syrup and mile-high pile a fried chicken stacked on top. Like the last meal before they strap you in the chair.

  He glanced at an old man sitting several seats away. Most of the man’s front teeth were missing but he had tucked his napkin determinedly under his chin, preparing to tackle the grits-eggs-and-country-bacon special along with the side of toast soaking up the butter and jelly.

  Damn!

  He stared at the man’s plate, then lowered his head again and focused on the menu so that he wouldn’t have to look at the abundance surrounding him.

  Three days. Three days I ain’t worked. No more money. And all ’cause a that gray-eyed bitch. Starin’ right through me just like Mercy Anne but she saw me. She sent that cop. I knew he was The Man before he even flipped his shield. I knew it.

  He had left the box of orange juice he’d been stacking, abandoned it in front of the frozen food case and hurried to the bathroom, then walked quickly through the loading area in the back of the store where he dodged noisy hi-los shifting and stacking cartons and boxes into cardboard mountains. Once outside, he had edged between the two double-parked tractor trailers, scooted across the street, and never looked back.

  Wasn’t nobody but her sent him. Made me lose my job. Lose my job.

  The waitress was standing over him again with the order pad in her hand. “You ready, sir?”

  He nodded. Nobody had ever called him “sir” except for the few times he’d come in here.

  “Yeah. Uh, how’s the soup today?” he asked, knowing the answer before she opened her mouth. Of course it was good. What else was she going to say, but he needed to prolong the moment.

  “It’s pretty good.” She smiled, tapping the pencil against the pad. “Navy bean or pea soup. Which would you like?”

  “It don’t matter. And a side order of biscuits and a cup of tea.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled again and moved away to take another order and he felt disappointed that she hadn’t called him “sir” again. He followed the music of her voice, listened carefully, and heard her call some of the others “sweetie,” “honey,” and “baby.”

  Mmmhmph. She ain’t called me that. What the fuck’s goin’ on? Okay. That the way you wanna play? On again, off again? Then no tip for your ass, bitch!

  The large bowl was placed before him, navy bean, thick and fragrant. And heavy enough to hold him until he could figure out his next move. He brought the spoon to his mouth and thought of the homeless man who’d held the door open for him when he’d entered the restaurant. He’d ignored the filthy outstretched palm but saw it now as he stirred the soup.

  Bullshit! Ain’t gonna happen. Out on the street. Unh-unh, not me.

  He thought of the vendors outside cluttering the sidewalk, waiting for the stream of potential buyers to emerge from the subway.

  Now, sellin’ stuff. That’d be all right. Be my own boss. In business for myself. Don’t have to think about kissin’ nobody’s ass. Just hi and good-bye. You don’t like what I’m sellin’, keep steppin’ … Yeah, that be kinda nice.

  He tasted the soup, imagining his booming business: scarves, socks, batteries, Krazy Glue, barrettes. Stuff people needed. And when he got hungry, he could leave someone else in charge—an assistant maybe—somebody who knew better than to steal if they knew what was good for them—leave him outside raking up dollars while he strolled in where it was nice and warm and everybody smiling, calling him “sir.” And he’d treat himself to a full dinner including dessert, then leave a tip so large they’d talk about it for days …

  He felt better and the soup tasted pretty good when he swallowed.

  But where the guys cop their stuff from? How much it cost? What if I can’t get a spot on the corner? Crowded as it is, they might run me off. “No more room, dammit. Find someplace else to squat.”

  “Aw no! You steppin’ on toes now! Steppin’ on toes!… The fuck you comin’ off at? This corner’s free! You ain’t paid for shit. That’s right! Fuck you and your mama too. One a these days I’m a have all a y’all kissin’ my black ass!”

  He looked up. The waitress had turned, her pad and pencil frozen in midair. The clerk at the takeout counter and several customers
were staring. One of the cooks—a man with fists like southern hams—had stepped from behind the high counter in back of him. Even the homeless man had cupped his hand against the glass and was peering inside. All staring.

  He looked down. The bowl was empty and the biscuits were gone from the saucer.

  “Somebody stole ’em! I don’t remember eatin’ ’em! Everybody lookin’, goddammit, and nobody seen who stole my stuff? What the fuck’s goin’ on?”

  He rose abruptly and snatched up the check lying beside his glass.

  Who put it there? How long was it there? Fuck it, he didn’t care. He was leaving anyway. And someday when he returned, he’d be rolling in dollars and they’d be damn glad to see him. Glad to see the biggest goddamn tip ever laid on this counter.

  Once outside, the cool air hit him in the face and the rage ebbed as quickly as it had come. The beat above his eyebrow slowed and the pounding fist in his chest eased. He lingered, taking in the hum of activity as people emerged from the subway. He watched a teenager selling umbrellas and another vendor who had a low flatbed of packaged strawberries, oranges, and tomatoes which seemed to sell themselves.

  That’s easy. I could do that.

  He moved around the crowd and waited at the corner for the light to change.

  I could do that. First, I got to take care a some business on Strivers’ Row. Ain’t seen not even her shadow for nearly three weeks now. Maybe she away. (Maybe she ain’t real.) Ha! Like that last one, like Mercy Anne. Look right through me like I was nuthin’. Invisible. Well, she gonna be nuthin’ when I get to her neck. She be nuthin’.

  He jammed his hands in his pockets and walked across Malcolm X Boulevard, past the open courtyard near the Y where the sign against the back wall announced in faded letters: “Harlem Plays the Best Ball in the Country.” On the corner of Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, he gazed at the sealed windows of the old Smalls Paradise, then he quickened his steps and headed uptown.

  Maybe she ain’t even real.

  What you sayin’ she ain’t real? She make you lose your job. That’s real, ain’t it?

  He walked past a knot of children laughing over a hopscotch game, past two women sitting on a stoop near the Pretty City Cocktail Lounge, one rocking a baby stroller to rap lyrics flowing from a parked Lincoln Navigator where a man was cleaning the interior.

  The jingle of a Mister Softee truck drifted on the breeze but he did not see or hear or feel any of this. He walked in the fading light fingering in his pocket an old-fashioned single-edge barber’s instrument honed on a bluestone to a fine edge.

  No wire this time. This time I wanna see her face. Ring that bell and watch her eyes. She open the door, bring the blade across those goddamn eyes. No wire this time. The last thing she gonna see is me.

  I always wondered what it felt like to be in lockdown and now I knew. I was housebound, although my hip, knee, and arm were almost functional thanks to the every-other-day visits by the physical therapist. The first few days of exercise had been a test, but lately, though the pain was still there, I wasn’t gritting my teeth so audibly.

  I was still wearing the brace but I wanted to feel the pavement under my feet, take in a movie, dine at a restaurant, walk Ruffin, watch Alvin and Clarence and Morris play ball. Sit in on Dad’s jazz sessions at the Club Harlem. Most of all, I wanted to curl up with Tad on his terrace and watch the moon light up the Harlem River.

  But before I did any of that, I wanted to find James and kick his sorry butt from here to Jersey and then stomp his remains into the mud of the Meadowlands.

  Even if I couldn’t raise my foot without groveling in pain, even if I wound up breaking my leg again, I wanted to do it.

  But Dad had put his own foot down. “You refused police protection, so stay in. At least till James is caught.”

  “It might take a year to find him,” I’d said.

  He had looked at me then and shrugged. “So that means you’ll live a year longer.”

  The upside to my imprisonment was the chance to sift through a mountain of accumulated paperwork and start on my reading list for classes that would begin in the fall. I piled all that stuff around me and lay on the sofa, busily staring at the ceiling when the phone rang.

  “Mali? I’m coming right over.”

  “Elizabeth? What’s up, girl?”

  “Be there in a minute. I want to see your face when I tell you.”

  She hung up, leaving me to quickly gather all of the books and papers in a neat pile so she’d have someplace to sit and also to wonder if she’d gotten engaged and, if so, what was the size of the rock on her finger and eventually what color my maid of honor’s gown was likely to be.

  She must have had a cab waiting in her lobby because I barely finished fluffing the pillows when the bell rang.

  I made my way to the door and she stood there smiling.

  “Are congrats in order?” I asked.

  “Depends on you,” she said, stepping into the foyer and bringing with her a rush of air, fresh and free and summery and making me more aware than ever of my incarceration.

  Her pale blue linen suit set off the navy silk blouse, and her auburn shoulder-length locks were bundled at the back of her neck, held there by a thin strip of blue and white kente cloth. She made her way into the living room balancing perfectly on three-inch black patent heels. I stomped behind her in my brace, executing a credible imitation of Captain Ahab.

  She settled onto the sofa and rested her attaché case on the coffee table. “Studying?” she asked, looking at the pile of material.

  “Thinking about it,” I sighed.

  “Well, think about this. The department has finally made an offer I think you can live with.”

  “What kind?”

  “Reinstatement at the rank of detective first grade, back pay at that level for the time you were off the job, and immediate retirement on ninety percent disability.”

  “I’m not disabled,” I said, hobbling to the chair to sit down. “What are they basing the disability on?”

  “Post-traumatic stress stuff. I emphasized the fact that you’d been held hostage in that crack den by two of New York’s Finest, that they’d intended to kill you to cover their tracks. They do not want the memory of that incident resurrected under any circumstances.”

  “Which is exactly what’ll happen if the case goes to trial,” I said. “They know I’ll open my big mouth and it’ll be a media circus.”

  Elizabeth rose from the sofa to fix herself a drink. I sipped soda.

  “Right now, Mali, they’re under the gun, what with Johnnie Cochran taking over the Abner Louima case in Brooklyn. And Mrs. Baez in the Bronx crusading in memory of her son. And there’s also the incident where a young man was handcuffed and held naked in the hallway while the boys in blue wrecked his apartment, even though it was the wrong apartment. And before they took him down to the precinct, they forced him to dress in women’s clothing …”

  I shook my head, listening to this litany of abuse and wondering when and if things would ever change. The department was slapped with a lawsuit every other week and no one seemed interested in reining these officers in—the few bad apples, as they liked to say.

  The apples were infecting the entire system, rotting it away, and the administration seemed only interested in damage control after the damage had been done. Millions were draining from the city treasury when the hole could’ve been plugged by weeding out the misfits early on.

  The problem was that the ones doing the hiring favored those who looked and acted just like them. Protect and serve. Protect your ass and serve yourself with the largest helping of drug dollars on the planet.

  I was drowning in the well of memory, falling deeper into the ugliness of the past, when Elizabeth interrupted.

  “If you’re not disabled, you damn sure will be soon,” she said quietly. “You should see your face, girl. You ’re going to develop an ulcer the size of Manhattan if you go on like ths. You say you’re not disabled but
I think you are, in some way. You’re hauling memory around like a two-ton weight. Anger is like acid. It’ll eat you alive. You gotta let it go. Please, Mali.”

  She leaned over to tap my hand. “Listen, we’ve already lost one of our crowd, and Deborah in Washington, for all intents and purposes, is practically a borderline basket case. I don’t want to see you in a padded cell or have to bring flowers up to Woodlawn if you …”

  I glanced at her and saw that her normally clear eyes had darkened and her finely shaped brows were gathered almost in the center of her forehead. Her voice, which could sound so formidable on cross-examination, now seemed to falter.

  I closed off my own feelings: my anger at the department, the anger I felt toward James, the smothering sense of loss that overwhelmed me when I thought of Claudine, Marie, and Felicia. And the vague feeling that whoever was doing this probably had someone else already targeted.

  Elizabeth was right. Somehow I had to let go of everything. Settling the suit was the first step.

  “Let me talk it over with Dad when he comes in. See what he thinks. A detective first grade draws a pretty decent salary. Right now it sounds like a pretty good offer.”

  That brought a smile to Elizabeth’s face and her brows relaxed. “Well, you stood your ground and didn’t back down. I’m damn proud of you. When this is over, we’re gonna pop a whole case of bubbly.”

  “Speaking of which, how about another cocktail?”

  “Can’t. Expecting a client in an hour. How’s the therapist working out?”

  “Fine. Straightening out knots and kinks I didn’t know I had, except I don’t know when I’ll be free of this brace.”

  “Mali, be thankful it wasn’t any worse. That first day in the hospital, I looked at you and …” She shifted on the edge of the sofa and her voice changed again. “You know I’m no good at prayer, but I prayed that night until morning and then every night afterward.”

  “Knowing that means a lot to me,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Thank you.” I had planned to tell her finally that it was James who had nearly killed me, but changed my mind. She was upset enough.