No Time to Die Read online

  “That’s why I avoided their company as much as I did. When it was unavoidable and he’d catch my eye, he’d stare in a way that implied we had a thing going; a look that said ’we’re in something together.” ’

  Elizabeth put her hand to her head and sighed. “I remember now. Your face, your sour expression. More like you were coping with a toothache. I even asked what was wrong and you never answered. You never answered.” She leaned back in the chair and drew a deep breath. “He was worse than I thought.”

  “Well, it gets even worse. A few weeks ago, we had a light confrontation outside the Lido. He was convinced I’d told Claudine about him. He also accused me of telling Marie something. Said I’d be hearing from him. And I did.”

  I pointed to my knee and my arm. “He’s the cause of this. He’s the reason a plainclothes policeman was posted outside my hospital room.”

  “But why didn’t you say something, Mali?”

  “To whom?”

  Elizabeth leaned forward again and I saw the disappointment in her expression. “To me. To me. I’m your attorney and your friend, remember?”

  “I know you are, but Tad wanted to keep quiet about the hit-and-run at least until James was caught. As for the feud, I didn’t want to pull you into it. I mean the whole thing was so damn bizarre. Imagine being propositioned, not by an old battle-scarred veteran of a twenty-year marriage, but I was hit on by an hour’s-old bridegroom who had no idea what ‘I do’ meant.

  “My head was spinning, I was so angry. And as he said, it would’ve been his word against mine. So it was better to keep quiet. I never even told Dad.”

  “And of course you never mentioned this to Tad?”

  I looked at her. “Are you serious? You know how that man is. Remember how tight he’d gotten when I’d tried to help Kendrick, Bertha’s brother? Remember Erskin Harding, Alvin’s chorus director? I couldn’t go through that stuff again.”

  Elizabeth drained her cup and rose to get a refill. When she returned, I continued.

  “So James went undercover and Alvin found out where he was. He went looking for him but I got to someone first who was looking for him also.”

  “Well, whoever it was must’ve been pretty damn mad. The papers said James was torn to pieces.”

  I nodded, hoping she would not go into details. “James is gone,” I said, “but Alvin saw what happened. I think he saw most of it. He’s a good kid and Dad and I have to figure out how to keep this from affecting him. And,” I said, pressing my knee, “I have to learn to use this leg again. I’m back to square one.”

  “What you mean you was mugged? By who?”

  Ache did not answer. Hazel clicked the remote and Jerry Springer shrank to a white dot and the screen went blank. The boxing match could wait. This was serious, this possibility of not having her money when she needed it. She turned on the lamp near the sofa, illuminating the sagging cushions, the paint-flaked walls, and floors that had not seen a mop since the linoleum was laid, years ago.

  Hazel had once complained to her caseworker that she needed a homemaker and one had come last year but didn’t bother to take off her coat. She took one look and backed out the door, declaring that she had stopped doing hog pens when she left Tennessee.

  When Hazel complained again, the caseworker had sighed, “You have an able-bodied relative, Ms. Milton, a son living with you who should be willing to help you with your household responsibilities.”

  She had stressed “responsibilities” as she looked around the living room and remained standing near the door, tapping one foot then the other to prevent something from crawling up her leg.

  Once outside in the hallway, she’d shaken her coat and scarf and briefcase in an effort to deroach the articles before heading back to the office.

  That was a year ago and Hazel only called sporadically to curse her out now. She was too involved in the drama of make-believe to think about responsibilities.

  Now here was something else to distract her. She looked at her son standing stiffly in the doorway, as if he wasn’t sure he still lived there.

  “So what you gonna do about it? You was mugged but I still need my money. Life goes on, you know. What you gonna do?”

  “I … can maybe ask for a loan. Yeah, a loan from the boss. See what he say …”

  “You one dumb stupid—that boss ain’t gonna give you the time of day. Might even fire your ass ’cause you was probably out there playin’ Big Willie, flashin’ your cash for everybody to see. No wonder somebody ripped you off, you dumb sommabitch. You out a week’s pay and I don’t get nuthin’. Well, you still sleepin’ here and still usin’ my toilet paper so you owe me, you understand? You double up next week and I don’t wanna hear no shit about how you got tapped again, you hear me?

  “Put your money in your shoe next time. We ain’t talkin’ no big-time dollars where it gon’ have you walkin’ with a limp. That’s what you shoulda done in the first damn place but you didn’t think of it ’cause you ain’t got the brains you was born with!”

  She turned from him in disgust and pressed the remote but a commercial was on, so she snapped the sound off, waving the control at arm’s length like a maestro conducting a difficult symphony.

  Realizing she had probably missed a crucial point in Jerry’s show, her anger expanded, causing her to pull up a file of memory to spread before her son and confirm how stupid he really was.

  “Can’t even get a GED. Wanted to play basketball. How was you gon’ find the basket, dumb as you are? You’d lose your way on the court. Two boys in your class, Pukie playin’ in the NFL and that other one, Tee, playin’ basketball down south somewhere. They big-time now. Seen Pukie on TV. You, I see every day and ain’t seen shit you done. ’Cept maybe get uglier. Har, har …”

  Ache shifted from one foot to the other, offering no defense. He was okay for at least another week, so it was all right for her to laugh, to slap her knee so hard the funk rose in a wave thick enough to choke him. It was okay. All he needed was probably another week. He’d take care of that little business on Strivers’ Row and be gone. But he had no idea where he’d go. He couldn’t think much beyond that, but he knew he was leaving. He had to leave. Find someplace else and start a new life. This time for good.

  He’d passed Gray-Eyes’ house enough times now to have their routine down to a science. But where was she?

  Her father, or whoever he was—maybe her old man—he leave the house every Tuesday night with a bass. Limo show up at 7:30 on the dee-oh-tee. Must be big-time.

  Sometimes he walk that horse, but there’s somebody else in that house, kid who look like he don’t take no shit. Left there the other night with a baseball bat. Trottin’ off like he ready to do somebody in. And her callin’ after him. Then two others come by. House like a fuckin’ airport.

  Then that nappy redhead with the high heels show up couple a times. Who’s she? And that cop even step in, maybe askin’ more questions. What was goin’ on? Hell with him. Hell with ’em all. Make me lose my job, I’m a walk between all of ’em.

  In the bedroom he turned on the fifteen-watt lamp but could not close his eyes. He stared at the cracks in the ceiling that spread like bleached veins through the peeling paint and concentrated on all the stuff that was happening to him.

  Two guys right in my class got them scholarships, basketball, football. I couldn’t get shit. Not even a piece of diploma. Two weeks ago, couldn’t even git to take the army test. And hadda come back and listen to her tell me about it. “Be all you can fuckin’ be,” she had laughed.

  But that wasn’t all …

  He turned over, feeling the mattress cut into him like gravel on an unpaved road, and thought of Hazel, and why he had never been allowed to address her as “Mother” the way other kids were able to call their mother.

  “My name is Hazel! It ain’t Ma, Mom, Mother. It ain’t none a that shit and don’t you forget it,” she had said when he was old enough to mouth the word, and he had nodded dumbly, the sho
ck of the slap still ringing in his ears.

  And the thing about his old man. What was going on? At the recruitment center he didn’t know his father’s name and they told him to come back with his birth certificate. He had found it stuffed away in a rusted can in the kitchen cabinet. He read it, examined it closely, and returned to the center, where the officer handled it and then looked at him.

  He was hoping the officer would discover a comma, a hidden line, something in the murky bureaucratic phrasing, or in the fine print, and he’d smile and explain and maybe straighten out the puzzle. But the officer put his hand to his mouth and coughed, then gazed at the paper again as if he’d seen a lifetime of unthinkable things pass before him and nothing made him blink anymore.

  Hazel had been fifteen when he was born. Her father was Nathan Milton, age thirty-eight according to the paper. Ache’s real name was Charles Milton, and according to the paper, his father was also Nathan Milton, age thirty-eight.

  That can’t be right.

  Ache shook his head, still waiting for an answer when the officer handed him back the paper. His uniform was creased so sharply Ache wondered how he moved without cutting himself. He riffled through a packet of papers a second time, then said, “Where’s your diploma? I don’t see it here.”

  “I don’t have none,” Ache said, thinking of the paper he’d stuffed back in his pocket.

  Can’t fuckin’ be right. Can’t be. He held his breath, still waiting for the officer to explain.

  “Okay. Your GED. We need to have your GED. Otherwise—”

  But Ache was centered on the slip of paper in his pocket.

  For three hours, he had wandered the periphery of Times Square trying to decide who should bear the weight of his discovery, feel the slit of the razor across the back, deep enough to divide muscle and bone, then melt, quick, into the crowd the way the manual said it should be done in covert operations.

  But either the people moved too fast or his senses had not recovered sufficiently to act on his rage. By the time his vision cleared, the gaps in the crowd were too large. There were too many lights, cops, hawkers, and peddlers, and too much traffic to dodge through. So he retreated to the subway and, daring anyone to step on his toe, made his way back uptown.

  “Be all you can be.” Har, har …

  It rang in his ears, invaded his senses, took control of his will so that when he blinked, he found himself back on Strivers’ Row again, standing across the street from Gray Eyes’ house. The last remnants of daylight had faded and night spread like a thick cloak. A few pedestrians strolled by, none glancing his way, but he watched them, feeling safe hidden in the shadow of the trees. When their footsteps faded, he was left alone again with his thoughts.

  Lights on. Wonder what she up to. Wonder if she—

  He heard more footsteps and glanced in the direction of Frederick Douglass Boulevard. His eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe what he saw.

  Shit! It’s her. Walkin’ right there. Ain’t this a bitch. She right there …

  The sight of her, walking alone, stunned him, left him no time to revel in the feeling that welled up in him before he heard something else.

  You got to move on this one, Ache. Fast. Step on across. Head her off. Once she reach that door, she home free. You don’t want that. Head the bitch off. Now. This. Is. It.

  He edged between the parked cars and sidled across the street, tipping on the balls of his feet. Now he looked neither left nor right, up nor down the block, but kept her fastened in the crosshairs of his narrowed vision. A small gust of wind eddied up, filling his nostrils with the smell of his sweat. Water gathered in the hollow of his back, and his shirt stuck to him. She was less than three feet away, moving slowly. Her head was down, as if she was looking for something she might have dropped on the ground. An earring, maybe.

  His hand closed on the razor so tightly that pinpricks of pain cramped his fingers. The noise in his head grew, crowding out everything. All he saw was her.

  Comin’ right at me. Right at me.

  He gazed at the striped T-shirt and black shorts.

  Just ease the blade out, squeeze it to my side till she get juuuusst …

  “Mali! Say!”

  He saw her look up, whirl toward the sound as the car door opened. An older man stepped out of a Lincoln Town Car and said to the driver, “Hold on, buddy. Be back in a second,” then turned to her. “This is what happens when I rush out. I forgot my—”

  The rest was lost in the storm that swelled in Ache’s head. Now the oak door opened and the dog, barking, bounded down the steps, its paws clacking hard on the pavement. It skidded to a halt so near him he could feel its moist breath. Then he heard a voice, her voice, float through a foggy ether.

  “Come on, Ruffin. Back in the house now, boy. Come on.” The dog trotted to her side. She patted his thick neck, then, holding his collar, they passed so close he caught the faint scent of her perfume above the stink of his sweat. The razor was in his hand, and his hand was like a block of ice at his side.

  He pivoted in a half-circle, stumbling as if he had been sideswiped by a slow-moving car. At the corner of Frederick Douglass, when he was able to swallow, the blood backed up in his throat and he knew that the inside of his mouth had been sucked in and bitten raw. Later, when he was able to free his hand, the razor slipped back in his pocket, but it was some time before he managed to find his way home.

  Two weeks ago. But he still saw the gray eyes, still heard Hazel’s dry laugh. “Be all you can be.”

  Now he turned over on the bed and listened to the noise drifting from the living room. Jerry had probably said something profound and Hazel was agreeing with him. He turned off the fifteen-watt light and fanned his fingers along the dusty floor under the bed.

  Blade still there, Ache. Just chill. You’ll get her. Thing is not to get caught.

  I folded my arms on the dining table and waited, feeling my patience ebbing away by the second. The day had dawned so beautifully, with a crisp breeze waking me, pulling me out of a bed I’d spent too much time in. I had taken a trial run last night and Dad had nearly gone through the roof when he stepped out of that cab. But the short walk convinced me that I was ready to do some serious stepping: pound the pavement, rejoin the ranks of the living, breathing, walking, singing, fighting, ordinary folks. I hit a hurdle before the breakfast dishes were even cleared.

  Dad was on his second cup of coffee, taking his time, as if he had not even heard me.

  “It’s not like I’m going out to run a marathon,” I repeated. “I’m only walking a few blocks. The swelling’s practically gone and I can get my sneaker on without complaining.”

  He didn’t bother to look up from his newspaper but I heard a low grumph as he turned a page. I leaned nearer, clasping my hands as if awaiting a papal blessing.

  Finally he said, “At least let Alvin walk with you. I’ll take Ruffin out later. You shouldn’t try to handle him just yet.”

  I sighed and thought of genuflecting in gratitude but decided it was simpler to say: “Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ll be all right.”

  Once outside, I made it down the four steps easily and felt the pavement again beneath my feet. I wanted to shout but contained myself as Alvin and I walked toward Powell Boulevard.

  Alvin, after some intensive sessions with Dr. Thomas, who lived two doors away, had recovered from the nightmare of James’s death and was able to talk about it freely.

  He did not mention it now but was interested in how far I was able to walk. “Can you make it to the ball court?”

  “I guess so. Your crew on today?”

  “Naw, just a pickup game, but Clarence has somebody who wants to talk to you.”

  “What about? Who is it?”

  “Guy named Yo-Yo. Something he saw a while back. Clarence didn’t have time to mention it before because all this other stuff came down—about James and all—and I guess we all just forgot.”

  I nodded and we walked slowly, Alvi
n absorbed in Erykah Badu pumping the promise of young love from his CD Walkman, and I taking in everything the avenue had to offer and trying to figure out what I’d missed.

  The long-haulers were still parked near the old Renaissance Ballroom, their tables overflowing with southern produce. The windows of Smalls Paradise were still sealed. Street vendors still sailed by with their portable inventories displayed in supermarket shopping carts, or sample cases suspended from the neck to be snapped shut in case of rain or cops.

  The more imaginative peddlers draped the stuff over their arms and around their necks, allowing a dozen or so scarves, ties, and belts to flow in the wind.

  At every other corner, curbside barbecue cookers scented the air. Two tour buses rumbled to a stop at 132nd Street and discharged a group that crowded into Wells Restaurant, chattering and working their Leicas and ready for the chicken and waffles.

  At 127th Street Clarence was alone on the court, dribbling the ball in a dizzy display under the basket, then leaping in a fast tight semicircle to sink it. I watched his lean form cut the air like a gazelle and understood how impressed the college recruiter must have been.

  Clarence was also an excellent singer, so he managed to win two scholarships. Alvin had met him as a member of the Uptown Children’s Chorus where Clarence’s bass voice practically shook the walls of the rehearsal room. He had nicknamed Alvin “Striver” when he found out he lived on Strivers’ Row and Alvin had nicknamed him “main man” after he had gotten me out of a bad jam a few years ago.

  Clarence’s mother, young, attractive, and severely abused by a former boyfriend, was still struggling with drug addiction, so Morris’s mother, Mrs. Johnson, provided Clarence with meals and a safe zone when his mom’s life tumbled into periodic chaos. My dad had gotten him a part-time maintenance job at the club, and during the school year I tutored him twice a week.

  He expected to graduate next spring and attend Savannah State College on the scholarships and I’d already contacted my friend, a nursing supervisor who lived in Savannah. I could count on her sharp eye and tough love to keep him on the straight and narrow while he was there.