Do or Die Read online

  An older barmaid would have known but this one was young, new on the scene, and didn’t know his history. When she returned to the table, she placed the glasses on the table as if she were handling votive candles and quietly made her way back to the bar.

  “She’ll learn,” he said, brightening up after the first sip and leaning back to survey the crowd. “So how’s my man?”

  “Dad’s hanging in,” I said.

  “I mean my other man, Ozzie.”

  “About the same.”

  He continued to scan, smile, and nod his head slightly as folks circulated in, out, and back again to check if they had missed anything.

  “So Ozzie’s about the same?”

  “Just barely—”

  “Well, this might help.” He leaned closer and his voice dropped to a feathery whisper against the beat of the jukebox, which by now had supplanted the piano man.

  “Word on the street is that some woman was seen leavin’ Starr’s place. In a rush. Cut down those steps like somethin’ was steppin’ on her shadow.”

  I put my glass down. “A woman?”

  “A tall one, about your height, and had real nice legs.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “They didn’t see the face. Only the legs. Short skirt and fancy shoes.”

  “How fancy?” I asked, thinking of any one of Short Change’s women in their hootchie heels. I wondered how I could have been suckered in at that so-called wake but those women were good at gaming. Each was an actress if only for ten minutes at a time; longer if the price was right. If nothing else, that wake let me know that any one of them would have gladly changed places with Starr, stepped out of the life and into something, anything else, if they could. But they didn’t and some had probably nursed a special bitterness.

  One of them had probably been glad that Starr’d gotten strung out, and when she’d climbed back out of the sewer, the hatred flared again and she’d decided to kill Starr. It was easier than killing herself. Was that how it happened?

  “This woman,” I said, “was she young, old, in between, or what?”

  Too Hot shrugged. “All I heard was that it was a woman in a hurry leavin’ that building about the time Starr was killed. And that she was hikin’ on some legs that was well put together.”

  “Okay. Okay,” I said, trying to move him beyond the fixation on the legs. “Nobody saw her face, so what did the shoes look like?”

  “Fancy.”

  “Fancy like what?” I persisted, thankful that I wasn’t paying by the minute for him to let go of this information. It was like pulling a deep-rooted wisdom tooth.

  “Were they fancy like high heels, open-toes, sling backs, lace ups, ankle straps, sandals, with bells jingling, lights flashing, what?”

  “Bells,” he said.

  I looked at him in the dim light to see if he was laughing at me. He raised his glass to his mouth, took a sip, and placed it carefully on the table, where he rolled it back and forth in the curve of his fingers.

  “High heels with bells,” he said again.

  26

  Bells. I walked up Powell Boulevard thinking of circus clowns and belly dancers. And trying to figure out who in her right mind would wear shoes that announced her presence; shoes that sounded an alarm, that said, “Ding, ding, I’m here to kill you.”

  I thought of those firefly sneakers that lit up when pressure was placed on the heel and how those brilliant muggers were caught by their tracer lights as they fled the scene of the crime.

  But those were sneakers, stupid design, yet the result was the same. Whoever legged it down those steps had not been thinking too clearly. High heels with bells.

  I thought of the pile of shoes and boots that lay in the corner of Amanda’s living room but Too Hot had said the woman was tall, about my height. Even with stilts, Amanda would probably have only reached to my shoulder, so it probably wasn’t her.

  I felt frustrated because I knew better than to ask Too Hot for his source. It had probably been the ICEY man making one of his night runs, and he did not want to be tagged. With no source, I couldn’t go to the police. Not that I’d go in any event. It was understood that this information was for Ozzie and Ozzie alone, to do with as he saw fit.

  I decided to tell him as much as I knew and let him take it from there. The prospect of having to visit Amanda and her crew again just to gauge their height, check their legs, and possibly peep at their shoes did not thrill me. But then again, with the state Ozzie was in, he’d demand to know my source; he’d speak to Too Hot, then probably track Sno and demand to know what else he might have seen.

  And maybe the woman wasn’t connected to Starr’s death at all. Just someone leaving in a hurry to catch a cab.

  Thursday dawned with rain threatening some relief from the broil-and-bake ambience. At eight o’clock, the thermostat outside the window was already pointing upward to 78 degrees and even the birds had taken a break.

  By the time I showered and dressed, Dad had already walked Ruffin and was at the table with his second cup of coffee.

  “I picked up some news yesterday at the Lenox Lounge,” I said, filling my cup. “Too Hot got the word that a woman was seen leaving Starr’s place around the time she was killed.”

  Dad put his cup down and looked at me. “A woman? Did he say who she was? What she looked like?”

  “He doesn’t know. Only knows that she had good legs, real pretty legs, he said, and she wore fancy shoes. High heels with bells.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Well, I asked him twice and that’s what he said.”

  “Who’s his source?”

  “I think it’s Sno.”

  “The ICEY man? Why?”

  “Because he lives in that neighborhood. He’s out at all hours and if he wasn’t on the scene, he probably got the word from someone who was.”

  “I should’ve known. Guy sees everything, especially on his night shift. You gotta tell Ozzie.”

  I shrugged. “Not yet. I need some more information, something solid. Ozzie’s feeling bad enough as it is. No point in sending him on a chase where he’ll hit a brick wall.”

  In my room minutes later, the sound of Cyrus Chestnut’s piano wizardry floated up as I pored over my notes. He had been aboard ship and Tad had purchased his CD for me as soon as we went ashore at Newport. I closed the book, lay back on the bed, and allowed the music to drift over me.

  The trip seemed now like a magical moment that had happened a long time ago. Even the stopover at Nova Scotia, where we’d visited the black museum and spent so much time there we had to move fast to beat the deadline back to the ship.

  I rolled over now to examine a map the curator had given me—a blueprint detailing the sea routes of blacks escaping from the unimaginable horror of slavery. In 1796, 543 Maroons sailed from Jamaica to Halifax, Nova Scotia. Then in 1800 they sailed to Sierra Leone. Thirty-five hundred loyal blacks left New York City in 1783 for Halifax (probably after the British defeat) and from there, 1,190 sailed to Sierra Leone in 1792. Between 1813 and 1815, 1,200 black refugees sailed from the Chesapeake Bay and Delaware Bay areas, and 2,500 more sailed from Jamaica to settle in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia.

  I regretted not having had more time to study this chapter of black history so new to me. But Tad and I and several others had had to rush to catch a bus, a fast-moving ferry, another bus, and managed to step aboard the ship’s tender three minutes before the whistle blew.

  In the cabin, we spent a half hour catching our breath as the ship cleared the harbor and headed for Newport.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  “For dinner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not right now,” I murmured, stretching out on the bed. I closed my eyes and relaxed under the warm touch of his fingers on my legs.

  The whistle sounded and the ship pushed lightly on a calm sea. We settled onto the thick carpet near the bed and lost track of time. Later, I pushed the curtains aside and a
narrow shaft of moonlight fell across Tad’s stomach like a pale ribbon. I traced the ribbon with my bottom lip. I heard him murmur something. I felt the quick draw of his breath and the rise of his stomach against my face and lost track of time again.

  ——

  I clicked off the music, grabbed my bag, and quickly left the house. I needed to leave that kind of memory behind.

  Out in the street, I was able to breathe easier. On Powell Boulevard, it seemed as if everyone had left town. Even the ball court behind the “Y” was empty as I cut over to Malcom X Boulevard. A few hardy vendors sat broiling under their umbrellas outside Pan Pan’s restaurant and sunglasses seemed to be the big sale item.

  At 132nd Street the Club Harlem’s elegant canopy stretched to the curb and the lush planters flanked the double-height teak door like sentries. A couple strolled by pushing a baby carriage. An old man with a cane carved with African warrior faces walked his dog. A boy on a bike rolled by wearing a T-shirt that read: THE STREET CRIME UNIT WELCOMES YOU TO NEW YORK. NOW DUCK!

  I paused in the sliver of shade the canopy offered and wondered if any of them were aware of the tragedy that hung over the club’s piano man. Ozzie’s picture was still posted among that of the other musicians but no one, not even Dad, knew when he’d return. I knew it wouldn’t be any time soon.

  Short Change, as it turned out, did not own a brownstone facing Marcus Garvey Park as rumor had it. Even the news articles that reported his death had it all wrong. He had actually been shot near the park and, in the best tabloid tradition, his living space had been confused with his final resting place.

  I doubled back to Charleston, got the right address from his delivery book, and twenty minutes later found myself standing in front of a narrow, three-story limestone on 121st Street between Powell Boulevard and Malcolm X Boulevard where Short Change had once rented the parlor floor and basement.

  A few doors away from the house, a woman tending a Green Thumb community garden greeted me. I pointed to the tree near the fence, surprised to see one in Harlem growing real peaches.

  “Well, look some more,” she said, nodding toward the three apple trees, a fig tree, a cherry tree, and two additional peach trees, one of which she said she’d planted three years ago.

  “Ain’t nuthin’ to it,” she said, “if you got the right spirit. I simply ate the peach, enjoyed it, and stuck the little pit down in the soil. We also got lettuce, radishes, squash, collards, mustard greens, pole beans, cucumbers, and the tomatoes are so big you got to roll ’em away. Too heavy to carry.”

  She laid the water hose aside and opened the chain-link fence, allowing me to enter. The small footpath led to a seat under the largest apple tree, which rose up about ten or twelve feet. The garden was narrow, situated as it was between two houses, but it was deep, running back about ninety feet.

  This spot of Eden was so beautiful I wondered when our mayor, the Rude One, would get the word and send in his boys to bulldoze it as he had done with the other community gardens. Thank God for Bette Midler stepping to the plate in time to save at least some of them.

  The spot under the tree was shady and the bench, fashioned from slats of cedar set on two pieces of recycled concrete, was quite comfortable. I watched the lady snake the hose up and down the rows, soaking the plants as she spoke.

  “Yep, I know the boy you askin’ about. If you know ten folks in Harlem, you know ’em all and everybody knows you.”

  I introduced myself and mentioned my dad. She stepped back when she heard his name and clapped her hand to her mouth. “Well, I’ll be … I know your daddy, the bass player. Used to run into him years ago in one a’ them after-hour spots. Now that was a jumpin’ joint. I went there every Friday and shook a leg ’til the sun come up. Had on my yellow dress and high heels and my hair was fried, dyed, and laid to the side.

  “Ain’t been to that new club yet. Prices too rich and my social security don’t stretch but so far. But I’m glad he doin’ good. You tell ’im Miss Babe said hello. Yep, I used to be real skinny back then and that yellow dress was sayin’ a lot. Girl needed something special to stand out in all that crowd. Anyway, I don’t know if he’ll remember me but he oughta remember that dress. Everybody does.”

  She shaded her eyes against the sun and smiled at her handiwork.

  “See? Not a weed in sight. Anyway, the boy you talkin’ about, his name was Henry Stovall but somewhere along the way, he picked up the name Short Change.”

  “How’d he get that name? Did he cheat anybody out of something?”

  “Well …” She adjusted her wide-brimmed straw hat and eased down on the bench beside me. Her dark face was smooth and seamless and her skin held a cinnamon scent. She had hands that were large and strong-looking and they lay loosely in her lap as she spoke.

  “I’d say it was more like somebody cheated him. You know that boy grew up around here. Born on Lenox, three doors away from Mickey Funeral, the Carolina Service. Then his mama moved here into the block with him. She was one of them party girls but kinda calmed down after he came. She got a regular job, sent him to school, kept his clothes neat. Everything.

  “But you know how some kids get when Mama can’t come up with a’ answer that makes sense when they ask about Daddy? See, that’s the trouble with the race. The men are made invisible. They’re made invisible and it ain’t their fault. It goes back too far to remember when it was different. And we still fightin’ against them odds. Gone men, grievin’ women, sufferin’ children. You know, just like in a war.

  “Well, in addition to that, this child really got a bad deal. Cheated, is what I call it. When he was real young, one of his testicles didn’t drop the way it was supposed to as he was developin’ and later it turned to cancer. His mama panicked and instead a’ goin’ to Harlem Hospital, where the folks really give a damn about you, she took ’im someplace downtown and he come back with his equipment useless. Now I got this straight from the vine so I know what I’m talkin’ about. He had some other kinda treatment but it didn’t do no good.”

  “You mean he couldn’t have any children?” I said, putting it as delicately as I could.

  “He couldn’t do a thing.” Miss Babe sighed. “And you know, somethin’ like that is enough to kill a man. But Henry was strange. He made up his mind to make good out of bad. He went into somethin’, the same life his mama had fought so hard to move away from. When he started gatherin’ up all those women and young girls, his mama said he was doin’ it to prove somethin’ to himself; that he could outfish any fisherman. In other words, pull in a sizable catch without usin’ real bait.”

  “What did he use?” I asked.

  Miss Babe glanced at me and in the short silence adjusted the straw brim so that only her nose and mouth showed.

  “Ah, well. You know how we folks make do. Make a way out of no way. Plus he had a gift for gab. A real gift. Boy shoulda been a preacher. Woulda made the same money and with less complications. Now look. He went and killed that girl and somebody turned around and killed him. Folks don’t believe how what goes around comes around, but that’s what happened to him.”

  She rose from the bench, moved to the rear of the garden, and returned with three tomatoes the size of melons.

  “Sorry I don’t have a bag to put ’em in, but they’re nice and ripe so don’t drop ’em.”

  With that she picked up the hose again and I thanked her and left. I walked quickly, balancing the tomatoes in the crook of my arm, and trying to balance the image of Henry Stovall, an impotent pimp who had only lip service to offer, who somehow managed to shortchange everyone.

  27

  Back home, at my desk, I picked up my pen but didn’t know where or how to begin. Henry Stovall: The man had been able to sweep women into his orbit despite a serious handicap. Then along came Starr to tell him she was tired of lip service, to kiss her ass.

  The other women had probably been too mesmerized, too needy, frightened, or hopeless but Starr—and to some extent, Sara Lee—
had laid it on the line. One had been thrown out, the other was killed.

  I closed the book but opened it again just as quickly. Who was the girl with the fancy shoes? Had S.C. sent someone to do the job? I thought of the women at the wake whose loud personal testimonies had hidden so much other stuff; I couldn’t decide which of them might have done it. Amanda had been the only one to seriously praise Starr and it turned out that she’d been the most jealous.

  I was going in circles so I closed the book, and prepared a bubble bath steeped with lavender salts. That usually cleared my head.

  ——

  When I stepped out of the tub, the clock said 4 P.M. I gathered the notebook, which lay near Tad’s packet, and toyed with the idea of mailing the pictures to him with a sweet note. Then a fresh wave of anger hit as I opened the package again.

  I sifted through the pictures, feeling like a religious flagellant scourging myself to atone for past and present sins and to lay up heavenly credits for future bad stuff.

  The more I stared at the pictures, the more I hurt. The more I hurt, the more intensely I itched to roll up on Chrissie again and rearrange the smug, ugly face that smiled back at me.

  One picture caught my eye and I was studying it closely when the phone rang.

  Elizabeth’s voice filtered through from the lobby of the state Supreme Court, her cell phone picking up all the background pandemonium.

  “What?” I yelled.

  “You don’t have to yell,” she shouted through the crackling. “I can hear you perfectly.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Travis has been indicted for Henry Stovall’s murder.”

  “Oh, shit!”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said, wishing the connection were clearer.