No Time to Die Page 17

  He saw them all, and remembered how the smiles had iced over when they realized, too late, what was happening. He saw them and the deep warm feeling welled up like a spring.

  They knew I was somethin’. Knew I didn’t take no shit.

  Then the image of Mercy Anne drifted from the shadows, her eyes like silver discs. She opened her mouth and the laughter made him sit up. Or was it Hazel down the hall? The television was on again and the laughter flowed toward him.

  He thought of the Gray Eyes who came in for that ice cream and made him lose his job, and thought of how he’d nearly connected the other night if only that cab and that damn dog …

  Bile exploded in the back of his throat and he was off the sagging mattress, down on his knees, rummaging under the bed. His stash—what was left of it—was safe because Hazel could never kneel down in a million years to search the space.

  His fingers sifted through the dust until he felt the coil of wire and the box of gloves but he reached past this until his fingers closed on the razor.

  He could see the house again, sheltered beneath the thick-leafed trees lining the curb like sentries. Strivers’ Row. Gray Eyes was living large while he had no job, no money. He closed his eyes again, visualizing the door to her house. A door of intricately carved oak.

  Hell, it ain’t gonna be like last time. All you do is ring the bell and she open the door. Hazel worked her rat stuff … fooled all them motherfuckers. Every one of ’em. You smart just like her. All that shit you perpetrated and ain’t got busted yet. That tell you somethin’ right there. Tell you, you way better than her any day. All you got to do is walk to that door.

  I tacked the sketches on the wall above my desk and stepped back to gaze at them from different angles. Based on the description Yo-Yo had given the artist at the precinct, I wondered if he had been smoking something special that night on the roof, when I showed the drawing to Bertha, she had stepped back as if she’d been hit. “Damn! Where you dig that up from?”

  This poster brother had a face that would force a plastic surgeon into retirement. The eyes resembled a frog who’d been surprised by a larger predator and his mouth was stretched wide enough to swallow a plate. His face was clean-shaven but his hairline ended in a widow’s peak a few inches above his eyebrows.

  The other drawing based on Ms. Irene’s description wasn’t much better, but neither Bertha nor Ms. Irene would confirm positively that the drawing was that of the man who had delivered their groceries. Bertha had looked at it and then shook her head.

  “I don’t know, Mali. I just don’t know for sure. I mean the brother was ugly and nervous, but that don’t mean he’s a criminal. I’d hate to finger the wrong man. Remember how my brother got tagged and if it hadn’t been for you, he’d’a been shipped upstate? No. I can’t do this ’less I’m sure. And I ain’t sure.”

  Ms. Irene had also declined. “You know, Mali, this is not easy for me. I see a little similarity but not much. And there were several other delivery men at different times. I’m just not sure. Someone once said it was better to have a guilty person walking around free than to have one innocent person behind bars. And that’s how I feel. I’m sorry, but I’m just not sure.” I sighed and turned away from the drawing.

  I like to think I’m considerate (most of the time) and somewhat well balanced (part of the time). And I try to keep my mouth shut if my opinion is likely to bruise someone’s feelings.

  I’m vocal about minor inequities, figuring if I scream loud enough I can prevent them from developing into major stuff. I frown on displays of conspicuous consumption and tend to view modesty as a divine state. In short, I’ve got practically one foot (the good foot) in heaven and am pulling hard on the other. For this, I’ve received a few blessings in my life and I count Tad as one of them.

  In bad moments I tend to squeeze my eyes shut and think of him. And depending on the occasion, my temperature either rises significantly enough to pull me out of the rut or it lowers gently to ease me into a semi-somnolent dream state. I focus not only on his extraordinarily deep eyes and soft mustache and silver-edged hair but on his gentle nature, his goodness, and how wonderful he really is. I focus so hard sometimes that I have to pinch myself back to reality. He is my private oasis and his love is like a sweet water.

  Most sisters would brag for days about the fine brother they’ve got draped on their arms. I never went that way, not even when Elizabeth first met him and then looked at me wide-eyed and said, “Girrrl, please! I see why you bumping into walls. You strolling half-dizzy!”

  Yes, I am, I wanted to say but never did. I wanted only to remember that day at the precinct—I’d just reported for duty—when he had walked in, tall and broad-shouldered and dragging that fugitive, both of them covered with the dust and dirt of a sixteen-hour drive. I had looked beyond the layers of grime and chaos and I prayed, “Lord, don’t let this fine brother be married. Don’t let him be married. I’ll die if he is.”

  Then I found that he was, and I didn’t die but tried hard to forget about him and to focus on the business of another cop, Terry Keenan, who was blocking me at every turn until I got tired of his nastiness and punched him out and lost my job.

  I had never missed the job. I missed Tad. When he finally got his divorce and decided to part that beautiful mouth to say hello, really say hello, I had a hard time. I saw something close to perfection and it frightened me.

  So I try not to measure other men by what I see in him. I remind myself that what the Temptations sing about is true: beauty is only skin-deep. I try hard not to focus on surface stuff but what lies beneath. Some days I’m good at it. Other days I flat out fail.

  When Tad unfolded the sketches earlier, I had stepped back and failed.

  “Damn. Just looking like this should be a crime,” I said, regretting it as soon as the words left my mouth.

  Now, as I stared at the pictures tacked to the wall, something stirred within my own memory. Or perhaps I had only dreamed it. Dreamed of seeing this face—not the face, but a fleeting impression, as one would a passing stranger exiting a subway or bus, never to be seen again. But when? Had I seen him at all or was the drawing so dramatic and I was staring so long that the image had imprinted itself in my consciousness?

  I lay across the bed, trying to concentrate, to stretch memory. Perhaps the car accident had caused me to forget certain things. I had seen something, not quite like this sketch, but close.

  An hour later I sat up and eased my legs over the edge of the bed. The sun had vanished and the room was shrouded in gray. My leg ached but not enough to keep me from slipping into my sneakers and leaving the house again.

  Outside, the sky had taken on the color of mottled silver and most people had retreated indoors. Lightning cut through the clouds and a faint rumble followed. I was practically alone as I strolled toward Malcolm X Boulevard.

  At 130th Street the lights of the supermarket looked unnaturally bright, like a ship looming suddenly through a treacherous fog. I didn’t know what I expected to find when I stepped inside, but something hidden in memory had drawn me here.

  The aisles were nearly empty of shoppers and I wandered over to the frozen food section and gazed at the dozen varieties of ice cream: low-fat, no-fat, no-sugar, all-natural, all promising “rich” satisfying taste. My reflection, superimposed on the small cartons, stared back, frowning. I turned away without buying any and walked toward the empty checkout counter, toward the empty place where image and memory suddenly came together.

  He had been standing near the door that time, wide-eyed, scowling, and had turned away when I looked at him.

  The humidity was so high by the time he reached 139th Street, his T-shirt clung to him and his face shone in the dampness. It was not quite rain, but heavy enough to persuade most people to retreat indoors to cooler, climate-controlled territory.

  Ache lingered awhile on Eighth Avenue near the Sugar Shack and watched the door of the restaurant open and close and open again, allowing a f
aint strand of music to drift toward him in unconnected notes.

  One couple, before they entered, leaned near the door to scrutinize the menu taped to the window and he caught their chatter—the man wanting a full dinner plus dessert, the girl reminding him of the need to watch his weight and select a sensible salad.

  He eyed them and remembered that he had not eaten all day and the anger that brought him here rose in his chest again, nearly cutting his breath off.

  He moved away quickly and turned onto 139th Street, walking east against the traffic pattern. The block was deserted, just as he imagined it would be.

  Windows were closed against the humidity, and air conditioners hummed efficiently. The houses, trees, and streetlights appeared distorted in the haze. He walked slowly, not only to gain traction on the slick, leafy pavement but to check the windows of the parked cars and to spot anyone before he approached her house. The car windows were frosted with fine mist, so he gave that up and moved on warily.

  Two nights ago, he had again gotten his foot on the bottom step when a car alarm had gone off and the dog started to bark. He had pivoted quickly and continued down the block without missing a beat. The alarm died when he had gotten several yards away, then suddenly he heard the pad of the paws and the dog growl directly behind him.

  He froze. He had been too surprised to turn around and too paralyzed to run. He couldn’t reach for the razor, and if he did, what good would it have done? If it was the girl and he got her, the dog would have gotten him. If he got the dog, the girl would have woken up the whole block.

  But they had moved past him, the girl and the dog, walking so near he was able to see the glint of her small dark earrings, the pattern and whorl of her haircut. Her perfume, light and smelling faintly of flowers he could not name, drifted in her wake. He watched her walk. Had she been alone, he could have reached out and opened her throat in one gesture.

  But that Great Dane. The animal was beyond big. It stood as high as her waist and its head was larger than most horses he’d seen. Its spotted black and white coat had gleamed under the streetlight as it trotted at her side. And she’d held the leash loosely in her hands like a trainer guiding a thoroughbred.

  He had hung back, increasing the distance between them until they reached the corner.

  Ain’t this some shit. Just like last time. Damn dog make Godzilla chill. And she ain’t movin’ too swift. Like maybe her foot or leg or somethin’ got spiked. Probably headin’ for the park, but she ain’t gonna do no whole lot a runnin’, I can see that. Man, if that damn dog wasn’t—

  He had watched them move slowly across Frederick Douglass Boulevard and walk toward St. Nicholas Avenue, toward the park. The traffic light changed twice but he remained on the corner, watching until they disappeared.

  She was definitely limping and he hoped she hadn’t hurt herself too badly because that’s what he was supposed to do. No one was going to cheat him out of that.

  Things different tonight. This damn soggy air. Need to go on and rain and get it over with. But rain or shine, the old man got a lotta gigs someplace and the limo probably picked him up by now.

  He made his way to the middle of the block, treading on the slick pavement as if he expected to trip a land mine. One car moved down the street, its headlights throwing narrow spears through the haze, but it did not slow down. Somewhere in back of him, a few yards away, he heard a door slam, but when he turned, he saw that he was alone.

  In the shadow of a full-leafed tree, he paused and again scanned the parked cars.

  The house was directly across the street, and although he could not make out the detailed carving on the door in the faint reflection of the streetlamp, he knew it was the house. The windows downstairs were dark but lights shone through the blinds on the second floor. He waited, listening as footsteps approached, padding on the thin carpet of fallen leaves. An old man with glasses fogged by the mist walked past, turned onto Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, and disappeared.

  Ache was alone again and the hum of the air conditioners came back, filling him with a sudden, alien feeling of apprehension. His shirt, boldly inscribed with “Don’t Ask Me for Shit,” now clung to him in the moist air and made his skin itch. Then he started to tremble as apprehension warred with anticipation.

  I should ring the bell. Just step on over and ring it. If the kid answer, say I made a mistake. Got the wrong house. And come back some other time. No. Can’t do that. Maybe he ain’t home. Maybe if he is, I take care of him too. No. The dog. The damn dog. I been standin’ here. Nobody walk him yet. Maybe …

  He drew his breath in as the lights came on downstairs and the door opened. The boy stepped out with the dog at his side. He watched the woman hand the boy a yellow jacket and stand on the stoop. Her voice drifted toward him.

  “Twenty minutes is enough. If it starts to rain, come right back. I don’t want you catching cold.”

  The background light illuminated her slim, long legs. She wore denim shorts and a yellow cut-off T-shirt and she was barefoot. Even without shoes, she was still taller than most women, but that didn’t matter. He watched as she closed the door. He waited another minute for the boy and the dog to disappear in the fog and then he glided across the street.

  Ain’t gonna miss this time. Can’t miss.

  Apprehension. Anticipation. It didn’t matter. His heart began the familiar racing and the dizziness came over him. His stomach felt as if a snake had coiled inside. His chest was pumping so hard he could feel it through the thin cotton shirt. He smelled his sweat, stronger and more sour with each step he took. Finally he felt the tension, rare and exquisite, come up between his legs as he took the razor from his pocket, palmed it open in his gloved hand, and pressed the bell.

  … Don’t tell me that boy’s back so soon. It took all evening to pry him away from that television just so he could walk the dog, now he’s laying on the bell. Maybe it’s started to rain. Where’s his key? Why doesn’t he use it?

  “Hold on a minute!”

  … I knew I should’ve walked him myself. I’d have taken him out earlier. Mama always said if you want something done right, do it yourself. Dammit, now there’s the phone …

  When I picked up the receiver, Tad’s voice came on. He sounded low and thoughtful and I knew he was onto something. “Hey, baby. I’m at the supermarket, checking delivery slips. Did Claudine ever—”

  “Tad? Hold it a minute. Alvin’s at the door. He doesn’t have his key.”

  I walked slowly toward the door, feeling the pain grip my leg with each step. Every time it rained or the humidity crept beyond a tolerable level, my leg acted as a barometer and I found myself thinking of James. His smiling face loomed large, crowding my thoughts, and in my anger I yanked the door open.

  It happened so fast. The hand came down so fast I thought it was a bird, a bat, darting toward me. I fell back against the door, astonished. It slid past my face and I jerked my head and it slid past my ear.

  Suddenly my shoulder felt as if someone had slammed it with a rock and red splashed down my arm. I looked beyond the bird into the face and the scream came from somewhere.

  “Damn! It’s you!”

  The supermarket. The poster.

  I stared at the face with the mouth drawn back and eyes bulging with a hatred churned up from some unimaginable place. Only a glimpse. I saw the razor and had no time to think, only to fight for my life.

  His arm locked around my neck and I felt his weight against me as we wrestled through the foyer and into the living room. I dropped to my knees pulling him with me but he pulled me up again and we fell against the sofa, pushing it, heavy as it was, against the table, causing the lamp to fall over. The shade cast a slant of shadow against the wall and I battled to hold onto the hand that held the razor. The hand felt dry. He was wearing some kind of plastic gloves and he raised his arm, preparing to slice down again. We were face-to-face and his breath spewed out, thick and sour. I felt his spittle spray against my skin.


  “Bitch! Make me lose my job! Come in there like you don’t fuckin’ know me! Like all them others! Fuckin’ bitch!”

  I didn’t waste time or breath trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about. One hand, strong as a wrestler’s, gripped my throat so tightly my vision blurred. I gasped for air and raised my knee and got him hard in the groin. He dropped the razor and I managed to kick it under the sofa. He fell back, doubled over. But only for a second, not in slow motion or freeze-frame, like in the movies. He rebounded so fast that when I stumbled behind the sofa, he was right behind me, his face bloated with rage. He had forgotten the razor and was coming at me with his hands.

  “You ain’t the first and ain’t gonna be the last, you white-eyed—thought you could get away …!”

  I leaped back and scrambled around the sofa, like a child in a manic game of musical chairs. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I know you! Know your old man, your dog, your son. I know all about you. Came in for that ice cream. You know me! Yes you do!”

  He was talking fast and the words spilled in a torrent of anger. “Fuckin’ bitch. Just like that white-haired one. You know me and look right through me. Come in for that ice cream and look at me like I ain’t nuthin’. None a you get away with that … None a you. I got everyone. Every time.”

  “Listen,” I said, still moving, knowing he was beyond reasoning with. I needed to keep him talking, talking, talking. My arm was bleeding and my leg was about to cave in under me. Keep him talking. Keep him talking.

  “What did the white-haired one ever do to you?”

  I was yelling and he stopped short, apparently surprised that I didn’t know.

  “Plenty. That bitch did plenty!”

  “What? What?”

  I shouted again, trying to hammer through his confusion. He looked around, scanning the floor. “She—she—she was like them others. Mercy Anne and Natalie and all them others.”