If I Should Die Read online

“Jeffrey’s in intensive care. Surgery’s over.” And without waiting for me to ask, he continued, “Concussion, severe. Compound fracture of the right upper arm, fractured right lower jaw, and there’re some contusions on his chest and upper back. He’s in serious but stable condition.”

  Serious but stable … serious but stable …

  I was able to step into his room for five minutes and saw a fighter, mangled and swollen, with tubes spreading like a web. A fighter, serious but stable.

  I placed my fingers lightly on his chest, afraid to touch him for fear of bruising him more.

  “Dad, I’m sorry. This is my fault. I’m sorry …”

  In that brief second, his lids flickered. He did not open his eyes but he knew I was there.

  “I’m going to take care of everything, Dad. Everything. Don’t you worry.”

  chapter thirty

  Sitting at 4 A.M. in the living room of a house I hardly recognize, I listen to the noises of the lock being repaired, furniture being uprighted, and the remaining pictures being taken from the walls and stacked in a corner and I try to make sense of the note one of the twins has pressed into my hand.

  “This was on the mantel. Propped there so you could see it. And knowing about your lawsuit, we didn’t think you’d want the cops to find it.”

  BACK OFF. OR WE’LL BE BACK.

  I let the note slip to the floor and Dr. Thomas picked it up and read it.

  “Mali, do you have any idea who did this? Any idea at all?”

  I raised my hands and let them fall to my lap. “I have a lot of ideas but nothing solid, nothing I could—”

  “Okay, you’re spending the night with us. There’s no way you’re going to stay in here by yourself. No way.”

  “But it’s nearly morning. I’ll be all right …”

  “No. No way. You’ve got to stay out of here until this … whatever it is … is resolved. If you don’t want to stay with us, then stay with another friend. Anywhere until you decide what to do about this situation.”

  He looked at the devastation, then sat beside me on the sofa. The pillows had been slashed and the stuffing ripped out.

  “At least Alvin isn’t here to see this. Thank God you sent him away.”

  I nodded my head but did not answer. If Alvin had been here, they would have killed him. Now I thought about Ruffin and what the twins had said. He would survive. A single bullet had passed completely through him and he had lost blood but he would survive.

  I looked at the walls again and knew that most of the blood had probably come from whoever had broken in. Ruffin had been shot defending Dad.

  “Listen,” I repeated, “I’ll be all right. I will. I’ll call my friend and—”

  “The phone’s been ripped out. You can use ours.”

  I looked around and wondered what else had been destroyed. The wall near the piano had not been touched so the tape was still there. The rooms upstairs had been undisturbed. So had Dad’s studio. His papers, sheet music, and all his instruments were intact.

  After breaking in, the attacker had probably spent most of the time fighting off Ruffin. Didn’t have time or the energy to get to the rest of the house.

  Still, I looked around the living room and wondered how people managed to bring their lives back together once they had been robbed, raped, or otherwise invaded. How had they managed to touch the things that had been pored over and rummaged through and handled so violently? And the rage they had felt toward the unknowable, how did they prevent it from turning inward? How did they cope …

  I knew what I had to do, but what did other people do …

  Rage drained everything from me and I knew if I breathed too deeply, or blinked too suddenly, I would disintegrate.

  “I will come next door and sleep for an hour. Then I want to go back to the hospital. I’ve got to see Dad …”

  “Good idea. That makes me feel better, Mali.”

  The twins rolled the carpets up and pushed them into the foyer and I wanted to tell them, as helpful as they were, to stop trying to restore order to this place because it couldn’t be done. But I remained silent and concentrated instead on a thin gray streak of light edging through the half-drawn blinds to touch the ruined floors and furniture. The scene resembled a theater set between acts, expertly dismantled.

  chapter thirty-one

  The hot shower did not help and sleep was out of the question so, despite Dr. Thomas’s objections, I returned home to sit in the middle of the living room floor. It was daylight now, and staring at the debris helped me to concentrate on the questions that kept turning over and over.

  … Who left the note? Who killed Erskin or had him killed? Why was Nightlife taken from the hospital and murdered? Who had taken that envelope from Deborah?

  And where was Miss Viv? As slick as she is, she might be hiding out right here in the city. And maybe she decided to get me for setting her up. Why hadn’t she been found? Maybe Johnnie’s boys got to her before Tad. All of this stuff happening and I haven’t heard a word from him.

  And Lloyd. As far as he was concerned, he and the Chorus were one and he would die before he’d let anything happen to it.

  Or it could have been a message from the friends at the precinct because I had named Terry Keenan in the lawsuit. Too many questions and I needed to tackle them all.

  I lay back on the floor and stared at the ceiling.… The shortest distance anywhere is still a straight line. Start at the top with Harding. Start with him or get as near as I can. Then backtrack to Lloyd, and then to Viv, and perhaps the club if I have to. That message was meant for me but Dad might have stumbled onto something he had no business knowing. Get on this now before things get hotter, although I don’t know how much worse it can get.

  If nothing turns up, look at the precinct and let Tad handle it from there.

  Upstairs at my desk, I grabbed a pen and notepaper:

  Tad, my father’s in the hospital and it’s my fault. He has been battered so badly it didn’t seem as if he’d survive the night. As I write this, I still don’t know. There are so many tubes and wires running in and out and so many machines around him, I could barely get near his bed.

  After Benin, I had promised myself that I’d take care of everything. That I’d look after not only her son but our father. So I must do something about this. And do it quickly.

  If anything happens to Dad and … if I should die, I want you to take care of Alvin. We have no other relatives and even if we had, I would still want you to do this. All the papers are near the piano, near Walker and water (you know where I mean).

  I can only remember telling you how much I love you when I was actually making love to you, feeling your strength and the wonder of your hands on me. You are miles away now and distance sometimes clears the vision. My vision is clear. I love you more than ever. Take care of yourself and take care of Alvin.

  Mali

  I sealed the letter and returned next door. “If anything happens, give this to Detective Tad Honeywell at the precinct. No one else.”

  Dr. Thomas stared at me, the frown on his face deepening.

  “Mali, enough has happened already. You expecting more bad news?”

  “No. I’m not expecting anything, but things happen.”

  I stood on the stoop with him and gazed down the block. Sunlight had burned back the early morning gray, and the strong rays now made everything appear postcard-perfect. The trees were a bright thick green, filled with the busy peeping sounds of birds. It was so pleasant it made my head hurt.

  In my room again, I went over Erskin’s list of numbers. Tad had the original but the copy was plain enough. My fingers slid down the page and stopped at the address of the abandoned building where Nightlife had been found.

  In the mirror, I tried not to notice the swollen eyelids on the face staring at me and instead concentrated on tying a scarf around my hair. Then I placed a wide band of Velcro above my ankle, attached a lipstick-size canister of Mace to the band, put on
my sweat suit, and left the house.

  At the hospital, I was overcome with a nameless fear and could not wait for the elevator. I ran up the six flights to Dad’s floor and was shaking as I approached his room. I passed the nurse’s station, too afraid to stop.

  Inside the room, someone else, another patient, was lying in the space where Dad had been.

  “What happened to—where is Mr. Anderson?” I asked a nurse who had stepped from behind a curtain she’d pulled back.

  “Mr. Anderson? Oh, he’s been moved. No longer in ICU. The desk will tell you what floor he’s on.”

  I leaned against the wall and folded my arms across my chest, weak with relief.

  “Are you all right? Do you want a glass of water?”

  “No. No. I just—I mean I’m okay. Thank you.”

  Two flights down, I found him propped in bed near the window in a room he shared with two other patients. Three musicians from the club were standing around him, talking in low voices.

  The drummer embraced me. He was short and round and had to reach up to touch my shoulders. “Mali. It’s good to see you. This is a damn shame, girl. But your old man is the strongest thing on the block. He gonna make it.”

  “And thank God for that,” the pianist joined in. “We can’t afford to lose him just yet. We just now gettin’ our second wind, what with the schedule your pop got lined up. Ain’t that right, Sonny?”

  The pianist was a medium-built, brown-skin man with a large mole on his lower lip. He was seventy-five years old and considered my father a youngster. He always called him Sonny.

  My father smiled weakly at the compliment and smiled more energetically when I leaned over and kissed him.

  “Daddy? How’re you feeling?”

  “I’ve felt better.” His voice was a slurred whisper through his wired jaw. “I’ve felt better, but hell, who’s complainin’? I’m lucky. Just plain damn lucky. My arm may be broken but my hands, my hands are okay and my fingers are still moving. Gimme six months and I’ll be good to go. Thank God I’m not a horn man. How about you? What’s goin’ on? You takin’ care of yourself? I was worried sick about what might’ve happened to you.”

  I patted him gently on the face, rubbed his shoulders, and tried to remain calm. “No. Don’t talk. I—I’m all right. I’ve been staying at Dr. Thomas’s house. His sons, you know the twins—they’re—”

  And I couldn’t say any more. One of the three men, the horn player I think, touched my shoulder as I sank into the chair and held my head in my hands. I bit the inside of my mouth until the salty taste of blood came up, but I was determined not to let him see me cry.

  The horn man patted my shoulder. “Listen, sweetie. Your pop’s tougher than a fried fricassee. He gonna make it. He fought his way outta ICU and he gonna fight his way outta this bed and outta this whole place. Don’t you worry.”

  Most of the tubes and monitors were gone and only the glucose drip remained taped to his wrist. The other medication and pureed food, he was now taking by mouth.

  A half hour later the nurse came in and chased us out, saying we could come back tomorrow. I was glad. Dad didn’t get the chance to ask me the questions I couldn’t answer. And I had something to do. The sooner I started, the better I’d feel.

  In the elevator, the three spoke at once, unable to contain the anger. “You know, I seen me some shi—seen me some stuff in my day, but this is deep. Damn deep. Who’d wanna do something like this to your father? To an old man who ain’t done nuthin’ but good for the folks? Who’d do this?”

  “Yeah. Bustin’ in and robbin’ is one thing. But ain’t no need to go on no damn stampede. But that’s what them crackheads be doin’ nowadays. They git whack if you look at ’em wrong.”

  “See, that’s why when they come up in my face with they hard-luck story, I give ’em two pennies short of the time a day. Tell ’em take that talk for a walk.”

  “Can’t blame you, man, they nuthin’ but a bunch a goddamn roaches.”

  I nodded but said nothing. Crackheads and roaches don’t leave notes.

  chapter thirty-two

  The basketball court was crowded as I passed, and when I waved to Clarence, he left the bench and ran toward me.

  “Miss Mali. Miss Mali. Wait up.”

  I slowed down but didn’t stop and he fell in step beside me.

  “Miss Mali. I heard about your pop.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, it’s on the vine. Bad news. Dag-gone, how come bad things always gotta happen to good people?”

  We covered another half block together before he spoke again. “How’s he doin’?”

  “He’s—hangin’ in, Clarence. He’s tough … he’s … oh, Clarence.”

  “Aw, please, Miss Mali, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Don’t …”

  He held out the cotton square he had untied from his neck. It was strong with the salt of sweat but I took it and wiped my face anyway.

  “Listen, Miss Mali. Striver and me is ace. I had his back all along. He ain’t here no more. Least not for a while so I want you to know, if anything go down and you git jammed, I got your back, unnerstan’? I ain’t lettin’ nuthin’ or nobody step up to my little man’s sister. Okay?”

  He squinted in the sun and tried to smile. I gazed at his worn sweatpants and thin jersey and mismatched laces and wanted to cry some more.

  “Thanks, Clarence. Thanks. I appreciate it. I mean it. I’m okay now. I’ll see you later …”

  I returned his kerchief and left him standing there.

  Fifteen blocks farther uptown, I stood on the corner and looked at the building across the avenue, a nondescript five-story brown brick structure with a narrow trash-filled alley on either side.

  The windows at street level were covered with wood planks but the upper floors had the glass intact and drawn shades. The entrance was closed off by a narrow steel door with a small rectangular panel of wired glass. The building was anything but abandoned and people strolled in and out as if they were visiting the public library.

  Two beeper-wearing pitchers or sellers, one on each corner, serviced the carriage trade—mostly Connecticut and Jersey plates. The cars pulled up, engines idling in the open-air market as the two men strolled to the rolled-down windows with unhurried confidence, looking neither right nor left.

  A lone spotter scanned the scene from the roof as other customers, the foot trade, walked up the steps to the door.

  I moved from the corner and followed closely behind a tall emaciated woman gliding quickly and purposefully up the steps and into the building’s dark corridor.

  Once inside, the heavy smell of cooking crack was immediate and overwhelming and the woman became more animated.

  “Red or yellow?” the man lounging near the stairs asked. He was six feet tall and hovered on the other side of three hundred pounds, obviously the right one for door duty.

  “Red,” she answered impatiently. “Kenny, you know me. Shit, I been comin’ here long enough.”

  “How much?” Kenny asked. He seemed to know the exact amount but wanted to agitate her even more.

  “What you mean how much?”

  She reached under her sweater and extracted a faded bill. “Ten dollars, motherfucker. Ten dollars!”

  Kenny laughed and placed two red-capped vials in her hand.

  “You stayin’ or goin’?”

  Her hands flew to her hips as she stepped back.

  “Why you got to ast me every time? Why you fuckin’ wid me?”

  “Fuckin’ with you? Listen, Carol. I ain’t that hard up. I knew you when you was fat and fit. Had big legs. Now you ain’t nuthin’ but a mangy ho’. Seen more dick than a army doctor and probably tasted ’em all. So don’t be comin’ on with your funky ass to your shoulder … Just answer the question.”

  “Stayin’.”

  “Okay. Then that be another two. And I ain’t lettin’ you slide like last time. I want two damn dollars!”

  Carol now reached
into a side pocket and brought out two more bills. Kenny snatched them and, laughing, waved her on up the narrow stairs.

  I stepped up with my money in my hand, intending to follow her.

  “Red,” I said quickly before he asked.

  “Stayin’?” he asked, giving me a long stare.

  “Why not?” I said, even though I felt the sweat running down the hollow of my back. “Yeah, I’m stayin’.”

  “Good … Good.” He continued to stare, absently stroking the stack of bills between his fingers.

  “Ain’t seen you around. First time?”

  Before I could answer, he went on. “Listen here, pretty. I be up a little later. You wait. Treat you to somethin’ real nice. Real, real nice, you hear …”

  He leaned close and smiled and in the dim light his teeth glittered like an advertisement for a new Klondike gold rush. I said nothing and backed away up the steps, then turned to catch up with Carol.

  The entire second floor had been converted into three large rooms stretching from the front of the building to the back. A small window on the back wall was open, with a sheet of black plastic draped across it, but the slight breeze rippling through did nothing to lighten the odor.

  I heard sounds—groaning, mumbling, cursing—and thought of skinny, wide-eyed squeegee men stumbling through screaming traffic for a quarter.

  I thought of empty bottles and cans being rushed to recycle for a handful of nickels.

  I imagined someone dying and left in a corner to decay.

  The lighters flicked like fireflies, casting faces in small yellow circles. A bright glow from a deep, one-second draw, and the faces were swallowed again by the dark.

  I stepped just inside the door and tried to get my bearings.

  “Watch where you steppin’, bitch, else you lose your fuckin’ leg!”

  “Sorry!” I moved quickly, wondering if anyone ever apologized in these circumstances. More likely, it would have been worse if I said nothing. Nobody likes being ignored.

  My stomach was turning and my throat closed against the smell. I took another small step, moving gingerly, and stepped on something else. The odor was overwhelming and I knew that someone had just relieved themselves right there on the floor.