Do or Die Read online

  “Like what?” Ozzie glanced at him, then shifted his gaze toward the window. “Started on what?”

  Rage lay just beneath the surface and I held my breath, hoping Dad would tread carefully.

  “Like, you know, where you keep your papers, insurance, things like that. I need to call the—”

  “I got just the thing for him,” Ozzie said softly, as if Dad had not spoken. He raised his glass to his mouth. He still had not spoken to me. I wondered if he’d even seen me.

  “What thing?” Dad whispered. “For whom?”

  “Short Change. I got on the horn after you left and I found out where he’s hangin’.”

  I saw Dad’s shoulders fall. He looked at his friend leaning on the bar, staring at whatever folks stare at when life knocks them to the edge.

  “Ozzie, wait a minute. Wait. Let’s do one thing at a time. You can always catch up with Short Change, you know. Right now we have to think about putting Starr to rest. We gotta do that, okay?”

  Dad spoke just above a whisper, trying to defuse the pressure that lay just below the skin of this man built like he could’ve probably taken on Ali in his heyday. I looked at the muscled arms and thick neck and at the contradiction of his slender fingers that could move like a whisper over the keys.

  I left Dad talking and walked into the kitchen, a large room with a beamed ceiling and exposed brick walls. A center island inlaid with rose-veined marble was crowded with high-tech appliances but the fridge was bare except for a jar of vitamins, more orange juice, a container of tofu that was frozen solid, and trays of ice cubes. Of course he hadn’t had time to shop since he’d been back. Neither had we.

  I dialed Charleston’s, explained the situation, and ordered enough food to last at least two days. Back in the living room, Dad was not having much luck. I hoped the food would help.

  A half hour later, Jo Jo, Charleston’s delivery man, placed three large brown boxes on the table in the foyer and waved away the twenty I held out to him.

  “Charleston said don’t worry about it. Said he’s sorry about your loss.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” I said, pulling a five from another pocket. Jo Jo backed away, his fingers locked almost in prayer. “Nope. No tip on this trip, Sister Mali. I’m sorry too about your loss.”

  He headed down the steps, adjusted the car-sized headlight on the bike’s handle bars, and glided silently away.

  I had eaten so much at Bert’s, I was no longer hungry but Dad and Ozzie—once I opened the cartons and the aroma hit them—had no problem putting away the offering. Ozzie seemed calmer now, and appeared to listen as Dad spoke. I breathed a sigh, unsure if it was relief or something else. I put the leftovers in the fridge and returned to the living room, where Dad had Ozzie’s phone book and was already making calls. Ozzie leaned back on the sofa, eyes closed, and I wondered if he was listening or had simply drifted away again.

  Dad nodded toward me. “You may as well go on home. Keep Ruffin company. I’ll be here a while. Probably all night.”

  He tapped the pages of the small book propped open before him.

  “A lot of calls.”

  Ozzie opened his eyes and waved his hand wordlessly as I started for the door.

  I crawled into bed and darkness closed around me immediately.

  The Yacht Club Lounge on the upper deck was crowded for the midnight jam session and I sat ringside watching the musicians set up. The ocean was so smooth, my champagne glass rested without a tremor on the small table before me. Christian McBride and Stanley Turrentine strolled in, waved, and took a seat near Ivan Dixon, the actor.

  Ozzie leaned over the piano and Dad and two other musicians stood next to him in the small halo of light. Ozzie ran his thumb down the keys as Dad parted his mouth in a quiet laugh at a private joke. Then the horn men cut in and red and blue lights glinted off the trombones as Al Grey and Mike Grey got down to business in a duet of “Autumn Leaves.”

  I tapped my feet, then felt a light tap on my shoulder. Tad was leaning next to me. His soft voice seemed to float through the music.

  “I was looking all over for you, baby. Come back to the cabin. I want to show you something.”

  The something turned out to be him, which was all right with me. The cabin was quiet except for the light thrum of the engine. It was close and very dark and I’d barely had time to slip out of my dress before he was beside me, then on me in a strong, urgent instant, then softly kissing the thigh that I had complained about, easing up to my stomach, my breasts, the ribs under my breasts.

  I felt his mouth draw tight against my skin. And suddenly, suddenly, there was a noise, this damn noise intruding. And Tad seemed to float out of my arms to the door. He stepped into the corridor and disappeared but not before I glimpsed a woman who was wearing even less than I was. And I couldn’t move. I struggled but something held me to the bed.

  The shock of the phone jolted me. I sat straight up, disoriented, bracing against the rolling of the water except there was no water. I was home and in my own bed. The ringing continued and I pressed the speaker button. Dad’s voice was tight with panic: “Mali. I just woke up.”

  “So did I,” I murmured. My chest was still pounding from the dream. I glanced at the clock, which read 3 A.M.

  “Dad? What happened?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Ozzie’s not here, Mali. He’s cut out.”

  6

  I was sitting in the living room trying to figure out the meaning of the dream when I heard the key in the door. Dad sank onto the sofa and passed his hands over his eyes. “Damn. I haven’t felt this worn out in years.”

  The changes in his face frightened me. He was beginning to look like a different person, a tired stranger.

  “Dad. I know how you feel about Ozzie, but you won’t be able to help him if you fall out from exhaustion.”

  “Yeah. But—he’s out there somewhere. Lookin’ for—”

  “Looking for trouble,” I said as I rose to fix him a cup of coffee. “Listen, I’ll speak to Tad, let him take it from here.”

  He also rose from the sofa and began to pace the floor. “Look, Mali. All due respect to Tad and all that, but what are the cops gonna do? It’s not a kidnap or a disappearance. A man, a grown man, has simply walked out of his house. He’s not disoriented, not on medication. Plus, he’s black. You know the deal. You think the cops are gonna care? The only time they look for a black person is for target practice, to pump him with forty-one bullets!”

  What could I say? I thought of Diallo, Glover, Cedeno, Huang, Baez, Rosario, Bumpers. Victims of police brutality and part of a list so long, it sickened me to think about it. Dad was right and he was wrung out, drained from anger, fatigue, and frustration. I poured the coffee and in a matter of minutes he was calm enough to slide into a light sleep. I sat in the chair across from him, watching, listening in the silence to the small sounds he made, listening also for that other sound, a quiet familiar voice that always seemed to come when I needed it:

  “Girl, if you want something done and done right, you have to do it yourself. Didn’t I teach you anything?”

  “Yes, Mama. You taught me a lot.”

  “Hunh?” Dad had turned over on the sofa and was staring at me. “You say something?”

  “Yes. I think you should go to bed.”

  I couldn’t wait for what polite folks considered a decent hour before disturbing anyone with a phone call, but Tad was awake and must have been expecting me because he picked up on the first ring. Before I could tell him about Ozzie, he said, “I spoke to the lab techs. Most of the prints lifted off the switchplate, the side of the door, several drinking glasses, and the phone in Starr’s bedroom, were put through the computer. We have a lot of interesting stuff.”

  He hesitated and I waited, wondering what was coming.

  “We lifted prints from several people but Henry Stovall’s, a.k.a. Short Change’s, and Travis Morgan’s are spread out like a road map.”

  “Travis Morga
n?”

  “Yep. He applied for a gun permit several years ago when he opened his business. Prints are on file. And you know Short Change’s prints are filed.”

  I closed my eyes. Travis Morgan? Did Ozzie know something he hadn’t mentioned to Dad? What was going on?

  “Ozzie thinks Short Change might have done it,” I said. “He’s on the street now, looking for him.”

  “Ozzie? What’s happening with him?”

  “He’s disappeared. Dad fell asleep at his place and woke up to find that he had cut out. Ozzie had said he had something for Short Change.”

  Tad cut me off, probably because he heard the rise in my voice. “Now look, Mali. Don’t. Do not get involved. I know you. Ready to poke your head in something that—”

  “Tell me,” I said, “will the police look for him?”

  Tad’s silence lasted less than a second. “Don’t confuse the issue. I’m asking you personally not to get involved. I’ll do what I can.”

  He hung up and I sat on the edge of my bed, wide awake now.

  “I’ll do what I can.” That’s what doctors say when they’re not sure if they’re able to save a patient. “I’ll do what I can.”

  7

  I must have dozed off again but woke up determined not to become obsessed by that earlier stupid dream. Dad was out walking Ruffin so I showered, skipped breakfast except for a quick cup of coffee, and slipped into my favorite “Million Woman March” T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

  It was still early and I wanted to hit the bricks before Tad had a chance to detour me. Bert hadn’t gotten as much news as I had anticipated, probably because her circumstances had changed—Franklin was her focus now, not the puzzle and mystery of other people’s lives. Or maybe the news was slow coming in. I don’t know. I’d check back with her later, but meanwhile Miss Viv at the Pink Fingernail seemed a good bet.

  Viv had worked briefly in Bert’s shop a few summers ago. Bert had offered her refuge of sorts and a place to work after she had been dealt a low blow by her boyfriend, Johnny Harding, the biggest drug dealer uptown who also had connections with the precinct.

  After some tricky maneuvers, Viv had not only regained her beauty shop, which Johnny had cheated her out of, but when the smoke cleared she was able to view her ex laid out in the cheapest cardboard casket ever stapled together. Of course she had had a little help and had never forgotten the favor.

  On 140th Street, I walked past the Mahalia Jackson school and St. James Church and up the steep hill near the edge of St. Nicholas Park, where a squad of teenagers already had a basketball game going.

  At Amsterdam Avenue a few doors past the soul food restaurant, which was closed, and the check-cashing business, which was open, the rose-tinted entrance of the Pink Fingernail Salon glowed like a beacon. It was a few minutes past nine on Wednesday, a midweek morning, and the salon’s seven operators were already booked and several other women sat in the pink leather lounge chairs, waiting when I walked in. The sister at the station nearest the door smiled.

  “You Viv’s friend, right? I recognize those beautiful eyes. She’s in the other shop, the barber’s. Have some coffee, she’ll be right back.”

  I maneuvered through the waiting group to a small table in the rear of the shop and helped myself to a jelly doughnut and a half cup of coffee. Then I found a seat and allowed myself to drift a little to the sound of the Temptations flowing from the small wall-mounted speakers. “Some Enchanted Evening” was an old, old song but bumped with a whole new rhythm.

  The rhythm of the Temps wrapped around me as easily as a man’s arms and I nearly convinced myself that it would be all right to stay all day. I was reaching for a fat pecan bun covered with icing when the door connecting the barber shop opened behind me.

  Miss Viv let out a cry of surprise. “Girl! How you doin’?” She embraced me, then held me at arm’s length. “You lookin’ pretty as ever. Your skin is glowing. Life must be good indeed.”

  “I’m doing fine, Viv. And I see you are too. This place is probably the busiest uptown. Not a vacant seat in sight.”

  “Well, Mali, busy or not, you know I’m always glad when you drop in. I make the time for you, girl. As a matter of fact, I was gonna call you—”

  “Now, Viv …”

  “Honest. I was.” She stepped away from me and I studied her. Her beautiful face was framed by the cascade of braids with pale auburn strands woven in and she had not lost a pound and didn’t intend to. Once she had recovered from Johnny Harding, she had learned to love herself just the way she was. But now, a shadow passed over her face and her brow was wrinkled.

  “What is it, Viv? Are you all right? What were you gonna call me about?”

  She looked around and shrugged. “Well, maybe it ain’t that bad. Maybe you already know.”

  She waved her hand, signaling me to follow her through the narrow entrance into the barber shop. The sound of the Temps faded as she closed the door and we stood in the center of the room, where chrome-accented fixtures and the row of black leather chairs on the terrazzo floor contrasted sharply with the soft pink next door. The shop was just opening for the day and the interior was cool and still empty except for one of the three female barbers who sat in a chair near the back, reading.

  Viv and I moved to stand near the front entrance and Viv spoke softly so as not to disturb her.

  “Were you on the QE2 last week?”

  I looked at her, marveling at how fast news traveled. “Yes, I was.”

  “Were you asleep?”

  “We all have to sleep sometimes,” I said, wondering what her point was.

  “Just checking. I was gonna call you tonight and pull your coat.”

  “About what?”

  “About a customer of mine. I was gonna let you know that a Chrissie Morgan—she’s a regular—but you’re my friend … Anyway, she was in here yesterday getting her hair together and talkin’ about the cruise and about how a certain real fine-lookin’ brother named Honeywell was all in her grille from the time she stepped on deck. Couldn’t leave her in peace, and all that.”

  I felt a tight band clamp on the side of my jaw; I heard a grinding noise almost like a jackhammer and realized it was my teeth. If Miss Chrissie had walked into the shop just then, she wouldn’t have had to worry ever again about getting her hair cut, dyed, bleached, or fried. I would’ve taken care of every damn strand.

  Miss Viv continued, ignoring my silence. “She said that he was payin’ close attention, particular attention to her.”

  Close attention. Particular attention. Chrissie had the story all wrong, had it the other way around.

  I remembered Tad and I leaning at the rail port side on the upper deck, the sun sinking fast because there was nothing in its way. The sky at the flat edge of the horizon had turned pink, purple, then gray, and then you blinked and it was dark.

  New York’s skyline had long vanished and we were heading for Bar Harbor. The moon had risen now and the dark waves sparkled as if someone had flung a handful of diamonds overboard.

  Tad rubbed his shoulder against mine, then traced his finger along the nape of my neck. “I’m going to try my luck at the slots again. Want to come?”

  We could hear the faint clamor of the casino bells but I nodded. “No. I’ll stay here. Just because you won big an hour ago doesn’t mean you’ll be lucky again.”

  “Won big? You call five hundred dollars big?”

  “Yes, I do, if you manage to hang on to it, but you seem anxious to give it right back.”

  “Ah, Mali. Even if I do, I’m giving back their own dollars. I’ll stop at two hundred and still come out ahead. See you in an hour.”

  He kissed me and made his way past the Crystal Bar and into the casino.

  I remained where I was for a few minutes, then wandered downstairs to the quarterdeck to browse through the library and bookstore. Minutes later, I wandered toward the elevator, wondering if Tad was winning or losing. If he had lost, he’d be back at the rail ag
ain. I returned to the upper deck but the spot where he’d left me was occupied by a young Asian couple, holding hands and alternately gazing at the stars and then at each other.

  I eased into a lounge chair and watched them, hoping they’d move on, stroll down the deck or something. I regarded this as my favorite spot and now it was unavailable.

  I finally abandoned my chair and walked toward the sound of the ringing bells. Maybe Tad was pushing the right lever again, turning the one-armed bandit into a cash cow. I entered the casino and found him seated at the end of a row of clanging, light-changing, money-hungry machines and totally absorbed in feeding one coin after another into the slot.

  And I saw that Chrissie Morgan was totally absorbed in him. She leaned over his shoulder so close, if she had hiccuped, her boobs would have spilled out of the low-cut sweater she had stuffed herself into, an iridescent-yellow crochet number more suitable for a younger, less developed woman.

  I heard her coo and cluck above the bells, “Oh. Oh, Tad! You’re so good, you’re so—”

  I listened to the sounds, wondering if she were about to experience an orgasm. When I tapped her shoulder, she looked up with a bright smile and whispered, “Hope you don’t change his luck. He’s doing so well.”

  Then she patted his shoulder the way one would pat a dear, familiar friend. “Must run. Show’s about to start.”

  I watched her walk down the narrow aisle past the dice table and the teller’s window and melt into the crowded corridor. Then I turned to Tad, who had risen from the small stool in front of the machine. The tray was filled with silver coins, as were four plastic quart-size tubs on either side.

  I said nothing. He shrugged and spread his hands, palms up, as if to say, “What was I supposed to do? I can’t keep her out of here.”

  My expession was wordless and from the look on his face, he must have understood my anger. He stepped toward me. “Now look, Mali. I—”

  Just then, someone must have hit a superjackpot because the machine at the other end of the aisle lit up extra bright and the clanging was so loud, it sounded like a major fire alarm. Heads turned, folks gathered, and two attendants wearing bright professional smiles glided over bearing a tray of the quart-size plastic tubs plus containers the size of Mickey Dee’s large-size Cokes.