No Time to Die Page 4

  Marie stepped in and strolled toward the bar, returning the smiles. She moved as if she were onstage and did not seem at all like the Marie Taylor I remembered from the time when her eye had been shut by the force of James’s fist.

  She was about forty years old, brown complexion, and medium height but appeared taller in the four-inch heels and hair piled in a sweep of red-brown curls. Her face was heart-shaped and her large eyes gave her a slightly surprised expression. The short brown suede skirt and black suede sleeveless jacket hugged her frame as she moved.

  “Hey, Marie,” a man in a Mets cap called as she passed. “Gimme some sugar. Ain’t seen you in a dog’s age.”

  “Well, your dog still a pup ’cause you seen me just yesterday.”

  She kissed him anyway and patted him lightly on the shoulder. She moved on and he got a stool, dragged it down to where I sat, and made a show of dusting it off for her.

  “See what you get when you good?” he said, winking at her. She kissed him again, shooed him away, and sat down.

  “You Miss Anderson, right? Those eyes ain’t changed.”

  “Mali. Yes.”

  “Good. What’re you havin’?” She signaled for the barmaid. “Hey, Shaneeka, Betty here yet?”

  Shaneeka, short and small and clad in red spandex from neck to knee, rolled her eyes as she moved toward us. “Now, you know tonight’s her birthday. Girlfriend still home gettin’ it together. What you havin’?”

  “The usual, only colder than last time.”

  Shaneeka returned with a Miller Lite, tipped Marie’s glass until a thin layer of foam blanketed the rim, then placed a small bowl of peanuts in front of us.

  “Freshen your drink?” she asked.

  “Not right now,” I said, tapping my half-filled glass. I intended to sip slow while I drew the story out. Marie waited until the barmaid moved away before she spoke.

  “So you tryin’ to find out about James.” She picked at the few peanuts, popped them delicately in her mouth, then took a sip of beer. “First off, lemme say this. When I hooked up with him, he was already separated from Claudine. I didn’t break up nobody’s happy home. I want that understood, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, wondering what game he had dropped on this one between his GQ styling and bald-faced lying.

  James was two years older than Claudine and raised in the 115th Street projects by an aunt who substituted for a permanently absent father and a frequently absent mother. Before alcohol had cut the inroads into his face, he had been a good-looking man. A weak man but good-looking enough to pull a woman in hip-deep before she caught him in his lies, which he explained away with more lies. As he had done with Claudine. And when the lies about his college background and his plans for a law degree eventually cornered him, he’d used his fists to make his way out.

  Claudine had come to my door one night with her face swollen so large she couldn’t speak. Dad had collared Ruffin and grabbed a baseball bat and gone out looking for him but he’d disappeared. Hit and run …

  “James, you know, got a way of talkin’ his way into things,” Marie said. “He gas a woman up, tell her how fine she look, how she so rare. You know, all the stuff a woman want to hear, though deep down, you know the brother’s lyin’, comin’ on wrong, scammin’. All James got is a degree in B.S. and it wasn’t long before I found out he didn’t have too much of nuthin’ else.”

  She said this as if she’d read my mind. James probably knew his game was weak and his strategy was to move in on a woman fast, dazzle her, and hope she’d remain dazzled. When the glow faded and the questions began, then the violence started.

  I nodded and raised my glass, waiting for her to continue.

  “So he tried comin’ on Rambo a few times. He got real strong arms and he like to come up on you, sneakylike. Come from behind with somethin’ in his hand swingin—a stick, a bottle, a belt. Two times he tried that shit with me. You know that ’cause you answered one of the nine-elevens …”

  I nodded again, remembering running with three other officers down a dim hall in a five-story walkup where a hefty young woman had opened her door and pointed to the apartment near the end of the corridor.

  “They at it again,” she had said. “That door right there.” Her voice had been strong with anger and flowed over the blare of her television set.

  “I don’t know how that girl stand it. I dimed him out and you can tell him I did. If he base up at me, I’ll beat his buns into the carpet. Tell him I said that too!”

  The light streaming from behind her had accented the sweat on her narrow nose. She was really not that big a woman but her hands on her hips were balled into fists the size of large, unripe avocados and she was prepared to back up her conversation.

  I imagined a set of hundred-pound barbells propped in front of her living room television and a library of workout tapes.

  “We’ll handle it, miss,” I said, thankful we hadn’t been called to her apartment. “Thanks for calling.”

  Marie sipped her beer now, remembering also. “He tried that shit twice, and after that, I said three strikes, motherfucker’s out. So one night, I’m standin’ at the stove and he come up talkin’ some stuff about how the fish ain’t fried crisp enough. Here I am tryin’ to get things together fast, done worked a double while he home all day chillin’ with Montel and Rolling Rock …”

  “He wasn’t working?”

  “He was supposed to be workin’ but he had got suspended for a few days.”

  “Why?”

  “Harassin’ some girl, so he said.”

  “What did he do?”

  “I didn’t get the full story ’cause we wasn’t on the same shift, and when I asked him, he went tight—said somebody had set him up. And it wasn’t until two weeks later, I found out the real deal—that he’d been fired. The girl had brought him up on charges, and at the hearing he threatened her in front of the supervisor and the union rep. How stupid can a dumb man get?

  “So he home with his feet up lookin’ at Montel—you’d think he’d a learned somethin’ watchin’ the show? I mean, Montel drop some science. He is so upliftin’, you know what I mean, even if he is marry to that white woman. He try to uplift you, you know?”

  I took a long swallow this time, not wanting to distract her with my opinion. I imagined James slouched in front of the television belching loud enough to be heard in the next apartment.

  “So what happened?”

  “So I’m standin’ there and my feet hurtin’—nobody mess with me when my feet is hurtin’—and the fool come at me swingin’ a belt. A goddamn belt. My daddy died fifteen years ago and this fool think he gonna step in his spot. Come at me with a damn belt. Tellin’ me how to fry fish.

  “Well, I turned ’round with that pan and said, ‘Fish ain’t crisp? How you like some crisp-fried dick, motherfucker?’

  “And I’m tellin’ you, when that smokin’ oil hit, it went right through his pants and I ain’t seen dancin’ like that since the old James Brown days at the Apollo.

  “I probably missed ’cause he wasn’t swingin’ that much equipment to begin with. Anyway, I booked. Come back next day with the cops to get my stuff.

  “Now I got my order of protection right here in my bag. Carry it all the time.”

  She shook her head and turned sideways to the bar, snapping her fingers in time to early Ray Charles. On the television a baseball player slid soundlessly into third, and the face of the commentator wrinkled with excitement.

  Marie ordered another beer and added, almost as an afterthought, “I ain’t went in front a no judge neither.”

  “James didn’t press charges?” I said, surprised that he’d let her get away with that.

  “I’m not talkin’ about no charges. I’m talkin’ about my protection. Paper from a judge don’t mean diddly. A man get that postal virus, he shoot right through that paper. So I got me somethin’ a whole lot better.”

  She snapped her purse open and in the half-light I caught
the dull sheen of the weapon’s gray-black, polycarbonate casing.

  “Where’d you get a Glock?” I whispered.

  “Mine to know and yours to find out,” she said, closing the bag, calmer now. “I know one thing, he ain’t layin’ a hand on me again and he ain’t basin’ up in my face again neither.”

  She crossed her legs and balanced the suede bag loosely in her lap, stroking it the way one would smooth the fur of a cat.

  “You know, when I came to my senses and really thought about his situation, I think he was mad and mean all the time ’cause he was kinda—how you say—anatomily—”

  “Anatomically?”

  “Yeah. I heard that word the other day and had to go look it up. You know, the way they talk about how homeless people is supposed to be ‘residentially challenged.’ Ain’t that some shit? Homeless mean you can’t afford these ass-high rents, that’s why you out to the curb.

  “Well, so like James was ‘anatomically challenged.’ You know what I’m sayin’? There was a show on TV about that. Some guys talkin’ about the operations they had to make their wee willies more wonderful. I tell you, some men spend money on the damnest things.”

  I closed my eyes and thanked Mother Nature or whoever was responsible for Tad.

  “Now, personally,” Marie said, “I look at it this way: it ain’t the size of the boat, it’s how you rockin’ it. It’s the motion in the ocean. That’s what counts.”

  On the screen the batter had lined to third and the baseman hustled, caught it, and spun around arming it to first. The runner was out, ending the game. The screen went dark and someone notched up the jukebox.

  Marie lifted her glass and drained it. Another song came on, but the tune, something called “A Perpetual Blues Machine,” was not familiar to me. Marie knew it and hummed along with the deep, cutting rhythm of the harmonica and guitar. I listened, nodding my head absently, and watched her somber reflection in the dimly lit mirror behind the bar.

  I was acutely aware of Benin’s absence now. If she had been here, Claudine would have confided in her. Claudine had never mentioned to me any physical problems she’d had with James—except that he couldn’t keep his hands off other women and couldn’t keep his fist out of her face—and she never talked about anything dealing with sex. She had left that to Elizabeth and Deborah and me and rolled her eyes whenever the talk got to be too much for her.

  I wondered now why Claudine chose to hang out with us. When we were younger, Deborah was cool but Elizabeth and I had earned several nicknames from our parents: “wild life” and “free spirit” were some of the nicer ones. Elizabeth’s father had once threatened to send her to boarding school in Alaska and my dad had threatened to send me to a psychiatrist to try to understand, if not necessarily cure, my wild ways.

  Benin and Claudine had been conservative, Deborah was somewhere in between, while Elizabeth and I had been the sisters who knew what life was about. The brothers we attracted had to come with a strong game.

  If Benin had been here, perhaps Claudine, gentle and pretty, wouldn’t have fallen into the fine web spun by the weak and handsome James:

  “Got my applications in for law school,” he had boasted. “Post office a temporary thing. Tuition, you know. Ought to hear from Hofstra or Fordham any day now …”

  They had married quickly and Claudine later found that James had barely squeaked through high school one point past the bottom line of a GED and had later flunked out of three different colleges. Law school had been a dim mirage which receded from his low horizon the minute she’d said, “I do.”

  “Listen, Mali,” Marie said, tapping my hand. “I know James had some problems. He was mean and quick-tempered and fast with his fists, but I don’t know. I can’t see him actually killin’ anybody. I mean, he had plenty reason to come after me ’cause of that hot-oil thing, but he didn’t …”

  “Maybe he knew enough to leave you alone,” I said. “Some men will only abuse those who’re willing to put up with it. And some women put up and shut up for the sake of love, marriage, or the children. You did what you had to do and walked.”

  “Ran—”

  “Whatever. But before you booked, you left a message he’s not likely to forget.”

  I watched her hand smooth the bag in her lap. It slowed, then moved again in small circles, and I wondered if she was thinking what I was thinking: that James did not forget but was simply waiting for the right moment.

  Two hours later I was ready to leave. The crowd had grown large waiting for the birthday girl and the music had gotten louder. Several drinks were sent our way and Marie had switched to Rémy and was no longer interested in talking about James. She raised her glass, and her smile triggered more drinks, which flowed toward us in a steady stream. I decided to stop at three.

  “Listen, Marie, I appreciate you taking the time. If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

  I gave her my personal card and moved from the stool.

  “You sure you don’t want to stay? Party’s just gettin’ started.”

  “Another time,” I said, “and thanks again.”

  I made my way toward the door. Space was tight, drinks were moving, and conversation was loud. I moved slowly, and a short distance from the door, I recognized a familiar voice. James was leaning into the face of a young woman sitting at the bar.

  “Say, beautiful, you don’t mind if I call you that since we haven’t been formally introduced yet? But you look like a Libra. Am I right?” He was as smooth as Olestra and just as bogus.

  The woman looked through him, yawned, and picked up her glass.

  James persisted. “Okay, it probably ain’t Libra. So, what sign are you?”

  “Dollar sign,” the girl said through teeth so tight it probably pained her.

  “Oh,” James said, “in that case, lemme go check my ATM.” He stretched a grin but stepped back as if she had slapped him.

  Before he had a chance to look my way, I turned around and edged through the crowd again to the end of the bar. A tall, dark, powerfully built man with a shaven head was deep in conversation with Marie and she was smiling up at him. She waved. “Say hello to Clyde. He’s a coworker, the one sent all the drinks.”

  He shook my hand. The grip was as strong as he looked and his voice was low bass against the rhythm of the Dells pumping from the jukebox.

  “Changed your mind about leavin’? One a my buddies had wanted to talk to you. Said you had the prettiest eyes he ever saw. Brother was hypnotized.”

  I smiled and shook my head, pulling at Marie’s arm. “Another time, okay? I’ve got to tell Marie something …”

  He shrugged, disappointed, as Marie slipped from the stool and followed me to the ladies’ room.

  “Your face lookin’ funny. What’s up?”

  “James is here. At the end of the bar. I thought you should know.”

  “Shit. I don’t need him messin’ up my good time. I been tryin’ to get next to Clyde for a while now.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Well, I ain’t leavin’, that’s for sure. I’m hangin’ with Clyde for the duration. James see someone that size, he ain’t likely to start no shit. Besides, I got my backup in my bag, remember? But thanks for lookin’ out for me.”

  She touched a comb to her hair and freshened her lipstick and we left the room. I made my way through the crowd again, carefully, trying to spot James. He was gone, probably blown out by the Dollar Sign Sister.

  When I stepped outside, a silver stretch had pulled to the curb and the chauffeur raced around the side, shooed the crowd, and opened the door. Betty, the barmaid, stepped out wearing a see-through sheath with clusters of silver sequins that glittered like Fourth of July sparklers when she moved.

  She was tall and slim and had a bottle of Cristal cradled in one arm and a bouquet of yellow and red long-stem roses in the other. She spotted me and waved the bouquet.

  “Mali, baby, you’re not leavin’, are you? When will yo
u see a night like this again? I’m celebratin’ my half a hundred. Won’t see this again. Come on back inside.”

  “Betty, I’m sorry,” I said, wishing I could. The door of the bar popped open, releasing the rhythm of Stevie Wonder like a hot current. Its undertow pulled people inside and I was sorry, truly sorry, that I couldn’t stay. “Have to get home. Dad has a gig.”

  “Club Harlem?”

  “Yes. I’ve got to be home before he leaves.”

  “Tell ’im to drop by when he finish up, you hear?” I smiled and waved. “Catch you at the next fifty.” Someone opened the door again and she stepped in, sailed in, to the rhapsody of Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday.”

  The small crowd that had gathered when the limo pulled up followed in her wake. All except James, who had been standing directly behind me. When I turned, I nearly tripped but he did not move. He stared, playing the childish street game of waiting for me to move around him. I knew the rules: moving around meant backing down. I felt the bile rise at the back of my throat and did not move but gave him eye for eye. Up close, his skin was like broken stone and he was wrapped in the odor of stale alcohol. No wonder the Dollar Sign Sister had turned away. I imagined vapors strong enough to light a candle when he’d opened his mouth.

  “Step off, James. You know I don’t play.”

  “Neither do I,” he whispered. “I peeped what went down. You talkin’ to that bitch in there.”

  “What bitch? Nobody introduced me to your mama.”

  He stepped back, his eyes narrowing into one of those taut Freddy Krueger nightmare stares, and began to circle me. I stood my ground, feeling my blood pump hard as I went into a slight crouch. I had on my size 10 hoochie heels, just out the box, and intended to aim and hit what Marie had missed with that hot oil.

  The standoff might have lasted until the bar closed, but someone, a cohort in as bad a shape as James, came rushing out.

  “Man, they poppin’ free champagne! Free! And they got free food! What you doin’ out here?”

  James turned, but before he walked, he whispered, “When you was on the force, you was big and bad with backup. It ain’t that way no more. You be hearin’ from me.”