A Toast Before Dying Page 4

“Last Friday,” he repeated. “Baby, that’s seven days. Seven days too long.”

  He stepped closer and I looked up, catching the wisp of mint as he whispered, “How about tonight?”

  “What time?” I whispered, hoping he’d say, What about right now?

  “Nine?”

  The slight smile deepened and I felt the sweat gather in the small of my back. I reached for his hand, which was hot against the metal of the car. I wanted to touch his mouth but he was gazing beyond me at the flowers on the pavement.

  His fingers brushed somewhere near my ear and he spoke again, voice still low. “You know how I feel about you, girl. See you tonight. Remember what I said. Let the department handle this.”

  Then he was in the car and pulling away from the curb. Fast. Before I could consider what was really the issue. “Let the department handle it.”

  By that he meant “stay away from the brother.”

  chapter four

  I went home instead of returning to the shop. Dad was in the living room, his six-foot frame stretched the length of the sofa and pages of the Daily Challenge spread on the floor beside him. Ruffin was stretched out on the cool tiles in front of the fireplace.

  Both of them sat up when I walked in. “Bertha called three times. She’s upset. Got every right to be. This thing’s in all the papers. Even on WINS. I can’t believe this. Thea. Gone just like that, and they blamin’ it on Kendrick, of all people.”

  He laid the page flat on his lap and folded his arms across it, as if to close out the news it contained.

  “I know, Dad. I know. And please, when Alvin calls tonight, don’t mention anything about this.”

  He was upset and didn’t answer. I thought of fixing him a gin and tonic but today was Saturday: He had a full schedule of students coming and never took a drink or allowed anything else to interfere with his music or his music lessons.

  I moved over and disengaged the paper.

  FORMER NEW YORK STATE BEAUTY CONTESTANT SLAIN.

  “Thea Morris, 33-year-old singer and former beauty-pageant finalist, was shot to death early this morning in an alley adjoining the Half-Moon Bar on West 140th Street in Harlem. The lounge crowd had gathered to celebrate her birthday, and police sources believe she may have been killed over a love affair gone wrong. An aspiring actor, 26-year-old Kendrick Owen, was arrested at the scene. Bertha Owen, the suspect’s sister and proprietor of a local beauty shop, was also questioned at the scene. ‘My brother wouldn’t do this,’ she said. ‘He’s not the type.’ ”

  I put the paper down. “A love affair gone wrong. The end.”

  Dad took the page and tore out the article, intending to save it. “I don’t know about that. Seems like the cops movin’ too fast on this one. They oughtta go talk to that Michaels guy before they wrap it up.”

  “Edwin Michaels? Why?”

  “ ’Cause one of my buddies was just here—you remember Jackson, killer on the sax. Left just before you came in. Anyway, he was in the Half-Moon last night. Dropped by to see what was happenin’. Said Michaels was there and when he wasn’t pressin’ a palm he was pressin’ as close behind Thea as he could get. Had that hangdog look on his face—like he was glad for any bone she threw his way.”

  “What? Irresistible, ultraconservative, family-values—Edwin Michaels?” I laughed at the idea. “What else did Jackson see?”

  “Nuthin’. He had a gig and left before the bullets started flyin’, but I’ll tell you somethin’ else.”

  He moved to clear the rest of the papers off the floor. His first lesson was due in five minutes.

  “Thea had a lotta gigs at the club and Michaels was front-row every night, all night. He would chill at first, but after a couple a rounds, he would be hawkin’ worse than one a them starvin’ street dudes you see with their faces pressed to restaurant windows. Never seen nuthin’ like it. Big-time politician. Nice wife. Kid in college. And he let that girl open his nose wide enough to roll his Benz through.”

  “Well,” I said, “she was pretty.”

  “Yes she was.” He checked his watch and picked up a stack of sheet music from the coffee table. “She was pretty. But whatever a person has, don’t mean diddly if she doesn’t do something with it. She coulda been a great singer. Everybody in the band saw that, but she could never get beyond that certain level, push herself across that threshold. Something—I don’t know what, it was like somebody’s hand was holdin’ her shoulder and she couldn’t shake it off. She was pretty, but so what …”

  He headed downstairs to his study and Ruffin followed, leaving me alone in the living room.

  … So what indeed. And voice or no voice, if Thea had Kendrick, seven years younger than she, and Michaels, the original satisfier of desire—if she had them turned on like that, she probably had a few more licking in her pot. Whatever turned on those men, causing them to act like fools, that talent didn’t limit itself to just two men. That thing, whatever it was, had a tendency to spread itself out.

  I wondered about my own feelings, about this current of envy simmering inside me. Why was I jealous of a dead woman? Especially considering the way she had died. And it was hard not to admit that when I’d heard the news, I’d felt sorrier for Kendrick than I had for her.

  I curled up on the sofa, trying to understand what I was feeling and remembering a long time ago, when Dad had spoken of another woman like Thea.

  “Because of Lettie,” he said to us one morning, my mother, sister, and I listening as we ate breakfast and asked why the famous band he had traveled with had suddenly broken up.

  “Now Lettie,” he said, “was short and shapely and had a mean set a pipes but she was no knockout—at least not when it came to her looks. But every town and city we hit—large, small, and in between—that woman had the men coming out from everywhere except the cemetery. They came in overalls, business suits, and preacher’s collars. I mean wallets and pants snapped open. House deeds and car keys fell on her like rain. This is a time when blacks folks is struggling …

  “And she wasn’t a whore or prostitute. She never made a move or held out her hand, yet that thing, whatever it was, seemed to float out of her. Like sweet sweat. Earned the woman more money than the whole damn band was pullin’ down.”

  “When did she find time to sing?” my mother asked, looking at him levelly over the slice of toast she had raised to her small mouth. “Wasn’t she … a bit tired?”

  Dad lifted his shoulders and I half-expected—hoped—he would wink at Mom, so she would widen her mouth into a smile once again, but he didn’t seem to notice and went on matter-of-factly. Like he was a reporter or something.

  “Most of the time, she sorta leaned against the piano. And those satin gowns, when the light hit the right way, seemed to move even when she didn’t. She just rested and riffed. Of course, when she did that more than a couple a times, the piano player got to thinkin’ maybe he could play her as well as the piano. Causin’ the horn man to cop an unnecessary attitude. In the end, she broke up the whole damn band. Nice bunch a guys, but she busted it …

  “Heard she went to Frisco. Doin’ a solo thing in her own club. And livin’ in a big mansion.”

  He’d told that story a long time ago, when I was just old enough to listen to such stories but too young to ask if he himself had been pulled into Lettie’s “thing.” I never found out, but I never forgot, and I had harbored a deep and secret admiration for Lettie ever since.

  Thea seemed to have what Lettie had, but I did not admire her. I did not like her.

  At the Club Harlem last summer, Dad had brought her to the table after a set and introduced me. Thea was then in the end stage of her Diana Ross incarnation, and since there had been no wind machine to do the job, she was occupied with brushing at least a pound of weave from over her left eye alone. When she’d finally extended her hand, it was as thin and brittle as her smile.

  “So you’re Jeffrey’s daughter. I’ve seen you at Bertha’s shop.” The word Jeffrey held a pr
oprietary ring, as if Jeffrey was her man and she’d just discovered he had relatives. Shit, the man was my father.

  She had also stared at my two-inch afro as if it was the first one she’d ever seen. I didn’t try to figure out her bad attitude. Instead, I flashed her my happy-I’m-nappy smile, kissed my father on the cheek, and made up my mind to say no more than hello when she popped in to Bert’s to get her bird’s nest tightened up.

  The bell rang now and I moved from the sofa to open the door. Morris, my nephew’s friend, had arrived on schedule.

  “How’s Alvin?” he asked as he and his mother stepped in.

  “Wait a minute,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Don’t you know how to say hello first?”

  “I’m sorry. How are you, Miss Mali? When is Alvin coming home? He still in St. Croix sailin’ on that boat?”

  “He’ll be back in a few weeks,” I said, touching his shoulder and pointing downstairs. His mother handed him his trumpet case. “See you in an hour, Morris, and you mind your manners.”

  The boy headed downstairs, grumbling, “Sure be glad when Alvin get back. Nobody to play ball with.”

  When he was out of sight, Mrs. Johnson whispered, “Ain’t it somethin’ about that girl at the Half-Moon? I heard her sing a couple a times. She was damn good. Too bad she had to go that way.”

  When the door closed, I did not return to the sofa. Dredging up old memories wasn’t helping. Thea was dead, Kendrick was in jail, and somebody needed to find out who’d killed her.

  chapter five

  Neither Teddi Lovette nor Gladys Winston answered when I called. I left messages and then phoned Bertha. She came on sounding as if all the breath had been blown out of her.

  “Bert, what happened?”

  “I tried callin’ down to Centre Street, but they couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me anything. Then when I hung up, the phone rang and Elizabeth Jackson, the lawyer you recommended? She was down there, said Kendrick was in a fight. Somebody tried to … bother with him, she said. So he had to defend himself.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Kendrick was still in the holding cell. He hadn’t even been arraigned yet and someone was eyeing him already.

  “Was he hurt?”

  “Oh no. Lotta people don’t know he’s a black belt. They find out when it’s too late.”

  “Did she say when he’d be arraigned?”

  “Monday.”

  “Don’t worry about Kendrick too much. He knows how to take care of himself.”

  I hung up, thankful that Bert had no idea what the holding pen looked like: a huge, barred cage crammed with hardballs; one bench to sit on; one toilet not to sit on. Men throwing up. Cursing. Threatening to cut your throat if you blinked the wrong way. People sometimes had to wait as long as seventy-two hours before they were arraigned. And of course Kendrick was not going to cop a plea, so no bail and a trip to Rikers was coming up. His black belt would come in handy.

  Kendrick was tall, about six foot one, with skin like melted chocolate, and his deep-set eyes and even teeth were enough to make a nun give up her vows. I hadn’t realized the impact he had on women until the day Bertha remarked, “Seems like my business tripled since Kendrick started givin’ out my cards. He’s some salesman.”

  Indeed he is, I’d thought. And Alvin had mentioned instances of young women walking up to Kendrick in the street and introducing themselves, or simply falling in front of him while in-line skating.

  I thought about what he had said in the alley: “I didn’t mean it …”

  I closed my eyes, trying to imagine the sound of his voice.

  Mean what? Had somebody scooped the weapon or had Kendrick set her up and the killer walked off with the gun?

  I was getting dressed, intending to drop by Bertha’s place, when the phone rang.

  “Mali Anderson? This is Gladys Winston.”

  Her voice was strong and confident, as if she’d called to interest me in a choice parcel of real estate. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. I want to apologize again for Kendrick’s sister. She’s extremely upset by Thea’s death—as we all are.”

  “I know. I still can’t understand how something like this could’ve—I just don’t understand …”

  I paused for a respectful second of silence, then said, “I’d like to meet with you, to talk about this. It’s no good asking questions over the phone.”

  It was her turn to pause, and when she spoke some of the confidence had slipped away. “What sort of questions?”

  “Well, Bertha doesn’t believe Kendrick did it …”

  “Quite naturally. She’s his sister.”

  “No. I mean she was there and—”

  “Well, okay. We may as well get this over with. When are you available?”

  “Well—right now, if it’s okay with you.”

  “Fine. Come to my office. You have my card.”

  She hung up before I could say good-bye.

  It was 6 P.M., plenty of time to see Gladys and still get to Tad’s place by 9. That was one date I meant to keep. This no-cal, no-fat love life had me talking in my sleep.

  Gladys Winston worked in a large three-desk office on Fifth Avenue near 125th Street one floor above a fabric store run by a Senegalese couple. The voices of the customers, in English and Wolof, followed me into the adjoining entrance hall and up the stairs to the second floor. Before I touched the bell, Gladys Winston opened the door.

  “Saw you from the window,” she said, motioning me to a large desk in the corner. The office was well furnished with two smaller desks facing each other in the center of the carpeted room and low mahogany file cabinets lining one wall. The beginnings of a western sunset cast a strong orange tint on the plants in the wide window and a vertical fish tank that stood in the corner. Large framed pictures of Harlem brownstones on tree-lined blocks—some of which I recognized were on Convent Avenue—lined the beige walls.

  Gladys’s desk was separated by a waist-high Plexiglas partition. She sat down opposite me and eased her feet out of her shoes. The red Chanel suit jacket that was draped over the chair told me everything I needed to know about her sales commissions. Her ponytail was now twisted into a French knot, and her face, when she wasn’t frowning, was actually pretty. She was probably in her mid-thirties, but right now her drawn face made her appear older.

  “It’s been tough.” She sighed. “I couldn’t work, couldn’t concentrate. Susan and Margie, my two brokers, are out, showing houses, and I’ve turned the machine on because I need this quiet time. Perhaps by Monday I’ll feel like my old self again.”

  She waved her hand toward the computers on the desk. “Right now, I’m completely out of it.”

  She walked over to one of the cabinets, her bare feet soundless on the thick carpet, and returned with a quart of Absolut and a bottle of ginger ale.

  “Sorry. Our ice maker’s acting up. Haven’t seen a cube in a week now. Hope you don’t mind.” She placed two glasses on the desk and poured. “We pull this out on celebratory occasions—a half-million contract, a multiple closing, whatever. We offer a toast.”

  She raised her glass and suddenly put it down. Then picked it up again and closed her eyes. “Well, Thea. We had fun …”

  Feeling like a hypocrite, I sighed and lifted my own glass. But the toast was a good opening.

  “How long had you known Thea?”

  “Let’s see …” Gladys had gone light on the ginger ale and the drink made her cough. She held her breath until the initial burning subsided. “Let’s see. We met at the pageant in 1985. In Albany. She was first runner-up and I was second. She should’ve won, but …”

  “But what?”

  Gladys shrugged, changing the subject as if she had not heard me. “We shared a suite. There were so many chaperones, you wouldn’t believe. We couldn’t smoke, drink, chew gum. Not that we wanted to, you understand, and I think Thea was a little more driven—motivated—than I was, at least in the beginning.”

  I nodded, not certain
if it was the Absolut or the well of memory, but she seemed suddenly animated. Her mouth curved into a small smile and she seemed even younger.

  “Thea was twenty-one and I was twenty-three,” she said, “and we wanted everything to be picture perfect, so chewing and drinking were the least of our problems. I mean we went through all the phases of the competition—talent, swimsuit, evening wear. Every curl in place and the smiles pasted on. We were gorgeous. Here, look.”

  She reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out a thick album held together with a swath of black-and-white kente cloth. The pictures were not fastened in place and spilled out when she opened the cover.

  I studied them, mostly eight-by-tens. The 1985 Thea had paler skin; the smile was softer, more expectant; but there was something around the eyes that the smile couldn’t hide.

  “Were these taken before or after the winners were announced?”

  Gladys put on her glasses and leaned over. “These were taken before.” She paused and sighed. “They hadn’t yet decided that we weren’t quite good enough.”

  I looked at her quickly. She was pouring a second drink and I wondered if she’d had any before I’d shown up.

  “The gowns must’ve cost a fortune,” I said.

  “Not only the gowns,” Gladys said, gathering the pictures and putting them back in the album. “That doesn’t begin to explain the price we paid. You see, every contestant had to have a sponsor, someone to underwrite expenses. My church and my family had sponsored me, and Thea’s voice coach had sponsored her …”

  “Her voice coach? Where was her family?”

  Gladys lifted her shoulders again. “In all the years I’ve known her, that’s one area I could never get into. She always seemed angry whenever I mentioned my mother, or my aunt, or cousins.

  “My family had been in real estate for years, and I was already planning to enter the business. I didn’t need a beauty title as a stepping-stone. My future was mapped. Five years ago, when my dad retired, I took over. Thea didn’t have that kind of backup. If you ask me, she seemed to not have any security at all, except her grandmother, who’d taken ill, and Thea flew home for a day to see her. The only calls she received were from her voice coach.