A Toast Before Dying Page 5

  “The day before we returned to the city, the grandmother died. I dropped by Thea’s place from time to time, but there were no pictures of family. No albums. It was as if she’d been dropped from another planet to make out here as best she could. One thing I must say: She was gorgeous, but even with that I didn’t envy her. Most of the time she was angry, and I never understood that.”

  She returned the album to the bottom drawer. “And that’s the personal side. At that pageant, there was a lot of pressure. Publicly, we had to keep our cool when some redneck cow from one of those one-light towns tried to flaunt her whiteness in our faces, tried in so many words to call us out of our names, smiling as she did it. We had to smile back, grit our teeth, and work hard to keep from acting colored, so to speak.”

  “How did Thea take it?”

  “Early on, she was determined to grit and grin. But then the cows turned up the heat. I’m telling you, there were some slick heifers behind all that lipstick. They tried things like hiding or destroying parts of our wardrobe, shoes, music, makeup, anything to make us misstep, miss a note, sweat, frown at the wrong time …”

  “Losing must have been hard for Thea.”

  “Yes, toward the end she was crying every night, all night, and in the morning I would put ice packs on her eyes to reduce the swelling and redness. I kept telling her not to let those fat cows get to her. After a while, though, I wondered if it was the cows or the fact that no one was there to support her, no family to back her up …”

  “Who’s her voice coach?”

  “Miss Adele. You know her. Everyone in Harlem knows her. Retired from the Met and pulled a lot of weight downtown. Lived in the Dunbar Apartments years ago but she’s across Seventh Avenue in Esplanade Gardens now. She’s in her seventies and still going strong, still coaching. A remarkable woman.”

  I nodded. Her name sounded vaguely familiar. I’d have to ask Dad more about her. Anyone having the slightest connection to the music scene—even if they only whistled their way through the Apollo Amateur Hour without being booed off the stage—Dad either knew or had heard of.

  “How often did you see Thea?”

  “About every month or so. She was modeling, singing. We called each other quite a lot, probably because she had no one else to confide in.”

  “Who’s handling the funeral arrangements?”

  “I suppose I’ll do it. Her husband—”

  “Husband? Thea was married?”

  “Yes, in 1991, but Roger had left her. Wanted a divorce, but she refused for some reason. I couldn’t understand that.”

  “Did she love him?”

  She picked up her glass again, twirled it from habit, then put it down. “I don’t know. They met when she was modeling. Married quickly and broke up just as fast. I mean before the wedding pictures came from the photographer she was back in her apartment on 116th Street and Seventh Avenue.”

  “Graham Court?”

  “Yes. I was glad she hadn’t given that up. In some ways, the girl was smart. Place has seven large rooms, beautiful fireplaces, fabulous floors.”

  Gladys looked at me, aware that she had slipped momentarily into her broker’s role.

  “Then she demanded a settlement. A very expensive one. Roger’s a successful architect and I suppose Thea thought he should meet her price. Personally, I was disappointed. Roger could have given her the love and security she seemed to need so badly.”

  The smile had vanished and Gladys seemed ready to cry, so I remained quiet as she refilled the glasses. Alcohol usually loosens the tongue, but if tears came there might be no more conversation. She had turned the answering machine down but not entirely off and several messages—more like murmurs—filtered into the silence. Gladys ignored them and I remained silent, thinking about Thea.

  Damn. The girl had been married. Not even the papers mentioned that. Dad, who knew all about everyone in the business, didn’t mention that. It must have truly been one of those blink-and-you-miss-it moments.

  “If I’m not being too inquisitive, how much was Thea asking to cut this guy loose?”

  Gladys looked at her watch, a paper-thin gold Piaget, and rose to get another bottle of ginger ale. She moved toward the small refrigerator and her voice when she answered trailed after her. “The last figure I heard was around fifty thousand. That was three years ago. She suggested he could pay it in installments.”

  Installments. How thoughtful. And not a bad payoff for a few months’ inconvenience. Whatever the hell was wrong with her, the girl was definitely a high-maintenance sister.

  Gladys must have anticipated my next question.

  “I called his office as soon as I heard about Thea,” she said. “Roger is in Puerto Rico at a conference.”

  “A conference. Out of town.”

  “Out of the country, actually.”

  “I see …”

  I also saw that it was one thing to pay fifty thousand for your freedom. And quite a bargain to perhaps pay someone—when you were off the scene—five thousand to do a job for you. Maybe get it done for as little as five hundred if your connections were good. A crackhead might do it for fifty. Except they couldn’t be trusted. If Roger had hired someone, it would’ve been a professional. But why wait so many years to do it? And why kill her on her birthday?

  “When did you last speak to her?” I asked.

  I watched her carefully as her eyes filled again, but the tears did not spill over. It was a few seconds before she said, “I talked to her shortly before she died. Called the bar to tell her I was on my way. I had been working on a closing late into the evening. When I got there, the place was in chaos. The police hadn’t even roped it off yet. There were people, two women I think, still in the place …”

  “Drinking?” I asked.

  Gladys shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I only remember hearing Kendrick’s name. And I saw his sister, Bertha, screaming at the police, at Laws, at anybody who’d listen.”

  “Speaking of Bertha: Do you know the two women who came into her shop when you were there?”

  She looked at me and shrugged. “I have no idea who they were. I was so upset I barely noticed them.” She touched her forehead and closed her eyes. “Wait. Wait a minute. Yes. One of the women, the dark pretty one, had been in the bar when I walked in. There was another woman with her at the counter who was short, a bit on the heavy side, light brown complexion with a head full of thick hair that didn’t seem to do much for her face. I remember the hair falling over her face and practically covering her eyeglasses. Strange, the things you remember …

  “The glasses had rhinestone frames, and I remember thinking how tacky they looked. Can you imagine thinking about something so insignificant at a time like that?”

  “I can imagine,” I said. “Rhinestones can make a statement. Did you notice anything else?”

  “No.”

  “What about the other woman? The white one?”

  “I have no idea who she is.”

  Gladys rose to clear away the glasses and I looked toward the window. The sun had moved beyond the ridge of buildings across the avenue, and purplish shadows were easing into the room. Gladys pressed a button and plant lights flickered on in the window, bathing the front of the office in a surreal chalky white glow. In the artificial light, the fish in the narrow tank seemed to trail a bubbling phosphorescence as they moved through the water. The rest of the room remained in semidarkness. I checked my watch, a modest Timex, which read nearly 7:30.

  “I suppose I’ll see you at the service,” she said.

  Her voice had changed again, gotten softer, and I glanced at her and wondered how long she’d sit here after I left. Her eyes were still watery, but at least she had put the bottle back.

  “Of course,” I said. “She sang with my father’s band.”

  chapter six

  Outside, the shadows gave way to vivid strands of pink and yellow and glimmered in an uneven wedge above the buildings’ silhouettes.


  Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream Parlor on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 125th Street was crowded. Across the street, the National Black Theater was open, and a few doors away on Fifth, people strolled in and out of the Africarts Gallery.

  I turned at 126th Street and headed west toward Lenox Avenue. This block, like many others in Harlem, was a study in contrasts where magnificent four-story brownstones stood side by side with structures long vacant. On the top floors of the vacant buildings, ubiquitous “city palms” had somehow taken root and their thin trunks spiraled toward the twilit sky. The broad-leaved branches jutted out of the yawning windows, waving like tenants in the yellow flare of the streetlight. I wondered who owned these buildings and how much longer they would be held off the market. Trees took years to grow.

  At Lenox Avenue I walked uptown, thinking of the view from Tad’s balcony in the Riverbend Apartments complex, seeing in my mind’s eye early-morning sunlight on the Harlem River and feeling the wind damp against my skin. I imagined the small whoosh of water rushing to close in on itself in the wake of a passing barge and the dark current settling into a pattern again, easing and ebbing and waiting for the next boat to disturb it. I needed to speak to him.

  I paused at a bodega and waited under its Christmas-lit canopy for a young girl to run out of quarters and free up the phone. Her conversation must have taken a turn because her free hand flipped to her hip and her neck went into the classic swan boogie. “Listen, you think I’m sweatin’ you? Negro, lemme put this to you: By the time I get there you better have that bitch’s ass in the wind, you hear? Yeah. Tell me somethin’ new. She’d fuck a lamppost if it had a dick. Yeah … same to you and your mama too!”

  With that she slammed down the phone and turned to me with a stare that could have cut stone. “Got that low-budget ho’ in his crib. Ain’t good for nuthin’ but chokin’. Lucky I got my fuckin’ other man.”

  I shrugged in sympathy, remembering when my younger hair-trigger temper had caused me to act just as foolishly. I remembered that when I wasn’t screaming, I was crying, wearing out the grooves on “Love Don’t Love Nobody” by the Spinners and “Kiss and Say Goodbye” by the Manhattans, two anthems for every love that had ever gone wrong.

  I wanted to tell this girl that nothing has changed but that she will change, cool out in six months, and laugh at this. But right now she was moving down the street, cloaked in righteous anger. I waited another minute for the mouthpiece to cool off before I lifted it and dialed.

  Tad came on before the ring was completed.

  “Mali, where are you?”

  “128th and Lenox.”

  “Want me to pick you up?”

  His apartment was at 140th Street and Fifth Avenue, really not that far away. I could get there blindfolded.

  “No,” I said. “I need to walk. I can think better when I’m walking.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing much. I love you, Baby. See you in a few minutes.”

  I hung up, slightly unnerved by the nagging feeling that he still had not gotten over his experience with Ellen, his ex-wife. Finding her in a compromising circumstance with another woman was bad enough, but when the shock had worn off, a wariness had set in that had remained to cast a shadow over our own relationship. In addition, his partner on the job, in whom he’d entrusted his life, had fallen for the big coke buck last summer and had betrayed Tad and the job.

  The thing with Ellen had happened over two years earlier, yet when I was with Tad I trod softly, gauging his moods, listening to my words and his responses, and thankful for the moments of free-flowing feeling. Not only when we loved, but after, like when he would bury his head in the curve of my neck, and I would hear the slow, satisfied rhythm of his breathing.

  I also tried not to mention Erskin Harding, the director of the Uptown Children’s Chorus, who was murdered last summer. Tad thought I’d been involved with Erskin. Now if he knew I was still nosing around trying to find out about Thea, still trying to help Kendrick …

  I continued to walk, wondering how to handle this. I’d have to tell him eventually, but right now all I wanted to do was stretch out on his terrace and feel his hands smoothing away all the little aches and pains.

  At the next corner I dialed Bertha, and on the fourth ring I heard her voice thick with sleep.

  “Mali? Girl, I was tired. So much stuff runnin’ ’round in my brain, feel like it’s herbed out. I can hardly think straight. I had to lay down … get myself together.”

  “How do you feel now?”

  “A little better.”

  I was not convinced. “Listen, Bert: Monday, I’m coming with you. Bring a change of clothing for Kendrick. Elizabeth’ll probably want to take the shirt and vest that he’s wearing …”

  “Now they strippin’ ’im? What for?”

  “To have the clothing tested, analyzed for traces of powder.”

  “They can do that?” Her voice lifted hopefully.

  “They can do a lot of things, Bert.”

  She said nothing more but I heard the sigh of relief and decided to end on an upbeat note. I wondered if they had tested for powder burns before his fingerprinting. And he’d probably washed his hands a million times since then. I remembered a few cases—not many—when the arresting officer neglected to Mirandize and the perp eventually walked on a tech.

  “Elizabeth’s a good lawyer. Everything will work out,” I said again, trying to reassure myself as well.

  I hung up and continued uptown. The heat of the day had dissipated and now Lenox Avenue was crowded. At 135th Street the cluster of vendors hawking their wares in the reflected light of Pan-Pan’s restaurant was so busy it took me a minute to maneuver around the tables of scarves and socks and sunglasses.

  City Hall had cleared them from 125th Street only to have some of the hardier souls regroup and resurface in the most unlikely places. Right now they were operating less than two blocks from the precinct.

  Beyond the cluster of tables, I spotted Flyin’ Home and his dogs moving down 135th Street toward the Kennedy Center basketball court. I called out and rushed after him, hoping he was in a better mood and more willing to talk about Friday night. But the dogs moved fast and by the time I reached the court no one was there.

  By nine o’clock traffic was slow on the Harlem River. I stood on the terrace looking down into the water, wondering about Thea. How she had almost won the pageant … almost succeeded in becoming a great singer … almost found a good man. Almost had been the recurring theme in her life. What had happened along the way? How had she ended up working as a barmaid in the Half-Moon? Who had invited her into that alley?

  “What’re you thinking, Mali?”

  Tad had stepped out onto the terrace and I turned at the sound of his voice. “Nothing much. Listening for the next boat. River’s so quiet.”

  He moved close behind me and his hands found the place in the small of my back and slowly began to work their way down. He wore only a pair of shorts and his skin was wet and soft and had a just-bathed, warm, jasmine scent. I closed my eyes, forgetting about Thea.

  “Muscles are a little tense, Baby …”

  “So is yours,” I whispered, leaning into him.

  He kissed the nape of my neck, then lifted me and moved through the living room and into the bedroom. In the dim circle of light, he lay back on the bed watching me, smiling as I undressed.

  “Ah, girl … the longer I know you, the better you look …” His voice was barely audible as I turned around, dropped my bra to the floor and stepped out of the silk bikini.

  “And the longer I know you, the better you feel,” I said.

  “Come here,” he whispered. “Baby, come here … walk slow … like that … that’s it.”

  I stood near the edge of the bed, looking down, always surprised at the sight of him, surprised and glad at how fast he could get ready for action. He was ready and I hadn’t even touched him. I stood there with my hands on my hips thinking
of an old blues riff, wondering how Lettie would have worked it:

  … Gimme a hot dog.

  For my roll.

  No mustard, may’naise.

  Oh my soul.

  Just that hot, hot dog.

  From my hot dog man …

  I was no singer, and to open my mouth to these words would have destroyed the mood, so I let the other parts of me do the talking. He reached for me with one hand and turned off the lamp with the other. “Tell me, Baby, what I want to hear.”

  I leaned over with my legs spread wide on either side of him. He moved down, and in the dark I felt his breath light and easy on my stomach.

  Dawn was making its way over the edge of the river when I opened my eyes. Tugboat and barge horns sounded their hoarse notes, then faded off.

  I listened for a minute to the smaller clatter of silverware and rose from the bed and wandered into the dining area near the terrace. The curtains blew with the soft scent of the river behind them. I looked at the table.

  “Champagne and orange juice. Are we celebrating something?”

  “Not a celebration,” he said, stepping from the kitchen to place a platter of bacon and waffles on the table.

  He was naked. How could a man stand at a stove with no clothes on? I watched him and my appetite stirred, but not for the waffles. He turned toward the stove again and I prayed that no hot oil would pop from the pan.

  “I wanted to do something special,” he said. “Something for you to remember while I’m away …”

  “I have a lot to remember,” I said, gazing at him. His skin was like Golden Blossom honey, only sweeter. At age forty, he had an edge of silver at his temples but prided himself for not having one slack muscle. I gazed at him another minute, then turned toward the bathroom to brush my teeth and dip my head in a rush of cold water. When I returned to the table, he was seated. I watched the other muscles move as he lifted his fork.

  “How long will you be gone?”