A Toast Before Dying Page 6

  “Two weeks or so.”

  It was the “or so” that got to me. I lifted my glass and did not offer a toast. In the middle of the night, when he had spoken of the training assignment in Los Angeles, I had rested my head on his chest, and for some unfathomable reason had begun to cry.

  Maybe I hadn’t wanted to hear bad news in the middle of something so good. Maybe there was such a thing as loving a person so much you ached to reach across even small distances to touch him.

  And when I had finally slept, the dreams came: of the plane going down; of a South Central shoot-out and he hadn’t worn his vest.

  I had awakened shivering in sweat and had spent the next hour wrapped in his robe and kneeling on the terrace.

  Somewhere out of the darkness I had felt a familiar presence, then heard something too slight and too soft to be a whisper. I knew who it was so I didn’t turn around.

  Don’t worry about things before they happen, girl. Didn’t I teach you anything? And get up off your knees if you’re not praying …

  No need to answer. I had remained quiet and gazed into the dark water until my mother’s voice drifted off on the night breeze. My head cleared and I was able to creep back to bed.

  Tad saw my expression now and reached across the table for my hand. “Come with me, Baby. Come on …”

  I thought about it for a minute, pleased with the possibilities. I had entertained myself with vivid dreams of going away alone with him. Even if it was just across the street. I wanted to go. West Coast. West Nepal, west hell. Last summer in St. Croix, as nice as it had been after all the hell I’d been put through, didn’t really count because the whole family had been there. Now here was the chance for just the two of us, and I had to shake my head.

  As tolerant as Dad was of my lifestyle, he had grown old worrying about me. Now, as old as I was, I had to draw the line. This may have been the nineties but my wild ways had been a thorn in his side since I was sixteen. Now here I was, plucking out my own gray strands, and he still worried, still waited up. Mainly because Mom was gone and my sister, Benin, was also gone.

  An occasional night out was one thing. Two weeks on the other side of the continent was quite another. If I went, I’d have to come back with a paper signed by a justice of the peace.

  “Dad and Alvin would have a problem with that,” I said, trying to explain in the shortest possible way. Even as I said it, I hurt. I felt worse when he whispered, “Ah. Well …” As if he understood something I didn’t.

  We finished breakfast in silence and I thought about crawling back into bed to divide the sections of the Sunday Times, but there was no time for reading. In the evening, he’d be gone.

  We finished the champagne and I sat on the edge of the bed, fingering the tangled sheets and trying not to feel weepy, trying not to feel anything, and failing when he came close and I felt his mouth again, moving soft against my shoulder.

  chapter seven

  The main corridor in the Criminal Court Building was like Times Square at five o’clock and just as confusing if you didn’t know where you were going. The pace was normal only at the check-in line, where bags were emptied of keys, guns, knives, tokens—anything metal. On the other side of the metal detector, chaos closed in, sweeping you into a parade of cops, clerks, attorneys, murderers, arsonists, and larcenists—grand and petty—and other visitors.

  I walked fast, pulling Bertha by the hand. She pulled back to stare as several doors off the corridor swung open and closed on brief snapshots of other crises. Along the way we passed a young girl leaning against the wall with a crying baby. She was crying also, her round teenage face aged by incomprehensible circumstance. I imagined her man had probably been sentenced or denied bail or skipped bail and a warrant had been issued.

  A few feet away, a middle-aged man was advising his probation officer: “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have a job.” He sported a dirty Tommy Hilfinger sweatshirt and a scraggly red beard and was probably homeless, but what he said, he said grandly—as if he alone were propping up the entire criminal-justice apparatus.

  I led Bertha onto a wide wing off the main corridor and we passed through a set of double doors into a small courtroom where Elizabeth was sitting in the first row, waiting for Kendrick to be brought in. I felt Bertha begin to shake. We managed to sit directly behind Elizabeth, and I tapped her shoulder. Bertha was silent and I did the talking. “When is Kendrick coming up?”

  “Any minute.”

  “Ask him if he knows a woman, a white woman named Teddi Lovette, and how can I reach her. She came to Bertha’s shop the day after Kendrick was arrested. I need to find her.”

  The door to the left of the judge’s bench slid open and two officers accompanied Kendrick into the room. His face was hardrock handsome but he managed to smile and nod to us. Bertha’s face was wet with tears and she passed a hand over her chest.

  The judge cleared his throat and glanced at the court reporter. The prosecutor, a fat young man with thick lenses, rose from the table to the left and began to read from the indictment. Elizabeth and Kendrick and I already knew what it said, but in the prosecutor’s mouth it sounded hard and cold and bloody. Words like malice aforethought, which would leave the ordinary defendant blinking and wondering who the hell Malice was.

  Ain’t had nuthin’ to do with no Malice. He wasn’t even on the scene.

  “… fatally wounded and thereby caused the death of one Thea Morris on the night of …”

  I stopped listening and concentrated on Kendrick, on his well-shaped head and dark athlete’s neck. He knew what malice was and did not bow his head but stared straight ahead, as if his vertebrae had been fused.

  Finally: “How do you plead?”

  The courtroom was small but appeared large in its emptiness. Except for five or six other people scattered along the sixteen rows of straight-backed wooden benches, there was nothing to absorb the echo. The court reporter glanced up to see if she had missed a nod or a frown, then resumed pressing the narrow keys on her machine. Sunshine filtered in thin and white through the high windows, discoloring the wooden rows.

  “How do you plead?”

  The question resonated from the old brass chandelier and the IN GOD WE TRUST sign on the wall above the bench.

  “Not guilty!”

  There was no echo in Kendrick’s voice, only the hot dry anger of innocence. I looked down to see Bertha’s fingers, like claws, etching the wood of the bench in front of us. A court officer stifled a yawn as Elizabeth rose from the table and began to speak: “Your Honor, my client’s innocence will be proven. I request that he be released on bail until his trial date.”

  The judge did not glance up. I focused on his hair, on the thin silver strands spread strategically and ineffectually across his scalp. Patches of pink gleamed through and the sun caught them, sparkling with sweat, as he nodded. And I knew from the deliberate moves what was coming.

  Judge Pink Patch cleared his throat. “At this time, the possibility exists that defendant, given the opportunity, may violate the terms and conditions of bail and not return to court at the appointed time. The court is aware that the defendant has a contract to work in Milan, Italy. The possibility exists that he may not return. Bail is therefore denied and trial is scheduled for Tuesday, October 1, 1997.”

  At first, I wondered where the sound was coming from: a low whimper that rose and settled like a high keen on the wind. Bertha’s mouth was open and she had thrown her head back and crumpled into the seat, holding her hands to her chest. Kendrick, his eyes tearing, called to her. “Be strong, Bert. I’ll be all right. Be strong.”

  At the sound of his voice, two officers attached themselves to each of his arms, as if they expected him to fly off through the barred windows, and a second later he disappeared through the door at the left of the bench.

  Elizabeth had left the table and was bending over Bertha now, rubbing her hands, patting her shoulder.

  “Listen, Bertha: This is not the last
word. I’m going to keep trying for bail. After all, it isn’t as if he’s accused of shooting the president.”

  Outside, on Canal Street, the sun beat down like the fist of a seasoned heavyweight. Bertha walked like an old woman. Her face was streaked with tears and she was unusually quiet.

  Suddenly, she stopped and stared at me. “How did that fuckin’ judge know about that contract? I bet wasn’t nobody but that funkpot Laws tipped them. Well, he gonna get what’s comin’ to him, you hear? He gonna get what’s comin’. Mark my words.”

  We threaded our way through the maze of electronics and seafood stalls cluttering the sidewalk, and I wondered why the vendors had been pushed from 125th Street while this street had been left untouched. The thought lasted only a second because Bertha’s voice was rising again, bubbling up like yeast in the dry afternoon heat.

  “I bet it was Laws sent a letter. He was jealous of Kendrick, that’s what. He knew if Kendrick went to Italy, he wasn’t comin’ back to no damn small-time bar. His life woulda been changed. His career woulda taken off … his actin’ and everything …”

  I nodded and glanced at her as we headed for the subway, wondering if those were Kendrick’s plans or the dreams that she herself had for him. I listened and thought again of Kendrick standing before the court, straight and silent, and the judge never looking up. I thought of Alvin. He was going to call this evening. My attention veered away and I no longer heard Bertha. I was busy fashioning a lie for Alvin.

  chapter eight

  I fixed Bertha a pot of Sleepy Time herbal tea, made sure she was comfortable, then I back-tracked downtown. Forty-second Street was more crowded than ever now that the Disney renaissance had replaced all the ratty peep shows, adult bookshops, and porn theaters.

  Two blocks west, on Ninth Avenue, a high-rise apartment complex for performing artists stood surrounded by new soft-lit restaurants where regular hamburgers now masqueraded as minced New York sirloin on fresh sesame bun, coffee had names with accents, and menus were slid under your nose by wait staff who’d scored high on the Madison Avenue-boutique test for attitude.

  I found the place I was looking for tucked away on the third floor in one of a string of small buildings known as Theater Row, across from the high-rise complex. In the small lobby, I picked up a flyer and history of the company before climbing a narrow stairway to a door spray-painted with the company’s name, Star Manhattan.

  It was a small space, no more than sixty seats, and a rehearsal was in progress, so I eased into a seat three rows from the last. According to the history, seven actors worked in repertory on the weekends—six since Kendrick was in jail, but his name was still on the flyer and his handsome face still smiled from the company’s roster.

  Four of the six sat in the first row watching Teddi Lovette onstage, crouched in front of an older woman seated on a tattered brown velvet sofa. The woman looked straight ahead, staring into the space that the audience occupied on weekends.

  Teddi bowed her head and held tightly to the woman’s arm. Then she broke off in midsentence and quickly got to her feet.

  “This isn’t working, guys. Doesn’t feel right just yet. There’s a certain …”

  Behind me, a sliver of light stabbed the darkness. Someone, a woman who had been sitting in the last row, got up and left. No one in the first row turned around, but concentrated on Teddi Lovette as she paced the stage, moving like a cat in her black leotard and print wrap skirt. Onstage, she appeared taller than I remembered. She squeezed her eyes shut and pushed her hair into a tight ball, back from her face—a gesture vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t remember where I’d seen it. Finally she sighed. “Okay, that’s it for today. We’ve been working hard since this morning. This was good but we can make it better by Friday, okay?”

  Nods and murmurs as the group, three men and two women, rose and gathered their things. The network of klieg lights criss-crossing the ceiling blinked once and the stage went dark. In the dim glow of ordinary lighting, the group filed past me and I caught the low murmur.

  “Where’re we eating?” the woman who had been onstage asked.

  “Billy’s, I guess.”

  “Yeah. Kendrick’s not home and—”

  “Damn, he got a bad break …”

  They glanced at me and nodded as they filed past. I waved and smiled quickly as I made my way down front and across the small stage to the back, where Teddi had disappeared. I didn’t know if there was another exit and I wasn’t taking any chances. She hadn’t returned my calls and it was time to find out why.

  The dressing room was not a dressing room in the strict sense: no star on the door because there was no door, only a space cleared in a corner for three small tables with makeup mirrors and unshaded lamps, a half dozen folding chairs stacked near two coat-racks hung with costumes, and a large steamer trunk stuffed with wigs, gloves, hats, and other accessories. Coils of electrical cable ringed the area like thick snakes, and I trod over them carefully. I was a foot away when Teddi leaned close to the mirror, then turned to face me. “Hi?”

  It was a question more than a greeting, which meant she didn’t remember me. “I’m Mali Anderson,” I answered, “a friend of Kendrick’s sister. I’ve been trying to contact you—”

  “Oh.” Her face brightened at the mention of Kendrick. “Come in. Come in.”

  I looked around and stepped across the imaginary boundary that defined the perimeter of the dressing area. She closed the lid of the trunk and waved her hand.

  “Here. Have a seat. I apologize for not returning your calls. I …” She spread her hands wide. “I’ve been so …”

  I eased down onto the trunk but couldn’t get comfortable. A part of an old-fashioned hand fan was sticking out and scratching my thigh when I moved. I smiled anyway. “That’s all right. I know how it is. I only caught part of the rehearsal, but what I saw, I liked. Kendrick talked about the group all the time and I’m glad I finally got a chance to see you folks.”

  I said this with what I hoped was a straight face. Kendrick had never mentioned a thing to me until today in court, when he’d given Elizabeth the company’s address. I wondered if he’d even mentioned it to Alvin. Probably not. This was a small group and perhaps he was waiting for a part in a larger production before inviting friends and family. I thought of asking Alvin, but that might lead to other, more complicated, questions.

  Teddi had been brushing her hair when I’d approached and now she placed the brush on the table near a wig stand.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “As well as can be expected, I guess. The judge refused bail.”

  “Oh, God.” She closed her eyes and touched her hair with her fingers, and there was that oddly familiar gesture again. “Everyone’s just devastated over this. We … miss him so much. We can’t understand how this could have happened.” Her eyes shone and she blinked rapidly. “What’s going to happen? He didn’t do it. He’s not like that. He told me himself that they were just friends.”

  I gazed at her and right away translated all those plurals—we miss him, we can’t understand, we—to a single voice. Her voice.

  “How long have you known him?”

  She rested her elbows against the cluttered table, busily calculating a time and date she probably had already encoded in a special place. Finally, she sighed. “About three months, since he joined the group. We hit it off right away.”

  We hit it off right away.

  I wanted to smile. Thank God for melanin in colored folks. We can lie and if we don’t get too shifty-eyed can get away with a truckload of bullshit. Other folks, on the other hand, had a serious problem when the red started creeping across their cheekbones. As was happening now with Teddi. It’s damn hard to hide the fever of love.

  We hit it off right away hung in the air until I said, “The rest of the crew is gone. I’m not holding you up, am I?”

  “No. Not at all. I’m meeting someone else. My mother. But I have time.”

  “So how is
Kendrick—as an actor? Is he good?”

  Some of the tightness left her face, and when she smiled, her teeth were bright and slightly crooked. Her voice was softer, quite different from the stage voice. “He’s very good.” The tone made me wonder if she was describing his talent on- or offstage.

  “Well,” I said, “too bad he may have to spend hard time in jail for something he didn’t do.”

  The smile disappeared and she leaned forward, closing the space between us. “Listen: How well did you know Thea?” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, although I was sure there was no one else on the floor but the two of us.

  “Well, I knew her but we weren’t what you’d call close friends,” I whispered.

  “Did you know any of her family? Her mother, father, grandmother?” She spoke as if she was running out of time.

  “No, I—”

  “That’s what I need to know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because … I … we all know how and when and where she died. But if I can find out why she died, it might lead to … whoever wanted her out of their way. Maybe something or someone in—”

  We both heard the quiet tap of high heels across the stage, and I watched Teddi’s face. A mask of chalk, stiff and formal, slid in place as she rose from her seat and walked to the edge of the boundary with outstretched arms. “Watch your step, Mother. You can trip up in here.”

  A voice came out of the darkness, soft but impatient. “Trip up? I’ve been waiting downstairs for the past twenty minutes. I—”

  The woman who had slipped out of the door while Teddi was onstage had come back. She stopped abruptly when she saw me and her expression tore through an impressive number of changes in record time—surprise, fright, wariness, before finally settling into a tight smile. All this while stepping forward to shake my hand as Teddi introduced me.

  Mrs. Lovette was about fifty years old, give or take a year or two, Miami-tanned, and slim, with silver blond hair pulled up to tighten the skin around the large, well-made-up eyes. Her white linen suit was fashionably wrinkled and the tiny black patent bag swinging from her shoulder was only wide enough to accommodate lip blush, eyeliner, and two major credit cards.