Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (134 page)

Daliah looked at her shrewdly. 'Papa's got money, and that
man up there is selling Coca-Colas,' she said with the irrefut
able logic of a six-year-old. She pointed up the street, where
a pushcart vendor was doing a brisk business.

Tamara sighed and looked sideways. 'Dani?'

Daliah focused her eyes on her father now and gave him
The Look. That was what he called it when she made her eyes
big and round and helpless. Her father laughed. 'All right,
angel, but just this once. You know Cokes aren't good for
you.'

She watched intently as he dug a bill out of the shirt he'd
folded up neatly under his chair. She grabbed for it, but he
held it out of her reach. 'I don't want you going up the street.
There's too much traffic and it's dangerous. Get one of your brothers to go for you, and have him bring back a Coke for
each of us.'

Laughing happily, she took the money, kissed him sloppily,
and ran off to break up the soccer game.

Ari was annoyed with her intrusion and tried to ignore her.
Turning his back on her, he crouched down, effortlessly deflected the black-and-white ball with a head butt, and snapped, 'Can't you see we're in the middle of a game?'

She stood there clutching the bill in front of her. 'Come on,
Ari,' she begged. 'I can't get it myself. Papa won't let me.'
She turned to her other brother. 'Asa!'

'Oh, all right.' Asa ran over to her, scooped the bill out of
her hand, and dashed off up the embankment. 'Be right back,'
he called over his shoulder to Ari. 'Time out.'

Happily, Daliah watched him jogging up to the vendor's
pushcart. Several children and adults were crowded around it
and Asa had to wait his turn. While she watched, a swarthy man with sunglasses and a hat pulled way down over his face
sauntered casually by and dumped something into the wire
rubbish bin next to the pushcart and strode quickly off to a
waiting car. Before he could jump all the way in and slam the
door, the car took off with a squeal of tyres.

She waited impatiently, twisting her body from left to right,
while Asa waited his turn. She licked her lips in anticipation.
She loved Coca-Cola. It was sweet and cold and bubbly.

Finally it was Asa's turn. She watched him hand over the
money, and the vendor give him an armful of bottles.

That was when the bomb in the rubbish bin went off.

And blew Asa, the vendor, and four others to bits.

Chapter 3

Time and again, Cleo had proved herself. Whenever Daliah
had a crisis, she was there to hold her hand and help her
through it. And she was there now at Kennedy Airport for
that very reason, waiting for the Air France passengers to start
straggling through customs.

Daliah was one of the first ones through. Having flown first
class with no more than a Vuitton handbag and giant matching
bag which had been constructed expressly to fit under a first-class seat, she sailed through customs in record time. To avoid
recognition, her telltale hair was completely hidden by an
Hermès scarf, her travel-durable outfit was simple and nonde
script, and she wore huge butterfly-shaped sunglasses which
rendered her so featureless that she could have been any one
of three hundred instantly recognizable famous faces travel
ling incognito, from Jackie Onassis to Charlotte Ford. Even
Cleo, long used to her various disguises, had to look closely
to recognize her.

Cleo held out her long cinnamon arms invitingly and
embraced Daliah warmly. 'White Woman,
baby,
'
she said
softly. 'I know you're hurtin!'

Daliah's lips were pinched. 'I don't know which I feel more
strongly,' she sniffled. 'Hurt or anger.'

'Come on, the car's waitin' outside. We can talk about it
later.' Cleo, ever practical, slipped the bag off Daliah's
shoulder, coiled a reassuring arm around her waist, and
steered her expertly through the crowded terminal toward the
glass exit doors. Her face was set in a worried look. 'Are you
all right?'

Daliah started to nod, but then shook her head. 'No, I'm
not all right,' she said, her low, hoarse voice heavy with pain.

Cleo looked sharply sideways, and she could see that behind
the huge black glasses Daliah's eyes were swollen and red from
crying, and that there were dark hollows beneath them.

Daliah turned to her. 'Why,' she asked in a quivering voice,
'did I ever have to get involved with that miserable schmuck
in the first place? Why, of all the billions of men out there, did
it have to be that prick Jerome?'

'White Woman,' Cleo sighed, 'if I knew the answer to that
one, I wouldn't only be rich, I'd be happily married and sur
rounded by fifteen screamin' kids too. But I know one thing
for sure, and that's not to try an' analyse what we feel and why
we feel it. Once we start doin' that, the curtain comes down
and all the fun's gone outta life.'

'Life's never fun,' Daliah said glumly. 'How can fun go out
of something it's never been in?'

Prudently Cleo clamped her lips together and shut up. She knew better than to argue. Daliah was barely holding herself
together. Despite the independent air Daliah projected to the
world, deep down inside she was one of the most sensitive people Cleo had ever known. It had taken her a long time to
find that out.

They went out into a day that had turned angry and grey.
A warm wind had started to blow, rubbish and papers taking
flight and dust and grit swirling in little eddies. It looked like
it would start pouring at any minute.

Cleo peered up and down the pavement. 'Damn! The cops
musta chased the car away. He's probably had to circle.'

They waited, and a minute later a white Eldorado convertible, overloaded with sparkling chrome and flying coon tails
like proud pennants from the antenna, nosed toward the kerb.
The white paintwork gleamed, the dice dangling from the rearview mirror were fuzzy, and James Brown was throbbing with
ear-splitting volume over the stereo speakers.

'Here he is,' Cleo shouted above the din. She grabbed
Daliah's arm. 'Come on.'

Daliah's lips parted and she hung back. 'This . . .
this
is
our ride?' She eyed the driver suspiciously. He was ebony-
skinned, with hooded eyes, a scraggly goatee, and wore a lime-
green, brilliantly plumed hat which matched his elaborately
tailored suit.

'That's him,' Cleo affirmed lightly. Cheerfully she waved him to remain seated, pulled the passenger door open, and
despite his protestations, leaned inside and switched the stereo
off. From the expressions on the faces of the people nearby,
the sudden silence was a Godsend.

Cleo flipped the front seat toward the dashboard and made
a sweeping gesture for Daliah to climb into the back.

For a moment Daliah could only stare. 'Cleo . . .' she began
haltingly, 'what if we cabbed it?' Cleo made a gesture which
silenced her. 'No, I haven't started hookin', if
'
n that's what you were gonna ask,' she said in a low voice. 'Coyote here's
all right, long as you don't have to work for 'im. 'Member that
William Friedkin movie I did the costumes for?'

Daliah nodded.

'Well, I arranged for Coyote and some of his girls to have
bit parts in one o' the scenes. It made him the big struttin' man
on the block and he owes me a few favours for that, so I call
'em in whenever I need wheels at my beck and call. Like he's a private limousine service, you know, 'cept that this here's a
free ride and that's a
lot
cheaper than any taxi or limo anytime.
Get in. It'll be fun.'

Seeing it was futile to argue, Daliah climbed obediently into the back and settled onto the chinchilla-covered seat. Cleo got in beside her. Then Coyote flipped the seat back and reached
over to the passenger door and swung it shut.

'An' put up the roof,' Cleo ordered like a queen from the
back of the car.

'Say
what!'
Coyote turned around and stared at her, his
hooded eyes widening to surprised white orbs.

'You heard me. Put the top up.'

'Hey, baby.' Coyote's voice rose to a falsetto. 'Wha's the
use o' havin' a convertible if
'
n the top's up? It ain't rainin'
yet.'

'That's right,' Cleo agreed. 'But Daliah, she need a little
peace and privacy. Everyone stares at this here pimpmobile
anyway, and if there's one thing she don't need right now, it's
bein' recognized and stared at.' Her voice sharpened, leaving
no room for argument. 'Put it up, nigger.'

Coyote just about choked, and Daliah was ready to die, but the convertible canopy whirred and unfolded itself overhead.
And not a moment too soon. The first angry splats of rain suddenly drummed heavily on the black cloth top.

They rode most of the way in silence, Daliah staring blankly
out the rain-streaked windows at the traffic. Going into Man
hattan wasn't too bad, but by the time they drove past Queens
Plaza, traffic in the oncoming lanes was practically at a stand
still, with both lanes already backed up all the way to the
Midtown Tunnel. The clock was just inching toward four, but
rush hour was already well under way.
'I don't know what your plans are,' Cleo told Daliah. 'I can
have Coyote drop you off at your place or you can come home
and stay with me. It's your choice.'

Daliah turned away from the window and looked at her.
'I'd really prefer not to go home,' she said quickly. 'If I'm not
imposing, that is.'

'Imposin'? Shit, you ain't never imposin', White Woman,'
Cleo assured her cheerfully. 'My place it is.' She leaned for
ward and raised her voice. 'Coyote, make it Hamilton
Terrace.'