If I Should Die (12 page)

“You’re kidding. Seems our boy has a flair for the dramatic. This is a chorus, however.”

“Whatever. Chorus. Choir. He’s handling it now. What’s the difference?”

I shrugged, not knowing if there really was a difference. I’d have to ask Dad when I got home.

“So,” I said, “if he breaks the choir case—or cases—he gets the five-minute spotlight and another promotion.”

“Seems that way. He’s up to his ass in cases already, so he intends to close Deborah’s file, saying it was a push-in gone wrong. Suspect dead. The end.”

I was speechless. Did Danny really need another case?

“Maybe,” I said finally, “Danny needs to fill up every second of his time to take his mind off the problem at home.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Rumor has it that he’s got some girl around here young enough to be his daughter and fly enough to take his mind off everything.”

“Really?”

“That’s right. So he works the O.T. to keep him in the neighborhood. Now he’s bucking for promotion so he’ll have the money to support her and his Long Island family.”

I had visions of his serene-faced wife and wondered if she knew where and how her husband was spending his time in the old neighborhood. I wondered if she cared.

Maybe not. In the picture that Danny had showed me, I could see nothing in her face, not even resignation. Maybe she knew and didn’t care. As long as hearth and home was covered, he could screw half of Harlem. Just don’t rock her boat …

“How long has she been in a wheelchair?”

“A few years now. She has multiple sclerosis and Danny’s doing the best he can. I have to give him credit for that. He’s paying for that house, a private nurse, the girls’ schooling, music and dance lessons, car notes …”

“And the girlfriend,” I added.

He shrugged and I looked at him across the table. “Tad, I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed, and I’m sorry.”

We ordered a round of doubles and I watched him stir the ice in his glass.

As bad as things were, the situation had been somewhat simplified for me now. It was no longer Tad’s case, so I was no longer held to my promise to lay off. I could start asking questions again. What happened to Deborah was more than a simple robbery. All the information she had gathered on Gary Mark had somehow disappeared. The envelope I was supposed to pick up from Deborah had not yet been recovered.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair watching Tad. I thought of my afternoon with Miss Bert, which had gone so well that I had tipped her beyond my regular budget.

“A ten-dollar tip to condition two inches of hair?” she had laughed. “Girl, put your money back in your pocket.”

“No, this is for the knots in my neck,” I said. And the conversation, I wanted to add.

 … The first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll be at the Motor Vehicles Department when my friend Barbara returns from vacation. I’ll ask her to run a check on Harding’s license and every vanity plate with “HO” and I will wait there until I get the answer. No more telephone calls. What happened to Deborah was enough.

I looked at Tad again and placed my hand over his. It was closed so tightly I could trace the veins that spread like a fine web to his wrist. He was a good detective, a
good person, a caring and decent man. This should not have happened to him.

“Tad, listen. Things will work themselves out. They usually do …”

It sounded so lame, but there was no more to be said. I gazed at him in the dim light and remembered earlier, at the beauty shop; the “laying on of hands” had left me feeling remarkably free and loose and the effects had not yet worn off.

I leaned across the table now until my mouth was as close to his ear as I could get without going inside it.

“Honey, listen, what you need is … a laying on of hands.”

My voice was low and my fingers went on to trace under his chin and move lightly along his collar line. “You probably have some knots in your neck as big as boulders …”

He turned to look at me, barely able to contain a smile.

“How’d you know that?”

“Just a guess …”

“Unh-hnh.” His expression changed and he moved closer. “You somethin’ else, girl. You want to smooth me out? I got something needs smoothing in the worst way. The worst way, baby …”

“Your place?” I whispered. “You know, I’ve never seen the lights shining on the Harlem River at night.”

“And I can’t wait to show you. I mean it. Every time I hear ‘I’ve been lovin’ you too long to stop now,’ I hear that song and say to myself, I haven’t even got started with this woman. Haven’t even—”

“Wait. Don’t tell me in here.”

I rose from the table.

I imagined us lying among soft pillows on the terrace, splits of Moët, a little Wynton Marsalis blowing in
the background, and in the glow of the candles, my fingers working a fragrant oil into the small of his back …

“Let me make a call. Let Dad know I’ll be out awhile. You know how it is. Kid could be ninety and the parent still worries.”

I made my way to the phone near the back of the bar. It rang twice and Alvin picked it up before the second ring was complete. His voice sounded small, as if he had been running and couldn’t catch his breath.

“Mali. Listen. Mrs. Johnson, Morris’s mother? She just called. Clarence is in trouble. He just got arrested.”

“What?”

“She wants you to go to the precinct. To find out what’s going on. Maybe do something to get him out … Mali, you gotta—”

“Alvin, listen to me. Nothing bad is going to happen to Clarence, you understand?”

“Yeah, but—”

“We’re going there right now.”

I heard the relief as he said good-bye.

I hung up the phone and pressed my forehead to the wall. Sound filtered from the television into the narrow corridor: a commercial had come on singing the praises of dental floss or freshener or something and I listened to the joyful noises of a man who didn’t have to worry anymore, thanks to …

I wanted to laugh.

Then I wanted to cry and press my head further into the wall as the images of fragrant oil slipped away. I opened my eyes. The river lights would have to wait.

On the way to the table, my neck started to hurt again.

T
ad convinced me to visit Mrs. Johnson before going to the precinct, considering I was persona non grata there and he had just been relieved of his assignment.

There were eight buildings of twenty-one stories with ten apartments on every floor. The faded red brick exteriors looked deceptively calm and orderly but I remembered responding to at least sixteen calls in one month alone when I was on the midnight shift.

Urban planning said pack them in, contain them. Ignore the pressure and pathology that builds in confined space. In controlled experiments, when conditions become intolerable, rats will bite off their own tails, eat their young, kill each other. But the planners didn’t consult the scientists. Then again, perhaps they did
.

The elevator was out of order but luckily Mrs. Johnson lived on the fourth floor. We made our way up the fire stairs and listened as people on the landings who had no business being there fled at the sound of our approach.

In the dim lighting we saw the cinder-block walls scarred with a dizzy mosaic of red, yellow, and orange graffiti and signed with bold tags. Every square inch of the stairwell was covered. On every landing, we stepped on crack vials that spilled out from the crevices between the steps where the concrete had chipped or worn away.

The smell of different kinds of food cooking drifted into the stairwell, competing with the pungent odor of dried urine.

On the third floor, there was a loud outburst and a young man slammed open the door to the stairwell.

“Goddamn place ain’t worth shit! We oughtta go on a rent strike till they git these damn elevators workin’ right. People up on them top floors ain’t been downstairs in a week.”

He was about to pass us, then stopped and jabbed a finger in our faces. “Now whatta you think’ll happen if there’s a emergency and the ammalambs come. Then EMS don’t be climbin’ no stairs. They pull up, they be yellin’ C.O.D.! Come! On! Down! They ain’t hikin’ up these stairs, not even for they mama!”

He was so angry I thought he was going to kick a hole in the concrete wall.

“Listen, brother,” Tad said calmly. “The reason why they get away with stuff like this is because we let them. I don’t live here, but if I did, I’d be jammin’ the wire. The fire department, the housing authority, the police department, health department, and all the politicians I could think of. I’d be on the horn lettin’ everybody know I’m droppin’ a dime to the newspapers and television stations if something isn’t done within twenty-four hours. I’d get the neighbors on the case too. And keep at it, get everybody to holler till something’s done. You know it’s the squeakiest wheel gets the most grease, but nobody can hear you yellin’ in the stairwell.”

The man looked at him and shook his head. “You right, brother. You on the money.”

He continued on downstairs, quiet now, and I wondered how much of Tad’s advice he intended to follow.

On the fourth floor, the lighting was bright enough to at least distinguish one’s features and read the numbers painted on the anonymous steel doors lining the narrow, whitewashed corridor.

The noise of a television snapped off and a peephole slid open in response to our knocking.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Johnson? It’s Mali. And I have a friend with me. Can I—”

The door opened and Mrs. Johnson, wearing a faded housecoat, thong sandals, and pink rollers in her hair, stepped aside to let us in.

The apartment was small and neat. From the living room, I saw a galley-style kitchen with a rack of pots and pans suspended from a circular ring in the ceiling. In the carpeted hallway, there were two doors which probably led to the bedrooms. Morris peeped out from one door, waved hello, and disappeared again.

“This is Detective Honeywell, Mrs. Johnson.”

She looked at him and murmured, “Oh my. My goodness … wait a minute. Have a seat, I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared into the second room off the hall and emerged minutes later wearing lipstick, a vividly patterned caftan, and a matching scarf that covered the hair rollers.

The living room was sparsely furnished but what furniture there was was well kept. A television console dominated the room and a calendar picture of Malcolm X hung on the wall over the set.

The caftan flowed as she moved. She stared at Tad
as if I was not even in the room and I wondered if he knew what effect he had on some women.

“Well. Have a seat.” She smiled and waved us to the sofa as she went into the kitchen. A minute later she returned with three cans of beer.

“So you got my call?”

“Yes, but we wanted to speak with you first, to figure out what needs to be done. What happened? What did Clarence do?”

Mrs. Johnson settled back in her chair and crossed her legs, lifting the caftan much higher than she needed to.

“What did he do? Somethin’ he shoulda done long time ago. He beat the shit outta his mama’s no-good boyfriend. Scuse my language, Detective Honey, but I—”

“Honeywell.”

“Oh. Yes.” She paused and smiled. “Excuse the language but I’m damn mad.”

Tad and I glanced at each other as she angrily snapped the tab on the can. The tab broke and the beer foamed out and over her hand.

“Shit! Scuse me.”

She returned with a new can and took a long swallow before she spoke.

“That man been punchin’ her around for years now and wasn’t nuthin’ that boy could do or say. Then the man got on that crack, and got her strung out, then started sellin’ from her apartment to support they habits. Joint got so busy people was lined up like they was at Grand Central waitin’ for the five-fifty outta town.

“We complained and complained, hollered and screamed till Housing finally threatened to evict her. Her man lightened up a little bit then. I mean he still dealin’ but from another location now. He stash the cash with her, though.

“So tonight he come there all fired up, claimin’ she
stole some from him and started on her with a wire hanger. I mean that crack make you crazy. Well, then Clarence came home, saw what had went down, and started on him. Broke that man’s arm in two places and his jaw in three. Man ain’t nuthin’ but garbage. She shoulda kicked ’im to the curb long time ago …

“I was watchin’ everything out the window and seen the ambulance take ’im away. Those elevators are workin’. They ain’t broken like the ones in this building. A hour later here come the cops and they carry Clarence out in cuffs. Now I ask you, is that right? All that time we complained, they ain’t never rushed up here to bust the dealer, but rush in when somebody bust
up
the dealer. I don’t understand that shit at all, I really don’t.”

“Well, depending on what charge they’re holding Clarence on,” Tad said, “maybe we can get him released in the custody of his mother. Where is she?”

Mrs. Johnson shook her head. “Another ambulance come for her same time the cops took Clarence. She’s done in pretty bad … plus her other problem …”

Tad thought for a minute. “Okay, here’s what you do, if you’re willing to do it. Clarence will go down to Central Booking in a couple of hours. You be down there when he arrives. Say you’re his aunt and that you’ll be responsible for his court appearance. If his mother presses charges against the boyfriend, chances are Clarence’s argument of self-defense will hold up. Are you willing to do it?”

A look of indecision crossed her face and I held my breath as she weighed Tad’s advice. It was a second before she finally spoke. “What the hell. Why not? The boy don’t have nobody else.”

We were halfway to the door when she said, “You know, that other detective—Mr. Williams—he was here again.”

I could see a shadow moving across Tad’s face as he turned toward her. “When was that?”

“Couple a days ago.”

“What did he say?” Tad asked. His jawline tightened and I wondered how much more he would be able to take.

“Well, he kinda asked me and Morris the same questions over and over. Like he didn’t believe what we had said in the first place. Got me real upset when he started in on Morris, and I ended up mentionin’ how Clarence had used that language to Dr. Harding the—”