No Time to Die (8 page)

“He started for her, and this big, clean head brother just come out the men’s room, stepped up. Plus four guys, old as me, sitting at a table, cleared that railing like Olympic high jumpers. Moved like athletes. Next thing I knew, James was out the door and huggin’ up the recyclin’ can at the curb.

“We cut into a jam and things snapped back. Drinks flowed and folks started partyin’ again.

“Betty told me later that James had been actin’ crazy from the jump, thought maybe he’d run into some static on the street and his attitude rode in when he stepped through the door. Who knows? Anyway, they evicted him for steppin’ up to this girl.”

He gazed at the picture. “Damn shame,” he whispered. “A damn shame. This girl’s dead.”

I stared at the table with the platters of pancakes, bacon, fresh strawberries, and scrambled eggs. Alvin was late getting up and now I heard the shower running and his voice singing above the noise. I wanted to get up and take the platters back to the kitchen, to keep them warm until he came down, but I could not move.

I was the person who’d confronted James that night, caused him to get an attitude. Why didn’t he come after me? Instead he’d gone after his ex-girlfriend.

I collared Ruffin and left the house, heading for St. Nicholas Park, avoiding Edgecombe Avenue because I did not want to look up at the curtainless windows of Claudine’s empty apartment.

The stairs through the park led up to St. Nicholas Terrace winding behind City University. The grass
smelled fresh and a light sprinkle of rainwater still dropped from the leaves when the wind disturbed them.

From the terrace, I gazed down over the steep incline of the park and the playground. A bus moved busily along St. Nicholas Avenue, discharging passengers, taking in more, and moving on. Purposefully. Everyone on that bus had a destination. Even the driver had a purpose. To get where he had to go, complete the assigned route.

I turned around to face the Gothic mass of Shepherd Hall, my favorite building on the campus. Students were already in class, poring, just as I once had, over their assignments. With purpose.

“I’m going to find James,” I said.

I spoke to Ruffin because there was no one else to make this promise to. Ruffin looked up, then rested his head on the ground between his paws. Two campus security guards watched us from a safe distance across the street, reluctant to approach. They stared at Ruffin and I let a minute pass before I waved good morning. One lifted his hand halfheartedly, as if he feared Ruffin would leap across the street and snack on his arm for breakfast.

“Come on, Ruffin. The guys are getting nervous.”

We left the winding walk at 140th Street and came out on Convent Avenue, passing the John Henrik Clarke House, a brownstone named for one of the founders of the Harlem Writers Guild. At Convent Avenue Baptist Church we turned east and walked down the hill at 145th Street, weaving our way through the crowd rushing to the subway.

Dad said that when Florence Mills, a popular entertainer in the 1920s, died, the funeral procession had moved down this street and 100,000 people had lined
the sidewalk watching in silence as a low-flying plane released a huge flock of blackbirds.

“They don’t have send-offs like that anymore,” he complained, but I reminded him of James Baldwin’s funeral: how Olatunji’s Drums of Passion had echoed against the vaulted stone of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and how the dancers, dressed in elaborate flowing white pantaloons, pranced and somersaulted down the aisles to the sound of the drums. The ceremony had ended with thousands of candles held aloft and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. That was a send-off that I remembered.

On St. Nicholas Avenue I walked past the Bowery Building apartments where Dinah Washington had lived, then I slowed at Malcolm X Boulevard. I began to peek at darkened doorways, cellar entrances, steps leading down to doors below the stoops of sealed houses. If I spotted James, the police could have what was left of him.

“Hey, hey. Good mornin’, Mali.”

I turned around, pulling Ruffin up short. “Dr. De. Good morning. Sorry I didn’t see you.”

“Yeah well, I see you, and from the look on your face, I don’t know who you after, but I wouldn’t wanna be it. Between you and the horse, I wouldn’t stand a chance …”

Dr. De owned Creative Cuts and was known for correcting the serious mistakes other barbers had made. His technique was so precise that he’d earned the title of doctor of tonsorial arts, and the weekends saw standing-room-only in his place.

I started going to Creative Cuts after the Klip Joint on 116th Street had closed. Between Dr. De and Bertha, the hairdresser I visited for deep conditioning and light gossip, I managed to keep my hair in shape.

Dr. De had been sweeping in front of the shop and paused to lean on his broom. “Look, Mali. I know how you’re feelin’ about Claudine but believe me, time’ll take care of things.”

I did not mention the latest killing but continued to glance up and down the avenue.

“How’s everything else?” he said, changing the subject and eyeing my hair. “Can’t let yourself fall apart, you know. The beat goes on whether we like it or not and we got to keep steppin’ to it.”

I nodded but still could not reply. I was aware that I hadn’t had a haircut in nearly a month. I mean I couldn’t exactly challenge Rapunzel, but Dr. De was responsible for keeping the growth I had somewhat under control. Lately I’d convinced myself that a quick shampoo under the shower was enough to get me through the day. I hadn’t even stopped in to say hello to Bertha at her shop. I told myself that I had too many other things to think about, but the reality was that I couldn’t shake the grief that had wound its way inside, gnawing at me.

I stopped glancing around long enough to focus on Dr. De, a young man with a handsome face and round glasses set on the edge of his thin nose. His short beard and knit kufi gave him a scholarly appearance. Most barbershops had magazines and newspapers lying around but Dr. De had books.

“I’ll be in soon,” I said. “I … have to—get myself together.”

“I hear you. You take it easy. Things’ll work out.”

He probably wanted to step up and hug me but he glanced again at Ruffin and thought better of it. “Things’ll work out,” he said again.

By the time I reached home, the constriction in my throat had not completely disappeared but I was able to breathe a little easier. Alvin was in his room, chatting on the Internet, and I could hear faint notes from Dad in the studio downstairs.

On my night table, the message light was blinking, and Tad’s voice filled the room when I pressed the button.

“Hi, baby. It’s ten o’clock. If you get this message within the hour, I’ll be in Wells Restaurant till noon. Let’s have chicken and waffles or a cup of coffee. Or both. I love you.”

I changed from my sweats and put on a pair of silk slacks and a cotton top. Before I left again, I peeped in on Alvin. He was hunched in concentration in front of his PC, holding the mouse as if it were the key to lost treasure. He glanced up and smiled.

“I know. I know,” he said, holding out his free hand. “Five more minutes, then I log off. Grandpa doesn’t want me to spend the entire summer on this thing. Says it leads to social isolation. But I’m not isolated. I can
connect with people in Africa, Japan, Australia, Germany. All over the world.”

Before I could open my mouth, he knew what I was going to say, knew I agreed with Dad, so he glanced quickly at his watch and cut me off at the pass. “Uh-oh. He’s waitin’ for me now. Bass.”

He turned the machine off. Bass practice for two hours. Dad was teaching him, a day at a time, everything he himself had ever learned about music. I worried that the computer was becoming serious competition and was glad when Dad put his foot down.

“Boy! Unless you’re on dialysis,” he had said, “there’s no reason to be hooked to a machine for so many hours. Two hours is enough for any sane person to sit in front of a blinking screen. I don’t care if you’re able to access the winning lottery number from it. Enough is enough.”

“What are you doing after practice?” I asked, knowing that he couldn’t go back to the computer.

“Basketball. Morris called while you were out. I’m gonna meet him and Clarence at the court.”

 … Thank God. Let him get the exercise. Feel some sweat. Talk and yell and laugh with real people.

I nodded, somewhat mollified, and left the house again.

The rebirth of Wells Restaurant on Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard near 132nd Street added to the number of trend-setting restaurants in the area. Of course, most folks still remembered the original Wells that catered to the 3:00
A
.
M
. crowds when the dance halls—the Savoy, the Rennie, the Audubon, the Park Palace, and Rockland Palace—emptied out and the true night
owls who wouldn’t dream of going home without fueling up on a platter of chicken and waffles.

From its opening in 1938 and before it closed in 1982, Pearl Bailey, Aretha Franklin, Jackie Robinson, Frank Sinatra, and any politician worth a vote had visited Wells at least once.

Joe Wells died in 1987, and in 1992 his widow reopened the place. The dance halls are a memory but the Monday night big-band sessions and Sunday brunches pull a respectable number.

I walked past the bar and into the large dining room where Tad was sitting at a table gazing out at Seventh Avenue. I slid into the seat opposite him and he leaned over to brush his fingers near my ear. His face looked as if he’d just come off a rendezvous with a bad dentist.

“Sorry I had to give you more bad news. How you doin’, baby?”

“Not too good,” I whispered. “Any word on James?”

“No, but I got a call about an hour ago. Buddy of mine works homicide in the Four-Eight. Said there was a similar situation in the Bronx a few years ago. Three murders within a ten-block radius. There was the wire, cereal, no forced entry or prints, but some fibers were picked up from the back of the women’s clothing. They came from a dark brown jogging suit. From there, the case went cold. He’s sending me samples for a matchup. Also, all the murders took place within six weeks and then stopped. The women were killed on Thursdays, early to midevening. Same M.O.”

“So what are you thinking?”

He continued to gaze out of the window, frowning. His eyes were deep-set and his pupils appeared to take on the intense gold of the sunlight spilling into the room. He moved his hand to send his fingers through
his close-cut, silver-edged hair, and I caught myself drifting away from the nightmare and easing into something warm, lush, and licentious.

“I’m thinking,” Tad said, quietly bringing me back, “that either the guy got busted for something else that maybe took him off the street for a while, or he skipped one step ahead of the net and decided to lay low until the urge hit him again.

“We’re loading everything into the computer to check the in and out dates of known violent offenders.”

“Does this let James off the hook?”

“Not hardly. I want to know about—”

A small ring interrupted and he flipped his cell phone. His expression hardened and he rose from the table, snapping the phone off.

“I’ll let you know about James in an hour. Maybe less,” he whispered. “He’s at the precinct. They just brought him in.”

We skipped the chicken and waffles and I returned home to lie across the bed and stare at the play of light and shadows on the ceiling. Dad and Alvin were practicing and bass notes and piano filtered through the quiet. I breathed hard, listening to the pump of my heart, gazing at the rise of my chest, counting a number with each rise. At one hundred, I switched to the alphabet and breathed deeper. Perspiration—or was it tears?—slid down the side of my face, trickling into my ear before settling into a blot on the pillow.

 … Why doesn’t Tad call! It’s been over an hour. A whole hour, dammit!

I closed my eyes and imagined James seated at the far end of the table in the interview room at the precinct. Wiping his face, shaking his head as more sweat
gathered. I saw his stone-broken face and heard the whiny voice afloat on the thick air in the room. “… don’t know nuthin’, ain’t done nuthin’, ain’t seen nuthin’.”

The sound filled me with an unmanageable anger and I found myself wishing I were back in uniform, in that room, on my way to becoming that thing people hate most in a bad cop.

I thought of Argentina and Chile where interrogators broke bones and pulled teeth and tongues and fingernails without passion or purpose. And wondered what Tad and the other detectives were doing. But I knew the video was on, the tape recorder was on. And James was safe, unafraid, and maybe even a little arrogant behind the veil of his noisy whining.

Tad was present, so James was assured, after all was said and done and he’d escaped the death penalty, that he’d walk into state prison with all his toes and fingers and brains intact. If he escaped the death penalty.

I rolled over on the pillow and looked at the circles left by my tears. The circles felt cold and I moved away from them. The ceiling shadows blurred again as the phone rang and sent a current of shock to my arm, then to my chest. But it was the message, not the instrument.