A Toast Before Dying (11 page)

I watched her hands now, moving over her customer’s head, shaping each wave.

“What goes around, comes around,” she said.

The woman sitting next to me closed the
Black Hair
magazine and said, “They shoulda named that place the Bad-Luck Bar for all the strange shit that went down in there … I’m talkin’ grimy stuff!”

“Like what?” I asked.

She shrugged and looked at me as though I were a visitor from out of town. “That used to be my chill spot once upon a time, but like I said, some funny stuff was happenin’ …”

“Like what?” I asked again.

She raised her cup to her mouth, trying to make
up her mind whether I was friend or foe. Bert said nothing and continued to style the girl’s hair. The hum of the dryer competed with the drone of the air conditioner over the door. Outside, a jeep with stadium-size speakers pulled up to the traffic light. A sonic boom passed through the shop and the coffee cup vibrated in my hand. The light changed, the jeep’s presence faded, and the electronic drones dominated again.

Finally, the woman yawned, and the chance to be the first with the news got the better of her. She leaned forward and her voice, like an invisible hand, drew us into an imperceptible circle.

“Everybody knows that place, but not everybody knows how Henderson Laws is. Was. I had a cousin we used to call Wild Thing. Young boy, pretty, and lived down to his name. Ended up HIV and went out on the A-train three months ago.

“Last summer, he spotted me in the Moon and pulled my coat. Said, ‘Girlfriend, ain’t no need chillin’ here. If you ain’t got no lollipop need workin’, you wastin’ your good time …’

“And you know, for the longest rime I hadn’t been able to figure why I couldn’t get not one a those brothers to say hello, let alone buy me a glass of water. But once Wild Thing hipped me to the program, I peeped what was goin’ down. I mean it wasn’t exactly an out-’n’-out scene, you know what I’m sayin’. There was a lotta other folks droppin’ in, but Laws kinda set the tone, you know … so I stopped hangin’, ’cause I couldn’t see past them undercover lovers he had strollin’ in.…”

I looked at Bertha in the mirror, watched her bland expression as she continued to frame the face of the young woman in the chair. She glanced up and saw me watching, but her expression did not change and her hands did not stop moving. So far, she had not said a word.

“My cousin was part of that stroll,” the woman continued, rolling up the magazine and tapping her palm. “And I know for a fact that a lot more gonna come out before all is said and done. I mean, talk had it that Laws was workin’ it when he went.”

“Who said?”

“Street said.” She smiled, putting the magazine down and picking up the coffee cup again. It had to be cold by now but she sipped anyway, mostly for effect, I thought. “Street said,” she repeated.

It was like the end of debating a point in religion or politics when someone declares, “The Bible said,” or “The Constitution said.” In some circles, “Street said” carried the same weight.

When no one broke the silence, I finally spoke: “I heard Laws was married.”

She rolled her eyes as if that were the joke of the year: “Coupla times. Had an assembly line, three of which he managed to lend his name to at one time or other. But everybody knows he was pullin’ shade.”

“He was frontin’?”

“Frontin’ and backin’ and everything else, and as an extra bonus he was knockin’ his star barmaid …”

“Thea?”

“That’s the one. But through it all, he loved that
other stuff too. Seem like he couldn’t pass up nothin’ with a hole in it. Too bad he didn’t stick to doughnuts.”

At the mention of Thea’s name, Bert’s hand froze, then a second later resumed combing the girl’s hair.

“Looks is deceivin’,” Bert said quietly. “Looks is damn sure deceivin’.”

I had expected her to say more, but instead she snatched a towel and wiped the sweat from her palms. Then she adjusted the plastic cape on the girl’s shoulders and motioned her toward the other hair dryer. The magazine woman took her place in the chair and pointed to a picture on the wall.

“That’s what I want,” she said.

I saw Bert’s expression. “Let’s get your hair washed.” She smiled. “Then after the conditioner is in for a few minutes, we can look and see what’s what …”

Which meant that an alternative was already in the works. She positioned the woman’s head over the basin and turned on the faucet. I heard her voice above the spray.

“So you say Laws was that busy. And even with Thea. I never woulda guessed it. Not in a million years. Used to drop by there once in while myself, you know.”

I did not look at Bert but knew that a whole detailed history that Bert would share with me later would be extracted from the woman before the shampoo was rinsed out. I drained my cup and headed for the door.

Traffic had picked up and Eighth Avenue was clogged. The exhaust mingled with the heat radiating
from the pavement, and standing under the shop’s wide awning did not help. Five minutes later, I was still standing there when the door opened again and Bert stepped out to stand beside me.

“I got a conditioner on her now. Good for a few more minutes of gossip.”

I nodded and said nothing. Finally, she said, “This heat gonna kill somebody.” She watched the cars and continued. “Lotta old people who don’t have no air-conditionin’.”

I still waited.

Then: “Who you think did Laws in?”

“I have no idea,” I said, looking at her.

“What do you think of that story about Thea?”

Before I could answer, she went on. “Damn! What was goin’ on in that girl’s brain? She had Kendrick’s nose open wide enough to grow a watermelon in; Michaels was actin’ like she was the last bit of booty on the planet; and she was stickin’ it to Laws, too? I mean, it’s almost like she’d fuck a cactus if the wind blew one her way.”

I still said nothing. As wild as that scene was, I couldn’t imagine Thea being involved with Laws—not after Kendrick, who was so damn handsome you broke into a sweat just looking at him. I simply didn’t believe it.

“Think they’ll find who put Laws out?” Bert asked, still gazing down the avenue. The sun was in her eyes and she was sweating heavily.

D
ad was practicing downstairs when I came in. I went up to my room, stepped out of my sweaty clothes, and filled the tub with rose-scented bubble bath. What I really needed was to run naked at midnight into a crashing surf and then float on my back gazing up at the stars above the St. Croix landscape.

But that had been last summer, with Tad waiting on the beach, laughing as I waded back to him, telling me how crazy I was and how much he loved my craziness.

I needed to feel wet sand under my feet again, rubbing the stony calluses away from my sole. Or soul. Or both.

Right now, the man was as inaccessible as St. Croix. And there was no surf here in the city, so the warm bath and a Tina Turner CD would have to do.

I slid into the tub and rested my head back, feeling
the bubbles dissolve against my skin. I closed my eyes and naturally the phone rang, and naturally I reached for it quickly, hoping it would be Tad calling to say that he was on his way home, or better yet that he was already home and waiting for me. Dreams are like that.

It was Teddi Lovette finally getting around to doing what she’d promised to do several days ago.

“Mali. Sorry I couldn’t get to you before now. We’ve been rehearsing pretty hard and—”

“Listen,” I said, cutting into her apology. “I’d like to know what’s going on. Why that thing about my joining the group? Why am I all of a sudden living in Brooklyn? What’s going on?”

“Look, Mali. I’m sorry I had to do that to you. My mother—well, I’m having a problem with her. Or I should say, she has a problem.”

“Let me guess. Anything to do with black folks?”

There was a pause in which I heard the intake of breath and then a light sigh. “I can’t answer that.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t answer because I don’t
have
an answer. Not yet, anyway.”

“Does your mother know about Kendrick?”

“She met him, yes.”

“Does she know … how you feel about him?”

“Well, I …”

“Come on, Teddi. It’s all over your face. If I can see it, surely Mom can see it. The lady’s no fool.”

There was another silence and I knew I had hit a nerve.

“Well, I … Listen: this isn’t why I called you. I
don’t want to discuss my feelings for Kendrick. Not now, at least. I need to know something about Thea.”

“But Thea’s dead. She’s gone. How can she—”

“I still need some information.” There was another pause before she said, “I’ll pay you to deliver it.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

“I can’t tell you that. The only thing I can say right now is that I need to know as much about her as I can.”

“Like what?”

“Personal stuff. History. Things like that.”

“What do you intend to do with it?”

“Nothing that’ll hurt her, I can promise you that.”

“How can you hurt a dead person?”

She didn’t answer, but said, “I can also promise you twenty thousand if you get it for me.”

“Dollars?”

“If that’s not enough, let me know. I know it’s going to be hard. Folks will say, ‘Let the dead bury the dead,’ but I need this.”

“Damn.”

“Will you do it, Mali? I hate to put a dollar amount on something like this, but it’s the only way I know to help Kendrick.”

“Why don’t you get a private investigator?”

“I don’t trust them. Sometimes they take your money and then go over to the other side.”

“What other side?”

She did not answer again, but went on as if I’d never spoken. “I trust you, though.”

“Me? Bullshit.”

“Whatever you say, but you played along in front of my mother, and from that I knew I could trust you.”

“Well, that act was as far as I’m willing to go.”

“Listen, twenty thousand is a drop in the bucket for me, and—”

“Tell me something,” I said, cutting her off again. “What would Mrs. Lovette say when she finds out her daughter is squandering all of those dollars on a dead black barmaid?”

“My mother—and her name is not Lovette—has nothing to do with my money, thank God. I have my own. A lot of it. And I’m not spending it on a dead black barmaid, but on a live black actor. Will you help me?”

I thought about what twenty thousand could do. Cover my tuition, a new wardrobe, maybe get to kick sand again on that beach in St. Croix.

“Listen,” I said, “twenty thousand is a lot for what you’re asking. I’ll see what I can do if you send a check to Elizabeth Jackson, Kendrick’s attorney, she’s—”

Maybe it was the connection or the static or something, but I thought I heard her say, “I’ve already done that. I’m paying Kendrick’s legal fees.”

“Shit.”

“Mali, I believe he’s innocent. And you believe he’s innocent just as I do. There’s something in that girl’s background that’ll prove it.”

“Like what?”

“Like if I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you to find out. I’m counting on you.”

The phone went dead and I slid back into the tub. All the bubbles had disappeared and I ran more hot water until I felt comfortable again. Then I reset the CD and Tina’s voice filled the room. I hummed along to the sound of “Undercover Agent for the Blues.”

I
spent the next day, Saturday, enlarging the file I’d started the day after Kendrick had been arrested. I had amassed a fair amount of information: Thea’s obit, the pageant, the funeral program, her pregnancy. On Kendrick’s card, I noted his feelings (or lack thereof) regarding Teddi and cross-referenced her card with a check mark. Why would she want information on Thea? Would it help Kendrick or help her? I also looked at Flyin’ Home’s card again. I needed to find him. We needed to talk.

That evening, sitting in my room with all this stuff clogging my brain didn’t help my mood. The house was empty and my footsteps echoed as I moved through the living room. Dad had a gig at the Club Harlem and I needed to be around people. Twenty minutes later, I stepped out of the shower and into the black dress he and I had fought over the day of the funeral.

Looking in the mirror, I had to admit that the
dress looked better in a midnight fog than at a high-noon function. Still, it would have to do until I got a real job or finished school. Or made up my mind to help Teddi. Twenty thousand dollars. I had visions of paying off my entire tuition bill. And seeing Dad smile when I finally received my doctorate.

“
Benin and her husband are gone. It’s you and me and Alvin now, and we gotta keep on keepin’ on
.…”

He had said this one morning when he’d come in and found me sitting on the sofa, gazing at Benin’s picture on the mantel. She had nearly completed her master’s studies in English literature. Her husband, William, had been a physician. But they’d gone on vacation and died in a hiking accident. Dad and I are raising their son. And holding on to memories.

Dad had made no secret of his disappointment when I had detoured from social work to join the NYPD. In fact, he had been mortified. And later he couldn’t stop smiling when I’d gotten fired for hitting that cop.

“
Now perhaps you’ll do what you were meant to do.
”

So here I was, thirty-two and still facing the books. Still chasing another degree.

The black silk high-heel pumps that killed me on the rare occasions I was foolish enough to put them on seemed to have shrunk even more. But I loved them the way a woman might love the wrong man: ignore the bad construction and end up crippled or scarred for life. I got into them, practiced five minutes of biofeedback
for foot pain, and willed myself to walk to the door. Outside, I’d hail a cab before I got to the curb. In the club, I planned to sit until dawn.

When the Club Harlem had opened the previous year, there had been great fanfare because for a while it was the only jazz supper club north of 110th Street. A few months later, placards began appearing in the windows of other restaurants up and down Seventh, Eighth, Lenox, and Fifth Avenues offering gospel breakfasts, jazz brunches, and West African high-life music with dinner.