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Authors: Grace F. Edwards

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BOOK: A Toast Before Dying
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She put down her fork and leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes and I was amazed at how drawn her face looked even though she was only thirty-six, just four years older than me.

Kendrick was twenty-six years old and so good-looking that given half the chance he would put Denzel in the shade. He made you want to holler when he parted that fine mouth to smile at you.

Henderson Laws owned the Half-Moon, and Thea and Kendrick had worked behind the bar.

“You say you were there. Did you see what happened?”

“Well, I mean … I kinda saw it and didn’t see it.”

I looked at her. “What does that mean?”

She moved from the chair and toward the counter where the brushes, scissors, hair oils, shampoos, creams, and color charts lay. It was still early, barely 7
A.M.
, but from habit she plugged in the outlet connecting the rack of iron straightening combs. Then she picked up a towel and pointed to an empty chair.

“Listen, I know you don’t need it, short as your hair is, but how about a conditioner. I can talk better when my hands are workin’.”

I shrugged and sat in the chair and she fastened the plastic cape around my shoulder. She applied an egg-and-mayonnaise mixture that felt cold but soon warmed up as her fingers massaged my scalp.

“So start at the beginning. You never go to that bar. How come you were there last night? And what happened to your dress?”

“Well, you know—” Bertha stopped talking when the brass bell over the door jingled and two women came in together. Mid-thirties and well dressed. I had never seen them before and neither had Bertha, judging from her expression. Neither one had an appointment. I glanced at the clock over the mirror.

Seven-fifteen, especially on a Saturday, wasn’t too early for a “walk-in,” as the beauticians called them. Most small operators—unlike the major salons—usually accommodated walk-ins, hoping they’d return if they were satisfied with the work.

These women seemed anxious, and after a minute or so I wondered if they were here to find out about Kendrick. Or had they been in the bar, part of the night crowd who decided to drop in for the real deal to take back to their friends.

The taller woman had medium-brown skin with longish hair pulled back in a ponytail held by a wide barrette. The other woman was dark and pretty with wide eyes under a close feathered haircut.

Bertha did not hesitate: “Good morning. What
can I do for you?” She placed a plastic cap on my head, not at all gently, and the mirror reflected her annoyance. She was civil but her straight face let them know that today she wasn’t ready to handle anything except dead presidents—as many Jacksons as possible and preferably a few Grants.

The two women glanced at each other and it became clear that they were not together. They had simply walked in the door at the same time. The ponytail, the taller of the two, spoke first and wasted no words.

“I want to know why your brother killed Thea.”

The silence lasted longer than I expected. It was broken by Bertha’s tight whisper. “What did you … say?”

“You heard me. I want to know—” Before the woman got the rest of the words out, Bertha was down from the stool, scooping up a blazing straightening comb from the rack.

“Raise up, bitch! My brother didn’t kill nobody!”

Bertha was less than five feet three and Miss Ponytail was as tall as I am, five nine. But what Bertha might have lacked in height she made up for in volume.

“You gonna eat them words or eat this heat!”

The other woman, the feather-cut, seemed horrified and backed toward the door but did not open it.

“Wait! Wait a minute,” I said, stepping in front of Bertha to face the woman. “Who are you? What do you mean coming in here with a question like that?”

The woman looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“I have a right. Thea … was my friend.”

Her eyes were wide with anger and I could see the tears threatening to spill over.

“Look, you’re upset. Why don’t you sit down. Then we can talk. We can—”

“Aw no!” Bertha said, pushing me aside. “Bitch come in with attitude and you makin’ her at home? Fuck her. Let her get her ass on out my door. Right now!”

“Bert, please. Wait a minute. Let me—”

“Let you nuthin’! Whose side you on anyway?”

A red tinge had spread across her brown face, and I knew the last thing she needed was a stroke.

“Okay. Okay. She’s leaving.”

I intended to walk outside with the woman, get a phone number, and contact her later. Any information she had might help, but right now Bertha was too angry to see it.

“So what you waitin’ for, bitch? Get the fuck on out!”

“Don’t you dare speak to me like that!”

“I’ll dare the devil if he come on wrong. Now don’t you like it, don’t you take it. Here’s my shoulder, come on shake it!”

I stepped out of the way. Scars have a habit of staying with me, so I wasn’t about to connect with Bertha’s hot comb. The decibel level was so high that no one heard the bell jingle.

Framed in the doorway was a third woman and we all turned to stare.

“Pardon me. Which one of you is Kendrick’s sister?”

The four of us already crowded in the small space now looked at this new person. Clearly she had not come to have her hair done. Even under the deep crown of her straw hat, we could see the pale blond strands pushed to the side. Her thin shoulders were held back as if by a brace and she carried a large straw bag loosely in the crook of her arm. Her blue eyes took in the scene and she seemed undecided about stepping any farther into the shop.

“Who are you?” I asked.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, long enough for me to know a lie was coming.

“I’m … Teddi Lovette. His agent.”

She tried to smile but her voice shook.

“Come in,” I said, even though I knew she was lying.

Bert still had not shifted gears sufficiently to open her mouth without screaming, and Miss Ponytail used the moment to head out.

“Well, okay,” I said to no one in particular and followed like a hostess seeing a guest to the door.

Once outside, I caught Miss Ponytail’s arm.

“Just a minute. I want to apologize. Bert’s upset.”

“So am I,” the woman said and continued to walk. My legs are long but the woman moved so fast I had a problem keeping up. I trotted beside her, feeling the egg-and-mayo mixture beginning to ooze down my neck from under the cap.

“Listen, I knew Thea also. She was a sweet person and what happened to her was terrible. An awful thing.”

We reached the corner and the light changed.

“I know you’re too upset to talk right now, but could I call you?”

She fumbled in her purse. When she finally extended her card, I snatched it before the light changed again.

“How well did you know Thea?” she asked.

I stood there, praying for the light to change once more and struggling for an answer that would sound at least half-truthful.

She nodded her head. “Because you must be mistaken. Thea … was not a sweet person.”

Then she stepped off the curb, crossed Eighth Avenue, and opened the door to a silver Lexus. I rushed back to the shop but when I entered, Bert’s hot comb was resting in the rack and Blondie and the dark pretty woman had both disappeared.

chapter two

I
looked around, half-expecting to find them hiding behind the coatrack.

“What happened?”

“Nuthin,’ ” Bert said, extending a card. “This is from Blondie. She asked me about Thea. Wants me to call her when I feel-up to talkin’. Then she left. The other one musta been scared to death ’cause she backed out before this one did. Moved like somebody was chasin’ her. Don’t know who she was.”

“Damn.” I sat down as Bert walked to the sink and filled the small coffeepot again. This was going to be a three-pot day plus aspirin. I studied the card: “Teddi Lovette. Voice Technique and Acting Coach.”

“I thought she said she was his agent?”

“Well, who knows what the hell she is.” Bert shrugged. “Probably like Hallmark and got a card for every occasion. I knew she was bogus when she stepped
in. Sure is a surprise though. I didn’t know my brother was dippin’ his biscuit in cream.”

“There you go jumping to conclusions. We don’t know what the connection is.”

“You right, Mali. I should’na said that. Least till you can call and get the real deal.”

I looked at her. “Me? You want me to call?”

“Well, you bein’ an ex-cop ’n’ all, I figured you’d know the kinda stuff to ask.”

I did not answer. Ex-cop. I’m an ordinary citizen now with a three-year-old lawsuit pending against the NYPD for being fired.

I sat in the chair and took the plastic cap off my head. The egg-and-mayo combo had congealed into meringue-like peaks and I wondered if I had any hair left under there. Bert saw my expression.

“Don’t worry. That ain’t no chemical job you lookin’ at. That’s all natural.”

So is nightshade, I wanted to say, but Bert was in no mood for back talk.

“Let’s get it washed out and I can finish tellin’ you. See, I don’t know what got me outta the house last night. Maybe it’s this damn July heat and my AC ain’t kickin’ too tough. Maybe I was tired of sleazebag Geraldo gettin’ off on O.J. And tired of listenin’ to Jenny Jones and the same old stupid shit about whose white mama done stole which daughter’s damn dumb black boyfriend. I mean, where do they get those fools from?”

Her voice sounded as if she’d been running and could not catch her breath. I nodded and leaned back in
the chair. She rinsed my hair and lathered on something else.

“So I got dressed and went out. ’Cause you know the bar’s not that far away. And Kendrick had sounded so angry when he called, like he had just got some more bad news or somethin’. I figured I’d sit with him till maybe he cooled down some.”

“Angry about what?” I asked.

I knew Kendrick was working hard to break into acting and tended bar at the Half-Moon between bit parts, fashion shows, and casting calls. He had recently signed a major modeling contract and was about to do a show in Milan.

“I didn’t know he had time to feel angry,” I said.

“C’mon, Mali, you know that every good-bye ain’t gone even though he and Thea broke up a couple of months ago. He was still upset about it and they’d had words earlier in the bar. That’s why he called me. To talk.

“I knew she wasn’t right for him, but what could I say? Imagine tellin’ somebody that you tired of ’im. That’s what she said. Not ‘I don’t love you no more’ or ‘I met somebody else’ but ‘I’m tired of you.’ Just like that. I knew that girl from way back and peeped her card from the jump.

“From a long time ago, when she first started enterin’ them beauty contests, she was stuck on herself. First it was her wigs, then the weaves—girl bought more hair than Diana Ross. And you know Thea sure didn’t need all that. She already had fine soft hair—what we used to call ‘good stuff’ back in the day. But
she wanted her strands even straighter. And the straighter it got, the madder she got, for some reason … till finally I had to tell her I wasn’t puttin’ no more heat to her scalp. I mean I need a dollar but I got my ethics.”

“Not to mention your insurance premiums,” I reminded her.

“That too. Then one day, she up and cut her hair as short as yours and didn’t need me no more. But I decided to stay friends with her ’cause by then Kendrick’s nose was wide open. She had him eatin’ outta her hand and I meant to see that the fool didn’t choke.”

I nodded. Kendrick stopped by every day. When I was here, I was especially glad to see him, because two years ago, as busy as he was, he had taken time out to help me with my nephew, Alvin. Knicks games, fishing trips, movies, in-line skating in Central Park, swimming at the Y. Things that helped the boy cope with the death of his mother and father.

Kendrick had stepped in and now was like part of my family and I loved him. Thank God Alvin was in St. Croix and not here to see this mess. But he’d be back in August. I wondered what I could do before he returned.

I looked around the shop as Bertha removed the towel. Of course I didn’t need to visit a salon to have my two inches of hair taken care of, but the deep conditioner and the scalp and neck massage were what kept me
coming here. That and my long friendship with Miss Bertha.

I grew up not too far from the shop—on Strivers Row. Miss Bert—I call her that sometimes even though there’s not much difference in our ages—grew up uptown near the Polo Ground Houses where her daddy’s two-chair barbershop fronted his numbers enterprise.

Years ago he had hit big and gave his daughter five thousand dollars the day she finished the Poro School of Beauty Culture. “Buy that Cadillac you wanted,” he’d said.

Instead she’d bought an empty, rundown two-story building on Frederick Douglass Boulevard and transformed it into a cozy beauty shop with two rental apartments upstairs, one in which she now lived.

I had met her when I was eighteen and my father had finally persuaded me to impose some order on my wild, thick hairstyle. I’d been coming here so long that now I usually strolled in without an appointment, sometimes just to sit and listen to the latest talk—who hit a number, who died, and who black folks oughtta vote for the next time around.

It was a two-operator shop, and since the other beautician had left to open her own place, Bertha worked alone.

I sat in the chair, listening to Bertha and wanting to see Kendrick poke his handsome face in the door and wave to me, but that wasn’t going to happen. What in the world was I going to tell Alvin when I called him?

“I don’t know how it all happened,” she continued. “And so quick. I was right there. I heard the shot. Seen that flash from the gun. Now Thea’s gone and my brother’s in jail. I still can’t believe this.”

The few times I had stopped in the bar, Thea had not been there, but I had seen her here, in this very chair. She was tall and thin with deep-set eyes and skin the color of pale parchment. She was also a singer and Dad had once said that her figure reminded him of a taller version of Vanessa Williams but that her voice had an unalterably sad quality—like an old-time blues singer at an after-hours session nursing a glass of Scotch.

BOOK: A Toast Before Dying
12.45Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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