Too Beautiful to Die

by Glenville Lovell

  “Trevor, it’s Blades,” I said when I heard his Barry White voice at the other end.

  “Blades, whaddup, cuz?”

  “Trying to monopolize, you know.”

  “No doubt.” He laughed.

  “What about you?”

  “Same. Still trying to get mine, you know.”

  “Listen, Trevor . . .”

  “Yeah . . . ?”

  “I need a favor. Can I come see you?”

  “Anytime, cuz. I’ll be here.”

  TREVOR WORKED OUT of his duplex in Fort Greene. I parked outside his building on South Portland Avenue and climbed the ten steps to the front door of the refurbished brownstone to ring the buzzer. The heavy oak door opened and a dark chunky man wearing khaki shorts and an unbuttoned Hawaiian-style shirt stood in front of me, smiling.

  He clasped my hand and we hugged.

  “Good to see you, cuz,” he said.

  I laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” he said.

  “Man, I never get over how deep your damn voice is.”

  “Just don’t ever tell me my voice is sexy, okay?”

  We laughed and I followed him inside.

  Coming down the stairs of the duplex was a slender light-skinned young woman with dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail, a large black Labrador trailing her. There was an air of mischief about her smile. She came up to Trevor and slipped comfortably into his arms. Like she knew exactly where the sweet spots were. Then she turned to me.

  “Good to see you again, Blades.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Patricia.”

  “I’m going to take Jordan for his walk, baby,” she said to Trevor. “Be back in an hour.”

  “Pick up a movie on your way back.”

  “Anything special?”

  “Something funny. I don’t care.”

  She slipped a leash on the dog and opened the door and went out.

  “Man, that woman still looks at you like she’s seeing you for the first time. How the fuck do you do that?”

  “That’s why I married her, man. After we’d been going out for a year, she said to me one day: Trevor, every time I look at you I feel like I’m looking at you for the first time.” He started to laugh.

  I didn’t know whether to believe him. “You dogging me, aren’t you?”

  “You so corny.”

  “I’m jealous, that’s all. I’m man enough to admit it.”

  “Let’s go into my office.”

  His large office took up all of the space behind the stairs. Along with computers and electronic equipment, there were bookshelves filled with technical books and magazines. A photo of Trevor’s father, who died the year he graduated from NYU, hung on the wall behind his desk next to a photo of his wife.

  I sat on the wheat-colored sofa. He got behind his desk.

  “What can I do for you, my brother?”

  I put the laptop on his desk. “I need to get into this computer.”

  “You forgot the password?”

  “I never memorized it.”

  “This ain’t your computer, is it?”

  “Technically it is. I found it.”

  “A case of finders keepers?”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Any reason why you want to access the files? We could reformat the hard drive and start fresh.”

  “I’m trying to impress a woman, you know what I mean. There’s some information on here which might help her out.”

  “Cuz, I told you to let Pat hook you up. She got some friends who’re mad fly. And they go crazy for your type. Would eat you for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

  “I think I could get my own women, thank you.”

  “No need to front, cuz. I know you got that light-skin, curly hair shit going on, but you might not know how to use it.”

  “Can you break the password?”

  “Most passwords are a hundred sixty bits. That shit’s impossible to break.”

  “You saying I can’t get into this computer?”

  “That ain’t what I’m saying. There’re ways. What’s the operating system?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You want a joint while I check it out?”

  “I’m trying not to smoke. But I’ll take a beer.”

  “Help yourself. You know where everything is. Bring me a Heineken.”

  I went through the door to my right, past shelves of books and discarded computer parts, and into a tiny kitchenette. Trevor kept beer and snacks in this area for when he worked late. I grabbed two Heinekens from the cooler and made my way back.

  Trevor had already powered up the computer. He had a tensed look on his face.

  “Problem?” I said.

  “It’s running UNIX. The network version. This is high-profile shit. More difficult to bypass than Windows or NT. You telling me the truth about this computer, cuz?”

  “I’m telling you what I know.”

  “Alright, baby. I’ma hit it for you.”

  “Appreciate it, cuz.” I sat down on the couch. “So how long you and Patricia been married now?”

  “Five years.”

  “And you’re as much in love today as when you first met?”

  “More. I’m crazy about that woman. I would kill myself if she left me.”

  “No woman can be worth your life.”

  “Patricia is. You know what it is, man? It’s about faith. That’s the difference. I believe in this woman. Like I believe in God.”

  “You saying that your wife is God?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. My wife is God. I know you think I’m crazy. But I don’t know what God looks like. And I believe God exists. I would give my life for this woman, so why can’t I believe in her like I believe in God? See what I mean? It’s a faith thing. Without faith, there can be no lasting love. I mean, there’s the possibility that she might fuck somebody, or leave me. But I can’t fear that. Because for me, to love her the way I do is the only way to love.”

  “You’re a brave man.”

  “And you’re a cynical fuck. That’s why Anais left you.”

  “Now why you have to dog me out like that?”

  “Am I lying?”

  “I love my wife.”

  “You love Blades Overstreet. Or should I say God Overstreet. Your mother spoiled you, Blades, that’s your problem. And you expect every woman to spoil you.”

  “I’ve been trying to get Anais to come back for months.”

  “Should never have let her get away.”

  “Yeah, yeah, skip that verse.”

  He chuckled. “The chorus is worse. You shoulda parked your black ass in L.A. and got on your knees and kissed her ass until Anais agreed to get on a plane with you.”

  “You don’t know Anais.”

  “This ain’t about Anais. It’s about you. You think you’re too good to beg. Yeah, you went out to L.A. But you still expected Anais to come to you. It’s that arrogant white blood in you.”

  “Anybody ever tell you that you’re racist, man?”

  “Yeah, all the time. So tell me, cuz, who owned this computer?”

  I was tempted to tell him the truth, but decided against it. “Let’s just say the person will never need it again. How long will it take?”

  “I don’t know. About two days.”

  “No sooner?”

  “I gotta hook up two UNIX workstations to your computer and switch the hard drives. Then I gotta copy some files and run a utility to do a recovery from your computer. Then I have to do a reinstall. Then hope that I can use the network password from one of the workstations to bypass the one on your computer. It don’t always work the first time.”

  “I need it as soon as possible, Trevor.” I scribbled my cell-phone number on a pad on his desk. “Call me the minute you get in.”

  I took another long sip of beer. We pounded, hugged, and I left.

  9

  NEXT DAY I walked into the record store after lunch to th
e sweet sound of soca music. The euphoric cadence of the catchy tune and its sexually charged chants filled our tiny store. Face lit up like a Caribbean sunset, Milo was grinding his arthritic hips, such as he had, to the delight of three buxom women-in-waiting. He greeted me with a wave of his hand, beckoning me over.

  “Blades,” he sang. “The new Allison Hinds just come in. It hot, boy. Hot.”

  “Too hot for you, I see. You look like you about to have a stroke, old man.”

  The young girls laughed out loud, covering their mouths in modesty.

  “Boy, is joke you making. Me back still strong. Me wining days ain’t done.”

  “I ain’t worried about your back. I just don’t want you peeing yourself inside the store.”

  “You just jealous ’cause you can’t dance to we music.”

  “You call that dancing? Well, when you recover from your epileptic attack, attend to the customer who just came in.”

  The tall man who’d just walked in looked to be in his early forties. Standing well over six feet, perhaps six-five, he wore tan slacks and a white polo shirt. Box-shaped designer wire-rim glasses gave him a professorial air, and he carried himself in the haughty manner I’d grown accustomed to seeing in many people of Caribbean descent.

  “Somebody named Walter Lahore called,” Milo said as he broke off his manic gyrations and hip thrusts.

  “What’d he say?”

  “He’ll call back.”

  I went into the office and closed the door. Walter Lahore was an addict who used to be one of my informants when I worked undercover. Why was he calling me now? Old habits died hard, I suppose. I picked up the phone to call Precious. She wasn’t home. I left her a message canceling our date that evening. The door opened and Milo’s head bobbed into view.

  “The customer is here to see you.” He made a comical face. “Said he’s a friend of Congresswoman Richardson.”

  “What does he want? A donation?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Tell him I’m busy.”

  “Come on, Blades. Congresswoman Richardson is a very important woman. It wouldn’t hurt to contribute to her campaign.”

  “Out of your salary?”

  “Ha, ha,” he jeered.

  “Send him in.”

  Congresswoman Richardson was a powerful Brooklyn politician originally from the island of Jamaica. Four years ago, after two terms in the City Council, she was elected to represent the tenth Brooklyn district in Congress, becoming the first person born in the English-speaking Caribbean to enter the House.

  Seeking a second term in Congress, she was facing an old opponent in the upcoming primary. Malcolm Colon, an African-American, had held the seat for more than a decade until Congresswoman Richardson defeated him. Their contest had been a nasty brawl from the start, bringing to the surface age-old animosities between Caribbean-Americans and African-Americans. One host at the local black-owned talk-radio station, WBLI, stopped taking calls from listeners because of the anger with which supporters of both camps, sharply divided along national lines, attacked each other on her show.

  The tall stranger entered my office with a painted-on smile and offered his hand.

  “So sorry to drop in on you like this, Mr. Overstreet. Normally I would call first, but my business here is rather urgent.”

  “Good afternoon.” I shook his hand. His palm was cold and soggy. “What can I do for you, Mr. . . . ?”

  “I’m so sorry.” He laughed apologetically. “Aquia. But you can call me Gabriel. May I sit down?”

  “Please.”

  With unusual grace for such a large man, he sat in the only other chair in the room, a black tubular with a wicker bottom. He crossed his legs, and leaning his head on a side, he quickly scoped the room with a trained eye. This guy had spent some time in law enforcement or the armed forces. I could tell by his manner, by the way he took in everything in the room in one skillful sweep of his eyes.

  He rested his hands on the edge of my desk. His shiny fingernails looked recently manicured. Freshly shaven, with a gleaming diamond stud in his right ear, he exuded an air of arrogance, and the expensive cologne with which he polluted my office made his presence slightly less obnoxious than sharing the same room with a camel.

  “You’re something of a hero in our community, Mr. Overstreet. Breaking the blue wall to take on your former employers for their racist attitudes toward black people in this city.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not every day I get to sit down with a man of your courage and integrity.”

  “Are you a reporter?” I wasn’t feeling this guy.

  He grounded his eyes sheepishly. “I’ll get right to the point,” he said, as if he’d read my mind. His even teeth glistened, and he reminded me of a taller Denzel Washington. He had a deep voice, which reverberated with a husky dissonance like a dog barking into a metal bucket. “I’m a very close associate of Congresswoman Richardson, who, as you may know, has rewritten the history books. I understand you’ve been hired by her niece.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Precious. The soap star.”

  “And who did you hear this from?”

  “Come, Mr. Overstreet. Let’s not play games.”

  “One man’s game is another man’s war,” I said.

  He cleared his throat. “Can you tell me why she hired you?”

  “My business is selling music, Mr. Aquia. Now, if you’re not here to talk about that, you’re wasting my time.”

  He paused with a bewildered look before responding. “The congresswoman doesn’t want any campaign surprises.”

  “You’re burrowing into the wrong hole.”

  He took a deep breath, and I got the impression he was calculating his next move. As he twirled the stud in his ear between his thumb and index finger, his mouth curled into a presumptuous smirk. I looked at his pink lips and wondered if he wore lipstick.

  “What else do you do besides run errands for the congresswoman?” I said.

  He winced. I could tell that I’d slighted him. This was a proud man.

  “I’m a businessman, like you. I’m also involved in charities. Trying to make sure our people get the services they need and deserve.”

  “And by our people you mean?”

  He smiled. “Black people.”

  “Where’re you from, Mr. Aquia?”

  “Don’t let the name fool you, Mr. Overstreet. I’m as American as you are. I’m prepared to offer you twenty-five thousand dollars for any information you might find which could affect Congresswoman Richardson’s campaign.”

  “Don’t insult me, Mr. Aquia.”

  “Fifty thousand?”

  “Do I look like I got a hard-on?” I said. His prickly cologne was getting to me.

  He stiffened and pulled his square chin into his fire-hydrant neck. His face sprung that smart-alecky smirk again, and he stood up. He took a business card from his wallet and placed it on my desk, then he opened the door. A happy blast of reggae music bounced past his huge frame.

  “If you change your mind, you can reach me at Mosaic Gallery.”

  He made a starchy retreat. Presuming I’d be impressed by his political connections, he’d come here expecting me to do a jig to his mumbo jumbo like some nincompoop. Could I use a woman of Congresswoman Richardson’s influence in my corner, especially with the legal battle looming between the City and myself? You bet. But when she was in the City Council, she had been one of the Mayor’s lackeys anyway, and I don’t like people taking me for granted. Before he waltzed into my office groomed like a GQ poster boy with his arrogant fuck-you smirk that to some unwitting bozo might indicate the presence of a personality, Gabriel Aquia should’ve done some research on me. I’m not easily bought.

  I picked up the card and looked at it. It had his name in gold embossed lettering. Beneath it the word: President. Beneath that: Mosaic Art Enterprises.

  How could my search for Precious’ father affect the congress
woman’s campaign? Why would they offer me money? Was he dead? Was there some dark family secret behind his disappearance? I remembered reading somewhere that the congresswoman was hosting a pre–Labor Day luncheon in Prospect Park the next day. I resolved to crash the party.

  AROUND SIX THAT evening I stopped at my apartment to change, get Jason’s present and check my messages. There was a message from Walter Lahore. He said it was urgent and mentioned something about Stubby Clapp planning to do me dirty. His speech slurred; he may’ve been jacked. But Walter has never given me bad information. And anytime I heard Stubby Clapp’s name I paid attention. I called the number Walter had left. No one answered. I jotted the number down on a piece of paper and made a mental note to call him later.

  10

  IWAS NAMED for my grandmother, Carmen Blades, a chunky, fast-talking woman who died when I was twelve. All I can remember of her now is the way she outtalked and out-shouted everyone on her block. And her accent: a strange calypso blues dance with the English language, with the few Spanish words she’d picked up in Panama thrown in for counterpoint.

  She had arrived in New York from Panama in 1921, at age fifteen, with her parents, who’d gone there from Barbados to work on the Canal. She married a Jamaican and bore three children. I was born in Park Slope on September 22, 1968, to Madison Blades, the first of the three sons.

  “You were so beautiful. So lovely,” my mother said when I complained about my name. “Besides, your father promised your grandmother he would name his firstborn after her.”

  “But, Ma,” I’d say, “Carmen is a girl’s name.”

  “No, it’s not. What difference does it make, anyway? It’s a lovely name. It’s your grandmother’s name. Don’t you like your grandmother?”

  This is the first time I’m saying this to anybody, but I prayed every day for my grandmother to die; maybe then my mother would change my name.

  My grandmother died and everyone still called me Carmen. After countless fights at school with boys who teased me, and after being sent home from school more times than I could remember for threatening to cut somebody, I decided to run away.