Too Beautiful to Die

by Glenville Lovell

  For a fleeting moment a light flared in my skull, as if some prehistoric memory of the origin of man had suddenly been implanted in my brain. The alcohol-induced light turned gray, then it dulled to nothing.

  I ran after the delivery boy as he wheeled away. Looking scared, he hopped off the bicycle.

  “Do you speak English?”

  He nodded.

  “How much for the bike?”

  “Qué?”

  “Your bike. I want to buy it. How much?”

  He hesitated, looking at me as if my head was full of snakes. I reached into my pocket and pulled out sixty dollars.

  “Maricón,” he muttered.

  He grabbed the money, jumped on his bike and sped off. I limped after him cursing, too intoxicated to run, finally giving up at the intersection of Bond and Sackett, about two and a half blocks away.

  Exhausted, I sank down onto the sidewalk. There was no rational explanation for what I’d just done. What was I going to do with that rusted piece of shit? I didn’t want to go back to face Precious’ blood. I didn’t want to have to clean it up.

  I opened the plastic bag and took out the white bowl of shrimp. The rice came in a thin cardboard box. They’d sent white rice instead of brown. I thought for sure I’d ordered brown. I hated when they did that. The shrimp were overdone and the sauce too oily and bitter. After a few mouthfuls I threw the rest in the street.

  As I walked back, the warm night air touched my face and I experienced a surge of energy. I thought of the light that had just flashed in my head. Was I about to lose it?

  I stood outside my apartment building in despair about going back inside. I didn’t want to talk to my mother. I couldn’t talk about Jason now. I was too angry. Precious’ death made me angrier with Jason for letting us down once again. I was grieving for Precious, but it felt as if I should really be grieving my brother. Without our will, we are no more than a lump of coal or a block of rusted metal, like the delivery boy’s bike. My brother, shooting heroin or cocaine into his veins, or shoving his dick into some bloated crackhead, was as dead as Precious lying in the morgue because he’d surrendered his will. I hated my brother for being so weak. At least Precious had fought to stay alive. But as much as I wanted to, I still could not hate Jason.

  I started to walk again. Moving like the dead in a horror flick, oblivious of the world around me, I headed up Court Street. Night buzzed around me. Lost in the jungle of my own pain, I saw flashes of light and blurred images dancing around, but nothing registered in my mind. I didn’t know where I was going and I didn’t care.

  Somehow I managed to cross Atlantic Avenue against the light without getting squashed by cars and trucks thundering in both directions. Meandering through the tiny streets of Brooklyn Heights, I found my way to the Esplanade.

  Filling the night like the roar of a stampede, the rumble of traffic on the BQE seemed to bring me to life. I stood leaning on the rail, dazzled by Manhattan’s million lights reflecting off the shiny black face of the East River. Behind me, on the terrace of one of the apartments, a group of people was howling to Frank Sinatra tunes. They sounded drunk. They sounded happy.

  I left the Esplanade when a young couple chose the bench behind me to get their freak on. My wandering became aimless again. I started down the clean cobblestones of Hicks Street in the direction of Atlantic Avenue. Gardens thick with shrubs and flowers drifted by, and the fragrant flowers of the leafy linden trees hung in long-stalked clusters, floating soft sweet aromas in every direction. I paused to inhale the rich, haunting scent, wishing I was far away in the country.

  A silent squadron of mosquitoes swooped down from the branches above my head. After their first sortie, in which I sustained one sting, I moved briskly on. I’d just crossed Atlantic Avenue when a black sedan with tinted windows pulled up ahead of me. As I drew abreast, one man in a dark-colored sweat suit jumped out and stuck a gun in my face before I could react.

  “Get in the car,” he whispered coarsely.

  Surprise and panic stopped me dead. But only for an instant. My street-cop instincts immediately took over. The man was very close to me. Too close. A bob of my head was enough to distract him. I slammed my hand down hard on the gun. Off-balance, the gunman tried to aim. I crashed the heel of my hand into his neck and snapped my knee viciously into his groin. He crumpled to the ground.

  Another man jumped from the car. I turned to run. His voice barked behind me.

  “Easy muthafucker, or you’re dead!”

  I froze with my hands in the air.

  He came up behind me and pushed me into the metal grating of a closed deli, jamming his gun into my neck. The cold shock of steel against my ear sent my body limp. My eyes and head were throbbing, but I tried to relax. His body was pressed close to mine. He stunk of pizza and beer.

  “You think you’re Jackie Chan, eh Blades?” Pizza-Breath taunted. “Well Jackie Chan this muthafucker.”

  He jammed his knee wickedly into the small of my back. My chest slammed into the corrugated gate, blasting the air from my lungs. Then he grabbed my head and smashed it into the metal gate.

  I was dazed but conscious. My mind struggled to focus. He knew my name. Was this a robbery? Who the hell was this cheese-guzzling scab?

  “Get in the fucking car,” he hissed.

  Like a mosquito’s sting his spit splattered against the back of my neck. Desperate for breath, I inhaled deeply.

  “You heard me, muthafucker?”

  “Who’re you?” I managed to whisper.

  “Wrong move. Simon didn’t say you could speak.”

  He cracked my head against the fence again.

  “Okay, okay,” I cried.

  Holding the gun under my chin, he led me to the car. As if it was on a timer, the back door opened the moment we got there. I was shoved inside. Stubby was coiled in the far corner, his face dark and swollen from our last encounter.

  Stubby spat in my face. To retaliate then would’ve been stupid. I casually wiped the spit from my forehead, staring at him as he unwrapped a fat cigar.

  He sniffed the stogie, rolled it under his nose then bit the tip and spat it in my face. “You’re a pussy, Blades, but not good enough to get one of my cigars.”

  He laughed at his own joke. Fear was beginning to crawl up my bowels. Of all the nights to get drunk, I had to pick one when Stubby came crawling out of his sewer looking for me. In Stubby’s eyes burned a dark fire, a look I’d seen humble many an overconfident dealer.

  “You think I’m going to kill you, don’t you, Blades?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He sniffed the cigar again, more slowly this time. “Are you scared?”

  “Takes more than your ugly grill to scare me,” I said.

  “You should be scared, muthafucker. I could crush you with my bare hands. But I have something special planned for you.”

  He began bobbing his head, nodding to himself. He addressed Pizza-Breath, who I now recognized in the light as the man with the gargoyle ears. “Where’s Noodles?”

  “Left that nigga rolling around like a break-dancer. Blades got him in the nuts.”

  Stubby put the cigar in his mouth. “You’re lucky he didn’t fuck you up too. I taught this nigga everything he know, then this muthafucker turned around and tried to shake his dick in my face.”

  “Let’s be truthful here,” I said. “I pissed on you.”

  Stubby snorted. “That you did, Blades.”

  “Let me shoot him, Stubby.”

  “Shut up. Go get Noodles.”

  Pizza-Breath got out cursing.

  “I wouldn’t think of running if I were you, Blades. Simon ain’t too fucking bright. Shooting a man is easier for him than eating pussy.”

  Stubby took a brown paper bag off the floor and reached inside. He pulled out a bar of soap.

  “You know what this is, Blades?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Answer me, nigga!”

  I refused. He slapped me
across the face. The blow caused my head to swivel around so hard I fell back against the seat.

  “See this bar of soap, Blades?” He tried to laugh but a snarl came out. “I’ve been carrying this around for six muthafucking years. I knew it was you who set me up, muthafucker. And I might’ve forgiven you. I understood how you felt. Stupid as it was, I understood your crusade. You never understood the problem wasn’t the dealers but weak muthafuckers like your brother. You were out to save the world. But I hold you responsible for what happened to me in the joint. One evening I was in the shower. A bunch of cocksucking road runners I’d sent up jumped me. Caught me off guard and knocked me around. I was half conscious when they shoved a bar of soap up my ass. Then they took turns raping me. Gave me the muthafucking virus. That’s right, Blades, I got the virus. I got it in jail. I got it because of you. You understand what I’m saying, bitch? I can’t forgive you for that. I’ve taken care of each one of those muthafuckers that jumped me. When I got out of jail I just wanted to kill you. But that seemed too easy. I’m glad I waited.”

  Simon returned with Noodles, still writhing in pain. They got into the front seats, Simon behind the wheel.

  “Sad what happened to your girlfriend, ain’t it, Blades?” Stubby said.

  “Did you kill her?”

  He started to laugh. It was a heavy laugh, lazy, like sludge going through a sewer. “Give me a light, Simon.”

  Dark face beaming as if he was about to get laid, Simon whipped out a lighter and lit up the car yellow. I could see Stubby’s face clearly now, round, sweaty and swollen. He puffed twice and the cigar glowed. His swollen lips twisted in a freakish grin as he blew smoke in my direction.

  “Did I kill her?” His laughter filled the car like a cannon blast. I could see his whole body shaking from his mighty heaves.

  “Why, I thought you killed her, Blades.” His chest rattled with laughter again. This time Simon joined in, and Noodles, whimpering like a spayed puppy, did soprano on their a-capella performance.

  “Just about now the cops are pulling a thirty-eight out of a Dumpster on Ninth Street. Guess who it’s registered to, Blades? After they run ballistics they’ll find it’s the same gun you used to chop the Fed. By tomorrow every cop in the city will be jerking off on your picture.”

  I filled my lungs with air. This was it. Stubby had busted his nut. I kept reminding myself to breathe and relax. This wasn’t the time to go crazy. Let Stubby settle into his after-climax glow.

  “I’d like to feed your brains to my dog, myself, Blades. But I’m gonna give you a choice. Which is more than you gave me. I want the laptop you boosted from that apartment. Give it to me and I’ll let you go. You can take your chances with the Mayor’s boys. Refuse and go straight to dead.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Is that your final answer?” He puffed a few times, filling the car with thick gray smoke.

  I didn’t reply. He slapped my face.

  “Answer me when I talk to you,” he screamed.

  Hot tangy breath rushed out of his mouth. I kept my face turned to avoid my eyelashes getting singed by the smell coming up from his bowels.

  “Can I make a suggestion?” I said.

  “Bitch, the only thing I wanna hear from you is where that laptop is.”

  “I’d recommend a good dentist. Your mouth needs scrubbing. And a good laxative to cleanse you, my friend.”

  Stubby’s eyes wobbled in their sockets. Then he grinned, showing new white dentures. “Simon, let’s take this muthafucker to the morgue.”

  Simon started to cackle, head bopping up and down with glee.

  “Shut the fuck up and drive the car, you idiot,” Stubby growled.

  Simon ceased his antics immediately, like a wound-up toy that had suddenly run out of batteries. The car lurched forward, then gradually, evenly picked up speed. Stubby kept looking at me as if expecting to see fear in my eyes. I leaned against the seat, absorbing his curiosity.

  I knew the door on my side wasn’t locked. I had already formed a plan of escape in my mind. The car turned down Kane and stopped at the light on Court Street. I looked out the window. At the cinema on Court Street a large crowd was gathered outside. I don’t know what was playing, but the line snaked down the block.

  I waited, my eyes directly on Stubby’s face. My stomach churned with fear, but I tried to keep it out of my eyes. No way would I give him that satisfaction. The car turned right onto Court Street. Exactly what I was hoping for. As we approached the cinema, I opened the door and threw myself onto the sidewalk. I landed hard on my shoulder and rolled to a stop.

  The shocked crowd shrank back. I heard the squeal of tires as the Lincoln screeched to a halt. I was already on my feet. I rushed into the crowd of moviegoers. I didn’t see, but someone must’ve gotten out of the car with a gun because the crowd began to scamper. Women were screaming around me.

  I raced through the crowd and away into the night.

  19

  IOWNED TWO guns: anine-millimeter Glockautoand a .38 semi. As soon as I reached my apartment I called my old friend, Noah Plantier, who kept both of them. Once a cop himself, Noah had been in a theater group with my father back in the seventies. Noah was now a theater professor at City College, where I’d taken a few classes.

  His phone rang a number of times before the machine came on. I left my mobile number and hung up. If Stubby wasn’t bluffing about this gun—and my gut told me he wasn’t—I wanted to know if it was the gun Noah had been holding or another gun someone had managed to register in my name. With the kind of identification required and background checks done by the authorities, it wasn’t easy to register a gun under someone else’s name. But it was something Stubby could pull off. In any event, I was taking no chances staying in the apartment tonight.

  I made two more calls: one to Tim Samuel, the other to Trevor Lester. Neither was home. I was annoyed that I hadn’t heard from Trevor. There might be something on that computer to help me out of this mess. I wondered how Stubby had found out about the computer. T-J perhaps? That meant she was probably one of his girls. And her presence in that apartment across from the FBI agent might not have been a coincidence. Why was Stubby after that laptop? And if, as he hinted, getting revenge on me was merely opportunistic on his part, what then was the primary motive behind these murders?

  Changing into black jeans and a gray short-sleeve shirt, I grabbed my car keys and whatever money I had stashed away inside my Bible, and left the apartment.

  It was minutes to midnight when I phoned Milo from the car.

  “Blades, boy, what happen?” Milo’s voice slurred like he’d been drinking. “Why you calling me this late?”

  “I’m coming over. Make some coffee.”

  “All I got is Nescafé.”

  “That’ll do.”

  MILO LIVED ON Rugby Road and Avenue H. As I picked my way through traffic on Ocean Avenue, I could hear music exploding from mass camps along the way, filling the night like a tropical breeze. The noise and the bright neon signs along Ocean Avenue gave the night a gaudy vibrancy, a reminder of what separated New York from other cities. Pre-Carnival revelers mingled and milled about the street, moving slowly, dreamlike, as if emerging from a long slumber to prepare for the event that would crown the New York summer.

  It took half an hour to reach Midwood. I parked on Avenue H across from Milo’s building—a large prewar red brick complex of about twenty apartments. I crossed the tree-lined street and rang the bell. I was tensed and breathing hard, even though I’d only walked a few feet. When Milo buzzed the door open, I fell into the lobby with naked relief.

  The marble lobby was brightly lit. Two ceiling-length mirrors filled one wall. A group of sharply dressed young men speaking Creole were huddled together against the wall near the bank of elevators, preening in the mirrors. As I stood waiting for the elevator, I caught a faint whiff of ganja coming from a ground-floor apartment.

  Two men stepped into
the elevator behind me. I hadn’t seen where they’d appeared from, and I felt my heart quicken. My senses were on full alert.

  We reached the sixth floor and I got off. I heard the elevator door close behind me and breathed a deep sigh. Christ, I was getting jumpy. My stomach growled, but it wasn’t hunger.

  Milo’s apartment was at the end of the corridor. I was about to knock when he opened the door dressed in gold-and-purple Lakers shorts and a vest.

  “I heard the elevator,” he said.

  Milo’s two-bedroom apartment had been taken over by Carnival. Wire, shiny multicolored cloth, sequins and paper covered just about every square inch of the living and dining rooms. Half-done costumes hung from hangers. Bent wire and remnants of cloth were heaped in corners. The smell of glue, sweat and alcohol permeated the apartment; Milo himself smelled as if he’d fallen into a vat of Old Oak. A strained, fever-pitched voice screeched one of the latest soca tunes through Milo’s tower speakers.

  “Perfect timing. I just done make the coffee, eh, man,” he said.

  Around Milo’s neck hung a bright red cloth tape measure.

  “You ain’t getting too old for this shit, Milo?”

  “ ’Til I die, Blades. ’Til I die. When Carnival come, I is everything. Designer. Tailor. Seamstress. Iron-bender. Superman. I don’t sleep. Just me and my music going all day and night. It’s the best time of year.”

  “I wish you’d work this hard at the store”

  “How would you know? You hardly there.”

  I maneuvered my way through the jungle of cloth to the kitchen. I filled one of his Trinidad Is Carnival mugs with coffee and returned to the living room to find him on hand and knees snipping slinky purple cloth.

  “Boy, I have to get these costumes to the mass camp by Sunday night, else I dead, eh,” he said.

  “Looks like a lot of damn work for one day, Milo.”

  “But I enjoy it, eh. When I see these costumes on the Parkway, is pride I feel, eh. Pride. When you see women dancing in your costume. Oh God, boy. That is the feeling. Nothing else can compare.”

  I shrugged and sat on the edge of the sofa, sipping my coffee.