Too Beautiful to Die

by Glenville Lovell

  “Well, I gonna tell you, cuz. Because it saved our life. She likes to stand on a street corner, you see, dressed in a skimpy outfit. And I’d watch from a few blocks away in my car as she toys with the men who pull over. She’d always set the price too high so they’d eventually have to drive off.”

  “What would happen if an R. Kelly or Mike Tyson bubbled up in a Six-fifty, spitting crazy game and enough money to buy her for a week?”

  “What?”

  “What if—”

  “I heard you. What would R. Kelly be doing driving around Brooklyn looking for pussy?”

  “What about Mike Tyson?”

  “Man, why you always gotta be so fucking contradictory? Mike Tyson is too short. She’d find a way to get rid of him. Then I’d drive up and we’d agree on a price and she’d get into my car and go to a hotel. And that’s what we did last night. This morning we came home to find the place wrecked and Jordan dead.”

  “What about the laptop?”

  “You must’ve been born on the twenty-ninth of February, man. I was having some trouble with one of my servers, so I took the laptop to a partner of mine. He’s still working on it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Spoke to him just before you called. He’s still working on your shit.”

  “Oh, Trevor, man I love you, kid.”

  “Just don’t hug me, alright? I don’t feel very brotherly toward you right now.”

  “Where’s Patricia?”

  “I put Patricia on a train to DC a few hours ago.”

  “Why didn’t you go with her?”

  “ ’Cause. How else you gonna get your shit? Besides, I got me a loaded forty-five. I hope those muthafuckers who trashed my place come back. I’ll be waiting.”

  The waitress returned with our order. Before she left she took another long look at Trevor.

  “I’m married,” Trevor said, tilting his chin in a laconic pose.

  She smiled and walked off.

  I wrote my new cell-phone number on a napkin, folded it and handed it to Trevor. “Let me know the minute I can check that computer, Trevor.”

  The veins in his neck pulsed as he chewed vigorously on his croissant, his elastic cheeks ballooning with food. He looked at me, swallowing hard. “They’re doing their best, kid.”

  The rain had peaked and the dark clouds were beginning to drift westward leaving thick patches of gray scab. People were taking back the streets with frightening speed. A couple strolled by, arms interlocked at the elbows, and I suddenly thought of walking with Precious along Tenth Street after our meeting at the café in Manhattan. I wanted to just sit there and daydream, but I forced myself to get up. I had a job to do. Her killer was still walking around and she wasn’t.

  23

  THE LATINO DOORMAN who pronounced my name as if it was a fire got up from his seat behind the desk when I entered through the open glass door. He smiled exuberantly as I approached, as if eager to have a little more fun with my name.

  “Blades,” he greeted.

  I smiled. “Yes, that’s it.”

  “I practice,” he said.

  “Very good. Where’re you from?”

  “Honduras. I been here in three mons.”

  “Months,” I corrected, exaggeratedly mouthing the word to emphasize the action of the tongue slipping between the teeth to produce the th sound.

  He smiled and shook his head. “Yes. I have practice English.” He looked at me thoughtfully, then slowly and silently practiced what I’d just done until he felt he’d mastered the technique. With a confident smile, he said, “Months, yes?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Thank you,”

  “Is anyone in C-Four?”

  “No. Policía.”

  “Police?”

  “Yes, police. They two hours gone.”

  “I want to go up,” I said.

  “She no there.”

  “I know.” I slipped a twenty-dollar bill into his hand. “Can you open it for me?”

  “You policía?” he said.

  I nodded and walked off toward the elevator.

  THE APARTMENT WAS immaculate. Arranged in a spiraling long-neck pink vase, the flowers blooming in the living room on a black brass stand were still fresh. Must’ve been bought the day she died. Everything in the room was perfectly placed, as if Precious had been expecting a photographer for a layout. I looked around, marveling at the exactness of it all, from the choice of the vase to the placement of each painting on the wall.

  But I hadn’t come to pay homage to Precious’ design talents. I followed the brightness of the polished floor to the bedroom, which was not so deliberately organized. Clothes were scattered about, along with partially opened packages, catalogues and books.

  The old-fashioned four-poster king-size bed made of dark wood was positioned majestically in the middle of the large room directly in view of the window. Directly behind the bed was a tall potted palm tree which bloomed in rich green. Next to the bed was a round mahogany pedestal table. On top of that was a lamp with a Tiffany shade, an old-fashioned clock and candles. White underwear lay on the unmade purple sheets. Were these the underwear she’d taken off before coming to my house? I picked them up and sniffed them. Her smell flowed urgently back to my senses.

  I sat on the bed, underwear in hand, dazed into memory. It felt like only a few moments ago we’d kissed and held each other. What if she’d lived? Would she have fallen in love with me? I with her? I wanted to run from the room, her presence there too strong and painful. She’d been in my life only a short while, but the waves she’d created were still cresting and breaking over my head.

  I went to the window and looked out. A gray curtain was still drawn across the sky. I stood there for a long time, feeling the pull of some unknown energy inside the room wanting to keep me there.

  On the dresser and on the wall above the bed were a number of framed pictures of Precious with famous people—Magic Johnson, Harry Belafonte, Sidney Poitier—and a picture of her with Vondelle Richardson.

  I opened drawers, emptying the contents onto the bed. More photographs, maps, paper money and coins from different countries. Precious traveled a lot, it seemed.

  There were two ample walk-in closets. Both were crammed with clothes and shoes bearing the labels of famous designers. On the top shelf of one of the closets I found a small black purse, which contained letters from friends, expired contracts, titles to three cars and a birth certificate.

  She was born Precious Kenya Appleton in Kings County. Her father’s name was missing, but her mother’s wasn’t.

  I folded the document and was about to put it back into the purse, then I changed my mind, deciding to take it with me. I didn’t know why Precious had lied about her mother, but I intended to find out.

  THE SKY WAS the depressing color of drain water from a rain-washed New York street. Instead of cleansing the City of grime, the rain seemed to have flushed the sewers right into the street. A raw sickening smell bled in through the open window of the Jeep. Black sludge tumbled along the road’s edge, the sound of water rushing under the street, as mighty as a waterfall.

  There was only one journalist in New York I knew well enough to trust. Semin Jhoti wrote for The New York Times. During my ordeal she was the only writer who didn’t seem interested in sensationalizing my story. Her series of articles on racism in the NYPD won a Pulitzer Prize. She interviewed me several times, and we developed a close friendship, so close that Anais became jealous.

  Heading over the Brooklyn Bridge, I called Semin and asked her to do some digging for me. On everybody. From Congresswoman Richardson to Agent Edwards. I had no idea what I was dealing with here. Precious had lied to me. Jimmy Lucas had disappeared. The land was shifting under me, and I didn’t like the feeling of being caught in a mudslide. Two people were dead. The only link seemed to be my gun. And the identity of one man. A man the congresswoman had known intimately.

  24

  THERE ARE SOME women
in whose presence your brain just turns to mush. What it is about them that causes this chemical chain reaction in your body is a mystery. Be it the glint in their eyes when they look at you, the way they smile at you as though they can see into your heart or the way they draw you into their space, the power of their spirit is so enduring you imagine yourself being a part of their domain, imagine yourself affecting their lives. But thinking you have that much power is as much a fantasy as being in a room with Sharon Stone crossing and uncrossing her legs with no panties on.

  Precious had had that effect on me. Now it was clear where she got that quality: her mother.

  The Lefferts-Prospect section of Brooklyn was a leafy five-block area of well-preserved one-family brick houses contained by Flatbush Avenue to the west and Nostrand Avenue to the east. I was standing in the ground-floor living room of Congresswoman Richardson’s two-story house, a large, high-ceiling cottage on Maple Street, watching her descend the stairs. The maid who’d let me in had disappeared somewhere; I didn’t see where to because my eyes were fixed on the figure dancing down toward me.

  Halfway down the stairs Congresswoman Richardson stopped and smiled. In the cool light, her skin was especially dark and glossy. She wore a potato-colored knee-length cotton dress arrayed down the front with crisp gold buttons. The dress was fastened halfway up her chest, exposing the dark palate of her cleavage. Today her hair was down, and the neck-length braids, generously sprinkled with silver, framed an unlined face that had a youthfulness that most women her age would’ve considered unfair. The matching African necklace and bracelet of black beads were almost lost in the luster of her skin. In her right hand, as though it were a prize, she held aloft a glass containing a dark golden liquid.

  “Mr. Overstreet, you are either a brave man or very foolish coming to see me.” Her clear voice resonated like the strike of a pinball.

  I walked to the foot of the stairs. “You look stunning as always, Ms. Richardson.”

  She smiled and lifted her chin slightly. “What a flatterer you are, Mr. Overstreet.”

  “Please, call me Blades.”

  “Are you as dangerous as your name sounds?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?” She winked with a flirtatious smile.

  Her waggish manner puzzled me. Perhaps it was all an act, still trying to keep up the pretense that she had been nothing more than Precious’ aunt.

  “Depends on if you like danger,” I said.

  “What do you think?” She had reached the foot of the stairs. “Do you think I like danger?”

  “Yes, I think you have a wild side.”

  She smiled. I didn’t want to continue this game. I wanted to talk about Precious but was somehow powerless to shift the conversation in that direction. Her eyes were fixed on my face with a deep interest, like a child staring at a fire.

  “You have very interesting bone structure, Blades.”

  She reached out and touched my cheekbones, a gentle massage rather than a caress. After a few seconds, her face seeming to bow under the weight of a private thought, she stepped back and sipped from her drink.

  “I used to know a man with cheeks like those,” she said.

  “Precious’ father?”

  My attempt to fluster her did not work. Other than a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth, she was unmoved.

  “Why don’t you come upstairs? It’s much cozier.”

  She turned and ascended the stairs, as aloof and as bewitching from the back as any woman I’d ever met.

  I stood at the bottom of the stairs watching her. She reached the top and turned, arms outstretched, beckoning me to her. I approached her, drawn by her smile and august presence as a storm to the sea. I must’ve had a bewildered look on my face.

  “Don’t be afraid, Blades,” she said. “I won’t attack you.”

  She led me into a large room made intimate by the aroma of fresh roses. I saw them, long-stemmed, white, yellow and red, set about the room in vases on tables and in window alcoves. The room appeared to be used as a study. Next to an oak cabinet, two ceiling-high bookcases were crammed with books, papers and magazines. There was a phone on the desk, a laptop and one of those all-in-one printer/fax/copier machines. The window behind the desk was closed, but trees were visible through the clear panes of glass.

  “Is it too early for you to have a drink?” Congresswoman Richardson asked. She was standing at the open cabinet uncorking a bottle of scotch.

  “If it’s not too early for you, I can manage.”

  She turned to me with a wet smile on her lips. “Spoken like a man.”

  “Straight. No ice,” I said.

  “Just what I expected. For the record, I have mine the same way.”

  She refreshed her drink first, then she poured mine and handed it to me in a short, heavy glass, continuing on to the couch, where she sat, drawing the dress close to her lap. Her back was straight, her profile that of a proud high priestess presiding over a ceremony.

  “Come sit next to me, Blades.”

  Her eyes glinted with a strange sad fire. It was then I knew it was all an act. Before I could sit she made a wide sweep of her arm, catching my hand in hers and drawing me down to the couch.

  “Do you like my house?”

  “It’s amazing,” I said. “I didn’t realize there were such beautiful houses in this part of Brooklyn.”

  “Thank you. There’s only one thing missing.” She looked around as if expecting someone to materialize from the space around us.

  “What’s that?”

  She sipped her drink and held my gaze. “Precious was really my daughter you know.”

  I squared my body to face her. She let go of my hand and stood up. Slowly she crossed the room and stood with her back against the window. She sipped niggardly at her drink.

  “This is a very big house,” she started. “I never intended to spend my life in it alone. And let me tell you, it gets terribly lonely in here. This house belonged to my father, who was a teacher. He left Jamaica when I was ten and never came back. I didn’t see him again until I was a woman. By then I’d grown to hate him. He left this house to me when he died. At first I thought of selling it. But the first time I walked into it I fell in love with it. I wanted to leave it to Precious, but she told me point blank she wanted nothing from me.”

  My eyes left her face and roamed the room to the many pictures of her with important world figures: Nelson Mandela, Kofi Annan, President Clinton. She and her daughter shared the taste for the spotlight.

  “I need your help,” I said.

  She swirled the whisky around in the glass, her face strained and intense. “I told you not to follow Precious into this maze. I can’t help you.”

  “I didn’t kill your daughter, but I think you know that. Does the name Stubby Clapp mean anything to you?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “I think he killed Precious.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Someone I worked with some years back. He’s out for revenge now.”

  She was smiling, a kind of delicate web to hide her pain, then she looked away to focus somewhere outside the window. “I wish she and I could’ve found a way to be friends at least.”

  “Who is her father?”

  With a sharp twist of her head, her dark eyes converged again on my face. “How do I know you didn’t kill her?”

  “I had no reason to.”

  “You’ve never killed anyone?”

  “Self-defense.”

  “Violence is in your blood.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’ve killed. That makes you violent in my book. If you killed once you would kill again. You should’ve taken my advice. Now Precious is dead. And the police said you killed her. Why should I believe you and not the police? I don’t know anything about you other than that you’ve killed before.”

  I stood staring at her, unable to refute her words.

  “You should go, n
ow, Mr. Overstreet.”

  “Why did you pretend to be aunt and niece?” I said.

  “Precious was legally adopted by my sister. I was her aunt.”

  “What’s going to happen to her daughter?”

  “What daughter?”

  “Doesn’t she have a daughter in a home?”

  “Precious having children?” She laughed. “Did she tell you that?”

  I didn’t answer. Jimmy Lucas had played me in more ways than one.

  “Precious didn’t want children,” Vondelle said.

  “What are the funeral arrangements?”

  “Her body will be flown to Jamaica in a few days.”

  “Are you going?”

  She didn’t answer, having withdrawn into an armor of silence behind aloof eyes. Her detached stare knifed through me with the bitterness of winter cold.

  I wanted to grab her and shake her until she spoke up. There was no rule that said a mother should shed tears for her children in death, but Vondelle Richardson could’ve acted like she cared.

  HUNGER STABBED AT my ribs like a George Foreman jab. But in this neighborhood it was a welcome sensation. I left the Jeep on Maple and walked toward Flatbush in search of food.

  It was after two P.M. Humidity had put a stranglehold on the day. Near Flatbush Avenue, barebacked youths in Chloé sunglasses had found a way to neutralize the moisture by opening a hydrant. Girls with bad perms, wearing doorknob earrings, danced in the middle of the street to calypso music from a boom box on the sidewalk. Carnival was in the air, as palpable as the dampness.

  I’d been using gum to forestall the craving to smoke. As I walked slowly along Flatbush, I stuck a piece of peppermint gum into my mouth. The taste was particularly offensive today, but it was either that or light up.

  I spotted a Golden Krust restaurant across the street. There was a line to get in, but I didn’t mind waiting for a good patty.

  Inside, customers leaned over each other’s shoulders, shouting orders to a frenzied staff who found it difficult to keep up. Bob Marley posters plastered the walls, and his wailing voice could be heard over the sound system. With two or three people shouting at the same time, the shoe-box restaurant had the atmosphere of a marketplace, and the air inside, choked off by the crowd, was a heavy mishmash of competing aromas: beef, chicken, shrimp, curry, pepper and various cheap knockoff colognes.