Too Beautiful to Die

by Glenville Lovell

  I ordered two veggie patties and sorrel. My grandmother used to make sorrel that always made my mouth run water. Her ruby rich drink, melded by an assortment of spices, left such sweetness lingering on the breath that hours later when I remembered the taste, my mouth would water. I didn’t expect that today, but I wouldn’t have complained if I got such a surprise.

  It took fifteen minutes to get my patty. I took a bite before snaking my way through the throng. I smiled. The patty was outstanding. Now if the sorrel could be half as good. I took a sip. No such luck. Ah well, there was always next time.

  HAD THE PATTY not been so tasty, drawing my focus away from the street, I might’ve seen Romano and James before they rushed up on me. I would’ve noticed them crouching through traffic, holding Glocks at their sides in concealment more from the crowd on Flatbush than from me. When I did spot them they were crouched in shooting position, close enough for me to see glee in their eyes.

  “Stop! Police!”

  I dumped my food where I stood and leapt in front of a moving car. The driver swerved and hit a truck going in the opposite direction, setting off a chain reaction of cars and trucks smashing into each other. The mad panic that followed was enough of a diversion for me to dash through a group of women huddled together outside a hair salon, too deep into their conversation to do anything but throw up their arms in fright as I busted their gossip ring.

  I heard the two detectives screaming.

  “Stop or we’ll shoot! Police!

  “Stop muthafucker! Police!”

  Keeping my head low, I sprinted along Flatbush, veering off onto Lincoln Road crowded with kids playing on the sidewalk. Hurdling a kid on a tricycle, I raced across Ocean Avenue against traffic and into the verdant Prospect Park.

  There I looked back for the first time. No one had followed me into the park, but I did not slow down. With its constant patrol by cruisers, Prospect Park was no place to hide. I had to get out as soon as possible. In no time the ghetto birds would be circling overhead.

  I charged up the hill through thick grass and pigweed, no match for my bulldozing feet, past the memorial to a Maryland regiment that fought with George Washington in the War of Independence and through a trap of maple and sycamore trees, racing across the sun-scarred lawn, skipping around and over bare-chested sun gods and their whining whippets, and past the Tennis House before exiting the park near the Bandshell at Ninth Street. I slumped onto a bench, gasping for air. The smell of freshly cut grass piqued my nose. Sweat streamed from my brow, making tiny puddles on the cement beneath me. Looking down at my feet, I saw tufts of green stalks stuck to my shoes, along with tiny red and purple spikes, fragments of flowers and other plants I’d destroyed in my flight, I suspected. Pity I couldn’t charge the City for mowing the grass.

  I picked debris from my shoes and from around my ankles. Up above, a brick-red–breasted bird on a branch gulped down a wet scarlet berry, shook its wings and was gone into a gray sky. In its wake came a swarm of monarch butterflies, their black-veined wings stiff and beautiful in the sunlight. I got up and started walking toward Grand Army Plaza. My breathing soon returned to normal, but my ribs hurt, and so did my knees. As I neared the Plaza I unclipped my phone to holler at Tim Samuel. His phone rang four times before he picked up, answering in a muffled voice, as though his mouth was full of food.

  “Tim?” I said, unsure.

  “Blades?”

  “Whaddup, cuz?”

  “Not your tail, that’s for damn sure. The Mayor’s got anybody that can shoot straight out hunting your ass.”

  “What can I tell you, Timmy? I was voted most likely to lead in my senior class.”

  “Your bowl’s about ready to overflow, cuz. They raided your apartment. Found pictures on your computer.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “Who told you?”

  “The Mayor.”

  “You talked to the Mayor?”

  “I caught him throwing up all over the press this morning.”

  “Did he say that they’re the same pictures they found near that agent’s body?”

  “I’m being set up, cuz.”

  “Tell me where you are. I’ll come get you. You don’t wanna end another Diallo.”

  “Sorry, Tim. Can’t do that. But I do need your help. Find my brother.”

  25

  AFTER I HUNG up I felt totally disheartened. When I was a boy, my mother used to read poems to me all the time. Some she wrote, others by poets she considered great. There was one in particular she read to me often. I still remembered bits of it. It was a poem about the different masks of life and the struggle an individual undergoes to find himself. As I encountered fierce opposition from my mother over my decision to drop out of college to become a soldier, I reminded her of that poem. It was time to embark on a quest that I could not experience in college, I told her. And she agreed.

  I was about to embark on another quest. The forces I was up against were still unknown to me, but it was becoming clear that this conspiracy to trap me was more elaborate than I could’ve imagined. Stealing my guns was good work, but planting pictures on my computer took some imagination and indicated a level of sophistication and technical skill way beyond anything Stubby could be accused of. Perhaps I was wrong, but I didn’t think Stubby was that smart.

  Not knowing where to turn now, I opened my wallet, aimlessly flipping through business cards and telephone numbers, hoping that somehow, by some unimaginable magic, one of these numbers would spark my brain to converge on a theory to explain what was going on.

  I paused on Gabriel Aquia’s card. His gallery wasn’t far away on Sixth Avenue. Perhaps, if nothing else, he could help me untangle the Precious and Vondelle knot. Limping across the street, I made my way along Union.

  The day was still dreary. Dull, stiff clouds parked overhead like a tarpaulin over a greenhouse concentrating the heat below. The air was smothering; the dense clouds seemed to be emitting some kind of energy-sucking vapor. I hadn’t stopped sweating. I sniffed my armpits. Finding a change of clothes would be my immediate mission.

  On Seventh Avenue I slipped into a Gap store as a chain of patrol cars screamed up the block with lights and sirens going berserk. I had about $600 in my pockets. Deciding to change my appearance a bit, I picked up a pair of baggy jeans, an oversized Hawaiian shirt, a baseball cap, a pair of Calvin Klein boxers and a red bandana. After changing in the fitting room, I dropped the Gap bag containing my dirty clothes in the garbage can outside the store.

  Across the street I spotted a diner, which looked dramatically out of place in this neighborhood of upscale restaurants and chic boutiques. From the outside it had the appearance of an old social club frequented by wise guys, its muted interior lighting making it difficult to see inside from the street.

  I was still hungry, and it seemed the perfect place to eat. I also had to use the bathroom. I entered and sat at the counter. The room was freezing and had an odor of bug spray.

  Casually, I glanced around. Five men sat huddled together like a family of penguins at a booth in a far corner. There was no sign of life from any of them, as if they were meditating on the nature of cool. A waiter came over and I ordered Swiss cheese and turkey on rye and a Coke.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” I asked.

  “You gotta pay first,” said the cashier, sitting a few feet to my left behind the register. Her red heart-shaped mouth moved in tight choreographed circles, twirling a piece of gum like it was a baton.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Pay first before you can use the bathroom. People like you come in here all the time and try to pull that trick.”

  “People like me?” I said incredulously.

  “You want to use the bathroom, you gotta pay first.”

  If I didn’t get to a bathroom soon I would burst into a geyser of urine; getting angry wouldn’t help the situation. I paid the four-fifty and followed the direction of her silver nail-polished finger to the back of the din
er.

  The john was locked. I looked over to the cashier, who was watching me, smiling conceitedly. Then I saw her hand dip under the register and a buzzer sounded.

  “Push the door,” she hollered.

  I pushed the door and presto, it opened. What a tiny shithole. No bigger than a litter box. Smelled like it too. I did my business quickly, ran water on my hands and bolted for the hallway, where I dragged deep on insecticide.

  The cashier had left her station and was in a brisk conversation with the waiter. When she saw me, she stopped talking and went back behind the cash register.

  I walked back to the counter where my food was waiting, but I had lost my appetite. I took one bite and left the rest.

  GABRIEL AQUIA’S GALLERY occupied the top floor of a two-story building, above a Korean nail salon on Sixth and Union. I climbed the stairs and entered the modest-size gallery. Before me was an impressive collection of African masks and sculptures, and a few paintings, all manner of headrests, fabrics, scarves, wooden bowls and other implements that most unsophisticated Westerners, like myself, would assume were used in day-to-day life in an African village.

  A woman in a body-fitted black dress and matching choker, her hair twisted and spread in thick spikes, glanced up from her magazine and eyed me with sloppy insolence, her hawk nose pointed downward, as if she thought I couldn’t possibly be here to buy anything.

  “Is Gabriel Aquia here?” I asked.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Tell him it’s Blades Overstreet.”

  She made an attempt to smile, baring her teeth quickly; they were long and crooked. She hid them again behind purple lips. Just as she turned away, Gabriel Aquia came out of an office behind her, shaking the hands of a tall white woman whose smile seemed painfully false. The woman passed me without acknowledgment and went out the door and down the stairs. When Gabriel saw me, his expression turned grim, his dark reptilian eyes furtive and anxious.

  “Mr. Overstreet, you buying or selling?” His leaden voice cracked with insincerity.

  “How about a trade?”

  “Come into my office. Let me take a look at your merchandise.”

  He stared intently at his attendant, as if trying to send a telepathic message. She maintained an appearance of indifference, settling behind a desk flipping through pages of Vogue.

  I followed him into the large office painted a cream lively and dramatically decorated with art-deco prints and man-size plants. A coffee-colored sofa stretched out against one wall; several gold disks occupied the space above it. He sat behind his long cherry desk.

  “What can I interest you in today, Mr. Overstreet? I just received a nineteenth-century Punu mask from Gabon. Great condition. I was thinking of adding it to my personal collection, but I’m willing to offer it to you for cost.”

  “I feel so special.”

  “But you are.” He smirked and picked up the phone.

  I reached down and lifted the .38 from my ankle. “Put the phone down.”

  He stared at the gun, then at me, trying to smile. His self-confident smirk had deserted him.

  “No need for that. I just want to tell Regina to hold all my calls.”

  I sat at the corner of his desk. “Keep your fingers away from the phone.”

  He shifted in his seat and tapped his fingers on the desk. “Sure thing.”

  “How long have you known Vondelle Richardson?”

  “We’ve been friends a long time.”

  “Did you know Precious was her daughter?”

  He hesitated, slicing his gaze toward the door.

  “Can I call you Gabriel?” I said, moving closer. I still couldn’t stand his damn cologne.

  “I insist.”

  “Everybody I’ve met in the past two days seems to think there’re no consequences for lying to me. I promise you, Gabriel. There are consequences.”

  “Are you going to shoot me?” he said.

  “Who is Precious’ father?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Remember what I said about consequences?”

  “What do you want me to do? Make up a name because you have a gun?”

  “Why did you come to my office?”

  “Vondelle was concerned that Precious might’ve hired you to sabotage her campaign.”

  “Why would Precious want to do that?”

  “You don’t know Precious.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He tried to get up out of his chair. I grabbed his shirt, pulling him back down.

  He leaned his body away from me, his knobby lips pink as salami against his muted dark skin. “How do you think Vondelle knew that Precious had hired you? Precious called and told her. She wanted to make her mother sweat. Their relationship was hell. Precious would’ve done anything to destroy her mother’s campaign.”

  “Why wouldn’t she tell Precious who her father was?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t get involved in their family secrets. You should ask her.”

  “She calls you Gabe?”

  “So what?”

  “Sounds like you and her got some secrets of your own.”

  “What’re you implying?”

  “Nothing. I know that some men dream of fucking their mama.”

  “Looking at you one would not think you’d be so uncouth.”

  I stepped away from him. Gabriel’s eyes contracted, and his craggy brow knotted as though a huge carbuncle had appeared on his forehead. I could tell he was trying to figure out what I was going to do next. He straightened his shoulders, trying to look brave, but I was done with him.

  “What cologne do you wear?”

  “Drakkar Noir. Why?”

  “It stinks,” I said.

  Stuffing my gun back into the holster, I breezed out the door. I knew that Gabriel Aquia would call the police the minute I stepped out of his office. I hailed the first livery cab and directed him to take me to Maple Street.

  26

  COMING BACK TO get the Jeep wasn’t that much of a risk. I had little respect for the NYPD’s ability to track me down. They were such bunglers it wouldn’t have surprised me if they were busy dragging the lake in Prospect Park, thinking that I may’ve accidentally drowned. I’m sure the only reason they found me on Flatbush was that Congresswoman Richardson had dropped a coin.

  As expected, there was no sign of surveillance around the Jeep, so I got in and drove off, making the first right onto Bedford Avenue and then turning down Empire Boulevard.

  Spotting a McDonald’s up ahead, I pulled up to the drive-thru window and ordered a crispy chicken fillet and a Coke. The attendant seemed as disinterested in what he was doing as I was in looking at his face. This was my third attempt to eat lunch today. Would this be a charm?

  I drove away after making sure the order was correct, snapping into the sandwich with the savagery of a pit bull. With no clear purpose I cruised east along Eastern Parkway, bopping my head to Ornette Coleman’s wicked sax on WBGO.

  In two days the West Indian Carnival Day Parade would transform this street into a mall of music, food and half-naked flesh. Side streets would be jammed with burnt-out revelers, artisans and one-day entrepreneurs. Milo had tried many times to get me to don costume and jump in his band, but I’d resisted. Standing on the side like the other tentative souls, to watch the colorful costumes and listen to the pulsating music while stuffing myself full of channa, roti and sorrel was enough for me.

  I passed Utica and was about to loop around the tennis courts at Lefferts Terrace when a face came to me. It was a round face with clear, dazed eyes. I’d seen the face five days ago, in one of those disgusting pictures ringing the dead agent’s body. The nameless face stayed with me as I downshifted to stop at the light, and then it was nameless no more.

  MY WIFE HATED cleaning. So did I. When we lived together in Rosedale we paid a woman from Brooklyn to clean and do laundry twice a week, and sometimes she would surprise us by cooking dinner, but
that wasn’t part of her regular duties. Her name was Lusca Morris. She was a genuinely wonderful person. Lusca had come from Belize on a temporary visa and never returned. One morning she came to work with red, swollen eyes. She’d been up all night crying. Her thirteen-year-old daughter, Serena, hadn’t come home from school. Afraid to go through official channels because of her immigration status, she asked me to help.

  I took her to the precinct to file a missing person’s report, assuring her that there’d be no repercussions because of her lack of a green card. Then I tried to trace Serena’s movements that day.

  The day before Serena disappeared she and her mother had visited the offices of the Caribbean Agency for Immigrant Rights (CAIR), to inquire about an upcoming green-card lottery. Serena left school at 2:30 the next day. Her mother had told her to pick up some documents from CAIR on her way home.

  According to CAIR, Serena never made it to their office. In fact, they had no record of any visit, including the prior one. And they couldn’t find the forms Lusca and her daughter had filled out. This made me suspicious, and I had planned to run a check on them. That night I was shot.

  Lusca came to visit me in the hospital. Her face was full of concern for me, but her heart was joyful. Serena had come home. Apparently she’d gone on a joy ride with friends to Atlantic City for the weekend. As Lusca put it, her relationship with her daughter was rocky, and Serena was known to go off and do wild things from time to time. Before I got out of the hospital, Lusca stopped working for us. She called to say she had found a better-paying job. We never heard from her again.

  The face that came to me was Serena’s. I was quite sure of it. I was surprised it took me this long to remember her face, since I’d often remarked on her beauty to Lusca. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t seen her in a while, but once the face came back to me, there was no mistake whose face it was.

  I had to find Serena. When she worked for us, Lusca was renting a basement apartment from a Barbadian couple, the Bradshaws, in Flatlands. But I had no idea if she still lived there or even if she was still in New York City.