Too Beautiful to Die

by Glenville Lovell

  “What’d you do with the files?”

  He swallowed hard, his Adams apple ballooning like a lizard’s sac. “Why’re you running up on me like this, bro?”

  “I ain’t your bro.”

  “I told you this is a legit business.”

  “And I’m the Pope.”

  “That’s your problem, not mine.”

  I slapped him. “Where’s Stubby Clapp?”

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

  “How many girls have you helped him kidnap?”

  “I bet you ain’t so tough without that gun.” He tightened his jaws arrogantly.

  “Oh, you do, eh?”

  “Yeah, I do. “

  I eased up off him and stuffed the .45 into my waist.

  He got to his knees. As he began to straighten up, I jerked my knee up, quick and hard under his groin. He squealed like a woman in childbirth and slumped to the floor.

  “Give Stubby a message for me. Tell him instead of soap I have a stick of dynamite for his ass the next time I see him.”

  I left him groaning on the floor.

  30

  IGOT INTO the 4x4 and rolled down the window. My stomach began to snap at me as I waited to see what Coxman would do. The temptation to get out and order from the Chinese restaurant quickly passed. From where I was sitting I could see the inside; it was no bigger than a coffin. Either the food was great or dirt cheap; the place was still packed. Its grimy graffiti-scarred walls looked like they hadn’t been painted or cleaned in years. I decided my hunger could wait.

  Two feet away, in the doorway of an abandoned building, a drunk, bleeding from a cut above his eye, struggled to get to his feet. At a phone booth next to the Jeep a skinny man was shamelessly begging for pussy. A smile sneaked across my face as I listened, letting my mind roam back to the first time I seduced Anais. It was inside the foyer of the apartment building where she lived on Fifty-seventh Street in Manhattan. She made me get down on all fours and lick the back of her knees right there before she would let me upstairs, even before I could kiss her. It was the funniest, most romantic thing I’ve ever done.

  Twenty minutes later Coxman came limping down the sidewalk. He crossed the street like a man with a purpose, got into a red, late-model Audi parked opposite a bridal store and drove away. I followed several car lengths behind.

  Coxman turned right off a filthy Fulton Street, choked with traffic; I followed, keeping my distance as he turned onto Thomas Boylan Avenue. Now I knew where he was going and could follow at a safe distance. For someone who’d never heard of Stubby Clapp, Coxman had found out about his restaurant mighty quick.

  He pulled up outside Clapp’s Palace and, moving as fast as his rubber legs would propel him, stumbled inside. I parked about twenty yards away. Stubby was too smart to be at this location knowing that I’d tagged him here once before, so I waited.

  A green Supra passed me and pulled up behind the Audi. A woman got out and then leaned back into the car to say something to the driver. When she straightened up again I recognized her. T-J, the prostitute from St. Johns Place. She turned, and after pausing a second to light a cigarette, went into the diner.

  Coxman’s visit was brief. Five minutes later he staggered out again. This time followed by Simon, he of the pointy gargoyle ears. I slipped the automatic out of my waist and placed it on the seat beside me.

  The two of them got into Coxman’s Audi and drove off. I followed at what I thought was a discreet distance. When they slowed down to merge onto Linden Boulevard, I braked to keep my spacing. That’s when the Supra rushed up beside me. I turned to see Noodles, a fleecy smirk on his face, training a large pistol in my direction. I mashed the gas pedal to the floor and ducked.

  Pop! Pop!

  The left rear window shattered, spraying nuggets of glass onto my neck. I flew ahead weaving in and out of traffic with the Supra stuck to me like Velcro. The Audi was still in view up ahead. I checked my rearview mirrors again. Noodles was lining up another shot.

  Gripping the steering wheel tightly, I swerved left abruptly, funneling the 4x4 into a tight opening between a truck and a car. I checked for Noodles. Didn’t seem like he made it through the opening, but I couldn’t tell where he was either.

  Damn! Traffic was beginning to slow down.

  Pop-po-pop! Pop!

  Frantically I checked my mirrors. The Supra was on my right, sandwiched between a Bronco and another car. Noodles seemed to be firing indiscriminately at anything in his way. The sound of broken glass filled the night as he shot out someone’s window. It wasn’t mine. Drivers began to honk their horns in panic. Some were driving onto the median to get out of the way of flying bullets. I swerved into the right lane, cutting off a truck, and climbed the median crossing over into the narrow access road. To my left Noodles was attempting the same maneuver at about eighty miles an hour. The low-chassied Supra failed to make it over the median, its underside scraping along the concrete, sending a shower of sparks into the air. Then it careened off the median, out of control, bounced off an eighteen-wheeler and flipped into the air. When I checked my mirrors again, the car was skating on its top like a turtle slaloming on its back.

  I took several deep breaths, spat out the window and sped on. A spasm of electricity flew through my body. The tension made my gut hurt. I dragged air into my lungs in short frenetic gasps.

  Brooklyn had given way to Queens when I merged back onto the highway. I’d lost the Audi. I was now speeding along North Conduit Avenue, which fed into Kennedy Airport. I was doing seventy-five, zipping past cars, but I had no idea where I was going. I was still shaking. Taking deeper breaths to calm myself, I slowed down and turned onto the exit before the airport.

  Chances were, Coxman hadn’t been speeding to catch a flight. I coasted along the poorly lit street with nothing but grass and low-slung warehouses on either side. At the intersection, I stopped on red. Leaning my head forward onto the steering wheel for a moment’s relief, I happened to glance to my right. At the end of the next block I saw a Mobil gas station and what looked like a red car. The light was still red, but eager to get a better look at the car, I edged through the intersection, turning right and parking next to a chain-link fence in the shadows of an oak whose branches stretched across the street.

  It was the Audi. With his jeans slung low across his ass, Gargoyle stood outside eyeing the gas meter. The spigot was lodged in the Audi’s tank. I doused my lights.

  I wanted a cigarette. I was out of gum and my throat was parched. My calves and bladder ached. I hated this shit.

  I tried not to think of the pain in my bladder as I watched Gargoyle remove the spigot with a violent rattle as if he was angry at having to pump gas. For a second I closed my eyes and thought of Anais. What was she doing right now? What would she do if she knew how much trouble I was in? Would she pity me? Would she laugh in my face if I called and told her how much I missed her?

  When I opened my eyes, Gargoyle had finished his job. He got into the car and slammed the door. The Audi pulled away from the station, pausing briefly to let a truck go by, then zipping across the street, turning into eastbound traffic. I tagged behind.

  At the next light the Audi turned left and drove along a narrow, dimly lit street next to a large park. The arching branches of ancient oaks, some as thick as a tank, met above the road, forming a dark tunnel. I slid through the damp channel of trees behind the Audi for another ten blocks before Coxman made a sudden right turn and slowed down, coasting to a stop behind a white Escalade in front of a large brick house with a lawn, surrounded by trees. I killed my lights and drifted to within fifty yards before I stopped. I could almost smell Stubby.

  Coxman and Simon got out. Waving his hand in the air, Coxman said something to Simon, and the gargoyle got back into the car and slammed the door. Coxman hobbled up the steps to the house. I waited a few minutes to see if he would come out again before springing into action.

  I got out and relieved myself again
st the side of the Jeep. Then, with the automatic at my side like a trusted sword, I crept up on Gargoyle. He was so short I could barely make out the outline of his head. The fool hadn’t locked his door. When I grabbed and pulled, it opened. He bolted upright. My elbow crashed into his jawbone. I felt the crunch as his jaw broke. He flopped down on the seat.

  Grabbing his do-rag I jerked him upright, corkscrewing my gun into his right ear.

  “Who’s inside?” I snapped.

  “Your mama. I fucked her last night.” He tried to spit blood at me. I dragged his head out the door and his crimson spittle fell harmlessly onto the ground.

  There were times when a man needed to be humble. This was such a time for Gargoyle. Here I was feeling bad that I’d broken his jaw, and he still sought to disrespect me.

  I smacked him behind the ear with the gun butt, hard enough to keep him eating Advil for days but not to knock him out. His head sagged and went limp. I slapped his face and he jerked upright. I dragged him from the car and closed the door.

  “Let’s go, Spock.”

  I nudged him forward. Each time he bucked I jammed the gun into his ribs and he straightened up. He stopped and spat onto the ground, cursing. I suspected his jaw was swelling fast; soon from now he wouldn’t be able to open his mouth to speak. I kicked the back of his leg and like a mule he jerked and started walking.

  At the front door I crouched behind his tortoiselike frame. Except for one light coming from a back room, the house was dark inside.

  “You got a key?” I asked.

  He flinched, but was silent.

  “Answer me, shithead,” I said.

  “What the fuck I look like? The super?” He mumbled with difficulty.

  “Press the bell.”

  He spat on the ground. It was a mixture of blood and phlegm.

  “Do it,” I hissed.

  He jammed the buzzer with angry energy. A voice inside the house swelled, erupting in curses, then I heard the hushed pounding of heavy feet on carpet as someone hastened to the door. I hunkered down behind Simon, my arm locked around his neck, the gun nozzle sealed into the small of his back.

  “You know what to do. Get cute and I cap your ass right here,” I said.

  “Who is it?” said Coxman from behind the door.

  “Open the door,” Simon said.

  “I told you to stay in the car,” Coxman said.

  “Man, open the muthafucking door before I break the shit down.”

  Coxman cursed some more, then the door opened. He stood in the doorway, a nervous lump, his eyes shadowed by the largesse of his cheeks. Before he could speak, I rose up with the speed of a snake, wrenching Simon’s neck sideways as hard as I could. I didn’t know if I broke it, but he fell in a heap to the ground. I instantly shifted the gun to Coxman’s head. He stiffened. I hated being this close to him. His smell made it hard for me to breathe.

  “Not a sound,” I said.

  Coxman stared at me, stricken, his eyes washed in fear. He took a look at Simon and his face contracted. Blood oozed from the corner of Simon’s mouth.

  “Is Stubby here?” I said.

  He nodded and glanced off to the left toward a door leading to the back of the house.

  “How many people down there?” I said.

  For a moment he stood breathing stiffly, as if waiting for a translation. Light streamed from the back room, and I could hear voices in the basement below. The room was large and had an air of affluent living: sumptuous red sofa and love seat, modern European lamps, prints of black and white photographs of snow-capped trees and bridges by Ansel Adams.

  “How many?” I pushed the gun like a bayonet into the folds of his flesh.

  “Five.”

  “What’re they doing?”

  He gulped. “Making a movie.”

  “Let’s go,” I ordered.

  Woodenly, he shuffled off. I stayed close, trying not to breathe too deeply. We entered the kitchen. It was empty. A door leading, I presumed, to the basement was open. Faint voices rose from below. I couldn’t make out any of the voices distinctly.

  Then I heard a girl’s tiny wheezy voice. It was a shielded cry, one that was being forced back in fear.

  Keeping Coxman in front of me I crept through the kitchen to the top of the stairs. They were bound to hear me coming down the stairs, but my options were limited. We were still on the top rung when Coxman transformed himself into Spiderman, leaping to the bottom of the stairs in one jump.

  “Stubby!” he screamed.

  I squeezed the trigger. The .45 jerked. A bullet ripped open the back of Coxman’s head. He was dead before his head hit the floor.

  The lights went out below. Screams and quick snappy orders signaled the ending of the party. I leapfrogged the remaining stairs, landing in a crouch beside Coxman’s crumpled body.

  The room was black. I couldn’t see anything. A door opened and closed. A quiet whimpering began. Gradually my eyes regained focus in the dark. There was no one in the room save for a little girl on the bed.

  I jumped to my feet, reaching the back door in two strides. I peered around the side of the house.

  The vroom of a large engine being gunned into action broke the warm nighttime silence. I stepped outside, gun held tightly in two hands, advancing cautiously until I could see the area in front of the house and the street clearly. A car squealed away from the curb. I raced down the driveway in time to see the Escalade gobbling up real estate down the street.

  There was no point following them. I returned to the basement and flicked on the light.

  The trembling little girl curled up on the bed was naked. She was crying, making little muffled noises. Her body shook with a stubborn rhythm, as if under some mechanical power. I couldn’t see her face well, but I guessed her age to be about twelve or thirteen. She wore long extensions woven into tiny braids. The room was stocked with digital video-recording equipment: three cameras, one on a tripod, one laying on the floor and another on the bed near the little girl’s tiny feet.

  An old couch was propped against the wall, along with two other broken chairs. The room had an odor of stale urine, and the warped wallpaper was stained with mildew.

  “Where’re your clothes?” I said to her.

  She didn’t answer. Her muffled crying turned to sobs.

  “Get your clothes. I’m taking you home.”

  She didn’t move. But I couldn’t wait around for her to figure out she’d been rescued. Neighbors might’ve heard the shooting and called the police. I pulled the sheet from under her and threw it around her body.

  “Listen to me,” I said. “Everything’s okay. You’re safe now.”

  She sat up, taking deep gulps of air into her lungs, but she simply couldn’t stop shaking.

  “What’s your name?” I said.

  For the first time she faced me. Her round tiny face was blotchy around the cheeks, like someone had been pinching her roughly. Her eyes were red funnels of fear.

  “What’s your name?” I said again.

  She remained silent, glaring at me with a vacant intensity that only asserted her pain and fear.

  “Where do you live?” I tried again.

  “Rutland Road.” Her voice trembled.

  “Your mother’s there?”

  She nodded.

  “What’s her name?”

  She stared at me without answering.

  “Okay, let’s go. The bad men are gone. I’m taking you home,” I said.

  Wrapped tightly in the white sheet, she got down off the bed, her tiny body lost in the swirls and folds of cloth. She looked like a trick-or-treater in a Halloween costume. We exited through the back door.

  The houses around were dark and silent. Bowed tree limbs hung across the street as we walked briskly under the shadowy canopy to the Jeep. In the distance, police sirens scorched the night with a profane noise.

  As we drove she sneaked bewildered glances at me from time to time. We left Queens and were driving along Linden
Boulevard in Brooklyn before she spoke again.

  “Who you?” Her voice was soft, like air rushing out of a tire.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She fell silent until we reached Rockaway Boulevard.

  “What’s your address?” I said.

  “Three forty-five Rutland Road.”

  “That’s near Flatbush?”

  She nodded.

  “You Trini?” I said. I could tell by her accent.

  “Yes.”

  “My partner’s from Trinidad. He used to be a singer. You like Calypso?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, why not?” I said.

  “I like reggae and hip-hop.”

  “You sure you’re Trini? You can’t be Trini.”

  “I was born in Diego Martin.”

  “How long were you in that house?” I said.

  Her body swelled as if it were a balloon as she struggled to fight back tears. She pulled the sheet tighter and looked out the window without answering.

  “Where did they take you from?” I said.

  “He came to my house in a big white car.”

  “Who?”

  “The man with the gold teeth.”

  “Was your mother there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she let you go with him?”

  She looked at me, then straight ahead and started speaking in a blank monotone.

  “She told me I had to go. That I was supposed to go to work for a woman. But when I get there they say that me and my mother here illegally and that if I don’t do what they say I would not see her again. That Immigration would put her in jail and send her back to Trinidad. And that if I told anybody about what happen in the house, the police would come and send me back to Trinidad too. Then they make me take off my clothes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Carmen Belmont.”

  I smiled. I’m such a sucker for girls named Carmen.

  31

  CARNIVAL CAME EARLY to Carmen’s home. No more than five seconds after her mother gurgled a phlegm-filled “Who there” over the intercom in reply to my impatient pressing of the buzzer and heard her daughter’s “It’s me. Carmen,” she came bounding down the stairs.