“So how about those Yugos?” Frank took his cue from my silence. Beaten down by reality, I headed with a sigh toward the Yugo section. But then a hand—a strong, sure masculine one—planted itself firmly on my shoulder.
“So what stroke of luck has brought you back into my life?” he said, repeating nearly the same words he'd said to me years before.
And here was my past, slapping me square across my face once again.
Larry Walton wasn't drop-dead gorgeous like Jake Richards. He didn't possess that make-your-panties-wet sensuality that marks Basil Dupre, who can quickly make you forget the good sense grandma and her mama taught you. But he had a carefree kindness accentuated with an impish dimple in his chin that hinted there was more to him than you saw at first glance. He made you smile even if you felt like crap, which was how I felt the last time I saw him.
I had just left DeWayne Curtis, my fool of an ex-husband, and was discovering how tough it was to raise a kid by myself. My half-ass job as a cop in Belvington Heights was kicking my butt daily, and nightly bouts with Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream had added thirty pounds to my frame. I was a menace to society and to myself. Sorrow seemed to be my lot in life.
It was Thursday night and I was on my way home after a grueling day. I had just picked up a fried whiting sandwich and a side of fries from my favorite fried fish place on Central Avenue and was hugging the greasy bag to my chest like a talisman. In my other hand, I grasped a plastic shopping bag brimming with a six-pack of beer, a box of super tampons, two jumbo bags of Oreos, and a carton of orange juice. I'd tucked the Cherry Garcia into my handbag for safe-keeping. I was sweaty, smelly, and unfit for human encounter. The last thing I needed to hear was some tired-ass Negro rap, so when those words tumbled out of his mouth, my eyes ripped through him like razors. But then he smiled with that cute little dimple and suddenly “stroke of luck” didn't sound so corny.
He had always been a fit, good-looking man who wore his clothes like he was headed somewhere special, as he probably was that night. DeWayne Curtis routinely dressed better than me, so I knew an expensive shirt when I saw one. He gave me the kind of hug that makes you feel protected and desirable all at the same time, and told me how good I looked (which I knew was a lie) and how glad he was to see me (which may have been the truth). We talked about nothing for fifteen minutes—what we'd been doing, what we wanted to do. As he turned to leave, we both noticed the greasy stain, courtesy of my fish sandwich bag, left on his shirt. He just laughed about it and said it was worth every greasy inch just to run into me again. He walked me to the Demon, kissed me on the cheek, and watched from the curb as I pulled away. I went home that night with a grin on my face and felt better about myself, life, and everybody in it for the rest of the week. I never forgot it.
The years had treated him well. He'd grown into his looks the way some men do. The dimple was still there, of course, and he was still dressing good. He hugged me for old times’ sake, and the hug hadn't changed either. I hoped he didn't remember the fish sandwich.
“I'm here to buy a car,” I said.
‘And I'm here to sell one. I own this place now. Bought it five years ago from Rayson.”
For the next five minutes, he filled me in on the particulars about buying and selling cars. Things had gone well for him, he said, which was plain to see. Frank, bad breath, nasty manner, and all, took the boss's unspoken hint and faded quietly into the background.
“So this is the car you want?” Larry patted the hood of the red Jetta with affection. “Good car, this one. Get in, take a look around, see how it makes you feel.” He opened the door and I climbed behind the wheel.
It felt good, like I had always been there. The upholstery was black, the same color as the Demon's, and I had a thrilling moment of deja vu. It was a manual, too, which I like. Jake, who loves to drive almost as much as he loves to cook, says that driving a stick is like cooking with gas; you have control and the car will tell you what you're doing. He puts an automatic car in the same category as electric stoves—don't need it. At this point in my life, I wouldn't drive anything else.
“Feels good.” I pressed down on on the clutch and shifted the gears, which were as smooth as silk.
“You like the color?”
“Love it. I never thought I'd like a red car, but I do,” I said, suddenly remembering that red was Celia's color; it seemed fitting.
“How about a test drive?”
“I can do that?”
“Never buy a car without one.”
The reality of my pocketbook brought me back to earth. “No, that's okay,” I said as I climbed out of the car. “I really don't think this one is for me.”
“How will you know if you don't try it? Hey, Frank, get me the keys to this thing, we're taking it out. Come on, Tamara, we're out of here.” He handed me the keys Frank had promptly delivered.
As I sped on to the street, I felt the sheer pleasure of driving a car that yields to your every command. The Demon, with its stalls and quirks, had gotten me out of many a scrape, but there was always that dreadful moment when I had to claim it at parking lots, all those times I prayed it would start and spare me the humiliation of calling AAA for the fifth time that month. There would be none of that with this one. It glided onto the Garden State Parkway as if it were on skates. With a touch of the accelerator, I was in the left lane, leaving bigger, fancier cars in my wake. I whizzed past exits on the Parkway, barely slowing down for the toll gates. With style and panache, I finally rolled onto Route 280 and back into the streets of Newark, vaguely hoping that somebody I knew would spot me. When I drove into Rayson's Used Cars, I didn't want to return the keys.
“Great car,” I mumbled as I handed them back to Larry.
“Your car. I can tell by the way you handle it.”
“No, I'd better look around some more.” I tried not to sound like a disappointed kid.
“How much you got to spend?”
“Not enough for this.” I looked him in the eye for the first time since I'd gotten out of the car. “I can't afford this one, Larry. I didn't get much for my other car, which was totaled, and I can't afford to take anything else out of my savings.”
“I didn't ask you all that, Tamara, I just asked you what you can afford to spend.”
I told him and for the briefest moment, disappointment flashed in his eyes, but he recovered quickly. “I think we can work with that.”
‘Are you crazy?”
“Yeah, maybe, a little bit. Hey, it's a beautiful day, you're a beautiful lady, and we go way back.”
He was right about that. We went further back even than the leavings of my fish sandwich on his lapel, and the irony of confronting my history with Celia struck me again.
He had been one of three popular seniors headed places most of the kids in my school would never see. They were all smart, athletic, fine, with the pick of any girl they wanted. The three of them ran the school, never held back by the boundaries that limited the rest of us. They called Larry “Chessman” because he loved the game and had won some hard-played matches with players from richer, better schools, bringing fame and pride to our city in the pages of the Star-Ledger.
He was the friendliest of the three, the only one who would look down from his perch to acknowledge me and Celia, although I suspected Celia had other dealings with one or all of them; there was something secretive about the way she acted when she was around them. But she never admitted to anything, and I never asked her. Even as kids, we respected each other's privacy. It wouldn't have surprised me, though. Like every other girl in the freshman class, we had crushes on all three. “Chessman” was my favorite, though. Maybe it was because he always remembered my name.
“High school was a long time ago,” I said.
“Not as long as you might think.” I wondered if something in his past was catching up with him, too.
“So whatever happened to your friends, those two guys you used to hang with? I'm sure you all went to
college and did great, important things with your lives.” I hadn't meant to sound cynical, and the look that shadowed his eyes made me wish I'd altered my tone.
He paused before he answered. “Clayton ended up a big-time judge. I used to see him and his wife a couple of times a year. He died a year ago last August. Drew and I are still very good friends. I see him at least once or twice a week. He went to pharmacy school and has ended up rich as all hell. Me, well you see where I am in life. All of us got married, had kids, me and Drew did anyway. Clayton and his wife weren't as blessed, and life goes on.” His shrug of indifference didn't match his words. He wasn't good at hiding things, and I wasn't sure yet if that was good or bad.
“You have kids, then?” That was always a common point of entry to any conversation.
His face softened the way mine does when I mention Jamal. ‘A daughter. Nia. Almost ready to go to college and leave her old man forever.” He chuckled self-consciously.
‘An empty nest can be a good thing for a couple. Helps them get back in touch with each other.” I'd heard that on some talk show and threw it out for lack of anything better to say.
“My wife and I are divorced. Well, you want the car, Ms. Hayle, or not?” He'd changed the subject abruptly but there was no nastiness in his tone, just an eagerness to get the deal done. It told me that the breakup of his marriage had been recent enough for him not to want to talk about it, but far enough in the past for some perspective.
We headed into his office to sign the papers, and I was able to purchase the car with a reasonable down payment and manageable monthly payments, thanks to his generosity.
“Tamara, I'd like to see you again, maybe meet for dinner or a drink, something that has nothing to do with cars,” he said as we walked back to the lot.
His request for a date caught me short. I was tempted, but it didn't feel right.
“No, I don't think so,” I said after a moment or two. My answer surprised him, and I could see that he was hurt. He wasn't a man who was used to being turned down by women; he hadn't been in high school and he obviously wasn't now. ‘Actually I'm kind of involved with somebody,” I added to soften my rejection.
That was a lie, of course. I haven't been “kind of involved with somebody” since I met a sexy “somebody” named Basil Dupre for a week of mayhem and lust in Atlantic City. I'm not sure when, if ever, that somebody will turn up in my life again. Our relationship has no rhyme or reason, and I've learned to accept it for what it is. There was nobody else except Jake, who shows up in my dreams, and I'm too much of a realist to live in my fantasies.
Yet on a deeper level, I was involved with somebody, and that somebody was me. I swore off men after I left Atlantic City. It was time for me to rediscover myself, cherish my own company, stop depending on somebody else to give meaning to my life. I had only a few more years at home with my son before he went to college, and I needed to focus on him, not romance. Besides that, it's never wise to mix business and pleasure. I've learned that in spades.
“He's a very lucky somebody.”
“Thanks, Larry, for everything,” I said without acknowledging his compliment. I climbed into my new red car, turned the key in the ignition, and headed to Morgan's Funeral Home, my grin so wide it hurt.
CHAPTER FIVE
Don't let me be here all night dealing with this shit, you hear me? Don't let me be here all night,” said the woman to Brent Liston, who stood next to her. There was no mistaking the voice; it was the one I'd heard on the phone yesterday morning. The speaker had a sweet-looking face marred by a mouth that looked like it never smiled. She held her small, wiry body in a fighter's stance, which didn't surprise me, considering who had his arm swung over her shoulder like he owned her. So Cecil Jones had given me his father's telephone number; they must have been closer than I thought.
Once upon a time, Liston had been handsome in a brutal, machismo way. The twisted scar that ran down his left cheek and his squat, broken nose had changed all that, but he'd done enough time in prison gyms to still have the body of a contender. He was dressed all in black, save for a thick gold chain that crossed his tie. I noticed Cecil's diamond ring sparkling like a pimp's on his long, thick finger. Standing there together, he and his woman looked like they'd stepped out of somebody's nightmare.
When she spoke, the woman's voice carried to the back of the room, but she didn't seem to give a damn. She studied indifferently the rough, uncarpeted floor, red velvet pews, and stained-glass windows, which were designed to make the Rose Chapel, where the funeral would be held, look like a church even though there was nothing holy about the place. I was thankful she didn't spot me. Dressed as she was in her scruffy boots and cheap leather jacket, she looked like the kind of woman who would call me out by name before she knew it, and I sure didn't feel like getting into it with somebody like her today. Just walking into Morgan's Funeral Home had put me in a bad mood.
I'd buried half my family in this place, perched as it was between a gasoline station and convenience store on a busy street in the middle of town. Old Man Morgan, whose mournful expression could bring a clown to tears, spotted me and waved as he headed in my direction.
“Tamara Hayle! How are you, my dear. Has life been treating you well?” Morgan's voice always seemed to be on the verge of a sob, each sentence punctuated with a sorrowful nod. ‘And here I am again, putting away another one. Boy was just in here a month ago, burying his mama. Put her away a month ago, and here I am again.”
My ears perked up. “So Cecil was the one who buried his mother?”
He looked at me as if just remembering I was there. “So you knew his mother?”
“We were friends.”
“I don't remember seeing you at the service.” He scowled with disapproval over his half-framed glasses.
“I was out of town,” I stammered unconvincingly then added truthfully, “I didn't know about it or I would have been here.”
“Should have sent some flowers,” he mumbled.
“Were there many people here?” I changed the subject.
“Not many. The boy. Two or three others. Not many at all. Violent deaths are always dreadful, but Celia Jones's was particularly bad. Poor woman was shot right through her—” He dropped his eyes as if embarrassed.
“Right through her what?”
“Well,” he sighed and added after a beat, “near her belly. Not belly exactly, but her womb, the center of a woman's being. I figure that whoever did it was trying to make some kind of statement. I've never seen anything like it, to shoot a woman right through her privates.”
“Do you mean that somebody put a gun—”
“I don't know how he did it, Miss Tamara.” Morgan avoided my eyes as if the mere mention of the subject distressed him. “Maybe you should ask the police. They're the ones who did the autopsy. I just got the body, that's all I do—clean ‘em, fix ‘em, dress ‘em up. I made her presentable so her son could say his last good-bye, but I sure could see where she'd been shot.”
“Was she shot more than once?” I'd read as much, but I wanted Morgan's confirmation.
“I don't know, Miss Tamara. All I know is that the poor woman is dead. That's all I know and that's all I will say.” He pursed his lips, indicating that he was uncomfortable with the subject. I wasn't about to let him go, but in deference to his discomfort went in a different direction.
“Do you see anyone here today who came to Celia's funeral?”
“How am I supposed to remember something like that?” He eyed me suspiciously trying to figure out what I was up to.
I broke out my professional voice. ‘As you know, Mr. Morgan, I make my living as a private investigator. I'm not just asking you these questions because I'm nosy, but because I've been hired to find out who killed Celia Jones, and in the process I may be able to find out who killed her son. I'd appreciate any help you could give me, anything at all.”
“Who hired you?” Even after my little speech, Morgan was still skeptical.
<
br /> “I'm not at liberty to say.”
“Didn't the cops find out who did it?”
“No.”
“Isn't that their job?”
“Often people are uncomfortable talking to the police, so they'll talk to me. Could you help me out? Please?” I pulled out the stops on the “please,” my eyes begging him to recall the many funerals we'd shared.
“Well, I guess it won't do no harm for you to look and see who signed the register, but hardly nobody came. You can't take it with you though,” he added as if I might try to steal it. “I'll leave it on my desk in my office, and you can look at it there. It's my property now since the boy is dead. I guess I can show it to you.”
“That will be very helpful, Mr. Morgan. Thank you so much.” I hugged him awkwardly, inhaling as I did so an odd mixture of breath mints and formaldehyde. He nodded toward the Rose Chapel. I settled into a dark corner of the last row, folded my hands piously in my lap, and watched things unfold.
They buried the boy in a cheap pine coffin, which I knew from personal experience was the bottom of Morgan's line. The coffin was open; he'd been stabbed through the heart, not the face, and Morgan had probably done a good job of fixing him up, as good a job as anybody can do on a dead body. I knew that from experience, too. Liston and his woman sat in the first row. His arm had slipped from her shoulder and was casually draped on the back of the seat as if they were waiting for cheeseburgers in a greasy luncheonette.
A child's piercing cries broke the silence in the room and drew everybody's attention to the back of the chapel. A young woman holding a wailing baby on her hip entered, accompanied by two young men who walked beside her like bodyguards. Cecil hadn't mentioned a child, but I assumed the baby was his. The woman, little more than a child herself, still carried the weight of her pregnancy, and her shiny gray suit and diaphanous blouse, both obviously bought when she was twenty pounds lighter, did little to hide it.
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