Dying in the Dark

by Valerie Wilson Wesley

  “Ooh this is bad! This is bad! This is so bad!” the girl kept repeating to nobody in particular.

  “He dead and gone now, Cristal. There ain't nothing you can do now. Nothing you can do!” This bit of stage-whispered wisdom came from the shorter of the men. He wasn't as tall as Brent Liston, but looked a younger version of him—same powerful chest and shoulders, same bullying strut.

  “Hey, Pik, there go his dad,” said the other kid, who was thin with a delicate face that contrasted with the tough-guy clothes he wore. He grinned inappropriately, and I noticed that his teeth were perfectly straight and lacked the gold and diamonds that usually distinguish the dental work of wannabe gangstas. I knew from the money I've spent on my son's mouth that teeth like that don't come cheap. I was struck, too, by the boy's use of the word “dad.” It was what I called my father when I was a kid, and he spoke the word as if it carried good memories. It made me think that he wasn't as tough as he wanted folks to think. Pik, the Liston look-alike, had enough thug in him for both of them.

  “That big dude is his old man, right, DeeEss?” said Pik, whose mouth was lit up like a chandelier.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cecil used to say he looked like his mama, but I think he looks kind of like his daddy. He fine,” said the girl, her voice deep and dreamy. Cristal had a small pointed face and long thick hair haphazardly caught up in a metallic scrunchie. She wasn't pretty in the conventional sense of the word, but carried herself with a hoochie-mama swagger that probably appealed to teenage boys. It was troubling that my son found her attractive, but then again, I've never been a teenage boy. Pik's name was stenciled onto his black leather jacket and I realized I'd seen it painted in red letters on the facades of half a dozen buildings in the city.

  “Who that woman? His moms?” Pik asked.

  “Somebody killed his moms,” said DeeEss.

  Brent Liston turned and stared at the three teenagers as they sat down in the row behind him. His gaze seemed to frighten the girl, and she pulled her baby close as if protecting him. Her fear was puzzling. Why did she think Brent Liston would harm his grandchild? I realized then that she might be sheltering the child from Liston's woman, whose hard, pebble-shaped eyes stared at her with hatred. My feelings toward the girl and her child softened. Maybe something of Celia Jones had survived after all.

  The click of high heels on the uncarpeted floor signaled the arrival of a middle-aged woman in a chic black suit, but her step was hesitant and unsteady, as if she were ill or had had too much to drink. She sat down in the row behind the teenagers, but perched on the edge of her seat, as if ready to launch into flight. Her clothes whispered money: tailored silk suit, black Coach bag, Ferragamo pumps, diamond earrings. I felt that pang of jealousy I often feel when I spot some woman whose outfit cost more than my office rent. But I didn't envy this woman her looks. She'd been attractive once, but her pretty face was bloated and her eyes bloodshot and puffy. It was plain to see that liquor, rather than illness or years, had aged her.

  DeeEss glanced back as she slid in behind him, and she gave him a tight smile, which brought a nod. They shared the same features— same slight, pointed nose, hazel eyes set in an oval face the color of coffee with too much cream, same thin elegant frame; booze hadn't altered the family resemblance. They were mother and son, yet they were an odd pair. Had she come to pay her last respects to her son's friend or had something else brought her?

  A man with wire-rimmed glasses and a conservative haircut was sitting behind the well-dressed woman. I hadn't noticed him come in, so I assumed he'd come early. He was dressed in a tan sweater and jacket and dull gray trousers. I pegged him for a teacher or guidance counselor, somebody who knew the boy casually, wanted to pay his respects, and get the hell out as fast as he could. I hoped that he signed the guest book that Morgan had placed at the door. I made a mental note to look.

  The last person to enter the place was Larry Walton. I pulled back into the shadows, dropping my head down like I was praying, but he was moving so fast, he wouldn't have noticed me anyway. He sat next to the woman in the suit and gave her a hug. She settled into his muscular body as if she belonged there. I shook my head in disgust.

  Men. There was no telling about them. If you gave them half a chance, even the best of them could drive you as crazy as a flea. This man had asked me out not an hour before, and here he was cozying up to some woman in a funeral parlor. I was glad that good sense had prevailed and I'd turned him down, but I'd been flattered by the asking, and I'd been tempted.

  When it came to men, I was about as lucky as a hot biscuit at a church supper. I felt an unwavering passion toward Basil Dupre, but he was never around long enough for me to establish anything but memories. I thought I might be in love with Jake Richards, but my sense of morality got in the way of my establishing anything with him other than friendship.

  I've found out the hard way that all love and loose change will get you is a bus to Broad and Market. Personal ethics are all a woman has, and she would want to keep them as clean as her drawers. I respected Jake's marriage. As for Basil, I wasn't quite sure where to put him, so I didn't put him anywhere. The only man I was truly responsible to at this point in my life was my son, and until he left my home, I had to spend my time looking out for him. I'd be damned if I'd ever let him end up like Cecil Jones or the countless other young men who are gone before they're twenty.

  My son's face came into my mind as the earnest young minister gave his eulogy, which I suspected he'd given at the funerals of other boys like this one. No one spoke after he sat down. Nobody stood up to speak of grief, love, or sorrow. There were no tears or fond memories.

  I considered standing myself. Somebody needed to bring the memory of Celia into this place. I was almost on my feet, when Brent Liston broke the silence.

  “I want you all to know, I swear before God, I will find out who done this thing to my son, and I will take care of him good. I swear before God, I will. I swear before God!” he said, then plunked his heavy body back down in his seat, his face distorted by rage.

  “Shut up, Brent Liston. In Celia's name I curse you,” the thin voice of the woman in the black suit rose to challenge his. Her words were slurred, but she stood straight and tall without wavering. “Celia Jones knew who and what you were, Brent, and I know what you did to her and her son, you'll be damned in hell for that. You'll be damned!”

  Morgan, alarmed by the turn of events, rushed to the front of the room, begging for silence although the room was quiet again and filled with tension. He slammed down the lid of the coffin as if something evil was about to pop out, and motioned for the pallbearers to come take this child and his low-life mourners out of his place. Memories of another funeral I'd attended here years ago that turned into an ugly melee came back to me; I needed to leave that room as soon as I could. I quickly ducked into Morgan's office.

  I searched his desk for the register, couldn't find it for a moment, then spotted it under a pile of undertakers’ trade magazines. Honorable to the end, Morgan had probably tucked it away, hoping that I'd get discouraged and be on my way. I turned to the January entries and found Celia's name at the top of the page marked January 8. Only three people had bothered to sign the guest book. I wondered if others had shown up. Rebecca Donovan's name was written in elaborate script at the top of the page. Larry Walton's name followed hers. Was Rebecca Donovan the woman who sat next to him and the reason he attended both of these services? The last name on the page was Drew Sampson, who I assumed must be related to the Annette Sampson I'd left the message for on Friday. One Sampson in the book, the other at her funeral. How were they connected to Celia?

  That question was on my mind as I shoved Morgan's book where he'd put it, so I didn't see Brent Liston enter the room or sense his presence until he came up behind me, grabbed my shoulder, and swung me around to face him. My first impulse was to slap him across his face, but he caught my hand midway and forced it to my side.

  “You that bitc
h Rebecca Donovan, ain't you?” he said. His woman stood behind him, gloating the way somebody does when they know they have the better of you, and in that moment, I hated them both with everything in me. “Hey, Beanie, ain't she that Clayton Donovan bitch who was always in my face?”

  Beanie. The name suited her well. She was tiny and hard, like a navy bean or a black-eyed pea. I glanced away from her, focusing on him.

  “Take your filthy hands off me before I send you back to hell,” I said, and he laughed in my face.

  “No, baby, you got it wrong. This one ain't her. She ain't hincty enough to be Rebecca Donovan.” Beanie stared at me, her head cocked to the side like a bird of prey waiting for its dinner.

  “Who are you and what you doing here, at my boy's funeral?” Liston dropped his hands to his sides. His lips quivered, like a playground tough who has just had his ass kicked, which surprised me because I was no threat to him. But I did know one thing now: The woman with Larry Walton was not Rebecca Donovan.

  “I knew Celia,” I said, just as Larry Walton came into the room to stand beside me.

  “You all right, Tamara?”

  “I'm fine.” He stared Liston down, letting him know in the way that men do that I had a male protector, for what that was worth. It was a language, however, that Liston understood. He looked Larry up and down, waited a moment or two to show he wasn't scared, then left with Beanie.

  “Let me walk you to your car,” Larry said.

  “I'm fine!” I stepped away from him, my tone letting him know that although his presence might frighten Liston, it didn't impress me. One way or the other I would have handled it myself.

  “You're not as tough as you think. They might come back. Let me walk you to your car.”

  “That's really not necessary. I'm fine,” I said, but he followed me anyway. We didn't say much as we walked toward the car. I didn't look at him as I unlocked the door and climbed in.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  I started my car. ‘About what?”

  ‘About Celia and her boy. What are you doing now?”

  “Going to pick up my son.”

  “How about later? Can I call you?”

  I thought about it for a minute, wondering what he could tell me and if it would be worth my time. “Okay,” I finally said.

  I was halfway down the street before I realized I hadn't given him my telephone number. Then I remembered that my number, address, and every other bit of personal information that he needed to know about me was laid out on the top of his desk in triplicate.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ever heard of a guy named Larry Walton?” I asked my friend Jake Richards. We were sitting at his kitchen table drinking red wine. After my run-in with Brent Liston, I needed something stronger, but manners and the fear of looking like a lush prevented me from asking. Jake dropped his eyes the way he does when he thinks, and I took the opportunity to gaze at his face. He got better with age. The gray in his hair and beard gave him a distinguished, wise demeanor, yet still managed to play up the kindness in his eyes. He had the kind of face I could never get tired of looking at.

  “No, I can't say that I have.”

  “What about Brent Liston?”

  “Jesus, Tarn, I hope you're not having dealings with him?” He sipped his wine and scowled, which made me smile.

  “Well…”

  He laughed despite himself. “Try to stay out of trouble, Tamara.”

  “I'm already in it.”

  “What am I going to do with you?” I was tempted to tell him, but swallowed some wine instead.

  “So what do you know about him?”

  “He is bad news, as simple as that. One of my guys defended him on an assault charge, and he got pissed at the way the judge ruled and threatened to beat the dude up. Like I said, bad news. He hasn't threatened you, has he?” His forehead wrinkled with concern, which reminded me of Jamal and his need to protect me.

  “No, not really What about Rebecca Donovan? Ever heard of her?”

  “Is she related to Clayton Donovan?”

  “I don't know.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “I haven't seen her yet, but I think she's what some people might call ‘ninety’ “

  Jake laughed. “‘Hincty’? I haven't heard that one in a while, but I guess that's probably what some folks would call the honorable judge's wife. I don't know if that's what I'd call her, but Rebecca is the quintessential judge's wife in the ‘here come da judge’ tradition. She was, anyway. How is she involved in this?”

  “I don't know yet. So they're divorced?”

  “No, she's widowed. He died last August.”

  “Was he murdered?” The thought that Brent Liston could somehow be tied to the judge's demise crossed my mind.

  “Judge Donovan? No. Died in bed, in a hospital. Walking pneumonia.” Jake shuddered slightly, like a man reminded of his own mortality. “I argued a case before him on a Monday and was at his funeral a week later. Shook everybody up. Everybody.”

  “You liked him then.”

  Jake shrugged noncommittally ‘As much as you can like somebody who was crazy as all hell and just this side of shady. The judge pushed the limits. Took chances. Rode the wild side, as they say. Sky diving, Harley the whole bit. But he was always fair to me. A lot of the prosecutors used to say he ruled for the bad guys because he identified with them, but when he threw the book at somebody he threw it hard.”

  ‘And Rebecca was the lady who cleaned up his messes?”

  Jake thought for a moment. “There really wasn't all that much to clean up. If the judge was anything, he was discreet. There was a lot of whispering about his carrying-on, but very little proof. Word was, he was a lady's man in spades, and he liked his women cut from the same cloth as him—a little crazy, a little shady with a touch of wild-ness. There was a young assistant DA who was carrying on with him for a while. But it didn't last long. He's the kind of man who plays at night, but always goes home to mama in the morning; he would never leave his wife. Rebecca Donovan was definitely the angel to his devil. So why are you so interested in the late Judge Donovan?”

  “No reason.”

  “This isn't connected to Brent Liston, is it? He was one of those dudes who got the book tossed upside his head.”

  “What did he do to make the judge mad?”

  “I don't know, but it must have been something bad. The brother had just done time for murdering a family member, and the judge sent him back on an assault charge for another few years. He just got out of prison a couple of months ago.”

  I filed that away for later reference.

  “So you're not going to tell me why you're interested in Donovan?”

  “I think I might have known him in high school,” I said, connecting the Clayton Donovan that Jake just mentioned with the Clayton that Larry Walton said had been his friend. “He ran with Larry Walton, part of a trio of guys who were the hottest things around. At least in high school.”

  “So the name of Larry Walton comes back again. I'm not surprised Donovan was popular in high school. Some folks are born charismatic, and he was one of them.”

  “Have you ever heard of Annette Sampson? How about Aaron Dawson?”

  Jake laughed. “Wow, baby! What are we playing here, twenty questions? Come on, Tarn, I don't know everybody in Newark. Most folks don't come anywhere near my radar. Is Annette Sampson married to Drew Sampson?”

  “Yeah, I think she is,” I said, remembering his name in Morgan's guest book.

  “Now that name, Drew Sampson, is familiar. So you're working on a new case?” He refilled my glass and then his own. ‘And this case is paying well,” he added. Jake worries about my finances almost as much as I do.

  “The client is deceased.” I avoided his eyes.

  “Deceased! I assume said client paid you before he died.”

  “More or less.”

  “More or less? Tamara, you've got to do better than that.”
r />   “I know,” I said, like a recalcitrant child.

  “Listen, I've recommended you to a guy I know, a very rich guy I might add, who is looking for somebody good to do some work for him. You ever heard of Francis B. Cosey?”

  “Isn't he that big-time developer from Short Hills?”

  “Yeah. He said you did some work for a friend of his, Sam Henderson, on a divorce case he was handling, and Henderson is still singing your praises. I told him I was certain you'd take the job. Hope you don't mind. Call him as soon as you can, and it's yours.”

  “So Cosey's getting a divorce?”

  “No, corporate stuff, boring but it pays, and you won't have any losers like Brent Liston drifting into your life. But the case will take some time, and he'll need you a week from next Monday or the deal is no good. Are you going to be finished with this craziness by then?”

  “Craziness?”

  “If it involves Liston that's what it is. I assume you'll be ready by then, right?”

  Jake is tender-hearted, but he's practical, and the look he gave me told me I would want to be finished with whatever I was doing in a week and a half. I knew he was right. He knew and I knew I had to start packing away some serious money for college. Soon I would have to let Celia and her wayward son drop back into my past.

  “Yeah, I'll be finished one way or the other.”

  “You've got to be. Since you're obviously not doing whatever you're doing for the money, why is it so important?”

  “Remember Celia Jones?”

  He looked puzzled for a moment, then his eyes softened the way everyone's eventually did when her name came up. “From high school, yeah. She was younger than me, about your age, right? I remembered the name because I had an aunt named Celia, and I loved Celia Cruz. I read in the paper that she was killed.”

  “Murdered and so was her son, Cecil. He came to see me a couple of days before he died with a retainer to find his mother's killer.”

  “So I take it her son is your deceased client. I remember now. The kid was killed last week. He was around the same age as Jamal so it made an impression. Another bad day for our side.” He shook his head, as he often did when remarking on “bad days” for his beloved city. “Listen, a cop I know is working on the kid's murder. Red. You might remember him as Griffin, from when Hakim was killed.”