Casanegra

by Blair Underwood

  You will probably hear some things about me on the news. If you are wondering if the story is true, well, now you know what happened. I will have a legal fight to stay out of jail, but it is in God’s hands now.

  If you still want to talk to me, call me any time. I will need a friend.

  S.

  TWENTY

  I WENT TO SEE DEVON BIGGSthe same day I got Serena’s letter.

  Biggs had been denied bond. The judge considered him a flight risk; maybe because he was a multimillionaire, but probably because he had killed a cop. Even a bad cop is still a cop. Dolinski arranged to have Biggs sent to a solitary cell away from anyone Lorenzo and DeFranco could hire or bribe.

  I looked everywhere except Biggs’s eyes. Orange wasn’t Biggs’s color. His jailhouse jumpsuit was too big on him. His hair was growing out around his bald spot, uneven and uncombed. His hands played nervously with the fabric of his clothes.

  Biggs was lucky I’d taken his beating for him. And he was lucky there was glass between us to prevent me from passing it on to its rightful owner.

  “Shit,” Biggs said when he saw me. “I didn’t know they would come down on you, Hardwick. Sorry, man.”

  If he had asked me here for apologies, this visit would take more time than I had; my painkillers wore off in three hours, and I might be civil until then. Devon Biggs couldn’t make up for what he had done. He couldn’t even begin to undo it.

  “Watch what you say to me,” I said. “I’ll tell every word in court.”

  “You just remember what I told you in Reenie’s apartment. Remember?”

  “Some bullshit about doing what’s best for Serena?”

  “I loved her,” Biggs said. “She was my sister.”

  “I should have let you burn in that fire.” My civility ran out.

  Biggs didn’t blink. “I should have pulled the trigger in that closet. I almost did.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “I couldn’t do it.”

  “A fuckup to the end.”

  Biggs sighed. “I’m worried about my mama. I’m worried somebody’s gonna drive by and hurt her to get to me. Mama’s so stubborn.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “You’re a bodyguard, aren’t you?”

  “Try the Yellow Pages.”

  “Man, she likes you,” Biggs said, glassy-eyed. “She’ll trust you.”

  I shook my head. Even if I wanted the work, I was in no condition for it. I needed time to heal. “I’ll talk to her,” I said, staring Biggs in the eye. “I’ll tell her there are dangerous people where you least expect to find them.”

  “I loved Reenie, man.”

  The painkiller was wearing off early. I had a monstrous headache, and my ribs, leg, and back were competing for my attention, too. I found Serena’s letter in my back pocket, unfolded it, and pressed it to the glass where Biggs could see it. He leaned forward. His eyes dashed across the lines as he read faster and faster. He kept leaning closer, until his nose nearly pressed against the glass.

  “I see how you loved Serena,” I said.

  Biggs sat back, assessing me. I might as well have had a gun in my hand.

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “My mailbox. She mailed it after she saw me. Before she went back to the office to get the Black Music Award you were too greedy to share with her.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Biggs said. “She was trying to take my shit. She was gonna fire me and lock me out of my own office so I couldn’t get in.My office!”

  “That happens sometimes,” I said.

  “I didn’t mean to…”

  “Bullshitting on the phone while she was lying dead in your office. I know.”

  “Nobody in their right mind wants to go to jail, Hardwick. No matter what.”

  “Some of us want to go less than others.”

  I was ready to leave. If Biggs didn’t have sense enough not to talk to me, I would have the sense not to waste my time with him. I stood, and Biggs bolted to his feet, panicked. “Wait,” Biggs said. “How much?”

  “What?”

  “The letter,” he said. “How much for it? A million? Five. I’ll set you up.”

  “Like you set up Jenk?”

  “You think that sociopath would have let me live?” If Jenk was anything like his friends—and he might have been worse—Biggs was right. “How much? Don’t be a fool. You’ll be a millionaire by the end of the day, man. All your hopes and dreams.”

  I don’t mind admitting it: I thought about it. I’ve always wondered what six zeros would look like in my bank account. I could add on a wing to my house, put Chela through college, and travel again. Money makes life go down smoother.

  “Destroying the letter won’t clear you,” I told Biggs.

  “Fuck that. I got lawyers working on that.”

  “Then why do you want it?”

  Biggs pushed his palm up against the glass, a pleading gesture. “Don’t go out trashing Reenie, man. Don’t tell anybody about Shareef.” He whispered the last word.

  “She thought you would tell.”

  “I couldn’t have done that. Shareef fucked up that night.” Biggs’s eyes said we shared one mind.

  Shit.Shareef Pinkney, Serena Johnston, Devon Biggs: three children posing by an Impala, and with their summer Popsicles on Dorothea Biggs’s porch. Two dead in body, one in soul. It had happened for nothing. Someone could have defused the bomb before it disintegrated their world. I didn’t know everything, but I knew that.

  I folded the letter again and put it back in my pocket. “What’s past is past,” I said. “You’re the only person I’m showing Serena’s letter to.”

  I didn’t buy that Biggs was only worried about Serena’s legacy, but his face seemed to melt with relief.

  “They looked at the tape,” Biggs said suddenly. A sick smile crawled across his face. “Serena’s videotaped will?”

  “So are you set for life now?” I said. “Or is that thirty to life?”

  Biggs blinked. His eyes shone with a manic light. “Reenie gave me a lil’ bit, just a token. She left the rest of it to only one person. Everything. Almost thirty million.”

  This was the part where I was supposed to guess who.

  “Tyra?” I said. I don’t know how I knew. I just did.

  Biggs shook his head. “Fucking bitch. There’s no justice in this world.”

  At least that was one thing we could agree on. Without another word, I left Devon Biggs to contemplate injustice on his own. I couldn’t stand the sight of him.

  I’ve often wondered what it felt like to be Tyra Johnston the day she stared into her sister’s eyes as the probate court played that damned tape. Tyra had no way to thank Serena. No way to take back the past. Even thirty million wouldn’t soothe that sting.

  I hope she chokes on every penny.

  I keep Serena’s letter somewhere safe. From time to time, I read her words again and remember what almost happened between us.

  As for Shareef, I don’t feel bad about the speculation and conspiracy theories; some of the theories are crazy, and some of them are standing right on top of the truth. I read somewhere that a college in New York offers a course called “The Music and Murder of Shareef.” But Devon Biggs and I are the only two people who know. He won’t talk, and neither will I.

  Murders go unsolved every day.

  Dad’s first day at my house was rocky. He felt too confined in the guest room, where I’d made the preparations for him, so his bulky hospital bed ended up in the living room, in front of the sofa. Chela would have to watch TV in her room upstairs, which used to be my gym. I had already given up possession of my bedroom TV to her. I didn’t recognize my own home anymore.

  I felt crowded and overwhelmed. I was still hobbling around on a codeine diet, and now I was responsible for two other people in my house. Even with help from April and the new nurse, who left at six, I was exhausted by the end of the day.

  While April a
nd Chela made a racket cooking something that didn’t smell very promising in the kitchen, I sat on my sofa beside Dad’s bed and stared at the TV.

  The People’s Court,of course. He was waiting for the ruling.

  I looked at Dad’s face, trying to decide if he would get better or worse. His color was good; his cheeks seemed a little fuller than the week before. And even though he didn’t talk to me much, I’d overheard him talking to Chela—and his speech seemed better, too.

  Maybe those two would be good for each other. Chela had already offered to bathe him for me—if I paid her, of course. But it was money well spent. The thought of bathing him was too much to bear, for now. But I would soon. I knew that already.

  And it would be OK.

  The commercial came on. “You want something to drink, Dad?” I said.

  To my surprise, my father wasn’t paying attention to the television set; just as I’d been looking at him, he was examining me, too. I could see my injuries in his eyes.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” I said.

  Without a word, he reached out his knobby hand toward me. I froze at first, not sure what he wanted. “Your pen?”

  My father shook his head.

  I understood. I slipped my hand into his, where it nestled, a perfect fit. We clung to each other’s fingers for a long time, maybe the longest I can remember. From his bed, Dad was peering down the same tunnel I’d glimpsed in the desert. We understood something most people didn’t. One day, life just stops.

  But we were still here, for now. Both of us.

  “Welcome home, Dad,” I said.

  My father smiled.

  Dad didn’t mind when I excused myself to eat at the table with Chela and April. The television was better company now that he wasn’t alone.

  Dinner was Hamburger Helper and an iceburg lettuce salad drowned in Thousand Island dressing. I ate to be polite, but I didn’t have an appetite even if the food had been more inspired. I could see I was going to have to do the cooking.

  “How was school?” I asked Chela.

  For two days, Chela had been attending the nearest public school—which, it turns out, is one of the best in the county. Based on her Minnesota test scores and transcripts, she placed in tenth grade, so I sent her to the ninth-grade classes for the last few weeks just so she could get back in the habit. There was nothing else for her to do.

  “It was retarded,” Chela said. “The school year’s almost over.”

  “You said you liked your drama class.”

  “Yeah, and that’s like one hour out ofsix.”

  It was good to hear her talking, even if she only opened her mouth to complain. Chela was much quieter since Palm Springs, and she’d never been a big talker. She said she hadn’t been raped—DeFranco had only been taunting me—but I knew there was more to the story. Her eyes tuned me out every time I tried to bring up that day, and she refused to go to a hospital to put my worries to rest. She didn’t know it yet, but I’d made her an appointment for an AIDS test. I wanted that worry put to rest, too.

  After that, a child therapist. Hell, maybe a family counselor. I didn’t know who, but I knew I would find one. We both needed all the help we could get, if we were going to live together.

  “I’m done,” Chela said, leaping from her chair, which scraped on the floor. She’d hardly touched her plate either, no better than my effort.

  Across the room, Dad called out loudly:“May…I…be…excuuuuused?”

  Chela rolled her eyes. Her sneakers squeaked on my Mexican tile as she turned back to me, her eyes on the ceiling and her hand on her hip. “May I be excused…please?”

  “Don’t do your homework with the TV on,” I said. Chela complained that I was always telling her what to do, but I couldn’t help it; especially with Dad so close by.

  Chela gave me a look that saidDon’t push your luck. Then the expression shifted, deep and soft. I always knew when Chela was remembering how I offered my life for hers. Her eyes fell away from mine. “G’night, April,” she said over her shoulder.

  April smiled, glad to be included. Chela still sometimes seemed to forget that April was in the room. “Thanks for helping with dinner, hon,” April said.

  Chela shrugged. Instead of going past the wine rack or my stairs, she walked around to the living room. I saw her lean over Dad’s bed and kiss his forehead. “G’night, Captain,” she said.

  “Good…night.”

  Because my leg was still hurting, April did the dishes. The nursing tendency I’d first seen when we met at the alley on Sunset hadn’t let up since Palm Springs; April was definitely making it her business to take care of me.

  But she wouldn’t start sleeping over. Not yet. We had both agreed on that. The reasons were many, but let’s just say that April and I both understood there would be more harmony in the house all around if she wasn’t sharing my bed at night.

  More than half the bottle of Gaja had been sitting on my kitchen counter for a week, with a silver stopper to plug it. The flavor wouldn’t be as fresh, but Gaja was Gaja. As April finished the dishes, I picked up the bottle of wine and two glasses.

  Dad was still watching TV. Silently, I motioned April.

  Toward the screening room.

  April smirked and tiptoed behind me. We were sneaking around my father. Apparently, I was back in high school, too.

  This time, we didn’t look at the footage of Serena. We just sat on the carpet in the near darkness, lighted by the blue movie screen, and enjoyed each other’s company. It was a challenge to carve out time in the day for April, even when she was right there.

  “I can’t stop thinking about it,” April said. I didn’t have to ask whatit was. No matter how hard we tried, Serena was still just beneath the surface. Serena had brought us together, and we hadn’t yet broken free; April and I talked about Serena and Devon Biggs a little every day. “Childhood friends. It just seems so sad.”

  It was sadder than April knew, but a secret was a secret.

  April sank her hand against my cheek, one of the few spots free of pain. “I can go get my mirror out of my purse, if you’re ready,” she said.

  “I’m in no hurry.” Maybe I would face a mirror in a week, but not before then. I might need plastic surgery for my nose. I wouldn’t be the first.

  “You’re still beautiful, you know.” April’s voice wasn’t teasing.

  “Not like you,” I said.

  “Scars show what we’ve been through, Ten. You’ve lived through a lot.”

  “Why don’t you kiss me and make it better?”

  April and I sat on the floor and kissed. She didn’t hug me—too much contact with my ribs—but my mouth was happy to take any punishment April Forrest had to offer. I couldn’t do anything except sit up against the wall, but that was enough to receive the gift of her sweet, soft lips and tongue.

  April’s tank top came off. She closed her eyes while my fingers played across her breasts. Her breasts filled my hands, warm and waiting. She still tasted like gardenias.

  My groin throbbed, and not in a good way. I’d been badly bruised in the desert, and I hissed when pleasure gave way to pain. I groaned, pulling away.

  April kissed my forehead. “It’s all right, Ten,” she said. “We’ll take it slow.”

  I didn’t know if I could ever recapture the elation I felt leaving Serena’s house the day she died, expecting to see her again soon. I hoped my heart hadn’t buried itself somewhere I wouldn’t find it again, the way it probably had since my mother died.

  But it was an extraordinary thought, enough to keep my spirit from drowning in the awfulness of Serena’s death:Am I ready for April? I might be. Like she said, we should take it slow; wait for the pain to subside. Pain ebbs and flows. Who knows?

  This might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To God; though many will choose not to understand why this book was written, I thank YOU for granting me the understanding that we are a
ll flawed, damaged, and fall short of your Glory. Like Tennyson Hardwick, our central figure, many have drifted from their true calling and yearn to find themselves. Often, the journey is not as politically correct as some would like and sometimes the journey is sordid, dark, and even erotic. Nonetheless, the odyssey must be embarked upon for one to discover and embrace the peace that lies within each of us.

  Tananarive Due and Steven Barnes, your genius runs deep and wide. You are inherently decent and profoundly gifted, and it has been my extreme honor to collaborate with you on this, our first installment on the life and times of Tennyson Hardwick.Casanegra has become a dream realized because of you both. I learn from you and am perpetually inspired by your abilities to delve into the infinite depths of your imagination.

  Several years ago, while sitting in the Simon & Schuster office of Judith Curr, our publisher, I gazed up at her bookshelves that stretched toward the ceiling and noticed two authors that I admired and respected, Tananarive Due and Zane. I admired Zane because, through her astounding success in the erotic fiction world, she had completely shattered the misconception that African Americans would never be interested in romance novels, much less purchase them in record numbers. Zane, I will forever owe you a debt of gratitude.

  While pondering the insatiable appetite of the audience that is constantly searching for characters and worlds that embody the genuine desires and aspirations of black folk, I was reminded of a character that I was initially meant to portray on the silver screen. Though that project has been relegated to the graveyard of neglected dreams, I’ve never forgotten the fascinating complexities and contradictions of a character who aspires to moral correctness yet sells his body—eventually his soul—and ultimately languishes in moral ambiguity.

  I thought: Who better to collaborate with than the eloquent and brilliant team of Tananarive Due and Steven Barnes? You are both accomplished, exciting, and celebrated novelists. Because of you, Tennyson Hardwick is a living, breathing human being who leaps from the pages into the hearts, minds, and, yes, souls of our readers.