by Lisa Braxton
“We were always busy with customers when they went out,” Malachi explained. He paused for a moment. “They must have planned that.”
The officer nodded. “They were probably walking around the block when you were too busy to notice. I bet one of their partners was waiting in a car to haul away the goods. Did the lady carry a pocketbook?”
“Yes,” replied Sydney. “A very large one, like a small suitcase. I wondered why she needed one so big.”
She thought about the check Inez had given her for the three months’ rent. Only days ago, the bank told her it had bounced. Sydney had planned to talk to Inez about it, but the couple had been out of town so much that she wasn’t able to schedule time to see them. She then realized what was going on. The Taylors had lived off of them rent free for months.
A disturbing yowl came from the bathroom. Sydney followed Stribling and stood back as he opened the door. A powerful odor hit them like a punch. A small, furry, orange ball uncoiled in the bathtub. It was Pumpkin. The quilt Sydney had let Inez borrow was on the floor, wedged between the tub and the toilet, urine-stained, covered in kitten poop, and clawed into shreds. Sydney was horrified.
The officer excused himself and barked something into his walkie-talkie as he went outside. Pumpkin hopped out of the tub and ran down the hall. Malachi and Sydney followed her into the living room where she ran behind the tea service.
“I’ll call the bank, although I don’t know how much good it will do,” Sydney said, flipping through her passbook.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” Malachi apologized, pulling Sydney into his arms. “I don’t know what to say, but we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Sydney buried her face into Malachi’s chest. “I can’t believe this. Who knows what else they took.”
She felt Malachi become tense.
“You need to leave. Get out now, or I’ll have the officer take you out,” he shouted over her shoulder. She turned around. Kwamé was standing in the doorway.
“What you talking about, man? I just thought I’d check on you two,” Kwamé said. “I see Strib out there. What’s happening?” he asked, looking around. “Where’s Inez and Willie? They move out?”
Malachi’s eyes shone like burning embers. He brushed past Sydney and charged toward Kwamé. “You are the one who got me to rent to those people! They’ve been all through our home. They stole our money, our paintings, and lots of other stuff, but maybe you know that already.”
Kwamé slowly backed up with both palms in the air. “Get off my back, man,” he shouted. “I didn’t have nothing to do with this.”
“We’re out of a lot of money because of them,” Malachi said.
“It’s not my problem.”
“Not your problem? You need to fix this.”
“Fix what?” Kwamé asked. “You’re the one who rented to them. You should have checked them out.”
Malachi snatched the cane leaning against the wall and held it like a baseball bat. Then he turned to rush Kwamé. “I’ll check you out, motherfucker!”
He charged at Kwamé, who stepped back and held his arms up to shield himself from the blow.
Sydney screamed. Stribling hurried back into the apartment. Sydney had never seen Malachi so enraged. As Malachi reared back with the cane to swing, Stribling grabbed it from behind, taking it out of Malachi’s hand. Malachi charged into Kwamé with his bare hands. Both men crashed to the floor in a tangle of swinging fists.
Sydney’s heart pounded. She heard fabric rip and buttons pop off and land in the shag carpeting. Stribling waded in between the men, pulling them apart.
Kwamé got off the floor and made his way toward the door leading outside.
“Get out of here,” Malachi growled at Kwamé. “Get out of my face. Those people, your friends, may have ruined us. You brought them to us and you swore they were good people.”
Kwamé turned back and said, “Look, man. I didn’t know they were thieves and I didn’t know they would rip you off.” He slammed the door as he left.
Malachi turned back to face Sydney and Officer Stribling. “All this time I thought Kwamé was doing us a favor, introducing us to good people. I thought he had our backs,” he said. “I’ll never make that mistake again.”
“We’ll do what we can to find the Taylors,” Stribling stated. “I’m moving over to the detective division. If they don’t turn up soon, maybe I’ll get assigned the case. If these people have done this in other places, and my hunch is that they have, other jurisdictions will need to get involved.”
CHAPTER 30
THE WEEK BEFORE her wedding, Sydney had obsessed about the weather. Heavy rain had been forecast for all week through Friday—the night before the ceremony—and a mixture of rain and clouds on her wedding day. However, the tropical storm blew out to sea, causing heavy rain in the Boston area and North Shore that October weekend, sparing western Massachusetts. The sky was bright and clear over Old Prescott that morning.
From the second floor window in the bridal suite of Hamilton Estate Mansion, Sydney watched cars pull into the long, circular drive as guests arrived. With half an hour to go before her big moment, she relished her time alone. Throughout the morning the makeup artist had insisted on playing Sly and the Family Stone over and over on the 8-track tape player while she worked on the bridal party. Sydney had heard enough “Hot Fun in the Summertime” to last her until the next autumn. She would have preferred Handel’s Water Music.
Sydney smiled at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her gown was simple and understated, sleeveless with a scoop neck and lace sash at the waist, crinoline underneath the skirt to give it volume—traditional white. She didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself than was necessary.
Her mother tapped on the door. Sydney assumed Bernadine wanted to give her some last-minute motherly advice before her walk down the aisle, but Bernadine had something else in mind. “I don’t want to upset you,” Bernadine said, gently taking Sydney’s hands, “I just want to make sure you really want to do this.”
Sydney wished she hadn’t let Bernadine in. “Mother, haven’t we been over this fifty times?”
“Weddings have been stopped before, Syd.”
Sydney yanked her hands away and returned to the full-length mirror. She adjusted the strap on her dress to hide a wayward bra strap. She was growing weary of what had become a continuous loop of conversation. “Mother, I’ve told you I want to do this. I want to marry Malachi. What’s more, I’m going to marry Malachi.”
“I know, I know, but once you walk down that aisle, there’s no turning back. I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t discuss this with you one more time, just to make sure. You’re making one of the biggest decisions of your life today. If you hold off, you can finish law school, get with a firm, and then consider getting married to someone.”
“Someone?”
“Yes. ‘Someone.’ There are a lot of choices out there. Who did you date? There was that boy in high school.”
“Jeff.”
“Yes. Jeff. And then Malachi. You really haven’t given yourself a chance.”
“Mother, you used to call Malachi ‘a good catch.’ Remember? You said you liked his ambition. You said it didn’t matter that I hadn’t dated much.”
“But that was before he walked away from the university. Who gets a PhD and then decides to quit academia when things get difficult? He could have reapplied for tenure, or gone to another university. I’m seeing red flags, Syd.”
“What it tells me is that he’s being pragmatic and investing in our future,” Sydney countered.
Bernadine took a deep breath. “I don’t know, Sydney. Marriages are hard enough, even in the best of circumstances. He’s an academic. What does he know about retail? What if this business doesn’t work out? How will he support you?”
Now, with the classical music station playing in the b
ackground, she sat on the bed with her album of wedding photos in her lap and Pumpkin, having been fed, was resting her head lazily on her knee. Sydney wondered if she should have taken her mother’s concerns into account that day. She could have finished law school.
It had been two months since the Taylors fled with the artwork, rare volumes, and cash. Detective Stribling said the police still had no clues as to their whereabouts. Sydney and Malachi had slept in separate bedrooms since then and rarely spoke to each other, except when they were on the merchandise floor. Malachi apologized to her but that had not quelled her anger because it was he who had gone along with Kwamé and rented to the Taylors without checking them out as Sydney had insisted. Malachi let himself be swayed by his best friend’s opinions over hers. That, coupled with his spending more than twenty thousand dollars buying stock and supplies for The Talking Drum without consulting her, his rightful business partner, didn’t help.
Now they had shelves stacked with academic texts and political booklets that weren’t selling. They probably couldn’t give the stuff away if they wanted to. Malachi was a professor without an academy. He was trying to make The Talking Drum into his university. But he had not understood that customers couldn’t be his students.
She turned off the radio, tired of listening to it. Pumpkin got up and sniffed the knobs, then climbed into her lap.
Renting to the Taylors had resulted in a financial nightmare. Officer Stribling had discovered that Willie had forged checks from the Stallworths’ business account. Willie made checks payable to himself then cashed them with his signature. They were thousands of dollars in debt and had to beg their creditors to extend their payment due dates. Their creditors had agreed but were charging them interest.
In a weak moment, Sydney called her mother. A few days later, there was a check in the mailbox from Bernadine and Martin that would cover half of their losses. Sydney was embarrassed that she and Malachi needed the money, but she was glad she would be able to catch up on some bills. However, Malachi stopped her, stating that while he appreciated the gesture, they could take care of their own problems. This led to a blistering argument, with flailing arms, hot words, slammed doors, and tears.
She turned to her favorite photo in the wedding album—Malachi and her standing in the mansion ballroom at the marble fireplace facing each other underneath the chandelier as they held hands and exchanged vows. The photographer had positioned himself at the ballroom entrance, just inside the French doors, framing the shot so that the elegant, fluted columns on each side of the ballroom were in the foreground and the ceiling friezes were in frame. Sunlight streaming through the old-fashioned pane windows gave the room a warm glow.
She wished she could go back to that moment in the picture when she and Malachi were just starting their married lives together, when their relationship was relatively easy and new.
She heard Malachi coming up the stairs. Her heart shifted. Maybe he was ready to talk about what happened again so they could begin the work of rebuilding the relationship. She shut the album as he entered the bedroom.
“We have guests downstairs,” he announced curtly, then turned on his heels and quickly went back downstairs. She was disappointed at his flat tone of voice and quick retreat. She eased Pumpkin off her lap. The kitten chirped at the interruption of her nap, strolled to the end of the bed and then startled Sydney by charging back to her, grabbing her by the wrist with her teeth, grazing Sydney’s skin but not breaking it.
“You stop that, Pumpkin!” Sydney smacked the animal across the face. Pumpkin bolted and scurried away behind the dresser. Sydney didn’t understand the cat’s change in mood. She could be so sweet one second and a spoiled brat the next.
When she got downstairs, Uncle Mustapha was standing in the foyer, smiling.
“Olele! Olele!” shouted Mustapha as he hugged her. “How is my favorite husband-and-wife team doing?”
“I’ll know when I figure out how much we made today,” Malachi replied. He led the way to the front room parlor where the adding machine was humming. “It’s not looking that great.”
“Some days are slow for me, too, my first years in business,” explained Mustapha, “but you must hang in the game.”
“Running a business is a little harder than we imagined,” Sydney said, glancing at Malachi. He kept his eyes trained on Mustapha.
Mustapha raised his eyebrows. “I have special treat for you.” He looked toward the door and clapped his hands slowly, three times.
Sydney glanced again at Malachi. He seemed to be as puzzled as she. Moments later a burst of sound came from the porch. It was a rapid drumbeat. Mustapha’s nephew, the drummer, came inside. He was wearing a winter jacket over his boubou. He nodded to the couple, not missing a beat as he slapped the drum with his palms and fingers.
Whatever the rhythm was, it was catchy. Malachi patted the counter to the beat and without realizing it, Sydney started tapping her foot. Then, the drummer gave his instrument a series of rapid slaps and raised his hands in the air.
“To you I present my nephew, Omar Bassari,” Mustapha said like an emcee at a show.
Malachi shook Omar’s hand. The drummer winced. Then Omar gently took Sydney’s hand and kissed it. She caught a whiff of alcohol.
“Good to meet you on better terms, brother,” Malachi said. Omar and Mustapha stared at him blankly. Both had apparently forgotten about Malachi’s role in breaking up the incident on stage with Hideki Baruka at the grand opening.
Up until this moment, Sydney had only seen Omar from a distance. Now, standing closer to him, she noticed his muscular build and emerald, green eyes, unusual in a black person.
“I’ve heard you play at Le Baobab,” Sydney said. “You’re very good.”
“Thank you, madame,” replied Omar. “We have just come from the Zenobia Club, where The Fulani Sound, my group, performed.”
Sydney enjoyed his French accent. It was different from Uncle Mustapha’s, whose accent sounded more African with its speech pattern and cadence.
“My nephew try to get back onstage after the fire wipe out his home,” Mustapha explained.
“We were so sorry about that,” Malachi replied.
“We collected food and clothing for you and your neighbors,” Sydney said to Omar. “I hope it helped.”
“I am appreciative of everything the people of Liberty Hill do for us,” Omar answered.
Mustapha turned to Malachi. “We get here just in time.”
“How’s that, sir?” asked Malachi.
“My nephew is walking out of nightclub and realize he has to use flush toilet.”
Omar unfastened the drum from his waist and started playfully jogging in place.” Would that be okay, madame?”
“Of course.” Sydney pointed him down the hall.
Once Omar left the room Mustapha motioned for Sydney and Malachi to come closer. “I guess you hear the news about my building.”
“We’re sorry to hear about that. Real sorry.” Malachi said.
“I get letter in the mail from city three weeks ago. They give me small time to close up my restaurant, my building. I must be out in one month’s time. They have check ready to send me. My block is the last one they tear down. Where do I go?”
“What’re you going to do?” she asked.
“Uncle Mustapha will survive,” he said, his voice quivering. “But I worry about my nephew. When the wrecking ball comes through he has no place to go. He is depressing. His wife abandon him a while before.”
“Can’t he go with you?” Sydney asked.
“I don’t know where Uncle Mustapha go. But my first business is to protect my nephew. He is my blood. Is your basement still open?”
“Do you mean, is it available for rent?” Sydney clarified.
“You tell me about it before,” reminded Mustapha. “That size fit my nephew.”
> “Sorry sir.” Malachi stepped from behind the counter and put an arm around Sydney. “It’s not available.”
Mustapha’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Is somebody occupied there?”
Omar returned, his smile dissolving as he sensed the mood of the conversation.
“We had tenants a few months ago,” explained Sydney, “but they didn’t work out.”
“Why? They tear up the place?” asked Mustapha.
“No,” Sydney replied, looking at Malachi for help with an explanation.
“But nobody there now?” Mustapha held his palms face up in a pleading gesture.
“We’re not renting to anyone else,” Malachi asserted. “The other people stole from us, our money, our artwork, our books.”
“Then you need a renter to replenish your money back,” Mustapha offered.
“We’re just tired right now,” Sydney explained.
Mustapha slammed his hand on the counter, startling Sydney. “You do not tell me truth!” he thundered. “You think my nephew is common criminal.”
Omar gently took his uncle by the shoulder. “That’s not what they say, Uncle.”
Mustapha yanked away from his grip. “This is what they exactly say.”
“With all due respect, you’ve got it wrong, sir,” said Malachi. “We just need a break…”
“I know how you Americans are!” Mustapha thundered. “You say one thing, and you mean the other thing.”
“Uncle!” Omar shouted, but Mustapha did not let up.
“I show you the burns on the back of my nephew! I show you to them right now!”
“We’re sorry, monsieur, madame,” Omar apologized.
“You Americans give us bags of cereal and socks when our buildings burn down, but the real need you turn your back on,” Mustapha fumed.
“Maybe we can help you find housing somewhere else,” Sydney said. “There are other people up the street who rent…”
“Never mind you,” howled Mustapha, shaking a bony finger at Malachi. “I will not forget this. The Wolof people have long memories.” Mustapha turned and walked out, leaving Omar behind.