If I Should Die

by Grace F. Edwards

  “No,” I answered, wondering why he was asking. We had gone through these same questions in some detail already. “I told you at the precinct she was in no shape to talk. Or scream. Or cry. Or anything. Too much blood was coming from her mouth and throat.”

  “Yes. Yes. You told me. Too bad you had to see all that. I can see you took it very badly.”

  For a second I fought to keep all the anger, fear, and frustration from spilling over and engulfing the nearest object, which was Danny and his roundabout way of questioning. Dammit! What in hell did he expect? Deborah’s my friend!

  He droned on, sounding more like a funeral director than a detective.

  “Deborah is my friend. She. Is. My. Friend,” I finally said, slowly and distinctly, cutting him off. He was plucking my last nerve and I felt some heavy language creeping to the tip of my tongue, ready to roll off.

  Deborah had survived, but it might be months before she spoke again. I thought of telling him that I didn’t need his company, that I could make it home by myself because I needed air around me and space in which to think and let go of this anger. But he was Tad’s friend and partner. In a tight spot, Tad would have to depend on him.

  I gritted my teeth and quickened my pace, but he kept up with me.

  “Look, Mali. I know how upset you are. I just want you to know that we’re giving this case priority. We’ll find out who is behind this, believe me.”

  Who is behind this … I stole another glance at him. At the precinct, he had said it was a robbery. Open-and-shut case. The man was looking for money to get drugs and had simply picked the apartment at random.

  “Yes, I’m sure Deborah and her family would like to know if this was more than a simple robbery. They’d be very grateful,” I said, hoping he’d shut up.

  At the door, I turned and said good night. I had no intention of inviting him in. I needed to be alone.

  chapter eleven

  Some folks think beauticians should earn more than a therapist or a guidance counselor. I tend to agree, at least in regard to my hairdresser.

  My hair is less than two inches long, and one medium raw egg in a little shampoo under a hot shower would be sufficient to condition it. And a lot cheaper. But there’s something to be said for the timeless ritual that hairdressers have perfected: the laying on of hands.

  I had walked uptown from the hospital to Bertha’s Beauty Shop thinking of Deborah. Though she was sitting up, eating Jell-O and sipping liquids through a straw, she was still unable to speak, and her eyes, when they drifted away from me, held a look of blank terror.

  Her sister intended to transfer her to a rehabilitation center, and when her therapy was completed, Deborah would go to Washington to live. My friend, classmate, confidante, and sometimes double date was leaving, and unless I made the trip to Washington, I probably would not see her for a long while.

  I opened the door to Bertha’s shop and she looked at me: “Sit down, girl. Quick. Before you fall down.”

  Bertha was short, round though not quite plump, with dark auburn hair framing a brown face. Her shop was clean and cozy and she believed in letting her customers relax, eat the lunch they had brought, and sometimes play the single action if the numbers runner happened by.

  One customer had just left, and a minute later my head was bent back over the shampoo bowl and the tightness in my forehead and scalp was being washed and massaged away.

  “Mali, you got knots in your neck as big as boulders. What’s eatin’ you?”

  “It’s a long story, Miss Bert.”

  “Yeah, well. It usually is.”

  A half hour later I sat with a towel wrapped around my head waiting for the conditioner to condition and listening to Bertha’s philosophy of life when the door opened and a large woman with dyed-blond hair walked in. She had a very pretty face, young, bronze-tone skin, and dark eyes as clear as a teenager’s, but from the shoulders down, she spread outward, exactly like a pyramid.

  She waved and headed toward the workstation near the rear of the shop.

  “Hi, Bertha. Just wanted to drop my packages off. Be right back. I’m expecting two customers. If they show, just tell ’em to wait.”

  She waved again and was gone.

  As the door closed, Bert sighed. “You see. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  “What?”

  “Her name’s Viv. Her man cut her loose a month ago. Traded her in for a size ten and now she gotta work for a livin’ just like the rest of us. He had set her up as a hairdresser, except he owned the business. Real nice shop up on Amsterdam Avenue called the Pink Fingernail. Got air-conditioning, fancy pink lights that take ten years off your face every time you look in the mirrors, CD music, everything. Even got herbal tea.

  “Now the new girlfriend is in there and this one’s over here, tryin’ to eat herself into an early grave. Some of her customers left and came here with her, though, so she’s lucky. At least she won’t starve.

  “I tell you, these men are somethin’ else. I’m glad my name is on this deed and the combs, the hairpins, even the dirt on this floor is owned by me. My mama always said, ‘God bless the child that’s got her own.’ And if you got half a somebody else’s, that’s even better, but first make sure you got your own. I’m tellin’ you, a man like Johnnie Harding’ll never get a chance to do me like he did her. I’m too independent for that shit, thank God.”

  The conditioner, whatever it was, must have seeped into my brain and caused me to nod off but I blinked awake when I heard the name.

  “Johnnie Harding?” I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady. “Who’s he?”

  Bertha looked at me and stepped back with her hands on her hips. “Girl, where you been? In a coma somewhere?”

  “Well, I heard the name, but I can’t connect …”

  “And neither can the cops. But everybody knows he’s into hard stuff. Man ain’t even got a Social Security card and there’s more money comin’ out his willie than the government got comin’ outta Fort Knox.”

  There were no other customers in the shop so Bertha was able to talk freely. I was wide awake now.

  “And the truth is, Viv really loved him. He probably went for her too when she was still small, but she kinda outgrew him. I guess that’s what they mean by livin’ large. She had put on a pound a month. Since he walked, she been puttin’ on a pound a week. Everybody knows Johnnie likes ’em thin as a pin; small enough to get his hands around … Viv knew it, but I guess she figured she was somethin’ special.”

  “I think I know who you mean. Does he drive a red Benz?”

  “Naw. Got a midnight-blue Cadillac. Special plates.”

  “A special plate. What does it say?”

  “ ‘Badman.’ You know. Somethin’ stupid and eye-catchin’.”

  I closed my eyes, wondering about that HO plate.

  “Well,” I said, “he’s got a new woman, nice car, all that money. Viv must be taking it pretty hard.”

  “And that ain’t the half of it. Just the other day she looked at herself in this mirror—front, back, and sideways—and swore she was gonna take up joggin’ startin’ that very day. Well, the only place she jogs is down to Sylvia’s for one a them baby back rib sandwiches and on the return trip, stops by Majestic Take-Out for the catch of the day, plus fries.”

  She stopped talking long enough to unwrap the towel, put another handful of sweet-smelling stuff on my head, and tie the towel up again.

  “Johnnie must be quite a man to cause a woman to fall apart like that,” I said in the brief silence.

  “Well, I can’t say firsthand, but from what I heard—now this is between you, me, and the lamppost, you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  I closed my eyes, leaned back in the chair, and let Miss Bert talk.

  If you stand on any corner of 135th Street and Lenox, you will be able to take in the YMCA, an adjoining basketball court, the young trees guarding a ribbon of renovated apartments, Pan-Pan’s restaurant
, Harlem Hospital, the Schomburg Research Center, and parts of the Lenox Terrace apartment complex.

  A step away from Lenox Terrace is a small bar called Twenty-Two West, a dimly lit but comfortable place in which a woman doesn’t mind sitting alone.

  The television in the rear near the kitchen is respectfully low, even during a Knicks game.

  There were a few men at the bar when I walked in and two couples were having dinner at a table in the back.

  I sat at a table near the door, looking up each time it opened. I was early but couldn’t help glancing at my watch. I had been studying, trying to catch up on the assignments I’d missed, when Tad called. He had sounded so angry that I’d dropped everything and rushed here to meet him.

  I was halfway through a Scotch and soda when he came in. As he sat down, I could see, even in the dim light, the small muscle working the side of his jaw.

  “What’s happened?”

  He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

  “They took me off Deborah Matthews’s case.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. An hour ago. They took me off and gave it to Danny. God only knows what the Chief was thinking when he did that. Personally, I believe he’s getting a little senile and oughtta put his papers in. I don’t mean to knock Danny. He’s as good as they come but, you know, lately … I don’t know what to say.

  “When I asked the Chief why the case was reassigned, he said Danny had actually asked for it to be given to him. That I was too close to be objective.”

  “But you don’t even know Deborah …”

  “They know that I rushed over to the hospital to meet you the morning she was attacked. They know she’s your friend. And Danny knows how I feel about you. He’s also handling Gary Mark’s case and Erskin Harding’s case. He convinced the Chief to combine those two into a file called the Choir Murders.”

  “You’re kidding. Seems our boy has a flair for the dramatic. This is a chorus, however.”

  “Whatever. Chorus. Choir. He’s handling it now. What’s the difference?”

  I shrugged, not knowing if there really was a difference. I’d have to ask Dad when I got home.

  “So,” I said, “if he breaks the choir case—or cases—he gets the five-minute spotlight and another promotion.”

  “Seems that way. He’s up to his ass in cases already, so he intends to close Deborah’s file, saying it was a push-in gone wrong. Suspect dead. The end.”

  I was speechless. Did Danny really need another case?

  “Maybe,” I said finally, “Danny needs to fill up every second of his time to take his mind off the problem at home.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Rumor has it that he’s got some girl around here young enough to be his daughter and fly enough to take his mind off everything.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s right. So he works the O.T. to keep him in the neighborhood. Now he’s bucking for promotion so he’ll have the money to support her and his Long Island family.”

  I had visions of his serene-faced wife and wondered if she knew where and how her husband was spending his time in the old neighborhood. I wondered if she cared.

  Maybe not. In the picture that Danny had showed me, I could see nothing in her face, not even resignation. Maybe she knew and didn’t care. As long as hearth and home was covered, he could screw half of Harlem. Just don’t rock her boat …

  “How long has she been in a wheelchair?”

  “A few years now. She has multiple sclerosis and Danny’s doing the best he can. I have to give him credit for that. He’s paying for that house, a private nurse, the girls’ schooling, music and dance lessons, car notes …”

  “And the girlfriend,” I added.

  He shrugged and I looked at him across the table. “Tad, I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed, and I’m sorry.”

  We ordered a round of doubles and I watched him stir the ice in his glass.

  As bad as things were, the situation had been somewhat simplified for me now. It was no longer Tad’s case, so I was no longer held to my promise to lay off. I could start asking questions again. What happened to Deborah was more than a simple robbery. All the information she had gathered on Gary Mark had somehow disappeared. The envelope I was supposed to pick up from Deborah had not yet been recovered.

  I sighed and leaned back in my chair watching Tad. I thought of my afternoon with Miss Bert, which had gone so well that I had tipped her beyond my regular budget.

  “A ten-dollar tip to condition two inches of hair?” she had laughed. “Girl, put your money back in your pocket.”

  “No, this is for the knots in my neck,” I said. And the conversation, I wanted to add.

  … The first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll be at the Motor Vehicles Department when my friend Barbara returns from vacation. I’ll ask her to run a check on Harding’s license and every vanity plate with “HO” and I will wait there until I get the answer. No more telephone calls. What happened to Deborah was enough.

  I looked at Tad again and placed my hand over his. It was closed so tightly I could trace the veins that spread like a fine web to his wrist. He was a good detective, a good person, a caring and decent man. This should not have happened to him.

  “Tad, listen. Things will work themselves out. They usually do …”

  It sounded so lame, but there was no more to be said. I gazed at him in the dim light and remembered earlier, at the beauty shop; the “laying on of hands” had left me feeling remarkably free and loose and the effects had not yet worn off.

  I leaned across the table now until my mouth was as close to his ear as I could get without going inside it.

  “Honey, listen, what you need is … a laying on of hands.”

  My voice was low and my fingers went on to trace under his chin and move lightly along his collar line. “You probably have some knots in your neck as big as boulders …”

  He turned to look at me, barely able to contain a smile.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Just a guess …”

  “Unh-hnh.” His expression changed and he moved closer. “You somethin’ else, girl. You want to smooth me out? I got something needs smoothing in the worst way. The worst way, baby …”

  “Your place?” I whispered. “You know, I’ve never seen the lights shining on the Harlem River at night.”

  “And I can’t wait to show you. I mean it. Every time I hear ‘I’ve been lovin’ you too long to stop now,’ I hear that song and say to myself, I haven’t even got started with this woman. Haven’t even—”

  “Wait. Don’t tell me in here.”

  I rose from the table.

  I imagined us lying among soft pillows on the terrace, splits of Moët, a little Wynton Marsalis blowing in the background, and in the glow of the candles, my fingers working a fragrant oil into the small of his back …

  “Let me make a call. Let Dad know I’ll be out awhile. You know how it is. Kid could be ninety and the parent still worries.”

  I made my way to the phone near the back of the bar. It rang twice and Alvin picked it up before the second ring was complete. His voice sounded small, as if he had been running and couldn’t catch his breath.

  “Mali. Listen. Mrs. Johnson, Morris’s mother? She just called. Clarence is in trouble. He just got arrested.”

  “What?”

  “She wants you to go to the precinct. To find out what’s going on. Maybe do something to get him out … Mali, you gotta—”

  “Alvin, listen to me. Nothing bad is going to happen to Clarence, you understand?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “We’re going there right now.”

  I heard the relief as he said good-bye.

  I hung up the phone and pressed my forehead to the wall. Sound filtered from the television into the narrow corridor: a commercial had come on singing the praises of dental floss or freshener or something and I listened to the joyful noises of a man who didn’t ha
ve to worry anymore, thanks to …

  I wanted to laugh.

  Then I wanted to cry and press my head further into the wall as the images of fragrant oil slipped away. I opened my eyes. The river lights would have to wait.

  On the way to the table, my neck started to hurt again.

  chapter twelve

  Tad convinced me to visit Mrs. Johnson before going to the precinct, considering I was persona non grata there and he had just been relieved of his assignment.

  There were eight buildings of twenty-one stories with ten apartments on every floor. The faded red brick exteriors looked deceptively calm and orderly but I remembered responding to at least sixteen calls in one month alone when I was on the midnight shift.

  Urban planning said pack them in, contain them. Ignore the pressure and pathology that builds in confined space. In controlled experiments, when conditions become intolerable, rats will bite off their own tails, eat their young, kill each other. But the planners didn’t consult the scientists. Then again, perhaps they did.

  The elevator was out of order but luckily Mrs. Johnson lived on the fourth floor. We made our way up the fire stairs and listened as people on the landings who had no business being there fled at the sound of our approach.

  In the dim lighting we saw the cinder-block walls scarred with a dizzy mosaic of red, yellow, and orange graffiti and signed with bold tags. Every square inch of the stairwell was covered. On every landing, we stepped on crack vials that spilled out from the crevices between the steps where the concrete had chipped or worn away.

  The smell of different kinds of food cooking drifted into the stairwell, competing with the pungent odor of dried urine.

  On the third floor, there was a loud outburst and a young man slammed open the door to the stairwell.

  “Goddamn place ain’t worth shit! We oughtta go on a rent strike till they git these damn elevators workin’ right. People up on them top floors ain’t been downstairs in a week.”

  He was about to pass us, then stopped and jabbed a finger in our faces. “Now whatta you think’ll happen if there’s a emergency and the ammalambs come. Then EMS don’t be climbin’ no stairs. They pull up, they be yellin’ C.O.D.! Come! On! Down! They ain’t hikin’ up these stairs, not even for they mama!”