A Toast Before Dying

by Grace F. Edwards

  “Mali, I know you’re upset, but it’ll soon be over. Since the bombings in Oklahoma and Atlanta, it seems every agency’s on code red and rushing to retrain its personnel. I know how you feel; I feel just as bad. I’ll make it up to you when I’m home for good.”

  He put his glass down again without taking a drink and drew me toward him. His eyes were half-closed and he began to massage the small place in my lower back. His hands were strong and powerful and the rhythm in my chest began to skip and I felt if we did not see his bed in the next five minutes, I’d be ready to perform my own act of terrorism. I didn’t take a drink either. I wanted to be wide awake when I did it.

  “I almost forgot. I bought you something,” he whispered, dropping his hands and moving from the sofa. He extended a package and I opened it, pulled out the items, and held them up in the light: black garter belts, old-fashioned and beautiful and made of intricately woven, cobweb-like lace.

  “I understand they still wear these in Paris,” he whispered. “The saleslady said they’re very healthy.”

  “Healthy?” I looked at him, searching for the pun.

  “Yeah, you know: She said ordinary pantyhose interfere with your circulation … or something …”

  I gazed at him and saw behind his smile, the need to see me laugh, and when I did the tightness in my throat eased and I reached into the bag again and pulled out lace-topped stockings with black seams and heels outlined in tiny rhinestones. I didn’t know Tad would dare step inside Victoria’s Secret.

  “Where am I supposed to wear these?” I asked.

  He was standing now and easily pulled me up from the sofa. “From here to there,” he whispered, drawing a line toward the bedroom.

  I didn’t think it was possible to construct an entire world within the four walls of a single room and shut out everything else. I dialed Dad and left a short message on the machine: “Tad’s back for one day. I’m at his place.”

  Then I dropped the receiver by the side of the bed and for the rest of the time nothing else existed.

  The heat of the afternoon melted into evening cool and at night the horn of a lone tugboat wafted in on the silence and then it was gray again and then morning light before we noticed.

  I rolled over and lay my head on Tad’s chest. He was quiet now, asleep. Earlier, his heart had drummed loud and fast against me, as if he’d been running.

  In the half-light I watched the slight rise and fall of his stomach. My finger traced the fine line of hair below his navel and I wondered why I felt so oddly dissatisfied.

  He stirred, and his voice came to me in a whisper. “Mali, I’m sorry about this. This is like snatching something on the run. Maybe I should’ve waited until I was back for good and we had more time. Maybe—”

  “No. No.” I eased up on one elbow to look at him. “If you only came back for five minutes, it’s more than what I had before you got here. You’re leaving tonight. There wasn’t time to talk about anything. I love you … I love you …”

  “Ah, Baby.” He slipped his arms around me and lay down again, but I knew it was me, my fault and not his. I could not concentrate, knowing that he would be furious when he found out I had been trying to help Kendrick.

  I refused to go with him to the airport because that would have meant returning home alone and I couldn’t do that. So I showered and smiled and dressed and somewhere in the small talk heard myself whisper good-bye, and closed the door and concentrated on the irregular pattern in the terrazzo floor as I walked to the elevator.

  It was dark out. And cool. As if a new season had sneaked in behind my back. On 135th Street, I walked past the brightly lit windows of Lenox Terrace. There was a crowd inside Twenty-Two West, the neighborhood bar. I peeked in and a wave of regret washed over me; we’d had no time for dinner. The vodka and cranberry on the table had warmed as the ice melted and overflowed and made circles on the table that I’d tried to clean up. We’d had no time.

  “You’ll come out to L.A. for a few days. Your dad won’t mind a few days.”

  And I remembered saying yes, if you’re not home in a week, we’ll work it that way. I continued to walk and crossed to the other side of 135th Street, away from the bar. Behind me the tall outline of the Rivington Apartments and Delano Village stood out against the velvet sky as I headed west toward Malcolm X Boulevard. The lights were out in the Bennet playground and the moonlight cut through the line of trees to cast gray slivers along the empty benches. I passed the handball area and someone called out.

  “Heard you was lookin’ for me.”

  Just inside the high chain-link fence, Flyin’ Home was waiting near the entrance. The dogs lay beside his chair, half-hidden behind the row of benches. I stepped into the shadows, moving quickly toward his voice.

  “TooHot said you wanted to see me,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Make it quick, Mali. I got stuff to do. If it was anybody but you, I wouldn’t be here …”

  He glanced around at the slight rustling sounds of the wind in the branches overhead, then folded his arms, waiting.

  “I need to know if you saw anything the night Thea died,” I said quickly.

  He looked at me and rubbed the side of his face, still glancing around. “Like I told you, you ain’t on the force no more. Why you want to know?”

  I leaned against the low railing opposite him. I was no longer on the force but he and I both knew I had treated him with respect all the times he had been hauled in with clothing and cameras and TVs and jewelry that hadn’t belonged to him. And when that blast ended his career, I’d still tried to help him. He was a thief but he’d never put a gun to a nose, a knife to a chest, or a cord around anyone’s neck.

  “We both know I’m not on the force, but we also know that a brother’s down at the Dee for something he didn’t do. I need to know if you saw anything—a man, woman, a car.”

  “I seen both.”

  “A man and a woman?”

  “No. A car and a person. The person who came out the alley. Moved slow so I didn’t make nuthin’ of it. The streetlight was out so I couldn’t tell you if it was man or woman. They walked normal, wasn’t tryin’ to beat no clock, you understand. They got into a small black car. By its headlight I guessed it mighta been a foreign number. I don’t know. Ain’t had time to think about it then ’cause Sheba here sat down. I mean this big dog just stopped cold. Set up a howl so bad I knew right away some shady shit had just went down, you know what I’m sayin’. Then Solomon here, he join her. So with all that, plus the siren song comin’ from the five-oh, I was outta there.”

  “But why’d you leave? Why didn’t you tell the cops what you saw?”

  “Me?” He pointed to his chest and looked at me as if I’d asked him to rise up and walk again. “Listen, Mali: You know I got a sheet long as your legs. They take me down and shake me up and all my shit fall out. I wasn’t ready for that, not that night.”

  “Okay, that was then. This is now. Would you be willing to speak to someone I know? A detective?”

  He glanced at me and shook his head emphatically. “Mali, you and me go back a long way. You helped me when nobody else would. But I ain’t lookin’ to git jammed on no jive tip.”

  “Okay,” I said. I was quiet for a moment, then tried another approach. “Suppose that person saw you?”

  “What person?”

  “The one who left the alley.”

  “They did! They did see me! That’s why I’m only out at certain hours. I’m real careful, ’cause that was probably a hit. I don’t know what went down but I know I don’t wanna be next.”

  He clicked his teeth and the dogs rose. “So you can see where I’m at, Mali. Kendrick’s my man, but I can’t do nuthin’, not a damn thing.”

  I stood at the entrance as he left the park. He’d had no time to pick up speed when a car that had been double-parked with its engine idling now eased along the street beside him. I spotted the glint of steel as the window
slid down.

  “Flyin’! Look out!” I screamed and ran up to the wheelchair. The gun went off and Flyin’ went down. The gun went off again, this time aimed at me. But I had dropped to the ground before the slug pierced the NO PARKING sign above my head.

  The car then made a screeching U-turn, heading now for the Harlem River Drive. I managed to get up as two boys walking through the ball court came running. Twenty-two West emptied out and patrons dodged traffic to get to us only to be held at bay by the snarling dogs. The chair was overturned and the dogs circled it with bared teeth.

  “Somebody call 911!” I shouted as I crouched down to move toward the chair. The dogs bared their teeth wider and I moved no farther. “Flyin’?” I shouted. “Are you hit? Answer me.”

  He clicked his teeth softly and the dogs moved back, allowing me to crawl to him on my hands and knees. “Don’t try to move. Keep still. The ambulance’ll be here. It’s right around the corner.”

  “Listen, Mali,” he whispered. “Unfasten me from the chair and set it straight. Unfasten me, quick!”

  I did as I was told, working fast, thinking perhaps that the strap was cutting into him, twisting his body in a painful position. He lay on the ground now and I uprighted the chair.

  Flyin’ suddenly lifted himself up on one elbow and called out, “Sheba! Go, girl!” And Solomon followed. The two dogs, barking and snarling and pulling the empty chair, plunged through the crowd, who fell over themselves in a panic trying to move out of the way. In a second, the dogs were gone.

  Flyin’ sank back and I cradled his head in my lap. “They know the way,” he whispered. “Somebody home take care of ’em till I git on my feet. Ain’t that funny? ‘Till I git on my feet’ … yeah, that’s some funny shit.”

  I untied the scarf around his throat and he held it to his shoulder where the blood was now spreading like a red blossom. But he was still conscious.

  “Flyin’, who was after you? Who?”

  He rolled his eyes and it was a second before they came back in focus. “Don’t know. That’s the same car was at the alley. Same car. You be cool, Mali, ’cause if they seen me that night, they probably followed and seen me talkin’ to you. They seen you too. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  The EMS technicians shouldered their way through the crowd, ignoring a man who called, “What took you so long? You right up the block? Coulda walked here, dammit!”

  Someone else yelled back, “Aw, shut the fuck up and let ’em do they job.”

  The man turned around, looking into the crowd for the caller. “Yo! You don’t chill, EMS be havin’ two jobs. You be in that ammalambs with ’em! I’ll help you!”

  The technicians ignored everyone and got Flyin’ onto the stretcher as the police arrived and took a statement from me. The ambulance siren started up, and instead of backing out into the now-crowded street, it moved quickly along the sidewalk and turned onto Lenox Avenue toward the hospital.

  The crowd began to disperse, leaving behind bits of opinions and whispered observations. “Knew he was gonna git smoked sooner or later. He the one lifted my TV couple years ago.”

  “Damn! How he do that in a chair.”

  “Wasn’t in no chair then. Went in the wrong crib and came out carryin’ a bullet.”

  “Maybe tonight somebody tried to finish the job.”

  “That, or they tryin’ to git to what’s under that chair. Flyin’ Home carry some UPS—ultrapure, under-priced shit. Wish I coulda caught them damn dogs. That chair’s worth coupla grand.”

  “Yeah, and is probably somewhere past Yonkers by now.”

  chapter seventeen

  The bullet that hit Flyin’ Home in the armpit had pierced his lung, and while he was being prepped in the emergency room, he choked to death on his blood.

  I sat at the table the next morning reading the Daily Challenge, which said it had been a drug hit. A drive-by. Even TooHot had warned me, in so many words, to stay away.

  Flyin’ Home had been dealing from his wheelchair—traded one poor career choice for another.

  I wondered if his girlfriend or wife or family had known. Had they ever tried to talk to him, warn him. Or would they now simply use some of his drug profits to bury him. And keep on stepping. I closed the paper, my feelings shifting from sympathy to anger and frustration and back again.

  The only possible witness was now gone, and I had a vision of Kendrick lying in his cell holding his ears against the sound of his nightmares.

  Plus there was a new complication: “If they seen me, they seen you too, you know what I’m sayin’?” Flyin’ Home had said.

  I thought back to the night he had rolled up to me at Bert’s place. There had been no cars on the avenue but who had been on the side streets? And he did get in the wind pretty fast, probably zigzagging through the blocks against the traffic pattern until he made it home.

  Then last night, while talking to me, someone had caught up to him.

  “If it was anybody but you, I wouldn’t be here.”

  I shook my head. He’d be alive if he’d been home—or somewhere other than in that park.

  The next day, when Teddi called, I had not been out of the house except to walk Ruffin. The image of Flyin’ Home being lifted into the ambulance and the news of his death still haunted me.

  I picked up the phone and Teddi’s voice was barely above a whisper. I had to strain to hear her.

  “Mali? Can you meet me at the theater? I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “What about?” I asked, not feeling in the mood to go anywhere but back to bed.

  “Something’s happened.”

  I didn’t respond, not sure I was ready to absorb any more bad news.

  “Mali, are you there?”

  “I’m here. What … happened?”

  “I can’t say … can’t talk about this over the phone. Can you meet me?”

  I heard something more than the urgency in her voice, and I agreed to meet her. I dressed quickly and left the house.

  Someone had placed a brighter bulb in the lobby of the Star Manhattan Theater and the cracks in the walls were visible. I climbed the stairs and expected to find a rehearsal in progress like the last time, but the only sound in the place came from the echo of my footfalls as I moved down the aisle.

  The klieg lights were out but a small overhead bulb in center stage spread a weak glow. I stepped up on the stage and tried to peer into the darkness beyond the bulb.

  “Teddi?”

  I called again, wondering if she had changed her mind after she had phoned me. Maybe she was backstage and didn’t hear me. I took a step, and a voice close to my ear made me jump.

  “Mali …”

  I spun around and Teddi was standing in the shadow of one of the sliding prop walls.

  “I’m sorry, Mali. I didn’t mean to frighten you, but I heard footsteps and I wasn’t sure who it was …”

  “Who else are you expecting?”

  “No one. No one.”

  She stepped quickly off the stage and motioned for me to follow. We sat in the first row, where she positioned herself so that she could watch the door. I also glanced back but no one was there. “What’s going on, Teddi?”

  “Mali, I’m going to make this quick. I want you to forget about what I asked you to do. Right now, I’ll give you half of what I offered and we’ll call it even, okay?”

  “No. No, it’s not okay. I’m not talking about the money. I want to know why you wanted me to look into Thea’s life in the first place, and now all of a sudden you’re ready to fold.”

  “Please Mali … it’s gotten too complicated. I don’t want any more … I mean I think we should let sleeping dogs lie.”

  Sleeping dogs. Dogs. I thought of Flyin’ Home. “You know,” I said, “the only possible witness to Thea’s murder was killed last night.”

  In what little light there was, I thought I saw the color drain from her face. She took a breath and pushed her hair back. The silence stretched before she spoke
again.

  “Mali, you’re Kendrick’s friend. I don’t want anything to happen to anyone else. There’s already too much—”

  We both heard the sound of the door scraping open but I didn’t move.

  “Get down! Quick!” she whispered as she stood up and moved toward the sliver of light. “If she sees me talking to you …”

  I slid down off my seat and crouched on the floor as she hurried up the aisle and stopped at the door.

  “Mother? What are you doing here? There’s no rehearsal today.”

  “I know. I phoned you, and when I didn’t get an answer I thought—”

  “Well, I was going over a script, but I’ll get my bag. I was about to leave. Wait here.”

  Teddi moved back down the aisle and shot a quick look at me. I remained where I was as she rushed past me again. The sliver of light vanished as the door closed, leaving me in relative darkness and more confusion.

  One day and several phone calls that Teddi did not return later, I looked at the other cards in the file.

  I called Miss Adele, who was glad to hear from me. An hour later, I headed uptown to Esplanade Gardens, a co-op development that stretched in an L shape from Lenox Avenue and 146th Street to Seventh Avenue and 148th Street.

  Across from Esplanade are the Dunbar Apartments, a block-long complex with interior gardens where Matthew Henson, Paul Robeson, W. E. B. Du Bois, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson, and A. Philip Randolph once lived. Miss Adele had also lived there for many years, but had moved across Seventh Avenue when Esplanade was completed.

  One Christmastime when I was growing up, I went to Rockefeller Center for the tree-lighting ceremony, but every year after that I walked up Seventh Avenue to Esplanade to watch the terraces come alive with light so stunningly bright that Soviet cosmonauts on a flyby recorded it as a pulse from a supernova. And in a way, it was.

  Each evening a week before Christmas, I would rush uptown in freezing, sleeting, snowy weather to stand in the entrance of Thelma’s Lounge on the corner of 148th Street and Seventh Avenue. I was too young to enter the bar, so I would stand in the doorway blowing rings of arctic air as lights from the terraces and windows across the avenue randomly pushed back the frigid darkness. When I could no longer feel my mouth move or my teeth chatter, I would board the bus and head home. Those lights, the wonder and beauty of them, were more exciting than any Christmas present I had ever received.