by Evie Rhodes
Tracie swallowed hard. “What are you doing here, Rashod?”
“I want to pay props and respect to my dead baby brother. Harlem’s grapevine don’t know no end, baby.”
“Don’t call me ‘baby,’ ” Tracie said in disgust. “The only respect you pay is to that pipe you be hitting.”
Rashod laughed. He leaned in closer to Tracie. “Wrong. I also pay my respects to the Destroyer.” He swept a low bow in front of Tracie’s feet, paying mock allegiance to her. He glared once at Michael, then at Dre.
Rashod reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out his blunt. He put it to his mouth, searched for his lighter, lit it, and inhaled, blowing smoke at Tracie before turning on his heels and sauntering down the street in the direction of Sylvia’s Restaurant.
Dre reached out a hand to snatch him by the collar for punking and disrespecting his mother. But Tracie put a restraining hand on Dre’s chest. She pulled her sunglasses over her eyes.
She watched the back of Rashod as he glided down crowded Malcolm X Boulevard. Pain swelled in her chest as she watched the first child she had borne disappear into the crowded street. His hatred of her washed her onto the shores of failed motherhood and desolation.
Here she stood on a street named after a man who thought they should rise. Instead the street was full of boys, girls, men, and women who were sinking. It was as if some unseen force were swallowing their very souls whole. Rashod, her very own child, was only one of them.
Tracie shook her head at the thought. And that was only one of Harlem’s disparities. A cruel twist of fate was laughing at them for daring to dream, on streets that possessed the whispering souls of a Harlem Renaissance long past. They were living in shadows. Rashod was her shadow.
The truth was, Randi wasn’t the only child she had lost. In reality, she had lost Rashod a long time ago, in both body and spirit. He was as dead to her as Randi. Tracie let out a silent, wordless sigh.
Crack cocaine, the spiritless demon, had stolen him from her. The only difference was that she would not have to commit his body to the ground. No, he was a live ache that she would have to live with.
He was one of the living dead.
As Rashod glided through the streets that were like a second skin to him, his mother wasn’t the only person who watched him.
The second pair of eyes not only watched, they absorbed him. Then they turned inward, swallowing the ghost of Rashod Burlingame whole.
After all, he was only one of Tracie Burlingame’s black patches. Yes, she was a patchwork quilt, all right. She was full of black patches and hollowed-out places.
4
Graced. That’s what those fools were. Graced. That would soon come to a crashing end.
Screech.
Those were the brakes, putting an end to things.
The people in Harlem were graced because he had not yet struck the streets of Harlem. But now he would, because he had his orders. Spirit and flesh, flesh and spirit—for him it was a game of “romp and let’s play.” In reality, it was not something to be played with.
He roamed the dark room. There was no need for light. He hated light and all things that were bright. He blew his nose, wadded up the tissue, and threw it in the growing pile, which was about three feet high in the room.
He coughed up phlegm, spitting that into the wad of tissues also. He rubbed his bald head, which looked like a shiny, brown globe. Then he stretched his tall frame.
Dirt caked the walls. The garbage in the room overflowed. He was pleased with himself for removing all the fresh meat from the refrigerator and setting it on the desk and tables in the room.
He watched as maggots and roaches fought for position on the uncovered meat. Then he laughed.
He was restless. He needed new spirit anyway. He was glad he was being dispatched to fresh territory. This mission was the most important of all. Harlem was considered the Black Mecca, the promised land. That made it important history-making grounds.
He’d made some trial runs. There were some territorial-rights issues, but he had his orders from the only power that mattered.
The one whose claim was already staked in Harlem was not moving fast enough. He was following a personal agenda. This was not personal; it was business.
The business of striking, hitting, destroying that which must be destroyed, was serious. There was a lot at stake. He must collect the gifts. It was time.
The primary show should have been on the road, and so far all he’d done was drop one boy from the roof. What the hell was he thinking?
He knew there was a much grander plan.
No, there was no more time. He needed to start collecting the spirits—now. He had received his orders.
He stuck the long shiny blade down into the sheath sewn to the inside of his pants. His breathing was shallow, just as it always was when it was time.
His arrival in Harlem would kick things into high gear. First he would observe his comrade in action. Then he would stalk him. The next time his comrade struck, he’d be there; he wouldn’t miss out. Spirit and flesh were sometimes uneasy companions.
He knew his invasion would not be welcomed at this time, because his comrade hadn’t finished his own personal agenda. That was too bad. Time was of the essence. His comrade dabbled in flesh, but he excelled in spirit.
He looked at his biceps before pulling on his jacket. There they were: the faces of the ones already collected poked out all along his biceps and forearms. Their eyes stared at him. Some of them blinked at him.
Looking at them reminded him of faces with pronounced facial features poking out through a balloon, sort of as if a mask were being stretched over them—only it was his skin that provided the covering.
The faces writhed in the agony he had caused. Desolation, fear, and uncertainty peeked out at him. Sometimes they cried, particularly the very young. It was useless; they weren’t going anywhere.
There was even one who always sneezed.
It didn’t matter. It was a trap not of the usual making. They were contained in a spiritual housing, one from which they would never be released.
He thought about the death of Randi Burlingame and the missed opportunity to add him to his spiritual residence. This angered him because Randi Burlingame had been of high esteem. He could not miss again. He was the collector.
Quickly he grabbed his jacket, putting it on so he wouldn’t have to look at them. He didn’t want to look at them anymore just now. At times some of them spoke.
Sometimes they cried out in unison, wanting to be free. But only on a specific occasion, if someone had the sight to see. That reminded him: he had a visit to make. Sometimes those with the sight to see saw too much.
Today the residing spirits held their tongues. Soon he would add more to them.
And as soon as he made his visit, she would know his name.
5
That night Lonzo and Monica sat at their desks in the Harlem precinct station. Monica leaned back in her chair with her feet up on the desk. Lonzo sat running his hands through his long dreadlocks.
“All right,” Monica said. “Let’s go over everything we have.”
“We did.”
“Then let’s do it again.”
Monica was exasperated with Lonzo’s attitude. He was getting on her last nerve. He glared at her, then shot up out of his seat, pacing the floor.
“We have a sixteen-year-old dead boy. And we’re clueless as to why he’s dead, because we have no motive.”
Lonzo twirled in a circle and then threw his arms wide open in stage-show fashion. “Oh, and we have our star witness Sinead Watson, who, between wheezes, doesn’t know a thing outside of the body hitting the ground in front of her.” He took a bow.
“We ought to be able to use that, don’t you think?” he said rather nastily.
Monica didn’t answer the question.
Instead she said, “And we know for a fact that Randi has an ice princess for a mother.” That took the air out of his sa
ils.
He gave her a long, puzzled look. “Get a grip, Monie. The lady was grieving. Anyway that has nothing to do with this.”
Monica swung her feet from the desk. “It has everything to do with this.”
“Chill, okay? You’re losing your logic.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not losing a thing, but you might be.” Her eyes arrogantly traveled the length of his body. Lonzo felt the heat rise in him.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means this is a homicide investigation, and everybody is a suspect.” Monica tugged on her earlobe. She lifted an eyebrow in Lonzo’s direction.
“We owe some respect to his mother,” Lonzo said.
“I owe my respect to the people of the City of New York.”
Monica walked up close to Lonzo. The physical attraction bristled in the air between them. A single electric, kinetic wave embraced them.
She paused before continuing. “And I owe my respect to the dead. In this case that would be to Randi Burlingame. Because I, for one, do not believe that he decided to remove his Karl Kani boots before he accidentally fell off the roof. Do you?”
Lonzo took a step back. He squared his shoulders. “Naw.”
“And he certainly didn’t decide to give blood before tossing himself over the roof.” Monica searched Lonzo’s eyes before adding, “I ain’t buying accidental. Tracie Burlingame can afford to be in denial; we can’t.”
“Okay, look, I know where you’re coming from. Let’s call it for the night. We’ll see what it looks like in the morning.”
“Cool. That works for me.” Monica retrieved her jacket from the back of the chair and left the room.
Both of them spent a restless night. They arrived at the precinct early the next morning. The first order of business was a meeting with Alexandra Kennedy, head of Harlem’s homicide division.
Alexandra was tough. She was in every aspect of the word a ballbuster. Her manner was one of rigid coldness. She reigned supreme in the Harlem precinct.
She had tight blond ringlet curls plastered to her head, and bright blue eyes the color of a summer sky. She strode into their office, dropping a bag on the floor without a hint of a greeting.
She tossed a file on the desk. Then she stared belligerently at the two tired, weary detectives who looked as though they hadn’t slept a wink.
“What’s going on here?” Alexandra asked without preamble.
Monica stared at her unemotionally. Lonzo smiled engagingly.
“Murder,” Lonzo said.
Alexandra took a pencil from her pocket. She chewed on the eraser. “Brilliant, Lonzo. Is that how you got to be in the top five of your class in the police academy? Just murder?”
A visible shade closed over Lonzo’s eyes at Alexandra’s tone. He sat down on the edge of the desk without answering her.
Alexandra pulled her gaze away from his. She moved over to the desk. Quickly she flipped through the file. She decided to direct her attention to Monica.
Sarcastically she said, “Well, now, Monie. Just murder?”
Monica flinched. She was stung by Alexandra’s antagonism. She didn’t appreciate hearing her nickname on Alexandra’s tongue, either. Alexandra was a witch on wheels, and Monica was ever so close to hating her.
She shrugged nonchalantly. She wasn’t in the mood to play Alexandra’s games. She bit her tongue to keep from telling her so straight-out. Instead she said, “One eighty-seven. Why don’t you tell us . . .”
Alexandra was irritated. She waved her silent. “This isn’t the police academy. It’s the real world. It’s my world, and this case has the tracings of a serial killer on the loose. I don’t like it.”
Lonzo rose from his seat on the desk. “Now, wait a minute, Alexandra. There’s only been one murder. You’re chasing ghosts and creating chalk outlines where there are none.”
Alexandra stepped up to Lonzo. She poked her finger in his chest. “That’s one too many out of context. And I want to make sure the chalk manufacturers don’t get too rich here.”
“Out of context?” Monica echoed. “And exactly what does that mean?”
“Let me ask you a question. How many little black boys in Harlem have been hurled from a rooftop without their shoes on lately?”
She waved them silent before they could speak.
Chewing rapidly on the eraser, she said, “Particularly ones that live on Riverside Drive?”
Alexandra tossed a plastic bag on the desk, containing two pieces of a silver broken heart. Lonzo and Monica exchanged glances.
“Where’d you get this?” Monica asked.
“The killer had it delivered. A small courtesy of his. Along with this.” Alexandra snapped open the bag. She tossed a black and gold Karl Kani boot wrapped in a plastic bag onto the desk.
Monica and Lonzo stared at the boot as though it were alive. It was exactly as Tracie Burlingame had described it to them.
“Oh,” Alexandra said, “and he sent a note, too.”
She pulled out a plastic-covered piece of paper. On it, letters were arranged in aluminum casing. She read aloud the one engraved word: “Atonement.”
“Atonement—that’s all?” Monica said.
“That’s it. Don’t bother dusting for prints. There are none.”
Alexandra’s baby blue eyes blazed at Lonzo, although Monica was the one who’d spoken.
“Find the other boot and we’ll have the killer. This city is running out of burial space. Little black boys being dropped from rooftops isn’t going to sit too well with the powers that be. Less so if they happen to be basketball legends, too.
“Randi Burlingame was better known as the Shooter. At sixteen years old he scored almost as many points per game as Michael Jordan in his day. The scouts were already looking at him. They were watching and waiting. He was primed for NBA glory, a legend in his own right. Now he’s dead.”
Caustically Monica added, “Well, Tracie’s still got Michael Burlingame, another basketball legend in the making. The boy with the wristwatch timing. They’re calling him the next Earl ‘the Goat’ Manigault. Seems Ms. Burlingame has birthed more than one legend.”
Alexandra pursed her lips, started to respond to the edge in Monica’s tone, then decided against it and walked to the door. She stopped before reaching it.
“A mother tossing dirt on top of her son’s coffin doesn’t much appeal to me. So you see, not a damn thing is appealing to me about this case. Get me the killer. Harlem’s a sensitive community. I want the killer—now.”
Reaching the door, she walked through it and slammed it shut behind her.
6
A few days later Tracie Burlingame was in the cemetery, throwing fresh dirt on top of Randi’s lowered coffin. The dirt landed with a loud thump, or at least that’s what it sounded like to Tracie’s ears.
At her side was Dre, who was firing off rapid shots of the funeral and its surroundings. Michael and Souljah Boy were also with her. Directly behind Tracie stood Renee Santiago, a close friend of Tracie’s. She was stylish as well as bold, and quick with her tongue. The rest of the mourners were crowded behind them.
Renee stared at the back of Tracie’s black-veiled head. Then she diverted her attention to Rashod, who was standing on the other side of the grave, across from Tracie. He was watching his mother. Open hostility and resentment flared from his eyes.
Surprisingly, he didn’t look high. If he wasn’t high, it’d be the first time in years she’d seen him without the aid of ole crack cocaine.
Tracie stared down at the single rose lying on top of the dirt on the coffin. Souljah Boy had thrown it in after the dirt hit the coffin. Tracie looked over to where Rashod had stood, to find the spot where he had been standing empty.
At the curbside in a van, a camcorder was recording the services. The police photographer was snapping still photographs. His photographs included Andre Burlingame, for they found it curious that he was personally photographing his own brother�
�s services.
Off in the distance, Lonzo and Monica observed both the services and the visitors. One by one, young men went up to pay their respects to Tracie Burlingame.
Sean Richardson, seventeen years old, was first up. “Randi was the greatest shooter in Harlem. I’m sorry, Miss Burlingame. I’m gonna miss him. He was my best friend.” Tracie nodded serenely.
Next Jimmy “the Runner” Boyd, sixteen years old, made his way over to Tracie. “The NBA got cheated. Randi was poetry in motion.” He imitated the shot stance that had made Randi famous in Harlem. “Swish,” he said, “he was all that. He was my boy, Miss Burlingame.” Tracie touched his cheek softly, wiping away a tear before it could fall.
Next came Little Rock; he, too, was sixteen years old. “My boy was a legend, Ms. Burlingame. This ain’t right. If we find out who did it . . .” He punched his hand with his fist.
Tracie looked at him steadfastly. She lifted the veil off her face and kissed the boy’s cheek. Her eyes changed colors three times in fast succession, affecting the grief-stricken boy. He blinked, unsure what had even happened. He’d never seen anyone’s eyes change colors like that.
“That won’t be necessary, Little Rock. Randi will live through our memories of him.”
Little Rock nodded. “Whatever you need . . .”
“I know,” Tracie said.
Renee Santiago hugged Tracie tightly. She looked at her pointedly. “Rashod could use some attention, Tracie.” She lowered her voice. “Soon.” She walked away. Tracie watched her make her way through the crowd.
Souljah Boy pressed in close to Tracie. He placed something in her hand before walking away. Tracie opened her palm to see a page ripped from the Bible, the Twenty-third Psalm.
That night, inside Tracie Burlingame’s brownstone on Riverside Drive, the wars were inwardly raging. Randi was dead, and the emotions of her remaining sons were running high. She would have to deal with them sooner or later.
Michael was closeted in his room, incommunicado.
Dre lay in the middle of his queen-sized bed, fully dressed, with his booted feet on the bed. He pondered the airline ticket in his hand. One wall of the room was full of photographs and poster shots.