by Evie Rhodes
Plus, these women were into caring for their manes, which they wanted to look healthy and shiny. They were also into weaves of every sort and variety. So her main salon was of a different feel from the braid sweatshops Tracie owned.
The inside of the salon had an ultramodern look, with black and silver color schemes. There were eighteen hair stations. Each was doing a brisk business. Ninety-eight KISS FM dominated the room with its golden classic sounds. There was lots of laughter and lighthearted chattering going on. The cappuccino and coffee machines were pumping.
The makeup stations were busy as usual, scattered with an array of colorful hues and makeup in every shade. Mirrors covered every angle, so a woman could admire the contours of her facial features and examine her coloring in different shades of light.
The nail booths were pumping out glittery, shining jobs; not one drop of polish was out of place. There wasn’t a color that had ever been created that Tracie’s shop didn’t carry. The nail designs were cutting-edge. Customers fought for a seat here—particularly the young girls who changed their nail design every couple of days to keep ahead of the others, and who had taken airbrush to a different level.
Eight pedicure booths lined the wall. Each booth was designed with heavily cushioned seats, laid out for pampering and comfort. The foot sinks gleamed and sparkled, boasting the best-smelling scents in the city.
Bottled perfumed scents sat in antique holders. They were of the highest quality, to keep a woman’s feet smelling good and looking like a creation in art itself. An array of stainless steel instruments complemented each pedicure booth.
Each seat had its own occupant, looking down upon the head of the pedicure stylist, who would churn out her pedicure as though she were a princess come to visit from a foreign land.
Yes, it was business as usual, Tracie saw as she looked out from behind the glass-walled office. This was her domain, built from scratch. She had built her business from the ground up, with plenty of hard work, imagination, and a flair for the beautiful.
Her goal had been to make beauty a sensual experience. When a woman left her shop, she left covered in the sheen of glamour. It wasn’t just physical beauty. Tracie’s salons poured it on so it reached the emotional recesses of a woman’s psyche, leaving her feeling like a queen.
Tracie Burlingame had tapped into a secret, coveted place inside the black woman’s emotions. And she had come out shining. Visiting Tracie’s salon wasn’t just maintenance; it was an experience.
The salon also boasted private rooms for those women who desired to pay for the exclusivity of services. The music was always pumping. She had runners who would go out for food, drinks, or many of the other desires of her customers.
She employed shoppers, who would run into Manhattan for that last-minute forgotten item if a customer required it. She also kept a stock of liqueurs, natural juices, mineral and spring waters, on hand for those women who required her exclusive services.
Yes, she had thought of every need. She had catered to the whims of black women in ways they hadn’t been accustomed to. Her attention to detail was legendary, and it paid off big-time. There were personal spas and masseuses to attend to every ache a customer might have. She had created a silken lap of luxury for these women.
Tracie couldn’t have been prouder of herself. She was seriously having trouble counting the C-notes she was raking in. However, she had resolved that problem by purchasing some well-oiled money machines to count the cash. Yes, business was good, but her personal life was rapidly falling apart.
10
Out in the front of the salon the door opened and chimes tinkled. Pete Jackson, better known as “Whiskey” to the neighborhood, due to the extreme amounts of alcohol he could down without getting drunk, stepped into the foyer.
Whiskey was a tough-looking man with a knife scar running the length of his ear to his mouth. He was suave and well built and possessed dark good looks. Whiskey was also Harlem’s most prominent underground arms dealer.
A good sixty percent of the guns floating between Brooklyn, Harlem, and the Bronx were supplied by Whiskey. He was good at what he did. He was discreet and dangerously well-connected. He was also a sometimes lover of Tracie Burlingame.
Whiskey was the kind of man who commanded instant attention upon entering any room. He had the kind of persona that swept over people. He left them feeling as though they should be bowing and scraping. Most of his associates did. So did many of his enemies. The dark aura that surrounded him scared most people. So when he entered Tracie’s salon the day after she had buried Randi, Whiskey commanded instant attention and got it.
Upon his entrance, Tiffany, the twenty-one-year-old receptionist, had looked up immediately. She cupped her hand around the telephone receiver. “Whiskey, she’s in her office.” She waved him through without hesitation. He nodded his appreciation at the coffee-colored perfection of a girl.
He looked through the busy salon and spotted a sultry-looking Tracie behind the glass window, dressed in classic black. She looked stunning. Her skin was shining and flawless. Her eyes were hazel-colored lights beneath thick, brown lashes.
In the flash of a second they changed to cocoa brown, connecting with Whiskey, drawing him in like a magnet. She flashed him a smile.
He headed to her glassed-in domain while reminding himself that dancing with Tracie Burlingame was an experience in sensuality. It would serve him well to remember that, because it was easy to get caught up in the silkiness that was Tracie Burlingame.
Tracie’s office played off the same black and silver color scheme as the rest of the salon. A state-of-the-art computer, Persian rugs, Monet prints, a television, VCR, DVD, and a stereo completed the office. Off to one side a mannequin was draped in cloth with stickpins in it. The mannequin stood next to a sewing machine. Sewing was just one of Tracie’s hobbies.
Generally she sewed when she really needed to blow off steam. Her real love was playing piano and the organ, hence the expensive organ sitting in the corner of her office. On those black and white keys was where Tracie poured out her real feelings.
With every stroke, key, and melody, this was where she vented her anger, cried her tears, bared her soul, and left haunting melodies hanging in the air.
Every item in the office was neat and in place, including the stacks of cash, sorted by denomination and lying on the desk.
Whiskey knew he had to get straight to the point when he went into Tracie’s office. After all, business was business. Stepping through the door, he closed in on Tracie. He leaned close to whisper in her ear, “I have another shipment. I need immediate storage. I haven’t heard from you.”
Tracie pulled her ear away from his whispering range. “I know. I just lost my baby son and—”
“Business is business, Tracie. The guns have to disappear from the street. There’s not much time.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re a big girl.” He touched a lock of her black, silky, wrapped hair. “And you’re a survivor,” he told her. He moved closer to her and brushed her ear with the soft whisper of a kiss.
“I don’t think I can,” she said.
Whiskey touched a finger to her lips. “Shush. There is nothing a beautiful woman like you cannot do, Tracie.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black velvet box, placing it in her hand. Tracie stared at the box, not speaking. Whiskey walked over to a plush chair in her office and sat down crossing, his legs. “Go ahead. Open it.”
Tracie flipped open the lid. A pair of glittering pear-shaped diamond earrings twinkled at her. She estimated they were at least five carats each. She sighed. “Whiskey, I’m afraid I can’t accept these.” Distressed, she ran a hand through her silken hair.
Whiskey stood up. He was not in the mood to be toyed with. Her boy’s death had already kept his goods on the street longer than was safe. He would not wait one minute longer.
“Yes. Yes, you can. And you will. Those diamond earrings have a lot to measure up to
.” Whiskey’s voice was deceptively soft. He gave her a pointed look.
Tracie took a deep breath. She finally shook her head, hitting him with a sultry, seductive smile. Sometimes dealing with Whiskey was extremely trying. His spirit was black, but it was covered in a veneer of rough charisma.
She knew she had to be careful. Whiskey was a dangerous man. Playing with him was not an option.
He reached over her. He hit the button that lowered the silver blinds over the glass window in her office, effectively shutting out the salon. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope bulging with cash. He held out the envelope to her.
Tracie accepted it.
“Tonight,” Whiskey said. “The usual time.”
“Tonight,” she agreed.
Whiskey walked to the office door and turned the handle. His gold pinkie ring flashed rainbow hues, playing against the office lights. He looked at Tracie. “It’s too bad about Randi. Maybe one day there’ll be other babies. Say hello to Michael and Dre for me.”
The scar on the side of his face pulsed against his skin. He swept Tracie from head to toe with his gaze. Then he was gone.
Tracie went back to her desk. She immediately began counting the cash from the envelope. Satisfied, she stored it according to denomination into the already neatly stacked bills. Softly she caressed the bills as she sorted them.
Money was the only thing in her life that made her feel powerful. It had lifted her out of the projects. Taken her away from other people’s jobs, and it had made a great many of her dreams come true. It was the only thing in life she trusted.
Because she knew that with money most things, possessions as well as people, could be bought. But most of all, what money supplied for her was power. It was the greatest symbol of power she had ever received. It had an all-knowing eye. Money was the great equalizer.
Tracie finished counting the money. She turned her thoughts to the night ahead.
11
Later that night, after the drop-off, Tracie watched from the back door of the basement as the truck pulled out into the street. In the darkness of the alleyway Tracie, too, was being watched.
They watched her watching the truck. They watched as she slowly closed the heavy door. The hard-rock gaze bore into the slender figure of Tracie Burlingame as though it might burn a hole in her very being.
After securing the basement that now held Whiskey’s shipment, Tracie headed back upstairs. Just as she passed her office, the phone gave a shrill ring. She jumped in the shadowy darkness.
Startled, she frowned, hesitated, and then decided to answer the ringing phone. She walked into her office, not bothering to flick on any lights. Standing in the eerie darkness, suddenly the room had an off feel to it. She reached for the phone and spoke quietly into the receiver. “Hello, Tracie Burlingame.”
Tracie heard a muffled sound on the other end of the phone. Finally, a man’s voice, which sounded distorted on the crackling wire, floated into Tracie’s ear. It was weird. It sounded as though the voice were coming from under water.
She heard a low, deep, throaty laugh. Then he spoke. “Well, well, well. Tracie Burlingame. The Tracie Burlingame.”
Tracie gripped the receiver tightly. She frowned into the darkness. A streak of moonlight streamed through the window, casting shadows in the office. “Hello. Who is this?”
There was no answer. Tracie was about to hang up the phone when the voice burst forth loudly.
“I wouldn’t hang up if I was you.”
Slowly Tracie returned the receiver to her ear. She looked around the room, peering into the darkness. The streak of moonlight allowed her some light. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
Still, a slight trace of uneasiness crept into her voice. “Who is this? What do you want?”
“That question is a little bit late, Tracie. Just a wee bit.” Softly the voice began to hum, “ ‘Rock-a-bye, baby . . .’ ”
Tiny beads of sweat appeared on Tracie’s forehead. She gripped the receiver even tighter.
“What?” she said.
On the other end of the line, the man’s voice was singing softly and distorted, “Rock-a-bye, baby, on a rooftop; when the wind blows, the body will drop. When the bough breaks, the body will fall, and down will come Randi with no boots at all.” The man laughed.
Tracie dropped into the nearest chair. Her eyes opened wide. Her body shook. Her hand quivered on the telephone receiver. The whites of her eyes glowed in the darkness.
“Stop it. My God. You killed my baby? Why? Oh, God. Who are you?” she asked, the questions tumbling over one another in her confusion. It was one thing to lose her son, but for some maniac to call her up making a nursery rhyme out of his death was crazy. She was chilled to the bone. She didn’t quite know what to make of it.
The distortion of the voice grew stronger on the line. “I freed your son, Tracie. I needed to be endowed. You should be licking my feet. Let’s just say I have alleviated a certain weight for him. That sounds so much more pleasant, don’t you think?”
Tracie couldn’t find her voice. Her shallow breathing was the only sound in the room.
“I’m a collector, Tracie. I’m a collector of very fine things. Things that are rare, you might say. I’m also fair. I beeped you just before Randi was thrown from the roof. You never bothered to answer the page. You are a very self-absorbed young lady. Maybe we could have talked . . . entered into a little bargaining. Perhaps you could have saved his life, but I guess it’s just a bit late for that now.”
Tracie’s body shook more violently. She felt a stream of water gliding down her armpits, soaking the sides of her body. She struggled with a memory. Suddenly, she recalled her beeper going off on that day.
When she worked out, she really didn’t like to be disturbed. Everyone who knew her knew that. So she hadn’t really paid attention to the page.
“Oh, my God,” the strangled words erupted from her lips.
“Don’t bother to call God, Tracie. He’s too busy for the likes of you. Oh, and don’t bother to call the police, either. They couldn’t follow a clue if I taped it to their foreheads with an arrow pointing them in the right direction.
“I watched them from the roof that day. Took them at least a half hour to get around to coming up on the roof to see what was going on. They were too busy counting broken bones—in the absence of blood, of course. That, I added to my collection.”
Tracie took in a sharp breath. He didn’t miss it.
Arrogantly and forcefully his voice shot across the wire, saying, “Oh, you didn’t know.”
Tracie wept. He was not moved.
“How inefficient of the police not to tell you the body had been drained of its blood. You might say that I am possessed of many skills. Embalming is only one of them. I’m self-taught, so to speak. A legend in my own right.”
Tracie tried to block out what he was saying; there was a deafening roar in her ears. It grew with the magnitude of a tidal wave.
“You got that side business to think about, too,” the voice continued. “Whiskey has been known to be an unpleasant man in matters of business. I do love a parallel world, Tracie. Sort of makes things tidy by my estimate.”
There was a pregnant pause.
Then, “Little Caramel?” he licked his lips. There was a distorted smacking sound.
“I love the sound of that name. It fits you. Makes me think of your soft, caramel-colored skin. You look so soft and chewy. I think this will be my special little nickname for you. A little deference between friends. What d’you say, Tracie?” Reckless, hysterical laughter shot through the wire.
“Don’t talk about this to anyone, Little Caramel, or I’ll mail another one of your sons to you in bits and pieces. Eeny-meeny-miny-mo. Catch a son. Which one will go?”
Tracie’s heart skipped a beat. “Why? Please. Don’t do this.”
Her whining pissed him off, made him very angry. “Shut up, Miss Burlingame. I detest whining.
I also don’t like repeating myself. I already told you why I snuffed out your egg. What are you, stupid? I’m wearing the pants here, and I’m calling the shots. I’m in charge. That’s something you don’t want to ever forget. If you keep your mouth shut, then maybe I’ll send a clue to the police.”
More laughter crackled across the line. “Instead of mailing one of your sons to you . . .” He paused for a moment. “Maybe I’ll send them enough clues to help you find me, Little Caramel. In the meantime you and I are going to engage in the rules of the street. A little street warfare, you might say. The first rule being, nobody likes a snitch.”
Tracie’s trembling increased. She managed to swallow past the lump in her throat and stutter out, “I . . . won’t tell anybody.”
“Oh, I know you won’t, Little Caramel. You and I are the same in many ways. You’re a collector of fine things, too.”
The voice turned singsongy again. “ ‘Rock-a-bye, baby . . .’ ” It dropped to a whisper. “Check, Little Caramel, so soft and chewy. Till next time.” A resounding click went off in Tracie’s ear. The voice was gone.
Tracie heard a sound near the steps outside her office. She listened closely, peering into the darkness. Sweat was dripping from her chin. It ran down the cleavage of her blouse. She slowly and carefully opened her desk drawer and pulled out a handgun. She reached for the clip and slipped it into the gun.
Not too far away she heard it again. Something scraped against the floor. Tracie walked out of the office. She pointed the gun in the direction the sound was coming from.
The hairs on her arms stood up. She didn’t hesitate. She pulled the trigger. A shot rang out.
Immediately Tracie flipped the switch, flooding the room with light. She looked across at her target. She hoped it was the maniac on the phone and she had gotten lucky. She knew that thought was extreme, but she was desperate.
She had not gotten lucky. Scurrying across the floor was a rat. Tracie’s shoulders heaved. She didn’t know if she should be relieved or not.