A Toast Before Dying (13 page)

“How could I forget her?” I asked. “What did she want?”

“Stopped by to say that Anne Michaels, the senator’s wife, has an appointment at her place tomorrow. Special makeover or somethin’.”

“I thought most shops are closed on Mondays.”

I heard Bert sigh and suck air through her teeth. Then she said, “See, Mali, since you went and got your head scalped, you don’t know what else is goin’ on around here.”

It was my turn to sigh. Since I had gotten all but two inches of my hair cut off a few years ago at the Klip Joint on 116th Street, Bert had nursed a feeling of betrayal,
as if she’d lost a prized patron. My occasional drop-ins for scalp treatments couldn’t make up for the loss, and she let me know it every so often. I tried to ignore the hurt tone.

“Maybe Anne Michaels wants a private day all to herself,” I said.

“Naw. That ain’t likely. Almost all the shops used to be closed on Mondays. Now almost all of ’em are open. Ain’t nobody lettin’ a dollar fly too far these days. Spends just as fast on Monday as it do on Tuesday. Your shop closed, you lose.”

“Why do you think Anne’s going there?”

“Well, that ain’t hard to figure. It’s election time. Edwin Michaels is rollin’ into every bar and barbershop and block association in the phone book. I guess his wife is trippin’ on the beauty-shop circuit. Get her hair together at Viv’s place, nails done at Darlene’s, toes at Dee’s Pedi-care, and eyebrows at Beryl’s Braids ’n’ Locks Beauty Shop.”

“What about your place?”

“Hell no. She ain’t no Queen Anne on no royal-ass tour, even though she tryin’ hard to act like one. My place way too small for her, and besides, she already know by now that Thea used to come here and Kendrick’s my brother. She ain’t lookin’ to handle no scandal.”

“So she’s headed for Viv’s tomorrow?”

“About twelve noon.”

I hung up the phone. Senator Michaels was usually a shoo-in, but this time around he was up against a young tough-talking challenger named Dora Peterson,
an activist attorney who was questioning the senator’s record page-by-page and picking it apart line-by-line. She now had Edwin Michaels doing the unthinkable—getting into the streets and actually meeting his constituents.

Either the hill at 145th Street and Bradhurst Avenue had gotten a little steeper or I had gotten a little older. The heat pressed in as I hiked past Jackie Robinson Park, listening to the screams and laughter of the children in the pool, punctuated by splashing and the whistle of the lifeguards. The sound resonated above the bedlam of traffic, and the pool water sparkled in the ninety-degree heat.

I felt my sweat gather in a pool of its own before trickling down the small of my back. I consoled myself with the thought that the Pink Fingernail would be fully air-conditioned in honor of Anne Michaels’s visit.

The shop was on Amsterdam Avenue about a dozen doors from 145th Street, and adjoining a new barbershop. There was a soul-food take-out restaurant, a small bodega, and a check-cashing business nearby. A block away, in a lush triangle of green dedicated to the jazz singer Johnny Hartman, a few men sat with chessboards balanced between them. Others lounged on the periphery trying to beat the heat and life in general with small brown-bagged bottles.

In one year Viv’s shop had undergone a change. The only thing I recognized was the door, except now the frame around the glass was edged in a deeper pink
quilted plastic. There was also a large brass knocker, but that was only for show; it didn’t move and you still had to ring the bell and be buzzed in.

When I pressed the bell, it felt sticky. The door opened and I stepped into the cooled atmosphere as if someone had been chasing me. Viv was surprised then glad to see me.

“How come you haven’t dropped in before now?” she asked, shaking her head. The mirrored panels reflected the blond strands woven into her braids. Her face was still pretty but she seemed to have gained more weight and probably tipped the scale now at two hundred even. She took my arm and led me farther inside.

“Sisters,” she announced to the six beauticians, “this is Mali, my good friend.”

The women smiled, then turned back to their customers. Word had gotten around that the politician’s wife was scheduled, and the place was crowded, though Anne Michaels had not arrived yet. A long table against the wall opposite the workstations held a large coffee urn, a stack of real china cups and saucers, platters of croissants, cold cuts, cheese dips, and two half watermelons filled with fruit.

The huge chandelier that had dominated the old shop had been removed and the walls were now paler than the blinding pink of last summer. I listened to Barry White’s sensual promises float out slow and deep from speakers no larger than the palm of my hand.

“You made some changes,” I said.

“You noticed?” She seemed pleased as she led me through the shop. “When I got the place back, I fired all
those no-behind skinny girls that bitch had in here. Sittin’ up profilin’ while the place goin’ down the damn drain. But who cared. Well, now my ex is RIP, his bitch is history, and I’m back.”

She waved her hands to take in the scene. “I got big plans, Mali. This is a substantial business and I brought in some substantial sisters. As they say, we large and in charge.”

Miss Viv was true to her word. The new operators were plus-size beauty queens and not one weighed in under one seventy-five, and they perched on solid wrought-iron stools. When one left her station to get a towel, the fringe on the ankle-length wrap skirt flowed east-west as her feet moved north-south.

“And look at this,” Viv said, opening a side door and stepping into the adjoining barbershop. “Place was nuthin’ but a messed-up pile of bricks so I took it, and look at it now.”

This space was smaller, with four female barbers at work. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflected a brick wall, white counters, black leather upholstery, and a black terrazzo tile floor. Instead of Barry White, a forty-six-inch screen showed green-haired Dennis Rodman pounding down the court from a rebound.

We stepped back into the beauty salon and she turned to me again. “You welcome to stop in anytime, Mali. Haircut, manicure, pedicure, facial. It’s on me. I’ll never forget what you did for me.”

“Listen,” I said, “that barmaid who was killed in the Half-Moon?”

“Thea?”

“Yes. Do you know anything about her?”

“Naw. Nuthin’ serious. ’Cause you know I’m tryin’ to keep my own head on straight and get this place back together. I didn’t have no time to be poppin’ in the Half-Moon or anywhere else. But there was a lotta talk goin’ ’round here the day she died.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like how she was kinda strange. You know how some sisters can run hot and then cold? Talk was that she ran hot and cold at the same time. Could lay a man in the morning and don’t want to even know his name come evening.”

“Just like some brothers …”

“Yeah, except in her case, her juice musta been kickin’ ’cause she sure had ’em comin’ back, sometimes down on all fours.”

“Anybody in particular?”

“Well, word is that one of ’em was the husband of a certain lady who’s due to walk in here any minute.”

The bell rang on cue. Someone pressed the buzzer and Anne Michaels swept through the door with another woman in her wake.

“Listen,” Viv whispered, “talk was that Thea had somethin’ in the oven.”

She left me standing slack-jawed as she moved forward, smiling, to greet the senator’s wife. How had she known Thea was pregnant? I marveled at the power of the drum, then felt nervous, wondering how the word had gotten out.

It was all I could do to focus on the visitors. Anne was medium height, slim and brown, expensively
dressed in a mid-calf-length yellow linen skirt and sleeveless top, and moved with an attitude that was too cool to pass for elegance. She was in her early forties with flawless skin and a posture that spoke of hours of tennis and swimming.

The other woman, whom Anne introduced to Viv as Rita Bayne, her husband’s assistant, was short and stocky and seemed to bend under the weight of a large canvas shoulder bag. Her thick curled hair fell into her face and the rhinestone-edged eyeglasses dangling around her neck clicked against her beaded necklace as she headed for the refreshment table.

“So this is the Pink Fingernail.” Anne smiled, glancing around as if she’d just come to town yesterday and had heard none of its history. “What a lovely place. And so busy. I’m so glad you were able to fit me in.”

I glanced at Viv and wondered how she was going to get through this appointment. Like Miss Bert, she smiled sometimes but didn’t take bullshit anytime.

“I’m glad you like the place,” Viv said, then immediately launched into a speech that she’d been wanting, it seemed, to deliver all her life.

“Hard work’ll get you where you wanna go, and I’m doin’ all right but we need more business loans in this community. Harlem ain’t dead, contrary to all those reports. What we need is money to open more places where our money will stay where we spend it, you know what I mean? This neighborhood is—”

“I understand,” Anne Michaels said, adroitly cutting Viv off. “As a matter of fact …” She glanced around, and for a second I expected to hear the snap of
her fingers. Instead, she parted her teeth in a wide smile and said, “Rita, where are those brochures?”

I wanted to laugh. When did a Harlemite ever need a brochure to tell them what was wrong with Harlem and what needed fixing? Senator Michaels had been in office for twelve years, long enough for him to have addressed at least
some
of the issues.

Rita separated herself from her plate long enough to rummage through the canvas bag and produce a stack of flyers and pamphlets, which she proceeded to distribute. She placed the remainder on the table and quickly returned to her plate.

Anne Michaels glanced at Rita, and the corner of her mouth lifted slightly before she looked away. Viv caught the look and I watched her take a deep breath in an effort to maintain her cool. Finally she said, “Mrs. Michaels, would you care for some coffee?” She did not wait for a reply, but called out, “Come, ladies, help yourselves. Please.”

And turning to Anne Michaels again, she continued, “Now let’s see. How about a facial to begin with, and then—”

“Well, I was thinking of a manicure.” Anne Michaels smiled, looking at her watch. “Just a manicure for me. But Rita …” The sweep of her hand took in the whole of the assistant’s shapeless figure. The gesture was casual and cruel and every woman in the shop, except Rita, saw and recognized it.

Viv stared at Anne again and I imagined her vote at that moment veering toward Dora Peterson. Rita walked over and positioned herself in a chair.

“Now,” Viv asked softly, “what would you like done, Honey?”

Rita stared in the mirror, then looked away. “I don’t really know. I never had time for anything like this. I can’t remember when I—I mean I usually do my hair myself, you know? And my nails. I never do them.”

Her voice was small and apologetic and seemed not to belong to her. She leaned back in the chair and I watched a faint nervous tic play at the corner of her mouth as Viv started to comb through the thick hair.

“Girl, you got beautiful hair. Women would kill for this stuff, you know? We gonna get it shaped up, conditioned, maybe put a little highlight in it …”

Doug DesVerney, a popular Harlem photographer, walked in and the makeover session morphed into a celebration—as if Michaels had already won the election. The other women, animated by the flash of the camera, filled their plates, smiling as Barry White let them know that it was all right to go for that third piece of pastry.

The photographer captured the scene as Viv hummed and worked wonders with Rita’s hair, rolling the wet strands back from her face and trimming the unruly edges, apparently satisfied that her shop had been included in Anne’s itinerary. Viv’s smile was caught in the camera’s flash, and now I couldn’t tell which way she had decided to vote.

I glanced at Anne, who was examining her nails
under the manicurist’s lamp. She looked around, and when her gaze came to rest on her husband’s assistant, the faint trace of energy faded to a flat stare. But Viv was applying a facial now. Rita’s eyes were closed and her rhinestone glasses were lying folded in her lap.

I
left the Pink Fingernail and called Gladys Winston. She came on sounding not at all like Gladys Winston, and I strained to hear her against the noise of the traffic.

“Gladys? This is Mali. I haven’t spoken with you since the funeral. Everything was handled very well.”

“Thank you, but I felt I was barely there. My doctor had given me medication so I managed to get through that day. I planned to send acknowledgments, especially to your father. He spoke so eloquently. But right now, I don’t know. I’m usually very organized, but at the moment I feel overwhelmed …”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. You did more than what was expected.”

“Well, the task now is to sort through her stuff and …”

“Are you the executor?”

“Yes, and just cutting through the red tape tired me out.”

I nodded, knowing that before she’d been allowed to break the seal on Thea’s apartment, she’d had to obtain a property voucher from the precinct, take it to the state tax bureau, then go to Surrogate’s Court with the death certificate and other documents in order to obtain more documents, and finally submit everything to the property clerk’s office.

“You have no idea how exhausting the process is,” Gladys said. “A day or so ago, I took boxes to Thea’s apartment, but that was as far—”

“I’ll be glad to help you,” I said, recognizing a once-in-a-lifetime chance. “I know how it was sorting through my sister’s effects. It isn’t something you’d want to do alone. You need to have someone who wasn’t close to Thea, someone who could be objective … to help you. Sometimes it’s just too many memories.”

“I appreciate your offer. I’ve put it off long enough. I—”

“When do you want to do this?”

“Well, I was thinking about tomorrow, perhaps.”

“I’ll be there,” I said quickly, allowing no space for a change of mind. “What time?”