If I Should Die (3 page)

The faintest smile crossed his face, and I knew that when he got back to the precinct, he would drop that bomb on them in his usually casual way. (Yeah, you know Anderson, who used to work here? The one with those eyes? She’s about to get her master’s degree and will enter a Ph.D. program. Isn’t that great?)

And I knew he would smile again at the stony silence that greeted his news.

“Still interested in sociology?”

“Of course.”

“Still think you can make a difference?”

I looked at him closely, trying to decide what I heard behind the question. Of course I could make a difference. Social work had been my first choice before I had detoured into NYPD.

Finally, I said, “Why not?”

“I was just wondering. With all that academic activity, will you have time for any socializing?”

Try me, I wanted to say. Except I wanted the words to come out the way James Brown breathed them when he was down on his knees with his white cape and curled hair and face washed in sweat.

Try me …

Instead, I bit my tongue and whispered, “I manage to come up for air every now and then.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Our eyes met briefly and I was the first to turn away. “Got to get going, pick up my nephew …”

Tad reached out to touch me lightly on the shoulder but Ruffin rose abruptly and I had to pull him away. With four feet on the ground, Ruffin’s head came as high as my waist.

“Sit!”

He sat and his head was still as high as my waist. But Tad did not step back as most people usually did. Instead he smiled.

“Can I call you tomorrow, Mali?”

I felt my temperature rising and knew that the stammering would start if I remained near him much longer.

“Sure. Sure … tomorrow’s okay … why not?”

“Good. Be seeing you …”

He smiled again and walked away to speak with another detective.

 … Thank God. Come on, Ruffin. Time to go …

“Miss … wait a minute …”

I turned to see a woman pushing her way through the crowd. She looked to be about forty with smooth brown skin, sturdy build, and medium height. Her hair was in rollers partly covered by a plastic rain cap and she wore slippers with the backs turned in under her heels and probably had a housedress on beneath her raincoat.

A light film covered her face and I wasn’t certain if it was rain or perspiration but she seemed to be out of breath. Looking at the slippers, I knew that she had left home in a hurry.

“Are you the lady? Yes, you’re the one. The one
with the dog. You saved my son. I don’t know how to thank you … what to say.”

Her nervousness overwhelmed her and she put her hands to her chest and began to cry. “I don’t know how to thank you … So much is goin’ on. Poor Mr. Harding. So young. Young. Why’d they have to shoot him? Leave ’im layin’ in the street like a old dog. Life just don’t mean nuthin’ no more.”

“I know … I know how you must be feeling, Mrs.—”

“Johnson. Mrs. Johnson. I’m Morris’s mother. He’s my only child and I would’ve died if somethin’ happened to him. I would’ve just laid down and not got up no more …” She looked at me again and shook her head. “You saved my boy from bein’ stolen, maybe even killed. God is gonna bless you …”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Johnson.”

The woman fumbled in her coat pocket and brought out a tissue to blow her nose. I decided to let her talk. Now was not the time to ask questions.

“I don’t know why they did this. Who would want my boy? Why?”

Mrs. Johnson shook her head as she looked into the crowd and at the few policemen remaining at the scene. The rain had slacked off into a fine drizzle. I followed her gaze. It would be some time before the medical examiner arrived and before Erskin Harding’s body could be moved. Until then, the crowd would remain and might get even larger.

Finally, Mrs. Johnson sighed. “You know, the Chorus was the best thing that ever happened to Morris. He used to run in these streets somethin’ awful. He was gettin’ way outta hand, but then one a his teachers heard that voice of his and said it was almost like Michael Jackson, you know.

“Anyway, she recommended him to try out for the
Chorus and he did and he been all right ever since. Kept his grades up and everything. I mean, they did a lot for him, but I’m a let them know he ain’t goin’ back. I need my boy alive. I can’t take too much. My pressure. I got to take my medicine every day just to get out of bed …

“Now they want me to bring him to the station for more questions. The boy is too scared for that.” She pointed to her chest. “Me. I’m scared too. My nerves is not strong anymore.” The tears came again and her shoulders began to shake.

I reached out and touched her arm. “Mrs. Johnson, listen to me. Tell them you can’t go to the precinct, that you’re too sick and you’re taking your son home. Tell them to send a detective to your house if they want to question him any further.”

She dried her eyes slowly and looked at me with new interest, her confidence buoyed somewhat. “Yes. You’re right. Let ’em come to my house. I can’t thank you …”

“And call me.” I reached into my pocket and gave her my personal card. “Call me if you or Morris hear anything at all. As a matter of fact, call me anyway. My nephew belongs to the Chorus and I need to look out for him too.”

She read my name and phone number and nodded her head. “I sure will, Miss Anderson. Thank you.” Then she dabbed at her face and looked at me again. Closely. “You sure got some pretty eyes. They ain’t them fake-color contacts, is they?”

“No, ma’am, they’re my real eyes. Call me when you get a chance.”

The crowd shifted as she eased her way through and I was able to gaze at Erskin’s body again. A quick glimpse.

The rain-soaked shroud covering him made him seem less personal, less likely to have a mother, father,
lover, or sister—someone who would scream and fall down when they heard the news. But I remembered his deep-set eyes, and his smile after the last concert, and I turned toward Seventh Avenue, crying in the early evening rain.

T
he confusion greeted me before I opened the door at the rehearsal hall. As I secured Ruffin’s leash to the parking meter, I had recognized the unmarked car at the curb but I was not prepared for the scene inside the hall.

Several of the younger members were huddled together crying, and the secretary, an elegantly dressed older woman with graying hair, was leaning against the desk in the reception area in tears.

The news had traveled swiftly, even for Harlem, and several parents had already crowded inside the lobby. Many more were in the auditorium, where the two detectives and the administrator tried to speak above the noise.

I listened for a minute as the director of the organization spoke. Lloyd Benton was tall and slim with smooth beige coloring and regular features. His eyebrows were thick, and when he frowned, they seemed to come together in a straight line. He was visibly shaken and his voice could barely be heard above the crowd.

“Please. Rest assured that we’re doing everything we can to get to the bottom of this. We are working very closely with the police and they—”

“And they ain’t gonna do shit,” a voice behind me whispered matter-of-factly. “Ain’t gonna do shit!”

I turned to look at the man standing just inside the doorway. He glanced at me, then looked away. He had a hard handsomeness about him, tall and lean, his mouth drawn in a straight line across his smooth face. Everything about him seemed expensive—his dark suit, highly polished shoes, navy silk tie against mauve shirt. Even his fragrance spoke for him. He was probably in his mid-thirties, but when he moved, he walked with the practiced stroll of an old, old gangster.

He drew his breath and swore again, softer this time, as he turned away, heading for the door. I watched him go. He looked vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t remember seeing him at any of the concerts. I wondered which child in the Chorus was his.

I turned again to the auditorium and scanned the crowd. These were ordinary working people—truck drivers, postal workers, teachers, nurses, clerks, single parents, couples—all showing the strain of grief, worry, and confusion. Suppose it had been their child?

They pressed in shoulder-to-shoulder, their apprehension rising to spread across the room like a wave.

“How did this happen?”

Lloyd Benton was unable to answer, and one of the detectives stepped to the microphone and held up his hands for quiet.

“Please,” he said. “Please. Give me a minute.” I watched the room quiet down expectantly as Detective Danny Williams lowered his arms.

“I’m sorry, truly sorry about this incident. This is a fine organization and you are all caring and concerned parents. Something like this should never have happened
and I want to assure you right now that we’re assigning all available manpower to this case. This will have our top priority and we won’t stop until we get results. We already have a witness to the incident so we should have a solid lead very soon.”

The crowd stirred as some of the tension lifted.

“A witness? Who? Wonder what they saw?”

I felt a sudden anger toward Danny Williams. Why would he advertise the fact that he had a witness? Even though he hadn’t called my name, I felt that any minute, every face in the room would turn toward me. I ignored the hard knot forming in the bottom of my stomach and continued to scan. Alvin was not there.

I eased out of the room and returned to the lobby. Several people shook their heads. No one had seen him. Someone else said, “Maybe he’s upstairs. I don’t know … This is terrible. Terrible.”

No one seemed to know anything. Other parents were calling for their children. I glanced around and walked quickly up the marble stairs leading away from the confusion.

The second floor had four offices facing a long narrow corridor which made up the administrative area. This area should have been cordoned off but Lloyd, the director, had probably resisted. Appearance and propriety meant everything and he had probably argued against any yellow tape. Erskin, after all, had not been murdered in
this
establishment.

I knocked at the first door. No answer, but a dim light inside was suddenly switched off and the door was locked when I quietly turned the knob.

I moved down to the end of the corridor and heard my heart pumping despite the noise that drifted from the auditorium below.

Please, God, please. Let me find that child. Let him be all right. I can’t take any …

He was crouched on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chin and his head resting on the door of Dr. Harding’s office.

“Alvin!”

He did not answer as I lifted him to his feet, at the same time turning the knob to the empty office. The door opened and we went inside.

I switched on the lights and watched him carefully as he looked around the office. Perhaps being here would help in some way, though I wasn’t sure how. I glanced around and prayed that Lloyd would not come up and catch us.

The room seemed undisturbed. Books were stacked on the glass-enclosed shelves of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a small calendar was on the large oak desk, turned to today’s date. There were piles of sheet music on the filing cabinets in the corner.

“Why did they kill him?” Alvin asked.

He walked around the desk and touched the arm of the worn leather chair, then turned as if he expected Dr. Harding to come through the door at that moment and explain everything.

“Why did they have to kill him?” he asked again.

I, too, felt that Erskin would walk through the door and explain even as I fumbled for an answer to a question that had no answer.

“Alvin, these things … happen and … sometimes there’s no explanation, none we can understand …”

He continued to move around as if he were alone in the room, then paused near the window.

“Here’s the cassette,” he whispered. He reached over behind the chair, pushed the plant of hanging ivy aside, and snapped the tape deck open. “This is the tape Grandpa wanted him to hear. An old recording called
‘Profoundly Blue.’ Grandpa taped it and I brought it to Mr. Harding last Saturday.”

He held out the tape and I recognized my father’s precise handwriting: “For Erskin Harding, Ph.D. A Man Who Recognizes the Only Original Art Forms Made in America. Jazz & Blues. Best Wishes. Jeffrey Anderson.”

I slipped the tape into my shoulder bag.

 … Quite a long title, Dad. Why didn’t you simply write “Profoundly Blue” on the label and be done with it? The title alone tells the whole story …

But then it wouldn’t be Dad if he missed a chance to teach, preach, or otherwise inform.

I reached across the desk and for no reason I could think of, slipped the small calendar in also. And closed my purse just as the door opened.

“Who … are you? What … what are you doing in this office?” the man asked.

I flashed a glance at Alvin, signaling him to keep quiet. Then I spoke. “We all heard the news. My nephew was feeling sick, so we came in here until he calmed down.”

I gave the man my most direct stare until he looked away. He was short, with round shoulders and a hairline that had begun a serious recession, although he couldn’t have been more than forty years old. The cut of his black silk suit and white silk collarless shirt let me know that every time he walked down Madison Avenue, he left the Calvin Klein Men’s Boutique a few thousand dollars richer. His nails were manicured and carried a hint of a dull, discreet sheen.

His face was pale and colorless. It reminded me of a wax mask, capable of reshaping itself according to the temperature of the particular room he entered. His forehead was highlighted by a large port wine stain on the left side, like the former Russian president, and his nose reminded me of a fighter who had gone ten rounds and lost.

He seemed on guard, as if he expected someone else to come down the corridor and surprise the three of us.

“Is this your office?” I knew it was not but I asked anyway, prepared to apologize for trespassing.

Alvin had moved from the back of the desk to stand beside me. “This is not his office,” Alvin said quickly, breaking the silence.