No Time to Die (20 page)

“I don’t have none,” Ache said, thinking of the paper he’d stuffed back in his pocket.

Can’t fuckin’ be right. Can’t be. He held his breath, still waiting for the officer to explain
.

“Okay. Your GED. We need to have your GED. Otherwise—”

But Ache was centered on the slip of paper in his pocket.

For three hours, he had wandered the periphery of Times Square trying to decide who should bear the weight of his discovery, feel the slit of the razor across the back, deep enough to divide muscle and bone, then melt, quick, into the crowd the way the manual said it should be done in covert operations.

But either the people moved too fast or his senses had not recovered sufficiently to act on his rage. By the time his vision cleared, the gaps in the crowd were too
large. There were too many lights, cops, hawkers, and peddlers, and too much traffic to dodge through. So he retreated to the subway and, daring anyone to step on his toe, made his way back uptown.

“Be all you can be.” Har, har
 …

It rang in his ears, invaded his senses, took control of his will so that when he blinked, he found himself back on Strivers’ Row again, standing across the street from Gray Eyes’ house. The last remnants of daylight had faded and night spread like a thick cloak. A few pedestrians strolled by, none glancing his way, but he watched them, feeling safe hidden in the shadow of the trees. When their footsteps faded, he was left alone again with his thoughts.

Lights on. Wonder what she up to. Wonder if she—

He heard more footsteps and glanced in the direction of Frederick Douglass Boulevard. His eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe what he saw.

Shit! It’s her. Walkin’ right there. Ain’t this a bitch. She right there
 …

The sight of her, walking alone, stunned him, left him no time to revel in the feeling that welled up in him before he heard something else.

You got to move on this one, Ache. Fast. Step on across. Head her off. Once she reach that door, she home free. You don’t want that. Head the bitch off. Now. This. Is. It
.

He edged between the parked cars and sidled across the street, tipping on the balls of his feet. Now he looked neither left nor right, up nor down the block, but kept her fastened in the crosshairs of his narrowed vision. A small gust of wind eddied up, filling his nostrils with the smell of his sweat. Water gathered in the hollow of his back, and his shirt stuck to him. She was less than three feet away, moving slowly. Her head was
down, as if she was looking for something she might have dropped on the ground. An earring, maybe.

His hand closed on the razor so tightly that pinpricks of pain cramped his fingers. The noise in his head grew, crowding out everything. All he saw was her.

Comin’ right at me. Right at me
.

He gazed at the striped T-shirt and black shorts.

Just ease the blade out, squeeze it to my side till she get juuuusst
 …

“Mali! Say!”

He saw her look up, whirl toward the sound as the car door opened. An older man stepped out of a Lincoln Town Car and said to the driver, “Hold on, buddy. Be back in a second,” then turned to her. “This is what happens when I rush out. I forgot my—”

The rest was lost in the storm that swelled in Ache’s head. Now the oak door opened and the dog, barking, bounded down the steps, its paws clacking hard on the pavement. It skidded to a halt so near him he could feel its moist breath. Then he heard a voice, her voice, float through a foggy ether.

“Come on, Ruffin. Back in the house now, boy. Come on.” The dog trotted to her side. She patted his thick neck, then, holding his collar, they passed so close he caught the faint scent of her perfume above the stink of his sweat. The razor was in his hand, and his hand was like a block of ice at his side.

He pivoted in a half-circle, stumbling as if he had been sideswiped by a slow-moving car. At the corner of Frederick Douglass, when he was able to swallow, the blood backed up in his throat and he knew that the inside of his mouth had been sucked in and bitten raw. Later, when he was able to free his hand, the razor slipped back in his pocket, but it was some time before he managed to find his way home.

Two weeks ago. But he still saw the gray eyes, still heard Hazel’s dry laugh. “Be all you can be.”

Now he turned over on the bed and listened to the noise drifting from the living room. Jerry had probably said something profound and Hazel was agreeing with him. He turned off the fifteen-watt light and fanned his fingers along the dusty floor under the bed.

Blade still there, Ache. Just chill. You’ll get her. Thing is not to get caught
.

I folded my arms on the dining table and waited, feeling my patience ebbing away by the second. The day had dawned so beautifully, with a crisp breeze waking me, pulling me out of a bed I’d spent too much time in. I had taken a trial run last night and Dad had nearly gone through the roof when he stepped out of that cab. But the short walk convinced me that I was ready to do some serious stepping: pound the pavement, rejoin the ranks of the living, breathing, walking, singing, fighting, ordinary folks. I hit a hurdle before the breakfast dishes were even cleared.

Dad was on his second cup of coffee, taking his time, as if he had not even heard me.

“It’s not like I’m going out to run a marathon,” I repeated. “I’m only walking a few blocks. The swelling’s practically gone and I can get my sneaker on without complaining.”

He didn’t bother to look up from his newspaper but I heard a low grumph as he turned a page. I leaned nearer, clasping my hands as if awaiting a papal blessing.

Finally he said, “At least let Alvin walk with you. I’ll take Ruffin out later. You shouldn’t try to handle him just yet.”

I sighed and thought of genuflecting in gratitude but decided it was simpler to say: “Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ll be all right.”

Once outside, I made it down the four steps easily and felt the pavement again beneath my feet. I wanted to shout but contained myself as Alvin and I walked toward Powell Boulevard.

Alvin, after some intensive sessions with Dr. Thomas, who lived two doors away, had recovered from the nightmare of James’s death and was able to talk about it freely.

He did not mention it now but was interested in how far I was able to walk. “Can you make it to the ball court?”

“I guess so. Your crew on today?”

“Naw, just a pickup game, but Clarence has somebody who wants to talk to you.”

“What about? Who is it?”

“Guy named Yo-Yo. Something he saw a while back. Clarence didn’t have time to mention it before because all this other stuff came down—about James and all—and I guess we all just forgot.”

I nodded and we walked slowly, Alvin absorbed in Erykah Badu pumping the promise of young love from his CD Walkman, and I taking in everything the avenue had to offer and trying to figure out what I’d missed.

The long-haulers were still parked near the old Renaissance Ballroom, their tables overflowing with southern produce. The windows of Smalls Paradise were still sealed. Street vendors still sailed by with their portable inventories displayed in supermarket shopping
carts, or sample cases suspended from the neck to be snapped shut in case of rain or cops.

The more imaginative peddlers draped the stuff over their arms and around their necks, allowing a dozen or so scarves, ties, and belts to flow in the wind.

At every other corner, curbside barbecue cookers scented the air. Two tour buses rumbled to a stop at 132nd Street and discharged a group that crowded into Wells Restaurant, chattering and working their Leicas and ready for the chicken and waffles.

At 127th Street Clarence was alone on the court, dribbling the ball in a dizzy display under the basket, then leaping in a fast tight semicircle to sink it. I watched his lean form cut the air like a gazelle and understood how impressed the college recruiter must have been.

Clarence was also an excellent singer, so he managed to win two scholarships. Alvin had met him as a member of the Uptown Children’s Chorus where Clarence’s bass voice practically shook the walls of the rehearsal room. He had nicknamed Alvin “Striver” when he found out he lived on Strivers’ Row and Alvin had nicknamed him “main man” after he had gotten me out of a bad jam a few years ago.

Clarence’s mother, young, attractive, and severely abused by a former boyfriend, was still struggling with drug addiction, so Morris’s mother, Mrs. Johnson, provided Clarence with meals and a safe zone when his mom’s life tumbled into periodic chaos. My dad had gotten him a part-time maintenance job at the club, and during the school year I tutored him twice a week.

He expected to graduate next spring and attend Savannah State College on the scholarships and I’d already contacted my friend, a nursing supervisor who lived in Savannah. I could count on her sharp eye and
tough love to keep him on the straight and narrow while he was there.

Alvin and I sat on the bench near the water fountain and watched Clarence sail through a dozen layups, clearing the rim each time. Finally he stopped and headed toward us, holding the ball in the crook of his arm, his dark skin glistening from the exercise.

“Hey, Striver. What’s goin’ on? Miss Mali, I see your leg is better. You walkin’ all right. That’s nice. That’s nice.”

“Thanks, it’s coming along,” I said. “Alvin said you had someone who wanted to talk to me.”

“Yeah, he might have something you can use. Striver thought you might be here today so I got word out. Yo-Yo show any minute now.”

I wondered where the name came from and Clarence, who seemed able to read minds like most teenagers I knew, said, “Real name’s Tommy Walker but he do the deaf thing sometime when we callin’ him. Like we gotta go, ‘Yo. Yo!’ two times before he turn around and it sorta stuck, you know what I’m sayin’?”

That last phrase ran together so that it came out “nomsane?”

“Did he say why he wanted to speak to me?”

“Well, I kinda suggested it. He don’t really know you but he said he wanted to maybe exchange some information. And it hadda be with somebody he could trust. It went down like this, Miss Mali. I’m in the park one night bouncin’ a few balls, the only one out here, and he come easin’ ’round the way, through those trees, nearly scared me out my shoes. I ask him what was happenin’ and he say he was jammed. He’ll tell you when he show.”

Clarence had sat down next to me on the bench and rolled the ball in a small circle with his foot. I saw that
with the small salary he’d earned, he was finally able to trade in his worn-out sneakers with the shredded laces for a new pair. To his credit, he had passed up the $150 hype and opted for a less expensive model.

“Where does Yo-Yo live?”

“In that big house on Seventh near 130th Street. I don’t know the number but it’s on the west side of the avenue, right next door to that store used to be a picture framin’ shop.”

I closed my eyes and tried to picture the house.

Morris showed up and ten minutes later another young man entered the park. He stepped cautiously as Clarence approached him. He whispered something and Clarence pointed to me, then brought him over.

“This is Yo—I mean Tommy Walker,” and he left us alone and joined Alvin and Morris at the far end of the court.

Yo-Yo shook my hand and sat down like an old man who’d just conquered a hard flight of stairs. His hello was hesitant and he avoided my gaze. I knew then that Clarence had already told him of my connection—or former connection—with the NYPD and he needed to know if I could be trusted. I waited in silence, giving him time to make up his mind.

Finally I said, “Clarence said you wanted to talk to me.”

I glanced at him as he watched Alvin and Morris and Clarence and I was unsure if he was concentrating on the ball or on an answer that wouldn’t reveal too much. When he finally started to speak, his voice was low but he got to the point quickly.

“Miss Mali. The thing I’m lookin’ for is a guarantee that I won’t have to do state time. Hard time.”

“What happened?”

“Violated parole. There’s a warrant out. I’m lookin’ at state time.”