No Time to Die (5 page)

James’s ex-girlfriend came on the line sounding sleepy, then more animated when she discovered the caller wasn’t someone she didn’t want to be bothered with.

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Anderson. Mali Anderson.”

“Where do I know you from?”

“I met you a few years ago, Miss Taylor, when I worked at the precinct and—”

“Precinct? Listen, lady. I don’t know no-fuckin’-body at no precinct, understand? And I don’t—”

“You remember me, Marie. It was a few years ago, one night in July. Temperature broke over a hundred that day. You were living with James Thomas and we came up to your place on a nine-eleven.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I was the officer with the gray eyes. James had skipped by the time we got there and I talked to you about getting an order of protection. We spoke a long time, and when things had quieted, you asked if I was wearing contacts, remember?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. I sure do. Tall, dark skin, with them
pale gray eyes. Ain’t that a combination. I sure do remember. I even asked what you doin’ hangin’ with some lightweight Five-Os when you coulda been a model or somethin’. You still with ’em? Don’t tell me you followin’ up a complaint two years after the fact. I coulda been dead and risen twice.”

“No. That’s not why I’m calling. This is something different. The schoolteacher who was murdered two weeks ago.”

There was a pause before she said, “Yeah … As a matter a fact, I had a visit from a cop, a detective Honey-something.”

“Honeywell.”

“That’s the name. Jesus, was he some fine brother. Asking me a lot a questions about James and all. He was so damn handsome I couldn’t even concentrate. I just kept starin’.”

There was another pause and I wondered if she was trying to decide whether to speak to me. When Tad had visited her, she had probably been reluctant—not to protect her ex, but because she, like most folks I know, deeply distrusted anyone in blue with a badge, handsome or not.

“I’m no longer on the force,” I said in the silence. “As a matter of fact, I have a lawsuit pending against NYPD.”

“You do? Well you go, girl. You all right then. NYPD get away with a lotta shit. I see that badge as just a fuckin’ license to fuck over you.”

“Well, I no longer have one and I was hoping to speak with you. Meet you somewhere to talk about Claudine.”

“You knew James’s wife?”

“She was my sister’s friend.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. ’Cause what happened
to her just wasn’t correct, you know what I’m sayin’. It wasn’t right. I can’t understand why the good always go young and the ones that shoulda croaked is layin’ in the cut like they got a long-term lease.”

“I know, Marie. It’s scary the way she died.”

“And you think James done it?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t too nice to her while they were together. And her parents are devastated. They’re too old to put their lives back together, but if they don’t get some answers soon, this will surely take them out of here.”

There was another silence, shorter this time, before she spoke again. Her voice was softer. “Well … listen. I’ll meet you, okay? In the Lido. I usually hang in the Lenox Lounge but sometimes James pop in there and I’m not in the mood to deal with him. And anyway I promised the barmaid at the Lido I’d stop by. Tomorrow is her birthday—Fourth of July—but she celebratin’ it tonight so I’m poppin’ in around six.”

“Fine. I’ll see you.”

The Lido Bar on 125th Street between Malcolm X Boulevard and Fifth Avenue is an old spot that has outlasted the Silver Rail, the Baby Grand, the Celebrity Club, the Midway, Frank’s Restaurant, Palm Cafe, Purple Manor, Vincent’s Place, and a number of other watering holes along the main artery.

When I stepped in, the barstools on the left were occupied by regulars who didn’t swivel an inch when the door opened. The television was perched strategically over the door and a newcomer could be appraised with a flick of a lid up, down, and back to the screen again. No motion to disturb the cool and chill and other casually maintained postures.

Opposite the bar, behind a waist-high wrought-iron railing, a line of tables stretched to the rear. Four men in their sixties, probably retired, were holding court. They smiled and tipped hats as I strolled by to sit at the end of the bar near a small bandstand.

The television sound was off and the regulars watched and nodded soundlessly at a soundless ball game. I ordered an Absolut and orange with plenty of ice and settled back to catch the talk of the day floating above a vintage Joe Williams riff on a jukebox that was probably installed the day the bar opened a long time ago.

Opinions ranged from what type of industrial-strength suntan lotion Michael Jackson would need if he eventually decided to rejoin the tribe, to what O.J. needed to do to redeem himself in the eyes of black folks now that he was no longer living high on the hog in white heaven, but mostly they ragged Michael.

“I’m askin’ you,” a fat man in the group of four said, “did the Man in the Mirror ever look in the mirror? I don’t think so. Ghost scare the livin’ shit out you, high noon on Times Square.”

“Now, wait a minute,” the second man argued, “that boy got more talent in his little toe than you got in your whole watermelon head.”

“Well, least my watermelon head is black.”

“… and nappy,” chimed someone leaning at the bar.

“Hell, I’m happy I’m nappy but let us get back to the feet. What color is Michael Jackson’s little toe?”

“How the hell should I know? And who the hell care what his damn toe look like? With all that surgery, he probably don’t have no mo’ toe.”

“Well, I still say when you got that kinda talent, it entitle you to do stuff other folks can’t …”

“Includin’ makin’ a fool a yourself?”

The door opened and the men at the table looked up and the television crowd glanced down.

“Who’s makin’ a fool of himself? Every time I step off, somebody acts up. What’s goin’ on?”

Marie stepped in and strolled toward the bar, returning the smiles. She moved as if she were onstage and did not seem at all like the Marie Taylor I remembered from the time when her eye had been shut by the force of James’s fist.

She was about forty years old, brown complexion, and medium height but appeared taller in the four-inch heels and hair piled in a sweep of red-brown curls. Her face was heart-shaped and her large eyes gave her a slightly surprised expression. The short brown suede skirt and black suede sleeveless jacket hugged her frame as she moved.

“Hey, Marie,” a man in a Mets cap called as she passed. “Gimme some sugar. Ain’t seen you in a dog’s age.”

“Well, your dog still a pup ’cause you seen me just yesterday.”

She kissed him anyway and patted him lightly on the shoulder. She moved on and he got a stool, dragged it down to where I sat, and made a show of dusting it off for her.

“See what you get when you good?” he said, winking at her. She kissed him again, shooed him away, and sat down.

“You Miss Anderson, right? Those eyes ain’t changed.”

“Mali. Yes.”

“Good. What’re you havin’?” She signaled for the barmaid. “Hey, Shaneeka, Betty here yet?”

Shaneeka, short and small and clad in red spandex
from neck to knee, rolled her eyes as she moved toward us. “Now, you know tonight’s her birthday. Girlfriend still home gettin’ it together. What you havin’?”

“The usual, only colder than last time.”

Shaneeka returned with a Miller Lite, tipped Marie’s glass until a thin layer of foam blanketed the rim, then placed a small bowl of peanuts in front of us.

“Freshen your drink?” she asked.

“Not right now,” I said, tapping my half-filled glass. I intended to sip slow while I drew the story out. Marie waited until the barmaid moved away before she spoke.

“So you tryin’ to find out about James.” She picked at the few peanuts, popped them delicately in her mouth, then took a sip of beer. “First off, lemme say this. When I hooked up with him, he was already separated from Claudine. I didn’t break up nobody’s happy home. I want that understood, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, wondering what game he had dropped on this one between his
GQ
styling and bald-faced lying.

James was two years older than Claudine and raised in the 115th Street projects by an aunt who substituted for a permanently absent father and a frequently absent mother. Before alcohol had cut the inroads into his face, he had been a good-looking man. A weak man but good-looking enough to pull a woman in hip-deep before she caught him in his lies, which he explained away with more lies. As he had done with Claudine. And when the lies about his college background and his plans for a law degree eventually cornered him, he’d used his fists to make his way out.

Claudine had come to my door one night with her face swollen so large she couldn’t speak. Dad had collared Ruffin and grabbed a baseball bat and gone out looking for him but he’d disappeared. Hit and run …

“James, you know, got a way of talkin’ his way into things,” Marie said. “He gas a woman up, tell her how fine she look, how she so rare. You know, all the stuff a woman want to hear, though deep down, you know the brother’s lyin’, comin’ on wrong, scammin’. All James got is a degree in B.S. and it wasn’t long before I found out he didn’t have too much of nuthin’ else.”

She said this as if she’d read my mind. James probably knew his game was weak and his strategy was to move in on a woman fast, dazzle her, and hope she’d remain dazzled. When the glow faded and the questions began, then the violence started.

I nodded and raised my glass, waiting for her to continue.

“So he tried comin’ on Rambo a few times. He got real strong arms and he like to come up on you, sneakylike. Come from behind with somethin’ in his hand swingin—a stick, a bottle, a belt. Two times he tried that shit with me. You know that ’cause you answered one of the nine-elevens …”

I nodded again, remembering running with three other officers down a dim hall in a five-story walkup where a hefty young woman had opened her door and pointed to the apartment near the end of the corridor.

“They at it again,” she had said. “That door right there.” Her voice had been strong with anger and flowed over the blare of her television set.

“I don’t know how that girl stand it. I dimed him out and you can tell him I did. If he base up at me, I’ll beat his buns into the carpet. Tell him I said that too!”

The light streaming from behind her had accented the sweat on her narrow nose. She was really not that big a woman but her hands on her hips were balled into fists the size of large, unripe avocados and she was prepared to back up her conversation.

I imagined a set of hundred-pound barbells propped in front of her living room television and a library of workout tapes.

“We’ll handle it, miss,” I said, thankful we hadn’t been called to
her
apartment. “Thanks for calling.”

Marie sipped her beer now, remembering also. “He tried that shit twice, and after that, I said three strikes, motherfucker’s out. So one night, I’m standin’ at the stove and he come up talkin’ some stuff about how the fish ain’t fried crisp enough. Here I am tryin’ to get things together fast, done worked a double while he home all day chillin’ with Montel and Rolling Rock …”

“He wasn’t working?”

“He was supposed to be workin’ but he had got suspended for a few days.”

“Why?”

“Harassin’ some girl, so he said.”

“What did he do?”

“I didn’t get the full story ’cause we wasn’t on the same shift, and when I asked him, he went tight—said somebody had set him up. And it wasn’t until two weeks later, I found out the real deal—that he’d been fired. The girl had brought him up on charges, and at the hearing he threatened her in front of the supervisor and the union rep. How stupid can a dumb man get?

“So he home with his feet up lookin’ at Montel—you’d think he’d a learned somethin’ watchin’ the show? I mean, Montel drop some science. He is so
upliftin’
, you know what I mean, even if he is marry to that white woman. He try to up
lift
you, you know?”

I took a long swallow this time, not wanting to distract her with my opinion. I imagined James slouched in front of the television belching loud enough to be heard in the next apartment.

“So what happened?”

“So I’m standin’ there and my feet hurtin’—nobody mess with me when my feet is hurtin’—and the fool come at me swingin’ a belt. A goddamn belt. My daddy died fifteen years ago and this fool think he gonna step in his spot. Come at me with a damn belt. Tellin’ me how to fry fish.

“Well, I turned ’round with that pan and said, ‘Fish ain’t crisp? How you like some crisp-fried dick, motherfucker?’

“And I’m tellin’ you, when that smokin’ oil hit, it went right through his pants and I ain’t seen dancin’ like that since the old James Brown days at the Apollo.

“I probably missed ’cause he wasn’t swingin’ that much equipment to begin with. Anyway, I booked. Come back next day with the cops to get my stuff.

“Now I got my order of protection right here in my bag. Carry it all the time.”

She shook her head and turned sideways to the bar, snapping her fingers in time to early Ray Charles. On the television a baseball player slid soundlessly into third, and the face of the commentator wrinkled with excitement.

Marie ordered another beer and added, almost as an afterthought, “I ain’t went in front a no judge neither.”

“James didn’t press charges?” I said, surprised that he’d let her get away with that.

“I’m not talkin’ about no charges. I’m talkin’ about my protection. Paper from a judge don’t mean diddly. A man get that postal virus, he shoot right through that paper. So I got me somethin’ a whole lot better.”

She snapped her purse open and in the half-light I caught the dull sheen of the weapon’s gray-black, polycarbonate casing.

“Where’d you get a Glock?” I whispered.

“Mine to know and yours to find out,” she said, closing the bag, calmer now. “I know one thing, he ain’t layin’ a hand on me again and he ain’t basin’ up in my face again neither.”

She crossed her legs and balanced the suede bag loosely in her lap, stroking it the way one would smooth the fur of a cat.