Of Blood and Sorrow (10 page)

And I had had my fill of lying men. I rose to leave, and he stood up with me, gently pulled me back down. His touch, as always, went places it had no business going.

“I turned his offer down. I can’t tell you more.”

“Did it have something to do with a woman named Lilah Love?”

“No,” he said firmly, but I didn’t know what he was thinking. “Were you there to see him?”

“I was working for him,” I said.

He glanced at me, and I couldn’t read what was in his eyes. He picked up his drink, took a sip, put it down.

“He’s not someone you toy with, Tamara,” he said. “He was once, and still can be, a very dangerous man.”

“They say that about you.”

He chuckled, amused. “Not to you. What were you doing for him?”

“Business. He pays good.”

“So you need money?” I was touched by the concern in his tone and in his gaze. He’d helped me out more times than I could remember, usually anonymously, but I always knew where the money came from. Only Jake knew more about my often precarious finances.

I shook my head. “For once, I’m fine.”

“And your son. How is your boy?”

I couldn’t speak; my feelings must have shown on my face.

“Tell me.”

“He’s with his father.”

“Does this have anything to do with Barnes?”

I didn’t answer because I didn’t know, and that was on my face, too.

Basil Dupre
was
a dangerous man, but he was a kind one, too, and because he knew intimately a world that I only occasionally entered, I knew he would try to protect me in ways only he knew how. He took my hand, and I felt his strength in that gesture.

“You know anything you need I will do. Anything.” I smiled slightly because I knew it was true, but I couldn’t trust my voice to speak.

He kissed me on the cheek and stood up. “I’ll be leaving town in a day or two. May I call you before I leave?”

I nodded that he could, and he walked out, dropping fifty bucks on the bar for the waitress. After he’d gone, I realized Larry Walton hadn’t even entered my mind.

TEN

I
AVOIDED THE PITYING STARE
of the green-eyed waitress on my way out of the bar. She probably wondered what in the hell was wrong with me letting a man like that out of my sight. I wondered what in the hell was wrong with me, too. Then I reminded myself—there was no future in it, so I let it go. I thought about dropping back by the Biscuit. I could use that shot of bourbon Wyvetta had mentioned just about now. But the shop was full, and Wyvetta was grinning, styling, and in her glory. No time for me and my burdens. There was nowhere else to go but my office, so I trudged upstairs, locked my office door to ward off uninvited guests, and gazed at the dancing fish on my computer screen for the next ten minutes.

I finally called Jamal. He sounded tired and depressed, and that worried me. I knew he was going through hell and that DeWayne didn’t have the good sense to help him get through it. My ex-husband was about as introspective as a glass of milk—a man who hopped from one crisis to the next as carelessly as he did women’s beds. Jamal needed help. A good friend had died and a woman he befriended (he would call it that anyway) had been brutally murdered. Add cops to that dish, and the meal was poisoned. Jamal needed wisdom and sympathy, while DeWayne, the perpetual adolescent, was only capable of throwing money at him, which he did with abandon.

In breathless wonder, Jamal told me that they were going to dinner every night and had ordered wrestling matches from pay TV. They had tickets to three fights in Atlantic City on Saturday and Sunday night, and DeWayne had promised to teach him to drive.
That’s great, Son. That’s great, Son. That’s great, Son.
I repeated like a mantra, but I was worried and wanted him back home.

So I sat at my desk, listening to cars honking and teenagers screaming until I couldn’t stand it anymore. At least, my neighborhood was quieter than my office, though nothing like DeWayne’s, with its cookie-cutter houses with their neat green lawns. I wondered which one of his wives had cosigned the mortgage for that place. Part of a settlement, no doubt. DeWayne was the kind of man who would gladly take alimony from a woman, and that house, cute and cozy as it was, had probably been part of some deal. Anything to get the fool out of her life. But it was his now, and the prices in his neighborhood were soaring. Unlike mine, where prices dropped every time somebody got mugged. It was my parents’ home, and I loved it for that, but I couldn’t help wishing they’d made their lifetime investment in a different place, like Sweet Thing’s neighborhood in Jersey City. I’d be sitting pretty now if they had.

I thought again about Jimson Weed spitting on my floor and got mad all over again. I called Larry to take my mind off spit and worrying about my son, but he was so full of chatter about the position he was running for, and how much money he would make and other things I didn’t give a damn about, that my mind strayed back to Basil Dupre, and the look in his eyes when he kissed me goodbye.

“Then we’re still on for tomorrow?” Larry asked.

“Huh?” I’d hardly heard him.

“Tomorrow night. I’m coming over tomorrow for dinner, remember? Have you forgotten?” His impatience annoyed me.

“Of course not. Tomorrow night.”

“So how’s Jamal doing with summer school?”

“Jamal’s away.”

Pause.

“Away?”

I didn’t want to hear it, about how the way I make my living had endangered my son or how he’d be better off with his father or how a boy needs a man, so I lied.

“DeWayne wanted to take him to a couple of fights in Atlantic City, so he’s staying down there for a couple of days.”

“Lucky kid.”

“Yeah.”

“Good for him, good for us.”

“Yeah.”

“Tomorrow, then. Love you.”

Why hadn’t I just told the man what was really going on?

I paid a few bills online and then went to MySpace to see if Jamal had posted anything new. I was relieved to see he hadn’t. I wrote a few letters, dropped them in the mailbox on the way out the door, then stopped by my favorite takeout spot for some fried whiting and coleslaw. It was close to ten when I pulled into my driveway.

The house was dark, and I cursed out loud. It was bad enough coming home to an empty house without walking into darkness. My hunger, sharpened by the smell of fried fish, finally propelled me out of the car and into my kitchen. I snapped on the switch, cursing when the light didn’t come on. I’d left it on when I pulled out with nothing on my mind but Jamal, so it must have burned out. The hall light was out, too. I put the fish on top of the stove and went to get a flashlight and spare bulbs from the linen closet at the top of the stairs.

I heard the sound when I was halfway up, and I stopped dead, stood still, listened. Footsteps now, scampering across the hall into Jamal’s room. Was it him? Of course not. I’d just talked to him at DeWayne’s. Somebody looking for him? My heart beat fast; sweat popped out on the back of my neck.

Footsteps again, but bold this time, like he didn’t give a damn, like he wasn’t afraid, and that scared me more than anything else. Was he looking for Jamal or something in his room? Had he searched the others before I came? How long had he been here?

I backed down the stairs, one step at a time. Where was the phone? I’d left it in Jamal’s room when I’d called his friends the night before. My gun was upstairs, too, in the safe in my bedroom; there was no getting to it now, and I’d be damned if I went up these stairs with nothing in my hands but sweat.

Whoever killed Lilah Love is here.

The fear that came with that thought settled in the pit of my stomach, so deep I could hardly breathe. How had he gotten in? I saw no sign of the back door being forced. The basement door? Had I locked it? No. Had I even bothered with the top latch on the front door? I’d been in such a rush to get out, I wasn’t sure what I’d locked and what I hadn’t, and I left without setting the alarm. Damn thing didn’t work half the time anyway, but I should have turned it on. One more mistake.

The roof from my window is low, and it’s not that far from the ground.

Jamal’s window must still be open. If he jumped down, then somebody could climb up. Somebody with arms as big as my thighs, strong enough to pull himself up, strong enough to wham a fist through a woman’s throat.

Damn it!

Which one was nearer, the back or the front door? About the same distance. I’d go out the front. Closer to the street, easier to get somebody’s attention. I took one stair at a time backward, cursing the one that always creaked.

Stopping again, I listened, then turned around heading for the front door. Somebody moved. Feet scampering across the floor, like a kid playing hide-and-seek. Were the steps heading to the stairs? Trying to get to me before I got out? The light went on in Jamal’s bedroom, throwing everything into shadow. I stumbled downstairs toward the living room, heading for the door. It was then that she called out.

“Miss Hayle, is that you? If you got a gun, please don’t shoot me, Miss Hayle. And if it ain’t Miss Hayle, I got a knife
and
a gun, and I know how to use them. Is that you, Miss Hayle?”

I’d recognize that scared, shaky little voice anywhere.

“Thelma Lee. What in the hell are you doing in my house?”

She ran downstairs, two steps at a time like Jamal, stopping halfway down.

“It’s Trinity. Please call me Trinity. I don’t like
Thelma Lee.
Please don’t shoot me. I’m up here ’cause it was dark down there and I was scared. Please don’t shoot me.”

“Do you have any weapons?” I tried to keep my voice from shaking.

“Naw, I was lying.”

Lying now or then?

“I want you to step into the hall with your hands high above your head so I can see them. Do you understand me? I
do
have a weapon, a gun.”

I drew back in the shadows, listening to every move she made as she came down the stairs. If she had a gun instead of a knife, I could duck into the basement and get out fast through the door. If not, there was no reason to be scared; she was nothing but a kid. I could handle a knife.

I moved behind the banister so I’d be behind her to make sure her hands were over her head. She came down slowly and stood in front of me, hands held high, standing so close I had to take a step back.

I was expecting a younger version of Lilah Love, a spitfire of a girl-woman who would turn a man’s head before he knew it was turned, but baby sister was nothing like Lilah, with her lime-colored silk and tacky gold jewelry. She was dressed all in black like her
Matrix
namesake—without the curves or style—tight jeans, tighter T-shirt, sneakers, black leather jacket (as hot as it was!). I wondered if she knew Trinity’s moves, the karate kicks and lethal chops. She wore a gold bracelet with bells on it that jingled when she moved and reminded me of Lilah’s anklet. She was built “thick,” as the kids like to say, heavier than me by about twenty pounds. Baby fat, I figured, not seasoned muscle, but I couldn’t be sure. She moved slowly, like an old woman just starting her day or a toddler waking up from her afternoon nap.

“Take four steps forward,” I said, still standing behind her. My eyes had adjusted to the darkened room, and I didn’t see any weapon.

“Can I put my arms down, Miss Hayle? I’m getting tired.”

“No, keep them up.” I had to be sure about the knife. I quickly frisked her, then told her to relax but to stay where she was. I turned on a lamp in the living room so I could see her face clearly. Sweet Thing was all over the girl: high cheekbones, sharp like a Sioux, dark red-brown Indian skin, straight black hair pulled tight against her scalp and fastened with a black and gold scrunchy.

She began to sob, covering her face with her fingers, which were thick as a man’s and topped with broken black nails.

I gave her a minute, then asked, “You okay?”

“No!”

“I’m going to ask you this again before I call the cops. What are you doing in my house?”

Her words came tumbling out high and fast like they had when we’d talked on the phone Monday night. “Please don’t call the police, Miss Hayle. Please don’t call them. I was scared, that’s why I came here. I was scared, real scared. I saw something on Tuesday night I never want to see again in my whole life! I don’t want the person who did it coming after me. I know he’s coming after me next ’cause I was with him. I don’t want—”

“You’ve been here since last night?” I asked in disbelief.

“I had nowhere to go,” she answered in a small voice. “It happened last night, and after it happened, I went to my aunt’s and took Baby Dal, then I came here because I was scared.”

“Wait a minute. So where’s the baby now?”

“At Aunt Edna’s.”

I thought again about my conversation with Sweet Thing and Jimson Weed earlier today. Neither had bothered to mention that the “something” the girl had dropped off was a baby.

“So you saw them last night?”

“I saw my Aunt Edna, gave her the baby, then left.” She started sobbing again. I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Calm down!” I said, and sat down beside her.

“I
can’t
calm down! Not after what I saw last night. I been crying all night about Turk. I can’t calm down!”

“Turk! What do you know about Turk? Isn’t that Lilah’s boyfriend?”

She started to cry again, and her voice cracked with hoarseness when she spoke. “My sister is dead, Miss Hayle. My big sister is dead. Lily is dead, and I don’t know what I’m going to do about it. I loved Lily. She didn’t love me, but I loved her. More than anything, I loved her. She was my mama’s baby just like me.”

“Lily? You’re talking about Lilah Love?” What was it with these people and names? I wondered. Some profound dissatisfaction with who they were, I figured.

“Lily. Please call her Lily! She started calling herself Lilah when she left home, then she married this guy named Sammy Lee Love, and she said never to mention the name
Sweets
again.
Love
suited her better. That really hurt my aunt’s feelings, but Lily didn’t care. So she took his name just because she liked the way it sounded, then he got killed somewhere, and—”

“I know the rest.” I studied the girl for a minute or two, then said, “Do you know who killed your sister?” She looked at me strangely, her eyes big and questioning.

“No.”

“Do you know who the cops think killed her?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“They think it was Turk Orlando.”

She looked alarmed. “Why do they think that?”

“The evidence they have points to it.”

“What evidence?”

“Does it bother you that you were fooling around with the man who killed your sister?” I said, ignoring her question.

She got serious for a minute, then narrowed her eyes. “If I thought he killed my sister, I’d have to kill him back. I would have had to kill him back instead of letting the person who killed him do it. I would have—”

“Are you telling me Turk Orlando is dead?”

“And nobody knows it but me,” she wailed. “I’m scared the person that done it will be coming after me next. Just because of that baby. I know it’s because of that baby. Me and Turk didn’t mean no harm. We—”

I stood up, ready to call the police and tell them what the girl had just said, but she grabbed my arm, the bells on her gold bracelet jingling, her grip on my arm stronger than I expected. I thought about how deeply Lilah’s nails had dug into my wrist, and I wondered, for an instant, if I’d misread the girl, yet I didn’t have a sense of danger, and my instincts are usually good about that kind of thing, so I sat back down.

“Please don’t call the police. I know that’s what you were going to do. If you call the police, I’m gone and I’ll end up dead. There ain’t no way they can protect me. I know that. They don’t care nothing about nobody who looks like me anyway.”

I thought about what Sweet Thing had told me about telling the cops. That was probably the only truthful thing she had said. Black girls gone missing were never given more than short shrift by the police. A few days ago, I’d seen a story about a fifteen-year-old Newark girl who had disappeared for damn near two weeks. It was tucked into the back pages of the paper, right under an ad for real estate. No headlines, no quotes, nothing but ten skimpy lines. If the girl had been white and the town had been Short Hills, it would have made the six o’clock news the day she’d gone. Truth be told, the only people who gave a damn about black women were other black women.