Of Blood and Sorrow (14 page)

We sat together in an uneasy silence. Larry turned on the TV, and we spent fifteen minutes watching a doc about offshore banking on PBS. Finally, he sighed and we kissed good night as the friends we were. I promised I would call him the next morning, and I knew that I would. But I hadn’t been able to tell him what was really on my mind, and that said something troubling about our relationship.

After he left, I changed into jeans and a sweatshirt and, suddenly exhausted, collapsed on the couch, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. When the phone rang, I jumped to get it, assuming it was Larry, hoping it was Jamal. It was Basil Dupre.

“Listen, Tamara, I know what you said, and I respect that, but I’m leaving town sooner than I expected. I came back to the States to see you, to be honest, and I want to be able to say a decent goodbye before I leave. I don’t know when I’m coming back. So what are you doing tonight?”

“Nothing,” I said, and burst into laughter.

THIRTEEN

B
ASIL DIDN’T ASK WHY
I was laughing, and I didn’t tell him. Mostly, it was the ironies—of Larry taking off like he had and me not telling him the truth, of being so sure about life on Monday and watching it turn to shit in four days, about Basil Dupre after months of no word.

I argued with myself for ten minutes, one moment deciding to tell Basil to forget it, the next simply accepting my fate. I rode with fate. I was, after all, a grown woman fully in charge of myself, and there was no reason why the man couldn’t drop by for a visit. I’d known him for nearly fifteen years, and despite our past, we had no future. Truth was, my “future” had just walked out the door, chased by my big mouth and bad attitude.

And maybe I had a third option: Cancel Basil. Call Larry. Apologize for being a bitch. But what would I say? That I agreed with his bullshit about my profession? That Jamal really was better off with DeWayne? That Wyvetta and Earl weren’t good enough for our “new” life? And what would I say to Basil? Sorry. Made a mistake. Forget it. Catch you on the rebound.

The best thing to do was nothing—let the game play itself out. The no-brand-name lights in my kitchen cast the room and everyone in it in a greenish glare that made conversation reminiscent of an interview in a police interrogation room. What could go wrong in a place like this?

Basil was an old friend who respected my boundaries. We’d stick to business if I made that clear. I had some questions about Treyman Barnes, and Basil could answer them. If Barnes was even remotely connected to Lilah’s death, I might be able to convince the cops to roll down
that
avenue. They probably wouldn’t want to spotlight the great Citizen Barnes, but it would give them somebody to chew on besides me and Jamal. Basil would also know if Turk had ever worked for Barnes, and that would tie him closer. No way Barnes could kill Turk, but Basil might know of some muscle he could hire to do it. And there was also Thelma Lee aka Trinity Sweets to consider.

One cut, deep and long. Walked up to him from behind, slaughtered him like you butcher a hog.

A woman could kill like that, Gilroy had said. And there had been blood on Thelma Lee’s clothes, she’d written that herself, and she’d washed and dried them in my machine. It would be just my damn luck for the cops to find traces of Turk Orlando’s DNA in my old-as-dirt Maytag.

I should have called the cops from the get.

But what good would that have done? They were looking for killers, not Baby Dal and a missing teenager. And where was Baby Dal? Had Thelma really made “things right” for her by giving the child to Treyman Barnes like she said she would do in that note? What would Treyman Barnes do to her if she had—or hadn’t?

Basil might have thoughts on that part of it, too, especially when I told him that Jamal was involved. Basil had never met my son or spoken more than a few words to him on the phone, but he had watched Jamal grow up through my stories and observations. I’d told him about Jamal’s first day of school, when he made the debate team in fifth grade and tried out for junior varsity. He was the one to suggest that Jamal learn capoeira, a Brazilian form of martial arts and self-defense as graceful as it was deadly. He cared about Jamal and did what he could to help us when we needed it. I’d mentioned in passing that Jamal had fallen in love with computers, and a new Mac had mysteriously appeared on our front porch two days later. A winter wardrobe materialized out of nowhere when money was tight, and a red dirt bike dropped out of the sky on Jamal’s thirteenth birthday. Jamal always assumed that his father was his benefactor, and much to my disgust, DeWayne, with a wink and a smile, took undeserved credit.

I never told Jamal the true origin of these gifts. I knew instinctively that he would disapprove of my outlaw boyfriend and object to our relationship. From the moment he outgrew me, he was determined to protect me, and he would deem Basil’s lifestyle a threat. I knew it was best to keep my relationship with him away from the prying eyes of my overprotective son. So Basil remained one of my guilty, secret pleasures, along with gulping too much red wine, pigging out on Lindt chocolate, and nonstop movies on the Lifetime Movie Network.

Anything you need I will do,
Basil had told me earlier this week, and I needed answers from him, that was all. But when the doorbell rang, my heart beat like it had the first time he kissed me.

It is my sad lot in life to end up with men who dress better than me, and Basil Dupre was no exception. He wasn’t a show-off like DeWayne Curtis, with his Gucci suits and Bruno Magli loafers, nor did he “dress for success” like Larry. His tastes were subtle and his clothes well chosen—casually elegant. His tailored steel gray shirt set off his beautiful skin and caught the glimmer of the platinum Rolex that peeked out from the cuff. His dark blue slacks were topped by a leather belt, lizard, crocodile, or some other exotic skin I couldn’t identify. (Basil was many things; conservationist was not one of them.) For a moment, I wished I’d changed into something more fetching, then remembered why he was here.

“I wanted to see you before I left. Thank you,” he said gravely, and delivered a brief kiss to my forehead. I liked the way he smelled. Not overpowering with perfume but a scent that made me breathe him in and enjoy it. “I don’t know when I’ll be back this way.” He glanced around my kitchen. “Nice room, Tamara. A good feel to it,” he added, with a shy smile that made me wonder if he was as unsure of himself as me.

“Practical,” I said.

“No-nonsense,” he clarified.

“I was going to make some tea. Do you want some?”

“Sure. Sounds good.”

I put on the kettle and got out matching cups and saucers, the china ones that had belonged to my grandmother, then sat down across from him. I saw my kitchen as he must see it—the dull yellow walls in need of a fresh coat of paint, the out-of-date calendar on the wall, the ancient oven and worn black-and-white checkered linoleum. Old and worn was what this room was, but for me it was the most comfortable one in the house. I’d done little to it in the years since my family had died. Maybe because it reminded me of them, the good as well as the bad, and I couldn’t bring myself to change it. I thought for a moment of Sweet Thing and her old house, and understood her love for it. Old things have memories, she’d told Thelma Lee. The same thing went for old friends, old loves.

The kettle whistled, and I poured water into the teapot and dropped in the tea ball filled with the loose tea Annie had brought me back from South Africa. Rooibos, it was called, and I was nearing the end of it. It was strong without being bitter and had a unique, distinctive taste. I let it brew for a moment, then poured us both a cup and brought it to the table.

“This is a well-made table,” Basil said, stroking the surface with his slender, elegant fingers. “Strong and beautiful, like its owner.”

“I didn’t know you were into furniture.”

“I love beautiful things,” he said with a half smile.

“Old, too?” I ignored his compliment.

“Good wood always grows more beautiful with age. You’ve had it awhile?”

“I bought it after I left DeWayne,” I said, then wished I hadn’t because it brought back the first time I’d met him. He’d been an acquaintance of DeWayne’s then, but not after our kiss. Did he remember it, too?

The dark red tea smelled like flowers, and its exotic fragrance filled the space between us. Basil smiled with pleasure at first taste. “Rooibos. So you like this one, too, do you? I’ll bring you some back next time I’m in Johannesburg.”

“So you’ve been to South Africa?”

He smiled, nodding slightly, glanced away for a moment. “Not for a while.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Business, but pleasure always comes first.”

The very mention of the word brought back our last time together. Should I have left this final goodbye unsaid?

“Your son, is he still with his father?”

My thoughts swung back to my kitchen. “Yes.”

“And he’s coming back soon?” I avoided his eyes and nodded, but he knew I was hiding something. He reached across the table, easily took my face in hand, and tipped it up so I couldn’t avoid his eyes.

“Tell me what’s happened.” His eyes wouldn’t let me lie.

“You sure you want to hear it?”

“Of course I do.”

So I told him all of it, about Lilah Love and Baby Dal, where the story began and would probably end. I described how brutally Lilah had been murdered, and why Jamal’s ill-timed ride in her car had made him at least a material witness and at most a suspect or possible victim. I described Turk, dead now, and Thelma Lee, gone but not forgotten. I explained how I suspected the killings were somehow tied to Treyman Barnes, and I ended with a long-winded, guilty confession—about how what I did for a living had endangered my son, and that the man I was involved with was probably right about me, that I was a lousy mother, a careless person, and that my son was better off living with his father. My final words were followed by a childish sob it was impossible to disguise.

“So who is this man who would say these things to you?” Basil asked, indignant.

“Larry. My used-to-be boyfriend.”

“Used to be?” A slight smile crossed his lips.

“He left earlier tonight.”

“Tonight? He must be a fool, then,” he said with chuckle, which made me feel better. “He must not know you as I do to say such foolish things. You’re better off without him.”

“And better off with somebody like you?” The words were out of my mouth before I knew it. “We both know that’s not real.”

“You said it, not me.”

“Basil, it’s impossible between us. You know that as well as I do.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, and I was surprised by how quickly my stomach dropped, the disappointment that came from nowhere. “But I will tell you this, Tamara. Think of your son, and judge yourself. You know what kind of woman you are, how strong and how good. Now think of DeWayne Curtis, and we both know what he is. Tell me that Jamal is not better off with you, and always will be. As for your work?” He grinned and shrugged. “You’re like me, Tamara. You are smart and capable. You take the hand you’re dealt, and you play it with all you’ve got; win or lose, you never fold. You are a survivor, as am I.”

I gave him a half nod, touched by this burst of cheerleading.

“You need…let me say, spice in your life. You’re no dull, bland woman who bores a man before he knows it. If that’s what he wants, tell him to find one of those silly, insipid women afraid of their own shadows. He doesn’t deserve what he’s got.”

I dropped my eyes, not sure if I wanted to look into his.

“Look at me,” he said gently. “I need to tell you this. Things between us may be impossible now, but not for always, I’m sure of that. I always come back to you.”

“Sooner or later.”

“But always.”

“And when will you come back this time?” The question was more demand than question, and he chose not to answer, sipping his tea instead.

“How do I help you protect your son?”

“By telling me everything you know about Treyman Barnes.”

“Treyman Barnes? That isn’t his style. To have some woman killed like that in a car. When he did those kinds of things, he was smart about it.”

“And he did do those kinds of things?”

Basil shrugged, said nothing.

“But what if he wanted something she had, like the baby? Could he be that ruthless?”

“He’d find another way to get it. He’s not a stupid man.”

“What about Turk?”

“The muscle with the girl?”

“The one whose throat was cut.”

“A messy way to kill a man,” he said with a shudder. I didn’t ask him how he knew.

“What if Turk killed Lilah on his orders, and he had him killed by someone else to cover his tracks?”

“Why bother? If it came to that, nobody would believe Turk over Treyman Barnes. There would be no need to cover his tracks. Barnes isn’t strong enough to kill like that, and he couldn’t hire a man to do that kind of killing. That killing was a personal one. There’s something missing in a man who kills like that. It’s not like on TV, Tamara. Killing is hard, and it always takes a bit of your soul. Even if it’s justified.”

“I know that,” I said defensively.

“No, you don’t, not really,” he said, glanced away, not willing to meet my eyes. He leaned back in the chair slightly, studying me. “What else do you want to know?”

“Why you were there that day, when I saw you on Monday.”

“Business. I thought I told you.”

“What kind of business, Basil?”

He hesitated just long enough to make me think he wasn’t going to tell me, then his voice softened.

“I knew Treyman Barnes from the old days, Tamara, and he’s changed since then. I’m not sure how much, but he’s not what he once was. I met him through his father, who knew my uncle. They shared some…business.”

“Business. Always business,” I said, amused.

“What can I tell you?” he grinned, innocent eyes.

“His father was definitely a stone-cold gangster,” I said, recalling Miss Peterson’s words.

“As was uncle.”

“As are you?”

“Shall we not go there?”

“And he’s not now, you’re saying.” I brought it back to Treyman Barnes.

“He was once, or so they say, and if he still is, he keeps it to himself.”

“Then what did he want from you?” I wasn’t sure I’d get it. He was always circumspect when it came to “business.”

“He asked me for some advice.” He paused a moment, took a sip of tea, which told me he was only willing to go so far. “Nothing to do with this Lilah Love you mentioned. About something in another part of the world. You say you met her in Jamaica?”

“The time I saw you down there,” I said, and it all came back in a swirl of memory—the brightness of the sun and the smell of the sea and the feel of crisp white sheets in the villa where we made love.

“Good time we had there, eh?”

A rush of heat shot through me.

“You should come to Johannesburg with me. For some more of this.” He poured himself another cup of tea. “And that.” He alluded to Jamaica.