Of Blood and Sorrow (6 page)

“That damn Lily ain’t fit to be nobody’s mama,” said Jimson Weed.

“Don’t you talk about my Lily like that, Jimson. It ain’t her fault what happened! Don’t you ever, ever talk about my Lily like that!” Sweet Thing spoke softly, but anger bubbled underneath the sweetness.

“I ain’t talking about your Lily,” he said, suddenly meek. “That is over and done with.”

Lily, I assumed, was Lilah Love. Changing your name appeared to be a family trait. I recalled what Lilah had said about them: my crazy aunt, that nasty old fool, my no-count baby sister. Except for Sweet Thing’s half-assed defense of Lilah, there seemed to be no love lost between any of them.

I thought about my own family then, my quick-to-strike mama and drunk of a daddy, my shot-himself-through-the-head brother, and Pet, running for cover from the whole damn lot of us. What would my dead people say about me?

“I’m not representing Lilah Love but the grandparents of the baby,” I said, quickly coming back to the here and now.

“She talking about Treyman Barnes,” Sweet Thing whispered.

“I know who she talking about.”

“I don’t want to tangle with Treyman Barnes, Jim,” Sweet Thing said, her voice trembling.

“Don’t worry, baby, I won’t let that happen. Never!” Jimson took her hand in his, and I was touched by the tenderness in his voice and in that gesture.

“Was Treyman Barnes the person who called her this morning?” I asked.

“Ain’t nobody talking to you!” he said, the anger in his voice surprising me.

“I’m talking to you,” I said, getting tough. “Is he the man who called to speak to Thelma Lee this morning?”

“You think Treyman Barnes deserve that baby?” he asked. “I know what Treyman Barnes is. You think he deserve that baby?”

“I have no idea, and it’s not my decision anyway,” I said, striving to sound reasonable. “I just work for the man.”

“Then you working for the Devil!” Jimson Weed said evenly, his eyes not leaving mine.

For a moment, his voice, with its streak of old-time religion, brought back my grandma, but hers was always softened by compassion and love. Surprisingly, though, I was hit by a stab of shame like the kind I used to feel when I was a kid.

Never be about the Devil’s work, my darlin’. Never be about that.

I shoved that memory back where it belonged.

“It’s not my place to judge, Mr. Carter,” I said. Truth was, I’d probably worked for “the Devil” before, usually unaware of his horns and tail until he singed my hair. But this particular devil—if that was what he be—had paid me well for my burned scalp, and I had a growing son to feed.

“Are you trying to tell me that Thelma Lee isn’t here because she met with Treyman Barnes this morning?” I pointedly asked Sweet Thing.

“She ain’t trying to tell you shit!” said Jimson Weed.

“Then where is Thelma Lee with Lilah Love’s baby?” I turned to him now. “I don’t want to get the police involved, but stealing a child is kidnapping. I represent the child’s rightful family, who intend to fight for custody because they believe that Lilah Love is an unfit mother, as you said yourself a few moments ago.

“I was told last night that Thelma Lee would be surrendering the child to me this morning so she can be returned to her grandparents. I’m here to make sure she keeps her word.”

“But we’re rightful family, too!” said Sweet Thing. “That baby is part Lily, so we have a right. Just ’cause they have money don’t give them the right to claim her.”

“I think that may be up to the courts to decide,” I said, wishing like hell I hadn’t been put in this situation. Lilah Love had managed to get me again.

“But Thelma Lee is just a child her own self! She don’t know what she’s doing!” Sweet Thing buried her face in her hands. “We don’t want to get that girl in trouble. She’s just trying to do right by the baby. Trying to keep her away from evil.”

“But evil is always in the eye of the beholder,” I said.

“If you don’t know what evil is, then you evil, too. I know deep in my soul what evil is, deeper than you’ll ever know. I know evil when I see it, and I done cast it out of me!” Jimson Weed said with the conviction of a jackleg preacher in a storefront church.

“I don’t know what evil is, but I do know one thing. I want that baby and I want her today,” I said as patiently as I could. Suddenly, I was sick and tired of these two and this discussion on the nature of evil. “I know the baby was here, and I need to talk to Thelma Lee. If Thelma Lee changed her mind, that’s fine. But if I haven’t heard from her by six p.m. tonight, and Treyman Barnes doesn’t have his grandchild, I am going to report it to the police.”

I knew I was on shaky legal ground. Technically, Thelma Lee could have been accused of kidnapping the moment she snatched the child, and the moment I agreed to try to get the child from her, some wily prosecutor could accuse me of aiding and abetting. But Jimson and Sweet Thing didn’t strike me as legal hounds. The bad thing was, I was beginning to have second thoughts about the ethics of taking Barnes’s check and my role in all this. The good thing was, I didn’t have to worry because Barnes was as connected to the powers that be and the legal establishment as Carmela Soprano was to the mob.

They glanced at each other and then back at me.

“Get the hell out of here,” Jimson said with nothing in his eyes but hatred, which puzzled me.

“Well, I hope you two are ready for what comes next,” I said quietly.

“It can’t be nothing worse than what I seen,” said Jimson, and the look in his eyes made me a believer. I handed Sweet Thing another card.

“I already got one,” she said.

“Take another.”

Jimson snatched it from her, tore it up, and threw it on the floor. He went back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

“He don’t mean no harm,” Sweet Thing said as soon as he’d left. “Ever since he come into my life, after my sweet Lily died, all he ever wanted to do was love me and protect me and keep evil people from hurting me. Sometimes I think he loves me more than is good for him. You ever have a man love you like that?” she asked. Her eyes filled with tears, and she glanced away so I wouldn’t see them.

“No, I can’t say that I have.” I wondered who this Lily was she was talking about, but the tears kept me from asking. Lilah’s namesake, I assumed.

When I heard the sound of bacon sizzling, I gave her another card.

“I don’t want to see Thelma Lee in jail any more than you do, and I want what’s best for the baby,” I whispered. “Please call me if you need to.”

She nodded that she would, then folded the card twice and stuck it in her bosom.

 . . . . . 

I DROVE AROUND THE BLOCK
and parked close enough to keep an eye on the house but far enough away not to be noticed. I put on some CDs and, when I got sick of those, an audiobook. Thelma Lee was bound to come home sooner or later, I figured, and I wanted to see what had happened.

I waited for nearly four hours, then started calling Treyman Barnes. The first few times, the receptionist said he’d call me back when he returned, then he began sending my calls straight to voice mail. Finally, I got mad. The least he could do was return my damn calls.

The way I figured it, though, was that Barnes had taken care of things in his own way. He’d probably decided he didn’t want a third person involved and called Thelma Lee and arranged to meet her himself. More than likely, he’d given her some cash and taken the baby home. If they went to court, there would be one less person involved. It would be quick, clean, with no witnesses, the way Barnes probably liked it.

What Barnes knew that Lilah and her relatives didn’t was that the parent who has the child usually gets to keep her. Lilah’s mistake was not screaming “kidnap” from the get. There wasn’t a judge in Jersey who would favor Lilah Love’s right to her baby over that of Barnes’s son, and his being a vet would make it all the easier. Lilah Love would probably never see that child again.

But why was Thelma Lee so scared?

I left Treyman Barnes a final message when I got back to my office: “Mr. Barnes, since I haven’t heard from you, I assume you’ve been in touch with the party we discussed last night and that the two of you have come to an agreement regarding your granddaughter. If that’s the case, then our business is concluded. Your retainer was sufficient for my brief service. I’ll mail you an invoice and a full report for your records. Thank you again, and I hope I can be of service in the future.”

Then you working for the Devil!
Jimson Weed’s voice mocked me, but I pushed it back.

I peeked into the Beauty Biscuit on my way home from work that night, but Wyvetta wasn’t there. I’d check in with her tomorrow. It had been a long day, and I was eager to see Jamal; we had some making up to do.

“How about some Red Lobster tonight?” I yelled as I walked into the house, determined to start the night off right. I checked my messages one last time to see if I’d heard from Barnes, but there was nothing.

“Come on, Jamal, I’m hungry! I want to get on the road before it gets too late,” I yelled again as I sorted through the usual mess of bills and mail.

The doorbell rang twice, and I went to answer it, tossing the unwanted junk in the kitchen trash on the way to the door. “Come on down, Jamal, I’ll be in the car,” I said, grabbing my bag off the back of a chair and heading out. I’d get rid of whoever it was as quick as I could; the thought of Chardonnay and Cajun shrimp was making my stomach growl. I stopped short when I looked through the peephole.

Two of them were standing there, one white, one black; one older and shorter by three inches, both clean shaven, neatly dressed, one in gray, the other in blue. No style. Cheap suits. I knew the look: stare straight ahead, no show of feelings, hands at side, never let them see what’s on your mind. I cracked the door, left the chain on.

The older one spoke first, pulling out a badge as if I needed to see one. I’d been a cop myself once.

“Is this the residence of Jamal Curtis?” The question was simply put, with no threat, no assumption made. Professional. I gave him that.

I nodded, unable to speak. Finally, I got the words out. “I’m Jamal’s mother. Has something happened?”

“I’m Detective Ransom, and this is Detective Coates. We’d like to speak to him,” said the young one. He was well built and blond, his hair circling his head in a wreath of golden curls. A rookie Adonis, smug and sure of himself for no good reason.

What could they possibly want with my son?
I tried to send Jamal a message.
Don’t come down, Son. Don’t come down!
I kept my eyes glued to the young cop’s face. “He’s not home from school yet,” I said.

“School?”

“Summer school.”

“It’s going on six. Kind of late, isn’t it? From what I remember, summer schools end at noon,” Ransom said. A smart-ass. I saw that by the way he looked me over, chin jutting out.

“What do you want to talk to my son about?” I knew the deal with cops and black boys. Pull them over first. Ask questions later. Shoot before they answer sometimes. Always the suspect. Always the victim.

“May we come in?” Coates asked, his voice patient, polite.

Don’t let them in.
I knew that instinctively.

Coates was old enough to have known my brother, one of that first wave of young black men who had joined the force to make a difference in the lives of the black community. But his weary eyes told me that the world he patrolled had worn him down; he was probably ready to retire, bounce grandkids on his knee, and never think about what he’d seen.

“I was just on my way out.” I stepped onto the porch, slamming the door behind me. The younger one threw a furtive glance at the older, who stared straight ahead. “What do you want with my son?”

“We need to ask him about something he may have seen.” The rookie’s gaze and tone were cocksure. I know how to handle this bitch, that look said, but the older one shifted his eyes from me to the rookie; the slight flick of an eyebrow said he’d take it over.

Jake.
His name came to me as it always did when there is trouble with Jamal.
Don’t let them talk to Jamal unless Jake is present.
“Just what do you think he saw?”

“We’re investigating a murder that occurred last night. We have reason to believe that your son may have been with the victim prior to the murder or may even have been one of the last people to see the victim alive. We found an item that belonged to your son in her car.”

“Her?” The question in my voice told them more than I wanted them to know.

“Perhaps you knew her,” the veteran said. “The victim’s name was Lilah Love. She was brutally beaten to death late last night. We found her body in the trunk of her rented Altima at seven thirty this morning.”

“When was the last time you saw your son?” The young one shot his question out, his eyes recording everything that flitted across my face.

“When I took him to school this morning,” I lied with everything I had.

Coates gave me his card. “Please call us when your son gets home tonight. He may have witnessed the murder or seen the killer.”

“Or had something to do with the crime,” the rookie added.

SIX

W
HERE IS MY SON
?

I drove around the block like a crazy woman, then parked on a parallel street and waited to see if the cops were still there. I was shaking so hard, I couldn’t dial my boy’s cell number. Finally, I did and there was no answer, of course. I called the house again, hoping he had snuck in without my knowing it or fallen asleep, and when nobody answered, I sat there like a fool listening to my own voice telling me I wasn’t home.

Where the hell did he go?

In case the two cops were still lurking around, I grabbed a dirty raincoat I’d stuffed in my trunk, walked around the block, then snuck in through my back door like a thief, hoping my neighbors wouldn’t call the police.

“Jamal!” I wailed, even though I knew he wasn’t there. I ran into his room, then stood in the middle of the floor trying to calm myself down. He must have left something, somewhere. I turned on the light and sank down on the bed trying to remember what was in its place and what was missing. The Nets backpack Jake had bought him last fall was on the back of the chair where he always hung it. I rifled through it, not sure what I was looking for, and found nothing. A sheet of homework had fallen on the floor next to the chair with yesterday’s date on it. Had he even gone to school today? Had he gone and come back? Hotshot PI couldn’t find her own kid.

The bed was neatly made. Late-rising Jamal never had time to make it in the morning; usually, he pulled the sheets up right before he climbed into bed at night. The sheet and blanket were tucked in tight, hospital cornered like my brother had taught me to do, like I had taught Jamal.

What were the last words I said to him?

Stay mad. I love you anyway.

Would they haunt me forever?

I searched his closet, frantically tossing clothes on the floor, looking for nothing and everything. Sneakers. (More pairs than he’d need in a decade.) T-shirts. (Where the hell did these wife-beaters come from?) A month’s worth of dirty drawers and socks stuffed in a pillowcase. (How had I raised such a pig?) I smiled at that, then cried, then made myself focus again.
What was missing?
Dress slacks, the beautiful sweater I’d bought him last fall. Remembering how he loved it brought more tears. But why had he taken it in the middle of the summer? What had he been thinking?

I went through the top of his closet searching for his duffel bag, the one I’d ordered from L.L. Bean when he’d gone to that computer camp, the one with his initials embroidered on it, the one I couldn’t find. The cops hadn’t said what they’d found in Lilah’s car, but that had to be it. It had two sets of labels—name, address, telephone number on them—when I’d sent him off to camp, every bit of information a person would need to find him.

If you want to live with your jackass of a father, then go right ahead and do it!

I called DeWayne, but there was no answer, so I left a message at his home and on his cell phone, telling him to call me back. He occasionally traveled during the week, so I wasn’t surprised he wasn’t home. He was also of that generation that left their cell phones off. Eventually, he’d check for messages. I didn’t say why I’d called, that Jamal wasn’t here. I didn’t want to hear his mouth about the way I was raising his son.

Damn him to hell!

Was he right?

I ran downstairs and snatched a list with the telephone numbers of Jamal’s friends off the refrigerator. I left messages for the boys I knew he hung with even though it wasn’t quite nine. No teenager worth the name would be home now. Surprisingly, I got two of his friends, one home sick, the other on punishment. No, they hadn’t seen him since yesterday when they played ball in the park. No, they didn’t know where he’d gone. Yes, they would call me if they heard from him. Did you check his webpage? one asked.

Webpage?

I turned on Jamal’s computer and went to his browser to check the sites he’d visited. MySpace.com was at the top of the list. I certainly knew what MySpace was but had never visited it; figured it was for kids and politicians trying to get a vote. Jamal’s name came up on the MySpace page requesting his password. “Remember Me” had not been checked.

Password?

I tried his name spelled backward, then
DeWayne, Jake, Snoop Doggy Dogg, Beyoncé, Frosty,
his beloved deceased guinea pig. I tried
50 Cent, Cent 50, Beyoncé
spelled backward, then random words—
thug, cash, popcorn shrimp.
Then, considering all the shit he’d been through in the past year, the boy he had loved more than anyone else and whose death had begun his relationship with violent death—his half brother Hakim, shot down in front of him ten years ago.

Bingo.

A photo of Jamal standing tall and handsome holding a basketball popped up. Music boomed, some rap song I couldn’t understand, and the words “Tell Me About Yourself” appeared on the right side of the page. He’d answered every damn question.

What?!

What happened to Red Lobster?

I scrolled down his webpage, stunned by how much he had revealed about himself. I searched for recent comments. My mouth dropped open when I read them:

NEED TO GET DA FUCK OUTTA HERE. FAST
.
Can a pretty woman slide through here and
pick me up? No strings attached.

No strings attached! What the hell did he mean by that? Had he lost his mind putting something like that on the Web? Didn’t he know a site like this was Pedophile Central for any horny pervert who wanted to take a peek? He might think he was all big and bad with his new muscles and martial arts skills, but they wouldn’t count for shit against a cloth filled with chloroform. Any ole crazy person with his name and ZIP code could look him up.

And one ole crazy person had. “Aunt Lilah” in pretty lime green script had stepped out of the shadows and answered his request.

Met you today. Friend of your mama’s, but I can keep a secret. I’m out of here late tonight. I need to get out of town for a couple of days. Company sound real good about now. Especially with a fine young thing like you! Give me a call, we’ll set something up.

Take it easy, girl! Just breathe and take it easy!
I told myself, and that was just what I did for the next five minutes, rocking back and forth in my baby’s chair, inhaling and exhaling until I got hold of myself. The cops had it right. Jamal had been with her. But where was she taking him? Where she wanted to go or where he did? Where was he now?

I called Jake out of habit, left a hysterical message, then remembered he was at a conference in Toronto. I was about to leave a message on his cell phone, then realized there was absolutely nothing he could do in Canada, so I hung up. I tried DeWayne again; he sure had the right to know what was going on now. No answer. He was bound to be there sooner or later. I knew I’d go crazy if I just sat here staring at that computer. Better to get on the road, figure out what to do on the way down to DeWayne’s. Jamal had a key, and even if his father wasn’t home, he might still be there. If he was, I’d be able to sleep tonight. If not, best to tell his daddy in person so we could figure out our next move together. I tossed a change of clothes, a robe, and a toothbrush into an overnight bag, ran down the street to where I’d parked my car, and sped down the parkway. DeWayne kept a spare set of house keys under a planter on his back porch, so if nobody was there, I’d spend the night and head back home tomorrow morning.

I couldn’t get Lilah Love out of my mind. What else did the cops know about her? Did they know about the money she’d given me? Did they think I was involved in her death, that maybe my son had been doing my bidding? And truth be told, if I’d known about the moves she’d made on my son, I would have beaten the woman to death myself.

Who could have done it? Who had the most to gain? Down how many dark alleys had she switched that skinny little butt? That Turk guy skulking around with his tail between his legs was a keeper. Thieves have no loyalty, and a thieving dog will rip out a master’s throat as quick as he’ll lick her hand. Lilah had mentioned something about Turk working for some big-time gangster gone legit. Was she talking about Treyman Barnes? He would gain from Lilah’s death. But why bother if he already had the baby? Revenge maybe? Just plain nastiness?

I pulled into DeWayne’s driveway at midnight feeling like I’d driven the whole way without taking a breath. I sat in the car for ten minutes thinking of what I’d say to DeWayne if Jamal wasn’t there. If the situation were reversed, there would be no end to my rage. I’d curse him out so bad his granddaddy would turn over in his grave.

The sudden, sharp rap on the window made me jump so high I hit my head on the ceiling, then banged my elbow on the steering wheel as I scrambled out of the car. And I didn’t feel a damn thing.