Too Beautiful to Die

by Glenville Lovell

  “Listen to me for a fucking minute,” I screamed, desperate now. It was over for me if they got me to jail.

  Bressler sighed loudly, fidgeting in his seat as if he was sitting on coals.

  “I just came from talking to a woman whose daughter went missing for a couple of days four years ago. She’s from Belize and used to work for me when I was a detective. She didn’t have her papers and was afraid to file a missing person’s report, so she came to me for help. I began asking some questions. That same night I was shot. Her daughter came home the next day, and that was the end of that. So I thought. One of the pictures I saw next to that agent’s body was this woman’s daughter.”

  “I thought you weren’t there,” Slate mocked.

  “This woman just told me what really happened when her daughter disappeared. She’d been kidnapped and forced to have sex, which was videotaped. I know somebody planted pictures on my computer. That’s why I believe Agent Edwards’ killer might be the same people who kidnapped this girl.”

  “How much more of this whining are we going to listen to?” Slate said.

  “Finish your story, Blades,” Bressler said.

  “I’m now convinced more than ever that my shooting three years ago wasn’t an accident. It’s possible it was a hit. This woman said her daughter was kidnapped by cops and INS agents. I believe the man who shot me may’ve been involved in the kidnapping.”

  “This is crazy,” exclaimed Slate.

  “Can you prove any of this?” Bressler said.

  “Not yet. But Troy Pagano is in a federal prison. Should be easy to get him to talk,” I said.

  Slate began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” I said.

  He turned to me, his puffy cheeks woven with tiny purple veins. “I guess nobody’s bothered to give you the news. Pagano’s been out on parole since July.”

  I fell back onto the grease-stained seat, a sudden transcendent flush of anger flooding my brain with such fury that I became dizzy. I closed my eyes, hoping to block out the memory replay of being shot, to which my brain had fast-forwarded. The man who shot me was out on parole and nobody had bothered to tell me.

  I heard Bressler’s voice, but it seemed to have taken on the quality of bright white light, revolving on top of a tall building, flashing messages that I couldn’t decipher.

  “Blades?”

  I opened my eyes. Bressler was looking at me, his eyes opened wide as if he was staring into a mirror in a funhouse.

  “Do any of you have kids?” I asked.

  Bressler turned back to face the street. “I’ve got two girls.”

  “How old?”

  “Twelve and ten.”

  “The woman I just spoke to, her name is Lusca Morris. Her daughter’s name was Serena. I knew her. She was a beautiful girl. Thirteen years old when they took her off the street. Today she’s dead. Killed herself. After giving birth to a boy. She killed herself because she couldn’t live with what they did to her. This little boy was a constant reminder of the terror, and she couldn’t live with it. Now if you think I could do that to a young girl, you should just shoot me now. Make it look like an accident. I don’t care. But just do it. Because anybody who would do that doesn’t deserve to live.”

  Slate got in my face, his mouth so close to mine I thought he was going to kiss me. “Nice performance rag-head, but we’re not buying it. An FBI agent is dead. Do you understand what I’m saying? And you’re our man.”

  “I believe him,” Bressler said.

  Slate turned to face his partner. “You what?”

  “What were you doing in that apartment?” Bressler said.

  “Making a drop,” I said.

  “A payoff?”

  “Precious was supposed to meet somebody in that apartment to exchange fifty thousand dollars for some information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “About her father.”

  “Who’s her father?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the feed she was buying. Perhaps her father was an agent or an ex-agent or an informer. Look, Bressler, I think I know who killed Edwards though I don’t know why. A pimp named Stubby Clapp is trying to set me up. Were he and Edwards involved in anything?”

  Bressler looked at me and smiled confidently. “Tell you what, Blades. We’ll make you a fair trade.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Edwards stole a laptop with some sensitive information from the Bureau. We believe you have it. We want it back.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Too bad.” He started the car.

  “Wait! What was the trade?”

  “Your freedom for the laptop.” He shifted the car into drive.

  “Wait a minute,” I said.

  He gunned the motor then turned it off. The engine groaned to a halt with a percussive clickity-clack as if parts were falling off.

  “I don’t have it, but I know where it is.”

  “Then let’s go get it.”

  “Can you take these cuffs off?” I said.

  “After we get the computer.”

  “Come on, man. These shits hurt.”

  Bressler hesitated a moment, then without turning around he said to Slate, “Take off the cuffs.”

  Slate did not move. He stared at the back of his partner’s head as if it were a hypnotist’s light.

  Bressler turned around. “Give me the damn keys.”

  Reluctantly Slate fished the keys out of his pocket and dropped them into the palm of Bressler’s hand. Bressler got out and walked around to my side. He opened the door and stepped back as I slithered out. He grabbed the cuffs and I heard the metallic click and felt the pressure dissolve from my wrists.

  “Thank you,” I said

  He stared at me, his lips crinkled at the edges. “If you’re lying to me, Blades, you’re gonna wish you weren’t born.”

  I stuffed myself back into the car, manipulating my wrists to restore circulation.

  TREVOR’S HOUSE WAS only five minutes away on the other side of Atlantic Avenue. The block was almost empty of cars when we got there, but Bressler chose to double-park next to a blue Mazda in front of the building.

  Slate and Bressler got out and waited on either side of the car as I edged myself out of the backseat. Walking in front of them I crossed the street and went up the steps. The boughs on the trees along South Portland began to bend. Ah, a breeze! I felt it creep under my shirt, filling it for a brief moment with life. Then it was gone, like an embarrassed lover from a tryst.

  I rang the doorbell. Knowing Trevor, I had some idea what might happen next, so I stepped back and to the side in anticipation of the door opening. He must’ve been waiting near the door because it opened almost immediately. His gun was pointed directly at Bressler’s chest. The two agents dropped to their knees at the same time, groping at their waists for their weapons. I sprang inside and slammed the door behind me.

  I dragged Trevor to the floor as the agents opened fire from outside. Bullets ripped through the door, burrowing into the walls above our head. When they paused to reload, I jumped up.

  “Let’s go!”

  We ran out the back door and into the yard, trampling Trevor’s summer growth of tomatoes and beans. We vaulted a low fence and into the neighbor’s yard, sprinting through their garden before busting a gate to exit onto the street.

  “Put that thing away!” I screamed.

  Looking stupefied, Trevor stuffed the .45 into his waistband.

  The Fulton Street subway stop was a block and a half away. We raced to the station and bounded down the stairs, vaulting the turnstile as a train screeched to a stop below. Making it to the platform just as the door began to close, we squeezed into a car and stood gasping for breath.

  “Who the fuck was that?” Trevor said, wheezing.

  Passengers were staring at us. I looked at Trevor and noticed that the gun butt was visible above the waist of his jeans. I grabbed his arm and started walking to the
next car.

  “Pull your shirt out,” I whispered to him.

  We got off at the next stop, Hoyt-Schermerhorn.

  “Where’s your car?” I said as we ran up the stairs.

  He stopped on the stairs, hunched over. “In front of my building.”

  “We can’t stop. Come on.”

  “Man, can’t you see I’m trying to catch my breath.”

  “Catch it somewhere else. Come on.”

  “What the fuck’s going on, Blades?”

  “That was FBI you just drew on. This whole area is going to look like the training ground for an invasion in about ten minutes. Let’s go.”

  He straightened up. “FBI! You let me draw on the fucking FBI?”

  We reached the street. Hanging back at the mouth of the train station I looked around for any sign of Bressler and Slate or a livery cab.

  “I can’t believe you let me draw on the FBI,” Trevor moaned, leaning against the handrail.

  “Coulda been worse, son.”

  “Worse? What could be worse?”

  “You coulda shot one of them.”

  “Has anybody ever told you that you’re a jerk, Blades?”

  “I don’t listen to gossip. Gimme the piece.”

  He hesitated.

  “Come on, give me the gun,” I said.

  Sweat ran down the side of his face. His eyes narrowed to slender grooves, and his face became a dark valley of competing emotions. He exhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, then pulled the .45 out of his waist and handed it to me. I pushed it into the back of my waist.

  Seconds later I saw a black Lincoln with livery plates. Stepping into the open, I raised my hand. The car stopped and we got in. I directed the Hispanic driver to Bergen Street, where I’d left the Jeep.

  “I don’t like you anymore, Blades. You got people breaking into my home and the FBI shooting at me. What’s next? The Marines?”

  We rode the rest of the way in silence.

  “You got money in your pocket?” I said to Trevor, as the driver pulled up next to the 4x4.

  “About a hundred bucks,” Trevor grunted, his mouth compressed into the shape of a horse’s ass.

  “Take care of the fare,” I said.

  “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Whatever you do, don’t go home,” I said and got out.

  I watched the Lincoln drive off. The sky seemed to be swaying like a blanket. A ghetto bird appeared out of a cloud and hovered above the buildings.

  I smiled and opened the driver’s door of the Jeep.

  29

  IDROVE ALONG Atlantic Avenue more vigilant than ever. How long would it be before some crazed cop got a good shot at me? And what about Troy Pagano? Would he try again now that he was out? Panic pinched my gut. My whole body tingled from the burden of knowing that the man who tried to kill me was now free. I’ve had drug dealers shoot at me—more out of fright than anything—because they knew I was coming to get them. Call me hypocritical, but a fellow cop crossing that line curdled my stomach.

  I tried to call my mother but the cell phone had died.

  AS NIGHT APPROACHED, Fulton Street’s pulse quickened with that of the rest of New York. The sky had turned scarlet as if it had been dipped in blood, and it seemed to stretch to infinity. Streetlights began to pop on, like bulbs on a Christmas tree, neon signs suddenly becoming vivid, sensual, alerting the uninitiated and experienced alike to the hidden magic of this city.

  I was hoping that CAIR’s offices were still open.

  The lights at the corner of Fulton and New York were out. Under normal conditions it was a difficult intersection to maneuver. From there, traffic turned ninety degrees left or right, or in a third direction: a thirty-five-degree right onto Thompkins. Angry, confused drivers swore as pedestrians crossed the street ignoring their honking as if, to them, the absence of traffic lights meant the area had been turned into a street mall.

  The clang of iron gates signaling the closing of various stores ricocheted around me. Up ahead, multicolored streamers outside Burger King flipped giddily in the fat wind. The sky hung low over the city, and the dirt-brown buildings were now camouflaged a passionate red.

  I parked on Fulton opposite a packed Chinese take-out restaurant and walked to CAIR’s ground-floor office, half a block away in Restoration Plaza. It was still open.

  When I walked in, a young man in linen pants and white shirt looked up from his paper-cluttered desk. He had the lean muscular frame of someone who worked out.

  I introduced myself using a bogus name. In an accent as melodious as a spring shower, he told me his name was Panama Nelson.

  “Is June Coxman here?” I asked.

  The youngster directed me to sit and scooted off to an office in the back.

  I scotched at the corner of his desk. There was one other small desk in the room, and a subway map of New York City hung on the wall, along with pictures of Marcus Garvey, Malcolm X and Dr. Martin Luther King.

  Wearing brown slacks and a wheat-colored shirt with a brown tie, June Coxman followed the youngster out of a back office. He had a plump greasy face the color of weak tea and his oblong bald head shone brightly like the dome of the Temple on the Mount. The rest of his body followed the general rule that fat was easier to accumulate than muscle. When he saw me his face froze.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Stewart?” he sang as he waddled toward me.

  “Actually the name is Blades Overstreet,” I said. “But you know that.”

  He glowered at me through uneven slits. It appeared as though one of his eyes was swollen. But it was hard to tell. His entire face looked like a bruised cantaloupe.

  Panama returned to his desk, busying himself shuffling papers. June took a sip of something from a paper cup he was holding.

  “You do remember me, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?” His tried to sound nonchalant, but his voice quivered, a telltale sign of nervousness.

  “I was here a few years ago.”

  “You expect me to remember that?”

  “I questioned you about a girl who’d disappeared.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Then I was.”

  The phone rang. Panama picked it up on the second ring. The conversation was brief. After he hung up he stood up and whispered something to Coxman, who bobbed his head. Then Panama picked up a knapsack and went through the door.

  “So what do you want?” Coxman said in a voice that came from the pit of his stomach, bringing with it the sourness of his lunch. He sat down in the chair Panama had vacated and rubbed his cheek. Blood rushed to the spot. He reached for a pen and pad and began scribbling.

  “Do you know a man named Troy Pagano?” I said.

  He looked up. His eyes were an unnatural gray. He stopped scribbling and straightened up in his seat, rubbing his cheek again as if it was the Rosetta Stone.

  “Who?”

  “How about Stubby Clapp, do you know him?”

  “If this is a pop quiz, gimme a clue. What are they famous for?”

  “Kidnapping little girls.”

  “So why’re you asking me about them?”

  “I was told they were friends of yours.”

  “You’ve been misinformed.”

  “I’d like to see Serena Morris’ file.”

  “That name don’t ring a bell.”

  “Do you remember the names of all the people who come through here?”

  “Our files are confidential anyway.”

  I reached into my waist and pulled out the .45. He stiffened in the chair, his eyes roaming furtively from the gun to the cold fire in my eyes.

  “Let me tell you about Serena Morris. She killed herself. After your friends kidnapped and raped her and made her pregnant. She was a nice little girl. Her mother brought her here from Belize because she thought they could build a life here. And they came to you for help. And how did you help them? You shit on their dreams.”

  “You don’t know what yo
u’re talking about. We’ve been serving the Caribbean community for eight years without one complaint. We must be doing something right. So why don’t you get out of here waving that gun around like some damn lunatic before I call the police.”

  I grabbed his tie and pulled. His head jerked backward like he’d been smacked in the face. I cocked the gun inside his nose cavity. His jaws tightened; his eyes opened full bore.

  “Get me Serena’s file before I turn your nose into the Holland Tunnel.”

  “The files are over there.” He nodded his head in the direction of a filing cabinet directly behind him.

  He stood up. Too quickly. I reacted just as quickly, backhanding him with the butt of the gun. Blood squirted from his busted lip painting the front of his shirt crimson.

  “Are you crazy?” he screamed, holding his mouth.

  “I’d just as soon get my mack on with you. I don’t care. No more sudden moves.”

  He walked to the back of the room. I stayed close to him. His body had the odor of fish exposed too long in the summer heat. When he reached the filing cabinet he drew the drawer out slowly. He searched one then another. After a few minutes of this, he glanced at me, his eyes limp and scared.

  “I don’t see it. How long ago did you say she was here?”

  “You’re not making me smile.”

  “I can’t find a file for somebody who’s never been here.” He spat blood contemptuously on the floor.

  His arrogance set off a keg of anger in me. I brought my elbow down on the back of his neck, and he crumpled to the floor like a punctured blimp. I hunched over him, sickened by his smell and by the blood gushing from his mouth.

  “You need to understand what’s going on here, Juney-boy. Every cop in the city is having wet dreams about putting a bullet in my brain. I ain’t going out like that. And if I gotta go, I’m taking the garbage out first, you being the first bag of shit to hit the sidewalk if you don’t find a way to make me smile.”

  “Then fuck you, alright! Shoot me if you want.”

  My instinct told me his bluster was a result of fear. Not of me but of someone else. My guess was that the bogey man of his dreams would be Stubby Clapp. I decided it was time to hasten the onset of his nightmare.