Too Beautiful to Die

by Glenville Lovell

  There was crying in the hallway, joyful screams in the elevator and loud laughter in the small apartment. Carmen’s aunt had been left sitting in the kitchen with chemicals in her hair. By the time Carmen’s mother remembered, the chemicals had burned her sister’s scalp white.

  Hugging and crying went on for some time. Then someone arrived with food and drinks: roti and callaloo and rice and peas. And the calypso music started. I was glad for the food. After downing my third Carib beer, I pulled Carmen’s mother, Phyllis, aside to get her story.

  Her ordeal started about a month ago. She worked in a little auto supply store on Utica Avenue, owned by a friend of a friend. One evening Immigration and the police swooped in and arrested her. The three men, two blacks and one white, were all in plainclothes. One black man was broad with a bald head, the other young and good-looking. The white man was tall with gold-rimmed glasses and wore cowboy boots.

  She had no idea how they found out she didn’t have her papers. They put her in the back of a van and drove off. All she could think of was her daughter. She began to cry. The bald-headed man kept screaming at her to shut up. When she did manage to calm down, they started their questioning.

  They asked her all kinds of questions, from who was the last person she had sex with to when she was born. How did she get into the country? Did she pay to get her visa? Did she know it was a crime to stay in America without the right visa? And so on. She began to cry again. She asked them what would happen to her daughter, but they refused to answer.

  They pulled up outside a precinct; she was too scared to notice which one. The two black detectives got out and went inside. The Immigration guy began to talk to her in a friendly voice.

  “Listen, I know you don’t want to be deported. Your daughter is in school. I know you like it here. My friends went inside to see if there’s any space to hold you here overnight. If not, we gonna take you downtown to the Immigration detention center. Once you’re in there you don’t get out. I can help you, if you’re willing to help me.”

  She looked at him, drying the tears from her eyes.

  “This is just a job to me,” he said. “I don’t care if you stay in this country. I don’t have a problem with immigrants. Legal or illegal. My great-grandfather came here from Ireland. He didn’t have a visa to stay. But three generations later we’re all still here. You can be back home in fifteen minutes. But here’s my situation. My wife, she runs a little business. How old is your daughter again?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Carmen.”

  “Carmen? That’s a nice name. Anyway, my wife, she runs this business, you see. She hires people to go out and clean other people’s homes. You know, middle-class fuckers who wanna play they’re rich. Too lazy to clean their own houses. Anyway, it’s hard for my wife to find people. She tried hiring Polish immigrants but they’re too organized. They want eight, nine dollars an hour. More than fucking minimum wage. Imagine that. But see now, if she was to hire your daughter, she could pay her below minimum off the books and that would work for all of us. Everybody would benefit. Carmen would only have to work weekends. She could make some money for herself. Teenagers always want stuff. Music, clothes, jewelry. You wouldn’t have to worry about buying her things. And my wife would do okay too. We would all benefit. And I might even be able to help you get your papers. See what I mean. We all benefit.”

  She was too stunned to say anything.

  He touched her arm. “So do we have a deal?”

  She searched his green eyes. “You serious? You would let me go?”

  “Give me your word and you’re free. One thing I know about West Indians. They’re very trustworthy. I think I can trust you, can’t I?”

  She nodded.

  He pinched her cheek, as though he was playing with a child. “If you try to double-cross me, realize that we found you once and we can find you again. And I wouldn’t be so nice next time. With all the shit going on with immigration you don’t want to go into the system. You’d never get out.”

  She wanted to slap his hand away from her face; instead she forced a smile. “And all I have to do is let Carmen work for your wife?”

  “That’s all.”

  “And you’ll help me get papers?”

  “We can arrange that.”

  They shook hands, and he got behind the wheel of the van and drove her home. Before she got out, he said she would hear from him in a few days.

  She didn’t hear anything for about three weeks. Then someone called and asked if Carmen could work the next week. She said yes.

  Last night a man with a soft voice called. He was polite and friendly. He said someone would pick Carmen up the next day and would bring her back home. His reassuring voice made her feel comfortable letting Carmen go. A white truck showed up next morning at seven o’clock. The driver, a dark, short man with gold caps, said Carmen would be back by four.

  When six o’clock passed and Carmen didn’t come home, Phyllis got worried. She had no idea where they’d taken Carmen to work. They’d given her a number, but when she called, it rang and rang. By nine o’clock she was in tears but was afraid to call the police.

  Even before she confirmed it, I suspected that she’d visited CAIR’s offices a few days before she got picked up.

  I told her to take Carmen to the hospital and have her checked out and despite her fears, to call the police. Then I gave her the name of a lawyer who, I told her, would help her if she got into any trouble. She smiled at me and in her weak smile I saw that she would do neither of the things I suggested.

  I left the apartment around midnight. Cruising along Flatbush going nowhere in particular, I began to feel the effects of the night’s exertion and the alcohol. I felt lethargic and dopey; my back and shoulders ached. Where was I going to sleep? Night would guard me from the NYPD. Until tomorrow.

  32

  LEAVING THE JEEP in an alley instead of the hotel parking lot, I registered at the Marriott in Metro Park as Earl Lovett and got a room with a mini bar. The first thing I did, even before I checked the bed, was to plug my phone in to charge.

  Relieving myself of the automatic, which I placed on the pillow, I threw myself fully clothed across the king-size bed and closed my eyes. Fifteen minutes later I was still rolling around like a bowling pin. My eyes burned as if sprinkled with lye. I could not relax. My mind, rebelling against sleep, buzzed and crackled like a short-circuited bulb.

  I got up and called my mother. She began to cry as soon as she heard my voice.

  “Oh, Carmen, where’re you?”

  “Don’t worry, Mother. I’m fine.”

  “How can you say that? My God! Jason is out there. God knows where. He could be dead. And you? You’re wanted for murder. And you tell me not to worry?”

  “I can’t talk now.”

  “Please, Carmen. Don’t hang up. I need to talk to somebody.”

  “Gotta go, Mother.”

  “Carmen, please.”

  I hung up. Calling her on the hotel phone was risky. The consequences could be my freedom, but I wanted to hear her voice, let her know that I was okay. I’m sure her phone was tapped, but I wasn’t on long enough for them to trace the call. I walked to the window and looked out. Below, Adams Street was deserted.

  I wished I knew where Trevor was. Would I be able to get to Stubby and Troy Pagano before the police got to me?

  It was obvious that Stubby was involved in some kind of child-porno ring using the threat of deportation to corral scared young girls. But how big was it? Had Agent Edwards been part of Stubby’s crew? Is that why he was iced?

  If Stubby wanted to get into the porno business, why kids? He had a stable of prostitutes. Why not use them? Then I remembered seeing T-J going into Stubby’s place. I checked the clock. It was three o’clock. I grabbed my keys and the .45 and left the room, hoping T-J wasn’t one of those vampire prostitutes who worked until the sun came up.

  THE AREA WAS still
very much alive. Bars on Utica Avenue were still open, and young men lingered at street corners. When I parked outside 724 St. Johns Place, it was three-twenty. The door to the courtyard was closed, but the lock was broken. I walked in and crossed the courtyard. After buzzing several apartments, including T-J’s, I waited to see if the tactic, which usually worked in large ghetto apartment buildings, would be successful. Presently, I heard the electronic bzzzz of the door unlocking. I was in.

  There was a sign saying that the elevator was out. Wearily, I climbed the ten flights, which left me out of breath by the time I reached T-J’s apartment. There was a strange quiet in the narrow hallway. I felt as if I was in a prison.

  I pressed the doorbell. There was no answer. I pressed it again.

  “Who is it?” T-J’s voice gurgled from deep inside the apartment.

  “Blades Overstreet. I have to talk to you.”

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “I saw you earlier tonight and wanted to talk to you but it wasn’t a good time.”

  I heard her footsteps approaching the door. A few seconds later, the bolts clacked and the door opened. T-J’s face was covered with green stuff, I imagined some kind of facial scrub. She had a towel wrapped around her, a toothbrush in her hand.

  “Can I come in?”

  She looked up and down the hallway. Then she stepped back. I entered and she closed the door.

  “What’s this about now? You came back to give me some private dick? Well, I’m not in the mood now, thank you.”

  “Are you one of Stubby’s girls?”

  “Who?”

  “I saw you with one of his boys tonight, going into his restaurant.”

  “What’re you? My pimp? Have you been following me around?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I don’t have to answer you, muthafucker. Get out!”

  “Did you know that Stubby was going to park that agent?”

  “Get the fuck out my house, limp-dick muthafucker! Who you think you are, coming here accusing me of shit?”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything, but being an accessory to the murder of a federal agent can get you slapped on the barbecue pit without the sauce. Think about that.”

  “I shoulda dropped a coin on your ass when I heard your voice just now.”

  I saw a shadow out of the corner of my eye. I looked around. It was a young girl, about fifteen or sixteen. She was tall, wearing pink shorty pajamas.

  “What’s going on, Mom?” she said, squinting.

  “Go back to bed, Adora,” T-J said.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, now go on back to bed.”

  “Who’s that man?”

  “Girl, I said get back to bed!”

  Screwing up her face and rubbing her eyes, the girl turned and disappeared.

  “What about your daughter?” I said. “All the sacrifice you’ve made for her. Are you willing to throw that away? Stubby is a fat piece of shit. He kidnaps little girls. Children. Forces them to do porno videos. You wanna protect scum like that?”

  “Save your sermon for next Sunday, preacher. You don’t know shit, understand. You don’t know Stubby. You don’t know about when I was in the hospital for a month fighting for my life. Who convinced me not to give up. You don’t know about my bills taken care of. My daughter’s private piano lessons paid for. So don’t come lecturing me about the devil, okay. Now get out!”

  She opened the door.

  I grabbed the door and slammed it shut.

  “You wanna hear a fucking sermon?” I shouted. “Listen to this. I knew one of the girls Stubby kidnapped. She was thirteen. Coulda been anything she wanted. Had her heart set on being a doctor. Now she’s dead. Now tell me how you would feel if that girl’s name was Adora.”

  T-J turned her head, averting my gaze.

  “It’s nice that Stubby helped you through a bad time. But you know what, I don’t give a fuck about that. He’s still a rat. And I’m going to squash his head until every ounce of slime runs out.”

  I ripped the phone number off the back of my cell phone and held it out to her. “If you change your mind and want to talk to me, here’s my number.”

  She refused to look at me or take the piece of paper. I let it fall. It floated to the ground, landing on her foot. Then I stepped into the hallway and heard the door slam behind me.

  IALMOST BROKE the bar in my room that night. In between drinks, I caught glimpses of movies on cable. In between glimpses of movies, I dozed and hallucinated about making love to Precious on the roof of my apartment building. She was crying and wanted me to stop, but I couldn’t. As dawn grew, Precious’ face dissolved away, and I dreamed of running with Anais on a deserted beach while bullets kicked sand around us.

  33

  MY EYES DIDN’T open again until four o’clock the next afternoon. My stomach hurt, my lips were welded together, my mouth raw and full of mucus. Moving like a phantom, I made it to the bathroom. I didn’t know if I was still drunk or dead. I looked at my eyes in the mirror and flinched. They were red and leathery, as if all my blood had flowed there and stopped.

  I managed to shower without swallowing the soap. My mind was a fog and my stomach was as empty as a rightwing think tank. After I dried off, I realized I had no clean clothes. I put my pants on without shorts and ordered coffee, eggs and grilled salmon from room service.

  I then called Semin Jhoti.

  “Blades, where the hell are you?”

  “Can’t tell you that, Semin,” I said, happy for the concern in her voice.

  “Are you safe?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You better stay that way.”

  “You got anything interesting to tell me?”

  “Lots,” she said.

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  “Just a second. Let me get my computer.”

  I lit a cigarette as I waited for Semin to return but snuffed it after one drag. Semin came back sounding purposeful and businesslike.

  “Blades, I don’t need to tell you how to live your life, but aren’t you worried that the police might shoot first and ask questions later?”

  “I’m watching my back.”

  “How can you watch your own back?”

  “You learn to do it in Undercover.”

  “I worry about you, Blades.”

  “Thanks, Semin. I’ll be careful. Let’s start with Agent Edwards. I understand that the FBI was getting ready to scalp him.”

  “Yes. My sources tell me that there was an investigation into the selling of information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Agent Edwards was part of a countermilitia task force. The FBI seems to think he might’ve tipped some militia members suspected of weapons and drug trafficking to impending FBI raids. On at least two such raids the suspects managed to slip away and were in Mexico hours before the FBI arrived.”

  “What would be his motive?”

  “Gambling. He was in the tank for several large ones.”

  “Have you heard anything about computers missing from the FBI?”

  “No. Is this something you know about?”

  “A little.”

  “A little? Come on, Blades. Out with it.”

  “Not now, Semin. What else you got on Edwards?”

  “Went to Georgetown. Graduated with a law degree. He lived on Long Island. A wife and a little girl. Had a lot of debt.”

  “Did you talk to his wife?”

  “She’s gone into hiding.”

  “Okay, let’s move to our congresswoman.”

  “Well, she went to school in the south. Was active in the civil rights movement. Owned her own financial consulting business and was very outspoken in the community about immigration issues, which led her into politics. Never married. No children. Rumor is she likes younger men. In fact, she almost lost a city council reelection several years back because of a scandal when she allegedly called a c
ampaign worker a fag because he spurned her advances.”

  “Anything connecting her to Agent Edwards?”

  “Not that I could find.”

  “What about Gabe?”

  “Gabe?” She chuckled. “You mean Gabriel Aquia? Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Oh yeah, we’re kindred spirits.”

  She laughed. “I know you too good to believe that. Gabriel Aquia is one interesting subject.”

  “How so?”

  “The man has his fingers in so many pots I’m surprised he can still wipe his ass. He either owns outright or is a partner in about three or four businesses. A small import-export and shipping concern, an African art gallery, a recording studio, and he’s always flying out of the country.”

  “Where to?”

  “Europe, mostly. Africa. The Caribbean.”

  “How often?”

  “Three . . . four times a week. He gets around. But here’s really what makes him interesting. All that stuff I just mentioned is minor compared to his latest venture. This is a man about to hit the lottery. Jump into the big-money leagues. What do you know about empowerment zones?”

  “They empower nobody but the rich.”

  “Close. Gabriel Aquia is the owner and president of a company called the Aquia Development Group. It’s a real estate development company but hasn’t really done any big projects so far. A few renovations here and there. They refurbished Restoration Plaza. Nothing major. The rumor is that Aquia Development is the frontrunner to get the contract to develop some Brooklyn waterfront property along the East River and also the redevelopment of Fulton Street in Bedford Stuyvesant. We’re talking malls, restaurants, a cineplex, condominiums. Those areas were declared empowerment zones a few years ago by President Clinton. But the Mayor and the Governor have been squabbling over control and have only recently agreed to cough up their one hundred million to match the three hundred million put up by the federal government. Along with that, the City is kicking in another fifty million to build a park. Aquia Development had already snapped up a number of old warehouses along that waterfront for about four million dollars at auction and some abandoned buildings along Fulton for one million and stands to get the kind of tax-break incentives worth a fortune. In fact, construction on a shopping complex budgeted at a hundred and ten million dollars could begin on one of the sites as early as next year. It could turn a small developer like Gabriel Aquia into a multimillionaire overnight.”