“Is this all?” I said.
“There some more files hidden away in another sector.”
Trevor took the computer off my lap and clicked the mouse a number of times, then gave the computer back to me.
I opened some of those files. They were similar to the ones I’d opened earlier. The next file I opened made me pause. It was a document that looked to have been scanned. It was an FBI report on Congresswoman Richardson, dated 1967. Seemed as though the FBI had watched her closely between 1964 and 1967, the years she’d been active in Stokely Carmichael’s organization. It contained her name, address, the name of her child, names of friends, places she visited, transcripts of telephone conversations and one other piece of information that left me speechless: The name of Precious’ father.
Now I knew why Gabriel Aquia wanted Edwards dead, why he was paying him off. Edwards was blackmailing the congresswoman. The information in this report—the identity of Precious’ father—would destroy Congresswoman Richardson’s campaign if it got out. And without her help, Gabriel had little or no shot at getting that contract to rehabilitate the waterfront.
I shut down the computer, finished my beer and got up, setting the bottle on the edge of the television console.
“So you got what you looking for?” Trevor said.
I walked to the door. “You’ll soon be able to go home, my friend.”
“Where’re you going?”
“To rouse a woman out of bed.”
Trevor laughed. “And here I was thinking you ain’t getting none, Blades.”
I smiled. “You keep thinking that.”
36
J’OUVERT IN CARIBBEAN patois means “day open,” and refers to the early morning parade of Ole Mas costumes that signals the beginning of Carnival. The origins of Ole Mas lie with the elaborate fetes that the French plantocracy in the Caribbean staged in the period immediately before Lent. The slaves began exaggeratedly mimicking the planters’ elaborate dress and courtly manners with whatever was handy, the elegant chiffon and taffeta becoming coarse cloth and rags, and Ole Mas was born.
As time passed, Ole Mas became symbolic for the lampooning of all that was dishonest and evil in society, characterized by mythological devils, supernatural bats and parodies of corrupt politicians or officials. This parade gave way to the clean, purified costumes of the large Carnival bands later in the day.
I’d forgotten that it was Labor Day morning; the J’Ouvert parade to kick off Carnival festivities would be taking over the streets of East Flatbush. I reached Rogers and Empire Boulevard around one A.M. There, Hell had overflowed onto the street. Crowds lined the sidewalk to watch costumed J’Ouvert revelers dance to pounding calypso music played by steel bands on floats and people banging garbage bin covers and cowbells.
Faces painted, bodies covered in mud, some draped in national flags of the various Caribbean islands, others painted in a mad variety of colors, some in sequins and artfully ripped tee-shirts, the dancers passed water and spirits back and forth as they pranced along Empire Boulevard.
As I waited at the corner of Rogers and Empire for a band to pass, I called Bressler. It took him awhile to answer the phone. His hello came from deep inside his nose, as if he suffered from allergies or had a cold. But I knew it was him.
“Bressler? It’s Blades.”
“Are you about to end your miserable life, Blades? Because that’s the only thing you can say to make me happy.”
“The laptop is in my hands as we speak.”
“Where are you?”
“Meet me at Congresswoman Richardson’s house.”
“I’m not meeting you anywhere. Bring the laptop to me.”
“Agent Edwards was blackmailing her.”
“Why?”
“It’s all on the computer. See you in half an hour.”
I hung up. The band passed, and police directing traffic waved me through the intersection. My phone rang. It was Noah.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime, old man?” I said.
He grunted. “I still got a wife, so I’m used to being up late. You probably forgot what that’s like. One of the joys of marriage.”
“Low blow, my friend.”
He laughed. “Are you okay, kid?”
“Keeping it real, babe.”
“You know a cop named Tim Samuel?”
“Sure. Works homicide in the Seven-Seven. Good man.”
“He got any beef with you?”
“No, Tim’s one of my peeps. He’s helped me out of a few tight spots. Why?”
“Did he know I was holding your guns?”
“It’s possible I might’ve mentioned it.”
“I think he’s the one boosted your weapons.”
“Timmy? No way. You got dropped on your head too many times, cuz.”
“He came to see me about a week ago.”
“You knew Timmy?”
“Not really. I worked with his father. He was a cop. Anyway, your friend came to me and told me how sick his father was and how he wanted to do something special for his sixty-fifth birthday, which was coming up. He wanted to get all of his friends and people who worked with him over the years together for a big celebration. I told him I’d be glad to come.”
Through the creep of traffic I had reached Maple Street, where I made a right. This estuary was less clogged, and I felt the 4x4 buck as I lowered the gas pedal.
“I don’t believe it was Timmy,” I said.
“Hear me out, kid. He was here for about an hour. We had a few drinks. Muthafucker started blowing smoke up my ass. Kept talking about the great things his father says about me, about my commendations and awards. Made me feel like I was the president. And I was sucking it up shamelessly. I brought them out for him to see.”
“What, my guns?”
“My awards from the department. We were having a good time. Then my doorbell rang. A kid off the block came to tell me the maids were towing my car, so I rushed out. When I got there my car was on a flatbed. I went into overdrive on the bitch. I was out there for half an hour before she released my wheels. I realize now it was a setup.”
“You left Tim in your house?”
“If you can’t leave a cop in your house, who the fuck can you leave? Besides, I didn’t think it’d take more than five minutes.”
The line sagged with dead air.
“You there, Blades?”
“I’m here, kid.”
“You sure this guy don’t have a grudge against you?”
“No, cuz. We cool. I still don’t think it was Tim.”
“Think what you like. I was a cop before you could pee straight. I worked the street without fancy computers to do my job. I had to use my instincts. And I’m telling you this muthafucker is addled. He’s dirtier than the Hudson. And I know where he lives. Nobody craps in my house and walks away clean. I’m gonna make him eat his own shit.”
“Stay outta this, Noah.”
“What’s that?”
“I said stay out. I can handle this.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m some snot-nosed kid, Blades.”
“I’m sorry, Noah, but—”
“Let me tell you something, Blades. Maybe you don’t need my help, but don’t think for one minute that I can’t handle this punk. Don’t think this Ph.D. has made me soft. I’ve still got a network out there, know what I’m saying? I don’t have to touch this guy. I know people who’d rip his balls out and eat them while they’re still warm. You got two hours. After that, it’s my show.”
The line went dead.
Tim and I never worked together, but we’d always been cool. Like me, he’d graduated at the head of his class and had never worn a uniform. Tim wanted to study law with the hope of moving to the DA’s office. After his parents divorced, his older sister married and moved to California, leaving him to care for a sick father in a nursing home. And so went his dream.
I racked my brain trying to think of a reason Tim would screw me. Couldn’t come up
with one.
VONDELLE RICHARDSON HAD been chosen as one of the Grand Marshals of the West Indian Carnival Day Parade, which was to get underway in about nine hours. Expecting her to be asleep, I banged hard on her front door.
To my surprise I heard the swish of slippers across the wood floor soon after.
“Who’s there?” Her voice was lively, almost inviting, as if she’d been up awhile.
“Blades Overstreet.”
“What do you want?”
“We have to talk.”
“Do you want me to call the police?”
“Go ahead. And while you’re at it call the Post and the Daily News and the Times and tell them you’re pulling out of the election because you had a child with one of the most reprehensible killers this country has ever seen.”
I heard bolts being unlocked. The door swung open. Wrapped in a burgundy silk robe, Congresswoman Richardson stood before me, her face mottled like curdled milk. After staring me down as if she was trying to julienne my face with her eyes, she stepped aside to let me in. I stood amid plants in the atrium as she closed the door.
“Let’s go in here,” she said, pointing to an area off to the right.
I followed her to a room behind the staircase. She flicked on the light, and I stood in a jungle of potted trees and beautiful African wood sculptures. The floor was made of shiny red wood.
“I call this the African room,” she said, plopping herself down on an olive couch. “I come here to meditate.”
“Agent Edwards was blackmailing you, wasn’t he?” I said, not interested in her personal rituals at this point.
She crossed her legs and reached for a box of Winstons and a gold-laminated lighter on the end table next to the couch. She lit a cigarette. “I’m not going to ask your permission to smoke.”
“It’s your house.”
“Exactly. And I don’t like you barging in here threatening me.”
“I don’t have time to kiss your feet.”
She uncrossed and crossed her legs again, looking around nervously. “What do you want from me?”
“Who killed Agent Edwards?”
“I can’t help you.”
“Your life is all here on this computer. It’s up to you who gets to read it.”
She snuffed out the half-smoked cigarette and stood up. “He wanted money.”
“Did you pay him?”
She was standing a few inches away from me. She stunk of sweat and a familiar men’s cologne. One that I couldn’t stand. And there was a tender spot on her neck just above her collarbone. The congresswoman had just finished making love.
“I told him I needed time. But he was killed before I could get the money together.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She opened the box and took out another cigarette, but she didn’t light it. She tapped it against her cheek, as if attempting to jar a long-forgotten memory in her head. She squeezed her eyes closed. Then she opened them again, wet her lips, stuck the cigarette in her mouth and flicked the lighter. The tip of the cigarette glowed orange.
“I came here to study in the sixties,” she began. “A volatile but exciting time for a young woman from a staid middle-class West Indian family. And Spellman was a great place to be. I soon got involved in SNCC. You know what that is?”
“I know my history,” I said.
“Then you know that the leader of SNCC was from Trinidad.”
“Stokely Carmichael.”
“I’m impressed.”
I let her condescending tone slide.
She continued. “My family was very upset when they heard about my political involvement. They were afraid I would get arrested and thrown out of the country. Or lynched by the KKK. They threatened to cut off my money if I didn’t stop. I refused. They stopped paying my tuition, and I dropped out of school my sophomore year, determined to get a job and register the next semester. I was doing volunteer work for SNCC. I had a sister in New York, and I came up to visit her to get some money. On my way back to Atlanta I met a really nice man on the plane. He sat next to me. At first I resisted talking to him because he was white. But he said he was from New York, at which I thought, well, he’s not Southern. His name was Gene Kurtz. We talked the whole trip. He was well-spoken, very polite and smart. He was slender and handsome and had this strange fire in his eyes. He talked mostly about his family and about politics. And he was very sympathetic to our cause. I was very impressed that he knew so much about our struggle. He said he was a journalist and was writing a book on the civil rights struggle and wanted to stay in touch with me to get my impressions. I guess on some level I was flattered. We left the airport together, and though I had to sneak into his hotel through the back door, I spent the night with him. We kept our relationship secret, and many times I thought of breaking it off but didn’t. He knew so much about politics. I never thought political discussions could be so arousing. But I always wanted to make love after one of our discussions. When he found out I was pregnant, he disappeared. I later found out he was an FBI informant.”
“Why didn’t you have an abortion?”
She puffed remotely at her cigarette. “I don’t know. I came from a Catholic family, and in some twisted way I thought I loved him. My sister in New York offered to raise the child as her own, and nobody would have to know. I moved to New York to stay with her. After Precious was born, the two of them moved to England.”
“Why didn’t you tell Precious?”
“By the time Precious found out I was really her mother, the real truth about Gene Kurtz was out. He’d been playing everybody for his own sinister plans. Even the FBI. How do you first explain to your daughter your decision to give her up at birth and then tell her that, by the way, your father was a murderer. He’d firebombed a black school, killing dozens of children. It was too late. I should’ve taken her back when my sister died.”
“Gene Kurtz was found dead in Prospect Park. Who killed him?”
“Who cares?”
“Did he try to blackmail you too?”
She spiked her cigarette angrily in an ashtray. “Look, Mr. Overstreet. It’s late. I have a long day ahead.”
“Did you tell your lover that Agent Edwards was blackmailing you?”
“My lover?”
“Gabe.”
“Tell me what you want,” she snapped.
“Here’s what I want. I want to be able to go home and take a shower in my own bathroom. I want the dog you’re sleeping with to pay for what he did.”
“Get out of my house.”
I grabbed her arm as she walked past. “You must know he had Precious killed. He killed her to protect his interests in you. You’re nothing but a piece of property to him.”
“Let me go, you animal!” she cried.
I held on, digging my fingers into her arm. With the alcohol swirling in my head, I could feel myself about to lose control. “You’re the one with fleas in your crotch!”
“Let her go.”
The deep voice had detonated behind me. I turned sharply. He was standing in the doorway a few feet away. Shirtless and wearing gold boxers, his muscular upper body solid as a brass statue, he was pointing a shiny silver pistol directly at the center of my chest.
I released Congresswoman Richardson and took a step toward Gabriel. He held up a thick palm.
“Sit down, Mr. Overstreet,” Gabriel said, taking the laptop from my hand.
The congresswoman moved to stand by Gabriel’s side, looking at me with a sorrowful expression on her face.
“Why did you have to kill her?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I sat on the sofa. “What matters to you, Mr. Aquia?”
He spoke deliberately, in a cocky tone. “I was born in Harlem. My family left a war in Ghana to come here. They struggled to make a better life. I despised Harlem. If there were ten people on my block with a steady job, that was plenty. Little kids talked about what kind of funeral they wanted the way kids in other
neighborhoods talked about what kind of clothes they wanted to wear to their prom. I dropped out of school and sold drugs for a little bit. Then I realized I would end up just like all the people I despised on the block. Stoop-dwellers, I called them. People who heard the word future and ran in fear. Every morning I walked down my block I saw a Chinese man opening his restaurant, a Lebanese his grocery, an Indian his newsstand, a Korean his green grocery and a black man stashing his drugs in a garbage can. Now tell me, what does that say to children?”
“I’m kinda slow. Educate me.”
“Recently I went back and bought a brownstone on that block. You should see it now. Beautiful. Many of the buildings have been restored with terrazzo floors and beautiful lights. White people are moving into the neighborhood. There’s an explosion of construction in Harlem. Great for everybody, right? Wrong. Nobody from Harlem is doing the rebuilding, and nobody from Harlem is getting hired. You know who the white developers are hiring instead? Mexicans.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Free for whom? Black people paid a price for their freedom. Now they’re being left behind. When I finish that waterfront, this city will see what a difference one determined black man can make. That’s what’s important to me, Mr. Overstreet.”
“You’ve certainly made a difference all right. I’d give you a pass on Gene Kurtz. He should’ve been killed a long time ago. But what a difference you’ve made in the lives of those children forced to perform in your videos. And in the congresswoman’s life by having her daughter killed. And definitely in the lives of the family of that murdered FBI agent.”
“That agent was stupid and greedy. We paid him a hundred large. He refused to turn over the report. Demanded another two hundred and fifty thousand. Because he’s a fucking government employee he thinks he gets a free ride? Did he think we were going to support his gambling habit until he decided to retire?”
Too Beautiful to Die Page 23
