If I Should Die

by Grace F. Edwards

  “Why did it have to happen here? This is a quiet block.”

  “Still is. The dead don’t talk.”

  “Anybody seen him before?”

  “Some big shot in the Children’s Chorus …”

  “You kiddin’ … why anybody wanna shoot him?”

  “What about the child? Lookin’ like he scared to death …”

  I listened but learned nothing more than what I already knew. The boy’s name was Morris, he was eleven years old, and had been returning from rehearsal, the same Uptown Children’s Chorus rehearsal where I was going to meet Alvin.

  An involuntary chill went through me and I held Ruffin’s leash tighter. This boy was the same age as Alvin, same small wiry build. Suppose, if this was a random unplanned kidnapping, and I had not called to have Alvin wait for me, the man in the car could have somehow snatched him instead.

  Then again, suppose it wasn’t random. The Uptown Children’s Chorus was a Harlem institution and a worldwide attraction. The several small groups which made up the Chorus had appeared at the White House, traveled across the country, and performed in Europe and Asia at least three times in any given year.

  … Why would someone want one of the choristers? Why would they want a chorister badly enough to murder the tour director?

  I tried not to take the thought any further. My friend was lying in the street, dead. Worse yet, my nephew could have been sitting on this curb, crying.

  Before the police had arrived, I tried to get some answers.

  “Morris, why did the man grab you? Did you know him? Was there more than one person in the car?”

  I had asked the questions softly while the boy stared at Erskin’s body without blinking. As if he wanted to remember something to call up in another time.

  Finally, a murmur. “I don’t know … I don’t … I don’t know …” He had rubbed his hand and the blood was smeared over his knuckles. “The man in the backseat … he was choking me so I couldn’t breathe. I hit him in the mouth, punched him three times … hard as I could … then Mr. Harding tried to help me, yellin’ at the man to leave me alone. Now look, Mr. Harding is dead. Maybe if I hadna punched the man …”

  He could not stop crying. There was nothing anyone could do for Erskin, but I held Morris to me, knowing that I was going to hold Alvin the same way when he found out.

  “It’s not your fault, Morris, it’s not.”

  I had whispered this over and over but he had not heard me.

  I moved away from the crowd now, easing up on Ruffin’s leash as we stepped back onto the sidewalk. My free hand moved into my pocket and fingered the tissue that held a bridge of three gold-edged tooth caps with a small diamond chip which I’d picked up from the ground near Erskin Harding.

  Kneeling beside his body, I’d seen the bullet hole in his forehead, the shoe in the gutter, and the gold caps glistening on the dark, wet ground.

  … I’ll call Tad, give these to him to trace. If they assign him to this case, all the better. He’ll know what to do. Maybe these caps have no connection. Maybe they were in the street before all this happened. But Tad is good at his job. He’ll find out.

  Sergeant Cotter called again. “Mali—Miss Anderson. We’ll need you to come to the station later … Witness.”

  I acknowledged him with the barest shake of my head and continued to study the photographer documenting the position of the body and the angle at which the bullet entered. Another detective searched the area for a deformed bullet—one that had been fired. Then I heard Tad speak.

  “So. You can’t stay off the job, it seems.”

  His voice was quiet, deep, and familiar as he moved through the crowd toward me. Even in the rain, Detective Tad Honeywell looked good. How could someone look so good in the rain?

  I managed to smile in spite of the confusion, in spite of myself, and in spite of all the heated debates—arguments—we’d had at the precinct and sometimes over dinner.

  “Hardheaded” had been his favorite term for me.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” I had answered. “I won’t let anyone step on me, that’s all.”

  More times than I cared to count, he had suggested: “Why don’t you let that chip roll off your shoulder?”

  “Who put it there?” I asked. “It didn’t grow out naturally, now did it?” And he never answered because we both knew what the deal was—we were acutely aware of that ever-present undercurrent of racism that infected everything in our daily lives.

  Our last date had been at Sylvia’s, seated at a small table in the back. My chip by then had grown to the size of a California redwood.

  Outside, on Lenox Avenue, tour buses were lined up for three blocks and the restaurant was packed with Japanese and Germans and cameras. The silverware clinked above the murmur, and waitresses moved with dishes trailing aromas that could make the dead wake up hungry. There was a mood in the place, lively and wonderful, but that evening, after what happened that day at the precinct, I had lost my appetite.

  “You see how no one reprimands the white boys when they get out of hand. What was I supposed to do? Grin and bear it? Grinning days are over and I ain’t barin’ nothin’ but my fist in their face. I joined the force to make a difference in the community, not to take crap from the people who’re supposed to be protecting it.”

  Tad had looked around, then held up his hands, as if to push me and my anger away from him.

  “Okay, Ali, take it easy.”

  “Mali …”

  “Whatever. Sometimes I can hardly tell the difference.”

  The official letter, the notice of my termination, was unfolded and pressed flat on the table, each corner anchored by an empty cocktail glass. The waitress arrived with dinner but by then I had been too busy counting vodka calories.

  I had been on the force less than two years when I was fired for punching another officer. What they couldn’t understand was that the creep deserved it. He had been harassing me from the time I stepped in the door, so I figured enough was enough. How could he tape that picture to my locker and expect to get away with it? Probably would have if I hadn’t come up the stairs so quietly.

  I had sneaked up on him, spun him around, and landed a sharp punch before he knew what hit him. Then I snatched the picture—a perfectly normal picture of two apes copulating, except that my name had been scrawled in red across one of them.

  The cop, Terry Keenan, was fined three days’ pay for being in the female locker room, a restricted area. After two hearings, I was terminated and went to my attorney to get my job back.

  The rain was coming down steadily now as I stood near the edge of the crowd, forgetting how wet I was, and waiting for Tad to speak.

  “How’s the lawsuit going?”

  “It’s still going, but you know how the city takes its time, hoping you’ll be six feet under before the case comes to trial.”

  I talked but tried not to stare at him so brazenly. Detective Honeywell was six feet three, 220 pounds, with skin I could only describe as “well honeyed” or “honeyed well,” depending on how high my temperature peaked when I saw him. His eyes were like burned brown butter, soft and liquid, which belied a toughness that had surprised me.

  I recalled two summers ago when the precinct had been on alert because a rapist had sodomized a six-year-old girl and then thrown her from the roof of the twenty-seven-story project building where she lived. Honeywell had spent his vacation tracking a slim lead until he caught up with the man in a one-light town in Tennessee. When he finally pulled him into the precinct, somehow both of the fugitive’s kneecaps had been rearranged.

  “Son of a bitch tripped. Running too fast,” was all Honeywell had ever said about it. The DNA test did the rest.

  I gazed at him now, wanting to tell him that he was the only thing I missed at the precinct.

  “The lawsuit is still alive. But even after I win, I won’t be coming back. I’ve nearly completed my thesis and I’ve decided to look into a Ph.D. program.”
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  The faintest smile crossed his face, and I knew that when he got back to the precinct, he would drop that bomb on them in his usually casual way. (Yeah, you know Anderson, who used to work here? The one with those eyes? She’s about to get her master’s degree and will enter a Ph.D. program. Isn’t that great?)

  And I knew he would smile again at the stony silence that greeted his news.

  “Still interested in sociology?”

  “Of course.”

  “Still think you can make a difference?”

  I looked at him closely, trying to decide what I heard behind the question. Of course I could make a difference. Social work had been my first choice before I had detoured into NYPD.

  Finally, I said, “Why not?”

  “I was just wondering. With all that academic activity, will you have time for any socializing?”

  Try me, I wanted to say. Except I wanted the words to come out the way James Brown breathed them when he was down on his knees with his white cape and curled hair and face washed in sweat.

  Try me …

  Instead, I bit my tongue and whispered, “I manage to come up for air every now and then.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Our eyes met briefly and I was the first to turn away. “Got to get going, pick up my nephew …”

  Tad reached out to touch me lightly on the shoulder but Ruffin rose abruptly and I had to pull him away. With four feet on the ground, Ruffin’s head came as high as my waist.

  “Sit!”

  He sat and his head was still as high as my waist. But Tad did not step back as most people usually did. Instead he smiled.

  “Can I call you tomorrow, Mali?”

  I felt my temperature rising and knew that the stammering would start if I remained near him much longer.

  “Sure. Sure … tomorrow’s okay … why not?”

  “Good. Be seeing you …”

  He smiled again and walked away to speak with another detective.

  … Thank God. Come on, Ruffin. Time to go …

  “Miss … wait a minute …”

  I turned to see a woman pushing her way through the crowd. She looked to be about forty with smooth brown skin, sturdy build, and medium height. Her hair was in rollers partly covered by a plastic rain cap and she wore slippers with the backs turned in under her heels and probably had a housedress on beneath her raincoat.

  A light film covered her face and I wasn’t certain if it was rain or perspiration but she seemed to be out of breath. Looking at the slippers, I knew that she had left home in a hurry.

  “Are you the lady? Yes, you’re the one. The one with the dog. You saved my son. I don’t know how to thank you … what to say.”

  Her nervousness overwhelmed her and she put her hands to her chest and began to cry. “I don’t know how to thank you … So much is goin’ on. Poor Mr. Harding. So young. Young. Why’d they have to shoot him? Leave ’im layin’ in the street like a old dog. Life just don’t mean nuthin’ no more.”

  “I know … I know how you must be feeling, Mrs.—”

  “Johnson. Mrs. Johnson. I’m Morris’s mother. He’s my only child and I would’ve died if somethin’ happened to him. I would’ve just laid down and not got up no more …” She looked at me again and shook her head. “You saved my boy from bein’ stolen, maybe even killed. God is gonna bless you …”

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Johnson.”

  The woman fumbled in her coat pocket and brought out a tissue to blow her nose. I decided to let her talk. Now was not the time to ask questions.

  “I don’t know why they did this. Who would want my boy? Why?”

  Mrs. Johnson shook her head as she looked into the crowd and at the few policemen remaining at the scene. The rain had slacked off into a fine drizzle. I followed her gaze. It would be some time before the medical examiner arrived and before Erskin Harding’s body could be moved. Until then, the crowd would remain and might get even larger.

  Finally, Mrs. Johnson sighed. “You know, the Chorus was the best thing that ever happened to Morris. He used to run in these streets somethin’ awful. He was gettin’ way outta hand, but then one a his teachers heard that voice of his and said it was almost like Michael Jackson, you know.

  “Anyway, she recommended him to try out for the Chorus and he did and he been all right ever since. Kept his grades up and everything. I mean, they did a lot for him, but I’m a let them know he ain’t goin’ back. I need my boy alive. I can’t take too much. My pressure. I got to take my medicine every day just to get out of bed …

  “Now they want me to bring him to the station for more questions. The boy is too scared for that.” She pointed to her chest. “Me. I’m scared too. My nerves is not strong anymore.” The tears came again and her shoulders began to shake.

  I reached out and touched her arm. “Mrs. Johnson, listen to me. Tell them you can’t go to the precinct, that you’re too sick and you’re taking your son home. Tell them to send a detective to your house if they want to question him any further.”

  She dried her eyes slowly and looked at me with new interest, her confidence buoyed somewhat. “Yes. You’re right. Let ’em come to my house. I can’t thank you …”

  “And call me.” I reached into my pocket and gave her my personal card. “Call me if you or Morris hear anything at all. As a matter of fact, call me anyway. My nephew belongs to the Chorus and I need to look out for him too.”

  She read my name and phone number and nodded her head. “I sure will, Miss Anderson. Thank you.” Then she dabbed at her face and looked at me again. Closely. “You sure got some pretty eyes. They ain’t them fake-color contacts, is they?”

  “No, ma’am, they’re my real eyes. Call me when you get a chance.”

  The crowd shifted as she eased her way through and I was able to gaze at Erskin’s body again. A quick glimpse.

  The rain-soaked shroud covering him made him seem less personal, less likely to have a mother, father, lover, or sister—someone who would scream and fall down when they heard the news. But I remembered his deep-set eyes, and his smile after the last concert, and I turned toward Seventh Avenue, crying in the early evening rain.

  chapter three

  The confusion greeted me before I opened the door at the rehearsal hall. As I secured Ruffin’s leash to the parking meter, I had recognized the unmarked car at the curb but I was not prepared for the scene inside the hall.

  Several of the younger members were huddled together crying, and the secretary, an elegantly dressed older woman with graying hair, was leaning against the desk in the reception area in tears.

  The news had traveled swiftly, even for Harlem, and several parents had already crowded inside the lobby. Many more were in the auditorium, where the two detectives and the administrator tried to speak above the noise.

  I listened for a minute as the director of the organization spoke. Lloyd Benton was tall and slim with smooth beige coloring and regular features. His eyebrows were thick, and when he frowned, they seemed to come together in a straight line. He was visibly shaken and his voice could barely be heard above the crowd.

  “Please. Rest assured that we’re doing everything we can to get to the bottom of this. We are working very closely with the police and they—”

  “And they ain’t gonna do shit,” a voice behind me whispered matter-of-factly. “Ain’t gonna do shit!”

  I turned to look at the man standing just inside the doorway. He glanced at me, then looked away. He had a hard handsomeness about him, tall and lean, his mouth drawn in a straight line across his smooth face. Everything about him seemed expensive—his dark suit, highly polished shoes, navy silk tie against mauve shirt. Even his fragrance spoke for him. He was probably in his mid-thirties, but when he moved, he walked with the practiced stroll of an old, old gangster.

  He drew his breath and swore again, softer this time, as he turned away, heading for the door. I watched him go. He looked vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t
remember seeing him at any of the concerts. I wondered which child in the Chorus was his.

  I turned again to the auditorium and scanned the crowd. These were ordinary working people—truck drivers, postal workers, teachers, nurses, clerks, single parents, couples—all showing the strain of grief, worry, and confusion. Suppose it had been their child?

  They pressed in shoulder-to-shoulder, their apprehension rising to spread across the room like a wave.

  “How did this happen?”

  Lloyd Benton was unable to answer, and one of the detectives stepped to the microphone and held up his hands for quiet.

  “Please,” he said. “Please. Give me a minute.” I watched the room quiet down expectantly as Detective Danny Williams lowered his arms.

  “I’m sorry, truly sorry about this incident. This is a fine organization and you are all caring and concerned parents. Something like this should never have happened and I want to assure you right now that we’re assigning all available manpower to this case. This will have our top priority and we won’t stop until we get results. We already have a witness to the incident so we should have a solid lead very soon.”

  The crowd stirred as some of the tension lifted.

  “A witness? Who? Wonder what they saw?”

  I felt a sudden anger toward Danny Williams. Why would he advertise the fact that he had a witness? Even though he hadn’t called my name, I felt that any minute, every face in the room would turn toward me. I ignored the hard knot forming in the bottom of my stomach and continued to scan. Alvin was not there.

  I eased out of the room and returned to the lobby. Several people shook their heads. No one had seen him. Someone else said, “Maybe he’s upstairs. I don’t know … This is terrible. Terrible.”

  No one seemed to know anything. Other parents were calling for their children. I glanced around and walked quickly up the marble stairs leading away from the confusion.

  The second floor had four offices facing a long narrow corridor which made up the administrative area. This area should have been cordoned off but Lloyd, the director, had probably resisted. Appearance and propriety meant everything and he had probably argued against any yellow tape. Erskin, after all, had not been murdered in this establishment.