I watched as he pulled a large bag of chickens out of the fridge and placed them in a tub of cool water. Later, he would add the seasoning that caused the long lines to form outside the store.
“Personally,” he said, inspecting the birds for defects, “I think it mighta been one a’ his girls.”
“How come?”
“Who knows? Maybe she was jealous, maybe he didn’t pay enough attention. You got to pay attention, you know—now don’t go gettin’ attitude when I say this, Mali, ’cause I know how you are—but it’s like a farmer and his crop. You got to plant it properly, fertilize it, cultivate it and watch for weeds, water it before you can get a decent harvest.”
I thought about it and I didn’t get an attitude. It was a good analogy: cultivate and watch for weeds. Had Starr been a weed? Something to get rid of before her ideas infected the others?
And had he hooked her on drugs, not because Ozzie had beaten him, but because he needed to kill what he perceived to be her independence. Irony certainly had a place at this table. Short Change had had no idea that her father also might have been afraid of her need for independence.
“My baby’s dead,” he had cried on the phone. But “baby” had courted death, it seemed, each time she had stepped away from him.
Had Ozzie wanted her to remain dependent? Had Short Change wanted her dependent, if not on him, then on something just as powerful?
“Do you think Short Change killed Starr?”
I watched him shrug and lift the lid from one of the pots again. He gave it a quick stir and adjusted the jet. I breathed in the heady aroma and determined to take home a large order when I left, even though I was not hungry. Yet.
“I just don’t know, Mali. He was peculiar, as players go. Most pimps beat their women, scar ’em up so they ain’t no good for nobody else, then send ’em on their way. But S.C.? I don’t know about him. I think he got his kicks, got off just seein’ her strung out, beggin’ for a fix, promisin’ to do anything to get it. People lose everything, you know, when they after that next hit. Especially they lose their self-respect. When that’s gone, they open to anything. Anything. I think that’s how Short Change got even. Let the world know she wasn’t so tough-minded after all.”
I stared out the restaurant’s window onto the busy, sun-blasted sidewalk of Lenox Avenue and thought of Short Change and how Starr had told him to kiss her royal black ass. Had she really said this or was it all part of the loud and loose talk at the wake? Had she told him this in front of the crowd at the Casablanca? Even so, he probably hadn’t killed her. The slow, humiliating process of addiction was much more rewarding than dispatching her with a swift, deep flick of a knife.
22
I left Charleston’s place empty-handed because my order wouldn’t be ready for another hour. I wasn’t really hungry after plowing through that stack of waffles at Wells but this aroma had gotten to me.
“Jo Jo’ll deliver it to your dad,” he said, now pulling meaty slabs of ribs from the freezer.
I stepped out into the midday heat and walked over to the small triangle of park near St. Marks Church, where Edgecombe and St. Nicholas avenues converged in front of the old Harriet Beecher Stowe Junior High School. The school, once all girls, was now coed and renamed for Thurgood Marshall. The triangle was tree-shaded and quiet enough for me to relax and scribble the latest information in my notebook.
If Short Change hadn’t killed Starr, who had?
My thoughts went back to Travis. Why hadn’t he been on the cruise? What was he doing while his wife was making a spectacular nuisance of herself? Had something happened to make him turn on Starr and then go after Short Change?
Or perhaps, as Charleston said, it might have been two separate incidents. Short Change, after all, had been dabbling in the drug trade. Perhaps another dealer decided to eliminate the competition. And Ozzie. He was angry enough to wipe out an army. Why had he disappeared when he did? And now wanted to be left alone.
I put a check mark next to some of the questions, then closed the book. For a few minutes I remained on the bench, listening to the scattered songs of birds nesting in the branches overhead. An ICEY man passed, rolling his small cart. He turned the corner at 136th Street, heading toward Eighth Avenue. A minute later, I left the bench and headed for 135th Street.
The flower vendors in front of the hospital offered a wide choice and I selected a mix of roses, black-eyed Susans, and gladiolas. Although I was still on vacation, I stopped by my department, conferred with my supervisor, then took the elevator to the twelfth floor, where I donned a mask and gown and entered a room equipped with ultraviolet lighting and special ventilation.
Saturday—Sara Lee Brown—was propped up in bed reading. She closed the book as I approached.
“Well, I don’t know who you are behind all that space suit, but if you bringin’ flowers, you ain’t a doctor. The doctors only come with needles, tubes, and more needles.”
“It’s me, Mali,” I said, taking a seat near the bed. The ultraviolet light cast a surreal glow over the room and the quiet rush of air eliminated the usual antiseptic sick-room smell.
Sara Lee bent forward, saw my eyes, then smiled and leaned back against the pillows again. Although she had been here less than a week, the change in her appearance was dramatic. Her face looked less drawn; her eyes had lost the wandering stare and her hands seemed less bony and less shaky when she pressed the button for the nurse.
An aide opened the door, her eyes wide above the mask. “Yes, honey?”
“Sorry to disturb you,” Sara Lee whispered. “I was wonderin’ if I could get a vase or a jar or somethin’ for these flowers. Ain’t they nice?”
“Beautiful. I’ll see what I can do.”
The door closed again, leaving us in silence.
“So how’re you doing?” I asked, knowing she’d probably had no visitors other than Jo Jo.
“Miss Mali, I can’t thank you enough. You and Jo Jo saved my life. If it wasn’t for you—”
She broke off and gazed at the flowers and started to cry. “You know how long it’s been since anybody brought me flowers?”
I nodded, knowing what she really meant was “You know how long it’s been since I felt this clean, this well, this hopeful?”
She fingered the petals on a rose as if the flower were an entirely new species and she would have examined it in more detail had she had access to a microscope. “Jo Jo been here every day since I came in,” she said. Her voice was no longer a whisper and she gazed at me as if to say, “But I’m surprised to see you. Really surprised.”
So I came right to the point.
“Sara, how well did you know Starr?”
She closed her eyes, still fingering the petals of the rose, and did not answer.
I decided to take another tack. “How well did you know Short Change?”
“Too well and not well enough,” she murmured, turning to look at me.
“What do you mean?”
She set the bunch of flowers aside and I waited, listening to the soft rush of air wash the room in a rhythm of sound.
“You know,” she said softly, “things happen, but mostly, the thing that you want, that you wish for, don’t happen. And you live in hope, all of us. At least that’s what we did. Amanda, Martha, Jeanette, Myrtle, and me.”
“What about Starr?”
Sara Lee shook her head. “Unh-unh. Not Starr. She was the only one had some sense. But the rest of us, we lived waitin’ for that something that never came.”
A half smile crossed her face before she continued. “You know, S.C. liked to say, ‘I’m gonna make you … get you … do this for you … do that … put your pretty self on stage … on the moon. On top of the world.’ All that. Everything was a promise and we lived for it. Worked hard, ’cause we thought if we worked hard, he’d make it all come true. Well …”
She brushed her hands through her hair, tight-curled short hair with a growth of dark brown edging out the dull blon
d strands.
“We all knew the deal. We all knew but nobody spoke on it. Short Change was short on promise and everything else. Especially that main thing. That thing we were all lookin’ for, beyond his word, his promise. It never happened. I don’t know about the others ’cause it was never talked about, but I felt he had cheated me. Talked the talk and didn’t have much to back it up with, except more talk.”
She hesitated, unsure whether she wanted to continue. I waited while she drew a deep breath, then she went on.
“You know what got me evicted? One night I had just enough of that hundred-dollar champagne in me to let him know that I was tired. Tired of hearin’ about how he got a stroke that ain’t no joke. How once he get started, his shit don’t quit. Well, where was it? I was bringin’ in the money. Top dollar. That’s why he chose me to live with him. So he could throw all them dollars up in the air and laugh when they come floatin’ down. Where was his action at? And he come off with that Dr. Laura talk-show bullshit. Tryin’ to play me, tellin’ me some psychology shit about how sex is mostly in the mind. It ain’t about so much action.
“Really? What he think I was? One a’ them dumb cryin’ and confused bitches on Jenny Jones? ’Cause that wasn’t the first time he pulled that kinda talk. You know, I was out there turnin’ a trick a minute. That’s how good I was but it was work. I needed somethin’ real when I got home and it just was not happenin’. So that night, I looked at him like I seen him for the first time and I said, ‘Damn! So that’s why she call you Short Change.’ ”
“Who called him that?”
“Starr did. Who you think?
“Now, I’m sayin’ it’s one thing to peep a player’s hole card but it’s another thing to speak on it. He wanted to know who she was. Wanted to know what was goin’ on behind his back. But I wasn’t talkin’. Next thing I knew, I found myself on the curb. No clothes, no nuthin’ but what I had on my back, which wasn’t much.
“For a while, I hustled on my own, stayed here, there, anywhere, tryin’ to get myself together. Trickin’ fast and hard and careless. And you know a lot of men pay extra not to use a condom. I didn’t care one way or the other. It was like I was no good. No good. I got infected and didn’t care. Kept goin’ until I got too sick to even crawl half a block. And you know somethin’? Right now, sometimes, I wake up at night and listen in the dark. I hear him, still promisin’, and I close my eyes and fall into a dream, and imagine that I could help him make the promise come true.
“Yes, Starr had called him Short Change and the name caught and spread like a fire out of control. She had called him that straight out. Told him he wasn’t gonna be a part of her life and he could kiss her royal black ass.”
“Did he kill her?”
She was silent for a moment and when she answered, she did not look at me.
“I don’t know. Coulda been any one of the girls. They was all jealous of her, you know.”
Which meant that she had been jealous also, despite that champagne and all those dollars floating in the air.
The door opened and the aide stepped in carrying a vase. She lifted the flowers from the bed and began to arrange them for maximum effect on the nightstand. Under the light, the colors seemed to expand before the stark gray of the walls and she stepped back to gauge her handiwork. “They look beautiful, don’t you think?”
“Very much,” I said, trying to match her cheerfulness. Sara Lee nodded but said nothing. Once I stepped out and the door closed, she would be alone.
“I’ll bring some books when I come back,” I said.
“Thank you, thanks for coming.” She said this as if she expected not to see me again but to add me to the long list, another broken promise.
I went looking for the physician in charge, showed him my unit ID and he allowed me to look at her chart. The protocol was pretty rigorous. INH, rifampin, pyrazinamide daily for two months, then INH twice a week for a total of nine months. In addition, there was a course of AZT and protease inhibitors for the HIV.
“She’s a strong woman,” he said. “She’s young and wants to get well. I would say that the prognosis is good.”
23
I reached home and Dad and I approached the door at the same time, I with my key in hand ready to step in, and he with Ruffin ready to step out.
“Glad you’re here. Ozzie called.”
“What happened?”
“He didn’t say. Just said I should come down there right away.”
His face was a map of anxiety and I quickly fell in step beside him, wondering how the hell all this was going to end. It was a few blocks before he spoke again. “I don’t know what’s up. Maybe he wants to talk. Maybe being alone is finally getting to him, or maybe he found out something.”
We hurried along 125th Street and turned south on Manhattan Avenue, passing Perk’s Restaurant, where its satiny lights spilled through the curtains, illuminating the double- and triple-parked cars.
I caught soft sounds of laughter and thought of Tad, and a pain, deep and sudden, rose in my chest.
Ozzie did not answer the door. After the third ring Dad pulled out the key he had been given. “I had this all along but he said he needed to be alone. As upset as I was, there’s some lines you can’t cross. I had to respect that. I had to wait.”
We stepped inside. The house seemed cavernous as we made our way through the darkened foyer. Our footsteps resonated on the hardwood floor and I heard nothing else except the tap of Ruffin’s paws and the fast beat of my own heart.
A small lamp in the living room cast an ineffectual glow over the sofa and the two large chairs facing it. The rest of the room was in shadow. Ruffin halted suddenly and let out a low growl, then leaped forward, nearly pulling me off my feet. At the same time Ozzie, who was lying on the sofa, sat up with a start.
“What the hell—?”
“Take it easy, Ozzie,” Dad whispered, stepping in front of Ruffin and grabbing the dog’s collar. “Okay, Ruffin. Okay. It’s all right.”
Then he turned to Ozzie. “I’m sorry about that. I—”
Ozzie was sitting up now and waved his hand. “It’s cool, man. Everything’s cool. I must have nodded off.”
He did not look well. He leaned over and shook his head as if to clear it, then rose to his feet but a second later sank heavily back onto the sofa again. I did not see a bottle or glass but the odor of alcohol hung in the air.
Dad took the leash from me and led Ruffin back to the foyer. I listened to the pad of paws, then the sound of him settling on the floor near the door.
“And don’t move,” Dad whispered.
Ozzie was now sprawled on the sofa, his arm across his face as if he were alone in the room. When Dad returned, he leaned over and touched Ozzie’s shoulder. “What happened, man? You heard anything? What’s going on?”
Ozzie did not answer, but pointed to a small frayed notebook that lay open on the coffee table.
“Read it,” he whispered.
“What is it?”
“Her journal. Diary. Notes. Whatever you want to call it.” I watched Dad hesitate, then he picked it up and held it gingerly in his hands. “Where did you find this?”
“Had it all along. Since the night she died. Took it before the cops got their hands on it. Go on. Read it. You too, Mali. Maybe there’s something I missed. Something you might find to help explain why she did what she did.”
He lay still again and I moved next to Dad and peered over his shoulder in the dim light.
Some of the entries were in ink, others were in pencil, and some of the pencil entries appeared faded or perhaps smudged. Some paragraphs were printed and others were written in a spidery, barely legible scrawl. There were no dates:
Vegas nearly turned me inside out. It was like a dream I wanted to live inside of. Even when Henry suggested a threesome which I wasn’t about to get into. And not that other stuff either. He smiled when I said no and I misunderstood. That smile. Too late to say I was a fool. He saw me coming.
Read the map of my face and knew which road I needed to take. He would be my guide.
——
What am I doing? What am I seeing? The awful way he dresses should have told me something. He wants the world to take notice. Or maybe he’s color blind. But then I’m really the blind one. I thought I saw something beyond the way he dressed. It was the thing he said and the way he said it. Promising me. Fly me to the moon if only I wouldn’t leave him. Travis says the same but not like that. Not with his mouth pressed against my stomach the way Henry does it. Henry talks fast and pays serious lip service between his words. Travis never made me feel like that no matter how he tried. Even when I want to show him. He is too wound up. Chrissie is kicking his ass.
——
I’m free. At least for a while. Dad took care of him. Travis would have done it. Wanted to shoot him but Dad got to him first with that pipe.
——
I should sing, Travis says. Well dammit I know that. I know that. What I need is for him to tell me he loves me. I need to hear it. Then maybe my head would be straightened out and I’d walk away from this stuff once and for all.
——
Dad, I’m sorry. What a disappointment I am. I can see it in your face every time you look at me, look at my legs and look away. I see your rage and I know some of it’s aimed at me. And it should be. How could I have done this? Now it seems so stupid, so destructive. Maybe I wanted you or maybe Travis to pull me out of the next thing I’d managed to get myself into.
——
Henry was feeding me so much Black Tar shit I thought I was an honorary Mexican. I’m killing Dad because I’m killing myself. Must find a way to stop this. One time I got so tired I took a “hot shot.” To sleep forever. Sail into the hereafter as high as I could get. It’s first thing in the morning when I wake. I need a fix. Then I go back to sleep and dream of how I’m going to get the next one. He feeds me “one on ones,” a quarter of H and a dime of coke. Forget food. Forget family. Heroin feeds whatever hunger you have. Forget everything but being hungry for the next hit. It’s like being in heaven and hell.
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