Too Beautiful to Die Read online

  He snorted and then coughed, the wild rugged hack of someone with bronchial problems, his body shaking uncontrollably.

  “You okay, man?” I stood up.

  He clamped his hand over his mouth to try to control the coughing. After two or three more tremors, he stopped and looked at me, his eyes thin as glassine. “You used to be a cop. You would know what to do if things aren’t on the up and up.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it,” I said and sat back down.

  Precious looked at me, surprised, almost stunned. Jimmy had obviously convinced her that I was in his hip pocket.

  “Leave us alone for a minute, Precious,” Jimmy said.

  Precious sighed softly and rubbed the back of her neck. She rose from the wing chair and left the room. Jimmy plunked himself down in front of me.

  “You owe me, Blades,” he said quietly.

  “I don’t want to do it, Jimmy.”

  Perhaps my thinking was self-serving, but no matter what he said I was determined to stay firm. What did I know about this woman or the man she was going to meet? How did I know she was telling the truth? Until I got my settlement from the City, I had planned to keep my nose clean.

  Jimmy got up slowly and stood staring into my face, leaning his face closer to mine, baring his teeth, showing red, agitated gums. I don’t know if this was an attempt at a smile or meant to intimidate me, but it was only getting me pissed off. His eyes were morning gray, and underneath the surface tiny green lines raced back and forth like baby worms. He was so close I could have counted the creases at the corner of his eyes and the freckles on his face if I’d wanted to, but right now I was more apt to punch him and leave. There was still time to pick up my daydream where he’d interrupted it.

  “This ain’t good, Blades.”

  “Well, fuck, Jimmy, it’s all I got.”

  “What the hell do you want, man? She offered to pay you.” He slammed his open hand onto the wall behind my head. He seemed ready to jump out of his skin. If I didn’t know better I’d say Jimmy was jacked on drugs.

  “Hey, you better slow your roll, cuz.” I stood up, more to prepare myself should he take a swing at me than anything else. “And the fuck out my face like you wanna kiss me.”

  “Where’s your fucking heart, man?” He stood there glowering over me, and just when I was about to push him away, he stepped back and took a pack of Marlboros and a Zippo lighter from his shirt pocket. He struggled to light the cigarette. The fuel was low and the flame never flickered for more than a second.

  “Are you fucking her?”

  “Watch your manners, dude.”

  I started to laugh.

  “You see, that’s your freaking problem.” He finally lit the cigarette and sat down, taking a deep drag with caved-in jaws. “You don’t respect nothing. You think only about yourself. How could you ask me a question like that? Why I gotta be fucking her ’cause I wanna help her?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I looked at my friend’s face, all bone and sagging skin. His eyes were drawn tight. Somewhere in the mirror of his eyes there might’ve been a reflection of my soul, but I tried not to see it. But that didn’t keep the dogs of guilt at bay: How could you refuse this man who saved your life?

  “Have you settled your lawsuit against the City?” he said.

  I hunched over and said nothing.

  “I know you got money coming from the City,” he continued. “Maybe you can buy a heart. Man, did I ask you for anything for saving your life?”

  I straightened up and stared him dead in the eye. He flinched.

  “What the hell you want from me, Jimmy? You want me to bleed for you because you saved my life?” I extended my hand. “Go ahead. Cut me. But don’t ask me to get involved in shit I know nothing about.”

  He blew a wad of smoke in my face. “Let me tell you about her little girl.”

  I felt the urge to have a cigarette but decided to fight it.

  “She’s about three now,” he continued. “She’s in a home.”

  “What kinda home?” I asked.

  “Don’t ever let Precious know I told you this, understand.”

  I nodded.

  “She needs around-the-clock care.”

  “What’s this got to do with finding Precious’ father?”

  “I’m trying to show you that even though she’s got money, she’s got problems like anybody else. She’s got her weaknesses. She’s got her strengths. She needs love. She needs help. Right now she needs you. You can’t begin to understand how good she has been to me. I need you to do this for me, dude.”

  “Where’d you two meet?”

  “I was out of work, homeless, hanging around this soup kitchen trying to get a sandwich, and she came in one day. Said she was doing research for her show. She asked if she could talk to me. I was very honest with her. Next week she came back, told me about a friend of hers who needed a chauffeur.”

  “I was wondering what happened to you.”

  “She’s a good woman, Blades. If you turn your back on her, you’re turning your back on me. I mean it.”

  His face was fixed in an intense scowl. He blew a ring of smoke as Precious returned in a new outfit.

  “Listen, Jimmy,” she said. “If your friend doesn’t want to help me, it’s okay. I understand.”

  I turned to her. “Where do you have to deliver this money?”

  “Brooklyn. Does this mean you’ll help?” she asked.

  2

  PRECIOUS HAD CHANGED into an outfit befitting a daytime soap star: coral-washed knee-length linen dress, pink leather knot sandals and Gucci glasses. She wore no makeup except purple lipstick which gave her lips a fullness that made me think of Angela Bassett. With a body to flaunt, she did just that. It looked as though she wore no bra underneath her dress; her breasts sprang forward as if being called by the flute of a snake charmer, her outsized nipples like buttons on the front of her dress. She called ahead to have her car cooled, and we left the apartment on Fifth Avenue and Tenth Street half an hour later. When we reached the garage a block away, the red late-model BMW was ready to rock.

  She asked me to drive. I declined. I wanted to think. As we merged into the stream of cars along Broadway heading to the Brooklyn Bridge, I leaned back in the cool leather seat brooding over my decision. It was too late to change my mind, but I wondered what had made me agree to be Precious’ bodyguard. Was it Jimmy’s whining or was it just an excuse to be in her company a bit longer?

  Ever since Jimmy had saved my life I’d felt beholden. It was a reality that stuck in my craw like tainted fish. The memory of Jimmy lifting me from the street into the backseat of his cab had always left me raw, and though we’d become friends afterward, I always resented that he had this thing over me. I suppose I’m too proud to accept being indebted to anyone. Doing Jimmy this favor would win me some measure of dignity back, I concluded.

  Traffic was light on the Brooklyn Bridge. Daylight was beginning to fade. The sky was a flat stretch of red clouds that seemed to be radiating high-energy gamma rays. From the bridge the low buildings of Brooklyn Heights looked to be encased in a ring of yellow fire.

  I’d left home in shorts and tee, so our first stop in Brooklyn was my apartment, where I went upstairs to dress the part of bodyguard to a star. Precious stayed in the car. It took me ten minutes to outfit myself in black jeans, black polo shirt and black Rockport boots. I was counting on not having to wear this costume for too long in this heat.

  When I returned, Precious was talking on her cell phone. She ended her conversation and looked at me with a discreet smile of approval. As we drove off she glanced at me again and her smile deepened to a wide grin. For some foolish reason I felt elated.

  As Precious navigated the clogged Brooklyn streets, I stole glances at her, admiring the curve of her neck and shoulders. A light net of rain began to spread before us. Her pale perfume spiced the BMW’s leathery essence, and again I thought of Anais and felt guilty for even being alone with
this bewitchingly beautiful woman.

  Fifteen minutes later she slowed down opposite Caribbean Pride, a restaurant on the ground floor of a run-down building on St. Johns Place, and parked behind a tour bus being loaded with senior citizens wrapped in shimmering African garments, many of them bedecked in colorful, elaborate headdress.

  I spent a good deal of time in this neighborhood when I was a kid. My grandmother lived five blocks away on Kingston Avenue, on the other side of Eastern Parkway. Steelpan music, no doubt a practice session for the upcoming West Indian Carnival Day Parade, filled the air. And I could hear reggae music bubbling from an apartment above me.

  We got out, and Precious headed east on St. Johns Place. I followed a step behind. Walking along the street, the distinct accents of the Caribbean made a bouquet around me. Street vendors, selling anything from books to bananas, from coconut milk in the husks to chilled sugar-cane juice, hogged the sidewalk calling to passersby, enticing them with smiles and offers of bargains that could not be gotten in Manhattan. A bicyclist zipping along the sidewalk bore down on me and I skipped into the street. I turned to glare after the youngster, but having scored his victory in the game of chicken, he was already spinning around the corner and out of sight.

  We came to a large apartment building with a deep courtyard that was surrounded by a high iron fence. Over time, broken bottles on the sidewalk had been trampled to a fine grid. A number of youths, backs glistening with sweat, shirts hanging from back pockets of baggy cutoff jeans, stood outside jawing good-naturedly. A noisier group played C-low or craps in the courtyard. Rap music from a boom box on a milk crate shrieked with false bravado the authenticity of a thug’s life.

  “This is it,” Precious said. “Seven twenty-five St. Johns Place.”

  The heavy metal gate to the courtyard gaped open, kept so by a large brown brick at its base. We crossed the courtyard littered with empty soda cans and plastic wrappers, past the dried-up fountain in the center, now home to summer weeds. We reached the apartments just as two pint-sized Rambo wannabes, balancing Super Squirters under their armpits bounded through the door, hopping over empty bottles as if they were electric bunnies. I held the door open for Precious, then followed her inside.

  The dingy elevator reeked of stale Chinese food and cigarette smoke. Graffiti and grease stained the walls black and blue, and cigarette stubs were stacked in one corner like a clot of dead worms. It seemed as though someone had made a valiant effort to herd them together. I imagined the elevator once had a bright red color that was now indistinguishable from the dirt.

  I felt a panic rise in my chest. When I was a cop I hated going after perps in large apartment buildings. Too many places to hide, too many chances for ambush. Instinctively, my hand brushed against my hip, searching for my gun. I took a deep breath and glanced at Precious. Her face was impenetrable as she hugged the briefcase to her bosom.

  After a noisy bumpy ride, we emptied onto the tenth floor. The gloomy hallway had a moldy odor as if its stained walls were oozing something foreign. One fluorescent bulb above flickered haphazardly like a ship sending out a distress signal.

  I kept pace with Precious as she marched determinedly down the narrow stretch. She turned left, coming to a crisp stop at the end of the hall in front of apartment 10-D. We stood outside the red door for about a minute doing nothing. Was she summoning the resolve to part with so much money? I was trying to keep my mind clear and calm, hoping nothing crazy happened. I still couldn’t believe I’d agreed to do this. It felt like something out of the movies.

  Precious knocked twice. No answer.

  Stepping forward, I thumped the metal door powerfully. Once. Twice. Three times. Still no answer.

  “Don’t look like anybody’s here,” I said, happy that this melodrama had fizzled to a ho-hum ending.

  “He’s got to be here,” Precious announced.

  “Then he must be dead,” I joked.

  She reached out and twisted the doorknob. With a soft clack the lock released. Slowly easing the door open, she poked her head into the room.

  “Hello,” she called. “Anybody here?”

  Then she surprised me by slithering softly inside. I remained outside, nervously looking around, straining against the anger I felt rising.

  “What the hell you think you’re doing?” I said.

  She didn’t answer. Not knowing whether to drag her back into the hallway or follow her blindly, I slipped into the room.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  “Anybody home?” Precious called again.

  The place had been ransacked: boxes ripped open; clothes, papers, pictures, computer diskettes and CDs strewn about. The gray sofa had been turned upside down and carved up. Broken glass speckled the floor. A couple of ten-year-olds on a tantrum couldn’t have done a better job.

  I checked for my gun again and cursed. Heat and anxiety combined to bring sweat streaming to the surface of my skin. New York was a city where people triple-locked their doors before taking garbage downstairs. This shit was whack, and I wasn’t sticking around for the remix. I grabbed Precious by the arm and opened the door.

  “No!” she screamed, pulling away from me.

  “You’ve been duped.”

  Her eyes flamed defiantly. Turning away, she stepped on a crushed plate of glass from a mirror and tripped. I rushed forward, catching her before she fell. She steadied herself and struggled to get free.

  “Will you please take your hands off me?” she said.

  “Are you always this stubborn?”

  “Only when I’m dealing with wimps.”

  “Listen, I’m doing you a favor, you know.”

  She glanced to the floor, then back to me. Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry. You’re right. And I appreciate it. But I can’t leave until I’m sure.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let me take a quick look around before you do anything else.”

  In the kitchen, a few feet around the corner to the left, the garbage can had been overturned and New York’s finest cockroach specimens were hurdling each other to get at the leftover chicken and fries, minced by a heavy boot into the linoleum floor.

  I decided to back out before those fattened crawlers took to the friendly skies. It seemed unlikely that anyone was in the apartment. Still I advanced cautiously down the corridor, listening for movement ahead. The bathroom was on my right. It was empty and intact.

  I reached the bedroom straight ahead. The drawn blinds made the room shadowy. Dense incense hovered in the air. I found the switch and with an upward flick of my wrist doused the room with light. There is much truth to the saying that some things are better left in the dark.

  There was a dead body on the bed.

  I scanned the room quickly. It was in a state of chaos similar to the kitchen and living room. Stepping over broken glass and other debris, I moved closer to the bed. The bare-chested stocky black man laying on his back in Loony Toons boxers was stiffer than my last boner.

  My Caribbean grandmother loved looking at dead bodies. Especially after they had been prepared for burial. I, on the other hand, found the stillness of death bewildering.

  He’d been shot at close range in the temple, a death that would’ve been mercifully quick. Blood and bits of skull had dried on the side of his face. A broad patch of crimson stained the bed next to his head. He lay framed by pictures, as if the killer had seized on the opportunity to display his decorative talents.

  I heard footsteps behind me and spun around. I’d completely forgotten about Precious. She danced around me even as I tried to block her, posting herself by the shaded window to stare in silent shock at the body.

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Is he really dead?”

  “You can’t fake that kind of stillness.” I didn’t bother shaving the annoyance I was feeling from my voice. I didn’t want to be here. The last thing I needed was to be involved in a murder investigation.

  I picked up on
e picture after another. The subject matter was all the same: a disgusting display of raw sex between adult men and young girls. I paused a few moments on one girl’s face, thinking it was familiar. But I couldn’t remember where I’d seen it. I looked at the man again and decided that if this was Antonio and taking these pictures had been his gig, then he deserved to die.

  3

  AS PRECIOUS FRANTICALLY rummaged through dresser drawers, emptying contents onto the floor, I used her mobile to call the police. When the dispatcher asked for my name, I hung up.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Precious.

  She didn’t look around.

  I grabbed her arm. “We’re getting out of here.”

  Impassively she stared at me, her body limp, sweat streaming down her dark face.

  “The police will be here any minute and I don’t intend to be part of a welcoming party,” I said.

  I released her and walked away. She hustled after me, catching up with me in the living room where she grasped my elbow with sweaty palms.

  “He said he had proof.”

  “I think it’s a little late for that,” I said.

  “Maybe it’s here somewhere.”

  “You don’t even know if this is the man you talked to on the phone.”

  “It’s him. It’s gotta be.”

  I turned away. “Are you coming?”

  “No.”

  “Just try to forget my name when the police get here, okay?”

  Leaving her staring stiffly into space, her face shiny and severe, I walked to the door. On the wall, to the right of the door, was a picture in a gold frame of a man cradling a little girl on his right hip. It was the dead man. I studied the picture for a second. He was smiling, but looked unsettled; the girl, though, seemed happy. Then I opened the door and walked out. As I approached the elevator I heard Precious behind me and turned around. She walked brusquely past, almost tripping over my foot.

  ON THE WAY back I drove. We didn’t speak. I was angry. I’d had a bad feeling about this from the start, and I should’ve followed my instincts. I didn’t need this situation. It could only complicate my chances of a quick settlement with the City. The Mayor hated my guts. Given any chance to screw me, he’d jump on it. In this mood I knew I wouldn’t be able to express myself without blaming her for putting me in this mess. I just wanted to get home and out of her life.