Of Blood and Sorrow (2 page)

I handed the paper back.

“Me and Turk went over there to talk to her and try to give her the money, and she slammed the door right in my face.”

“I thought you said you were broke?”

“Ain’t that broke.”

“So you went over with Turk, the guy who was just here?”

“He’s my new man. Younger than me. See them muscles in his hands and arms? He knows how to use them, too. Turk told me he used to work security for a big-time gangster who done gone legit, that’s what Turk told me. You know what security really do, don’t you? And them arms ain’t the only place Turk’s got muscles, if you know what I mean, but he’s about as dumb as he looks. That’s one thing I learned from them old-ass guys used to follow me around with their tongues hung out: the older you get, the younger you fuck them.”

I ignored that bit of wisdom and said, “So you and this Turk went to Jersey City and tried to reason with your sister, and she wouldn’t take the money you offered?”

“Ain’t no ‘this Turk.’ Just ‘Turk.’”

“What makes you think I would be any more successful than you and Turk?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Bitch don’t know you. You look official and shit, like maybe you a cop or something. Just go there, tell her you represent an interested party, and give her the cash.”

“So she’ll hand the baby over to me for a fistful of cash even though she doesn’t know me from a hole in the ground?”

“Believe me. Just act like you represent somebody important, somebody big-time, and she’ll do it.”

I shook my head in disbelief, but that didn’t discourage Lilah. “Why ain’t you putting this shit down? Ain’t that what private investigators do, write down what their clients tell them?”

I leaned back in my chair and took a breath. “Actually, Lilah, you’re
not
my client,” I said. This new song and dance had the same funky tune as the one she’d sung in Jamaica. Even the names—Thelma Lee and Turk—brought to mind Sammy Lee Love and Delaware Brown, the main players in the Jamaican fiasco. Jamaica had been a long time ago, so I didn’t think she could tie me to it. But this here was some
new
Lilah mess, and I sure didn’t want to get mixed up with her again.

“What you mean I’m not your client?” She narrowed her eyes.

“Well, Lilah, my schedule simply won’t permit me to give your case the attention it deserves,” I said with feigned regret.

“Won’t take no time, I told you that. All you got to do is take the girl the money and bring back my baby. What’s you doing that’s so important you can’t help a sister out?”

It was time for the truth, so I told it. “I’m going to tell it like it is, Lilah. There is no way in hell I’m working with you. I don’t know what part you played in that shit that went down in Kingston, but I’m willing to forgive and forget. You gave me that money with no obligation. That was then, this is now. And this
is
now. I wish you luck. I truly hope you get back your child. I think we’re finished here,” I added with a nod toward the door.

She stared at me hard for a moment, then reached across the desk and grabbed my wrist, her long fake nails digging deep into my flesh. “
I
ain’t finished yet,” she said.

It was at this moment that my son chose to stroll his lanky frame through that open door.

“Hey, Ma, what’s going on?” Jamal said, grinning his late uncle’s good-natured grin. Lilah let go of my arm and sank back into her chair. I checked my wrist to see if she’d drawn blood. He glanced at her, then at me, then back at her. “Wow, Ma! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“What the heck are you doing here?” There was no way he could miss the alarm in my voice.

“I tried to call you, but the phone must have been off the hook, and I was worried and—” He stopped midsentence, his eyes big with guilt.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Son. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“God, Ma! I’m sorry. You don’t have to yell!” Those eyes were hurt and angry now.

I glanced back at Lilah, fingers now folded demurely in her lap. Slowly, she uncrossed her legs, and the soft, seductive tinkle of the anklet bells drew the attention of both me and my son.

“This can’t be your little boy!” she said, rising and approaching Jamal as if she were some long-lost relative. “He’s so tall and handsome, Tamara. How did you get such a tall, handsome boy? Honey, come and give your aunt Lilah a great big hug!”

In that instant, I saw my boy through this woman’s eyes, and I didn’t like what I saw. Jamal is well on his way to becoming a handsome man, with the good looks that have made my ex-husband, DeWayne Curtis, the incurable ladies’ man he’s aged into. But Jamal also has my late brother’s charm and my practical sense, although this past year has made me question that particular legacy.

Confused and unsure what to do next, Jamal scanned my face for an answer, which I was too stunned to give. Finally, grinning like my brother used to do when an invitation from a pretty woman came his way, Jamal took matters into his own hands and gave his “aunt Lilah” the “great big hug” she requested. She held him far longer than appropriate and giggled coquettishly.

“Strong, too. What you doing with such a big, strong,
handsome
boy?” she said, patting his shoulders and running her fingers up his arms.

I visibly flinched, and Jamal knew he had stumbled across a dangerous boundary. Lilah broke the tension with a flick of her silver-plated cell phone.

“I’m going to call Turk up here so he can meet you, honey. I hope he won’t be jealous of such a strong, tall, handsome boy,” she said, winking at Jamal.

“I better talk to you at home, right, Ma?” Worry topped with anxiety was in his voice.

“You got that right!”

He delivered a polite, jerky nod in Lilah’s direction, avoiding my eyes altogether as he headed out the door. When he was out of earshot, I turned to confront her.

“Put that goddamn phone down before I snatch it out your hand,” I said.

“What you so damned mad about?”

“If you don’t know, you’re a bigger fool than you look.”

“What you talking about?”

“Don’t even
think
about my son that way!”

“All I did was give
your
baby a hug. I’m a mama, too, so you must know how much I miss
my
Baby Dal.”

“You listen, and you listen good. Stay away from me and don’t come nowhere near my son. Do you understand me?”

She dropped the phone back into her bag, picked up a pen, and scribbled something on a slip of paper.

“This here is the address where my baby sister stays. She lives with my crazy aunt, Sweet Thing, and Jimson, that nasty old fool she took up with. Now
you
listen to me, and you listen good. If you want
your
baby staying safe like he is, you’d best put
my
Baby Dal back in my arms. And do it right quick—before this week ends is good.”

With that she stood up and left, bells tinkling faintly as she strolled out of the room.

TWO

I
HAVE TO ADMIT
, Lilah Love’s parting crack got the better of me. Her words about my son were scary as hell, and I could still feel the sting of those nails on my wrist. Death had clung to Lilah Love like fleas to an alley cat down in Jamaica, and I didn’t want her bringing those bad vibes into my life. Jamal had put on some muscle, but he’d be no match for Turk if Lilah wanted to make him pay for something she thought I owed. Did she have anything on me? I didn’t think so. And if she did, what would it cost me in the end? Nothing I was prepared to pay. So I’d be damned if I let the girl blackmail me for the rest of my days. I glanced at the paper she had written her sister’s address on and threw it in the trash, tossing it—and Lilah Love—out of my life.

Or so I thought.

I had less than an hour to get to my meeting with Treyman Barnes. I slipped off the fuzzy orange slippers I keep under my desk for comfort, pulled on the kick-ass heels I wear for appointments, and rushed to the ladies’ room down the hall for a quick once-over. No surprises there; I looked all right, but just that. My lackluster suit fit right in at Wayne Peters’s funeral but wouldn’t win any prize in the allure department, which made it perfect for this meeting. I was going for a reliable, trustworthy private investigator spin. After ten years in this business, you’d think I’d have it down, but every now and then, that frightened kid who never got over her crazy mama and drink-a-day daddy takes over and self-doubt will rock me to my core.

“Don’t go there, baby,” I said to the mirror, lifting my chin in forced self-confidence. I wondered if Wyvetta Greene had opened the Biscuit yet. She opens late on Mondays but comes in early to do inventory. I can usually count on her for a quick boost of confidence. Truth was, meeting Treyman Barnes made me nervous as hell.

Treyman Barnes II—or “Two,” as he was sometimes called—was a regular on the business pages of
The Star-Ledger
and lifestyle magazines recording the ups and downs of black folks on the rise. He was a self-proclaimed “possessor of undervalued things,” a phrase usually delivered with a wink. One of those possessions was a spot in the Central Ward where kids got drunk on Saturday nights and shot each other full of holes.

“Can’t control the violence of others,” he’d say, eyes cast down in sorrow, when somebody brought it up. “I’m a positive man who does positive things.” Positive things like that real estate firm he formed with South Jersey “interests” three years ago. Jersey City was gone, the big-time developers had devoured it, and my hometown was next in line. Blocks of my city had gone up for grabs, selling like hotcakes to the fastest wallet with the strongest connections. Barnes and his crew were gobbling up Newark like hogs around a trough.

He didn’t look like a hog, though. He was plump but had a winning smile and crown of gray hair that brought to mind an aging cherub. I’d heard him called “charming” by more than one person—usually somebody looking for a handout. I’d also heard that every buck he gave, he got back in flesh.

But I was ignoring his crooked halo today, savvy businesswoman I’m striving to be. Treyman Barnes could be a valuable resource, and there have been many times when I’ve held my nose at the scent of a client. At least this one had money—big-time—and if I hung in there with him, his connections could pay off. I wasn’t sleeping with the man, just doing business, and there was no harm in that.

Or so I told myself.

On the way out the door, I caught a glimpse of Wyvetta, orangered hair piled high à la Marge Simpson, looking over the spare room she’d recently renovated. Inspired by Earl, her longtime, gold-toothed boyfriend, she’d set up a men’s spa in her back room. A customer could get a manicure, scalp massage, and haircut all while checking out ESPN or the Playboy channel on the cable TV. She called the room a Gentlemen’s Oasis and had painted the walls sea blue and black to set it off from the pink and cerise that distinguished the rest of the shop. There had only been a couple of takers, and the TV was used mostly for
All My Children
and reruns of
Law & Order,
but Wyvetta was excited by the prospect of expanding her business. I had a dinner date with Larry on Wednesday, so I decided to surprise him with a trip to the Oasis.

“Sunset Red,” she answered my unasked question about her hair color when she opened the door. “I’ve been pouring it on so many heads, figured it was time to pour it on my own.”

“Sunset?” More sunrise than sunset, the orange undertone clashed violently with her beautiful dark brown skin. “Nice,” I added too quickly.

“Tamara Hayle, I can read you like a book. We’ve known each other too long for you to be lying to me. Now don’t tell me you think something is
nice
when you don’t think it is,” she said irritably.

“Let’s put it this way, Wyvetta: it’s not one of my favorite shades.” I stabbed at diplomacy. “Your natural color—”

She cut me off. “My natural color ain’t shit. Well, thanks for the truth anyway. If we can’t be nothing else, we got to be honest. There’s too much damn lying going on in this country already than for two sistuhs to be lying to each other.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, relieved at her reaction.

She stood back and studied me critically. “And while we’re being honest, when you plan to do something about them caterpillars you got crawling above your eyes? When a woman gets her brows shaped, it’s an instant face-lift. Not that you need one.”

I smiled and let it go. We’d been friends too long to get bent out of shape over weird hair color and fuzzy eyebrows.

“So where you going all dressed up this morning?”

“Got an appointment with Treyman Barnes.”

She whistled low. “
The
Treyman Barnes?”

“
The
Treyman Barnes.”

“Humph.”

“Humph?”

“We go back.”

“You and Treyman Barnes? How far?”

“Far enough. We went to school together,” she added after a moment.

“No, Wyvetta, you’re lying. You don’t look old enough to have gone to school with Treyman Barnes,” I said, going for forgiveness about the hair color thing.

A sucker for flattery, Wyvetta bestowed it with a grin. “Thank you, Tamara. I’m much older than I look, believe me. I know his wife, Nellie, too. One of my regulars. Big woman, very shy. I don’t think she knows half of what that man does. Know-Nothing Nellie, I guess you could call her.”

“So you knew him in school?” I got back to Treyman Barnes.

“Well, we weren’t exactly friends. You know my parents didn’t have much cash, and he was from a different social class and all, even though everybody knew about his daddy, so he couldn’t hold his head all
that
high.”

“Knew what about his daddy?”

“You know, what he did for a living.”

“And what was that?”

She picked up a pack of hairbrushes and opened it. “Before my time.”

“So what is it that Know-Nothing Nellie knows nothing about?”

She gave me a hard look, rare for Wyvetta. “Tamara Hayle, don’t you let that name get out of this room! Mrs. Barnes has been a loyal customer of mine for years. And you
know
I don’t talk bad about my customers.”

I rolled my eyes, and we both cracked up. Wyvetta Green had been the source of so many tips about people, she deserved half my checks.

“Besides that, it’s too early in the day to be gossiping about the past. And I don’t know if all they say is true anyway. Go and meet the man, form your own opinion.” She shooed me away, like a mother does a child, then added, “If you get your rusty butt back here before lunch, I’ll do them brows for you!”

“I’ll do something about my brows when you do something about that hair,” I said half seriously, which made her smile. “Wow, I almost forgot why I came in. I want to buy something nice for Larry. Can you hook me up with a package?”

Wyvetta beamed at the prospect of a sale. “I got the copper, the silver, the gold, and the platinum. He sounds like a real classy gentleman. Why don’t you go with the platinum? He’ll get a scalp massage, manicure, pedicure, and haircut. The whole bit and two glasses of champagne.”

I must have looked doubtful.

“Go on, girl. Spoil the man! You got a good one and you want to keep him. I’ll give you the platinum for the gold price, how’s that?”

“Okay.” I handed her my credit card.

“Here, let me write out the certificate.” She scribbled some words on a card, shoved it into a gold box, and topped it off with a silver bow and plastic carnation. “Just tell him to come in whenever he can. I know who he is.” She handed me the box, but then the smile left her face, and she leaned toward me, delivering a warning. “You be careful around Treyman Barnes, you hear me, Tamara?” she said. Her troubled look made me uneasy.

But by the time I’d driven downtown, my worries had disappeared. There was a sense of renewal in my city. Newark wasn’t Jersey City, with its high-priced condos and developers tossing around millions, but it was aiming to be better than it was. A new mayor had stepped into town along with a couple of Starbucks and Daily Soups and a collective new attitude.

Yet the city still had a ways to go. People were looking for work where there wasn’t any, schools were still failing kids, and a rash of teenage shootings had ripped the spirit out of everybody in town, including me and my son. There had been seventeen deaths in the early summer, and Jamal had been touched by every single one. A month ago, Tarik, a friend since kindergarten, was walking home from a game and got shot through the head by some kid in a silver SUV. They had yet to find the killer, and that worried us both. Except for a dentist appointment, Jamal would have been walking right beside him, and I couldn’t get that thought out of my head.

Violent death darkened our lives, just like it did the rebirth of the city. For all the new braces, computer lessons, and SAT classes, my son and I both knew he could be wiped out by some dead-end little bastard with nothing better to do on a Friday night than shoot somebody. I’d become so protective of my son, nagging and warning and worrying, that I was starting to get on my
own
nerves.

It’s getting late, Son. Where you going, Son? Who you hanging out with, Son? Who’s that kid? Who his people? Where you say he lived? Where on Bergen Street? Be careful, now. You know how things can get around here. Don’t go there. Don’t stay out too late. Be here when I get home from work. Stay away from that kid. Don’t talk to that girl.

I’d drone on to the point where he only half heard me, and his response to all that had happened was different from mine. His devil-may-care attitude toward life and limb scared the hell out of me. Determined not to show he was afraid, he flirted with disaster—hanging with tough kids going nowhere, coming in late, answering back in a tone that he knew would rub me the wrong way. He was still basically the same sweet-tempered kid he’d always been, but there was an edge to him now that concerned me. He studied hard and his grades were reasonably good, yet he didn’t identify with the “smart kids” but rather with the boys cops look at twice when they roll down the street.

My good friend Jake was still involved in Jamal’s life, but my relationship with Larry Walton, a man I’d been seeing for a year, had made things between Jake and me awkward. Our old familiarity was gone, and I wasn’t sure how to bring it back.

As I drove down Broad Street, my fears about violence seemed foolish. Downtown looked like it was getting ready for business. Roads were being repaired and widened; cranes hovered above. Old stores had new awnings, and places that hadn’t seen the mark of an architect’s pencil in a century were being renovated, spackled, and painted.

Treyman Barnes’s office was on the top floor of a prewar building, not far from where my ex-husband DeWayne Curtis had once parked his lazy behind. DeWayne had left Newark and moved to South Jersey years ago, so the clench that usually grabbed my stomach when I entered his vicinity was gone. As a matter of fact, his building didn’t look like the same place. Like so many others, it was now reflecting moneyed interest—which had just moved in or had believed in the city long enough to stay put. I parked in a garage down from the new arts complex that had fired up the whole renewal thing, rode the elevator up to street level, then walked to Barnes’s building.

A doorman who probably doubled as security guard sat at the front desk doing a crossword puzzle. His pale blue uniform looked spanking new and matched the décor of the lobby, but a missing front tooth spoiled the effect, and he jerked his head nervously when he spoke.

“Hey, pretty lady, who you here to see?” he said. The building obviously had a ways to go.

“Treyman Barnes.” He studied my face and pushed a soiled sign-in sheet and ballpoint pen in my direction.

“Top floor.” He nodded toward the bank of elevators.

“Worked here long?” I said, making conversation as I signed the sheet.

“A while. I mostly work at nights, but the day guy got sick, and I’m filling in.”

“Bet things are pretty quiet around here at night.”

He leaned over and smiled. “Best job in the world being a night man in a place like this. Nobody here. Half the time, I lock things up and go into that spare room over there and sleep. Ain’t a soul here to know what you’re doing or where you been. Don’t tell nobody, though,” he added with a wink.

“Don’t worry. Maybe I should sign up,” I said, and we both laughed.

“Top floor, baby.” He nodded again and went back to his puzzle.

Despite its new façade, the building was still old, and the ancient elevator creaked noisily to the top. The door opened to a wall of mahogany panels with a wide door in the middle distinguished by an oversized brass doorknob. Intimidated, I stood in front, wondering what to do next. Push it? Pull it? Knock? A deep male voice came out of nowhere.

“May I help you?” I glanced around the room. Security cameras were positioned in four corners.

“Tamara Hayle, here for a meeting with Mr. Barnes.” The door opened electronically, and I stepped onto a gold carpet so plush I wanted to take off my shoes. The owner of the voice, a youngish man in a gray cardigan and red tie, sat at a large oak desk, empty except for a telephone and a small monitor.