Expired (5 page)
8
T
he night of the funeral, Rashod Burlingame sat next to the grave that held the remains of his brother Randi. He noticed they had covered the grave since earlier in the day, when Tracie had thrown the first dirt on the casket.
he night of the funeral, Rashod Burlingame sat next to the grave that held the remains of his brother Randi. He noticed they had covered the grave since earlier in the day, when Tracie had thrown the first dirt on the casket.
He dropped the cheap flowers he had gotten from a street vendor on top of the grave. Then he sat cross-legged on the ground with a sketch pad in his hand. He sketched the cemetery and the look of the grave, which held his brother.
It was hard for him to believe that Randi was lying all by himself in the dark, black hole covered with dirt.
But encased in the ground in the metallic blue box he was. Sometimes you never knew how things would work out.
He took a blunt from his pocket, lit it, and inhaled deeply. There. He felt better after taking a toke. The smoke swelled inside his lungs. A feeling of peace stole over him. Hell, the only time he felt peace was when he bought it in a vial or a blunt.
“Randi, I'm sorry,” he said in the empty darkness.
There was no answer.
“I'm telling you, man, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean a lot of things.”
Rashod was a highly gifted and talented sketch artist. His fingers flew across the pad, drawing in the eeriness of his surroundings. The charcoal seemed to take flight in his fingers, and magically they weaved the heartbreaking scene, capturing the essence of one having died.
Of one having been left alone, as Randi was in his patch of ground. His mind soared through the tragic, final event of death. To kill a man was a profound act.
He stopped sketching. His eyes scanned the grave site. He took another toke on the blunt. Then he stubbed it out in the ground. He'd need to save some for later, especially since he had spent some of his money on flowers for Randi.
He'd needed to come back that night, once the crowds were gone, because he couldn't talk to Randi with them there. He couldn't explain things. Besides, he was tired of looking at that Tracie with her fake face of grief pasted in place.
Sometimes her phoniness made him want to heave. The witch was a money lover and nothing else. Money was like a religion to Tracie. All she ever thought about was how to get more of it. She was a sleek clotheshorse, so glamorous on the outside and gluttonous on the inside. She made him sick.
He stood up. Thinking about her felt as if he had summoned her spirit to the place. He definitely could do without that. But he needed to say good-bye. He needed to say it in his own time and in his own way. Tracie didn't deserve Randi. He was good. Talented. He was too good for her to own. They were all just trophies to her.
Well, now he was dead. Tracie didn't own him anymore. She couldn't own Randi anymore, because now he was gone. That was good. It was over. It was one less son for her to hurt and hide things from.
Maybe it would be good if they were all gone. If they were all dead, then there wouldn't be anybody left for her to show off or play with. Bitterness welled up inside Rashod. He spat on the ground.
Not wanting to say good-bye, because it was too final, he thought for a moment. Finally, he said, “So long, Randi. So long, baby brother. Rest in peace. See ya.”
He walked out of the growing darkness of the cemetery. Out on the street he relit his blunt and inhaled deeply. The eyes watched him, absorbed him, and swallowed the ghost of his spirit whole.
Though Randi Burlingame was dead, he had escaped the absorbing of his spirit. He had been spared this particular fate.
But there was a new kid on the block, and thus the rules of the game had changed. It was now time.
9
T
he day after Randi's funeral, Tracie was reigning queen at the helm of her empire. Her main place of business was her salon on the corner of 135
th
Street and Seventh Avenue. Although it was located in an old, worn-out-looking building, the inside of the salon was in stark contrast to its outside.
he day after Randi's funeral, Tracie was reigning queen at the helm of her empire. Her main place of business was her salon on the corner of 135
th
Street and Seventh Avenue. Although it was located in an old, worn-out-looking building, the inside of the salon was in stark contrast to its outside.
The inside was elegantly decorated. It possessed an air of sleek sophistication. It was one of many salons Tracie owned around Harlem. A sign above the door read, “Tracie's Place.”
The salon was full-service. Hairstylists as well as braid stylists, makeup artists, pedicurists, and manicurists filled the place. The other salons Tracie owned were braiding stations only. They were purely cash businesses, where she hired the African girls to run the places and braid hair.
The African girls were the best in the business, hands down. Some of them had come over directly from Africa. They had skills when it came to braiding hair. The art of braiding was a strictly cash-and-carry business. Tracie had been smart enough to recognize the trend at the right time. It was one of her better investments. Women came to her salons from as far away as D.C. and Philly to get their hair braided in her shops.
She had hired some of the best African talent in the city. The other thing was, these women were disciplined. They could stand on their feet, braiding for hours without tiring or needing a break. They worked hard, and they were loyal to a fault. Tracie had never met anyone like them. Under their skills, her braiding salons were raking in the cash.
A huge percentage of the braiding styles parading around the streets of New York City were obtained in her salons. All her salons were named after her: Tracie's Place One, Two, Three, Four, and so on. She loved it. The shop on 135
th
and Seventh Avenue was her baby. It was her first shop. This was where her headquarters was located.
th
and Seventh Avenue was her baby. It was her first shop. This was where her headquarters was located.
At the Seventh Avenue salon she accepted credit cards as well as checks. In this salon the clientele sometimes tended to be a bit more exclusive. She serviced a lot of professional women with high incomes who worked in Manhattan.
She had to accommodate them because these weren't the type of women who walked around with wallets full of cash. Their credit card status was part of their esteem. It was part of their professional package. They expected to flip out titanium, platinum, and gold cards and use them for services rendered.
Plus, these women were into caring for their manes, which they wanted to look healthy and shiny. They were also into weaves of every sort and variety. So her main salon was of a different feel from the braid sweatshops Tracie owned.
The inside of the salon had an ultramodern look, with black and silver color schemes. There were eighteen hair stations. Each was doing a brisk business. Ninety-eight KISS FM dominated the room with its golden classic sounds. There was lots of laughter and lighthearted chattering going on. The cappuccino and coffee machines were pumping.
The makeup stations were busy as usual, scattered with an array of colorful hues and makeup in every shade. Mirrors covered every angle, so a woman could admire the contours of her facial features and examine her coloring in different shades of light.
The nail booths were pumping out glittery, shining jobs; not one drop of polish was out of place. There wasn't a color that had ever been created that Tracie's shop didn't carry. The nail designs were cutting-edge. Customers fought for a seat hereâparticularly the young girls who changed their nail design every couple of days to keep ahead of the others, and who had taken airbrush to a different level.
Eight pedicure booths lined the wall. Each booth was designed with heavily cushioned seats, laid out for pampering and comfort. The foot sinks gleamed and sparkled, boasting the best-smelling scents in the city.
Bottled perfumed scents sat in antique holders. They were of the highest quality, to keep a woman's feet smelling good and looking like a creation in art itself. An array of stainless steel instruments complemented each pedicure booth.
Each seat had its own occupant, looking down upon the head of the pedicure stylist, who would churn out her pedicure as though she were a princess come to visit from a foreign land.
Yes, it was business as usual, Tracie saw as she looked out from behind the glass-walled office. This was her domain, built from scratch. She had built her business from the ground up, with plenty of hard work, imagination, and a flair for the beautiful.
Her goal had been to make beauty a sensual experience. When a woman left her shop, she left covered in the sheen of glamour. It wasn't just physical beauty. Tracie's salons poured it on so it reached the emotional recesses of a woman's psyche, leaving her feeling like a queen.
Tracie Burlingame had tapped into a secret, coveted place inside the black woman's emotions. And she had come out shining. Visiting Tracie's salon wasn't just maintenance; it was an experience.
The salon also boasted private rooms for those women who desired to pay for the exclusivity of services. The music was always pumping. She had runners who would go out for food, drinks, or many of the other desires of her customers.
She employed shoppers, who would run into Manhattan for that last-minute forgotten item if a customer required it. She also kept a stock of liqueurs, natural juices, mineral and spring waters, on hand for those women who required her exclusive services.
Yes, she had thought of every need. She had catered to the whims of black women in ways they hadn't been accustomed to. Her attention to detail was legendary, and it paid off big-time. There were personal spas and masseuses to attend to every ache a customer might have. She had created a silken lap of luxury for these women.
Tracie couldn't have been prouder of herself. She was seriously having trouble counting the C-notes she was raking in. However, she had resolved that problem by purchasing some well-oiled money machines to count the cash. Yes, business was good, but her personal life was rapidly falling apart.
10
O
ut in the front of the salon the door opened and chimes tinkled. Pete Jackson, better known as “Whiskey” to the neighborhood, due to the extreme amounts of alcohol he could down without getting drunk, stepped into the foyer.
ut in the front of the salon the door opened and chimes tinkled. Pete Jackson, better known as “Whiskey” to the neighborhood, due to the extreme amounts of alcohol he could down without getting drunk, stepped into the foyer.
Whiskey was a tough-looking man with a knife scar running the length of his ear to his mouth. He was suave and well built and possessed dark good looks. Whiskey was also Harlem's most prominent underground arms dealer.
A good sixty percent of the guns floating between Brooklyn, Harlem, and the Bronx were supplied by Whiskey. He was good at what he did. He was discreet and dangerously well-connected. He was also a sometimes lover of Tracie Burlingame.
Whiskey was the kind of man who commanded instant attention upon entering any room. He had the kind of persona that swept over people. He left them feeling as though they should be bowing and scraping. Most of his associates did. So did many of his enemies. The dark aura that surrounded him scared most people. So when he entered Tracie's salon the day after she had buried Randi, Whiskey commanded instant attention and got it.
Upon his entrance, Tiffany, the twenty-one-year-old receptionist, had looked up immediately. She cupped her hand around the telephone receiver. “Whiskey, she's in her office.” She waved him through without hesitation. He nodded his appreciation at the coffee-colored perfection of a girl.
He looked through the busy salon and spotted a sultry-looking Tracie behind the glass window, dressed in classic black. She looked stunning. Her skin was shining and flawless. Her eyes were hazel-colored lights beneath thick, brown lashes.
In the flash of a second they changed to cocoa brown, connecting with Whiskey, drawing him in like a magnet. She flashed him a smile.
He headed to her glassed-in domain while reminding himself that dancing with Tracie Burlingame was an experience in sensuality. It would serve him well to remember that, because it was easy to get caught up in the silkiness that was Tracie Burlingame.
Tracie's office played off the same black and silver color scheme as the rest of the salon. A state-of-the-art computer, Persian rugs, Monet prints, a television, VCR, DVD, and a stereo completed the office. Off to one side a mannequin was draped in cloth with stickpins in it. The mannequin stood next to a sewing machine. Sewing was just one of Tracie's hobbies.
Generally she sewed when she really needed to blow off steam. Her real love was playing piano and the organ, hence the expensive organ sitting in the corner of her office. On those black and white keys was where Tracie poured out her real feelings.
With every stroke, key, and melody, this was where she vented her anger, cried her tears, bared her soul, and left haunting melodies hanging in the air.
Every item in the office was neat and in place, including the stacks of cash, sorted by denomination and lying on the desk.
Whiskey knew he had to get straight to the point when he went into Tracie's office. After all, business was business. Stepping through the door, he closed in on Tracie. He leaned close to whisper in her ear, “I have another shipment. I need immediate storage. I haven't heard from you.”
Tracie pulled her ear away from his whispering range. “I know. I just lost my baby son andâ”
“Business is business, Tracie. The guns have to disappear from the street. There's not much time.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You're a big girl.” He touched a lock of her black, silky, wrapped hair. “And you're a survivor,” he told her. He moved closer to her and brushed her ear with the soft whisper of a kiss.
“I don't think I can,” she said.
Whiskey touched a finger to her lips. “Shush. There is nothing a beautiful woman like you cannot do, Tracie.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black velvet box, placing it in her hand. Tracie stared at the box, not speaking. Whiskey walked over to a plush chair in her office and sat down crossing, his legs. “Go ahead. Open it.”
Tracie flipped open the lid. A pair of glittering pear-shaped diamond earrings twinkled at her. She estimated they were at least five carats each. She sighed. “Whiskey, I'm afraid I can't accept these.” Distressed, she ran a hand through her silken hair.
Whiskey stood up. He was not in the mood to be toyed with. Her boy's death had already kept his goods on the street longer than was safe. He would not wait one minute longer.
“Yes. Yes, you can. And you will. Those diamond earrings have a lot to measure up to.” Whiskey's voice was deceptively soft. He gave her a pointed look.
Tracie took a deep breath. She finally shook her head, hitting him with a sultry, seductive smile. Sometimes dealing with Whiskey was extremely trying. His spirit was black, but it was covered in a veneer of rough charisma.
She knew she had to be careful. Whiskey was a dangerous man. Playing with him was not an option.
He reached over her. He hit the button that lowered the silver blinds over the glass window in her office, effectively shutting out the salon. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope bulging with cash. He held out the envelope to her.
Tracie accepted it.
“Tonight,” Whiskey said. “The usual time.”
“Tonight,” she agreed.
Whiskey walked to the office door and turned the handle. His gold pinkie ring flashed rainbow hues, playing against the office lights. He looked at Tracie. “It's too bad about Randi. Maybe one day there'll be other babies. Say hello to Michael and Dre for me.”
The scar on the side of his face pulsed against his skin. He swept Tracie from head to toe with his gaze. Then he was gone.
Tracie went back to her desk. She immediately began counting the cash from the envelope. Satisfied, she stored it according to denomination into the already neatly stacked bills. Softly she caressed the bills as she sorted them.
Money was the only thing in her life that made her feel powerful. It had lifted her out of the projects. Taken her away from other people's jobs, and it had made a great many of her dreams come true. It was the only thing in life she trusted.
Because she knew that with money most things, possessions as well as people, could be bought. But most of all, what money supplied for her was power. It was the greatest symbol of power she had ever received. It had an all-knowing eye. Money was the great equalizer.
Tracie finished counting the money. She turned her thoughts to the night ahead.
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