Power & Beauty (32 page)
“I’m different than the others,” Wanda explained. “I go back longer. He got no reason—”
“He needs no reason. If you don’t come up here, Wanda, I’m coming home to get you.”
“Better that you stay up there and look after Power. You best find Power and tell him to go undercover.”
“Have you called him?”
“I tried, but his number don’t work. I can’t find him.”
“I will.”
“You have to.”
“I love you, Wanda.”
“You take care, Beauty. You and Power—you gotta take care of each other.”
Beauty hung up.
“Who’s Wanda?” asked Kato.
“A friend,” said Beauty. “A wonderful friend.”
“Who’s Dre? Who’s Slim?”
“Dre’s dead. Slim’s his killer.”
“Killer? You’re talking about killers?”
“I need you to help Power.”
“Who’s Power?” asked Kato.
“My brother,” said Beauty. “I’ve got to save my brother.”
A
s the days passed by, Beauty couldn’t sleep or concentrate on work. She could think of nothing but Power. She had to find him. She had to elicit Kato’s help, even if it meant revealing that Charlotte Clay had been murdered. When she finally told him the story, Kato listened carefully before asking, “Are you sure this man’s a killer?”
“Positive.”
“You’ve been associated with a killer?”
“I cut off all association with him. I ran from him. I had nothing to do with him.”
“And your brother?”
“He stayed. He got seduced by his money. He got sucked into his world.”
“Then why not leave him in that world?”
“Because he’s my brother.”
“But not your blood brother.”
“What difference does that make?”
“All the difference in the world. You don’t have the same father or mother.”
“We were raised together,” Beauty explained.
“And then he made a bad choice and a wrong turn. He went down a dangerous path. You don’t have to chase him down that path.”
“I’m not chasing him, Kato, but I have to warn him.”
“Well, first you have to find him, Beauty.”
“Will you help me?” she asked.
“I’m leaving for Europe day after tomorrow.”
“That still gives you a little time.”
“This is not the kind of business we want to get involved with.”
“Kato, I need your help. I need to find Power.”
Sensing that his life would be less complicated if he avoided the entire situation, Kato was tempted to tell Beauty no. But denying Beauty anything was virtually impossible. He agreed to help.
The chief of security at Bloom’s identified a service that specialized in locating people. They went to work immediately. Meanwhile, Beauty called everyone she knew in Atlanta to see if they had any idea of where Power might be in New York. As she frantically worked the phones, the chills returned to her. Her arms and legs trembled. Fear attacked her heart. All that week she couldn’t go to work. When Solomon and Amir called to see how she was doing, she said she didn’t have time to explain.
She had to find Power.
She had to find him now.
When Kato left for Europe, she barely acknowledged his departure. He expressed concern for her emotional well-being, he told her to give up this obsession, but she didn’t hear him. She couldn’t hear anything but Power’s cry for help.
The weekend was hell. The service had still not located Power. Come Monday morning, she went into overdrive. She kept calling people in Atlanta. She located a high school friend who knew Power well. As she was speaking to him, Power’s basketball coach called her back on the other line. She juggled both calls and, while doing so, another line rang.
“Hear you been making calls.” The voice was deep and cold as ice.
Her heart stopped. It was Slim.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“You don’t sound too friendly.”
“I’m not. What do you want?” she repeated.
“I’m looking for Power. He there?”
“No.”
“You know where he is?”
“No.”
Beauty saw that her hands were shaking. She steeled herself. She didn’t want her voice to quiver. She didn’t want to show Slim her fear.
“You see him today?” he asked.
“No.”
“Yesterday?”
“I haven’t seen him in years.”
“You lying bitch,” snapped Slim.
“Fuck you,” Beauty barked and hung up.
Her phone rang again. It was an unidentified caller. Assuming it was Slim, she didn’t answer. Seconds later she saw a text flash on her phone that gave the exact address of the apartment where she was living with Kato. Slim wanted her to know that he had her location. She rushed to the window and pulled the drapes shut. Her hands were still shaking.
She thought of Kato, who was on a plane to Paris. She had to reach him. She had to reach someone. She thought of Solomon. He was at work.
But while she was making the call, another line lit up.
“Beauty, it’s Tanisha.”
“It’s a bad morning, Tanisha,” said Beauty. “I’m really frantic to reach—”
“I won’t keep you, but I talked to Cheryl Green. She’s my aunt. You remember her. She works at Wanda’s Wigs. She’s worked there for years.”
“Is something wrong?” asked Beauty, her heart racing again.
“Well, Wanda has gone missing. She didn’t show up for work this morning. That’s never happened. No one answered at her house, and when they went over there no one was home. I know you and she are close and I was wondering whether she’d said anything to you about leaving town. The girls down at the wig store are really worried.”
“Dear God,” said Beauty.
“What are you saying?”
“I can’t talk right now, Tanisha. Thanks for calling, but I have to hang up.”
Her mind raced at a million miles an hour.
Panic. I can’t panic. Panic does no good. Panic causes mistakes. I can’t make a mistake. Power. I have to find Power. Slim has found me, so why can’t he find Power? Why is Slim asking me about Power?
She called the service.
“Any word?” she asked.
“We think we’ve got his number, but the phone seems out of service.”
“Give me the number.”
“We’ve been trying every half hour or so without luck.”
“Just give me the number!”
Beauty got the number and called it every fifteen seconds, over and over again. She did so for two straight hours. The same recorded message—“This phone is out of service”—clicked on. She kept calling until her fingers ached. And then, miraculously, she did not hear the recorded message. She heard a ring. And then his voice.
“Power,” said Beauty, “Slim’s gone crazy. Last week he had Dre murdered. Today Wanda Washington is missing, and I think he’s killed her. He’s killing anyone close to him, just like he killed Moms.”
“I don’t believe it. That’s not right. That can’t be right. Are you sure? How can you be sure?”
“Call anyone you know in Atlanta and they’ll tell you. Dre’s gone. Wanda’s gone. And you’re next, Power. You gotta start running.”
“To where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m here in New York.”
“I gotta see you, Beauty.”
“I’m afraid, Power. I’m really afraid.”
W
hen Power’s psychology professor Anna Severina had invited him to her apartment with a group of her other students, he was surprised. He thought she probably lived modestly. He figured professors didn’t make much money. But when he reached her address in the West Village, he saw a striking new building of all glass. It sat at 165 Charles Street like an elegant piece of sculpture. The apartment itself, on the top floor, was spacious. The view of the Hudson River was breathtaking. The floors were blond wood and the walls were covered with colorful modern art. Professor Severina explained that her father, a famous architect in Italy, had left her with a love for his profession and appreciation of beautiful forms. She also said that this apartment building was the work of the great modern architect Richard Meier. Power was deeply impressed and also flattered when, after the other students had gone, she asked him to stay for a short chat. She told him she thought he had special insight into psychology and encouraged him to major in the subject. He cherished the conversation and the many others that followed after class. No teacher had ever spoken to him like this before. Professor Severina saw something in Power that made him feel special.
But that was nothing compared to the feeling now coursing through Power as he headed over to the professor’s apartment. He had given the address to Beauty, who said she was only ten minutes away. A Quiet Place in the City, the café where he’d been relaxing until her call came, was about the same ten minutes. But those ten minutes were the longest minutes he had ever experienced. He walked quickly—at one point he began to sprint—unable to contain his excitement. The thoughts in his head had him practically dizzy: She was talking crazy; or she was in danger; or they were both in danger; or Slim really had gone insane; or he was just acting insane to provoke Beauty. But whatever the thoughts, the one that motivated him most, the one that had him picking up the pace of his sprint, was the thought of seeing Beauty. Five years. It had been five long years.
When he got to 165 Charles Street, he looked around the lobby to see if Beauty had arrived. She hadn’t. He decided to wait downstairs. He had to see her the second she came into view. He kept staring at the front door of the building. How would she be dressed? Would she look older? Or younger? Or the same? Minutes passed. He went outside to look down the street, first this way, then the other. His phone rang. It was probably Beauty. It wasn’t. It was an old friend from high school named Smitty.
“Power,” he said, “I just wondered whether you’re coming to Atlanta or whether you’re already here.”
“No, man,” said Power. “I’m in New York. Why would I be coming to Atlanta?”
“For your friend’s funeral. I know how close you were to Andre Gee.”
“Dre’s funeral?”
“You knew, didn’t you?”
“Someone said something but I didn’t believe them. I thought it was just one of those rumors.”
“Sorry, bro, I really am, but it’s no rumor. It was all over the papers today. They found him dead in his own garage.”
Power tried to say something but couldn’t. At that moment he saw Beauty running down the street toward him.
When Beauty had finally gotten through to Power and learned where he wanted to meet, her hands were shaking so she could barely write down the address on Charles Street. She wasn’t sure it would be safe to meet him there, but what else could she do? She wanted to get out of Kato’s apartment—Slim knew her location—yet leaving meant she could be followed. She was confused and unsettled but, determined to get to Power before anyone else did, she got herself together and left. She rode the elevator downstairs and looked around the lobby. No one was there. Still apprehensive that she was being followed, she went out on the street and hailed a cab. One pulled over almost immediately. She looked at the cab driver. He was from Senegal. She wondered if he could possibly be working for Slim. Was he a henchman? If he was, it was too late. She got in the cab and told him the address. The short ride seemed interminable. The traffic was fierce, stop-and-go all the way. Beauty’s mind reeled with fears, excitement, hope, dread. What would Power look like? Would he finally believe her? What would happen? She was petrified and she was thrilled. She prayed for the traffic to clear, but it didn’t. What should have been a ten-minute ride was now turning into twenty. She had to get to Power. She had to get there now.
“What’s the address again?” asked the driver.
“Charles Street. One hundred sixty-five Charles Street.”
The cab turned onto Charles Street. Beauty didn’t like the irony that the street where they were meeting had the same name as the man pursuing them. Charles Street was clogged with cars. A huge garbage truck had broken down. Nothing was moving.
“I’ll just get out here,” Beauty told the driver. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
She ran the rest of the way. She ran faster than she could ever remember running. She kept looking at the addresses as she flew down the street. She was getting closer and closer. She couldn’t be more than a block or two away. She was almost there, very nearly there, when suddenly she saw him. It was Power! He looked wonderful! He looked even more handsome than she had remembered! It was him! It was Power! And just as she got close enough for him to recognize her, just as she caught a glance of his loving eyes and his warm smile, just as his arms began to open, two men grabbed him and violently threw him into the back of a coal-black Cadillac Escalade. By then traffic had cleared and the car sped off before Beauty could reach it. She turned around to see if she too would be captured, but no one was there. In their hurry to get Power, the kidnappers had not noticed Beauty. She stood there, in front of the elegant glass structure at 165 Charles Street, absolutely alone.
To be continued in . . .
Power & Beauty: Book Two
A Love Story of Life on the Streets
I’d like to thank God above all. Without his grace, patience, and abundant blessings, I would be nothing and nothing I’ve done would’ve been possible. I’d like to thank David Ritz for bringing organization to all the creative chaos that fills this “brilliant literary mind” he so generously says I have, and Craig for introducing this unique opportunity, yet again flossin’ his visionary-thinking capabilities.
Thank you to all who were involved in the process of completing this project: our editor and publisher; my management team, Jason Geter, Gee Roberson, and Brian Sher; my lawyer, Jonathan Leonard; my lovely wife, Tameka Harris; my mom, Violeta Morgan; and my beautiful children, Zonnique, Messiah, Domani, Deyjah, King, and Major. To the rest of my family, friends, fans, and supporters, I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me. You’ll never know how much your loyalty means to me.
To the special people in my life who watch over me from above: my father, Clifford “Buddy” Harris; my daughter Leiah Harris; my grandmother Mrs. Willie Bell “Mother” Morgan; my aunt Beverly Dobbins; my friend and brother forever Philant “Big Phil” Johnson; my cousin A. Tramell “Toot” Morgan; and my patnas J-ru and Bankhead. We miss you all.
Lastly, to all the people in prison and in the projects who have ever lived or still live lives similar to any of the characters in this piece; I hope y’all enjoy it. We did it for you. Just know there is a way out, even if it doesn’t seem like it. Keep praying and keep pushing. God is real and blessings are coming to all who believe. I’m living proof. If I can make it, so can you. REAL TALK!
—TIP
David Ritz would like to thank:
Tip, a great writer and brilliant literary mind
Craig Kallman, for making the connection and being a friend
Our editor, Esi Sogah
Our publisher, Lynn Grady
Jason Geter, Jonathan Leonard, David Vigliano, David Peak, Ruth Ondarza, and Matthew Benjamin
My wonderful wife, Roberta; daughters Alison and Jessica; Pops Ritz; Esther and Elizabeth; sons-in-love Henry and Jim; precious grandkids Charlotte Pearl, Nins, James, and Isaac; all my great-nieces and -nephews; and friends Alan Eisenstock, Harry Weinger, Richard Freed, Richard Cohen, Herb Powell, and soul scholar Aaron Cohen.
Special gratitude to the Tuesday-morning God Squad.
Thank you, Jesus.