Hanging on a String Read online

  “How do I get to Lamarr’s apartment from here?” I asked, turning my attention to more immediate matters.

  Her directions, for someone on such a spiritual and metaphysical plane, were remarkably concise. “When you leave, turn right, go five blocks, turn right again, and Lamarr’s apartment building is on the corner. Number 199-15. Apartment 11A.”

  I thanked her and left as soon as possible. I could have spent all afternoon soaking up some of that peace that seemed to hang suspended over Maizie and everything else in her apartment, but I had a job to do, and the sooner I got around to doing it, the better for all concerned.

  I hesitated before I opened the front door to Lamarr’s apartment. On the way over, I had tried, as best as I could, to prepare myself for something that was going to cause deep pain. Maizie had informed me that she had left the apartment the same way she’d found it on the day after Lamarr’s death.

  You have a job to do, I told myself again, repeating the words in my head until they connected with my hands, my body, my brain, my heart. I opened the door quickly before the fear that I felt knawing somewhere deep in my stomach won the battle with my determination to find out what happened to my friend.

  I walked into the living room, and although I had never been to Lamarr’s home, I could imagine Lamarr sitting right there on the beige couch in front of me, listening to his beloved John Coltrane on the record player in the corner. Lamarr was the only person I knew who in 1998 still had a stereo. He was convinced that CDs were just a passing fad. “Besides,” he would often tell me in disgust, usually when he was perusing the ever-increasing numbers of CDs I kept in my office to help me make it through those long nights of case preparation, “the music sounds better on vinyl.”

  Lamarr’s apartment was a study of beige and white. Beige sofa, beige chairs, beige and white rugs. Beige lace curtains fluttered and danced in the wind. Trust Maizie to leave the window open in a dead man’s apartment. The place had a lived-in feeling. From the mound of record albums resting on the floor by the record player to the potted plants, like those found in Maizie’s apartment, which filled the apartment, to the paintings of black women that hung on the walls. Lamarr’s passion had been his art. He painted his muse: black women. I remember how touched I was when Lamarr presented me with a portrait of three black women sitting on a wide, white porch. He had entitled the portrait Content. The picture hangs in my living room, and I am constantly refusing offers from people to buy it. “Sentimental value,” I tell them. I never dreamt just how sentimental that portrait was going to become.

  I sat on the couch and tried to drink in Lamarr’s presence. Before I had entered his apartment, I was afraid that too many memories, and the overwhelming feeling of loss, would do me in. But I felt comforted by Lamarr’s home, which was filled with things unfamiliar yet so reminiscent of their owner, and for a moment, a quick moment, I imagined that Lamarr was just in the next room. He would be out soon, with some herbal, decaffeinated tea or some other treat designed to make me feel good. Lamarr was good at giving comfort. He was also good at giving advice, even when I wasn’t in the mood to hear it.

  He had warned me about Chester. “No damn good,” were the words he’d used to describe my recently deceased ex-boyfriend.

  Enough, said the voice in my head. You’ve got a job to do, and sitting here, worrying about why you ever dated Chester, is not going to help anyone, least of all Lamarr. I stood up from the couch and started looking around in earnest. There is something here that will provide me with the answers I need, I said to myself as I walked around a dead man’s apartment and snooped around his things.

  “Help me, Lamarr,” I whispered to him as I picked up papers on his desk, trying to find something. Anything. I suppose it would have helped if I knew what the hell I was looking for. But that would have been asking life to give me one break too many, I guess. There was nothing on his desk that indicated that anything was amiss before Lamarr died. There were a few bills, letters of solicitation, and two Publishers Clearing House envelopes announcing that Lamarr was now a very rich man.

  I looked in his desk drawers and didn’t find anything. I looked in his living room and didn’t find anything. I looked in his kitchen. His cupboards. Under his bed. Under the table. Under the sink. In the bathroom. No room, piece of furniture, or article of clothing was untouched by me. And I didn’t find anything.

  Exhausted, frustrated, I lay down on his sofa. Outside I could hear the sounds of summer. “Help me,” I whispered again. It was hard to believe that Lamarr met with such an awful end in so peaceful a place. I could not imagine Lamarr slumped over in the Central Park, where they found him, his life draining away, just as the poison drained away from the needle. I closed my eyes, and soon sleep inexplicably descended.

  When I awoke, the clock on the wall read nine o’clock. I had slept for at least two hours. The apartment was now dark, and I reached over and turned on a lamp resting on a small, round table adjacent to the couch. There was a Yale yearbook resting on the table. I don’t know how I had missed seeing that before. Lamarr had attended City College. What was he doing with a Yale yearbook? Maybe a relative had attended Yale, I reasoned, making a mental note to call Maizie and ask her about this.

  Instead of calling Maizie, however, I called a cab service. I was not about to go back on the Number 5 train to Manhattan. I was tired and discouraged. I wanted to get home as fast as I could, and I prayed that Speedy Cab Service would do the trick. The dispatcher didn’t speak English, and I speak even less Spanish, but somehow I convinced her to send a cab, which she assured me would be “right over.” As I left Lamarr’s apartment, I picked up the yearbook. I don’t know why I did it, except that divine intervention, with a little help from Lamarr, moved my hands to take the yearbook, and in so doing, at a later date, saved my life. I hurried out of Lamarr’s apartment, unaware that I had greater things to be worried about than whether or not the cab would be waiting for me downstairs.

  14

  I did not get into the office until ten o’clock the next morning, and bad news arrived before I did.

  “They’re killing folks here at B&J,” the receptionist, Raquel, greeted me. “And I am more than worried.”

  “Good morning, Raquel,” I greeted her and tried not to join in this conversation. Things were bad enough without me helping to fan the flames of panic, which I heard loud and clear in Raquel’s voice.

  “They killed Chester, Lamarr, and now Irmalee,” said Raquel, her eyes getting wider as she spoke, and her lips quivering with fear and, I thought, a little bit of relish. Raquel loved scoop. It was going to be her downfall, I was convinced.

  “We don’t know that Lamarr was killed.” I tried to be the voice of reason, even though I knew Raquel was speaking the gospel truth.

  “Oh, they killed Lamarr alright,” replied Raquel, nodding her head for emphasis. “Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder could see that! They killed that poor Lamarr. And I don’t intend to be next. I’m submitting my letter of resignation today. My Henry didn’t even want me to come in. He wanted me to hotfoot it out of town, lay low until this mess blows over, but I wasn’t going out like that. I’m a professional.”

  “Looks like you might not have to bother to submit your letter of resignation,” said Wayne Ling, one of the few associates I truly did not like, as he joined our conversation. “Word is that Raymond is about to pack it all in. No Raymond, no firm.”

  Raymond was going to have to leave the firm, probably the practice of law, but the swiftness of his actions surprised me. I’d thought that he would stay at B&J in some way at least for awhile, if only to assist in the transition of something that he’d built and held dear to his heart. But Wayne was right. Without Raymond, there was no B&J. There was no need for transition. B&J was Raymond’s creation, and without his guiding hand, there was no way that the firm would continue.

  “Don’t tell me that Raymond’s running scared because of all this mess with folks here at B&J getting k
illed,” said Raquel. “Ain’t no killer crazy enough to mess with Raymond. That’s for damn sure.”

  I never quite understood the sway that Raymond held over people. Friends, foes, employees, even casual acquaintances all looked at him as if he were untouchable. He was, as Lamarr used to put it, “the man.” Just a few seconds before, Raquel had been talking about her own fear that there was some maniac out there trying to kill B&J folk, and now here she was swearing that Raymond was tougher than any killer out there. I think people recognized a certain toughness in him, a determination that would not let anyone or anything deter him from whatever the desired goal was. I used to believe that was true about Raymond, but now I knew better. Raymond had one enemy he couldn’t beat: his past.

  “I don’t know why Raymond is leaving, but he’s going to talk to the firm at a meeting tomorrow afternoon,” replied Wayne, his eyes fixed on my face. “Know anything about this, Jasmine?”

  “No,” I lied, moving away from them. I did not want to hear any more. I knew I wasn’t going to be at that meeting. I did not want to witness a humble Raymond. For me, this decision was similar to my refusal to look at dead people in a casket. I don’t want to remember them frozen in death, and I didn’t want to look back at Raymond frozen in defeat.

  I walked away from Wayne and Raquel. Each one was discussing their primary concern. For Wayne, it was the possible closing of the law firm, and for Raquel, it was staying alive long enough to cash in the funds in her 401K plan.

  As I walked down the hallway, I could hear and see the hysteria growing. The murmurs of many conversations. Voices sounding anxious. Heads huddled together in deep conversation. Telephones ringing. Looks of bewilderment, and fear. I could see secretaries packing up files in boxes.

  Marsha Radford, an associate who had only been at the firm for a few months, caught up with me before I entered my office. A small, round woman, with an equally round face and earnest blue eyes, Marsha had been a promising hire. I ‘d fought to get her hired. Raymond and a few other partners weren’t convinced that she was tough enough to handle our cases, but in the end, my voice, and surprisingly, the voice of Nina, who had lobbied that we needed more women lawyers at B&J, had prevailed. It was one of the few times that Nina and I had agreed on anything.

  “Jasmine,” she said, “I just want you to know that whatever happens, I don’t regret coming here to B&J. I learned a lot.”

  She was a class act. Anybody else would have cursed me out for recruiting them not even six months ago, signing them on at a firm that was on the verge of breaking up. I know I might have done that if I were in her shoes, but here she was, looking concerned, and her concern was focused in my direction.

  “That’s nice of you to say, Marsha,” I said. “But I feel terrible that you, and everybody else here, is caught up in what I think may be a bad situation.”

  “Please,” said Marsha, rolling her eyes, “I can always get another job. I got this one, didn’t I?”

  I wanted to hug her. She made so much sense. For the past eight years, I had lived with the fear of losing my job at B&J. No matter how good things were, no matter how many successes I racked up with my cases, I still had that fear of unemployment. A fear that contributed heavily to my spending more hours at B&J and fewer on my life outside the office. A fear that never let me get too confident, too sure of myself and my abilities at B&J. And now the thing that I feared most was about to happen. Marsha was right. I got this job. I can always get another job.

  “Thanks, Marsha.”

  “For what?”

  I replied truthfully. “For things that I can’t even begin to explain. Just take my thanks. Believe me, you’ve earned them.”

  I would have explained more, but I heard my name being paged over the pager system. I answered the page and was informed by Raquel that Councilman Vincent Crown was here to see me.

  I went into my office and waited for Vincent to arrive. I did not have to wait long. He entered my office in quick, determined strides, his face twisted in anger.

  “Good morning, Councilman Crown,” I said, keeping my voice cool and even. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “You can tell me what the hell is going on,” he bellowed, standing across from where I sat, behind my desk. “That son of a bitch Raymond is not returning any of my calls.”

  I’ll bet, I thought as I tried to formulate the appropriate response to this information.

  “Word around town is that old Raymond is in a bit of trouble, and this here firm may be going down in flames,” he added.

  Bad news travels fast. Bad news about lawyers travels even faster.

  “What I want to know is, what the hell is going to happen to my money?” Vincent screamed. “That’s what I want to know. And what’s going to happen to my case?”

  Vincent was shaking his Jerri curls vigorously, and I thought for a brief moment that he looked like some sort of aging rock star in the middle of a performance. I never realized it before, but he had a strange resemblance to the late Rick James. “Y’all are not going to cheat me out of my money.”

  I figured that I’d deal with the easiest of Vincent’s issues first. “Your case is in good hands. Excellent hands, in fact. As you already know, I’m handling your case, until I’m told otherwise. However, if you don’t want me to represent you, there are many attorneys in New York who would be happy to assist you. I would be happy to give you a referral.”

  Damn happy, in fact.

  “It was my understanding that Raymond would be working with you,” he said, and although he was still screaming, I noted that he was at least screaming in a lower octave. “Where the hell is Raymond?”

  “I don’t know where Raymond is,” I replied, “and I don’t know whether or not Raymond will be assisting me with your case.” Hell, I don’t know whether or not B&J will exist by the close of business today.

  “What are you telling me? What the hell are you telling me?”

  “I’m telling you that I’m handling your case. I’m also telling you that Raymond is not handling this case.”

  “Well, I’m going to talk to Raymond about this.”

  “Please do that,” I replied as I stood up and gave him what I hoped was not a subtle hint that this discussion was closed.

  Vincent stood up also and faced me. “You all don’t want to mess with me, Miss Spain. You all need to understand the importance of treating me correctly.”

  I felt my spine get straighter.

  “Is that a threat, Mr. Crown?” I asked, my eyes never leaving his for a moment.

  “You bet your sweet posterior,” replied Vincent. “It’s a threat, and it’s a promise. There’s things I know about this firm that the press would love, just love to hear about. Do you understand where I’m coming from, sweetheart?”

  I laughed then. Poor Vincent, as if anything he said could top three dead employees, an impostor name partner, and Chester’s two wives. I picked up the telephone and handed him the receiver.

  “What the hell is this?” asked Vincent, looking down at the telephone receiver.

  “It’s a telephone,” I replied. “It’ll assist you when you make your two telephone calls.”

  “What telephone calls?”

  “The one you’re going to make to the press. I’m sure that they will be interested in anything you have to say. I’m not. The second call should be to your new attorney. Let me know where to send your files.”

  I left him standing in my office, cursing at me.

  I walked over to Raymond’s office, with the sound of Vincent’s voice still ringing in my head. His office door was closed, but his secretary’s door was open. She looked at me warily and said, “He’s not available for office visits until late this afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But that isn’t good enough.”

  I opened the door to his office, without knocking. Any time for formality had long since passed. I sensed that Raymond was going to do a disappearing act after his meeting, and
there were still some questions I needed answered. I wasn’t optimistic that Raymond would be cooperative, especially in light of his present circumstances, but the way I figured, it was worth a try.

  Raymond was standing by an open window, looking like he wanted to jump out. He didn’t look up when I entered the office, closing the door behind me.

  “Go away,” he said.

  “Raymond, it’s me, Jasmine,” I said, as if that would make any difference.

  “Go away, Jasmine.”

  I sat down on the nearest chair. “Vincent just came by to see me, and he’s upset.”

  That touched a nerve. Raymond turned and looked at me. He looked as if he had aged ten years since I last saw him. His eyes were bloodshot.

  “Do you think I give a good damn about Vincent Crown?” His voice sounded like it came from a dead person. His voice sounded hollow and flat.

  “Raymond, he’s still a client. At least he is until he gets a new lawyer. I invited him to change his legal representation.”

  “Good for you.”

  I cleared my throat. “He’s been trying to get in touch with you. I just thought you should know that.”

  Raymond turned his attention back to the window and the streets below. “You’ve done your good deed for the day. You can leave the same way you came in.”

  Here goes, I thought before I opened my mouth again. “Raymond, I have a few questions that I need to ask you.”

  “Good-bye, Jasmine.”

  “Raymond, please. It’s important. I need to know what you know about Chester’s death. If anything. Or about Lamarr and Irmalee.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Please Raymond, don’t do this. I know you’re lying.”

  “Jasmine, let the police do their job, and leave me the hell alone.”

  “I can’t do that,” I said. “I can’t leave it alone.”