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  That wasn’t the case here, so she would stick with bright. “Okay,” she said. “I’m the number one girlfriend, so what’s on your mind?”

  Tracie determined that Renee must have been having a good writing day from her attitude. That was good, because it meant the whole of the conversation could center on Tracie’s problems, without her having to bolster up Renee because of some job she didn’t get or because some director was trampling over her creation and turning it into pure trash.

  Tracie poured a healthy amount of Rémy Martin in the snifter, took a more tentative sip this time, and decided it was girlfriend time in the hood. “The police are telling me Randi’s death wasn’t an accident. They believe somebody killed him.”

  Renee raised her eyebrows in speculation. Her line into the neighborhood was pretty good. She had connections just about everywhere, as every good writer does—including in the police precincts, but she hadn’t heard a peep about this. “Get the hell out of here. You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.

  “No. I’m not. I wish I was.”

  “Where did them fools ever get an idea like that? Everybody loved Randi.”

  Tracie took another sip before answering. “Randi didn’t have his boots on when”—she broke off, hesitating and stumbling over the words—“when they found him on 135th Street,” she finished lamely.

  Renee considered this. It didn’t make sense. “Why? Where the hell were his boots at?”

  Tracie shrugged. “That’s what the police want to know.”

  “Okay, you got me there. I’ll admit that’s a little strange, but maybe he took them off to air his feet or something. You know how Randi loved freedom. He’s been like that since he was a little boy. That’s why he was always sitting up on the roof.”

  Renee put her chin in her hand. “Hell, he was one of the only players in the city who sometimes played on the court without his sneakers. It’s an inside joke, girl, you know that.” Renee choked back the mist that rose in her throat.

  “Yeah. I know. But the problem is, the police have one of the boots.”

  The mist cleared as a jolt of anger from Tracie’s words bolted through Renee. “At the risk of sounding stupid, Tracie, where is the other one?”

  Tracie sighed. “Hell, I don’t know. They showed up at my door this morning with one of the boots, claiming the murderer sent it to them with a note.”

  For some reason that Tracie didn’t understand, she decided to leave out the part about the broken silver heart. She didn’t feel like sharing that with Renee.

  Renee leaned back on the bar. She didn’t like what she was hearing. “This is bad stuff, girl. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Outside of perhaps strangle that Monica Rhodes. She’s a first-class dog in my opinion, and I’m sick of her snout sniffing up my behind.”

  Renee laughed at Tracie’s choice of words. She was such the proper lady most of the time. “What’s her angle?”

  “She doesn’t have an angle as far as I’m concerned. She’s just a hound looking for a scent. Probably looking to get promoted on my son’s death.”

  Renee stood up. “Well, I don’t know anybody who can handle that type better than you, that’s for sure.”

  Tracie smiled for the first time. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m a bad-mutha-shut-your-mouth when I wanna be.”

  Renee laughed heartily, showing her white gleaming molars. “That you are, girlfriend, that you are. Hey! Did you hear the latest?” Renee had decided that a turn in the conversation wouldn’t hurt while she had Tracie laughing, although what she had to say was far from funny.

  “No. What?” Tracie’s curiosity was piqued. No one delivered a hot piece of gossip better than Renee Santiago. The girl was plugged in, and her stuff was usually delicious, hot off the wire, and for the most part pretty accurate.

  “What? Tell me already,” Tracie said when Renee still hadn’t spoken.

  “You know old Ms. Virginia?” Renee had turned solemn.

  “Of course I do. She’s one of my oldest, most elegant customers.”

  “Humph, not anymore,” Renee said.

  Tracie set down her glass, deciding she’d had enough Rémy Martin for one day. “What do you mean, not anymore? I know there’s not a salon in Harlem who could have stolen her from me.”

  “Nope, you’re right. A salon didn’t steal her—death did.”

  “What?” Tracie was beginning to feel like a parrot.

  She hated the way Renee always strung out her stories a little bit at a time, so she could have you chomping at the bit, although, Tracie conceded, this was probably what made her a good writer.

  “Ms. Virginia is dead. Died of a heart attack. You know Visionaries will close down now, cuz she didn’t have no living heirs. She was always fretting about that. Threatening to leave her store to somebody from the community, so her legacy of selling words, and black literature could live on. I wonder if she ever got around to that.”

  Tracie’s mouth was open, but nothing was coming out.

  “Anyway,” Renee continued, “that’s not all of it, honey—might just be the least of it.”

  “What do you mean? How could her death be the least of anything? It looks like the biggest of it to me. There are other bookstores in Harlem.”

  “True, dat,” Renee lapsed into complete street slang. “However, all of the books in those stores have words in them.”

  Tracie laughed wholeheartedly this time. Visiting Renee had been just what she needed to get a grip on things. She hadn’t laughed this much since Randi died.

  “All books have words in them, Renee—in every bookstore. That, my dear, is the point to most books. Sorry to be the bearer of such startling news.”

  Renee did one of her famous ballerina twirls around the room. She had studied when she was younger, and it was one of her lost vocations.

  “Very funny, Tracie.”

  Tracie was still laughing.

  “But way off the track. You see, the books in Ms. Virginia’s shop are just a little bit different. All the cover art and pictures are on or in the books. In fact, all the pages are in the books, with one small exception.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There are no words on them!” she shrieked emphatically. This time Tracie heard her. Really heard her.

  “Not a single word, on a single page, not in a single book. Now, how weird is that?”

  Renee completed her pirouette, ending in a graceful bow in front of Tracie. Tracie shivered as her memory opened up like a wide-screen television with all the glory of Technicolor.

  The number one girlfriend, of the Hispanic ancestry, with the thick mane of hair, scriptwriter extraordinaire with the savvy Saks Fifth Avenue credit card, had just unknowingly landed another blow to what was Tracie Burlingame.

  Tracie just stared at Renee while a very weird feeling rattled around inside her at the sound of Renee’s words.

  “There are no words on them. Not a single word on a single page, not in a single book. Now, how weird is that?” The words echoed against the chambers of Tracie’s mind.

  The dream she had blown off like so much dust had reared its head and come crawling out of the recesses of her memory. It was not to be forgotten.

  “In your face,” it seemed to say to Tracie.

  21

  Inside a crack house up on 133rd Street, Rashod sat with his back to the wall, in a cocaine haze. He had abandoned his charcoal and sketch pad. He just didn’t want to touch them right now. He inhaled slowly on his pipe.

  Genie sat next to him on the dirty, stained mattress. He loved cocaine as much as Rashod. They were crack buddies. They shared what they had, and they looked out for each other when one of them didn’t have. Both of them were oblivious to the drug-induced atmosphere that surrounded them.

  Lovers of the trade were sprawled around the room, creating their own havens. Each inhabited his or her own space, not encroaching on the space of the others.

  Those wer
e the rules of the house, and the rules were strictly enforced. If you broke them, you’d be out on your behind looking for a new house, and this was one of the better houses around. The security was tight. The crack, cocaine, and heroin were the best grades in town. If you were out of supplies or works, you could buy them here.

  They even sold clean needles. And sometimes they would look out for you if you were a regular and short or a little down on your cash luck.

  The house even had its own name.

  Some fool who equated the myth of Santa Claus with the distribution of white, mind-destroying candy had dubbed the crack house “St. Nick’s.” Anyway, the name had stuck, and since you could buy whatever you needed here and rent your own little space in a room, breaking the rules was not an option.

  After a few more pulls on the pipe, Genie turned to Rashod and asked, “Rashod, tell me what you see.”

  “What?” Rashod blew smoke clouds into the air.

  “You heard me, man. Tell me what you see. You know, like me, man. I see a world surrounded in glass. It’s a big glass ball. I keep trying to get out, but the ball keeps spinning and spinning in circles.” Genie inhaled deeply.

  Genie’s question disturbed Rashod—conjured up pictures he didn’t want to see. Rashod peered at him through a cloud of smoke. “I don’t see anything, Genie; there’s nothing to see.”

  Genie laughed. “Is that right? If you weren’t seeing nothing, you wouldn’t be killing yourself with that pipe. None of us would.”

  Off in the distance a church bell tolled, announcing a new hour. Rashod’s voice was a soft whisper over the sound of the bell. “Doesn’t matter. I’d be dying anyway. I was sprung from a seed with the shadow of death on it.”

  The heat of his words penetrated Genie’s haze. Genie looked over at Rashod, seeing an aura covering him. However, he was unsure if it was the smoke from the drugs or a different kind of haze.

  Uncomfortable, Genie decided to drop the conversation for now. Some days Rashod scared him, and this was one of those days.

  22

  Tracie walked into her brownstone, shutting the door firmly behind her. She was still shaken by her conversation with Renee regarding Ms. Virginia and the wordless books.

  A heavy feeling was settling right in the middle of her chest. She didn’t know what was going on, but suddenly she felt as though she had been thrust into the twilight zone.

  Before she could shake the feeling that had come over her, a basketball bounced into the room. There was no ballplayer behind it. “Michael?” Tracie called out.

  There was no answer. “Randi?” she caught herself. How was she ever going to stop doing that?

  “Dre?” Dre didn’t answer, either.

  Slowly she walked across the room and looked down the hallway. It was empty. She walked to her bedroom. Her nightgown was lying on the bed. She hadn’t left it there. Lying on top of the nightgown were two pieces of a broken silver heart and one lone sunflower seed.

  Tracie backed out of the room, pulling the door shut. She turned and bumped into a rock-solid figure. A soft moan escaped her lips as a bolt of fear shot through her. “No.”

  Tracie looked up as Michael grabbed hold of her.

  “What’s the matter, Ma? Are you okay?”

  She quickly composed herself. “Uh, yeah, baby. I’m fine. I . . . I just have a bit of headache. I think I’ll take some Tylenol.”

  Michael eyed her closely. “Are you sure?” He was still quite shaken from his own experience, but he definitely would not allow Tracie to key into that.

  “Yeah. I’m sure,” Tracie said.

  Michael released her. The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” he said.

  “No!” Tracie shrieked at him. Calming herself, she lied, “I’m expecting a call, so I’ll get it.” She left and went to pick up the extension in the living room. “Hello.”

  The distorted voice greeted her again. “Hello, Little Caramel. You’re doing very well so far. I guess I won’t have to be mailing you a package. I was just about to enjoy your sweetness when I was interrupted. I left you a present, though. Did you see it?”

  Tracie wrinkled her nose as though she could smell the scent of him.

  “Yes.”

  “Just the thought of you, Tracie, is soft and silky. I wanted to play ball with you, but I ran out of time. Maybe next time. You’re doing well with rule number two, and I haven’t even told you what it is yet.”

  At his words, a cold draft swept through the room where Tracie was standing. She shivered.

  “When I call, you jump. But just like the smart girl you are, I see you’ve accomplished this on your own. It’s your move, Tracie.”

  Emboldened by his audacity and her anger, Tracie said, “Why don’t you show yourself the next time instead of running away? Only punks run away.”

  He laughed. She couldn’t provoke him. Didn’t she know who he was? “Come on, Tracie,” he said. “You’re a more worthy opponent than that. Don’t disappoint me. You were doing well. Don’t be impatient. Believe me, you and I will dance when the time comes.”

  Tracie heard the soft click of him hanging up in her ear.

  The caller ID registered a spooky “Unknown.”

  23

  Whiskey sat mesmerized before the blown-up portrait of Tracie Burlingame. Her image occupied almost the entire length of his bedroom wall. He was absolutely obsessed with her haunting beauty. The photograph had been taken one gorgeous spring day when he and Tracie had ventured down to the shoreline in Connecticut.

  The stunning replica reminded him of what they could have been, not what they were. Taming a woman like Tracie Burlingame would be a full-time occupation or preoccupation, whichever one wanted to call it.

  Even through the still photograph the sheer beauty she possessed was hypnotic. The depths of her eyes that changed colors like a chameleon seemed to flash and transform even in repose.

  Tracie’s eyes twinkled. He turned away from looking at the photograph while swigging directly from a fifth of Jack Daniels, although he still felt her overwhelming presence.

  He was the type of guy that came from a background that said a man like him could never have a woman like Tracie Burlingame. Even though Tracie had built her image from scratch and clawed her way out of the projects, she had built an image that screamed, “untouchable.”

  She was crème de la crème.

  Whiskey had grown up as a hood rat, basically. His father had been a notorious gambler, and he wasn’t any good at it. His mother cleaned other people’s houses to keep food on the table. Not that it worked—his father had pissed away every cent she brought into the house, chasing the next dream.

  Whiskey had vowed he would overcome. When he was young, he took from those who were weaker. When he grew older, he took from those who were strong.

  He took, stole, banged heads together, and built his image on the back of black, dark danger. He was always more dangerous and more daring than the next man; that’s why he was the most prominent arms dealer in New York City.

  He’d never wanted for anything since he learned how to hustle past hunger pains, until Tracie Burlingame. Whiskey wanted to possess Tracie. She occupied his thoughts most days and nights, to an extent that was scary. He could smell her perfume even when she wasn’t with him.

  Speaking of smells, Whiskey turned his thoughts to the scent Tracie had given off when he’d talked to her about his shipment.

  Being a predator of sorts, Whiskey had smelled a stench on Tracie that far surpassed any perfume she’d been wearing. It rose up from her pores, permeating the very air between them, creating vibes that were felt but unseen.

  Her boy Randi Burlingame, Mr. NBA himself, was already in the ground, covered over. She had to deal with that. So what was the problem?

  Staring once again at her photo, Whiskey identified the scent that was rising up from the pores of Tracie’s skin, seeping out like molasses being poured from a bottle. Yes. It was seeping right out from the strands of her
perfectly coiffed hair.

  Fear.

  Tracie Burlingame, Ms. Thang, was scared. It was a foreign emotion that he’d never sensed on her before.

  “Fear.” He said it out loud, savoring the word on his lips. Then he threw his head back, roaring in laughter; in fact, he howled with laughter as he took a long swallow from the bottle of Jack Daniels.

  Tracie Burlingame was running scared; that meant it would be an interesting chase.

  Whiskey was not the only entity that had Tracie on his mind. A little farther uptown on 135th Street, a man sat drinking the last cup of her dead son’s blood.

  He drank slowly, savoring each drop of the remnants of Tracie Burlingame’s seed. He licked his lips, loving the feel and the smell of it. His blood craving was critical, and he could not afford to run out. He prowled the basketball court restlessly.

  It was late at night, so he was the only person on the court. He would need more blood, and he would need it very soon; otherwise he would be sick. The beast would rise up in him, refusing anything less than total saturation.

  His compulsion for drinking blood was growing. He knew he would have to feed at a much faster rate than in the past. He was drawing out his own withdrawal symptoms by playing tag with Tracie Burlingame, but his craving for her went much deeper.

  Tiring of his thoughts, he got up and dribbled the basketball down center court, trying out his newfound skills. Swish, swish, and swish. It felt good—exhilarating, actually.

  In drinking Randi’s blood he had acquired the boy’s skill, superstar skills, and his moves on the court were now pure poetry in motion. Just like the dead legend.

  He ran the ball downcourt again, caught up in the joy, the run, and the feel of the ball in his hand. He was in total command. Hell, maybe the NBA would recruit him. He ran the court a few times, and on his last trip down, he found Me standing in front of the basket.

  Just as the ball flew out of his hand and up toward the basket, Me’s hand blocked it, bouncing it back downcourt to him. The two comrades were finally face-to-face.