Too Beautiful To Die
Volatile black ex-cop Blades Overstreet just wants to win estranged wife back. When the man who once saved his life prevails upon him to help a sultry soap opera star find her father, Blades gets caught in a web of secrets involving well-connected business -men and the FBI and throws his chance of getting his wife back in jeopardy.
Advance
Praise for
Too Beautiful to Die
| :: About the book | :: Excerpt |
| :: Buy the book | :: Reviews |
Song of Night
Her name is Cyan. She is nicknamed "Night" because she is so
dark. Her godmother accuses her of stealing money. The punish -ment meted
out by her mother scars her for life. But instead of breaking her spirit
this
only makes her more determined. Prepare to lose yourself in the intrigue
and heartbreak of Cyan's attempt to live life on her terms.
| :: About the book | :: Excerpt |
| :: Buy the book | :: Reviews |
Fire in the Canes
At the turn of the century in the sleepy West Indian
village of Monkey Road, fifteen year-old Midra falls under the spell of
reputed
shapeshifter Prince Johnson, the descendant of a runaway slave known as
The African. In one night of passion, her life changes and so does everything
else in the village.
| :: About the book | :: Excerpt |
| :: Buy the book | :: Reviews |
:: ABOUT THE BOOKS ::
Too Beautiful To Die
About the Book
Blades Overstreet worked the dangerous New York streets as an undercover cop.
During a buy-and-bust operation a white undercover fellow officer "accidentally"
shot and nearly killed him. Blades' life was saved by a taxi driver who lifted
him into his cab and sped him to the hospital. Fearing the racial outcry the
police department tried to cover up the shooting and Blades resigned in anger,
alienating his wife with his growing paranoia.
But Blades is trying to move on. He runs a record store in a Caribbean neighborhood in Brooklyn while he waits for the City to settle his lawsuit. But more than anything he wants to win his wife back. He is busy making preparations for her visit from LA when the man who saved his life prevails on him to help a beautiful soap opera star named Precious find her father.
Blades reluctantly agrees, but what he finds is the murdered
body of an FBI agent, and a swirling vortex of lies and secrets, in the process
stirring up the animosity of New York's mayor. Pursued by cops and feds alike,
and with time running out his chance to win his wife back, Blades must find
the killer, and unravel the mystery of Precious' relationship to a powerful
politician before he himself takes the rap.
Compared by critics to the best of Cain, Hammett, Chandler and James Lee Burke,
(what do they know), Too Beautiful To Die has an original wit, and beg-to-be-spoken
dialogue so tight you can scoop it off the page. The writing will beguile
you with its insights into American society and into the tortured hearts of
lonely frightened immigrants striving to survive in the basin of urban humanity.
Song of Night
About the Book
The heroine of this evocative novel is Cyan Cattlewash, nicknamed “Night” because she is so dark. Bottom Rock is her village, just five miles from Bridgetown the capital of Barbados. Her father is known as “Steel”; he is a fisherman who teaches his daughter to love the unspoiled beauty of their island. Her mother, a foreigner from neighboring St. Lucia, is scorned as an outsider by the villagers. The smart one in the family is her sister, on whom her mother’s ambitions are focused, but it is feisty Cyan who is her father’s favorite.
And then her father kills a man in a fit of jealous rage and Cyan’s tranquil life is changed forever.
Catapulted into early adulthood Night becomes pregnant by the only man she ever loved, and peddles her home-sewn dresses to tourists on the beach. Night’s friend Koko, an immigrant to Barbados from the U.S., is a local gallery owner who arranges for Night to give up her child for adoption to Amanda, her African-American friend. The meeting between Night and Amanda takes an unexpected turn, and Night’s life veers dangerously toward the violence that was such a part of her past.
Told in a poetic engaging manner, Song of Night is a contemporary tale of love and rage—and one woman’s tragic destiny. It captures the complex relationships and conflicts between the island natives and the American-born newcomers, between the old and the new. It mixes an exotic and perilous brew, which comes alive through the magical language of the people and their extraordinary landscape.
Fire in the Canes
About the Book
Fire in the Canes is an epic tale about murder, betrayal, love and longing, a unique blend of the supernatural and history. It is the story of young lovers, parted forever after one magical night, and of a people overcoming the legacy of slavery and regaining pride in themselves and their ancestors.
Though slavery was abolished more than fifty years ago, not much has changed on this Caribbean island. The plantation still owns the land; all but a few people in the little tenantry village of Monkey Road work in the cane fields. They are not yet fully free. Then Peata, beautiful and sensuous, arrives in the village with her fifteen-year-old daughter Midra, and things begin to change.
Peata makes her living entertaining-giving parties for the village men. At these gatherings she falls under the spell of Prince Johnson, the descendant of a runaway slave-woodcarver known as the African. A reputed shapeshifter, Prince dares to defy the plantation.
But it is Midra who captivates Prince and it is Midra whom he transports to a hidden cave for a night of love and enchantment; it is Midra who looks through the eyeholes of the mask carved by The African to receive a revelation from the ancestral spirits. And it is these ancestors, and the discovery of the fire-charred bones, that lead the villagers to full freedom.
::EXCERPTS ::
Too Beautiful To
Die
A look inside
“I feel so ashamed talking about this.”
Her voice had the forced calmness of someone trying to hide her emotions.
She sat in the wing chair, long legs crossed; back erect. I kept my eyes
focused on her face. When I was a cop I had honed to perfection the skill
of reading the eyes of a witness or a suspect, but was my attention to
her eyes, which could light a candle, force of habit or the fact that
she was so
damn beautiful?
“I don’t know who my father is,” she continued. “I
don’t know his name or what he looks like. I never even saw a picture.
I don’t even know if he’s alive. For years I’ve been
trying to track him down without any luck. Last week out of nowhere I
got a call from a man. He asked me how much was I willing to pay for information
about my father. I asked him his name. He wouldn’t tell me, so I
hung up. He called back and told me that for $50,000 he would tell me
who my father was, and how to get in touch with him. He wouldn’t
give me any details about how he knew I’d been searching for my
father but the more he spoke the more I was taken in. There was something
about his voice. He just seemed so sure. Like he knew things most people
didn’t know. In the end I agreed to pay him.”
“That’s a lot of money,” I said. She glanced at Jimmy
and then back to me.“The money is nothing to me. I can afford it.
I’d pay twice that to find my father.”
“How many times have you spoken to this man?” I asked.
“Three or four.”
“Did you get his name?”
“He called himself Antonio.”
“It sounds like a hoax. A crazed fan,” I said.
“That’s why I need you.”
Right there I should’ve gotten up, thanked her for the beer and
the brief respite from the heat and made my way back to my Brooklyn sauna
before I got so comfortable in her company and this Town and Country living
room that I’d agree to slay a lion. Instead, I sat there looking
like a schoolboy watching his first striptease.
Precious got up and went back to the sculpture, her gold-embroidered slippers
smacking the floor. She bent down and picked up a black leather briefcase.
“I have the money. And I know where to take it. I want you to go
with
me.”
At least she didn’t say: I want you to take it. Give her credit
for that. She might be an actress, but she was no prima donna.
“I think you should call the police,” I said.
“She don’t want to do that,” Jimmy said.
Precious stepped forward. “I don’t want any publicity. I was
ready to go myself but Jimmy convinced me you would help.”
“You have to help her, Blades,” said Jimmy.
“You want my help, then take my advice,” I said.
“Is it asking too much for you to go with her, man?” Jimmy’s
voice rose impatiently.
The actress completed her parade across the room and sat opposite me again
leaning forward. I could feel her sharp eyes scaling my face.
“Please, I’m willing to pay you,” she said.
Jimmy stood guard near the hip of the couch, watching me wearily.I looked
up at Jimmy.
“Why don’t you go with her?”
He snorted and then coughed, the wild rugged hack of someone with bronchial
problems, his body shaking uncontrollably.
“You okay, man?” I stood up.
He clamped his hand over his mouth to try to control the coughing. After
two or three more tremors he stopped and looked at me his eyes thin a
glassine.
“You used to be a cop. You would know what to do if things aren’t
on the up and up.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do it,” I said and sat
back down.
Precious looked at me surprised, almost stunned. Jimmy had obviously convinced
her that I was in his hip pocket.
“Leave us alone for a minute, Precious,” Jimmy said.
Precious sighed softly and rubbed the back of her neck. She rose from
the wing chair and left the room.
Jimmy plunked himself down in front of me.
“You owe me, Blades,” Jimmy said quietly.
“I don’t want to do it, Jimmy.”
Perhaps my thinking was self-serving, but no matter what he said I was
determined to stay firm. What did I know about this woman or the man she
was going to meet? How did I know she was telling the truth? Until I got
my settlement from the City I had planned to keep my nose clean.
Jimmy got up slowly and stood staring into my face, leaning his face closer
to mine, baring his teeth showing red agitated gums. I don’t know
if this was an attempt at a smile or meant to intimidate me, but it was
only getting me pissed off. His eyes were morning gray, and underneath
the surface tiny green lines raced back and forth like baby worms. He
was so close I could’ve counted the creases at the corner of his
eyes and the freckles on his face if I wanted to, but right now I was
more apt to punch him and leave. There was still time to pick up my daydream
where he’d interrupted it.
“This ain’t good, Blades.”
“Well, fuck, Jimmy, it’s all I got.”
“What the hell do you want, man? She offered to pay you.”
He slammed his open hand onto the wall behind my head. He seemed ready
to jump out of his skin. If I didn’t know better I’d say Jimmy
was jacked on drugs.
“Hey, you better slow your roll, cuz.” I stood up, more to
prepare myself should he take a swing at me than anything else.
“And the fuck out my face like you wanna kiss me.”
“Where’s your fucking heart, man?”
He stood there glowering over me and just when I was about to push him
away he stepped back and took a pack of Marlboro and a Zippo lighter from
his shirt pocket. He struggled to light the cigarette. The fuel was low
and the flame never flickered for more than a second.
“Are you fucking her?”
“Watch your manners, dude.”I started to laugh.
“You see, that’s your freaking problem.” He finally
lit the cigarette and sat down, taking a deep drag with caved-in jaws.
“You don’t respect nothing. You think only about yourself.
How could you ask me a question like that? Why I gotta be fucking her
cause I
wanna help her?”
I didn’t know what to say. I looked at my friend’s face, all
bone and sagging skin. His eyes were drawn tight. Somewhere in the mirror
of his eyes there might’ve been a reflection of my soul, but I tried
not to see it. But that didn’t keep the dogs of guilt at bay: How
could you refuse this man who saved your life?
“Have you settled your lawsuit against the City?” he said.
I hunched over and said nothing.
“I know you got money coming from the City,” he continued.
“Maybe you can buy a heart. Man, did I ask you for anything for
saving your life?”
I straightened up and stared him dead in the eye. He flinched.
“What the hell you want from me, Jimmy? You want me to bleed for
you because you saved my life?” I extended my hand.
“Go ahead. Cut me. But don’t ask me to get involved in shit
I know nothing about.”
He blew a wad of smoke in my face.
“Let me tell you about her little girl.”
I felt the urge to have a cigarette but decided to fight it.
“She’s about three now,” he continued.
“She’s in a home.”
“What kinda home?” I asked.
“Don’t ever let Precious know I told you this, understand.”
I nodded.
“She needs around the clock care.”
“What’s this got to do with finding Precious’ father?”
“I’m trying to show you that even though she’s got money,
she’s got problems like anybody else. She’s got her weaknesses.
She got her strengths. She needs love. She needs help. Right now she needs
you. You can’t begin understand how good she has been to me. I need
you to do this for me, dude.”
“Where’d you two meet?”
“I was out of work, homeless, hanging around this soup kitchen trying
to get a sandwich and she came in one day. Said she was doing research
for her show. She asked if she could talk to me. I was very honest with
her. Next week she came back, told me about a friend of hers who needed
a chauffeur.”
“I was wondering what happened to you.”
“She’s a good woman, Blades. If you turn your back on her,
you’re
turning your back on me. I mean it.”
His face was fixed in an intense scowl. He blew a ring of smoke as Precious
returned in a new outfit.
“Listen, Jimmy,” she said, “If your friend doesn’t
want to help me,
it’s okay. I understand.”
I turned to her. “Where do you have to deliver this money?”
“Brooklyn. Does this mean you’ll help?” she asked.
Song of Night
A look inside
Sitting alone under a clump of casaurina trees the woman
had that cold-clear skin American blacks from the snow-bound regions seemed
to have, the kind of complexion Bajans who'd lived for a long time in
New York or Boston brought back home to show off along with the latest
styles. Pale next to Cyan's deep, sweat-shined hue. Cyan made her as American
right away. Resolutely, set down her heavy clothes-laden suitcase at the
woman's feet noticing the woman's toes which looked like they'd spent
too much time scrunched up in shoes a size too small.
The woman lowered her book before Cyan could read its title, her eyes
questioning the intrusion. Cyan answered with learned brashness. "I
have some nice bargains for you today, miss. All my clothes handmade of
the best material. All tie-dye done by local artists. The finest you go
get anywhere on the island. I personally guarantee it." For good
measure she added a smile dipped in cane syrup to douse whatever impatience
the woman might have left.
"Let's see what you have," invited the woman, with a smile of
her own, not quite as practiced, but genuinely friendly. With some difficulty
Cyan bent down to open the tattered briefcase Breeze had given her. The
same Breeze who'd made love to her one night and then flown to Germany
next morning with a fat blonde. He'd never written and so didn't know
she was about to drop his child. She wouldn't have told him anyway. She
did wish she'd been up to see him leave, to look at his back one last
time, to see if he'd slinked away with his shoulders stooped like a beggar,
or if he'd left her with his six-foot frame straight up like a man. That
night the sweet sweaty lovemaking had tired her
out so much she'd fallen asleep right away, her head on his smooth chest,
too exhausted to feel him slide from under her in the middle of the night
or hear his motorbike spurt to life. Gone from her as silently as he'd
come. Next morning she woke with a head cold and a knot in her stomach
she'd been working to untie ever since.
The American eyed her distended belly and fingered her creations with
interest.
"They're all quite lovely," the woman said, caressing a tie-dye
dress.
She was a big woman, the American, about five-seven, with legs shaven
to the edge of obsession. Some razor nicks were healing, many were quite
fresh.
You from the States, ain't you?" Cyan said.
"Is it that easy to tell?"
"I meet a lot of Americans, I can usually tell them now. You enjoying
our beautiful weather?"
"Yes, it's very nice."
"How long you here for?"
"I'm not sure yet. I only got here yesterday. Maybe a month, maybe
longer. I don't really have a timetable. I expect to be here a little
while, though."
Cyan stood up to stretch her back. Along with stiffness in her legs back
spasms were the only problems she'd had with the pregnancy. Mostly at
night after she'd been stooping and bending all day.
"Are you all right?" the woman asked.
"Yes, I fine. Nothing to worry about."
"You ought to sit down."
"No, it better if I stand up. If I sit down it go be shite to get
me back up."
"Looks like it's almost time. . . the baby"
"Oh! Yes, and I can't wait to drop this child outta me, yuh hear."
"What's your name?"
"Night."
"Night. That's a strange name. Is that your real name?
"No, but people started calling me Night from small 'cause I was
so dark."
"Didn't you find that offensive?"
"You get used to things like that round here quick or your life become
more of a hell than it gotta be. I used to it now. Actually I prefer that
to my real name now. Night suit me. I like the night. Most beautiful part
of the day. Nothing like starlight for walking on the beach."
"You mean moonlight."
"No, I mean starlight. Pitch black night 'cepting for the stars.
That's the best time.
That's the time I like. "Where you staying?"
"With friends at a place called . . . I don't remember the name.
It's near a racetrack. I think it's called Dayrells Road."
"Oh, yes, I know down there."
"My friend is American. She lives here though. She's a photographer
and runs an art gallery," the American said, rising and dusting sand
from her legs.
"Wait a minute. . . You don't mean. . .You don't mean Koko."
"Yes, I do. You know her? Good gracious me! It can't be possible.
Are you by any chance. . . "
"Yes, I's Cyan. You must be Amanda. She say you wasn't coming 'til
next week."
"My goodness! This is unbelievable. Simply unbelievable. God is forever
working miracles. I was supposed to arrive next week, but I found out
they didn't have the seat I reserved so I had to take an earlier flight.
Now that we've met no reason why we can't continue this conversation at
the house."
She clasped the sweating girl to her like they were long lost friends.
Fire in the Canes
A look inside
At six that Friday morning the fowlcock sounded his trumpet
only four times, and Mabel Fields nearly jumped out of her skin. She sprang
from the bed, ran to the kitchen window, and pushed it open, her roving
eyes searching the yard for the gold and black rooster that announced
a fresh day to the village of Monkey Road. It stood in the middle of the
yard, its black plume poised. But silent. Mabel waited. The hush continued.
The fifth and sixth notes she waiting for did not come. She padded back
to the bedroom where her husband, Darnlee, was still asleep.
“The cock only crow four this morning,” she said, shaking
him.
He opened one eye for a second, rolled over onto his stomach, and went
back to sleep. Getting up in the morning was never easy for Darnlee. But
his wife had developed a strategy to get him out of bed in time for work
whenever he threatened to sleep past six o’clock. She poked him
hard in the tender spot between his ribs. This tactic had never failed
her, and it worked again to perfection. He opened both eyes this time
and bolted upright.
“The cock only crow four,” Mabel said again.
“Good for the cock,” he muttered.
He closed his eyes but Mabel jabbed him, this time harder. So hard, in
fact, it made him squeal.This particular fowlcock, a gift from their next-door
neighbor, Small Paul, would always crow three times, then after a minute’s
pause it would crow three more times, for a total of six. Six times at
six o’ clock. That was its ritual. Only once before had it deviated
in all the years she had owned it: it had crowed four times, and at midday
her mother had collapsed and died. So now she felt the least her husband
could do was wake up and reassure her that he was all right.
She jabbed him again.
“Get up, Darnlee. Get up, man! Get up!”
Darnlee sucked his teeth and opened his eyes, trying to focus. He pulled
himself up from the newly filled grass bed, which made a rustling noise,
and scratched his head.
“What time it is?” he asked, hoping it was no later than five
o’ clock, which would give him time for some early morning fooling
around with his wife or, failing that, at least another hour of sleep
before he had to leave for work.
Mabel was her most passionate early in the morning, and from the look
of things the fowlcock had already stirred her up. He smiled. After fifteen
years together, waking up to Mabel in the morning was still the best part
of his life.
“It’s six o’ clock,” Mabel said.
“Six? You sure?”
“Of course I sure. That’s why I wake you. The cock only crow
four, and that ain’t right.”
“The cock got a right to crow how much he want. He’s a man,
ain’t he? Maybe he vex ’cause he got to get up to crow for
people like you and me who can’t afford a clock.”
Darnlee laughed and tried to pull Mabel onto the bed. She slapped his
hands away. She was not in the mood for fooling around.Darnlee opened
the bedroom window and spat his disappointment onto the leaves of the
olive tree, barely missing a baby monkey who seemed to have been eavesdropping
on the windowsill outside. It jumped to the ground and scrambled up the
coconut tree.
“I don’t like it, Darnlee,” came Mabel’s voice.
You listenin’ to me?
“Maybe you miss the first two,” he said irritably. He stuck
his head through the window.
“I ain’t miss none. He only crow four. I hear every one,”
Mabel said.
“You mean to tell me you ain’t got nothing better to do than
study that fowlcock this blessed morning? Look, go make me a cup of cocoa-tea,
let me get outta here, if you can’t find nothing better to do!”
“It’s a sign, Darnlee. You remember what happen the last time
this happen?”
“You want to watch signs? Go right ahead. But while you watching
signs, make sure you don’t forget to put sugar
in me tea.”
With that, he dismissed her with a loud sucking of his teeth and took
his khaki trousers from the foot of the bed.
Darnlee was a lean muscular man, and quite tall. He wore a thick beard
that hid a scar on his lower jaw—the result of a butchering accident.
His small tired-looking eyes were set underneath a proud and prominent
forehead, a feature he had passed on to his only child, Brandon, who was
asleep in the next room.
Monday through Friday he worked at the plantation. On weekends he teamed
up with Malcolm Barnes as the roving butchers of Monkey Road, slaughtering
anything from turkeys to cows, killing the animals on the spot and transforming
the house of the owner into an abattoir for the day. Darnlee bragged that
he was the strongest and most fearless butcher to ever walk the streets
of Monkey Road. To back up his claim he would tell the story of the five-hundred-pound
bull he had wrestled to the ground by the horns single-handedly while
simultaneously plunging a sixteen-inch blade through its neck and into
its heart. Later, after the animal had died, when its innards were taken
out, the heart displayed one precise six-inch slit. Darnlee would then
issue an open challenge to any man in the village to duplicate this feat.
No one ever took up the challenge. But then no one except Darnlee and
his partner knew if that story wasn’t just that—a story.
Darnlee thrust his right leg into the trousers. Why was she bothering
him about a fowlcock, he thought angrily as he thrust his left leg through.
Especially since she didn’t want to fool around. He didn’t
know a blasted thing about lazy fowlcocks who didn’t crow right.
And he resented being brought into her superstitions. So what if the same
thing had happened when her mother died? That didn’t prove anything.
“Something bad go happen,” Mabel was saying.
“You know I right. Something bad go happen.”
“I thought you gone to make my tea, woman.”
Mabel stood her ground.
Darnlee buttoned his fly and slipped a knotted piece
of string around his waist. He looked around for his khaki shirt.
“All this time you here confusing me with this foolishness, we coulda
been doin’ something worthwhile, ya know,” he chided, making
one last effort to pull her into his arms. Mabel slipped from his grasp
and went to make the cocoa.
