No Time to Die Read Online Free PDF Page B

Restaurant, Palm Cafe, Purple Manor, Vincent’s Place, and a number of other watering holes along the main artery.
    When I stepped in, the barstools on the left were occupied by regulars who didn’t swivel an inch when the door opened. The television was perched strategically over the door and a newcomer could be appraised with a flick of a lid up, down, and back to the screen again. No motion to disturb the cool and chill and other casually maintained postures.
    Opposite the bar, behind a waist-high wrought-iron railing, a line of tables stretched to the rear. Four men in their sixties, probably retired, were holding court. They smiled and tipped hats as I strolled by to sit at the end of the bar near a small bandstand.
    The television sound was off and the regulars watched and nodded soundlessly at a soundless ball game. I ordered an Absolut and orange with plenty of ice and settled back to catch the talk of the day floating above a vintage Joe Williams riff on a jukebox that was probably installed the day the bar opened a long time ago.
    Opinions ranged from what type of industrial-strength suntan lotion Michael Jackson would need if he eventually decided to rejoin the tribe, to what O.J. needed to do to redeem himself in the eyes of black folks now that he was no longer living high on the hog in white heaven, but mostly they ragged Michael.
    “I’m askin’ you,” a fat man in the group of four said, “did the Man in the Mirror ever look in the mirror? I don’t think so. Ghost scare the livin’ shit out you, high noon on Times Square.”
    “Now, wait a minute,” the second man argued, “that boy got more talent in his little toe than you got in your whole watermelon head.”
    “Well, least my watermelon head is black.”
    “… and nappy,” chimed someone leaning at the bar.
    “Hell, I’m happy I’m nappy but let us get back to the feet. What color is Michael Jackson’s little toe?”
    “How the hell should I know? And who the hell care what his damn toe look like? With all that surgery, he probably don’t have no mo’ toe.”
    “Well, I still say when you got that kinda talent, it entitle you to do stuff other folks can’t …”
    “Includin’ makin’ a fool a yourself?”
    The door opened and the men at the table looked up and the television crowd glanced down.
    “Who’s makin’ a fool of himself? Every time I step off, somebody acts up. What’s goin’ on?”
    Marie stepped in and strolled toward the bar, returning the smiles. She moved as if she were onstage and did not seem at all like the Marie Taylor I remembered from the time when her eye had been shut by the force of James’s fist.
    She was about forty years old, brown complexion, and medium height but appeared taller in the four-inch heels and hair piled in a sweep of red-brown curls. Her face was heart-shaped and her large eyes gave her a slightly surprised expression. The short brown suede skirt and black suede sleeveless jacket hugged her frame as she moved.
    “Hey, Marie,” a man in a Mets cap called as she passed. “Gimme some sugar. Ain’t seen you in a dog’s age.”
    “Well, your dog still a pup ’cause you seen me just yesterday.”
    She kissed him anyway and patted him lightly on the shoulder. She moved on and he got a stool, dragged it down to where I sat, and made a show of dusting it off for her.
    “See what you get when you good?” he said, winking at her. She kissed him again, shooed him away, and sat down.
    “You Miss Anderson, right? Those eyes ain’t changed.”
    “Mali. Yes.”
    “Good. What’re you havin’?” She signaled for the barmaid. “Hey, Shaneeka, Betty here yet?”
    Shaneeka, short and small and clad in red spandexfrom neck to knee, rolled her eyes as she moved toward us. “Now, you know tonight’s her birthday. Girlfriend still home gettin’ it together. What you havin’?”
    “The usual, only colder than last time.”
    Shaneeka returned with a Miller Lite, tipped Marie’s glass