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The Viaduct: A Harlem Thriller - Hardcover

Edwards, Grace F.

 
9780385502009: The Viaduct: A Harlem Thriller
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0385502001 ISBN 13: 9780385502009
Verlag: Doubleday, 2003

Inhaltsangabe

Marin Taylor, a Vietnam vet, is accosted one night on a Harlem viaduct. In the struggle, Marin throws one man to his death; the other flees after stabbing Marin and stealing his wallet. The two attackers were brothers, and Conroy, the brother who survives, vows to avenge his sibling's death. Marin survives the attack, but his injuries and the terror he experienced awaken graphic memories of an incident he was involved in four years earlier in Vietnam. He is still recuperating from the mugging when his newborn child is kidnapped from the hospital. Struggling with his own emotional turmoil and his wife's devastated reaction to the kidnapping, Marin must race against time to stop a deranged stalker from carrying out an act of deadly revenge.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

GRACE F. EDWARDS has written four books in the Mali Anderson mystery series, including If I Should Die, No Time to Die, and Do or Die. She received a 1999 Honor Book citation from the Black Caucus of the American Library Association for the series’ second installment, A Toast Before Dying. Born in Harlem, Edwards currently resides in Brooklyn.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

“Everything started on that viaduct and that’s where everything ends.”

Violence. Death. Despair. Suspense writer Grace F. Edwards presents a heart-stopping twister that follows the interconnecting lives of two shattered men. Marin Taylor, a Vietnam vet, is accosted one night on a Harlem viaduct. In the struggle, Marin throws one man to his death; the other flees after stabbing Marin and stealing his wallet. The two attackers were brothers, and Conroy, the brother who survived, vows to avenge his brother’s death. Marin survives the attack, but his injuries and the terror he experienced awaken graphic memories of an incident he was involved in four years earlier in Vietnam. He is still recuperating when his newborn child is kidnapped from the hospital. Struggling with his own emotional turmoil and wife’s devastating reaction to the kidnapping, Marin must race against time to stop a deranged stalker from carrying out an act of deadly revenge.

As Marin searches for his missing child, Edwards brilliantly brings to life Harlem in the 1970s: the political figures, the local restaurants, night clubs, and dance halls, and the famous “3 B’s of Harlem”—beauty parlors, barbershops, and bars. In her expert hands, readers are treated not only to gripping suspense, but also to a richly detailed glimpse of Harlem’s lively and complex history.

Edwards takes us on a gripping journey through dire streets and lost dreams. Readers will meet compelling characters who grapple with past demons and the uncertain present of shadowy Harlem nights.

Aus dem Klappentext

Everything started on that viaduct and that s where everything ends.

Violence. Death. Despair. Suspense writer Grace F. Edwards presents a heart-stopping twister that follows the interconnecting lives of two shattered men. Marin Taylor, a Vietnam vet, is accosted one night on a Harlem viaduct. In the struggle, Marin throws one man to his death; the other flees after stabbing Marin and stealing his wallet. The two attackers were brothers, and Conroy, the brother who survived, vows to avenge his brother s death. Marin survives the attack, but his injuries and the terror he experienced awaken graphic memories of an incident he was involved in four years earlier in Vietnam. He is still recuperating when his newborn child is kidnapped from the hospital. Struggling with his own emotional turmoil and wife s devastating reaction to the kidnapping, Marin must race against time to stop a deranged stalker from carrying out an act of deadly revenge.

As Marin searches for his missing child, Edwards brilliantly brings to life Harlem in the 1970s: the political figures, the local restaurants, night clubs, and dance halls, and the famous 3 B s of Harlem beauty parlors, barbershops, and bars. In her expert hands, readers are treated not only to gripping suspense, but also to a richly detailed glimpse of Harlem s lively and complex history.

Edwards takes us on a gripping journey through dire streets and lost dreams. Readers will meet compelling characters who grapple with past demons and the uncertain present of shadowy Harlem nights.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

CHAPTER 1



Harlem, August 1972



Marin eased off the bar stool and walked over to the jukebox, dropped a quarter, and randomly pressed five selections. The music was older than the box and held no surprises but most of the patrons who hung out in the Fat Man Bar rarely complained.

Even the brothers who attended the lodge meetings a few doors away felt a certain comfort in the familiar sounds of Hadda Brooks and Ella Johnson. Marin had once toyed with the idea of joining the lodge so that when the regular Thursday night meetings ended and the members crowded into the Fat Man, he wouldn't feel so left out. Not that their conversations were exclusive, but at those times he'd been the only one in the place, other than the bartender, not wearing a business suit.

Tonight the place was empty. Without the press of bodies to absorb it, the music echoed off the dim-lit mocha-tinted walls and hung heavy in the air, blending with the faintly stale smell of cigarettes and wet glasses draining on damp towels. The dark oak of the bar was polished to a sheen that appeared almost wet, like a stream of water had flowed down its length and had never dried.

If Marin leaned over, as he sometimes did when he had a lot on his mind, he could catch his reflection perfectly in the low spark of the frosted lamplight. His hair was cut close against an unremarkable face and he rarely smiled. When he did, the shadow in his eyes dissipated and a deep brown patina complemented his smooth skin.

He wheeled slowly on the stool again, pushed away from the railing, and strolled to the wall phone near the entrance to the men's room. He checked his watch as he dialed, listened to the distant buzz, then to Margaret's low voice.

"Hello?"

"Margaret? How you doin'?"

"Marin? Honey, where are you? I was about to put dinner on the table . . ."

Marin stared at the wall in front of him. Up close, he could make out the dull beige streaks mixed in with the brown. He did not want to tell Margaret that he had stopped by the Fat Man; that something had happened to make him detour for a beer and a chance to get his thoughts together before facing her. Besides, the Fat Man was where Chancey, loud and belligerent Chancey, hung out. He'd brought him home to meet Margaret. Once. And Chancey'd found fault with nearly everything. Not in so many words, but in his hard, nervous stare.

He had invited him to dinner, and after, they had stepped out into the dim hallway--because Margaret didn't like the smell of cigarettes in the apartment.

Chance inhaled, held it for a second, then allowed the smoke to drift in a spiral toward the courtyard window. He leaned near the bannister and Marin sat on the marble steps, watching him, listening to the faint noise of James Brown drifting from a radio on the floor below. He wanted to smoke but, mindful of his three-a-day limit, decided to wait. He could always come back out later.

Chance took another drag, long and slow so that the tip glowed like a dot of coal in the hall. "You lucky, man. You real lucky."

Marin leaned back against the step, waiting.

"I mean your wife. This the first time I seen her, 'cept for them pictures you showed me in 'Nam. She's beautiful. Like somethin' out of the movies, man."

The cigarette had burned down and he flicked the stub through the window into the backyard. "Thanks for dinner, my man. I got to get goin'."

"She made dessert."

"Nah. Can't stay. Thanks anyway . . ."



Marin had known Chance from his army days and understood what Vietnam had done to both of them. When they returned home, he understood what it was like for a man to work, and on bad days, challenge anyone including his supervisor to approach him.

They had finally given Chance a street route delivering mail in the toughest blocks in Harlem, and he took the assignment as if he had been waiting for it all his life.

Still, Marin wondered what it must be like to have a sizable bank balance yet live in a small room with only the noise of television to keep him company; to not have his own stove, or someone to eat and sleep with and help soften the edge of memory. The main reason why, Marin thought, Chance spent so much time at the lodge and in the bar.



Marin held the phone to his ear, his attention divided as Margaret spoke. He knew that once he told her where he was, she usually softened and he was able to hang out longer. Telling her made her relax, and he didn't have to worry about rushing home.

But tonight was different. Why was he hanging out? He should have gotten off the subway at 145th Street, moved on down the hill past all the music and mayhem in the Brown Bomber Bar, and gone straight home.

But he had allowed the doors of the A train to close in his face and open again one stop farther, where he stepped off at 155th Street and strolled into the Fat Man.

He tried not to think about why he did it and concentrated instead on Margaret. Something in her voice, low and serene, calmed him, made him ask, "What's on the menu?"

"Pot roast. And I think I got it right this time . . . "

Marin's heart sank. Margaret was a good cook but when she failed at something, she was determined to keep at it until she got it right. Pot roast was one of those things. She could spend a hundred dollars on eye round, and somewhere between the meat market and his dinner plate, it would transform itself into the toughest slice of leather he'd ever seen.

"Uh, sounds good. What else we havin' with it?" Maybe he could fill up on the rice and gravy, a heavy salad, and a beer.

"Potatoes and green peas and . . . Listen Marin, I know what you're thinkin' but this time it came out right. The only thing is, I don't want to overcook it . . . I--"

"Okay. Okay, baby. Be right there."

Maybe after dinner he'd be able to tell her what had happened.

He hung up the phone. Jimmy, the bartender, was stacking glasses on the shelves, his back to the bar. Marin was not sure if he had overheard the conversation and was glad he hadn't mentioned anything to Margaret. Time enough to tell her face-to-face.

"Listen, Jimmy. Tell Chance I'll catch 'im later. I just remembered I'm supposed to pick up some ice cream for Margaret. Catch the store before it close . . ."

Jimmy turned around and rang up fifty cents for Marin's beer.

"How's Margaret doin'? Still enjoyin' that butter pecan?"

"Every day, practically. Lately she been mixin' it with a little strawberry though . . . gotta pick up some now . . ."

Jimmy wanted to say that there was nothing like variety but he knew how touchy some guys felt about their queens, especially when they were expecting their first baby. He wanted to tell him that she looked even prettier with those few extra pounds but decided to keep his mouth closed.

Instead, he glanced at the large clock on the wall. It was shaped like an octagon with Rheingold Beer scripted in neon letters around the numbers.

"Some kind of special committee meetin' tonight. Probably be over in another ten, fifteen minutes," he noted.

Marin wanted to tell him about the pot roast but shook his head and remained silent. He knew from Jimmy's size and conversation that he was a chittlin snacker from way back and would only laugh at his predicament. He could hear him now. "Naw. Margaret sure ain't no Carolina gal. Carolina gal cook anything under the sun ain't breathin' and can fit in a pot . . . And cook it right!"

It was easier, Marin felt, to talk about ice cream. Even the other problem had faded momentarily.

"Gotta pick up some before...

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Verlag
Doubleday
Erscheinungsdatum
2003
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0385502001
ISBN 13 
9780385502009
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
272
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Verantwortliche Person
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