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Authors: Anita Doreen Diggs

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BOOK: A Meeting In The Ladies' Room
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Dallas took me by the elbow and whispered in my ear, “I need to talk to you alone.”
We excused ourselves and left Paul at the bar.
“What is it, Dallas?”
“Joe Long called me today. He wanted to know if you had ever talked to me about Victor. I had no idea what he was getting at.”
“So, what did you say?” I asked calmly.
“I said no and he hung up on me. What did he mean, Jackie?”
A long time ago Dallas caught me up in a real trick bag. What happened was this: The editor-in-chief of
Urban Girl
magazine contacted me, looking for a book deal. She didn't have a definite idea in mind but the circulation of her magazine was over a million. I knew that she had a powerful platform to sell huge numbers of any book she did write. So, I did my homework and came up with a few ideas. At that time, Dallas and I were tight so we went over my list of concepts together. The bitch stabbed me right in the back. The next week I called
Urban Girl
but it was too late. The editor-in-chief had signed with Dallas, who lured her with the ideas that she had stolen from me.
“Dallas, stop fucking around and tell me what you think Joe is up to.”
She blinked twice. I stared her down.
“Okay. Haven't you noticed that Joe is always up in Victor's face or trying to imitate him?”
“No.”
“Well, he does.” Dallas took a sip of her drink. “Joe has a crush on Victor.”
I burst out laughing. “Joe is gay?”
Dallas shrugged. “He must be in the closet. I've known him a lot longer than any of you and he has never had a girlfriend. You've been so busy mooning over Victor that you haven't noticed Joe was clocking the brother, too.”
“I have not.”
Dallas waved away my denial. “Girl, please. Half the fun of the Black Pack meetings is watching your face and Joe's eyes when Victor walks in that door.”
I was embarrassed from head to toe.
“Victor is an attractive man but there is nothing going on between us,” I said stiffly. “You can tell Joe that if he calls you again.”
Dallas nodded without real interest and strolled away in search of juicier gossip.
Finally, it was over.
Paul helped me into my coat. “Come on, I'll walk you home. I may as well crash at your place anyway. I need to help Richard clean this place up first thing in the morning.”
I threw the back of my hand against my forehead in an Oscar-winning gesture of despair. “Not tonight, Paul. I really need time alone to think.”
He wrapped a scarf around his neck and sucked his teeth. “Girl, you better come on. I'm not trying to stop you from thinking and no way am I riding that subway to Brooklyn tonight if I don't have to.”
By now we were out on the sidewalk. He put an arm around my shoulder and we started to walk. I was beginning to get pissed off. Paul was not my man. The man I wanted was coming over. Why should I have to lie and scheme to entertain someone in my own home? When we reached the corner, I stopped.
“Paul, you cannot come home with me tonight. I don't want to talk about it. That's just the way it is.”
He looked puzzled. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?” I stood on my tippy-toes to kiss his cheek.
There was hurt and confusion in his face but he kissed me back and crossed the street toward the subway.
Oh, God. It was like beating up on Bambi.
I practically ran around the corner. The apartment was tidy but I had to change the sheets, the towels, and find something seductive to wear. It had been so long since I'd been to bed with a man—five years and three days at last count—that there were no teddies, lacy stockings, or garters in my wardrobe.
I took a hasty shower, almost scalding myself in the process, toweled myself off and bumped my toe painfully on my way out of the bathroom. “Ow!”
Naked, I ransacked my bureau and closets. The best I could do was a black slip with no panties on. After dashing on far too much
White Diamonds
perfume, I was ready. Except I wasn't. Not really. I paced the floor in black stiletto heels, wringing my hands. Suppose he was used to thin women and I was too fat? Would he groan and collapse with a hernia while trying to lift me? On top of that, I had come on to him like a Penthouse Pet, and now he was probably expecting a superstar performance from me between the sheets. Worse, suppose he wanted oral sex? The only time I had ever done it was in my fantasies. I might bite down on him too hard, causing a terrible, gaping, bloody wound in his penis that would take twelve stitches to close!
By the time the downstairs doorbell rang, I was in such a state that I needed a drink to calm down but there was no time to get one.
I stepped to the intercom box to answer the summons. My mouth was dry as I pushed the TALK button. “Who is it?”
“Me.”
I buzzed him in, patted my hair, slid my hands down the sides of my body, and glided toward the front door. There was a knock. I unlocked the door, released the security chain, and there stood Paul.
I was shocked and alarmed. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes were hard and flat. His moustache quivered beneath his nose. His body was rigid. The arms held tightly against his torso with the hands balled into fists. When he opened his mouth to speak, it was like watching a trapdoor unlock.
“Is this the outfit you wear for deep thinking?” he sneered.
“Paul, I . . .”
He cut me off. “Don't bother making up another lie. The next time you're in trouble, call Victor.”
He gave my trampy little outfit a withering glance and fled back down the stairs. I closed the door and rummaged around in my kitchen cupboards for a half-empty bottle of rum that I'd left there a long time ago. My hands were trembling. I turned the bottle up to my lips and took a long swallow. The liquid burned its way down to my nervous stomach.
Feeling better, I decided not to worry about Paul until morning. I would call him then and say the right words that would turn us into friends again. Yes, I was wrong for lying to him but he had no right to pull the jealous shit that he'd done. He just needed time to cool off and he'd be able to see that.
I placed the bottle on the coffee table along with a bucket of ice and a liter of Pepsi. I dimmed the lights and put a Maxwell CD on the stereo to complete the seduction scene. I had just repaired my lipstick when the downstairs doorbell rang again.
This time it was Victor.
He eyed me appreciatively as I took his coat and hung it up. “My, don't you look delicious.”
We settled in on my sofa, drinking and talking shop until Victor raised the subject of Annabelle's murder.
“So, have there been any new developments in the police investigation?”
“I don't know. Why would they share anything with me?”
He crossed one leg over the other. “It just seems like someone had to see something on the morning it happened. Maybe something very important that didn't mean anything at the time.”
“Maybe I should hire a hypnotist to refresh my memory,” I replied playfully.
“That's a great idea, Jackie. You could . . .”
I cut him off there and moved in closer. “Victor, we can talk about murder tomorrow morning if you want to, okay?”
There was nothing else to say. It was time to DO, and we both knew it.
The silence grew uncomfortable, and I wondered why he didn't make a move. He drummed his fingers on the coffee table and hummed along to the music until I was about to shake him like a rag doll.
I stood up, placed my hands on my hips, and gave him a seductive smile.
“What's going on?” he asked.
Stand your punk ass up, is what I wanted to say.
I was exasperated beyond belief. “Victor, what part of ‘there is a healthy woman wearing a thin slip with nothing on underneath, staring at you with lust in her heart' don't you get?”
He coughed. “Do you want to lay down?”
No, you dumb fuck. I want to play ice hockey.
“Yes,” I said sweetly.
This was definitely not my dream encounter. The brother was turning out to be less Richard Roundtree in
Shaft
and more Jethro in
The Beverly Hillbillies.
His behavior was unfathomable . . . either he was gay, stupid, or had a tiny little weenie that he was too embarrassed to show me. My crush on Victor Bell was fading.
“Lead the way,” he said.
All the lights in my bedroom were off but we could see each other in silhouette by the light streaming in from the hallway.
There wasn't much in the way of foreplay but I didn't really care. Victor's unclothed body was magnificent. He pulled the straps of the slip and I wriggled out of it. Gently, he pressed me back on the bed and hovered above me on his knees, licking my breasts, shoulders, stomach. His muscles rippled every time he moved. I pulled him around the waist and our bodies melded together.
“Victor, Victor!” My breathing was ragged and my pulse was racing.
He made a sudden move with his hand and the framed picture of me, Annabelle, and Denzel fell off my nightstand. It hit the hardwood floor and the glass made a little clink sound as it broke. Victor murmured, “I'm sorry,” as he reached over me and picked it up. He looked at the picture and groaned. His erection deflated.
I took the picture from his hand and threw it across the room. “Don't worry about it. I'll get a new frame.”
He nodded and stroked himself for a few seconds as I kissed him all over the face and chest.
“It's not working,” Victor replied desperately.
And “it” certainly wasn't. I reached down and touched his dick. It was as limp as a used dishrag.
He pushed me off him and lay flat on his back. “I'm sorry.”
Concealing my frustration, I pulled the sheet over our nakedness and put some pep into my voice. “The night is young, handsome. Don't worry about it.”
“Forget it, Jackie.” He sounded disappointed.
I laid my head on his chest and my fingers played in his pubic hair. He lay still as stone. “Victor?”
“Yes?”
“Would you kiss me?”
He gathered me up in his strong arms and pressed his lips to mine. That wasn't good enough for me. I managed to part them and stuck my tongue right into his warm mouth. All of a sudden, Victor tossed the sheets aside and leaped from my bed. I watched miserably as his perfect body ran away from me and into the bathroom. I could hear him retching and coughing through the closed door.
This was a nightmare and I had no one to blame but myself. I had pulled out every trick in the book to gain Victor's interest and he had let me know in every way possible that he was not interested. Now he had touched me and the experience was making him throw up. I pulled the covers up to my chin and just lay there with my eyes closed, not knowing what else to do.
There was the sound of running water—he was rinsing the taste of my tongue and the vomit from his mouth.
Tears stung the back of my eyelids and I'd never felt uglier or more worthless in my whole life.
I sat up when Victor came out of the bathroom. “Are you all right?” I asked politely.
He started putting his clothes on without looking me in the eye. “No. I'm not feeling well so it's best if I go home.”
Even though I had finally gotten Victor out of my system and only wanted him to leave, he was still a sick guest in my home and Mama had raised me right. “Do you want something to settle your stomach . . . Maalox, Alka Seltzer?”
“Thanks, but no.”
There was nothing left to say.
23
BLACK FINGERTIPS
JACKIE HAD WIFE SINGING THE BLUES
by Tiffany Nixon
 
Once a mistress, always a mistress?
Hank St. John and Jacqueline Blue met at City College on 135th Street. Sparks flew and soon the pretty college senior and her very married English professor were dating. It didn't take long for Miss Blue to become dissatisfied with the stolen moments, clandestine meetings, and lonely holidays that have enraged mistresses since the beginning of time. Miss Blue began to demand more. Mr. St. John, afraid of losing her, complied.
Eventually, Mrs. St. John got wind of the affair and confronted her husband. She demanded that he cease and desist or she would leave, taking their three children with her.
Professor St. John went to Miss Blue's apartment, which was located a few blocks from the campus, to deliver news which Ms. Blue did not want to hear: the relationship was over.
Mrs. St. John says, “Jacqueline Blue began following me around, threatening to steal the children, and generally made my life hell until we moved to Long Island a year later.”
According to my sources at Welburn Books, Ms. Blue, who is now a decade older, had a “very close” relationship with Annabelle Welburn's husband.
Did Jackie covet Craig?
Keith demanded my side of the story. As I told him, I didn't know that Hank was married until we had already started sleeping together. It is true that I should have ended our relationship as soon as I learned the truth, but by that time I was in love with him. When he came to see me, looking all sad, I knew what was going on before he told me. I gave him a kiss good-bye and disappeared from his life. I did not harass his wife, call his home, or threaten to take his children. Why would I, a twenty-two-year-old girl with no job lined up and only three weeks away from graduation, want to steal some kids that I had no way of feeding?
Mama called. “What is this mess about you havin' sex with some married man?”
“It was a long time ago, Mama,” I answered wearily.
“How could you do somethin' like that? You was raised better.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Didn't you care about his wife and kids?” Mama sounded angry and disappointed.
“I was young, Mama.”
“Don't you give me that bullshit, Jacqueline Blue. Married is married, and you knew that. Sell it to the damned jury.”
I figured Mama was putting me in the same whorish category as the woman who ran off with Daddy, and my spirits sank to a new low.
She hung up before I could say another word and never mentioned it again.
I was furious. Why was Tiffany Nixon digging around in my past? Would her own background stand up under such intense scrutiny?
Two weeks later, a grand jury returned an indictment against me. As a result, my employment at Welburn Books was officially terminated, and I was thrown off the payroll. Alyssa was the only member of the Black Pack who called to sympathize but I was too upset to talk to her. It was a bitter pill for me to swallow.
One evening, I was watching the six o'clock news when Keith called to say that there was a big problem we needed to talk about and he was coming over to my place.
I was wearing a gray sweat suit, sneakers, and no makeup but I didn't care. Paul had not answered any of my phone calls since the night of my disastrous encounter with Victor and other journalists had united with Tiffany Nixon in a thunderous cry for my blood. My life didn't seem worth living and I was so depressed that it took me a while to even wonder why Keith was coming to Harlem instead of summoning me to his office.
I'd had more than enough time to mull over the grimy details of Annabelle's unfortunate demise. Stitching them all together, it was clear to me that the doorman, someone who lived in The Dakota, Craig, or Annabelle's sister had committed the terrible act. I was still concerned about staying out of prison, but that wasn't enough anymore. I wanted to clear my name more than anything else and the only way that could happen was if the killer was caught, convicted, and thrown into jail.
The three-family town house that I lived in faced a tree-lined street of brownstones, some of them valued at over two million dollars in this new Harlem, which was becoming more overpriced by the day. Restlessly, I turned off the television set and stood looking out my front window, peering at the elegant homes through the pouring rain and wondering if I'd ever have enough money to buy one.
I was imagining myself as the wife of a handsome, well-to-do gentleman living blissfully in one of the buildings with our two beautiful children (a boy and a girl) when the buzzer rang.
Keith shrugged out of his coat and folded it neatly over a chair. He was wearing a black suit, crisp burgundy shirt, and a black tie that had swirls of a maroon design in it. “Jackie, you need to sit down. I have bad news.”
We sat down on the sofa.
“I don't really know how to tell you this,” he said.
My apartment suddenly felt cold, even though the thermostat was turned way up.
“Just tell me, Keith, and get it over with.”
He put his arm around me and drew my face down on his chest. “The grand jury returned an indictment and a warrant has been issued for your arrest, Jackie. I promised that you would surrender quietly within the next two hours. I didn't want Detective Gilchrist showing up here with reporters on his heels and dragging you out in handcuffs in front of your neighbors.”
I couldn't focus on Keith's face. The living room was tilting slightly and the sofa seemed to be revolving at an impossible angle.
“This is insane,” I yelled. “If you hadn't kept my hands tied up like this, I could have done my own research and we'd have other suspects by now!”
“Jackie, calm down.”
“Don't tell me to calm down! I trusted you and now I'm going to jail!”
“It doesn't mean you're going to be convicted of this murder. The state still has to prove its case but the district attorney is under a lot of pressure and felt he had to set a wheel in motion.”
“Keith, I don't give a fuck about all that right now. I have to spend tonight in police custody and it's all your fault.”
“Jackie, I couldn't allow you to run all over town asking questions. You might have said or done something that would jeopardize this case when it finally gets to court. Worse, you might have panicked the killer and ended up in the morgue. Now, you've got to keep trusting me even when things look bad. Okay?”
“Suppose you're wrong? Suppose I end up in the penitentiary?”
“The evidence against you is all circumstantial and I'll make sure that we get a jury which understands the concept of reasonable doubt.”
Circumstantial evidence. A jury. Reasonable doubt. Even after all that had happened, it still seemed unbelievable. “Mama,” I managed to gasp.
“Call her, Jackie. Don't let her hear this on the news.”
I dialed the number and as soon as Mama answered, I started crying so hard that Keith had to take the phone from me and tell her himself. “Mrs. Blue, please calm down . . . It's just for two nights. Jackie can post bail on Monday and . . . How much? . . . I really don't know.”
How much, indeed. Evidently Keith had not given any thought to that question because his head suddenly slumped to his chest.
My heart was thumping noisily enough to wake a long-dead corpse; I was panting for breath and had to force myself to inhale and puff the air out normally; my visual perception lessened to a maximum of two feet before me. I was trembling with fear, and my head felt like there was a steel vise clamped to the back of it. Suddenly, there was only one voice I wanted to hear.
“I've got to get in touch with Paul.”
The next time you're in trouble, call Victor.
Had he really meant those words? Was he angry that I had been too much of a coward to call after our fight?
Keith waited patiently as I dialed the number. My hands were shaking and as soon as he answered, a wail came from somewhere deep in my soul.
“Paul, they're charging me with Annabelle's murder!”
“What?” It was a gasp.
“Keith is here and he's taking me to jail.”
“Put him on the phone.”
I passed the receiver to Keith and sobbed as my lawyer explained the situation. Before we left the apartment, Paul got back on the line and promised that he'd move heaven and earth to get me out as quickly as possible.
There was a black, chauffeur-driven limousine parked right in front of my building. The driver jumped out with an umbrella to protect us from the thunderstorm and opened the back door. The partition was kept closed all the way downtown so that the driver couldn't hear what was said.
Keith patted my hand. “Everything is going to be all right. Is there anyone you want me to call for you?”
“If you'll just check in on my mother every few hours until I get back, that'll be enough.”
Keith cleared his throat. “I don't mean to be insensitive, Jackie, but you really need to concentrate on raising that bail money.”
“Paul said he will help me.”
“What if he can't? You need a Plan B.”
I knew a lot of rich authors and agents but not well enough to hit them up for a couple of thousand dollars. “I can't think of anyone else,” I whispered.
“What about one of your girlfriends?”
I didn't have any girlfriends. Not a single one. Mama had preached to me so long and decisively about the folly of having females in your house and your business that I'd never really trusted members of my own sex.
It wasn't until after I moved out and Mama got lonely that she allowed herself a girlfriend, even though Elvira had lived across the hall from us for almost twenty years.
“There is no one like that in my life,” I whispered.
Keith sighed. “I spoke to the district attorney just before I picked you up. We both agreed that since this is Saturday night, it is a lot easier to get you in without the media getting wind of it.”
I knew that Keith was just trying to keep me from having a nervous breakdown. He was wasting his time. It wasn't the press that had me terrified. “Are they going to lock me in a cell?”
The limousine turned up Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard, headed for 125th Street.
“Not exactly. It's a holding pen. We're skipping the whole precinct thing and taking you straight to Central Booking.”
His tone suggested that I should be impressed with the enormous clout he wielded with the powers-that-be. Since I didn't know what “the whole precinct thing” was and what indignities would have awaited me there, I was unmoved. I focused on “holding pen” and an image of a huge basketball court-type space surrounded by razor wire fixed itself in my mind and I started to hyperventilate. Keith grabbed me by the back of the neck, forcing my head down.
“Put your head between your knees and take deep breaths,” he ordered.
The interior of the plush vehicle was silent as I huffed and puffed loudly. Then I noticed the fully stocked bar. “Keith, I need a drink.”
“No!” shouted Keith. “I don't want liquor on your breath.”
“Don't be an asshole, Keith. I'm about to faint.” We went at it, bickering like an old married couple or a bunch of siblings as I breathed in and out between my sweatpant-clad thighs, with one hand reaching up wildly for a drink of anything alcoholic.
I won and by the time we were headed down the West Side Highway, I had gulped two shot glasses of straight whiskey. Keith gave me some orange Tic-Tacs to cover the smell. When I had recovered enough to lie back against the expensive leather and stretch my legs out, Keith held my hand and spoke quietly.
“Jackie, I need you to be brave. Do you hear me?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“When we get downtown, you will be relieved of all your belongings, fingerprinted, photographed, and then taken to a holding area. I can't come with you but when they bring you into the courtroom for arraignment on Monday morning, I'll be right there waiting for you, understand?”
“Monday! This is Saturday night! “Oh Keith, isn't there a night court or something that could spring me before tomorrow morning?”
He patted my knee. “I'm so sorry, Jackie. That doesn't work in a murder case.”
“What is an arraignment?”
“An arraignment is the first appearance in court before a judge on a criminal charge. The charges against you will be read or you will be asked if you are aware of the charges against you, and you will be asked how you wish to plead.”
BOOK: A Meeting In The Ladies' Room
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