More Money for Good (5 page)

Lauren was a gem. I had only mentioned to her in conversation how much I missed a straight-edge shave from the barber since by law they were no longer allowed to give them because of blood issues. Like magic she appeared with her razor from cosmetology school. She had hot towels and shaving cream to take care of me with a nice shave. But I just had to remove one of the towels she put on my face and open my eyes.

“Are you sure you know what you're doing, babe?”

“Yes, I know,” she said, almost sounding cocky.

“Okay . . . but that razor looks awfully sharp,” I said.

“West, would you hush up? How is a straight-edge supposed to look? Did you give your barber so much chitchat about his razor?”

“He was my barber though.”

“And I'm your lady. I wouldn't let anything happen to you, now sit back and enjoy, babe.”

I did and Lauren put me at ease in no time at all. The steaming hot towels were heaven and I was nice and relaxed, so tranquil that I told her about Tavious and the visit from the police at the shop.

“Now, West, baby, don't answer me because you will mess up the shave, but I want you to listen to me a minute, okay? I'll take your not saying anything as affirmation,” she said.

Lauren started shaving the left side of my face. I could tell she was concentrating on doing a good job. As she took care of my face, Lauren let me know that she thought I should help Tavious anyway that I could.

I appreciated Lauren's support because it was the only reason I hadn't gone out to the streets with Tavious to find out who murdered his friend. I wanted to honor my word that I had given her to keep the APD out of our lives and leave detective work to actual detectives. Lauren lost her child the last time I got involved unraveling a situation and I did not want to do anything to disrespect that memory.

A few minutes after Lauren finished my shave I called Tavious. I let him know that I would do whatever I could to help him find out who killed Amara before the police moved in on him.

One thing about Lauren: if I was in something so was she. Out of curiosity she did an Internet search on Amara and was surprised to see an article about her murder. The article didn't say much other than her place was ransacked, her body badly decomposed, and the police were on the hunt. The funeral services happened to be the very next day after reading the article. I called Tavious and let him know that I would tag along with him if he wanted to pay his last respects, which I felt was a good idea.

We were in my ride on our way to Amara's funeral. I decided while we were there it would be a good idea to try to get any information possible that might help us find out what happened to her. Tavious didn't recall ever meeting any of her family. He remembered that she would sometimes chat about them when he would call her collect from the inside. It was going to take us about twenty minutes to get to our destination.

“So, you mean to tell me my grandmother gave you this car?” Tavious asked for at least the third time, referring to my mint-condition vintage El Camino we were rolling in.

I just smiled and wiped down her dash, then turned up the radio a few clicks.

“I remember my grandfather taking me to the store to get candy in this thing.” Tavious paused. “Oh my goodness that's my song . . . That's . . .” He snapped his fingers over and over, trying to remember.

“Phyllis Hyman,” I tell him.

“Whatever happened to her?”

“They say suicide,” I let him know.

Tavious was blunt. “You damn sure don't hear any Phyllis Hyman in the joint, that's for sure.”

The obituary in the paper read that Amara's funeral was at two in the afternoon at Progressive United Church and we arrived a few minutes before. Tavious was a bit hesitant about going inside and stayed back a few minutes to gather his composure while I went inside.

There was a picture on an easel of Amara with sky blue linen fabric draped artistically on the canvas and mellow music playing. I figured by the sound it was neo soul, then recognized Jill Scott's voice because Lauren loved her, and then Anthony Hamilton because I loved him on the song after that. When I walked into the chapel there were about twenty people inside all dressed in white. Some were chatting, others were reading Amara's obituary, and a few were staring at me.

I looked back at the entrance to find out if Tavious had made his way inside. When I turned back around there was a short man standing in front of me. He was giving me the third degree with his eyes over my entire being. He didn't speak. So, I did.

“I'm okay,” he answered. “After all, it's a funeral.”

I nodded in agreement, noticing his eyes traveling over me some more.

“I see you came dressed for the occasion.” He had on a white soft linen shirt, and white pants with white shoes.

I got his point after looking around at everyone again. “Uh, yeah. I didn't get the dress announcement.” I had on a black suit and brown shoes.

“Yeah, but she's gone home, man . . . Our people are homegrown from Georgia. We celebrate these types of things,” he said. “White,” he emphasized. ”White.”

I got it. I swear I did, but the more I thought about it, I decided it didn't matter what I had on. She was gone and I didn't know her anyway.

The deed of just staring back at this guy was beginning to feel a bit odd. When Tavious met up with me there was a bit of relief. Tavious acknowledged him with a half smile. The man was very light skinned, with freckles, and weighed about 140 pounds. He took even a longer time to look Tavious over before he finally spoke.

He pointed at Tavious. “Wow, man, Amara never told me she knew you,” he said. “Tell me how you two met. I always knew she was keeping a secret from me.”

Tavious didn't respond.

“I loved the show,” the man rushed to say. “You probably hear this all the time, but I was pissed when they killed you off.
The Wire
was such an experience,” he said.

Tavious chuckled. “No, no . . . you got it all wrong. I'm not that guy. We just happened to look alike.”

“Really?” he asked while he continued his examination of Tavious. “Amazing, man, just freakin' amazing. So, what are you guys, cops? Why are so many of you here, if I may ask? If you ask me, you should be out trying to catch who killed my cousin instead of hanging out here. By the way, my name is Chuck.”

“Cops?” We're not cops,” Tavious let him know.

Chuck looked us over again. “Who are you then?”

“My name is Tavious and this is West.”

We exchanged handshakes and I told Chuck we were sorry for his loss, as he let us know that Amara's mom and his mother were sisters.

“And how did you know Amara?” he wanted to know.

“I've known her for years,” Tavious said.

“And I'm just here to support him,” I let him know.

Chuck looked us up and down again without another word, then walked away, leaving us standing. We watched him walk from person to person in attendance and nod over to us until the funeral began.

Everyone had so many kind words for Amara. I can truly say she was a shining light in many minds. Chuck even tried to find out how well Tavious really knew Amara by inviting him to say a few words about her. Tavious called his bluff without hesitating, and he let everyone know that she was definitely a superstar who helped him for years make it out of a dark place. Most in attendance gave Tavious a hug, even Chuck afterward.

The funeral ended and we rode in the processional to the burial. Tavious was shaken seeing Amara going home, but he stood strong and tried to put in perspective that she was free and his freedom was at stake.

Chuck let us know that there was going to be food and drink in the city afterward if we were able to join the family. Right before we got into the car to leave the cemetery we were stopped by a man who reminded me at first sight of Chris Rock: slim, dressed nice, with dark skin.

“I just wanted to talk to you guys before you left,” he said; then he extended his hand to Tavious. “My name is Earl and I heard what you said at the funeral.”

Tavious looked over at me.

“I hung out with Amara a lot. She was probably the closet cousin I've ever had. Your name rang a bell at the funeral because I have been over her house a few times when you would call her on the phone.” He paused and smiled. “Collect.”

Tavious smiled back. “Yeah, I did that a lot.” He was still emotional and swiped at his face.

“I'm just saying, man, she really trusted you, and I'm glad you came.”

I felt it was safe to ask our new friend Earl a few questions and I moved in on the chance not long after I introduced myself. “Earl, can you tell us if she was in any trouble?”

He was happy to oblige. “No; she didn't hang out with a lot of people. She was happy being a homebody and once or twice told me she was excited that you were coming back.”

“She said that?” Tavious sounded like he might have doubted his words.

“Yeah, more than once . . . I'm sure of it,” Earl let him know.

Tavious kind of smiled again.

“So, she wasn't worried or having problems with anyone?” I asked Earl.

“No, but she did talk to a guy named Rodney a lot.”

“Rodney?” Tavious wanted to know.

“Yeah, a real interesting character.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Earl reached into his pocket and gave me a box of matches. “Here, find out for yourself.”

It's close to six now. We were going to call it a day and start fresh the next sunrise. But Tavious decided he wanted to keep going. I didn't mind even though I knew the traffic on I-75 would be a monster. If truth be told I was becoming more interested by the minute in what was going on, especially when Earl hinted that we could find out more from the matchbox he handed over to us that read TQC. It was located in a high-rise building in Buckhead. We knew we were pressing our luck that it would still be open because of the time of day.

The office was on the twenty-eighth floor. A stunning Ethiopian woman greeted us with a smile right after I noticed her look at her timepiece on her arm. We asked for Rodney. When we told her we didn't have an appointment but mentioned Amara, she gave us an inquiring look. She called Rodney on the phone, then asked us to sit down and wait. There was nothing in the office that gave us any inclination of what TQC meant. So we sat and waited for Rodney and enjoyed the contemporary feel of his office space.

About five minutes later the African princess led us back to his office where Rodney was finishing a phone call. He was a well-dressed man, dark skin, athletic. As he turned to look at us my perception of him was that he was full of either swagger or shit.

“Hey, I'm Rodney,” he said. He placed his phone down and stood behind his desk and offered us seats. “What can I do for you?” He paused and took a better look at Tavious. “I understand you're friends of Amara. May God rest her soul.” There was a pause. “She'll be missed. I hope whoever killed her rots in hell.”

“Well, that's what we are trying to see if we can make happen,” I let him know.

“What are you guys, cops?”

I shook my head no.

“PI's? What?”

“Friends,” Tavious let him know. “I was a good friend of Amara's. My name is Tavious Bell and he's West Owens, a friend of mine.”

Rodney puts his index finger on his lip, then points at Tavious. Then he begins to laugh a bit, walks from behind the desk, and extends his hand to Tavious and pats him on the back.

“Tavious . . . You got out? You're finally home,” he said. “Damn, I should have known when you walked in the door. She was right, you look just like the guy on
The Wire.
What's his name?” Rodney was in deep trying to remember the movie star's name. “Idris . . .”

“Idris Elba,” Tavious helps him out. Tavious turned to me while Rodney had a grip on his hand. Tavious was perplexed and eventually Rodney felt his confusion, then pointed at me.

“Amara talked about this guy all the time.” Then he looked down at Tavious, who was sitting in his chair. “I finally get to meet the man.”

Tavious pushed, “The man?”

“That's what I heard. No, no, let me put it like this: that's what I always thought.” Rodney went into his liquor cabinet and pulled off a bottle of his top shelf. “You . . .” He turned around to us and back at the glasses in the cabinet. “You, my man, definitely had a fan in Amara.”

Tavious smiled, but it was more like confusion rather than poking out his chest. I sat and listened, trying to get what I could from Rodney. He displayed a hint of his New York roots by his accent.

“All she did was talk about you were coming home and things were about to change for her,” Rodney mentioned to Tavious. “She was even hitting the gym on another level when you were about nine months out. Yeah, she was definitely waiting for you, my brother.” Rodney finished pouring the drinks, and handed out the glasses. “Just a shame what happened to her, damn shame.”

“That's why we are here,” I let him know.

Rodney stopped before he put his glass to his lips. “They find her killer or something?”

Tavious told him no.

“Well, I don't know what I can do to help but if I can, I will.” Rodney tilted his head back and took his drink straight down.

“I don't think I saw you at her service,” I said.

Rodney gave me a look. “Nah, man. I don't do funerals. If you guys ever hear of me dying, don't even bother looking up my homecoming 'cause it ain't happening,” he let us know.

So, we drank. Then drank some more as Rodney was very helpful telling us everything he knew about Amara and how he came into contact with her. He told us that she was actually one of the few people he had met in his business who he could call a friend, even though their friendship was basically relegated to phone conversations. But, even still, he felt he knew her better than most of his clients.

We sat and chatted with Rodney over an hour. TQC turned out to be a very interesting business venture that Amara patronized on a frequent basis; and Rodney ran it like the multi-million dollar company that it was. It was interesting to learn that he modeled his business from the site that hooks up married people with other likeminded individuals who are looking for affairs. Rodney was sure to let us know that he could never be down with married people cheating on one another, especially after coming from a broken home. But he did say that with over a 50 percent divorce rate he was most eager to help couples keep the spice in their relationships and stay married as long as they could. He called his business entity the Quiver Club. It was an exclusive adult club specializing in voyeurism and relaxation for couples and likeminded singles who respected marriage. Rodney was adamant that his club was for the grown and sexy and that he didn't let anyone under thirty-five join. According to Rodney he met Amara a little over five years ago, a few months after starting his new business venture. Rodney relayed that he would never forget the phone call he received from her, because she had been the only phone call who requested to get information from him over the phone instead of his million-dollar generating Web site, which detailed what his club was all about.

He divulged to us that Amara had been his most particular client. She desired to play within TQC, which provided willing couples who enjoyed the attention of men or woman alike while being intimate with one another. When Tavious heard of her appetite he called Rodney a damn liar and told him he was about to kick his fuckin' ass. Rodney didn't back down but pleaded with him that he was telling the truth. After I settled Tavious down and Rodney poured him another drink, Rodney slowly divulged that Amara was so specific in what she wanted. That it took her almost a year to actually go through with a meeting and enjoying what the club had to offer. He said that she wanted to experience a couple who were actually in love instead of those performing because their lust pushed them to do so.

I wasn't amazed at the TQC setup as Tavious seemed to be after being locked up for over twenty years. But he was even more surprised that Rodney was aware of him and the feelings Amara shared with him concerning Tavious. Out of respect for Amara, Rodney gave us the name of a couple he was sure she had been involved with, and free passes to a meet and greet and told us we should attend. Rodney explained that people in the lifestyle were very close-mouthed when it came to divulging information within the community, let alone to complete strangers, so we would have to tread lightly on how we went about getting information. We assured him his information would be kept confidential.

 

When I returned home the first thing I did was apologize to Lauren for being late for dinner. She loved to cook and always wanted to serve her food nice and hot. She made an amazing pot roast, with the little red potatoes and green beans. I had asked for seconds before I finally let her know that I was ready to take her out on the date that I'd been promising. I let her know very carefully that I wanted to take her to the Quiver Club as she poured me a second glass of wine.

“A sex club, West?” she asked after I told her what type of place it was.

I procured a sip of my wine. “Yup.” Then waited for her next response.

“You want me to go into a club where people meet each other for sex?”

I just knew she was daring me to ask her again, but the cat was already out the bag. “Yup,” I answered again; then I rushed. “Babe, it's for Tavious. We need to get to the bottom of this situation because the police are starting to prowl.” I looked at my glass. “Look, do we have anything stronger than this?”

She put her fork down and reached for her drink. I was preparing to feel her drink all over my face. But she took a sip. “Yes, I'll go,” she said. Then she got up from the table. “Would you like a beer, baby?”

I'm bewildered now. I was sure it was probably plastered on my face. I was ready for a heated debate. Some “how dare you's,” some “fool, are you crazy's.”

“Sure,” she said, with a surprising coy little smile. “I never said I was a church girl, West, never even portrayed to be. Who knows, it just might be fun; plus I hear those type of spots are opening up all over the country.” She opened a can of beer for me, placed it next to my plate, then sat down and began to finish her food.

“You hear, huh?” I wanted to know.

“Umm, hmm . . .” she sang.

“From who?”

“A little birdie, babe . . . a tiny little birdie.”

“Tomorrow night, at eight,” I let her know.

“No worries, I'll be ready.”