Out a Order (11 page)

I
n the conference room at the bank Tawney sat at the head of a long, polished, gleaming cherry-wood table in the midst of the plush, comfortably designed room filled with green plants.

It had been one of the many ideas she'd had implemented. She believed that if you surrounded people in an atmosphere they enjoyed being in and derived pleasure from that you would motivate them to their highest performance by virtue of subliminal messaging so to speak.

Since she was one heck of a performer for the bank they had obliged her idea. Tawney could outwork any number of her staff put together. The management was in awe of the way she turned projects around, although the actual level of their awe was mostly kept to themselves.

Still, she carried weight in the bank, and people knew it. She was one of the very few African-Americans who did carry such weight, and she did so with the utmost respect.

Tawney at thirty-three was class with a capital C. Her breeding and style were impeccable. The only blight on her seemingly intellectual, stylistic life was the thug she had married.

Instead of being out in the upscale South Orange where she belonged and could afford to be she was slumming in Newark. Catering to Shannon's whims about staying with his people. Exasperating.

And she was not in just any part of Newark. She was in the Central Ward, which was known for being the most dangerous part of Newark. You couldn't walk the streets at certain times of the night. Recently a fifteen-year-old boy had been jacked for his bike and killed.

It was monstrous.

Shannon could have at least moved her into the Ironbound section of Newark. Ferry Street was known for its cuisine. There were restaurants galore. Some of them had been written up in food reviews, such was their reputation. She'd also bet her bottom dollar that Ironbound didn't have the security issues of the Central Ward.

Ironbound was primarily Portuguese and Brazilian. They had built commerce in that tiny patch of dirt in Newark, creating a community all their own, so there was no way they would be plagued with the problems or blights the Central Ward of Newark carried. They weren't having it.

At the time in her life that she'd met Shannon, South Orange, and Ironbound were far from her mind. She hadn't cared what patch of dirt she lived on as long as she had Shannon.

Girlfriend had hungered after the magnetic dark sensual looks of Shannon Davenport, who was four years her senior. Her hunger for him was intense. The sound of his voice mesmerized her.

The weight of a look from the man was more than she could bear. He'd had a smile to die for. Charm oozed every time he looked at her. Every time he smiled. And he had a pair of the most beautiful translucent brown eyes that she'd ever seen.

She used to get butterflies and a tightening in her stomach, just looking at him. Shannon Davenport was a man's man in every sense of the word. Having him would be on his own terms. He wasn't accustomed to taking orders, or bending. She knew that.

He was rugged, rough, tough, and streetwise with a hint of arrogance. Respect was his middle name. The sound of his name inspired awe as well as fear in the streets. He was nigga rich and confident.

Most intriguing of all he knew how to treat a lady. And although his persona from head to toe had screamed
thug,
for her he had the soul of an angel.

She would've thought one of the street princesses, a woman of his own caliber, would have wound up with him. Enough of them were throwing themselves at him, that was for sure. But he wanted her.

The rest was history.

He was everything that she was not. When she fell she fell hard. The walls came tumbling down.

When Jazz was born the neighborhood bothered her a bit, but she kept trying to appease Shannon. She'd spent tons of money on the inside of the house to make up for the neighborhood. Her house was nothing more than a ghetto palace.

She told herself that Jazz was small and that before she reached the critical age, they would move. It never happened.

Now she was paying her dues for loving and living beneath her own status. Too late she had found out how dangerous it was to live beneath your means. It had cost her more than she was able to pay. Maybe the naysayers had been right. She should have married a doctor or a lawyer.

She heard her own voice of conscience. “But then there would have been no Jazz. Would there be, Tawney?”

What difference did it make if there'd never been Jazz? There still wasn't Jazz now. Tawney swallowed hard to keep from crying.

Jazz had been so very much like Shannon. He had been the best father. Fatherhood fit him like a second glove. His daughter was his world. He'd treated her like a princess.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, facing the unpleasant task before her, Tawney cleared her throat and returned to addressing her staff. “To sum this up, the incidents of unprofessional behavior on the floor must stop. If you have problems you cannot resolve with a coworker, see me. And please watch your performance times. The new budget is in full effect, and senior management is keeping a close eye. Any questions?”

One of Tawney's staff members spoke up. “Yeah.”

“Yes, Debbie?”

“Will there be any loss of jobs? I need my job.”

Immediately there was a chorus of agreement and head shaking going on.

“As long as we live within the current budget, there will not be. This isn't a downsize.”

The expressions around the cherry-wood table were disbelieving. Shonda rolled her eyes. She leaned over to the woman next to her, saying, “I've heard that before.”

Tawney stared at Shonda. “Shonda, do you have something you want to share with the rest of us?”

Shonda did a quick retreat. “No, Tawney. I'm all set.”

Tawney closed her portfolio, folding her hands on top of it. “I've shared the information that I have at this time. Is there anything else?”

The staff was quiet.

“That's it, then. Make sure you record one hour for the meeting.”

They filed from the room. As soon as they were in the hallway out of earshot Shonda pulled Debbie and Beverly away from the crowd. “Let's go outside and smoke a cigarette.”

Outside the bank the women lit their cigarettes. Debbie looked at Shonda. “So, Shonda, what's up?”

Shonda blew a smoke ring. “Tawney is what's up. She makes me sick.” Shonda's voice dripped hatred like a fungus. “She's always fronting.”

“Fronting about what, Shonda?”

Shonda looked around, making sure the only ones in earshot were the ones she wanted. “You know, she acts like she's all that. Ms. Professional. But I know niggas who used to serve her back in the day.”

Debbie and Beverly exchanged glances. “Serve her what, Shonda?” Debbie said.

Shonda sneered. “Don't be so damned naive, Debbie.”

Debbie took a step back in surprise at Shonda's tone and choice of words.

“Seriously. Naiveté doesn't suit you. Cocaine, that's what.”

Beverly shook her head. Ms. Shonda was a dangerous diva. “How do you know that?”

Shonda walked away from the building. She puffed on her cigarette. The two of them followed. “I know, that's all.”

Turning to face them, venom slicing her every word, she said, “She thinks she's all that. But she's married to an Original O.G. I bet she don't want the boys on the second floor to know about that. You know, them senior managers that sign her paycheck.

“Her husband, Shannon Davenport, is a damned gangster. That nigga was huge back in the day. Now that whore is trying to play it out like he's retired or something. She ain't fooling anybody.”

Debbie was not feeling Shonda. She didn't know why it was that black women had to throw stones at the ones who were trying to step up the ladder. It was the same old “crabs in a barrel” syndrome. She was sick of it.

She was also sick of the lethal, poisoned tongued Shonda, so she said, “I don't know about her background, but the girl is good at what she does. She worked hard in this bank to get where she is. I know because I saw her. And most of the time I think she tries to play it fair.”

Shonda tossed her blond-weaved braids arrogantly. A glint of something Debbie didn't recognize peeked out from her eyes. “Think what you like. What you think and what it is are two different things.”

Beverly, who had been playing with a lock of her hair during the exchange, stepped in. She had always been a come-straight-to-the-point person, and the arrogant lethal Shonda didn't stop her now. “If you feel all like that, then why are you always up in her face?”

Shonda stubbed out her cigarette with a major attitude. She bit her tongue. Anger welled up inside her like thunder building.

It was all she could do not to smack this smart-mouthed heifer to the ground. However, she knew it wouldn't be the thing to do just yet. Even though Beverly was the one who kicked off her anger, all she could think was Tawney would get hers when the time came.

Trying to get a grip she said sweetly, “She's the boss. A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do. I'll have what she's got. Soon. Real soon.”

Disgust rose up simultaneously in their eyes.

Shonda rolled her eyes. “I don't know why you're looking at me like that. You probably feel the same way and just don't have the nerve to say it. Especially with Tawney, who can flip back and forth between the hood and corporate America like the flick of a light switch.”

Shonda turned on them, switching her hips, walking toward the building. Over her shoulder she said, “It ain't over till it's over, girlfriends.”

S
hannon Davenport sat in the midst of forces that he couldn't begin to imagine. He had trouble with the police, trouble with the gangs, a wife who hated him, and a daughter who was lost to him, as well as a young street punk who was out to kill him and make a name for himself.

Yeah. He knew Rico DeLeon Hudson was trying to represent as well. Old school versus new school. Take out an original gangster and seal the pact. Solidify. Niggas young and old having to give you the props. By taking him out Rico would put fear in the old-timers. There was already a lack of respect. He knew how Rico was trying to roll.

That fear would earn him respect as well as money. Too many old-timers now were talking about how you couldn't mess with them young boys. That was a serious mistake because now these young punks were walking around with their chests poked out, with automatic weapons, and a serious disregard for life.

Shannon knew the game. He had once been Rico DeLeon Hudson. But he wasn't now and that was the major difference.

All this represented what Shannon knew. What he didn't know and couldn't fathom was the trouble brewing around him, which wasn't attached to or dressed in flesh. Yeah, it was all coming down to more than just street wars. There were dues to be paid.

At the very moment that he sat in Je's Soul Food Restaurant at the corner of William and Halsey streets in downtown Newark, there was another entity entering the mix.

Actually it had already entered. The forces were aligning, placing Shannon Davenport in their orbit. This was far from good. In the mix were blackness, hatred, demented souls, and failed promises.

The waitress set the steaming plate of smoked ham, grits, cheese eggs, and biscuits in front of him along with a steaming cup of coffee.

Shannon felt better already. Once he had eaten he could decide his next course of action. Je's was just what he needed to add a feeling of normalcy to his life. The restaurant had been in Newark a good many years.

It was a popular spot among Newark's residents. The food was warm, homey, and cooked to perfection. Some of the waitresses had been there for as long as he could remember. It was almost like being among family.

He glanced up at a picture of Martin Luther King, who seemed to be presiding over or perhaps residing in the midst of all the madness. Lord knew he was a man who had lived and died in the midst of chaos.

Now the people he had fought so hard for were dying on the streets named after him. He was probably rolling over in his grave at the tragedy of it.

Shannon stared at him for a moment longer, feeling the kinship, seeing the cross. Remembering another man who had paid the ultimate price being nailed to that cross.

King had been a man who'd wanted to be among his people as well. What was so wrong with that? Jesus had been a man who walked among them, wanted to give them salvation and free them. What was so wrong with that?

He glanced around at the rest of the walls, which were full of various African art. Better not to start down that road of thinking. In fact the thought of Jesus surprised him a bit. He'd always been a believer; he just wasn't mushy about it.

Maybe Jazz's death was causing him to reconsider a great many things. He'd been thinking about the Lord a lot since she'd died. He shook his head, disgusted. He was typically black. When the trouble came down he looked up.

Otherwise he never looked in that direction. His child's death was making him do so now.

Glancing out the window he saw a woman dressed from head to toe in black silk. That in itself wasn't strange. What was strange was the fact that a solid black veil covered her entire face.

You could tell it was a female by the way it moved. How the hell could she see where she was going?

She was pushing a shopping cart filled to the brim with garbage. She stopped. Turned. Appeared to stare directly at Shannon. Though how that could be was impossible since her face was covered.

Shannon felt a surge of energy flow through his body. He looked, blinked, and found himself staring at the braiding salon that was across the street.

There was no sign of any woman with a black veil covering her face or dressed entirely in black.

For some reason he felt spooked, but he shook himself out of it, returning to his thoughts. It was just as well. Flying over the rooftop of Je's was a black-winged creature whose beak poked through the solid black veil, and whose wings ripped through the black silk.

It was a sign of things to come.

At one time in Je's there'd been a piano perched over in the corner near the small bar. On Sunday mornings you could listen to gospel along with your breakfast or just some mellow tunes on the ivory if you went through Je's on the right evening.

He used to bring Tawney there all the time. They would gorge themselves with terrific heart-of-the-South soul food, sit holding hands, staring in each other's eyes as the music played.

Shannon shook his head. It all seemed so long ago. That was before Jazz was born. Now Jazz had been born and had both lived as well as died. Guilt for keeping his family in Newark was eating him alive.

Even though they had the money he hadn't wanted to be one of the ones who ran out to the suburbs abandoning the neighborhood home front. He was comfortable where he was.

Besides, that would've been Tawney's thing, not his. He didn't have the kind of mentality that went with perfectly manicured lawns, Seton Hall University, and Saks Fifth Avenue charge cards. Tawney had been right when she accused him of not wanting to leave. The suburbs weren't his scene.

But what was? He didn't know. All he knew was the streets he called home had swallowed up his only child alive and he was having a hard time living with that. He'd wanted his daughter to know where she came from. He'd wanted her to be successful but real. Now he didn't have a daughter. The streets had stolen her life from him.

If he were honest with himself he'd have to admit the one sore point for him with his wife was the fact that she wanted to leave. He resented her for that. He felt people should hold their own. If there was a problem do something about it. Make it better.

Now that he'd lost Jazz he wasn't so sure he was right about staying. Maybe Tawney was right. Maybe if he'd done it her way Jazz would still be alive. That thought pierced the core of his heart.

That single thought that his stubbornness might have cost him his daughter was more than he could bear. She had been the one thing in the entire world that he truly loved.

He pushed the plate away, signaling the waitress for the check. The food suddenly tasted like lead in his mouth.

It was time to formulate a plan. But first he needed to go home. He would do that under the cover of darkness. Tonight.