Sinful (14 page)

“I love you, too, Gemini,” he said, “and Billie would love to hear from you sometime. You can't stay mad at her forever, and you'd better not try either. People make mistakes; you more than most. Don't forget that while you're sitting in judgment.” After touring the rest of the house and taking his bows, Dooney wished Chandelle good luck and better common sense going forward. As for Dior, he checked her on his way out. “Don't leave here thinking I don't know what's going on with you running interference between Chandelle and Marvin. Keep it up and I'll lay it all out on the table so everybody can read it, line for line.” Dior didn't dare go up against him, instead, she pursed her lips and pouted.

“Next time you won't find out what I'm up to,” she whispered after he was gone. “I'll break out the slick kit on the next go around. This isn't nearly over, not by a long shot.”

C
handelle sent Dior away so she could think. She put on her tightest jeans, the low-rise Apple Bottoms that Marvin bought for her last birthday. After she slipped into a fresh-out-the-box pair of black suede pumps to accentuate a long-haired jacket she saved three months to treat herself to, Chandelle walked a path in her thick eggshell-colored carpet. Rehearsing, she wrung her hands over and over trying to find the right words to make things right again. There had to be something she could tell Marvin to make him feel about her the way he had before the ill-fated Sunday when the love they shared quit on them like an old secondhand car along a stretch of bad road. Of all the speeches and practical one-liners she practiced repeatedly, “Baby, I'm sorry” wasn't one of them. Still unable to woman-up and concede her part in the tragic scene playing out on the main stage of their lives, Chandelle was holding back. She had to learn how a halfhearted apology didn't amount to much when her back was against the wall, just before it went tumbling down.

“All right, Chandelle, you're ready for this,” she told herself on the drive over to Marvin's place. “Just tell him how you feel and get him back. He loves you, girl; that's gotta be worth something. Humph, I sure hope it's enough.” As she pulled into the parking space next to his vehicle, Chandelle remembered what Dooney said about Marvin sacrificing for the greater good of their future when she had always assumed that he was being a cheapskate. She took a deep breath and knocked at the door, wondering what else she'd overlooked and misunderstood about her husband. Becoming nervous to the point of running away, Chandelle's hands trembled when the doorknob twisted to open.

“What?” was Marvin's cold salutation. Every light in the house was off because he hadn't paid the electric bill, which was formally paid for via automatic draft. Since Chandelle took the money and broke camp, Marvin sat in the dark during the night and slept as much as he could in the daytime. His whole world had flipped on him.

“Hey,” she replied uneasily as she stared at the ground, expecting him to pull the door wider and let her inside. When he blocked the opening with his bare chest, Chandelle's eyes filled with sadness. “You're going to make me stay out here? I came to talk, not shout, accuse you of anything, or pick another fight, just talk.” It seemed like an eternity for Marvin to decide how he'd proceed. “I could just come back if you're in the middle of something,” she said, hoping he didn't have someone in his apartment, the love nest they shared for three years. A long train of moments crawled by until he answered.

“You can come on in, but it's late,” he said, sounding more bothered than upset with her.

Perhaps he was genuinely too tired to make a fuss, she pondered, or maybe he'd simply given up on himself and on them. “Thank you,” Chandelle mouthed humbly.
At least he hasn't gotten on with his life without me yet,
she thought. After seeing the bare walls of the apartment with the aid of the streetlights from the outside, Chandelle caught a telling glimpse of what she'd left Marvin to work with. There was a plastic lawn chair placed in the middle of the room, facing the window. On the other side of the room was a pile of clothes, more than likely dirty from the stale smell permeating the living room. Another whiff backed Chandelle up a step. “Do you mind if I open the blinds and crack a window?” she asked, praying he'd say yes.

“Oh, I got it,” he said, chuckling on the inside. “Too funky for your taste, huh?” Marvin grabbed the first shirt off the pile and slipped in on over his head. He pulled the cord to raise the blinds, then eased the window open an inch.

Come on, Marvin, I know you smell yourself,
she wanted to say but thought better of it. This was the man's home, after all.
If he can stand it, so can I,
she concluded with great difficulty.

“So,” he said, with both hands shoved deep down into his front pockets. “What'd you forget? That is why you came by? I'm sorry but the lady who used to live here gave away all that she couldn't carry.”

Chandelle shifted her weight while gazing at Marvin. Through muted light, the apartment appeared abandoned. She could tell he hadn't shaved in days, bathed either, and if she had to guess, he probably hadn't left the apartment since his grocery store run the day before. “Marvin, I didn't forget anything,” she said quietly. “That's not why I'm here.” She kicked playfully with her boot at a candybar wrapper lying on the floor. “On second thought, that's exactly why I came back. Somehow I forgot how much we've meant to each other, how much I love you. If I had remembered, there would have been no reason for me to leave and no place for me to go, not without you.”
Wow, that came out better than I rehearsed it.
“Believe it or not, I also came by to see about you. I'd like to know what you've been up to…what you've been thinking.”

“You really don't want to go there because every place I've been, you've sent me,” he answered calmly. “Jail, you did that. The unemployment line, you. Me ending up dang near homeless…you again. You took me to another place I never expected to see, at a time when I'd be ashamed to have you as my wife.”

“Okay, I accept using poor judgment when the police came beating on the door, but you turned your back on me when inviting Kim into our marriage,” Chandelle countered. “Another woman had no place, no business getting involved. It's always been me and you, Marvin, no matter how rough we had it,
me and you,
” she reiterated to make her point. “I didn't know what to do after they took you away, but when I tried to figure something out to fix the mistake I'd made, your friend had beat me to it.” Chandelle hadn't rehearsed that part. It came from the heart, unabridged and real.

“Is that it?” Marvin asked, looking past her.

“I don't have anything else to say except that I still love you and hope you won't throw that away. We can get past Kim, me calling your boss, and me letting my emotions get in the way of us. Can't you see how torn up I am over this? I can't focus at work and I can't sleep a wink in that big house by myself.” Suddenly, Chandelle went to a place she hadn't expected to find herself, groveling at his rusty feet. “Come on, Marvin,” she pleaded, while collecting his dirty clothing from the floor. “Baby, get your things and come home. They have ‘Connected Couples' counseling at the church on Wednesday nights and…you know, for people like us. I've found other groups to help too.” Chandelle thought her idea to get assistance with their struggling marriage sounded like a great beginning to move from the rough spot in their relationship.

“Put those things down,” he ordered curtly.

“What, baby? We can come back tomorrow and get the rest if you want.”

“No, put it all back on the floor,” he said somberly. “This is home. This is where and how I live now. The only thing I'll have time for is finding a job to pay for a lawyer. I don't need some messed-up couples trying to get into my business. Besides, you've helped us enough already. Matter of fact, I can't hardly stand to look at you. Get out of what's left of my house before you jack up something else.”

“Marvin, no!” she objected. “I said I was sorry.”

“Oops, wrong again. Until now that's never come out of your mouth. You've gotten me confused with the old Marvin, the one who put you ahead of him. That dude doesn't live here anymore.” He began backing Chandelle toward the door. She pressed her hands against his chest and clenched her fists to hold on to him. “You need to bounce now. I've got things to do.”

“Marvin, honey. I understand why you're upset but please don't do this. I've never been good at apologies and you know that. It's not an excuse but when I saw you at the store with that lady, that realtor, I lost it. It's not going to last between y'all Marvin. It can't.” Chandelle dug her heels into the carpet until one of them snapped in half. Marvin continually nudged her in the other direction until she was clearly through the door. “It's that woman, Marvin,” Chandelle panted hysterically. “She's got you treating me like this. You belong with me. Don't push me away.”

“Get out!” he insisted.

Chandelle scuffled feverishly to get back inside as Marvin's stiff arms prevailed. “I won't let it end like this. What about us?”

“You must be crazy. I'm living with what you thought about us. You showed your tail enough for a lifetime. You wanted it, you got it. There is no us.”

“Marvin, please don't. You're gonna want me back!” she screamed from the parking lot, crying and waving her broken shoe at him like a vicious vendetta. “You'll see, Marvin. You're gonna want me back!”

Marvin hesitated a moment before slamming the door. His next five words hurt Chandelle more than she imagined mere words could have.

“I don't want you now.”

Tears stained Chandelle's cheeks as she hobbled on one heel to her car. She searched her purse for keys that seemed to be hiding from her. “You'll see. I'm better for you,” she muttered pitifully. “I'm your wife, Marvin, and I came back on my hands and knees. Through all that, you couldn't find it in your heart to call me by my name, not once.” Just then she slid into the car, wiped runny mascara on her coat sleeve, and pressed the power window button to lower it. “Chandelle Hutchins, that's my name,” she belted, with her head sticking out. “
Hutchins
, and I ain't about to give it up. You hear me? I'm not about to let you quit me. Not like this.” Chandelle wiped at her face again to clear her eyes as she barreled out of the parking lot with several of Marvin's neighbors sneering at her.

Unnoticed, Dior was hidden in a car across the street and had heard every word. She wanted to run to Marvin, offer comfort or whatever else he'd have been willing to accept from her, but duty called. Dior was scheduled to perform at a private birthday party for an exclusive client and she was running behind. “Don't worry about that, Marvin,” she said, as if he could hear her voice. “I'll be around to see about you. Don't worry.”

O
ne week ago, Dior deemed it necessary to take her game to appalling new heights and all-time lows after spending several hours a day pleading with hiring managers to grant her interviews. But because her employment history read like a collection of unfinished short stories, not one of them complied. In a moment of desperation, she adorned herself in the most lascivious outfit she owned and hit the boulevards, visiting several topless clubs to exploit her best assets. She mingled with the exotic dancers, ran into some acquaintances she'd grown up with, and seriously contemplated a career change that involved deviant behavior and cash-paying customers. Although the thought of working in darkened smoke-filled rooms with men who'd most certainly drink too much didn't appeal to her, lonely men dishing out twenty dollars per lap dance to ogle and grope her shapely curves gave her an idea she couldn't pass up.

After spotting the very same woman who'd replaced her at Kevlin's apartment, she quickly resolved that the occurrence was water under the bridge. Isis was the professional name Dior's newest friend had been given when entering the realm of dirty dancing eighteen months ago. Since she obviously didn't mind taking her clothes off for perfect strangers, Dior decided to share her latest brainchild. In a matter of minutes, a scandalous partnership called
Ladies DI 4 Rent
was formed. Isis thought the company moniker was catchy, encompassing both of their initials in a promising joint venture. Dior almost laughed at the woman's gullibility, because to her it stood for “Ladies Doing It for the Rent.” She wasn't sure if Isis was down for “doing it” as easily as she appeared eager to act it out on the main stage, but all of Kevlin's girls were super freaky so she didn't doubt it. Determined to hire themselves out as late-night entertainment for high-powered men who had everything including money to burn, Dior and Isis placed a provocative ad in the leading swinger rags about town. From the time the periodicals hit the shelves, their phone line was ringing off the hook.

Experiencing extreme difficulty keeping up with the overwhelming demand at $500 an hour, they increased their fees 100 percent and scaled back the clientele to the wealthiest thrill seekers in Dallas. Money was coming in so fast that Dior had a hard time believing it was real. And in the midst of it all, she had begun to slip farther away from reality. She hadn't considered the ramifications of sin for profit and the dangers that accompanied it. None of that occurred to her as she scooped up Isis and sped across town to make their ten-thirty date in Highland Park, the city's most exclusive community where blue bloods and old money held hands like lovers on a slow stroll.

The rendezvous point was a 2.5-million-dollar mansion, with eight bedrooms, six full baths, and two kitchens. As Dior read the handwritten address from her appointment book, Isis's eyes almost fell out of her head. “Ooh, girl, this is a lot of house,” she marveled, gawking at the grandiose estate from the street.

“I know, it is big, huh?” Dior contended as well. She cruised past the main entrance and puttered her Escort around to the rear driveway.

“Why did you come all the way back here?” Isis asked, wearing a peculiar frown.

“Because the woman who called in the date said to be sure to use the servant's entrance. Heck, I didn't care. We're both getting a grand for this.”

“At least a thousand dollars?” she said, her voice rising with excitement. “Each?”

“At least,” Dior informed her. “Work your magic right and we might come out with a lot more paper than that.”

Isis's smile returned with lingering vigor. “Let's be about our magic, then. Ladies DI is on the job,” she said sensually, while gazing at her fresh makeup in the flip-down vanity mirror. “I had my eye on this bad Missoni dress at the mall. Uh-huh, it's over two grand, but I know a dude who'll boost it for one, and he don't have a layaway plan.” Both of them chuckled, primped another minute, then called the cell phone number that came with the address.

The same woman's voice that left the directions answered and instructed them to enter at the back door inside the courtyard. Dior strutted past an oval fountain with her game face on, painted and poised, and wearing a tailored business suit, with a skirt cut above mid thigh.

Isis, wrestling with the hem of her golden nylon gown, done up in an Egyptian motif, struggled to keep pace. “Wait up, Dior, shoot. This material is caught on my heel.”

“Keep up, then,” Dior whispered urgently. “I told you about overdoing it on the costume. These people pay to see it come off, anyway.”

Isis paused as she passed by the fountain several paces behind Dior. Her eyes widened as she glanced into the water. “There's real fish swimming around in there. Uhm, what rich people won't do to throw their money away. Those fish aren't even big enough to eat.”

“Hush, Isis, somebody's coming to the door,” Dior warned. “Get your act-right ready.”

Isis morphed into her Egyptian queen role and reeled off a shot of attitude. “I already got my act-right on and popping.”

A stately platinum-blond woman in her sixties opened the side door and invited them into the house. Dior observed every inch of the white lady from her poofy overpermed hairdo to the expensive black heels she wore and the glitzy designer cocktail dress that didn't look like much of nothing, but she was sure it had been purchased at a posh boutique with a French-sounding name. For her age, the woman was attractive with a tight alabaster complexion due to a number of plastic surgeries, nips, and tucks. The flirty leer tossed at the Ladies DI by the lady of the house didn't go unnoticed either.
Yeah, you want some,
Dior surmised correctly.
Hopefully you won't be sticking around once the meter gets to ticking. Wrinkled old men are bad enough.

“I'm Princess,” the lady said, as if it were a title. “Thank you for coming. My husband is in the den, call him Pistol Pete. He'd like that.”

Dior almost laughed.
Pistol Pete, huh? I bet he would
.

“All that's cool, but what about the money?” Isis asked, getting rather impatient with Missoni on her mind. Dior hit her with a stinging glare that should have knocked her over.

“Ah, yes, your fee,” answered Princess. “I've met your demands and you'll find an envelope on the sofa table in the foyer,
on your way out
. Although you're new to my circle of friends, you've come highly recommended. Make sure that the birthday boy has a great time.” When Isis looked at Dior with a question on her face, Princess answered that one too. “I'll be out enjoying Pete's birthday in my own special way. I've purchased two hours of your time and I don't expect to find you here when I return.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Dior replied, more in agreement to the curt directive than to the woman herself. “He'll have the time of his life.”

“And so shall I,” Princess alluded. “Do lock up on your way out. Good night.”

Isis waited until Princess left the room before she exhaled. “She was trippin'. Why would a man with all this money keep her around?”

“'Cause it might be all
her
money, not his.”

“Whose ever it is, let's go and get broke off some.”

“Yes, my dear, let's,” Dior said, in her own manufactured stuck-up version to make fun of Princess's highbrow diction.

Their high heels click-clacked against the marble floor when entering the massive common area. Exquisite paintings and porcelain vases were placed throughout the room. Casual but tasteful furniture had been pushed back against the walls. That, along with the soft music piped in from an entertainment center, insinuated that the birthday boy enjoyed dancing as an appetizer. Dior scanned the trappings as Isis discovered a well-dressed, stout, white man mixing cocktail at a wet bar.

“Humph,” she grunted to get Dior's attention. “Get a load of the li'l Pistol.”

Peter was a pistol of sorts, balding and as round as he was tall, a firecracker in his younger days and still one to raise the roof on special occasions. He and Princess had an understanding allowing them to feed their demons as long as the other knew about them. Their agreement for over thirty years of marriage could have been summed up in two words:
No Surprises.

“He's kinda cute,” Dior laughed, watching him dance along to music she'd only heard when watching old black and white movies on a busted TV set when she was a kid. Peter was having a grand time without them, but it was show time nonetheless. “Come on, Isis. Let's meet the man of the hour.”

“But she paid for two hours,” Isis said, clueless of the cliché.

Dior put on her best smile and struck out in Peter's direction.

When they approached the bar area, Peter raised his head and cheered as if he were a small boy at a backyard children's party. “Hail, hail, the gang's all here,” he applauded. “Hot times in the city, ladies, and I've got just the thing.” He handed them umbrella drinks to get the evening under way.

“Pistol Pete, I'm Dior and it's a pleasure to meet you,” she said, pecking him on the cheek. “And this is my friend Isis.”

“Hello, ladies, two real pretty gals,” he said, giving them the once over. “I like, I like. So let's crank up the music, get down and boogie.”

And boogie they did. Dior was impressed that a man of his age and girth had the moves to keep step with them. During the first hour, Peter taught the girls to jitterbug, swing, and other famous dances he'd perfected in lavish country club ballrooms. After their lesson was completed, the
Ladies DI
taught ol' Pistol Pete what they'd learned during less noble activities in the hood. Needless to say, the birthday boy enjoyed his tutelage tremendously. For their participation in the “Birthday Threesome,” Dior and Isis danced away with $2,000 apiece.