Till You Hear From Me: A Novel (31 page)

F
LORA AND
I
SAT THERE FOR ANOTHER TWO HOURS
. W
E WATCHED THE
rest of the movie and talked a little bit about the Grower’s Association, but mostly we just sang along with the Von Trapp kids and watched Maria blush in the arms of the handsome, but emotionally wounded Captain Von Trapp, thereby melting his heart and ending forever her earlier ambitions to enter a convent. Neither of us could do much more than carry a tune, but we sang along at the top of our lungs anyway. I figure if you can’t sing off-key when the Nazis are coming, when the hell can you?

I told her we’d make another appointment to talk business and as I headed down her front walk and turned back toward home, I was really happy she was coming to D.C.

Whatever direction work or love took us, I knew we would be friends. I had turned off my phone so Flora and I could do our interview uninterrupted and hadn’t bothered to turn it back on, but I reached into my pocket now to see if the Rev had checked in from the road. He hadn’t, and no word from anybody in D.C., but there
were three messages from Miss Iona. I didn’t even listen to them. I just punched in her number.

She picked up on the first ring. “What is the point of having a cell phone if you never turn it on?”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s him.”

“What’s him?”

“Didn’t you tell me that Wes Harper offered to set your father up with a tour sponsor?”

“He said his clients would love that kind of exposure.”

“I’ll bet they would,” she snapped. “I’ll just bet they would.”

This was getting us nowhere. “Please slow down and tell me what’s going on.”

“My reporter at
The Sentinel
said that program he told me about where they’re targeting the warriors?”

I loved that she called them
the warriors
. I loved that she thought of them that way.

“What about it?” I said.

“It’s full steam ahead,” she said, “and in this first wave, they are rolling out the big guns to woo these guys. Book contracts, radio shows, and, are you listening?
Tour sponsorships!”

My stomach did a little flip when she said that, just like it did when the Rev first told me Wes was interested in the list, just like it did last night when I was at Brandi’s with Wes and he was talking about how he could
help
the Rev.

“I’m on my way.”

FORTY-FOUR

“T
HIS POLITICAL SHIT IS WREAKING HAVOC WITH MY SEX LIFE
,” T
ONI
said when they pulled up in front of the Rev’s neat Victorian. After he talked to Oscar last night, sex had been the last thing on Wes’s mind and Toni didn’t appreciate it. “I like it better when we’re just figuring out how to sell more barbeque pork rinds.”

“Doesn’t pay as well,” Wes said, looking around the front yard and the driveway like he’d never seen them before.

The Rev’s house, complete with the elaborate gingerbread molding that gave the West End Victorians their distinct character, was set farther back from the street than its neighbors on either side. The Rev had never been one for West End’s fanatical gardens, so he had picked the house for its rolling front lawn, not because it had space enough in the back to grow two rows of collards, two or three of tomatoes, and maybe some sweet corn.

The narrow driveway meandered along the side of the house and deposited visitors at a brick walkway up to the big front door with the stained glass window. Another brick path from the street
ensured that no one ever had to walk on the Rev’s perfectly manicured front lawn, which, even in mid-February, was almost impossibly green and neatly clipped. Sometimes people actually stopped walking by and reached out to touch it to be sure it was real.

“Do you think he dyes it?” Toni said.

“His hair?”

“His grass.”

“Who gives a fuck?” Wes said, wishing she would focus on the matter at hand.

Toni narrowed her eyes. “Politics isn’t doing much for your disposition either.”

“See what I was telling you last night?” he said. “If you drive the van right up there, nobody’s even going to notice it.”

“It won’t matter if they do,” Toni said, flipping open the mirror on the visor in front of her seat and checking to be sure there was no lipstick on her teeth. “Who’s going to question a van from the New Orleans Children’s Relief Fund?”

He turned to her. “What?”

Satisfied that she was as lovely as she remembered herself to be, Toni smiled at Wes so he’d remember it, too.

“Two magnetic signs. One for each side of the van. They’ll be ready tomorrow morning.”

“New Orleans Children’s Relief Fund?”

“Pretty good, huh?”

“You’re going to hell, you know that?”

“I love you, too,” she said. “Now let’s go case this joint.”

FORTY-FIVE

M
ISS
I
ONA AND
I
WERE IN THE
R
EV’S OFFICE GETTING HER SETTLED IN
at the computer when that awful sound that passes as the Rev’s front doorbell blasted us both half out of our skins.

“Showtime,” I said. “You ready?”

“Hardest thing for me is going to be not telling him all about his sorry self the minute he walks in that door.”

“That’s not the plan,” I said quickly, hoping Miss Iona would stick with our hastily drawn scenario and not
go rogue
on me à la a certain Alaskan governor who shall remain nameless.

“All we’re trying to do is buy some time until I can convince the Rev that we’re on to something and get him away from Wes long enough to bust the folks at the top.”

“I know, I know,” she said, restacking the pile of cards we’d staged next to the Rev’s rarely used computer. “Go on and let them in before they ring that awful bell again. My nerves can’t stand it.”

Mine couldn’t either. We hadn’t been able to get the Rev or Mr. Eddie on the phone, which meant we were left to our own devices as
far as dealing with Wes, who I had only recently considered breaking my chastity vow for and now wanted to turn over to the Justice Department as fast as I could find their number. Except we didn’t have enough proof yet. Miss Iona’s guy was working on it, but these guys were pros. So far, no hard evidence had shown up and nobody would go on the record for fear of reprisals. What we needed now was to protect the Rev and his shiny new voters while we gave Wes enough rope to hang himself.

Wes and his assistant smiled and greeted me in unison when I opened the door. “Good afternoon.”

They looked like a corporate diversity ad in
Black Enterprise
magazine—smart, stylish,
amoral
. I added the
amoral
part. Or they did.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “Please come in.”

She was younger than I expected and prettier than I hoped she’d be, even though it didn’t matter anymore since no way I was sleeping with a man like Wes Harper. He was as attractive as he’d been last night, except now I could see the invisible horns growing out of his head.

“Ida Dunbar, Toni Cassidy.”

“My pleasure,” I said, extending a hand. “I’m sorry my father isn’t here to greet you. He’s in South Georgia until tomorrow.”

“Moultrie, right?” she said, with a little condescending smile.

“South Georgia.”

“Wes told me his father often travels with Reverend Dunbar.”

“Two old road dogs,” Wes said like it was an affectionate joke we shared. “The schedule they keep would kill most men twenty years younger.”

Toni was looking at the pictures hanging in the hallway. The Rev and Dr. King sharing a laugh. The Rev and Nelson Mandela on an Atlanta stage with their fists raised in solidarity. The Rev and Mayor Jackson on the night of the first inauguration. The Rev and
Julian Bond outside the Georgia Capitol when they refused to seat Julian because of his opposition to the Vietnam war. The Rev and Mr. Eddie as much younger men, on either side of Mrs. Fannie Lou Hamer.

“It must have been amazing to grow up like this,” Toni said.

“It was.”

She turned toward me, the
Black Enterprise
smile still in place. “I’m surprised there’re no pictures of your mother.”

“Do you know my mother?” I said, surprised at the question.

“We read her book in my Women’s Studies class at Barnard,” she said. “I think that’s when I became a feminist.”

“My parents are separated,” I said. “She lives in San Francisco.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” And she actually looked like she was for a minute. “But to tell you the truth, I never understood how she could have been married in the first place. Your mother was one angry woman.”

Sensing dangerous conversational waters, Wes jumped in quickly. “Shall we get down to business and take a look at what we came to see?”

“Of course,” I said, leading them down the hallway to the Rev’s book-crammed office. “Follow me.”

Miss Iona had closed the door to the office, already improvising, and when I opened it, she was sitting at the computer, peering over her glasses at an index card. She looked up and shook her head, annoyed. “Can you read this, Ida B? Is it
Corrina
or
Calinda?
I swear these people need to just go on and make an
X
like they used to and be done with it.”

“I think it’s
Calinda,”
I said, handing the well-smudged card back and turning to our guests.

“Miss Iona Williams, meet Toni Cassidy. Wes Harper, I think you already know.”

“Of course I know Wes Harper,” Miss Iona said, looking at Wes
with a tight smile. “Been knowing him since he was born practically.”

“How you doin’, Miss Iona?” He rounded his accent to reflect his southern roots like that would make her more comfortable.

“I’m doin’ just fine, Wes. How about you?”

“Can’t complain,” he said.

Miss Iona turned to Toni. “Is that your job?”

“Ma’am?”

“The complaining?”

Toni smiled and shook her head. “No, ma’am. My job is to solve people’s problems.”

“Then you’re right on time,” Miss Iona said, handing the card to Toni. “Is it
Corrina
or
Calinda?”