Valentine's Day Is Killing Me (6 page)

“Right,” Jocelyn said, gaining confidence as the plan formed in her mind. “All the clubs and places to go out will be catering to the Valentine’s Day groove, which will only be depressing. Couples, lovers, yada, yada, yada. The music alone will make us weak and all teary-eyed. Then, just watching folks all hugged up will bring on very dark thoughts of self-annihilation. So, we should make our own party.”

“Like invite people? But who?” Freddie’s expression was incredulous. “Everybody will be otherwise hooked up, so who will come to a party—”

“Us, girl,” Jocelyn said with a weary sigh. “Look. They have these visit-your-house spa-party places that will come out to your home and beat your hair, give you a facial, do your toes and nails, liquefy you with a massage…that’s what we’re missing. Pampering. We must honor the goddess within. So, why not throw a pamper party, just for us?”

Astonished glances passed around the table. Mouths opened. Jaws went slack. Jocelyn had them, she knew it, and pressed on.

“We need it. We deserve it. And just because some guy doesn’t have enough forethought, caring, or is too cheap to do that, hey. Why wait? Why deny ourselves sensual pleasures? We can get a lovely gourmet food platter from Fresh Grocer, where Tina works. We can use Freddie’s eighteen-percent employee discount at the mall, to keep gifts for each other to a reasonable level. Jacqui could research on the fly at the library and find a great in-home spa service for us that has solid references. Since I’m on the telephones all day, I can coordinate it all and let my fingers do the walking…and tomorrow night, while every other woman in the city is either home alone weeping, with some man that ain’t actin’ right, or is on her cell phone, blowing up his, hollering into voice mail for her man to show up—we’ll be sitting back, drinking wine, laughing, getting
done
by pampering professionals, eating good food, relaxing, kicking back, listening to great music, and opening presents.”

“Damn, girl,” Jacqui said in a reverent whisper. “That is scary brilliant.”

“I’ma get snot-slinging toasted, right in the middle of the work week,” Freddie declared. “I’m gonna come to work the next day, moving slow, dark shades on, and give the girls on the job something to really talk about! But I’ll never divulge the trade secret of Miz Jocelyn’s ancient Chinese secrets of Zen.” She bowed slightly with both hands pressed together, giggling. “Master teacher, I shall grasp the stone of knowledge from your hand, and purge every errant male being from my black book, returning revived and renewed and pampered.”

Jocelyn laughed and bowed toward Freddie. “And you will also receive the red rose of truth, grasshopper.”

“You’re gonna buy roses for us, too?” Tina squealed. “Yo go, gurl! Sho’ you right!”

“We shall laugh,” Jocelyn said in a phony Asian accent. “We shall dance! We shall dog every no-good male that has ever walked the planet. We shall have roses…to show them heifers on the job the next day,” she added with a wink, and then changed her voice to the around-the-way patois designed to make them all hoot with laughter. “’Cause we ain’t all metaphysical, now—sometimes ya gotta pull your blade, ladies.”

Laughter rang out as the plan became manifest. High-fives passed as high-calorie dessert was ordered to seal the pact.

“Who’s in?” Jocelyn asked, not needing to. Four friends simply giggled at their own mischief and hugged each other hard.

This was precisely why he didn’t do Valentine’s Day. Drama. People were crazy.

Detective Mayfield cast a disgusted glance around The Round House. Police headquarters was bustling with a spike in the number of arrests. It was already starting, and it was only the day before what he called “the night of insanity.” He knew that Valentine’s Day eve drew out the crazies just like a full moon did. Domestic violence would be up, as spouses accused each other of infidelity. Stabbings, murders, jilted lovers putting bodies in ditches, bar fights, street brawls when two suitors came knocking at the same door.

Ladies’ room incidents would be at an all-time high, cat fights in clubs, babies’ mommas rolling up on their ex-men, firing off rounds. Hostages taken by ex-husbands suddenly wanting their families back—and ready to die trying, suicide watches, students walking on the ledges of building, unable to deal with failing exams and losing the loves of their lives on this night of all nights. Cars left running in sealed garages as midlife crises made normally reasonable men snap and inhale fumes. Illegal pharmacists would be working overtime to supply Ecstasy, barbs, or whatever people needed to get on, to stanch the pain.

The working girls would be serving single males all night long, and college frats would employ them at group rates rather than individually buy a bunch of freakin’ roses for some co-ed. Go figure.

See, this is why he’d told his boys he’d work the overtime, and would rather get paid than get laid, if it had to be all of that. This pending Valentine’s Day was killing him.

Raymond Mayfield kept walking through the station, just shaking his head. He didn’t do romance, for this very reason. It was ludicrous. In fact, he’d sworn off the whole enterprise since last year. Women were treacherous; he’d seen enough on the vice beat to know that. Had personal experience in getting burned—and burned badly, too. All he’d needed to see was what he saw—his old girlfriend hugged up at a movie when she’d claimed having the flu. He was done. That was it. Real estate was a better option.

So, he’d just keep on buying buildings to rehab, creating a nice sideline income. This was just a job. How he’d made detective was a sheer case of being in the right place at the right time, he was so sure. He was next in line, had a stellar record, never missed a day at work—sometimes it was better to be lucky than good. He hadn’t done bad for himself at thirty-five, being all by himself; no wife, no kids, no drama. One day he might even be able to quit the day gig and focus on watching economic trends and his paper moving on the stock market. But, for now, he’d committed to a double shift tomorrow night when temporary insanity would rock the city.

When his cell phone vibrated on his hip, he already had a pretty good idea of who it might be. He stared at the number and just sighed.

“Yo, Mayfield,” his buddy Marcus said, laughing. “Listen, I met this chick, and she has a sister—”

“Nope. I’m working.”

“Ray, man, she’s fine.”

“All of the women you tell me about are always fine, dude. I’m working. Unlike you attorneys, my schedule ain’t that flexible.”

“They have you working vice
tomorrow night
? Aw, man,” Marcus argued. “That is the night when even
your
surly ass can get—”

“Man, I told you,” Ray said, becoming annoyed. “Even if I wasn’t working, I’m not in the frame of mind to—”

“You gotta get over that Debra thing, brother. Listen, if you follow my lead, and play your cards right, you could be
the man
.” Marcus laughed hard into the cellular unit. “Like, today, I took out Barbara—since she’s married and has to act like she knows on the big day. So, we did a little lunch down at Zanzibar’s, had a little midday fun upstairs in the Bellevue, then I don’t have to service that account again for maybe another week. Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll take Wanda out for a late lunch—already dropped the roses, man. Then, whatever we eat will give me a stomachache, you feel me?…I’ll need to go home, of course, alone. That’s when I’ll call Vivica—
she’s fine
. Just met her on the Internet. And, her voice…”

Ray stared at his cell phone in disbelief. “Brother, you met some chick in cyberspace, and are gonna—”

“You should see her, brother.”

“I don’t have to see her, man. You’re an attorney. You of all people should know better. The woman could be here in my vice squad records.”

“That’s why I’m calling you. I need a background check.”

Ray sighed. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Baby got back, a double-D cup, face so pretty, legs—”

“I’ma ask you this again real slowly,” Ray said. His friend’s stupidity was making the muscle in his jaw jump. “Is she a working girl?”

“I don’t exactly know, but, uh, could use a favor…since you work vice. Uh, if I give you some—”

“If I do this, look her up and let you know if she has a record, you’ll owe me, Marc. No questions, no hesitation, no ‘I’ll get back to you later.’ If I ever—”

“Done. Just run her tags for me, man. This babe is so freakin’ fine, and serves phone sex so damned good—man, I’m like, hell yeah, baby. Come on down from Jersey City, bring your sister, whateva. Just come.”

Laughter filled Ray’s cell phone. Again, he could only stare at it. This was TMI, over the top. Just because he and Marcus Dorchester went back to high school, didn’t mean this fool wasn’t getting on his last nerve.

“The girl looks like—”

“I don’t need to know what she looks like,” Ray snapped.

“Turn on your PC, I’ll shoot you her pic—just in case she comes up on your visual radar. I hope she isn’t one of the casino girls that occasionally cross into Philly to do a little condo work downtown.”

Ray shook his head, sat down at his desk hard, but complied, waiting for his tube to boot up.

“She told me her sister was about five-seven, like her, but with darker brown hair,” Marcus went on. “I told her that my single buddy was all that…six-four, built, brown skin—you know they like the tall-dark-handsome type, has a good job, is well invested in real estate, no kids, no wife, no live-in problems, feel me? I wanted her to be comfortable with coming to Philly, not knowing me and everything, and figured a double date might coax her down. She said she’d be game, we could meet and all go to dinner, and if the chemistry was right, maybe we could go somewhere alone for a nightcap, you hearing me? So, see if you can get the blue flu for this one and—”

“Send the picture and the tag number,” Ray said flatly, rubbing his close-cropped hair with his palm. He waited as his friend’s booming chuckles continued to ripple through the phone. He kept his focus on his computer. He was not taking off from work, no matter what. One day, if his boy Marcus didn’t stop the madness, he was either gonna wake up coughing and sick, shot by some woman’s husband, or be found stabbed to death with a lady’s stiletto in his chest.

“You get it yet?” Marcus asked anxiously.

“The jpeg is downloading now,” Ray said, feeling self-conscious as his fellow officers walked by his desk and gave him nods of appreciation. The girl was fine, but still…

“If I lose my job,” Ray muttered, “promise me I’ll be able to work as a security guard in your office building.”

“Did you get it?”

“Yeah,” Ray said, his tone growing surlier as he pulled up a file of known prostitutes and studied the unnamed woman’s photo beside it. She was fine indeed, but that wasn’t the point. “Girlfriend is all pro, my brother,” he finally said, pushing away from his desk. “Busted last year in the suburbs, Montgomery County, for porn movies with animals, then—”

“What!”

Ray couldn’t help but chuckle as he stared at the honey-blond sister with the body that wouldn’t quit.

“You’re killin’ me, Ray-Ray. Say it ain’t so!”

Raymond laughed and began closing computer files. “Man, listen, you mess with her if ya wanna, but you might get hoof-and-mouth disease.” He laughed harder as one of his older vice colleagues passed his desk, caught the comment, and slapped him five. His other buddy, Raul, was openly laughing and pounded his fist as he went for coffee.

“Tell your boy he might get his feelings hurt coming behind a stallion and a couple of Dobermans,” Raul teased. “I know he thinks he’s the baddest mutha in the valley and all, but hey. He ain’t no Smarty Jones, last I checked—and this sister is into thoroughbred racers.”

“The peanut gallery has weighed in,” Raymond said, his mood much improved. “Case closed, man. But you still owe me for even considering doing a spot investigation. When you gonna learn, brother? Just take Wanda out, be cool, treat the sister right, get some, and go home. Why the intrigue, why the drama? Live the simple life and stay alive. Wanda’s gonna cut you, one of these days.”

His friend was laughing so hard that he had to be sure his cell phone wasn’t on Speaker.

“I know, man,” Marcus said, wheezing. “But it’s just the dawg in me—the thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline of the chase—the not knowing the conclusion. Big game huntin’ is just—”

“Suicidal, yo. So, I have things to do, you need to be prepping some poor client’s case, and tomorrow, for me, is like a black hole in the universe. It doesn’t exist. I’m working.”

Tonight was the big night. Jocelyn cleaned her small loft apartment with the fervor of a woman on a mission. Music blared from her five-CD tabletop stereo system. Alicia Keyes, Myra, Jill Scott, all the divas were in the house. Power music. Women of substance. Yes!

It hadn’t bothered her one bit that tennis bracelets had glinted off her coworkers’ wrists, or that flowers had shown up on blushing females’ desks. She was impervious to the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune. Their little digs at lunch didn’t bother her one bit. Signifying sighs of bliss didn’t break her down. Tonight, she and her posse of strong, sane, independent women were not going to allow Valentine’s Day to kill their joy or self-esteem. Nope.

On her way home from work, she’d gone crazy, buying all sorts of pretty flowers to put in every room. Birds of paradise, roses, calla lilies, and large sunflowers made her place a veritable garden—Tina would most appreciate that. Candles were perched in lovely holders all around; even the bathroom had some. The Dollar Store was
her store
!

She’d found fresh Dollar Store towels and had laid them out on her bed, alongside inexpensive little silk robes that she’d practically stolen down in Chinatown for ten bucks each. But it was a necessity for each girlfriend with matching Chinese slippers, just so they could be pampered in style. Red would be for her, yellow for Jacqui, electric blue for Tina, and jade for Freddie.

Aromatherapy would add to their healing sanctuary, and she lit incense everywhere, spilling lavender and jasmine throughout her apartment. The platters she’d picked up at a discount from Tina’s job looked so good she wanted to pinch off them rather than wait, but resisted.

Gourmet cheeses and fresh deli salads and fruits graced each platter. Hummus and star fruit and kiwi and strawberries with seeded black breads—see, men didn’t think or know how to do! Dizzying desserts—cheesecake slices, cream-filled petit fours, and small mousse cups with decadent chocolate rims—almost broke her resolve to wait for the group. Chocolate-covered strawberries…hmmm…well, one was lost to the cause, but she’d closed in the hole and giggled as she did so. She couldn’t remember being this happy on a Valentine’s Day evening.

Black plates, again, courtesy her store, made it look like an expensive, high-class restaurant, with the lights low. A fondue pot sat readied and waiting. Spinach dip was already made and in the fridge. She’d light the candles later; for now, the liquor store called.

Yes, true, she’d gone over the limit, finding a bottle of wine for each friend—since they each liked something different. Jacqui was into zinfandels, Tina loved the artists’ merlots, Freddie was a business-clean char donnay, and she liked the heavier cabernet sauvignons—so the best compromise was to buy one of each. But champagne was the order of the day. At first she bought a magnum, then decided to get each of them a bottle. It was excessive, but hey, they were purging the demons of male inattention and ineptitude, and if one of them started crying about an old boyfriend, there needed to be plenty of hooch on the premises.

Quite pleased with herself, Jocelyn lugged her box of booze up the four flights to her door. Student-living over in the Powelton Village area didn’t come with the luxury of elevators, but that was okay. Tonight, she’d turned her small place into an all-female oasis. It was a spa for the lovelorn.

Dabbing the slight perspiration from her brow, she kicked open the door and shoved it closed behind her with her backside. She was so happy, she could have skipped across the floor, were her package not so heavy. And it had made her feel good that the ladies at the liquor store had asked her if she was having a party, and had given her high-fives and
Go, girls!
Yeah. That’s right, she
was
having a party.

Jocelyn set down her box of booze with care and stripped off her faux lamb jacket, crossing the room with purpose to hang it up. It was seven
P
.
M
.—her girls would be there by eight, the pamper pros would be there by eight-thirty, everything was ready. She even had time for a quick shower.

As she glimpsed her phone and saw the light blinking, she giggled. No doubt her girls were getting anxious, too, and had called to squeal and check on last-minute details. She picked up the phone and scrolled through the missed calls on the digital display, glancing at the coffee table which had four little gifts, each wrapped in pretty, glistening silver paper with large gold bows. She casually munched on the mixed nuts that had been set out, and picked a slim chocolate mint out of a candy bowl as she made her way to the kitchen, juggling bottles of wine with the cordless phone to listen to each of her friends’ messages.