CHAPTER TWELVE

California Bound

There were two other times when Douglass visited the west coast. He was much younger—only 8—and on both occasions he and his younger sisters Laurie and Julie tagged along with Mrs. Gilmore. His grandparents had settled in San Diego County for a number of years, having retired from the fast life of New York and their successful careers as doctors. In the hills of California, the elders lived well, in a one level villa that had an in-ground pool, and a terrace with a view that overlooked a valley of beautifully landscaped gardens.

The children’s stay was enjoyable and pleasant for the first trip. Douglass had experienced the San Diego Zoo, Disneyland, and a series of museums. Although he may not have been old enough to appreciate these spectacles, he did forever remember seeing bunny rabbits, lizards and grasshoppers all roaming freely along sidewalks, yards and parks. Cactuses, and the widest variety of plants and flowers that he’d ever seen, were a wonder to a boy whose heart grew to appreciate the inner city. Still, it was a cinch to adjust to peaceful, spacious San Diego, California. Douglass got to sit atop authentic cannons, he collected and identified rocks, and he even experimented with electricity during his short vacation. Suddenly, his young life was full of new possibilities such as science, botany and chemistry.

He whimsically saw himself as a young, mad scientist with a fever to learn and venture. Even if his wild journey was short-lived, at least he got to experience another side of life. His grandparents recognized his potential as well; their first grandchild showing them just how worthy he was to receive that college tuition that they’d earmarked for him.

The second visit to Grandma’s house wasn’t as pleasant. In fact, it was somewhat hostile. Douglass was about 13 at the time. And because of some infidelity (which led to an inevitable separation and divorce between his Mom and Dad), Mrs. Gilmore took Douglass and his sisters on a long, drawn out bus trip to the west coast.

His father had just gone through a long down-sizing during the early years of the Gilmore Empire, consolidating some of the stores he operated so that he could focus on just one. For one man to stretch himself so thin, attempting to maintain control over a chain of five delicatessens, a laundromat and a liquor store was the equivalent of juggling seven sizeable watermelons day after day. Added to that responsibility was a family, and the burdens only got heavier. Furthermore, the signs of the times called for creative, and even drastic measures. A bulletproof glass foyer had to be constructed for the liquor store and deli that Gil operated, just so that he could operate late into the night. This was a new expenditure (necessary to prevent robberies), which forced the entrepreneur to consolidate his chain of delicatessens into the one large property on the south side of Mt. Vernon. Moreover, the Gilmore family was forced to move as well. Gil sold his four bedroom, two story home in order to subsidize the new foyers. A corner property on a major artery in town, the Gilmore enterprise now consisted of a grocery store, liquor store and a bar. Above the stores there were three apartments, the smallest of which his family occupied. From a private house with a front and back yard, the Gilmores were imported into a two bedroom apartment where the entrance opened into the master bedroom. When the front door to the apartment opened, it barely brushed the king sized bed.

With the apartment also came the mice and the roaches, the odors and noise pollution; the next apartment, the next door neighbors, and even the street was close enough so that everybody knew everybody else’s business. Sometimes the hot water worked, and sometimes it didn’t. There were leaks in the ceilings, cracks in the walls, and always . . . always things scrambling behind those cheap, plaster walls. True, this wasn’t necessarily the worst that the ghetto could get; but it still wasn’t pretty.

In time, the grocery store, liquor store and eventually the bar were joined by various secret passageways and doors. If the bar needed beer or liquor, it could be obtained in minutes. If the store needed change, someone could hustle up from the bar. There was never a need that couldn’t be satisfied thanks to Gil’s keen business mind, and how he linked all three of his businesses under one roof so that they fed one another. Every possible resource was available in this world within a world. Every resource.

Now that Gil had his family under that same roof, feeding, seeing, and communicating with his family was a lot more convenient. To get to and from work enabled Gil to manage life’s ultimate freedoms. But because most of his time was devoted to business, the grocery store by day and the bar at night, he neglected his son and daughters; attention that was required for a growing boy. The result was the cold, harsh realities of the streets. At any given hour, Douglass or his sisters could sneak away from home. Although Mrs. Gilmore did her best to keep her children tied into various community activities, Douglass still became quite mischievous, whether it was his climbing fire escapes, exploring rooftops of buildings, or gambling with the boys in the hood. He even treasure hunted, scavenging through his family’s possessions stored in the basement below the businesses. Such access exposed Douglass and his sister Laurie to a raw awakening.

Everyone in the neighborhood must have known that there was something “special” about that hole in the wall known as Gilmore’s. After all, what man, if any, could keep from bragging about his sexual episodes with his favorite topless dancer in the infamous back room of Gilmore’s? Douglass was too young to be aware, and was mostly oblivious of the adult activities that his father facilitated. However, the boy was mischievous enough to make his own harsh discovery. The teenager couldn’t believe his eyes the first time he climbed the steps in the basement—the ones waaay back past the water heaters and furnace. But it was his second tour that dragged his younger, impressionable sister with him. The steps that Douglass revisited led to another secret passageway to the bar. Only at this time of the night, that passage was so much more. Taking turns pressing their eyes up against a crack in the doorjamb, the two could see the events on the other side of the door. There was candlelight. There were dark silhouettes. There were shadows moving, grinding and rolling on a blanket spread about the wood floor.

Douglass already knew this passageway from daytime deliveries in one way or another, and it never occurred to him that the dirty floor was soiled with varying degrees of musk, perfumes, baby oil and semen. But now it all made more sense as the activities produced some seedy fragrances that seeped from the room, fighting with the basement’s mildew, the fumes from the furnace and, of course, Butch’s bowels piled here and there. Douglass would often be responsible for walking and cleaning up after Butch, which lent him greater access to the basement. And yet, that was all the access he needed for this new revelation.

Despite the discouraging stench around them, the youngsters continued to peek. There was moaning and giggling and slurping and sucking and gurgling from a couple who sensually attacked each other. Both individuals had their heads buried between each other’s legs while the candles flickered, casting shadows on the walls nearby. The two were positioned in such a way that the children couldn’t see faces. But at just the right moment the truth hit them hard.

Daddy is cheating on Mommy!

The rest of the lust and sleaze was not as shocking as seeing Dad doin’ it with another woman. It was a monster shock that had both kids stumbling over one another as they shot out of the basement undetected—or so they thought.

The experience in the basement turned the Gilmore world upside down. Douglass and Laurie shared their story with Mom. Mom was satisfied enough with her children’s testimonies to immediately book those 4 bus tickets to San Diego. The children joined their mom excitedly, as though this was one big adventure—never mind that the family was in shambles—and they zealously packed all of their belongings in the family station wagon one early morning. As for the heavy furniture, Mother and children secretly cleared out the apartment until there was an echo. The four looked as if they were on a shopping spree, except the items were their own. Labels, stickers and packaging slips were tied and applied to every item or possession. The TV set, their bicycles. Suitcases. Everything. Mrs. Gilmore even gave her car to a close friend before making the cross-country crusade. From then on it was one bus station after another. For Douglass, it was one Pac-Man arcade game after another. A cooler full of fruits and veggies that Mrs. Gilmore packaged in little Ziploc bags kept the travelers fed, while Douglass was sedated with a cassette player and Stevie Wonder’s “Hotter Than July” album. That, and an Elton John album were the two tapes that kept his headphones on his head for the whole trip.

Ten days later, after a long, funky journey, Mrs. Gilmore and her three children were on the front steps of Grandma’s house.

More than 15 years later, Douglass found himself reminiscing about that last trip and how, after all that journeying, they ended up back in the same apartment just a month later. But this trip was different. Douglass was an adult now, almost 28. With some accomplishments under his belt. He simply wanted to relax. To escape the rat race, and to see his mother after so many years of distance.

New Rules

Wade closed the door behind him, suddenly facing Chief Washington, his boss, and two other men in suits and ties.

“Yes, Chief—you wanted to see me?” Wade was casual and unknowing.

“Detective Wade, meet Special Agent Walsh and Special Agent Olgen—?” Washington huffed under his breath, attempting to pronounce his name.

“Olgenhiemer. But just call me Hammer, sir.” The suit was proud enough to ordain himself.

“Sure . . .” Chief Washington lifted his brows and grinned sarcastically. “. . . Olgenhiemer. These guys are here to pick up the Fool’s Paradise case. Special orders from the high-ups. The organized crime task force in Jersey.” Washington expressed discouragement and concern in his tone, while Wade shifted his eyes to avoid those of his boss. Chief Washington reminded Wade of The Rock, the wrestler-turned-actor. He was always so serious and down-to-earth. Then, Wade turned to Walsh, a puny man, for sure. Dark hair. Chiseled features. Cheeks, chin, nose and lips. He looked as if he had had a shave and a haircut only an hour earlier.

“Chief, if you will allow me . . .”

Walsh interrupted. “. . . Yes, Detective Wade. We have reason to believe that there is organized activity behind the Fool’s Paradise murder. We’ve been following a drug case and an extortion scheme. These investigations somehow led us to Fool’s Paradise. Now there’s a murder . . . you can understand our interest. There’s likely a link here.”

Wade heard the man, but he wasn’t really listening. Anger was bubbling inside of him. All he could picture was his hard work and time; all of it about to be kicked to the side because of two secret agent men. Puny man and boy Hammer.

“We’ll need to see your notes and files on the case,” said Hammer, immediately reading Wade’s expression. Wade tried not to show any reaction, except to turn his head slightly towards humble Chief Washington, his eyes slowly trailing behind the motion. The chief said “My hands are tied,” if only with his shoulder shrug, and “I’m sorry,” if only with his defeated eyes. The chief’s expression couldn’t lie even if he tried.

Without an argument, Detective Wade led the two suits through the bright squad room and into the rear foyer. They made a left and then a right, until they came to the dim, haunting strategy room just ahead. The room was defined by 4 desks, a series of bulletin boards, a well worn black tile floor and some hazy windows that allowed little visibility. There was a table in a corner with a coffeemaker. A glass pot on the heating plate was tarnished and empty. Wade’s desk was to one side, in front of another.

“I hear you handle a lot of the homicides,” said Walsh.

“I guess,” said Wade. And then, to change the subject so that he wouldn’t start swinging on these federal agents, Wade went on to say, “Detective Block handles gang activity at this desk. And over here, Detective Warren handles—”

One of the agents tried to cut in, but Wade kept on speaking; rambling, really.

“—special projects like serial killers, politically related issues and others that receive heavy press and publicity. And this desk . . . you know who this desk belongs to? This desk belongs to Detective Baxter. And the reason Baxter’s desk isn’t as busy as the others is because it’s a sort of shrine . . . see, he was struck down during a recent drug deal gone bad. Used to be my partner. And you know what my partner would think of you coming in here and taking this murder case out of MY HANDS?”

—Wade was turning a little red as the volume of his voice raised a few notches—

“HE’D THINK THAT WHAT YOU’RE DOING SUCKS ASS! THAT’S RIGHT, I SAID IT! IT SUCKS—ASS!”

The men all stood still for a time, before one of Wade’s colleagues stepped in the room.

“Every—is everything alright, Wade?”

More than relaxed now, Wade performed his duties as though he hadn’t just cursed out two federal agents.

“Oh, everything is just dandy, Rivers. Just dan-dy.”

Wade proceeded to explain the details of his investigation to Walsh and Hammer. He covered Moet and her lifestyle; the men and women she’d laid, as well as her financial status. He calmly talked about her house and the recording on the answering machine. He deliberately left out the videotapes, as if they were his personal discovery. There was the list of dancers, staff, and the ownership at Fool’s Paradise. And then there was Debbie. He figured he could share info on her because he honestly needed their help to find her. The agents seemed unimpressed by Wade’s personal opinions and emphasis on Debbie, but entirely interested in what he might know about the Gilmores and possible links to Jersey’s Bianco crime family.

“A local family of entrepreneurs,” Wade called them. “There’s various business ventures of the father and son. The women by their sides. The successes . . . the failures. The possessions and bank accounts . . .” Wade hadn’t yet pinpointed the actual owners of the Gilmore home, or just how many people lived there. He could only say that it was big and that anything could be going on inside.

Hammer’s mind buzzed along, knowing that the Bureau had handled plenty of these situations before. He could see 30, maybe 40 agents storming the house. Dogs, shotguns, vests, and battering rams. He almost broke into a smile, knowing how equipped his unit was for a job like this. Wade went on about Douglass also being a B-list suspect.

“Then, there’s this panty hustler named David who’s a customer at the club and into it with a lot of the club’s dancers,” said Wade.

After a quick glance at one another for approval, Walsh and Hammer collected reports, statements, lists of physical evidence and the autopsy results. Then they left for the FBI’s satellite office in New Rochelle.

The Whispers song was the perfect edge that David needed to serenade Valerie . . .

“Chocolate girl . . .
oh, chocolate girl . . .
play in my ice cream . . .”

They were already caught up in the atmosphere of New York’s acclaimed Kwanza restaurant, with its rich traditional imports of abstract Kuba art and rich Kente fabrics. Table coverings were done with fine mudcloth-brown panels, and complementing the theme for the entire dining room was an array of tribal art, baskets and exotic sculptures. Meanwhile, spicy, soulful music and incense set the mood for the couple as they awaited their dishes. David didn’t mind expressing how his stomach was fighting itself for some food. But more than likely, it was tied in knots for the want to flirt with the gorgeous waitress. On the other hand, he was hungering for a deeper relationship with Valerie. Or was that just lust?

He’d nearly accosted Valerie every night she worked at Fool’s Paradise—a brother just wants a quiet night together.

“No strings attached” he promised. And finally, after so many rejections and the three sets of roses, Valerie gave in. She wasn’t supposed to give in, according to the unwritten rules that Cinnamon and others had warned her about, but David was so damned determined. At the least, she thought, she’d get a microscopic view of the guy. His defects might stand out, soon as she gave him the once-over, two times. Valerie wasn’t looking for a new man, happy with the ten or so thousand dollars that she’d accumulated and stashed between her mattresses.

“It’s nice to have you all to myself . . . you know, er—instead of a whole club full a’ niggas. You know?” David was leaning over the table, giving Valerie his undivided attention and handling her palms with the tender touch of his finger-tips. The lighting in the room was mild, as if the sun was going down indoors. The candles were scented, enhancing the dining room’s intimacy—as if the rest of the establishment wasn’t already doing the job. Valerie couldn’t help but feel the romance in the air. She dared herself at first to be drawn in by David’s lure. At least 100 people (men and women) had run the same ole boring lines to her in the club: “What are you doing in a place like this?” “What do I have to do to get you to go out with me?” “If I could take you home, you’d never have to raise a finger—you’d never have to work another day in your life . . .” and the one that Valerie heard more often than the rest: “Girl, you so fine, I’d drink your bath water.” Blah, blah, blah. Valerie just knew she’d heard them all. But then David came in the club with his suave three-liner.

“I was never so weak until I first saw you. My heart stopped beating and then you breathed in my direction. You gave me life again.” When she suddenly realized what David had said, her eyes turned glassy. She had to excuse herself. In the bathroom, Valerie shook the gloom and dizziness with a cold face cloth, plus a baby wipe here and there. He was making her hot. Fortunately there were no other dancers in the bathroom. A spray of Binaca Blast woke her up from the dreamy illusions that overcame her, and she went back into the busy club as if nothing happened. That was the night Valerie committed to David.

“Yes . . .” she said, almost choking on the word. “. . . I said yes.”

David had a moment of shock. Like his heart truly did stop. He was all too prepared for rejection and for a tough 3 hours of some Keith Sweat-type begging. And then he agreed with himself.

Huh . . . even this bitch falls for the Don!

The sweet and sour chicken and collard greens were appetizing, along with side dishes of candied yams and yellow rice. The delicious meal helped to satisfy the hunger in David’s stomach, but not the craving for Valerie. To be kind, David was staring at Valerie while she ate her chocolate ice cream. But to be honest, he was looking right through her, already secure that he would get in between her legs at some point. If not today, tomorrow. If not this week, next. It was that next, new territory for him to conquer, and the beast in him wanted to fill her until there was little room for the ice cream sliding down her throat . . . until gobs of it trickled back out of her lips and down her chin and neck. The chocolate would blend with the beads of perspiration on her neck and cleavage. That was where David imagined he would lay his tongue until it lapped up every bit of sweetness from her dark skin.

“. . . David. Did you hear me?” Valerie couldn’t be indignant, it wasn’t in her nature. But she did raise her voice a stitch.

“Huh . . . oh—yeah. Yeah, sure. Let’s get out of here.”

David watched his manners and opened the door for Valerie. If he didn’t observe high maintenance at these most crucial times in the . . . relationship, he’d surely blow his potential . . . he’d ruin his . . . Long story short—he wouldn’t get to fuck her!

Valerie hopped up into the jeep and reached over to pull the lever, unlocking the driver’s door. She crossed her legs and rested her hands in her lap. The split in her black dress was open to all but her upper thigh.

As David eased out of the parking space, Valerie reached up to the visor, pulled it down and checked her makeup in the mirror.

“So where to?” Valerie was direct as she toyed with her eyelashes, using the tip of her pinky’s nail to correct things.

“Well . . . any ideas?” David was being cautious, but he was also throwing the ball back over the net to Valerie. However, she wasn’t for games.

“You could take me home. I do have a long day tomorrow. Laundry. Errands and stuff.” She waited for the typical beggar’s reply. She got none.

“Okay, great.” David was reserved and polite. Not expecting. This threw Valerie off. Almost like he was going with the plan; her playing hard to get.

It was close to midnight and the quiet storm was well into its ritual of all-night-long slow jams. A half moon reflected a bright, unharnessed glow on the hood of David’s jeep. Except for a Tevin Campbell song soothing the air, it was tight in the jeep; a silence between the two. David was being casual, while Valerie was becoming more frustrated with each passing traffic light. She tried recrossing her legs. She tried to doze off. None of that was working.

David couldn’t miss Valerie’s legs. Her defined, naked calves and the perfume that lingered about her were doing a good enough job exciting him, causing him to grow partially stiff.

“David, you’re not upset or anything, are you?”

“No—why would you say that?”

“It’s just that I don’t usually mix business and pleasure. I try and keep the club and my private life separate,” said Valerie, expecting a response.

“Okay . . . and?” he asked, looking for her to elaborate.

“Well, I . . . damn, David! What happened?” asked Valerie, needing to release some suppressed anxiety. “I thought you wanted me? What are you, fuckin’ gay?” Valerie found it hard to break her proper Caribbean demeanor, but he pushed her to the edge.

David’s ego was on blast, but he kept from smiling, thinking, Now she’s mine.

“Hey, easy, baby. Of course I want you. But I want this to be right. I want just what you want. Nothing more, nothing less. Don’t take me for a customer. I’m not just another John.”

“Well, I’m not just another . . . I mean, I’m not a ho. You know what I mean? I know you do.” Valerie was stumbling. Stuttering. It was unlike her. She couldn’t . . . wouldn’t admit it, but she was horny.

“I know. I know,” David said as he zipped up the Major Deegan Expressway to the 233^rd Street exit in the Bronx. Along 233^rd Street and up to White Plains Road, closer to her address, Valerie seemed to be getting desperate. Maybe she would fuck David. Maybe, one day. At least he could show her that he was still interested. That she didn’t turn him off. At least he’d shown her something besides dick. Valerie wanted so much to affirm her ability to have a relationship with a black man. But, it had to be right. It had been almost 2 years since she left Canada and Richard.

Oh, why did I have to think of him?

David pulled up to a double parked position outside of Valerie’s place. She was now renting a room in a private home on Paulding Avenue. Finally on her own, she graduated and learned. First, Mrs. Brown-White. Then Josh, the obsessed, Radio Shack cashier who thought he owned her. And now she was in a semi-private situation. A basement apartment where she didn’t mind sharing the bathroom and kitchen. The price of freedom, she reconciled.

It came time to say goodbye and to thank David. But she didn’t want to go there just yet.

“Come in. See how I’m livin’.”

“Well, I don’t know, Valerie. Are you sure?”

“Are you sure?” she asked. But David didn’t dare read between the lines on that comment. He dismissed it as “cute” and turned on his jeep’s hazard lights to follow her inside. The two stepped along the walkway, around the side of the house, up to a doorway under a halogen lamp. Meanwhile, out of the couple’s view, a rented Caprice rolled up to double park a few houses away. The headlights blinked off and the motor went dead, but nobody got out of the vehicle. Not yet, anyway

“. . . And this is my sister, Beverly, and my brother, Jason.” Valerie was pointing to her set of photos that stood in miniature plastic frames, all positioned in a small semi-circle.

David took account of Valerie’s humble living quarters. A simple twin-sized bed. A small, movable wardrobe. A new 19” television, a VCR and a clock radio. There was a dresser with four drawers. On top was where she kept her photos, jewelry and makeup. A foot-high mirror was propped up on the dresser, against the wall. The entire room wasn’t more than 40 square feet painted in an off-green color. A high window close to the ceiling offered a rectangular view of the fence where the walkway crossed. With the plants and shrubs just outside the window, a clean view didn’t seem possible.

But indeed, with the lights on in the basement, someone could see inside. And indeed someone was on hands and knees, looking on with angry eyes. The two were on center stage and didn’t know it. The Peeping Tom could see every slick maneuver and expression that Valerie’s visitor made; how he worked his way up behind her, draping his arms around her waist. Valerie didn’t flinch, but instead molded instinctively and comfortable in his embrace. He was gliding his nose against the crook at Valerie’s bare neck and shoulders . . . he was raising his embrace to just below her breasts. The onlooker disappeared from the window once the light switch was flipped off.

A moment later, there was a loud sound of broken glass, then a police-like car alarm. The double-parked Caprice immediately raced away without being detected.

With his shirt half unbuttoned, David emerged from the side entrance of the house, expecting a confrontation. He ran up to his jeep, with its headlights flashing on and off. The alarm still blaring along with the foghorn on the truck. Someone had smashed the rear window with a stone.

“Shit!” David stood outside for a few minutes evaluating the damage. Steaming. Valerie came out and stood beside him helplessly. David thought of any immediate enemies, because vandals would have taken his $1,500 sound system and amps. But that was all still there. He wondered what woman he may have ticked off. Was it Debbie? Was it Moet? Maybe it was Sadie or Cinnamon? He walked Valerie back to the entrance, deliberating. Wondering. He gave her a brief kiss goodbye. She felt offended by the brisk show of emotion. But she’d have to understand.

Valerie was left with that strange, relieved feeling; somehow glad that there was no real collateral interest in David. By now, she was at least positive that a black man (even if he was high yellow) would still pursue her. And off he went, probably to some 24-hour auto glass repair shop. Nothing lost, nothing gained.

Caged

Douglass thought about Mechelle for most of his flight back to New York. He also imagined how he would approach his father with his proposal to buy the club. Investors, meetings, and a firm handshake consumed his thoughts when Mechelle wasn’t on his mind. The images volleyed inside of his head like a tennis match. Sex. Money. If it wasn’t the club on his mind, it was Mechelle’s famous onion dip blow job. If he wasn’t thinking about the club and new dancers with perfect bodies and brilliant attitudes, then it was Mechelle and her want for commitment. The club, with palm trees, waterfalls and a new snack bar. Mechelle, and making babies; lots of them. The club, and celebrity memorabilia in glass frames, Kente paneling and a brand new staff. Douglass’s mind raced back and forth while his head was jerking, synchronized with his rapid eye movement. He jolted when the stewardess tapped his wrist, warning him about the plane landing and that he needed to fasten his seat belt.

Once the plane parked at LaGuardia, the fluttering and turbulence in the cabin brought Douglass back to reality, his nerves ambitious to reach solid ground.

Home, he thought. And his eyes eventually focused on the here and now. Douglass defied the STAY SEATED lights, despite all the warnings the stewardess mentioned earlier, and he reached up to retrieve his shoulder bag, knowing that most of the passengers would be competing to get off the plane ahead of others.

So impatient, he thought selfishly. Douglass, no less, the pot calling the kettle black.

As the airplane made its hissing sounds, Douglass weaved through other passengers as if he was a ballerina spinning, dodging and rushing with a football into the end zone. All the while, he vowed to himself that the next flight has to be first class! Down the aisle, past startled airline attendants and through the exit, Douglass stepped quick and steadfast towards the opening to the terminal where Mechelle would be waiting. It was a great trip. A chance to see his mother and sisters. A chance to get a grip on himself and to take in the west coast climate. The music on Douglass’s earphones was appropriate for his pace, flooding his ears and senses with the mood setting transitions of jazz. He had mixed a special tape just for the trip and side B was playing now, with Herb Albert’s Rise just finishing and fading into Grover’s Mr. Magic. This was just the right rhythm for his attitude, because in a moment or two he was about to perform the actions that he reviewed in his dreams so many times while he was away. He’d run up to Mechelle, and she’d run to him. He’d clench her hips and waist with a firm grip, lift her up, spin around once and then lower her to his magnetic kiss.

There she was! The fantasy was beginning to play itself out as Mechelle was one of the first to be waiting for passengers to enter the terminal. She had those tight green shorts on that he liked so much. And by that look in her eyes, he’d bet his last dollar that she was going along with his wishes—

“Don’t wear any panties, either. Cuz, when I get back, I’mma tear that pussy up!” That was what Douglass growled into the telephone when last the two spoke. “I want you to be ready for anything,” he told her.

Douglass took that deep breath and exhaled the tensions from the flight—all of those ideas tossing around in his head. It was the way Mechelle looked right now; to be so willing and waiting for him, standing there in her white blouse and matching baseball cap that was turned to the rear and on an angle. Mechelle stood all of 5 feet tall, and although she was considered short for a woman, she was just right for Douglass; all buxom delicious in her white Nike sneakers. One of her legs was slightly bent so that she was posing, and her hands were stuffed in her back pockets to allow that full frontal view—his prize catch, all stretched out and perky; fine like creamy, molten chocolate that he suddenly wanted to devour right there in public. So fine, in fact, that Douglass was proud of himself for finding her. And as he got close enough to grab her he was beyond considering a commitment; instead, he was ready to pop the big question at this very instant.

With his shoulder bag strapped securely across his torso, the wire from his headset swinging aimlessly, Douglass reached out to Mechelle for that welcome-home hug he so anticipated. Just then, two bystanders—one with shades, one without—stepped in between the two before they could touch. One pulled a shiny billfold out and flipped it open, stretched out close to Douglass’s nose. Mechelle’s giant smile suddenly turned to a distraught gasp. The other bystander pulled his blazer to the side, brandishing his badge and holstered pistol.

“Mr. Gilmore, this is Agent Walsh and I’m Agent Hammer with the FBI. You’re under arrest. Please step aside . . .” The two agents moved towards a side wall, deliberately cradling Douglass’s elbows so that he had no choice. Another female agent with blond hair stood by Mechelle to be sure that she didn’t interfere. Mechelle was frantic with her expressions, but temperate in her actions. Loudly, she addressed the ambush.

“What’s goin’ on here? Hey! Where are you takin’ him?” Mechelle tried to move past the blond agent, but she blocked the move and opened her blazer to brandish a holstered weapon. Other passengers were passing through now, sidestepping the arrest and keeping that shameful hush amongst themselves, somehow embarrassed for Douglass.

Hammer and Walsh didn’t need to use force under the circumstances. There was plenty of airport security around. And besides, Douglass did not resist, even if he was arguing.

“What’s this about? Hey! Why the handcuffs? What did I do?”

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Nadine Butler . . .”

“Nadine who? I don’t even know anybody named Nadine! Y’all are outta your fuckin’ minds!”

“You have the right to remain silent . . . if you . . .” Agent Walsh went over his Miranda Rights while Hammer secured the cuffs on both wrists, his elbow slightly pressed into Douglass’s spine. Douglass stood still, his cheek against the wall, watching fellow passengers and their expressions. Some of them were shocked and paranoid, veering to a wider distance. Others shook their heads as if they expected this of him—more or less wishing this on him; as if he was that speeding car who passed them, only to be flagged and chased down by the state troopers.

The blond agent tried to calm Mechelle, but Mechelle was having a fit. Eventually, she directed questions to Douglass. The passengers were all but emptied from the corridor now, leaving a group of uniformed stewardesses and pilots who stepped in unison from the ramp.

“Douglass, what should I do?”

“Just relax, baby. This is all bullshit. Don’t get upset. Just go home and relax. I can handle everything. Tell my father what happened. Otherwise, I’ll be fine. Wait for my call.” Douglass threw Mechelle a kiss with his lips only, and he was escorted down a service corridor of the terminal. Mechelle was left outside of the swinging doors, looking through a plate of glass window that she’d rather kick in.

Meanwhile, the agents brought their prisoner through a series of doors and passageways until they reached a blue Chevy Caprice sedan that had a clean, but dull, appearance. Hammer helped Douglass into the back and the blond sat behind the wheel. Walsh was in the passenger seat, with his upper body twisted so that he sat facing the back seat. He began to ask Douglass some questions, but he got a sarcastic grimace in response. Douglass remained silent in light of this nightmare, and he didn’t want to help these agents in the least. Even under the circumstances, he was able to find patience enough to wait and see a lawyer, judge or some other authority.

As the Chevy zipped along, an agent explored Douglass’s belongings. Pen and pad handy, he recorded cell phone numbers, license and bank card numbers. Watching every activity, no matter how simple, Douglass kept a blank look on his face. A few moments later, the agent named Walsh motioned to the lady agent to pull over. She did so, and the vehicle sat on the service lane of the expressway. The agents each got out and met at the rear of the vehicle. Someone raised the trunk, shielding view of their conversation. Douglass could see through the narrow space at the bottom of the rear windshield. Walsh was doing most of the talking, while the other two agents looked on obediently. When they returned to their seats, all eyes were on their prisoner. Walsh leaned over into the back seat as if he had revealing news.

“Okay, Mr. Gilmore. Here’s the situation. We’re bringing you to New Jersey for holding. That’s where our office is, and that’s where this case will be tried. Now, you can make this difficult, or you can make this easy on yourself. If we bring you to New Jersey, we must extradite you from New York. That means we would have to process you here in New York. Manhattan. That could take a number of days, a magistrate and an extradition proceeding. That’s the difficult way. The easy way is, you can sign this waiver . . .”

—Walsh produced a printed form and whipped it in front of Douglass’s face—

“. . . which will put it in front of a judge today, and you may be able to get bail by five PM.” Walsh looked at his watch as if he was timing Douglass, or rushing him. To Douglass, the watch looked overdone, one of those with about 50 features more than necessary.

“It’s twelve noon now. We have just enough time to process you and get you before a magistrate.” Douglass considered the situation.

“Whatever . . .” He looked over the form and twisted his face, misunderstanding much of it. “. . . what does this mean?” Douglass pointed to a clause with his nose, something about waiving his rights. Agent Walsh snatched the sheet from Douglass.

“Okay . . . problem. Take him to Manhattan,” Walsh ordered the lady agent like a general.

“No . . . no—alright. I’ll sign it. . . . I said I’ll sign it.” Douglass felt pressured, but he made the plea so he could get through whatever procedure and get back home to Mechelle. It was a sleepless flight from Cali, and now, it was likely to be a long afternoon in custody. Douglass closed his eyes, knowing that this was some joke. Somebody had to correct this mess. He was sure things—

A murder? Nadine Butler? Who’s that?

Tucked Away

The trip to New Jersey was a relatively quick one. The feds acted as if they were on a chase, speeding like a gush of wind on the throughway, jetting through toll booths without obligation and plowing forward like some God-Almighty force that intimidated other drivers into moving out of the way or pulling aside.

The agents raced back to their home base in Newark, and once they made the transition from the throughway to the busy streets, the same high speed was exercised, only now in spurts between major intersections. Douglass began to feel like a diplomat in a motorcade, or even a controversial rap star escaping gunfire. He tried to close his eyes and imagine why, what and how. Perhaps this was just a nightmare and these were really expensive bracelets (and not handcuffs) on his wrists? Was this a bad dream?

Nadine who? Douglass still couldn’t put two and two together. Next to a massive postal building (obvious by the fleet of white trucks on the street and lot) there was an even bigger building labeled as the Martin Luther King Hall of Justice. Douglass huffed under his breath, thinking, sure . . . what a laugh. Martin’s masterminding this? But at the same time he was thinking that Martin’s name in the hands of the enemy was the worst contradiction.

The Caprice rolled down a driveway at the side of the building. Agent 99 lowered her window and slipped a plastic ID card into a machine. There was a beep before a garage door lifted electronically. The vehicle eased down and into the basement of the courthouse, into an underground passage, and it stopped just short of another steel door. Douglass realized that he was entering a fortress, with all of the procedures and sequences of doors and gates and such. The garage door lowered behind the car. Seconds later the steel door rolled up in front of the car. The vehicle moved again, now settling in what felt like a small cave. As the door lowered, sealing the vehicle inside, Douglass could feel the presence and power of that blue and yellow insignia on the wall. It was the size and shape of an oversized basketball. It read “U.S. MARSHALS SERVICE.”

Once inside, Douglass could have been entering a control center for a NASA rocket launch for all he knew. Just ahead was a glass enclosed command booth, containing 10-foot panels full of video monitors, recorders and electronic buttons, lights and switches. Surveillance, squared. There were some telephones and a uniformed attendant overseeing it all. On the monitors, Douglass could surmise briefly that cameras were everywhere inside and outside of the building, capturing miles of activities in one room. The whole facility seemed equipped enough to offset any possible terrorist activity. Cameras were focused on the perimeter of the building, jail cells, driveways, corridors and doorways.

Immediately breaking Douglass’s fixation with the electronics in his midst, a burly, bearded, Big Foot–like type, with unshaven, prickled skin, stepped forward, ready to process Douglass. Fingerprints. Photos. Property forms. A prisoner number. He had 3 or 4 sets of handcuffs and a big ring of keys hanging off of his waist—had to be 30 keys on that ring. The cuffs and keys were attached to the dark leather belt that disappeared under Big Foot’s gas-tank belly. Douglass was told to sit in a chair next to a desk. Reception. The marshal poked at some keys on his computer and pulled a series of forms from trays on his desk. Among the questions Douglass was asked included vitals like date of birth, home address and phone number, parents, children and occupation. Douglass wanted to ask if this was for the U.S. Marshal’s special mailing list and if he should expect 4-color brochures. But the enormity of the surroundings, all served to prevent his freedom and liberty, was intimidating, daunting, and a step beyond any “smoke and mirror” campaign that he’d ever seen.

Once the processing was done, the FBI agents left Douglass alone with the marshal, who escorted him down an elbow of hallways to where a row of closed-door holding cells were located. The handcuffs were removed and Douglass was made to wait until he was called to court for an arraignment before a U.S. Magistrate. During an hour long wait, alone in the cell, he couldn’t explain to himself how his life had so suddenly been whisked up into such a twister of adversity. He did his best to rationalize. What would Les Brown tell him now, in this predicament? Certainly not LIVE YOUR DREAMS! Douglass couldn’t see it, but he could feel that he was caught in a chain of events that had nothing to do with him.

“Gilmore.” A marshal twirled a set of handcuffs as he entered the cell. “Court.” he concluded. He was casual about it, an everyday occurrence for him. This time, handcuffs and shackles were used. A chain was wrapped around Douglass’s waist to keep the cuffs restricted to his waist. A second marshal joined the escort, and the trio went into an elevator, down a few halls, and through a rear entrance into a courtroom with polished wood, carpet and bright lights. Douglass was directed to a long table where he was seated adjacent to an identical setup a few feet away. The three familiar FBI agents were seated at the adjacent table in a strategic huddle along with another man in a black suit and tie. Meanwhile, Douglass sat wondering, counting the faces. The stenographer. The court clerk. Two court officers at the rear of the room. The marshals.

Why are these people involved with my life? Douglass took a well needed deep breath, waiting for someone of authority to dismantle this whole mess. Someone would inevitably put all of this into proper perspective, and for sure, Douglass would be sent back to his busy life in New York.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gilmore. I’m Mr. Locca, here to represent you. Are you familiar with the charges that are pending in this case?” Out of the clear blue, another white man in a suit approached Douglass from behind.

“Pending?” As Douglass asked this, the two wooden doors, demarcations between freedom and imprisonment, were still swinging.

“Well, there’s actually a complaint at this point . . .”

Locca was a short Italian man with dark hair and a round nose. He handed Douglass a yellow copy of the complaint.

“Next will be the indictment. I’ve read the charges and I’ve spoken to the government about your case. Their case is kinda shaky, but . . .”

“Wait a minute. Who called you to represent me? That’s first of all, and second of all, slow down. Things are going pretty fast for me right now.”

“Mr. Gilmore, the court has appointed me to represent you in this matter. I was once a district attorney in this court, so if you just work with me we’ll do the best we can for you.” Locca was leaning into the conversation as if he didn’t care for the marshals or the opposition to overhear. But the court room was quiet enough to hear a mouse squeak. Douglass was reviewing the complaint as he listened to the lawyer.

“RECO? Organized crime?!” Douglass was loud. The clerk of the court and the others all gazed in his direction. A marshal in the back of the courtroom seemed to ready himself for expected trouble.

“Mr. Gilmore, these are just allegations. In a court of law these things must be proven beyond reasonable doubt. Relax.” Locca leaned in once again, placing a concerned hand on Douglass’s shoulder. They discussed the circumstances and procedures a bit more before a voice spoke out loud.

“All rise. The Honorable Magistrate Bernice Keefe presiding in the matter of the United States of America versus Douglass Gilmore.” A frail woman in her 50’s, with silver hair and horn rimmed, wire frame glasses posted on the bridge of her nose, stepped affirmatively towards the platform as called upon by the clerk of the court. At the forefront of the courtroom, she sat behind a large, enclosed, redwood bench. Douglass could only see her from the shoulders and up, even when he stood. The handcuffs were removed, but the U.S. marshals stood even closer now, as if Douglass (who, despite all, was calm and humbled) would escape in shackles. Observing everyone’s actions and words during the proceedings., Douglass smirked when he finally focused on the bronzed, raised letters on the wall behind the magistrate. The words in GOD WE TRUST forced Douglass to wonder: You’re all trusting in God, but you’re all acting corrupt, like kidnappers right now.

After the introduction, a blizzard of legal mumbo jumbo was exchanged back and forth between the judge, the lawyer and the assistant U.S. attorney. And eventually, without a word from Douglass, a decision was reached relating to bail.

“Bail will be set at five million dollars, cash.” The magistrate uttered the words in a single, insensitive breath before she slammed her gavel down, putting an end to the session. Just like that, the court appearance was over. Decisions and discussions about Douglass Gilmore and his freedom had simply brushed by him, a snowstorm that he was neither prepared or dressed for. And now, he was left to suffer the consequences, naked and alone.

“FIVE MILLION DOLLARS CASH?!” Douglass attracted everyone’s attention within the space of seconds. He was so loud that he made the court stenographer cover her ears. He wanted to bust out of the chains on his ankles. He wanted to bust out in laughter and in tears. He wanted to destroy every breathing person in sight. And that’s when the marshals closed in with their hands gripping his forearms and shoulders.

“Relax, Mr. Gilmore. Don’t make a scene here in the courtroom. Be respectful of the court and they will be respectful towards you. Remember that. This isn’t as bad as it sounds—” The marshals had already jumped at Douglass, replacing the handcuffs and proceeding as though the conversation with the attorney was the least important issue in existence. “—listen, I’ll talk to you downstairs in the holding cell.” Douglass quickly realized that he was being rushed and that the forces were too mighty for him to compete with, all of it moving, manipulating and shifting him the way they pleased. To him, this was all wrong; kidnapping disguised as justice. From Douglass’s view-point, it seemed as though the FBI had fabricated a suitcase of possibilities to impress anyone that was listening, and therefore Douglass was pigeonholed as just another flagrant, belligerent ne’er-do-well of society.

The lawyer and client went their separate ways. One in the direction of liberty, the other, into a virtual straightjacket. Lifting her robe from her feet like it was a wedding gown, the magistrate quickly made her exit, as if she was fleeing, disappearing through a door to her chambers. The courtroom soon turned lifeless again—the scene of a hit-and-run.

Douglass did his best to harbor his tensions along the walk back to the holding cell. But when the chains and cuffs were removed and the door slammed, he found a corner of the room and sat on the stainless steel bench. Feeling helpless and abused, he lifted his knees and assumed a fetal position. He squeezed until his arms felt lifeless; until teardrops of loss and confusion rolled down his cheeks.

The boom-bap and grungy bass of D’Angelo’s “Brown Sugar” was entertaining the customers inside of Fool’s Paradise as they watched the dancers swing and swerve along with the music. But for Gil, things were miserable right now. He’d just received word about his son, and it was having an impact on him.

“What murder? My son wouldn’t commit any murder. He don’t have no enemies like that.” A dancer was standing just next to Gil, rubbing his back, while at the same time a customer was trying to get Gil’s attention, waving a ten-dollar bill at him for singles. His thoughts hardly interrupted, Gil went ahead and gave the customer change, except he carried on with his conversation, his train of thought never slowing. He was still playing Mechelle’s phone call in his mind.

He said to tell you he’ll be alright and not to worry about him. He would handle things.

Then, Gil had responded, saying, how the hell does he expect to handle things? This is the federal government, not some fluzzie, local sheriff. He’s gonna need a good lawyer to get him out of—murder? Mechelle, do you know anything about what’s going on? Mechelle said she didn’t know a thing, but suspected that this might have something to do with Moet’s murder since that was the only murder to speak of in the past month.

Gil thought of calling one or two patrons who also happened to work at the 45th Precinct. But by Mechelle’s call he realized something; Douglass was a grown man who, apparently, could take care of himself. After all these years of ups and downs; all the business ventures they had together, inevitably building Gilmore’s to become a staple brand in the adult entertainment industry—after the family break-up and the two eventually re-uniting—Gil saw that his son was independent.

For the days to follow, Mechelle did her best to maintain Douglass’s priorities; the bills, the phone calls and the brief errands. Demetrius was helpful as well, maintaining security at the house and keeping a watchful eye (more than ever before) on Fool’s Paradise. One thing Demetrius did not realize was that Mechelle was becoming sick. She was growing hungrier, eating snacks all the time. But she was also throwing up on occasion. Mechelle was almost sure that she was pregnant. But that wasn’t her problem. Her problem was that she wasn’t sure if the baby belonged to Douglass, or if it belonged to one of the men who raped her down in North Carolina. Not to mention how she was afraid to find out the truth.

Detective Wade reclined in his swivel chair, feet up on the desk. He gazed at his strategy board, and the calendar beside it. Zeroing in today’s date reminded him that he had less than 18 months before he was to retire. That calendar also reminded him that he had to make use of his vacations and sick days that he never took advantage of.

Damn, he thought. I could take a whole year off if I want to. There was one more thing about the calendar; something he’d forgotten. The World Series! Jesus!

Wade jumped up to make a few calls, before it was too late.