CHAPTER TWENTY

Done Deal

Heading back towards New York, from the New Jersey Turnpike and then onto I-95, Douglass couldn’t help thinking that the meeting wasn’t long at all. A half hour at best. And it wasn’t as difficult as he thought it might be to convince an investor that his was the greatest, most profitable proposal of all time. All he could think to do was smile to himself to match the joy that he felt inside. Valerie was with him, an ornament for anyone checking, yet fortunate just to be there; to experience it all.

Swing, the leader, organizer and producer of the popular R&B group JAYCI, had just agreed to back Douglass for the full $500,000 investment needed to take over the club from his father. Swing was impressed with the idea that he could make money, be part-owner in a spot where he, his group and his celebrity friends could congregate, fraternize with the dancers and feel at home; and he could do all that without the headaches of operating a nightclub. Douglass promised him all of the above, knowing that a 19-year-old who’d been responsible for over 15 million records sold didn’t want much more than to be loved, to feel accomplished and to have his ego stroked. Sadie could handle that task all by herself. And if she was busy, there was China; and behind her, there’d be someone else in line right behind her. Valerie wasn’t as impressed as Douglass was by Swing’s home, but in Douglass’s deeper evaluation he could see the whims of young wealth here. Here was an entertainer who already came through the club time and time again, and now he wanted a piece of the action. It was only right.

While Douglass and Valerie waited in a living room with furnishings that were still wrapped, or still in the boxes, Swing was down in the basement, cutting some tracks in his million-dollar recording studio with another group, a girl group that he had conceived. In the meantime, there was no mistaking new money. This was quite a large house; maybe 13,000 square feet. There were no curtains yet; stereo equipment was fresh out of the box, barely touched, with the various components scattered in a corner of the living room. Styrofoam pieces that protected the equipment were also on the floor with empty boxes. The fire-place was unused, without a speck of dust. A giant screen TV still sat in its box unopened. Douglass felt as though he’d interrupted a major shopping spree. The fixtures in the bathrooms were shiny enough to use as mirrors, they were so new. Cordless phones were everywhere, some cellular, some residential.

What all of this meant was, Swing and his group of singers were getting dough. And it all made Douglass that much more secure about the business of entertainment and the musical genius he had come to know well. Even that was convenient, not necessarily because Douglass was a 12-year veteran in the entertainment business, but because Swing, his group JAYCI and many of his colleagues and associates who were also young, successful entertainers, simply made Fool’s Paradise a second home. Since their interest was already established, Douglass knew for sure that this would be the deal of a lifetime.

“Ain’t no problem,” said Swing. “If you got a deal with your father and he’ll sell the club for five hundred, I’ll put up the dough . . . I’ll also put up the dough for the refurbishing you wanna do . . . and you and I can split profits until we’re buried in the ground.”

“Bet,” said Douglass. And the two shook hands.

Now that Douglass had his major investor, he needed to get the club out of his father’s hands. He had to get him to agree to the terms of his deal before things got bad . . . before the staff robbed Gilmore’s blind, or worse, before the State Liquor Authority recalled the club’s liquor license due to the prostitution, and other such inappropriate behaviors that were thriving within. Douglass was about to approach his father with a proposal that would knock his socks off. For Swing, the only thing left to do was sign wherever and make out a check. That meant, maybe, one less Ferrari that the singer, songwriter and producer would buy this quarter.

By the time that Douglass stepped into his dad’s office, content that all was about to be said and done, Gil had already done some research. Douglass had told his dad of his intentions, and with whom he intended to do business with. So, that afternoon Gil was skeptical enough to ask questions and to come up with his own opinions.

“I don’t wanna be no partners with no rap group.” Gil twisted his mouth as if to admonish that genre of music.

“What are you talkin’ about, rap group? JAYCI isn’t a rap group. They’re a singing group . . . and they make songs.”

“Well, they have a rap image and I don’t want to turn this into no rap club.” Douglass, on one hand, felt he had to defend rap music; something that he was certain his father knew nothing about. On the other hand, buying the club from his father had nothing whatsoever to do with rap music as much as it had to do with keeping the family business afloat. He felt his father was guessing, or at most, pigeonholing the individuals based on what he heard.

“Well, I have news for you, Dad. We play their music in the club all the time. Not only that, if you’re so much against rap . . . the fact is that more than sixty to seventy percent of the selections that play over the speakers here are rap songs. So what’s your point?”

“Look, I’ll tell you what the point is . . .” Douglass saw his father grimace like he used to do before he popped him upside the head as a youngster at the family grocery store. “. . . This club is running just fine without your ideas, your rap friends and their money . . .”

“Rap friends? These are investors. What’s the difference? Money is money. You said you’d sell for a million, with five hundred down. So I got the five hundred.”

“And what about the rest? What am I suppose to do after I get the money? You end up messing up the cash flow—changing everything . . . then what? Plus . . . the girls here aren’t gonna work for you. Look at your attitude. Nobody’s gonna wanna work for you.” Douglass huffed through his grin, almost anticipating his father’s insults.

“Of course the dancers aren’t gonna be working for me, because they’re not gonna be working here at all. Half of the girls you got here are lousy looking or lousy money makers. Others are questionable prostitutes. The staff is nothing but a bunch of lechers and thieves. They’ve been rippin’ you off left and right . . . rippin’ you off means they’re rippin’ me off.”

“Well, I say, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. And as far as I’m concerned, the deal’s off.”

“I don’t think you wanted to sell in the first place. You were right to ask ‘What am I gonna do after I sell it to you,’ because this is your life. If you could eat, sleep and live here, you would . . . and you’ve been running this club like you run your car, your house, other people, and even your family. You’ve abused it all. You’ve made one big mess of business, of other people’s lives and of your life. Stepped on everybody you could, just to get your way. You’ve chased everybody away; your wife, your daughters and now me. I’m the only one you had left . . . and not for nothing, Dad, but if it wasn’t for this club and this business, I really wouldn’t have been around you either. We never really had a relationship. I was just there for you to use. I thought it was my gift to be able to operate the cash register at the grocery store and to be able to sell liquor next door simultaneously . . . I thought it was a gift to be able to do that at ten years old. But the truth is, you were just saving money on salaries. Using me for cheap child labor . . . like a slave!”

“Hey, you wait a minute . . .”

“No-no, you’re not gonna out-talk me, because the fact is that any hopes I had for a well-financed college education were diminished when you used the scholarship money that my mother’s parents . . . my grandparents put away for me!” Douglass was full of adrenaline. He knew that he was dropping a bomb, and there was no stopping him now. “You’ve screwed up your credit, my credit, my mother’s credit, my mother’s brother’s credit . . . use-use-use, that’s all you know how to do is use people to have things your way. That’s the only way you know!” Douglass was choked up, suddenly realizing that he went all the way off. He verbally pummeled his father. But he didn’t want to let up. He had to get it out. He knew that this was his last stand.

“For your information, since the beginning of time . . . fathers don’t charge their sons big unobtainable sums of cash to take over the family business . . . once their sons have proven themselves, they pass it on and live off of their good fortunes. They teach their offsprings how to run it and guide them along proudly. A million dollars?! Ha-ha . . . you think this club is worth a million dollars? You stay in this office, screw who you want, with the door closed . . . locked. And your staff . . . your staff is out front at the register, at the front and back door, in the bathroom . . . screwing you! And you expect me to stand by and watch all of this? I put my sweat and tears into this place. I went to my friends and their contacts to get licenses and clearances for the club. Even with a million dollars you couldn’t have opened this club without the right resources . . . my resources. And something else . . .”

—Tears were welling in Douglass’s eyes now—

“. . . I promoted the biggest, most successful night this club ever experienced or profited from . . . residuals are still coming in from that promotion a year or so later. . . . and this is how I’m treated? Listen, as far as I’m concerned you can have the club, the house, the car, and the money and you can shove it! It’s not worth it. You’re not worth it!” Douglass walked out of the office, not slamming the door behind him, and simultaneously brushed the tears away while dashing towards the exit. Blood was rushing to his head and he was even a bit dazed from the emptying of his soul. But the bottom line was that he felt liberated. Alone and scared for the instant, yes. But, more importantly, he was free. Leaving from under his father’s wing.

With his first breath of fresh air outside of the club, he could envision the staff inside, behind him, grinning and satisfied as though their ears were pinned to the door and walls. They must’ve sensed the severance and even wished for it to happen, for their own job security.

Swing eventually got word of the hostility in the Gilmore family, and pulled out. He was discouraged by the lack of unity. And Douglass couldn’t blame him, thinking that maybe he should have shut his mouth and played along until his father had no choice but to hand the business over to somebody. After all, his dad was in his 60s. But the tension was obviously too great to bear. Because, for Douglass to sit and watch the mischief and his crumbling dream was more torture than the prize was worth.

Easy Living

Living arrangements for Valerie, Mechelle and Debbie grew to be much more than just “acceptable.” They were convenient, beyond compare. They all worked and lived and cared for Destiny; all of them accepting Douglass’s brand-new baby girl as their own. And they also made money together as a team.

All three women became heavyweight commodities in the adult entertainment industry, with more work at the high-class gentlemen’s clubs in the city, and higher paying gigs like bachelor parties, business functions, and even team celebrations. The three once put a show on (and took their clothes off) for a real-estate tycoon—a 50-year-old—who got so excited his heart began to beat irregularly until he fell over in his chair. The hotel where the anniversary was held had a doctor in the house. Apparently, it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. More like a cramp than a heart attack or a stroke. His friends and family immediately broke out of their anguish and tears, erupting into hysterical laughter. On another occasion, there was a mechanic who was getting married. So the girls arrived as planned, waiting for the guy to come back from lunch. He had been working on a particular vehicle before he left, so impulsively, the dancers plotted their scheme. Valerie was stretched out in a blazing thong on the back seat of the car. Debbie was in a similar outfit on the front seat. Mechelle was propped on the trunk of the car. Upon his return from lunch, the shock on the mechanic’s face was like an alien encounter. He looked around for his boss and coworkers, unaware that the joke was on him. Eventually, his colleagues were barricading the entrance and exits to the garage with the bachelor now cornered by the vixens. The mechanic climbed various walls, like a tarantula frightened out of his wits, as if he was trying to escape an inferno. His face dripped with perspiration, his eyes were wide open like an opera singer’s, and he even pissed himself, evident by the tiny wet spot near his zipper. The girls had never seen anything like this before. Generally, a man calmed down and went along with the teasing after a couple of minutes, realizing that there’d be more joy than pain. But this husband-to-be was ridiculous. He went on (half screaming like a bitch) climbing on top of the car hoods in the dingy garage, pulling down fan belts, tools and such, escaping the threat of the erotic dancers for more than 20 minutes. When they finally caught up with him, he sat obediently against a set of old, oily tires, biting his nails to the cuticles as the triple-threat team made a puppet out of him.

The threesome had an even bigger adventure on a trip they took overseas. The one and only Sultan of Brunei hired the threesome for a yacht trip. He sent a 747 (complete with stewardesses and a full flight crew) to get the women in New York, and they flew to Brunei, where they were to put on an exclusive show for the Sultan. When they arrived in Brunei, they were pampered and chauffeured for a grand tour of the Royal Palace. It was a monster, made of marble, brass and gilded domes, with more than 1,700 rooms. The 2-hour tour got them all wound up for the big party set for that evening. From the palace yard, a brilliant, white helicopter lifted them up and over the spectacular, sprawling dynasty and above the Pacific Ocean until they descended towards a sharp, white, 152-foot yacht labeled “TITS.”

“A little bold, isn’t he?” Valerie mentioned. And she had to show the others what she meant, pointing down from the helicopter so they all could see the name of the yacht.

“If ya got it, why not flaunt it,” said Debbie. And she and Mechelle shared in a high five. From the aircraft, the girls could also see that the super yacht had two pools, a miniature golf course and a second helicopter. There were some other people looking to the direction of the landing pad, with glasses in hand, as the helicopter made its landing.

Aboard the boat, the girls were treated like trophies, introduced to more Mohameds, Abduls, Hakeems and Hajjis than they could bear to stomach; all of them with so many fanciful, identical smiles and all. Lots and lots of teeth. There were so many Princes and Chancellors and Prime Ministers that it could make a girl dizzy. And the celebrity list was one for the history books, including moguls of fashion, magnates of business and icons of song. Finally, they were escorted to meet the 44-year-old playboy himself. Downstairs at the restaurant, the girls were seated at a corner table designated for the Sultan. When he arrived, he had all manner of assistants and hangers-on surrounding him. Debbie was particularly engaged in the jewels about his wrists and fingers, while Valerie concentrated on his eyes.

“He’s just a man,” Valerie repeated to herself.

Later, after dinner and some one-on-one private dancing in the on-board disco, the 4 retreated to the Sultan’s lair. The dancers prepared for their customary private showing, and one by one emerged from the bathroom in sexy garments. During the performance, the Sultan tried to get fresh, slipping a finger beneath Mechelle’s thong, touching the folds of her sweaty flesh. She quickly snapped out of the Arabian Princess-role and smacked him hard enough for his turban to jump off his head. The Sultan smiled devilishly like that was something he was accustomed to and all three girls left the room supportively, also laughing at his Royal Highness and his pressing erection.

Mechelle, Debbie and Valerie inevitably left the boat within an hour, and in solidarity, they cheered about their $300,000, a fee that had already been wired to their U.S. bank account.

Notwithstanding the peculiarities or the eventful experiences, these were exciting times and adventures for three young women who came from different worlds; all of them with their life’s challenges and with their skeletons in the closet. They didn’t think money, but they certainly worked like money machines. And Douglass was blessed enough to be their unofficial treasurer. They didn’t even much care about the how-much and the what-to-do part of the money. Because, as a team, they simply immersed themselves in the fun and frolic of it all. With all that financial freedom, Douglass lived like a king, and his daughter, Destiny, like a pampered princess. There was lobster, crab legs and salmon for dinner two and three nights a week thanks to Valerie, who was the cook in the group. And Douglass’s eighty-thousand-dollar wardrobe was just as complete as any one of his lovers’, even with their vast array of dresses, outfits and shoes. You name the maker, they had it. From the Jimmy Choo shoes, to the Gucci and Prada handbags; from the full line of Baby Phat wardrobes, to the Tiffany jewelry to the high-end perfumes—they had it all! Meanwhile, the atmosphere was stressless, and the living and loving, abundant. Altogether, their savings neared $600,000, most of it thanks to the Sultan’s binge. Now, since they experienced big, they got into the practice of earning big. So accordingly, they wanted to live big, too. First things first, the girls had to leave the Gilmore home. They were all too close to Douglass’s pop, who was as nosy as he was desperate to know how they were achieving all of their success. However, to them, he was merely a landlord now. They paid him a monthly rent to stay at the house, but other than that, there was no communication. They hardly saw each other. They no longer worked at Fool’s Paradise, and Douglass was too busy handling their affairs to give a damn. It was an unfriendly atmosphere at times, to see the father and son bicker over petty shit, and so it was inevitable that they all find a better place to be. They hung on for as long as they dared, until they located a large townhouse closer to the shore. The want for 100% liberation compelled Douglass to hurry the move. But he also wanted to separate the business and family life. Following the move and stabilization of Douglass’s entertainment enterprises, there were plans to take a much-needed and well-deserved vacation to Florida.

Within days of their commitment, the North Avenue dwelling was emptied until it was hollow. The furniture was transported to the townhouse and the business equipment went to the new office on Main Street. The last string to sever was the car. Instead of the Toyota Camry that Fool’s Paradise financed, Douglass picked up a new Lincoln Navigator. Black, sleek and luxurious, the vehicle was a popular catch. He needed it to transport, protect and impress his women, as well as it was indicative of his rise to success.

After the move and just before the trip to Florida, Douglass sat alone in the townhouse, looking out through the sliding glass doors. In the distance, past the back porch, was the Long Island Sound. It was a brisk winter’s evening with the moon glowing . . . illuminating against the water. Douglass was cozy, with a hand-knitted blanket to comfort him. In one hand was the manifesto and plans that he’d conceived while in jail. After a while, he set down the papers and affixed his focus out towards the horizon, as though Destiny was there. Meanwhile, Destiny (now 2 months old) was cuddled and sleeping like a warm, lil munchkin beside him. He couldn’t help but imagine his little girl and the future that awaited her, knowing how much of it might be predicted; as though he could see the future. He wanted things to be easy for Destiny, or at least easier. Not the trials and unnecessary struggles that he had to go through, many of which he managed to overcome. It was time for a firm decision. No guessing or playing it by ear. Douglass thought about the various directions that he was going and where he had come from. Who was with him. It was like reviewing a film in quick time, only now he was in total control. He could see his ultimate destiny as if it was the clearest image in his mind. All he’d have to do was press ENTER.

All in the Family

“See, Sal . . . We got dis here problem in the Bronx.”

“I know a little bit about da Bronx.” Sal was the spittin’ image of Edward G. Robinson, with the “you dirty rat” voice and all. He was being facetious about knowing a little about the Bronx, having been born and raised there.

“I know you do, Sal. Dat’s why I’m speakin’ wit’ you how I got issues.” The two mobsters sat adjacent to one another as they popped half-dollar tokens into the noisy slot machines of Bally’s in Atlantic City. The dinging and ringing sounds were constant in the air around them, although their surroundings already dazzled the eyes with mirrors, lights and colors that were dizzying to look at. The voices humming and the clanging of change might be a slight bit deafening for the average person, and perhaps that’s why so many elderly folks didn’t mind it. But not Sal, a capo with the Tocci family of New York, or Fat Jimmy, the porky capo from the Bianco family of New Jersey. They were accustomed to the life, the sights and sounds of the casinos. It was comfortable for them, and besides, the noise helped to conceal most any conversation.

At any casino along the boardwalk, history had been made as the mafia elite played judge and jury. Hits and executions were ordered, hostile takeovers and extortion schemes were set up, and kidnappings and hijacks were common calls. And sure, Sal and Fat Jimmy (the two experienced “goodfellas;” the next generation of AC’s mafia families) were aware of the cameras high above, or hidden behind 2-way mirrors. Hell, they were responsible for quarterbacking the contracts to install the security system! Why wouldn’t they know!? However, this meet wouldn’t be of extreme importance to the Feds. It didn’t matter if Feds, or any other Atlantic City law enforcement, was hawking, so they decided. It was just a convenient spot to talk about, well . . . simple favors.

“There’s a spot that your people got up there. Like an auto body shop . . . but some moolies moved in and made it a strip joint . . .”

Fat Jimmy pulled his lever.

“Oh . . . I know the one—I definitely know the one. My people can’t believe we slept that fuckin’ goddamned goldmine opportunity. Then a bunch of fuckin’ niggers move in, boom-bam-zip-bop-boom, they drop some change in there and badda-bing-badda-boom—they make millions.”

“Yeah, well . . . dat’s water under da bridge, see? They’re in there now. And see, we got sumpthin’ special happenin’ just across the street.”

“Oh yeah, it’s like dat?” Sal was scooping out 20 dollars in coins that he won. He didn’t give the winnings a second thought.

“Oh yeah. A little sumpthin’, ya know. Anyways, we need you guys to bring some pressure. Any kinda pressure. Just do what you gotta do.” Fat Jimmy popped 2 more coins.

“It’s not that easy like dat, Jimmy. They got a lease for a thousand fuckin’ years. It’s fuckin’ signed, sealed and delivered, too.” Sal pulled his leaver.

“Well, then, there’s gotta be sumpthin’ else we can do.”

“What’s in it for us?” Fat Jimmy ignored the 50 coins that fell and squinted as he turned to face Sal for the first time in nearly 5 minutes.

“Sal . . . you know what’s in it for you? Peace of mind’s in it for you—that’s what . . .” Fat Jimmy raised a serious eyebrow.

“. . . How much interest you suppose your people have over here in A.C.? A hundred a year? Two hundred?”

“Probably sumpthin’ like dat.”

“Well, you just remember that next time, before you ask what’s in it for you’s guys. We don’t ask you’s no questions like dat concernin’ Bianco interests at da fish market or wit the construction . . . so . . .”

“Hey, easy, Jimmy . . . alright. I gotta talk to my guys. You talk to yours. No more sit-downs from here. This could become serious. Anything we do, we go through the usual way . . . kapish?”

“Uh—kapish.” A 7-foot wrestler-type was posted near the slot machines, waiting on his boss with another eye on Fat Jimmy and his escort as they headed out of the casino. Outside of the entrance as the limo pulled up, Fat Jimmy poked at his cell phone, looking like he had luggage . . . a pillow, under his shirt and in the seat of his pants.

“Hey, Tony. I want you’s guys to stay focused on the Pretty Girl. Faggetabout about Fool’s Paradise from now on—understood?” No sooner did Jimmy get an answer before he snapped the cell phone closed and stuffed it in his blazer pocket. Sal was already being chauffeured back to the heliport, where a chopper would be waiting to cut through the sky towards his warehouse in Jersey City.

“Jay . . . do we have any guys at the SLA in New York?” Sal was sitting next to the wrestler-type, but raising his voice, wanting to be heard over the puck-puck sounds of the helicopter propellers.

“I believe I have a buddy who’s with their investigative unit—I could call him.” Jay didn’t carry the vocal dialect that was typical of the Guido mafioso-type. He was well read and didn’t hesitate to say he loathed the stigma that preceded such imbeciles. Whatever that meant.

“Alright-then. Arrange a meeting. Work something out with them.” As the aircraft swerved towards the New York skyline, Sal considered the stakes of the Biancos building a strip joint in Tocci territory. Without a second thought, he opened his Nextel and punched in a number to his boss.

Tony the Crow hung up the phone, finished his burger, and yelled for the next candidate.

“Next!” A slinky, white girl in a one-piece bathing suit came strutting out from the dressing room. Clicking her heels across a wood floor that was complete with sawdust and debris, she stepped up to the stage that was enclosed by a circular bar. Her hair was dirty blond and she was piled with red lipstick, blushed cheeks and rose-scented perfume that tainted the air about her. Mixed with the smell of fresh sawdust and sweaty construction workers, the aroma in this club was nauseating.

“Okay. Music!” Tony barked as he wiped the ketchup off of his lips and fingers. The pale, colorless dancer began to warm into a sway with her arms and body. Her legs were scrawny and her smile was artificial; and she was very focused on Tony as if she was trying real hard to sell something. She batted her heavily enhanced eyelashes at him and executed a cute half turn, holding onto a pole with one hand and pulling at her butt cheek with the other. She bent over as if to show him more assets, but it was no use. The candidate was not only flat-chested, she had no ass.

“Okay, okay. NEXT!” Tony seemed unsatisfied with his cheek in his palm. He took a deep, helpless breath and rolled his eyes, wondering if this was the best that the booking agency could send in. There was less than a month left until the inspectors were to sign off on things, and then there was that week before Christmas Eve; the grand opening. The club was coming close to the finishing touches. A million dollars’ worth.

Let’s Go

Wade had never taken a vacation in all of his years on the force. Even when his partner was cut down, he remained loyal to the job, mainly to find his partners’ killer. And indeed, finding his partner’s killer was therapy in itself. But what kind of therapy was there for not finding the killer? Wade decided that he would finally take his vacation time, before the craziness of the holidays set in. The department owed him a year, plus he had little more than a year left before his retirement. So the opportunity was perfect. In all of his years on the force, he’d seen all of the lifestyles that a man could imagine; even that of a cavewoman (considering his meeting Juicy). He’d rubbed elbows with the rich and famous; the poverty stricken and the homeless. He’d experiences a career full of stories and pain, with very little joy and pleasure. And now, Wade decided that it was due time that he pursued pleasure and joy for himself. It was indeed the moment of truth, and these heavy concerns weighed on his mind as he cleared his desk and filled his box with the awards from the wall. He couldn’t help but to spin through the memories of each memento. Meanwhile, the office was sluggish and unusually quiet today. It was disheartening to see another good man leave—like losing an arm. There was also an overcast of dissatisfaction because of the unresolved matter of the past year. Still, the office gave Wade a standing ovation as he proceeded out of the squad room; a box under one arm and shaking hands with his free hand. His vacation was approved, but everyone knew what his plans were—hell, he cleared his desk out. His life as a detective was over. Wade stepped into Chief Washington’s office for a quick so-long.

“I didn’t know if you wanted this now.” Wade reached into his belt for the service revolver.

“Nahh . . . keep it till you come and see me after vacation.”

“What for, Chief? You know I keep two others on me.”

“Yeah, well . . . I don’t feel like doing the paperwork right now. Keep it with you . . . and that’s an order!” The chief was being jovial with his tone of voice. Then he turned friendly again.

“Where you goin’ for your vacation? . . . I mean, it’s none of my business, but just in case a certain killer shows up and wants to surrender to you in person.” Wade couldn’t help smiling and shrugged in response.

“Well, just be careful. After the force, we’re still friends, alright? And I want my friends all in one piece.” Wade and Washington exchanged a bear hug and abruptly parted, heads swiveling to the left and right in case anyone was questioning their masculinity. Not a chance. The entire office was under surveillance as the layers of eyeballs in the squad room were focused on the two and their compassion for one another.

“Can I treat you to a drink, good buddy?” asked a rookie cop.

Wade declined. He already had plans for the evening with Brenda, who agreed to an evening at the Blue Note jazz club down in the village. Brenda sort of shuddered when Wade mentioned “the Village” on the phone. He made a mental note to ask her about that later. The two entered the club side by side, suddenly feeling as if they’d walked into a warm closet space, just not quite as small. Everyone in the 200-plus seats in the house was offered an intimate, unhampered view of the stage where a 4-piece band’s instruments sat alone and waiting. Most of the food service and intimate conversation that took place before the show was underway and the couple waisted no time, each diving into separate orders of shrimp scampi and a “Rachelle Ferrell Daiquiri.” The room filled up quickly, with energy so busy and snug that celebrities went almost unnoticed. Almost. Even Wade could see Nancy Wilson at a corner table with a few friends to keep her company. And any novice would be able to recognize Carmen Bradford sitting with a friend on a tier with the very best view in the house. There was a knowing amongst the audience that no jazz lover or music aficionado could be in a more desirable place at a more appropriate time.

Besides having that shoulder-to-shoulder closeness, the Blue Note could also boast about featuring the most notable performing artists and song stylists in the world, and accordingly the band of three men marched towards the stage to begin tuning and adjusting. A moment later, an announcement commenced, requiring no smoking or flash cameras and then a warm welcome . . .

“. . . Give a warm Blue Note to Rachelle Ferrell!” The band began the opening bars to Rachelle’s signature song “Welcome To My Love,” while she did her best to smiling fans. Rachelle eventually grabbed the microphone and serenaded the crowd, suspending everyone’s belief with her incredible voice. Brenda and Wade were 2 tables from the stage, in the center of the club, basking in the melodies and swaying in song. It was a test to focus on one another with such an attraction soaring free on the stage; however, they did connect with a few glances here and there. Partway into the performance, Rachelle melted into her song “I’m Still Waiting,” and the lyrics seemed to penetrate the couple. Wade reached for Brenda’s hand across the table while they shared in the sensation. Brenda’s heart fluttered with each high note. The songstress provoked them more, standing at center stage, delivering a strong bridge in her song.

You’ll be my knight in armor,
I’ll be your queen.
We’ll be together at last
We’ll shaa-re our dream,
Nothing’s gonna stop us now,
Come, let’s begin . . .
Right awaaay . . .
Why not todaaaaay!!!

Rachelle’s voice was a heavenly calling, floating through the misty, blue room . . . gently caressing the minds of everyone with her sopranic, melodious blessing of loving song. Her high notes flirted through the atmosphere like a loose sparrow, while her low tenor notes were sensual and riveting. The presentation was provocative of passion, and softened Wade to recognize the beauty before him. He had messages in his eyes, and instantly, Brenda could feel it. Their legs tangled under the table, and the feelings crept back up into their eyes. The magic in the music made this a magical, intimate moment, causing each to question how they arrived at that point of love and devotion.

Brenda’s tendency, on the other hand, was one of addiction; she wanted to jump across the small table at Wade until they both toppled over onto the others seated directly behind them. She came to know herself and that sex was indeed a big passion in her life. However, she was wise about it and wanted to experience it wisely. She was tired of false assurances. Wade, she was certain, was as real as a man could be and her intuition told her that he in turn needed someone like her; someone caring and compassionate. But what she wasn’t sure of was the timing of their coming together. Her mind kept saying, “If I do this now, what will he say?” or “Would I be going too far?” For sure, Wade had her twisted upstairs . . . deliver that news, Miss TV Anchor!

But this was quite an emotional day for Wade, too. Enough to surrender to whatever Brenda decided was right. Inevitably, Brenda had Wade take her home. She issued him a promising, loose kiss and then dashed out of his vehicle into the foyer of her midtown address. After Brenda disappeared past the doorman and through the lobby of the building, Wade found himself caught up and mystified. He felt the warmth of Brenda’s presence when she was there, and empty once she left. That ole familiar sensation was back again. There was a knock on his car window. He jolted from his dreamy state of mind. Eyes wide.

“Sir . . . is everything alright, sir?” the doorman.

“Oh . . . sure.” Wade flashed an assuring smile. He took his hand off his revolver and pulled off as if to escape the emotions consuming him.

South Beach

The girls felt like they were part of a traveling dance troupe of a sort. There were 7 of them in all. And baby made 8. Four men. Three women. The crazy thing about it all was that Debbie, Mechelle and Valerie, while having 4 good, strong, able men with them, the women were devoted, in love with and giving love to only one of them; lucky Douglass. And there wasn’t so much as a hint of jealousy among the others. Greg was smiling all the while on the JetBlue flight to Florida. Whether it was back in New York or now, here in South Beach, the setup was simply novel to him. Somehow (he knew) being by Douglass’s side would bring him similar good fortune. Demetrius was still murmuring, “Blasphemy!” and “Y’all are going straight to hell.” However he always smiled when he said that; like he thought this was all cute. Danni was here in Florida as well, and he was content; now in his mid-40’s, all he knew was how to roll with the show. He’d been there, done that, if you heard him tell it. And no, he had no interest in any part of Douglass’s world—not that world, anyway—although he was still very protective of Debbie, keeping his vow to look out for her. So, Danni coming to work for Douglass fit just right. And, speaking of which, Douglass was half past the point of no return, watching over Destiny, fanning the infant, certain not to let the warm Florida climate aggravate her. He was beyond happy these days; he was a free man, with the loves of his life, and he had all the luxury one man could dream up. This was the world according to him. A portrait that he painted, and, by and large, the paint would harden just as he intended.

The trip down here was specifically for the vacation, although the dancers couldn’t help but venture out to various clubs to compare the action to what they were accustomed to. The bigger plan here was Douglass’s announcement regarding the future of his family.

The group stayed at the Fountain Blue Hotel in 2 doubleroom suites. Demetrius was alone in one room with Destiny. Danni and Greg shared the adjoining room. Next door, Valerie and Mechelle shared a water bed in that adjoining room, while Douglass was in the master bed. Debbie paired with Douglass for the first night after winning a coin toss. Sex was like that for these three—nothing new to anyone else—and they were all content, with everything else so damned convenient. Mutual love and respect between them all. Any spats that surfaced were immediately squashed thanks to Douglass’s iron-clad commitment to unity. And, of course, with all the money floating around, who had time to argue?

All the while, for the past 3 months, the most satisfying, selfless sexual encounters were exercised whenever time permitted. A lot of fun, a lot of experimenting, and a lot of soiled towels. Naturally, there were interferences like work, keeping the townhouse in order, and caring for the baby. But this Florida vacation was no reason for the sex routine to change. After Debbie came Valerie, and after Valerie was Mechelle. It was like this for the first 3 days. And in between the romps at night, Douglass took time to plan out his address to the group.

It was near sundown when Greg was going over the plans with Douglass in his suite. He popped a surprise on him at what he considered to be the right moment.

“Who?” Douglass asked in response to Greg’s surprise.

“Some . . . friends from New York.” Greg was evasive, a little leery and uncertain as to whether he’d done the right thing.

“Okay, Greg . . . come on. No time to beat around the bush. Everyone is supposed to meet out on the beach in an hour or so.”

“Ahh . . . . I sort of invited them.”

“On my bill?”

“No—of course not. They paid their own way. That is . . . Brenda and Walter did. They wanted to surprise you.”

“Brenda Feather . . . Walter Wade? Together? Here in Florida?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?”

“I’ll let them share that with you . . . nothing serious, though. Nothing about Moet or that whole mess.”

“Alright . . . this oughtta be good. They’re coming down later, too?”

“If it’s okay with you.”

Douglass huffed and wagged his head. “This was supposed to be just a family thing, Greg. But, whatever . . . Wade was helpful with springing me from the bang; so he’s a friend in my book. Now, we need to get back to the business at hand.”

Greg was looking like Don Chi-Chi, with a cell phone to his ear, a short-sleeved, colorful Hawaiian shirt and yellow swim trunks. Douglass was just ahead of him, with the blue trunks and a white t-shirt on. The two were on the ground level of the hotel, walking out onto the patio, around the in-ground pool and lounge chairs into the warm evening air. Just beyond a line of palm trees, with multi-colored lanterns strung between each, Demetrius, Danni, Valerie, Debbie and Mechelle were relaxing quietly in lounge chairs facing the ocean. Destiny was awake, gulping at a bottle of milk in Demetrius’ arms. Demetrius, the nanny. There was a small flaming campfire on the ground next to them, sending a pleasant aroma of pine into the air and providing a glow under the darkening sky. Now, as the group formed a perimeter outside of the fire, Wade and Brenda were seen strolling up the beach like lovers. Douglass looked at Greg.

Greg shrugged a “don’t ask me.”

Danni was the first to speak. “Hey, Wade.”

“Wade. What’s up?” Demetrius was just as surprised.

“What’s up, guys . . . you all know Brenda Feather.” Everyone acknowledged her, while the group made room for the couple to join them. They remained standing like targets.

“So, Wade . . . what brings you to Florida . . . South Beach, Florida . . . The Fountain Blue—in South Beach, Florida.” Douglass was making a big deal of the coincidence, looking again at Greg, and then back towards Wade, still curious nonetheless. Wade smiled and Brenda chuckled under her breath. The two embraced each other, side by side. Danni looked at Demetrius with that “ooh-brother” drawl.

“We just came for the fresh air, of course. To, uhh . . . to escape the cold weather and the rat race in New York . . . aaaand to announce that we’re getting married.” Wade unveiled their secret casually, pulling a blushing Brenda closer still.

“Wooow,” Danni said, having gotten to know Wade pretty good.

“Well . . . do we have the glasses and Dom P to celebrate, Greg?” Greg took a second to whisper to Douglass, reminding him of their agenda.

“Oh right . . . right. Okay, very well, Mr. Wade and Miss Feather—or shall I say Mr. and Mrs. Walter Wade, we’ll toast in a moment. You may be seated.” Douglass was being jovial, recalling his days in court.

“I also have an announcement to make. Sorry, I don’t have a drum roll for all of these fabulous announcements . . . we will be opening our own nightclub. A new, state-of-the-art, topless club . . .” The ladies brightened with excitement. “. . . the club will be called Gilmore’s, Black Beauty. I intend to raise 2 million dollars over the next 90 days and to have the club opened for business by next spring.”

All in attendance were happy about the announcement. Brenda was still glowing and googly-eyed from Wade’s announcement. Greg was standing just behind Douglass. Proud. The dancers were already into their own conversation about the club, wondering this and wondering that.

“There’s more . . . we’re gonna give a big presentation; we expect . . . no, scratch that . . . we will have the investment dollars necessary to go on with the project. When that happens . . . I’ll let Greg share this part with you.”

“Once the investment has been affirmed, all of us will be off again; this time on a recruitment crusade. I think Chicago. We figure that if there are more fine women like Debbie in Chi-town, they can definitely come and work for us. We’ll be scouting for forty dancers . . .”

Debbie twisted her lips, wondering how realistic he was being.

“We’ll put out a big ad campaign and we’ll have a video presentation. We’re gonna be professional, like this was a big ole movie casting day. We’ll have hundreds of girls, and we’ll get to pick the cream of the crop. In New York, we’re going to put the dancers up in houses. Ten to a house. They’ll have fitness regimens, good diets and routine health and dental services. Five day, eight-hour work weeks. Equal salaries, investment incentives. G and I have worked out a compensation plan that can beat any other . . .”

“Now there’s more—” Douglass cut in. “But those are the basics. Greg and I will hammer out and fine-tune, but you should get the idea. The ball is rolling. Ads have been placed in the Sun Times and Tribune, and we’ll be doing some radio ads in about a week. We’ve sketched out responsibilities for everyone, and I’d like to toss those at you tonight . . .”

The most compelling words to come out of Douglass’s speech that night were: “. . . We don’t ever want a tragedy like what happened with Moet.” He was adamant about his intents and the group felt it. He took suggestions, concerns and critique as genuine, while keeping an eye on his prize. They popped the bubbly amidst the moon’s glow, the crackling fire, the water and the waves, the seagulls in the air, all of it setting an incredible atmosphere for the unveiling of this ultimate dream.