A Commitment to Love, Book 3 (14 page)

Where are their mothers and fathers? Why are they out so early?

I rolled the window down. A burned-food stench filled the car. Maybe someone had over-cooked a meal. Two kids sat next to a table. A
for sale
sign leaned against the front. Tons of knick knacks lay on top. Mainly socks.

“You probably should put your window back up,” Sophia offered. “They don’t like strangers.”

A few older men and women sat in chairs in front of opened doorways. They didn’t seem to be up to no good. Rage radiated from them as they glared at the car. But, it could’ve been who sat in the vehicle—Sophia or me. I doubt they appreciated a rich man coming through to flaunt his worth, and from what I’d heard from Jasmine, her family had made a menacing name in these streets with blood and violence.

I rolled the window back up. “Do you miss this place?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“Just wondering.”

“Would you miss it here?”

“No, but my kids didn’t run this area.”

“That’s what Jasmine told you, that we controlled the block?”

“Something like that.”

“My sons did some things, but they’re all good boys. We’re out of here now, so there’s no need to bring the past back up.”

“That’s fair.”

A few people eyed Sophia’s town car, and then quickly turned away as if understanding who rode inside and not wanting to gain the woman’s attention.

Maybe I’m imagining this, but everyone looks like they’re afraid of this car. I am pretty drunk.

Farther down the road, five huge guys stood up and glared at us. The temperature rose in the car. Sophia laughed and brushed something off her shoulder.

We continued. With each foot farther inside the area, the air thickened. Breathing came hard. Less than three minutes in this place, and I already wanted to get out of here.

How the hell did you last here for so long, Jasmine?

Two young girls strolled in front of a liquor store. They couldn’t have been more than teens, but their clothes represented adults—bright green, sequined shorts displayed the bottom of their behinds, red tube tops hugged their tiny breasts, and surely those were huge blonde wigs on top of their heads. Pink powder coated their eyes as if they shared the same make-up compact. An old guy stumbled over to one of them, holding a brown bag in his hand, probably filled with a bottle. His mouth moved for a few seconds. They both laughed. As the town car moved along, I glanced over my shoulder to see what would happen. Both girls disappeared with the man in the alley.

None of this is right. How the hell is all of this going on?

Sophia’s voice ripped through the silence. “What do you think of South End?”

“I’m not happy. I knew it was bad here, but not this bad.”

She tossed me a skeptical look. “How did you know it was bad?”

“Every now and then I’ve read articles.”

“Newspapers only print the stuff that helps them sell.”

“So you’re saying it’s not all bad?”

“No, I’m saying that its worse. No one cares about blacks killing blacks. You’ll never read about that. Girls getting raped and boys being beaten until they have no soul, you’ll never see that on the news. What sells is black people murdering white cops, and vice versa.”

More scantily-dressed girls decorated the next corner.

I turned away. “How old are they?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Do the cops know?”

“Most of them are paid off. The few good ones are scared to get killed by the dirty cops.”

Rage filled me. “Someone has to clean this place up.”

Jasmine’s face flashed in my head. I grabbed on to that image and held it close to me, scared her beauty would fly. In my mind, we stood together, in the middle of South End, cutting a ribbon for some grand opening to a solution. Whatever South End needed to heal, Jasmine could figure it out. She’d lived here, been hurt in the streets, terrified at night, and ready to flee, when she’d earned a full scholarship to Harvard. In my background investigation of her before we dated, I learned that Jasmine volunteered in South End all the time—from assisting with the day care at the neighborhood’s Baptist church to the Help Clean Up South End program held every summer.

“Who would care?” Sophia asked.

“Jasmine cares,” I said.

“Jasmine?” Sophia smirked. “Soon as she got that fancy degree, she stopped coming by to visit.”

“My understanding was that she gave you money and came by all the time to pay your utility bill.”

“She did, but she always said she was too busy to stay.”

“When I met her, she was looking for a job, probably to help you and your family some more.”

“Well thank God she found something else.”

“What?”

“A rich man.”

Unease sat in my gut.

The town car slowed down which didn’t comfort me at all. I’d forgotten that we were even going to get out and walk around. Not even the security team riding behind us could comfort me.

“Does Benny have people here?” I wiped the sweat off my forehead.

“Benny has people everywhere. Knowing him, your cook or maid probably works for him. You shouldn’t trust no one, but me.”

“I only trust Jasmine.”

“Sounds like a lonely life.”

“We’ll see.”

The car parked right in front of a huge building. It must’ve been at least twenty floors high. Four other buildings towered over us.

“You’re now in the heart of South End,” Sophia announced. “You know what they call these projects?”

“No.”

“The Chops. Can you guess why?” She grinned.

“No.”

“When you chop something, you cut into it hard with repeated blows. That’s what these buildings do to people. They scar them, keep them bleeding on the inside. The Chops.”

“Sounds bright and sunny.” As I opened the door, I forced myself to appear braver than I felt. “You should write travel logs.”

Her harsh laughter roared behind me, and the rough odor of South End seeped into my skin and clogged my lungs with sickness. Police sirens blared around me.

Above my head, a mother poked her head out the window and screamed for her son. Curlers hung from her head. “Tyrone, get your tired ass in here! Don’t make me come down there and get you!”

The woman began to yell something else, and then paused when she spotted me. In fact, things quieted all around as more and more people focused their gazes on mine.

Whispers rode the chilly breeze. I caught Jasmine’s name a few times. A few others murmured the name Finderella. People began to crowd around, yet a good distance remained between them and me. Others opened their windows and peered down. Chatter rose. Kids pointed.

More and more, the word Finderella carried on the breeze.

And then Sophia got out of the car and stepped to my side. Quiet stilled the air. No one else had anything to say or whisper.

I turned to Sophia. “Who’s Finderella?”

“That’s what they call Jasmine. A fake ass Cinderella.” She scanned the crowd and gave a wicked smile. “I bet they won’t say it while I’m out here.”

She paused as if waiting for someone to murmur the name.

Silence continued.

“Good. They don’t want it. And I don’t have the time to give it to them.” She chuckled to herself and nudged my arm. “Ready?”

I scanned the angry faces. “Why do they look so mad?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really?”

“Because you’re rich and they’re poor.” She tossed her wavy hair over her shoulders. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

“You look a bit sick there, Chase. Did you eat something before we left?”

I wiped my mouth. My throat was dry, my tongue numb from the liquor. “No, I didn’t eat anything.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Then you won’t throw up when you walk into Benny’s garden.”

C
HAPTER
8

Jasmine

R
ain
battered against the Rolls Royce’s polished surface. The weather fit my mood—dark and gloomy with no chance of sunshine.

Riding with Benny equated to waiting on an AIDS test result. I prayed for a good result, but sometimes life bowled tough balls that knocked down all the pins. In fact, I symbolized one of those sad little pins that death barreled down every day.

We turned onto a new road. The sign read Bishops Avenue.
This is where we are going? How could Chase not find us in this place?
Luxury lived here. Not one house existed on the long road, just mansions with large gates outlining the massive estates. Each one held at least a dozen windows. Tall, white columns marked most of the front entrances. Splendid architecture, some traditional, others modern. Usually, six to seven shiny cars parked out in front. Skeletal trees towered over magnificent beauties made from stone.

I turned to Benny. “Are we almost there? Because this can’t be the place.”

“It is. Welcome to Billionaire’s Row. The nickname used to be Millionaire’s Row, but it got upgraded when the property values skyrocketed. Most owners are royalty from Saudi Arabia who were fleeing Saddam Hussein, newspaper barons and others who were too rich for their own good.”

“And you can afford a place here?”

“A good Middle Eastern friend of mine can afford it. I’m just house sitting.”

And then the road shifted from extravagance to abandonment. For some reason, the rich bricked-wonders shifted to still grand mansions, yet warnings signs and over-grown lawns, beware pictures of patrolling dogs and chains twisted around gate entrances. A few mansions boasted boarded up windows as if they sat in the hood. Brown and green smudges stained many of these columns. Wild vines wound around the tops of massive roofs and grew along the second level’s windows. Brown leaves stuck out from muddy patches on the estates that held vacant parking spaces.

“These properties are worth billions.”

Fascinated, I leaned against the window. “Not all of these homes can be worth that much.”

“Trust me. They are. Half of these mansions are empty. And most are in disarray.”

The car pulled into one of the properties. Two guards, who held umbrellas, stood at the gates and wore all black, except for the bright yellow plastic vests that said security. The two men undid a huge chain and slid the gate open.

We rolled down a bumpy gray pathway. I squinted to see the place through the rain. Besides the two men, I couldn’t believe that anyone else lived here. The mansion looked abandoned.

Another man walked out of the blur of rain with a big umbrella. The car stopped right next to him, and he opened my side of the door.

“Welcome, Ms. Montgomery.” He held the umbrella over me as I stepped out.

“Go ahead inside, Jasmine.” Benny gestured behind him. “I have some things to discuss with them.”

“O-kay.” I glanced at the dwindling estates. “Are Troy and Vivian already inside?”

“Yes, but on the east wing. Just go inside and wait for me. Don’t walk any farther. There are holes and Mother Earth’s booby traps all around. I’ve stayed here a few times. I know how to get through the house without injuring myself. I’ll escort you, when I’m done.”

“Okay.” I remained under the guard’s umbrella as he step-by-step guided me up the ragged steps and toward the entrance.

The tall, double doors screeched as he opened them. “Here you go, Ms. Montgomery.”

“Thank you.”

I walked through what could only be described as a haunted mansion.

Ruin dominated the foyer—cracked tiles and decayed wood lay scattered all over the place.

No matter who’d started the battle, nature had won. Plants grew out of the floors. Water dripped in long lines from the ceiling. Vines, ferns, and other vegetation grew from the staircase in front of me. Branches and mold sprouted out of paint-cracked walls. Black dirt smudged the floors, along with puddles of thick, bubbling mud. The staircase’s ivory bars and intricate design of swirls and flowers had rusted through years of neglect. Bat, or maybe bird droppings coated the steps. Rotted skeletal bodies of birds littered everywhere else.