Baby Brother's Blues (26 page)

47

K
wame turned the car into a long winding driveway that brought Aretha to the front door of the three-story, blindingly white house. She was shocked. Its glass-and-chrome exterior was glittering in the midday sun and she could only imagine how bright the interior of the house was with all those windows everywhere. The old adage about people who live in glass houses not throwing stones came immediately to her mind. Sitting there, so dramatically different from its neighbors, the structure didn’t look like a house as much as a museum extension or the offices of a once very hip architect with a chip on his shoulder.

“Wow!” was all she could say.

“I told you it was a showpiece,” Kwame said, coming around to open her door.

She stepped out and followed him up the front steps into the small entryway that opened quickly into the great room with its high ceiling and glittering chandelier. The windows were even more dramatic than she had imagined and the sunlight streaming in everywhere was bright enough to make her squint. Kwame, who was watching her closely, flipped a wall switch and what looked like flat silk or linen venetian blinds hissed into place without disturbing the clean lines of the place.

White walls? Floor-to-ceiling glass? Linen blinds?
Bob had clearly not designed the place with an active two-year-old around. Aretha’s motherly eye clocked the potential dangers as Kwame walked her through every room, including the giant kitchen and the master suite, which boasted a tub big enough for the whole family to enjoy a soak.
Could I live here?
she asked herself at the doorway to each new room.
Could I be myself here?
The house felt so cold she almost shivered.

At the end of the tour, they went back downstairs. There were no chairs. Kwame hugged Aretha gently and tried to read her reaction in her face.

“So what do you think?” he said. “Can you stand it for a year or two until we decide what we really want to do?”

From the circle of his arms, she looked around. It helped to think of it as temporary. She could stand almost anything for a year or two.

“Are you sure this is really where you want to live?”

He nodded and tightened his arms around her. “This is where I want
us
to live.”

“All right,” she said. “Then this is where we’ll live.”

“I love you,” Kwame whispered, leaning down to kiss her, relief flooding his body.
And he did love her.
The part of him that needed more didn’t have anything to do with his wife. That was just who he was.

Aretha kissed him back, reminding herself that Kwame had changed his whole life for her and Joyce Ann. She knew this job and this house meant a lot to him and maybe she owed him a little compromise to make it work. That was part of love, too, wasn’t it? Learning to meet the beloved halfway? She couldn’t deny that he had been a different person since accepting the new job. When they made love, it almost felt like it used to before they started fighting all the time. She tightened her arms around him.

When they came up for air, she grinned at Kwame. “You think Bob would let me add some color to these walls?”

“Probably not,” Kwame said, so happy at the outcome of the morning he decided to take a chance. “Maybe there’s another way we can warm it up.”

As he spoke, he slid his hand under her skirt and caressed her gently. She leaned into his hand and felt herself tremble slightly. He felt it, too, and kissed her again, softly, sweetly, with no demand implied. Just an invitation.

She put her lips against his ear and teased him. “What are you doing up here in these people’s house?”

“I’m making love to my wife,” he whispered back, loving the way her breasts felt against his chest.
Teddy was right,
he thought. There was no reason he couldn’t have everything he wanted.
This was only the beginning!

“I don’t care where we live,” Aretha said softly, leaning back to look into his face. “I just want us to be okay.”

“We’re better than okay.” He kissed her again. “We’re doing just fine.”

He caressed her with growing passion and she responded the same way. He nibbled her neck, the base of her throat.

“Kiss me
there,
baby,” she whispered. “Will you kiss me
there
?”

Kwame lifted her skirt to her waist and lowered himself to his knees, pulling her toward him and burying his face in her softness. Moaning softly, she surrendered to the waves of pleasure that weakened her knees, closed her eyes, and slid to the floor, pulling him closer, playing the role this strange house required, and pretending she could make it real just because she wanted it to be.

48

L
ee hadn’t spoken to Bob in a week. There had been no contact since their last meeting when she told him their partnership was in its last days, but Precious had really shaken her up. The last thing Lee wanted was an official investigation into anything. She needed a way to cut this off at the pass and the only person with as much to lose as she did was Bob. He would have to help her contain this situation. She didn’t intend to go limping back to Macon in disgrace, or worse, serve time in jail for drug trafficking.

She needed Bob to use that special access to Precious Hargrove he’d bought with all those campaign contributions. She needed him to vouch for her integrity and help her nip this in the bud before it ruined everything. It was his fault she had stayed in the business long after she wanted out. He owed her this much and she intended to make sure he understood that, too.

Bob greeted Lee at the door in his shirtsleeves. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Come in.”

“Where’s your lovely wife this evening?” Lee said, looking around to be sure they were alone.

“She’s at a spa in Santa Barbara, thanks for asking.” Bob led the way into the den.

“Like I give a damn.”

His lips curled into a smile that was more of a sneer. “Exactly. Drink?”

“Rum. On the rocks.”

Bob splashed the dark, fragrant liquid over ice and handed her the Tiffany cocktail tumblers with which Marian had outfitted the bar. “Are we celebrating or commiserating?”

Lee took a swallow of her drink and the rum burned its way down her throat. “Precious Hargrove said she has it on good authority that I am one of a cadre of dirty cops protecting the cocaine trade, including the murderers of Kentavious Robinson.”

“Jesus,” Bob said beside her, and took a swallow of his scotch and soda.

“She also said that she’s going to turn the information over to my superiors, and when she gets elected mayor, my ass is grass.”

“Jesus!”

“You already said that.”

“Did she say anything about me?”

Lee looked at him. “As I recall, your name never came up.”

“Good.”

His obvious relief annoyed her. “That doesn’t mean it won’t.”

Bob raised his eyebrows. “You’re not threatening me, are you?”

“Of course not. But we’re still partners, remember?”

“Oh, that.” He smiled that sneering smile again. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“We’re not partners anymore. I’m out. Turns out T.G. already had a guy lined up who wanted in immediately. Nice guy, too. Record producer. Lots of available cash. He made me a nice offer for my share of future earnings. Couldn’t have come at a better time, actually. I’m too old for all that mess.”

Lee willed her face to remain neutral. She hadn’t expected Bob to move so quickly, but she couldn’t fault him. This was business and she was the one who’d told him to make other arrangements. That was exactly what he had done.

“So you don’t have to worry about me, sweetie,” he said, his voice oozing insincerity, “but I do appreciate your concern. For old time’s sake and all that, but I’m back to being just another hardworking black architect with a few political connections. So, what can I do for you? Freshen your drink?”

“I don’t need a drink,” Lee snapped. “I need you to make that call.”

“What call would that be?” Bob got up and poured himself another splash of cognac.

“The one you bought with all your contributions to Precious Hargrove. The one you’re always bragging about.”

“Oh, you mean my emergency phone call.”

“You know damn well what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Bob said, still standing at the bar. “Can you be a little more specific?”

Lee wanted to throw what was left of her drink in his face. She forced herself to speak calmly. “I need you to call Precious Hargrove and vouch for me.”

“Vouch for you?”

“Tell her I’m innocent of the charges she’s heard, no matter where she heard them.”

He nodded slowly like he was considering her request. “And what if she asks me how I can be so sure?”

“Tell her you’ve known me for years and you have no doubts whatsoever regarding my integrity.”

“I see. And what if she remains unconvinced of your innocence?”

Lee took a breath. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but she had already considered the possibility. “Then tell her I want to be allowed to resign and pursue my professional options elsewhere.”

“So let me get this straight,” Bob said. “You want me to use my one phone call to save your ass? You want me to call the next mayor of Atlanta and tell her to please back up off my friend the dirty cop who promises to leave town immediately and return to whatever sad little Southern fork in the road spawned her?”

Lee looked at Bob and suddenly wished she’d never come here. There was no way he was going to help her and she knew it. “Fuck you, Bob.”

“Too late for that, baby,” he said. “Looks like you made your move too soon. Remember I used to tell you how treacherous Atlanta can be? How the same Negroes who were grinning in your face will forget they ever knew your name? Well, now you’re going to see firsthand what I was talking about.”

Lee had two choices. She could stay there and trade insults with Bob or she could remember Robert Kennedy’s famous advice to a friend who had just been royally screwed:
Don’t get mad. Get even.
There were no other options and the longer she sat there pretending there were, the longer she delayed making some hard decisions. She was on her own, but she still had one piece of information that might buy her a call back from a concerned mother, even if she was running for mayor. Maybe that information would even buy her one more meeting with the good senator, where Precious could get that self-righteous tone out of her voice and get a dose of her own reality.

It was time to make a move. Lee stood up.

“Leaving already?” Bob said, sipping his drink. “Well, good luck, darlin’. I think you know the way out.”

“You’re right,” Lee said, heading for the door. “I think I do.”

49

W
hat do you say when people call you a gangster?”

Blue and Regina were lying in an oversize hammock that he had hung between the two sweet gum trees that dominated their backyard. Set in a secluded part of the property that rendered them invisible to their neighbors or passersby, but gave Blue an unobstructed view of everything, the hammock had become one of their favorite places to be outside together. They had been lying there in silence for almost an hour, her ear against Blue’s chest as the sway of the hammock and the steady rhythm of his heart soothed her like walking beside the ocean.

One of the things she liked about Blue was that he could be silent without being disconnected. She often felt like the most complex conversations they had were nonverbal, depending instead on their physical intimacy to carry the weight of the exchange. Lying in his arms, she remembered Samson Epps’s characterization of her husband as a
gangster,
and her own inability to respond. Her ride home had been filled with snappy comebacks and withering put-downs, but they were all too little, too late. In the face of the accusation, the best she could think of was a strategic retreat. She knew there had to be a better response than that.

“What?” Blue sounded surprised.

“When people call you a
gangster.
What do you say?”

“No one has ever called me a gangster.”

She half sat up so she could look him the eye.
“Not to your face.”

He smiled and rubbed his hand lightly over her back. “I’m not required to respond to people who don’t say it to my face, am I? How would I know?”

“Well, if you
did
know, what would you say?”

Blue looked at her. “Did you hear somebody talking about me?”

She sat up slowly so she wouldn’t tip the hammock and swung her legs over the side, her toes just touching the soft grass beneath them. Blue stayed where he was, one arm behind his head, one hand still stroking her back. His eyes were gleaming gray in the twilight.

“I went over to Morehouse today to see Samson Epps about the vets program.”

Blue was watching her, but he said nothing.

“I told him we would be interested in doing a fund-raiser since they needed money and he told me…”

She hesitated, looking at her husband’s dark handsome face. She had never seen him angry; had never witnessed him raise a hand to another human being. Would Epps’s accusation make Blue angry? she wondered. The thought caused her hesitation. She thought Samson Epps was a condescending, judgmental bastard, but she didn’t necessarily want to place him in the way of her husband’s wrath.

Blue gripped both sides of the hammock for balance and easily swung his legs over the side next to Regina. “What did he tell you, baby?”

There was no way to say it but just to say it. “He said he couldn’t take money from you because you were a gangster and he was afraid it might jeopardize his federal funding.”

For a second, Blue didn’t say anything, then he laughed out loud and shook his head. “These Atlanta Negroes never change. The world is coming apart and the doc is worrying about me messing up his grants.” He laughed again, genuinely amused, with no undertow of anger or outrage.

Regina was surprised. “I was afraid you might be mad.”

“If I got angry every time I ran into a scared Negro, I’d be one mad black man.” Blue chuckled.

“But you’re not a gangster.”

Blue smiled at her. “Absolutely right.”

“You’re a businessman.”

“Right again,” he said, still smiling.

“Don’t say it like that.”

Blue pulled her closer, steadying the hammock with his feet so she could curl up against him again. “Listen, Gina, I’m not a gangster.
I’m a free black man.
That’s all I am. The problem is that we are such a rare and dying breed in these United States that sometimes people don’t recognize us when we show up, so they call us gangsters, or vigilantes or other things that miss the essence of the answer to their question, which is that I am
first, last, and always
a free man, and I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to stay free and to keep my family safe from harm.”

She looked at his eyes, blazing turquoise and golden, and she knew he was telling her the truth. She knew who he was and what he was and
Samson Epps could go to hell
!

She smiled slowly. “Why didn’t you just say that in the beginning?”

“I did,” he said. “I’ve been saying it for at least three lifetimes that I can remember, not counting this one.”

“How long did it take me to get it the last time?”

“As long as it took for me to figure out how to say it right.”

The perfection of his answer pleased her enough to tease him. “So you’re not going to
go legit
? Even for the sake of our child?”

“Well, I’m a successful businessman. I’m active in political circles, respected in my community, and I pay my taxes on time.
I’m too legit to quit!
”

The idea of her ever-cool husband quoting the ever-manic MC Hammer brought forth a giggle from Regina that Blue smothered with a kiss. They cuddled close, enjoying the hammock’s gentle sway.

“Our child is going to be fine,” he said softly. “Trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

“Good. That’s all that matters.”

And that was that.