Like Slow Sweet Molasses (3 page)

“Can
I help you with something?”

Her
dry tone did more than hint at the disturbance Angela’s presence attracted. “I
need to see Lt. Brock Alexander. I was told he reported to this location.”
Suspicion seemed to fill the policeman’s eyes.

“I
can help you if you need to file a report.”

“This
is personal.” The incredulous look that crossed the policewoman’s face wasn’t
lost on Angela. She took exception to the
knowing
look the officer threw
her cohorts. “If he doesn’t report to this location, tell me and I’ll continue
with my search.”

“Mrs.—”

“Miss
Munso. Angela Munso.”

“Miss
Munso, there’s a Chance Alexander here but no Brock.”

Uncertainty
flared, for hers was an ambiguous belief that Brock was the name of Mrs.
Thatcher’s nephew and not a personal pseudonym for him. She dug in her purse,
extracted a business card, “Please give him this,” writing on the back as she
spoke. “If he’s the correct person he’ll know what it means.”

Unintelligible
voices from outside intruded while the policewoman perused the cryptic message.

“Chance,
you’re on someone’s APB list! I wouldn’t mind being on that list from the looks
of her.”
A wave of
laughter rolled up the staircase.

“So
everyone keeps calling to tell me.”

Lt.
Chance Alexander made his appearance on the second floor stopping dead in his
tracks at the sight before him. He was a man of the world, a self-claimed
connoisseur of beauty. Her effervescence sparkled brilliantly in the drab
windowless department, the aura spreading his way like slow, sweet molasses.
Although presented with her back, for she was in deep conversation with an
officer, there wasn’t a doubt she had more lures than the outdoor sportsmen’s
shop he sometimes frequented as was obvious when she swayed to a one hipped
stance; a good assist when hooking her man.

His
growing enchantment had him take in everything about her such as her
attire.
 
She dressed to kill, and
effectively succeeded.
Overhead lighting bounced off the reddish highlights in her
hair, upswept on her head that was balanced by a slender, graceful neck.. Her
proud carriage accentuated perfect posture, a flattering waistline contouring
to rounded hips and the prettiest legs that ever graced a pair of designer
footwear. She stood flanked by a leather bound instrument case, a reptile-skin
attaché and a staple for this time of year, an umbrella.

Chance’s
presence caught the officer’s eyes and he held an index finger to his lips
before giving her the keep-it-going sign. He wanted to get a feel for the
real
person without his presence being an influencing factor.

“Angela
Munso: Professional Violist. Music Instructor. Academy School of the Arts.” She
recited the credentials aloud. “Miss Munso, if there’s a problem, I’m confident
I can help.”

She
didn’t look like any school marm he ever had growing up and was certainly more
stunning than any teacher he was acquainted with in today’s school system.

Angela
took a deep breath, tired of repeating herself, but, mostly fatigued by the
discomfort in her body and said, “Forgive me if I seem stubbornly adamant about
this, Officer,” she read the ID badge, “Smith. Again, it’s personal. No offense
intended.”

Watching
the background, the officer assured, “None taken.”

“Will
you deliver my business card?” A hand clamped down on her shoulder, the injured
one and she reacted sharply.

He
knew as soon as he did it that it was the wrong thing to do for she recoiled
and turned all at one time, facing him with striking lioness eyes,
 
narrowing suspiciously from beneath luxurious
black lashes. Not the reception he normally received from women.

“I
apologize if I’ve overstepped my bounds. I understand you’ve been looking for
me.” It was really more of a question than a statement.

The
giant with thunder for a voice standing before her, in her face while gnashing
on a yellow toothpick, looked more the part of a rakish motorcycle rider rather
than an officer of the law. Her stare fused on his beard. It was short, cropped
like a two day’s growth, trimmed to perfection and blended its way up to the
wavy black hair falling carelessly on either side of his prominent forehead.
His hair hung long enough in back to just breathe on the top of his shirt
collar; if he wore a shirt with a collar.

Angela’s
eyes locked on the knuckles stroking the whiskers on his chin. What stapled her
feet to the flooring were his hypnotic, penetrating eyes, a meadowland green
squinting at her from under equally dark brows—deep-set and starkly contrasting
his God-given bronzed skin. He and his tattooed chiseled biceps towered over
her, casting off such male magnetism she found it hard to ignore the way the
t-shirt and jeans fit his body. His overbearing persona sucked the oxygen from
the room, relegating all present to insignificant masses of matter, utterly of
no importance.

He
invaded her space but she refused to back down. Her look said as much. “Are you
Brock Alexander?”

“Who
wants to know?” he queried, looking down his nose as he swung to dispose of the
slither of wood in the nearest wastebasket.

“I’m
Angela Munso. Your aunt’s neighbor, if you’re he.”

He
frowned, his brows furrowing warily and cocked sideways. “Aunt Belle?”

“Bella
Thatcher,” she supplied. “The flower lady? Is she your aunt?” He smiled, she
believed at her description, the treat lighting up the room like sunshine.

“Yes,
she is,” he confirmed.

“What
kind of relative are you? She’s an elderly lady.” Angela belittling him, moved
closer to stand toe to toe with the Goliath, “who needs you to check on her
periodically. You’re a negligent nephew!”

Her
get-in-
his
-face style of conversing turned him off. Before he realized
what he did, both of her elbows were entrenched in his huge hands and he bodily
toted her generous frame to his private office off to one side of the squad
room, to the absolute amazement of the entire audience, and kicked the door
shut. “You, lady, are out of control,” he hurled while unceremoniously setting
her on her feet.

Shivering
in anger, a rosy hue built under her velvety toffee skin, alerting him to her
ill temper.

“You,
Brock…Chance or whatever you’re called—” she said, jumping him with both
stilettos, gouging at his pride, baited his retaliation before she finished her
sentence.

“Don’t
let the name fool you, Miss Munso.” His dark head leaned towards her a notch.
“They don’t call me Chance around here for meekness sake,” he said, his words
lathered in derision.

“…are
borderline psycho!” She completed her thought giving no regard to his nose in
her face. “How dare you…”

“I
dare because no one speaks to me in that tone, especially not in front of my
peers and subordinates.” Chance demonstrated how well the nickname fit his
explosive personality, scolding mentally his quickness on the draw. He couldn’t
help but notice how she unconsciously massaged the same shoulder he touched
earlier. “
Uh-oh,”
he thought
, “
A lawsuit in the making.”
He took a risk, asking the next question while putting a yardstick’s worth of
space between them. However, it was better to know up front if he had any
worries.
 

“Did
I hurt you?”

She
was mad and didn’t care if he knew. “Indirectly, I guess you did.” Instead of
pursuing that topic, she changed the subject. “She needs your help,” With a
little blow to ward off the increasing pain, “Your aunt is having trouble with
a man who got physical with her yesterday.”

“What?”

“I
said your aunt needs your help!” She repeated in quantum volume with a heavy
dose of sarcasm.

“Forgive
me if I gave you the impression I’m deaf.” His cynical intonation charged the
air with animosity. “I heard you, loud and clear, Miss Munso. The first time.”
Ruling out any more physical contact between them, because the urge to wring
her lovely neck was too great, his strong fingers gripped the back of the
closest chair, plugging grooves in the upholstery.
 
“Tell me what happened.”

“You
should ask Mrs. Thatcher, Lt. Alexander. Please, do it ASAP. She has a shotgun,
you know.” His rude guffaw incensed her. “White people and their guns,” she
muttered under her breath, turning to sashay from the room only to stop short
when snagged by the whirlwind his hand motions generated as he detained her.
His brazen act underscored the perilous territory they were about to explore.

“Tell
me I didn’t hear you right.”

It
was completely unfair and absolutely uncalled for, Angela realized, as soon as
the slur slid across her tongue, through her pearly whites and passed her plum
tinted lips. She was angry with her family and the man from yesterday. Not him.
She committed a cardinal sin by degrading an entire race based upon the actions
of a few, the way society, in some cases, applied the rules condemning all
people of color for one person’s infraction. In particular, if that person happened
to be Black.

Their
eyes clashed and it was her turn to apologize to him.

“You
did. And I’m sorry for offending you. You…personally, did nothing to me.”

Her
look begged him for her release.

He
watched her glide from the small office, all eyes on him as he tailed her,
believing she was sincerely contrite. She gathered her things, punched in a
number on her cell and disappeared out of the squad room door. Following her
escape, Chance tracked her all the way to the building’s entry where he
covertly observed her, wondering what delayed her departure, until his name
called on the front steps of the station got him busted.

“Brock!
Hey, Bro!” The lanky black man yelled, attacking the steps a couple at a time.
“Wait up.”

Chance
moved out into the roasting humidity to meet him half-way.

Angela
quickly swiveled, studying the handsome duo whose features were as opposite as
mid-day to mid-night, to read a bond of some sort in their behavior. The two
took dominant cop stances—the newcomer with a hand on his hip while stabbing at
his teeth with a toothpick; the other’s arms crisscrossing his broad chest as
they shared words in front of the precinct. Both watched her watch them,
laughing aloud at what she guessed was the audacity of her visit, the
undulating sound not at all unpleasant to her ears. A horn blew attracting her
attention to the street where a checkered taxi, double-parked to await its
fare, blocked the progression of a horse-drawn tour carriage. Her obligation
fulfilled, she climbed into the back seat without a backwards glance and her
driver chauffeured her out of sight.

The
days shortened as September lined up to replace August as the reigning month of
the year. August had no choice but to relinquish its position. Nevertheless, it
refused to take along all the stifling humidity. She attributed the sparseness
of the French Quarter crowd this late in the evening to the Katrina fiasco and
not the humidity. New Orleans still tackled an army of problems related to
housing inadequacies and basic needs, among numerous other shortcomings.

Any
other time, on any day six years ago, you’d have to wade through the sea of
people soaking up the culture. The high decibels of noise in the background
would have hardly attracted attention. That wasn’t the case today as she heard
a motor throttle in the distance. The city was trying to make a comeback
without its many inhabitants. The very ones who made the city’s heartbeat hum
lived in exile, spread like many miles of uneven asphalt, from east to west and
north to south. Tourism was back but not in the great quantity needed or
expected to make an astronomical impact on the economy. Looking out of her
window as the few tourists meandered along told the unfinished story. Like the
phoenix, New Orleans would also arise from the ashes—given time.

One
more school day existed before the long Labor Day weekend. The thought brought
a flutter of apprehension to the pit of her stomach. She had a lot of
soul-searching to do because of the bomb dropped on her, not by her parents,
but an outsider with an ulterior motive. Reminiscing about her unfortunate
attack on Lt. Alexander shamed her. He was collateral damage in the impending
war to regulate her tumultuous life. Angela found it so hard to let it go that
she sparred with two different white men in less than twenty-four hours for
related reasons.

What
was her world coming to?

The
cabbie’s voice shook her out of her revelry. She was home and exited on the
street side standing in the shadows of the massive shade trees gracing the
thoroughfare. That’s what she loved most of all about her new multi-ethnic
community. The mature trees’ luxuriant overhead canopy sketched an enthralling
sight to behold.

The
calming view up and down the avenue put her in the zone to wash her anxieties
down the drain. The departing taxi cleared a pathway. Her pace quickened until,
unexpectedly, she nearly tripped over her own feet, instantly brought to a
screeching halt by the magnificent iridescent motorcycle, chromed out and
shining in front of Mrs. Thatcher’s. Emeralds to grass greens glinted depending
on the slant of the sunrays streaking through the tree limbs. If she had to
guess who the visitor was, she’d speculate it was the wickedly handsome
policeman—whom she’d just left, and who hoisted her as if she weighed no more
than, as she spied him in the doorway, the saddlebags draped across his
shoulder.