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Authors: Titus Pollard

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BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
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Chapter 25
... put away the evil of your doings from before mine eyes; cease to do evil.
Isaiah 1:16
 
 
On Tuesday morning, Attorney Edward Kirkpatrick made one of his rare visits to the prison. He gave Delvin the latest quarterly spreadsheet with balances of off-shore accounts, and personal mail that had come to his law office instead of to the Ashland Prison mailroom.
While Delvin pondered how to handle each of the documents, Kirkpatrick found interest in a mahogany and gold Mont Blanc he had pulled from a breast pocket.
Kirkpatrick told him, “Word in the rumor mill is that you may have something to do with that fire. Wright mentioned your name when he was questioned. The SIU is onto the fact that the fire is suspect, but they're far fetched for concrete evidence or eyewitnesses.”
Delvin remained expressionless. He strongly believed that some pieces of information should not even be privy to one's attorney, so he decided to keep his version of the truth behind Job's misfortune to himself. “That rat'll do anything to get me in trouble. How did this tale get to you?”
“It's my job. You pay me to stave off problems but, like I said, there's no evidence supporting any accusation that you were involved. As your attorney, I advise you to remain silent on this issue—”
“Hush up, man. Cut all the lawyer talk.”
“Look. We're not talking about money laundering or racketeering. Arson is a crime of violence. Real prison time.”
“Relax.” Delvin felt an air of confidence. He decided to play the mental game to the end. “Wait a minute. You think I had something to do with that?”
“Did you?”
“Oh, yeah,” he declared with sarcasm. “Warden gave me a four or five day furlough. I flew out west, set fire to Job's home and flew back here in time for a weekend meal. Yeah, I did it.”
“Don't be a wise guy. Lucky for you, the authorities thought that your involvement was far-fetched.”
“No, you wise up. Of course I didn't have anything to do with it.”
“I hope you're telling the truth.”
“Truthfully, it's impossible for me to have set that man's house on fire. That's the truth.” He called the guard to let him out of the room, which he hoped was Kirkpatrick's sign that the visit was ending on that declaration.
The meeting with his attorney was a flesh-wound compared to the rest of Delvin's day.
Murphy had crept his way up to Warden's office, where Delvin had busied himself with what could not have been more than an hour's worth of filing and dusting.
He noticed Murphy's left hand, bandaged in thick gauze and hanging in an improvised sling.
“You break something?” Delvin inquired.
Murphy, without invitation, sat down in Warden's office chair with his neck held straight and chest in a regal position. “Occasionally, Mr. Storm, battles that utilize verbal wits just don't work with the unschooled. I didn't win the slight altercation I was involved in, but I do recollect holding my own.”
Delvin couldn't help but laugh. “You got your butt whipped, huh?”
“I cannot allow minor injuries to be a prohibitory cause ... Mr. Storm. Pressing issues await.”
Delvin slapped a dusty rag against Warden's desk, sending debris into the atmosphere. “I knew your day would come. That crafty mouth of yours finally took someone to the edge. Well? What've you in mind today?”
“Well, you see, Deliverer and I were in a series of discussions. Actually, I did the talking and he did the agreeing.”
“I'm sure that's exactly how it went.”
“We've seen the latest incident—the fire—to fruition. Now it is time to heap the ultimate misfortune his way. Don't you agree?”
“Come again?”
“We do not see another avenue, aside from following through with the ultimate step.” Murphy's brows ran across his dark, slick face; straight and assertive.
They began an exchange of stares that lasted a while. They were busy telling by eyeing, not by saying.
Then, Delvin understood what Murphy was implying. “Oh, no sir, oh, no! Nobody is going to die. Not now, not ever. I'm not going to have that guilt on my hands.”
“You paid for this game, Mr. Storm. It must be carried out until there's a winner.”
“You don't have to remind me who paid for what. And this is
my
game.” Delvin remembered that another phase of his scheme had already been set in motion, courtesy of Bianca Rizzo. Why kill Job when humiliation would last longer?
“It is true that your financial contribution initialized this scheme, however, you are a fraction of this pie. There are others who rely on their reputations of dependability by what they say they will deliver. This forward motion cannot be stopped.”
The amount of apprehension Delvin felt could not be defined. He felt a force pinning him to a wall, an energy compelling him to come out fighting. “I know how to stop the money. No one will want to follow anything through when they see their dollars have been cut off.” He began thinking then how to be rid of Murphy's presence so he could make contact with Nadia.
“Money's not everything to everybody, Mr. Storm. Some men's adrenaline is fueled by pride. Some get a charge in their capability to take matters to higher levels. I can pretty much say that, yes, this is the crowd that your money has commissioned.”
Delvin reached over and put a tight grip on Murphy's decrepit limb. “I'm not asking you, I'm
telling
you, stop this.” He let go, watching the co-conspirator grimace in pain.
After a long period of silence, Murphy, with a nervous glance, stood up and told him, “I refuse to promise anything, Mr. Storm. It's not completely in my hands. I will do my best, if you really want your man to be left alone.”
Delvin leaned against the desk. He found it difficult to stand under the pressure. His ability to maintain control over countless situations had weakened under this maze of concrete and steel. “I want the craziness to stop. Leave him alone.”
Chapter 26
Oh that I were as in months past, as in the days when God preserved me.
Job 29:1
 
 
“Good grief, Job. Leave it up to you. You can definitely find a way to have a good time and spend some money.”
That was Monica's reaction to Job's request for a night out on the town. To say that their last few days were ordinary would not have been too high an assessment. He called Monica around lunch and found out her day was dragging along as well. TGIF. Life needed to get better.
“We need an opportunity to get our minds off things. That's all I'm trying to do.”
She laid it all out on the line, reminding him of their current condition. She was driving a rented car. Thanks to her high-end job with benefits, they had an above average place to stay. What little savings they had was being sifted into necessities they wouldn't have needed if their house had not been leveled. There were no foreseeable prospects on who burned their home, if arson was even the real reason behind it.
“And you want me to be so elated about going out this evening? You've got to be joking. We probably need to save our money for this Florida trip coming up.”
Job had pulled the phone away from his ear about halfway into her ranting. When he realized the airway was clear and he could get in a word, he asked, “Don't worry about the Disney trip. It will take care of itself. Where's that faith you're always talking about?”
“You leave my spirituality out of this. This is a mess you created.”
Job seethed underneath, and tried with all his power to stay composed. He looked around to see if anyone had crept into his presence. He was in the parking lot of the school. The headlights of automobiles were the only eyes watching him.
“You know what? I'm sick of you constantly laying all the blame on me. Try supporting me on one suggestion I make in this marriage. I'm doing the best I can. Now shut up. Figure out what you'll wear. Appreciate the fact that through our list of dilemmas, we can enjoy each other and life; if we allow ourselves to.”
It was a while before there was a response. A long while.
Monica huffed through the receiver. “Where'd you have in mind?”
Job, trying his best to sound upbeat, said to her, “I'll call Larry and Fontella. Think about it. You know what the deal is.”
Western Arizona had long been a cherry dipped in the fondue pot of culture. Until recent events kept them from their usual routine, Job and Monica had explored into the social scene over time, particularly Last Fridays Phoenix, a monthly engagement geared specifically for African Americans who enjoyed social interaction and professional networking. The party would always start around six and last well into the night.
It was uncertain whether the September affair would take place because it was so close to 9/11. But the organizers of the activity, a couple of real estate developers, felt that Phoenix's twenty to fortyish business men and women of color needed that time, if nothing else, to vent. Cancellation was not an option.
It was common knowledge that dress code was “to impress”, and everyone in attendance followed that decree. The Wrights carpooled in the Logans' Navigator to the Sheraton Crescent, the usual venue.
There were business announcements, complimentary hors d'oeuvres and door prizes. For those who arrived early enough, there were dollar chances for Brian McKnight and Tyrese concert tickets in Sedona. And the brothers and sisters? The ballroom served it up—deep chocolate to olive to mulatto, with everyone looking like the main event.
Job stood back to admire Monica—Nine Iron's power exec—and the way she commanded her presence. Confident, poised.
Fine.
She was networking like a pro. And to top it all, she had relented under his suggestion to attend tonight's party, without much discussion.
Meanwhile, two brothers decked in Sean John approached him.
The first gentleman was of medium height, athletic build with Ben Franklin glasses resting high on the bridge of his nose. “You're the umm, brother ... man,” he said in disgust. His memory had taken a rest. “Your name. It won't come to me.”
“Me either,” said the second gentleman, a much taller man with sullen eyes that seemed to never get enough rest. “But I know one thing. This brother's in real estate. I
know
he's the one.”
Job listened, standing in suspicion, as the two pondered his identity and past career. They weren't carrying around a
Black Enterprise
for reference. They didn't need it. Their recollection was doing just fine.
“Don't leave us hanging,” the first man said. “You're in big business, aren't you?”
It was the first time since the court case that forced Wright & Storm's dissipation into the heavens that Job admitted his identity. He tested their acumen by tossing a few complicated industry terms around.
“Real estate, that's it. That's why we know you,” the second man replied with a gratified smile. “Listen, we are involved in residential and commercial realty here in the Phoenix area. I'm Vincent Fuquay,” he said while beckoning with his hand. “My partner, Donald Terry.”
Job gave them his full name.
“Joseph Wright, yeah. Wright and Storm, am I right?” Vincent asked. He didn't wait for a response. “I know you're doing well. It would be an insult to ask.”
A couple of moments passed and the silence marinated.
Vincent and Donald informed him that the monthly soirée was their brain-child. Job pointed Monica out. She was across the room chatting with a couple of execs from the hotel and resort industry. The men asked how long the Wrights had been in Phoenix and what company, if any, handled their residential sales transaction.
“Because I know we didn't,” Donald declared with humor in his voice.
Job told them it was Vonson & Hickell and apologized that he didn't know of Fuquay & Terry at the time.
“I'm shocked they didn't grab you up,” Donald said.
“The man's got his own company,” Vincent said, “and judging from what the mags said, Vonson & Hickell should be applying to work for him.
“Well, truthfully,” Job said, “We're out of business.”
Vincent and Donald gazed at each other. Job imagined that they wanted to fade off the scene. He wished he could go out ahead of them. He looked around, hoping Monica was nearby to prop him up, but she was hemmed up by a small group of people, chatting and grinning away. Job chuckled to himself, thinking she was being cornered for free spa memberships. He then remembered that he was busy in his own zone, with admirers who may walk away in sorrow.
After the awkward moment had time to apologize for itself, Vincent asked whether Job had done any commercial realty lately.
“I'm in the education field now. Haven't done any real estate for a couple years.”
Donald said, “With a little practice, it would come back to you.”
“Maybe the two of you didn't hear me,” Job said more in protest than reprimand. “I haven't fleshed out a deal in—it's felt like ages.”
Vincent and Donald had turned a deaf ear. They were following their own train of thought, and refused to be thrown off.
Donald said, “We got some ideas coming around the bend that could use your expertise.”
“But—”
“Look, Mr. Wright,” Vincent interrupted. “You are ...”
Job shook his head. “Not any longer.”
“Okay ... you
were
—the king of the raw land deal.”
“In Kentucky.”
“Dirt's dirt.” Vincent's lips curled. “What's the difference?”
“With your knowledge, we could broker some really big deals.”
“You're forgetting an important piece. I don't have a license.”
Vincent told him, “Not an obstacle at all. We only deal in commercial, not res. And you wouldn't need a license, not in the manner in which we'd use your expertise. Listen ... think about it. You and your wife are here with some of your friends. You don't come here just to socialize, do you?”
Well, yes.
“Well, no, I don't guess.”
“I wouldn't think so.”
“Vincent, come to think of it, we could use Joseph in that deal we're trying to close in on going up toward Sedona. It's about four, five months away, but it'll take us that long for the research, to secure the proper financing,” Donald said.
The two men sparked Job's real estate savvy all over again. But he thought, in all fairness, that he should give them all the details of his exit from the business.
“Listen, whatever it is, let's get together and discuss it at another time. We won't put a downer on tonight's festivities,” Vincent said. He held up his glass.
Job looked around for Monica. He hoped that she could help him process what he thought he'd just heard, but fortune didn't have it that way. He looked at Vincent and Donald, and smiled.
Maybe it really is God working things out.
He lifted his glass in a toast.
Late, late that evening, after parting from the Logans, Job and Monica were cuddled up on the loveseat in their suite. He told her about the possibility of entering real estate again with Vincent and Donald. She responded with passionate, stirring embraces. Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes warmed by as the two talked and caught up on each other's magnetism. That time seemed to take on an air of perfection, and Job felt that he could enter a zone of honesty and truth.
“I want to take a chance at something, something I've wanted to let you know for a little while,” he said. It seemed any subject could be discussed, but Job consciously unclenched his jaw to keep from developing a headache.
Monica's silky tone calmed him, making him feel wanted, loved. “What is it?” she asked.
He took a breath and then unloaded with every detail of his contact with Bianca, including the day of the fire. “But nothing ever happened, honey. Believe me. There's nothing between us. I made sure of that.”
Monica's chin hit her chest. “So I haven't been enough for you, huh?”
“No. That's not true.”
“What then?”
“Monica, you've got to admit that sometimes it's hard to talk to you. Tonight is wonderful. I mean, we're into each other. But we haven't had a night like this in ... I don't remember the last time.”
Her eyes began to water over and turn pink. “I see. You found someone to talk to.”
“Yes.” He paused, thankful that he could make a sincere statement. “Larry.”
Monica raised her head and swabbed a tear. “Who?”
“When it was impossible to get a loving discussion out of you, I would talk to Larry. You should've known I was talking to someone.”
“No, Job. That wouldn't have been easy to figure out. You didn't talk to me, and I'm your wife. But you found time to talk to another woman.” Monica curled her lips. “Then, what will be the future with you and your boss?”
Job cleared his throat. “We have no future. Not from the angle you're thinking. Nothing ever got started. Ms. Rizzo's not the type you can talk to. And, even if she is, it's always been my desire to be able to talk to you, not any other woman. And I apologize. I should've never considered talking—to another woman—about our issues.”
“What stops us from talking?”
“We both play a part, honey. I know that in the past I've been a know-it-all. My stubbornness keeps us from communicating.”
Tears began to drop from Monica's face. There was no whimpering or stuttering. Only the tears. “And me? What do I do?”
“The way you talk to me. It makes me feel like you hate me.” In the silence that followed, Job regretted initiating the subject, especially since the rest of the evening had been so ... perfect. Yet, despite the subject, Monica did not present her usual icy gazes, thoughtless comebacks, or seething demands. And Job didn't know how to take her.
“I love you.” Monica wiped away a lone tear. In a supple voice, she told him, “But I need to think about what you've done and your explanation.”
“Do you forgive me?”
She nodded her head in directions that didn't point to the negative or the positive. “In a matter of days, we're supposed to travel to Florida so that you can receive an award based, among other things, on a recommendation from the same woman you
almost
had an affair with? We're displaced from our home by what may have been arson.” Monica's bloodshot eyes drew together. “With all that, you could see justification in us celebrating tonight. You know what? I need time to think.”
BOOK: Living Right on Wrong Street
6.66Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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