Murder on the Down Low (12 page)

She pulled over to the curb, rolled down the passenger window, and called out to the man. “You lookin’ mighty good in that outfit, my brother. Go on with yo’ bad self!”

The man stopped, put his hands on his hips, did a slow pirouette, then sashayed on down the sidewalk.

Special was still laughing when Clayton knocked on the driver’s window, causing her to jump so high she almost hit her head on the roof of the car. She threw open the door and fell into Clayton’s arms.

“Miss me?” he asked, pulling her to him.

“Every day and every night,” Special said.

Clayton was only wearing jeans and a T-shirt but he still looked hella sexy. He tossed his bag into the backseat and they took off. He held her right hand as she drove and leaned over to kiss her at every traffic light.

“I can’t wait until we get to your place,” Clayton said. “I’ve missed you so much, and I’m horny as hell.”

Special blinked. Down low brothers supposedly had unusually strong sex drives.

Clayton started going on and on about some project at work. He stopped when Special turned into the Ladera Center.

“Where we going?”

“I need to make a Starbucks run.”

“I’m tired as hell,” Clayton complained. “Can’t you make some coffee when you get home?”

“If I get a couple extra shots of caffeine, I’ll be all hyped up.” She reached over and gave his upper thigh a quick pat. “I just wanna make sure I have enough energy for everything I have planned for you tonight.”

Clayton’s lips formed a slow grin. “Well, what you waiting for then? Let’s go get your coffee.”

Special lucked out and found a parking spot right in front of the Jamba Juice, next door to the Starbucks. Before she could get out, Clayton jogged around and opened her door. He pulled her out and kissed her again.

Special had a dual purpose for this stop. She wanted to observe Clayton in the presence of other men. DL brothers, according to
On the Down Low
, had a discreet way of signaling each other.

This particular Starbucks, a popular neighborhood hangout, was always crawling with black men. As they approached, several men lounged in wrought iron chairs out front and more filled cushy chairs inside. Outside to the left, groups of men crowded around tables observing two chess matches.

Special joined a long line of customers. “You want something?”

Clayton kissed her on the side of the neck. “Just you.”

A muscular black man in a red Lycra T-shirt entered from a side door and walked in Clayton’s direction. The man gave Clayton a barely perceptible backward nod accompanied by a glance that was way too long for Special’s taste.
Were they signaling each other with her standing right there?
She turned around and stared up at Clayton.

“Ma’am, may I help you?”

Clayton nudged her. “Your turn to order, babe.”

“Oh . . . uh, a tall White Chocolate Mocha,” Special said weakly.

“You okay?” Clayton apparently noticed her distress.

She tried to play it off. “I’m fine.”

The clerk wrote Special’s name on the side of a paper cup and they stepped away from the counter. More people entered the Starbucks. Every black man who approached eyed Clayton and nodded.
Dang! Is every black man in here gay?

Special knew she had to calm down. The way one man greeted another was
not
a bona fide confirmation of his sexual orientation.

“Where’s the restroom?” Clayton asked.

She pointed toward a short hallway at the back of the store. Special watched him as he walked away.
At least he didn’t walk gay
. But neither did Eugene. And look where Maya ended up. Special gazed skyward and inhaled.
Girl, I miss you so much.
Give me a sign, Maya. Please, help me figure this thing out.

The clerk called her name and Special retrieved her drink. As she grabbed a napkin from a side counter, a smiling Clayton returned. “Drink up, baby, and let’s go get this party started.” He kissed her lightly on the lips.

Special’s hand tightened around her drink. She would get the answer she needed soon enough. By tomorrow night, if Clayton was on the down low, he was about to get his ass outted big time.

Y
ou look bushed, girl,” Jefferson said when Vernetta trudged into the bedroom, still reeling from her discovery about Haley and O’Reilly.

She yawned and dropped her purse on the dresser. “That’s certainly an understatement.”

Jefferson was lying in bed, propped up on two pillows, one hand behind his head, watching basketball highlights.

Vernetta stood over the bed. “Guess what I just found out?”

“What?” His eyes did not leave the television screen.

“I think O’Reilly and Haley are messing around.”

“Is that right?” He still didn’t look her way.

“Is that all you have to say?”

Jefferson finally gave her his full attention. “What am I supposed to say? He’s a man and she’s a woman. And Haley ain’t exactly bad on the eyes. She’s kinda pale for my taste, but she’s got a nice ass for a white girl.”

“Since when did you have time to check out Haley’s ass?”

“I wasn’t checking out her ass. It was just there. Staring at me.”

Vernetta pulled the pillow from behind Jefferson’s head and started slugging him with it.

He laughed and blocked her blows with his forearm, then snatched the pillow back.

“Don’t be mad at the girl. She’s just using what she’s got to get what she wants. That’s the American way.”

“Well, it makes me sick to my stomach.” Vernetta stepped out of her heels and started to undress. “I’m really screwed now.”

“I would have to agree. If Haley’s banging the big boss, sounds like you better get on her good side.”

“I would if she had one.

“Just stop trippin’ and make friends with the girl.”

“That’s not going to happen.” Vernetta slipped a nightgown over her head and plopped into the armchair next to the bed. “She’s the one who needs to be nice to me. If I expose their little affair, she’ll be the one out of the door, not O’Reilly.”

Vernetta tried to watch television, but couldn’t get Haley and O’Reilly off her mind.

“You, okay, babe?” Jefferson asked. “Ever since you got passed up for partnership, you’ve been in a constant funk.”

Passed up for partnership.
Vernetta hated the sound of the words. “Have I?”

Jefferson turned over on his side and faced her. “Lately, the first thing you do when you get home is start complaining about Haley or O’Reilly or the firm. You never talk about your cases anymore. Why don’t you tell me what you’re working on?”

She shrugged. “Nothing exciting.”

“Babe, I don’t understand what’s going on with you. It’s obvious that you don’t like working at the firm as much as you used to. Why don’t you just leave? It’s not like you can’t find another job. And we have enough cash saved that it wouldn’t be a big deal if you didn’t work for a while.”

Vernetta didn’t answer.

“Talk to me. All this moping around ain’t good.”

Her cheeks filled with air and she let it slowly seep out. “I don’t feel like talking right now,” she said softly.

“Even about adoption?”

Vernetta rose from the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Now that’s a shocker.”

After finding out that they couldn’t have kids of their own, Jefferson had flat out refused to consider adoption. She clicked on the lamp on the nightstand.

“So when did this change of heart occur?”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I guess I just needed time to adjust to the idea.”

She leaned down to kiss him. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks. But I need to figure out what’s going on with my career before bringing a kid into this mess of a life I have.”

Jefferson pulled her closer. “Your life is not a mess. You just need a nice long break from the law. When my project winds down, let’s take some time off. Let’s go to Hawaii for a week. Strike that. Let’s splurge and take two weeks.”

“Two weeks? Then I’d never make partner for sure. I need to show my total dedication to the firm right now. I’m expected to work until at least ten o’clock every night. Bill more hours than everybody else. Never take a vacation. Basically make the firm my life.”

“And that’s the way you want to live?” Jefferson asked.

“Nope.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

She took a long time to answer. “Because that’s what it takes to make partner.”

“So, basically what you’re telling me is you’re going to stay at a job you hate and work yourself into the ground, even if it gives you a stroke?”

“I don’t hate my job and I’m not going to have a stroke,” Vernetta said, forcing a laugh. She pulled away to turn off the lamp, then stretched out next to him in bed. “I’m in excellent health.”

“Physically, maybe. But not emotionally.”

She didn’t feel like trying to defend her career decision. She went mute and silently thanked her husband for not pushing the issue further. Nestling her face into the crook of Jefferson’s neck, she enjoyed his scent. His body heat. The closeness.

Vernetta had almost dozed off when Jefferson’s fingers crept underneath her satin nightgown. She felt exhausted. Too exhausted to make love, but she could not fight the rising swell of sexual excitement her husband could so easily arouse in her.

Jefferson rolled her onto her back, tugged her nightgown up and over her head and bent to kiss her breasts.

Vernetta moaned, barely loud enough for him to hear, then reached out for him, longing for more of him, all of him. And when he did finally come to her, she gripped him about the neck, arching her body to meet the rhythm of his.

Jefferson whispered gruff expressions of his own pleasure, while rocking and riding her body in long, penetrating waves. Going deeper and deeper, pulling away, then easing back to her.

As she came, just seconds before he did, she was grateful for the respite. Happy and satisfied to allow something besides work to totally consume her.

T
he Ida B. Wells Women’s Center was the kind of place most people drove past without noticing. Sandwiched between a barbershop and a furniture store on L.A.’s southside, it looked like every other weathered storefront that lined Slauson Boulevard.

Nichelle entered the building and made her way to Wanda Richardson’s office.

A petite woman in her early fifties with corn-rowed hair, Wanda greeted her with a motherly hug. “I’m glad you came early. Let me show you around before the women get here.”

Wanda had arranged for Nichelle to talk with members of an HIV support group which met at the center twice a month. As part of her continuing research, Nichelle felt it was important to talk to women who were living with the disease.

“Here’s where we conduct our classes.” Wanda bubbled with pride as she guided Nichelle around the center. “This month we’re doing interviewing skills and resume writing.” The center also housed a day care center and sponsored after-school programs.

Wanda had spent years lobbying the city to donate the space, and once she had accomplished that goal, she kept it going through fundraising events and grants. “The group sessions are held in here.” Wanda led Nichelle into a spacious room with soothing midnight blue walls.

“Wow!” Nichelle said.

“Pretty nice, huh? The wife of one of our board members is an interior decorator. She really hooked us up.”

The room had the feel of an expensive day spa. Two eight-foot couches were surrounded by huge, leafy plants in colorful clay pots. Abstract art and lamps that resembled sculptures added a touch of elegance. Nichelle could smell the scent of eucalyptus. Mahogany folding chairs formed a circle in the center of the room.

Back in Wanda’s office, Nichelle learned a bit about the background of the group members. “We usually have anywhere from ten to fifteen women. About half of them agreed to talk to you.” She explained that Nichelle would be meeting a Macy’s salesperson, a college professor, two women who worked in health care, a software engineer, a rape crisis counselor, and a lawyer. All of the women had contracted HIV through heterosexual sex.

Just after seven, the women began to trickle in. Nichelle had not expected to meet such attractive, vibrant women who bore no visible signs of their illness. They laughed and mingled until Wanda called the session to order. She introduced everyone, then turned the floor over to Nichelle.

“The purpose of my visit,” Nichelle began, “is to try to understand HIV from the perspective of women who are living with it.” She checked her notes. “I guess I’ll start with the most difficult question first. How did it happen to you?”

Darlene, the college professor, seemed eager to respond. “Sheer stupidity,” she said with a gentle laugh. “I simply didn’t think HIV was something that could touch me because I wasn’t a gay man or an I-V drug user. I was in a monogamous relationship with someone who professed to be committed to God and to me. I had absolutely no reason to suspect that he was having sex with men.”

“How long has it been since you were diagnosed?” Nichelle asked.

“Six years and I’m doing great.” Darlene smiled big and high-fived the air.

The other women nodded encouragingly.

“But by no means is it easy,” Darlene clarified, as if being too happy might backfire on her. “I don’t have the energy level I used to have. I still have to take twelve pills a day and I battle with occasional nausea and dry mouth. And then there’s the stigma of being HIV positive.”

Lafaye, a dental assistant, concurred. “For the first year after I found out, I told everybody I got the disease from a patient. I was too ashamed to tell anybody. But I don’t hide it anymore. If just one woman knows that it happened to me, she might just realize that it could also happen to her, too, and make the decision to protect herself.”

“So you didn’t practice safe sex?” Nichelle asked.

Lafaye, who appeared to be in her early thirties, blushed with embarrassment. “I thought the fact that my boyfriend didn’t want to use a condom meant I was the only one in his life. In my mind, you only used protection with someone you didn’t trust.”