Murder on the Down Low (16 page)

Tears pooled in her eyes. “Clayton . . . I . . . you can’t tell what’s going on with men nowadays. Maya died because her fiancé was out there sleeping with other men. There was no other way for me to find out.”

“You could’ve just asked me,” Clayton shouted, then backtracked. “No, I take that back. That would’ve pissed me off, too. We’ve spent enough time together for you to know me a lot better than you apparently do.”

“But that’s just the point,” she said, the tears freely flowing now. “Some of these guys are on the down low for years and their girlfriends and wives never know.”

“That’s bullshit! They don’t know because they don’t wanna know. And stop calling it
on the down low
. Like it’s something legitimate. Those punks are gay, but just don’t wanna admit it. And you bringing somebody up in here to hit on me is hella insulting.”

Clayton charged into the bathroom, snatched his razor and toothbrush from the counter and jammed them into his toiletry bag.

“Clayton, I’m so sorry.” She threw her arms around his neck. “Please don’t leave.”

After a long fit of crying, Special was finally able to get Clayton back into the living room. As she snuggled up next to him on the couch, she smiled inwardly. With her job kicking her ass and the torment over losing Maya, at least worrying about Clayton’s sexual preference was one thing she could cross off her list.

She went to the bathroom to freshen up her makeup and when she returned, she found Clayton standing in the living room, his bag over his shoulder.

She rushed up to him, but he extended his hand, gently holding her at bay. “Part of me understands why you did what you did, but every time I think about it, it pisses me off all over again. I don’t think I’m going to put in for that transfer. It’s too crazy out here.”

“So you’re breaking up with me?” she whimpered.

Clayton didn’t answer, but his heavy sigh told her he was at least thinking about it. “Just give me a little space and we’ll talk.”

“No, Clayton, don’t leave! I’m sorry. Why don’t you at least wait until tomorrow? It’s going to cost a lot to change your flight.” If she could convince him to stay, she planned to screw him until this evening was erased from his memory.

“I don’t care about the money.”

Clayton picked up his baseball cap from the end table, then stopped mid-stride. “Wait a minute. Is that why you were trying to play with my ass earlier? To see if I liked that shit?”

Special looked away.

“Well, I’m just glad I passed all your damn tests with flying colors.”

Special looked around for her purse and keys. “I’ll take you to the airport,” she sniffed. She was determined to talk him into staying before they got there.

“I already called a cab.” He sounded as if he were sapped of energy. “It’s probably here by now.” He pecked her on the forehead. “I’ll call you.”

Special stood there unable to see or think or move. The most incredible man who had ever walked into her life had just walked out of it.

W
hen Special walked through the door of T.G.I. Friday’s the following evening, Vernetta almost didn’t recognize her.

Special wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup and her hair needed a straightening comb. Her outfit—baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt—was the biggest barometer of her mental state. Skin-tight pants, too-short skirts and low-cut blouses were Special’s normal wardrobe staples.

“Are you okay?” Vernetta asked, as Special took a seat across from her.

She nodded her head without opening her mouth.

Vernetta reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “It’s going to be okay. Just give Clayton a few days.”

Special had called Vernetta the second Clayton left. She had cried for a full five minutes before finally explaining what happened.

“I’m sure Clayton will call when he cools off,” she said, though she wasn’t really sure he would. Jefferson’s reaction would have been much the same.

“I know it’s over,” Special said wearily. “He’s not going to give me a second chance.” Her voice cracked. “He won’t even answer my calls.”

When the waitress approached the table, Special didn’t bother to wipe away the tears trailing down her cheeks.

“Give us a minute,” Vernetta said. She was determined to boost her friend’s spirits. “Just give him some time. He’ll cool off.”

Special’s cell phone rang and she rushed to dig it out of her purse. She checked the caller ID display, frowned, then set it on the table without answering it. “I left Clayton four messages this morning. I thought that might be him.”

Okay, so maybe cheering Special up wasn’t going to be all that easy, Vernetta thought. She decided to change the subject and share her news about O’Reilly and Haley. “Want to hear some major law firm gossip?”

She took a sip of water. “Yeah, sure.”

“Guess what little backstabbing blond at O’Reilly & Finney is screwing the managing partner?”

Special’s face brightened slightly. “O’Reilly is messing around with that little witch, Haley?”

“You got it.”

“Girl, you’re lyin’!” The old Special was temporarily resuscitated. “How’d you find out?”

Vernetta told her about the two of them working late, then seeing Haley coming out of O’Reilly’s office with her hair and lipstick a mess. She gave a blow-by-blow account of their chance meeting at Chaya Venice and how Haley would be arguing
her
motion next week.

“Girl, I bet she’s giving that man blow jobs in the office,” Special said.

“What I don’t understand is why they didn’t go to a hotel.”

“Taking the risk of getting caught makes it more exciting,” Special explained, smiling for the first time. “I dated this guy who got off on messing around in his office. Haley’s about half O’Reilly’s age, right?”

“Yep.”

“I bet she’s whipping some stuff on him the chick he’s living with hasn’t even read about.” Special took a sip from her water glass and crunched on the ice. “Anyway, the big question is, what are
you
going to do about it?”

“And exactly what would you suggest?”

“No telling what she’s whispering into his ear while they’re snuggled up together doing the do. Start faking her out. She needs to become your new best friend.”

“Like I already told Jefferson, I’m not doing that.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Special said. “When something goes down between the two of you, who do you think O’Reilly’s going to side with? You or the cute little blond who’s making him come?”

“This is nuts. My job is to practice law, not to kiss up to that little wench.”

“Until you make partner, you gotta do what you gotta do.” Special aimed a finger at Vernetta from across the table. “If not, you can either pack your bags now or wait for Haley to do it for you.”

J
ames and Marcia Hill enjoyed entertaining friends at their spacious two-story home on Shenandoah Street in the Ladera Heights section of Los Angeles.

Their neighbors, Wallace and Juanita Sims, had moved across the street six months earlier and the two couples quickly established an easy friendship. The foursome sat around the dining room table feeling stuffed and relaxed.

“That was the best grilled salmon I’ve ever tasted,” Wallace said to his hostess. He was an assistant pastor at one of the city’s largest churches.

“Excuse me?” his wife gave him a sideways glance. “I cooked salmon two weeks ago. What about mine?”

Wallace leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Yours was the best
baked
salmon I’ve ever had.”

Easy laughter filled the room.

“My husband should’ve been a politician instead of a preacher,” said Juanita. “He’s faster on his feet with the bull than anybody I know.”

The two couples made their way into the living room, where James put on a CD of Motown hits. “You know, you’re alright for a man of the cloth.” James took a seat next to his wife. “I always thought ministers were uptight.”

“James, I can’t believe you said that!” Marcia said, embarrassed.

Wallace laughed. “Everybody thinks that. But I wasn’t always a minister.”

“I’ve been holding off on approaching you about this,” James said, “but I’d like to talk to you about some investments your church might find lucrative.” James had been running his own investment banking firm for two decades.

“Anytime. The church could definitely use some help in that area.”

James reached for the bottle of wine on the coffee table. “Anybody want a refill?”

Wallace and Juanita shook their heads. Marcia covered her glass with her hand. “I’m already a little tipsy.”

Juanita looked at her watch, then at Wallace. “I told the sitter we’d be home by ten. We better get going.”

“Hold up, man,” James said to his neighbor. “You’re not trying to run out on me, are you? You promised me a rematch.”

Juanita picked up her purse from an end table. “I’m not hanging around for another one of your marathon chess matches. You can stay if you want, but I’m heading home.”

Wallace escorted his wife safely across the street, then returned.

Marcia showed Wallace back into the living room. “You guys want me to make some coffee?”

Both men shook their heads.

“Then I’m off to bed. Don’t stay up too late.” She leaned down and kissed her husband.

James rubbed his hands together. “I hope you’re ready, man. I got something special for you tonight.”

Wallace followed James through the kitchen door and out to a back house that James had converted into a study. The comfy room was the size of a posh hotel suite. It was equipped with a separate bathroom, a small refrigerator and a microwave oven. A sleek, glass-top desk was framed by tall shelves stacked with books. A chess set—an expensive, hand-carved ivory model that cost over a grand—was already set up in the north corner of the room next to a six-foot couch.

James tuned in a jazz station, filling the room with a soft saxophone solo. After dimming the lights just a tad, the men stood over the chess set, facing each other.

James smiled. “Okay, preacher man, I’m about to make you beg for mercy.”

When Marcia awoke the next morning and discovered that her husband’s side of the bed had not been slept in, it did not concern her. James often fell asleep in the den while watching late night TV. He was probably already up, getting in an early workout.

Marcia swung her legs over the side of the bed and stepped into her house shoes. When she didn’t find James in the den, she put on a pot of coffee, then peeked into the garage, expecting to find him on the treadmill. They had turned one section of their three-car garage into a workout area, equipping it with a high-tech treadmill and thousands of dollars worth of Nautilus equipment.

But he wasn’t there either. The Lexus and the Escalade were parked side by side. Marcia searched the notepad near the refrigerator. James rarely left without leaving her a note. But the pad was blank. A slight panic began to set in. Maybe he had taken a walk. She went to the living room window and peered up the street.

She started for the back door, but decided to check the rest of the house before going outside to James’ study. This house is too big, Marcia thought, as she made her way down the hallway. She checked the three guest bedrooms, looked in on her two daughters, then headed out back.

When she opened the study door, a scream loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood pierced the air. It took a second for Marcia to realize that the sound was coming from her mouth.

The study was a bloody, revolting mess and right in the middle of it, her beloved husband sat slumped on the couch, half his head blown away.

N
ichelle left the office at four after calling in for a short interview on KABC radio. Interview requests were coming in nearly every day. To her surprise, she actually
was
becoming an authority on the subject of down low men. Maybe she would end up with her own TV show like Star Jones.

Instead of heading home, she decided to pay her parents a visit in Baldwin Vista. She found her father and brother in the driveway, tinkering under the hood of her father’s newest toy, a 1965 Mustang.

“You still working on that old thing?” She gave her father a kiss on the cheek. He was a retired high school principal who now devoted most of his time to a long list of never-to-be finished household projects. Her mother still worked part-time as a nurse.

“You just wait,” he said. “When I get it running, I’ma catch all the young women.”

Nichelle laughed, then playfully punched her brother Marlon in the arm. At thirty-five, he was a big bear of a man with a baby face.

“Heard you on the radio, sis. Sounds like you’re a celebrity.”

She smiled. “I’m working on it. Where’s Mama?”

Her father pulled out the car’s oil stick and examined it. “The kitchen. Where else?”

Nichelle made her way inside and stepped into the kitchen just as her mother pulled a casserole dish from the oven.

“Your favorite,” she said smiling. “Sausage Lasagna.” The dish was sizzling with melted cheese.

Nichelle grunted. She was trying her hardest to stick to her third attempt at dieting this year. “Mama, you know I’m on a diet.” Nichelle gave her a hug and marveled at how much of herself she saw in her mother’s face.

“You don’t need to be on a diet. A man wants a woman with some meat on her bones.”

Nichelle glanced back over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “I’m surprised the warden let Marlon out of the house without her.”

Shantel, her brother’s long-time, live-in girlfriend was not a family favorite. Her most annoying quality was the way she boldly professed to know everything about everything. For Marlon’s sake, Nichelle and her mother kept their opinions to themselves. Her brother had always been attracted to bossy women, even back in junior high school.

Her mother tossed her head in the direction of the den. “She’s in there,” her mother whispered. “You know she’s not letting that boy out of her sight.”