Jezebel

by Koko Brown

  The doorman tipped his hat at Shane. “Good evening, sir,” he said with much less warmth than he’d greeted her.

  “It is a good evening isn’t it?” Shane said, entwining his arm with hers. Oblivious to the cold reception, he swept them inside.

  ***

  Baring his soul had made Shane hungry as a horse. With a one track mind, he took Celeste’s arm and guided them through the lobby, past the front desk and into the hotel’s restaurant. A well-trained maître d, resplendent in starch whites, rounded the podium.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  “Yes, I want your finest table.”

  “Unfortunately, that isn’t possible, sir. We’re totally booked.”

  Shane looked past the maître d’. The dining area was busy, but nowhere near full capacity. In fact, he spotted a table just inside the entrance.

  “What about that one?” Shane nodded at a nearby empty table.

  Without turning around, the maître d’ clasped his hands behind his back. “It’s taken.”

  Shane scanned the room again. “What about that table near the windows?”

  “Also, taken.”

  Not one to throw in the towel, Shane inquired after several more, but he came up empty handed. Thinking this was a ploy to fleece him, Shane reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew his money clip. “I’ll pay top money for any table.”

  The older gentleman eyed the wad of money and even licked his lips, but he ultimately declined. “I’m sorry sir, but I can’t break hotel policy.”

  “Hotel policy?”

  “We serve an exclusive clientele.” The maître d’ glanced at Celeste and sniffed.

  Even though it took a second to register, the man’s words hit Shane like a punch below the belt. And his gut reaction was to respond with a counter punch square in the guy’s mug. Before he acted like an animal, Shane swallowed his pride. Stuffing the bills back into his breast pocket, he turned on his heels hauling Celeste with him.

  “Do you like Chinese?” He asked, keeping his gaze averted. “The Bamboo Inn has excellent chow mein and its right around the corner.” Shane stopped in mid-sentence. Celeste wore such a forlorn look, he wanted to go back to the restaurant and smash the maître d’s face in. “They have the same policy?”

  Celeste nodded.

  Feeling his temperature rise, Shane stuck his finger in his starch collar and pulled. “On the Hudson,” he offered after racking his brain for an alternative.

  Celeste shook her head.

  “The Clam House….”

  “Frank’s….”

  Shane named several popular nightspots, but Celeste negated every single one. Furious, he grabbed her hand and steered her over to a chair near the public telephones.

  “Wait right here,” he said. “If anyone bothers you, they’ll answer to me.”

  With one last reassuring squeeze of her hand, Shane stalked off in search of the hotel manager.

  ***

  Celeste wallowed in guilt. She’d known the moment the taxi pulled in front of Hotel Theresa that this would happen. The “Waldorf Astoria of Harlem” prided itself on its rigid segregation policy. Of course, she’d heard rumors of certain exceptions to the rules, but only for the rich and famous. And even then, the colored glitterati were prohibited in common areas and required to remain in their rooms.

  In all honesty, she’d kept silent to see how the prizefighter would react to the same discrimination she faced day in and day out. And he’d passed with flying colors. Well, sort of. The run in with the maître d’ had been touch and go with her fearing Shane was going to plant his fist in the man’s face. Still, she smiled to herself because she was sure he’d acted against his basic instinct and championed her without using his fists.

  “Let’s go.” Gaze averted, Shane held out his arm. Despite his deep tan, she could see a red flush staining his cheeks. And there was no mistaking the lines of tension around his mouth. “The manager said they could accommodate us.”

  Celeste took his arm and allowed him to lead her back through the hotel lobby.

  But instead of heading to the elevators, Shane marched them toward the exit.

  “Aren’t we going in the wrong direction?” Celeste panted, while keeping up with his break-neck pace.

  “No!” Shane barked. “He can only accommodate us if we go around the block, enter through the delivery entrance and take the service elevator up.”

  Celeste didn’t blanch. Every single nightclub she’d ever performed in she had to enter through the back. And not a one would have allowed her to be a patron.

  Thankfully, Shane slowed down for the hotel’s revolving door. Once outside, he avoided the taxicab stand and walked aimlessly up Seventh Avenue. At the corner of W. 125th, he hesitated.

  Celeste waited while he processed everything. She wasn’t going to prod him or coax it out of him. What he’d just witnessed had to be an eye-opening and demoralizing experience. In the ensuing silence, she could feel the anger rolling off him and wedging itself between them. He even stepped away, slipping his arm from under hers.

  At length, he broke his silence with a muffled curse, followed by a litany of angry mutterings. Not at her, but himself. It was almost as if he’d forgotten she was even there as he started pacing, his eyes never meeting hers.

  “I thought since the hotel was in Harlem, there wouldn’t be a problem,” he said finally coming up for air.

  “Easy mistake.” Celeste smiled and he returned it. “You know I don’t have a problem eating in a private suite,” she offered.

  Shane shoved his hands in pockets and turned about in a wide sweep. “I’ll be damned if I give anyone my hard fought money to those bigots so they can treat me like a second class citizen,” he spat. “Like I’m nothing.”

  Celeste deliberated. What could she say to that? In her world, this kind of treatment was commonplace, the norm. It wasn’t fair, but things weren’t going to change anytime soon.

  Shane shoved his sleeve back and glanced at his watch. Before she could note the time, he dropped his arm. “Less than two hours before the show,” he growled.

  Quick on her feet, Celeste thought of an alternative.

  “How about you fly with me for a change?” She held her hand out, but he didn’t take it. “There’s a great restaurant right around the corner from here.”

  “They can accommodate both of us?”

  Celeste nodded. “We can walk right through the front door.”

  Shane started pacing again. “I’d rather go back in there and beat the living daylights out of the manager,” Shane sniffed.

  “It’s only a ten minute walk from here.” Celeste started walking without him. “They have the best Manhattan clam chowder and the apple pie à la mode is to die for.”

  Half way up the block, Shane caught up with her. As he walked beside her, he kept his hands in his pockets. “Do they heat up the pie first then top it with vanilla ice cream?”

  “If you ask nicely, I’m sure they’ll oblige you.”

  A short ten minute walk later, the two of them stood outside Aunt Sweets.

  “This is a dive,” Shane grumbled.

  “Come on it isn’t that bad.”

  While he dug in his heels, Celeste reached for the door handle. He swatted her hand away with a growl. “Four star hotel or greasy spoon diner, I’m still the man.”

  Alien to such gruffness, yet liking it Celeste stepped to the side as he opened the door for her. Several patrons sat perched on chrome and red upholstered stools at a narrow counter. A radio hummed in the background, competing with the low murmur of conversations. A black woman of indeterminate age flitted back and forth behind the counter. Spotting them, she stopped and smiled. “Well don’t you two look mighty fine tonight. Take any seat you like. I’ll be right with you.”

  Reluctantly, Shane followed Celeste to a booth near the front window.

  “Stop worrying,” she implored as he checked his watch again. “We have enough ti
me to eat and make the show.”

  Resigned, yet sporting a frown, he flipped open a menu. Celeste didn’t follow his lead, she always ordered the clam chowder with a side of cold milk and a handful of crackers.

  Celeste wondered what was going through his head. He perused the menu in silence, except for a few grunts peppered here and there. About half way through, he gave up, slamming the menu back into the pronged place holder. Not surprisingly, he kept his gaze averted, his attention either fixed on his place setting or the other diners.

  With each passing second, Celeste could feel him pulling away, detaching himself.

  She should know.

  She’d done it to people hundreds of times. She was notoriously transient, noncommittal with people, places and things. She had millions of friends, yet none of them close. She’d been engaged and ruined it by sleeping with a crooner. And the only reason she had a roof over her head was because her father supposedly put a bullet in his head.

  Unfortunately, her past sins didn’t lessen the sting of rejection. What was wrong with her? Any other man, she would’ve simply turned around and kicked up her heels with someone else. A weekend bender, she liked to call it, with a red, hot lover and a couple or four bottles of aged bourbon.

  Celeste rubbed her hand her over belly to ease the ache, a sudden knot of unease. This one was different, she acquiesced. In an unusually short time he’d crawled under her skin, imprinted himself on her psyche. She couldn’t quite explain it, but deep down Celeste knew enacting some meaningless melodrama wouldn’t put humpty back together again anytime soon.

  Close to giving him his walking papers—better he leave now rather than later—Celeste bemoaned Aunt Sweet’s untimely appearance.

  “How are you two lovely doves tonight?” Celeste’s superfluous response overshadowed Shane’s grunt of acknowledgement. Even Aunt Sweet noticed his reticence. Her gamine smile slipped and her eyes lingered on his averted profile.

  “Tonight’s special is the smothered pork chops with a choice of two sides.”

  “I’ll have the clam chowder,” Celeste murmured. “I’ll also have a glass of milk and a handful of your homemade soda crackers.”

  Her smile back in place, Aunt Sweet glanced at Shane. “And what can I get for your beau?”

  “I’m not her beau.” He said it with such a lack of emotion or feeling, the knot in Celeste’s stomach tightened. She almost wanted to double over. By sheer willpower alone, she maintained her seat.

  “Not going to have anything,” he continued. “I’m not staying.” Aunt Sweet stepped aside, giving him room as slid from the booth. “Right now, I’m just not good company.”

  Ears ringing, Celeste made a big deal of shaking out her napkin, and then smoothing it in her lap. Although Shane still stood over her, she’d be damned if she would acknowledge him again. He was walking out on her, so there was nothing else to be said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching in his pants pocket. “At least let me—”

  “Don’t.” Celeste blinked back tears. She refused to let him see her cry. “Just go.”

  Shane turned, but before he departed he dropped her theatre ticket on the table.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Harlem’s famed 125th street blazed with artificial neon lights, which beamed like the noon day sun on the line of people queued up at the entrance of the newly opened Suitcase Theater. Hailed as New York City’s first theatre-in-the-round and Langston Hughes’ brain child, the theatre had been riding a wave of popularity for months.

  Celeste allowed herself to be swept up in the crowd pressing their way through the theatre’s glass-paned double doors, bursting through like water in a dam on the other side.

  Sparse in decorations, the theatre lobby only contained production posters and a concession stand.

  A dozen or so ushers, looking sporty in black suits, flitted back and forth through the crowd, trying in vain to control the crowd and get everyone to their respective seats. Unfortunately for them, the crowd ignored their help, choosing instead to see and be seen.

  Not in the mood, Celeste made her way through the throng. Why did she even come? She should’ve cut her loses and headed home. A warm bubble bath and a pint of hooch sounded better than a night on the town alone.

  Alone. Celeste frowned. Her present condition was becoming a bad habit. And it weighed on her heavily. So much so, her steps slowed. None of the other theatre goers noticed. In packs, they carried on conversations or buzzed past her intent on finding their seats. No one cared about the woman standing in the middle of it all.

  Even though she felt like the odd man out, Celeste didn’t retreat. She would not give Shane, or any other human being for that matter, the satisfaction that they’d broken her. From now on no one would have that power over her!

  Sustained by her new found confidence, which hadn’t been brought on by a pint of bourbon, Celeste picked her way through the crowd.

  She neared the entrance of the auditorium and faltered. There was no mistaking the wide-shouldered brute shadowing the usher.

  His eyes drifted over the crowd, searching. Before she could think of ducking him, his gaze passed over her then swung back. Celeste glanced left and right, looking for a hole in the crowd. Of course, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Determined intent burned in his pale green eyes, stripping her of all common sense. That had to be the reason why she simply stood there and watched him push away from the wall and cut a direct path toward her.

  In spite of everything, goose bumps run down her arms. Celeste gnashed her teeth. He couldn’t just show up out of nowhere and she’d forgive him for him for walking out on her. She should be livid at his audacity. Not turning into a quivering puddle at his feet.

  Thankfully, her conscience and not her libido won this fight. Anger in its truest form pulsed through her veins. It vibrated and grew with size with each step that brought him closer to her. By the time, they stood toe to toe, she was so furious she could choke on it.

  Ready to rip him a new one, Celeste was caught off guard when he slipped his arm under hers, and pulled her toward the auditorium entrance.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You and I are about to watch a play.”

  “A-after what you did?” she sputtered angrily.

  “We’ll talk later about that.” Shane reached out his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Now give me your ticket.”

  “I am not sitting with you.” She tried to shake him, but he held tight, pulling her firmly against his side. Try as she might, Celeste couldn’t deny the ball of heat tiptoeing up her spine. Disgruntled, she slammed her ticket in his palm.

  “That’s my girl.”

  While Celeste stewed, Shane handed the usher their tickets. The fresh-faced boy tore them in half and offered to show them to their seats. Shane declined then proceeded to pull her into the auditorium. Of course, she tried digging in her heels, but a man his size would take more strength than she could muster.

  “Haven’t you done enough damage?” she huffed. “W-why don’t you just leave me alone?”

  “That’s just it,” he said, an eyebrow slanting with mocking amusement at her sputtering fury. “I can’t leave you alone.”

  Stated so plainly, his excuse ran over her like purple prose. Celeste cooled off a bit. She didn’t completely forgive him. Oh, no! That would take some pretty good sweet talking or a rhinestone bracelet.

  Shane stopped halfway down the stairs, and Celeste slammed into him. “Where’s the curtains?” he mumbled. “And why is the stage smack dab in the middle?”

  “It’s called theatre-in-the-round. There’s no background and very few props.”

  Shane’s expression turned serious. “Bare bones?”

  Celeste nodded.

  “So, that means it’s gonna be a strong performance.”

  Finding his reasoning odd, Celeste frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “The best fighters don’t need embellishments.”

 
; “So I guess you fight in a tutu and a top hat.” Celeste grinned. He’d set himself up for that one.

  Shane chuckled at her joke, a deep resonant sound, which dampened the rest of her animosity. “Bare bones.” He puffed out his chest like a rooster. “Nothing but gloves and a pair of silk trunks.”

  And she bet he looked mighty fine in them, she mused, her eyes never leaving him as he resumed playing usher, guiding them to their seats. Pound for pound, he had to be the fittest man she’d ever come across.

  Curious, she asked, “When’s your next bout?”

  Shane deflated right before her eyes. “Two months from now at the Garden.”

  Surprised, Celeste’s eyes widened. A bout at Madison Square Garden was huge. It was like playing the Palace. “Are you ready?”

  “I’ve been ready for the past six years.” Obviously, he didn’t want to talk about it anymore because he turned away from her.

  Why he looked practically green around the gills! Was he scared about the fight?

  He had her empathy. She’d seen one or two bouts in her day and neither of them ended pretty. One guy’s nose wound up clear on the other side of his face.

  Reminded of the blood and carnage she’d witnessed, Celeste studied Shane’s profile. In short order, she deduced he must’ve been the winner in the majority of them. His nose, albeit a little off center, looked darn near perfect and there was a thin slivery scar, which slashed across his chin. In all honesty, his battle scars made him only more handsome.

  Celeste frowned. Now she was waxing all poetic, like some girl in pigtails. And once again she was allowing her weakness for the opposite sex and low self-worth to override everything including her own self-respect.

  Silently stewing over her current predicament, she jumped when someone tapped her on her shoulder. Celeste pivoted around, coming face to face with Nettie Hollister, a showgirl she’d once worked with at Small’s Paradise.

  “I thought that was you!” Gaudily dressed in a red satin number with a center split a mile long, Nettie clapped her hands together as if she’d just won the daily number.