For one endless moment, he stood in the foyer wondering why Jayla was sitting naked on her kitchen counter. Then he took in the bottle of chocolate syrup next to her and the mini-fro between her legs.
“What the fuck—?”
Jayla’s eyes popped open. With a shriek, she jumped off the counter, knocking the kneeling man headlong into a cabinet.
Jayla kicked him. “Get up, Michael!”
“Michael?” roared James.
He stood up, rubbing his head, and backed away from James. “Hey, bro’…go easy.”
“Get the hell out of here right now!” screamed James. “This is between Jayla and me!”
“He can stay,” Jayla said defiantly.
“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you. But I might hurt him,” James said, cracking his knuckles into his fist. “So get the fuck out of here!”
Michael bundled his clothes into a ball and ran toward the door. James grabbed a roll of paper towels and threw it after him. “And wipe your mouth! You’re all sticky!”
He slammed the door behind Michael and whirled around to face Jayla, who had wrapped herself in a blue silk kimono. She looked at least as angry as he was.
“How long has this been going on?” he demanded.
“You can’t have it both ways, James!”
“You can’t, either!”
“It’s pretty clear that you’re not interested in me anymore. Don’t you think I’m gonna look elsewhere for satisfaction?”
“If you know I don’t want you, then why are you hanging around me all the time?”
Jayla gave a strangled, exasperated howl and threw her hands up toward the ceiling. “Because I love you, you stupid asshole! I care about you, and I want to make sure you stay clean! I’m sick of seeing good black men ruin themselves, and you have everything going for you. I don’t care if you dropped out of Columbia—you got there in the first place, didn’t you? I don’t care if you had to stop playing football—you were a star when you did. You could be again! It’s all up to you. You could take back your life or you could piss it away like my father did and wind up a homeless drunk.” Angry tears trickled down her face.
James slammed his fist on the counter. “I’m not your father, goddammit!”
Jayla shook her locks and gave a hard laugh. “You didn’t hear the very first thing I said, did you?” She grabbed his arm and yanked him toward her. “I love you. You’re the one I want.”
He pulled his arm away as if she had scalded him. “But you’re gonna fix me first, and while I’m still broken, you’ll fuck my friends. Then once you’ve got me how you want me, good-bye to them, hello picket fence?”
“Why do you turn everything around and make me seem like a manipulative bitch?”
“What’s so goddamn great about me, huh? Why do you want me in the first place?”
She stared at him. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice husky. “If I did, maybe I could talk myself out of it. But I don’t, so I can’t.”
James swept the syrup bottle into the sink with a clatter. “I went by Michael’s before I came over. It never occurred to me he’d be here.”
“I didn’t think you guys were still friends,” Jayla said.
He whirled on her. “You know damn well there’s only one reason I’ve been staying away from him. And Gerald. And Dewayne and all the rest of them.”
“Then why did you go to Michael’s place?”
“Because I was too chickenshit to come over here and say what I have to say to you.”
“Which is…what?” Jayla asked, her voice trembling.
“Does it matter now?”
“Yeah, it matters.”
James sighed heavily. He was suddenly exhausted. He leaned his elbows on the kitchen counter and rested his head in his hands.
“You’re too strong for me, Jayla.”
“You need somebody strong.”
He looked at her, focusing on her beautiful long eyelashes. He would miss those lashes. “No, that’s exactly what I don’t need. I need to find my own strength. And if I fail, if I wind up on the street even, I have to know that I can get myself out of it.”
“You won’t be able to get yourself out of your own shitpile if you’re drunk,” she spat.
“Jesus, Jayla. Don’t make me say it!”
“Don’t be such a pussy, James. SAY IT!”
“I don’t love you!”
After a moment, Jayla said quietly, “In a relationship, there’s always one person who loves more than the other. That can be me.”
James was taken aback. It was as if she had been waiting for him to make that argument, just so she could counter it.
“Jayla, you’re the one who’s not listening. You haven’t been all along, and, yes, I was too drunk to argue with you the night you found me.”
“You’ll take my help and then throw me away?”
“I didn’t ask for your help, Jayla!” His voice boomed around the small kitchen. “I didn’t ask to be saved. Maybe I don’t want to be saved!”
“You want to keep drinking?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know! But I don’t want to be with you anymore, Jayla. I don’t want to marry you, and I know that’s what you’re after.”
She looked down at the floor. “It’s that white bitch, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t seen or spoken to her since the night I passed out drunk. She’s another one I can do without, believe me. You had that all wrong!”
Jayla shook her head, a rueful smile on her face. “Oh, you may think that, but don’t you mess with a woman’s intuition. I know how you feel about her better than you do. Asshole.”
“I told you, I’m taking out someone else. Her name is Felice Edwards and she’s a sister.”
“You love her?”
“I hardly know her! But that’s the thing, Jayla. This is the part I can’t get you to understand. This being sober shit is scary, but it’s also like waking up from a long nap. I don’t know who I want to be with. I’ve gotta figure out everything about myself all over again. I’ve gotta figure out who James Cooke is when he’s not drinking. It’s scary, and yeah, it’s scary to do it alone. If I could do it with someone I knew I loved—and who I knew loved sober James Cooke—I would. But that’s not you, baby. I should have been straight with you a long time ago. Believe me, this is not easy for me. But being strong and telling you how I really feel is the first thing I have to do to reclaim my life.”
The tears were falling fast down Jayla’s face now. James felt sorry for her, sorry for himself. Even sorry for Michael, who was probably standing on the corner trying to wipe chocolate syrup off his face with a dry paper towel.
“I know you think I can’t do it without you,” he said finally. “But if that’s true, then why the hell do you want me in the first place?”
But Jayla just shook her head. He walked back to the foyer, where her keychain was sitting on a small table by the door. He picked it up and worked his apartment key off the ring. Then he slid Jayla’s key off his chain and set it on the table.
“Michael’s a good guy. Better than me. And you can tell him I said that,” he said and shut the door behind him.
He heard her sobs grow louder inside the apartment, but he walked on with newfound resolve. If Jayla thought he couldn’t stay sober without her, he was damned if he would prove her right. In fact, he couldn’t think of a better incentive to keep him on the wagon than showing Jayla he didn’t need her. As he walked, he imagined himself purging his apartment of the random girlfriend paraphernalia she’d left behind. Maybe he’d give her clothes to old Mrs. Dunkirk upstairs. Her wardrobe could use a lift. Maybe he’d sleep on the couch tonight. Not because he had to, but because he could. And right now any decision he made, by himself and for himself, felt good.
Not just good—great.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Friday morning revealed October in New York at its meanest: cold, windy and rainy. Isobel dragged herself out of bed with great relucta
nce. Her sleep had been fitful, and not just because Percival kept kicking her from his pile of blankets on the floor next to her air mattress. She dreamed that she’d found Conchita and James together and stabbed James. Then she and Conchita went to a Cinco de Mayo festival and drank margaritas until Detective Kozinski arrived and arrested Isobel, not for James’s murder, but for Doreen’s. Percival was waiting for her in a prison cell, holding stalks of purplish flowers and a giant calculator that was running numbers incessantly.
Now, as she passed her sleeping roommate on the way to the bathroom, she realized the flowers must have been delphiniums. Isobel groaned at her reflection and wondered if there was any way to arrange her hair to hide the dark circles under her eyes. The only solution she could come up with required Scotch tape, so she pulled out her makeup box and applied light dots of rose lipstick to counteract the blue, then layered yellow-based cover-up over that. She stuffed a small cosmetics bag with these and other implements of facial wizardry and prayed she’d look better by seven thirty in the evening. When she emerged from the bathroom, Percival was sitting up against the wall, rubbing his eyes.
“You sleep okay?” she whispered, trying not to wake Delphi.
“More or less.” She knew that meant he’d been about as comfortable as she was.
“What time is your Columbia interview?”
“Eleven. Then I’m going to hang around and visit some classes. Can we meet up later?”
Isobel checked to make sure Delphi was still sound asleep, then she leaned closer to Percival. “I haven’t told Delphi, but if I get this audition tonight, I’ll have to stay and rehearse. I’ll call you and let you know.”
“Listen, good luck!”
“Yeah, you too. Not that you need it against all those other prospective fifteen-year-old freshmen.”
Isobel kissed her brother, grabbed her bag and her sorry excuse for an umbrella, and then, on impulse, snatched up her audition materials, just in case she wasn’t able to get home first. She staggered into the pelting rain and almost immediately had to abandon her splayed, torn umbrella in a trash can. By the time she got to the subway, she was drenched.
Where were all the street umbrella vendors when you needed one?
She was in a completely foul mood by the time she arrived at InterBank. To make matters worse, Paula was still reveling in her promotion, and her abrasive cheerfulness worked for her about as well as standup comedy from an undertaker. If she continued to punctuate each sentence with an incongruously girlish chuckle, Isobel would be calling Temp Zone for a new assignment sooner rather than later.
Stan, on the other hand, was slouching around the office, his shoulders buckling under some unseen weight, and whatever color was normally present in his pasty complexion had faded to a sallow, depressive gray. Percival must be right about the blackmail log. It made perfect sense. Stan had talked about the sacrifices Doreen made for him, and even though their marriage hadn’t been a success, it was easier to take Doreen getting him a job at face value, rather than try to put some kind of evil spin on it. No, despite his failures, Doreen must have loved poor, plodgy Stan. And he wouldn’t have killed her if she was giving him money.
That was another idea that she was having difficulty getting her head around: Doreen helping someone. It seemed so out of character—but then again, maybe it wasn’t. For a certain kind of personality, dispensing good will was just another form of power. Doreen must have imagined herself as a latter-day Robin Hood, stealing from the careless to give to the ex-husband. But what on earth did Stan need that kind of money for? Isobel remembered Conchita insisting that she could provide Stan with everything Doreen had. But did she even know what that meant?
Frank, who had been unusually industrious all morning, pitched another stack of files and documents onto Isobel’s desk, with instructions to file the old stuff and give the rest to Paula.
Isobel set about sorting the papers, wishing more than ever that she could have given her Two by Two audition yesterday, when she and the world were sunnier, not to mention well-rested. The only person who was acting normal was Conchita, who continued to snub Isobel, glower at Paula, ignore Frank, and cross herself every time Stan walked past. As difficult as Conchita could be, at least she was predictable.
Shortly before twelve, Conchita appeared at Isobel’s desk.
“I’m going to noontime Mass,” she said.
Isobel didn’t even bother looking up. “I don’t have a working umbrella anymore, so I’m staying in.”
“I’ll say a prayer for your soul,” Conchita said.
Isobel gave a dismissive snort. Noontime Mass. Yeah, right. Conchita’s ostentatious piety notwithstanding, Isobel somehow doubted that was really where she was going. She wondered again why Doreen had been blackmailing the sainted Conchita.
Without stopping to think about what she was doing, Isobel suddenly shoved Frank’s papers aside and leaped up from her chair. She grabbed her still-soaked raincoat from Nikki’s old desk where she had set it to dry and was still struggling to get it on when Frank appeared with another overflowing banker’s box.
He set the box on her desk, eyeing her coat. “Didn’t Conchita just leave for lunch?”
“I just remembered a super quick errand I have to do,” Isobel said hurriedly. “I promise, back in ten!”
Frank wiped his hands together releasing a puff of dust. “Doesn’t matter to me. I’m not your boss anymore. Just don’t let Paula catch you.”
Isobel nodded gratefully and took off down the hall. As she reached the etched glass doors, she saw Conchita disappear into an elevator. Isobel waited until she was gone, then ran out into the hallway and pressed the button repeatedly.
Richie, the IT guy, who was also waiting, shot her a snide glance. “Yeah, that always works for me.”
But an elevator did come, almost immediately, and Isobel took it down to the lobby. Conchita was standing just in front of the building, putting up a sturdy-looking, long-handled umbrella, which Isobel immediately coveted. Protected from the deluge, Conchita headed east on Twenty-third Street.
The rain was coming down even harder than before, but Isobel bent her head and plunged into a crowd of slow-moving pedestrians. She was getting soaked, but at least she was able to follow Conchita at a comfortable distance. Isobel trailed her down Park Avenue South and saw her enter a brick building. Isobel drew nearer and read the plaque above the door: Park Avenue Presbyterian Church.
Damn, damn, damn.
So much for her suspicions, and now she was going to get pneumonia.
She sloshed to a deli at the end of the block. “You don’t happen to sell umbrellas, do you?” she asked doubtfully.
The man behind the counter pointed to a small pile of black umbrellas on top of the New York Post, and Isobel grabbed one with relief. As she fished out five dollars from her wallet, she was struck by a sudden, incongruous thought.
Presbyterians didn’t have noonday Mass. She ought to know—she was one.
She grabbed the umbrella and darted back out into the rain and down the block, wrenching open the door to Park Avenue Presbyterian Church.
In the damp wood-paneled hallway, she saw a small blackboard with the day’s events posted in white block pin letters. She scanned it eagerly.
Noon: Alcoholics Anonymous.
Isobel let out a long, slow breath. “Well, what do you know?” she murmured. She took a step backwards and her heel dug into a man’s foot behind her.
“Hey! Watch it, will you?”
Isobel spun around. It was hard to say who was more surprised, she or James.
THIRTY-EIGHT
It was Isobel who finally broke the silence.
“I, uh, just came in to get out of the rain. I don’t have an umbrella.”
James pointed to her hand. “What do you call that?”
Isobel looked down, “Oh. Right. I just bought it. I guess I forgot.”
“I know why you’re here,” James said.
“No
!” Isobel shook her head vigorously. “I’m not an alcoholic!” Water from her hair spattered his face, and he coughed gently as he wiped it away.
“You were following Conchita, right?”
Isobel stared, dumbfounded. “How did you—?”
James took her arm and pulled her to her toes to whisper in her ear. “We have to talk. About a lot of things. Come on.”
This was Providence, James thought, as he steered Isobel back outside, up Park Avenue South and into the same diner where they had eaten and fought the week before. On his way to the meeting, he had begun to get nervous about revealing his innermost fears to an unfamiliar group, even with Conchita as backup. The decision had been made for him; he would save it for his home group on Sunday, in Bill’s comfortable presence. Another decision had been made for him as well: he would set things right with Isobel.
A few moments later, they were squeezed into a corner booth amid the additional layer of commotion that accompanies a rainy lunch hour.
“You haven’t said a word,” James commented. “That’s not like you.”
“I’m trying to figure out whether you were following me or Conchita.”
“Aren’t you overlooking the obvious?” James closed his eyes, opened them and spoke again, holding her gaze steadily. “I’m an alcoholic.”
“Oh!” Isobel’s eyes widened for a moment, but she quickly tamed them.
“So is Conchita. I came to this group last week and my sponsor introduced me to her.”
“So you did come back to follow her!”
“Not exactly. There was something on my mind that I wanted to share. It’s kind of complicated, I’d rather not go into it.”
Isobel’s brow wrinkled with concern. “But you’re missing the meeting.”
“This is more important.”
The time had come to explain and apologize, but somehow that was more daunting than admitting he was an alcoholic.
“Can I take your order?” asked a cheery voice.
“Two grilled cheeses and two Cokes,” James said.
The Temporary Detective Page 20
