It was just after six in the evening. Blanche wondered what this place was like about midnight, when folks were really loosened up. She felt Lacey watching her, and turned toward her.
“I don’t meet a lot of women in your line of work,” Lacey said.
“Likewise,” Blanche said. “But I meet a lot of women who were in my line of work, at one time or another, or one way or another. I imagine the same is true for you.”
Lacey laughed and clapped her hands. “Brava, Blanche! Most women like to pretend that being in the life is something only sluts and junkies do. I’m glad you know better.”
Blanche decided not to mention the big difference between women who traded sex for a new house, a better car, and so on from the men in their lives and pulling down your panties for men you didn’t know, and who would never acknowledge you if you met them in church. Instead, she took off in a direction she hoped would lead to where she wanted to go.
“And what about men? The backbone of the industry?”
“Ah, yes, God love ’em; what would we do without their appetites! You’d be amazed at what some of the big-money boys want from a woman. Course, they have to pay big for the pleasure.” She rolled her eyes in emphasis. “But you don’t want to talk about my business. It’s Allister Brindle you want to know about, isn’t it?”
Blanche couldn’t hide her surprise. “Why do you say that?”
Lacey gave her a sly smile. “You told me. That’s another thing we working girls do well: listen.”
“When did I tell you?”
“You told me that you’d found two packs of matches from Le Club, and you found one of them in a place that surprised you. You didn’t say where you found the matches, but I called you at the Brindles’ place. So it stands to reason that you found at least one of the packs there. Am I right?”
Blanche grinned at her. “You sound like a detective.”
“I’d be good at that, too.”
“So,” Blanche said. “What about Allister Brindle?”
Lacey picked up her drink and jiggled it. “He’s not a Family Values client.”
It took Blanche a couple seconds to remember that Family Values was the name of Lacey’s call-girl business. “Shit!” she said, not bothering to hide her disappointment.
Lacey smiled at her. “You don’t get it. If Brindle were one of ours, I couldn’t tell you anything. Client confidentiality, you know. But since Brindle isn’t one of ours…” Lacey shrugged and grinned.
Blanche leaned across the table, almost knocking over her drink. “Tell me!”
Lacey laughed her hearty laugh. “I wish Marcella were here. She’s the one to tell the story about your employer! But she’s left town. It must have been right here, at her going-away party, when she told us about him.” She tilted her head in a remembering way. “It was me, Ray-Ray Brown, God rest his soul, and one of his dates—I don’t remember his name—and Marcella and her sister, Joyce. Girl, Marcella had us dying! Drunk and maudlin as she could be. Sniveling about how moved she’d been that afternoon when Brindle insisted on making a tape of—”
“Did you say a tape? Like a videotape?”
“That’s right—Allister Brindle dressed up like a little girl, and Marcella giving him a good spanking with the hairbrush. Marcella told us: ‘Movies always make me look fat, but he looked so cute in that frilly little dress, how could I say no?’ ” Lacey howled with laughter. “He told her he wanted it to remember her by, since he was bankrolling her move to LA.”
Blanche had to turn her head to hide the tears of disappointment that sprang to her eyes. She’d been hoping Allister’s tape would at least have some kind of illegal payoff on it, or a deal with the mob—something important—not some silly shit, like Allister skipping around in a pinafore. While she could understand why Allister wasn’t eager to have the voters see him in girl-wear, she’d been expecting something more important than bottomless britches. Like something that would land him in jail. She’d also been hoping whatever was on the tape would jam Samuelson up, too. Shoulda known life wasn’t about to get that simple, she thought.
“Did you say Ray-Ray was with somebody? Was it a guy called Donnie?” Blanche couldn’t remember Donnie’s last name no matter how she tried. “He’s kinda slim, light brown–skinned, well-dressed, dreamy brown eyes, with real short hair?”
Lacey shook her head. “Unh-unh. This was a white guy. Dark hair, nice-looking. Kinda quiet, or shy.”
Blanche sat up straighter in her seat. “Marc? Was his name Marc?”
Lacey thought for a second or two. “Could have been. Yes, maybe so. You know him?”
If only, Blanche thought, and shook her head.
Lacey went on: “I don’t care what people do, as…”
But Blanche’s attention was elsewhere. If Marc and Ray-Ray were together when they found out about the tape, Marc was also probably the answer to the question of how Ray-Ray had gotten into Brindle’s personal safe. She’d bet serious money that Marc supplied the combination.
“…hate a hypocrite,” Lacey said. She put some money on the table and stood to leave.
Blanche added to the tip and nodded, although she didn’t know exactly which hypocrite Lacey was referring to. She followed Lacey toward the door and looked around Le Club one last time.
She didn’t remember what she’d expected when she’d found the two matchbooks, but it had turned out to be a surprise in more ways than one. Now she knew what was on Allister Brindle’s tape and had a good idea who’d helped Ray-Ray steal it. But she had more questions than information: Had Ray-Ray and Marc talked to each other before Ray-Ray died? Did Ray-Ray give Marc the tape? Did Marc know where it was now? Did he know what had happened to Ray-Ray and why? And now that Ray-Ray was dead, did Marc intend to take up Ray-Ray’s plan to use the tape to bring Allister down? Where the hell was Marc, anyway?
Maybe it was thinking about Marc Brindle and his dad and the many ways that parents and children got separated that made Blanche want to snuggle right in with the kids when she got home—like when they’d first come to live with her, after she’d finally settled down to being their parent. They’d been so lost without their real parents, so afraid that nothing was permanent. On Sunday mornings, she’d bundled them into her bed and snuggled with them under a mound of blankets. She’d read the funnies to them, tell them knock-knock jokes and make up silly stories. She remembered how sure she’d been that she could, in time, provide what they needed to grow and prosper; that she could and would do whatever was necessary to keep them safe. Fool!
They were finishing up homework at the kitchen table when she came in. She took a chair at the table and asked them about their day. Taifa started a story about volleyball practice, but Malik was too full of his trip to City Hall with Aminata to wait his turn.
“We got the name of the corporation that owns the abandoned building, but not the names of the officers. Aminata says we should wait till Sunday, then go see her friend Teddy. He’ s a computer geek. Aminata says he can probably find out the head of the corporation.” Malik sounded like a proud father whose one-year-old just sang “Lift Every Voice and Sing.”
“I never would have thought of that. Would you, Moms?” he added, just in case she didn’t get it.
She smiled, lifted her eyebrows, slowly shook her head, and hoped it all added up to looking impressed. She didn’t know how much more Aminata the Goddess crap she could handle.
Nestling in with the kids wasn’t working. She was tighter than a new girdle. She felt like an icy finger was poking her in the back, reminding her of what had happened to Ray-Ray, of the near break-in and Donnie’s visitors pushing her to hurry up, as though she had only a little bit of time to find the tape before the whole thing blew up in her face.
She left Shaquita in charge and said she’d be back in an hour. She put a flashlight in her handbag. A big dark car al
most ran her down on Dale Street. She shook her fist at it, then hurried to the bomb shelter under Miz Barker’s house.
Someone had recently thrown a beer bottle against the door. Glass lay shattered at the foot of a long, spidery stain. She looked around to make sure she was alone, then lifted the padlock on the heavy steel door. Both the lock and the edge of the door were scratched, as though someone else had tried to get in. Without a key. The harsh howl of a cat in heat almost made her drop the keys. She was relieved when the lock slipped open. She made sure her flashlight was on before she opened the door. The couple of dim bulbs that came on when she flipped the inside light switch didn’t help much. The place was big enough so that her scalp didn’t immediately begin to prickle with sweat the way it sometimes did when she was in a small, closed space, but tiny windows near the ceiling made her want to get out of there before she was all the way in. She took a deep breath and locked the door behind her.
The shelter was broken up into large cubicles made of wire fencing, like numbered jail cells, one for each house. Despite what Pam had said, most of the spaces were locked and held furniture, boxes, bikes, stacks of old newspapers, and bulging plastic bags. The rest hung open, dusty and creepy. Inside each cubicle there was a set of stairs that led up to the house above. The old, fetid air was chilly.
She found Miz Barker’s cubicle and unlocked the padlock with one of the keys Pam had given her. She’d already seen Miz Barker’s crawl space, so she didn’t expect to find any clutter and she didn’t. On the left side of the space, metal shelves held items draped with pillowcases. An armchair, two floor lamps with fringed shades, and an occasional table with a pedestal shaped like an elephant’s foot sat together on the other side of the space beside a folding bed covered with a bedspread. Five taped boxes were lined up at the back. Blanche laid her flashlight on one of the boxes and rifled through a box filled with women’s clothes. Nothing. She turned to the next box: odds and ends of dishes. The third box held thirties-style felt hats, but no tape. There was no tape in the final two boxes either. Tiredness suddenly dropped over her like a large, heavy net. She struggled with it for a few moments. She hadn’t finished looking around in here. She yawned. It was no use. She’d come back tomorrow. On the way out, she peered into corners, half expecting something or someone to jump out at her. She sighed and relaxed her shoulders when she’d clicked the lock in place. As she crossed the street, she chided herself for letting the place spook her, and looked forward to her bed.
Car headlights suddenly threw her shadow down beside her like a black velvet cloak. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the glare. The urge to run rumbled through her like a dose of salts. She turned back toward Miz Barker’s house, but it was too late. The car was in front of her, vomiting out shoulders and biceps in dark suits. She opened her mouth to yell. A cologned hand covered her lower face. Someone snatched her handbag.
“Just a little talk,” the one holding her whispered. He and his friend hustled her into the backseat of the car.
Samuelson was waiting for her. One of the biceps boys climbed in front, while the other squeezed in the back seat after her. She was close enough to Samuelson to smell roast beef on his breath.
The hoodlum beside her dumped the contents of her handbag into her lap and stirred them around. “Nothin’ here, Rev.”
Samuelson turned toward her. “Where is it?” His eyes were so cold, his face looked frozen.
“What?” Blanche locked eyes with him and vowed that she would eat cow shit before she let him see the fear that was curdling her stomach and causing her heart to bang against the wall of her chest like it was trying to escape.
“No games. No games,” Samuelson told her. “I ain’t got time. I tried to treat you nice, called you up, tried to help you, but you disrespected me. Now I just want that fucking tape.” All his oily minister-speak was gone. His voice was rough and sharp as cheap sandpaper.
“I don’t have it.” She snatched her handbag from Mr. Muscles and started stuffing her things back inside. He began patting her down and feeling her up at the same time. He chuckled at her attempts to ward off his hands. She made a grab for his nuts, but he twisted his body away from her and quickly crossed his legs. Samuelson grabbed her arm but snatched his hand out of reach before she could sink her teeth into it. He dug his hand in her hair and yanked. She elbowed him in the chest and took strength from the way the air whooshed out of him. He released her hair. His goon managed to grab both her wrists. She kicked at his shins.
“Damn, old lady!” he said. “She strong, ain’t she, Rev? You want me to fuck her up?”
Fear jumped through her like jolts of electricity. She could tell from Mr. Muscles’ tone that fucking people up was his favorite flavor of ice cream. She tried to stop fighting him, but she was trembling so violently, she seemed to be resisting when she wasn’t. She felt her throat tensing for a scream, her tongue pushing her to beg this shit to please not punch her, hurt her, please. She took a couple of deep breaths and clenched her sphincter muscles to keep her bowels from letting loose.
“Okay, okay.” She fell back in her seat. Mr. Muscles let go of her wrists. She wound her arms around her body to hide her shaking hands. She needed to be calm and reasonable to convince Samuelson she was telling the truth.
“Look, I don’t have no tape,” she told him in a voice so firm and sure it surprised her. “I never even saw the tape. Ray-Ray wasn’t no friend of mine. Why would he tell me where it was?”
“Then what was you doing down in that cellar?” Samuelson asked. “Sneaking over here at night. Almost walked right into my car, you was in such a hurry to get here. Gotta be a reason for that.”
“Well, I wasn’t gettin’ no tape, or I’d have it on me, wouldn’t I?” She took a long, deep, ragged breath. “Excuse me, but I ain’t used to being dragged off the street, searched and—”
“Listen, you…” Samuelson began with enough menace in his voice to make Blanche’s stomach cramp again.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “I was looking for the tape. I admit that. I mean, shit, you and Brindle been all over me about it. I figured if I could find it, you’d get off my case.”
“So you was planning to give it to Brindle if you found it? Right.”
She knew he didn’t believe her, but she pressed on. “Well, not exactly. I was planning to give it to you so you could take it to him and not let on I was the one who found it. I don’t want to fuck up Miz Inez’s job. But now, after what you and your boy here just did to me, maybe I’ll—”
Samuelson twisted toward her and grabbed her chin. His boy threw his arms around her to keep her from raising her hands.
“Bitch, stop yanking my chain.” Samuelson pressed his fingers into her jaw and pulled her face closer to his. “At first, I thought Brindle had his head up his ass about you being in on this shit. But he was right. You got two days to bring me that tape. Two days. You got a nice family. Nice kids. It sure would be a shame if one of them was to get hit by a car or…”
Blanche yanked her face out of his hands and tried to butt him with her head. His boy opened the car door and dragged her out. Blanche kicked him in the knee and put her head back in the car.
“You got a mama, Maurice? A wife or a girlfriend? Anybody in this world you love?” The thug was pulling at her, but she wouldn’t let go of the car. “Anything happens to those kids, I swear, I’ll find your people and break your fucking heart. You hear me? That’s a promise!”
Samuelson just laughed. The thug shoved her into the street. She fell on her side, skinning her knee and ripping her skirt.
“Rotten fuckers!” she yelled as the car roared off.
Her knee hurt like hell, her back was screaming and her teeth ached from where Samuelson’s fingers had dug into her jawbone, but she ran home faster than she’d ever thought she could move. She had to hunt for her keys and was afraid for a second that they were
still in Samuelson’s car. When she finally got the door open, she half ran, half crawled up the stairs to Taifa’s and Malik’s rooms. Only when she saw them asleep and safe did her mind begin to work again. She went back downstairs and made sure all the windows and doors were locked. Then she got out the phone book, but her hands were shaking too badly to separate the pages. She called information for Othello Flood’s number.
He answered after two rings.
“Yeah, you’re the mother of the young brother Aminata’s working with,” he said when she told him who she was.
“Look, I need some help, some protection. Someone is…Someone tried to…” She fought back tears. She leaned against the wall and held the phone with both hands to control the tremors of rage and fear that made her knees knock.
“Where you live? I’ll be right there.”
She’d had two slugs of gin by the time he arrived, and had cleaned the snot and tears from her face. She opened the door before he could ring the bell.
He took her hand. “Everything’s gonna be fine, sister.”
Blanche didn’t tell him it was already too late for everything to be fine, that she was already scared half out of her mind, bruised and ashamed of not being able to protect Taifa and Malik. It would take a while before fine had anything to do with anything. Instead, she thanked him for coming and offered him something to eat or drink before she told him what had happened.
“You ain’t the first,” he said. “The Reverend’s building up quite a rep for hassling people he don’t like. We’ve had to deal with his boys more than once. Why’s he after you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Blanche explained about Brindle, Ray-Ray, and the tape.
Blanche Cleans Up: A Blanche White Mystery (Blanche White Mystery Series Book 3) Page 22
