THIRTY
AS THEY WAITED FOR DR. Lewis, Jasmine squeezed Hosea’s hand. Her eyes scanned the walls, covered with platinum-framed diplomas that declared to the world that Dr. Lewis knew what she was doing.
“You okay?”
She twisted to face her husband when she heard his soft voice. She wasn’t fooled by the way his lips upturned. The story was in his eyes—his fear, mixed with his determination to stand, no matter what the doctor said. She held his hand tight, needing to garner some of his faith.
It had been two days since the reverend’s crisis, and although the color had returned to his face, Reverend Bush was still the same. Still wasn’t breathing on his own. Still needed every bit of medical technology to keep him alive.
The tension of it all had been almost enough to take Jasmine’s mind off the blackmail. Almost, but not completely.
During the day, she had Hosea and Jacqueline to focus on. But in the dark of the night, she was alone with her thoughts, traumatized by the knowledge that her past had found its way to her present.
She did have a plan, but there was no way to work it—not until this crisis passed. She couldn’t move ahead knowing what she was about to do to her husband.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” Dr. Lewis broke through Jasmine’s musings as she swept into the office.
Jasmine searched her face for some clue, but, like always, Dr. Lewis wore her mask, covering up any feelings.
“Okay,” she said, opening a folder on her desk. “I have some good news. Your father is doing much better.”
Together, they breathed a long sigh of relief.
The doctor glanced down at her notes. “You know his fever broke yesterday, and this morning, his pressure is completely steady. In fact,” she looked up, “when I checked on him, he seemed to be breathing over the vent a little bit.”
Jasmine and Hosea frowned. He asked, “What does that mean?”
“It means…that some of those prayers we’re both sending up,” she smiled, her mask gone for a moment, “are working. Your father is trying to breathe on his own. That’s a sign that he’s waking up.”
“That’s great!” Jasmine exclaimed.
The doctor nodded, then a shadow passed and took her smile away. “We’re going to try to wean him off the ventilator,” she said, her doctor’s voice back, “and see how he does.”
“He’s going to do fine,” Hosea said, just as his cell phone vibrated. He grabbed it from his holster, glanced at the doctor, and said, “This looks important. May I take it?”
The doctor nodded. “Make it quick, and I’ll look the other way.”
Jasmine gave the doctor a courtesy smile, then diverted her eyes, checking out the diplomas once again. Took her thoughts back to her plan. With Reverend Bush doing so much better, she could move forward now.
When Hosea flipped the phone closed, he turned to Jasmine. “That was Mrs. Whittingham. She can’t open the church this morning, something about the pipes in her apartment. Can you get over there?”
Jasmine looked from the doctor back to her husband. “I want to be here.”
“But Doctor Lewis has already told us everything”—he turned to the doctor—“right?”
She nodded and stood up. “I’ll keep you posted if anything changes.”
Hosea turned back to Jasmine. “The serviceman is coming to repair the copier; we really need to get that done. And with Wyatt out of town and Brother Hill at another appointment, you’re it, ’cause I want to spend some time with Pops.”
“Okay.” She gathered her bag before she said good-bye to the doctor, and then kissed Hosea. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Take the car,” he offered, handing her the keys.
Outside of the hospital, Jasmine glanced over her shoulder at the blue and white building, thought once more about her husband and her father-in-law, then turned around and left all thoughts of them right there on Lenox Avenue.
Unlocking the SUV with the remote, she jumped inside, then made a U-turn heading in the opposite direction of City of Lights. Her plan was to go downtown, south of Twenty-third Street, where she doubted that she would run into anyone she knew. She had no concern about the copier repair. Now that her father-in-law was out of danger, she had to do what she had to do—and that was to get Hosea to step down.
It did sadden her that she had to give up so much. Six weeks. That was her entire reign as the first lady. How pitiful was that?
But in a small (very small) way, Jasmine wanted to thank the blackmailer. Having Hosea resign really was best. The two of them were too good for this church, these people, this drama. And the measly one hundred thousand dollars they’d decided to pay Hosea annually wouldn’t be missed. She’d go back to Rio (where she made much more), and they would return to the life where they belonged. They would be with people who were full of style and elegance—and nothing like the folks at City of Lights.
About fifteen minutes later, she rolled to a stop in front of a Duane Reade. She glanced down one end of the street, then the other. Satisfied, she grabbed the scarf and huge glasses from her purse and secured her disguise. A final mirror check before she slipped out of the car and walked into the drugstore.
Her plan was about to begin.
It hadn’t taken long at all.
Glancing at her watch, Jasmine stepped into the church, a bit over an hour after she’d left Hosea at the hospital.
She flipped on the lights, locked the door, then walked down the hall, her mind on her plan. Inside her office, her eyes stayed on the bag she held.
It wasn’t until she walked around her desk and sat in her chair that her concentration was broken. She frowned when she felt something beneath her. Slowly, she stood. Looked down.
The rush of blood shot through her veins, taking her pressure higher. The bag she held slipped through her fingers, fell to the floor. But she didn’t move her eyes from the wrinkled envelope.
Really, there was no need to touch it. She knew what it was—nothing but trouble.
It was the way the envelope was addressed that made her tremble, made her give up any hope that the first letter, the first threat that had come four days ago, was a hoax.
The typewritten name on the envelope this time: Pepper Pulaski.
As she stood and stared, Jasmine remembered the day that she first claimed that name…
“Come on,” Viva had said, tugging her arm so hard, Jasmine felt like her limb might pop right out of the socket.
Viva pulled her along, but it was hard to move forward. Hard to step past the gaudy neon sign that screamed in the entire rainbow of colors: FOXTAILS.
Jasmine couldn’t believe the number of times she’d passed by and never noticed the pink and purple stucco building that was set several feet back off Century Boulevard.
A moment later, she was inside, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Slowly, the darkness became light and the first thing Jasmine saw was the stage; it reminded her of the ones she’d decorated when she was part of the drama club’s production team in high school.
But it wasn’t the cheap stage that made her stare. It was the act on it. The girl gyrating against the pole as if the gleaming silver piece was a man.
“Don’t worry,” Viva whispered. “It’s early. In a couple of hours this place will be jammed.”
Only then did Jasmine notice the sprinkle of men—four, maybe five guys—sitting at the small round tables surrounding the stage, their eyes stuck on the girl like superglue.
Jasmine nodded as if Viva had addressed her concern. But it wasn’t the quantity of people in the club that made Jasmine shift from one leg to another. It was the girl. Dancing. Totally naked, except for the slither of a G-string.
Jasmine wanted to cut and run. But the fact was, if she wanted to get this money, this was it.
She’d tried—she’d scoured the employment section in the L.A. Times, but there wasn’t much for an untrained college student who could work only a couple of
hours a week. Still, she’d knocked on the doors of every hospital, every hotel, every bank seeking part-time work. There was nothing. She’d even tried to get hired as an airport shuttle driver, but she couldn’t read the Thomas Guide.
In a final act of desperation, she’d gone to a local grocery store several miles away from her apartment. She was willing to work a cash register, pack groceries—anything to earn what she needed.
At least the manager at Ralph’s had told her yes, they were hiring cashiers. But even they wanted full-time hours, right during the time when she’d have to be in class.
“You need to start looking at this logically,” Viva had said when Jasmine complained. “How many jobs are going to pay you what you need?” When Jasmine didn’t answer, Viva responded for her. “None! But at Foxtails, you tell Buck how many days you want to work, and I’m telling you, chica, the money is muy bien.” Viva kissed the tips of her fingers.
It was the muy bien that had her here now, following behind Viva, moving in step to Irene Cara screaming through the club, “I can have it all, now I’m dancin’ for my life!”
“Hey, Buck,” Viva waved to the man behind the counter, “I got a new girl for you.”
When the man turned around, his thick, shoulder-length blond dreadlocks whipped over his shoulder. His bushy eyebrows furrowed together as he peered at Jasmine through Coke-bottle glasses.
“’Sup?” he asked in a voice that belied his white skin. If she’d been blindfolded, Jasmine would have sworn this guy was straight from the hood.
“Buck, this is my girl, Jasmine. She wants to dance,” Viva said.
“Yo, how ya doin’?” Buck squeezed his wide hips from behind the bar. Standing in front of them, he crossed his arms and stared at Jasmine before he took off his glasses.
“You don’t have much on top,” he grunted. “Take off your shirt.”
“What?” Jasmine exclaimed.
Viva whispered, “Take a chill pill, chica. This is your audition. He’s checking you out; don’t blow it.”
She had to remember all the reasons: her tuition, her apartment, her boyfriend, keeping up her image. She had to think about what it would be like if people found out that she didn’t have enough money to finish school.
She unbuttoned her blouse, shrugged it from her shoulders, and then dropped it on the bar stool. She stood in just her bra and jeans.
Buck rolled his eyes. “So you gonna dance in your underwear? Come on,” he said, waving his hands and sounding as if she was getting on his nerves.
She closed her eyes. Remembered. Then she unhooked her bra.
“Itty, bitty,” he said, shaking his head. “You might want to get those taken care of one day.”
Jasmine’s mouth opened wide.
“Look, I’m trying to help you out, baby. You don’t have nothing that you can shake. But what you got will do, ’cause some cats like ’em like that. Okay, drop your jeans and turn around.” It must’ve been the look on her face that made him sigh. “Keep your panties on.”
She unclasped the buttons on her jeans, then slipped them over her hips.
“Turn around,” he repeated.
Slowly, she moved in a circle as Irene Cara still sang. Her eyes were squeezed tight, her heart was beating fast, and her mind reminded her of her reasons.
He nodded. “They’ll like what you’re hauling behind ya.” After a moment, he asked, “Ever done this before?”
“No!” Jasmine said as if she was insulted. She faced him and crossed her arms in front of her chest.
He peered at her some more and then put his glasses back on. “Okay, you’re in.”
“So how much do you pay an hour?” Jasmine asked.
Buck stared at Jasmine, then looked at Viva, and back to Jasmine. And then he laughed. Threw his head back and chortled, like that was the funniest line he’d ever heard. “I don’t pay nothin’ an hour.”
“You don’t pay…” Here she was standing topless, with her pants wrapped around her ankles, in front of a dread-wearin’, calorie-lovin’ white guy who was telling her that she wasn’t going to be paid?
Jasmine glared at Viva. She was about to kill her friend.
Buck said, “This is straight tips, baby. But I don’t have a nightly fee. After you hit off the DJ and the bar, you keep everything else, and you make a dollar commission on the drinks. So with the way you look, you can make hundreds, if you stop actin’ like some kind of nun.”
Make hundreds were the words that made her stay.
“Yeah, girl,” Viva added her part. “I know how to work it to get the big tips.” She nodded. “I can teach you how to make it rain for real. Especially with the married ones.”
Jasmine wasn’t exactly sure what her friend was talking about, but she remembered the stack of bills Viva had shown her—and she had a feeling that rain had something to do with money.
“So you in?” Buck asked.
All Jasmine wanted was to be out—but the thought of five thousand dollars made her nod.
“You eighteen?”
Jasmine nodded again.
“Got ID? ’Cause I ain’t about to catch a case for no new girl. Don’t want Five-O sniffin’ ’round here.”
“I got ID,” she said, reaching for her shirt.
“Get dressed later,” Buck said, sounding impatient. He held out his hand. “Just give me your ID so that I can make a copy and get your papers together for your permit.”
After she handed him her license, he said to Viva, “Double up with her tonight.”
“Why?” Viva whined. “She can dance.”
“You’re my best girl, and I need you to double up with the new kid,” Buck repeated in a tone that said this was his party. “It’s Friday, and I ain’t about to lose money with some shy newby,” he said, as if Jasmine wasn’t standing there. “Either you double up, or she’s out.”
Both Buck and Viva turned to Jasmine. Stared at her with her hands crossed over her chest, as if that was enough to hide her nakedness.
Buck said, “If she works out, she can work the stage after tonight.” And then he turned away, without any kind of goodbye. Leaving Jasmine standing topless and confused.
As fast as she could, Jasmine slipped her arms through her blouse, stuffed her bra into her purse, then pulled up her jeans.
“Chica, you better be glad I love you,” Viva said, her accent thick, the way it always was when she was upset.
“Why?”
“’Cause doubling up means I gotta share my tips with you—on the floor and on the stage. They’re not gonna give us twice the money.” She paused and grinned. “Unless we—” She stopped. “Nah, you ain’t even ready for that.”
Jasmine could only imagine what Viva was talking about…some girl-on-girl kind of dancing. Her friend was right; she was not about to do that. Getting on this stage was going to be bad enough.
With a sigh, Viva said, “Come on, let me show you the dressing room, and then we can go shopping. I gotta get you somethin’ fly if we’re gonna do this.”
Viva had already told her that she needed a pair of platform shoes and some kind of outfit to perform in.
“Oh,” Viva said as she led the way. “You’re going to have to come up with a name.”
“For what?”
“For the DJ to call you. Do you want him saying, ‘Now here’s Jasmine Cox?’”
Jasmine shook her head. Not only did she not want anyone knowing her name, she would have worn a mask, if she could. “What name do you use?” Jasmine asked.
Viva grinned. “Dominica Divinci, but everyone calls me Double Dee.”
That’s appropriate. “Well, obviously, I can’t have a name like that, so…”
With a big sigh, Viva said, “Do I have to figure out everything?” She stopped moving, turned back to Jasmine. “Okay, this is what some of the girls do—did you ever have a pet growing up?”
Jasmine frowned and nodded. “Yeah,” she said slowly.
Viva motioned with her
hands for Jasmine to continue.
“A dog named Pepper. But what—”
“That’s good,” Viva said, without letting her finish. “Now, what was the name of the first street you lived on?”
Jasmine squinted, her confusion growing. “Pulaski Street.”
“Perfect! That’s your name,” she said, turning away and leading Jasmine toward the back again.
“Pepper Pulaski—that sounds like a stripper.”
Pepper Pulaski. That was as far away from Jasmine Cox as she could get. Whatever…
That was what Jasmine thought then. But it had been a name that had served her well. The men who frequented the Foxtails Hostess Club came to adore Pepper Pulaski.
But that was in 1983. No one knew her by that name now.
As if it were a snake, Jasmine picked up the letter by its edge, slowly lowered herself into the chair, then tore open the envelope.
You are running out of time. Get your husband to step down now, Pepper, or else.
Long after she read the words, her hands were still shaking. Could this have come from someone in her past?
No, that made no sense. None of those people knew where she lived now. None of those people would have been able to walk into this church and lay this letter on her chair.
This was definitely an inside job.
Slam!
Jasmine jumped at the sound of the front door—but she’d locked it, she was sure of that.
“Hello,” she called out.
No response.
“Roxie?”
Again, nothing.
That was when her fear began to rise. She was glued to her seat, but only for a moment. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she jumped from her chair and tiptoed across the office. If she could get to the door and close it, she’d be ready for anyone who tried to come in.
But then, she saw the shadow against the wall.
She lunged toward the door, but the man was already there.
She screamed.
He frowned.
“What’s wrong with you?” Pastor Wyatt hoisted the strap of the garment bag he carried over his shoulder.
“Are you crazy?” she demanded, as she held her hand against her chest, trying to keep her heart inside. “What were you trying to do?”
Lady Jasmine Page 16
