by Wallace Ford
I caught myself about to make a joke to Diedre at the expense of the good reverend as I realized that many people perceived his hambone and chicken leg antics as being real and worthwhile. Many people, black and white, thought of Quincy Holloway as a real leader, a true and reliable spokesman.
But it was impossible for me to say nothing. I used the excuse of the birth of yet another witty, pithy comment to lean close to Diedre and whisper closely into her ear.
“You have to admire the right reverend for the discreet way in which he always gets more bacon with his eggs and gravy with his biscuits.” I could immediately see that my comment had hit home as she yet again was forced to stifle a laugh. And then, to my surprise, she turned to speak in my ear and made a comment that I found more than interesting.
“Now Paul, you know that at the end of the day that’s what we all are doing. Or did Dartmouth, Harvard, and that Armani suit come with a high horse as an accessory?”
I didn’t have the good sense to let it go that morning.
“Diedre, please … Quincy hasn’t had something original to say since Muhammad Ali was Cassius Clay. He has been an opinion maker even though the only opinions that I know of him influencing have been the ones belonging to members of the press.”
“And you know as well as I do, that the only thing that keeps Quincy going are contributions,” Diedre responded, “many of them from your clients. And I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that a few of your checks have helped him make his payments on his suite at the Waldorf!”
“Touché, mon cherie. Touché.” Her perfume and her very presence were intoxicating. I remember wondering how that could be. It would be later that I came to understand.
She was right, however, and there was nothing more for me to say. At the end of the day Holloway and his crowd were looking to be a part of the action. And he was a part of the action, a player in the game, no matter what anyone might say about him.
Frankly, I did not have any more time to think about this latter day Knight of the Mystic See Me. As solemn as Winner’s memorial service might be, there was business to attend to and there was never enough time. I started to focus on how this event might be something more than just a time to renew acquaintance.
And that’s when the vision began to take its nascent shape in my mind. After all, Gordon Perkins was there. Jerome Hardaway was there. Diedre was there. We were all in the same room, although on very different missions.
I thought, when was the last time that the four of us had a serious discussion? We had been at innumerable dinners, bars, nightclubs, fund-raisers and cocktail parties. But when was the last time the four of us had a serious conversation? It had been years, if ever.
And then I thought—by the time the service was over and all of the hellos and goodbyes were uttered, most of the day was going to be shot anyway. Certainly the meaningful part of the business day would be gone by the time they got behind their respective desks.
A late working lunch was not the product of any grand inspiration at the time; it just seemed like a good idea. Later I would learn it was one of the best ideas that I ever had.
CHAPTER 24
Sture
Standing in the shadows
The memorial service ended pretty much the way that I had expected. Although this is not my native land and I was not with my Norwegian brothers and sisters, there is no way someone could work at Dorothy’s By the Sea and not have a good idea of the order of the day. There were the speeches by Reverend Jackson and Reverend Holloway—and the mayor and the governor as well as a letter from the president that was read by Ed Bradley of 60 Minutes. There were the obligatory tears from the family, but no wailing or rolling in the aisles.
As an immigrant to this country, I had learned from experience to always expect the possibility of extreme histrionics at black funerals. I was, therefore, somewhat surprised at how quiet and dignified the Tomlinson service turned out to be. The Winner Tomlinson that I knew would probably have been disappointed.
I also noted the obvious wheeling and dealing that was going on among the “mourners.” As the manager of Dorothy’s By the Sea, I knew many of the mourners by face, if not by name. I knew their ways and their habits, their likes and dislikes.
It was no surprise to me that there was a cynical, businesslike aspect to the post-mourning. By the end of the service, it was as if the mourners were at a reception or fund-raiser and business was taking place like it was high noon at the stock exchange. After proper respects were paid, there was a clear need to take care of business, and as I stood on the steps of the Riverside Church that time was clearly at hand.
There was Paul Taylor, noticeably elegant yet understated as usual, gliding through the crowd. He seemed to be using the “Zen” approach that he had told me about, moving without moving, through the crowd. I could not help but see him speaking with Gordon Perkins first, then Jerome Hardaway, and then easing back over to Diedre Douglas.
I don’t really remember Diedre and Paul being separated, even with all of his moving about. At the time there was nothing to take note of and I suspected that it was just my imagination running away with me, as the song goes. In retrospect, after all that would happen in the coming months, I realize now that I was watching the magic of romance and the miracle of business creation taking place at the same time.
At some point I found myself watching one of our former employees from Dorothy’s, Alexander Lapidoulos, holding the car door, waiting for Gordon and Kenitra Perkins to get into the Mercedes Benz sedan for which he was the driver. In the blink of an eye I saw Gordon roughly grasping Kenitra’s wrist as they headed to the car.
I had heard that for several years Gordon had used a car service. But Gordon hated waiting for anything. And even the best car service might have to have their best clients wait every now and then. And finally there was a point when Gordon decided he needed a car and driver. And so now he had a car and driver.
Ultimately that car was a Mercedes. And instead of a service, there was an employed driver whom Gordon could hire and fire at will (Alexander was Gordon’s fourth driver in two years. On this January day that driver was the former headwaiter at Dorothy’s, and my friend, Alexander Lapidoulos).
From conversations with him I knew that for Alex, working for Gordon Perkins meant getting out of the daily grind of being a head waiter while retaining a basis for having his green card renewed so that he could stay in this country. He was still a long way from citizenship. It was after only a few weeks into the job that he discovered that his biggest problem and the greatest benefit to the job was … Kenitra Perkins.
What do you tell a friend when he is playing with dynamite, plutonium and the Ebola virus at the same time? Not a lot when that lethal combination is wrapped up in a package as gorgeous as Kenitra Perkins.
Alex might have been an immigrant waiter from a small town two hundred miles north of Athens, but he was not blind, although clearly he was an unredeemable fool. He could recognize a lonely, neglected and needy woman, and Kenitra was certainly all of that … and a whole lot more.
He later told me that glances returned in his rear-view mirror turned into innocent conversation, which turned into double entendre, which turned into not so accidental touching, which turned into lovemaking in the backseat of the Mercedes station wagon, the penthouse, his apartment—whenever and wherever they could.
It was a recipe for disaster. They both knew it. And when Alex told me, I knew it as well. And I tried to tell him. Of course he wouldn’t, couldn’t listen.
But Alex was not a complete fool. He knew the dangers in making love to the wife of a rich and powerful and mean and violent and vicious man. I know. I told him too many times myself. But when it came to Kenitra Perkins, he could neither help himself nor stop himself. He guessed that he was in love and that she was too.
But he didn’t know about her “helpers.” In fact, he had no idea. He naively thought that the pills that she took so regularly were vitam
ins. After all he was in America where everyone was so ostentatiously health-conscious.
In truth, even if he knew, it probably wouldn’t have made him act any differently. You would have had to have seen Kenitra Perkins in a simple black dress, high heels, and a simple strand of pearls around that most gorgeous of necks to understand. Eighteen months of marriage to Gordon Perkins had not defeated her beauty, her aura. She was still the most gorgeous woman that most men had ever seen.
She was tall, she was lithe. Her body was so simple, so limber; she seemed to enter a room on the breath of angels. She had skin the color of soft, warm caramel on a sunny day. Her hair was a light brown that was an absolutely perfect complement to her skin and her gray-green eyes gave her the look of some wonderful alien from the planet Aphrodisia.
And then there was her smile. When she smiled that genuine, real, 100 percent pure smile, it seemed to light a thousand rainbows in the beholder’s universe. Her smile gave promise to every hope that a man could have. In a word, she was gorgeous.
She was not perfect. A perfectionist would say that her breasts could have been larger. Some of the cattier tongues meowed that her naturally undulating hips would one day be too wide.
As a native of Norway I can tell you that in Oslo there are no ugly women. They are all beautiful. And also I know that all the men in Oslo would leave home forever just for the chance to spend a day or a night with Kenitra Perkins. Beauty is never perfect. Beauty just is. And Kenitra was the literal embodiment of real beauty.
Moreover, she willed herself to be even more beautiful. She spent the time, the effort, the money, perspective to make herself as beautiful as she could possibly be. As a result, her teeth, her hair, her skin, her nails, her clothes, her shoes—were all perfect.
I watched that day as Gordon led, almost dragged Kenitra to the car where Alex was standing at the ready—the door to the backseat already open. Anyone who was looking could see that they dared not look at each other in Gordon’s presence. Of course, Gordon was not paying attention. He practically threw Kenitra into the backseat and ordered Alex to take her home.
“Alex, get your fucking ass in gear! I’ve got business to take care of, take this bitch home,” was all that Gordon said.
“I’ll see you when you get home,” was something Gordon never heard Kenitra say. The dawning smile on Alex’s and Kenitra’s faces was something he never saw. It was probably just as well.
I have to believe that there was a cauldron of rage, jealousy and pain boiling inside Alex. He was a man, after all.
But I have to hand it to him. He never revealed his true feelings. Not a bit. He simply tipped his hat and bid his employer a good day. Alexander simply and carefully pulled the car away from the curb in front of the Riverside Church, looped around Grant’s Tomb and headed downtown on Riverside Drive.
During his time working at Dorothy’s, I came to know Alex pretty well. As one immigrant to another, I understood his heart, his spirit. As you might say here, “I knew where he was coming from.” I can’t say that we were close friends at the time, but after he left the restaurant to work for Gordon Perkins (with my recommendation, I might add), Alex would share quite a bit about his affair with Kenitra Perkins.
It was a fascinating story, and he had to tell someone. I guess that’s why he told me. He later told me about what happened after he drove down Riverside Drive. I have every reason to believe that it’s true.
CHAPTER 25
Alex and Kenitra
Stolen moments
As she sat in the backseat of the car, Kenitra watched the world go by in a barbiturate haze that somehow made her mostly miserable life a little better. It was a life that had seen her on the cover of Vanity Fair, Cosmopolitan, and dozens of other magazines just two short, miserable years ago. And now she was sneaking quickies in the backseat of her husband’s car with her husband’s driver—and no other life to speak of—aside from her “helpers.”
The “helpers,” various barbiturates, antidepressants and other pharmaceutical miracle pills helped her to survive. She was also not averse to cocaine when she could get it. Kenitra Perkins was a survivor. She even planned to survive Gordon Perkins.
For the moment Alex helped make her life better. He was her husband’s driver, her lover and her friend. He helped her to survive.
That day, she found herself focusing on the back of Alex’s head, thinking and reflecting. She thought about her life. She reflected on Gordon, her husband/abuser/ tormentor. She thought about Alex, her husband’s driver. She thought about sex.
Alex was twenty-three at the time. Six feet four inches tall and built like the proverbial Greek god. Being that she was a few years older than Alex and a lot more experienced in the ways of sex and love, she naturally fell into the role of mentor in their relationship. In the few months that they had been lovers, she had taught him all that she knew. In other words, she taught him a lot. Probably even more than Gordon Perkins ever knew.
“Did you miss me?”
“You know that I did.”
“I don’t know a damn thing. You haven’t said a word since you were dismissed by your master.”
“I wish you wouldn’t play these games, Kenitra. You know that I missed you. You know that!”
“I’m not playing, Alex. Did you miss me? It seems like a pretty simple question to me.”
“I won’t play your games anymore, Kenitra. You are driving me crazy. You know how I feel.”
“Oh really? Tell me, darling. How do you feel?”
“You know that I miss you. I need you. I live and breathe you, Kenitra. The thought of that son of a bitch putting his hands on you, makes me want to …”
“How noble, Alex. How very, very noble. So very noble coming from a driver. And very Greek, I must say.”
Alex didn’t find out until later that the latest barbiturates that Kenitra had taken were just starting to take effect. Kenitra figured that she would say damn well whatever she wanted to say—whatever was on her mind. At that moment, she wasn’t quite clear as to what that might be. But that was not her problem. It was bad enough that she had to take shit from Gordon day and night, night and day. Alex would just have to deal with it.
“Why do you speak to me so? You know how I feel. You say that you have feelings for me. Don’t you?”
“Of course I have feelings for you, Alex. I recall telling you that right here in the backseat of this car … just the other day. Do you want me to tell you again?”
“You know that I do.”
“Are you really sure?”
“Why do you play with me so?”
“Okay darling, no more playing. Really. We are at 86th Street, correct?”
“Yes, Kenitra.”
“Good. Pull the car into the parking area by the 79th Street boat basin. I know you remember the place. I’ll say it again when we get there.”
It was all that Alex could do to control himself and the car as he headed to the 79th Street ramp off Riverside Drive. He certainly did remember the place and also remembered all the things that Kenitra could do with her hands and lips and tongue and seemingly every other part of her body.
They had made love at that particular spot several times. It was never busy during the middle of the day. It was amazing how somebody could hide in broad daylight in the middle of Manhattan.
He carefully maneuvered Gordon Perkins’s car and wife into a parking place that was discreetly distanced from the other cars that were there, probably for the same reason. It was a cold day. But it was not too cold to even begin to chill the burning embers in his heart, his soul and his groin.
Alex recalled that he took his hat off and placed it on the passenger seat. He began to unbutton his tunic as he got out of the car. By the time he opened the door to the backseat he realized that Kenitra had not been idle.
She had already unbuttoned the front of her dress as he closed the door behind him. Kneeling before her beauty and lowering his head into the hot and moist wo
nderland that was offered to him, he realized that she hadn’t bothered to wear anything under that dress. As her long and tapered fingers held her lips apart his tongue entered her and they both died and went to heaven once more.
CHAPTER 26
Paul
Step by step
I noticed Gordon walking back to the crowd in front of the church. While he seemed to have been born with a perpetual scowl, I had learned long ago that it was usually for effect. Gordon was at his most dangerous when he was smiling.
“Paul. What’s going on?”
“Not much, brother. You look particularly bereaved and mournful. I know you are going to miss Winner so much.”
“Fuck you. Don’t start with me, motherfucker. What’s on your mind?”
Gordon actually said that smiling. Gordon was now presenting what had to suffice as his most genuine and sincere expression of “friendship.” Actually, in the universe of Gordon Stallworth Perkins, there were no real friends. Nevertheless I was probably one of the few people who Gordon might think of as a “friend.” So that’s where his smile was coming from. At least that is what I thought.
“You know, I was thinking … it’s already after noon and not a lot is going to get done in the office today. What do you think about a few of us having lunch?”
“Who the fuck is ‘us’?”
“I was thinking you, Diedre, Jerome, and I might head over to the Water Club and grab a bite and talk things over. I have a few ideas that I want to bounce off you guys.”
You could almost see a frenzy of calculation and strategizing going on in Gordon’s brain as he processed this information. Where was the advantage for him? Where was the advantage for anyone else? How could he take advantage? Would he miss something if he didn’t go?
I know that Gordon knew that I had better things to do than to waste his time. If I suggested a lunch meeting like this one, there had to be something to it. He just couldn’t figure out what it was right off the bat. His curiosity alone demanded that he go to lunch that day. I knew that.
