The Pride

by Wallace Ford

  By the time I served the Bananas Foster the chardonnay was gone and the entrée was on its way to Memory Land. All that was between us and heaven at the top of the stairs were two plates of one of the greatest New Orleans desserts that has ever been devised for the human mouth. And as we had our dessert and gazed into each other’s eyes, we finally knew that it was time to go upstairs and go play in heaven again.

  “Would you like to see my etchings, Samantha?”

  “No, but I would like to see your …”

  With her laughter wreathed around me like garlands of joy from some strange enchanted isle, I walked with Samantha up the stairs of the town house, heading toward the master bedroom. The dishes would simply have to wait until morning. Samantha was in the house.

  I remember that we neither of us ever commented on that cough again. But, as we went up the stairs to head to the stars, I couldn’t help but wonder.

  And worry.

  But that night my worries just had to wait. And what was there to worry about anyway? Heaven was two steps ahead of me on the stairway to my bedroom. And I certainly didn’t intend to keep heaven waiting that night.

  But in the morning it was pretty clear that it made sense to worry about Samantha. That cough seemed to get worse by the moment. So bad that I could have sworn that I saw flecks of blood on the sides of her mouth when a particularly serious attack hit her. I was afraid for her, especially since it was next to impossible to tell Samantha to do anything.

  She was the kind of person who operated according to the principle of mind over matter. If she didn’t mind, it didn’t matter. So even though Samantha had to know that something was wrong, she simply refused to acknowledge it.

  She considered the increased huskiness in her voice a part of the maturation of her vocal talent. Even though she knew that she would have had to smoke two packs of cigarettes a day to sound anything like she did. And she had never smoked in her life. Still, she carried on.

  I truly valued my relationship with this woman so I tried to avoid obvious points of conflict. She would visibly bristle at the suggestion that she see a doctor.

  She always acted as if my solicitousness was offensive. So I tried not to be a pain in the ass in conveying my concern.

  And then, a few weeks later, a few days before Valentine’s Day, Samantha woke up in my bed, coughing violently, almost choking on her own blood and phlegm. I could not worry about conflicts anymore.

  “Samantha, you can get mad all you want, but you have to see a doctor!”

  “Paul, I love you loving me and caring, truly … I promise I will make an appointment first thing in the morning. Just please, please, help me.”

  I held her in my arms. I remember feeling desperation and affection, love and fear. She felt feverish and cold at the same time. I only hoped that the depth of my concern didn’t show on my face. I was truly worried.

  “Do you really promise?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  It was a jarring choice of words. And it only made me worry more. I knew that while I was worried sick about Samantha, I was also being selfish in being worried about my feelings if I were to lose her. But the herd of feelings that stampeded through my heart could not be stopped.

  I was glad that she had agreed to see a doctor though. That was progress I thought.

  I thought wrong. In the morning her agent called and told her that she had a job in Las Vegas as the last minute replacement for an act on Valentine’s Day. She would be gone for a week.

  And when she returned, we were scheduled to go to Anse Chastenet in St. Lucia. Somehow the doctor’s appointment lost priority in the light of the day.

  After all, the morning after that attack she was feeling and sounding much better. The agony of the previous night seemed like some kind of nightmare. Best ignored and forgotten.

  I continued to worry about her, however. But no one but a doctor would really know, and Samantha did not want a doctor telling her something that she did not want to hear.

  Samantha was not the first or last person with this wrongheaded, ostrich head in the sand, approach to health.

  Nevertheless, every time I think of it, it still saddens me. And it always will.

  CHAPTER 56

  Gordon

  The Dark Lord

  After making my brief stop, it didn’t take me long to get to my eleven-room apartment on Park Avenue. Kenitra and I lived in a co-op building that was notorious for scrutinizing and rejecting applicants. I remember being incredibly polite and responsive during the interview with the co-op board.

  I got word, however, that the board was less than “enthusiastic” about my application, even though it was impeccable and my net worth exceeded that of everyone in the building. So, prior to the final vote I was able to arrange a private breakfast meeting with the chairman of the co-op board.

  Only two people actually know what happened at that breakfast meeting in a small diner on Madison Avenue that morning.

  As we left the breakfast meeting accomplishing little that satisfied me, we started walking back to the building where I now live. I took out my seven-page personal financial statement and promised the co-op board chairman that I would shove it down his throat if I wasn’t admitted to the building.

  I was prepared to tell him what I was going to do to his wife and dog, but the paper down the throat threat turned out to be enough. Within two weeks we were living in the building. The co-op board chairman and I actually got along pretty well, at least until he moved to a farm in Australia a few months later.

  I enjoy the building. It’s stylish, understated, discreet and elegant. It’s all the things that I am not. I could give less than a shit about what Kenitra thinks, but the truth is that the both of us have enjoyed living on Park Avenue.

  But that evening, as I went up the elevator, riding with my new best friend, the Dark Lord, style, understatement, discretion and elegance were far from my mind. I had to smile to myself when I remembered that I had the apartment soundproofed soon after we moved in. Perfect for what the Dark Lord and I had in mind for Kenitra this particular evening.

  By the time I entered the apartment I had a real plan in mind. Part of it involved the call that I had already made to Kenitra telling her to get dressed and ready to have some fun.

  I know goddamned well that Kenitra is a gorgeous woman. And that night she was dressed in sheer stockings, high heels and a short, tight red dress. I could feel as she moved against me as I came into the hallway of our apartment that she was not wearing anything except that dress. And I knew that the passion that she was conveying was in anticipation of the goodies that she knew I would be bringing.

  “Are you glad to see me, or are you just horny?”

  “Actually both,” I recall saying. I also remember smiling and seeing a puzzled look on Kenitra’s face. I know she preferred this persona as opposed to me having a foot up her ass. I also know that sneaky bitch was also trying to figure what I was up to. She would find out soon enough.

  “What brought this about? It’s not my birthday, it’s not …”

  “Does a fellow need a reason to celebrate life with his wife?”

  “I guess not …”

  I always knew that Kenitra was a survivor, first and foremost. So I am sure that her red alert bells were ringing, I was that goddamned nice. But I guess her defenses were down. Or maybe she was just glad that my foot wasn’t up her ass as soon as I came in the door. It was the treatment to which she had become accustomed.

  She had asked the maid to leave as I had requested. So it was just the two of us in the entire apartment as we walked into the entertainment room with its wide-screen television and state-of-the-art sound system. It was a great place to sit and relax. We sat down and it took Kenitra a few moments to realize that I had spread about a half an ounce of pure cocaine on the glass tabletop. The cocaine was the reason for the stop that I made on the way home.

  “Would you like to join me?”


  I remember that she still had that puzzled expression on her face. If she knew what the Dark Lord and I had in mind she would have run out the door and not looked back. But she had a weakness for fun and a weakness for cocaine. She was not a slave to it. But she enjoyed it and I guess it represented what little liberation she could get. I had never known her to say “no” to coke. And she certainly wasn’t saying “no” that evening either.

  It just did not occur to that bitch the real reason why I would show up in the middle of the week with enough cocaine to last us the weekend. Except that tomorrow was Thursday and she never figured out the whole deal until it was too late for her. Plenty of time for the Dark Lord and me to do what we needed to do.

  To make a very long story short, we started drinking the Pommery champagne and consuming many, many lines of what was some very excellent coke as I recall. Snorting it, licking it off of each other, sprinkling it on our tongues. We had a ball. And all the time Wynton Marsalis was playing in the background.

  And then things started to get interesting. This was also around the time that the Dark Lord made his surprise appearance. The second bottle of Pommery brought about an atmosphere that I am sure Kenitra thought was amorous.

  Now there was lots of kissing and sucking and fondling and licking. I am sure that she thought that ecstasy was right around the corner for both of us. She was half-right.

  Kenitra was a survivor. But her defenses were down. The champagne and the cocaine and the attention kept her from staying focused on Point Number One—If you fuck with me in any way, any way at all, you better always be on guard. Because I will fuck you up. Plain and simple. The motherfucking bitch knew that she was wrong and just didn’t think. It was too bad for her.

  She didn’t think when I encouraged her to keep drinking the Pommery in long, greedy gulps. She didn’t think when I kept putting more and more cocaine up her nose, down her throat, all over her breasts and nipples. She certainly didn’t think when I playfully suggested that I tie her arms to the legs of the sofa on which we were sitting—which would, of course, require her to lie down on the floor on her back.

  I set that bitch up real good. I poured champagne over her breasts and licked it off. I sprinkled coke between her legs and licked it off, being sure to spell my name on the inside of her thighs … with my tongue. And then I punched her in the nose. Very hard.

  Then the Dark Lord suggested that I slap her on both sides of her face as the blood gushed from her nose. And then I punched her in one of her wide-open-with-shock eyes. I just let the Dark Lord take over. He was real good in these kinds of situations.

  “You bitch! You stupid motherfucking bitch! Did you really think you could go out to our place in Long Island and FUCK while I was away?”

  (SMACK!)

  “What, you thought I wouldn’t find out?”

  (SLAP!)

  “Jesus, Gordon. What are you talking …???”

  (PUNCH!)

  “You goddamned better tell the truth, bitch. Then, maybe I won’t kill your ass.”

  (SLAP!)

  “Gordon, I swear to God …”

  (KICK!)

  For the next hour the Dark Lord and I took turns beating the living shit out of Kenitra. She had to have figured that she had died and gone to hell. I hope so. But she had the instincts of a true survivor.

  If she had told me who she was fucking I would have killed her for sure. And despite a really terrible ass whipping, the motherfucking bitch did not talk. Not a word.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t know? Bitch, I know everything!”

  (PUNCH!)

  “Did you really think that I wouldn’t find out that you were fucking some motherfucker in MY house?”

  (SMACK!)

  Now I know that Kenitra was drunk and wired on cocaine. But she held on to the knowledge so that she might have a chance of surviving. So while she could not control the grunts and moans and groans that my fists and feet elicited, she never said another word. Not one fucking word. The Dark Lord and I were both amazed.

  And so he and I beat and kicked and punched her until we got bored. So then we thought of truly creative ways to abuse her which she would have to remember with disgust for the rest of her life. I really tried to fuck her up. And finally, we untied her and left the room. The bitch should have been glad to have been alive as she staggered into the kitchen to get some ice and then into the bathroom to vomit and try and bathe away her disgust and her pain.

  CHAPTER 57

  Gordon

  Night hunting

  But the night did not end for us. I took the Dark Lord up on the suggestion that I put on my leather pants, leather boots and leather jacket and leave the apartment to take a taxi up to the Hunts Point section of The Bronx.

  Now, the last thing I needed was to be out on the streets of New York City with the Dark Lord. But he could make things like that make sense. So I went out for an adventure with my only real friend.

  Now, most people are not aware that almost all of the meats, vegetables and produce that feeds New York City comes into the Hunts Point section of The Bronx, north of Manhattan. The largest produce market in the world is located there and every night, hundreds of trucks loaded with tomatoes, lettuce, milk and everything else comes rumbling over highways and streets through this neighborhood of warehouses and garages.

  And, to serve the market of bored, lonely, horny truck drivers, are strip joints, topless bars and hard-eyed whores who have abandoned any hope of self-respect and dignity as they sell themselves to absolutely anyone with a few bucks. And I had more than a few bucks.

  The Dark Lord and I got to Hunts Point pretty quickly that time of night. A hundred dollar bill to the taxi driver ensured that he wouldn’t give a fuck what I did in the backseat of his cab. After all, there was another hundred waiting for him when we got back to Park Avenue.

  The driver was from Afghanistan. He didn’t care that I was snorting a few more lines with the Dark Lord as I looked for a likely bitch. And I found one. She was probably sixteen, blonde, probably from Minnesota or some fucking where like that.

  Negotiations were swift. She got into the taxi. She was glad to have a few lines of coke. I remember putting a small rock under her tongue. And then we engaged in a truly bizarre orgy of passion and pain, the passion was for me, the pain was for her, the fun was for the Dark Lord.

  When it was over I shoved the bitch out of the door with a few hundreds and a kick in the ass. Her curses fell short of the taxi as she wiped the blood from her mouth and other places as I headed back to Manhattan. And I remember wondering if the Dark Lord would ever leave me alone.

  The Dark Lord always lets me go to work. And by the morning I was in my office, in charge, as usual. But I wondered what would happen if the Dark Lord didn’t let me go back to work. In a hundred different dingy, dirty and depressed neighborhoods I have seen junkies and derelicts, the flotsam and jetsam of society.

  Sometimes I have wondered, could that ever be me? Would the Dark Lord take me to one of these places and just leave me?

  It’s probably the closest that I ever came to feeling fear. I remember on the cab ride back from The Bronx feeling depressed, degraded, frightened, miserable and exhilarated all at the same time.

  And I have to tell you, in all honesty, that despite all my money and prestige that there are times when I feel like it’s all a myth. And, I must confess, if the Dark Lord were to stop being my friend, it would all be a myth.

  Sometimes I wonder why I feel the need to gamble with my life and career with such wild behavior. Sometimes I wonder why I have to go so deep into the gutter that I have to look up to see down. As I rode down Park Avenue I literally could not remember what I had done to Kenitra. Nevertheless, I was sure that Kenitra would never forget and that was what was most important. The Dark Lord would remind me if I needed reminding.

  And as I tried to banish the memory of the Hunts Point whore out of my mind, I could see her laughing at me. I felt like my brain
was bathed in misery and confusion.

  By the time the taxi pulled up to my apartment building the Dark Lord was long gone. I was alone. And I was a part of The Pride once more.

  As the first streaks of sunlight prodded the city into reluctant wakefulness, the rest of the members of The Pride stirred—in Harlem, in Brooklyn Heights, in SoHo and Scarsdale and Park Avenue.

  Along with the millions of others who lived and worked in New York City, the members of The Pride began their private rituals before donning their uniforms and heading into the fray.

  CHAPTER 58

  Diedre

  She works hard for the money

  The next few weeks sped by with the familiar rapidity of life. One moment can seem so very important and then, the world just continues to fly by at the speed of life. That’s how it was after the luncheon at the Water Club.

  After all, Jerome, Gordon, Paul, and I all had lives and independent businesses long before that day. And I know that while I was trying to arrange that deal with the unions and their pension funds I was still running my day-to-day business. And running my business included paying bills, checking on payroll, collecting fees, checking on new business prospects and generally dialing for dollars every day.

  Paul was kept very busy drafting and redrafting a seemingly endless number of versions of the joint venture agreement between the three of us. You can believe that between Jerome, Gordon, and me there was a truckload of comments and revisions.

  I think that at one point Paul called it an “organic” document. A useful and apt choice of words. I also remember him referring to the process as being similar to someone trying to herd cats, whatever that meant.

  Each of us wanted to be the boss. Nobody wanted to be Number Two. And despite all of the expressions of goodwill, there were issues of protection and safeguards that made it clear that complete trust had not blossomed just yet. Sometimes the suggested changes were creative and substantive. Frankly, many times they simply reflected the personality of whoever was suggesting the changes.