The Pride

by Wallace Ford

  “What kind of exit strategy did you have in mind, Jerome?” Paul was trying to pull together the pieces while I was trying to pull myself together. Vengeance was still the overwhelming thought in my mind; an anger flowed over every aspect of my being like lava launched from some volcano deep in my soul.

  “Exit. As in we need to get out of this deal with Gordon. Not soon. Now! I am willing to continue with Morningstar with you, Diedre, but Gordon has got to go, and right now.

  “I don’t need anyone to tell me that he has a hand in Ray Beard’s play. And I am sure that Gordon is getting serious kickback fees for my biotech deal and your pension fund deals, Diedre.”

  “Well, Jerome, now that you mention it. Gordon is probably going to call you and Diedre tomorrow morning and inform you that he is exercising his right to leave Morningstar. And he will probably threaten to collapse both of your deals unless you waive your non-compete clauses.” Paul always did have a way of getting to the point in crisis situations.

  “As counsel to Morningstar, I would advise the two of you to waive the non-compete clause. You have no idea what other time bombs he may have planted. It is best to get him out of Morningstar and to do it right now.”

  There was silence on the line. The three of us looked at CNN as it continued with news about other elections, guerrilla uprisings on the other side of the world and various sordid celebrity love affairs. We knew that we would be seeing electronic images of Gordon and Ray on television every twenty minutes, mocking us for the rest of the night.

  “Jerome, Paul was suggesting that we need to think before we act. And I am sure that he is right. Let’s meet at his offices at eight tomorrow morning and see how we can sort this out.”

  “Let’s hope there will be no more news between now and then.” Jerome’s wan smile limped its way over the speakerphone.

  We wished each other a good night and Paul turned off the television. I remember that he put Billie Holiday on his sound system. She was singing “God Bless the Child That’s Got His Own.”

  We held each other in the dark and were glad to have each other. We waited for morning, when we knew that we would do battle. In our heart of hearts we had to know that this battle was going to come some day.

  CHAPTER 100

  Paul

  Excuse me while I kiss the sky

  I have to admit that there was something about the events in New Orleans that night that relaxed me. Now there was no more speculation or guessing or fear or worry. There was going to be a battle. And I did not see myself as being on the losing side.

  While my role was as outside counsel for Morningstar, I harbored no illusions. Gordon Perkins meant to destroy me as well as Diedre and Jerome. It was almost as if he had planned it from the very beginning, using my idea as the launching pad for his assault.

  Now there was no need for guessing. No forensic audits. No investigators. It was now time to go to war with Gordon. And that was fine with me.

  After shaving and showering the morning after, I fixed a shake made of bananas, orange juice and yogurt. I made a cup of green tea and turned on the coffee-maker for Diedre who would be rising soon. I needed to make some calls.

  I reached my secretary and one of my associates and directed them to assemble certain information on Gordon and to review some key passages in the Morningstar partnership agreement. I also called the security firm that had done the forensic check on Gordon and made sure that they had copies of their report for Jerome and Diedre ready for our eight o’clock meeting.

  I also tried to reach my man, Sammy Groce, but without success. None of the eight numbers for my renegade contact worked that morning. It would be another week before I found out about Sammy’s demise in the “accidental” fire. I never got to the bottom of the story, but I am sure that Gordon was somewhere near the bottom.

  By the time I had finished my calls, Diedre had showered, had some coffee, and was starting to get dressed. She had a composed air about her, like an Amazon about to engage the enemy. I was glad that I was on her side. We purposely avoided talking about the night before and all of its permutations. There would be time enough for that.

  “Have I mentioned that I love you today?”

  “Paul! This is a hell of a time to get romantic.”

  “Well, if not now, when? I will be damned if I am going to let Gordon Perkins get in the way of me and you … no matter what.”

  “Sometimes I just don’t believe you.”

  Like a splash of cold water, I was reminded of the days and months and weeks and years that we had spent together … before. But Diedre was always “the practical one” and I was “the romantic.” This had been the source of more than a few of our differences, and was one more thing that ultimately frayed the bonds of our relationship to the breaking point.

  As we stood in my kitchen that day, I was determined that this would not happen again. All I could do was shrug my shoulders and get some more green tea. We both had to get dressed to take the subway to the Morningstar offices near Columbus Circle.

  This was one more thing that made New York City special to me. The subway system in New York was so efficient that millionaires and schoolchildren and homeless wanderers and investment bankers and welfare clients and teachers all rode the subway. It was the ultimate urban mixing bowl, if not melting pot. I have always been glad that it has been a part of my life.

  As I finished my last cup of green tea I half listened to The Today Show. As the national news was being read, Diedre and I were rocked again for the second time in less than twelve hours.

  CHAPTER 101

  Gordon

  The circle of life

  Of all of the contingencies for which I had planned, being in the intensive care unit in a New Orleans hospital with tubes stuck up my nose was not in the script. I had never read a lot about what people experience in a comatose state, but there I was.

  I could hear everything. I could see everything. But I could not communicate anything. It was worse than being dead. And then I had to listen to The Today Show broadcast the news. The ICU nurses gathered around the monitor and I could have died ten times before they had noticed. But, to be fair, it was some pretty big news in New Orleans.

  “In a shocking development in the New Orleans mayoral race, local police announced the discovery early this morning of the body of the victorious mayoral primary contender, Percy Broussard. The candidate was discovered with two of his financial supporters, Gordon Perkins and Raymond Beard of New York, both of whom are in intensive care in local hospitals in New Orleans. The three men were found in the suite of a local hotel where a victory celebration had been held a few hours earlier. All three men were found naked and the door was locked from the inside.

  The cause of Mr. Broussard’s death is unknown at this time, but a reliable source has told NBC News that a kilogram of cocaine and several bottles of vodka were found in the suite. Mr. Broussard appears to have died from cardiac arrest and Perkins and Beard are suffering from severe drug overdoses. This report will have to be confirmed after an autopsy is performed on Mr. Broussard and further toxicological tests that will be performed on Perkins and Beard.

  NBC News has also learned that police responding to an anonymous call discovered documents which clearly implicate the Broussard campaign in a plot to forge documents and falsify testimony related to recent charges against Mayor Percy Lodrig and his father.

  The Lodrig campaign is almost certainly going to demand a new primary election and it would seem, even at this early point, that Prince Lodrig will be reelected mayor of New Orleans.”

  It was unbelievable that I couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t smile, frown or spit. All I could do is watch my absolutely foolproof plan unfold just because the Dark Lord got a special batch of cocaine for Broussard and my new best friend Ray Beard.

  I will never forget the look on Broussard’s face when his heart stopped. And I sure as hell will not forget those four bitches who stripped us naked and left us to di
e when the three of us started having seizures from the pure Colombian flake cocaine that had come from who knows where. One of these days they are going to have to have a talk with the Dark Lord and me.

  But now I have these tubes up my nose. I guess I was in a coma. I had no idea where Ray Beard was and I couldn’t give a shit. I just had to stay alive. I know that Paul and Jerome and Diedre were probably plotting right then and there. But as long as I was alive they would have to deal with me. And I planned to live.

  CHAPTER 102

  Diedre

  Sunflower

  “We better hurry to the office, Paul. This is getting too deep.”

  “You are probably right. But don’t you think that we should at least give Kenitra Perkins a call?”

  “A call, hell, she is probably out celebrating her liberation as we speak.”

  We had to laugh to keep from crying, as the song goes, and soon we were on the subway heading to the Morningstar offices. As we sped under the granite skies I tried to engage Paul in idle speculation.

  “What do you think happened?”

  “It’s plain as the nose on your face. Gordon, Ray, and Broussard obviously got carried away with some local girlfriends. When they started to have sed izures or whatever, the ladies left, and obviously one of the three locked the door thinking that they could get out of their dire straits on their own. That’s why the door was locked from the inside.”

  “When the girls left, the three of them probably didn’t even bother to get dressed, and in polishing off some vodka or rum or champagne, the three of them just passed out and Broussard passed along.”

  By the time we arrived at Morningstar’s offices, Jerome was already there. He had heard the latest news and he shared the same cheated feeling that I had. He was really looking forward to doing battle with Gordon. After all, the battle lines were clearly drawn.

  We went into a conference room. We sat in silence for a few minutes, and then Jerome spoke.

  “If we are going to continue with Morningstar, Diedre and Paul, we have to be honest, now more than ever. I am not going to shed any tears for Gordon or Ray and we have to have a plan, right now.”

  “If we are going to have a plan, Jerome, it has to be something that people won’t expect. They will expect us to run and hide and try and make up excuses. That won’t work.” There was something about Jerome being so focused which helped me stick to the issue of the day and save the emotions for another, more convenient time.

  “The Japanese ideograph for ‘disaster’ also means ‘opportunity.’ I think that we should call Edwina and have her handle all the media contacts.” Jerome clearly had some ideas and that helped immensely.

  “We should also call Kenitra Perkins right now and offer to purchase her interest in RRB, which I would bet is a controlling interest. We can pay her with a note and the proceeds of the key man insurance that we’ll receive after having Gordon Perkins declared incompetent to continue with Morningstar.” It was clear that some kind of strategy was starting to take shape.

  “One last thing. If Gordon is truly comatose, we will have to negotiate with his counsel or Kenitra to get his ass out of Morningstar. Our leverage will be that we won’t sue him if he gets out now.” Paul was getting into the spirit.

  We talked about other details and then it was time to go. We had a plan and we could make it work and we would make Morningstar work. Paul and I left the office later that afternoon for other meetings while Jerome handled operations at the office. We stood waiting for the elevator.

  “Paul, there is one last thing.”

  “What is that, Diedre?”

  “Have I told you that I loved you today?”

  CHAPTER 103

  Paul

  Somewhere beyond the sea

  Despite the decidedly rocky start for Morningstar, it more than survived the “Battle of New Orleans” as it was later called. The plan that Jerome, Diedre, and I articulated in the aftermath turned out to work perfectly. It was a blueprint for success.

  Mayor Lodrig’s campaign did force a new primary election and he was re-elected in a landslide. And Morningstar was remembered in the best way possible. It became the main financial advisor and investment banker for the city of New Orleans. The death of Broussard and the demise of Perkins and Beard were not subject to official explanation.

  Kenitra Perkins went along with the offer from Morningstar, and all the personnel from Jerome’s firm returned to Morningstar and a new deal was negotiated with Merrill Lynch. RRB was simply no more. Just like that. Kenitra took the proceeds of her deal with Morningstar and moved to Arizona. She did not even try to pretend to take care of the entirely incapacitated Gordon Perkins.

  Jerome’s biotech deal and Diedre’s pension fund assignment presaged even greater success. The success of those deals gave rise to a flood of business and the news of all accomplishments that was handled by Edwina McClure.

  By the time New Year’s Eve arrived, Jerome, Charmaine, Diedre, and I dined at my town house, for a quiet dinner after a hell of a year. That was when Diedre and I announced our intention to get married again in the New Year.

  And that is why I have to end this story and go look after my son in the other room.

  Lutishia Lovely dishes up a sexy new series

  following the hot tempers and tantalizing

  temptations of a family whose restaurant is the place

  for a tasty meal …

  All Up In My Business

  Coming in March 2011 from Dafina Books

  Here’s an excerpt from All Up In My Business …

  “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  —Amanda Long, grandmother of Taste Of Soul restaurant board member Candace Livingston

  Adam Livingston loved the taste of her thighs. Tender on the inside and crispy on the outside. Nobody could fry chicken better than Candace, his wife. Even now—after living and working together for more than three decades—his mouth still watered at the thought of this juicy, dark meat. Whether the succulent morsels were on his dinner plate, or those he hovered over when between the sheets, Candace knew how to please him. Unfortunately, the way she sexed and handled a bird aside, Adam knew that Candace in the kitchen wasn’t necessarily a good thing. His wife rarely cooked these days, preferring to either eat at one of their restaurants or have their on-call personal chef whip up an intimate lunch or dinner with guests. Now, when Candace graced the kitchen with her presence, it usually meant a conversation was coming regarding something he’d rather not discuss with her—namely her extravagant spending sprees, plastic surgery, or the ongoing competition between their sons.

  Technically, money wasn’t a problem. The restaurant his parents had opened in Atlanta fifty years ago had grown into a soul food empire—with ten highly successful restaurants in seven Southern states. Additionally, the barbeque sauce his grandfather had created, which was used to slather on their most popular menu item, baby back ribs, had been sold in grocery stores nationwide for the past five years. Still, Candace could spend money faster than Usain Bolt ran the one-hundred-yard dash. Just last year she’d renovated their kitchen to the tune of fifty thousand dollars, had their backyard relandscaped to resemble the scenic islands they’d visited on their thirtieth wedding anniversary, and had one of the guest bedrooms converted to a closet to handle her almost daily jaunts to Nordstrom, Bloomingdales, and Saks. These renovations had increased the value of their mansion and had made Can-dace happy. So Adam hadn’t complained … too much.

  When it came to plastic surgery, Adam thought his wife had had enough. She’d always been beautiful in his eyes, ever since he saw her walking across the Clark Atlanta campus back in the seventies. She’d looked like a Fashion Fair model to him that day, her dark caramel skin enhanced by the beige mini she wore along with similarly colored thigh-high boots. Her long, thick hair had moved with the sway of her hips as she’d casually chatted with a friend. A couple of days later, when he saw her in the cafeteria,
he’d immediately gone over and introduced himself. She was even finer up close than she’d been from a distance, and after taking one look into the almond-shaped brown eyes that sat above a wide but nicely shaped nose and luscious lips, Adam had gotten the distinct impression that he was looking at the mother of his children. This feeling proved prophetic—Candace became pregnant during her junior year, when Adam was a senior. They’d married that summer and welcomed their oldest, Malcolm LeMarcus, the following December.

  Even after having their second son, Toussaint LeVon, Candace stayed slim. Into her forties, when she finally gained thirty pounds that didn’t shed easily, Adam still thought she was fine. She was five foot seven and to him, the extra weight hardly showed. Can-dace hadn’t seemed that bothered by it either, until her sister-in-law, his twin brother’s wife, Dianne, had commented on Candace being “fat” during a family get together, and had suggested liposuction as a quick way to take the weight off in time for their cruise to the Fuji Islands. Candace had been so pleased with the results that a tummy tuck soon followed, and breast implants followed that. Any brothah would be pleased to squeeze a set of firm titties, even if he’d had to pay for them, and Adam was no exception. But a couple of weeks ago, when Candace started complaining about her wide nose, Adam had shut her down immediately. “You’re becoming addicted to this shit,” he warned. “If you don’t stop cutting on the body God gave you, you’re going to become as obsessed as Michael Jackson was, may he rest in peace. You look fine, Can. Give it a rest.” So he hoped she’d gotten the message because he didn’t intend to pay the highly skilled and equally expensive cut-and-paste doctor another dime.

  That left the topic of his and Candace’s sons. The mid-year company meeting was in two weeks, right after Juneteenth, so most likely, Candace wanted to butter him up regarding some plan in the works—probably another of Toussaint’s outlandish ideas. Adam loved his youngest son but he swore that boy didn’t have a fearful bone in his body. Where Malcolm was more like Adam, in looks and demeanor, Toussaint was definitely his mother’s child. Like her, he was brilliant, but he’d also inherited her traits of impulsiveness and flamboyance. Toussaint had run an idea by him some months ago, an idea that Adam had nipped in the bud as quickly as he had Candace’s nose job suggestion. The ecomony was too unstable to do anything new now, he’d explained. Adam wasn’t sure how the other players would feel about contructing more Taste of Soul locations across the country, but hoped that his and Candace’s vote would be the same—no f’ing way. The more Adam thought about it, however, the more he thought this might be exactly why he smelled chicken frying. Damn, I have too much on my mind to argue with Candace about this right now.