Someone tapped my shoulder. It was the security guard, who stared down on me from two and a half heads up.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“Are you with the firm up in the Seasons Ustis suite?”
“So what if he is?” Nigel said.
“A lady asked me to escort you.”
“How did you know it was me?” I asked.
“She described you to a T.”
We followed the guard into a side tunnel, passed a couple of paramedics smoking cigarettes, and rode an elevator to suite level. The firm’s spacious suite loomed near center court several stories up. Mixed in with numerous shareholders, including Armbruster, his right-hand man, Scott Forecast, and Callower, were heavy hitters I was more likely to see on television than in person. Armbruster and Forecast spoke to Mayor Chamberlain, with her signature bouffant hair, who was preparing to run for her second term. Dinah was removing lint from Pavor’s lapel. Pavor grabbed her other hand, but she brushed his away and glanced around to see if anyone noticed.
A young man who’d starred in an action film about shapeshifting gnomes tucked into a slice of marionberry pie and wrinkled his nose. I had tried a slice on the way in and agreed with his assessment. On a ten-point scale, I wouldn’t have given the stale-crusted, gloopy wedge much more than three and some change.
I escorted Nigel to the exterior seats that afforded a view of the game with the unwashed masses just below our feet. Men careened across the court. Whistles blew. Someone did a 720 dunk, and the whole cave rocked with applause. At halftime, the arena lights dimmed, and a squad of cheerleaders with small wings on their backs appeared and flew around under laser beams.
A waiter offered a tray of cocktail wieners. Nigel took some, but I didn’t. I was too shaken to eat. In fact, I probably hadn’t said much more than yes, no, or maybe for some time. To Nigel’s question as to why Herman was the only one with gold-plated kicks, I replied, “Maybe.” My wistfulness wasn’t the result of a pharmacologically induced state. I hadn’t had a Plum since the morning, although it was high time.
Octavia sat next to me, removed her sunglasses from her face, and put them in her hair. “I was starting to think you made other plans.”
“Not at all.” I gave her a double-cheeked air kiss.
She glanced at the cluster of men talking to Armbruster. “The good old boys have run this place long enough. Do you know Seasons hasn’t had a woman managing shareholder in twenty-seven years, three months, and eight days?”
“I had no idea,” I said.
“It all comes down to who society chooses to respect. Like when you didn’t come to my office on Friday when I messaged you. That was disrespectful.”
“I’m sorry about that—”
“I’m talking. Do you know why I called you to my office that day?” Octavia went into her suit jacket pocket and pulled out a lapel pin. One of her sun pendants. “To congratulate you for winning on Elevation Night.” She attached the pendant to my T-shirt. “A lot of people had money on that Riley, but I knew you were up to the task.”
I exhaled. The pendant meant I was one of Octavia’s people, which afforded me a measure of job security. Job security meant I was that much closer to helping my son. “Thank you,” I said.
“Don’t thank me. You’ve got your work cut out for you, and people who wear my pendant aren’t allowed to slack. But you knew that.”
I pointed at the pendant. “So this means I’m promoted to shareholder.”
“About that. No. A majority of the executive committee had to sign off on it. None of you got a majority of votes, but you got the most. So you’re not a shareholder, but you’re not canned either. You’re provisional until a revote or I release you.” Octavia glanced up toward one of the suites that ringed the arena. “You should have cleared it outright, but I think Armbruster convinced a few of the others to turn their nose up at you to spite me.”
“Why?”
“Because they know I’ve got aspirations. I’ve got a potential client on the hook, a real whale who’ll give me enough juice to make a run at head honcho. That’s why I need to know that you’re in up to the hilt.”
“Of course I am.”
“If you come through for me, I’ll have enough clout to get you that revote. Of course, if you crap out or I do, we’ll both be in the unemployment line. People who make a run for the top of the mountain and miss don’t last very long. But you knew that, too. Any questions?”
I swallowed—ludicrous, considering we had worked together for years. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that everything I cared about was at stake in how I handled the next few minutes. “The diversity committee. Why did you put me on it?”
She tilted her head in the direction of Armbruster, who was chatting up a leggy young brunette. “What do you see when you look at old Jack? Be honest.”
I didn’t want to insult Octavia. But I knew she would see through any attempt to be tactful. “I see success. Some deserved. Some not. I heard he was in line to be in charge after only a few months in. Big clients flock to him because he’s got the look and profile that people buy. It’s a closed loop, a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
Octavia pursed her lips and nodded. “That’s good. I couldn’t agree more. I’ve spent my whole career paddling in his wake. I made my group number two by force of will, and now it’s time to overtake that big rusty cruise ship. Know how we’re going to do it?” I shook my head. “We’re going after PHH.”
Personal Hill Hospital, or PHH, as people called it. I wasn’t surprised that her target client was the hospital where Penny worked. PHH was one of the biggest employers in the City, and if Octavia managed to bring it in, she would become one of the wealthiest shareholders in the history of the firm. PHH had a level-one trauma center and an acclaimed, renowned cancer treatment service, but its plastic surgery clinic was all over the news since that pop singer underwent a transformation there. It was where I planned to bring Nigel when that sunny day came. Rumor had it that Octavia herself had had a good deal of work done. Franklin once told me that Octavia was just another light-skinned black who had her nose sharpened so she could pass. I never believed that story. After all, her family had owned that mansion on the Avenue of Streetcars since before recorded time.
“That’s where you come in,” Octavia said. “I need to show that the firm cares about the community. It’s the price of entry to even be considered for their approved-legal services list.”
“By community, you mean black people.”
“Don’t be crass with the race talk, but that’s right. That’s how the game is played. They lose their federal funding without the right mix of vendors.”
“What can I do?” I asked.
“I need you to put together a campaign that proves the firm is committed to diversity.”
A great roar erupted in the arena. Nigel jumped up, pumped his fist.
Octavia tilted her chin up and smiled. “I remember your résumé. You were what? Second in your class?”
“First.”
“See that there. You’ll think of something. I’m a big believer in putting my people in position to do their best. Callower has a job to do. He’ll be running down the permitting and licensing side to see if we can find something that will increase PHH’s profits. Companies love when lawyers find money just lying around. Dinah has a job to do. She’ll keep track of the competition and ensure that we’re one step ahead. And now you have your orders.”
Made sense. Dinah and the others all seemed extraordinarily busy with things other than drafting briefs and going to depositions. I had to grab the reins while the grabbing was good.
“I’ll need a budget,” I said.
“Oh, you’re quick,” she said. I tossed out a number, not really knowing what I’d do with the money. “You can make do with half that.”
&n
bsp; “Do you want PHH or not?”
Octavia sniffed. “Fine. If there’s one thing I cotton to, it’s initiative. Take this puppy, for instance.” Pavor stooped next to Octavia and licked barbecue sauce from his thumb. Octavia squeezed Pavor’s cheeks like a cheerful aunt. “Look at this face. Wouldn’t you vote for this man?”
I had no idea what they were talking about.
“I’m running for mayor,” Pavor said. “The firm is backing me.”
“You?” I asked. “Since when do you care about politics?”
“Since boss lady needs someone on the inside to move things along,” he said. “I qualified this afternoon.” Pavor noticed a line of sauce on his blazer and cursed. He wandered away wiping it.
“He and that Dinah make a pretty effective team.” Octavia gestured toward Dinah, who was pouring club soda onto a cloth. “What do you want?” Octavia asked. “I mean psychologically, if you catch my drift. What do you need as a human-type person?”
“To do my job well.” I studied my hands. It was true, in a sense.
“Nice answer, boy-o, but body language doesn’t lie. I saw you look over at your kid again.”
Nigel leaned forward at the rail, waving his foam finger.
“You’re a good heart,” she said. “That’s what I like about you.”
Armbruster walked down the steps to where Nigel was. He patted Nigel on the back.
“What about Armbruster?” I asked.
“What about him?” she whispered. “Managing shareholder isn’t a lifetime position. If he’s smart, he and his contingent will back me. I don’t think he’s that smart, though.”
Nigel led Armbruster over. “This is your boy?” he asked.
“Last I checked,” I said. A small part of me wanted to feel sorry for Armbruster. He was a grandfather, after all. Chairman of the water utility board. A respectable man. Octavia usually got what she wanted, and with Armbruster in her sights, he was as good as done.
“I had no idea. Such a handsome boy. A good-looking young man. Must have got it from his mother.” Armbruster guffawed. I chuckled, too. “I bet you’re good at basketball.”
“Not really?” Nigel glanced at me, apparently wondering if that was the right answer.
Armbruster plucked a cigar off a server’s tray. “Too bad.”
Octavia and I both noticed my knee, which was leaping up and down like a thrown engine rod. I put my hands on my knee. The shaking stopped.
“Did you see that, Dad?” Nigel asked.
“What, son?”
“Some stuff happened,” he said, twisting on one foot, “but we won.”
“Never doubted we would.” Octavia extended a hand. “Did you?”
“Not for a second.” I clasped both my hands around one of hers, the universal, diplomatic black man’s handshake.
9
“The face of Seasons Ustis law firm, huh?” Mama adjusted her kente cloth chef’s hat. “You better hope you don’t get punched in the face.”
We were in the Chicken Coop, the fried chicken restaurant slash community center slash sometime boardinghouse Mama had taken over and put me to work in when I was a teenager. A place I avoided as much as possible as an adult. It was bad enough to participate in a cliché. How much worse to propagate one? A black family selling fried chicken to black people in the ghetto? Even a racially insensitive hack screenwriter would avoid that setup. Yet to be honest, my difficulty with flaky fried fowl fingers had a more personal dimension.
In high school, in the second half of my sophomore year, I dated a girl for about two weeks. Or rather I should say she, Sharane, dated me. She became an eventual Rhodes scholar and CEO of an entertainment company out west. However, when I knew her she was a cherrywood-skinned goddess—the cheerleading captain!—with all the physical bells and whistles necessary to send the hormones of an apelike teenager such as myself rocketing into the magnetosphere. Any neutral observer could have taken one look at me—the thick glasses I wore over my uncorrected eyes, the hair parted straight down the middle—and seen that I was outclassed. I questioned whether her interest was an elaborate setup to shame me at some upperclassman’s upcoming drinking party. But it turned out that she just really liked Mama’s chicken. She would show up to the restaurant shortly after I wrapped an apron around my waist and wait for Mama to step into the pantry. Then with the stealthiness of an American spy tiptoeing through the lowest subbasement of the Kremlin, I would smuggle a few extra-crispy thighs over the counter. Not that I fooled Mama.
Our liaison reached its sell-by date pretty fast. As soon as Mama announced that I could no longer just give Sharane half our stock, the girl’s presence became scarce. For my part, I lost my taste for eating fried chicken around then. And for years afterward, I suffered nocturnal indigestion every July 6, National Fried Chicken Day.
Mama went behind the counter, slipped on a pair of plastic gloves, and mixed flour and seasonings in a bowl. “My son a figurehead,” she said. “You’ve always been different, but I thought you had better sense.”
I glanced at Penny, seated next to me. “I thought we weren’t going to bring up my work stuff.” When I had told Penny about the situation, her face turned red, and she sliced an eggplant right down the middle. She saw it not as an opportunity but as an exploitation. If the firm really wanted to show their appreciation for me, they should have given me a raise or made me lead on one of our major client cases.
“It just slipped out.”
Penny rolled her eyes upward. The restaurant air conditioner clunked to life. “But see? Your mother thinks it’s a horrible idea, too.” Mama thought the firm wanted to use me as blackface. A way to make the organization more palatable to the clientele. She was right, of course. But it would put me in position to help Nigel. I couldn’t tell her that. I knew my mother well enough to understand that she would object to my plans for Nigel even more vehemently than Penny did. Best to avoid the topic and enjoy time with my family.
“Forget that they’re not paying you extra for doing it.” Mama cracked several eggs into another bowl. “Why can’t one of them do it? And what in the world qualifies you to be the face anyway? Lord knows you don’t look like most of them.”
“It’s the chance of a lifetime,” I said. “A chance to break new ground.”
Mama opened a beer and poured some into the wet ingredients. “Boy, Uncle Tomming existed way before Harriet Beecher Whatsherface wrote that novel. You ain’t doing nothing new.” She poured more beer, then stopped. Her banana earrings swayed as she gulped the remaining contents of the beer can. “Don’t mind me none.” Leaning toward Penny for effect. “He always been stubborn.”
Penny stepped to the register. “I have a dream that one day he’ll come to his senses, and we’ll live happily ever after in a little cabin in the woods.”
“Don’t hold your breath, sister,” Mama said. “He’s just like Sir.”
I grunted.
Mama placed the battered chicken into a basket and lowered the basket into the deep fryer. It was hard to believe that when Mama and Penny first met, they both confided in me their reservations about each other. Penny found Mama overbearing and self-concerned. Mama thought Penny was clueless white trash. The tats and black eye makeup didn’t help.
Nigel entered through the double doors that led to the community center’s day room. “Where is everyone?” He washed his hands.
“Honey, they at that protest.”
“The kids, too?” Nigel dipped his finger into the dry ingredients. He tested it on his tongue and pointed at the pepper mill. Mama smiled and nodded. Nigel ground three heartbeats’ worth of pepper into the mix. “Shouldn’t we be there, too? I mean, maybe they could use our help.” He tasted the mix and gave Mama the thumbs-up.
“Protest?” I said. “No son of mine is going to stand shoulder to shoulder with a clot of
troublemakers. You could be arrested or shot. And besides, they probably don’t even know what they’re protesting for. Is it higher wages? Is it banking reform? They probably think it’s for longer kennel hours.”
“You don’t even know about the protest, do you?” Mama put her hands on her hips. “Look at him.”
“Well, I— That’s not the point.”
“Hello?” Penny said. “We talk about it almost every morning.” She reminded me that the protest was at PHH—not the main building where she worked, but at the plastic surgery clinic. For the past few weeks, she had to drive through angry people at the employee entrance. “Not that I’m mad at them. Their hearts are in the right place. Even if they shake the van sometimes. Someone graffiti-bombed the clinic building with these big, weird letters….”
Although it beat discussing my work obligations, I wasn’t really interested in talking about protesters. An envelope lay faceup between the register and the condiments caddy.
“Oh!” Mama said. “It’s for you. A letter from Sir.”
I held my hands up. “I don’t want that.”
“I’ll take it.” Nigel grabbed the envelope.
I took it from Nigel and ripped it in half. “We don’t associate with criminals.”
“Your father is no criminal.”
“That’s not what the court said.”
“Well, if he is one, that criminal put food on our table,” she said. “That criminal paid for your frou frou edumacation. That criminal is your father.” Yes, Sir was my father. “Sir” was the nickname Mama gave him for what she sometimes described as his “particular bearing.” I now found the usage of the nickname creepy and disturbing, like those parents who referred to each other as “Mother” and “Father.” Also, it was hard to fathom that my father and I had once been so close that people took to calling us Big Sir and Little Sir, an appellation that I now strictly forbade even Mama to use.
We Cast a Shadow Page 7
