by Camryn King
Ava picked up the other picture. “Who is this guy?”
“The director of Christian’s Kids, the foundation. He was at the press conference that was held the night of the fundraiser.”
“These were taken the same night,” Sam said, pointing to the pictures. “It’s the same outfit.”
Mallory frowned. “And?”
“Just making an observation.”
“You think Mallory’s rushing to judgment?” Ava reached for the pics and studied them side by side.
“They look pretty cozy, but that in itself doesn’t mean anything.”
“Or it could mean everything.” Mallory took the pictures and stood. “One way or another, I’ll find out.”
Thirty minutes later, Sam and Ava left. So did the boots. They looked great on Ava, and what was even better was that she could walk in them. Mallory fired up her laptop, sent Charlie an email and a rough of Friday’s column. While doing so, a new email popped into her work in box. She clicked on it absentmindedly, thinking about her glam squad’s parting words about a trip to the hair salon and the spa.
She opened the email. What she read stood her hair on end.
I thought you were a better investigator, Ms. Knight. But after reading your column, one thing is clear. You’ve drunk the Graham the god Kool-Aid just like all the others. And that’s a damn shame.
Mallory immediately replied to the email. She asked for the writer’s identity and contact information, requested an interview and included her cell number. No reply came in the next few minutes. None was expected. But to say her interest was piqued was an understatement. The rumor about the kid. His publicist’s standoffishness. And now this anonymous letter? What’s going on?
Contrary to what the anonymous writer thought, Mallory was under no delusions about Christian’s grandeur. She was on a whole other mission. Mallory signed off her work email and fell into a restless sleep, dreaming that she’d come face to face with the bogeyman who’d caused Leigh’s nightmarish murder.
17
The next morning, after being flat-ironed to within an inch of her scalp, Mallory returned home, placed her toiletries and jewelry in the carry-on bag, and finished a quick meal just in time for her Uber pickup. Airport traffic was fairly light. Security was a breeze. Two hours after entering JFK, Mallory arrived in Philadelphia just after one o’clock, and per Andy’s emailed instructions she headed down to ground transportation to look for her name. Her driver was easier to spot than her name, a six-foot something, three-hundred-pound, bald-headed, shade-wearing mountain in a room of molehills. He had tree limbs for legs and a physique that suggested he was more muscle than fat. In a collision with a car the size of her Toyota, the car might sustain more damage. He gripped a tablet reading “KNIGHT” with fingers the size of jumbo franks. She schooled her features into an expression masking her thought of damn, buddy, you’re huge! and walked over.
“Hi, I’m Mallory.”
“Hey, Mallory. Thomas.” He offered his bear paw. “Everybody call me Treetop.”
Of course they did. He was tall enough to be related to the old sequoias in Yosemite National Park that she’d heard you could drive a car through. She shook his hand.
“Nice meeting you, Thomas.” Somehow calling a grown-ass man Treetop, even one who resembled it, seemed incorrect.
“You got more luggage?”
“Nope, this is it.”
“All right, then. Car’s right out front.”
Really? How’d that happen? At Kennedy drivers could barely drop off or pick up passengers before traffic cops were demanding they move it along. They stepped outside to brilliant sunshine. It was warmer here than in New York. Mallory tucked the gloves she’d pulled out of her bag into a side pouch. She walked to the rear, where Thomas held a door open, entered the Jaguar SUV with tinted windows that was waiting curbside, and looked into the eyes of why the car was allowed to idle there without being towed.
“Christian!”
“Why the frown? I’m the reason you’re here.”
“No, sorry, I just wasn’t expecting anyone in here.”
“Rolling with me is always full of surprises.” He stared at her unflinchingly as she settled inside the roomy back seat. “What’s up?”
Was it her, or did Christian inhale all the air in the car? She shook his hand and felt the kind of jolt written about in the romance novels that Sam read. His lips curled into a smile. Hers, the ones that Christian couldn’t see, applauded the move. Her body’s reaction surprised her. Unless she got it together, and quickly, this was going to be a very long ride.
She realized she hadn’t answered Christian’s question of a greeting. “Thanks for the ticket,” she blurted. “I could get used to first class.”
Mallory heard the words as they left her mouth, saw Christian’s smile, and could imagine an annoyed Leigh rolling her eyes. One of the rules, she remembered, was to experience their wealth and seem unaffected, as though their pampered world was your own. It would take focus for her to maintain the control she’d maintained in her mental scenario. But she had to admit, Christian left her off balance. She hadn’t felt so flustered since the age of thirteen when she saw her first real live penis, the one Wally Chancellor flashed during recess. Then, her reaction had been one of curiosity framed by disgust. The guy beside her now stirred up a whole other set of emotions. She donned mental armor and a professional veneer. She was thirty-one, not thirteen; this was Christian, not Wally; and they were not on a playground. This was work. And recon. Mallory needed to keep her head in the game.
The melodious sound of a tenor saxophone caught her ear.
“Wait, is that Tivon Pennicott?”
Christian’s brow shot up. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
Mallory smiled. Her shoulders relaxed. “I’m a jazz fan, especially horns.”
“No shit. I’m surprised.”
“Me too. It’s the last sound I expected to hear while hanging with you.”
“What’d you expect? Hip-hop?”
She shook her head. “Rock.”
“Ha!”
“Definitely hip-hop, something self-absorbed, maybe.”
“Damn, shorty! You don’t think much of me, do you?”
“Outside of the work being done for this series, I don’t think about you.”
Christian’s face turned serious. Mallory held his stare. A second passed. And another. Then he burst out laughing.
“I like you, Mallory. You don’t brown-nose. You don’t bullshit. You probably have no idea how rare a reaction that is to someone like me.”
“I can imagine.”
The energy shifted a bit. Mallory didn’t know whether to be less nervous because they had something in common or more so because her body was responding in a way she hadn’t wanted.
Christian’s vibrating phone pierced the silence. He reached for it and began to text. “Where’d you learn to love jazz?”
“My dad. What about you?”
“Same. He’s had one heck of a collection since I can remember. Used to sneak into it and grab classics to sample with hip-hop beats.” Mallory nodded. “Your dad a collector?”
“Musician.”
“Oh, yeah? What does he play?”
“Sax.”
Christian nodded slowly. “Cool. Do you play?”
“No. Do you?”
“I dabble.”
“Interesting.”
“Interesting good or interesting bad?”
“I don’t know. Depends on how you play.”
“Ha!”
“What’s here in Philadelphia that was so important you flew me over? And met me at the airport? You guys don’t practice on game day, or have some other routine?”
Christian finished texting and settled himself more comfortably in the soft leather seats, his long legs having room in the back seat only because the car had been customized. The car’s interior was navy outlined in yellow gold.
“Are you always in report
er mode? Firing off questions, thinking about your column and what to write?”
“When it comes to obtaining information, most reporters take advantage of every opportunity presented.”
“I can understand that.” They both took a minute to gaze out the window. Christian finished off a water and casually tossed the bottle on the automobile floor.
“Read your article again. With a second look that first line sounded cheesy.”
“About you having a hundred kids? Why? I made it clear that the reference was to the children who attended your center, not your personal brood.”
“Ha! Gee, thanks a lot.”
“I’m not saying you have a ton of children, though you guys are known for generously spreading your seed around.”
“There you go again with another negative comment.”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t trying to offend you. Just making a statement based on—”
“On assumptions and stereotypes.”
“No—”
“Yes, you are. I have my share of women. Won’t lie about that and won’t feel badly. Grown folk choose to do what grown folk do. But it’s not like I’m wilding out twenty-four seven. I’m a man with discerning taste.”
Mallory pulled out her laptop. “Mind if I quote you on that?”
“Go right ahead.”
She felt his eyes on her but continued to type.
“The first time I saw you I thought you were either Hispanic or had people in the Middle East. But with all that attitude you’re bringing, I suspect you’re a sister.”
“Black women aren’t the only ones with attitudes.”
“I should have guessed from your pics online, all that curly hair.”
“Been checking me out, huh?”
“I figure turnabout is fair play.”
“What, you thought I was Latina?”
“Or Indian, or Middle Eastern.” He reached over and grabbed a lock of her hair.
“Hey! Don’t touch my hair!”
Christian snatched his hand back. “Yeah, you’re a sister. That’s definitely black.”
“Ha!” Mallory relaxed again, only now realizing that she’d gotten uptight.
“So your mother’s Black?”
Mallory shook her head. “My dad. Mom is originally from a small town in a small state. Vermont.”
“Ah, that’s the bit of an accent I hear. New England. Is that where you grew up?”
“I spent a lot of time there. But I was born in Saint Louis, Missouri. Lived there until my parents divorced when I was seven. Then I moved with my mom to Omaha, Nebraska, my stepfather’s hometown.”
“Omaha, huh?” She nodded. “Never been there. What was that like?”
“Okay, I guess. Some days better than others. I wasn’t always the easiest kid to raise. Had a lot of insecurities, resentments. Thought Mom was trying to keep me from my dad.”
“But she wasn’t?”
“In her mind, she was protecting me. Giving me a better life. Dad struggled as a musician, bounced from job to job while chasing his dream. Mom wouldn’t let me visit him, and he was allergic to Nebraska. I felt isolated. Obviously different. Mixed kid in a household of blue-eyed blondes. Growing up is hard enough, even harder when you and your family don’t feel like a fit.”
“I can relate.”
“You can?”
“Why do you act surprised? You didn’t know I’m biracial?”
“You’re the product of an interracial marriage, but you seem pretty comfortable in your skin.”
“I am now. Getting here was a process. It’s why I can relate to the kids that I mentor, because I can see myself in their shoes. Wanting to help them is one reason why I majored in psychology. Minored in education. Most of these kids out here aren’t bad. They’re hurting and hungry and want better for their lives.”
The statement set Mallory back in the seat, fingers flying across the keys to capture the statement. Earnest. Profound.
“So that’s why a foundation appealed to you. As a path toward a sound education.”
“A good education and a great life. We have business professionals, teachers, other athletes who volunteer as mentors for our core kids. Those are the ones who are actually enrolled in our program and come every day, five or six days a week.”
“What percentage is that?”
“About forty. The others either come for a couple hours after school or whenever they get the opportunity to escape where they’re at.”
Mallory looked up and realized they’d left the highway and the nice part of town, and were an area that vaguely resembled parts of Bed-Stuy.
“Where are we?”
“North Philly.”
“But you didn’t grow up here, correct?”
“Did you hear that, Tree? The queen of Google acting as though she doesn’t know where I was raised.”
Treetop turned down the music that had switched from Pennicott to classic Coltrane. “What’d you say, Dee?”
“Never mind.”
“According to your online bio, you were raised in upstate New York, which is why I asked. Why are we here?”
“Because what isn’t printed in those carefully crafted PR pieces is the amount of time I spent here as a kid, hanging with cousins on my mother’s side. Here, in the hood, with all it has to offer. Many a fool in the streets has made the mistake that I don’t know how to get down. You aren’t the only who’s acted presumptively. Most see my style, my degree, my life, and think I walk with a silver spoon up my ass. I live a blessed life, but am not enshrined behind a castle wall or over a moat or some shit.”
Mallory typed, Christian too. Her on a tablet, him on his constantly buzzing phone. Treetop Thomas pulled to the curb in front of a multi-storied corner brick building that had seen better days. It was during work hours with temps dropping, yet a group of young men hung out near the building’s entrance. Poster children for what the media and politicians defined as thugs—sagging pants, expensive jewelry, tattoos. One of them, a tall, handsome, dark-skinned man with short dreadlocks and a bright white smile strolled over to the car just as Christian got out.
“Player!” He greeted Christian with a shoulder bump hug and unique handshake.
“What up, Dex? How’s life?”
“Comes and goes, bro, you know the drill. How’s that shoulder, man? You ready to rock and roll in the rock and roll?”
“Always ready to Navigate. Cleveland had better be ready for us.” He turned and opened the door on Mallory’s side. “Come on out,” he told her. “There’s something I want to show you and some friends I want you to meet.”
Mallory placed her tablet inside its case, grabbed her purse and got out.
“Mallory, this is Dexter Payne. He’s going to be an assistant director for our first CK satellite campus.” He nodded at the structure from which three guys watched them converse and a fourth headed over to join them.
“Nice to meet you,” Mallory offered, as she watched the second young man feign a punch and a headshake fake to Christian before coming in for a hug.
“What’s going on, Curtis? Staying out of trouble?”
“Hard to do when you are the trouble,” Dexter teased.
“This your girl, man,” Curtis asked Christian, giving a blatant once-over with big, brown eyes that contained a playful gleam.
“This is Mallory Knight, a reporter for the New York News.”
“Ah, hell, let me bounce,” Curtis said. “I’m trying to stay out of the limelight.”
“Don’t let these guys and their saggin’-braggin’ fool you. This spring Curtis will graduate from the Community College of Philadelphia with an associate’s degree in facility management. He’ll head to Philadelphia University in the fall to get his BS.”
“He don’t need Temple for that,” Curtis said. “He’s already full of BS.”
“Whatever,” Dexter responded, totally unfazed. “Just be ready to hold down your spot when the program starts.”
&nbs
p; “His spot,” Christian said to Mallory, “is AD for our computer science program. Little cuz can build a computer from scratch and program it with his eyes closed. And that’s after smoking a blunt.” The guys laughed as Christian reached for Mallory’s elbow. “Come on, let’s go inside so I can show you the future.”
Mallory followed, rather dumbfounded at what was occurring. Whatever she’d imagined would happen today, this was not it. A satellite school? Employing kids who looked like gang bangers to build computers and upgrade buildings? No wonder kids looked up to him, their eyes filled with unabashed admiration. If she wasn’t careful, she noted, catching a whiff of Christian’s alluring cologne as they and the other guys entered the building with Treetop close behind, she might look at him that way, too.
“I started coming here and hanging with my cousins when I was around five,” Christian shared easily as they navigated the wide, worn halls. “Would come down for holidays, a month or so in the summer. By then this was an office building. In here,”—he turned and stepped into a large room near the entrance—“was a neighborhood grocery and deli.”
Christian continued the tour, as comfortable in the dilapidated building being brought back to life as he was in the Jaguar or the other night in the press conference. As they walked through the building she understood the dress code. The building was old and dusty with construction materials all over the place. At various times Christian would place a gentle yet firm hand on her arm, silently directing her around or away from the potential disaster of a loose floorboard, broken glass, or exposed nail. Caught up in the excitement of Christian and the guys about the first satellite center, Mallory found herself listening not just as a reporter but as a person hearing how much was possible when one person decided to help another, to reach down and lend a hand.
They left the building and headed back to the car. Christian liked to arrive at the arena three hours early. That was the direction Treetop Thomas pointed the car. A couple blocks from the building Treetop Thomas turned right onto a block that had seen better days. Like fifty or so years ago. Crumbling row houses, windows shattered or shot out long ago, covered with gang graffiti–stamped slabs of wood. Overgrown lots. Grass tired of being green, or even alive, sprouting through sidewalks unevenly. In pieces. People hurried along on their way to nowhere. Heads down, expressions drawn, their body language that of “you mind your business, I’ll mind mine.” Mallory looked at them, and the area around them, opened her tablet, and typed one sentence.
