Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  Valerie hopped up into the jeep and reached over to pull the lever, unlocking the driver’s door. She crossed her legs and rested her hands in her lap. The split in her black dress was open to all but her upper thigh.

  As David eased out of the parking space, Valerie reached up to the visor, pulled it down and checked her makeup in the mirror.

  “So where to?” Valerie was direct as she toyed with her eyelashes, using the tip of her pinky’s nail to correct things.

  “Well . . . any ideas?” David was being cautious, but he was also throwing the ball back over the net to Valerie. However, she wasn’t for games.

  “You could take me home. I do have a long day tomorrow. Laundry. Errands and stuff.” She waited for the typical beggar’s reply. She got none.

  “Okay, great.” David was reserved and polite. Not expecting. This threw Valerie off. Almost like he was going with the plan; her playing hard to get.

  It was close to midnight and the quiet storm was well into its ritual of all-night-long slow jams. A half moon reflected a bright, unharnessed glow on the hood of David’s jeep. Except for a Tevin Campbell song soothing the air, it was tight in the jeep; a silence between the two. David was being casual, while Valerie was becoming more frustrated with each passing traffic light. She tried recrossing her legs. She tried to doze off. None of that was working.

  David couldn’t miss Valerie’s legs. Her defined, naked calves and the perfume that lingered about her were doing a good enough job exciting him, causing him to grow partially stiff.

  “David, you’re not upset or anything, are you?”

  “No—why would you say that?”

  “It’s just that I don’t usually mix business and pleasure. I try and keep the club and my private life separate,” said Valerie, expecting a response.

  “Okay . . . and?” he asked, looking for her to elaborate.

  “Well, I . . . damn, David! What happened?” asked Valerie, needing to release some suppressed anxiety. “I thought you wanted me? What are you, fuckin’ gay?” Valerie found it hard to break her proper Caribbean demeanor, but he pushed her to the edge.

  David’s ego was on blast, but he kept from smiling, thinking, Now she’s mine.

  “Hey, easy, baby. Of course I want you. But I want this to be right. I want just what you want. Nothing more, nothing less. Don’t take me for a customer. I’m not just another John.”

  “Well, I’m not just another . . . I mean, I’m not a ho. You know what I mean? I know you do.” Valerie was stumbling. Stuttering. It was unlike her. She couldn’t . . . wouldn’t admit it, but she was horny.

  “I know. I know,” David said as he zipped up the Major Deegan Expressway to the 233rd Street exit in the Bronx. Along 233rd Street and up to White Plains Road, closer to her address, Valerie seemed to be getting desperate. Maybe she would fuck David. Maybe, one day. At least he could show her that he was still interested. That she didn’t turn him off. At least he’d shown her something besides dick. Valerie wanted so much to affirm her ability to have a relationship with a black man. But, it had to be right. It had been almost 2 years since she left Canada and Richard.

  Oh, why did I have to think of him?

  David pulled up to a double parked position outside of Valerie’s place. She was now renting a room in a private home on Paulding Avenue. Finally on her own, she graduated and learned. First, Mrs. Brown-White. Then Josh, the obsessed, Radio Shack cashier who thought he owned her. And now she was in a semi-private situation. A basement apartment where she didn’t mind sharing the bathroom and kitchen. The price of freedom, she reconciled.

  It came time to say goodbye and to thank David. But she didn’t want to go there just yet.

  “Come in. See how I’m livin’.”

  “Well, I don’t know, Valerie. Are you sure?”

  “Are you sure?” she asked. But David didn’t dare read between the lines on that comment. He dismissed it as “cute” and turned on his jeep’s hazard lights to follow her inside. The two stepped along the walkway, around the side of the house, up to a doorway under a halogen lamp. Meanwhile, out of the couple’s view, a rented Caprice rolled up to double park a few houses away. The headlights blinked off and the motor went dead, but nobody got out of the vehicle. Not yet, anyway

  “. . . And this is my sister, Beverly, and my brother, Jason.” Valerie was pointing to her set of photos that stood in miniature plastic frames, all positioned in a small semi-circle.

  David took account of Valerie’s humble living quarters. A simple twin-sized bed. A small, movable wardrobe. A new 19” television, a VCR and a clock radio. There was a dresser with four drawers. On top was where she kept her photos, jewelry and makeup. A foot-high mirror was propped up on the dresser, against the wall. The entire room wasn’t more than 40 square feet painted in an off-green color. A high window close to the ceiling offered a rectangular view of the fence where the walkway crossed. With the plants and shrubs just outside the window, a clean view didn’t seem possible.

  But indeed, with the lights on in the basement, someone could see inside. And indeed someone was on hands and knees, looking on with angry eyes. The two were on center stage and didn’t know it. The Peeping Tom could see every slick maneuver and expression that Valerie’s visitor made; how he worked his way up behind her, draping his arms around her waist. Valerie didn’t flinch, but instead molded instinctively and comfortable in his embrace. He was gliding his nose against the crook at Valerie’s bare neck and shoulders . . . he was raising his embrace to just below her breasts. The onlooker disappeared from the window once the light switch was flipped off.

  A moment later, there was a loud sound of broken glass, then a police-like car alarm. The double-parked Caprice immediately raced away without being detected.

  With his shirt half unbuttoned, David emerged from the side entrance of the house, expecting a confrontation. He ran up to his jeep, with its headlights flashing on and off. The alarm still blaring along with the foghorn on the truck. Someone had smashed the rear window with a stone.

  “Shit!” David stood outside for a few minutes evaluating the damage. Steaming. Valerie came out and stood beside him helplessly. David thought of any immediate enemies, because vandals would have taken his $1,500 sound system and amps. But that was all still there. He wondered what woman he may have ticked off. Was it Debbie? Was it Moet? Maybe it was Sadie or Cinnamon? He walked Valerie back to the entrance, deliberating. Wondering. He gave her a brief kiss goodbye. She felt offended by the brisk show of emotion. But she’d have to understand.

  Valerie was left with that strange, relieved feeling; somehow glad that there was no real collateral interest in David. By now, she was at least positive that a black man (even if he was high yellow) would still pursue her. And off he went, probably to some 24-hour auto glass repair shop. Nothing lost, nothing gained.

  Caged

  Douglass thought about Mechelle for most of his flight back to New York. He also imagined how he would approach his father with his proposal to buy the club. Investors, meetings, and a firm handshake consumed his thoughts when Mechelle wasn’t on his mind. The images volleyed inside of his head like a tennis match. Sex. Money. If it wasn’t the club on his mind, it was Mechelle’s famous onion dip blow job. If he wasn’t thinking about the club and new dancers with perfect bodies and brilliant attitudes, then it was Mechelle and her want for commitment. The club, with palm trees, waterfalls and a new snack bar. Mechelle, and making babies; lots of them. The club, and celebrity memorabilia in glass frames, Kente paneling and a brand new staff. Douglass’s mind raced back and forth while his head was jerking, synchronized with his rapid eye movement. He jolted when the stewardess tapped his wrist, warning him about the plane landing and that he needed to fasten his seat belt.

  Once the plane parked at LaGuardia, the fluttering and turbulence in the cabin brought Douglass back to reality, his nerves ambitious to reach solid ground.

  Home, he thought. And his eyes eventually focused
on the here and now. Douglass defied the STAY SEATED lights, despite all the warnings the stewardess mentioned earlier, and he reached up to retrieve his shoulder bag, knowing that most of the passengers would be competing to get off the plane ahead of others.

  So impatient, he thought selfishly. Douglass, no less, the pot calling the kettle black.

  As the airplane made its hissing sounds, Douglass weaved through other passengers as if he was a ballerina spinning, dodging and rushing with a football into the end zone. All the while, he vowed to himself that the next flight has to be first class! Down the aisle, past startled airline attendants and through the exit, Douglass stepped quick and steadfast towards the opening to the terminal where Mechelle would be waiting. It was a great trip. A chance to see his mother and sisters. A chance to get a grip on himself and to take in the west coast climate. The music on Douglass’s earphones was appropriate for his pace, flooding his ears and senses with the mood setting transitions of jazz. He had mixed a special tape just for the trip and side B was playing now, with Herb Albert’s Rise just finishing and fading into Grover’s Mr. Magic. This was just the right rhythm for his attitude, because in a moment or two he was about to perform the actions that he reviewed in his dreams so many times while he was away. He’d run up to Mechelle, and she’d run to him. He’d clench her hips and waist with a firm grip, lift her up, spin around once and then lower her to his magnetic kiss.

  There she was! The fantasy was beginning to play itself out as Mechelle was one of the first to be waiting for passengers to enter the terminal. She had those tight green shorts on that he liked so much. And by that look in her eyes, he’d bet his last dollar that she was going along with his wishes—

  “Don’t wear any panties, either. Cuz, when I get back, I’mma tear that pussy up!” That was what Douglass growled into the telephone when last the two spoke. “I want you to be ready for anything,” he told her.

  Douglass took that deep breath and exhaled the tensions from the flight—all of those ideas tossing around in his head. It was the way Mechelle looked right now; to be so willing and waiting for him, standing there in her white blouse and matching baseball cap that was turned to the rear and on an angle. Mechelle stood all of 5 feet tall, and although she was considered short for a woman, she was just right for Douglass; all buxom delicious in her white Nike sneakers. One of her legs was slightly bent so that she was posing, and her hands were stuffed in her back pockets to allow that full frontal view—his prize catch, all stretched out and perky; fine like creamy, molten chocolate that he suddenly wanted to devour right there in public. So fine, in fact, that Douglass was proud of himself for finding her. And as he got close enough to grab her he was beyond considering a commitment; instead, he was ready to pop the big question at this very instant.

  With his shoulder bag strapped securely across his torso, the wire from his headset swinging aimlessly, Douglass reached out to Mechelle for that welcome-home hug he so anticipated. Just then, two bystanders—one with shades, one without—stepped in between the two before they could touch. One pulled a shiny billfold out and flipped it open, stretched out close to Douglass’s nose. Mechelle’s giant smile suddenly turned to a distraught gasp. The other bystander pulled his blazer to the side, brandishing his badge and holstered pistol.

  “Mr. Gilmore, this is Agent Walsh and I’m Agent Hammer with the FBI. You’re under arrest. Please step aside . . .” The two agents moved towards a side wall, deliberately cradling Douglass’s elbows so that he had no choice. Another female agent with blond hair stood by Mechelle to be sure that she didn’t interfere. Mechelle was frantic with her expressions, but temperate in her actions. Loudly, she addressed the ambush.

  “What’s goin’ on here? Hey! Where are you takin’ him?” Mechelle tried to move past the blond agent, but she blocked the move and opened her blazer to brandish a holstered weapon. Other passengers were passing through now, sidestepping the arrest and keeping that shameful hush amongst themselves, somehow embarrassed for Douglass.

  Hammer and Walsh didn’t need to use force under the circumstances. There was plenty of airport security around. And besides, Douglass did not resist, even if he was arguing.

  “What’s this about? Hey! Why the handcuffs? What did I do?”

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Nadine Butler . . .”

  “Nadine who? I don’t even know anybody named Nadine! Y’all are outta your fuckin’ minds!”

  “You have the right to remain silent . . . if you . . .” Agent Walsh went over his Miranda Rights while Hammer secured the cuffs on both wrists, his elbow slightly pressed into Douglass’s spine. Douglass stood still, his cheek against the wall, watching fellow passengers and their expressions. Some of them were shocked and paranoid, veering to a wider distance. Others shook their heads as if they expected this of him—more or less wishing this on him; as if he was that speeding car who passed them, only to be flagged and chased down by the state troopers.

  The blond agent tried to calm Mechelle, but Mechelle was having a fit. Eventually, she directed questions to Douglass. The passengers were all but emptied from the corridor now, leaving a group of uniformed stewardesses and pilots who stepped in unison from the ramp.

  “Douglass, what should I do?”

  “Just relax, baby. This is all bullshit. Don’t get upset. Just go home and relax. I can handle everything. Tell my father what happened. Otherwise, I’ll be fine. Wait for my call.” Douglass threw Mechelle a kiss with his lips only, and he was escorted down a service corridor of the terminal. Mechelle was left outside of the swinging doors, looking through a plate of glass window that she’d rather kick in.

  Meanwhile, the agents brought their prisoner through a series of doors and passageways until they reached a blue Chevy Caprice sedan that had a clean, but dull, appearance. Hammer helped Douglass into the back and the blond sat behind the wheel. Walsh was in the passenger seat, with his upper body twisted so that he sat facing the back seat. He began to ask Douglass some questions, but he got a sarcastic grimace in response. Douglass remained silent in light of this nightmare, and he didn’t want to help these agents in the least. Even under the circumstances, he was able to find patience enough to wait and see a lawyer, judge or some other authority.

  As the Chevy zipped along, an agent explored Douglass’s belongings. Pen and pad handy, he recorded cell phone numbers, license and bank card numbers. Watching every activity, no matter how simple, Douglass kept a blank look on his face. A few moments later, the agent named Walsh motioned to the lady agent to pull over. She did so, and the vehicle sat on the service lane of the expressway. The agents each got out and met at the rear of the vehicle. Someone raised the trunk, shielding view of their conversation. Douglass could see through the narrow space at the bottom of the rear windshield. Walsh was doing most of the talking, while the other two agents looked on obediently. When they returned to their seats, all eyes were on their prisoner. Walsh leaned over into the back seat as if he had revealing news.

  “Okay, Mr. Gilmore. Here’s the situation. We’re bringing you to New Jersey for holding. That’s where our office is, and that’s where this case will be tried. Now, you can make this difficult, or you can make this easy on yourself. If we bring you to New Jersey, we must extradite you from New York. That means we would have to process you here in New York. Manhattan. That could take a number of days, a magistrate and an extradition proceeding. That’s the difficult way. The easy way is, you can sign this waiver . . .”

  —Walsh produced a printed form and whipped it in front of Douglass’s face—

  “. . . which will put it in front of a judge today, and you may be able to get bail by five PM.” Walsh looked at his watch as if he was timing Douglass, or rushing him. To Douglass, the watch looked overdone, one of those with about 50 features more than necessary.

  “It’s twelve noon now. We have just enough time to process you and get you before a magistrate.” Douglass considered the situation.

>   “Whatever . . .” He looked over the form and twisted his face, misunderstanding much of it. “. . . what does this mean?” Douglass pointed to a clause with his nose, something about waiving his rights. Agent Walsh snatched the sheet from Douglass.

  “Okay . . . problem. Take him to Manhattan,” Walsh ordered the lady agent like a general.

  “No . . . no—alright. I’ll sign it. . . . I said I’ll sign it.” Douglass felt pressured, but he made the plea so he could get through whatever procedure and get back home to Mechelle. It was a sleepless flight from Cali, and now, it was likely to be a long afternoon in custody. Douglass closed his eyes, knowing that this was some joke. Somebody had to correct this mess. He was sure things—

  A murder? Nadine Butler? Who’s that?

  Tucked Away

  The trip to New Jersey was a relatively quick one. The feds acted as if they were on a chase, speeding like a gush of wind on the throughway, jetting through toll booths without obligation and plowing forward like some God-Almighty force that intimidated other drivers into moving out of the way or pulling aside.

  The agents raced back to their home base in Newark, and once they made the transition from the throughway to the busy streets, the same high speed was exercised, only now in spurts between major intersections. Douglass began to feel like a diplomat in a motorcade, or even a controversial rap star escaping gunfire. He tried to close his eyes and imagine why, what and how. Perhaps this was just a nightmare and these were really expensive bracelets (and not handcuffs) on his wrists? Was this a bad dream?

  Nadine who? Douglass still couldn’t put two and two together. Next to a massive postal building (obvious by the fleet of white trucks on the street and lot) there was an even bigger building labeled as the Martin Luther King Hall of Justice. Douglass huffed under his breath, thinking, sure . . . what a laugh. Martin’s masterminding this? But at the same time he was thinking that Martin’s name in the hands of the enemy was the worst contradiction.