Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  Douglass strolled affirmatively in a back hallway, peeking though a window now and then to get a feel. In moments he’d have to face them all and put it down. He’d have to motivate that money until it wiggled out of their pockets and purses, right into his hands. His attitude was determined, and he was convinced that every one of those individuals in the ballroom were born educated and successful for the sole purpose of investing in his new club, Gilmore’s Black Beauty. Douglass was committed to making it happen.

  Through a portal window in the swinging door, Douglass thought he’d recognized some faces in the crowd.

  “Should we keep it on steady record or use the voice-activated mode?” Hammer and Walsh were in the ballroom, trying their best to be undercover. Walsh had an uncharacteristic pair of horn-rimmed glasses on, a pair of jeans and a V-neck velour pullover sweater. Hammer wore a pair of blue and white Nike sweats with matching kicks. He was fiddling with a miniature tape recorder, a fresh cassette tape. He operated as though he was racing to beat out a deadline.

  “Keep it on steady, Hammer. We don’t want to miss anything . . . hey—there he is.” Walsh nodded towards the extreme left of the room.

  The ballroom was diverse with many white, black and Arab men and women sprinkled throughout. One or two Asians stood out, obviously outnumbered. Greg expected this and was prepared. Hostesses gave special attention to those members of the audience who seemed out of place. One particular table had a team of darker black men, dressed in distinguishing African fashions, head wraps and all. At first sight it looked so obvious that it could have been a gag—costumed men that arrived at the wrong event. But as Douglass stepped out into the ballroom, ignoring the theme of eyes that evaluated him, he realized that his eyes did not deceive him. He circled to the “African” table and approached the rear of the room with a warm smile.

  “Fumi.”

  Old Friends, Long Money

  “Mista G’more.” Douglass was at a sudden loss for words. He had not seen the Nigerian since he was draped in torn army threads back at Passaic County Jail and they barely got to say goodbye when the feds snatched Douglass up out of there. And then there was that damned statement about the universe bringing them together . . . to think that actually worked! Fumi suddenly looked shorter with his generous, squinting, smiling eyes and his humble, wide grin. Yet he appeared more powerful now with the support of his entourage of other Nigerian men behind him. Within seconds the two were in the hallway outside of the ballroom, summaries about their trials and tribulations, post-Passaic. Fumi’s team of Africans (6 in all), stood nearby, posting like soldiers in all-black corduroy, safari outfits. It was now 12 noon and Douglass could see Greg vying for his attention. To the side of Greg, Demetrius, Dino and Danni waited and wondered what was going on.

  “G’more . . . you know you have shown me your plan long ago . . . and I would not be surprised if you have improved and fine-tuned it to the best of your ability. But, now that I have been called here, regardless of the ad in the Wall Street Journal, I recognize my purpose, my friend . . .”

  —Fumi placed his hand up on Douglass’s shoulder—

  “. . . You have my support. I’m looking forward to investing in your project. But, more than that, I am more interested in investing in you. I want to help you.” Douglass was hearing, but not truly listening. His eyes were on his own team of soldiers standing by.

  “. . . Okay, I’ve got to go and do this presenta—what?” Douglass was so busy with his thoughts that Fumi’s commitment was almost ignored.

  “I said . . . I will invest in your project. I have already seen indications of your resilience, Douglass. And that is all I need to see—and I want to be first to commit. How much did you say you would need?”

  “Oh . . . uh . . . t-two million.” Douglass was falling apart inside, and the emotion rose into a stutter, but he held out from collapsing there in the lobby.

  “Okay, Douglass. Consider it done. And there is much more where dat came from.” Douglass was seduced by Fumi’s soft, affirmative tone—the voice he spent months with in jail. Fumi inspired his confidence there on the inside; and now, he was doing it again on the outside. Fumi’s expression didn’t crack in the least. He was intent and sincere as though it was not to be questioned. He stood a foot or so shorter than Douglass, but his affirmations were as tall as any monument. Douglass curled his forefinger at Greg. Greg rushed over with Demetrius, who was steadfastly awaiting directions, while Dino remained still, keeping an eye on the actions of everyone. He found it hard to trust anyone.

  “Greg . . . run with it,” said Douglass.

  “Okay. You ready?”

  “Greg . . . take a deep breath. You know my presentation back to front. We’ve rehearsed it together in Florida and here in New York. Handle it for me.”

  “What’s wrong, why aren’t . . .”

  “Greg—” Douglass cut him off. “—Think about it this way . . . the only reason that we’re going through with this presentation—?”

  Douglass looked at his friend Fumi.

  “—is so we don’t get sued for wasting people’s time.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Greg held a frazzled expression. Douglass put both hands tightly on Greg’s shoulders and smiled.

  “Because we already have the money, Greg. Greg, meet Fumi. Fumi, meet Greg, my right-hand man.” Now, Dino and Demetrius were shaking hands with Fumi’s men and everyone was getting all buddy-buddy. The group of black men had swollen to a dozen, and just about everyone in the room was looking in their direction.

  Greg was ever more charged with excitement, ready to begin the presentation before the curious audience. He pivoted and stepped past Demetrius and Dino.

  “Fellas?” Douglass didn’t say any more (and a slight tilt of his head), and the two immediately followed Greg towards the platform at the front of the ballroom.

  “Please . . . come wi’ me, Mista G’more.” Fumi and his ever-distinguishable Nigerian dialect and smooth gestures were infectious, almost controlling Douglass’s senses as would a puppet-master.

  “Danni, I’ll be a minute.” And now Danni stepped away.

  While Greg called the audience to attention, Douglass was escorted into one of two hotel elevators. They rose one level and exited through the rear entrance of the building. As they proceeded through the glass doors, the men converged on a trio of shiny, black Navigators. Douglass was thinking how everybody must like these trucks as he followed Fumi into the rear door of the center vehicle. The door was closed behind them and remaining soldiers paired off into the front seats of each Navigator. Fumi mentioned a few words in his native Yoruban tongue and the driver picked up his 2-way radio mic from a tray between the seats to repeat the directives to the driver in the lead truck. Douglass nearly melted into the soft leather seat, no choice but to face the televisions in the headrests and other generous electronics in the trunk. The back of the jeep, the walls, the panel overhead, and the console that divided the two back-seat passengers, were loaded with luxuries. Temperature controls, stereo with CD changer, the global satellite hook-up, 3 separate mobile phones, a fax machine and a laptop computer that could swivel from a back panel of the driver’s seat.

  “How did you expect us to travel, by camel?” Fumi was replying to Douglass’s amazement as the younger of the two had to rub his eyes, wondering what the hell he just got himself into. Is Fumi a CIA operative or some shit? Douglass now craved to know the truth.

  “. . . So to answer your question, no. I’m not with the CIA and I’m not an Ambassador. I am an African prince. One of thirteen hundred grandsons. We are all Princes working towards becoming king of the Yoruban Tribe. Our accomplishments, contributions to our land, to our people and our determination is what separates a prince by birthright from a prince in power. I too am working towards becoming King.” Douglass allowed his eyes to wander dramatically.

  “Well, you’re doing a pretty good job, if I do say so myself.” Fumi extended a generous smile as the c
aravan headed south on Route 1.

  “By your standards here in America, this may all seem like accomplishment. But this is not new to my people. Our family has treasures and wealth untold. Much of it is buried and protected from the outside forces of the world; forces that are planning and plotting to rape our land. Some of it has been awarded to us by elders who want to see us do good in the world and to build on our family’s accomplishments. We are a truly powerful people, Douglass.” Fumi held a discerning gaze. Again, his confidence glimmered like the spark in his eye. “I’m simply an African man who has come to the states for prize investments. The only reason this government trapped me was because of red flags I must have raised during my spending spree . . .”

  “Spending spree?”

  “Yes, Douglass . . . it’s called our Buy America campaign. I’ll tell you more about that later. But you must at once know that my efforts in this country are all admirable. I’ve paid sales tax and property tax on all of our purchases. I’ve invested millions into sound businesses with respectable terms, yet certain adversaries . . . and we’d like to recognize them as jealous men . . . have been misleading to the courts. I am not a criminal. I am a man of honor. However, I believe that if you have dark skin in America, you cannot escape the hatred that is still deep in the soul you are born with. You are presumed guilty, and you must work your way up from there. However, to see true criminals, all one needs to do is to look at the history of this country. They have killed tens of millions of my people . . . your people . . . the very first people on this earth, just in order to fulfill their own wrath. They’ve slaughtered us. Suffocated us. We have been severely punished. Before the white man came to Africa, we were the world’s superpower, with the wealth of human resources and the wealth of spiritual resources. Today, they have left us scrambling . . . killing one another for our own natural resources. They’ve massacred many millions of our people, leaving our natural resources, our human resources and our spirits in shambles . . . and they still smile in our faces. The culture and the unity that was once our sacred formula is now what keeps us apart. My land is breaking apart because of an internationally sanctioned rape and a lingering condition of dementia. The world owes Africa a tremendous debt.” Douglass felt a tightening in his chest and some guilt for his complacent American dreams.

  The lead Navigator turned right off of Route 1, only a few miles from the Ramada, and headed past a sign. “THE POINT. NO TRESPASSING.” The vehicles weaved down a two-lane drive, approaching a giant iron gate with a small shed set out front on the median. As the short line of trucks got closer, the watchman inside of the shed stood up and investigated the procession through his pane-glass window. The guard’s demeanor swiftly adjusted from inquiry to humility once he’d recognized who was coming through. Accordingly, he activated the gate to electronically open so that it wouldn’t slow the progress of Prince Fumi. He waved, half salute, and the convoy of vehicles glided past in as-usual fashion. Once the vehicle reached a clearing, breezing out from under the marvelous canopy of oak trees to the left and right of the road, the bright daylight swept the entourage into a breathtaking panorama. Expertly landscaped, the road was lined with foot-high rose bushes. The bulbs were tiny and a thrill to see in full blossom. Outside of that, the road was surrounded by the Long Island Sound, making it seem as though they were sliding across the water’s surface. The tract of land stretched out to a cape where a large home was positioned at the end of the road on a small island. The closer they came, the larger it grew. From a quarter-mile away, the house reflected the sun and created the image of a round, symmetrical diamond, surrounded by a pristine blanket of grass, a gallery of colorful flowers and the calm waters of the Long Island Sound. The group rolled up a circular driveway and stopped just short of the entryway to the residence.

  “Welcome to The Point, Douglass.” Fumi’s eyes shined in a knowing way. And Douglass bought into the feeling, with no choice but to smile at it all. He could see evidence of New Rochelle in the distance. There was Hudson Park, Glen Island and a theme of private beaches spaced between the public ones. Further back, up on a crest, was the Wildcliff Historical Arts Center. Many boats were docked or covered, out of season. Although the attractions were a couple of miles of water away, the difference between where he lived and where he stood now (outside from distance) was the same separation of studio thinking versus the mansion mind. The home itself was a marvel to look at, something like a habitat of rustic, cultural flavor, pleasantly trapped inside of a crisp and nearly transparent architectural masterpiece. Yes, it was fanciful like a castle, but in a post-millennium sort of way. Douglass guessed that there were close to 15 acres of island or better. The architecture was its centerpiece, like a jewel set on top of a green velour pillow, yet composed of glass and steel, sweeping rooftops projecting the notion of a circular fortress. The men left their vehicles and flowed towards the pavilion which shaded an open, arched underpass. The passage was like a short tunnel, aligned with fern trees, and the walk was layered with the authenticity of cobblestone. After passing through, Douglass realized that the walk-through led into an open courtyard. In the center was a pond with an active fountain at its core. Inside of that, elevated on a hill of stones, there was a glistening, black-iron, oversized statue of an African woman balancing a basket on her head. Fumi could see that the masterpiece captured the attention of his guest.

  “That represents the burden of all the black women. They carried before slavery, during slavery and still today, after slavery is said to be abolished.”

  The house with its various sections enclosed the courtyard and the pond with floor-to-ceiling picture windows, two levels of them. Circling the pond and the centerpiece, the group moved towards the far end of the courtyard and an entrance distinguished by two massive doors. They were black and looked heavy on sight; perhaps balance precisely, these were the kind of doors you could fit a grand piano through without dissembling it. As they approached, the doors were opened as if calculated by someone within; a man in white safari corduroys.

  “Good day, sir.” Douglass recognized the vibrating voice, the respect and personality as a constant amongst his fellow Africans.

  “Thank you, Chuckuma.” And they proceeded on a grand tour. The estate was indeed roomy, bursting with high ceilings, beams, skylights and windows galore. The halls were marble, and when they weren’t, there was absorbent carpet that slowed each footstep. There was dramatic accent lighting at every turn, and also directed towards limestone lifelike statues near each doorway, as though each open room had its own gothic security. White walls were adorned with endearing paintings of African Kings. There must’ve been a hundred of them positioned at various ascents and balconies. The home was cleverly modern . . . almost cosmopolitan, but with gratuitous amounts of indoor palms, plants and wild flowers. A horticultural free spirit ran wild through every hallway and balcony.

  Douglass was captivated by a soft rumble of drums that streamed throughout the house. Radical! And cultural, too, just like the colors of deep brown couches, black throw pillows, black sofas and ivory chairs. Kente references draped about. Interior and exterior views were unobstructed. Incense was mild and reminiscent of herbs and wildlife. There were even gardens indoors along the hallway floors, with floodlights plotted close to the replanted, towering trees which reached towards the ceilings. And then, to virtually create endless withdrawal from the outside world, the home was sophisticated. While it was simple, lofty, comfortable and quiet, with every bit of furniture sculptured and relevant to the motherland, the residence also had its neat hooks. There was a large breakfast room at the east side of the home, offering a view of an endless sound. There were a few winding stairways; one was the larger in the entrance hall, complete with a spectacular gallery of legendary jazz singers to entertain the climb. Finally, the gardens, the underground game room, tennis and basketball courts, indoor/outdoor swimming pool and a pool house with sauna and jacuzzi left little to the imagination, isolating and insul
ating everything from the jaws of the outside world. And still there was more.

  A private movie viewing room was created according to Fumi’s specific tastes. A giant 100-inch screen, framed by red velvet curtains. Harlem Renaissance-style woodwork with gold-emblazoned trim. The plush, black carpet ran wall-to-wall. In the corner of the theater room was a concession stand, just like the big theaters, stocked with Now-or-Laters, Juicy Fruit, Doublemint and Big Red gum, Hershey’s Kisses, Jolly Ranchers, and Sugar Daddy caramel pops. In an adjacent corner sat an old-fashioned popcorn machine. A music system was wired for each room in the house. In the master bedroom, filled with panoramic water views, there were three 5-foot panel displays, situated in a semi-oval across from the king-sized bed. Other audio-video components were inset behind a sliding glass panel in the wall. They included a high-end, digital satellite music system, a digital video disc player, a satellite system, and a voice-operated personal computer. Commands to the PC were picked up by microphones in the headboard and deciphered by voice recognition software, to be viewed on any of the 3 monitors. Besides access to the Internet, voice commands also controlled air heating and cooling systems, security, video phone and a telecommunications network. Every instant that Douglass blinked seemed to bring forth another amenity to tell of. He wanted to explode when Fumi told him the price was only 20 million.

  Only?

  However, in their ensuing conversation, as the men all reclined in the sunken living room with a fire blazing near to them, Douglass soon realized who he was associating with. Fumi made it all too clear; living, breathing and now speaking up to the status as one of Africa’s most aspiring diamond mine owners. Now, Douglass could see that the home in all of its magnificence befitted, but barely caught up to, a man in his 40’s who had already amassed profits of three hundred million in the past year alone, with various investments in the United States. Moreover, Fumi had recently purchased 187 fast food restaurants, several exclusive sports cars, and 4 Gulf Stream jets.