Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  “O-h-h-h . . . I see. And now you want to add a topless club to your list of toys?” Douglass’s jaw was still lowered, in awe of all he’d heard and seen in just one hour.

  “Actually . . . Please, Chuckuma . . .” Chuckuma came over to refill Douglass’s glass of orange juice. “I am spearheading the Buy America campaign. As you are aware, there are billions and billions of dollars in Africa not being put to good use. Buried. Perhaps I am ignorant to even mention amounts, because the reality is that nobody knows the extent of wealth in the motherland. If it’s not diamonds it’s iron ore, if it’s not gold, it’s cocoa, and if it’s not agricultural resources, then it’s oil or gases. Africa is the world’s mightiest land of wealth. Still. The land is limitless in terms of valuation. The lineage of my tribe . . . the Yoruba tribe, is the most powerful tribe in all of Africa. One of substance. We mean more than this itty-bitty President. More than this nation’s so-called Fortune 500, and beyond meaning when it comes to spiritual, or cultural heritage and roots. They have uprooted some of us, but not all. I have come here to the United States not only to invest and to make more money with our money, but I have also come to rescue some of my people who are cowardly, ignorant or either naive to the wealth of life that awaits them in their native homeland.” Douglass wanted to smack himself, feeling that this must be a big dream.

  “So . . . no. It’s not the topless part that impresses me. In my homeland I see topless everyday. It’s natural, and I would never have to pay admission . . .” Fumi looked to his soldiers and they smiled in kind. “I’m really investing in you, Douglass. Even if you thought owning and operating a football or basketball team was profitable or important, I’d support and finance the purchase. It is not the investment, Douglass. It’s you.” Douglass took a long, methodic breath, as if it was his last exhale of headaches and misery . . . as if it was his very first inhale of wealth untold and a lifetime of plenty. His mind was busy with expenditures as he began to satisfy his imagination with images and intents.

  “Chuckuma . . . ola edo.” Fumi mentioned something in the Ebu language. Chuckuma proceeded forthwith, quickly returning with an attache case. It was thin like a paperback dictionary. Fumi laid the attache on the glossy, black coffee table which separated them. He popped the tiny latches and retrieved 2 small, leather pouches from inside. From one pouch he poured a small pile of stones—obviously diamonds. They sparkled like solid formations of spring water. The prisms and definitions were see-through and yet reflective of any evident light. From the other pouch, Fumi poured a separate pile, a larger pile of rocks. They were larger, less defined and quite yellowish. Not as brilliant as the other pile but a greater mass.

  “Diamond class one-oh-one, Douglass. What pile would you prefer if you had your choice? This pile? Or this pile?”

  “Uuuhh . . . I guess, this one.” Douglass was unsure what Fumi was getting at, but predictable nonetheless. He pointed to the brilliant diamonds.

  “Bad choice.”

  “Well, Fumi . . . to tell you the truth, any choice is better than no choice at all.” Douglass laughed to himself.

  “Yes, I see . . . well, what these are,” indicating the larger pile, “are unfinished, uncut diamonds.” Fumi picked up one and let Douglass review it closer. “See, this diamond that you’re holding now has the finished value of this entire pile of polished diamonds over here. It’s a little uglier, but with some finishing and cutting and polishing, it’s worth probably three hundred and seventy thousand dollars.” Douglass suddenly looked harder at the stone, real careful with it now. He quickly realized that the pile which it came from had about 20 others that were just like it.

  “Now, in villages and jungles and on shores in our land, these uncut stones are laying out in the open; they may be a foot below the earth’s surface, or maybe one hundred feet down. But those that walk over them everyday have no need for them. They don’t place a value on diamonds as they do food and clothing, or shoes.”

  “You mean, an African would prefer a pair of Jordans over a stone that could buy them two thousand pairs of Jordans?”

  “Yes, but they have no way of using diamonds, as they do . . . Jordans. Just think about walking down a dangerous street in New York and you are held up at gunpoint just because the man wants your Jordans. You’d give him the Jordans I hope, because at that point in time, your life is more of a priority than some silly sneakers. Well, that is the same issue in our land. The same mentality and priority. Circumstance has a gun to the heads of our people. We are forced to sacrifice the full value of our Jordans—our diamonds—for the mere priority of survival.”

  Boston Post Road: Part One

  Like a nightmare pulled out of a fantasy, Douglass shook from his drowsy state of mind, with two of Fumi’s soldiers waking him, looking around from their seats in the front of the Jeep. He’d fallen asleep on the ride back from The Point and was now in the parked Navigator in the hotel parking lot. When his eyes cleared of film and his mind of haziness, Douglass could see familiar faces leaving the hotel with folders and proposals in hand, discussing details as they headed back to their own parked vehicles.

  “Are you okay, Mista G’more?” One of the escorts was genuinely cordial.

  “Yes, of . . . of course. Thank you.” Douglass leaped to exit the Navigator.

  “Mista G’more. You’re forgetting something.” Douglass looked intuitively back towards the seat and grabbed the small leather pouch. Now he suddenly became lost in time, recalling the details of the mirage. He was to use the uncut diamonds to acquire a construction loan. The rough stones were worth 3 and a half million dollars. At least. The funding source, wherever he went, would give him 3 million with the diamonds as collateral. But he was to use the money in trenches of $250,000 and provide Fumi with detailed reports of his progress. There was a simple handshake that bound their agreement. Fumi merely wanted the principle back, plus whatever percentage Douglass felt was amicable over and above current interest rates. That’s probably the straw that broke the camel’s back; knocked Douglass out cold as soon as the motorcade drove him away from The Point. The rest was up to him. He felt like he needed Fumi’s soldiers when he remembered that the small sack in his possession was worth over 3 million dollars. But he reconciled and asked himself, “Who the hell would think that this pouch was worth 3 million?!”

  Inside the hotel and down in the lobby outside of the ballroom, Douglass could see that his staff was already reviewing fond memories. The scene was nothing short of the exhaustion that resulted from a busy night at Fool’s Paradise. Glasses and balloons scattered about, tables dissembled and chairs everywhere. All at once the family that loved and supported him rose to greet him. That’s when he told himself, If they only knew.

  Sunday night was as tragic as well as it was eventful. While Douglass and his followers celebrated the rest of the evening at Emily’s Restaurant in Harlem, spending enough to invest in the future of that establishment, trouble was brewing in the Bronx. Tony was asleep, snoring on an office couch, with a thin Versace-shaped damsel waking from under him; stressing for breathing room. He’d promised her a job. She couldn’t dance worth a shit, but with a favor provided he’d take her on. Now that the favor was done, she really need to get out from under this pot-bellied fool. A lil’ suck and fuck meant nothing to her; she’d been here before. Now it was time for a shower.

  “Shit! It’s like one in the morning.”

  “Where ya goin’, Sally?”

  “Home to shower, man.” Sally revived the chewing gum that was stale between her cheek and gums. Tony yawned, his thick, cruddy exhale nearly hitting her in her face as she pulled on the street clothes over her nude, frail frame. Tony turned over after watching her one last time and mumbled into the couch.

  “Gimme a call. And use the back door. Make sure you shut it, woman.” Sally didn’t bother responding, and after gathering her things she shot out of the rear door—expecting to catch the very next subway to leave Dyre Avenue—and she slammed
the door behind her. It was partway down the driveway when she was suddenly pushed up against the side of the building.

  “Who are you?” a muffled voice demanded.

  “S . . . Sally . . . I—I’m a—a dancer.”

  “Dancer,” a voice told another.

  “Let ’er go.” Another voice ruled above all. “And don’t you dare turn around. Git.”

  Another voice said, “And don’t even bother coming back. Kapish?”

  Sally feared for her life and balance her stilettos along the graveled driveway until she disappeared down the sidewalk. The crew of arsonists continued their strike, hulking back towards the gas cans they’d put down, back to dousing the perimeter of The Pretty Girl. The fumes were already strong, but the gangsters didn’t care. All six of them were milling about, going for more cans in the pickup truck, completing their orders. Gas was poured and splashed along the base of the building, at every exit and corner. The men kept it up until they could see the drenched walls glistening under the moonlight. Seconds later . . .

  WHOOSH!

  By two in the morning, the group of celebrants was laughing and filing out of Emily’s, headed for the curb where the jeep stood alone. Angus locked the door behind them, ending a night for the Gilmores to remember; a night of good food and fond memories of their struggle. Snow was beginning to trickle down, just encouraging the whole gotta-go attitude. Valerie, Mechelle, Debbie, Dino, Demetrius, Greg, Douglass—all of them filed into the jeep, while Danni got behind the wheel. There was a calm in the vehicle as the ride home inspired deep thought, wide open eyes basking in the amazement of their instant success. Everyone’s mind was on Chicago and the task ahead of them.

  Along I-95, minutes from New Rochelle, Danni recognized a glow in the air. Upon a more focused examination, he realized that this wasn’t a giant candle. A fire was blazing. He woke the others and Douglass insisted that Danni take the exit to investigate.

  As they approached Boston Road, and the intersection near to where Fool’s Paradise once thrived, they fixed their eyes on the events about 100 feet from the intersection.

  The Pretty Girl! Ohmigod!

  There was a police blockade erected to block traffic from turning right towards the activity. A fire truck had apparently just arrived, with men now jetting back and forth around the emergency vehicles in the vicinity. Police were posted about, making use of themselves, while traffic cops stood at various intervals, directing the early morning traffic into U-turns or alternative routes. Meanwhile, the Pretty Girl was blazing like a sky-high birthday candle under the early morning snowfall. While firemen searched for a working hydrant, police stood by and watched the building go up in flames.

  “What are the details, Sam?” Chief Washington was on the scene, all too aware of the infamous popularity of this particular intersection. Fool’s Paradise over there . . . The Dunkin’ Donuts shop over there . . . and so on.

  “Likely an arson, Chief. There’s one gas can in the rear, abandoned just feet from the building. The business isn’t open yet, so there’s no reason for anyone to be inside. Nobody has contact numbers for the owners or any caretakers. So far, unless somebody left the coffeemaker on inside, it looks like an outside job . . . close as I can see to arson.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Nadda one.” The chief went to his vehicle to contact headquarters.

  “Patch me through to . . .” Chief Washington made the emergency call to Wade.

  Wade reached for his ringing phone. “Wade speaking.”

  “Sorry. I just needed your opinion on something. How’s the vacation?”

  “Just groovy so far.”

  “By the way, I’m missing my favorite news anchor lately . . . you know, the one from my favorite evening news program. Any ideas where she might be?”

  “Huhmph . . . ,” Wade laughed under his breath, “. . . no idea, Chief. Okay . . . now I’m awake. What’s up?”

  “It’s a fire. Down here on Boston Post Road.”

  “Don’t tell me. Fool’s Paradise?” Brenda rolled over with her eyes closed in a satisfied warmth, putting her hand to Wade’s bare chest. Snuggling.

  “No. That’s been closed for a couple weeks now.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah . . . S.L.A.’s call. Lost their license. No, this is a spot within view of Fool’s Paradise. On the other side of the intersection. They were building a club here called The Pretty Girl . . .”

  “I know the spot.”

  “Well, it’s nearly destroyed now. Looks like arson. Any ideas?”

  “I’ll sleep on it and get back to you.” Wade hung up his cell and nestled with Brenda’s head in his embrace. His eyes were open, thinking about Douglass’s plans for the new club. The new club was planned for a huge warehouse on the same block, except across the street from where The Pretty Girl was being developed. So much activity in one area. Wade could see why the Chief called him. All he’d have to do was place a call. Not now. Too comfortable with Brenda nude against his body in a South Beach hotel. Tomorrow was another day.

  Douglass breathed a sigh of relief, now confident that the fire was not interfering with his plans for Black Beauty. It was a strange coincidence that it was just across the street from where Black Beauty construction would begin the following week, but he didn’t think much of it.

  Danni made a U-turn to avoid the police activity and they headed back towards I-95. He passed a limousine that sat at the curb, close to the 24-hour Dunkin’ Donuts.

  Inside the limousine, Fat Jimmy was feasting on a half-dozen bag of donuts, washing it down hastily with hot coffee.

  For Fat Jimmy, this was like watching a movie, complete with being visibly nervous, sweating from his receding hairline. He kept the tinted, Plexiglas partition raised so that Bruno wouldn’t detect his hysteria. But Fat Jimmy was caught between a rock and a hard place. He had a meeting set with Tony at 1 AM, but the place was now an orange glow of light. My money. The family’s investment, going up in smoke. Jimmy was shaking ridiculously, and secretly wondering if Tony might be inside. He phoned the club helplessly. Busy signal. He just knew Tony was inside. Incinerated. I just know it! And now, he wasn’t even concerned with Tony’s body as much as he was with facing his boss . . . Anthony, the son of mob boss Chucky Bianco.

  The Black Beauty auditions were about to commence. Every string was pulled and every resource accessed so that this event would blow the roof off the mother. Douglass involved everyone except for Dino, who was all about the construction. It was necessary for Dino to oversee the contractors so that the Black Beauty Manifesto was followed down to the XYZ. Moreover, if there were issues that he couldn’t address, Douglass was a cell phone call away. Included in the Chicago event were Greg’s comrades from Georgetown U.

  All the while, for a week and a half at least, the Fabulous Five had pumped the volume on the audition for aspiring ethnic models and dancers. There was a poster that called for all ages and a website that was constructed as the key ingredient. For $5 (a substantially low photography fee), women and girls would show up in their best outfits. Those over age 18 would take swimsuit and lingerie shots. The best of those in attendance would be placed on the website with creative graphics and their biographies for about a year, until the next audition came around. Essentially, the website would serve as a black model’s gallery where fashion photographers, video producers and even film directors could review images for selection and potential work. Those that were not selected would receive a set of photos from their audition and a note of appreciation. Meanwhile, everybody would be happy. Black Beauty International would be the catalyst and also have first pick of those future candidates who might be interested in dancing at the new Black Beauty. There were brochures made to match the posters and distributed to beauty salons throughout the area. Radio interviews were conducted, and Valerie, Debbie and Mechelle filled in as spokeswomen for the search. The hotel Marriot posted the Black Beauty Search on their marquee and news coverage was a
rranged for the big day.

  On Wednesday morning, the 8:30 flight from New York arrived with the entire entourage at O’Hare Airport in Chicago. All twelve members zipped through the terminal, and after a quick stop at baggage claim, they headed straight for a minivan that stood outside in the passenger pick-up zone. A hired driver took the group down the expressway towards downtown Chicago to the Center City Marriot. As the bus approached, everyone admired the tall buildings and ritzy atmosphere. Basketball was in the air, an energy that Chicago thrived on. But no time for that since bigger and more personal agendas were in store for the event organizers. There was one day until a city’s worth of black beauties would converge on Center City, into the waiting arms of one hungry, well-financed entrepreneur.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Chi-Town:Part 2

  “I have a funny feeling about tomorrow, Greg.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “Let’s just say a good problem. I expect that we will get just what we asked for. Maybe a thousand bodies. Maybe two.” Douglass and Greg were alone, watching the glow move from one number to the next, as their elevator car rose upward. The hotel manager had just briefed the two about the excitement which the Black Beauty Day campaign generated. Phone calls. Visits. More visits. Some women showed up on the day they heard the announcement instead of waiting for the date that was advertised. One parent was so irate, she phoned the Better Business Bureau and they in turn phoned the hotel for more details about the who, the what, the where and the why. Always gonna be a mom who’s a wannabe, Douglass thought.

  “We can handle it. Our team is smooth. Remember . . . Team Gilmore!” Greg was being facetious, but Douglass was seriously tightlipped. “Besides . . . you’ve done bigger events by yourself.”