Riddles

by Rhonda Crowder

  The evening initially moved along with no problems. This time, his mother seemed interested in learning about me, appearing quite impressed with my academic success, choice of major and intern experience at the High Museum of Art. She did however maintain her snobbish demeanor. Then, just as we finished eating the main course, the butler walked in and bent down to whisper in Mr. Jones’ ear. Emerson’s father politely excused himself then stepped away from the table to exit the room. Everyone looked around and resumed eating their meals.

  For some reason, I started to feel a little uneasy. “Is everything okay?” I whispered to Emerson.

  “I hope so,” he said. “I’m about ready to make the announcement.”

  “I need to use the restroom,” I stated, practically ignoring his last words.

  “Down the hall. Third door on the left,” he instructed. I removed my napkin from my lap and politely excused myself and followed Emerson’s directions. As I walked the corridor, I overheard a muffled conversation between two men. The closer I got to the slightly opened door, the clearer the dialogue became. I peeked through the crack.

  “Remember what happened to my Sharon!” said. the guest. “She ran off with that low-life. Those people will be the death of our race. Do you want your family to be among the first to go? Like mine? You grow to be a lonely old man. Here’s your proof.” He gave a matter-of-fact stare as he handed him an envelope.

  I looked around then continued to listen.

  “I’ve lost both, my daughter and my son, to niggas.”

  “Judge-” Emerson’s father said before being cut off.

  “Not the white man. Niggas, son. Niggas. We both know there are two kinds of Black people.” The room became silent.

  I heard some footsteps, so I hurried off toward the bathroom, wondering what that conversation could be about. But, the several glasses of water I drank before dinner to help calm my nerves started doing a number on me. I finished up, and as I lathered my hands, I glanced into the vanity mirror.

  Is this all a dream? I thought. Can I really have this kind of life?

  I returned to the dining room and hoped they had ended their conversations so I wouldn’t be tempted to listen any further. Luckily, they’d concluded. The door remained ajar so when I passed by, I glanced into the room. My eyes met those of a gentleman. I took a mental snapshot of him and registered the image just before he tilted his nose toward the air then turned his body to the window. My stomach flipped so I hurried back to my seat. Just as I entered, the butler had cleared the table and served dessert.

  Emerson stood then reached out his hand for me to join him.

  “What are you doing, son?” his father said. I looked at him, thinking he was about to tell them of the pregnancy. Emerson continued.

  “I love Chyne and I want to confess my feelings before my family and before God.”

  I looked confused as I stood there, watching him lower himself to one knee.

  “Son! No . . .” his father said. Emerson paused. “You can’t!”

  “Why not?” Emerson questioned. He stood.

  “She’s . . .” Mr. Jones stumbled over his words as his wife and daughters looked confused.

  “Give me one good reason why,” Emerson demanded.

  Mr. Jones hesitated them looked at me with disappointing eyes. “She’s a stripper,” he blurted. “That’s why.” His voice escalated as he stood to his feet. “You are not about to marry and bring some shake dancer into this family.”

  The moment seemed like a scene from a movie. Everyone at the table, including me, glared with mouths open except his mother. She remained silent, her face stern. It was if she had known something was amiss about me, and she wasn’t surprised.

  Emerson spoke to his father without ever taking his eyes off of me. “What are you talking about, Dad?” he asked.

  Everyone turned to his father who reached in his sport coat pocket and removed a plastic card. My heart hit the floor hard. He placed my valid, police issued, work permit on the table and pushed it in front of his son. With my face on the front, plain as plaid, I watched as Emerson mentally processed it all.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The sound of Tory’s ringtone broke my concentration. My eyes squinted as I moved them away from the screen. Except for the light from my monitor, darkness consumed the room. I managed to answer the phone before the voicemail picked up.

  “Hey girl! What’s up?” she asked.

  “Nothing much,” I responded while adjusting my vision. I hadn’t told anyone, absolutely no one, about my book. It had become my secret hobby. And after visiting it again, I even decided against telling Tory about my surprise phone call.

  “What’s wrong with you? You’ve been all down in the dumps since that girl died. You ain’t got over that yet?”

  “I’m good,” I said, deciding against telling Tory about what happened at the club and all the surrounding circumstances as well. I just didn’t want to hear her mouth. My spirit started to settle. “I just walked through the door so I’m a little tired. Been working.”

  “Want a pick me up?” I knew what she meant.

  “I’m cool on Rudy,” I said, speaking of our nickname for cocaine.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive,” I said.

  “But Chy-” she started.

  “Listen, if you want to come over,” I said. “You’re welcome. But, I can’t fuck with that shit no more. Never really was my thing anyway.”

  “All right then. But, it ain’t no fun if your homies can’t have none.”

  “You coming or what?” I asked, getting a little annoyed by her persistence.

  “I’ll be there in a bit.”

  “See you then,” I said and ended the call.

  Long before Malibu’s death, I had told Tory I stopped snorting cocaine and would only do a little bit at work, when absolutely necessary. So, I couldn’t understand why she asked me to get high with her especially since we hadn’t done it together in a long time. But, then again, she introduced me to it. And, come to think of it, it happened the same night I met Emerson.

  I reminded myself to go back and put that part in my story while writing off Tory’s desire to indulge as a way of coping with the high demands of her profession or possibly grieving her mother’s death. Although she never really wanted to admit it, I thought she really missed her because she acted a little strange since the murder of her mother occurred. I tried to be a good friend and listen to her vent about her family life and how miserable it became after her father died. I would even try to console Tory by reminding her that mine was no stroll through Piedmont Park either and suggesting she count her blessings because until we’re dead, it could always get worse.

  While waiting for Tory, I took a quick shower.

  “Hey you,” Tory said upon her arrival.

  “What’s going on?” I asked as she walked in. I closed the door behind her. “Why you off work and out this time of night?”

  “For one, I could use the vacation,” Tory said. “Been busting my ass since I started this job. And, two, I just left this party. It was really nice, too. I wasn’t ready to stop-” She looked at me. “You seem so somber. What’s up? Are you still tripping ‘bout that murder?”

  So maybe I did need to talk about it. “Emerson,” I said.

  “What you thinking about him for?” she asked.

  “He called me.”

  “What?” she said, seemingly shocked. “What he want?”

  “I don’t know. But, I’m still trying to figure out how he got my number,” I continued.

  “I gave it to him,” she said.

  So I guess she wasn’t shocked he’d call.

  “Why would you do that?” I asked.

  “He called and asked me for it. Chyne, he knows we’re best friends. I couldn’t tell him I didn’t know it. How would that have sounded? Besides, he said he really needed to see you. Wanted to talk. That’s your baby daddy. Who am I to question it?”

>   “You could’ve delivered a message for him. Or, better yet, prepared me.”

  “I apologize. It slipped my mind. I’ve been crazy busy these days. Then, when I do talk to you, you telling me about this dead stripper and shit. Like you done lost yo’ mind. I mean, listen, he seemed like he really wanted to speak with you. I don’t know. But, didn’t think it would hurt. He is your child’s father.”

  “No he’s not. I got $1.5 million dollars to prove it.”

  “That’s between ya’ll. So, what’s up? You sure you don’t want to blow? Ain’t no fun if the homies can’t have none, right?” she giggled.

  “They talking about pussy, silly, when they say that.” I looked at her out the side of my eye.

  “I told you. I’m good. I got some weed, though.”

  “I’ll take something to drink with that. I’ll get it while you roll,” Tory said.

  She kicked her heels off and walked into the kitchen while I went into my study to grab the bag I had stashed in my desk drawer.

  “You want something?” she yelled.

  “I’m good,” I responded just before looking for blunts.

  “You sure? You know I make a mean Mojito.”

  “Knock yourself out,” I said as I sat on the couch and began to break up the bulbs. The weed smells like a scared skunk and stuck to my fingers. I brushed the crumbs off when she placed two glasses down on the table and slid one next to me. I reached for the cigars, and accidently knocked hers over.

  “Oh shit,” I tried to pick up my magazines before the liquid reached them. Tory went for paper towels then wiped it up. “My bad,” I said. “Here, you can have mine.” I pushed the glass over to her.

  She didn’t say anything as I moved everything then went into the kitchen to bust the Swisher open and dump out its contents into the garbage. From the corner of my eye, I swore I saw her pouring the drink out in the plant that sat on the table behind the couch but when I turned around, she had it to her lips.

  My mind’s tripping, I thought. I went back to rolling the reefer.

  “So, what’s up with your love life?” I said. “You ain’t talked too much about it lately.”

  “Nothing to talk about. I’m just focusing on me right now,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “That’s just where I’m at right now.”

  “Ummp.” I licked the leaf to secure the weed. I reached for the lighter, flicked, and waved the stick over the top of flame. I put it to my mouth and lit it. I inhaled and held the smoke captive before releasing it through my nose.

  “I’m for real,” Tory said. “I’m focused on building my legacy. You know.”

  “Well,” I exhaled through my mouth “If that’s what you want to do, then I’m behind you.” I coughed and hit it again.

  “Are you? No, matter what?” she asked while I released then cleared my throat.

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “A simple one. I’m just asking. You know how fickle people are these days. I’m just trying to validate what I think our relationship is based upon.”

  “Have I ever not been there for you?” I passed the blunt to Tory. She didn’t answer. I looked at her as she lightly inhaled. She released immediately as if she was going to choke off her own spit, but it didn’t take long for her to regain her composure. “I didn’t think so,” I added.

  “You have been a good friend,” she responded, passing the blunt back to me. “You were there for me when I had no one. You helped me through some tough times.”

  “So, there’s the answer to your question.”

  Tory got up to make herself another drink. We sat there going back and forth for the rest of the morning until we passed out. Actually, I went and got her a blanket once I saw her dozing off then got in my bed.

  I woke up early the next morning and stumbled outside my bedroom and toward the guardrail overlooking the great room and kitchen. Tory slept. But, I wanted her to leave. I knew she would remain until noon because she done it several times in the past. Ms. Anna used to say, if you want to wake someone up in the morning, cook. Then, once they are up, it became easier to get them out. I decided to put her theory to test because I felt a desire to write more.

  I went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet, thinking that Malibu’s killer would probably never surface and I appeared to be an absolute fool for wasting my most precious commodity trying to solve an extremely difficult riddle. I didn’t even understand how I allowed myself to become so consumed. Maybe Tory and Abe were right. Maybe, the girls at the club were right. Who was I to think I could find the killer? I was no detective. And, even if I did find the culprit, then what? What would I do? Now, I had not asked myself that question at all. Although deep down in my heart I didn’t want to give up, common sense told me I needed to call it quits.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Refreshed and renewed, I returned to work on May 25th. I’ll never forget that day. I stood in front of the mirror and played with my hair when the house mom walked out of the dressing room near the club’s emergency exit. Next thing I know, Buttercup rushed in through the opposite entrance. I remained focused on my reflection.

  “Riddles! I got to talk to you,” she said with a look of concern on her face.

  “Are you serious?”

  She looked around. “Can we go to your car?”

  “What we need to go there for?”

  She looked around again. “I got something to tell you about Malibu’s murder. Don’t think we should be talking in here,” she whispered.

  “I ain’t got time for the bullshit. I ain't on it, Buttercup.”

  “I’m serious.” The look on her face validated her words. “I really need to tell you this, but I don’t wanna cause a scene, especially in here. I ain’t on no bullshit, I swear.” She held up her palm. “I thought about your car ‘cause you might need to brace yourself,” the more she talked, the faster her words came Never seen her act so sincere. Then those gut instincts I always count on punched me hard in my stomach.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let me slip on my clothes. Meet me outside.” Buttercup’s appearance had bewildered me. She even seemed to be shaking a little and her eyes definitely suggested she worried about something or someone.

  I dressed in a hurry, slipping my clothes over my costume. I walked out of the dressing room and told the doorman I had to get something out of my car. Just as I sat in the driver’s seat, Buttercup came out of the building. I flashed the lights. She climbed in, all out of breath.

  “What’s up? Why you all up in arms?”

  She took a deep breath, and her eyes darted around before settling on me. She looked as if she didn’t know where to begin.

  “Shit done got real. Okay?”

  “What you talking about?” I asked.

  She stared me dead in my face, her words came out slowly. “I did a date with this young black guy, right. And he asked about you.”

  “Me?” I frowned. “I don’t fuck with no young boys.”

  “Well, he asked if you’ve been working and what you been up to. I was like, “I don’t know about Riddles right now. She on some crazy shit. In and out, off and on. Sometimes, I see her. Sometimes, I don’t. She fucked up on that murder.’”

  My face clearly expressed disbelief. “I can’t-”

  “Now hear me out.” She put her hand on my arm.

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “Okay, as soon as I said that, out of no fuckin’ where, I mean nowhere, he said – and these his words exactly – ‘She betta leave that shit alone ‘cause it was meant for her.”

  “What!” My heart skipped a couple of beats and I felt a lump rising in my throat almost choking me. My head started to spin.

  Buttercup stopped and took another deep breath. She never took her eyes off mine. “I know, right? And that was my response. Like ‘What the hell!’ Then he must’ve realized that he had said too much, ‘cause when I asked him to repeat it, he wouldn’t. But, I know w
hat I heard.”

  “You gots to be kidding me,” I said.

  “I wish. For real. That’s the God’s honest truth.”

  “What else did he say,” I asked.

  “I didn’t really question him any further ‘bout that,” she said. “I mean, I was like real fucked up. And then, right after that, he became aggressive. Scared the shit out of me. He was already drunk and high when we had left the club.”

  I sat there, stunned, like a heavyweight boxer just knocked me out. I couldn’t think for the life of me who would want me dead. Buttercup was right. It had become real. Really real.

  “Buttercup, are you sure about this?” I asked.. “This ain’t no joke?” She gave me an “I’m dead serious” look. “Who was this guy? What he look like? You know him? What?” I shook my head, trying to think what I could’ve done to somebody. “Can you tell me anything about this trick ass nigga?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. She bit her bottom lip like she was trying to think. “I met him that night. For the first time. In the club. He sat in the corner by himself, drinking. The DJ yelled out, ‘Last call.’ I went over to see if I could get a couple more dances in. He didn’t want a table dance, but said he would pay me five hundred to kick it with him. I figured I could use an extra five to finish the night. I agreed. I met him in the lot next door.” She pointed in that direction. “We got a room down the street.”

  “Okay, so what he look like? Where he from? What you know about him?”

  “He was kind of tall, dreads. Seemed about my age-”

  “Dreads?” I cut her off. “Buttercup. Wow… Is it the same guy you saw talking to Malibu-”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “What you mean, don’t know?’” I asked. “You saw the guy with Malibu, and this one.”

  “I didn’t really see the guy with Malibu, you know. If you don’t have a reason to remember a certain guy, he’s just a blur with all the other guys you see all night. Plus, like I’d said, I really didn’t get a good look, even if I could remember. I only saw him from the back. I only remember seeing his dreads.”