On the following day just before noon, the cell doors had opened and the majority of the inmates had gone down to the cafeteria. Delvin decided to forgo lunch, recognizing he had more important matters, and he could satisfy his hunger with snacks from the canteen should he so desire.
He looked toward his cell door where Murphy had made his usual reptilian entrance. “You’re compiling quite a collection there. A hobby?” He referred to the conglomeration of news clippings, scribbling on notebook paper, and other diverse material covering the bunk.
Delvin had worked through the night to plaster an eclectic selection of articles, pictures and correspondence. Any person with a reasonable amount of intelligence could’ve walk into his cell, glanced at the mural, and made accurate determinations about his schooling, vices, and dislikes. “This occupies my time.”
Murphy informed Delvin that Shiloh had inquired about his whereabouts. “He hadn’t seen you since the first time you went to chapel. He wants to know if it was something he said?”
“The whole religion thing isn’t for me. I thought I made it clear to him.” Delvin ripped an article from the Courier Chronicle that read:
WRIGHT AND STORM REAL ESTATE TWENTIETH CENTURY STYLE
It went into his spiral notebook after a nauseating thought of his past partnership fluttered through his mind.
“This place is sneaking up on you,” Murphy said. “It’s an aggression you haven’t worked out as of yet. And you’ve been here, some—”
“Never mind that. I need you to do something for me.”
“All right. I am here to be your conciliator. What’s your desire?”
If you must know, destroy Joseph Wright. Equal partners in business should feel equal pain when put out of business. Well, it couldn’t be totally equal. There was no way of seeing Job in prison. What he did want, and felt he could do, was to put his former partner, classmate, and friend in a dungeon-like position. And to do it, there was a fundamental piece of info that he needed to know. That’s where Murphy, Deliverer, and anyone else connected to the prison’s Vitalink came into play. “I need someone found.”
“Blunt and to the point, eh?” Murphy asked. “You’d like to initiate an endeavor. An extant human being or someone assigned into the most recently departed?”
“They’re alive and doing too darn well. At least, I think they are.”
“More than one person.”
“Just one. Well, truthfully, he’s married, so I guess his wife can be buried with him. Wherever he is.”
“That’s the gist of it. You aspire to have someone located.”
“Yeah.” That’ll do for now, anyway.
“So. What will you pay to have Joseph Bertram Wright located?”
How did Murphy know that? Job’s full name was given with such an assured tone, as if he was a soothsayer reading Delvin’s palm. And the revelation was real, no hoax.
“You have a peculiar way with things.”
Murphy told him, “Like the R&B tune, ‘it’s written all over your face,’ and I rarely use euphemisms. I don’t regard them as academia. Pictures of the two of you together. A copy of that man’s high school annual in your possession. Other paraphernalia obtained at your request and at your disposal. How could I not have deduced? But, for the life of me, I can’t determine how you ended up with him on the cover of Black Enterprise magazine. You are, by no means, black.”
Delvin explained to Murphy that his lineage was Israeli on his mother’s side and a mixed-bag on his father’s, his paternal grandfather being part black, Italian and Creole.
“A percentage of what you described is of African descent,” Murphy concurred.
“But the fact is I’m non-White. And BE wanted to recognize us as partners, together in the realty firm.” Delvin felt a peculiarity settle in his gut. “And besides, Joseph Wright was recognized as the actual founder of the company. And there’s no doubt that he’s black.”
Murphy widened and then narrowed his eyes. “Oh. I see.”
Delvin knew that Murphy was trying to sum up exactly how a major African American magazine saw fit to include him as a major feature. But what was the point in trying to figure it out? What had been done had been done. And it was because of that thought, that Delvin’s response to Murphy was, “I’ll bet you see.”
“None of us have purity running through our veins.” Murphy laughed, which sounded more like a hiss. “Get past your apprehensions and misgivings, Mr. Storm. Information—I told you—is my specialty. It would stand to reason that I’d figure out who it is in whom you have such deep-seated interest.”
“Having to work through a third party gives me cause for suspicion. Anyway. I’ll admit it. You’re right. It’s Job Wright who I want found. And don’t take long. I want this to happen while I still can breathe under my own will,” Delvin declared.
“Oh, the enigma that the lack of concrete knowledge creates. Don’t let me unnerve you. Guys like you couldn’t get your needs fulfilled without gentlemen like me.”
“And capital. This is far from an ordinary request.”
Delvin knew that on his end it would take a few days, a letter and some phone calls to his attorney, who had taken power over his financial accounts, to pull cash aside for his bidding at the moment. He had developed some confidence in Murphy’s abilities, and handing out cash as the incentive would be worth the reward. “How much are we talking?”
Murphy took a brief scan of their surroundings for unruly ears that might be clinging against the cell bars. He turned back, his eyes widening. “I’ll have to check with Deliverer on the financial measures. Then, he’ll come through with positive results.”
An evening shift guard came marching through the cell block, rapping his baton on the bars. “Start heading to your rooms, gentlemen,” he hollered.
Delvin nodded to the guard when he looked in, and walked on down the line toward the end of the block. Confident that the guard was out of sight, he handed Murphy a small piece of ruled paper where he had written bits of Job’s personal information. “This should aid you in finding him.”
Murphy took the paper, stuffed it in his right shoe under the sock. “May I ask why you want this man’s whereabouts, Mr. Storm?”
Silence.
Murphy must’ve seen the scowl on Delvin’s face. He returned a fearful look of his own. “You know what,” he said, “forget I asked. It really does not matter. I’ll pass your request on to Deliverer.”
“Good.” The fact that Delvin had just commissioned an APB on his former partner from a private cell inside Ashland Prison didn’t mean that it carried no relevance, or that it was an impossible feat. He was confident. Alive or dead, Job Wright would be found.
Chapter 12
... Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.
Matthew 5:28
Amazing. A little more than a year seemed to have gone by as fast as Job could flip thirteen calendar pages. He was grateful that a considerable amount of time and distance had come between his past and present life.
In fact, until that morning, there had been no mention of it. Monica, who seemed to have become adept at raising difficult conversations, tried her hand at a verbal combat while she fixed breakfast. But Job wasn’t having it, and she backed down.
He had surged right into his second year at Mountain River after radiant evaluations of his first year performance. The students’ response to his teaching style and classroom decorum had been positive; his students helped him shape his classroom mannerisms. The faculty and staff had shown their respect when it came to his opinions and input on matters of curriculum and school improvement.
His end-of-year observations and evaluations came from Bianca Rizzo, who insisted on doing them, which was a responsibility ordinarily reserved to one of her assistant principals. According to Frances, her administrative assistant, Bianca claimed Job as her “personal project.”
After Job’s second per
iod class that morning, he reported to Bianca’s office to turn in his progress report for the school’s VOES program.
Frances didn’t bother to escort Job to the principal’s office or look up from her work. She angled her head in the direction of the principal’s office.
Job hadn’t achieved a decent level of comfort when he was alone with Bianca, even after working with her for over a year. He couldn’t help but to be attracted to her grace and sensuality—qualities that seemed to be ingrained into her DNA. Nothing would’ve pleasured him more than to raise the topic of their interactions and hear his own words, “Bianca, I feel the magnetism between us, but nothing’s going to happen,” without sounding ignorant or hostile. And he didn’t want her response to be misunderstood, unreceptive, or aggressive. He had tried to convince himself that in time, the sparks would go away, but the longer his tenure with her, the brighter his flame. Thankfully, he’d managed to only visualize a transgression and not turn it into action.
“Aw c’mon,” he said to Frances, hoping she would take time and be his segue to meeting the boss. “Ms. Rizzo may be doing something we’re unaware of. You might want to look in and announce me.”
Frances took the pencil in her hand and waved it in the direction of the principal’s office. Despite his anxiety, he had to go it alone.
Job walked up to the door, and stood face to face with a poster that read,
“MY FACULTY IS MY WELCOMED DIVERSION.”
Although the door was cracked, he knocked. “Ms. Rizzo?”
Bianca’s eyes were glued to the television mounted from the ceiling in a corner of the office. Its volume was startling. She nodded indefinably, and without comment, gestured for him to enter.
Job closed the door behind him. “You think you’ve got it loud enough?” He took a seat in one of the twin burgundy leather chairs, taking a moment to eye her office, a dimly lit space decorated with furniture and other pieces of understated elegance.
It was the first time Job could recall Bianca acting like he wasn’t there, her fixation on what sounded like a news commentator’s account.
“Oh my God!” she shrieked. Her skin, usually a deep olive color, was a pale, morbid hue. Her hands had cupped around her mouth.
He could tell that she wasn’t ready to hear about his group’s progress, regardless of how positive it was. He placed the written report on her desk, and then moved around to see what she was viewing that apparently had her stunned.
“I thought I was watching a movie, a joke. It’s real ...” Her lips trembled and her voice drifted off as her eyes reddened, lifting up a well of tears.
He stood, reeling in confusion and wondering what kind of predicament he had walked into. “Tell me what you’re watching,” he demanded.
She gazed at him, eyes so white and wide, as though she had no pupils or irises. “You don’t know?” she screamed. She wrapped her arms around herself. Her skin returned, in that moment, to its normal tint. “I’m sorry, you wouldn’t know.”
Just then, the CNN broadcaster interrupted:
... and the second plane crashed into the south tower of the world trade center at 9:03 A.M. eastern time.
the crash leveled this tower upon impact ...
“New York. Towers. Early this morning,” she said.
Job listened to the broadcast, this time more closely, trying to pick up a few definitive details to place between Bianca’s speckled explanation.
“That was over three hours ago,” he said under his breath.
The news commentator repeated the time of the event. Job fought to think of something he could say or do to lighten the moment. He seized a couple Kleenex and handed them to her. “Maybe you should go home. Or I can get Frances.”
“There’s no way I can leave school right now. Everyone will be torn up over the news. I’ve got to help keep things going, keep it together.” Bianca turned around to him, burying herself into his arms, molding into his body. “Hmm.”
She moved against him with such quickness that he was prohibited from making a sensible thought or physically resisting. Her eau de toilette (he was confident that it was Chloé) wafting up his nostrils didn’t help the situation.
He felt a rush of the forbidden, an alluring embodiment of wholesomeness. He was thankful her office door was closed with no window, just a solid piece of wallboard. He curled his arms around her, winding his fingertips into the small of her back. He tried to think of himself only as a comfort to her. He limited his thoughts to that.
She purred in response to the closeness.
He managed to wrestle one arm away, lock his hand around the TV remote and turn the volume down. He took her shoulders with a gentle grip and nudged her to an arm’s distance, giving her a concerned look. “You gonna be all right?”
Her cream colored blouse was tear-stained. She pulled strands of her hair behind her ears, but her panting caused them to fall back out of place. “Yes. I’m fine.” She wiped her face. “I can’t believe people could be so mean.” She pulled in closer, nestling her face on Job’s chest.
His psyche kicked in. Skin itching, muscles contracting and expanding. Please was all the prayer he could think of.
He had a feeling that she knew the embrace was out of place—using heartrending reactions to the 9/11 attacks as a catalyst to make her advances.
Tempted? He couldn’t deny.
Over the past months, Monica had managed to fill him with a paranoia and bitterness from her constant complaints and her undying desire to start a family. She blamed him for it all.
Bianca could be the ideal escape from his tribulations. Her responses at that moment proved to him she’d be a willing candidate.
There was a flip side to his thoughts, which said, “no.” Bianca wouldn’t be trouble-free. His boss and lover? Disturbing his marriage wasn’t worth all that.
Then the unmentionable happened.
Bianca yanked at the cinch in his belt, drawing them waist to waist. She worked her delicate mouth onto his, locking him into a passionate kiss.
The combination of sudden movements threw Job off-balance. Bianca’s desk was the only support that kept them from falling, intertwined, on the floor.
Job felt the wetness of her lips as she drained the last liter of innocence and sensuality from his body, a smooth transference of stored-up urgency.
As Bianca backed away, she sighed, slowly opening her eyes. “Oh, God, I’ve wanted to do that for the longest,” she said, not allowing Job time enough to think coherently. She swayed over to the back of her desk, the small slit on the back of her skirt widened, revealing her thighs. She sat. “See how easy that was? Proof that we can be intimate and professional if we allow, no matter what we do or the circumstance. Don’t you agree?”
Shock was the only way to describe how Job felt as he tried to steady himself. “You’re my boss.” He shoved his wedding band in her face.
Bianca’s forehead creased into confusion. “I am your boss.” Her response was flat, mimicked. “You’re merely consoling me in the time of need. I do have feelings that require consolation, sometimes.”
Job listened to her explanation and lost all poise and grace. “I just can’t do this.” I feel like I want to. “I just can’t.”
“I know you think you’re going to stick to that position. But time will tell.” She batted her eyelids.
Job knew that was for sensual effect and, in a sense, it was working. “How’ll we work together now?” he asked. “What about my job?”
Bianca’s visage changed to a blank slate. “Why would I consider firing you? You’re doing your job in a professional manner. People like and respect you.”
“I know, but—”
“Oh no, I’ve got plans for you,” she said in a mysterious tone of voice. “And if, on a given day, you say your final word is that nothing can happen between us, then, your job will remain intact.”
Thank you, Jesus. He sighed, more for the salvation of his job than anything else.
Bianca relaxed into her chair. “I see that I’ve overwhelmed you. Go to class, Mr. Wright. We’ll talk later, for sure, because I have some news that dwarfs your report on the VOES program. But I can tell that you wouldn’t be able to handle my news right now.”
Job wanted to ask what she meant by that statement, but he walked out of her office with unanswered questions. For a moment, his vanity did an uprising, believing that with his looks and intelligence, why wouldn’t she try and make a play for him? Then he took another look at himself, knowing he didn’t want or need the drama. He did realize, however, that his love for Monica was shakier than he thought. He was in a power struggle of the human, magnetic kind.
During lunchtime, Job sat in the faculty lounge wishing the last bell would ring. He remembered opening his mouth to chat with his colleagues, but he couldn’t recall, with any amount of certainty, the topics raised or his responses.
He decided to try feeding his nervousness away by bingeing on lemon-filled doughnuts, hoping the sugar rush could help him decide whether to tell Monica what had happened earlier, and if he did, how to explain it. No matter how he tried to spin the story, it didn’t come out digestible. In the middle of his indecisiveness, Bianca came through the lounge door with two reams of copy paper in hand.
“Mr. Wright, I’d like to see you for a moment, please. It’s nothing earth shattering,” she said, beckoning outside toward the hall.
Living Right on Wrong Street Page 10
