A Love So Deep (18 page)

W
illiam
walked up the stone driveway that led to Troy’s house. The house sat back from the street and was well hidden by the clump of maple trees that shadowed the house. It was a two-story, split-level, stucco dwelling boasting four bedrooms and four baths, a large formal dining room, family room, a twenty-by-twenty, brick-laden kitchen with built-in grill, a game room made for previewing NBA game tapes and entertaining sports enthusiasts from all spectrums of athletics, two wet bars, and a ten-by-fifteen laundry room that could house a small twin bed if needed. Troy never forgot where he came from, so he built his house on the border of the haves and have-nots. Not many of his old NBA buddies stopped by anymore, though.

William used the key Troy had given him to let himself in. He dropped the insurance papers on the sofa table in the foyer under the tall, oak mirror with a heavy Greek pattern outlined in gold foile running around its perimeter. An empty feeling engulfed William as he was consumed by the vastness of the place now devoid of human life. In fact, Troy rarely stayed there, spending a lot of his time with a special lady friend who was well on her way to becoming the next female Johnnie Cochran.

William threw down the keys on one of the glass end tables in the family room and headed for the well-stocked wet bar. An open bottle of cognac caught William’s eye, and he lifted a high-ball glass from its glass shelf and poured until the glass was full.

William retreated to the white leather couch and took a sip of his drink. Engulfed in the leathery bowels of the pillow-cushioned couch, he looked up at the white-speckled ceiling and about the room. There was no mistaking the influence of a masculine touch. While Troy was no longer making NBA money, he didn’t deprive himself of the finer things in life. It was a playa’s way, however, Troy was fortunate to be able to capitalize on his degree in business from UCLA, having become one of several whose name was readily sought out as a top agent to the athletes.

There were pictures on the wall of Troy and William’s playing days with the L.A. Lakers. There was a trophy wall that held Troy’s trophies—from MVP of his high school basketball team to leading scorer at UCLA. Those were the glory years. The Lakers had promised the same, but somehow he became lost in the shuffle—couldn’t pull his game together—wrought with disputes with the coaching staff, and to hear it told, some teammates. After four years on the team, Troy found himself on the NBA blacklist—and finally on no list.

There was a panel to the left of the trophies that held pictures of Troy and some of his female conquests. William shook his head in remembrance of some of the crazy antics and misguided, bizarre, and hurtful things he had done. Each came with a price in the end. Now this beautiful room with its white Italian leather sofa and chairs, huge maple entertainment center with a sixty-four-inch Sony television set and built-in music system for easy entertaining became a reminder of where he had been and all he had lost.

William picked up the remote, flicked on the television, and abruptly turned it off. He pulled the cashier’s check from his pocket and got up to retrieve the insurance policies from the table where he had deposited them when he first entered the house.

William stared at Rita’s signature for the longest time—almost burning a hole through the paper with his intensity. Rita was doing well, and she would be just what he needed to get out of his slump and on top again. Maybe, he would be her manager—getting her professional and box-office gigs—none of that hole-in-the wall, juke-joint stuff. Rita would be on world tour sharing the stage with Whitney Houston or Brian McKnight. She was a singer in her own right—that’s what drew him to her; and they could enjoy the lavish lifestyle they once had…enjoying the finer things of life. A home in New York, one in L.A., and a cottage on the French Riviera.

William jumped up. He had to get a plan and put it into action. Recapturing Mrs. Rita Long would be part of the plan. William wasn’t sure how he was going to do it, but it would be a mission he’d accomplish. He’d watch her for a while, even if it meant taking a couple of trips to Seattle. In the end, she would be his again, and together they would conquer the world. And she’d have to dump her new friend, because the future didn’t include that old man.

But first, William had to find a poker game. A little gambling wouldn’t hurt. He knew just who to call on—
his
new friend.
Umph,
William thought,
he’ll fit nicely into my plan.

William put the papers away, finished off his cognac, picked up the keys, and headed out the door. Today was a good day.

S
ister
Mary Ross was used to rejection and being ostracized by most of the members at the church on Market Street was not a big thing…just one more rejection to add to her resume. Yes, Mary Ross was the queen of rejection, and even with the limited amount of mathematics she possessed, she had yet to figure it out. You could ask anyone who knew her what it was about Sister Mary Ross that got on their nerves. The answer would always be the same…her big mouth. When asked what they liked about Mary Ross, the answer was always unanimous…her sweet potato pie.

But Mary’s latest rejection was more than she could endure. She had waited more years than she was willing to admit for Deacon Graham Peters, and now that he was available, there was no way she was going to miss her opportunity to be Mrs. Graham Peters, especially for the likes of a juke-joint singer.

Deacon Peters deserved better. After all, he was a decent, Godly man who loved the Lord, who loved his church and family, who paid his tithes and had bought his wife beautiful designer hats. Graham’s temporary fall from grace was just that, temporary. And she, Sister Mary Ross, would be first in line to forgive him from his transgressions. One of Reverend Fields’ favorite scriptures when he was admonishing the saints about their walk with the Lord was “We have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.” Donnie McClurkin’s number one gospel song, “We Fall Down But We Get Up,” only confirmed the weakness of man and God’s grace through forgiveness.

A sudden idea came to Mary. Oprah Winfrey had just aired a show on makeovers. There were troubled mothers, sisters, and daughters who were at their wit’s end and had tried everything from counseling to old-fashioned beatings to get their loved ones to dress more appropriately. There were husbands who got tired of looking at their hum-drum wives who had lost the twinkle and spark that caused their husbands to look at them in the first place.

After Oprah’s fashion designer and hairdressers got through with these women, they became a page from
Cosmo
and
Ladies Home Journal
.

“That’s it, I’m gonna change my look. Then Deacon Peters…no, no…Graham, will notice me then.”

Mary Ross staggered into the pink bedroom with the puke-green carpet and closed the door shut. On the back of the worn wooden door hung a floor-length mirror. Mary plopped in front of it as if it were a new discovery.

She stuck out her tongue and wiggled her fingers, her thumbs extending from each ear. Childhood memories came flooding back—a time long ago when she and her cousin Loretha use to play hide and seek and would put their thumbs in their ears, buck their eyes, wave little fingers, and scream to the hunter, “You can’t catch me!”

“Hmph,” Mary Ross muttered aloud, “those were the good ole days.”

Mary looked in the mirror again, this time standing tall. She put her hands on her hips and swayed from side to side. Then she collapsed her left knee, letting her hip drop a little and shaking it like she’d seen the dancers do on
Live at the Apollo
. She turned clockwise until she had a sideways view. Mary admired herself and let out a giggle. She dropped her chin a little and put on a sexy smile. Then she made a 180-degree turn so she could determine which was her best side.

“Not bad,” Mary remarked.

Mary took off her shirtwaist dress until she was down to her white nylon slip with the fancy lace running around the bottom. She took the slip off until the mirror announced she was down to her last two garments.

“Not bad, but it needs some revitalizing.”

Where was the phone book? She remembered seeing those Victoria’s Secret catalogs sitting on Loretha’s kitchen table the last time she had visited. Mary knew there had to be a Victoria’s Secret somewhere in town. Wherever it was located, Mary would have to pay them a visit.
Nothing like sexy underwear to excite the man of your dreams
, Mary thought.

A puzzled look came across Mary’s face. What was she missing? She searched the mirror for answers, but wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for.

She was on her twentieth pose when it finally struck her. If it hadn’t been for the mirror, the answer staring straight back at her, she would not have gotten it at all. So…it took a while, but she was going to call Suzie’s Cut and Kurl right away and make an appointment for first thing in the morning.

“I might even get it cut,” Mary blurted out to the ceiling. “I know Lord…I promised not to cut my hair, but this is an extreme emergency. And yes, ain’t nobody gonna reject Mary Ross then.”

Mary was excited and she continued talking in rhythm just as if the Lord had given her a new song to sing.

“I’m going to Macy’s, maybe Nordstrom, better yet that expensive store…uhhh…Neiman Marcus. I’m going to buy me a new dress, a new pair of shoes, who knows, maybe a new pocketbook, too. Hmph, I might even stop by one of those nice furniture stores and buy some new furniture and spruce up my place. After all, if I’m going to bring my baby—oops, Graham, back to the house, I want him to feel comfortable in his new surroundings
.”

Mary stomped her feet and raised her hands. “You go, girl,” Mary shouted, parading around the room like she was a Victoria’s Secret angel. “Watch out, deacon. I’m about to knock the socks off your feet and the pants off that fine behind…in time.”

Mary gathered her things and prepared for a day of shopping. “Gotta put Fashion Fair on the list—maybe I’ll have one of those girls make me up real pretty.”

R
ain
was forecast for later that evening. A few dark clouds eased across the horizon, trying to make good on that threat. William drove his Acura until he pulled in front of The Water Hole. Fridays were always busy, and even though it was yet early, the parking lot was full of happy hour revelers.

Clyde maintained a back room for special clientele at The Water Hole—those who had a few extra dollars to drop and loved a good game of poker. Admission into the group was always by invitation. He had to control the flow of traffic because gambling was illegal, and Clyde had run a respectable establishment for thirty years without ever being closed down. He wasn’t about to let any riff-raff come up in his place and destroy what had taken him a lifetime to achieve.

William looked around and saw no one that he knew. Nice soft jazz played in the background, and a crowd of business types sat at the bar and tables chewing the fat with co-workers about the past week’s antics.

William took a seat at the bar’s far corner and ordered a cognac. He was good at holding his liquor. After downing the first glass, he ordered another. He watched people saunter in—men dressed in dark tailored suits, the women in everything from business suits to leather ensembles with high-heeled shoes. Some gorgeous women flocked through the door and gave cause to more than just one glance from William, but he had a mission and becoming involved with another woman now was out of the question.

A healthy well-dressed sister approached the bar. She was with four other ladies apparently just off from work. Her sculptured hair-do was piled high on her head, giving height to the rest of her body draped in a black, ultra-conservative, full-figured Yves St. Laurent suit and accentuated by a multi-colored scarf wrapped about her neck and tucked inside her jacket to hide ample cleavage. She spied William sitting off to himself and unabashedly approached him. Without batting an eye, she left her group as they found seats at a cozy table next to the hors d’oeuvres.

“This seat taken?” the woman asked, cocking her head to the side as her eyes burned into William.

“It doesn’t appear to be,” William responded, dropping his hand in the direction of the seat to indicate the same.

“Hmph, my, my, my…we are Mister All That, and I do love a man in dreads.”

William returned her gaze and raised his eyebrow without uttering a word, nursing his drink with one hand.

“You mind buying a sister a drink?” the healthy sistah purred, flashing two rows of polished dentures.

“And what would you say if I said I did?”

The woman looked at William for a long hard minute—then did a once-over. She ordered her drink and pulled her plump body from the bar stool she found herself leaning against and turned away, cocking her head just a little. “You aren’t the only decent-looking brotha in here, and you ain’t even all that!”

Before William could come back with a line on the plump lady, she called out, “Angie, over here.”

William and Angie froze, neither able to believe that the other stood or sat before them.

“Y’all know each other?” the plump woman asked as their continued silence more than confirmed the obvious.

“Oh, girlllll. I’m sorry, I didn’t know this was your man. He’s a little stuck up.”

“Shut up, Adrienne,” Angie said, softly, unable to take her eyes from William.

Angie looked splendid in a black-and-white tweed ensemble by Vera Wang accentuated by black faux fur around the collar and cuffs. She wore a skirt at least three inches above her knees that was in no way tasteless. Four-inch black Paolo pumps, with white piping highlighting the front perimeter of the shoe, adorned her size-eight feet. A small black leather handbag swung from a silver rope chain and rested on the crest of her hips.

William was mesmerized, but still felt the brunt of Angie’s rejection. It no longer mattered, because he could not lose focus on what had now become really important to him—reclaiming Rita. Who knew? Angie might play an important role in his plan.

“How are you doing, William?” Angie queried somewhat reluctantly.

“Fine now. I’m doing great. I’m making it on my own.” William noticed Angie perk up at his last announcement.

“Where are you staying?”

“In Oakland—out a ways,” William said, not wanting to give up too much information. Since he had Troy’s house practically to himself, maybe he’d take Angie out there, have sex—no strings. Whatever the outcome, he’d take it slow. It had to fit into the plan—a plan he had yet to devise.

“Well…let me give you my number so that if you get the urge to call…”

“I thought you had a new man?”

“Just a friendship. Nothing serious. But really…if you want to just get together, just to talk, maybe we can hook up.”

William looked at the piece of paper Angie held and then at her. “Maybe, we can get together later. I’ve been working on a hot project that’s consumed much of my time,” he lied, “but I’ll give you a call.” William took the piece of paper, folded it, and put it in his wallet.

“It was good seeing you, Angie. I’m off to a…” He thought better of telling her that he was getting ready to play poker. After all, his gambling and other obnoxious habits were the reasons she had left in the first place.

“Well, it was good seeing you again. You’re looking well, and I do hope you’ll call.”

“I will.”

William watched as she sauntered off to join the group of ladies already on their second helping of finger food. Angie did look good, but he’d be damned if he was going to let her know it.

William caught Clyde’s eye and signaled his desire to go to the back room. Clyde crooked his head to the right giving William the go-ahead to advance to the poker game. To get to the room, William had to exit through a side door next to the stage, then head down the hall and into the door on the right next to Clyde’s office. William disappeared so quickly, Clyde wasn’t sure if William had actually passed through the side door or out of the building.

As William approached the door to the special room, he could hear laughter vibrate against the thin walls of the building. There was a pause, then more laughter and a loud exclamation from someone who no doubt had folded their bad hand. William knocked on the door and proceeded in.

All eyes rested on William—a cloud of smoke meeting him at the entrance. He tried to clear the air with his hand. It was a fascinating group of men, although William was somewhat disappointed that his newly found friend, Charlie, was not among the players.

They sat, a group of six, at a large round table cluttered with brightly colored chips and half-filled glasses of Johnny Walker, Chivas, and the big Jim Beam, having already negotiated their seat at the table. The men came in all shapes, sizes, and colors.

A light caramel-colored man with sandy-red hair seemed to be the leader of the six-man crew. He was rotund with thick hands that sported a military ring. He wore a camel-colored jacket and a brown turtleneck knit shirt underneath. His thick, red mustache sat on top of a set of thin, lightly freckled lips that shouted out orders with which everyone else complied.

To the right of him sat an older man, dark complexion and in his late sixties. The butt of a cigar jetted out the side of his mouth, housed in an area where several missing teeth once stood. He probably had been playing poker at The Water Hole as long as it had been in existence.

To the left of Red sat a chain-smoking, back-in-the-’70s wannabe playa sporting an outdated Jheri-curl and a two-carat diamond stud earring in his left ear. He wore a black leather jacket and a scoop-neck black knit shirt that lay snuggly over his muscular body. A thick gold rope chain hung around his neck, and his fingers were manicured to the bone.

A medium-brown man sporting a brown-and-tan stevedore with a feather stuck in its side sat next to the
The Playa
. He wore a two-tone-brown, starched cotton barbershop shirt with intricate embroidery on the pockets.

A dark-skinned man, who appeared to be in his forties, sat next to the gentleman with the feather in his hat. He seemed to be in a world all his own—not paying any particular attention to the conversation before him. He wore a white, crisp-cotton, button-down shirt over a white V-neck T-shirt that protruded outward due to an extended belly that had seen too many beers. Two empty beer cans sat in front of the dark-skinned man while cigarette smoke whirled about his face.

Next to
Cigar Man
sat a rather distinguished, well-groomed-looking gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a sky-blue, wool sport coat over a black designer dress shirt. Black and blue formed a unique geometric pattern on the man’s tie, which was loosened and hung lazy about his neck. Smart cufflinks and a Rolex watch rounded out the top half of his well-put-together wardrobe.

Before William could get a word out, Big Red spoke up.

“Hey, man. Good to see you, again. Grab a seat; I’m getting ready to deal a five-card draw. Stakes are higher tonight.” He laughed. It was contagious as the other five picked up the laughter in chorus.

William did another once around the room, nodded, and sat next to Salt “n” Pepper—far enough away from Big Red, yet close enough to be part of the group. They played for two hours before Charlie appeared, soaking wet from the downpour predicted for the evening.

Charlie squeezed in between William and Salt ‘n’ Pepper acknowledging William with only a nod. William’s luck wasn’t running as well as he had hoped, and he was about to cash out when Charlie appeared. It would be worth a couple more rounds of play now that Charlie had arrived. If the opportunity presented itself, he would set the bait for the future use of Charlie in his plan. He heard,
I raise you fifty
, and went back to concentrating on the game at hand.