Like Slow Sweet Molasses (11 page)

Angela
supplied answers to all the questions the policeman asked, her study of Mrs.
Thatcher’s body language collaborating with her belief this report would land
in the pile of unsolved cases. There was no bodily harm done. Therefore,
fingerprinting was of no consequence. She was another trivial statistic
drowning on the books of the already swamped NOPD. Two break-ins in fewer than
three weeks. This one felt different, and that frightened her.

“Miss
Munso, I have all the details to file a report. It appears they slipped in and
out without detection in broad daylight—probably thought no one was home.”

“What
do I do now, officer?”

“You
might want to invest in a security system,” was all he could suggest.

“I’ll
consider that. Thanks for your help.” She and Mrs. Thatcher hovered in the
doorway as he reached his car.

“You’ll
stay with me tonight,” Mrs. Thatcher announced, her intrigue shifting to a
hanging picture of idyllic serenity depicting an Italian village captured on
one of Angela’s trips abroad. Her mind took a backwards leap. “I enjoyed my
childhood in a beautiful hamlet just like that.”

“It
is lovely, isn’t it?” Angela admired the scene, pleased to see Mrs. Thatcher
mesmerized into such a personal attraction to the image.

“Memories.”
She caught herself wishing for the good times of the past. However, Angela’s
circumstances resurfaced. “I think you should consider my offer.”
 

“That’s
sweet. But, no.” She wouldn’t let them run her from her own home.

“Then,
I’m calling Brock,” her neighbor threatened. “He’ll know what to do.”

“You’ll
do no such thing. I can take care of myself, Miss Belle.” Her words held more
bravado than she felt. “Leave him out of this.” Angela sighed when the old lady
clucked her tongue to argue. “I’ll be fine.”

“Remember,
I have the equalizer.”

“The
equalizer. The old lady. You just be careful with that thing.” They took a step
onto the porch. The lights stopped pulsating and so did the noise. “Look, I
have an early dinner date at that new jazz club in the Quarters and will just
make it in time.”

“Then
I’ll keep watch until you get home.” Mrs. Thatcher marched down Angela’s walk
on her way to the sidewalk. “Me and the old lady.” She mingled in the presence
of those gawking and littering the sidewalk, screeching her disapproval. “It’s
over. Go on home. All of you.”

Angela
shuddered and braced her nerves to go back inside. A break-in in broad
daylight. What was she going to do when day drifted into night and the world
turned ebony?

The
decision to attend the party and not let some random intrusive act curtail her
enjoyment of life spurred Angela to her waiting taxi. Daylight still reigned.
There was no sense throwing caution to the wind. She was smarter than that and
left every other light on in and out of the house. Mixed feelings about what
happened shook her to the core. Her plan was to drop in on the festivities with
an apology for an early departure since she intended to be home early enough to
beat sundown.

The
ride took all of ten minutes landing her at the entrance to the establishment
that had people in line looking like birds on a wire, waiting on the 4pm
opening time. Just about the time she wandered towards the end of the line, she
heard her name. Angela swung around, her eyes searching the happy faces. Sheryl
peeped from the interior with the hugest, gloating smile Angela ever witnessed.

“Get
on in here, Sister Gurl. I’ve been looking for you.”

Angela
followed her inside marveling at how Sheryl flaunted her association with the
club’s owner, undaunted by the unfortunate souls withering away in the heat.
This would be their first clubbing experience together, proof that their movie
and concert excursions went well. Sheryl seemed to thrive in this arena,
rewarding all who met her approval with her wide-toothed model grin for,
indeed, that’s what she looked like. A leggy, statuesque, latte goddess.

Loud
throbbing music descended on the merry revelers occupying the round table front
and center in the room. There were faces she knew from the school and some she
never laid eyes on before tossing back drinks like liquor was a cure-all and
prohibition was making a comeback. Sheryl made a go at introductions over the
noise scooting over to make a place for Angela beside her. A waitress
materialized to take her drink order. She requested Sprite flavored with cherry
juice and a cherry.

“Angela,
it’s the weekend, girl. Let your hair down and live a little.” Sheryl’s laugh
infected the entire table.

“Medical
concerns, Sheryl, but, don’t let that hinder you. Remember, it’s your party.”
Believing she’d weathered that squall, Angela greeted each woman with smile.

Wrong.

“A
prima donna,” slurred an inebriated well-wisher, her talon-like nails ringing a
nearly empty glass clattering with ice.

Glancing
at her watch, four o’clock—happy hour was five minutes in the making causing
Angela to wonder if this person began celebrating long before the appointed
hour.

Sheryl
intervened, flipping her shoulder-length hair to signal authority. “Cat,
sheathe your claws. None of that drunken, jealous bull-
thit
on my day.”

“Jealous?”
she replied, sheering over the operative word. “Of what? Little Miss
Goody-Two-Shoes here? Get real.”

“What—ev—ver.
You don’t attack as long as your mouth is…full.” Sheryl’s raucous laughter
placed a new light on the conversation. “Order another drink. That’ll keep you
quiet for a while.”

It
did.

Angela
relaxed in the spirit of things, remembering why she shied away from the club
scene. Always on the defense. That was a clubber’s modus operandi. If you
drink, never mind drink too much, you were liable to squeal on yourself or
others. If you didn’t indulge, you were outcast and suspect. So far, her virgin
drink was the lone non-alcoholic beverage at the table. Her no peanuts rule, as
she refused the bowl of nuts making the round, relegated her to the
dishonorable laughing-stock label.

She
would endure. Her survival skills took precedence over social engagement
protocol.

Angela
participated in the free-flowing banter of the group of professional women
trekking through life, making up the guidelines as they went along. It was
interesting how they bent the rules as dictated by their differing views on
social issues concerning Blacks. What worked for one to master a situation
wasn’t necessarily successful for another. Where they all appeared to come to
the same bend in the road was about men. They couldn’t live with them. They
couldn’t live without them.

Sporadic
bursts of laughter interspersed between bites altered the tone of the
gathering. The women bonded because, at the moment, it was them against the
world. That is, until the owner headed in their direction, meandering his way
through the thrill-seekers now crushing the doors for access, his million
dollar smile dazzling all within sight. Angela took note of the ladies around
the table. Fangs protruded. Eyes glistened. The smell of a man was in the air
heating their blood to the boiling point.

“Ladies.”
His smooth tone competed with the thumping bass. “Darrell Williams at your
service. I hope everything meets with your approval.”

They
released a collective swooning sigh. Angela almost laughed aloud. She looked to
Sheryl to act as spokesperson since this was her gala. The birthday girl leaned
into her words dangling the bait, at which time Angela swallowed the lump in
her throat because she now recognized the man before them. His smile, stamped
with the preciseness of a chisel on his full lips, didn’t affect his shrewd
eyes. They looked the same from Chance’s second story window the other
day—cold, hard and calculating. Sheryl’s incessant chatter and girlish giggle
touched off a fit of laughter of epidemic proportions from the women. It was
clear he basked in their favor and was comfortable enough to snatch up a few
peanuts, shaking them around like die before tossing them into his mouth.

He
circled the table acknowledging each female with an ingratiating smile
accompanied by a very suggestive handshake. When it was her turn, Angela
excused herself in the nick of time escaping the formal introductions as well
as the risk of an allergic reaction. Or so she thought. His arm snaked out. His
fingers coiled around her forearm burning her skin like lye.

“You’re
hurting me!” Angela struggled for her release. He held on tighter.

 
“What’s your hurry, Angela?”

He
knew her name. She hadn’t given it. Neither had any of her companions.

“You
have exactly one second to remove your hand or…” She left the sentence
unfinished.

“No
need to get riled, Ms. Munso.” His fingers stopped squeezing the life out of
her arm.

“How
do you know my name?”

“I
know more than your name, Angela. I’ve been to your home.”

His
eyebrows shifted downward, helping to make deciphering his look impossible. The
giveaway to Angela that she tread on thin ice was the way his mouth morphed
into a flesh-eating apparatus, teeth bared in a false smile that covered for
the attack to come. “You’ve been in my home?”

“That’s
not what I said, Angela.”

She
twisted from his clutch instantly alert to a more pressing problem. “Stop
playing with words. When were you at my home?”
 

All
activity at their table was at a standstill. No one wanted to miss any of the
altercation playing out in real-time and clearer than HDTV. Sheryl,
specifically, gaped.

“Today.”

He
toyed with her and everyone knew it.

“Could
you be more specific? Today, when?”

“Relax,
Angela. I picked my nephew up after his piano lessons.”

“So,
you’re the uncle dispensing crapola for advice.” Her arm tingled, the redness
exposing where each of his fingers bonded to her skin. “You’re doing the nephew
who looks up to you a grave injustice. Let him be a child a while longer, Mr.
Williams. There’ll be plenty of time to incite him to mediocrity.”

“An
unwarranted insult, Angela.” He said her name with loathing. “Look around you.
Does it appear to you that I’d be involved with anything or anyone mediocre?”

“I
don’t know you, Mr. Williams. However, I do know people just…like…you.” Her
time dwindled. “I’ll talk to Jamal’s mother about other arrangements to have
her son picked up. Stay away from my home, Mr. Williams.” Angela quickly
recovered two twenties from her purse to lay on the table, more than enough to
cover her order with leftovers to apply on the remainder of the tab.

She
skirted Darrell Williams to speak privately to Sheryl. “My apologies for
disrupting your party.”

“You
two know each other?” Suspicion tinged Sheryl’s voice.

“I’ll
explain later. Right now, I’ve got to be going. You be careful of this man,
Sheryl.” Angela, again, was his captive. But not for long.

“What
up, D.?” A hauntingly low quality drummed in the voice. He detected Angela’s
shocked, though, relieved look to afford Darrell the slack to save face and let
her go.

“Big
Brock. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Darrell accepted the out presented with
derision. “Can’t be business since you have no blue wave rolling in behind you.
Got…to be…personal.”

“I
came to do my part in supporting our local economy.” Chance printed the awed
faces at the table into his memory bank for future reference. His eyes met and
held Sheryl’s whom he remembered offered assistance during his subbing stint
for Angela’s class. People at the table stared like he was hell’s devil. He
felt the part, too, when he spied Angela wrangling for her freedom moments ago.

“Your
money’s not good here, friend.” Chance’s one time friend bragged. “Whatever
you’re having is on the house.” Insinuating boldly, he named a few drinks. “Mojito?
Black Russian? Jamaican
Rose
? They’re free for the taking.”

Chance
recognized the challenge implicated in Darrell’s words, never having the
opportunity to respond.