Sinful (28 page)

“Uhhhh-huh,” Chandelle moaned, playing alone. “I'm digging it too.” She ran her fingers along the leather seats and wood grain finish on the console. “I wish you could afford this, Marvin. No wonder why you keep showing up and bothering Lawrence. I'd hate to take this one back.”

“Good, because we're keeping it,” he revealed casually. “All I needed to know is that you liked it.”

“You're serious?” Chandelle asked apprehensively. “I saw the sticker price and I'm in shock that you would ever contemplate paying that much. If you just bought this, why didn't he have you sign the papers?”

“Lawrence had me approved the first time I walked into the building a week ago.”

“Hmmm, if this is yours…”

“Ours,” Marvin corrected her.

“If this is really ours, I can take off my clothes and roll around in all this leather?”

“Do I need to stop the car? I'd pay to see that.” Marvin pulled onto the shoulder of the road to watch, but Chandelle was only bluffing.

“Not that I believe you, but why would you trade in your truck for a new note? Huh, tell me that?” Marvin reached in the backseat behind Chandelle for his briefcase. After opening it, he retrieved a copy of the magazine praising his real-estate savvy and brilliant customer service skills.

“Flip it to page thirty-seven.”

Chandelle didn't know what to think as she thumbed through the pages. When she saw his picture and the article, she started screaming and hopping up and down on the heated seat. “Oohhh! Oohhh, baby! This is you! This is you!” she shouted, celebrating his accolades. “What did you do?” she asked, reading the first paragraph.

“I'll need a better vehicle if I expect wealthy clients to take me seriously. I got lucky with the guy who runs that magazine. I hooked him up with something he and his wife both liked, saved them money, drive time, and…there you go, page thirty-seven.”

Marvin merged back on the avenue as Chandelle read the entire article. “Hutchins, previously working as an assistant manager for a private major appliances company, has proven that the will to go above and beyond easily crosses industry boundaries. His knack for exploring out-of-the-box possibilities for clients at the Hightower Realty agency has put him atop this magazine's list of outstanding realtors. In as much as two months, Hutchins has utilized the company's First-Time Buyer program while outlining the benefits of home ownership to a young entrepreneur who runs a successful barber shop.” Chandelle looked up from the page. “Dooney? They're talking about Dooney.”

“Yeah, Kim gave them the scoop. I didn't suspect a thing. Dooney gets his freak on and I get the credit, I guess.”

“Additionally, Marvin Hutchins exhibited a wealth of cognitive resources,” she read on, “when he convinced an older gentleman to liquidate his rental properties in order to enjoy his good fortune by traveling more and concerning himself with working less.” When Chandelle stopped reading, she glanced at Marvin.

“Super Dave had way too much going on to be fooling with renters and the upkeep of six houses,” he answered her inquisitive expression.

“Why are we here?” she asked. “What's in this neighborhood?”

“Those two houses,” Marvin answered proudly. “The one with the red trim and this one, with the huge bay window, I…we bought them both from Dave. I sold another one to Dooney and the others went fast.”

Chandelle closed the magazine as her head fell forward. “I'm proud of you, Marvin. So proud,” she said softly, her eyes cast toward her lap.

“Then what's wrong?”

“Nothing,” she lied, because the truth hurt too much to say.

“It doesn't look like nothing from here,” he debated. “From here, it looks like a big something. Chandelle, you never could lie to me, so you may as well spill it.” She wagged her head slowly, then mumbled her answer.

“All of this stuff. All of this good stuff happened to you in spite of me,” she said. “Look at everything. You're balling now and I wasn't around to help you do any of it. Maybe you are better off without me. Here I was thinking how we might spend Christmas together, in
our home
, and you've already bought two of them for yourself.”

Marvin allowed Chandelle's feelings to sink in. He'd been too busy moving and shaking to give what she had or hadn't been a part of any real consideration until then. He realized that she was right and wrong at the same time. “Chandelle, all of this stuff happening to me has more to do with you than you think. If I hadn't been arrested, I'd still be happy at Appliance World. If you hadn't talked Mr. Mercer into firing me, I'd still be happy at Appliance World. If I hadn't called Kim Hightower to bail me out, I'd still be happy at Appliance World. Dooney wouldn't own his first home. Dave wouldn't be taking time off work to live instead of living to work. By the way, he sold these houses to us at half price…both are valued at over one-hundred gees apiece. That's the only reason I qualified for them. Kim makes money on the back end of every buy and sale, so she came out pretty good on hiring me. Just think if you and Dior hadn't jacked me up…”

“I know, you'd still be happy at Appliance World.”

“It's funny when you think about it, huh?”

“No, it's funny the way you explained it,” she answered. “You know, I could get you busted again and we can see how your luck is running then?” Chandelle offered disingenuously.

“Thanks, but I'm gonna pass on going back to county. God put us through a lot to get us this far. I'd hate to mess with that.”

Chandelle sighed, then leaned over the console to kiss Marvin. “Grace said He had plans for us. She sure did. And I thought Dior was just getting in the way.”

Marvin put the SUV in drive, thinking how God didn't have anything to do with Dior managing to get herself more than just in the way.

C
handelle puttered down the road in her rented Neon. It was a far cry from the comforts of Marvin's new Sequoia SUV. No CD disc changer, leather, or cozy seat warmers she'd already developed an affinity for. The tiny two-door she drove reminded her that life in general was smaller by comparison with what Marvin had amassed in her absence. Although Chandelle couldn't help but applaud his recent triumphs after pushing her away, she wasn't as thrilled about what Dior must have been up to since she did the same to her.

As soon as she arrived home, Chandelle collected the stack of greeting cards Dior had sent her. With Amnesty, the adorable chocolate-hued teddy bear, on her lap, she read the cards and their inscriptions one by one. Most of them shared the same sentiment, asking for forgiveness, understanding, and yet another chance to recapture their friendship. Chandelle correlated Dior's pleas to just how much she wanted Marvin's attention and absolution. Anger and jealousy had both played such major roles in all three of their lives, and Chandelle was tired of letting them decide how and who she'd let in. Certainly Dior's shortcomings were practically of urban legend proportions and those were only the stories she'd heard about. Regardless, Dior was family, which Chandelle could not or wanted to dismiss. After reading the last card begging adamantly for her oldest friend to at least resume communication in fear of the door to their future being closed forever, Chandelle had made up her mind to overlook her cousin's devilish acts and the evil spirits that led her to pulling them off. “Come on, Amnesty,” she said finally, nuzzling with the stuffed animal. “Let's call Dior and have a long talk about keeping her nose out of other people's bid'ness, especially mine.”

For two days, Chandelle dialed Dior's home and cell numbers to no avail. Praying that she wasn't missing, Chandelle called Dooney. Despite not having seen his sister since that day he embarrassed her at the Big Cluck's fried chicken drive-thru, he suggested that Dior was somewhere doing her own thing. “If you need me to run by her apartment and snoop around, I can handle that when I close the shop,” he offered.

Chandelle read her wall clock, then determined there was a better solution. “No, Dooney, I'll go over and see if she's there myself. You've got money to make without worrying about Dior.”

“I know that's right,” he quickly concurred. “But look here, if she's not at home and you want in, call the maintenance man Harold Gulley. We go way back to my hustling days.”

“This Harold Gulley, he's an ex-con too?” Chandelle questioned. “Because I'm not trying to get caught up in anything.”

“Gulley is good people. We did a short stretch together over this little misunderstanding between his baby's momma and her pimp. We pulled his collar and let him know she wanted out of the game. One of his other girls sold us out to the law. Ol' dude was smart enough to keep his busted mouth shut when time came to testify. That old playa rolled into the courtroom in a wheelchair shivering like a wet dog,” Dooney cackled, “but we only did what was necessary. Gulley is harmless otherwise. He'll do what I tell him.”

Chandelle took Gulley's digits and called him. He complained about being tied up until he heard Dooney's name; then he wasn't so busy, after all. Gulley agreed to help her immediately.

 

Standing by a faded Ford truck with an aluminum ladder attached, Gulley smiled nervously as an attractive woman stepped out of a car that didn't fit her nearly as well as her blue jeans, sweater, and boots. “You Chandelle?” he asked, careful not to do anything that could in any way be misconstrued as disrespectful. He was there when Dooney crippled the loud-talking defiant pimp.

Chandelle narrowed her eyes, squinting at the hefty built dark-skinned laborer. “Yeah, I'm Chandelle. Thanks for meeting me on short notice. I really appreciate it.” She knocked at the door but no one answered.

“Uh-uh, don't say another word about it,” he cowered. “Any friend of Dooney's is cool with me.” The metal loop of keys rattled in his hands when opening Dior's apartment door. “You need me to hang around until you're through?” he asked, wanting eagerly to get as far away as he could from Chandelle, that apartment, and the debt he owed for his baby's mother's safety.

“No, thank you, I'll be fine,” she answered, feeling sorry for the man who looked to be seconds away from wetting his pants. “I'll lock up when I'm done. Oh, and I'll be sure to tell my cousin Dooney you were very helpful.”

“Thank you, thank you, sistah,” he answered graciously, backing away. “Thank you.” In the blink of an eye, Gulley was gone.

Chandelle closed the door, locked it, and turned on the lights in the living room. Clothes were scattered here and there, the way Dior liked them when she was coming and going too much to bother with keeping house. The answering machine resting on the end table displayed the number 17 in the new messages field. Chandelle moved through the house slowly from room to room, looking for anything that remotely resembled a clue to Dior's whereabouts. She saw an assortment of dirty clothes piled up in the bathroom, another of Dior's bad habits. Clutter had always reassured Dior that she was too busy to care about sorting things out.

Something told Chandelle to look underneath the bed, where Dior was known to hide her most private possessions. When they were kids, it was a diary. Now Chandelle had the opportunity to peek into what Dior had been up to lately. She found two shoe boxes. One contained a myriad of herbs and pills, intimate toys, and flavored body oils. Chandelle knew that bad girls played hard, since she was once one of them, so the contents in that box didn't alarm her. However, she was startled when removing the second box lid.

The sight of cold steel shook Chandelle. A black revolver stretching out on a bed of tens, twenties, fifties, and big-faced Benjamins warranted a closer look. There was a small black book hidden beneath the money. Chandelle was shocked by the number of bills in the box because Dior was often worse off financially. Somehow, she'd come upon some fast cash since her near eviction. Chandelle began flipping through the black book, which turned out to be Dior's daily planner. The first three entries Chandelle read from the previous month explained why Dior wouldn't carry it around with her. If picked up by the police for high-priced prostitution, that book would have served as her own undoing.

Chandelle passed several dates in search of the most recent entries. Fortunately for Dior, she skipped by the passages detailing notes of Marvin coming out of Kim Hightower's house after 10:00
P.M.
She also glided past documentation of the well-devised plan to share a drink with Marvin, get him plastered, and later share his bed.

“Let me see, Friday…Friday the thirteenth,” she mumbled quietly. An eerie feeling swept through Chandelle when she said the date. Not that she was superstitious, but that date was tied to tragedy in the minds of most people so she couldn't shake it. “Okay…a nooner with the Judge,” she read aloud, in Dior's handwriting. “Nooner…judge?” she repeated anxiously. “Eight o'clock birthday threesome at the Jennings…Special Occasion…Take enough Viagra? Ten-thirty dessert with Giorgio, Aristocrat Hotel. No Viagra, bring toys,” Chandelle exclaimed disapprovingly. “Ohhh, Dior.”

Chandelle racked her brain trying to remember the woman's name who had Dior pent up in the fitting room stall at the boutique. “What was that loony white chick's name? Rose, Rosey, Rhonda, Rona, Rhoda…Rosalind! That's it,
Rosalind
Jennings!” Chandelle remembered Dior saying how she'd served as a nanny for the Jenningses before her work had turned to play. The couple was into some kinky stuff, dangerous sexual activities. It didn't help that Rosalind exhibited addictive and possessive personality traits. Chandelle reasoned that the woman's husband was likely just as mentally defective so she picked up the phone and dialed information. “Yes, I need a number and address for a Rosalind Jennings, in Plano. Yes, I'll hold.” The operator returned with bad news: The number was unlisted.

Chandelle tore through Dior's dresser drawers in the bedroom, then made her way to the kitchen, rifling through papers, unopened bills, and old check stubs. “Jennings…Jennings,” whispered Chandelle. “Paul and Rosalind Jennings! I got y'all now.” She shoved the pay stub into her back pocket and hurriedly headed for the door. “It's seven forty-five.”

Chandelle locked the door and sped off toward I-75. She hooked a right on the service road and then another one into a Kinko's parking lot. Friday night guaranteed the place would be virtually dead with plenty of available PCs. Chandelle sat down at the computer farthest in the back. She slid her credit card in the slot, waited, and then clicked on the Internet Explorer icon. Within sixty seconds, she was printing off the driving instructions to the Jennings's residence.

“Dior had better be all right when I get there,” she growled, while maneuvering through sluggish traffic in her rental. “I know that much! Birthday threesomes for the man who has everything, huh?” Chandelle felt around on the passenger seat, as she darted in and out of sluggish lanes toward the Park Avenue exit. “He's about get a birthday surprise too.”

When Chandelle found the house, Dior's tricked-out Escort was sitting next to the curb in front of it. She beat on the door like the police, loud and insistently. Moments later, Chandelle began kicking the heel of her boot against the door more violently. “I said, open this door!” she shouted and banged, drawing attention from neighbors walking their overcared-for pooches. Eventually, a half-dressed white woman, the same one who'd been stalking Dior, answered frantically.

“Go away, you must have the wrong house,” she persisted, with the chain on the door. She tried to close it, but Chandelle jammed her boot against the frame.

“Dior is coming with me so you might as well open up,” she howled boldly.

“Dior isn't here, I tell you. Now go before I call the police.”

“I'll give you something to call them about,” Chandelle threatened as she burst into the house. She stomped around downstairs behind the kitchen in the maid's quarters. “Why are you standing there looking at me? I thought you were calling the law?” Chandelle spat, once discovering Dior's purse and jacket on the washer in the utility room.

Rosalind glanced at the cutting board near the kitchen isle. Chandelle knew what she was thinking. “Go ahead on,” she dared, pulling a straight razor from her purse. Dooney taught her to use one in self-defense before she went off to college. “We can let the police pick up the pieces after their next donut break. I'd bet your neighbors would love that.”

“What if Dior doesn't want to go with you?” Rosalind submitted, with her arms folded.

“Like she has a choice,” Chandelle barked. “Where is she, up there?” Not waiting for an answer, she raced upstairs, searching the rooms until she discovered Dior tied up like an animal, bound and gagged. Chandelle gawked at Mr. Jennings, who was naked except for leather riding boots. He lunged toward her, his soft frame jiggling. She raised her knee and kicked him in the gut.

“You're in here whipping her? Slavery days been over, and if you ever come around my li'l cousin again, I'm gonna make a few calls and see to it that some of the biggest black men I know free you from that saggy bag hanging between your skinny legs. Believe me, you don't want to mess with us. What you've been getting from Dior ain't worth it. Whatever you're paying her ain't either.”

As Chandelle ripped the gag off Dior's mouth, she coughed and sputtered. “Uh-uh, Chandelle, you've got it all wrong. You gave up on me so I'm doing what I'm good at. These people pay lots of money to be with me. This ‘plantation mammy' thing they like goes over big out here in the burbs. Just pretend you didn't find me, and then leave us alone.”

“Dee, get your clothes on and shake any idea of ever doing this again from your empty head,” Chandelle demanded while untying Dior. “You have shamed me and every black woman who ever lived. Now, get your stuff before I beat you myself and spare our ancestors the embarrassment. The games these kinds of people play are dangerous. People have died being restrained like this.” Dior hesitated a second too long for Chandelle's liking so she began dragging her down the hall. As they neared the steps, Dior screamed.

“All right! All right, let me up!”

“Fool!” Chandelle kept an eye on Rosalind and the top of the staircase in the event Paul gave another shot at getting his birthday threesome wish. “Hurr'up, Dior. I don't like this place or these nasty friends of yours.”

“They ain't friends, they used to be paying customers,” Dior grumbled, while zipping her dress in the back. She yelled angrily at the way Chandelle wrestled her to the door by her hair. “You ain't got to be handling me this way. I said I was going.”

“And I'm making sure you keep your word.” Chandelle was glad that there weren't any neighbors looming about to witness the outcome of her thunderous entry into the Jennings's home. “Dior,” she said, shoving her into the compact car. “What were you planning to do once those people had used you up and thrown you out?”

“They were just getting some kicks. Ain't nobody tryna to use me.”

“Don't be a fool your whole life. That man was about to ride you like a birthday pony with his wife watching. That whole scene is triflin', and it won't ever turn out like you thought. I've got too much on my mind to go casket shopping for you over some hot mess.” Chandelle was seething. She roared out of the subdivision with her tires smoking. “And don't think for a minute that this ends here, Dior. Get out your cute little flip phone and call to cancel your ten o'clock with Giorgio. One Viagra pill-popping white man a night ought to be enough.”