Sinful Too (4 page)
“I’m really not sure, but I’ll know when I see it,” he answered in a hesitant tone. He followed her footsteps as she gave him a tour of the store, pointed out several mid-ranged garments, and then explained how dressing well could be costly but always worth every penny if a man’s wardrobe adequately portrayed his inner man. “Inner man?” he said, as if asking what she knew about that.
“Yeah, some fellas wear nice clothes that are all wrong for them. Some of my best customers are ballplayers and entertainers. When they first came to me, they were put together like somebody had laid out their school clothes.” She smirked briefly to get another dig in at Richard’s expense. “I don’t see the man as he is but as he could be,” she added finally.
“That’s deep, spiritual. You learn that in church?”
“Uh-uh, I really don’t
do
church. I tried to get my sins washed away once, didn’t work. In too deep, I guess.”
“If you need God to help you,” he said, before Dior slammed that door shut.
“Whoa, Deacon Do-Good! Let’s get one thing straight: I will not come to your job trying to do mine and I’d appreciate it if you afford me the same respect. Nothing against you or
the Lawd
,” she mocked, “but I got my own ministry. I call it ‘paying bills on time.’ Standing still for sermonettes ain’t even my size. Uh-uh, they don’t even fit me.” Dior exhaled in a slow deliberate manner in an effort to catch her breath. If she happened to lose Richard’s business, then so be it, but she refused to be preached at.
Richard stared at Dior, then he sighed deeply as well. He was taken aback and there was no use trying to pretend he hadn’t been floored by her frankness and honesty. For far too long, members of the church’s staff and the congregation had walked on eggshells around him, even when they knew he was wrong. Dior said her peace and stood her ground. Richard admired both qualities. He also noticed how her grammar and diction slid when rattled.
In a man’s anger, his true identity is revealed
, he thought. Was she a ghetto-girl playing dress up? he wondered. The longer he stood there, reasoning with their incidental meeting, it became apparent to him that this young saleslady had more to offer than expensive suits and overpriced fashion accessories. She was likely a hard case, the toughest soul to win. Dior had undoubtedly been torn by hurtful past experiences. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have shut him down so readily. Richard kept that in mind when deciding on how to proceed with their incidental meeting. “While I’m not accustomed to getting heckled like that, you’re correct. Although He is everywhere, I should respect your workplace and I do. As the ballplayers say, no harm, no foul. I guess I’d better get back to the reason I came in?”
“Then we could both get blessed,” she answered politely, as if there hadn’t been a peculiar strand of tension pulling them every which way. Dior judged by the colors and patterns of the ties Richard chose that he was a conservative dresser — solids and stripes down the line. He didn’t look twice at the vibrant paisley prints or the funky designs other church leaders clamored for. Once she had a sound idea of what moved him, she began to imagine him in a jazzy sports coat outside of what he was likely to have considered traditional. “Ultraconservative taste,” she said, placing the pieces he’d agreed to buy on the counter. “Hmm, when was the last time you treated yourself to a new sports coat or one of these?” She pulled an athletic-styled suit down off the rack, the same one she had to talk Mr. Keith out of because of his exaggerated girth. “Here’s a limited edition; it’s new. Feel the softness. It comes in three and four buttons with the vented jacket.”
Richard grinned heartily. “I heard these were making a comeback. In the seventies, my father used to look sharp as a tack when he popped the vents. Yeah, let me try it out.”
Though she could assess Richard’s physical dimensions from head to toe from a distance, Dior didn’t let that get in the way of taking the scenic route. “This particular line runs kinda big. I’ll need to see where you stand first.” She chased down Suza for a tape measure, then made it appear business as usual when she stood behind Richard and gently wrapped the tape around his midsection. He felt her warm breath flow through him but ignored it as best he could. Next, Dior bent over in front of him to measure his inseam. Richard squirmed uneasily the second she placed the tape near his crotch. “Stop wiggling,” she jested. “I swear, sometimes the only thing standing between men and lil’ boys is a driver’s license.” Richard relaxed enough to laugh. Dior started to pour it on thick, then suddenly she paused.
I felt something move. Was that lil’ Richard flapping around?
Lord, I hope she didn’t feel my businessman move
, he prayed silently. Richard was afraid to breathe, much less look down. Foolishly he allowed his eyes to see what his manhood sensed: an attractive woman with her face dangerously close to it. “O-okay,” he stammered nervously. “That ought to be about it, right?”
That’s all right in my book.
“Uh, yes,” she uttered softly. “I’m almost finished.” Dior knew she was wrong for the stunt she pulled next. The second time he allowed curiosity to get the best of him. Dior’s eyes were staring up at his. “Yep, I found what I needed.”
Richard exhaled after she headed for the checkout counter. He felt bad about his untimely arousal, secretly enjoying her arms around his waist, her fingers near his erogenous zone. Dior apologized for going off earlier, citing her inability to accept someone’s opinion of what she needed. Richard said he understood where she was coming from then let it go. He presented his credit card for the suit and neckties, spoke as few words as possible before signing for his purchase, and then he nodded goodbye without actually saying it. Dior watched him walk toward the exit. She was willing to bet a full month’s pay that he’d turn for one lasting glimpse, one stolen glance to take with him.
“Come on, Richard,” she sang quietly. “We both know you want to. Turn around, turn around. Don’t pass it up. You’ll hate yourself if you do.” Her face cracked and hit the floor when he made it to the exit without slowing his pace. As soon as Dior began to fill out the appropriate paperwork for his alterations, Richard’s head turned slowly. She was right about him after all. He couldn’t pass on the opportunity to capture her image in his mind. Unwittingly, Richard just made his first wrong move.
Beans and Corn Bread
T
angerine Green was almost thirty, a smidge taller than Dior, with supple breasts and curvy hips. Long auburn curls framed her oval-shaped face. Proud of her biracial heritage, Tangie often wore fitted jeans and blouses with intricate Asian prints. Her large round slanted eyes and a tiny beauty mark above her lip on the left side were very appealing. A self-proclaimed dime piece from the south side of Dallas, she had a smooth-talking style that made her a radio celebrity. Tangie whirled into Giorgio’s, looking back over her shoulder. She was dressed in tight denim jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of Yoko Ono stretched across her chest. “Dior, was that Pastor Dr. Richard Allamay, PhD, coming out of this shop?” she howled, with both feet motoring nearly as fast as her mouth.
Dior shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t ask me. I’m wrapping up this sale for a dude named Richard Somebody. Let’s see, he did sign this Platinum American Express card. ‘Richard Allamay,’ ” she read. “Yeah, I guess that was him.” Dior filed his paperwork away nonchalantly. “I’m glad you came by because I talked Suza into pulling a close for me. Let me get my bag.”
“You gon’ get your bag?” Tangie repeated in a ridiculously nasal tone.
“What?” Dior asked. “I’m not leaving it here.”
“You don’t have any clue who Pastor Dr. Richard Allamay, PhD, is, do you?”
“No, but you sound like the man’s talking résumé. All he said was that he needed to cop some new rags for a pastor’s day at some church. I wasn’t trying to keep up with his flossin’ after he admitted his wife usually bought all of his clothes. Oomph, I started to tell him to sit down and be still until she showed and gave permission to shop on his own.”
Tangie was astounded. “You didn’t actually say it?”
“Nah, but I played him like a chump,” she confessed. “He shouldn’t have been up on my job talking about which of my needs God could help me with.”
“Are you slow?” Tangie fussed, as Dior opened the office door to retrieve her expensive leather handbag. “He is a man of God.”
“And . . . this is my job,” Dior replied in the same “don’t you know” tone that baited her. “Why are you trippin’? I apologized to him. We’re cool now. He bought a nice suit and a gang of props to set it off. Believe me, ain’t no love lost.” Dior’s demeanor caused her friend to dig deeper.
“I’m just saying, Richard Allamay is the shepherd of Methodist Episcopal Greater Apostolic Church.”
“All that can’t be necessary,” Dior said, put off by the long title.
“Members call it
the
M.E.G.A. Church for short. The name says it all. There’s a ten-thousand-seat auditorium, day care, a life-center building with fifty-five classrooms, a CD and DVD ministry, two clothing shelters, three restaurant-style kitchens, and a full-length basketball court.”
“Whuuut? It sounds more like a small town than a church house.”
“That would make it the largest black-owned
church house
in the state. I was a member before they bought the new facility. It grew too wide for me, in size and in drama. You know what they say: more money, more problems. Saving souls is big business in the Bible Belt and Dallas is the buckle.”
Dior’s mind was doing cartwheels again, and this time she had more than pocket money on her mind. She couldn’t imagine how much that M.E.G.A. Church paid Richard but it had to be a pile of money, money she would have access to if she cemented an intimate relationship with him. On second thought, becoming the first lady of a spiritual cash cow wasn’t a bad situation to be in either; then she’d have the chance to fulfill her childhood dream of financial independence and the unrivaled envy of a church full of chicks looking up to her.
“It’s a good thing you’re smart enough to keep your eyes and hands off him. It must be hard shooing off those church-house hoochies and preacher groupies throwing panties into the pulpit after every sermon.” When Dior didn’t respond, Tangie grew suspicious. “Dior? Dior? Tell me you’re not getting stupid ideas about getting next to the pastor? Wicked women ought to leave good Christian men alone. I respect Richard Allamay. He’s for real, a dyed-in-the-wool man of God.”
“See, there you go again. What’s with you and him and God today? I stay out of God’s business and I hope He stays out of mine.” Tangie bowed her head, crossed her chest, and began praying silently. Dior, annoyed and fed up with all of the Jesus-speak, clenched her teeth then folded her arms. After lifting her bag off the office desk, Dior cut her eyes at Tangie. “That’s the last I’m going to be hearing about that kind of hocus-pocus or else I’m going out alone to get my sin on all by myself.”
“Wait a minute, Dee,” Tangie protested. “Let’s not be too hasty. I’m still coming with you.
He
isn’t finished with me yet. I need to get my drink on, get my dance on, and my dirty deed done too — that’s if I run into anybody I used to know. New booty is too much duty. You know how men start out by sending their representative to put in work, sweet-talk you, and play the perfect-husband-material role, then the dust settles and all you’re left with is a pile of what? Dust. That’s why I sleep with the devils I already know.”
“I’m with you like beans and corn bread on that one,” Dior concurred. “You’re more likely to see a lie coming at you than having one sneak by and slap you upside the head.”
Tangie chuckled as they left the store. “It’ll have you whining in a box of tissues if you don’t recognize it in time.”
“Tissues? Uh-uh, in a bottle of Hennessy,” Dior said, laughing as an old memory played fresh in her mind. “Speaking of that, where is the spot tonight? We could head downtown and crash the Ghost Bar lounge or hit the north tollway and bust a left on Belt Line.” She grimaced as a lanky man with a light complexion, in his mid-twenties, slowed his stroll when they drew near. “Ahh nah, here comes Monty from that jock’s box upstairs. Ignore him and maybe he’ll keep on walking.”
He rubbed his shaved head, adjusted the black belt on his referee uniform, then cracked an arrogant grin. “Hmm, hmm, hmm,” he said, ogling the ladies like a starving man eyeing two steak dinners. “I must be sleepwalking because this is my dream come true.” He licked his thick pink lips as if someone told him it was sexy to do so. “Pinch me, please, so I can wake up and do something about this. Two of the finest vixens I ever seen in the same place at the same time. It’s a miracle. A miracle!”
Tangie seemed amused by his sophomoric attempt at impressing them. “You’re pretty brave to be parading around in public like that. Let one of those Foot Locker crew catch you in a knockoff uniform, they’re gonna thump that head.”
“Ha-ha, Tangerine. This ain’t no knockoff,” Monty argued. “Where their stripes are black, ours are white and visa versa. Ain’t no conflict. All of that’s been worked out in court.” When it became obvious that Tangie had no interest in him or his stripes, Monty waggled his tongue again, this time to entice Dior. “How come you haven’t called me, Ms. Dior? I’ve dropped off three business cards with that Latin sistah so you could holla at me.” She leveled her best poker face then glanced down at her watch.
“I don’t have time for this foolishness,” she scoffed. “But I got two grown-up words for you:
child support
. Now deal with it.” Tangie cackled in the man’s face as Dior tugged on her arm to hasten their getaway.
“That sure is cold, Dior,” he replied, with a gaping hole in his ego.
“Latex, Monty,” she heckled boldly. “Look it up, strap it on, and keep it tight.”
After blasting the mall hound, the ladies decided to stay on the north side. They ventured to a popular restaurant and bar called Café Bleu. It was the place for upscale African American up-and-comers to network with corporate climbers while sifting through those who were merely faking it. The fancy watering hole served as a suitable meet-and-mingle joint overall, despite the ever-present male fraternal orders of Hoochie Hawks and Desperate Dorks.
How they kept getting in?
vexed Dior. Tangie was too busy laughing at one man’s miserable rejection after the next. She almost fell out of her chair when an overconfident snake approached their table with a bottle of Cristal and three glasses dangling from his nimble fingers. He came within two feet before Dior stuck her palm out like a cranky crossing guard. “Uh-uh, don’t,” she told him, in no uncertain terms. “We’re waiting on someone and you’re not him. Sorry.” After he tucked tail and turned about-face, Tangie questioned her decision.
