“I passed around clear summaries of each account’s balances, along with explanations of the accounts’ purpose,” Orange huffed. “Our investments are earning a good return, they could see that. It’s not my fault that most of them are restricted to use for specific programs and capital projects. I explained how we exhausted our reserves refurbishing the playground, pool, and basketball courts in preparation for the summer’s programs. If they can’t understand why that only leaves us with the monthly interest earned on our mortgage bonds to pay off the bank loans”—Orange emitted a brief sigh and locked eyes with Sheryl—“I felt disrespected, Sheryl.”
“Rolly, you know I took up for you. I made it clear that I back your decision to put the Highland contributions into the new investment pool that you’re structuring. I know your expertise and your network of contacts can help ensure that the money they raise earns a maximum return, for the long-term benefit of the center.”
Orange stood, walked to a low couch a few feet away, and collapsed into the cushions, sitting with his hands behind his head and his eyes on Sheryl. “But that wasn’t enough for them, was it?”
“I backed you, Rolly.” Sheryl shook her head and began flipping through her planning notebook. “I made them back off. Don’t be so sensitive. They’re just young men learning leadership skills and finally getting a chance to give something back. They’re not a threat to you. We’re all in this together.”
“You’re right.” Orange checked his watch and grimaced. Not already. “Sheryl, can we talk about this week’s fund-raisers after lunch? I forgot I was supposed to call a representative from the NAACP at ten.”
“That’s fine,” Sheryl said, looking up momentarily. “I have a teleconference in a few minutes myself.”
Orange heaved himself up from the couch and barreled back down the hallway, heading for his office, a cramped space with linoleum-tile flooring and the scent of Raid. The place had to be sprayed weekly to keep roaches and rats away. How far he’d come, Rolly V. Orange. From councilman, a man with the ear of Jesse, Marion, Eleanor, and every CEO in town, to . . . this.
How had this happened? He knew better than to ask that question. The beginning of the end had been a bottle of the wrong Scotch, one he had grown far too fond of. Then there had been Angela’s illness, lupus, a shot from out of nowhere that still puzzled him. She was alive, but so fragile in more ways than one now. The rage simmered within him.
He took a seat at his metal desk and shuffled papers absentmindedly before grabbing at the rotary phone to his right. He’d memorized the number by now, after refusing to call for several weeks. He’d thought he could be strong, thought he’d tell the Kid where to go, the way he’d done most every time he’d approached him at council meetings. But after his run-in with those kids last night, young men with everything in front of them, questioning his judgment as if he was a nobody, a hasbeen at the tender age of forty-eight . . . Orange gripped the phone receiver and shut the thoughts out.
“Nico,” he said when a voice answered on the other end. “We need to talk. Where can we meet?”
CHAPTER 6
. . . . . . . . . . . .
MINDS OF THEIR OWN
When the fellas sat down in their living room to review Ellis business, as they did every Saturday morning, Larry was a little preoccupied. He stewed in silence as the others bantered idly about who had the hottest date last night, what club was jumping, and who was seen with whom. He couldn’t stop reading and rereading Sheila Evans’s latest editorial attack in the Sentinel. Damn if she wasn’t accusing him of improprieties in his position as financial adviser to last year’s HSA president. It was a bunch of lies about him steering some homecoming contracts to vendors with ties to his father’s business, complete falsehoods. But someone was bound to believe this stuff. He didn’t need to lose any more points—he was still trailing Winburn by ten.
“Larry, you look like you got something on your mind,” O. J. said, snapping him from his trance. “What up?”
Larry folded the paper and shook his head, ready to get down to business. The conversation turned serious and each housemate gave an update on their fundraising progress. Brandon was concerned about the Disciples of Christ’s willingness to help. They seemed troubled by the close ties between Ellis Center and the local Nation of Islam chapter. The Nation, on the other hand, had encouraged Terence and asked for a couple of weeks to look at their budget before committing to specifics. O. J. was just getting started but was ready to hit churches from the heart of Northwest D.C. to the bottom of Southeast. For his part, Larry had riled up a few thousand with phone calls to wealthy alumni but had lists of people he hadn’t reached yet.
Once the issue of fund-raising was covered, Larry began complaining about their most recent meeting with the Ellis Center board. “I wouldn’t follow Rolly Orange across the street,” he said, huffing and puffing. “Why does a woman as sharp as Sheryl pay that fool any mind?”
“Look, you know the sister’s got a lot on her these days,” O. J. piped up from his perch on a beanbag in the center of the floor. “She just got divorced in the last year, and now her daughter’s pregnant. That’s no small load to carry while running a center with a well that’s gone dry.”
“Don’t get me wrong, fellas, Sheryl’s all good,” Larry stressed, “but I can’t condone sittin’ by and letting Orange run rampant with the money. I don’t know if the rest of that board is clueless or in collusion with him, they supported his plan so quick. Come on, somebody’s got to serve as a check on this mug.”
“I hear ya,” Brandon said from his reclined position in a black lounge chair near the bay window. “Maybe we should move the rest of our money.”
“Brandon, what are you sayin’?” Terence whipped around from the other end of the couch. “You gonna take your contributions away from Orange & Company?”
Larry shook his head eagerly. “If I hear my boy correctly, he’s suggesting we stop putting our fresh contributions into the Ellis Center accounts, where Orange can put his grubby hands all over them. Am I right, Choirboy?”
His eyes shut, Brandon tipped his head back against the lounger’s leather. “To my mind, we’re under no formal obligation to put our contributions directly into Ellis’s hands. Look, we’ve already got pledges of fifteen thousand bucks. That’s not exactly Monopoly money.
“Until we get some comfort about Orange, we can set up a savings or money market account, one that would require one of our signatures, as well as Sheryl’s, for any withdrawals. That way, the contributions are technically placed under the center’s control, without sacrificing our right to see that the funds are handled responsibly.” For a few moments, the men sat in silence, considering the weight of the step they were about to take.
“I’m with that, brother,” O. J. bellowed. “The board would be hard-pressed to argue with such a setup. It might even make them rethink their choice to follow Orange like sheep being led to the slaughter.”
“I’ll get my banker on the phone, if that’s okay with everybody.” Larry’s authoritative tone gave their gathering the air of a formal business meeting. “He’ll get us an account set up, and we can have all donors send the checks directly to a bank lockbox. Let’s hook up again for an update meeting next week.”
CHAPTER 7
. . . . . . . . . . . .
MO’ MONEY,
MO’ PROBLEMS
The next Saturday morning, Larry sat up in Ashley’s bed and planned his escape. Her four-poster queen-sized bed creaked slightly as he rose from the champagne satin sheets and delicately placed his right foot on the cushy carpet below. As he swung his torso to the left and sprang to his feet, the bed emitted another faint warning that he feared would alert Ashley to his movement. He wasn’t trying to step out on her, he just wanted to get the day moving. It was almost eight o’clock, and he had to brush up on Ellis Center’s history before his brunch with Raheem Ramirez, a local venture capitalist and frat brother of his father’s. There was n
o way he was gonna get Ramirez to part with some dough if he couldn’t effectively sell the center’s accomplishments. Once he had wined and dined Ramirez, he had to swing by the house and pick up some campaign brochures and posters. Mark had insisted they spend at least three hours every weekend making the rounds of the dorms. The latest poll still showed him almost ten points behind David Winburn.
Grateful that he had taken to keeping a few outfits at his woman’s apartment, Larry eased open the door to her walk-in closet and stepped inside. Ashley had neatly arranged three of his suits and several shirts and khakis on the right side of the space. For a moment he paused and laughed softly. No college student needed to live like this. Granted, the closet in his room at home in Cincinnati was at least this big, but that was different. He was perfectly happy with his current digs in D.C.—tasteful, spacious enough, but within the price range of his more middle-class housemates.
As he toyed with which Hilfiger combination to throw on, Ashley’s velvety voice floated through the cracked closet doorway. “Laaawrence,” she drooled her pet name for him, “what are you doing?”
“Just chillin’, deciding what I’m gonna wear today.” He stepped out and observed his rising beauty. “Once I figure that out, I need to boot up your Compaq and do some job-search business on the Net, before I meet Ramirez.”
Ashley raised her delicate arms over her head and yawned. “Why do you even bother job searching, Larry? You’ve got boatloads of contacts who’ll hook you up.”
“But I never know when I might miss out on the best opportunity just ’cause I don’t know somebody. Ash, you know I believe in leaving no stone unturned. Whitakers never settle for second best.”
“Suit yourself,” she replied. Larry watched his woman as she emerged from the bed, dressed only in a black silk lingerie short set. As she draped her tall, lithe figure in a silk robe covered with a light floral pattern, Larry recalled how aggressively he had removed all of that clothing just a few hours earlier.
Noticing the effect her movements were causing, Ashley met his eyes, a smile of knowing naughtiness on her face. “Are you thinking nasty thoughts? I would have thought I wore you out last night.”
“Oh, there’s always more where that came from.” As he stared across the room, Larry thought of rushing her, but before he could complete the thought Ashley retrieved a large black comb from her porcelain-white dresser and began teasing her long locks before the mirror.
“Some days I just don’t know what to do with this mane. Maybe I’ll just go to Lucien’s next week and have it all cut off, put it into short waves or something.”
Disappointed that the opportunity for a last-minute groove had passed, Larry taunted her. “You, of all people, with a short cut? Why, babe, how ever could you lampoon the hair of every other girl on campus if you had none yourself?”
“Ha-ha, you missed your calling, Eddie Murphy,” she said, not breaking a stride with her comb. “Sometimes I just get tired of being high-maintenance.”
“I’d have to be a fool to touch that one,” Larry said, snickering.
“So how are we doing this thing with our parents tonight?” Ashley had raised the subject Larry had been pushing from his mind for the last few days. Tonight would be the equivalent of D-day for this couple: finding out if their parents could coexist in peace. This was more of a concern for Larry and Ashley than for most. Anytime the only son of a millionaire entrepreneur and the little girl of a thriving bond trader were interested in hooking up, sparks were bound to fly.
Lawrence Whitaker, Sr., was both Larry’s role model and a thorn in his side. Following in his own father’s footsteps, Larry senior had taken control of his father’s businesses twenty-five years ago. After spinning off or closing those that were unprofitable and focusing on a core of grocery-store and electronics retail chains, Larry senior had built the businesses into the $350 million operation they were today.
As a child, Larry junior had been unable to escape his identity as the son of the man who owned Whitty’s Electronics and Lola’s Grocery Stores. As a heartbreaking preteen, he’d even been subjected to the ridicule of serving as a chipper spokesperson in local TV and radio ads. Shop at Whitty’s, we’ll save you pennies. Well-meaning senior citizens and smart-ass kids throughout Cincinnati taunted him with that line to this day.
Perhaps some of that early usurping of his identity had led to Larry’s resistance to taking over the business. Larry senior was, of course, adamant about the idea, even though he acknowledged the value in Larry’s working elsewhere first. But he was not open to turning the company over to anyone other than Larry junior or Vera. And with Vera in self-imposed exile working as a missionary in Russia for the next two years, Larry knew he had been targeted as the prime candidate.
Although Larry had modeled himself after his father for most of his life, he figured his parents had raised him too well: his ambition had outgrown theirs. Larry senior had run his consortium of businesses from the same gleaming corporate tower in Blue Ash, Ohio, for the past twenty years. Sure, he had a beautiful office with plush carpet, antique furniture, and a few modern amenities like the wet bar and home entertainment system, but he went to and from the same office day in and day out. Larry could not relate. The taste for the finer things in life, which his parents actively bred in him, was calling him to the world of high finance, not his father’s world of union battles, manufacturing snafus, and humiliating negotiations with snobby bankers. Oh, no, Larry was going to be one of those snobby bankers, arranging multimillion-, even billion-dollar deals and walking off with a nice little cut that would be more than most people earned in a lifetime.
Despite his mother’s occasional criticism of his passion for the almighty dollar, Larry didn’t view himself as money-hungry. He simply believed in evolution. His father was a multimillionaire; he would be a billionaire. And he would never get there running Whitty’s or Lola’s, fine businesses though they were. When he had first reached the point of making an official decision about the family business last spring, it had been Ashley who encouraged him to go for the green. He was pretty certain he’d made that decision of his own will, and not just because that had been the first night they’d gotten busy. Regardless, he had decided to keep his decision from his father until he graduated next year. A peaceful relationship with Pops meant he got to keep his Lexus, talk to his baby sister, Laura, on a regular basis, and hit senior up for extra bones for his own as well as Ellis Center’s needs.
Responding to Ashley’s question about the dinner, Larry squinted at his clothing selections and scratched at his mound of uncombed curls. It was about time for another haircut, maybe a shorter fade this time. “Your folks want everybody to meet them at The Four Seasons, right?”
“Yeah, you know Daddy’s a member of the club they have on the penthouse floor there. Have you cleared it with your dad?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Larry said, chuckling. “You shoulda heard his ’tude when I first mentioned your father’s proposal. In Cincinnati, he ain’t used to being one-upped. There’s plenty of middle-class black folk there, but he’s always been one of the wealthiest ones around. Usually he’s the one inviting folk to his exclusive clubs, understand. But I think he recovered from the shock.”
Ashley’s smile was patronizing. “Come on now, your father’s sophisticated enough to know that a New York bond trader lives in a different world from most other businesspeople.”
Larry was a little perturbed by this comment. He resisted the urge to ask if that made his father chopped liver, and hit the floor to do a few quick push-ups before turning on the computer. “Anyway, their flight gets in around one this afternoon,” he panted in mid-push-up, “they’re gonna call me when they get settled into their room at the Hyatt, and we can pick them up on our way over to Four Seasons.”
As he continued pumping, Ashley came and stood over him. “You know, I wish I could be meeting your real mother first.”
Satisfied that he’d knocked out eno
ugh reps to maintain his physique, Larry rolled back on his elbows and looked up at the ornate light fixture overhead. “Yeah, I know. She promises she’ll get out here before the end of the year, and she wants us to spend a weekend at Hilton Head with her and Bill sometime over the summer.” The mere thought of his mother “spending weekends” with anyone other than Larry senior still made him queasy, so he quickly moved off the subject of Bill. “Anyway, the paper is planning to send her to D.C. more often to cover the latest scandals, so she’s looking to size you up over the course of several visits.”
Tired of playing with her hair, Ashley headed for the closet, the intoxicating scent of Victoria perfume trailing behind her. “Well, I welcome her critiques,” she said, overconfidence dripping from her tone. “I’m sure your mom and I will hit it off.”
Thankful that her back was turned, Larry treated himself to a fleeting smirk. He was working gradually to prepare his mother for Ashley ahead of time. Nothing characterized the difference between his parents more than the initial reactions each had when he first flashed a picture of his new girlfriend last year.
His father had been uncouth as always. “Good God, son!” Larry senior’s mouth had come dangerously close to hitting the floor. “What you trying to do—put your old man to shame? I’m supposed to be the mack up in here! My partners see you with this fine thang, they gonna ask me why I’ve never landed a piece like that!” Larry had spent the next few minutes fending off impolite and relatively private queries about Ashley’s anatomy, as well as the particulars of her sexual performance. Not exactly the type of conversation he cared to have with his dad, though he’d always known Larry senior was no prude. He wondered sometimes if his father would ever get tired of the player’s game. The man was almost fifty years old, but his attitude toward attractive women hadn’t evolved a bit.
Larry’s mother, Mona, on the other hand, had not been so impressed by Ashley’s photo. Last summer, as they sat in her office at the Cincinnati Enquirer, she had fixed him with a skeptical gaze. “Larry, does this girl have anything in her head?”
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