Drop Dead, Gorgeous

by J. D. Mason

  “Because you probably will.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “In the last two years, he’s deposited two hundred and forty thousand dollars in Joel Tunson’s bank account, and he won’t stop buying that old man’s silence until he’s dead. How far could you go on a quarter of a million or more, Frank?”

  He thought about it before answering. “Pretty damn far.”

  “It’s a risk, yes. Maybe it’ll pay off, maybe it won’t. But what do you have to lose? And what could you possibly gain?”

  He had everything to lose. Just thinking about it made Frank sick to his stomach.

  “Send me that number. Let’s get this ball rolling,” he said, before hanging up.

  We’re All Cannibal

  “So let me get this straight,” Lonnie said, standing in the open doorway of her loft wearing panties and a tank top and eating an apple. Phillip Durham had showed up out of the blue like he was a rabbit who’d just popped out of a hat. “You flew all the way from Greece and some hot babe just to take me to lunch?”

  He smiled. “I know of no other woman in the world more deserving than you, love.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. Lonnie stepped aside and motioned for him to come in. “Thought you had a key,” she said to him.

  “Of course I do,” he responded. “But it would’ve been rude to use it.”

  Phillip kissed her forehead, came inside, and shut the door behind him. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, looking around.

  “I didn’t do anything,” she said, taking another bite of apple. “I just moved in.”

  He turned to her and smiled. “That must be it. It looks lived in and smells like girl.”

  “When did you get back to the States?”

  He took hold of her hand and led her toward the armoire in the bedroom. “Do you have a pretty dress?” he asked, flipping through hangers.

  “Of course I have a pretty dress, lots of them. Why?”

  He pulled out an orange number with a wide belt, and a plum-colored pair of suede pumps. “Huh?” He laid out the ensemble on the bed, looking for her approval.

  “Um … creative.”

  “Get dressed, love. I am famished.”

  Lonnie plopped down on the bed. “I ate already,” she said casually. “Tell me about Athens.” She patted a place beside her.

  He took hold of her hands and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll tell you about Athens over lunch.”

  “But I said I’m not hungry.”

  “I am. So you can watch me eat and I’ll tell you all of my adventures.”

  So, Phillip was hungry, and insistent. Lonnie shrugged, pulled her top off over her head, and started to get dressed.

  * * *

  The hostess led Lonnie and Phillip through the crowded restaurant to a table facing the lake.

  “No,” he said, stopping her. “Would it be possible for us to sit over there?” Phillip pointed to another table across the room.

  “Sure.” The hostess smiled and seated them.

  Phillip ordered a bowl of lobster bisque soup and salad. Lonnie just ordered the salad. For twenty minutes, he told her every detail about his trip to Greece and the four times he fell in and out of love while he was there. Then suddenly he changed the subject. “So, tell me how your little vendetta is coming along?”

  “My little vendetta?” she asked, slightly offended, and slightly amused by his pompous, belittling tone.

  Of course, Phillip caught on. “Oh, come on, darling. I’m English. You know we are naturally condescending. It’s in our DNA.”

  Lonnie quickly recovered. After all, this was Phillip, her savior, best friend, and occasional object of her affection. “I think Frank Ross has finally gotten with the program,” she explained, toying with her napkin. “He’s ready to get in touch with Jordan. Asked me how to do it a few days ago.”

  Phillip’s blue eyes twinkled. “Wonderful.” He smiled. “What is your prediction? Do you think he’ll fare well?”

  Lonnie thought before responding. “No,” she said remotely. “I don’t think he’ll fare well in any of this. But I need him.”

  “That’s all that matters,” Phillip said unemotionally.

  Lonnie nodded. “We’re all actors in this play. We’ve all got our roles.”

  There was something sad and dismal about it all.

  There will be casualties, Phillip had warned her. Frank was going to have to be one of them, eventually. So would others.

  “I spoke to Jordan’s wife,” Lonnie volunteered, thinking back to her meeting with Claire.

  “The woman who saved your life.”

  Phillip had just missed Claire when Lonnie was in the hospital, but she’d told him who she was.

  “He still has no idea?” Phillip probed.

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “You plan on telling him?”

  Lonnie stared at him. “I plan on getting her to tell him.”

  “How?”

  She shrugged. “Claire’s weak,” she said matter-of-factly. “She’s a puppet with strings. You just gotta know how to pull them.”

  “And I take it you do?”

  Lonnie was thoughtful. Of all of them, Claire was the easiest to read, the most vulnerable, and the one with the most cracks in her armor.

  “Once upon a time,” Phillip started, “there was a beautiful princess.” He stared deep into her eyes.

  The last time he’d started that once-upon-a-time shit, she’d told him to shut up, but now she knew better. Lonnie sat quietly, patiently, and listened.

  “The evil king said he loved the princess, but he hurt her terribly, nearly took her life, and never gave it a second thought.”

  She hung on every word, putting images behind those words, making Phillip’s story three dimensional and layered.

  “She thought she was too weak to fight him, but she was wrong.”

  “Because she was just as strong as he was.” She finished that part of the story for him.

  Phillip smiled approvingly. “How do you topple a king, princess?”

  “You find his weakness,” she muttered.

  “And what is this king’s weakness?”

  “His name,” she said, with confidence.

  “His name. You’ve found the king’s weakness. The next step in toppling this king is…?”

  He waited for her to find the answer on her own. Lonnie thought about it. She thought about the conversation the two of them had been having, and it dawned on her that Phillip hadn’t just been asking her those questions for casual conversation. The answer was in there. She might have even said it herself. Frank came to mind, and then Claire. Claire had pulled Lonnie out of that house, and Claire would die if her husband ever found out what she had done. Claire lived for Jordan, and she would die for him too. She’d already proven that. She was his biggest cheerleader, and for whatever reason, from what Lonnie had seen in the society pages, Jordan proudly braced her at his side. He needed her.

  “You turn his most loyal subjects against him.” The answer came to her as she made eye contact with Phillip.

  “Look over my right shoulder,” he told her. “The couple seated next to the window.”

  Lonnie focused where he told her. “The old man and his daughter?”

  “See the rock on her finger?” Phillip asked. “Do you really think she’s his daughter?”

  Just then she saw the man lace his fingers into the woman’s. He brought her hand to his lips, and kissed it. “Guess not.”

  “His name is Edgar Beckman,” Phillip continued, as he dipped a corner of bread in his soup. “The young woman is his third wife.”

  Lonnie shrugged. “Okay.”

  So, the old dude had a young wife. It happened.

  “He was the executor of Julian Gatewood’s estate after he died.”

  Now he had her attention.

  “Edgar’s name showed up on a great number of publicly filed documents related to the
Gatewoods through the years. Apparently, he was Julian Gatewood’s personal attorney for many, many years.”

  Lonnie wasn’t getting it. Julian was dead. “So?”

  “Men like him are loyal to a fault.”

  She wasn’t convinced. “Then why is she his third wife?”

  “The other two got old,” Phillip said, without missing a beat. “And he’s as loyal to the Gatewoods now as he ever was.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He visits Olivia Gatewood once a month at the retirement community,” he said casually.

  “She was married to Julian. Nothing special about that.”

  “Did I mention that he was the executor of—”

  “Julian’s will,” she said impatiently. “I know. I know. But what does that have to do with—”

  “The day after Julian Gatewood died, his will was filed with the state of Texas with the probate courts.”

  “Naturally.”

  “The day after that”—Phillip pulled documents from the pocket inside his sports coat—“another will was filed in the probate court, superseding the original one.”

  She picked up the document, unfolded it, and looked at it. “It looks like a will,” she said, after examining it. “Julian’s will. How’d you get this?”

  “It’s the original will, Lonnie,” he said coolly. “Take a closer look.” Lonnie studied Phillip’s expression, which had never, in all the years she’d known him, betrayed the mystery of the man. He was a great friend, but she suspected that he was also the last person on earth she’d want for an enemy.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said impatiently.

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “Like you’re trying to see inside me.”

  “What would I find?”

  He shrugged. “Blood and guts, Lonnie, and the person who is forever on your side. Today I am the Caped Crusader,” he boasted. “And as long as I have my super powers, justice will be served.”

  “I, Julian Gatewood, being of sound mind and…” Lonnie read on in silence, then suddenly stopped, and looked up at Phillip.

  “I fuckin’ knew it,” she snapped. “I knew it!”

  Lonnie happened to glance in the direction of the old man, Edgar, and he stared back at her, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Phillip slipped on his sunglasses, and casually glanced over his shoulder at Edgar and then turned back to Lonnie.

  “He knows who I am,” she said, stunned. “Phillip, he knows who I…” Lonnie looked back at Phillip. “He knows who I am.”

  “He knows who you are, sweetheart. And now, you know who he is. He is the Gatewood guardian. He is the one who filed the second will, and he is the one who has kept this secret all of these years.”

  She read on.

  I leave behind my wife, Olivia, my stepson Jordan, and my two daughters, June and Desdimona …

  A Man of Odd Circumstance

  “Hello. My name is Frank Ross. Joel Tunson is my father. I think we need to talk.”

  Jordan was in his car, stuck in traffic on Interstate 635 when he got the call. Jordan had expected it. He was actually relieved that it had finally come. Now, he could get this shit over with. “So talk,” he said coolly.

  The man on the line hesitated, as if he had to think about what he was going to say next. Jordan felt himself start to get irritable. “Mr. Ross, if you’re going to back a motha fucka up against the wall, at least have your shit ready,” Jordan groaned.

  “In person,” Frank shot back. “Not over the phone.”

  Jordan waited, then listened patiently while Frank Ross told him where he wanted to meet.

  After hanging up, Jordan pressed his button on the steering wheel and called his assistant to cancel the two meetings he had scheduled that afternoon.

  * * *

  Jordan nearly stepped on a little girl who bolted out in front of him, running across the grass to get to the slide. Frank sat on the opposite side of the playground in the park on a bench, looking as ominous as a predator, in dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and a ball cap pulled down low on his head. Of all the places the two of them could’ve met, the brotha had really thought outside the box with this one. He moved over when Jordan arrived. Jordan sat down next to him.

  “Frank Ross,” Jordan eventually said, trying to let this moment soak in. He couldn’t believe he was here now, with this fool. And he couldn’t believe the conversation that was about to go down. “What could you possibly have to say to me, Frank Ross?” Jordan looked at him for the first time.

  If there were any type of resemblance, Jordan refused to acknowledge it. But he was getting impatient with the reluctant attitude of this dude.

  “Joel Tunson’s your father too?” Frank asked, trying to sound hard.

  If a man wants to sound hard, Jordan thought, he doesn’t ask another man a goddamned thing; he states it, emphatically. “I don’t know any Joel Tunson,” he answered simply.

  “Just because you don’t know him doesn’t mean he’s not your father, man.” Frank finally dug up some courage from somewhere and dared to look back at Jordan. “He knows you though,” Frank continued, and gradually, Jordan could sense this man was starting to grow some balls. “So, I’ve been thinking about it, and it looks to me like you might have yourself one hell of a dilemma.”

  Jordan stared at the children playing and swinging on the playground. “What kind of dilemma could I possibly have with a man I know nothing about?”

  Frank Ross chuckled. “Oh, I see. You wanna play word games. What? You think I need to sit here and convince you that you ain’t a Gatewood by blood? That I need to try and get you to believe the truth when you already know it?” He shook his head. “Man, I’m not even going to waste my time with that shit.”

  “But you’re wasting my time, right now.”

  “Then make me disappear,” Frank stated simply.

  The implications were so deep in those four little words that Jordan almost admired him for saying them. But he was still so far out of his league that it wasn’t funny. “Is this how you’ve made your way through life, Frank?” Jordan asked calmly. “By taking things that don’t belong to you.”

  “And you’re different—how? You’ve taken another man’s name, his business, and even his legacy, and strut around wearing all of it like some goddamned peacock feathers. What the hell do you have that you didn’t take from somebody else?”

  Now he was just starting to piss Jordan off. “I have no idea who this Joel person is that you insist on throwing up in my face. Julian Gatewood is the only father I have ever known. His name is the name I’ve grown up with and into. He left his legacy behind for me in his will, motha fucka, so don’t try and compare the two of us, because other than both of us being black men born and raised in Texas, we ain’t got shit in common.”

  “Then you won’t mind me going to the press and telling them that the great Jordan Gatewood isn’t who the world thinks he is?”

  “You run and tell the press any damn thing you want, Frank. You are a gnat on an elephant’s ass, son. And you might as well be invisible,” Jordan said, glaring at him. “I’ve gone up against governments, Frank Ross, corporations, and men who would just as soon run over your ass with their golf carts if they didn’t think your black ass would dirty their wheels,” Jordan said, casually adjusting the cuffs of his shirt and standing up to leave. “If I can give you anything, it’s a word of advice.” He turned to look at him. “You run. Run as fast and as far away from this mess that Lonnie’s pulled you into, and you keep on running and forget that you ever laid eyes on that bitch and me. Because you don’t have what it takes to play this game.” Frank met his gaze, and he looked as insulted as Jordan had intended. “She’s using you to get back at me.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Frank retorted.

  “So you’re just doing your part to try and help a sista out. Is that it?”

  Frank shrugged. “If it works out that way then fine, and if I c
an get something out of it too, even better.”

  Jordan laughed. “I must admit, I haven’t been this amused in a long time.”

  “Probably not since the night you beat and raped a woman,” Frank blurted out.

  “I’m almost impressed, Frank,” Jordan said unemotionally. “That was definitely below the belt.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If you truly care about Lonnie, tell her that eventually my patience will run out, and remind her that getting even with me is not worth her time or effort. I can’t turn back the hands of time, and I can’t take back what I did to her. Believe me. I understand where she’s coming from, but she doesn’t give a damn about you. If she did, she wouldn’t have given you my number, and she wouldn’t have encouraged you to leave that closet of an office you have out there in Paris-fuckin’-Texas to come here and to fuck with me.”

  “If these kids weren’t here right now, man, I’d put my big-ass foot up your fancy, princess ass,” Frank threatened. “That three-thousand-dollar suit ain’t armor, Jordan. And that stuck-up attitude you got is all for show, and maybe it works for some people, but that shit don’t faze me. Yeah, I had issues with getting involved in this mess, because I’m not that kind of brotha. I work for what I get. Always have. I ain’t never held out my hand to another man and said, give me your fuckin’ money.”

  “But now all of a sudden, you’ve decided to try something new?” Jordan asked sarcastically. “See, Frank, the thing is this. A man in my position understands and accepts that the world is filled with people who resent what he has, and will do whatever they can to try and fuck with his success. I’ve given you some sound advice, and if you’re a smart man, you’ll take it and you’ll stay the hell away from me.” Jordan stood up and adjusted his suit jacket. “But if you decide that you want to challenge me, you go ahead and have your little press conference. Because for every document you can dig up, I’ve got half a dozen attorneys sitting back waiting to discredit your shit. I’ve got people waiting to discredit you. You can try and bring up my demons if you want to, son, but we all have them. I’m sure you’ve got your share. And believe me, if you do, I will find them and hang your black ass from the highest tree and show the whole world what they look like.” He slipped on his sunglasses and slid his hands into his pants pockets. “You came to play,” Jordan said with a shrug. “So, let’s get it on.” He began to leave, stopped, and looked over his shoulder. “And tell that bitch to call me.”