Mildred swallowed hard and then looked deep into Seneca's eyes and said, “That was the guy I've been telling you about.”
Seneca's face went blank. “Who, Errol?”
“No!” Mildred screamed, and gave Seneca a rough shove. “Tony!”
Seneca's eyes widened. “Oh,” she squealed, throwing her hands over her mouth. “My bad.”
CHAPTER
Thirteen
Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?” Tony asked, turning to Errol.
“What?”
“You think I wanted to spend my afternoon with those two bow-wows?”
“C'mon, man—aren't you being a little hard on them? They're nice girls.”
“That big-titty girl was all over me!”
“Seneca. Her name is Seneca.”
“I don't care what the hell her name is. And her friend—”
“Mildred.”
“Yeah, Mildred. Goddamn—who knew ugly could be so . . . so . . . ugly!”
“Okay, she's not the best-looking woman in the world, but she's got a real nice personality.”
“Whatever, man. All I know is, they cramped my style. Our style. Did you see how the honeys were looking at us? They couldn't believe two good-looking men like us were sitting down to eat with dogs. They probably thought they were our girlfriends!” Tony shivered with disgust. “Don't ever—ever put me in that type of situation again. Do you hear me?”
Errol shook his head in dismay.
They rode in silence until the blaring sound of Tony's cell phone shattered it. Looking down at the number, he groaned.
“Who is it?”
“Cherry.”
“Cherry the receptionist Cherry?”
“Yeah, man. She's sweating me like you wouldn't believe.”
The phone continued to blare.
“Well, are you going to answer it?”
“I can't be bothered, man. What's wrong with women? I told her that we could get down every now and again, but no strings, you know?”
Errol nodded.
“She was all like, Yeah, no problem, I gotta man, I just want to have some fun before I get married—”
“When's that?”
“September or some shit, I don't know. It's not like I got an invitation or anything. But you know, Errol, I fucked this girl twice,” Tony said, holding two fingers up for emphasis, “dos, and now she's acting like she's all in love.”
Errol remained quiet. Tony was thirty-four years old and still didn't understand women. Women had a bad habit of confusing sex with love, and Tony had yet to realize that.
“And dude, what makes it worse is that I gotta see her every fucking day at work!”
“I told you, never eat where you shit.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Tony laughed and waved his hand at Errol.
“One day you'll learn.”
Tony shook his head. “Maybe one day, but not today.”
CHAPTER
Fourteen
Oh, shit!” Tony screamed into the phone as he leapt from his seat at the dinner table. “My niggah!”
His mother gave him a scornful look and shook her finger at him. “This is a Christian household.”
“Sorry, Ma,” Tony said as he walked into the living room. “Zebby, where you at, man?”
“Back in New York.”
“Really, when did you get out?” Tony whispered, looking over his shoulder to see his mother eavesdropping. “Hold on a minute, man,” Tony said, and walked back into the kitchen. “Ma, hang this up. I'm gonna take it on the cordless in my room.”
Ethel took the phone and then said, “You don't have no manners, boy?”
“What?” Tony asked, throwing hands up in the air.
Ethel just glared at him.
“Oh, okay, please,” Tony threw over his shoulder as he walked away. “Hey, sorry about that, Zebby. So what's good? How long you been back?”
“I been out for about a month, but I was chillin' in L.A.”
“Word? Got some new honey out there?”
“Yeah, you know how it is.”
They shared a few minutes of laughter before Tony said, “You ain't changed one bit.”
“Well, you know, man, what can I say. So what you up to?”
“You know, same ol', same ol'. Got a new gig at Greene Investments.”
“Really? Yeah, that company is doing all right for itself. I saw that third-quarter earnings exceeded the markets speculations.”
Tony laughed. “They get the Wall Street Journal Down Under?”
“Yeah, man—you know I keep up.”
“So what now?”
“What you mean?”
Tony pushed his bedroom door closed and sat down on the edge of his bed. “You going straight or what?”
“Hmmmm . . . we can talk about that when I see you. What's your schedule look like this week?”
“Um, well, I have a meeting after work tomorrow, but then I'm free.”
“How about we connect on Thursday. We'll meet at the spot. You remember, don't you?”
“Yeah, man, of course.”
“About seven?”
“Cool.”
“Okay, man, I'm out. I'll see you then. Say hello to your moms for me, a'ight?”
“You know my moms ain't never liked you, nigger.” Tony laughed and hung up the phone.
CHAPTER
Fifteen
Mildred stood on the subway platform awaiting the number two train to come rolling through. The trains were a total mess that morning, running twenty minutes behind schedule.
When the train finally arrived, she pushed herself on with the rest of the grumbling straphangers and found herself caught in the middle of the car, pressed up against the pole in such a way that when the train jerked into motion, she experienced a small thrill down between her legs.
She yelped in surprise and embarrassment. Had she really felt that?
She wiggled her hips a bit and was awarded with another jolt of pleasure.
Mildred snickered to herself and looked around cautiously to see if any of her fellow passengers had noticed.
When they finally arrived at Franklin Avenue, the conductor announced that the train would be running on the 4 line, making express stops only. Twenty percent of the passengers groaned and stepped off, clashing with fifty percent of the people who were already waiting on the platform.
There was a small scuffle at the door between two women who looked well into their fifties. Mildred watched with awe as they shoved and cussed each other until a police officer approached and pulled them both from the car.
Mildred secured a seat and dug deep into her cloth tote bag and pulled out the latest issue of African-American Brides. She'd dog-eared some pages the night before and now sat drooling over the photographs.
“Congratulations.”
Mildred turned and met the striking green eyes of a young woman with a pierced nose.
“Huh?”
“I said congratulations,” the woman said, pointing to the glossy magazine page. “On your engagement.”
Mildred continued to offer her a dumbfounded gaze.
“On your wedding!” The woman beamed.
Mildred blinked and then nodded. “Thank you.”
“So do you have a date yet?”
“Um, well, we haven't decided yet,” Mildred heard herself say with horror. What was she doing?
“Oh, me and my fiancé are getting married next April, but we haven't decided on a specific date yet. I figured getting the month pinned down is half the battle.”
Mildred nodded again.
“Have you started looking at reception halls yet?”
Mildred shook her head no.
“Oh my God,” the woman said as she threw her head back in one dramatic motion, “it is so aggravating!”
Mildred just stared.
“But finally we've decided on the Brooklyn Opera House.”
Brooklyn Opera House? Mildred had never heard of it.
“Well, it's called the Grand Prospect Hall and it's on Prospect Avenue. It's gorgeous. Gorgeous!” the woman said, throwing her hands up into the air and knocking the New York Times out of the hands of the man sitting beside her. “Oops, sorry.” She giggled.
“Anyway, look, you've just got to go see it,” she said as she dug into her Coach pocketbook, pulling out her Black-Berry.
Mildred just stared at her.
The woman hit a few buttons and then said, “Aha—here it is. The number is . . .” she started, and then looked at Mildred. “Well, aren't you going to put it in your Black-Berry?”
Mildred blushed, “Oh, no, I forgot mine at home today.” Another lie. She didn't even own a BlackBerry. What was she turning into?
“Oh. Well, do you have a pen and paper?”
Mildred dug into her sack and found an old receipt and a pencil.
The woman quickly recited the number.
“Oh, this is me,” she said, springing up from her seat. “My name is Beth, by the way.”
“Mildred.”
“Well, it was nice to meet you, Mildred, and good luck with your wedding,” she said, and bounded off the train.
Mildred looked down at the number she had written there. She told herself she would toss it, but even as the thought occurred to her she knew she wouldn't, and even more, she knew that she would call Prospect Hall and make an appointment to see the space.
When she raised her eyes, she saw that she'd been so engrossed in her conversation with Beth that she had missed her Wall Street station stop—the train was pulling out of the Lexington Avenue station.
CHAPTER
Sixteen
Zebby and Tony stood at the counter at Gray's Papaya, scarfing down chili dogs. They'd spent the last hour catching up. Tony continuously teased Zebby about his newly obtained Australian accent and his referring to him and any other guy as “mate.”
“Listen,” Zebby said, his face suddenly becoming serious, “I wanna thank you for taking care of my place while I was gone.”
“No problem,” Tony said as he dragged a napkin across his lips. “It was my pleasure,” he added with a wink.
“Hey”—Zebby leaned in—“I ain't gonna have any crazy bitches showing up at my place looking for you, am I?”
“Nah, man. Nah,” Tony said.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
Zebby gave Tony a penetrating look before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled tissue. “I got you something. My way of saying thanks,” he said as he set the tissue down on the counter.
Tony eyed it. “You shouldn't have.”
“No, you deserve it.”
“I hope you didn't spend too much time shopping for it.” Tony's voice was heavy with sarcasm.
“Look, Negro,” Zebby said, picking the tissue up and shaking it. A platinum and diamond ring fell out and onto the counter.
Tony's eyes bulged. “Damn,” he said as he reached for the ring. It was heavy. Tony brought the ring to eye level. Even he, an amateur, could see the clarity of the diamonds. The ring was expensive.
“Thanks, man,” Tony said as he slipped it onto his finger. Later, when he returned home, he would slip it off and place it in his jewelry box for safekeeping.
“No problem,” Zebby said with a shrug. “So,” he continued, slapping his hands loudly together, “now on to business.”
Zebby explained that while he was in Australia he'd hooked up with a white boy who had almost bankrupted Harrods with an intensely complicated insurance scam that involved some very high-power players.
The gentleman—Zebby wouldn't divulge his name—had shared some of his most profitable scams with Zebby, one of which, coincidentally, involved inactive accounts.
Tony was half listening; he was too busy ogling the ring on his finger like a newly engaged virgin.
“Uh-huh,” Tony mumbled.
“You see, man, that's where you come in.”
Now Zebby had his attention. “What?”
“You. That's where you come in.”
“Me?” Tony was dumbfounded. The most serious crime he'd ever committed was boosting a suit from Abraham and Strauss, and that was back in the eighties, before all of the sophisticated crime-stopper technology.
“Yeah, man. You work with dead accounts.”
“Yes.”
“So you can be my in guy. Of course, I'll split all the proceeds with you, fifty-fifty,” Zebby said, his eyes sparkling.
Tony looked around. Already he was feeling paranoid. Just talking about it made him feel uneasy.
“I don't know, Zebby,” he said, shaking his head.
“Look,” Zebby said, leaning in closer. “It's real simple. All you have to do is transfer the money from the dead accounts into an active one.”
Zebby made it sound so easy.
“I'll open the active accounts. I've got loads of social security numbers, addresses, names—”
Tony jumped up from the stool. He was twisting the ring around and around on his finger. He'd broken into a sweat. He could hear the cell door clanging shut.
“I can't, man. I can't do that.”
He didn't want to seem like a punk, but this was his life that Zebby was trying to fuck with. They were friends, but they weren't close enough for him to put his freedom on the line.
“Nah, nah. Count me out,” Tony said.
Zebby bit down hard on his bottom lip. “Sit down,” he said, pointing to the empty stool. “Just hear me out.”
Tony reluctantly sat down. He would listen, even though his mind was made up.
CHAPTER
Seventeen
Tony was careful to make sure that he always had the earphones to his iPod tucked into his ears whenever he entered the office building.
Over the past two weeks, he'd noticed that Mildred always seemed to be in the lobby when he arrived in the morning.
She'd jump onto the elevator with him and try to make small talk. It made him uncomfortable, the way she looked at him, her eyes so filled with . . . well, he didn't know quite what it was he was seeing in her eyes, but it made his balls tingle, which had always been a clear warning sign for him.
It took him days to realize that their morning meetings weren't happenstance but intentional.
The week before, a very suspicious Tony entered the building lobby through the bank, and his suspicions were confirmed. There was Mildred standing near the lobby elevators, checking her watch and watching the main entrance doors.
So he had started coming in through the bank regularly. That lasted all but a week before she caught on and began to position herself near the reception desk, which afforded her a bird's-eye view of all entrances.
So Tony was forced to settle on Plan B: iPod in ears and eyes on the ground.
So even though he didn't have it turned on, he pretended he did, bopping his head up and down to nothing while Mildred stood behind him chirping hello.
The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor and Tony stepped off, leaving Mildred blushing with embarrassment at the back of the elevator.
Once at his desk, he pulled the chair out and sat down. Zebby's words whirled in his mind. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Millions, maybe.
Tony was nursing a headache and hadn't slept a wink. Now he rummaged through his desk drawer in search of some Tylenol.
“Long night?” Habib Habib was peering over the cubicle wall. “You look like shit.”
Tony ignored him until he realized he didn't have any Tylenol. “You got any aspirin or something? My head is killing me.”
“Hung over?”
You see, this was the problem with corporate America, with fucking cubicles instead of offices with doors and locks: everybody was in your damn business.
Tony bit back a harsh response and said, “Yeah, that's it.”
A few seconds lat
er Habib Habib handed him a travel pack of Excedrin. Tony chased it with his Starbucks coffee.
By noon, Tony had played and replayed Zebby's conversation in his head, and with each reel he became more and more convinced that the scam was worth it.
The only problem with the plan was that the big boss, James Henderson, would have to sign off on all account transfers, and he hadn't become a partner in the firm by not paying attention. He had a keen eye, and Tony didn't see how it was he would be able to get phony papers past him. He was a hard-nosed businessman and had always fiercely protected his investors' assets. In the end Tony threw caution to the wind and on his lunch break Tony called Zebby from a pay phone. “Look, I've been thinking—”
“Say no more. Come by after you get off work.”
They spent most of the night going over the details, but time after time they ran into the same wall. James Henderson.
“There must be a way,” Zebby said as he stood and stretched. “There's always a way. A loophole.”
Tony leaned back into the cushions of the couch and yawned. He was tired and was beginning to think that maybe this wasn't such a good idea, and then like a bolt of lightning it hit him and he slapped his hands together.
“What? You got something?” Zebby asked, his face eager.
“I think I found the loophole,” Tony said, a large grin spreading across his face.
“Yeah, what?”
“Not what,” Tony said, pulling himself to his feet and reaching for his tie. “Who.”
CHAPTER
Eighteen
For me?” Mildred asked again as she looked at the large bouquet of flowers in the deliveryman's hands.
“You're Mildred Johnson, right?”
“Y-yes,” Mildred responded, her voice was unsure.
“Sign here.”
Mildred scribbled her name on the invoice and watched as the deliveryman exited the office.
It wasn't her birthday. Mr. Henderson always sent her flowers on her birthday, but nothing as extravagant as this. There were white roses, lilies, and some type of exotic flower Mildred had seen only in magazines. It was gorgeous!
Smiling, she ripped the cellophane away from the cardboard box and fished out the card that was attached to the side.
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