Red Light Special

by Risqué

  Mehki’s grip tightened on him. “Let’s go now!” he said sternly as he shoved the mayor through the door.

  The sea of cameras flashed in Monday’s eyes once again as she stood dressed in her press conference uniform: gray skirt, matching jacket, and pearls. She was at the podium beside Kenyatta, who cleared his throat. The crowd quieted down.

  He stood with his back straight, looking somber and feeling sorry for himself that he’d been caught in yet another lie. He looked directly into the camera and began to speak. “Good evening. I come humbly before you as not only the mayor of our great city but also as a man who comes to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry to all of you who have been hurt by the recent allegations of me being involved with Eve Johnson…”

  He turned to Monday. She’d missed her cue to squeeze his hand; seeing that she hadn’t picked up on it, Kenyatta continued on. “I have apologized to my wife for the hurt that I have caused our marriage. But that in no way affects my ability to lead this city. However, there seems to be a vendetta against me, because now very private and personal things that have gone on between my wife and myself have come out in the paper.” Again Monday missed her cue. Kenyatta looked at her, and to the public he seemed to have a look of sorrow on his face, one of apology that he’d hurt her. Only Monday knew that the look indicated that it would be on this afternoon.

  “So, my great city, I am here to deal with the series of articles and reports that have accused me of being involved in an adulterous relationship with Eve Johnson. And even if that were true it has nothing to do with my ability to run this city. I want you to know that you are all that matters, so I humbly apologize to you for the pain that these allegations may have caused.”

  Monday started unbuttoning her gray jacket.

  Her eyes watered as she grew exhausted of standing in this spot and standing behind him every time he lied, making her look like a damn fool to everybody here and across the world. This had gone far beyond what she’d ever thought she would accept in life. So while the cameras were rolling and he was remixing the truth to fit the last lie he told, she simply walked out and left Kenyatta there alone.

  “Monday.” Mehki walked up swiftly behind her. “Where are you going?”

  “I need to leave. I can’t fuckin’ breathe in here.”

  “But where are you going?”

  “I don’t know, but I have to get out of here.” Tears dripped down her face. She was sick and tired of being sick and tired.

  “Come here.” He pulled her to his chest. “I’ll take you home.”

  Noticing a sea of reporters up ahead, Mehki took her hand, walked with her to his car, and they left.

  Collyn sat Indian style on her couch with a bowl of popcorn in her hand, watching the mayor’s news conference. She, like everyone else, couldn’t believe that Monday had actually walked off the stage and left Kenyatta standing there. “It’s about damn time!” She smiled. “Taryn,” she yelled, “Bless! Come here and see this shit.”

  Taryn ran into the living room with the baby swinging on her hip. “You have got to see this.” Collyn laughed as Bless sat down on the floor between her legs.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Look,” she said, grabbing the remote and replaying the scene on the DVR. They all watched Monday walk off the stage, leaving Kenyatta standing there looking like a fool.

  Taryn started laughing. In fact, she laughed so hard that tears fell from her eyes and her shoulders shook.

  “You better stop laughing at your baby’s daddy.” Collyn wiped tears of hilarity from her eyes.

  Bless glanced over at Taryn. “Wait a minute. Nah, she’s not really his daughter, is she? That was a joke?”

  “Shit,” Collyn said. “It was a joke, but two years and a late child support check later, it ain’t funny.”

  “Damn.” Bless turned to Collyn. “Did he fuck you too?”

  She mushed him on the side of the head. “Niggah, I wouldn’t dare fuck that dirty-dick motherfucker.”

  “Excuse you,” Taryn snapped.

  “Oh, don’t be mad, Taryn,” Collyn snickered as she and Bless fell against the back of the couch, laughing. “Don’t be mad.”

  Collyn’s phone rang as Bless was in midstroke. He looked at Collyn. “You know I’m not stopping, right?”

  “Wait, baby.” Her breasts bounced in the air. “Let me get it. It’s security—something could be wrong.”

  “Go ’head,” he insisted. “You can talk; I don’t have to say anything all I have to do is stroke.”

  Collyn picked up the phone as Bless continued. Doing her best to keep the pleasure from trembling her voice, she said, “Yes?”

  “Good evening, Ms. Bazemore. Mrs. Smith is here to see you.”

  Collyn hesitated and looked at Bless. She placed her hand over the receiver and said, “Monday’s downstairs.”

  “Dayum.”

  “Don’t be like that.”

  Holding his head down and shaking it, he said, “What do you think she wants?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bless rolled to the side and said, “Well, I think you need to find out.”

  Collyn returned her attention to the phone and said to Adam, “Thank you, and please send her up.” Collyn slipped out of bed, wrapped her robe around her, and headed to the front door. She opened it and Monday stood there, her face streaked with running mascara and her clothes tousled. “What happened to you? Kenyatta caught your ass after you walked off TV?”

  Monday walked toward her and into the apartment. “Do I look like I’m laughing? And furthermore, I’m just gon’ get to the point: are you fucking Kenyatta?”

  Collyn chuckled. “What?”

  “You heard me! Are you fucking my husband? Is Taryn still fucking my husband? What the fuck is really going on here?”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Is this a damn joke?”

  “Do I look funny to you?”

  “You don’t wanna know what you look like to me. And furthermore, I’ve already had a conversation with you about rolling up on me and acting crazy. Now, if you have something you want to say, you need to hurry up and say it, because I have some things to do with a real man.”

  Monday stood still and studied Collyn’s face, wondering if she should believe her or not. Looking at her and determining that she was telling the truth, Monday sighed, “I didn’t want to believe it…” Monday broke down into tears, “but I think Kenyatta may have killed Eve.”

  Collyn sat down on the couch as Monday cried her heart out about everything that had been going on. “The FBI saying one thing, Kenyatta saying another thing. I just feel like I’m going crazy.”

  Collyn said, “What do you mean, the FBI?”

  “Kenyatta involved them. He insisted we go down there today, and when we got there it blew up in his face. They were insinuating all kinds of shit. I found out that Tracy is not a working girl.”

  “How’d you find that out?”

  “They were naming names and said that Tracy was an excop. They even asked if Kenyatta was sleeping with you, if he was sleeping with Taryn, and they even called me by Geneva. Nobody knows me by Geneva!”

  Collyn was confused. “Calling names? What were they looking for? And why would Kenyatta voluntarily go to see the FBI?”

  “He went to answer questions about Eve Johnson’s diary and some pictures they found.”

  “Pictures? Questions? What questions?” Collyn asked, thinking about her recent visit to the FBI and hoping that her lies wouldn’t come back to haunt her. “What exactly did Kenyatta say? Did he admit to anything?”

  Monday looked at Collyn, surprised. “Now, you know Kenyatta’s ass ain’t admitting shit. Not even that he or somebody he knows killed this bitch.”

  Collyn sighed with relief. “What about the pictures?”

  “They were of him and Eve…kissing.” Monday’s voice drifted.

  “Damn…so tell me from the beginning what exactly happened?”


  Monday recapped for Collyn all of the events that had taken place. Once she was done, Collyn looked at Monday and said, “So what are you going to do?”

  “Why does everybody keep asking me that? I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  Collyn chuckled a bit. “Maybe if you change your name to Next Week Friday it’ll help you out a bit.”

  “Yeah,” Monday said, Collyn failing to cheer her up, “maybe.”

  Monday hadn’t come home last night and Kenyatta had yet to deal with her the way he needed to for embarrassing him. If it weren’t for the meeting with the City Council he was on his way to, he’d be searching all over New York for this bitch.

  Kenyatta walked down the corridor to the City Council chamber, his leather briefcase in his hand. Given the most recent events in his life and how everything seemed to be spinning out of control, it was hard for him to keep a blank face and maintain his confidence.

  He pushed open the double doors to the packed room. “Good morning, Council.” Kenyatta nodded, his voice displaying a tone of self-assurance. He and Hudson took their seats behind the microphones on the long table that faced the members of the City Council.

  Thomas Askew, the Council Speaker, called the meeting to order. After a few moments of confirming everyone’s attendance, the Council leader began to speak.

  “Mayor Smith,” Thomas said as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “we’ve called this special meeting to discuss with you the most recent scandals surrounding your personal life and the lawsuit by the ex-city employee as well as the allegation of misappropriation of city funds, all of which have stunned the city and shaken its trust in our local government. We believe that it would be best for the people of New York City if you were to resign.”

  Kenyatta sat in his chair paralyzed. His political career passed before him. He thought about how he was groomed for politics as a child, seeing his father campaign and fight for what he believed was right, his mother at her husband’s side. He thought about how no one knew the difficulty, yet there was a strong sense of pride that came along with starting from the bottom and working his way up, stopping for a brief moment at being mayor and then proceeding on. New York was simply a layover; Washington, D.C., was the destination.

  And here these fifty-one out-of-touch motherfuckers, who couldn’t run the city without him, thought that because they got together and decided they wanted a new mayor, he should simply tuck his tail between his legs and leave? Please. Fuck them. As far as Kenyatta was concerned, they could kiss his black ass.

  Kenyatta stood up from his chair, grabbed his briefcase, and said, “I’m going back to work.”

  “Excuse me, Mayor,” Thomas said, astonished at Kenyatta’s response. “Do you understand the seriousness of this? You’re in the paper every day—”

  “That’s not your problem.”

  “I beg your pardon. That is very much our problem. Let’s be for real here. You’ve embarrassed the city beyond belief.”

  Hudson stood up. “Perhaps we should cool off and discuss this later.”

  “I’m not discussing shit,” Kenyatta snapped. “Did you know about this?” Before Hudson could respond, he continued, “This meeting is adjourned.”

  The room became filled with steady buzzing as everyone looked at Kenyatta in disbelief.

  “Mayor Smith!” Thomas said, infuriated. “We have had enough.”

  “I’m not resigning. Do not call me here to discuss anything unless it has to do with the city.” And he stormed out.

  Hudson followed Kenyatta back to his office. “Kenyatta, look, we can rise above this!”

  “Know what?” He swiveled around and looked her directly in the face. “If you wish to proceed with a prosperous political career, you’ll get the fuck out my face! Now rise above that!” He walked her roughly to the door, practically pushed her across the threshold, and slammed the door in her face.

  After a few minutes of talking himself into calming down, Kenyatta called Tracy. “Man look, I need to hear something, please.” Kenyatta begged.

  “No new leads on Eve,” Tracy responded. “But I do have that information you asked for on Geneva Thompson.”

  Kenyatta sat in the blue-striped parlor. Subdued darkness bathed the room as he lay back in the velvet Queen Anne wing chair, watching the single stream of light ease into the foyer as Monday carefully opened the front door.

  “Where’ve you been, Monday?” Kenyatta’s voice cut through the darkness.

  Monday jumped.

  “Where’ve you been?” Kenyatta asked.

  “Why”—she spoke slowly—“are you sitting in the dark?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you. Where’ve you been?”

  “I, um…” She paused. “I had some thinking to do.”

  “Like what?”

  Monday’s eyes scanned what little she could see of him, “Why?”

  “Answer my question.”

  “I was just out thinking.”

  Dead silence.

  “Let’s try this again.” Kenyatta stood to his feet. “Where were you?”

  “Shopping.” Another lie. She hoped he didn’t catch the tremble in her voice. Her plan was to get her things and leave. No hard feelings, no second guesses, just a set of goodbyes that were long overdue. Monday began to feel uneasy. “Where’s the staff?”

  “I gave them the night off.”

  Kenyatta walked over and closed the parlor’s double doors. He then sat back in the wing chair and pulled her between his legs. “I need you to be honest.” Though it was a statement, his tone reflected a warning.

  “About what?” Monday’s hands trembled between his. “I don’t like this shit.” She stepped back. “What is all this darkness and the staff being given the night off really about? I know we haven’t discussed me walking out on the press conference. But…I just—”

  Kenyatta stood up and pulled her back to him. “You see the newspaper today?”

  “No.” Her heart dropped. “Why?”

  “You’ve been out all day and you haven’t seen the paper?”

  “No.” She tried to back away again and he tightened his hold on her waist.

  “Stop moving.” He gave her another warning.

  She complied.

  “Any reporters run after you while you were out?”

  “Reporters?” She squinted. “Why, what happened now?”

  “The City Council asked me to step down.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, but that’s only half of what fucked me up today.” He looked at her. “So you were out in public and nothing? No one, not even one person on the street, stopped you?”

  “Would you just tell me what happened? You’re scaring me!”

  “You scared of me now? Of me? Since when that shit happen?”

  “I’ma go upstairs.”

  “No, you will stand right here. Now, I need to understand how you’ve been out in public all day shopping and no one approached you. No reporters, no one?”

  “What did I just say? And why are you badgering me about this?”

  “Because you weren’t out in the street! You’re lying and you’ve been lying ever since I met you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Who is Geneva Thompson?”

  Monday stepped back. This was the second time in a week she’d heard the same question, and this time, just like the last, she felt sliced down the middle of her chest.

  Monday’s mind clouded with a million memories at once as she tried to figure out what had gone on today that fucking Mehki had stopped her from finding out. “Where is all of this coming from?” she asked.

  No answer.

  Monday stared at him. Though the room was dark, her eyes had long since adjusted. Now she could see into his face, and she could tell by his glare that he knew who Geneva Thompson really was.

  She started to tell him that the whore was dead, buried at birth when her mother left her with a father who start
ed out fine but ended up not giving a fuck.

  “Why are you asking me this?” she asked as her heart raced.

  “Were you a whore bitch?” His words were like stab wounds.

  “It wasn’t like that. And don’t call me a bitch!” She started to back away, tears streaming down her face.

  “Is that a yes?”

  She walked backward and he came toward her.

  “I didn’t have anybody, Kenyatta.” Tears streamed from her eyes.

  “Is that a yes?” They continued to walk.

  “My mother left me. And the only thing I have of her is the reflection of my face.”

  “So it’s yes?”

  “And my father…he tried, but once he got married that was it for me. My grandmother’s name was Monday and she loved me. And that’s what I wanted. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted to be something, anything, just someone to somebody—”

  “A fuckin’ whore?”

  “I had no money and I wanted to go to college—to law school. I needed to be someone other than a poor-ass country girl with nothing but clay dirt under her feet. I needed to become someone else, and I was too scared of suicide, so I had to kill myself another way!”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” he screamed in her face. She took another step away and banged the back of her head on the wall.

  “I was Geneva Thompson.”

  The air froze. Kenyatta felt like someone was pounding organ keys in his head. He couldn’t move. He thought about what she’d told him over the years: that her parents had died in a tragic accident, and with the exception of a cousin she kept in touch with in Georgia, she had no one.

  And here he’d thought he could save her and mold her to be not only the wife he’d wanted but the one his father, who was a state senator, had told him he would need.

  Here he’d thought he’d found his diamond in the rough. She was beautiful, smart, and fulfilling, and she catered to his every need. There was no drama, no criminal, emotional, or any other type of come-back-to-haunt-them-later background, or so he’d thought. She had everyone fooled. They all thought she was a good girl, someone special on his team, who insisted that instead of accepting political favors from his family, he work his way to the top and pull himself up by his bootstraps. This was why he’d never left her. Despite the other women having his babies, despite their physical ability to give him what she hadn’t, he loved her—because she loved him, flaws and all.