by Wallace Ford
Many of them I genuinely like and some I love like brothers and sisters. Others are just too grasping, self-centered and opportunistic to suit my tastes. However, these are character traits that have virtually ensured success in the United States of America.
As I sit here now, pleasantly ensconced in my Sugar Hill town house, I know that I cannot afford to be too self-righteous or judgmental. After all, on that cold winter day, I sat in the sixth pew wearing a custom-tailored Giorgio Armani suit with a shirt sewn to my specifications by a Romanian shirt maker on West 43rd Street named Georges Tourvarian. My solid gold cuff links were from Zimbabwe and the tie that I happened to wear that day I had picked up at a little shop just off Bloomsbury Square in London. I know that The Pride is a part of me and I am a part of The Pride.
But as I sat there that morning, I couldn’t help but feel that I was a participant in some kind of surreal game. I have always known a game when I saw it, and this was one of those times.
After all, most of the members of The Pride who were in attendance were certainly not there out of love or respect for Winner Tomlinson. They were there out of curiosity or speculation. They were there because there was business to be done, contacts to be made, acquaintances to be refreshed and refurbished.
I am not being judgmental. It’s part of the American way of doing business, and there is no reason to begin to suggest that the charter members of The Pride would conduct their business any differently.
Consider this analogy: Dr. James Naismith put up a peach basket on a wall and “invented” the game of basketball. It was meant to be an exercise regimen for football players in the off-season. But after Oscar Robertson, Jerry West, Michael Jordan, and Fly Williamson got involved, the game became The Game.
Business and finance and politics have danced a dance for many years in this country. But the dance never saw the likes of Bonita Woolsey, Gordon Perkins, Edwin Tomlinson or … Diedre Douglas.
“Hello, Paul. No surprise seeing you here. You do seem unusually thoughtful this morning. I hope you don’t mind if I join you?”
The always intoxicating fragrance of Ivoire de Balmain announced the arrival of my ex-wife as she slipped into the pew and somehow materialized next to me. I have always tried to pay attention at such events and to this day it still amazes me that she was able to appear at my side and surprise the hell out of me. I don’t think of myself as some kind of all-knowing, ever-vigilant Yoda prototype. Nevertheless, I would like to think that I would have some vestigial awareness of the fact that my ex-wife was in the house.
But then Diedre Douglas has always been something of a surprise. She has always been a luminous presence and a wondrous woman.
“Good morning, Diedre. Now I know this is an important event, if the divine Miss Douglas is making an appearance!” I spoke sotto voce.
“Don’t yank my chain, Paul. It’s too cold and too early for your usual nonsense. At least try for an original line or two.”
It has always amazed me how Diedre could use words to cut to the bone. More amazingly, I have never seen or felt the blade, until it was too late. Every time, it has been too late. This was yet another one of those times.
“With all due respect to Winner, it looks like the usual suspects are filing in. No surprise there.”
“No, Diedre, I guess there is no surprise. The surprise would be if the usual suspects didn’t show for something like Winner’s memorial service.”
I couldn’t help but notice the understated but entirely elegant black dress with purple trim that she was wearing. I am no expert on women’s clothing, but I would have bet that it came from the St. John’s collection. Of course, that would only be a guess on my part.
Even though the mink that she wore was understated, I am certain that it cost a year’s salary for some midlevel corporate executive. Even now, when I think of her wearing that mink I have to smile at the thought of the next part of our conversation.
“Lovely fur you’re wearing, by the way.”
“How kind of you to notice, Mr. Taylor. What happened, did you take your “happy” pills this morning? Or is there a teenage cheerleader convention going on in town that has you in such a pleasant mood?”
“Ouch! You should be careful with that tongue of yours. You’re using live ammo today.”
“I’ll thank you to leave my tongue out of this conversation.”
Diedre has always had a way of delivering lines in an absolutely stern fashion with only the hint of a flash of humor that dances through those large and lovely eyes of hers for the briefest of moments. I thought that I saw that flash that morning. Was that double entendre or was it just my imagination, running away with me? There was no way that I could be sure. So I continued.
“Duly noted, Ms. Douglas. But have you noticed how many of your sisters are wearing lovely furs this morning? I mean, the fur is flying this morning!”
“No Paul, I did not notice. But now that you mention it there is some excellent taste in furs being shown here this morning. What’s your point?”
We were able to carry on this conversation more or less freely, as the doors of the Riverside Church were now wide open and the invited guests were streaming in. Even as people tried to maintain proper decorum and solemnity there was a great deal of energy in the air. Our conversation was not particularly noticeable.
“Well Diedre, even my untrained and unsophisticated eye can see minks of every description—black-glama, what have you. I have seen beaver, sable, fox, raccoon, and ocelot. But doesn’t it make you wonder why, at a high profile event like this, we haven’t seen one animal rights activist. Doesn’t that surprise you in the least?”
This was not the first time that I had raised this issue with a woman of color, so Diedre’s response didn’t surprise me in the least. However, even though I had known the woman for twenty years at the time, the crystalline gravity and sheer intensity of her response took me by surprise. As she arched her eyebrows I knew that I had trod on very thin ice indeed.
“Paul, my dear, you don’t see any animal rights activists here because they know that they would have the living Jesus beaten out of them if they even thought about spilling paint on one of these sisters.
“I’ve got to tell you, as a black woman, I have to put up with indignities every day that you men can’t even dream about. I have to take shit from white men, white women, and my beloved black brothers. I will be goddamned to hell if I would let some chucklehead who cares more about a glorified rat than black children in Harlem or Tunica put a drop of paint on anything that I own and have earned. Anything!”
There was silence between us as I absorbed what Diedre had told me and reflected upon it. In all the years of protests concerning the wearing of leopard, raccoon and mink furs, I realized that I have never ever seen even a tiny story or article about paint being thrown upon a black woman wearing a fur coat.
A few people spoke disapprovingly about Aretha Franklin after she wiped out an entire species of fox to get the fur for the outfit that she wore to Bill Clinton’s first inauguration. But I don’t recall any cans of Sherwin-Williams being opened in protest of her outfit. Talk is cheap and hospital bills are not.
In fact, ever since that conversation with Diedre, I have paid more attention to this subject. I am still waiting for the brave and noble animal rights crusader who loves those cute little minks so much he or she is willing to risk their lives by throwing a can of Malaccan Cinnamon Crimson Red Dutch Boy paint on a female member of The Pride in a mink coat.
The sense I get is that activist would be dead before the last droplets of red paint hit the ground as cunningly concealed scimitars, Uzis, stilettos and tridents were drawn from scabbards, holsters and other unknown and unspeakable hiding places. I have to confess that it would certainly be worth the price of admission at any price.
Diedre’s comments rang sure and true. And on a very real level I could understand what she meant. Even after all the master’s degrees and Perry Ellis outfits a
nd American Express Platinum credit cards, as a black woman she had to stand guard over her dignity, her self-esteem, her personhood. There was no telling from which direction the next dignity-denying assault might come.
This was deeper water than I had anticipated in initiating this conversation. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, Diedre and I might have an opportunity to talk like human beings again. At the time I had no idea of what fate had in store for the both of us. For the moment, we both realized that it was best to just let the intensity of the moment pass so that we could resume our role as voyeurs.
CHAPTER 15
Paul
Watching the crowd
When Diedre and I were married, we would amuse ourselves by making the most outrageous comments about the passing carnival of life. Old habits die hard and on that cold January morning it was a mildly amusing way to pass the time. It wasn’t long before Diedre started in and I followed her lead.
“You can’t tell me that’s her hair.” Diedre was referring to one of our acquaintances who had very, very expensive extensions that flowed over her very famous shoulders as she virtually sashayed down the center aisle of the church.
“Of course that’s her hair. I am sure that she paid for every single strand. Are you suggesting that she might be in arrears?”
“Let’s not talk about rears.” I followed Diedre’s gaze and we had to keep ourselves from giggling like schoolchildren.
That’s because one of our esteemed local elected officials , also a charter member of The Pride, and also renowned for having a huge butt, was waddling down the aisle, almost having to squeeze himself into what was not a narrow pew.
“I swear,” Diedre whispered, “the back of his jacket looks like he has two pigs wrestling under there.”
“I don’t know about that, but I do know that it took a lot of pork chops, chitlings and cornbread to create that masterpiece!”
“Amen, brother Paul, Amen! Oh look, there’s your girl, Bonita Woolsey. Should I invite her to sit with us?”
“Be merciful, Diedre. I have to work with that woman. Please don’t make me have to sit through three hours of speechifying next to her and her teeth.”
“I’ll go easy on you this time, although the two of you seemed to be engaged in the most intimate conversation outside.”
“You don’t miss a thing, do you?”
“Clearly you don’t remember a thing, do you?”
“Touché, Madame Douglas.”
The reality was that while I tried to consciously pay attention to my surroundings, Diedre really “never missed a thing” and when we were together I always felt a half step behind. Her noticing my brief encounter with Bonita Woolsey couldn’t possibly be a surprise to anyone who knew her, and I have known Diedre better than anyone for many, many years.
Because we were sitting in the fifth pew, we had to subtly shift so that we could get a view of our brothers and sisters, members of The Pride, as they walked a promenade down the center aisle of the Riverside Church. Since Diedre sat closest to the aisle, I was able to speak into her ear in low tones without getting so close as to risk a withering stare or a jab from the stiletto of her wit. She had to turn, just so slightly to reply or initiate a remark.
I would like to report that we sat there as the forty-something adults that we were, respectfully awaiting the beginning of the memorial service, all the while solemnly perusing the sixty-page (!!) program highlighting Winner’s accomplishments and achievements in life along with the bereavement of his family, friends and associates. I would like to report that, but it would not be true.
It was almost as if we had reverted to junior high school for a few liberating and joyous moments. I am certain that all but the most astute observer would have thought that we were exchanging serious views. Not true. Not true at all.
“Will you look at the size of the ring that Bart Jefferson’s wife is wearing?”
Diedre was referring to Bartholomew (“Black Bart”) Jefferson, the former lawyer, funeral parlor owner and now media magnate. Black Bart was known for being arrogant, self-consumed, and wealthy. He was escorting his fourth wife, a former airline stewardess, who was a third of his age.
“Well, all I can say is go Black Bart, go Black Bart, go. Mrs. Jefferson looks pretty happy too.”
“Well, money can’t buy everything.”
“Well, Diedre, you do know that you can live pretty well with what money can buy though, don’t you?”
“I heard that. Mrs. Jefferson is clearly feeling no pain in that department. But my, my. What happened to Mr. Militant-Going-to-Change-the-World?”
“He didn’t like being poor, and begging didn’t agree with him, just like you.”
“Touché, Mr. Taylor.”
The fact that Diedre even acknowledged a riposte on my part made me feel like I had just won a championship round on some interplanetary game show. I also thought it was best to quit while I was ahead and shut my acknowledged smart mouth.
“There’s Arthur Lane. You know I heard that he was gay?”
Arthur Lane, better known as Arthur C. Lane, was the publisher of The Dark Side of Business magazine. He was six feet five, two hundred and forty pounds of muscle, even at the age of sixty-one. He was also a former Navy SEAL.
“Diedre, I am the first to admit that anything is possible, but where the hell did you hear that bullshit?”
“From my hairdresser,” she said with an air of authority and confidence that was staggering coming from such an intelligent woman.
“Your hairdresser? I am afraid that I would have to bet that Henri or Pierre or Paquito is engaging in wishful thinking. But I have to admit that it is a hilarious concept. Let’s get that rumor going. I would pay anything to see the look on Lane’s face when he hears it.
At that point Diedre couldn’t restrain a smile anymore. She had to bite her lower lip (a lovely lower lip at that, and the sight of her biting it brought back a flood of memories about …) to keep from laughing.
“Paul, I was hoping to get you to pass on that bit of ‘intelligence’ to see how far a ridiculous story could go. But I’m afraid that I can’t keep a straight face on that one. But you are right; it would be a hilarious story if it ever got out.”
And then, in walked Gordon Perkins. He was tall, heavyset, with a chip on his shoulder the size of an endangered redwood.
“My, my! A funeral just wouldn’t be a funeral without Mr. Gordon Perkins.”
“Well, Diedre, you know that Gordon carries a grudge that could break the back of a Bactrian camel. I would watch it if I were you.” That occasioned laughter between us that danced on the precipice of truth.
In truth, Gordon Perkins could carry a grudge that would break the backs of a dozen Bactrian camels. As he strode down the aisle forcefully, anyone who bothered to notice could see that his custom-tailored Savile Row suit was amazing ill-fitting. Traveling in his considerable wake was his second wife, Kenitra Perkins.
Kenitra was a twenty-seven-year-old former model who was six feet tall, tawny with a face and figure and green eyes that would make Satan leave hell without leaving a forwarding address.
“It’s a good thing that it’s winter, that way Kenitra doesn’t have to worry about people noticing her wearing long sleeves to cover Gordon’s bruises and her needle tracks!”
“Diedre! You and I have both only heard those rumors. There’s no way you can know that they are true!”
“Do you know them to be untrue?”
“I would expect a better answer than that.”
“And I would expect a better question. Anyway, you know that too many of the stories about Gordon are true.”
And I had to be quiet. Not that many years ago Gordon Stallworth Perkins had been a trader with Goldman Sachs. Legend has it that he had asked the head of his unit for a raise and had also inquired as to how much longer it would be before he became a partner.
When told in no uncertain and condescending terms that he would never be more than a m
ediocre trader and that he would never become a partner, Perkins called the man every kind of motherfucker possible and quit his job on the spot. With his life savings and a loan from his father-in-law at the time, he started G.S. Perkins and Partners, LLP. Gordon Perkins was now chairman and chief executive of the largest black-owned investment banking firm in the United States.
Since Gordon is something of a friend and a frequent client, I have had the mixed fortune of seeing how talent, genius and bad taste can combine to create … well, something different. Gordon was never a good man or a nice man. The only term that applies to Gordon Perkins is—a force of nature.
“Look, there’s Jerome.”
“I knew you had a thing for Jerome. I just knew it.”
“Paul, you are beyond ridiculous. I thought that you knew class when you saw it. Now I am beginning to wonder.”
Diedre’s arched eyebrows and withering glance immediately made me feel as if I had somehow moved into the twilight zone of bad humor. I wanted to get out right away. That was for sure.
Jerome Hardaway was the Black Boy Wonder of Wall Street. He was the Anti-Gordon. Jerome was tall, athletic, good looking and impeccably well groomed without being fussy about it. Jerome was almost regal in his bearing without conveying the impression that he was impressed by himself.
He had established himself as a rising star at Smith Barney and, with the cooperation and support of the chairman of the firm, had established The Hardaway Group as a joint venture with Smith Barney. With that kind of firepower behind him and with his own skills and talent, he had built THG into the second to the leading black investment banking firm in the United States within five years. The competition between Gordon and Jerome was starting to get interesting, with the outcome of their competition having the potential of becoming legendary.
As Jerome pushed the wheelchair of his wife, Charmaine, down the middle aisle of the church, he nodded to Diedre and me. Charmaine, who was an internationally renowned biophysicist, had been afflicted by multiple sclerosis. The grace with which this ideal couple handled their adversity only made them more attractive. They were that real and that genuine.