The Pride

by Wallace Ford

  I also knew that he was not crazy about either Jerome or Diedre. He thought that Diedre was a stuck-up bitch who was always looking down her nose at him as if she smelled something foul. He thought of Jerome as a holier-than-thou phony who couldn’t be as good as he pretended. No one was perfect, of course.

  It drove Gordon crazy that he could not figure out who Jerome Hardaway really was. That was just pure Gordon Perkins.

  But Gordon also knew that Diedre was smart. And, in his universe, Jerome was even smarter. It was also pure Gordon Perkins to acknowledge reality to himself.

  “I’m game. I just have to be somewhere by four, so if we are going to do this, let’s get going. I don’t have all fucking day, even for a smart-ass motherfucker like you.”

  This would have to pass as an RSVP from Gordon. I had already spoken to Jerome and Diedre about lunch and they were on board. The train was getting ready to leave the station. My first job, finishing the guest list, was complete. My next challenge was to get all three into a car and on to lunch sometime soon. It was like herding cats.

  CHAPTER 27

  Diedre

  Slowly I turned, step by step

  I found myself wondering what this lunch that Paul had mentioned was all about. And then I was looking at Paul walking toward Mayor Dinkins. With all the business that he did with the City of New York, and hoped to do, it made sense to me. He was paying homage. At the very least, he was paying attention.

  And then I found myself, for reasons that to this day I still can’t quite explain, wondering if my hair looked all right. At the time of Winner’s service, my feelings about Paul were more than decidedly mixed.

  With my heels, I am about five feet nine inches tall. I had just celebrated my fortieth birthday in the Fiji Islands. With the help of my personal trainer I would like to think that I kept myself in pretty decent shape.

  I am a banker and a business owner. For me, gorgeous is a considered decision. When I dress for the day I have to think about what a man would think. If my clothing plays into the Woman-as-Whore mind-set that too many men live by, any meeting would be ruined for me.

  On the other hand, if my appearance is too severe, then I play into the Woman-as-Bitch mind-set that the rest of the men live by. Again, any meeting that I would be at would be ruined. I have some fishnet stockings and some black decidedly mini dresses and impossibly high stiletto heels at home, but that will remain an unknowable fantasy for most of the men I know.

  I have had to walk the fine line between the two extremes. It wasn’t easy, but frankly, I am glad that is still the case. Too many men I meet are wondering how they can fuck me and the rest have decided that they don’t want to and spend time trying to deal with their own, counterintuitive, decision.

  But I found myself thinking about my hair. I live in an eight-room duplex in SoHo. And my “Wall Street” office is in midtown. There are a lot of hair salons that I could use, nevertheless, every Thursday afternoon or Saturday morning I get a car to take me uptown to Leila’s on St. Nicholas Avenue in Harlem.

  At Leila’s no one cares that I probably have been the most successful black woman to ever walk Wall Street. At Leila’s, a real black woman’s hair salon run by women from the Dominican Republic, I am just another well-dressed sister coming to get my hair done. And that’s good enough for me.

  And then I saw Paul and found myself wondering about my goddamn hair again. And then he started walking toward me. And, if I live to be one hundred, I will remember every word that was spoken for the rest of that day.

  At the time having a legitimate excuse to be around Paul was all I needed. But I would have thrown back a dozen cyanide shooters before I would have let him know that at the time. Even now he doesn’t need to know that.

  “Paul, I’m willing to wait until lunch to hear about your ‘bright idea.’ After all it is your treat. But what does goddamn Gordon Perkins have to do with it?”

  Not surprisingly, he was prepared for this. He knew that Gordon was not particularly popular with anyone in The Pride. His was not the favorite person with anyone on the planet Earth for that matter.

  “I’m shocked at what you say, Diedre. Gordon speaks so highly of you. I know how you feel, but you know I wouldn’t waste your time.”

  “You’ve wasted enough of my time, Paul.”

  “Ouch, Diedre! That was way below the belt.”

  Frankly, as I look back on that conversation, I realize that I was harsher than I intended. As I looked at the expression on Paul’s face, I realized that I had gone too far. There was nothing I could say or do, however, except move on and try not to dwell on my too obvious faux pas.

  “All I have to say, Paul, is that I know that you wouldn’t waste my time. I have to assume this is about business.”

  “It’s not about the Fiji Islands, darling,” Paul said as he headed to another packet of Friends of Paul.

  It didn’t seem as if my comment bothered him one way or the other. Who would know? But how the hell did he find out about the Fiji Islands? Damn!

  Paul had spotted Jerome and Charmaine Hardaway. He had had a chance to mention this impromptu luncheon on the way out of the church. As Jerome and his wife were heading for the black Chevy Suburban that had pulled up to the curb, he spoke to Jerome. I knew that Paul believed that confirming never hurt. After all, he wouldn’t get a chance to get the four of us together at a luncheon table for a long time.

  As her battle with multiple sclerosis got worse it became increasingly difficult for Dr. Charmaine Hardaway to attend, and endure, events like the Tomlinson memorial service. It was not just the time and energy. It was the reminder of what she could no longer do. She couldn’t even just walk across the room and engage in a casual conversation.

  She also had to ignore the pitying glances that somehow she always saw, even if it was only out of the corner of her eye. She always saw. And she was always racked by the guilty feeling that somehow, some way, because of her infirmity, she was holding Jerome back. She just didn’t know.

  It was always amazing to me how patient and caring and devoted that Jerome could be. Way past any reasonable expectations.

  But, if Jerome felt frustrated, cheated, burdened … he absolutely never showed it. Not to Charmaine. Not to their children. Not to any member of The Pride. Not to anybody on the planet. Not a glimpse. Not a flash.

  Cynics, many of whom were charter members of The Pride, just had to come to the conclusion that he was that improbable being, the Good Man.

  I always figured that, as far as Jerome was concerned, he had given his word to a good woman and that was that. Not everyone understood that, and Jerome really never gave a good goddamn.

  As I walked up to Jerome and Charmaine, I knew that Charmaine had enough trouble in her life without having people hovering, feeling sorry for her. I put her disability as far out of my mind as I possibly could. I have to confess, however, I always wonder when I see the two of them—how would I handle such a situation if my life was like Charmaine’s? I listened to Paul.

  “Charmaine, Jerome, always great to see you! Sorry it has to be under these circumstances—but you both look great. Actually, not you Jerome, but Charmaine, you are as gorgeous as ever. You must have a pact with the devil. You sold your soul so you would never grow old. Right?”

  “Paul, you are a liar, but don’t you dare stop.”

  “Charmaine, you are going to hate me for this …”

  “Again?”

  “Charmaine, I’m crushed.”

  “Sure, Paul. Where do you need Jerome to be this time?” At least she was smiling.

  “Well, Charmaine, I need to borrow your devoted boy toy to lunch, right now, for just a couple of hours. You know I wouldn’t take him from you if it wasn’t important.”

  “You know I understand, Paul.”

  Up to this point Jerome had not said a single word. For a man who was so loving, caring, and all of that, he spoke his next words without a single degree of warmth. I knew as I hear
d the tone of his voice that Jerome was exactly the right choice to be at this luncheon.

  “Paul knows that I can get my own meals. So I know that this lunch has to be important. How are we traveling?”

  “I have a car picking us up in about ten minutes.”

  The look in his eyes told me that he had a lot of questions about this luncheon. First there was the “Gordon” factor. Plain and simple, no one liked him. And the road to his success was littered with the bones of his partners.

  As far as I knew, he and I were O.K. But having lunch with Paul and me was not reason enough for Jerome to change his plans of spending an afternoon at home with his wife.

  “See you in a few minutes. Charmaine, please let me know when your lost twin sister comes back to town. You know she is the answer to my dreams.” There wasn’t much point in Paul trying to dance with Jerome. Either he was coming or he wasn’t.

  As I was walking off to engage in a few “maintenance” conversations before the ride to the Water Club I heard Jerome speaking to Paul over my shoulder.

  “By the way, Paul, Ray Beard is going to come with me. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

  Paul turned to object. He clearly had a plan in mind. One look in Jerome’s eyes told me that it would be useless for Paul to argue.

  “No problem at all. See you in a few minutes, Jerome. I’ll let you know when our car gets here.”

  Paul’s face did not betray his momentary frustration. In due course, Jerome would regret having invited Raymond Russell Beard II. But at the time, who knew?

  CHAPTER 28

  Diedre

  Come one, come all

  Watching Paul go to get Gordon, Jerome, myself, and now Ray Beard, in the same vicinity as the area where the limousine was pulling up was a hoot. I have heard Paul use the expression “herding cats.” Paul was herding cats. Except I think cats would have been easier.

  All of us had something to say to somebody. Or so it seemed. I almost felt sorry for Paul. He seemed like he had the job of social director on the SS Pride.

  He finally got everyone into the car and we headed off to the Water Club. This turned out to be a good thing. And then again, in retrospect, maybe it was not such a good thing.

  On the one hand, this meant that everyone who was going to be at lunch was in the same car, contemplating their own personal strategy, their reason for coming, the counterstrategy of their fellow passengers. And most important, all of us were trying to figure out what the hell Paul had in mind by inviting us to lunch.

  I wasn’t in the habit of biting the hand that fed me. But none of us needed a free lunch. Something important was going on. That was certain.

  On the other hand, this meant that all of the passengers had to be regaled by a literally endless stream of bizarre, mindless, quasi-off-color jokes that seemed to be Gordon Perkins’s sole purpose for living. Here’s the only one that I can remember but it gives a pretty good idea of what we endured during the thirty minute ride from the Riverside Church to the Water Club:

  A traveling zoo went out of business and a farmer bought one of the young female zebras that was put up for sale. He brought her back to his farm and let her out in the field to meet the other animals on his property.

  The zebra goes up to the chicken and said, “I’m a zebra, what do you do?” The chickens explained that they laid eggs and that the farmer picked up their eggs every day, ate some, and took the rest to market.

  Then she went up to the cow and said, “I’m a zebra, what do you do?’The cows explained that they gave milk and that the farmer drinks some of the milk and takes the rest to the market.

  Then the zebra goes up to the old bull and says, “I’m a zebra, what do you do?” The old bull appraises this exotic, young, nubile creature and says, “If you take off those striped pajamas I’ll show you what I do around here!”

  The alleged punch line to the joke was accompanied by an incredibly loud, “Har, Har, Har!” courtesy of Gordon Perkins. His laugh sounded like sand in a garbage disposal by way of Ralph Cramden. But he sounded like he was enjoying himself so much that some people have said that his laugh was infectious. But then, so is typhus.

  I hope that I didn’t look like I felt that my flesh was crawling—although that is exactly how I felt by the time I saw the East River. Jerome laughed in a semi-polite fashion, I guess because he figured that if he didn’t laugh there might be an encore. Raymond Russell Beard II just smiled a smile that meant whatever anyone wanted it to mean.

  Gordon, of course, didn’t give a damn. One of his traits that I both hated and had to grudgingly admire. He knew that almost everybody found him to be annoying and obnoxious. If you worked for him or with him, he could be hell. But he really didn’t give a damn. He didn’t care what anybody thought about him. And not too many people can make that statement.

  By the time our car pulled into the driveway of the Water Club, I believe that Gordon had told what was probably his fifth joke. This one was about a midget rabbi, a lesbian acrobat, and a Mexican priest with a cleft palate and a club foot. Mercifully, before some vile and unspeakable punch line, the car stopped and one of the valets opened the door, cutting Gordon off as everyone got out of the car, barely concealing our collective relief.

  As Jerome’s right-hand man, Raymond Russell Beard II, exited the car and headed for the entrance of the Water Club, I couldn’t help but reflect on what I knew, and didn’t know about him. He was the son of a prominent Atlanta minister who in turn was a scion of one of the leading black families in that city.

  He graduated from Yale at the age of nineteen. He graduated from Stanford Law School at the age of twenty-two. After clerking for a United States Supreme Court Justice, Ray decided to defy convention and come and work with Paul rather than join any one of the number of major New York law firms that was clamoring for his services.

  Ray wound up working a lot on the Hardaway firm account that Paul’s office was handling for Jerome. As a result he and Jerome came to know each other quite well.

  Stevie Wonder could see that Ray’s star was on the rise, and after a couple of years Jerome made Ray an offer to join his firm as a senior vice president. I also know for a fact that he cleared all of this with Paul.

  Now, making about a half a million dollars a year with the Hardaway firm, everyone knew that the best was yet to come for Raymond Russell Beard II. Ray Beard was on the path of myth to legend to eternal star, at least in his own personal universe.

  With the build of an athlete, movie star good looks, and a mind like a computerized steel trap, Ray was the kind of man that women loved to love and men loved to admire. It was almost biologically impossible to dislike Ray. And he knew it.

  Yet, there was something about Ray that just didn’t ring true. It was almost as if he was just too perfect. To me, it was as if his perfection was masking some grand imperfection that was impossible to discern if you got too close. It was a flaw that you would never see from afar.

  I couldn’t figure it out. At least I couldn’t figure it out at the time of our luncheon at the Water Club.

  I had been to the Water Club many times, mostly during the time that Paul and I were together. Since we had parted ways I had not frequented the place as much. I did not see the need to dance on cold ashes.

  But I knew, from casual conversations with other members of The Pride, that Paul continued to escort his “ladies du jour” to the restaurant. It was understandable; it was always a great place to dine.

  As Buzzy O’Keefe came to the front of the restaurant to greet the luncheon party, I saw him cast an almost quizzical imperceptible glance toward Paul. It happened so fast you really had to pay attention to catch it.

  I guess I could appreciate Buzzy’s concern regarding the possibility of an awkward moment. But of course, Paul and I were long past all of that.

  Buzzy led our party through the restaurant to a table in the northeast corner. An excellent choice as it turned out, as all of us had an excellent view o
f the East River and its eclectic mélange of aquatic traffic—yachts, barges, oil tankers, speedboats, and the occasional J-24 testing its sails in the dead of winter. The table also afforded our conversation all the privacy that was possible in such a public place.

  “Thanks, Buzzy. Much appreciated.”

  “Great to see all of you. Paul, if you need anything just call me. I’ll send a waiter over right away.”

  Buzzy discreetly nodded to me as he headed away from the table. I doubt that anyone at the table even noticed.

  Probably not, particularly in light of the sideshow that took place next to our table. It was a fitting prelude to the main event.

  There is an old expression about it being better to be lucky than good. On this particular day, Ray Beard was both.

  At the table closest to ours were three women celebrating the birthday of one of their party. The birthday girl was Monique Lafarge Jefferson, the newly arrived evening anchor on the Fox television affiliate. She was a native of New Orleans, and I have to hand it to a girlfriend, she was an extremely attractive woman.

  She was as gorgeous as the sky was blue, with the kind of attractive Creole charm that could make the monkeys want to throw down their bananas and come down out of the trees. She looked that good.

  And then she looked at Raymond Russell Beard II. And he looked at her. Even now, “Wow” is the first description that comes to mind.

  It was like being at Alamagordos or the Bikini atoll. It was nothing short of being a witness to a nuclear reaction. When Ray looked into Monique’s hazel orbs he was helpless. You could almost hear his heart carrying the drumbeat of The 1812 Overture, his hands morphing into the front paws of a willing lapdog. Forever.

  But I could tell that Monique was also in deep water, with the Jaws theme playing loud and clear. Ray Beard was no shepherd boy just off the farm. It would take another woman to see it—girlfriend was trying to be cool—but she was one step from having that facade just dripping and dribbling away, pooling at her feet.