Satan's Sisters

by Star Jones

  But Maxine would have none of it. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “What do you think this is, a GLAAD party?”

  Shelly, Molly, and Whitney turned to look at Dara, as did a few of the producers who were more in the loop. Dara turned crimson, but she didn’t say anything. It occurred to Maxine that perhaps she should apologize, but she had no patience for that. So she threw up her hands and said, “Oh, for heaven’s sakes!” She got up from the chair and left the room in a huff, as if she were the one who had been insulted. Meeting over.

  “WHAT THE HELL IS this!”

  Maxine sat at her fancy desk in her office and stared at the screen. A friend of hers had sent her a link to a story on that gossip site, chattercrazy.com. Headlined “Maxine’s Having a Party!” the story discussed the dinner party that Maxine was having on Saturday night. There was no byline, nor any contact info anywhere on the site. The story mentioned a few of the guests who were invited and talked about how Maxine was such a media big shot that when she scheduled a party, every mogul on both coasts came running. But then the next line made the hairs stand on the back of Maxine’s neck.

  Rumor has it that Maxine’s main target is Patterson & White president Bill “Murph” Murphy, whose company is publishing the highly anticipated tell-all memoir by Melissa “Missy” Adams, former cohost on The Lunch Club and darling of pro-life, pro-gun archconservatives across the land. If Maxine can get Murph to her dinner party, the thinking is perhaps she can somehow influence the publication of Missy’s book. The public never got a real accounting of why Missy was removed from The Lunch Club. The rumors were that she was taken down by Maxine Robinson because of her political views. Now the real story will come out in the book, scheduled to be released next month—unless Maxine can work her magic and stop it.

  Her face aflame, Maxine snatched up the phone and called Lizette. “Lizette, I need for you to come in here right now!”

  Thirty seconds later, Maxine stood aside with her arms folded while Lizette sat down at Maxine’s computer and read what was on the screen, her face turning redder with each word. When she was done, Lizette slowly backed away from the screen and looked at Maxine with a confused, sheepish expression.

  “I swear, Maxine, I had nothing to do with this,” Lizette said. She felt her stomach churning; her thoughts were a jumble. Maybe one of the invitees had called the website? But they couldn’t know about Bill Murphy and Maxine’s motives behind the party. The only people who could know that were in this building, somewhere on the staff or cast of The Lunch Club. Maybe one of the couchmates did it? Like Shelly or Whitney, who Lizette had heard were angling for an invite. But how would it help their chances by pissing off Maxine? Maybe it was one of the twentysomething assistants? Not bloody likely—those girls worshipped and feared Maxine, like she was some sort of Greek goddess. No, Lizette could see how Maxine would suspect her. Anybody in Maxine’s situation would suspect her.

  “That’s what you keep saying,” Maxine said. “But then this keeps happening. I’m having a real hard time understanding what’s going on here, Lizette. Imagine how I feel, suspecting that we need to protect our show from our own damn publicist!”

  Lizette could feel her hands starting to shake. She was having a hard time even thinking clearly. Was Maxine about to fire her?

  “I, I, uh, it’s easy to, uh, understand how you could think I, uh, had something to do with this,” Lizette said. She was trying, unsuccessfully, to take the whine out of her voice. But she was scared, so she had no real control over how her voice sounded. “But I swear to you, Maxine, that I was not the source of these stories. I swear!”

  Maxine shook her head. “You think it would be wrong of me to fire you right now?”

  Lizette’s head dropped. Here it was; her beheading was about to come. All these years of fighting, sacrificing, living with nasty crazy women because she couldn’t afford her own place on a junior publicist salary; was it about to become a wasted decade? This was how it was going to end for her, doomed by some website she had never even heard of two weeks earlier?

  “All I can say, Maxine, is that it wasn’t me,” Lizette said softly. She had tears in her eyes; she refused to look up at Maxine’s face.

  Maxine saw the tears running down Lizette’s cheeks. She wanted to be hard and decisive at that moment and throw the woman out on her ass, but she needed more evidence before she could take such a drastic action. Everyone deserved a fair trial.

  “I’m not going to fire you right now, Lizette. Not until I have proof that this stuff came from you. But what I will do is have someone find out more information about this damn chattercrazy.”

  Lizette wanted to scream her relief, but she kept her head bowed. She thought maybe it would be good form for her to volunteer for the chattercrazy assignment.

  “You want me to do the digging about chattercrazy?” she asked, looking up at Maxine.

  Maxine shook her head. “That would be like appointing the defendant as the special prosecutor, don’t you think? And besides, I think you should have enough to do this week.” She began walking across her office and picked up a file from a far table. It had “Dinner Party” written on the front. “Here are some things I’ve put together to help with the menu.” She handed the file to Lizette. Then she waited. Lizette realized it was time for her to go.

  “Oh, okay, Maxine.” Lizette got up and hurried from the office, feeling like she had just gotten a last-minute stay of execution.

  Eric Harlington raced through the streets of beautiful, historic Prague, conducting interviews and trying to keep busy so that he wouldn’t be distracted by the thought of the wonders that awaited him. Friday was the big day, when he would get to delve into the sweet Eastern European delights that he had been promised. After exchanging several e-mails with his contact, he got some news that thrilled him. Since he said he was interested in two girls, his contact told him that if he desired, he could spend some time with two sisters at once, ages thirteen and fourteen. Eric had been blown away by the opportunity. He responded with an emphatic “yes.” The sisters added another thousand to the fee, but at this point he didn’t even care about the money anymore. He was much too far down the path to temptation to even find pause in the price tag. The contact gave him detailed instructions. He would enter the designated apartment and place his money on the living room table. Naturally, only cash was accepted. Then he would proceed to a small room to the right and wait on the bed for the girls to enter. The contact said he could bring his recording equipment and do as much filming as he liked, though he was prohibited from selling or distributing images.

  Eric had sent a couple of e-mails to Whitney to let her know he was all right and “incredibly busy.” She had responded with terse, one-sentence replies. He knew that his marriage had entered a state of damage so severe that repair would be about as much fun as disabling a bomb. He also knew that the longer this cold war went on, the more pain it would cost him later on to reach a state of détente. But he wasn’t yet willing to confront that reality. It was much easier for him to remain in fantasy land.

  Eric had been to Prague once before, about a decade earlier, and he was pleased to see that the city hadn’t much changed. For Americans, Asians, and other well-to-do travelers from around the world, Prague was a hugely popular stop on the European tourism tour, which meant it had its good and its bad. Bad overpriced restaurants, busy streets, and overcrowded museums went hand in hand with fabulous food, breathtaking architecture, and moving, legendary works of art. The Gothic spires that loomed across the expansive skyline, the bridges that spanned the Vltava River like guitar strings, the cafés that gave the place a jaunty bohemian feel, all made Eric conclude that Prague was a city that he could like. He found the temperature to be much colder than he anticipated; he hadn’t brought along a warm enough coat for April, so whenever he was outside, particularly after dark, he couldn’t shake the sensation of a heavy chill that settled into his bones. It was almost an ominous feeling, like a
foreboding that something bad was about to come his way. But he easily shook off the feeling every time he thought about the sisters. He didn’t know how he was going to be able to last until Friday. He thought about trying to find an actual woman to spend time with, like one of the incredibly beautiful adult escorts he saw advertised in a few of the underground newspapers. But he knew he was kidding himself—he had no interest in the charms of a grown woman.

  CALLIE SHERMAN WAS ONCE again in a tizzy. And once again the cause was her “boyfriend,” Josh Howe. He had promised her that after Wednesday’s show, they would have lunch together at some fancy place he had heard about, then they would go back to his place for some midafternoon “snuggling.” That was a new inside joke between them after Megan had caught them on the couch together. The little girl had peppered Callie with questions for days after she had come out of her room to find them together, with Josh’s hand down Callie’s pants. Finally, Callie had come up with the word “snuggling” to describe to her three-year-old what they were doing. Josh loved it. It had become a euphemism for sex that he tried to use as often as possible; it became a way that he could ask Callie if she was interested in screwing without sounding too boorish. With snuggling, he had a handy, kid-approved replacement.

  Callie was anxious all morning, but she had back-to-back meetings all day, so she couldn’t see Josh until after the show. But when Callie went looking for him, he was nowhere to be found. She stood outside his office, staring through the glass at the darkened interior. Where the hell was he? She had gone shopping after work the day before, just to find a sexy little outfit for their hot date. Now he had disappeared? She asked his secretary about his whereabouts, but the young black woman just shrugged. Callie thought his secretary didn’t like her at all. She wondered what it was—did it have anything to do with race? But she failed to think back on all the desperate, irate exchanges she had had with the woman over the past couple of years. She also failed to recall all the crying fits, slammed doors, and awkward moments she had put the entire staff through over the years with her Josh obsession. Callie tended to do that often—she had difficulty seeing the big picture.

  Maybe something had happened to Josh. Maybe he had even gotten sick and had gone home early. Last week he had been suffering from a cold, prompting Callie to bring an assortment of cold medicines to work with her to take care of her man. Maybe he wasn’t over the cold yet and he had gone home early. The more she thought about it, the more plausible that scenario became. She would go buy him some chicken noodle soup and then surprise him with it at his home. She wouldn’t even call him first, so that he would be really surprised. Like a rookie detective with her eyes fixated on the probable culprit, Callie never even considered any other alternatives once she had grabbed on to the cold scenario. She rushed back to her office and grabbed her jacket and purse. If her baby wasn’t feeling well, Callie wanted to be his hero and make him well.

  About forty-five minutes later, Callie stood outside of Josh’s apartment door, balancing the hot deli soup in her hand while she fished through her purse for her keys. She hadn’t used them in nearly a year, but once again she was grateful that she had cajoled Josh into getting her a key to his apartment. She tried to be quiet so that she wouldn’t wake Josh if he happened to be asleep. Slowly, gently, she slipped the key in the lock and turned the doorknob. Once she opened the door and quietly stepped inside . . . Callie got the shock of her life. She saw a familiar face on the couch, a woman that she recognized from The Lunch Club offices, sitting astride Josh, naked above the waist, while Josh licked and sucked on the woman’s large, round breasts like a baby hungry for milk. Callie wasn’t sure, but she thought the woman’s name was Kara and that she was a secretary somewhere in The Lunch Club bureaucracy. The woman’s eyes were closed and a big, satisfied smile was spread across her face, as if she had been transported to a private place. Josh made loud slurping noises, like the sound effects from some forgettable porn flick.

  Callie screamed and at the same time lost her grip on the cup of hot soup. Just as Josh’s head popped up from the left breast, his eyes widening and his mouth falling open, the soup made an explosive noise as it hit the carpet and splashed around the room in a circular pattern. Kara opened her eyes and immediately looked terrified. Callie couldn’t hear, but she thought she could make out the words “Oh fuck!” formed by Kara’s lips. As a secretary in the accounting pool, the woman was well aware of who Callie was—one of the most important executives in the entire galaxy of bigwigs at The Lunch Club. Callie was largely responsible for the size of her checks. She knew that getting caught half naked in Josh’s apartment was not the best thing for her job security.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry!” Kara yelled out as she jumped off Josh’s lap. She scrambled to find her bra and blouse.

  For his part, Josh was frozen, paralyzed by indecision. Despite all of his whoring, he had never been caught so stupidly, so ugly, so unequivocally. Amusingly, even in this position, Josh’s basic nature rose to the surface—he thought to himself how yummy Callie looked today in her sexy outfit. But with a slowly dawning regret, he knew his hands would never grip Callie’s wonderful hips again.

  “My God, Josh!” Callie screamed. Her face was red and her eyes were ablaze, almost frightening in their fury. She was so disgusted and outraged that she didn’t know what to do with herself. What gesture at this point would be grand enough to respond to this monumental betrayal? She felt her key chain in her hand. It was substantial enough to do some damage. She drew her right arm back like her father had taught her so long ago and she let go with a fastball right at Josh’s head. Callie’s intent was to hurt him. She missed, but she could see by Josh’s reaction that the throw had shaken him even more.

  “I hope you get run over by a cab!” she screamed.

  It didn’t take Josh long to understand that he had crossed some kind of line this time. On a day when he had promised to lavish attention on Callie, she had found him on his couch sucking on some other woman’s tits. Could it get any worse? Yes, it could—he saw Kara in a panic closing the last button on her blouse and literally running toward the door. Apparently, the secretary with the porn-star body wasn’t even going to stick around. What was the point in leaving now? he wanted to say to her. The damage had already been done. But with Callie, he knew that he might have done his career, and possibly even his show, some long-term harm.

  “Let me explain, Callie,” he said weakly. But he knew there was no real explanation available to him. What could he possibly say to make it better? Callie turned on her heels and walked toward the door. She was forgetting her keys. Josh took a deep breath and reached for them.

  “Callie?” he said. “Your keys.”

  She turned around wearing the nastiest scowl he had ever seen. He didn’t think it was possible to turn that lovely face of hers into something ugly, but she had managed. Callie was on fire and Josh didn’t know it, but pure venom was about to spew forth. “Josh, you are the lowest, most fucked-up pond scum I have ever met,” she said. “You were fucked-up when I met you, you were fucked-up when we were fucking . . . and you’re still fucked-up.” She stalked over to him and snatched the keys away. Callie had one parting shot left. “Although I wouldn’t walk across the street to piss on you if you were on fire, remember that I owe you, motherfucker—and I always pay my debts.”

  For just a split second Josh was tempted to ask for his apartment key back—how could he have forgotten she had it!—but then the cold chill that went through his body made him think better of it.

  AS THE BLACK TOWN car cruised swiftly up Madison Avenue on its way up to Spanish Harlem, Dara couldn’t stop her hands from trembling as she sat in the backseat next to Rain. Rain tried to hug her a few times to comfort her, but there was really no comfort to be gained from her lover. For Dara, making her parents happy and proud had been the basis for so many of her actions for so many years that she couldn’t even fathom purposefully doing something that would make them unha
ppy with her. But she felt that this was exactly what she was about to do. And not only was she coming out to them, she had let Rain convince her to do it with her lover sitting right there next to her. She was having all kinds of second thoughts now. How would Rain ever have a strong, positive relationship with her parents when her introduction to them came with this Showtime at the Apollo drama?

  “Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to take the limo service after all,” Rain said as she stretched out in the backseat. “Sure as hell beats a cab.”

  Dara nodded. The limo had been her idea. Rain thought it was a ridiculous waste of money to take a limo anywhere in Manhattan, but Rain didn’t know anything about Harlem. Dara just imagined how hard it would be to find a cab at midnight when they emerged from her parents’ apartment on Madison and 123rd Street.

  “You know, I’ve been to Harlem before,” Rain said.

  Dara nodded. “Yes, yes, I know, Rain. You used to go to the Schomburg library all the time when you were a student at NYU. You told me that a whole bunch of times. I never said you didn’t know anything about Harlem.”

  “Yeah, but you sure act like I don’t, like you need to protect the poor, naive little white girl from harm in the big bad hood,” Rain said with a smirk. “Like I’m Little fuckin’ Red Riding Hood or something.”

  Dara sighed. She certainly didn’t need an argument with Rain right now, as the car cruised past 120th Street and the start of Mount Morris Park—or Marcus Garvey Park, as the tourist maps now called it. This was scary enough already, without stepping into her parents’ place with tension between the two of them. They needed to be as united a front as they could ever muster. The car pulled up in front of her parents’ building, an elegant renovated brownstone that faced the park. The building was actually on Madison Avenue, a few buildings from the corner of 123rd. Dara had purchased the condo inside the brownstone for her parents several years earlier. The developers had converted the four-story brownstone into three separate apartments. The Cruzes occupied the only one that took up two floors, the ground floor—which gave them access to the backyard—and the second floor. Though most of their living was done on the ground floor, where their main bedroom was located in the back and a sitting room was in the front, Dara’s mom liked for her guests to enter the building through the second floor, so they would have to walk up the graceful front steps and enter the rather opulent marble and mahogany foyer. Rain leaned in and told the driver to pick them up in three hours and then they ascended the stairs, each step bringing Dara closer to her Waterloo.