Dior stopped in midstride to strike a pose. “Yeah, I’m rockin’ it. Uh-uh-uh,” she moaned jokingly, while popping her hips side to side for effect. “A little bit of this and a little bit of that.”
“Why, ’cause this is where it’s at,” Suza sang, girl-from-the-hood style.
“Ahh, look at Suza. It’s got to be payday or else I wouldn’t be getting two words out of you.”
“Yeah, Chica, I don’t do chatty when I’m broke. Good thing Giorgio came by and dropped off the paper early. I’m cashing my check during lunch.” Suza quickly resumed her task of sorting expensive long-sleeve button-down shirts so she’d be completely finished with the shipment when her break rolled around at three o’clock.
“He already came through, huh?” Dior queried. “Did he say if he would be coming back?”
“He might have but I stopped listening once I got my pay envelope.” Suza placed her left hand on her narrow hip and held out her right one. “You think I’ll have time for a mini-manicure too? Monty, that cute guy from Sports Galore, wants to take me out.”
Dior analyzed the situation thoughtfully before answering. “I’d say yes to nails but no to nuts. That fool from upstairs is nasty. He’s got three or four chicks pregnant at the same time and they all work for the Gap. I’d bet all hell breaks loose every time they have a benefits meeting. Unless you plan on helping him start a basketball team, Suza, just say no to janky playas, wannabe-ballers, and dudes who don’t lay down with the latex. He’s looking to buy four of everything as it is: four blankets, four bottles, and a gang of bassinets. There’s no way he can sell enough sneakers, hats, and throwbacks to support that many kids. He should’ve knocked up some sistahs from the Baby Gap instead. He could use the discount.”
“He was kicking it with that stuck-up girl from the fragrance counter at Macy’s who we can’t stand. And she just had twins,” Suza remembered. “You saved me, girl. Uh-huh, see, he is nasty.”
“Told you.”
Dior left her bewildered associate alone to sort out her next move in the dating pool that mall employees dabbled in on the regular. The main reason Dior refused to overindulge in it herself was purely financial. Although there were hundreds of eligible men just around the corner if she broadened her scope, it was common knowledge that most of those who punched a clock at the mall couldn’t afford her. The few men whose pockets were deep enough didn’t set Dior on fire like Giorgio. In addition to a charming personality and a laid-back style, he had pockets deep enough to swim in. Dior loved stripping down to nothing for an occasional skinny-dip.
In the manager’s office, Dior set her purse on the desk. She flipped on the small clock radio. Tangerine “The Midday Diva” had just begun her daily broadcast from the hip-hop station located inside the mall. “Thank God it’s Friday, y’all, ’cause I needs my check,” a lively voice proclaimed through the speakers, with a bumping bass beat in the background. “Money ain’t a thing until you’re broke,” Tangie joked.
Dior nodded her head assuredly. “I feel you, Tangie, a girl’s gotta get that paper.” She hummed along with the music as she thumbed through the pay envelopes for the one with her name written on it. “Ooh yeah, there you are,” she said, after locating it. “Come to mama and say ahhh.” Dior wasted no time ripping it open. “Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen hundred,” she counted, before quickly returning the bills to the envelope. Her grin was accompanied by a musical sigh. By Dior’s calculations, Giorgio had padded her commission payout by three hundred bucks. “Oomph, I like surprises. Extra cheddar does a body good. Money ain’t a thing today.”
“Cool, then it won’t be no thing for you to slide your rent money over this way,” commented Dior’s twin brother, Dooney, from the office doorway. When her grin fell flat, he shook his head. “Now tell me, why is it that paying your own way puts that stank look on your face?” Dooney was tall and on the thin side of sexy. He wore his hair close to the bone and neat, like his ever present starched jeans and pressed shirts. His eyes were almond-shaped and covered by dark, perfect brows. Dooney was a bad boy, street educated and slick. His skin was smooth and a perfect match for his sister’s. Dior was quickly reminded how women found him attractive when she noticed Suza had passed by the door behind him more than once to steal candid glances. She’d commented weeks ago how she wanted the hookup, starting with a subtle introduction praising her, of course. Dior wouldn’t think of getting Suza in over her head. If Dooney was going to do his dirt, Dior didn’t want it to backfire then blow up in her face once he’d gotten bored. And Dooney was easily bored, especially where a sure thing was concerned. Oblivious to the heat rising behind him, he sat three large white shopping bags on the floor in order to retrieve the money from Dior’s clutched fist. Her arm was extended but wasn’t in the least bit anxious to part with six hundred dollars, not even for her three-bedroom brick home in a quiet neighborhood.
“Come on, Dooney, can’t you just ease up for one month?” she whined. “Could I at least hold on to it for a minute? I mean, for real.” Dior’s impish grin returned slowly as the wheels inside her head spun faster. “What if I told you I’d be a few days late with the cash?”
He chuckled and then smirked at Dior’s failed attempt to get over on him. “Then I’d have to tell you how quick your behind would be out of my rental property by the end of the week.”
Dior turned up her nose rudely. “You’d toss your own sister out on the street?”
“Yeah, and her stuff out on the curb,” he answered in an unwavering manner that she’d seen before. “Stop playing, girl, and hand over the rent. And anyway, you ought to be glad I’m not charging you for painting every room in that house a different color. You got no idea how hard it’s gonna be to fix it.”
“I don’t care. You won’t have to worry about fixing anything. I’m in love with that house and it loves me back. I’m not planning on leaving it until I’m ready to get married and upgrade to a mansion.”
“Well, until that happens, Spinderella, you need to have my money on time, every month. I got a mile-long waiting list of single sistahs begging to get up in there.”
“You can take that list and your tired threats back to where you came from,” she pouted. “If you keep on, I’m telling Billie Rae how you do me.”
“Whaaat, you’re going to see her again? When?”
“I was up there this morning. She looks pretty good, I guess. Age is starting to set in, though, around the eyes mostly. She was upbeat and all about you. Dooney is this and oh how I love me some Dooney,” she teased.
“That’s because I’ve been going to Azalea Springs to look in on Mama for years. You don’t get that kinda love for putting in just three funky visits.”
“Five, I’ve been to see her five times,” Dior proudly corrected him. “Anyway, I’ve got to get my stuff together before she gets out. After all this time, not knowing how to feel about Billie being gone, I’m scared she’ll come home trying to clown me because I don’t have it going on like you.” Dior shook her head slowly in retrospect. “There was a time I didn’t give a flip what she thought.”
“Then you grew up. Congratulations. You finally came around to thinking about somebody other than Dior. About time. Now pay your monthly living expenses before I have to call the county constable on that . . . you gonna fool around and make me cuss.”
“Dooney, you still have a buck-o-five from the first buck you ever made with your tight behind. Why do you need my measly six hundred dollars?”
“Six bills ain’t nowhere near measly,” he argued, as his voice raised one octave. “And, since when did needing it have anything to do with getting what’s mine? Stop stalling and give it up.” Dior held on to the money tightly before he pried it from her hand. “Now that we’ve got business out of the way, let’s talk up on some pleasure. I hear you jamming to your girl’s show on the radio. When are you gonna put me down with the Midday Deejay?”
“That’s Midday Diva, and why would I do t
hat?”
“It won’t hurt you to tell Tangy I’m trying to get at her.”
“See, uh-uh. Her name is Tangie. Tangie, get it right. And every time I try to be nice and set you up with one of my friends, that’s one less friend I have after you bang and bounce.”
“Don’t blame me when they fall for the Doo-Doo. I can’t help it that I get down like that.”
“You know what, you’re right. I don’t blame you. I blame me and I’m tired of doing it. Looks like you’ve got enough going on as it is.” Dior sneered at the large bags from Sports Galore. “All of that gear can’t be just for you so don’t lie and say it is.”
“Most of it is for me,” Dooney admitted awkwardly. “Okay, some of it. I was upstairs scouting for some new kicks when this cat named Monty started making deals and busting his tail to lay it out for me. I got mad respect for any dude who works a legit hustle like a rented mule. Everybody’s gotta make ends meet.”
“You bought all that from Monty? He’d have to sell you one of everything in the store just to make a dent in his debt. This reminds me, you need to go so I can start working on a way to recoup my six bills.” Dior shoved her brother playfully, stepped out of the office, then closed the door behind her. “Go on now. I have to get up front and move some product.”
He lagged behind when a line of velvet jackets caught his eye. “Hold on, Dior. When are these going on sale? I digs this pinstripe.”
“Sale? Never,” she hissed impatiently.
“Never-ever?”
“And, ever-never. How many times I got to tell you: Giorgio doesn’t do sales. He’s convinced that it sets a bad example. We’d have too many people rolling up and through here waiting on markdowns. In case you haven’t noticed, this is a top-dollar boutique. Those who can afford it, purchase. Those who can’t hate on those who can.” She held up five fingers as a challenge to his well-known miserly ways. Surprisingly, Dooney reached into his pocket and came out with Dior’s rent money after cursing under his breath. He reeled off three bills then waved the money in her face.
“This ought to do it. Let me try on a forty-six long.”
“Don’t trip. I do this for a living. Your chest is barely a forty-four.” Dior snatched three hundred dollars from his hand before he had a chance to change his mind. She pocketed it and then started off in the opposite direction. “I should have charged you full price. Stay here and I’ll pull your size from the front display.”
“I’m coming with you. Let me get my bags. Hey, Dior, I want a receipt!”
Dior understood the art of selling. She sold her brother, like she had so many other customers. She would interest them in pricey attire then immediately pound their unsuspecting egos by using phrases such as, “It’s nice but expensive. And, it costs to look that good.” At times, Dior charmed men into believing a lofty price tag was a direct correlation to gaining her approval, whether they thought private time with her was included with their purchase or not.
Three
He Wants Some
At five thirty that evening, Tangerine called Dior’s cell phone to see what plans, if any, she had for barhopping later that night. “Hey, Tangie,” Dior said hurriedly. “Can I get back at you in a minute? I’m on the grind.”
“Do your thing. I’ll come by when I sign off the air.”
“Cool, I’ve got something to tell you. See you then.”
Dior attended to several customers at once while Suza chatted with two men in their mid-twenties, both seemingly more interested in bagging her than the items they pretended to shop for. Seeing as how she’d made a bank deposit during her break, Suza was quite comfortable flirting casually while Dior racked up one sale after the next. Dior’s business savvy extended far beyond merely suggesting apparel and accessories; she could give a customer the five-second once-over then correctly guess his pants, shirt, jacket, and shoe sizes. She became the top salesperson after having been at the store three months. She also took every opportunity to learn from the tenured professionals who made a substantial living by providing quality customer service. Practically overnight, she’d acquired meaningful tools of the trade. Using her sensuality to close the deal came naturally.
“Hello, I’m Dior,” she said, extending her polished nails to a large older gentleman who appeared to be lost among the athletic cut Magic Johnson line of business suits. “How are you today?” she added with a perfect smile, although he was too busy to shake her hand. Dior was careful not to push, which was one of the first lessons she had learned. If a customer had the inclination to shop there, he should always be treated like a guest rather than a potential commission. She knew that money often followed a honey-sweet disposition.
“I don’t think either of these suits will fit me,” the clean shaven man with smoke-brown skin grunted disappointedly. He continued to sort through them again even though he’d previously examined them thoroughly. His wide behind waddled side to side as he tugged feverishly on lapels to continue his hunt. “It’s a shame too,” he said softly. “I like this vented look. It takes me back thirty-five years. I’d just come home from Vietnam and . . .” he started to say before realizing the pretty saleslady was too young to appreciate his postwar rants. “Ah, forget it. Macy’s is likely to have something that’ll agree with me, but I was hoping for a snazzier cut.”
“So you’re going to give up that easy?” she asked, with a slight head tilt. “How can an ex-Nam vet like yourself quit at the first sign of frustration? You had to deal with a lot when you returned home, but you didn’t quit. I’m sure you must’ve felt unappreciated and undervalued too.” The customer stared down his nose at Dior, undoubtedly trying to understand what was happening and how the young lady seemed to know what she was talking about. “Yes, vented-styled suit coats were very popular in the seventies.”
“Where’d you learn that?” he queried, like a proud granddad seeing a small child color within the lines for the first time. “You couldn’t have been a gleam in your father’s eye back then.”
“No, sir, my granddaddy went over there. He didn’t make it back though,” she informed him. “He’d be about your age now if he had.” Dior’s story was true and she’d used it to perfection with men in their sixties. When the aging man’s cheeks began to round out, she fired up her mental calculator.
“Y’all got anything in this hoity-toity shop big enough for an old army mule like me?” he asked, showing each and every one of his teeth.
“Your name is?” she said, behind an air of confidence the customer liked.
“Dabnis, Dabnis Keith.” Finally he offered his hand to Dior after completing their formal introduction.
“Dabnis, that’s an unusual name,” she remarked, while walking a small circle around him. “It’s Sinbad spelled backward.”
“Yes, yes it is,” he marveled. “That’s the first time in my entire life anyone outside of my family made mention of that. People don’t want to take the time to notice things, these days.” He continued to stand in the middle of the floor while Dior made mental notes and assessments here and there.
“It’s my job to notice things that matter and ease frustrations when I can. Mr. Dabnis Keith, I’ve noticed that you don’t mind spending money for quality and that’s good because I’m about to show you something that will make your day. If you don’t mind, follow me.” Dior led the customer to a cushy love seat then asked him to take a load off. She intended on facilitating his happiness while making it look easy. “Your waist is a forty-eight and your chest is fifty-two. Most suits have a two-inch variance between the pants and jacket. That’s when it pays to know a few tricks of the trade.” She used a metal rod, bent at the end, to wrangle coat hangers from a tall display. Mr. Keith watched anxiously.
“Wow, you can tell all that about me just from looking? You don’t need a tape measure or nothing?” Dior decided to let the outfit she’d selected speak for her.
“Slip this on for me,” she said, holding out a fetching blazer. Mr. Keith sh
rugged it on and buttoned it closed. Dior looked on as he gazed at himself in the full mirror, admiring the cut and fabric. He appeared even more impressed with the fit. “That’s a very distinguished look, isn’t it?”
“Oh yeah, I look at least twenty years younger too.”
“That’s the idea,” Dior asserted. “While it doesn’t have the vented style you came in for, not everything is like it used to be thirty-five years ago.” He watched her eyes drift toward his broad waist.
Chuckling softly, he nodded his agreement. “True, true. Maybe vents have passed me by. Where can I try on the pants?”
“The fitting room awaits. These slacks are fifties but on the inside are retractable bands to adjust the size. Now go on in there, get duded up, and then step out and let me see when you’re done,” she demanded playfully. Five minutes later, Mr. Keith strode out of the fitting room with his chest stuck out. Dior noted how he cradled his wallet in the palm of his hand as she circled him like before. “Wow, I like it,” she offered profoundly. “It’s perfect, Mr. Keith.”
“You definitely know your business. Can’t I get another one, in black?”
“Well, you do know, it does cost to look that good. But I’m sure you can afford to.”
“Young lady, I have more money than I have suits that fit like this. I’ll take one of each color. Can you arrange for alterations? I like a one-inch cuff with a slight break over my shoes.”
“Yes, sir. I can put our tailor on it this weekend. Is Tuesday morning okay with you?” When he smiled agreeably, she followed suit. “Good. All five suits will be ready for pickup. And, because you were such a joy to do business with, your alterations are on me.” Numbers were doing cartwheels in her head now. Dior managed to outfit a customer who had difficult dimensions to satisfy, and eased him into springing for five suits, two hats, and a boxful of neckties. Mr. Dabnis Keith strolled out of Giorgio’s with his head held high and a receipt for twenty-eight hundred dollars in his pocket. Dior’s commission, at twenty-five percent, totaled seven hundred dollars. In the time it took to make her last customer feel a little better about himself, she’d amassed next month’s rent. Dior wished there were more men like Mr. Keith, those with more money than fine clothing and a healthy inclination to do something about it.
Sinful Too Page 2