Desdemona ended the call and accelerated forward, reaching the Ritz-Carlton in Manhattan on Central Park South in record time. She checked her car into valet parking and barely took in the grand design of the lobby as she made her way to the elevator. She gave a wealthy young couple and their toddler son a polite smile as they all stepped onto the lift.
On the way up to the fourth floor she reached inside her tote and felt for the retractable baton she carried with her everywhere. She hadn’t used her “mood changer” since the days she was a prostitute, but she was sure, if need be, use of it would be akin to learning to ride a bike all over again.
“I had fun.”
Desdemona looked down at the little boy, about five or six, with the biggest brown eyes that were currently filled with sleep. “You did?” she asked, her voice tender.
He nodded earnestly before leaning against his father’s leg as if exhausted.
“Sightseeing all day,” his mother explained, rubbing her son’s back as her husband picked him up in his arms.
With his head nestled atop his father’s shoulder, he gave Desdemona a sleepy smile. “Your hair looks like the sun,” he said in the seconds just before his eyes closed and he fell asleep.
Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.
Desdemona joined in the stilted and polite laughter of the parents as she dug out her cell phone. She opened the incoming text from Neesa. There were photos of each of Reverend Hines’s ministers. “And I didn’t even have to ask for it,” she mouthed with a shake of her head.
Loyalty begets loyalty.
The elevator slowed to a stop on the fourth floor, and she stepped off.
“She was beautiful, right?”
Desdemona spotted the two men waiting for a descending elevator and coolly headed in the opposite direction, not wanting to be seen walking to Reverend Hines’s park view suite. She had to breathe through her anger at possibly being exposed as she kept her back to them and pressed her phone to her ear pretending to be on a call until the men finally stepped onto their elevator.
She immediately turned on her heels, her strides long and wide as she reached his suite. Quickly, she reached in her tote and pulled out her retractable baton to slide it into the pocket of her voluminous skirt. Two raps of her knuckles on the door before he opened it and she was inside, standing beside Rev who was wearing one of the hotel’s plush white robes.
She pointed her thumb at the closed door to her right.
He nodded, shoving his hands into the pockets of the robe as he walked farther into the living room decorated in shades of gold.
Desdemona knocked on the door. “I’m here,” she said. Neesa stepped out of the full bathroom.
“Nice choice,” she said with a nod of approval at her selection of a form-fitting Ralph Lauren wrap dress in a dark blue with neutral heels and subtle gold jewelry.
It was the perfect level of sophisticated sexy for the Ritz-Carlton. Desdemona hated for one of her paramours to look completely out of place, and nothing defined a proper place in a space more than clothing.
Neesa was Native American and black with straight hair she wore down the length of her back. Her height and dancer’s build coupled with her natural grace and quiet intelligence made her a favorite. Only her pre-med studies at Columbia University kept Desdemona from elevating her to her top-tier paramours who traveled over the world at a moment’s notice to service a consort.
Desdemona accepted the money she handed her and quickly counted off her share, pressing it into her hand with a smile. “Have a good night,” she said, opening the door.
“Wait a Goddamn minute!” Reverend Hines shouted.
Neesa left without another word.
Desdemona closed the door and turned to face Reverend Hines. “We have a problem,” she said, eyeing the tall and wide man with the most beautiful dark brown complexion, short silver hair, and bright white toothy smile. He shoved his hands into the pockets of the robe. “You know that, right?”
His face became pensive as he claimed a seat on the brocade sofa adjacent to the windows offering the night view of Central Park across the street. “If you plan on keeping my money without my session, then we definitely do,” he said with calm.
She claimed one of the armchairs across from him, setting her tote on the floor beside her feet. “What makes our business together work is mutual respect and mutual protection,” she began. “Tonight, you pissed on both.”
He held up his hands. “You want to be paid for ass that just left me high and dry?”
She nodded. “Yes, because you tried to get three dicks wet for the price of one, and you almost exposed me to people I don’t know or trust. Lack of respect. Lack of protection. Two strikes.”
He frowned. “Two strikes.”
She slid her hand into her pocket and stroked her baton as she crossed her legs. “One more and you are off my list,” she explained, before offering him a smile that didn’t match the frost in her eyes. “Or . . . if you like, we can part ways now and promise to keep each other’s secrets.”
Knock-knock.
They both looked to the door to the suite.
“Housekeeping,” a female voice said.
“I didn’t order anything,” he said, rising to his feet.
In his haste, the bottom corner of his robe opened, and she was offered a disturbing glimpse of his penis dangling between his thighs.
Uncircumcised? Fix it, Jesus, she thought, mimicking the voice of Phaedra Parks, former Real Housewives of Atlanta cast member.
“It’s my wife,” Reverend Hines whispered from the door.
Desdemona sighed as she grabbed her tote and rose to her feet. “Strike three, Rev,” she said, before crossing the room with her hand extended.
He looked down at it and then back up at her, imploring with her eyes that she change her mind. She shook her head, refusing him.
With angry strides, he brushed past her and returned moments later to roughly press his prepaid flip phone against her palm. She gave him a withering look as she opened the door to the bathroom and stepped inside, closing it and leaning against the solid wood.
“Surprise!”
“Jennifer,” the reverend said, pretending to be surprised.
He really is a good actor. I guess it’s all the practice from his performances in the pulpit.
“And the Oscar goes to,” she mouthed, as she checked her hair and makeup in the mirror over the sink.
I really am too rich for this shit.
She paused with her fingers raking through her large curls when she heard a slight thump against the wall and a loud moan.
“I’m the only one she had to service. They were just going to watch.”
Her eyes widened, and she felt dread that he was going to screw his wife and force her to listen, fulfilling his kink to have sex in front of someone.
I’ve seen and done worse.
Desdemona sat down on the closed lid of the commode and withdrew her phone to scroll through Instagram.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
She frowned, cutting her eyes from the feed of the online gossip site The Shade Room to the door. She thought of his wife, a short and rotund plain-looking woman who was active in his ministry and spoke with a soft, cartoonish voice.
Desdemona wondered if she lacked trust in her husband and that was the impetus for the surprise trip. Smart woman.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
She was thankful when their rough cries filtered through the door as the thumping increased in speed.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
“Finish strong, Rev,” she mouthed with an eye roll as she stood, dropping her iPhone into her tote as she flipped open his burner phone and checked it. No calls or contact info except hers. “Good.”
“I’m going to order us some dinner,” Reverend Hines said. “Go shower. The bedroom suite is right through that door.”
“Just order me a salad,” she said.
&nbs
p; Just get me the hell out of here.
The doorknob turned, and Desdemona reached for it to pull the door open wide. He stood in the doorway with his robe still open. She gave him a slow up and down look and shook her head before pushing past him to open the front door and leave him, his wife, and his uncircumcised penis behind for good.
His chuckles reached her just before he closed the door.
She stopped, turned, and pushed the door open as she pulled her baton from her pocket, snapping her wrist to extend it. His eyes widened in surprise just before she brought the baton up between his open legs against his hanging testicles.
She chuckled. “Laugh now, Rev,” she said.
“Bartholomew, bring my suitcase,” his wife called from the next room.
Desdemona lightly tapped his privates once more before turning and walking away as she continued to laugh, striking the baton against the floor to retract it and then she dropped it inside her tote.
The last laugh on me? Never.
* * *
Desdemona stepped inside the Barnes and Noble in Tribeca and looked around at an environment that was foreign to her. The abundance of books overwhelmed her. Stacked on shelves. Lining the shelves. Seemingly to the ceiling. Everywhere.
“Welcome to Barnes and Noble. Can I help you?”
She smiled at the thin, tall Latin man with spectacles and his store ID hanging from a black lanyard around his slender neck as she raked her fingers through her hair deeply enough to stroke her scalp to ease the anxiety she felt. “Uhm, yes, I was looking for the book Fahrenheit 451,” she said, hating the nervousness she felt.
“That’s right over here,” he said.
She wrung her hands as she followed behind him.
After leaving the Ritz-Carlton she hadn’t wanted to go back to her apartment for another night of checking in on the safety and cash drops by her courtesans. She thought of Denzin’s interest in the book and wondered if it could help stave off the boredom claiming her lately.
Or would it make it worse?
“Thank you, Carlos,” she said, reading his name tag as she took the hardcover book he handed to her and clutched it to her chest.
“Can I recommend some other fiction titles for you?” he asked.
“Trust me. One book is a big enough leap,” she quipped.
He chuckled and held up his hands. “No pressure,” he said. “We don’t close until ten, so feel free to enjoy your book in our café. The stuffed pretzels are awesome.”
Desdemona turned and looked toward the eatery that had the air around it swelling with the scents of sweets and coffee. Although her stomach rumbled in hunger, she decided to save her appetite for orecchiette pasta with a veal Bolognese sauce she planned to order a la carte from room service once she was in her condominium.
She eyed four women in their mid-thirties laughing and enjoying each other’s company in between sips of caramel macchiato and pointing out sections from their individual copies of a book. “No thank you. I’m good,” she finally said in response to him.
One of the women looked over and caught Desdemona’s eyes on them. She instantly turned away, feeling like a loner caught peering at the popular girls in school.
I never really had a friend.
“If you’re all set I can ring you up,” Carlos said.
Again, Desdemona followed him, pushing aside the feelings of inadequacy from the past that surged forward. She purchased the book and left the store for the less than five-minute walk back to her building. She had valeted her car when she got in from the hotel and made the walk to avoid the hassle of street parking.
Tribeca bustled with activity, and there were plenty of those who lived in or were visiting the trendy section of New York. As she passed upscale bars with live bands and restaurants with their outdoor seating filled to capacity, the vibe was all about the convenience of city living. Beautiful views. Cobblestone streets. The industrial buildings that once reigned now converted to lofts that drew the creatives. Many celebrities and wealthy elite called Tribeca home.
Still, the summer heat had not diminished much at night. She was glad to stride up the street to the doorman holding the door open for her. “Have a good night,” she said to him as she passed him to step into the sweetness of air conditioning in the lobby.
“Same to you, Ms. Smith.”
She made her way across the marble floor to the elevator and pushed the button. The doors opened almost immediately. She was grateful.
Once in her condominium, she instantly kicked off her heels and wiggled her toes as she turned on the ceiling light in the living room and carried the cash she had in her tote to her safe. She reached inside it for her most recent leather-bound journal and removed the extra-fine point pen nestled in the bend between the pages.
Wednesday, July 25, 2018
Church is big business for those collecting all those tithes and offerings . . . and for those like me making sure the false prophets get just the type of pleasure they crave . . .
Reverend Hines and his particular type of pleasure were off her roster, but he was not the only man of the cloth her courtesans serviced.
With a breath, she closed the pen inside the journal and slid it back inside the safe before locking it. The silence of her large condo was especially mocking, and she walked around the entire space turning on every light available before turning on Chopin’s “Nocturnes” to play throughout the house on her Sonos wireless speakers. The first chords of the composition were light and romantic as if the pianist barely stroked the keys. She lit candles throughout the house instead and turned down the same lights she now felt were glaring. The candles offered the warmth and comfort she needed.
She paused in running a bath to close her eyes and let the music calm her, opening her arms wide and letting her head tilt back until the edges of her hair lightly stroked her back.
Desdemona was first introduced to classical piano music by one of her johns, a wealthy white lawyer of seventy years or more, who wanted nothing more than to listen to classical music all night as they lay in bed naked with their limbs entwined. One time he even cried, and she held him close and let his tears wet her shoulder.
“What was his name?” she asked herself softly, crinkling her brows as she tried to recall him.
It had been more than a decade.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, opening her eyes to reach for her bottle of Jo Malone London’s Nectarine Blossom and Honey Bath Oil and pour it into the hot bath water. “The man I forgot. The music I did not.”
At the sound of the doorbell, she opened the glass door to the lingerie closet and removed a black lace floor-length robe to pull on. She tied the thick satin belt at the waist and, giving in to the mellowing mood of the music and a whimsy she hadn’t allowed herself to feel since childhood, Desdemona lifted up on her toes and with a series of clumsy pirouettes made her way to the front door with the aroma of fruit scented candles filling the air around her. She opened the door and turned on the lights in the foyer, living room, and dining room.
“I have your room service order,” the waiter said, standing behind a tray covered with a tablecloth, small floral arrangements, a paper-covered glass of ice water, and a stainless-steel plate cover.
At the sight of her in the nearly see-through lace, he stuttered and struggled to swallow over a lump in his throat. She gave the young man credit for not letting his eyes dip down to take in her body.
Desdemona had lost her shyness about her nudity years ago. More men than the years the young man had been alive had been eager to witness her nakedness. No need to put on airs now.
“Thank you,” she said, stepping back and pointing toward the slate dining room table. “Please set it up in there.”
She moved to the sofa and retrieved cash for a tip and her purchased book before going back to the front door as he transferred everything from the tray to a seat at the head of the table. For his comfort and not her own, she clutched the book to her chest,
blocking the sight of her nipples from him. As he took the tip she offered, he seemed grateful for her sudden show of modesty.
She closed the door behind him and locked it before dimming the lights again to a subtle glow, giving the candles prominence once again. She walked over to the kitchen to wash her hands in the sink and to pour herself a large glass of Rieussec from a corked bottle on the counter. She took a healthy sip as she made her way to her dinner, setting the book and the glass on the table and claiming the padded seat of the club chair.
She pecked at her pasta and mostly drank her wine as she listened to the music and eyed the book, sitting there. Seeming to mock her. She reached for it and pulled it across the table. Closer. Her fingertips tapped against the hardness in beat with the piano notes resonating in the air around her.
“Olan Killinger,” she said, suddenly remembering the man who had introduced her to Chopin.
In truth when she thought she had offered him comfort, it took her years to realize he had been the same for her in a way. It was one night a week where she had felt safe. A little less forlorn.
Two pitiful souls.
She took a sip of her wine and looked off across the dining room to the large realist painting above her unlit gas-burning fireplace. It was of her parents and her when she was just a year old. The painter had skillfully taken the small photo nestled inside her locket and created a massive painting on canvas in sepia tones. It was all the more beautiful by candlelight.
She raised her wineglass in a toast to them. She wore the locket as a charm on her bracelet. Regardless of their sins, their love had created her, and although she had been melancholy of late she never had any regrets about the life—the opportunities—she had carved out for herself. She never pondered whether they were proud of her or not. She’d taken the life she’d been given and made the best of it. Tried her best at every step to win at her own game of survival, to outthink, outlast, and outplay the law as she amassed wealth from a criminal enterprise.
Even though it was a deterrent to having friends . . . and love.
And so much more.
Over the rim of her wineglass, Desdemona eyed the book. As she set her wineglass next to her plate of unfinished food she opened the book, flipping through the first few pages to reach chapter one.
Madam, May I Page 5