The second visit to Grandma’s house wasn’t as pleasant. In fact, it was somewhat hostile. Douglass was about 13 at the time. And because of some infidelity (which led to an inevitable separation and divorce between his Mom and Dad), Mrs. Gilmore took Douglass and his sisters on a long, drawn out bus trip to the west coast.
His father had just gone through a long down-sizing during the early years of the Gilmore Empire, consolidating some of the stores he operated so that he could focus on just one. For one man to stretch himself so thin, attempting to maintain control over a chain of five delicatessens, a laundromat and a liquor store was the equivalent of juggling seven sizeable watermelons day after day. Added to that responsibility was a family, and the burdens only got heavier. Furthermore, the signs of the times called for creative, and even drastic measures. A bulletproof glass foyer had to be constructed for the liquor store and deli that Gil operated, just so that he could operate late into the night. This was a new expenditure (necessary to prevent robberies), which forced the entrepreneur to consolidate his chain of delicatessens into the one large property on the south side of Mt. Vernon. Moreover, the Gilmore family was forced to move as well. Gil sold his four bedroom, two story home in order to subsidize the new foyers. A corner property on a major artery in town, the Gilmore enterprise now consisted of a grocery store, liquor store and a bar. Above the stores there were three apartments, the smallest of which his family occupied. From a private house with a front and back yard, the Gilmores were imported into a two bedroom apartment where the entrance opened into the master bedroom. When the front door to the apartment opened, it barely brushed the king sized bed.
With the apartment also came the mice and the roaches, the odors and noise pollution; the next apartment, the next door neighbors, and even the street was close enough so that everybody knew everybody else’s business. Sometimes the hot water worked, and sometimes it didn’t. There were leaks in the ceilings, cracks in the walls, and always . . . always things scrambling behind those cheap, plaster walls. True, this wasn’t necessarily the worst that the ghetto could get; but it still wasn’t pretty.
In time, the grocery store, liquor store and eventually the bar were joined by various secret passageways and doors. If the bar needed beer or liquor, it could be obtained in minutes. If the store needed change, someone could hustle up from the bar. There was never a need that couldn’t be satisfied thanks to Gil’s keen business mind, and how he linked all three of his businesses under one roof so that they fed one another. Every possible resource was available in this world within a world. Every resource.
Now that Gil had his family under that same roof, feeding, seeing, and communicating with his family was a lot more convenient. To get to and from work enabled Gil to manage life’s ultimate freedoms. But because most of his time was devoted to business, the grocery store by day and the bar at night, he neglected his son and daughters; attention that was required for a growing boy. The result was the cold, harsh realities of the streets. At any given hour, Douglass or his sisters could sneak away from home. Although Mrs. Gilmore did her best to keep her children tied into various community activities, Douglass still became quite mischievous, whether it was his climbing fire escapes, exploring rooftops of buildings, or gambling with the boys in the hood. He even treasure hunted, scavenging through his family’s possessions stored in the basement below the businesses. Such access exposed Douglass and his sister Laurie to a raw awakening.
Everyone in the neighborhood must have known that there was something “special” about that hole in the wall known as Gilmore’s. After all, what man, if any, could keep from bragging about his sexual episodes with his favorite topless dancer in the infamous back room of Gilmore’s? Douglass was too young to be aware, and was mostly oblivious of the adult activities that his father facilitated. However, the boy was mischievous enough to make his own harsh discovery. The teenager couldn’t believe his eyes the first time he climbed the steps in the basement—the ones waaay back past the water heaters and furnace. But it was his second tour that dragged his younger, impressionable sister with him. The steps that Douglass revisited led to another secret passageway to the bar. Only at this time of the night, that passage was so much more. Taking turns pressing their eyes up against a crack in the doorjamb, the two could see the events on the other side of the door. There was candlelight. There were dark silhouettes. There were shadows moving, grinding and rolling on a blanket spread about the wood floor.
Douglass already knew this passageway from daytime deliveries in one way or another, and it never occurred to him that the dirty floor was soiled with varying degrees of musk, perfumes, baby oil and semen. But now it all made more sense as the activities produced some seedy fragrances that seeped from the room, fighting with the basement’s mildew, the fumes from the furnace and, of course, Butch’s bowels piled here and there. Douglass would often be responsible for walking and cleaning up after Butch, which lent him greater access to the basement. And yet, that was all the access he needed for this new revelation.
Despite the discouraging stench around them, the youngsters continued to peek. There was moaning and giggling and slurping and sucking and gurgling from a couple who sensually attacked each other. Both individuals had their heads buried between each other’s legs while the candles flickered, casting shadows on the walls nearby. The two were positioned in such a way that the children couldn’t see faces. But at just the right moment the truth hit them hard.
Daddy is cheating on Mommy!
The rest of the lust and sleaze was not as shocking as seeing Dad doin’ it with another woman. It was a monster shock that had both kids stumbling over one another as they shot out of the basement undetected—or so they thought.
The experience in the basement turned the Gilmore world upside down. Douglass and Laurie shared their story with Mom. Mom was satisfied enough with her children’s testimonies to immediately book those 4 bus tickets to San Diego. The children joined their mom excitedly, as though this was one big adventure—never mind that the family was in shambles—and they zealously packed all of their belongings in the family station wagon one early morning. As for the heavy furniture, Mother and children secretly cleared out the apartment until there was an echo. The four looked as if they were on a shopping spree, except the items were their own. Labels, stickers and packaging slips were tied and applied to every item or possession. The TV set, their bicycles. Suitcases. Everything. Mrs. Gilmore even gave her car to a close friend before making the cross-country crusade. From then on it was one bus station after another. For Douglass, it was one Pac-Man arcade game after another. A cooler full of fruits and veggies that Mrs. Gilmore packaged in little Ziploc bags kept the travelers fed, while Douglass was sedated with a cassette player and Stevie Wonder’s “Hotter Than July” album. That, and an Elton John album were the two tapes that kept his headphones on his head for the whole trip.
Ten days later, after a long, funky journey, Mrs. Gilmore and her three children were on the front steps of Grandma’s house.
More than 15 years later, Douglass found himself reminiscing about that last trip and how, after all that journeying, they ended up back in the same apartment just a month later. But this trip was different. Douglass was an adult now, almost 28. With some accomplishments under his belt. He simply wanted to relax. To escape the rat race, and to see his mother after so many years of distance.
New Rules
Wade closed the door behind him, suddenly facing Chief Washington, his boss, and two other men in suits and ties.
“Yes, Chief—you wanted to see me?” Wade was casual and unknowing.
“Detective Wade, meet Special Agent Walsh and Special Agent Olgen—?” Washington huffed under his breath, attempting to pronounce his name.
“Olgenhiemer. But just call me Hammer, sir.” The suit was proud enough to ordain himself.
“Sure . . .” Chief Washington lifted his brows and grinned sarcastically. “. . . Olgenhiemer. These guys ar
e here to pick up the Fool’s Paradise case. Special orders from the high-ups. The organized crime task force in Jersey.” Washington expressed discouragement and concern in his tone, while Wade shifted his eyes to avoid those of his boss. Chief Washington reminded Wade of The Rock, the wrestler-turned-actor. He was always so serious and down-to-earth. Then, Wade turned to Walsh, a puny man, for sure. Dark hair. Chiseled features. Cheeks, chin, nose and lips. He looked as if he had had a shave and a haircut only an hour earlier.
“Chief, if you will allow me . . .”
Walsh interrupted. “. . . Yes, Detective Wade. We have reason to believe that there is organized activity behind the Fool’s Paradise murder. We’ve been following a drug case and an extortion scheme. These investigations somehow led us to Fool’s Paradise. Now there’s a murder . . . you can understand our interest. There’s likely a link here.”
Wade heard the man, but he wasn’t really listening. Anger was bubbling inside of him. All he could picture was his hard work and time; all of it about to be kicked to the side because of two secret agent men. Puny man and boy Hammer.
“We’ll need to see your notes and files on the case,” said Hammer, immediately reading Wade’s expression. Wade tried not to show any reaction, except to turn his head slightly towards humble Chief Washington, his eyes slowly trailing behind the motion. The chief said “My hands are tied,” if only with his shoulder shrug, and “I’m sorry,” if only with his defeated eyes. The chief’s expression couldn’t lie even if he tried.
Without an argument, Detective Wade led the two suits through the bright squad room and into the rear foyer. They made a left and then a right, until they came to the dim, haunting strategy room just ahead. The room was defined by 4 desks, a series of bulletin boards, a well worn black tile floor and some hazy windows that allowed little visibility. There was a table in a corner with a coffeemaker. A glass pot on the heating plate was tarnished and empty. Wade’s desk was to one side, in front of another.
“I hear you handle a lot of the homicides,” said Walsh.
“I guess,” said Wade. And then, to change the subject so that he wouldn’t start swinging on these federal agents, Wade went on to say, “Detective Block handles gang activity at this desk. And over here, Detective Warren handles—”
One of the agents tried to cut in, but Wade kept on speaking; rambling, really.
“—special projects like serial killers, politically related issues and others that receive heavy press and publicity. And this desk . . . you know who this desk belongs to? This desk belongs to Detective Baxter. And the reason Baxter’s desk isn’t as busy as the others is because it’s a sort of shrine . . . see, he was struck down during a recent drug deal gone bad. Used to be my partner. And you know what my partner would think of you coming in here and taking this murder case out of MY HANDS?”
—Wade was turning a little red as the volume of his voice raised a few notches—
“HE’D THINK THAT WHAT YOU’RE DOING SUCKS ASS! THAT’S RIGHT, I SAID IT! IT SUCKS—ASS!”
The men all stood still for a time, before one of Wade’s colleagues stepped in the room.
“Every—is everything alright, Wade?”
More than relaxed now, Wade performed his duties as though he hadn’t just cursed out two federal agents.
“Oh, everything is just dandy, Rivers. Just dan-dy.”
Wade proceeded to explain the details of his investigation to Walsh and Hammer. He covered Moet and her lifestyle; the men and women she’d laid, as well as her financial status. He calmly talked about her house and the recording on the answering machine. He deliberately left out the videotapes, as if they were his personal discovery. There was the list of dancers, staff, and the ownership at Fool’s Paradise. And then there was Debbie. He figured he could share info on her because he honestly needed their help to find her. The agents seemed unimpressed by Wade’s personal opinions and emphasis on Debbie, but entirely interested in what he might know about the Gilmores and possible links to Jersey’s Bianco crime family.
“A local family of entrepreneurs,” Wade called them. “There’s various business ventures of the father and son. The women by their sides. The successes . . . the failures. The possessions and bank accounts . . .” Wade hadn’t yet pinpointed the actual owners of the Gilmore home, or just how many people lived there. He could only say that it was big and that anything could be going on inside.
Hammer’s mind buzzed along, knowing that the Bureau had handled plenty of these situations before. He could see 30, maybe 40 agents storming the house. Dogs, shotguns, vests, and battering rams. He almost broke into a smile, knowing how equipped his unit was for a job like this. Wade went on about Douglass also being a B-list suspect.
“Then, there’s this panty hustler named David who’s a customer at the club and into it with a lot of the club’s dancers,” said Wade.
After a quick glance at one another for approval, Walsh and Hammer collected reports, statements, lists of physical evidence and the autopsy results. Then they left for the FBI’s satellite office in New Rochelle.
The Whispers song was the perfect edge that David needed to serenade Valerie . . .
“Chocolate girl . . .
oh, chocolate girl . . .
play in my ice cream . . .”
They were already caught up in the atmosphere of New York’s acclaimed Kwanza restaurant, with its rich traditional imports of abstract Kuba art and rich Kente fabrics. Table coverings were done with fine mudcloth-brown panels, and complementing the theme for the entire dining room was an array of tribal art, baskets and exotic sculptures. Meanwhile, spicy, soulful music and incense set the mood for the couple as they awaited their dishes. David didn’t mind expressing how his stomach was fighting itself for some food. But more than likely, it was tied in knots for the want to flirt with the gorgeous waitress. On the other hand, he was hungering for a deeper relationship with Valerie. Or was that just lust?
He’d nearly accosted Valerie every night she worked at Fool’s Paradise—a brother just wants a quiet night together.
“No strings attached” he promised. And finally, after so many rejections and the three sets of roses, Valerie gave in. She wasn’t supposed to give in, according to the unwritten rules that Cinnamon and others had warned her about, but David was so damned determined. At the least, she thought, she’d get a microscopic view of the guy. His defects might stand out, soon as she gave him the once-over, two times. Valerie wasn’t looking for a new man, happy with the ten or so thousand dollars that she’d accumulated and stashed between her mattresses.
“It’s nice to have you all to myself . . . you know, er—instead of a whole club full a’ niggas. You know?” David was leaning over the table, giving Valerie his undivided attention and handling her palms with the tender touch of his finger-tips. The lighting in the room was mild, as if the sun was going down indoors. The candles were scented, enhancing the dining room’s intimacy—as if the rest of the establishment wasn’t already doing the job. Valerie couldn’t help but feel the romance in the air. She dared herself at first to be drawn in by David’s lure. At least 100 people (men and women) had run the same ole boring lines to her in the club: “What are you doing in a place like this?” “What do I have to do to get you to go out with me?” “If I could take you home, you’d never have to raise a finger—you’d never have to work another day in your life . . .” and the one that Valerie heard more often than the rest: “Girl, you so fine, I’d drink your bath water.” Blah, blah, blah. Valerie just knew she’d heard them all. But then David came in the club with his suave three-liner.
“I was never so weak until I first saw you. My heart stopped beating and then you breathed in my direction. You gave me life again.” When she suddenly realized what David had said, her eyes turned glassy. She had to excuse herself. In the bathroom, Valerie shook the gloom and dizziness with a cold face cloth, plus a baby wipe here and there. He was making her hot. Fortunately there were no other dance
rs in the bathroom. A spray of Binaca Blast woke her up from the dreamy illusions that overcame her, and she went back into the busy club as if nothing happened. That was the night Valerie committed to David.
“Yes . . .” she said, almost choking on the word. “. . . I said yes.”
David had a moment of shock. Like his heart truly did stop. He was all too prepared for rejection and for a tough 3 hours of some Keith Sweat-type begging. And then he agreed with himself.
Huh . . . even this bitch falls for the Don!
The sweet and sour chicken and collard greens were appetizing, along with side dishes of candied yams and yellow rice. The delicious meal helped to satisfy the hunger in David’s stomach, but not the craving for Valerie. To be kind, David was staring at Valerie while she ate her chocolate ice cream. But to be honest, he was looking right through her, already secure that he would get in between her legs at some point. If not today, tomorrow. If not this week, next. It was that next, new territory for him to conquer, and the beast in him wanted to fill her until there was little room for the ice cream sliding down her throat . . . until gobs of it trickled back out of her lips and down her chin and neck. The chocolate would blend with the beads of perspiration on her neck and cleavage. That was where David imagined he would lay his tongue until it lapped up every bit of sweetness from her dark skin.
“. . . David. Did you hear me?” Valerie couldn’t be indignant, it wasn’t in her nature. But she did raise her voice a stitch.
“Huh . . . oh—yeah. Yeah, sure. Let’s get out of here.”
David watched his manners and opened the door for Valerie. If he didn’t observe high maintenance at these most crucial times in the . . . relationship, he’d surely blow his potential . . . he’d ruin his . . . Long story short—he wouldn’t get to fuck her!
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