Parvell twisted the bath towel and swatted at the tassel hanging over her butt. Then he wrapped the towel around his waist and joined her dance, shuffling his feet and twitching his hips and butt from side to side in a stiff swing several beats off the rhythm of the song. Hard as she tried to sync up with him, Parvell’s rhythm was so erratic that Charmayne almost fell when she hot-dropped it a second time.
“He really cannot dance,” she thought, as she watched Parvell switch his hips to the left, then back to the right, as if there was a string running through his wide, square-shaped behind.
She wondered, as she watched his laborious movements, why brothers with butts shaped like that always had thick waistlines, pouchy stomachs, and little rusty-looking sticks masquerading as legs.
By now, Parvell was trying to do a dance called the Crypt Walk. He threw his arms up in the air, snapped his fingers, and started skidding/skipping a ways into the bedroom, trying hard to execute his own unique imitation of the dance, which most young people did so effortlessly that it looked like they were floating across the dance floor.
Parvell looked back half-amused at the unspoken reprimand in Charmayne’s eyes. The girl had some nerve acting like she was superior to him, when her mother, Ida Belle Robinson, as fine as the woman was, used to run so many scams on the welfare office that she had a part-time “business” selling food stamps, WIC vouchers, and government cheese from out her back door. And Ida Belle also made sure that any man in her life paid her bills and bought school clothes for her two bad-tailed children, Charmayne and her little brother, Charles, who now was clocking some serious dollars from Rumpshaker, his exotic hip-hop-dancer gentlemen’s club.
Charmayne Chontelle Robinson was definitely a card-carrying member of her birth family, Parvell thought. Back in the day, she walked onto the campus of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill with ten packs of food stamps (a graduation gift from Ida’s friends) and left with business and law degrees, earned with highest honors. And with those fancy degrees in hand, the girl had schemed, lied, cheated, and probably slept herself all the way up to where she was—a fancy six-figure-earning business that afforded her all the luxuries of a very comfortable upper-middle-class lifestyle.
Prior to starting her own business, she had worked for and been fired from the Housing Authority. If truth be told, even Parvell, who was ruthless, thought Charmayne’s policies at the Housing Authority to be over the top. She seemed to hold the people she served in contempt, people living in the same kind of housing that had sheltered her until she went off to college to start a new life and establish an even newer identity. She had been described by one public housing resident, during television coverage of one of Charmayne’s famous public evictions, as “an evil-tailed, ghetto-rat heifer, who was just mad ’cause she was born with a stolen plastic spoon hanging out of her lying mouth.”
And still Charmayne had the nerve to look at Parvell like he was some sorry, played-out player, who needed to be rubbed down with some old-folks’ nostril-clearing liniment. It would have made him angry if he didn’t know that he was a prize catch—and if he didn’t sense the truth of her love for him.
The music stopped and so did Parvell. Charmayne had slowed her roll two songs ago, when Parvell was doing his Geritol version of the Crypt Walk. Frisky, and with a buzz from the Crown Royal, he started grinning and licking his lips. Charmayne, who didn’t have a taste for hard liquor tonight, took a swig of her bottle of sparkling water. She saw Parvell’s eyes narrow into smoking slits and fought an urge to mouth what she knew were his very next words, when he dropped the towel and swaggered toward her.
“Girl,” he said, “you think you grown enough to handle all of this?”
Charmayne wondered if Parvell knew he really wasn’t as “all-that-and-a-bag-of-chips” as he tried to make her think he was. Chablis’s words rang in her ears, as Charmayne remembered her friend’s anti-Parvell admonitions when she first found out about this affair. Chablis wrinkled up her nose and said, “You sure you grown enough to take on a Negro who so ole-skool, he wears those black, elastic garter things on all his socks? You think Denzel wearing that kind of mess? Not a chance. And Denzel definitely ole-skool fine, with plenty of money.”
She knew Parvell was waiting on her to give him some kind of “you-know-you-my-daddy, baby” confirmation. But that wasn’t going to be the case tonight. She didn’t feel like massaging his ego just yet. Just as she reached way back into her lyin’-to-a-wannabe-playa arsenal of snappy responses, Parvell’s cell phone rang out the gospel song, “Don’t Let the Devil Ride.”
“Would you get that for me?” he said, grabbing the white terry cloth robe with a big, light blue Carolina Tarheel emblem embroidered on the back.
Charmayne couldn’t believe that as big a devil as Parvell could be, he’d be bold enough to put that ring tone on his phone. She was just a teeny-weeny bit concerned about touching that phone while the song was still playing. She waited until the song had ended, then picked up the cell like it was a pair of Parvell’s funky and sweaty draws. She checked the caller ID, but there was no name, just a phone number that caused her to sigh in relief and then grit her teeth with irritation. It was nearly midnight, and Charmayne was happy that it wasn’t another woman or, worst of all, Theresa Hopson. But she didn’t appreciate having her precious time with Parvell interrupted by a long and drawn-out conversation with Jethro Winters.
Over the past two weeks, Jethro had been running around Durham acting like he had some kind of Manifest Destiny rights to the Cashmere Estates land. Even worse, that clown had the nerve to “skool” the two of them about how he was getting what was rightfully his, and how they had better get on the stick and “recognize” if they wanted to continue doing his level of serious business in the Triangle.
It had taken every strand of Charmayne’s “ghetto-fabulous” DNA not to go totally black on him and beat a few naps onto that mousse-stiff Just for Men dyed head of his. She handed Parvell the phone and turned her back, pretending that she wasn’t listening.
“Well, I saw him tonight,” Parvell was saying. “It sounds like Lamont is in the game.”
Charmayne pricked up her ears and turned around, trying to fill in the blanks of their conversation.
“No, we ‘brothers’ don’t all move in the same circles,” Parvell said, rolling his eyes at Charmayne. “Green and I don’t like each other, Jethro, and his interests are different. He goes to every football and basketball game in the CIAA and SNAC leagues, while I, on the other hand, stay busy playing golf, swimming, and running with potential clients.”
After a pause, Parvell explained that SNAC stood for the Southeastern Negro Athletic Conference, adding, “It’s the conference that Evangeline T. Marshall University belongs to.”
Jethro clearly said something dismissive because Parvell replied coolly, “And can I presume that the ACC is the only athletic conference among historically white colleges and universities in America?”
Charmayne felt like screaming, Fast-forward to the good part! This “who-da-man?” ritual was wearing her out.
Her wish was answered when Jethro bellowed so loudly into the phone that she could hear him: “I want to know, who’s going to try to put Green’s foot through the door for the contract?”
She could tell that Parvell was seething, though he was silent. She could almost picture Jethro now, questioning his words, wishing that he had a five-second delay to keep him from sounding like a bully. Parvell Sykes was obviously not the kind of man to yell at, because nothing could erase the ghetto edge that he cloaked with money, expensive clothes, a fancy education, and the right address in Southwest Durham. As more than a minute ticked by, Charmayne imagined Jethro scrambling for words to undo the insult, feeling pounded straight into the ground with regret for overplaying his hand.
Jethro finally came up with something, and Parvell answered icily, “Well, anyone with a semblance of sense should be worried about Lamont. He’s small-time, but if
he’s in it, he could become the popular favorite. After all, he grew up in the Cashmere.”
Charmayne knew that Parvell was angling for a payoff when he added, “Though, of course, so did I.”
She was right.
“Twenty-five,” Parvell was saying, calmly. “It’ll take a lot of palm grease to get you what you want.”
Jethro must have counteroffered, for Parvell answered, “Eighteen.”
Another long silence ensued, making Charmayne wonder whether Jethro was bargaining Parvell down. Finally Parvell smiled. “Deal,” was all he said and then hung up without so much as a thought to say goodbye.
“So . . . what was all of that money talk about?” Charmayne asked calmly, hoping nothing about her demeanor betrayed the anxiety she felt.
“Not much,” Parvell began, mind racing to stack up several lies side by side. “Jethro is on to Lamont Green, and he’s getting desperate to know something, anything, on what he is planning to present to the DUDC. He asked how much money I thought he’d need to pass around to get that info.”
“And you told him what?” Charmayne said, knowing that Parvell had negotiated something at her expense.
“We agreed on twelve. Five that I could use and the rest he’d have to do on his own.”
“What about me?” Charmayne said.
“Twenty-five hundred of the five is supposed to go to you. That’s more than twenty percent.” Parvell lied so smoothly and effortlessly that he wanted to give his own self some dap on that one.
“I see,” Charmayne replied flatly, knowing full well that Parvell was cutting her out.
Sensing her mood, Parvell offered, “How about if I throw in an extra thousand. Can you work with that, Charmayne?”
“But that would only leave you with fifteen hundred to work with,” she said, feigning ignorance.
“That’s about all I need. I’m figuring you have a better chance of finding someone to give up the goods.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Charmayne lied. She’d be able to grow two extra cheeks on her butt by the time she could get somebody affiliated with Lamont Green to double-cross him and give her, of all people, that information. No one that close to Lamont liked her any more than they did Parvell. Except for one person, and that was a longshot.
“Well, it’s done,” Parvell said smoothly, glad to have put Charmayne on the case. He knew she’d bring back something useful when there was money to be made.
“Thank you, baby,” Charmayne said sweetly. More and more she was just playing along to stay in good with Jethro Winters. She figured that, whatever happened, he would still need her to negotiate his deals with the black community. The phone conversation was just one more piece of evidence that she and Parvell were perfectly matched—each working for a leg up, for some edge or a little advantage. She thought that maybe Chablis wasn’t so right about Parvell after all. Ole-skool players, even the ones who wore garters, still had a lot of game left in them.
Parvell walked into the bedroom and tuned into the Quiet Storm on the radio. Frankie Beverly was singing about the day’s end, voice smooth and soothing. He turned down the pale blue silk spread and piled the soft smoky gray pillows behind his back. Charmayne’s bedroom was very elegant. But the best part about this room was that it felt so comfortable and tasteful to men.
“Now, if she could just get those fingernails to match this room, I might be inclined to put the girl on my arm in public,” Parvell mused softly, climbing into bed and leaning back into all of those pillows.
“I’m getting sleepy, Charmayne,” he said. “Come in right now and tend to you man.”
“My man,” she said softly, and slipped out a slightly harsh laugh before calling out sweetly, “Just hold your horses, Daddy.” She grabbed a sheer, gold silk chiffon scarf and did a slow sexy stroll into the bedroom, making sure that Parvell got an eyeful of a round thigh each time she moved.
Chapter Five
BABY, QUIT EATING SO FAST. YOU GONE GIVE yourself a horrible case of indigestion, wolfing your food down like that.”
Lamont tried to slow down. He knew Aunt Queen Esther was right. No good would come of eating his breakfast so fast that he practically missed the taste of it. But he was not only very hungry, he was itching to get to his office, to strategize with his staff on how to win over Craig Utley. Listening to Parvell Sykes boast about his connection to Jethro Winters at the Washington Duke Inn, had worked up Lamont’s appetite for food and a good old knockdown, drag-down, roll-all-in-the-dirt fight. When James mentioned that Craig Utley belonged to Canaan Christian Church, he had immediately hit on the plan of calling Utley, the most open-minded member of the DUDC, at home. Lamont was going to take Craig on a tour of the Cashmere and hope that the man had enough imagination to see what he saw whenever he walked the expanse of the now abandoned development.
All Lamont had ever wanted to do, since he first opened his business back in 1992, was to rehab and build homes that folks like his parents, his aunt and uncle, his brother, and the like could afford. Durham was a vibrant and fast-growing community, with plenty of beautiful new neighborhoods to live in. Yet, unfortunately, nearly all of these neighborhoods, a great number built by Winters Development Corporation, were out of reach for the average family, never mind those in the lower income brackets. Recovery of the Cashmere for the people it was designed to serve—the struggling lower middle class and the poor—was turning out to be a calling for Lamont.
“Baby, you are being entirely too fretful over this project,” Queen Esther told him. “The Bible says in Philippians, chapter four, that you are not to be anxious for anything, but in everything by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”
Lamont patted his aunt’s hand.
Queen Esther, who was married to his father’s older brother, Joseph, was a Holy Roller to the nth degree. There were times when her own husband said, “Anna the Prophetess in Luke don’t have nothing on my Queen.”
“Auntee,” Lamont said, “you think that everything can be solved with something as simple as a prayer and some anointing oil. But some things need just a bit more than falling on your knees and worrying God.”
“Lamont Kenneth Green, I ought to wash your mouth out with soap for spewing that filth out in my house. I rebuke you in the name of sweet Jesus of Nazareth and pray that God will forgive your ignorance about the power of prayer. You know, for all of your learning and smooth ways, you don’t have a clue about how things really work.”
Lamont almost smiled, but caught himself. For Queen Esther, rebuking in the name of Jesus was like taking a spiritual belt to someone’s behind. When he was younger, her rebukes often felt worse than a physical whupping. Once, when he was a teenager, she’d caught him and his best friend, Curtis Parker, on the back porch smoking a joint and drinking Boone’s Farm apple wine straight from the bottle like a couple of winos. That day she’d beat them so badly that they started calling for Jesus long before she did.
But by far the worst part of that punishment was when Auntee and her girl and prayer partner, Doreatha, Curtis’s grandmother, made the two of them dip their “weed-debased” lips into a bowl of anointing oil in front of their whole prayer team. That had to be one of the most humiliating chastisements Lamont had ever received—and it worked. To this day, Lamont got sick to his stomach if he even saw someone rolling loose tobacco in those cigarette papers.
“Finish your food,” Queen Esther commanded.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” Lamont said carefully and made a move to push his plate away, all the while watching his aunt out of the corner of his eye, to gauge her reaction. Though he was a grown man, with a grown son of his own, he still cringed at the thought of messing with Queen Esther Green.
His aunt headed into the dining room as he admired the fact that, from the back, she looked like a woman almost half her age—standing five feet five, with a very trim and voluptuous figure. Even from the front she was still beautiful at seventy-six in that Len
a Horne, Diahann Carroll, Gladys Knight, Anita Baker kind of way. She was the color of butterscotch, with wavy gray hair cut in the cutest pixie style, full lips, and beautiful golden brown eyes that twinkled like topaz stones when she read her Bible, prayed, or smiled at her husband, Joseph.
Queen Esther returned carrying a large, ornate crystal decanter made to hold fine wine. But when Queen Esther received it as a gift from Doreatha Parker, she immediately proclaimed it to be too exquisite for wine and perfect for anointing oil. It was from this decanter she had poured the oil to “cleanse” Lamont and Curtis’s “weed-debased lips.” He stifled an urge to say, “Help me, Jesus.”
Queen Esther set down the decanter and took off her pale green linen apron, with embroidered apples in silken thread, to reveal a very flattering yellow knit tunic top and matching skirt, with ivory trim around the collar, sleeves, and hem. She wore stockings under her matching yellow-and-white Allen Iverson athletic socks and some white K-Swiss sneakers with yellow stripes on them.
“Why Allen Iverson, Auntee?” Lamont asked playfully, hoping to divert her attention away from whatever it was she was planning to do with that bottle—no, “decanter”—of anointing oil.
“Boy, you know how much I like that Allen Iverson—him and that fine Alonzo Mourning. He’s not a Boy Scout but he just needs Jesus and somebody like myself out there praying for him during a game.”
Lamont flashed on an image of his Aunt Queen Esther in an NBA locker room, praying over Allen Iverson and his team members during a game, and anointing them with oil. It was a rather forbidding image.
“You know what’s distracting those boys?” his aunt was saying. “The devil, that’s what. If they took the time to focus on Jesus first, He’d help them see what they needed to do to win an NBA title.”
She caught Lamont’s half-smile and shook her head, wondering why everything always had to be so black and white to her nephew. She’d heard him bragging on a number of occasions that he was the “quintessential left-brain man,” and declaring, “I am a brother with intention. I be the linear bro-tha who is focused on progressing from one point to the next without any deviations from the start to finish.”
Holy Ghost Corner Page 6