“Can you get some audio on them, Bay?”
“I can do better than that,” Bay answered and started typing in commands on the computer in front of him. “I can go back to when they first pulled up and get the audio on all that.”
Bay typed in a few more commands.
The voices came on loud and clear, with Kordell speaking first, confirming Charles’s suspicions about him.
“I don’t know how you think you are going to pull this off. Both Curtis and Maurice are very good coaches, and they stand a good chance at winning the next game with Bouclair College in spite of any concerns about being ready and which players they can play.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?” Sonny Todd snapped. “We have a perfect record and will get that title and all of that money again at the next tournament.”
Kordell turned to face Sonny Todd. He said, “The team wants to beat you bad, and they’ve been working hard to get ready for this game. But you already know that because I’ve sent you the DVDs of all of our practice sessions over the last month.”
Sonny Todd was quiet for a moment before he said, “So, how are you going to get the ‘Mighty Five’ out at the beginning of the game? LeDarius Johnson, Earl Paxton Jr., Sherron Grey, Mario Lincoln, and Kaylo Bailey are some top-notch ballers. They will put a hurting on my team if they start at that game.”
“I’m working on finding out if they have some problems with grades. So far, the only class we might be able to use against them is that newfangled mess over in the art department,” Gilead Jackson said.
He snapped his fingers a couple of times, trying to remember the name of that class.
“Help me, somebody. What is the name of that class? It’s worth six hours and taught by Yvonne Copeland.”
“Fountain now,” Kordell corrected.
“Whatever,” Gilead said. “All I know is that a good grade in that course will boost their grade point averages past the red zone if they have some problems in any other classes.”
“And take them out if they get a bad grade,” Jethro Winters said, grinning. He loved mess. And he was in heaven being able to be all up in the mix at this black school. So much to see and learn. And the women? He felt as if he were going to get the sugar diabetes every time he was on that campus and ran up on some brown sugar.
Sam Redmond frowned and said, “They are at Eva T. to earn an education, not to be taken out, Winters.”
Jethro turned a deep shade of red. It was clear that he’d gone too far.
Sonny Todd sighed heavily before he said, “Sam, you are the one who wants to hire me as head coach. And the last time we talked, you were not all that concerned with those boys getting educated.”
Sam Redmond squared his shoulders and advanced on Sonny Todd. He said, “What could you possibly know about educating a black man?”
Jethro Winters started looking nervous. He and Sonny Todd were outnumbered by some big and tense-looking black men. He placed a firm hand on Sonny Todd’s shoulder and said, “You need to remember where you are.”
Sonny Todd gave Sam Redmond a conciliatory nod.
“I don’t want to sound pushy,” Jethro Winters began carefully, “but I’m confused as to the significance of this game and Coach Parker keeping his job.”
“It’s tied to his contract,” Gilead Jackson said. “He has to win so many games by a certain time in this season. Or he has to defeat one of Eva T.’s fiercest opponents. Curtis has been on a losing streak for many reasons—real and created.”
Gilead made eye contact with Kordell, who sucked on a tooth and gave a sly smile.
Charles slammed his fist on Bay’s desk.
“I knew that negro was up to something—I just knew it.”
“Shhh … shhh … shhh,” Bay said, waving his hand at Charles. “You are going to miss something. Check this out.”
“I’m confused,” Jethro Winters said, scratching the back of his head. “How can you fire a man for losing if he’s not at the end of his contract? I want Sonny Todd in Coach Parker’s spot as badly as the rest of you. But this plan is anything but airtight.”
Kordell Bivens, Sam Redmond, and Gilead Jackson all started cracking up. “That is some funny mess,” Gilead Jackson said, and then started laughing again. He slapped Jethro on the back. “You a funny white boy. You know that, dawg?”
Once more, Jethro Winters had that uncomfortable look on his face—as if he were hoping some extra white folk would show up in a hurry.
They started laughing again, and this time Sonny Todd joined in with them. He’d been working with a bunch of black men at a black college for a while, and he knew exactly what was so hilarious about Jethro’s concerns.
Rico, who was talking on the phone, standing a ways off from the group, came to join them.
“I miss something,” he said.
“Not now, dawg,” Kordell said.
Rico said, “Okay,” and then spoke into the phone, “I’ll tell ’Quita I’m going to see Glenda to get my hair cut. And we’ll be able to catch a quickie, baby.” He paused and pressed at the earpiece before saying, “Naw, baby. That won’t be a problem. I’ll just tell her that Glenda didn’t cut my hair low enough. ’Quita so love-struck over me, she’ll believe anything I say.”
“One of these days I’m gonna mess that negro up real good,” Charles said.
“Will you quit fussin’ about that clown and hush,” Pierre told him. He felt the same as Charles, and when the time was right, he would tell him all that he and Bay had found out on Rico Sneed. Marquita was his girl, and he’d had enough of watching Rico dog her out behind her back.
“Sam, you have not given me an answer I can work with,” Jethro said in a tight voice.
The laughter stopped.
“Jethro,” Sam Redmond said, “I’m a black college president. About the only head of anything with more power than me in any organization in the black community is a black preacher.”
“Bishop, Sam,” Gilead corrected. “The bishops have a whole lot of power.”
“I don’t know,” Sam pressed. “I think it’s changing a bit with some of the preachers of these really big churches. They ain’t scared of the bishops, and will get them told. So we are back to preachers.”
“Bishops, preachers, black college presidents. Will you just tell Jethro what the deal is,” Sonny Todd snapped.
“Dang,” Bay said in a low voice, “they are really working that white boy’s nerves.”
“They are working mine, too,” Charles said.
“Jethro,” Sonny Todd continued, “just joined the board of trustees, he’s loaded, and ready to drop some serious cash on the Athletic Department if he understands how this works.”
Jethro nodded.
“A clause, a very fine-print clause is available for use at the discretion of the president of Eva T. It says exactly what we’ve been telling you, Jethro. In any given season, I have the right to override the signed contract if I’m not happy with the coach’s performance due to losing too many games or if he loses to one of the top teams in our conference more than once.”
“That has to be the dumbest, stupidest mess I’ve ever heard, anywhere for any reason, created by anyone—black, brown, red, white, and blue,” was all Jethro said.
Pierre was cracking up. He said, “Now that is some funny mess. That white boy is right.”
“Dumb or not,” Sam Redmond said, voice tight, “it is what it is. And I am using the clause. So, if you want to have some allies affiliated with this school when you bid on the contract to build luxury housing for our exclusive and elite faculty, you can rely on Gilead and Sonny Todd to drum up some support from those boosters.”
“Your boosters? How can they help?”
“They have money, many of them have clout, and not too few have the kind of influence that will make a difference when you come up against the opposition that will support Lamont Green, who is the number-one draft pick for that contract by half of the trustees.”
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br /> “Lamont Green,” Jethro said incredulously. “I can’t believe this mess. I’m going up against Lamont Green? Again? In the black community? Sam, why didn’t you tell me any of this before now?”
Sam Redmond rolled his eyes and sighed. “Are you retarded, man? Eva T. is a black college,” he said and waved a light brown hand in front of Jethro’s face. “We have to have a brother, or a sister, making a bid. So take a chill pill and go somewhere and calm down. I got this.”
Jethro opened his mouth to check Sam Redmond when Sonny Todd shook his head, as if to say, “I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“Okay, Sam,” Jethro said, “handle your business. Get Curtis out and Sonny Todd in. Win the money you need for the school. And use your newfound victories to get me in good with some of the same black people who wanted to pimp-slap me when I went after the contract to rebuild Cashmere Estates.”
“Yep,” Rico Sneed said, coming up from behind, finger adjusting the Bluetooth in his ear, “there were definitely a lot of black folks who had their hands poised for a good pimp-slapping.”
Jethro tilted his head to the side and then pointed in Rico’s direction. “Who the hell are you?”
Rico opened his mouth but stopped when Kordell shook his head. He adjusted his Bluetooth one more time and walked off to answer another call.
“Who is that negro talking to?” Charles asked, irritated to the point of wanting to go through one of those security monitors to beat the crap out of Rico Sneed.
“A woman,” Bay said matter-of-factly.
“Coworker?” Charles asked, knowing that wasn’t who it was but hoping for the best anyway. As much as he could not stand Rico, he loved his cousin and couldn’t bear the thought of having to watch her mend from a broken heart. Marquita really loved Rico. Charles didn’t know why she loved him because he couldn’t stand him. Being Rico Sneed’s wife definitely qualified Marquita for a nomination to sainthood—or a padded room at the nuthouse.
“Okay, if that is what you are now calling the other woman these days,” Bay said.
“Huh?” Charles said.
“Coworker, Boss,” Pierre said. “You asked if Rico was talking to a coworker.”
“Yeah, coworker,” was all Charles said.
“I can help you with this Rico thing, Boss,” Bay said. “But first, let me help you with this mess brewing around Coach. Nothing about it is right. But let me tell you something, it is gone get right if I have anything to do with it. ”
Bay was good with security systems and investigating folks who were not right. He was working on his bachelor’s degree at Eva T. in its Crime Scene Investigation Program. Bay could find out anything about anybody, hack into any computer system, and put together anything about anybody who wasn’t right.
“Rico ain’t right, Mr. Robinson. He plays a good game but he ain’t about nothing.”
“I hear you, man,” Charles said, heart heavy. It wasn’t fair that good folk had to suffer at the hands of people like Kordell Bivens and Rico Sneed. Curtis Parker was one of the best coaches Eva T. had had in close to ten years, and Sam Redmond and Gilead Jackson were ready to sell him up the river for thirty pieces of silver. And Rico. That was working up to something very ugly.
TWELVE
They’re getting antsy in the reception room, and ready to get down to business,” Pierre said, watching Rico on the monitor covering that area. Rico was wolfing down stuffed baby portobello mushrooms and sipping on Crown Royal. Pierre heard him say, “Pierre is slipping on his job. I’m going to have to talk to Charles about that. Don’t know why he lets an employee get away with slacking up on the job like that.”
Pierre frowned and said, “As if that clown qualifies for employee of the month. I mean, where does he work?”
“Chapel Hill,” Bay answered. “Rico works for a consultant firm that designs computer programs for the administrative offices at UNC. I doubt seriously if they know he’s taken the afternoon off to spank that thang on Sweet Red.”
“Point well taken” was all Pierre said. He stared at the monitor a few more seconds and then asked, “So what do you want me to do to him?”
“Send Fatima in to dance for Rico.”
Bay started laughing. “You are so wrong, Mr. Robinson.”
Pierre was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. Miss Hattie Lee Booth, Rumpshakers’ resident gourmet cook, aka Fatima, was on the secret list of dancers hired to run folks away. She used to be one of the top exotic dancers in Durham County—that is, in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Just about every brother in the state made a beeline to the old Lucky Lady Club in the Bottom to watch Fatima dance in one of those old school cages. According to lore, Fatima would turn it out to the point where the bouncers had to stop the patrons from climbing up into one of those cages with her.
But now, Hattie Lee Booth was the proud mother of thirteen children, with twenty-two grandchildren and six great-grands. She was still a voluptuous size ten, and gave new meaning to the term “senior” when she put on her Fatima outfit and started dancing.
Miss Hattie Lee didn’t dance like an old lady, either. She knew all of the new dances and could drop it like it’s hot with the best of them. Bay and Pierre figured that she had to have been the baddest thing around in stiletto heels when she was young—’cause old girl could dance.
Miss Hattie Lee was what folks in the hood referred to as a red bone. She was very pretty, limber, and toned due to decades of dancing. As good as Sweet Red was, she really couldn’t hold a candle to what folks said her grandmother was like back in the day. But while Fatima danced when she was needed, Miss Hattie Lee’s love was cooking. And her real position at Rumpshakers was as the head cook.
One of the best-kept secrets in Durham County was the quality of the food served at Charles Robinson’s establishment. A lot of men, once they sampled the fare and had the pleasure of enjoying Miss Hattie Lee Booth’s charming company, couldn’t wait to get to that elaborately designed kitchen to eat. Oh, they threw some Benjamins at a few of their favorite dancers, and paid for some good liquor. But then they found their way to that kitchen, pulled out a deck of cards, started a good bid whist game, and made sure they got platefuls of Miss Hattie Lee’s exquisite cooking.
Charles and Miss Hattie Lee had an agreement about the dancing. Fatima had two sets of clients. The first were men in their seventies and eighties who came to the club only to see Fatima. These men didn’t like watching what one man described as “them lil’ gals who need to eat a Happy Meal and get some meat on their bones.”
The second set were the men Charles didn’t want at his establishment and knew that assigning Fatima would be sure to keep them away. These were the ones who couldn’t be discouraged with the D and E list dancers because there was always a chance for some undercover activity with one of them. So being given a sixty-nine-year-old great-grandmother to drop it like it’s hot was just too much to digest for the men who were out in the parking lot scheming, conniving, and plotting harm to decent folk.
Charles had never seen Miss Hattie Lee dance, out of respect for her. But he had been told that Fatima could work it. One of the older patrons told him that he, Pierre, and Bay didn’t know what they were missing. He said, “Boy, Fatima does what me and my partners call the floor jam.”
Charles closed his eyes, hoping that the old man would not elaborate on this dance. The last image he wanted in his head before he fell asleep was Miss Hattie Lee doing something this old dawg was calling the floor jam. But that hope was in vain. That old man couldn’t wait to tell Charles about the floor jam. And neither could his boy, who was next to him, sitting in one of those motor scooters with an oxygen tank and mask attached to the back of it.
“Looka heah,” the old man began, “Fatima started doing this twisty move.”
He pantomimed what Charles surmised was a gyrating hip roll, only it looked as if he were trying to get some very painful kinks out of his back. His boy in the scooter hit the steering handles and sai
d, “Tell him, tell him, tell him about the part when Fatima dropped down on the floor and started doing this scooching-her-butt-on-the-floor thingy to the music.”
“Oh … oh … he’s right, son. That’s the move.”
“The move,” Charles said evenly, hoping they would stop. But they only got more excited and more determined to tell him what Miss Hattie Lee had done to get them so riled up.
“She was all down on the floor dancing and twangling her hips …”
“Twangling?” Charles asked. “What in the world is twangling?”
“He young, man. He don’t know nothing ’bout no twangling,” said the man in the scooter. “But if he did, he sho’ wouldn’t be standing there with his eyebrows raised and his mouth hanging open like that. ’Cause, whew … eee … whew! When Fatima got to twangling, I just about …”
“Calm down, man,” the friend said as he whipped out the mask and flipped on the oxygen machine. “Here, breathe in this.”
The friend took the mask and wrapped the elastic part around his head. He took in several deep breaths and then calmed down enough to let the oxygen get him straightened out.
When the friend’s breathing stabilized, the man signaled for them to leave. He clasped Charles on the shoulder and said, “I guess you just too young to really appreciate what we trying to tell you.”
“Yeah,” the friend mumbled through the oxygen mask, “he still got formula on his breath. You give him something hot and spicy like twangling, it ain’t gone do nothing but go right through him.”
Charles loved himself some Miss Hattie Lee Booth. And it was clear from testimonials such as these that Miss Hattie Lee’s services were sorely needed for the pimp-daddy seniors who rolled up to the club’s front door riding a medical scooter. As much as Charles loved Miss Hattie Lee, however, he wished that those old men had not shared all of the information about her routine. He was glad they loved her dancing as much as they did. But the mere thought of “twangling” was sure to give poor Charles nightmares.
Charles went back to Curtis and led him to his plush office. He closed the door, and then poured some Patrón into two heavy crystal shot glasses. Curtis, who was relieved to be rescued from that other room, sank down into a luxurious crimson suede chair. He took the glass of liquor out of Charles’s hand and leaned back in the chair.
Up at the College Page 15