The January Girl

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The January Girl Page 15

by Goldie Taylor


  “That’s a lot of lemons.”

  “He owes us a lot of money. I’ll squeeze it out of him, if it comes to that.”

  “You were tough,” Sillers told Thandy. “I’m glad I wasn’t sitting in his seat.”

  “It’s a waste. Clearly he’s a talented young man. You know how much I value diversity. Unfortunately, situations like this make every person of color suspect. Truth is, if Cervante were white, nobody would care. If he were black, this would make the evening news and the cover of the Wall Street Journal. Does the name Joe Jett ring a bell?”

  “Why are you waiting to press charges? We know he won’t come up with the money. He probably spent it all.”

  “Because I believe in second chances. He’s a grown man. He’ll figure it out.”

  “You’re better than me,” Sillers said.

  “If he’s as smart as I think he is, he put most of the money away. Hell, if you gave me three million over five years, I’d have at least nine to show for it.”

  “He’s not you.”

  Thandy smiled.

  “Who are we going to get to replace him?” Sillers asked.

  “That’s your job.”

  “I’ll set up some time with the search firm this afternoon.”

  “Save the money. There are at least four internal candidates we should look at first,” Thandy said.

  “Like who?”

  “Genevieve Anderson is at the top of my list.”

  “But she’s right out of grad school.”

  “She went to Wharton with four years of wealth management already under her belt. Stafford tells me she single-handedly brought in the William Feurst account. That old man doesn’t trust anybody with his money.”

  “I’ll take a look at her performance reviews.”

  “And take a look at Jason Hill. In fact, I’d like to have dinner with four of them. Anderson, Hill, Spraggins, and Waters.”

  “That’s one hell of a lineup,” Sillers commented. “If you’re going to start cleaning house, shouldn’t you let Mr. Perkins in on the plan?”

  “He’s already aware.”

  Stafford knocked and entered. “I heard the news. The water cooler is churning,” he commented.

  “We’ll call an all-hands meeting this afternoon,” Thandy said.

  “What are we going to tell them?” Sillers begged to know.

  “That we’ve uncovered some irregularities in our accounts and will be conducting an enterprise-wide review,” she instructed.

  “That’ll scare the living shit out of everybody,” Sillers said.

  “Good. If any one of them has trumped-up earnings, then we’ll put them out to pasture.”

  “What about the quarter?” Stafford asked.

  “Depending on how widespread the issue becomes, we may have to restate earnings,” Thandy advised.

  She punched the intercom button.

  “Yes, Ms. Malone?”

  “Recall the leadership team. Send them a dial-in number. We’ll convene in fifteen minutes in the Campbell conference room.”

  “Yes, Ms. Malone.”

  By the close of business Friday, Thandy was glad the week was over. A courier delivered a certified check for three million dollars and the executed separation agreement from Cervante the Crook. She sat alone in her office, poring through quarterly reports. Sillers was the last to leave.

  “Hundred-hour weeks never pay off,” he said.

  “Tell me about it,” she replied.

  She could have turned everything over to the district attorney, but she would never forget that somebody had once given her a second chance. She hoped Cervante wouldn’t waste his. Just after midnight, she made the drive home to Hyde Park.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Jack was one of only two black men ever admitted to membership at the Piedmont Driving Club. Three years ago, in the spirit of diversity, the board of governors gleefully invited the good doctor and K. Frank Dubartlanden, a local real estate developer, to join its prestigious ranks. K-Dub was a scion of the largest black-owned construction company in the country. The Gabrielles had summered with them a few years back on Martha’s Vineyard. Sipping beers at the Salty Dog, the men decided they would wage a quiet campaign to integrate Piedmont. Not because they were interested in social progress, but for the prestige and envy it would invoke among others. Jack enjoyed the one-up game.

  But more than that, he adored winning. At the time, Etienne had been duly pleased with his appointment and quickly ferried the news to anyone within earshot.

  Situated on the westerly edge of Piedmont Park, the crown jewel of the city, the club exudes elegance. Founded in 1887, the club has enjoyed a reputation as one of the most exclusive private clubs in the South, and has a long history of entertaining the South’s social elite as well as countless notable guests, including American presidents and visiting heads of state. As he was sworn in as a member, Jack recalled the day he stood on the baseball diamond, not more than a few hundred yards away, and stared up at the large white house. “Father, who lives there?”

  “No one lives there, son. It’s a country club.”

  “Can we join?”

  The elder Dr. Gabrielle ignored the question and picked up a leather glove. “Let’s throw a few more. The sun’s about to go down.”

  He didn’t like to talk about anything he couldn’t have. Harvard was one thing; Piedmont was another. The time was long gone when he thought he should have had a conversation with his son regarding the particulars of race, class, and geography. Jack thought back on that day with delight. He had become more than his father had expected, exceeded the bar, and integrated Piedmont.

  The Men’s Grill at the Piedmont Driving Club had been reserved for the evening. Not even the service staff would be allowed in. Even the governor-elect’s driver was relegated to the parking lot. At Jack’s insistence, the poker game had to start promptly at nine o’clock. Not that it mattered. He was late and everybody else had assumed he would be. Dressed in the obligatory tie and jacket, Doogie and Sloane drifted around the bar while Mr. Elijah set up the playing table. Satisfied that there was more liquor than food, he carefully stacked the chips at each man’s station and shuffled the cards with the ease of a Las Vegas dealer. Mr. Elijah was an old hand. His long brown fingers elegantly moved across the table. When he was satisfied with his work he turned his attention to the others.

  “Can I get you gentlemen anything?” he asked.

  “You ain’t at work,” Sloane said. “If we need something, then we’ll see after it ourselves. Tonight you’re one of the fellas.”

  Doogie was already drinking and had been since noon, two hours after he told his intended he wasn’t ready to get married. By midafternoon, his darling fiancée had his bags packed and loaded on the curb. The nasty little war he had predicted never materialized. He was beginning to think she might even have been relieved. She didn’t drop a single tear. Her demeanor was as calm as if he’d only told her he’d be running late for dinner. The fact that she was pregnant seemed inconsequential to her.

  “My mama and my mama’s mama raised babies on their own,” she’d said dismissively. “I don’t need a man.”

  He drained a shot of Jack Daniels’ and immediately poured another.

  “Whoa! Slow down, cowboy,” Sloane warned. “We’ve got at least two or three hours of drinking left. You can’t go on like that all night.”

  Doogie filled his mouth with liquor and let it roll down his throat like a ball of fire. His girlfriend was six months pregnant. She wouldn’t take his calls.

  “What’s eating you, boy?” Sloane ribbed.

  As if clairvoyant, Mr. Elijah shuffled over and laid his hand on Doogie’s shoulder. “This here young man’s got woman problems,” he said.

  “Naw, not Doogie.” Sloane laughed. “He’s getting married in a month.”

  “Mr. Governor, this here man’s got woman problems. I’ll put my last dollar on it.”

  “You keep your dollar, Mr
. Elijah, because I aim to beat you out of it tonight. Listen here. What Doogie has is a case of cold feet.”

  Sloane was still laughing. Doogie didn’t crack a smile. He swayed like there was a wind blowing. Mr. Elijah grabbed him as he was falling.

  “Damn, Doogie, you’re drunk,” Sloane said.

  They led him over to the table and let him catch a moment of comfort in the high-back mahogany leather chair. The rule was nobody could sit down until all the players had arrived. Jack wasn’t there, and nothing was unusual about that, but Mr. Elijah both made and was now breaking the rule. Doogie slumped over and fell off asleep, his nose buried in a cup holder. He was sound asleep and snoring like a leaf blower when Jack arrived.

  “Hey! Don’t tell me you got started without me!” he sang as he came through the door.

  “Just when you need a doctor, one comes strolling in,” Sloane said. “The one we got is down for the count.”

  “What’s going on? What’s wrong with Doogie?”

  “Ah, he’s all right. Just a little heartsick,” Sloane said. “And drunk.”

  “Damn. They get the best of them, don’t they?”

  Doogie was moaning something unintelligible about a dog, no food, and a rusty nail. He, too, had been one of Mr. Elijah’s students.

  “Come on now, Doogie,” Jack said, pulling him off the table. “Never let a woman drive you to drinking.”

  Doogie slumped again. Jack let him rest his head on the table.

  “Just don’t throw up,” he told him. “The board paid good money for that table. Straight from Monte Carlo and cost us five grand. What’s he been drinking? Did he eat anything?”

  “Jack Daniel’s,” Mr. Elijah said. “From the looks of it, I don’t think he’s got anything in his stomach but that.”

  “Good. That means nothing will come up but liquor. He’ll sober up. I guess it’ll be just three tonight.”

  “We can’t play with him laid out on the table like that,” Sloane said.

  The three of them hoisted Doogie up by his armpits and dragged him over to the tufted leather sofa. Mr. Elijah put a tablecloth over him. Soon enough, Doogie was feeling no pain. He snoozed like a baby.

  “Let’s get to it, fellas,” Jack announced. “I believe you gentlemen have some of my money in your pockets.”

  “Ain’t you got enough?” Sloane laughed.

  “I ain’t never got enough. Nothing, and I tell you nothing, is better than the smell of new money, Mr. Governor. Doogie is lucky I don’t turn his pockets inside out. I got to make up for that divorce settlement and I’m starting with you.” He laughed.

  Jack doled out three Dominican cigars and poured another round of whiskey. “Drink up, boys. It’s going to be a bumpy night!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Mr. Elijah dealt the first hand. He had been playing poker a dozen ways since long before the others were more than a twinkle in their mamas’ eyes. It was the game of choice for his daddy and uncle in Flat Fork, West Virginia. He’d watched and studied their play in an unpainted lean-to barn with dirt floors lit up by a gas lantern. He was ten before they let him hold a hand of his own.

  After two hours of play at a fevered pitch, Sloane was up by a couple of thousand and Mr. Elijah was in the hole. Jack, who was holding even, made the mistake of spotting the old geezer a hundred bucks to keep the game going. Mr. Elijah rubbed his bald head, turned up his lips, and cut the cards. Far too late into the evening, Sloane caught on to Mr. Elijah flaring his nostrils whenever he had a winning hand. It seemed almost involuntary. Forty-five minutes later, Mr. Elijah had all but cleared the table. Jack threw in his hand first. Sloane took one look at Mr. Elijah’s widening nostrils and followed suit. He was holding the “nuts.”

  “Mr. Governor, I think we’ve just been suckered,” Jack said.

  “I tell you the truth,” Sloane lamented. “I ain’t never been whipped like that.”

  Doogie was starting to wake up. “Hey, now,” he slurred. “When are we going to start the game?”

  “Shit!” Sloane laughed.

  “And who’s been smoking in here?” Doogie asked, fanning the thick fumes with his drunken arms.

  “Certainly not you,” Jack returned.

  Doogie fell off again.

  “Probably good for him. Let him sleep it off,” Mr. Elijah advised. “That woman done broke his heart.”

  “Shit, just when I was beginning to believe in love,” Jack joked.

  “In what lifetime?” Sloane shot back. “Hell, I remember when you stuffed five hundred Benjamins into that gal’s G-string down at the Pink Pony.”

  “Now, now, Guv. You’ve got me all wrong. I’m a believer. I haven’t been in a strip club in a hundred years.”

  “Say it ain’t so!” Mr. Elijah chimed in.

  “In whose church? You just paid your ex-wife fifteen large and you want us to believe you got love on your mind? ‘I’ve got love, love on my mind,’ ” Sloane sang off tune, mocking Natalie Cole in a high-pitched voice.

  Jack got quiet. Sloane kept singing.

  Jack wasn’t amused.

  “Bruh, I’m just kidding,” Sloane said. “We can’t predict how the cards will fall.”

  “Amen to that,” Mr. Elijah chimed in. “Never can tell.”

  Sloane got serious. “Listen here, Doc. If Thandy is what you need, then all the money you spent on a divorce was well worth it. ‘Ain’t no mountain high enough! Ain’t no valley low enough,’ ” he started singing again. This time it was Ashford & Simpson.

  “I got it bad,” Jack admitted.

  “It’s about time you fessed up to that,” said Sloane.

  “Did you ever tell her?” Mr. Elijah asked.

  “I bought her a house and a car, both of which she was only too glad to throw in my face when she left.”

  “But did you tell her?” Mr. Elijah repeated.

  “I guess I didn’t,” Jack answered.

  “Say it with me, Jack. I . . . love . . . you . . . Thandy,” Sloane kidded.

  Jack smiled.

  “It’s easy,” Sloane said.

  “No, it ain’t easy,” Mr. Elijah said. “Not when you’re scared.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Dr. G., you’ve been coming to my bar almost every Friday night for twelve years. Never miss. I’ve served you enough cognac to drown a city. I’ve been watching.”

  “And what did you see?” Jack begged to know.

  “I might be wrong, but I ain’t too often or too long,” Mr. Elijah said, sitting up in his high-backed chair. “I remember when you met the girl and didn’t even know her phone number. I helped you figure out how to spell her name. I heard it all. I even heard what you didn’t say. To tell you the truth, I wondered how long it was going to take you to realize you had something good. I only hoped that it wouldn’t be after I was laid out in a funeral parlor and candlelit.”

  “Have you at least talked to her?” Sloane asked.

  “I called once. Sent her roses. She all but told me to take an express bus straight to hell. She’s got this big new life. I’m really proud of her. I want her to have everything.”

  “That’s the love I’m talking about!” Mr. Elijah beamed.

  “You sent flowers? From a real florist? Stop the presses!” Sloane kicked in.

  “She doesn’t want me,” Jack lamented. “She’s up there in Chicago. I’m sure some lucky fuck will charm her off her feet. He’ll give her what she wants and she’ll swoon and scream Hallelujah. I couldn’t even take her to the movies.”

  “I’ll bet this whole pile of money that you’re wrong about that,” Mr. Elijah said, pushing his stake to the center of the table. “Picture show or not, I’m willing to bet she’s only got eyes for you.”

  “Sloane?” Jack said, trying to prompt some piece of validation.

  “Don’t get me into that. She’s my friend and I ain’t about to break her confidence. But I know she’s hurting. That trip to Barbados nearly did her in. Bu
t she did say Chicago had its charms.”

  “The way I see it, you’ve got one chance, son,” Mr. Elijah advised. His gruff voice was wise, demanding. “You can make this right now or lose it. That is, if you haven’t already.”

  Jack threw his chips on the table, took a final draw on his cigar, got up, pushed in his chair, and left.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The hospital pager pasted to his hip started chirping as he heard his name over the public address system. “Dr. Gabrielle, please report to OR three!” the charge nurse called into the public address system. “Dr. Jackson Gabrielle, OR three!”

  Jack sprang from the call-room cot and sprinted down the wide corridor quicker than Donovan McNabb could wiggle his way out of an intercepted pass. He made it to the operating room just as the patient began seizing. The body bucked and convulsed. A nurse pumped medication through the IV and he steadied. Another attendant quickly scrubbed his already bald head with antiseptic foam as Sandy rushed in.

  Jack read through the brief medical chart, then went right to work. He carefully cut back the scalp as a surgical nurse set up a high-powered microscope. Once inside, Jack was unnerved. The already thin walls of the intracranial aneurysm were on the verge of rupture. His hands began to twitch. Sandy stood next to him. Her presence steadied him.

  The bleeding and water flooded the brain, but the sack of arterial blood, though dangerously thin, was thankfully still intact. Using the three-dimensional mapping on the overhead monitor, he cautiously moved through the tissue until the monster was fully revealed, a tiny balloon of blood in the frontal lobe. His hands froze.

  “Is everything all right, Dr. Gabrielle?” a resident physician asked.

  “Absolutely. Let’s get to it,” Jack said, blowing out a deep gust.

  Sandy stepped away to turn on the stereo and slip a CD into the spinner.

  Buddy you’re a boy make a big noise . . . !

  Satisfied with the volume, Jack went back to work. He examined and placed a small metallic clip across the base of the balloon. Once the neck of the bubble was secured, he took another deep breath and began to reconstruct the artery wall to maintain blood flow to the brain. The remaining blood and fluid were suctioned away. Sandy watched Jack.

 

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