Paper Gods

by Goldie Taylor

  Virgil watched Whit kiss Rosetta on the forehead and take her by the hand.

  “Let’s go inside and talk some,” his brother said. “It’s been too long.”

  “Come back in an hour,” she instructed the driver.

  “Who was that?” Virgil asked as the car pulled away.

  “None of your damn business,” Rosetta said.

  “What concerns my brother, concerns me,” Virgil quipped.

  Rosetta ignored him.

  “Why is Virgil here?” she said to Whit. “I said we needed to talk alone. If there’s a better time, let me know and I’ll come back.”

  Whit paused and said, “You have to trust me on this, Rosie.”

  She relented and he led her through the garage and into the back of the house. Virgil shuffled in behind them.

  “You have a beautiful home,” she said to Whit.

  “Thank you, Rosie,” he said. “We don’t need this big house. Only my wife isn’t interested in moving.”

  “Patricia is a good woman,” Rosetta said.

  “She’ll never be you,” Whit said. “I was never ashamed of what you and I had.”

  “I always knew you’d be something,” she said, twisting her wedding band.

  “I had a better start than most.”

  “Forgive me for calling so late in the evening. I suppose I should’ve expected Patricia to pick up the phone. I hope it wasn’t any trouble.”

  “None at all, Rosie. You are welcome to call on me anytime. Take a seat and I’ll get some coffee going. How do you take yours?”

  “I’ll take some tea, if you have it, and a little cream will do me just fine.”

  Whit wandered off to the kitchen and left Rosetta and Virgil alone in the great room.

  “We’re not enemies, Rosetta. I ain’t got nothing against you,” Virgil said.

  “You don’t have a reason not to like me. I never gave you one.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You’re going to leave my child alone. That I know for sure.”

  “You don’t know your daughter like you think you do, Rosetta. She came out swinging. What did you expect?”

  “I didn’t expect you to try to bust up her marriage,” Rosetta said.

  “I hear that ain’t the only thing that got busted up.”

  “I knew you were behind that. Then, you went and bought off that preacher. She whipped his tail, like I knew she would. My husband trusted you, but I never did. The last thing I wanted was to see my daughter mixed up with you.”

  “The last thing I wanted was to see my brother mixed up with you. That daughter of yours bit off more than she could chew.”

  “You won’t sass me about my child, Virgil. I don’t give a damn who you think you are.”

  “She’s definitely your child,” Virgil said. “Ain’t no two ways about that.”

  “She’s mine,” Rosetta said, “and don’t you ever forget that. She doesn’t trust you and neither do I.”

  “Who needs trust when you can have power?” Virgil said. “Nobody knows that better than the Great Torie Dobbs.”

  Virgil knew Rosetta had a backbone. The first time he laid eyes on her was fifty years back, in the fall of ’64 after the Georgia–Georgia Tech football game. It was Whit who couldn’t stop looking at her. She caught him staring, flashed a smile, and his brother was positively smitten.

  “I’m going over to talk to her,” Whit had said.

  “Don’t you dare,” Virgil said. “You can’t take that gal home.”

  “Who’s talking about taking anybody home? What Daddy don’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “It ain’t Daddy I’m worried about. Your mama will pitch a fit. Since when are you into colored gals?”

  “She ain’t colored, she’s beautiful,” Whit said. “I’m going over there. Hold my Coke.”

  As it turned out, the pretty girl was a nineteen-year-old biology major at Spelman College. Soon enough, word got out that “some rich white boy” from Emory University was coming on campus to see Rosetta. They got on hot-and-heavy for a while, sneaking off to Lake Lanier on the weekends, until Rosetta abruptly broke it off. Apparently, her parents didn’t approve either. And besides that, she had a new boyfriend. Parkland Dobbs was a seminary student at Morehouse.

  At the start of senior year, when Rosetta informed him of her engagement, it broke Whit’s heart. She and Park got hitched right after graduation. The ceremony made the pages of the Atlanta Times, the Daily World, and Jet magazine, and the reception was held at the Georgian Terrace Hotel. Later that year, in 1972, her first child was born: a daughter. A son came soon after. Even so, Virgil knew that Whit’s feelings never gave up the ghost. In time, he met Patsy Jo and they got married. After a year of trying, Cole was born in 1976.

  Sometime in the early ’80s, Virgil bumped into Rosetta and her husband, Park, at the airport. He’d completed his PhD and been named senior pastor of a church on the south side of town, Park said proudly. They were off to some theology conference in Kansas City, he explained, and Virgil was coming in from San Francisco. They traded pleasantries, and Rosetta showed him photos of their two young children: Victoria and Prentiss.

  Virgil took one look at her flowing hair and telltale toothy smile, and said, “She’s a beautiful little girl.”

  Park politely promised to keep in touch, and the couple hurried off to catch their flight. As far as Virgil could tell, the young pastor didn’t know then that it was Whit whom Rosetta was sneaking around with in college or that they’d kept in touch even after they traded their vows. Now Park was dead, Rosetta was sitting in his brother’s house, and that beautiful little girl was currently mayor of Atlanta.

  Through the years, Virgil pressed Whit on the matter, only to get stiff-armed and brushed off. He thought the whole thing was behind them, until his brother showed up at his law office in June of ’95. Park Dobbs had been laid to rest that spring.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” Virgil said at the time. “Surely, there is another way.”

  “Ain’t but one right way,” Whit said. “I need to get my affairs in order.”

  Virgil got up and pulled the blinds. It took them four full days to hammer out a document that satisfied Whit. He was specific about the wording. They lied and told their wives they’d gone on a fishing trip, none of which would be believed, but Patsy Jo and Libby Gail let it all go without question.

  “You’ve always been reasonable,” Virgil said to Rosetta. “I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now, but my brother did what he thought was right. You always did have a good head on your shoulders.”

  “You do too,” Rosetta said. “Don’t give me a reason to knock it off.”

  “Let’s bury that hatchet,” Virgil said, “for old times’ sake.”

  “Fine. Until you dig it up again,” Rosetta said. “I don’t wanna have to bury it in your neck.”

  Whit entered carrying a tray of coffee cups. Rosetta set her purse down on the sofa next to her and forced a smile. Whit placed three settings, including cloth napkins and polished silver teaspoons, on the table.

  “The middle one is yours,” he told Rosetta. “It’s raspberry. I hope you like it.”

  Rosetta reached down, drew the porcelain cup to her mouth, took a sip, and said, “Whatever we say stays between here and that gate out there.”

  “You have my word on that,” Whit said. “Virgil?”

  “Forever and always,” Virgil responded with a smirk.

  “Well, then, let’s get to it,” Whit said. “Rosie, what’s on your mind?”

  The meeting was brief and Rosetta did most of the talking.

  “My daughter is the most important thing in the world to me,” she said. “And, Whit, I appreciate everything you’ve done for her. I know where that student loan money came from and all the rest, even if Virgil was the one who wrote the checks. I also know Virgil has been up to some devilment around here.”

  Virgil reared back in the lounging c
hair, cupped his hand over his chin, and waited.

  “If anything should happen to her, and I don’t care what it is, I’m going to blame you,” she said, looking at both men, “and I will spend the rest of my days making sure you pay for it.”

  “She’ll win the congressional race,” Whit said. “The polls look good. It’ll be a landslide.”

  “No harm, no foul,” Virgil said.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Rosetta quipped. “Whit, you know I’m not talking about no damn election. You promised me you would look after her, and I expect you to make good on that, even if it means Virgil here won’t always get what he wants.”

  “What is it you think I want?” Virgil said. “Give it to us straight, gal. How much do you want? How much will it take?”

  “Don’t test me, Virgil Loudermilk,” she said.

  “The way I see it, that daughter of yours is doing all the testing,” Virgil said.

  “Shut up, Virgil,” Whit said. “Let Rose have her say.”

  Rosetta’s expression turned dour. “Is the paperwork in order?” she said.

  “Yes,” Whit said. “Everything is spelled out just the way I told you. If any of my beneficiaries challenge it, they get nothing. Virgil drafted the document himself.”

  “I need a copy. If anything should happen to you, I don’t trust Virgil with our business. He’s liable to burn it up.”

  Whit offered her a plaintive glance and scratched his meaty neck. Virgil watched his shoulders slump.

  “We never told her the truth,” Rosetta said, “even when the kids teased her in school. They kept saying she was the milkman’s baby. Came home crying all the time.”

  “She didn’t deserve that,” Whit said, “and I’m sorry it had to be that way.”

  “She didn’t deserve half the things your family has done to her,” Rosetta said. “I’ve stayed silent many years, because that was the best thing. But I will burn this house down to the bricks, if that’s what it takes.

  “You can take that to the bank, Virgil,” she said, gathering her pocketbook. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen. I’ll see myself out.”

  “Hold on, Rosie. We can work this out,” Whit said. “Hold your fire.”

  “That decision is yours, Whit,” she said.

  “It all stops now. Right, Virgil?”

  “Whatever you want,” Virgil said.

  “Well?” Rosetta pushed. “When will I have it?”

  “So be it,” Whit said. “Virgil, get her a copy of the document and send me a duplicate so I can get it to an attorney.”

  “I am your lawyer.”

  “Not on this, you’re not,” Whit said. “Not anymore.”

  “A piece of money doesn’t mean anything to me. My husband gave me a good life,” Rosetta said. “She’s my child and I aim to see after her.”

  Whit nodded thoughtfully. “She’s mine too,” he said, “and I aim to see after her.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  There was a low hum in the newsroom that Thursday morning. Hampton managed to clear his email in-box, return a couple of phone calls, and get some copyedits in. He’d been summoned to Tucker’s corner office, something he came to loathe, and braced himself for an upbraiding. He was relieved to find out that he was getting his weekly column back.

  “This isn’t a gift. You earned it,” Tucker told him. “The opinion page is missing your voice. Your first column will go up Monday night, the day before the election. I’m thinking you already know the subject.”

  “Honestly, I didn’t think I’d get another shot,” Hampton said. “Does it come with a pay raise?”

  “I’m not Mother Teresa. I don’t do miracles. But it does come with an assistant, and I’ve got the perfect one for you.”

  “She didn’t either. Who’s the assistant?”

  “Olu Gatewood,” Tucker said. “Wait, aren’t you Catholic?”

  “That’s my mother. I am, well, let’s just say I’m agnostic. I just pray and hope something good comes of it.”

  “I never knew that.”

  “Mostly out of habit or desperation. I’m hedging my bets, so to speak.”

  “You can teach young Olu a lot. Just don’t teach him any bad habits.”

  “He’s a good kid and he writes like a song.”

  “You were a good kid when I met you.”

  “He’s better than I ever was.”

  “One rule,” Tucker said. “I need this job and so do you. Don’t get us fired.”

  Hampton smiled and stood up with a slight stagger. He gripped the arm of the chair to steady himself. It had been only weeks since he gave up the wheelchair, and he was using the forearm crutches less and less these days. He wanted Claire to see a man standing on his own two feet, like the day they were married. She’d cautioned him to move slowly, to take his time. His physical therapist agreed. There was more work to be done.

  “Thanks again, Tuck,” he said. “As for getting us canned, I’ll do my best.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Sometimes, when he was tired, he felt his knees wobbling. Being able to take a piss standing up was its own reward. It wasn’t like he was going to run a marathon. Hampton was never into that kind of thing, anyway. He did long to hurl Claire onto his back and give her a piggyback ride again. He wanted to hear her giggle over his shoulder and feel her legs strapped around his waist.

  He was glad to be back in the swing of things at work too. Somebody saw fit to give him a paycheck for writing, and meager as it was, that was worth something. Claire was always the breadwinner, something his father frowned on. He couldn’t wait to tell her the news.

  Aside from the time when he dreamed about playing shortstop for the Detroit Tigers, Hampton couldn’t remember wanting to be anything else. While some of the guys he grew up with went to work at an automotive plant or for a parts maker, he was studying for the SAT with hopes of getting into a great journalism school. He’d been wait-listed at Columbia.

  He would have done things differently, he was thinking that morning as he walked out of Tucker’s office, if he had the chance to do it all over again. There would be fewer drinks and he wouldn’t have cheated on Claire. Tucker had every reason to fire him at least three times over, and he wouldn’t have been able to blame him if he had.

  Hampton left Tucker’s office almost skipping through the cubicles. He went looking for Kathy Franco, and he found her in the breakroom, hunched over her laptop and nursing a cup of coffee.

  “Hey, Kathy, what’s up?”

  “Putting in the work. You know me.”

  “Yes, I do. Can I ask you about a story you wrote?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s a kid name DeVonte Charles. In federal custody on interstate drug charges.”

  “My favorite car thief. What about him?”

  “You tell me,” Hampton said.

  Franco waved him over to a table near the window.

  “I’ve been looking into the Sex Money Murder clique for a while now. They run the Bluff and every other heroin trap in the city. They’re tied to the Bloods. DeVonte is fourteen, coming up on fifteen, but the feds say he was born into the business. Started as a lookout for his uncle when he was still in grade school. Now, among other things, he’s a wheelman. He’s up on big charges, and he doesn’t even have a driver’s license.”

  “Who is this uncle?”

  “Well, that’s where it gets interesting. His uncle is Richard Lester.”

  “That lines up with my thinking.”

  “They moved the car theft and arson charges from state to federal court. Unless DeVonte starts talking, and fast, he’s going to spend the next forty years in prison. If he turns state’s evidence, that’s his ticket to freedom. Why’re you interested in him?”

  “For starters, I’m sure I saw him the night the car bomb went off at the Hyatt, and I don’t think that was a coincidence. He was outside the hotel, rolling by on a skateboard, scanning the crowd.”

&nb
sp; Franco raised her eyebrow and said, “That’s interesting.”

  “I have a feeling the feds think he’s the link to the bombing that killed Prentiss Dobbs.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Prentiss was freelancing for Richard Lester. I was out at Lenox when his nephew got pinched for shoplifting too. And that car they found burnt up in Villa Rica matches the description of the one I saw parked in my driveway last month. I was at home when three guys broke in my house. They sped off in a green Camaro.”

  “You weren’t hurt, were you?”

  “No, but one of them shot my dog. Killed him right in front of me.”

  “Inman? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “No,” Hampton said. “And I think DeVonte is the one who shot him.”

  “What did they take?”

  “I didn’t think they took anything, at first. Not that I had much to get,” Hampton said. “But I haven’t been able to find an external hard drive. It had a lot of research on it for a book I’m writing.”

  “The one about Reclaim Atlanta?”

  “Something like that. I thought maybe it was all a coincidence. But this kid just kept popping up.”

  “So, you think the guys who broke in your house were looking for that hard drive?”

  “Yeah, it’s starting to look that way. I’ve been talking to a source about some of this, and I think it’s connected.”

  “DeVonte wouldn’t do anything without his uncle’s approval. He is being groomed for bigger things.”

  “That’s what worries me, to be honest,” Hampton said.

  “So, if the feds think Lester was behind that car bomb, and if that was actually his nephew you saw outside that hotel, they’re probably right. You might be the only one who can place him at the scene.”

  “Any idea why Lester might want to kill Prentiss Dobbs? They’ve known each other since grade school, and it’s true he once dated the mayor.”

  “He was going to testify against him,” Franco said. “At least that’s the word on the street.”

  “There’s another piece to this. I can’t talk about it right now. I’m not even sure how it fits.”

  “Hope I helped.”

  Hampton’s phone buzzed. It was a message from Claire.