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The Final Play

Page 19

by Shelly Ellis


  “I missed you, baby. I wanted you back so much,” he whispered, and for the first time, he felt her tense. This time, she did shove away from him.

  “No,” she said, glaring at him, shaking her head. “No.”

  She then turned around and headed downstairs, leaving him standing alone on the floor above.

  Chapter 28

  Jamal

  Jamal laid out two dress shirts on his bed—one periwinkle blue, the other with white and gray vertical stripes. He scrunched up his nose as he considered them for his first date with Nurse Sam, unsure of which one to wear.

  He was taking Sam out to dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Arlington, Virginia, which was closer to her home. The restaurant wasn’t so high-end that he felt the need to wear a tie tonight, but he didn’t want to show up in just jeans and a T-shirt and come off too casual. He wanted to show her that he was making an effort, that he cared. It seemed important to do so, to go through all first-date rituals. The agonizing over what to wear . . . The double-checking dinner reservations . . . The making sure he carried a full pack of gum but not a full pack of condoms because he’d more than likely need the former rather than the latter for a first date.

  Unable to make a decision on which shirt to wear, Jamal turned away from the bed and headed back to his closet to find a sweater to throw on instead, but he paused when he saw in the corner of his eye an image flash across his flat-screen TV. He turned around to stare at the television and saw an anchor sitting in front of the headline, “Late Breaking News.” He reached for the remote on his bed and turned up the volume.

  “You heard it here first, folks! Channel 7 has gotten word that D.C. Mayor Vernon Johnson was arrested today at his home in Southwest. Johnson’s city hall offices and those of several staff members also have been raided, according to sources,” the male anchor said, his pale face looking grave. “The mayor’s office has yet to release a statement confirming Johnson’s arrest, but we have an eyewitness video of what happened.”

  The screen then cut to footage of Johnson being led down the brick steps of his tony Capitol Hill brownstone in handcuffs. The video quality didn’t look as polished as the rest of the broadcast. It looked like someone had taken it with a handheld camera or cell phone. But you could still see everything: the mayor’s wife standing in the doorway looking horrified and near tears, shouting frantically to the cops to leave her husband alone, the onlookers staring in awe with their own camera phones ready as they watched the scene unfold. Vernon’s balding head was bowed and his face was grim. He was whisked away to a waiting police cruiser where the door stood open. It was slammed shut behind him as soon as he was shoved inside.

  Jamal stared at the TV screen in shock. Detective Wingate hadn’t told him whether they had finally decided to press charges against the mayor, let alone that they would do it this soon.

  The irony wasn’t lost on him either that the way he had gotten word of Johnson’s arrest—caught off guard while watching the television—was the same way he had learned of the reporter Phillip Seymour’s murder. But while news of Phil’s murder had been a traumatic, gut-wrenching shock, this was a welcome surprise. It seemed like some justice would finally be served.

  The broadcast cut back to the anchor desk. “So far, there is no word on exactly why Mayor Johnson was arrested,” the anchor continued, “but sources say his arrest is the product of an ongoing investigation, which means we may expect more arrests in the near future.”

  Jamal pressed the button on his remote to turn off the television.

  The mayor had boasted to Jamal long ago that no judge or jury would ever find him guilty of a damn thing. Now they would see if his boast was correct.

  He glanced back at the shirts on his bed, feeling a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in quite a long time.

  “Periwinkle,” he said with a confident nod. “That’s what I’ll wear tonight.”

  * * *

  Jamal watched as Sam reached across the platter of nachos, guacamole, and pico de gallo at the center of the table with her fork in hand.

  “Oh, wow! Your fajita looks good! Do you mind if I try some of your steak?” Sam asked as she stabbed into one of the steak strips.

  “Umm, no. Be my guest,” he said with a laugh as she popped the steak into her mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said through a mouthful of food, looking mildly embarrassed. Even her cheeks flushed pink, making her look even cuter, in his opinion. “I probably should’ve gotten a yes first before I did that.”

  “It’s fine. You don’t have to apologize.”

  “No, I do! I just do stuff like that. It’s one of the bad habits of being a nurse. You take charge a lot. You take the lead.” She reached for her glass of Bordeaux and took a sip. “It’s hard to turn it off. I bet it scares off a lot of guys. It would certainly explain my dating history.”

  He shook his head and ate some of his fajita. “It doesn’t scare me off.”

  “You mean you like women who take charge?”

  He took another bite of his meal. “Within certain contexts. Yeah.”

  She inclined her head, licked sour cream from her lips, and smirked. “And what context would that be, Jamal?”

  He caught the flirtatious twinkle in her eyes and he started laughing again. She joined him, chuckling softly over the lip of her wineglass.

  They had been on their date for less than an hour and already he felt sparks between them. Laughter came easy with Sam. And they obviously had chemistry. Compatibility was still in question but he guessed he would find that out over time if they went on another date, but chances looked good that they would. It was a relief. This was yet another sign that he was moving in the right direction.

  “So besides take-charge women, what other things do you like?” Sam asked. “Sports? Movies? Hang gliding?”

  “Yes, yes, and no to hang gliding. How about you? What do you like?”

  “The same things, I guess. I like football . . . basketball . . . movies, when I have time to watch them. I’m also a bit of a news junkie. Quick stuff I can grab online during my rounds.” She sliced into her empanada. “I even did some research on you online after we had coffee that day.”

  “I think everybody checks out LinkedIn pages before a date nowadays though.”

  “I checked out a lot more than your LinkedIn page, Jamal. Articles . . . video clips on YouTube. You were a pretty big deal when you were deputy mayor.”

  He shook his head again. “Not really.”

  “Oh, come on! Don’t be modest,” she chided, smiling and leaning over her plate. “I saw those pictures of you on Google. You used to hang out with some really important people.”

  Yeah, that had been one of the stipulations he’d had in the beginning when he worked out his deal with Mayor Johnson. In order to keep the mayor’s dirty secrets, he’d made the mayor take him to all the events where he could hobnob with big dogs of politics and the business world. He thought it would help him move up the ladder, to get some badly deserved recognition. But it hadn’t done that; it had only flattered his ego and landed him in more trouble than it was worth.

  “And you reported directly to Mayor Johnson, right?” Sam asked.

  Jamal slowly nodded as he wiped his mouth with his dinner napkin, unsure of where she was going with this line of questioning.

  “So were you caught off guard like everybody else by what happened today? I mean about the mayor getting arrested! Or do you know what happened?” she whispered with wide blue eyes. “That would just be so crazy if you—”

  “Sam,” he said, interrupting and holding up his hand, “look, I’ll talk about anything else you want tonight, but I’d just rather not talk about my time working for Johnson. It wasn’t a high point for me. When I left city hall, I was more than happy to move on from it. So I’d rather not go through the whole postmortem of my time there if . . . if that’s okay with you.”

  “Oh! Of course!” She winced. “I’m so sorry, Jamal. I didn’t
know it was a touchy subject for you.”

  “Again, no need to apologize. And I wouldn’t expect you to know.”

  She sheepishly lowered her gaze to her plate. “God, I am screwing this up so much, aren’t I?”

  “Screwing up what?”

  “Our date!”

  “No you’re not! I’m having a good time.”

  She slowly raised her eyes from her plate. “Really?”

  “Definitely. Besides,” he said, “if you feel that bad, you can give me some of your empanada to make up for it.”

  She grinned. “I’d be happy to.” She grabbed a forkful of the flaky crust and fed him a bite.

  Long after they had finished their meals, they had lingered at their table, still talking and laughing. In fact, they had lingered so long that they started to get anxious glances from their waiter, who Jamal suspected was wondering when they were going to leave so that the restaurant could finally open up another table. But he and Sam ignored the waiter, not wanting to end their evening sooner than necessary.

  Somewhere around ten o’clock, Jamal walked Sam back to her car, which was parked in a nearby lot. They held hands as they strolled, gazing at the first chilly night of September.

  “I had a good time,” he said.

  “I had a good time, too,” Sam replied. “Are you sure you did? You’re telling me the truth?”

  He chuckled. “I swear I’m not lying.” He stopped in front of her Toyota Prius. “I really had a good time, hence us talking for three solid hours.”

  She gazed up at him. “I hope I see you again, Jamal. It would suck if I didn’t. It seems like we’re off to a pretty good start. Call me and set something up. Okay? I’m busy all next week but the week after . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “I will.” He leaned forward to give her a hug goodbye but was caught off guard when she kissed him instead. Her lips were soft and thin, but firm. She opened her mouth slightly and darted her tongue against his lips, easing them open. The kiss deepened and the spark Jamal felt earlier started to catch flame. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close while they kissed.

  When Sam breathlessly pulled back a minute later, she grinned. “Yes, we are off to a good start,” she whispered before giving him another quick peck.

  She unlocked her car door and climbed into the driver’s seat. He stood on the sidewalk and watched as she pulled away, giving a quick wave over her shoulder at him.

  When her Prius turned the corner, he turned back around and headed to his car, which was parked a few blocks away. A smile was on his face. A hop was in his step.

  Yes, things were finally looking up for him.

  As Jamal neared his car, his cell phone began to buzz. He slowed his gait, reached into his pocket, and squinted down at the text message on the screen. It was from Melissa.

  Hey, Jay, how u been? Just checking to see if you still wanted to go to that play with me at Shakespeare Theater Co next week. The tickets are non-refundable so I’ll give them away if you’re not interested. No pressure either way. (I know you said you needed space.) Let me know! Hope you’re doing OK.

  In true Melissa fashion, she ended her text with an innocuous smiley-face emoji that almost seemed to mock him.

  And just like that the grin on Jamal’s face and the hop in his step disappeared.

  “Shit,” he muttered, tucking his cell back into his pocket.

  Chapter 29

  Ricky

  Ricky walked toward the parallel-parked unmarked vehicle, pausing to glance around him to make sure no one was watching as he made his way from the spot where he’d been waiting underneath the bakery awning. He was becoming even more cautious nowadays, knowing that the stakes were getting increasingly higher. One wrong move could mean the end of him and everything he held dear.

  He opened the back passenger-side door and hopped inside. The instant he slammed the door shut, the car lurched forward with the rev of the engine and rattle from the exhaust, merging into Northwest D.C. traffic.

  Detective Ramsey, who was driving, glanced at Ricky in the rearview mirror. “All right, you called us. We came. What did you need?”

  “And make it quick,” Detective Dominguez said. “I promised my wife I’d be home by seven tonight. I wasn’t expecting any last-minute detours.”

  “Aww, I’m sorry,” Ricky replied sarcastically, tilting his head. “Did I inconvenience you? Do I need to send you home with a note?”

  “Ricky,” Ramsey said, sounding irritated, “just tell us why you called us. Come on! You said it was important.”

  He slumped back in his seat and nodded. “Because it is important.”

  Ricky had reached out to Detectives Ramsey and Dominguez soon after the party at Dolla Dolla’s house. He hadn’t been able to convince Dolla Dolla to back off of Derrick, putting his friend’s safety and the safety of his many students at risk. If Ricky couldn’t intervene with this one, it was about time the cops finally did. They’d been sitting on their big fat asses for months while he did all the heavy lifting.

  “I saw the news. You guys arrested Mayor Johnson yesterday,” he began.

  “Yeah. So?” Dominguez challenged, glancing at him over his shoulder, being as charming as ever.

  “So why the hell is the mayor behind bars but Dolla isn’t?” Ricky sucked his teeth. “I helped y’all with both. I gave you Mayor Johnson. I gave you one of Dolla’s contacts like you asked. Both of them should be in jail!”

  “It’s not that simple, Ricky,” Ramsey insisted. “One doesn’t necessarily mean the same thing for the other. Those are two different investigations—one of which wasn’t even ours. We weren’t aiming for Mayor Johnson.”

  “But you guys got him anyway. And frankly, you should’ve been aiming for him all along,” Ricky said. “I told you he was dirty. He’s a lot dirtier than some of the goons Dolla has coming in and out of his place. But y’all were more concerned with—”

  “And in the case of Mayor Johnson, that detective had recorded conversations to work with,” Ramsey said, speaking over him. “He had definitive evidence to present to the D.A.”

  “What are you talking about? I thought those undercover cops got a recording, too! She had a damn mike in her wig.”

  “You gave us one . . . one damn recording to work with!” Dominguez threw back at him. “Excuse us if we ain’t shoutin’ ‘case closed!’”

  “You know why I can’t record Dolla. They pat me down and take my phone every time I walk in there!” Ricky argued.

  Ramsey nodded. “Your hands are tied, so our hands are tied, Ricky.”

  “He’s tricking out girls again. He’s doing the same shit that got my girl’s sister killed. That got her mother murdered,” Ricky said, the bleakness coming through in his voice. “He’s threatened my friend’s life and the lives of the kids who he’s responsible for. Dolla had a kid killed in jail. And y’all niggas are really just gonna sit here and tell me your hands are tied? What the fuck is the point? Why am I risking my life every damn day for this investigation if y’all can’t do anything?” He punched the back of the seat in a fit of anger, “I swear to God you two are fuckin’ useless!”

  “Hey! Fuck you, you piece of shit!” Dominguez yelled, unbuckling his seat belt and turning around in his seat so that he could glower over his shoulder. His face had gone full crimson. He looked like a pock-marked tomato. “You’re lucky I don’t come back there and beat the crap outta you!”

  “Then let’s get it poppin’, nigga!” Ricky held up his hand and beckoned him. “I’ve been wantin’ to whup your ass since the moment you first opened that ugly-ass mouth of yours.”

  Just as Dominguez reached over the back of the seat to lunge for Ricky, Ramsey reached up to grab his arm and tugged him back. “Stop! Stop that shit, the both of you! Or you’re gonna make me have a damn car accident! Dominguez, sit the hell down.”

  He pulled at the other man’s suit jacket and Dominguez half-heartedly yanked it out of his grasp before slumpin
g back into his seat. He still looked pissed, but at least he was raging in silence now.

  Meanwhile, Ricky wished Ramsey had let them fight. He hadn’t lied when he said he’d wanted to beat up Dominguez since the night after the raids back in December and the cocky, smart-mouthed detective had strolled into the interrogation room months ago. He might feel some emotional release if he could slap the shit out of Dominguez or punch him in the face. Instead, he still felt lost, angry, and depressed.

  “Let’s understand something, Ricky,” Ramsey began, pulling into another lane of traffic. “I’m not gonna just sit here and let you disrespect us by telling us we’re just sitting around . . . that we’re fucking useless. We’ve been collecting evidence and doing our own investigation outside of what we do with you, okay? We’ve done our own footwork for almost a damn year.”

  “Yeah, right,” Ricky murmured sullenly.

  “And don’t act like we haven’t done shit for you. When you asked us to get your son back, we got him, didn’t we?” Ramsey persisted. “When you asked for us to put your girl in protective custody, did we not arrange that as well?”

  Ricky didn’t answer him. He couldn’t. Every time he thought about Simone and Miles, he felt like someone was yanking at his heart or dipping a bucket in the well of emotions that went so deep inside him, he wasn’t sure the well had a bottom. He missed them. He yearned to be with them. He thought about them every day that he woke up and when he closed his eyes at night. He wished he could pick up the phone just to hear Simone’s voice. Miles would be more than three months now, almost four. He wished he had a picture of his growing boy. Instead, all he had was memories. Memories of the month they’d spent together, and it terrified him that that month might be the only memories he’d ever have of them being together as a family.

  “This is a two-way street,” Ramsey continued, oblivious to his melancholy. “You help us out, we help you out. I understand that you’re frustrated. But the wheels of justice can’t always spin at the speed that you or I may want. If we want to send Dolla Dolla away for a long time, if you really want to end this—we gotta do it right. Okay?”

 

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