LaToya: Episode XXV – Risky Undercover Moves

 

I had a late  breakfast at around 10 o’clock the following morning. After that, I borrowed a telephone book from the reception desk  and turned up Mrs. Tara Graves’ number and address. The address was simply: Arundel Hall, North Ridge-Rosemont.

I asked the clerk how I got to North Ridge-Rosemont.

“You know the Golden Triangle club?” he asked.

I said I knew the Golden Triangle club.

“You go past the club,” he said. “A few miles past the club – I would say about four miles drive along the river road.  North Ridge-Rosemont covers  the whole of Farm Road, Arma Valley, and West Glebe Road all the way to Russell Road.”

I thanked him, collected the Chevrolet Impala from the garage, paused at a florist to send Latasha some pink carnations and a note apologizing for my hasty retreat, then I drove down towards the road leading to the Golden Triangle club. I knew that Tosha my girlfriend will fry  my balls for dinner if she finds out that I had sent flowers to another woman. But she and I are in a type of cold war at the moment, and we will deal with that later.

The Golden Triangle club was fast asleep when I drove past. The club’s gates were shut, and the door of the security men’s house was shut. There was no one there to see me or took a photo of my car as I drove past. I continued driving along the lonely river road that climbed steadily to a cliff top.

A finger post with North Ridge-Rosemont on it showed up at a fork. Turning left, I left the river road and climbed steeply up a wide road that brought me to the cliff top.

Arundel Hall was the last of the estates down the broad tree-lined avenue. It very close to the Potomac River and its grounds sloped away at the back into wooded country and then, I assumed, down to the nearest highway or town.

I knew it was Arundel Hall because of the name-plate on the high wrought-iron gates. High walls, heavily guarded by wicked-looking spikes, arranged along the top of the walls like vicious daggers, their points heavenwards, hid the house and made me to conclude that Mr. Anthony Graves must be a very security conscious man. The security men’s house by the gates told me there was no question of just driving up the driveway, ringing the bell and asking for Mrs. Tara Graves.

It is very natural for millionaires to be serious about security. I believe a lot of spontaneity must go out of one’s life when he or she becomes a millionaire.

I drove past the gates and turned left, following the wall. After driving for about a mile, the road dipped and I could the signs showing the directions to both the VA-241 highway and the Inter-State Highway 395 (I-395) a half a mile ahead of me.

Stopping the car, I got out, took off my shoes, and then climbed up on to the roof of the car. From this vantage point I could see over the wall and had a good view of the garden and the house of the Arundel Hall.

Everything I was looking at there proves that the Arundel Hall is everything a millionaire’s place should be: with set gardens, lush, snooker-table lawns, masses of flowers, a sandwiched driveway, and a regiment of Latin-American gardeners, most of which might be illegal immigrants.

The house was big and yellow with a white roof, light blue shutters and a magnificent terrace, equipped with sun blinds that stretched either side of a flight of stone steps that led down to the driveway. The Latin-American gardeners were the only sign of life in this massive  compound  and, to me, it is  a lonely house – and is not my favorite kind of house.

I got off the car roof, put on my shoes, and jumped into the car. I wasn’t ready to call on Mrs. Tara Graves just yet, so I drove back to the hotel for lunch.

Before going into the restaurant, I called up Captain Wilkens and asked him if I could see him that evening.

“Sure,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I was worried about you, hoping you didn’t get into trouble with the Alexandra Police. Now remember: don’t leave your car outside.”

I said he shouldn’t worry about that, and that I will be at his house at about 9 o’clock.

After lunch I went up to my room to write a report for Medgar. As soon as I opened the door, I knew someone had been in there while I had been out. Shutting the door behind me, I looked around. The first thing I noticed was that my suitcase which I had left on the luggage stand was now on the floor. Also my overcoat was tossed on my bed – I  had earlier left it in the wardrobe.

I went over to the chest of drawers and pulled open a drawer. It was pretty obvious that some big hands had stirred up my clothes and hadn’t bothered to put them back as he had found them. I pulled open the remaining drawers and they all showed signs of a quick search. Whoever it was who had been messing with my stuff here didn’t care if I knew it or not.

I guessed my visitor was Sergeant Montgomery, but I had to be sure. I crossed the room to the telephone and called the reception desk. I told them to send the hotel security to my room immediately.

After a short delay, a fat white guy with a cold, fishy eyes came to my room. I had a five-dollar bill on the table where he could see it. And it worked: he saw it before he even saw me.

Moving the bill a couple of inches towards him, I said, “The police has been here, correct?”

As I looked at him, I could see he had been told not to talk. But, as a Nigerian, I understand the power of money very well. The five-dollar bill proved to be too much temptation for him and, after a moment’s hesitation, he nodded.

“Sergeant Montgomery?” I asked.

Again he nodded.

I handed him the five-dollar bill.

“Sorry to have brought you up,” I said.

He nodded again, slid the five-dollar bill into his hip pocket, and left the room. I understand his type very well too: he belong to the strong, silent, corruptible type.

The good news is that Sergeant Montgomery hadn’t discovered anything that would tell him why I was here. I had no notes on the LaToya Young case with me. I had put nothing down on paper. So, I am very sure that he must still be wondering what I was up to.

I sat down, took a writing pad from the desk and wrote Medgar a long letter, bringing him up-to-date on the case so far. I also asked him to visit Tosha my girlfriend and make sure she is doing okay. The effort nearly killed me, but it had to be done. It was almost 6 o’clock before I finished the latter. As I don’t trust the hotel mail box, I went downstairs and walked to the corner of the street to post the letter. When I got back and entered the hotel’s lounge, I saw a thickset man in one of the chairs there. The man had cop written all over him.

The house security man that I gave five-dollars earlier that day was busy decorating the reception desk. As I walked pass him, he looked at the thickset man and at me, then closed one eyelid slowly. Raising two thick fingers to scratch his neck, he looked at me again and slightly nodded his head towards the street. That signal told me there was another cop outside. Indeed, money makes the world go round: the five-dollars I gave him earlier was earning its living. I would say that this house security was in a class of  his own, given his ability to tell a story without speaking a word.

After returning his wink, I took the elevator up to my room and put a phone call through to Latasha. There was a faint click on the line just before Latasha’s receiver was lifted. That is a sign that someone has tapped my phone and was listening in on my line. Latasha’s maid said Latasha was out, and she wouldn’t be back until late. I thanked her and hung up. I had also wanted to call Tosha my girlfriend but decided against it: I don’t want someone listening to what I will be saying to my baby.

I began to wonder how long the line had been tapped. I had earlier called Captain Wilkens and I tried to remember if I had heard the click at the time I called him. I didn’t think I had, but I could be wrong. Maybe Sergeant Montgomery had only just got around to tapping my line; I hoped so. I don’t want him or any police officer in Alexandra to know I was calling on  Captain Wilkens this night.

I already know that there were two trained cops waiting for me downstairs, and that my trip to Captain Wilkens’ house wasn’t going to be easy. So, I decided to make a start now to be sure I have plenty of time in which to loose them before I reached Bashford Lane.

I had a shower and changed. As I let myself out of my room and walked to the elevator, I looked at my wrist watch and it told me it was ten minutes past 7 o’clock. I gave up my room key to the desk clerk.

As he took the key, he said, “Mr. Emeka, will you be in for dinner?”

“No,” I replied, speaking loud enough for the thickset man to hear. “I’ll eat out.”

He still sat in a chair near the revolving doors.

As I crossed the lobby and pushed my way through the doors, I paused at the top of the stairs and looked at the crowded promenade. I didn’t see what I was looking for: the other cop.

‘Do you need a cab, sir?” the doorman asked.

I shook my head and walked down the steps  and along the promenade. After walking for about ten minutes, I turned off into the town. There was a bar nearby and I went into it and ordered a Seven and Seven. The bar was almost empty. I looked at the barman and what I saw on his face made me believe he was a smart man. So I leaned forward and said to him  in a small voice, “My girlfriend is having me tailed and I need your help.”

He grinned cheerfully and replied, “Sure. How may I help you?”

“Do you have a back door?” I said, showing him a five-dollar bill. “I mean, any way out the back way?”

“Of course,” he said. “Go through that door. It will take you to the back entrance on Union Road.”

The five-dollar bill and I parted company. I was throwing Mr. Sessoms’ money away like a drunken sailor.

“Thanks a lot,” I said, finished the Seven and Seven at a swallow, then walked quickly across the bar, opened the door he had indicated and stepped into a passage.

On the right was black cupboard. Ahead of me was a door. I opened the cupboard and discovered that it contained cleaning materials like detergents, brooms and mops. There was, however, room enough for me in it. So, I stepped inside the cupboard, closed the door and waited. I wanted to make sure nobody was following me.

Within a few seconds, I heard the door leading from the bar jerk open and heavy feet pond down the passage. So I was right after all: someone followed me as I anticipated.  I was so  glad  I waited. I opened the cupboard door a crack and peered through. I saw the thickset cop opening the street door. He stepped outside, and I could see his red face and his gleaming eyes as he looked up and down, and then started off to the right.

Leaning against the wall of the cupboard, I waited for the second cop. I was in no hurry because I figured the second cop might be covering the bar. About twenty minutes passed before I opened the cupboard door and peered out. I didn’t hear any sound. That gave me the courage to tiptoe over to the street door and eased it open.

Right opposite me was a cab. The driver was smoking a cigarette and I figured he wanted to finish it before moving off. Jumping across the sidewalk, I jerked open the cab door and got in.

“I’m going to the station,” I said. “And I will give you extra five dollars if you can get me there in ten minutes.”

He drove me to the railway station that was on the far side of Alexandra: Captain Wilkens’ side. When I saw the station ahead of me, I told him to stop and paid him off, making sure to give him the extra five dollars like I promised.

I looked at my watch. I still had an hour before I could call Captain Wilkens. There was a movie theatre nearby and I decided to go in there to kill some time. I went in and sat in the back row and watched

Mean Streets for the next three quarters of an hour.

It was dark when I came out. As far as I could remember, Bashford Lane was only a few minutes walk from the station. I started off keeping my eyes open. About forty  yards from the movie theatre I spotted a cop patrolling the area and I ducked into a tobacco store nearby to let him pass. I bought a pack of  Marlboro, took my time getting out a cigarette and lighting it, then I went out on to the street again.

A five minute quick walk brought me to the corner of Bashford Lane. Pausing briefly, I examined the long road before I started walking down the street. The street was deserted and was as silent as a stone in a winter night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 25

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 26, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XXIV – Moment of Tension

 

We stared at each other for a long moment, then he stepped into the room, closed the door, and set his back against it. Saul Bolton sat down behind his desk, with his fingers touching the side of his jaw and his eyes brooding death.

“Find out who he is,” he ordered.

Hwang held out his left hand.

“Give me your wallet!” he shouted. “Now!”

I took out my wallet and handed it to him.

He found he couldn’t examine the contents of my wallet and keep me covered by the gun, so he lowered the gun. He also took his eyes off me as he examined my wallet. To me, those were stupid moves on his side. He was either a dumb bell or he was overconfident enough to do that. I hit him very hard on his jaw. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever hit a guy as hard as I hit Hwang. He went out like a light and I just managed to grab his gun before he hit the carpet.

I turned the gun on  Saul Bolton and smiled at him.

“This is turning out to be an exciting evening for both of us, correct?” I said.

“Get lost!” he snarled.

“Sure, I’m leaving,” I said, scooping up my wallet and backing to the door. “I will leave the gun with the guard at the gate. It is safer for me to hold it until I get clear of this club.”

He sat motionless, with his hands on the desk and his face as pale as a ghost.

I opened the door, edged into the hallway and walked quickly into the lobby.

Latasha was waiting for me.

“Where the hell have you been?” she said impatiently. “I almost went home without you.”

“You should do that immediately,” I said. “I’m sorry I haven’t got the time to explain why. But get someone at the customer service to call a cab for you. I have to go alone, and I haven’t got the time to pick up my hat either.”

I left her gaping after me, too surprised to even speak, as I went to the entrance and down the steps.

“Your car, sir?” the doorman asked sharply.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll collect it myself.”

I shoved past him and ran down the avenue to where I could see a row of cars. I don’t know how long it would take Saul Bolton to come into action, but the quicker I was past the security men at the gate, the safer it would be for me.

I located Medgar’s Chevrolet, gave the attendant five dollars, and got in. As I drove fast down the drive I took the gun from my pocket and tossed it through the open window into a clump of shrubs. I was remembering what Captain Donald had said about being caught with a gun on me without a gun permit. It was a good move on my part, because as my headlights picked out the main gates I saw they were shut.

The two security men, and a tall man in a slouch hat, with the physique that reminds one of a prizefighter, stood silent and still, waiting for me to arrive. Slowing down my speed, I blow my horn in the hope they would open the gates, but they didn’t.

The headlights of the car lit up the man in the slouch hat. He looks like a cop and his red, fat face was a mask of brutality. He should be about an inch or so over six feet tall. He looked every inch a very powerful man as he stood there with his hands in his trench coat pockets and his great legs apart. I wondered if this was Sergeant Luke Montgomery who, according to ex-Captain Nicholas Wilkens, was the toughest cop on the Alexandra police force. If he wasn’t, then I didn’t want to meet Sergeant Montgomery. This guy looks tough enough for me.

I pulled up.

The two security men moved forward, their hands resting on the butts of their guns. One came to the right side of my car while the other one came to the left side. They opened the doors of each side simultaneously.

“Keep your hands on the wheel!” the security man nearest me barked.

“What’s the problem?” I said, not moving so much as an eyelash. “What’s going on here?”

“Get him out,” the cop said in a husky voice.

The security man on the right side of the car now had his gun in his hand.

“Get out of the damned car,” he said, “and keep your hands still.”

I got out of the car.

“You guys are making a mistake?” I said. “I’m a temporary member of this…”

“Shut your damn mouth or I will shut it for you!” the cop snarled. “Check his car,” he went on to one of the security men; to the other, he said, “Take him inside.”

The security man with the gun jabbed my spine.

“Come on, move it,” he said.

I walked around the car and into the lodge by the gates. They brought me into a large room with a desk, a rack of riffles of various types, two chairs, and a fireplace.

The cop followed me in and looked me over as if I was something he scraped off his booth. Taking out a police badge from his pocket, he flashed it  and said, “Who the hell are you?”

 “My name is Emeka Okeke,” I said. “What’s going on?”

 He held out a hand as wide as a notebook.

 “Wallet,” he said.

 I gave him my wallet.

 He took it over to the desk and brought out the contents. Shoving his hat to the back of his head, he sat down at the desk and went through my papers slowly and with police thoroughness. After he had gone through everything, he shoved the lot back to me. I guess he was disappointed that he didn’t found what he was looking for: there really wasn’t much in my wallet except my business cards, my driver’s license, some money, and a list of my expenses I had jotted down on an odd scrap paper.

He sat there staring at me as I returned the papers and money to my wallet. I was very uncomfortable with the way he was looking at me. After putting the wallet back into my pocket, I looked up and met his granite had eyes.

 “Are you satisfied, sergeant?” I said.

 “You have a fresh mouth for an African immigrant,” he said, biting off each word as if he hated them. “Are you a peeper?”

“I don’t know what that mean,” I replied. “I am a writer.”

Taking out one of my business cards, I put it down in front of him.

“Haven’t you heard of the Baltimore Star? The police force is our friend,” I said.

 “That’s what I’m gonna find out soon,” he said, heaving his bulk out of the chair and coming around the desk.

His height and size made me feel like a midget. The second security man came in at this moment and shook his head at Sergeant Montgomery.

The sergeant stared at me.

“Give me the rod,” he said and held out his hand.

“What rod?” I asked blankly. “What’s a rod? You totally lost me here.”

His coarse brutal face hardened  even more and his eyes gleamed.

“Raise your hands,” he barked.

I obeyed him and lifted up my arms, and he ran his hands over me quickly and expertly. He was very rough with it and I felt as if I was being patted by a sledge hammer.

“Where did you dump the damn thing?” he snarled.

“Dump what?” I asked, trying to keep the blank expression on my face. “You got it all mixed up sergeant.”

Reaching out his huge hand, he took hold of my shirt front, gave me a little shake that nearly broke my neck and barked, “Where did you dump the rod?”

I kept still as he breathed garlic and whisky fumes in my face. I was very sure he would start some rough stuff if I gave him the slightest excuse; and I will be the greatest fool if I think I could handle him.

“I haven’t a gun, if that’s what you mean,” I said.

He lifted his left hand and gave me a slap that felt like being hit with a baseball bat. I almost hit him back, but I controlled myself with great difficulty. Perhaps if he had been on his own, I would have hit him back. I told myself I won’t have a chance with him here because the other two guys might step in and hold me while worked over me. Besides, I had my green card on the line.

“Go on – hit me!” he shouted  into my face. “What are you waiting for?”

“Because I don’t want to hit you,” I said. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

He gave me another violent shake that nearly dislocated my shoulder and then let go of me.

“What the hell are you doing in Alexandra?” he snarled.

“I’m just having a look around,” I said. “Just trying to pick up material for a news story. Now, that’s not against the law, is it?”

He hunched his huge shoulders as he glared at me.

“What material?”

“Anything that is news worthy,” I said. “And I don’t see why you should have problem with that. As a writer, I have the right to visit any town to gather background materials for a news story without being harassed by cops.”

A look of anger and disgust came over his face.

“We don’t like peepers in Alexandra,” he said. “You are warned, and I won’t tell you a second time. Now get out and keep away from Golden Triangle club. Understand?”

“No problem, sergeant,” I said. “I understand.”

“Get lost!,” he snarled. “Now!”

I went to the door.

What happened next was the most humiliating thing I had ever experienced in my life. I half expected it, but I didn’t think a guy of Sergeant Montgomery’s size could move so fast. Before I could dodge, he lashed out at me with his great boot, which violently connected with my legs somehow, lifted me out of the hut and set me sprawling on hands and knees in the drive.

Sergeant Montgomery came out slowly and stood looking at me, his teeth showing in a snarling grin.

“Write about that, you punk,” he said. “And I have more for you to write about if I see you near this place again.”

I would have killed him! Oh my God! I should have killed him if I had a gun! At that point I  wasn’t  caring anymore if I got into trouble that would prevent me from getting the Green Card. I would have killed him!

I got slowly and painfully to my feet as the two security men opened the gate. Sergeant Montgomery swung his great boot and gave the fender of the car a kick that dented it and flaked off the paint.

“Get this coffin out of my sight too,” he said.

 I was shaking with rage as I got in the car and drove away. My body was still shaking when I got back to the hotel.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 24

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 25, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XXIII – Secrets and Negronis

 

It wasn’t until Latasha and I had been dancing for some little time and had broken off  to go to the bar for a drink that I brought Mrs. Tara Graves up again as a subject for conversation.

Latasha had discovered I could dance. I must confess that I haven’t a lot of talents beside doing my regular work as a journalist intern. Dancing is, however, one of my specialties. Latasha was pretty good herself, and after we have danced for a while, she told me that I was indeed a great dancer. This made her to more friendly and relaxed.

“Let’s get more drinks and take a short break outside,” I said, “then we will come back and show them more dancing tricks.”

“Where do you learn to dance like that, Emeka?” she asked, linking her arm through mine.

Emeka?

Well, it takes different ways and means to break them down. I wondered under what conditions, if any, Mrs. Tara Graves would break down.

“Sweetie,” I said, smiling. “It is not something you learn. It is something you do.”

Latasha giggled.

“I’m okay with that,” she smiled back. “All right, I apologize for being rude to you earlier. Please don’t blame me so much, because the men Powell asks me to take out sometimes are really assholes. You can’t imagine.”

“No harm is done,” I said. “So, don’t worry about it. Every woman has the right to keep their dignity, even if they don’t keep anything else.”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“I mean, this is America,” I replied. “No woman should be forced to keep any man company unless they love it.”

She gave me an old-fashioned look.

“Now don’t think I have fallen for you and will give it to you just because you can dance,” she said. “Because I haven’t.”

I pushed open the bar door.

“Take it easy,” I said. “I was just talking.”

“I can tell when men start getting ideas about me,” she returned and climbed up on a stool and flapped her hands at the barman.

“Two Negronis,” I said, climbing up on the stool beside her.

I took a quick look around the crowded bar in the hope of seeing Mrs. Tara Graves, but she wasn’t in the room.

“I’ve always wanted to become a millionaire,” I said after I had paid four times too much for the Negronis. “But I am damn too lazy to do something about it. Take Mrs. Tara Graves as an example. How much would you say she is worth?”

“I have no idea,” Latasha said. “Her husband is supposed to have left her forty million, but everyone thinks there was more than that. He invented some gadget that is very useful to the oil and gas industry, and they say that the royalties on that alone are worth hundreds of thousands a year. Mrs. Tara Graves is lousy with money. Her husband, Mr. Anthony Graves, put the money up for this club. He had a controlling interest in it, but when he died, Mrs. Graves sold out to Saul Bolton. He owns and runs it now.”

“I wonder what he offered her to convince her to sell her husband’s share?” I said, looking around the plush bar.

Latasha shrugged.

“Plenty, I believe,” she said. “She wouldn’t part with anything for nothing.”

“You said Mr. Graves died last year?”

“Yes,” she replied. “He was murdered.”

I nearly dropped my Negroni.

“Murdered? Really? How did it happen?”

She starred at me.

“It was all over the news,” she said. “Don’t you read newspapers or watch the news on TV?”

“Well,” I said. “I guess Baltimore papers didn’t carry the news. Anyway, I will admit it: I’m not a news junkie. Who murdered him?”

“A hunter,” she said. “Mr. Anthony Graves hated hunters who comes into his estate to kill birds. He used to ride over his estate every morning before 7 o’clock, and I know it will be strange to you. Anyway, if he caught any hunter during those rides he set about him with his riding whip. Well, he soon overdid it and was shot by one of the hunters. To me, that serve him right.”

“He reminds me of Feudal lords,” I said. “What happened to the hunter?”

She shrugged. It was very obvious that this subject didn’t interest her.

“Who knows?” she said. “I guess he got away because the police never found him.”

She finished her Negroni and slid off the stool.

“Come on, Emeka,” she said. “Let’s dance. I can’t stay up too late tonight. I’ve got to pose for Powell tomorrow around noon, and I don’t like to look like a moron.”

“You will always look cool, ma’am,” I said jokingly, and followed her back to the restaurant.

We danced until 1 o’clock, and then Latasha said she had to go home.

All the time I had been in the club I had kept my eyes open for Saul Bolton, but I didn’t see anyone who looked like what I imagined he would look like. So, as we were leaving the restaurant, I said, “Isn’t Saul Bolton on show tonight? I would have loved to meet him.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Latasha said indifferently. “He’s not always on show anyway.” She paused on the lobby, and then said, “Wait for me here, Emeka. I will be back in a minute.”

I watched her disappear into the Ladies room. By now, a lot of people were leaving the club and the lobby was pretty congested. It was so crowded that I sometimes had to back against the far wall to get out of the way for the people leaving the club. To my right was a passage, and at the far end, I saw a gold-colored metal door. It was a pretty plush looking door and, naturally, it aroused my curiosity. I was convinced that the owner of a nightclub as exclusive as the Golden Triangle might have his office behind such a door. I had come to the club for the express purpose of getting a look at Mr. Saul Bolton, and so far I had been unlucky.

I didn’t hesitate for more than a few seconds. I told myself that if any of the security men catches me, I could always say I thought the door leads to the club’s snooker room.

I looked quickly around the lobby. The receptionist was the first person I noticed, and she to be busy writing something on a notebook. The hat check lady was surrounded by departing club members, who wanted to collect their hats pronto. Hwang, whose eyes were flashing like knife blades, was bowing to a fat, seemingly important looking man, obviously a state senator, who was leaving. There are three other security men there, but they were occupied on the steps of the entrance, whistling up cars.

So, luck is obviously on my side: no one was paying me the slightest attention.

First, I edged to the opening of the corridor. Next, I walked as nonchalantly as I could, towards the gold-colored metal door. Turning the door handle and pushing gently, I silently  opened the door and looked into a big, luxuriously furnished room. It is indeed a rich man’s room – the kind of room that you will see in the house of a man with plenty of money to spend on his comforts and pleasures. As I was roaming my eyes  around the room, I saw a man and a woman struggling by the fireplace, and that caught and held my attention.

The woman was Mrs. Tara Graves. The man was a white man – one of those white men that one can describe as being handsome.

He had hold of Mrs. Tara Graves, the way Sean Connery used to get hold of his women in the old James Bond movies. He held her two wrists in one hand, his right arm around her waist, and he was bending her back while he tried to kiss her.

She was struggling to break free, but he was too strong for her. Where I come from, Nigeria, we believe that a man should not force himself on a woman like that, particularly if the woman is not his wife. When a man forces his attention on any woman that is not his wife, it means that he is presenting himself as a target for violence.

I don’t often use violence since I came to America because I’m too lazy to make the effort. Besides, I don’t want to get in trouble with the law because that might prevent me from getting my Green Card. However, years back in Nigeria when I was in high school, I was the undisputed king among my fellow students when it comes to combat. Fighting off bullies was like a trip to Six Flags to me at the time.

But I was different tonight, perhaps because I had taken a couple of drinks. Without considering the consequences, I took two quick steps into the room. The white guy let go of Mrs. Tara Graves and faced me, his eyes glittering with fury. To ease his embarrassment, I hit him hard on the side of his jaw. It was a good punch and he shot backwards, thudded against his desk, swept some glasses and bottles of gin to the floor and slid down on top of them.

“I’m sorry I didn’t show up sooner, ma’am,” I said to Mrs. Tara Graves, who was adjusting the top of her  red-colored evening gown that had slipped a few inches during the in-fighting.

She didn’t even thank me.

I’ve seen angry women in my time, but never one as angry as Mrs. Tara Graves was at this moment. She looked as alarmed and angry as a virgin who has found a man under her bed, and her eyes blazed like red hot embers as they say in Victorian novels.

She looked at me as if I was something that fell from the Space, and then at the white man who was still lying on his back. Though he was looking very disoriented, he continued to shake his head while trying to get life back once more into focus. At that point, Mrs. Tara Graves went out of the room, and as she passed me I felt scorched by the white-hot blast of her rage.

To relax myself, I dipped into the gold cigarette box on the desk, took a cigarette, and lit it. One drag sent a tremor up to my memory. British Benson and Hedges. I looked at the cigarette to make sure, then looked at the white man who was by now dragging himself to his feet. I remembered Medgar’s description of the mysterious Eddie Peterson:

…a British guy…over six foot, lean, with an eyebrow moustache and  a tattoo in his forehead. He had on a sparkling blue jeans jacket, a white t-shirt,  and a gold chain on his neck. … He also wore a tight black rubber band on one wrist and a gold Citizens watch on the other.

This guy is a white guy, though I’m not sure if he is British. He, however, is  over six foot, lean, with an eyebrow moustache and a tattoo in his forehead. He also wore a tight black rubber band on one wrist and a gold Citizens watch on the other. Even without a gold chain on his neck, the description fitted him like a glove.

But this seemed scarcely the time to step up, shake him by the hand and say, “Eddie Peterson I presume.” To me, this is the best time to sneak myself out of the room, ponder about my discovery, and decide how best to make use of it.

As Saul Bolton staggered to his feet, clutching on to the desk for support, I took two steps towards the door, then paused. The door had opened silently. Standing in the doorway, his Korean face hard and set was Hwang. In his right hand he held a .36 revolver and it was pointing at me.

 

 

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 23

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 24, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XXII – Riches Inside High Walls

 

The entrance to the Golden Triangle Club was guarded by high walls and a couple of muscular men with black uniforms and black peak caps. These men stood on the sides of the open iron gates at the club’s entrance and above them were two powerful Lithonia flood lamps that lit up the road and the cars that moved slowly past the guard’s scrutiny.

“Are they always this prepared – these security men?” I said to Latasha who sat at my side. “So gate crashers don’t have a chance here, right?”

“My dear Mr. Emeka,” she said. “Golden Triangle is an exclusive club. We don’t want a nobody in here.”

I suppose that should have been a compliment to me, for she thought I was a rich man. But I felt like slapping her for saying that. A nobody? Give me a break!

I slowed down to a crawl as the cars ahead crept forward at a snail’s pace while the drivers waved their club membership cards out of the open window. I looked at Latasha from out of the corner of my eye. She’s really looking good. She had on a yellow mini-skirt and a white, sleeveless and glittering  blouse. Around her lovely neck was a diamond necklace that must have cost some guy a fortune.

Mr. Powell had told her I was a wealthy business man from Baltimore, foot loose, with plenty of money to spend. The introduction sounded golden enough to make her forget her first opinion of me, and although I wouldn’t say she was exactly friendly, she was at least fairly sociable.

As I came within sight of the club’s gates, one of the muscular security men came up, and I stopped the car. He peered in, his hard, cold, crystal-like eyes going over me with the intensity of a searchlight.  

“Hello, Alan,” Latasha said. “It’s only me.”

The security man touched his cap.

“Okay, Miss Latasha,” he said. “You go right ahead.”

He again starred at me, then stepped back to let me in. I drove on through the gateway and up a long, curving, sand-covered drive.

“Alan will know me again,” I said.

“Of course he will,” Latasha said. “That’s his job. Alan never forgets a face. You can bet on that. If you want to become a member, just let me know and I’ll fix it for you.”

“I don’t know how long I’m staying in Alexandra,” I said. “But thanks for the offer. If I have to stay longer than I think I’ll be glad if you would help me become a member. I will keep you updated.”

“No problem,” she said.

A sudden sharp bend in  the drive brought me my first sight of the Golden Triangle club. It was quite something. Floodlit, the building reminded me of Sadler Palace Nightclub in Miami, Florida. Looking more closely at it, I saw it was a pretty fair imitation of the famous Miami Nightclub. It was a stucco building with a red tiled roof. By looking at the appearance of the club house itself, the lights, and the building’s  environment, it was pretty obvious someone had spent a lot of money on it at one time or the other.

A plush, red carpet ran down the shallow steps from a lighted entrance hall to where the cars are dropping off their occupants. All the cars were expensive ones – BMSs, Mercedes Benz, Bentleys, Lincolns, and Cadillacs. This made the Medgar’s blue Chevrolet that I’m driving look like the ugly girl at the dance. Everyone getting out of these cars looked well fed, rich and immaculate. Diamonds glowed like fireflies, and it was pretty obvious that it would be best for anyone who couldn’t rise to a string of diamonds to keep away from this club.

“Where’s the car park?” I asked.

“Don’t worry yourself, homeboy,” Latasha said with a touch of impatience. “They’ll take the car.”

“Forgive me hon,” I said. “I’m just a Baltimore guy.”

Leaving the car in the hands of a uniformed attendant, we walked up the carpeted steps into the hall.

A big, thickset man in a black suit appeared from  nowhere and blocked my way. He looked Korean, and his black still eyes had a glitter in them that reminded me of naked knife blades. He looked questioningly from me to Latasha.

“Hello, Hwang,” Latasha said, obviously suddenly anxious to please. “This is Mr. Emeka. I’ve brought him to see the club. He’s from Baltimore.”

“Will you sign the book, Mr. Emeka?” Hwang said in a voice you could scour rusty iron on. He had no welcoming smile, and he seemed sorry he had to admit me.

He led me across the hall to a reception desk where a black girl in a tight pink dress offered me a pen and a cool, inviting smile. I signed my name, using my initial and not my full name just in case this mean guy was a reader of the Baltimore Star.

“Twenty dollars please,” the black girl said while Hwang stood close, his warm breath fanning the back of my neck.

“Twenty – what?” I said, staring at her. I mean, this was 1977 and twenty dollars is a fortune for a journalist intern like me.

“Twenty dollars, Mr. Emeka, for your temporary membership card,” Hwang said curtly.

I remembered in time that I was supposed to be a wealthy businessman from Baltimore and I paid up. I was given a blue card with my name on it and the date. The card told me in the fine print that for twenty bucks I could use the amenities of the Golden Triangle club for one night only.  I hated to think of what it would cost me to use the club’s amenities for one month.

A hat check girl relieved me of my peaked cap and Hwang relieved me of his presence as he swooped away to charge another twenty bucks from a guy who had been dumb enough to bring a guest.

Latasha took me into the bar which was the longest and the most luxurious room I have ever seen. I spent a small fortune on champagne and on Pimm’s Cup cocktails and then settled down to make pleasant conversation. I haven’t gotten far before a stocky little Korean man came over with a bundle of menu cards and asked if I would care to order dinner.

We ordered dinner, or at least Latasha did. She said she would start with seasoned wings, and I knew they will cost a fortune apiece, then she decided to take fire grilled T-bone, mixed greens salad and ice cream to follow. I ordered the same thing too. The stocky little Korean man scribbled the order down on a pad and went on to the next group.

“I do envy your appetite, Latasha,” I said. “And your shape too.”

“I’m assuming you like thick women?” she said.

“Sure – you can bet on that,” I replied.

The subject didn’t seem to interest her.

“Shall we have one more drink?” she said, lifting her empty glass.

This went on for half an hour and I was beginning to wonder if I had brought enough money with me when she finally decided it was time to eat. We went into the club’s restaurant – which they called the King’s Eating Room, according to Latasha.

Two barely  dressed girls – one of them white, and the other black – were doing a song and dance routine on a dais near the band as we took our seats. They were indeed doing a good job, and the music was good too.

It was as we were working through the fire grilled T-bone that a party arrived at a table near ours. It was obvious they are important given the way the maître d’hôtel brought them down the aisle. He walked backwards and gestured with his arms as he spoke to them. I can bet that if he had had a flag, he would have waved it as he ushered them in.

There were two black girls and two black men. I focused my attention on the girl who led the way. She was about twenty-six, have a face that resembles LaToya, and have a shape under her red-colored evening gown that made my eyes pop with admiration. Her resemblance to LaToya really got my attention: just like her, she looked desirable, seductive and very feminine. I continued to ask myself how it was possible for two unrelated to ladies to look so much alike.

There seemed to be a flame burning within her that made her a magnet to men. There wasn’t a man in the club’s restaurant, including the waiters and the band, who didn’t look as if he wanted to be her boyfriend. You could see how the expressions on their faces change the moment they spotted her: you could see and feel their desire for her; a very, very burning desire. I caught myself wondering if I looked like that too; and I won’t be surprised if I did.

The other black girl with her was looking good too. She looked well fed and wealthy of course, a little plump, with large breasts. However, nobody was really paying her any attention.

The two men were the usual few rich, well fed, middle-aged black men you can see any day after 10 o’clock in the morning, who control large night clubs and other businesses, both the legitimate and illegitimate ones. One could almost hear the crisp dollars in their wallets creak as they moved, and their dark faces told of their fiery tempers and arrogance.

“Do you really have to stare at her like that?” Latasha asked crossly.

“Am I the only one?” I said, grinning at her. “Who is she, anyway? Not the one with large breasts, but the other one with red-colored evening gown.”

Latasha raised her lip scornfully.

“It’s still amazing to me why men go for her,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, she’s nothing but a horrible nymphomaniac.”

“And you still wonder why men get hooked to her?” I said. “I mean, it’s very natural. But who is she?”

“I thought everyone knew her,” she said. “Jesus Christ! Even if I am as rich as she is, I would know better than to make an exhibition of myself the way she does. Why Titus doesn’t go down on hands and knees when he shows her to her table I can’t imagine. He does everything else.”

Trying to keep my voice from shouting, I repeated, “Who – is – she?”

“Stop yelling at me,” she said, recoiling. “I’m not deaf. Mrs. Tara Graves if you must know.” She lifted her beautiful  and smooth shoulders. “I should have thought even a rich businessman from Baltimore would have known that.”

“Mrs. Tara Graves?”

I stared at Latasha, frowning. Now, where had I heard the name before? And, in what connection had I heard it?

“Does she live in Alexandria?”

“Of course,” she replied. “She has a house in North Ridge-Rosemont and an estate of twenty acres. In case you don’t know, North Ridge-Rosemont is the high tone district of Alexandria. Only millionaires can afford to live there.”

Millionaires?

I almost stopped breathing because I felt a sudden creepy sensation crawl up my spine.

Mrs. Tara Graves! Of course! I remember now. Mrs. Tara Graves was the millionairess Breonna Adams had met in Hollywood, California. I remembered Anaya Walker’s exact words:

Breonna had an amazing talent for making friends with people with deep pockets, and soon she began moving in a better circle. When she was in Hollywood, she got friendly with Mrs. Tara Graves, the millionaire’s wife. Don’t ask me how she did it for I had no idea. But she did it. That’s the bottom line. Twice she went to Mrs. Tara Graves’s hotel and had dinner with her.

I looked again at Mrs. Tara Graves, who was now looking at the menu that the maître d’hôtel was holding for her. To me, she didn’t look the type who would have someone like Breonna Adams as a friend: she doesn’t look like the type of person that enjoys fraternizing with showgirls, period.

“Which one of those well-fed black men is her husband?” I said.

Latasha wriggled impatiently.

“You are certainly in the mood,” she said. “Anyway, Mrs. Tara Graves is a widow. Her husband died last year. “

“He must be a very sad man to leave all this behind,” I said, and making an effort, I dragged my eyes away from Mrs. Tara Graves and continued to eat my fire grilled T-bone.

I found I wasn’t hungry anymore – anyway, not for the fire grilled T-bone.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 22

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 23, which  will be published here next Sunday.