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.