Destiny Lingers (3 page)

Eve immediately dashed over to a brightly colored gift box sitting on the easy chair next to the fireplace. With her back to me, as if blocking my view, she scrambled to collect the box and its belongings. What looked like a Valentine’s Day gift had apparently just been unwrapped, perhaps even moments before I got there, as the tissue paper, the shiny red gift-wrapping, the frilly white satin ribbons, and heart-shaped card were still freshly strewn about the floor. Eve chuckled nervously as she gestured toward the couch across the room. “Oh, take a seat.”

I thought Eve was acting really odd, so I asked her what in the world was in that box.

“Oh, girl …” She chuckled again, scrambling to pick up the guts of her gift. With wads of paper in one hand and the partly opened gift box under her arm, she made a quick turn and was just about to dash into her bedroom, when a beautiful slip of red and black silk slid from the box and onto the Oriental rug.

We both looked down.

The exquisite red-and-black silk was garnished with black lace and four little hanging garter belts. It was a hot little corset, made for a naughty night.

I was amazed at the look of sudden shock and embarrassment that spread across Eve’s face. She stared at me, paralyzed. I had never seen her like this.

Nervous myself, I started to chuckle. “Well, well, well,” I teased as I bent over and swept up Eve’s little secret off the floor. I dangled the sexy lingerie in front of her, balancing the exquisite silk on my index finger. “Well, look … what … we … have … here. All I can say is Fritz has great
t
aste
!”

Eve snatched her teddy off my finger and shoved it back into the box. “Girl, you are just too much,” she snapped and quickly retreated into her bedroom.

We were girlfriends who shared everything, especially delicious news about new Valentine’s Day lingerie. I remember wondering then why Eve was suddenly so coy, nervous, and super-secretive with me. Perhaps now, the answer is all too clear.

After speaking with Maxine, I went straight to Eve and asked her point-blank if Garrett was doing anything to make her feel “uncomfortable” in any way. I reminded her that we were girlfriends and could talk about anything and always be honest and open with each other. I prayed she would tell me the truth. I deliberately asked her again, “Is Garrett doing
any
thing that makes you feel uncomfortable in
any
way?”

Eve looked me dead in the eye and coolly replied, “No.”

“Are you sure,” I pressed.

Eve maintained her cool. “Yes.”

I didn’t want to press any more. Maybe I wasn’t ready for the truth. Maybe I didn’t believe it. Maybe everything stopped after Eve talked to Maxine. Then again, maybe not.

Another eerie recollection still haunts me in much the same way. In our group, Eve is the “sex therapist.” Often, at Sweetwater’s, over several after-work martinis, Eve leads us in one of her marathon discussions concerning the “how-to” and the “gotta try” of incredible and irresistible sex. One night, she had us practically rolling on the floor with giddy girlish laughter after she revealed that she had a thing for getting her elbows and kneecaps sucked.

“
Ew-w-w
!” we all reacted in unison, thinking the girl had truly lost her mind. But Eve kept insisting we should try it, explaining that the knees and elbows have all kinds of sensitive nerves running through them and that we haven’t experienced a sexual sensation until we have experienced somebody sucking our kneecaps and elbows.

I didn’t think much more of that wacky conversation until Valentine’s night when Garrett and I were making love, and his sexual pattern suddenly changed. To the sensual sound of Sade, crooning “Smooth Operator” in the background, Garrett flicked his tongue down the curve of my ear, continuing down the crest of my neck, nibbling his way around my breasts, and down the curve of my side. I arched my back as my husband’s hot and hungry mouth nibbled, licked, and sucked its way deep into my flesh, lost in its sensual journey. As his large thick hands grabbed my ass, pulling me closer to him, he thrust his big, wet tongue into my belly button. I squealed in the sheer delight and newness of it all as he wound his way down, down, down. I spread my legs and closed my eyes, smiling and ready to receive my husband’s desperate and yearning kisses in my deep, dark, and secret places. As he continued to tease, I panted wildly. My eyes rolled back, and I released a deep, passionate moan to the gods. I rolled my hips, around and around, churning out my impatient wanting and desire. I felt his quick and heavy breath on the insides of my thighs as his hunger grew more ferocious, along with mine. Then, suddenly, up he moved … flicking his large eager tongue up the inside of my thigh … and … yes … yes … yes … oh, no!
Not
my
kne
ecap
!

Garrett was locked in a mad, sexual frenzy. He licked and sucked my right kneecap and then moved to the left one, while all the time moaning and gasping for air as if he had fallen into some kind of deep, sexual, kneecapped trance. He wound his head and thick, fat tongue around and around the outside of my kneecap, moving faster and faster and moaning louder and louder as he opened his big, wet, drooling mouth and sucked my kneecap right there in front of my shocked face!

I was stunned. Dumbfounded. Confused.

My sweaty husband panted with a lecherous smile across his face. “Do you like that, baby?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wait’ll I suck your
elbows
. Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.”

Garrett then lifted my arm, moving his greedy mouth toward my elbow as I stared at the ceiling, wanting to die.

Chapter
Three

“H
ey! Hey, you!”

I snap out of my blinded visions and see Fred’s curious eyes staring at me in the rearview mirror of the news van as we barrel our way up to Harlem. “You’re awfully quiet today, lady. Got a lot on your mind?”

“If you only knew, Freddy.” I shake my head and go back to staring out the van’s back window.

“Well, whatever it is, just remember this,” he offers. “It could always be a lot worse. Look at this guy we’re about to see in Harlem.”

Outside the news van window, the neighborhood is changing as it flashes by in a blur before me. The majestic bay-windowed brownstones and wide tree-lined avenues of the beautiful historic landmark district of Harlem I know, love, and call home now give way to the dingy, dirty, drug-infested streets of an embattled neighborhood filled with embattled people. Abandoned, burned-out buildings—many used as crack and heroin dens—line these littered streets. There is no color here, except for the splash of emerald green in the Kool cigarette ads on the bus-stop bench or those splashes of silver and blue on the many Schlitz Malt Liquor billboards dotting this impoverished area.

Just up ahead, we see the chaos. Streets are blocked off and at least twenty emergency vehicles are scattered about the area. Cops are communicating on two-way earpieces and walkie-talkies as they race around in a frantic pace. A child’s life is on the line. I start my mission by looking for the top cop.

We drive slowly past a gawking crowd of onlookers huddled behind the police tape. Some of them point at our news van, smiling and waving at the crew, mouthing “Hey, Mom!” and poking their chests, yelling, “Put me on TV! Put me on TV!”

Some elderly women gather and stand whispering among themselves on the corner. One woman slaps her hand over her mouth and shakes her head violently, as if she is about to scream out for mercy, as her friend rattles off in Spanish about the little boy taken hostage and how his own daddy is threatening to kill him. I wonder if she knows the boy or the father on the verge of murder.

This neighborhood reeks of death. Destitution and prostitution seem to have become the institution up here. Even the old buildings tell the story of decades of decay, abuse, and neglect. They, like the people, look forgotten and uncared for.

Fred careens into a self-made parking spot up on the sidewalk, and the guys bolt from the van and quickly gather their equipment. I hop out and dart through the crowd in hopes of getting a head start on some of the legwork. I move closer to the building and flash my New York City press credentials, swinging from the chain around my neck, as I slip underneath the yellow police line tape. A few of the cops recognize me and nod a professional yet warm hello as I move in closer to the building, where I pray the little boy is still alive. I need to find out who’s in charge, and if and when the cops are holding a presser to update us on the latest developments, and what the hostage team’s next move is going to be.

I see the familiar face of David Chan, the City Hall press agent, and squeeze my way through the sea of emergency officials until I reach him. Maybe there’s a statement.

“Hi there, David. Any change?”

“Hey, Destiny. No change at all. He’s still holed up in that rattrap.” David squints up at the building with a grimace. “The guy’s not giving in. We’ve tried to reason with him, but SWAT is on the way. So is the mayor.”

If the Special Weapons and Tactics Team is heading here, and the mayor is on the way, this is not looking good.

I wave my hands, motioning to my camera crew across the field to hurry up, hoping I can get a quick on-camera sound bite from David, but somebody abruptly pushes his way through and rudely steps in front of me, thrusting a microphone into the press agent’s face. It is that asshole from Channel 7, Walt Windsor. He’s referred to in the field as “Walking Walt,” because he is always walking in his stand-ups. Nobody knows why or where Walt is walking, and it seems Walt doesn’t know either, but every stand-up that Walt does, Walt walks. I don’t trust Walking Walt. I think he would sell the soul of his own dear mother to the devil if he could beat the next guy on a story. And surely today will be no exception.

“Are you rolling?” Walt snaps at his camera crew and then gruffly clears his throat. He stoops down to catch his reflection in his cameraman’s lens and adjusts his tie before pompously wielding his microphone in David’s face as he charges into a barrage of questions. “So, Dave, what can you tell us? What’s the latest? What’s going on?” He continues booming away in his oh-I’m-so-important baritone voice. His bushy blond left eyebrow is pushed up into a dramatic arch of “deep interest,” while the right one dips into a furrow of “deep concern.” This is Walt’s big moment.

I count to ten and wait patiently for him to finish, despite my strong urge to strangle him. Good news; I know that we’ll all be here for a while, and I also trust that Dave will hook me up with my own personal one-on-one interview whenever something breaks anyway. It helps to have made friends in City Hall. And besides, the last thing I want to do is share an interview with this idiot, the infamous “Walking Walt.”

Just then, a crowd of police officers pours out of the building, led by a red-faced and extremely agitated Police Chief Joseph Pulaski.

“He says he wants to talk to a goddamn
reporter
!” Chief Pulaski screams. Then, turning on his heels, he points right between my eyes. “You! Channel 4! You’re a woman and you’re black. Maybe you can talk some goddamn sense into him. Get in there!”

Before I have a chance to feel insulted or even refuse, I am swept up by a group of police officers who rush me into the building. I swear they’ve lifted me off the ground.

It is dark and cold inside the abandoned building. Paint peels from the graffiti-splattered walls. Windows are cracked and shattered. Trash is strewn about, perhaps left behind by temporary visitors stopping by to hit the needle or the crack pipe. Hushed voices and snippets from crackling radio transmissions now echo throughout the old, beaten, and winding stairwell.

“We don’t know what he wants,” the now-even-more-agitated chief continues, “but we think we might have a chance by getting a reporter in there. At least we can buy some time and maybe win some points here.”

I realize that I am in the greatest danger I have ever faced in my life, and I am now incommunicado—cut off from the rest of my world, stuck with some maniac who wants to kill his kid and possibly himself … or even worse, me.

“You ready?” Chief Pulaski gives me a hard atta-boy pat on the shoulder, but before I can answer, he turns, crosses the building lobby, and darts up the stairs. “Follow me.”

We climb up at least six flights of filthy marble stairs until we reach the floor where police officers are lying on their bellies, negotiating with the deranged man and trying to calm the terrified boy. Speaking in soothing tones through a twelve-by-twelve hole kicked in at the bottom of the apartment door, it looks as if the hostage-negotiating team has exhausted every psychological effort.

“You’ll get down there and talk to him, okay?” the chief whispers to me.

My heart is pounding wildly as I slowly move down the hallway toward the police gathered outside the apartment door. I hear the muffled cries of a child and what sounds like moaning and wailing from the man inside. I pray we are not too late and that God will be with me every step of the way. “Please use me, dear Lord, to save this child and make a difference here today,” I pray.

I hear the creaking and wincing of wood, as if the man is pacing on the old hardwood floors or rocking on a wooden crate or chair. I smell the body stench born from nervous sweat, mixed with the heat, the adrenaline, and the fear of men. What if I can’t stop this guy, and he kills that poor child right in front of me? What if he kills me?

The cops surrounding the door speak in hushed tones and whispers. Chief Pulaski motions to one high-ranking officer and then points at me.

“Send her in,” he orders.

I feel my heart drop. What in the world was I thinking to have gotten swept up in this madness. I have no idea what awaits me inside this dilapidated building or just how dangerous this situation may be. I will count on this new burst of adrenaline to keep me focused and get me through this unpredictable mission.

The officer motions to me to move closer. “You will have to approach the subject by getting down on your knees and remaining there with your hands up where he can see them. Understood?”

“Understood,” I respond.

“Good.”

“Want me to go now?”

The officer gives me a serious look and then nods me toward the hole in the bottom of the door, through which we can see and hopefully successfully communicate with the man.

Slowly crouching down on the floor, I crawl the rest of the way down the roach-infested, dusty hallway and up next to the officers who have been negotiating.

“We got that reporter you asked for. She’s from Channel 4.” After the officer delivers the news to the deranged man, he swiftly crawls away, glancing over his shoulder at me as if to say, ‘You’re on your own now, lady.’

I crawl closer to the hole and peer in. There, sitting in a big empty room, backlit by sunlight and clouded by particles of dust swimming in the air is the unhinged father in a tattered rocking chair. Tears are streaming down his black face. His frightened little boy, who looks about three years old, squirms in his lap. He clenches the child’s fragile upper arm in one hand while gripping a huge and ominous-looking machete in the other. The boy squeals in pain through his tears and mucous-covered face as he tries to pry himself out of his father’s strong grip. His soft cotton hair is unkempt and full of lint. He is missing a sock, and the one hanging half on his other little foot is deeply soiled to a dark gray. There are no baby shoes in the room. The man, exhausted, scared, and sweating profusely looks at me through swollen eyes—through the hole in the door—like a scared animal.

“You really from Channel 4?” he asks. I am surprised by his meekness and the timidity in his voice, particularly considering the man’s huge size. He has a muscular build, with smooth skin the color of midnight. Big beads of sweat pour from the man’s brow. In torn and dirty overalls, the distraught man looks more like a farmhand from my home fields of North Carolina than a baby murderer.

“Yes, sir, I am a reporter for Channel 4 News,” I reply, “and I am here to listen to whatever you have to say, sir.”

I hope Fred and Butch are not far behind. I glance at the crowd of authorities crouched down behind me. The looks on their faces say this is grave, and the outcome is far-reaching, not only for the kid but for the mayor’s office too.

“
I want the city to gi’
me back my kids
!” The man starts to wail uncontrollably. He rocks back and forth, swinging the boy from side to side like a rag doll. The boy sends out another high-pitched squeal of pain. “Lemme go! No, Daddy, no,” he pleads to his father, who doesn’t seem to be here anymore.

“
Gi’
me my kids!”
he screams.

“Sir … sir, I’m here to help you, but you have to calm down.” I feel the officers behind me restlessly stirring. I press on. “Why don’t you let the boy go, and we can talk about how we can get yo—”

“
No-o-o-o
! It’s a trick! It’satrickit’satrickit’satrick!”

“No, sir, I am not here to trick you. I am here to help you. But you’ve gotta let your little boy go. Your problem is with the city. Your little boy shouldn’t have to pay any more than he already has, sir.”

The giant of a man starts to weep, then cry, and then begins to wail uncontrollably; his haunting voice is thunderous as it bounces off the walls of the vast and empty room. He rocks back and forth harder—the terrified child lost in confusion; the father, lost in madness. I fear he will rip the poor child’s arm right out of its socket.

“Please, sir,” I beg. “Let your little boy go. That’s what a good father would do, and everybody knows you want to be a good father.”

“Yes … yes, I do,” he sobs.

“Then let your boy go. We’ll get him something to eat, and then we can talk.”

The man suddenly stops his savage rocking, staring at me in openmouthed disbelief, clearly amazed that someone finally cares enough to listen to his story.