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  Experiencing extreme difficulty keeping up with the overwhelming demand at $500 an hour, they increased their fees 100 percent and scaled back the clientele to the wealthiest thrill seekers in Dallas. Money was coming in so fast that Dior had a hard time believing it was real. And in the midst of it all, she had begun to slip farther away from reality. She hadn’t considered the ramifications of sin for profit and the dangers that accompanied it. None of that occurred to her as she scooped up Isis and sped across town to make their ten-thirty date in Highland Park, the city’s most exclusive community where blue bloods and old money held hands like lovers on a slow stroll.

  The rendezvous point was a 2.5-million-dollar mansion, with eight bedrooms, six full baths, and two kitchens. As Dior read the handwritten address from her appointment book, Isis’s eyes almost fell out of her head. “Ooh, girl, this is a lot of house,” she marveled, gawking at the grandiose estate from the street.

  “I know, it is big, huh?” Dior contended as well. She cruised past the main entrance and puttered her Escort around to the rear driveway.

  “Why did you come all the way back here?” Isis asked, wearing a peculiar frown.

  “Because the woman who called in the date said to be sure to use the servant’s entrance. Heck, I didn’t care. We’re both getting a grand for this.”

  “At least a thousand dollars?” she said, her voice rising with excitement. “Each?”

  “At least,” Dior informed her. “Work your magic right and we might come out with a lot more paper than that.”

  Isis’s smile returned with lingering vigor. “Let’s be about our magic, then. Ladies DI is on the job,” she said sensually, while gazing at her fresh makeup in the flip-down vanity mirror. “I had my eye on this bad Missoni dress at the mall. Uh-huh, it’s over two grand, but I know a dude who’ll boost it for one, and he don’t have a layaway plan.” Both of them chuckled, primped another minute, then called the cell phone number that came with the address.

  The same woman’s voice that left the directions answered and instructed them to enter at the back door inside the courtyard. Dior strutted past an oval fountain with her game face on, painted and poised, and wearing a tailored business suit, with a skirt cut above mid thigh.

  Isis, wrestling with the hem of her golden nylon gown, done up in an Egyptian motif, struggled to keep pace. “Wait up, Dior, shoot. This material is caught on my heel.”

  “Keep up, then,” Dior whispered urgently. “I told you about overdoing it on the costume. These people pay to see it come off, anyway.”

  Isis paused as she passed by the fountain several paces behind Dior. Her eyes widened as she glanced into the water. “There’s real fish swimming around in there. Uhm, what rich people won’t do to throw their money away. Those fish aren’t even big enough to eat.”

  “Hush, Isis, somebody’s coming to the door,” Dior warned. “Get your act-right ready.”

  Isis morphed into her Egyptian queen role and reeled off a shot of attitude. “I already got my act-right on and popping.”

  A stately platinum-blond woman in her sixties opened the side door and invited them into the house. Dior observed every inch of the white lady from her poofy overpermed hairdo to the expensive black heels she wore and the glitzy designer cocktail dress that didn’t look like much of nothing, but she was sure it had been purchased at a posh boutique with a French-sounding name. For her age, the woman was attractive with a tight alabaster complexion due to a number of plastic surgeries, nips, and tucks. The flirty leer tossed at the Ladies DI by the lady of the house didn’t go unnoticed either. Yeah, you want some, Dior surmised correctly. Hopefully you won’t be sticking around once the meter gets to ticking. Wrinkled old men are bad enough.

  “I’m Princess,” the lady said, as if it were a title. “Thank you for coming. My husband is in the den, call him Pistol Pete. He’d like that.”

  Dior almost laughed. Pistol Pete, huh? I bet he would.

  “All that’s cool, but what about the money?” Isis asked, getting rather impatient with Missoni on her mind. Dior hit her with a stinging glare that should have knocked her over.

  “Ah, yes, your fee,” answered Princess. “I’ve met your demands and you’ll find an envelope on the sofa table in the foyer, on your way out. Although you’re new to my circle of friends, you’ve come highly recommended. Make sure that the birthday boy has a great time.” When Isis looked at Dior with a question on her face, Princess answered that one too. “I’ll be out enjoying Pete’s birthday in my own special way. I’ve purchased two hours of your time and I don’t expect to find you here when I return.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dior replied, more in agreement to the curt directive than to the woman herself. “He’ll have the time of his life.”

  “And so shall I,” Princess alluded. “Do lock up on your way out. Good night.”

  Isis waited until Princess left the room before she exhaled. “She was trippin’. Why would a man with all this money keep her around?”

  “’Cause it might be all her money, not his.”

  “Whose ever it is, let’s go and get broke off some.”

  “Yes, my dear, let’s,” Dior said, in her own manufactured stuck-up version to make fun of Princess’s highbrow diction.

  Their high heels click-clacked against the marble floor when entering the massive common area. Exquisite paintings and porcelain vases were placed throughout the room. Casual but tasteful furniture had been pushed back against the walls. That, along with the soft music piped in from an entertainment center, insinuated that the birthday boy enjoyed dancing as an appetizer. Dior scanned the trappings as Isis discovered a well-dressed, stout, white man mixing cocktail at a wet bar.

  “Humph,” she grunted to get Dior’s attention. “Get a load of the li’l Pistol.”

  Peter was a pistol of sorts, balding and as round as he was tall, a firecracker in his younger days and still one to raise the roof on special occasions. He and Princess had an understanding allowing them to feed their demons as long as the other knew about them. Their agreement for over thirty years of marriage could have been summed up in two words: No Surprises.

  “He’s kinda cute,” Dior laughed, watching him dance along to music she’d only heard when watching old black and white movies on a busted TV set when she was a kid. Peter was having a grand time without them, but it was show time nonetheless. “Come on, Isis. Let’s meet the man of the hour.”

  “But she paid for two hours,” Isis said, clueless of the cliché.

  Dior put on her best smile and struck out in Peter’s direction.

  When they approached the bar area, Peter raised his head and cheered as if he were a small boy at a backyard children’s party. “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” he applauded. “Hot times in the city, ladies, and I’ve got just the thing.” He handed them umbrella drinks to get the evening under way.

  “Pistol Pete, I’m Dior and it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, pecking him on the cheek. “And this is my friend Isis.”

  “Hello, ladies, two real pretty gals,” he said, giving them the once over. “I like, I like. So let’s crank up the music, get down and boogie.”

  And boogie they did. Dior was impressed that a man of his age and girth had the moves to keep step with them. During the first hour, Peter taught the girls to jitterbug, swing, and other famous dances he’d perfected in lavish country club ballrooms. After their lesson was completed, the Ladies DI taught ol’ Pistol Pete what they’d learned during less noble activities in the hood. Needless to say, the birthday boy enjoyed his tutelage tremendously. For their participation in the “Birthday Threesome,” Dior and Isis danced away with $2,000 apiece.

  19

  Second Slice

  Saturday morning, Dior slid into her sexiest pink man-catching sweat suit and darted out as early as she could. She didn’t know for certain whether the jitterbug antics of the previous evening had worn on her more than she would have predicted, or whether that Viag
ra pill-popping Pistol Pete’s bedroom aerobics caused her to feel like a high-performance vehicle stuck in first gear. Whichever happened to be the case, Dior was dragging. It was already half past ten when she stopped by the Java Hut, the trendy breakfast nook that Marvin preferred above any other in the city. With the pressing conversation she intended to have on her mind and closer proximity to Marvin in her sights, Dior practically floated into the restaurant on a cloud. Since she’d heard him rave about their omelets before, it seemed like a safe bet to order one of each. Surely, he’d be thankful and honored she went to such great lengths to put something in his stomach. With any luck, she hoped getting the chance to put something else on him, namely, herself.

  Two white “to go” bags filled with tasty entrees rested on Dior’s front passenger seat. The gratitude she expected when Marvin laid his eyes on her bounty made her blush; what she’d planned on doing with his gratitude made her hot. He can’t do nothing but feel me on all of this, she thought, patting the boxes as if they were obedient pets. We’ll fall into his spot, get him good and full so he’ll want to lay down and talk about a few things. Huh, after he told Chandelle to kick dust last night, it’ll be hard to pass up on us.

  Dior was still convincing herself that she’d done the right thing by giving Marvin another opportunity to see what he was missing. Deflated doesn’t begin to describe how foolish she felt after turning into the apartment complex and not finding his severely used Four Runner anywhere. “You got to be kidding me,” she groaned sullenly. “I went through all this trouble and he ain’t even home.” Dior contemplated leaving the collection of omelets on his doorstep but figured neighborhood cats would beat him to them. I’m leaving a note to let Marvin know I came by to look in on him. Maybe he’ll call to see what I wanted; then I can chat him up about a friendly dinner. Yeah, then I’ll have a better shot at putting in work.

  Dior did leave a note on Marvin’s door; then she tossed her useless ammunition in the trash bin before striking out for a full day of pampering and planning. As long as she could keep Chandelle on the outside, she assumed getting in Marvin’s bed was a cinch. Making sure things remained gummed up between them required engineering a crafty trail of deceit and a devilish inside influence. Dior was an eager candidate and well suited for both.

  Marvin’s head was still spinning from the night before as he put his name on the waiting list at Java Hut, not five minutes after Dior slithered out of it. He flipped through the business section, made himself comfortable in the waiting area, and then tugged at the bill of his baseball cap to shield all extemporaneous stimuli. Where to initiate his job-hunting expedition on Monday was weighing on him heavily. Never having been fired before, it was not going to be easy for him. He dreaded telling men who he needed to impress how he’d been terminated because of a pending “spousal abuse” charge. Yes, sir, I’m extremely qualified, but I’m currently awaiting trial, he thought to himself. Oh no, sir, nothing as serious as armed robbery. My violent crimes only involved an arrest for beating my wife. So, when do I start? Never! Marvin folded the newspaper over his knees and exhaled. Look at me. I’m already thinking like a criminal and more than ready to lie on employment applications. Marvin Hutchins, you’re a bad liar and a real trip.

  He left the paper for others waiting when he heard his name called from the hostess stand. A pleasant-looking freckle-faced girl smiled when she instructed him to follow. “Excuse me, but I thought you said the wait was at least thirty minutes?”

  “Yes, it is,” she answered amiably.

  Marvin stared at her peculiarly, then did as directed. He traced the hostess’s steps deep into the nonsmoking area of the busy eatery. Just as he reached out to ask where she was leading him, the young girl stopped on a dime.

  “Is this the one you were talking about, ma’am?” she asked the attractive woman coloring a cartoon hamburger and French fries with complimentary crayons.

  “Yes, Sherry, he’s the one all right,” Kim Hightower replied. “Could you ask our waiter to get him something to drink and another silverware setting? Thanks a lot.”

  “Uh, hey, Kim,” was all he managed to say after accepting a seat and her hospitality.

  “Hey yourself,” she jested, with a brilliant smile. “Rough night?”

  Marvin cast his eyes down, imagining how scraggly he must have appeared to her before answering. “How’d you guess?”

  “I saw you climb out of your truck like a man with no place in particular to be and you look like something the cat dragged in.”

  “More like something the cat spit out,” he mused, laughing at himself.

  “That too,” Kim agreed. “Regardless, you know we have to stop meeting like this. A certain someone might pounce up again and get another wrong idea about us.”

  Marvin bit his bottom lip playfully. “I don’t think she cares that much anymore. Last night was rough, remember?”

  “Hmm,” Kim uttered, as if to let that one go. She’d seen more of her share of men in troubled marriages and wasn’t prepared to help him carry that baggage any further. “Has the owner at your last job reconsidered?” she asked with a grin.

  “Oh, I see,” Marvin chuckled. “You sent the hostess to fetch me like a Mob boss ready to make an offer I can’t refuse?”

  “No, it’s not that serious,” she said, after taking a sip of tea from her mug. “But, you do know that the judge will not look favorably at your case if you come across as another unemployed thug with a bad temper.” Marvin suspected that Kim was going somewhere with her line of conversation but didn’t see it clearly yet, so he just nodded and listened. “Let’s not even talk about your being in my pocket at this point.”

  “Ahh, you gonna go there on me?” he debated halfheartedly.

  “Yes, I am, Marvin,” Kim said, making no bones about it when she did. “Look, I understand you’re having a bad stretch, but that’s all it is at this point. If you let it take you under, believe me, it will. When I spoke to you over the phone the first time, I thought, this brotha has a lot on the ball. Unless I’m mistaken, that hasn’t changed. You’re still a very smart man, Marvin, and extremely good with customers.”

  Kim’s compliment made him sit up straight and pay closer attention. “Yes, I’d like to think so,” he agreed. “And you’re right. I’d better make the best of it before going back to court. Never thought I’d be out there hitting the bricks, but everybody’s gotta door-to-door it some time. I can handle that.”

  “Can you handle working for a woman, a black woman?” she stated seriously, with a noticeable shift in her demeanor.

  “Yes, of course I can,” he responded before realizing what he’d walked into. “Hey, you don’t mean come to work for you as an indentured servant until my bail is paid off?”

  “Yeah, you catch on quick,” Kim said, laughing at his concerned expression. “I told you you’d go far. But I’m not proposing any work release program. I’m always keeping an eye out for talent. You have it, and what you lack in the way of real estate savvy, I’ll teach you.”

  “Real estate?” he said, as if those words flew right out her behind.

  “Yes, do you have problem with what I do?” she hissed defensively. “Don’t forget that’s what got your butt out of jail.”

  “No, no,” he sputtered, backpedalling all the way. “Kim, don’t get me wrong. You’re excellent at what you do; muy, muy excellente, but I don’t know a thing about that industry. I’d be a bull in a china shop trying to move houses.”

  “Well, if you’re scared to learn something new, they’re always hiring at Appliance World. Oops, you can’t go back there, can you?”

  Marvin slumped in his chair and tugged at his hat again. “I’d bet you can sell ice to Eskimos.”

  “If I put my mind to it,” she replied most assuredly.

  “Yeah, I’d bet you could at that,” Marvin said, smiling softly. “Tell me what it takes to get started and I’ll see about putting my mind to that. One other question,” he said,
as the waiter finally appeared with a menu, “what are you coloring and why?”

  “That’s two questions,” Kim corrected him before answering. “When I come here without my munchkin, Danni, I try to remind myself why I work so hard and how much she misses me when I do.” It was Kim’s turn to lower her eyes then. She was not accustomed to showing her vulnerable side, but Marvin was not in any position to judge. Secretly, she hoped he wouldn’t become the type once his life was back on track. A blind man could have seen that they shared a great deal more than tea and orange juice between them. Kim wanted to trust him. Marvin had no choice but to trust her.

  He exited the restaurant long after Kim left to meet with her next client of the day. Marvin’s mind motored a hundred miles an hour. Kim had explained in detail what he’d need to do in order to get his realtor’s license and get on her award-winning sales team. Fate caused them to cross paths, he concluded, and who was he to battle against it? Making room for a new career and afresh start will be easy without Chandelle throwing drama in my face, he thought. I’ve got to start living for Marvin, and Marvin only, were the words resonating in his head. His heart was singing another song, but he refused to listen.

  As Marvin’s future and fortune called out to him, he spent the better part of the day chasing after his past. He opened an individual checking account at the banking center inside of the grocery store. That so-called lawyer-appropriation bonus from Mr. Mercer came in handy. Marvin deposited the $3,700 check, and then mapped out a budget for the next two months. After covering the rent, phone, and electricity bills, he had enough to live on but not nearly the fee to pay a reputable attorney. If he burned the midnight oil and studied for the real estate exam with every waking hour, he stood a better chance at making ends meet and retaining his freedom. The compass Marvin used to lean on for guidance and the light he counted on illuminating his path hadn’t abandoned him, he just had to be reminded where to look.