Black Lace (3 page)

“As your attending physician it’s my duty to make sure you get home.”

That said, he walked over, took hold of the handles on her wheelchair and slowly propelled it forward.

They both waved good-bye to Denise.

Lacy picked up the conversation while he rolled her down the hall. “Your duty?”

He stopped the chair. “Yes. My duty.”

Lacy studied him for a long moment. She didn’t mind that he was trying to charm her; the man was fine. However, she hoped he didn’t think this whatever-he-was-playing-at would go any further than her front door. She tried to downplay the fact that every time she met his eyes her heart did a weird kind of samba. “As my attending physician,
and
as one of the people responsible for me being here in the first place, giving me a ride home is okay, I suppose.”

He flashed that legendary smile. Admittedly, it touched her, but she shook it off. He was a heartbreaker for sure, and she was too old to be picking herself up and dusting herself off.

As he wheeled her toward the exit, she spotted a
gaggle of reporters and TV camera crews waiting by the door. Someone must have dropped a dime on the mayor’s presence in the hospital. Lacy wasn’t pleased to see them. Neither was he, if the soft curse he gave was any indication.

He stopped the chair. “I’m real sorry about this.”

She shrugged and smiled. “It’s what I get for hanging out with you.”

He smiled back. “Let me see if I can convince them not to put you on the six o’clock news.”

“Good luck,” she answered.

His approach to the reporters was met by a hail of shouted questions and flashing cameras. Some of the cameras were aimed in her direction, but she quickly shielded her face with her hand. The scene brought to mind the whirlwind that had swirled around her during her divorce. Because Wilton was an influential city councilman at the time, every news outlet in Atlanta had been in her business, and no matter where she went, the press hounded her like pit bulls gone wild. One of the benefits of getting Wilton out of her life had been having the press lose interest too.

But because of today’s car accident, she assumed that disinterest would change. The mayor was popular. He was also handsome, rich, and single. Any woman associated with him on any level was considered fair game by the city’s reporters because everything about the mayor was news. Lacy could already see her face plastered across the front pages of the papers and hear the television anchors filling their viewers in on her past links to Wilton Cox. Then if they
dug deep enough, out would come the story of her having been fired from her last job. Insubordination, her supervisor had called it. She sighed.

Drake, on the other hand, was trying his best to keep the press hounds at bay. He answered each question truthfully. “Yes, my driver accidentally hit her. Yes, he will be ticketed.”

When another reporter asked Drake to give up the victim’s name, Drake refused. “You’ll have to talk to the lady. I don’t have her permission to tell you that.”

He then ended the mini press conference by saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, I need to get her home.”

A flurry of questions followed that statement, but Drake turned on his heel and went back to the grim-faced Lacy. “You ready?”

She glanced at the eager pack of reporters. “No, but let’s go anyway.”

He nodded and pushed the wheelchair forward. Lacy shielded her face with her big tote as best she could. Cameras flashed and questions were shouted, but she didn’t respond. Instead she let the mayor roll her outside into the cold, where the limo sat waiting with its engine running. As she and her crutches struggled into the warm sanctuary of the backseat, next to the mayor and one of his bodyguards, she continued to ignore the reporters, their cameras, and their questions.

By the time the car pulled away from the curb, Lacy’s pain meds had kicked in and she was floating in a land that was all fuzzy and soft. The mayor asked
her for her address. She remembered replying, but a heartbeat later she was asleep.

She awakened slowly in response to someone calling her name. Then there was the mayor’s handsome face hovering from above. The drugs in her system made her smile up at him and say, softly, “Hi.”

He grinned. “Yes, you are. You’re also home.”

Lacy struggled to clear her head. A look to the window showed that they were indeed in the snow-filled lot of her building, but truthfully, she didn’t want to move. Feeling no pain because of the meds, she was content. However, spending her three day hiatus in the backseat of the mayor’s limo was not an option, so she forced her brain to concentrate on gathering her belongings and her crutches.

Burton, who hadn’t spoken a word to her since their initial conversation, turned and said, “You take care of yourself now, and again, I’m real sorry about what happened.”

Lacy nodded. What more could she do?

Drake looked at the snow piled up between where the limo was parked and the front door of the apartment building’s. There was no way she’d make the trek across the huge parking lot on crutches, and the drifts wouldn’t let them park any closer. “You may need some help.”

Lacy asked, “Why?”

“Too much snow for those crutches.”

She looked around and had to admit he was right. Trying to negotiate the wintry mess would probably
result in her spraining more than an ankle. She paid a pretty penny in association fees for services like snow removal. The crews were usually prompt and did a good job, but because of the suddenness and severity of the storm, she wasn’t surprised to see that the walks and parking lots were still choked with snow. The last thing she wanted was to be carried to her porch by the playa mayor, but she didn’t have much choice.

“I can carry you,”

“Let me,” the guard sitting beside her in the backseat offered. “Name’s Simon Lane, Ms. Green.”

Drake looked at Simon as if the man had lost his mind.

Lacy said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Lane.” He was as big as the other man, Cruise, but his skin was lighter and his hair had just a touch of gray.

Drake said to him, “How about you go get the wheelchair out of the trunk?”

Lane grinned. “Yes sir,” he said, and got out.

Drake looked at Lacy. “As I was saying, I can carry you, if you want.”

Lacy didn’t comment on the men’s exchange but she was inwardly amused. “Only if you promise not to drop me.”

“I promise.”

A second later she was lifted up into his strong, coat-cushioned arms. Her face only inches from his, she studied him, and once again felt herself touched by his nearness. Then a strong wind came up and effectively shut down the moment. She turned her face
into his coat and yelled, “How do you people live here?”

He chuckled and, with Lane preceding him began a slow trek toward the building. “You’ll get used to it.”

“But I don’t want to!” she wailed. As the icy wind continued to swirl, she kept her face against him and heard the deep rumbles of laughter in his chest.

Drake was enjoying her. She didn’t weigh much, and he thought she fit perfectly in his arms. His enjoyment aside, wading through the heavy, deep snow was like walking through knee-high liquefied cement. His feet were freezing in his thin wet gators but he concentrated on each step. She would never talk to him again, for real, if he dropped her, and he wanted her to talk to him, more than he cared to admit.

He finally made it to her walk and nodded at Lane to open the door. Inside, the shadowy foyer was a testament to the building’s age. The Towers, as they were called, had housed only rich White widows when Drake was young. Now the residents were mostly young and middle-age Black professionals.

Lane unfolded the wheelchair, and Drake set Lacy gently on the seat. “I can take it from here, Lane.”

He nodded. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Green.”

“Same here,” Lacy said genuinely.

While Lane went back out to the car, Drake followed Lacy’s directions to the elevators.

She lived on the fifth floor and when they reached her door, she handed Drake her keys so he could open the locks.

Lacy was glad the place was clean, so he wouldn’t
know what a slob she was, but she was proud of her apartment. Although the building was old, the place had good bones. She had two bedrooms, a large kitchen, a spacious open living room, and a step-down area off the living room that she planned to turn into an office one day. There was also a dishwasher and her own personal washer and dryers. But best of all, there were seventeen windows, and the bulk of them looked out onto the river.

Drake wheeled her into the quiet and looked around. “I like this.” The space was large and unfurnished except for one yellow upholstered chair and a TV sitting on a turned-over red milk crate.

“I haven’t had time to get furniture, as you can probably see, but soon.”

He walked over to look out at the river. “You have a patio.”

“Yes. Can’t wait to sit out there in the summer. Read, do some grilling. Those flower boxes were there when I moved in, so I threw in some bulbs in October.”

“Something’s coming up in this red one.”

“Tulips.” She watched him look up at her high ceilings then check out the gleaming hardwood floors.

“Real nice place.”

“Thanks. I’m looking forward to making it my own soon as I get the chance.” There were a few framed pieces of African art on the walls, but that was it. “Thanks again for the ride.”

“No problem. Do you need anything before I leave?
Need me to run to the store? Do you have enough food?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine.” She hobbled over to the lone yellow chair and sat.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I’m okay,” she said with a soft laugh.

“Sorry,” he said, an embarrassed grin on his handsome face. “It’s the gentleman in me.”

Lacy smiled. “I see. Tell your mama she raised you well. But now I want you to go.”

“But—”

“Go home, Mayor Randolph. You have a city to run, remember?”

Drake didn’t want to leave. The meeting he’d been racing back to attend had been cancelled because of the weather, and the other work waiting for him at the office would be there no matter how long it took him to arrive. He reached into his coat and removed his silver business card holder. Pulling out one of his embossed, fine as linen
CITY OF DETROIT
business cards, he scribbled a number on it and handed it to her. “Here’s my home number. Call me if you need anything.”

Lacy glanced at what he’d written. “Thank you,” she said, then added truthfully, “but I probably won’t call.”

“Why not?”

He looked so stunned, she almost laughed. She
wondered if he’d never had a woman turn him down before. “Your Hippocratic duties are over and appreciated,” was all she allowed herself to say.

Lacy wasn’t made of wood. The raw power of him radiated over her like heat in July, but because he probably affected women worldwide the same way, she knew better than to read anything deep into his interest. “Thanks again, Mayor Randolph.”

He smiled. “All right, I can take a hint.” But he didn’t move. Instead he stood looking at her sitting on the yellow chair while the need to know more about her filled him in ways that for the moment he couldn’t explain.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, then moved to the door. “Let me know what happens with your car.”

“I will.”

He nodded and was gone.

Lacy hobbled over to the window to wait for him to appear in the parking lot. After a little while, there he was. The man was definitely fine, and what she’d seen of his personality, she liked, but according to the gossip, His Fineness had more women than Keebler had cookies, and she had no desire to be one of many. So she watched until the big Lincoln drove from sight, and then she and her crutches went into the bedroom so she could lie down.

On the ride back downtown, the
dark-eyed Lacy stayed on Drake’s mind. She was witty, sharp, and fine. He most definitely wanted to see her again, but getting her to agree might be difficult, considering her lukewarm reaction to him. He never had to pursue women. For as far back as he could remember girls had always lined up for his smile. If he said, “Jump,” they’d ask, “How high?” But this Lacy Green, with her fine ebony self, didn’t impress him as the how high type.

Burton asked, “Thinking about her?”

Drake nodded.

“Pretty lady.”

“Very. Not that she seemed real impressed by me.”

“Well, we did run her off the road,” Simon Lane remarked sagely.

“No.
Burton
ran her off the road,” Drake pointed out.

“You said you were late for the meeting,” Burton said.

“And I told you three or four different times to slow it down.” Drake loved Burton. He was his great-uncle and had always been Drake’s hero, but after today’s wreck, blood or no blood, he had to go. His bat out of hell driving was exposing the city to unnecessary lawsuits, not to mention the safety issue. Burt’s need for speed came from driving the Negro race car circuit back in the forties and early fifties. Few people knew about the postwar, Black pioneer drivers like Burton Randolph, but Drake and his sisters had grown up hearing the stories and marveling at all the trophies and ribbons he’d won.

Drake also knew how much Burt enjoyed being the mayor’s official driver, so it pained him to say, “I’m going to have to let you go, Uncle Burt.”

Burt turned and stared at his nephew. “What? Why!”

Drake gave him an incredulous look. “Why? This is your third accident in the last year.”

“Firing me’s not right,” Burt grumbled.

“Neither is running a woman into the ditch,” Billy Cruise tossed out from behind the steering wheel.

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I know that, Unc, but you’re endangering everybody on the road, including yourself, driving so fast all the time.”

“Can’t help it. Race driving’s in my blood.”

“I know that too, but as much as I hate to say this, your reactions aren’t what they used to be.”

“You saying I’m old?”

“Yes.”

The seventy-two-year-old Burt sat up angrily. “Boy, I was driving hot rods before you were born.”

“Bingo!”

Bested, Burt slumped against his seat and groused, “You always were smarter than I could stand.”

Drake smiled. “Thanks. And you are the best uncle in the world hands down, but your driving days with me are over. Sorry.”

Drake glanced at his uncle’s sullen face. “Look at it this way—not driving for me leaves you free to drive those hot little church widows around on their errands.”

“All those crows want is my pension.”

Drake chuckled. “You may need one of those crows one day.”

“Maybe, but it’ll only be at night.”

The men’s laughter filled the car.

As they entered the heart of downtown, Drake looked out at his city. On the left was the Detroit River shining blue in the cold sunshine, and on its far bank the Canadian city of Windsor, Ontario. Visitors to the area were often amazed by the city’s close proximity to its international neighbor, and those with an interest in the fabled underground railroad could see why the abolitionists in Detroit were able to ferry thousands of escaped slaves to freedom; Canada was just a short boat ride away.

The limo passed the huge, green marble sculpture of the man known as the Spirit of Detroit. Whenever
any of the local teams made the playoffs, the Spirit was always dressed in a matching jersey to show his support. Red for the NFL Red Wings and blue for the NBA Pistons. Thinking about how cool the Spirit looked decked out in a Piston jersey during the team’s last championship run made Drake smile. In spite of the city’s negative reputation, Drake, like the nearly one million citizens within its borders, loved the city for its vibrancy, spirit, and tenacity. Many of the suburban naysayers spent their lifetimes telling anyone who’d listen their take on why the city was the way it was, but Drake didn’t care. The city was coming back. His administration was adamant about restoring the neighborhoods, fixing the schools, and giving the taxpayers a city that worked.

Cruise pulled into the city garage. After parking, he got out and gave the keys to the attendant, Malcolm Ford, a former boxer who worked the garage by day and studied to be a lawyer at night. Drake liked the man a lot.

“Hey, Mayor Randolph. Looks like you had an accident.”

Drake checked out the damaged bumper and busted headlight. “Hey, Malcolm. Yeah, we did. Old Speedy Gonzales here strikes again.”

Malcolm smiled over at the stony-faced Burton and said, “You okay?”

“Yeah, but His Honor’s firing me.”

Everyone could hear the anger and the hurt in his voice.

Malcolm, trying to act as peacemaker, said, “Well,
Mr. Randolph, what if you crash and really hurt somebody one of these times?”

Burton looked his nephew in the face and said, “I suppose.” Then added, “I’m going to file my report and clean out my desk.”

He walked away.

Drake felt bad, but the decision was a necessary one. “I had to let him go.”

“I know you did,” Lane said. “Everybody around here wanted to know why you didn’t do that the last time. We all like Unc, but not behind the wheel.”

The last ticket Burton had received came courtesy of a trooper with the Michigan State Police. He’d clocked the limo at 95 mph on one of the city freeways. Burton blamed the excessive speed on blowing the carbon out of the cylinders in order to keep the engine in tip-top shape. The trooper hadn’t believed a word of it. Burton was given a huge fine, and some points on his license for good measure.

Malcolm asked, “So, Mayor Randolph, who’s going to be your driver now?”

Drake shrugged, “Oh, I don’t know. How’s your driving record?”

Malcolm stared, then said, “It’s great. Excellent. I, uh, even have a valid chauffeur’s license from when I drove for the limo people at the airport last year.”

“Think you can come up to my office later so we can talk about pay, duties, etcetera?”

Malcolm nodded like a horse. “Yeah, yeah. Who else you considering?”

“No one.”

Malcolm stood speechless.

Drake smiled and said, “I like to help a man who’s getting his life together.” He patted the amazed-looking Malcolm on his back. “See ya later.”

Drake and his body guards were halfway across the garage and on their way to the elevator before Malcolm found his voice and yelled, “Thank you, Mayor Randolph! Thank you!”

It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon when Drake stepped off the elevator onto the mayor’s floor of the building. His hopes of finding the corridor outside of his office empty were dashed by the line of people awaiting his arrival. Today was Friday, and Fridays were Talk to the Mayor Day. Most times the citizens were lined up like they were at one of the neighborhood clinics, coming to complain about everything from bus service to the time the libraries closed in the evenings. Every now and then someone would show up and say, “Good job,” but those people were rare.

Today’s snow must have kept the citizenry at home. In line instead were a few department heads, a representative from the Chamber of Commerce, and two administrative assistants who worked for members of the City Council. He didn’t recognize the other seven or eight people. He gave them a nod but didn’t stop moving; he knew better.

He entered and waved to the bevy of secretaries. Out of one of the side offices stepped his chief assistant, Rhonda Curry. She had a body by Fischer and a
brain by MIT, her alma mater. Today she had on a hot red suit guaranteed to singe a man, but Rhonda was lesbian and proud. “Lots of calls about the snow. Parents are mad that the schools weren’t officially closed, and Councilwoman Draper and her buddy Councilman Parker want you to call them.”

Drake had no intentions of putting either one at the top of the list. All they wanted to do was argue. “What’re they pissed off about now?”

Rhonda followed him into his main office. He tossed his coat on the couch and went behind his desk to look at the stack of messages waiting for him to read. He glanced up at her.

“They want to know if you’re really rehiring Dr. Shaw.”

Drake stared. “Do they have my office bugged? How’d they find out?” Dr. Denise Shaw was his pick for the new school superintendent job. She’d had the job with the last administration but was fired for shaking things up too much. Drake wanted her back because she was the kind of superintendent he thought the city schools needed.

Rhonda shrugged her red-suited shoulders. “No idea.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That the mayor hasn’t made a decision yet.”

“Thank you. What else is burning on the stove?”

Rhonda looked down at her yellow legal pad and read off a list that started with a broken water main flooding a street on the west side, a call from the governor concerning a conference she wanted Drake to
attend next week, and finished with notes about a story in the morning paper concerning a city bus driver who not only had no valid operator’s license, but had been involved in fourteen accidents in the last two years.

Drake shook his head hearing that one.

Rhonda added, “I’ve handled most of them. The water department has been on the break since late this morning, and I called the bus garage and told them to put that driver on suspension.”

“Good job.” Drake had no idea where he’d be without Rhonda’s unflappable assistance. “And the mob outside?”

“They all have appointments but shouldn’t take long.”

“You always say that.”

She gave him a smile. “Makes you feel better.”

“Yeah right,” he cracked. “Let me change out of these wet shoes and then send in the first one.” Before she could leave, he said, “Oh, and call Triple A. Find out if they’ve towed the car we hit this morning, and where they took it.”

“How’s the victim?”

“Hurt her ankle. She should be up and around in a few days.” Lacy’s dark face hovered in his memory while he shuffled through the messages and sorted them into piles according to importance. He put the one from his mother on top. “Name’s Lacy Green. Works downstairs in the Environmental Office, I think. Do you know her?”

“Nope. Is she going to sue?”

“No idea.”

“Well, we’ll keep a good thought. I’ll find out about her car.”

“Thanks, Rhon.”

“You bet. I’ll send in the Chamber brother first.”

“Fine.”

And so Drake’s day began.

It was after nine when Cruise pulled up to the circular drive of the east side mansion that served as the mayor’s official residence and let Drake out. A few feet away sat the unmarked police car holding the two police officers who made up the night shift. As mayor, Drake had 24/7 protection. He thought it unnecessary. His police chief didn’t agree, and because she carried a gun and Drake didn’t, the bodyguards stayed. He gave them a wave and went inside.

The dark silence of the house’s interior washed over him as he hung up his coat in the foyer closet. He turned on a lamp with a bulb that glowed just enough to beat back the shadows. The place was large and elegantly furnished. The huge windows that ran the length of the house offered a spectacular view of the river and the lights of the Windsor skyline. On the mansion’s professionally painted walls hung framed art from his personal collection and a few pieces on loan from the city’s largest museum, the Detroit Institute of Arts. The residence was one of the city’s jewels, but for all the joy it gave Drake he may as well be living in a cave.

For him, the mansion was just another reminder of
his responsibilities as Detroit’s CEO. In a perfect world, he’d have someplace to go where he could be off the clock. If only for a little while. In this mythical someplace he would ditch the bodyguards, the pager, the chauffeurs and the press, and just be Drake. Plain old Dr. Drake Randolph.

He clicked on the lights in the state-of-the-art kitchen and walked past the gleaming, brushed metal appliances and over to the fridge. He pulled out the food his mother had sent over before he left for San Antonio and wondered if it was safe to microwave and then eat seven-day-old macaroni and cheese? He set it on the counter nearby and pulled out the remains of the turkey. Pulling back the foil showed a dried and shriveled carcass that looked as questionable as the macaroni. He deposited it all into the trash, closed the fridge door and sighed.
Pizza again
. He toyed with the idea of jumping into his car and making the ten minute drive down Jefferson to his brother Mykal’s house. Myk’s wife, Sarita, would feed him until he couldn’t move, but Drake nixed the idea. Myk and Sarita were married a little over a year ago, and he’d eaten there at least four days a week when he was in town. Neither minded his company, but lately, with Sarita’s baby on the way, he was beginning to feel like a third wheel, and was trying to keep his visits to a minimum.

With that in mind, he pulled out his phone, called the policemen outside to alert them to the pending delivery and to ask if they wanted anything. He then punched up the pizza place and placed his order. Done
with that, he headed for his bedroom and the relief he knew would come from a long hot shower.

Somewhere in Lacy’s dream the phone was ringing. Determined to ignore it, she burrowed deeper under the blankets, but the insistent sound wouldn’t go away. When she opened her eyes and realized it wasn’t a dream, she groaned and reached for the handset on the nightstand. “Yeah?” she said groggily.

“Girl, why didn’t you tell me it was the mayor who hit you?”

Ida.

“Ida, I’m trying to sleep.”

“Well, wake up, because you’re on the eleven o’clock news.”

Lacy closed her eyes, cursed silently, then said, “Call me tomorrow.” And hung up.

The next morning, Lacy awakened with aches and pains in places that had never had aches and pains before. The backs of her shoulders, the edges of her thighs. She guessed it came from being tossed around in the car during the accident. Every inch of her body radiated soreness. Especially her neck. She moved it gingerly and the tenderness made her wince. Figuring a hot shower might do her some good, she struggled to sit up. The voice in her mind asked how she planned to shower on crutches and with a wrapped-up foot. Since she had no answer, she settled on washing her face and brushing her teeth.