Unexpected Dismounts (11 page)

I was only half-joking. The other half was still having an identity crisis when Chief, Bonner, and I went to dinner at O. C. White’s that night. Desmond was hanging out over at Owen’s, which gave me a chance to discuss the Troy Irwin house situation outside of his bat-radar range.

“The more I think about it,” I said over our order of oysters on the half shell, “the more I think I
should
just storm his office and tell him that I know this isn’t just about money, that it’s all about power and his ego and him wanting everybody to think he’s this Henry Flagler benevolent benefactor.”

“And that is going to accomplish what?” Chief said.

He had that edge in his voice again, and I could see that Bonner heard it too. Either that or he always stabbed his oysters twelve times with a fork before he ate them.

“It’ll make me feel better, maybe,” I said.

“It’ll get you thrown out on your ear,” Chief said.

Bonner dabbed his mouth with the black napkin. “We need publicity, Allison, but not that kind. Something positive would be good.”

“You mean like in the news? Going all political? No. I hate that.”

I didn’t mean for my voice to rise, but it obviously did because Bonner began to torture yet another oyster. Chief’s voice, on the other hand, dropped lower, which irritated the hairs straight up on the back of my neck.

“This is not a fight
against
Troy Irwin,” he said. “It’s a fight
for
the Sacrament Sisters. At least, that’s what you’ve always told me.”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“What?”

“Throw my own words back in my face.”

“I’m not throwing anything.”

His voice was so low now I had to lean toward him to hear it. We were almost nose to nose. In my peripheral view, Bonner just kept stabbing.

“What if I did go talk to Troy again?” I said.

“What would make it different from any other time?”

“I’d have more information. I’d be calmer.”

Bonner must have finally gotten the oyster into his mouth because he choked on it.

“I’m not going to let you do this, Classic,” Chief said.

I didn’t ask him how he was going to stop me because he just had.

Bonner not so subtly skipped dessert and left us a couple of twenties for his entrée before he begged off for the rest of the evening. I hoped Chief would have dessert. He needed something to sweeten the glower he was still delivering in my direction.

“Their key lime pie is to die for,” I said.

“I’m testy,” he said.

“That would describe it, yes.”

“You won’t like this. Well, you will and you won’t.”

As long as it wasn’t
I’m sick of you and I’m out of here,
I thought I could handle it.

“What else is new?” I said. “Bring it.”

“I kept my promise to Desmond and checked around about Sultan’s people. It wasn’t much of a promise. I was doing it anyway.”

“What did you find out?”

“Good news for you: There’s no Sultan-style action going down on West King. Not since he was shot, actually.”

“Who is that bad news for?”

“Desmond. I can’t tell him Sultan’s people are still down there handing out speedballs.” Chief grunted. “Not that they ever were. I never heard of anything like what happened to Zelda, not down there.”

“So what does that mean?” I said.

“It means I can’t try to make Desmond believe the story I told him. It also means there has to be another explanation, and I don’t know what it is.”

“Depends how you spin it.”

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“I know, right? But it’s true, Chief. There’s no more Sultan business, so Sultan must be dead. Whatever that other explanation is, Desmond doesn’t need to worry about it.”

“You think he won’t?”

“No.”

“Nether do I.” The tiny lines around his eyes deepened. “I love that kid.”

“I know,” I said.

There was a lot of love going on at that table.

CHAPTER FIVE

On Sunday afternoon, while Chief and Desmond were out on their usual ride with the HOGs and I was trying to get ready to go see Zelda, India came over with a quiche from Bistro de Leon and the current guest list for the Feast. She also brought some news.

“Ms. Willa’s a ‘maybe,’” she said while I pulled out the only china plates Sylvia and I had saved for special-occasions-for-two. The rest of my parents’ dishes we’d sold to fund a trip to the Caribbean. I preferred those memories over the finger sandwiches.

“I thought she was supposed to be the guest of honor,” I said.

“She probably will be, depending on how things go at lunch tomorrow.”

“Lunch tomorrow.” I stopped pawing through the disheveled silverware drawer. Desmond had obviously been the last one to empty the dishwasher. “What lunch?”

“I hope you’re free. Ms. Willa wants to treat you at 95 Cordova, just to get clear on a few things.”

“What things?”

“Honey, I don’t know specifically, but you’ll do fine now that you know what she’s like. Just focus on the real thing and let the bigotry nonsense just roll off your back. I think half the time she goes on like that just to see what you’ll do. “

I abandoned the fork situation altogether. “Tell me you’ll be there too.”

“Actually, I can’t. I have a vendor coming in with a whole new line.”

“What about Bonner?”

“Darlin’, what is the problem?”

“I’m going to blow it, that’s the problem. What have I not blown in the past two weeks? Willa. Zelda. The cops. Chief.”

“Chief?” India’s eyes drooped at the corners, not difficult considering the amount of eye shadow she wore. I always marveled that she could keep them open under the best of circumstances. “Y’all haven’t broken up, have you?” she said.

“No. There’s nothing to break up.”

“Now, honey, I don’t believe that. The man is completely smitten with you.”

“I just don’t think I can handle Ms. Willa alone, and get a donation out of her.”

“That’s not what this is about.” India picked up the pie knife I had managed to uncover and cut two triangles of quiche with the elegant precision of a hand model. Another reason she was the one who should be lunching with Ms. Willa.

“What
is
it about, then?” I said.

She opened the dishwasher and selected two forks, which she laid delicately on our plates. “Personally, I think it’s you she’s curious about. I think she was taken with you.”

“She was taken with the fact that I disowned myself from my parents. That’s a great foundation for a relationship.”

“Does it matter, if it’s a foot in the door?”

“I just smell disaster. What if she doesn’t come to the fund-raiser because I tick her off again?”

“Then we don’t need her ol’ money, do we?” India tore off two paper towels and folded them into napkins resembling origami. “But I really don’t think that’s going to happen. You just talk about the Sisters and your love for them and your passion for what God is telling you to do, and she will be at your feet. Just like everybody is when you forget yourself and just let go and let God.”

As much as I hated churchy clichés, I let that one slide. “We do need her money,” I said. “But I won’t take it if it’s not given in the right spirit, you know what I mean?”

India set the plates on the bistro table and turned to me, sleeves flowing over her hands as she folded them at her waist.

“Ms. Willa may be cantankerous, Allison, but she is not Troy Irwin. In fact, nobody but Troy Irwin is Troy Irwin, and I think it’s time you trusted some people. Cut them a little slack. I told you this once before: Not everybody can bring home a hooker, but most of us can do a little something. You can’t be putting all those little somethings under a microscope.”

I sighed. “What time tomorrow?”

“Eleven forty-five. I brought a couple of things for you to try on, just in case you want to dress up a little.”

I didn’t tell her I was planning to go to lunch on the Harley.

Or that I was taking somebody with me.

Mercedes was so dolled up when I went by to get her the next day, I decided to leave the bike parked at C.A.R.S. where Sherry could keep an eye on it. I didn’t have the heart to crush her carefully straightened do under Desmond’s helmet or ruin the look with a bulky jacket. In a swollen-houndstooth plaid pencil skirt and black blouse engulfed in ruffles, Mercedes wouldn’t have met India’s approval, but she was so completely herself—and so completely not the woman I’d first met hawking her wares in front of the tattoo shop—that she definitely met mine.

I, on the other hand, was in leathers and a cobalt silk scarf, my only concession to the two-hour makeover India did on me. The makeover that made me too late to see Zelda. Chief had assured me it was okay. She wouldn’t even see him, said she “didn’t need no lawyer.” It wasn’t okay. She was showing up almost hourly in my thoughts, and it clearly wasn’t okay.

But there was today, and Mercedes and I linked arms as we crossed Ponce de Leon Boulevard and strolled the remaining four blocks down King to Cordova. That day, the March breeze had the quality of a warm caress, one of the reasons for living in Florida. Ask me in wilting July, and I wouldn’t be able to remember that, but in early spring, with the freesia stretching their hopeful necks from the pots along the sidewalk and the sun splashing its sparkle onto last night’s puddles, it felt like home. I chose to take that as a God sign, and I smiled at Mercedes when the doorman rushed to greet us.

Her brow lowered all the way down to her eyelids.

“What?” I said.

“You not gon’ give me any instructions, Miss Angel?”

“Why would I? You know how to conduct yourself in a restaurant.”

Okay, so, granted, our fine-dining training had been at the Waffle House out on US 1, but I refused to stress her out with a lecture on what utensils to use in what order. I wasn’t sure I even remembered that myself.

“You’re delightful, my friend,” I said. “If this lady can’t see that, we’ll move on.”

“Like Jesus said ’bout brushing the dirt off your sandals when people blows you off.”

God love Hank and her Bible study.

“That’s it,” I said. “And thank you, sir.”

The ancient doorman had been patiently waiting, door open, for us to clear all that up. He was in fact so old, I looked twice to make sure he hadn’t just fallen asleep, or worse.

Once inside the 95, the fashionable darkness elicited mumbles from Mercedes about needin’ a flashlight in there. But my eyes grew accustomed to it by the time the “Mother D” led us to Ms. Willa’s table. It was all the way in the back, sheltered by a pair of potted orange trees. Even as miniscule as the woman was, she and her mane of hair presided as if she owned all she could see. And there was definitely nothing wrong with her eyesight.

“Who’s that you have with you?” she barked to me before I was even halfway to the table.

“See?” I said to Mercedes out of the side of my mouth. “You don’t have to worry about your manners.”

“Mmm-
mmm,
” Mercedes said.

“Nice to see you too, Ms. Willa,” I said when we’d arrived at the table, and the other diners’ heads had stopped turning. “This is my friend Mercedes Phillips. She’s involved in the Sacrament House ministry, and I thought she could answer any questions that I might not be able to.”

“Aren’t you the head of it?” Ms. Willa said.

“Actually, God is the head. I guess you could say I’m second in command, but there are probably things that go on that I’m not privy to.”

It didn’t occur to me until Ms. Willa blinked her too-bright eyes several times that I was waxing far more eloquent than I had at our previous meeting. Of course, a chimpanzee would be an improvement over that.

“I’ve already ordered,” Ms. Willa said as we took our seats. “The turkey croquettes are good here.”

Yum.

“Sherry?” she said.

“She couldn’t come, ma’am,” Mercedes said. “She have to work.”

Ms. Willa looked at me. “What’s she talking about?”

“Another woman in our ministry is named Sherry,” I said.

“I’m not talking about her. I’m talking about this.” She tapped one of her scarlet nails against a bottle. “Do you want a glass of sherry?”

“Is it got alcohol in it?” Mercedes said.

“Well, of course it has alcohol in it. I don’t think they make it without.”

“Then no thank you,” Mercedes said.

“I’ll pass too,” I said. “But you go ahead, please.”

“I will.” Ms. Willa appeared to be trying to snap her fingers, but they weren’t cooperating. She waved a hand instead, and the server scurried over and filled her glass.

“We’re ready to get started now, Bruce,” she said to him.

He actually bowed before he once again scurried. Ms. Willa leaned in, which wasn’t easy, since her shoulders barely cleared the table. I leaned in, too, and Mercedes followed my example. Our heads were all so close, I caught the scent of lavender in Ms. Willa’s white mane. Come to think of it, her hair had more of a purple tint today, as did her entire outfit, fingerless mitts included. Violet feathers trimmed her sweater, making her look more like a small bird than ever.

“Do you know how old I am?” she said.

“I’d guess between eighty and eighty-five,” I said.

Ms. Willa pulled in her negligible chin. “Well, at least you didn’t try to flatter me. I’m eighty-four. But nobody can say I haven’t changed with the times.”

I wanted to say that, yes, I was sure her hair hadn’t always been the color of a petunia, but I just nodded. Mercedes did too.

“Today, we have a white waiter,” she went on. “Used to be they were all black as the ace of spades.”

Oh, dear God, hold me back.

“But today I’m having lunch with a colored woman, instead of having one serve me, and I’m not even batting an eye.” She gave the table a resounding smack that jittered the glass and sent the sherry splashing dangerously close to the rim. “So don’t let my age fool you. I can be very broad-minded. Very.”

I didn’t notice any change in Mercedes’s breathing, but I still stole a glance at her. She was nodding, lips pressed together. Bless her heart. She was trying not to laugh.

“Oh, here are our salads,” Ms. Willa said.

I looked doubtfully at the anthill-sized pile of lettuce he set in front of me. It appeared that someone had weeded a garden and dumped everything on the plate with a curl of carrot and a drizzle of watered-down raspberry jam.

“You know just how I like it, Bruce,” Ms. Willa said.

Double yum. I felt Mercedes watching me as I selected the fork farthest from my plate. I hoped that was the right one, although Ms. Willa was too busy noisily sipping to notice if we ate it with our fingers.

“Now, then,” she said. “About this ministry of yours.”

“Miss Angel,” Mercedes whispered, as much as a cigarette alto like Mercedes can whisper. “We gonna pray first?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “The Lord be with you.”

“And also witchoo.”

“Let us pray.”

I blessed the food, and Mercedes punctuated the prayer with an enthusiastic
amen.
I raised my head to catch Ms. Willa staring at us over the top of her glass. I couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable or just flabbergasted.

But she recovered quickly and talked as she cut her salad into confetti-sized pieces with a knife and fork.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “because I told you I can be broad-minded. I’ve decided I like the idea of getting those women off the streets and into some kind of program. You said you had a way of keeping them from going back to the drugs and the men, and I want to believe that. Like I said—”

“You’re very broad-minded,” I said. I was still bristling at “those women.” Mercedes was focusing on getting the carrot curl onto her fork, so I let it pass for now.

“But what I want to know is, do you just give them everything, or do you teach them how to help themselves? I’ve seen those television shows where they mollycoddle people that’re on drugs and treat them like we’re being served here. I don’t believe in that, now.”

“This is what I was trying to get across to you the other day,” I said. “If you could see how hard the women in the program work, not only to take care of themselves, but to help each other. I would be willing to take you over to Sacrament House right after lunch.”

Ms. Willa waved her fork. A tiny piece of lettuce took timid flight and landed on the saucer of butter slices.

“I’m not interested in rubbing shoulders with them,” she said. “Giving money is as far as I go. I just want to know exactly how it’s going to be used. And I think you’re the kind of person who will give me a straight answer.”

She was right about that. The straight answer I had in mind was something along the lines of “People spelunk in caves broader than your mind.” But I could hear Chief saying, “You certainly have a way with people, Classic.” And India saying, “Just let all that bigotry nonsense roll off your back.”

And God saying,
These are the feet I want you to wash.

He couldn’t be serious. Wait. Metaphor. Think metaphor.

“All right, I’ll be straight with you,” I said. “You are already rubbing shoulders with one of ‘those women.’”