After Hours (4 page)

A
dina paid the fare and got out a block from the public housing complex with views of the Brooklyn Bridge and Wall Street. Whenever she came home by car she always directed the driver to drop her off a block or two from the towering brick building where she shared an apartment with her grandmother and daughter. And she'd made it a practice to flag down a passing car rather than call several car services in the neighborhood because she didn't want anyone to monitor or track her whereabouts.

It was Friday night, early May, and nighttime temperatures were in the low seventies, and that translated into residents—old and young alike—hanging out until exhaustion forced them inside their stuffy, crowded apartments. It wasn't unusual to see infants sleeping in strollers or in the arms of mothers lounging on benches well beyond midnight, hoping to catch either a breeze coming off the East River or the latest neighborhood gossip.

Adina remembered when she used to hang out on the benches; but it stopped when she woke up one morning with excruciating back pains. It was one of the few times Bernice Jenkins was sober enough to realize her daughter needed emergency medical assistance. Not waiting for an ambulance, Bernice took Adina in a livery cab to a hospital, where five hours later the fourteen-year-old gave birth to a two-pound, six-ounce baby girl.

Adina hadn't known she was pregnant because her period had come every month like clockwork; she'd worn the same school uniform throughout the year and her weight had remained the same. She left the hospital, leaving her baby behind in the neonatal unit. Three months later Jameeka Jenkins was discharged, and when Bernice carried the infant girl home, she'd loudly invited everyone to come and see her new baby daughter. Ironically Jameeka looked exactly like her grandmother, so the only gossip circulating throughout the projects had been who'd fathered Bernice's child.

My mother left me, and now I'm going to have to leave my daughter,
Adina mused as she pressed the elevator button. Bernice hadn't had a maternal bone in her body, and neither did Adina. From the moment Jameeka arrived she'd found herself completely detached from the tiny infant she'd carried inside her. How could she bond with a baby when she hated the dolls her grandmother had bought her?

The elevator arrived. She stood off to the side to let a trio of teenage boys dressed in baggy clothes stumble out; they were laughing uncontrollably. The lingering stench of stale urine mingling with freshly smoked marijuana forced her to take a backward step. Holding her breath, she was grateful—and not for the first time—that she lived on the fourth floor in the fifteen-story building.

The sound of the door opening didn't faze Dora and Jameeka Jenkins; they lay on an oversize sectional sofa that dwarfed the living room, their gazes fixed on the flat-screen television Adina had given her grandmother as a gift the prior Christmas. Only self-stick squares of mirrored glass on the walls made the space appear larger. Dora, who wasn't much for visiting her neighbors, now rarely left the apartment except to shop for food and on occasion to purchase clothes for herself and her great-granddaughter.

“I'm going to make a quick run,” Adina called out as she headed in the direction of her bedroom.

“That's what you said an hour ago,” Dora countered. Moving slightly, she peered over her shoulder at her granddaughter.

“This time I'm really going out, Mama.” She called Dora Jenkins “Mama” because she'd assumed the role as mother—because Bernice wasn't able to take care of herself, let alone a child. Jameeka, on the other hand, called her great-grandmother Nana.

Shaking her head, Dora grunted softly before turning her attention back to a close-up of Gene Hackman and Willem Dafoe screaming at each other in
Mississippi Burning.
Even though Adina looked nothing like Bernice, she was just like her mother. It was always a
quick run
here or there; whenever they left, days, and at times weeks, would go by before she'd see them again.

The last time Bernice made a
quick run
she hadn't come back. After a month Dora contacted the police, who'd turned the case over to the FBI's Missing Persons division. And that was ten years ago. She was left to care for not only her granddaughter but also her great-granddaughter. She was only fifty-seven, and even if she didn't look her age, she felt much older.

Dora didn't know where Adina got her money; she was past caring. She'd asked her once whether she was selling drugs, but Adina swore up and down that she wouldn't have anything to do with drugs because of Bernice's addiction. She'd heard of too many folks being evicted from the projects if a family member was charged with dealing drugs.

And where would she go with a teenage girl?

She definitely didn't want to go to a welfare hotel or a homeless shelter.

A
dina opened the closet in the bedroom she'd once shared with her mother. Not only had they shared the room but also the same bed—a bed where Bernice would lay with any man willing to pay her a few dollars so she could buy drugs and booze.

After Payne Jefferson paid her for her first hustle, Adina didn't spend the money on clothes or electronic gadgets but on a new bed. A week before the scheduled delivery she threw out the old mattress and frame, sleeping on the floor, which was preferable to the rancid odors clinging to the ticking covered with urine, semen and bloodstains.

The threat against her life replayed over and over in her head like a needle stuck in the groove of a record as she removed articles of clothing from hangers and opened drawers to pack what she considered essential items. Ignoring the boxes filled with designer shoes and shelves with designer handbags, she filled a carry-on with underwear, T-shirts, jeans, slacks, sandals, running shoes and personal toiletries. Pulling over a chair, she stood on it and felt around a top shelf. Her hands were shaking so much it took several attempts for her to grasp the leather handles to a khaki-colored backpack. What she'd secreted in the backpack was her ticket out of Brooklyn.

For most of her life Adina heard black women talk about having their “F.U.” money; it was when she discovered the family of one of her friends had moved out without telling anyone they were leaving that she understood the phrase. Her grandmother explained that the woman, having grown tired of her husband's abuse, withdrew the money she'd saved without his knowledge from her “Fuck You” account and moved to a state where he wouldn't be able to find her and his children. Dora's sage advice of
Never let a man know how much you have in case you have to leave his ass
was imprinted on her brain.

Although PJ gave her money, she never let him know how much her marks had given her. The men she'd befriended offered her designer clothes and accessories because they wanted to show her off, so there was never a time when Adina had to go to a boutique or specialty shop to purchase something to wear. She wasn't certain whether their “gifts” were knockoffs or swag, but it hadn't mattered because she hadn't had to put out a dime for them.

Now she would leave behind the haute couture she'd always referred to as “material shit,” because her life was worth a lot more than Louis, Choo or Chanel. Jameeka would never wear her clothes or shoes because, at fourteen, she was four inches taller than Adina, her feet three sizes larger and she wore a size-nine dress to Adina's two. Either the clothes would rot in the closet or Dora could elect to sell or give them away.

She changed out of the stilettos, halter top and short skirt and into a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and running shoes. Staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror attached to the closet door, Adina saw something in her eyes that had never been there before: fear. Even when she'd embarked on her first hustle, she'd been apprehensive but not fearful that she'd be found out. She'd learned at a very young age how to seduce a man to get whatever she wanted. It'd begun with one of the men who'd slept with her mother, then escalated to those who'd found her attractive. It wasn't that she was vain about her looks, but she knew how to use what she'd been given.

Reaching for a baseball cap, she covered her head, pulling her braid through the back opening. There wasn't time to wash off her makeup. She had to leave before someone came looking for her. Emptying the small purse she'd carried with her to Chez Tangerine, Adina counted the small stack of bills. She had a little more than one hundred dollars. Now she had to decide where she wanted to go. Flying wasn't an option because she knew she would never make it past security with a backpack filled with cash that exceeded the amount for declaration. She'd never been gainfully employed, so no doubt the IRS would want to know where she'd gotten the money.

Pushing the bills into a pocket of her jeans, she reached for the PDA on her dresser. It was her direct contact with Payne Jefferson. Opening a drawer in a bedside table, she took out a BlackBerry and put it into the bag with her clothes. The cell phone was her direct contact with her grandmother. No one had ever seen her use the phone because, like the money in the backpack, the phone was a part of her F.U. stockpile. Slipping her arms through the straps of the backpack, Adina picked up her single piece of luggage. She wasn't certain where she was going, but it couldn't be anywhere within New York City's five boroughs.

Glancing around the bedroom for the last time, she flicked a wall switch, plunging the room into darkness. Dora and Jameeka were still in the same position as when she'd left them.

“Later.”

Both waved without turning around, and Adina opened the door and left the apartment, the door locking automatically behind her. She had the elevator to herself, and the crowd that had gathered to witness two women fighting hadn't dispersed. Several were describing to police personnel what had happened. Walking in the opposite direction, she flagged down a distinctive black-and-red vehicle from a nearby car service.

“Where to, lady?” the driver asked when she sat down.

“Take me the Port Authority bus terminal.” It was the first place she could think of. She could've easily said the Long Island Railroad or Grand Central Station, but somehow taking the bus was preferable to the train because she didn't like tunnels.

The driver quoted her a flat rate, to which she would've gladly paid double. Exhaling audibly, Adina sat back, closed her eyes while planning her next move.

“Irvington! The next stop is Irvington.”

Adina opened her eyes when she heard the conductor calling her stop. Gathering her purse, she pushed to her feet. A chill swept over the back of her neck, and she refused to acknowledge it as a bad omen, because she couldn't afford to indulge in superstition when what she was facing was as real as it could get. She left the train and hailed a taxi, instructing the driver to take her to the motel. She wanted him to take her
home.

T
he BlackBerry chimed and Adina reached for it next to her head on the pillow. A light sleeper, she'd put the phone in the bed with her because she was still waiting to hear from Karla King.

It'd been two weeks since she'd gone to Trenton. She suspected the lawyer had found the bag she'd left in her office; she'd expected her to call, but when she hadn't, Adina had shifted into panic mode. Her anxiety meter reached a dangerous level until she forced herself to relax, release and let go.

After she calmed down enough to think rationally, she decided to give the lawyer another week. And if Mrs. King hadn't followed through on her promise to help her change her name, then she would be awash in controversy when she put the prissy attorney on the spot.

Adina planned to ask Karla about the bag, which she'd
inadvertently
left in her office. But if Karla denied seeing it, then she would play her trump card. The parking lot, the reception area, the hallways and Mrs. King's office were all installed with closed-circuit cameras, and that meant the entire building was wired. She may not get her money back, but she didn't think Karla King, Esquire, would want her good name smeared in an alleged scheme to defraud a client.

Mrs. King—or whoever had discovered the bag with the money—would be hard-pressed to disavow knowledge of the item in question if camera footage showed otherwise. Adina didn't want to dime-out the sister-girl lawyer, but if she had to, she would, because it all came down to survival. And she hadn't survived ten years of hustling because she was a
nice
girl.

Peering at the lighted display, she recognized her grandmother's number. Now wide-awake, she answered the call. “What's up, Mama?”

“That's what I was 'bout to ask yo ass.”

Leaning over, Adina flicked on the lamp on the bedside table. The glowing numbers on the clock read 3:20 a.m. “You called me, Mama.”

“Whatcha doin' hangin' around wit PJ?”

A lump formed in Adina's throat, making it almost impossible for her to swallow. “I'm not hanging around with him,” she lied smoothly.

“If that's not the case, then why did he come by fo' day in the mornin' and bust up my place? He broke up the walls, coffee table and TV. My pressure's so high that I cain't breathe. I hope I ain't havin' a stroke.”

Adina clapped her free hand over her mouth to stop the screams welling up in the back of her throat. The tears filling her eyes were real, not forced like the ones she'd shed for Karla and the motel manager.

“Mama, talk to me. Mama!” she screamed when encountering silence.

“I'm still here, grandbaby.”

A shiver of fear—stark, vivid and very real—swept over Adina. She'd always managed not to involve her family in her work, but that had changed because Payne had confronted her grandmother. Before she'd agreed to work for him she'd extracted a promise from him that he'd never let anyone know of their association.

“What did he say, Mama?”

“He says you got two weeks to get back in touch with him or else he's coming back to break mo' than glass.” Dora recited the number PJ had written on a business card.

Adina gripped the cell phone tight enough to leave a distinct impression on her palm, wishing it was Payne's scrawny neck. She picked up a pen next to the lamp and wrote down the telephone number. He'd given her grandmother a number with a DC area code.

“Where's Jameeka?”

“She ain't here. She at a sleepover.”

Adina let out a deep sigh of relief. Even though she'd given birth to Jameeka, she'd never thought of herself as her mother. Maybe it was because Bernice had claimed the baby as hers; once Bernice disappeared, Dora assumed full responsibility for raising her great-granddaughter.

“Why that trifling bum-bitch lookin' fo' you?” Dora asked, her voice louder, stronger.

“A couple of weeks ago he asked me to put a dollar on a number for him. It came out and I forgot to give him the money.”

The lie was so good that Adina believed it herself. There was no way she was going to tell her grandmother about her decade-long association with Payne Jefferson, that she set up men for him to rob, that he was the mastermind behind robberies, burglaries and other unsolved crimes in Brooklyn too numerous to mention.

“How much do you owe him?”

“About five hundred dollars.”

“Do you have his money, Adina Jenkins?”

“Yeah, I do. But I just have to get it to him.”

“When you gonna do that?”

“When I see him.”

“You gonna call him?”

“Yes, Mama. I'll call him later on today.”

“I hope you ain't lyin' to me.”

“No, Mama. I will call him.”

“When am I gonna see you, grandbaby?”

Adina closed her eyes and bit down hard on her lower lip. How could she tell her grandmother that she would never come back to Brooklyn because there were people out to kill her?

“I don't know. I'm going to send you some money orders so that you can pay someone to fix up the place. I'll include enough for you to buy another television.”

“I ain't got to have no big-screen TV. The one in my bedroom will do fine.”

“But you loved that TV, Mama.”

“Because it was big and new. Save yo' money, baby. I've been thinkin'…” Dora said after a swollen pause.

“What about?”

“Moving. The projects ain't no place to raise Jameeka.”

“You want to move?”

“Been thinkin' on it.”

“Where do you want to live?”

“No mo' public housing. I don't want Jameeka windin' up like me and yo mama. I want her to go to college and make somethin' of herself. I ain't sayin' you didn't finish high school, but I always wanted you to go to college because you is smart as a whip.”

A hint of a smile softened Adina's lush mouth. Her grandmother had dropped out of school to give birth to Bernice, and Bernice had dropped out to have her. She'd dropped out because she'd begun hanging out at night and couldn't get up in the morning to make it to school on time. Yet at twenty she'd made herself a promise to get her GED before her twenty-first birthday, and she had. It wasn't until she'd enrolled in the course to prepare her to take the exam that she'd realized she could retain most of what she'd learned, acing the test on her first attempt.

“Maybe we can move someplace nice if I get a job paying taxes.” Dora believed she had a position working off the books totaling daily receipts for a businessman who owned family-style restaurants in Bay Ridge, Bensonhurst and Sunset Park.

“Fo' real?”

Adina smiled for the first time since answering the call. “For real, Mama,” she said truthfully; there was no way she could continue hustling.

In fact, she'd played the game longer than planned. When Payne first approached her with his scheme, she'd told him she would do it for a year. One year became two, three and eventually ten. Working the streets was not only dangerous but short-lived, with options limited to incarceration or a coffin.

“I'll call PJ,” she promised. “Remember to keep your door locked.” Many project tenants left their doors unlocked during the day because they didn't want to keep getting up to let in their children. “I want you to call the police if PJ comes back.”

“Ain't you gonna call him?”

“Yes. I said that in case he decides to start more shit.”

“When are you comin' back?” Dora asked again.

“I don't know. I'm working on something right now, and as soon I finish up here I'll let you know.”

“Okay, grandbaby.”

“Look for the money orders in a couple of days.”

“Thank you, baby.”

“I love you, Mama.”

There came a beat. “Love you back.”

Depressing a button, Adina ended the call and stared at the fading wallpaper in the room that suddenly felt like a tomb.

Fleeing Brooklyn may have saved her life, but it'd put her grandmother's at risk.

Her world and everything in it was spinning out of control.