Power Couple (18 page)

My body was still warm from Michelangelo's heat and I could still feel his touch. With a deep inhale, I wrapped my arms around myself as my lips curved upward into a smile.

CHAPTER 27

I
hadn't eaten all day and I wasn't hungry. I was too excited to sit down and eat a full meal. With time to kill while waiting for Michelangelo to return, I munched on a bag of kale chips, and turned on Grandma Eula Mae's recording.

• • •

People thought that all I did was sit around counting money. They spoke of me as if I had ice water running through my veins. But truth be told, I had a gentler side that I couldn't afford to let others see. My gals would have tried to walk all over me and my enemies would have known exactly how to hurt me if they knew my Achilles' heel.

After O'Grady had me and my girls locked up for the umpteenth time, he took over, marching around my establishment like he owned the place. Man, oh, man. I wanted to put a bullet in his ass for strutting around like a barnyard peacock and bossing me around like he was the true owner of my brothel.

According to the gossip mill, I was romantically involved with Mr. Banner, but there was no truth to that rumor. Mr. Banner enjoyed my whores and he valued our friendship. We had mutual respect for each other, but that was as far as it went.

Through my friendship with Mr. Banner, I met a Negro physician who was also a lover of art. This physician, a fine-looking and dignified man, had introduced Mr. Banner to a local artist. A colored fella named
Horace Pippin, who was untrained and whose work was considered crude by art lovers. His paintings looked like crap to me, too, and I didn't have a trained eye. But Mr. Banner bought up the man's entire collection and added it to his gallery. White folks fell in love with Horace Pippin's folk art and pretty soon, he was getting commissioned to paint for folks from Europe and other faroff places around the world.

I have one of his paintings. It's up in the attic somewhere. Heard his work is worth a fortune now, but I haven't had the energy to go digging around up in the attic to find the dusty painting. If any of my descendants ever bother to listen to this recording, you need to get your butt up in the attic, find the painting, and get it appraised.

Okay, what was I talking about? Lord, that quick, I lost my train of thought. I hate the way my memories come and go. Oh, I remember. I was talking about the Negro physician who became very, very importan
t in my life. His name was Dr. Felder Bradwell.

When Mr. Banner caught the clap from one of my gals, he convinced Dr. Bradwell to start treating all my gals, behind the scenes, of course. Not only did he treat their various womanly ailments, but he also gave them regular checkups to make sure their privates stayed in good working condition. Before long, the white customers secretly began getting treated by Dr. Bradwell—after hours, also. None of them would have been caught dead paying a visit to a Negro doctor during daytime hours. They'd rather slink to his office in the dead of night than put themselves through the embarrassment of facing their regular family physicians with yellow puss leaking out of their peckers.

With Dr. Bradwell in my corner, I didn't have to rely on ol' Hattie Baker and her risky coat hanger method of getting rid of pesky pregnancies. Dr. Bradwell did the abortions safely, and no one bled to death from a punctured uterus or got infected from a rusted wire hanger.

He was a handsome man with wavy hair that he wore brushed backward, showing off his chiseled facial features. He had beautiful dark
eyes and wore a thin, neatly trimmed mustache. Although the round spectacles he wore gave him an intellectual look, those eye glasses couldn't hide the doctor's good looks.

I would venture to say that when I was first introduced to Dr. Bradwell, it was a case of love at first sight. For both of us. There we were, two people from very different worlds, and yet we both recognized something familiar in the other.

Felder, as I referred to him behind closed doors, was a married man. He was married to a high-society gal named Daffodil, and it took two years of hell before he came to realize that Daffodil was crazy as a bedbug. When she started showing up at his practice wearing a wrinkled slip covered by a terrycloth robe that was encrusted with oatmeal and egg yolk, he had no choice but to put her away in a mental institution. Back then, folks didn't divorce their spouses the way they do today. You married for better or for worse and stuck by those vows

In the eyes of the law, I was carrying on an illicit affair with a married man, but Felder and I were so much in love, our bond was surely sanctioned by the Lord.

We were both masters at keeping secrets, and no one, not even Mr. Banner, was aware of the fiery passion that burned between us.

Felder despised Commissioner O'Grady for continually locking me up. He hated the man as much as I did, maybe more so. It bruised his ego something terrible that he couldn't protect me from O'Grady, and his desire for revenge was starting to eat at him.

I'm ashamed that we had to sacrifice an innocent woman to get to O'Grady, but in times of warfare, there's always collateral damage.

I had this new whore named Baby Cakes, a cute little petite thing, with the deepest dimples and big, round eyes. She looked childlike and adorable, and the men went wild for Baby Cakes. She was so tiny that even the puniest customer could feel like a he-man when he picked her up and carried her up the flight of stairs.

I was fit to be tied when during her very first week of employment, one of those dirty bastards gave her the clap—not only in her pussy, but also in her throat.

It burned me up having to lose money due to Baby Cakes being out of commission for a while. If it were up to me, she would have been back sucking and fucking as soon as Felder gave her the shot of penicillin. But Felder always insisted that the gals he treated lay low and refrain from sexual activity for at least two weeks.

Felder shocked me when he decided to hold off giving Baby Cakes a dose
of penicillin. He confided that he planned for her to infect the commissioner when the ol' brute made his regular Wednesday night visit.

There was no doubt that O'Grady would want a toss in the hay with Baby Cakes. He made it a point to try out all the new meat, free of charge, of course.

“If giving O'Grady the clap is your idea of punishment, I don't think it's severe enough,” I complained to Felder.

“You have to trust that I know what I'm doing, Eula Mae,” Felder responded. “When O'Grady comes slithering to the back door of my medical office looking for a shot of penicillin, I'm going to hit him with a dose of something much, much stronger.”

“Something that'll land him in the hospital?”

“Or worse,” Felder replied in a grim tone.

But neither Felder nor I could have predicted how O'Grady would react to discovering that he'd gotten the clap from Baby Cakes.

He was so furious, he didn't take the time to gather his men with their axes and sledgehammers to ransack the place and shut it down. He came thundering through the front door, with fire in his eyes. “Where's that whore, Baby Cakes?” he shouted.

“What could that sweet little Baby Cakes have done to you, Commissioner?” I asked in an innocent tone. As I tried to calm him down, I secretly mouthed to one of my gals to hurry to the parlor where Baby
Cakes was playing cards with a gentleman and tell her to run and hide.

“That bitch burned me!” O'Grady bellowed.

“Dr. Bradwell will fix you up, Commissioner,” I whispered discreetly.

“Yeah, and in the meantime, I'm going to put some hot lead in that dirty whore's ass. I wonder how she's gonna like whoring around in hell.” He pulled out his gun and all the girls scattered. The gal I had told to warn Baby Cakes that the commissioner was coming for her, abandoned her duty and ran screaming in the opposite direction of the parlor.

With the commissioner on the warpath, waving his gun in the air, whores were hollering as they ducked behind furniture. Johns ran out both the back and front doors, carrying their clothes and other belongings bundled up in their arms. Uncaring that they were stripped down to their underwear, those tricks got the hell out of the whorehouse before any bullets started flying.

To this day, when I think about what the commissioner did to Baby Cakes, I have to hang my head in shame. But neither Felder nor I could have predicted that O'Grady would have taken that kind rage out on such a sweet, little, defenseless gal. No one is ever happy about catching the clap, but when it happens, the average man gets his shot and goes on about his business.

If Satan ever had a brother, his name had to be O'Grady. That ruthless bastard pulled off his belt and wrapped it around Baby Cakes's neck and dragged her around the parlor long enough for her to nearly choke to death. While she was at death's door, he pistol-whipped her back to life
, cracking her jaw, busting her lips, and knocking out teeth in the process.

It was a horror to observe and while all the other gals were hiding, I
was right there in the parlor, crying and begging O'Grady to have mercy
on poor little Baby Cakes.

I recall noticing that Baby Cakes's blood had splattered on some of the leather-bound books in the library and also some of the paintings that Mr. Banner had bequeathed us.

The one thing that gives me a little peace of mind is the fact that Baby Cakes was out cold by the time O'Grady stuck his revolver all the way up her vagina and pulled the trigger.

After killing her, he adjusted his clothing, put his belt back on and returned his weapon to its holster. Then he strolled on out the door, leaving me to contend with the ravaged, bloody body of a dead whore.

I never asked Felder what he put in that needle he injected O'Grady with. There was no reason to inquire. Having no medical training, the contents he used wouldn't have meant a thing to me, anyway. What did matter is that O'Grady suffered terribly.

Whatever Felder shot him up with had him in and out of the hospital with mini seizures that kept occurring every week or so. The man would think he was free and clear, health-wise, but the next thing you know, he'd wind up on the floor, kicking like he was being electrocuted.

All those seizures took a toll and after a while, he lost his ability to speak, became wheelchair bound, and was drooling so badly, he had to wear a bib around his neck.

His wife, Mrs. O'Grady, thought it was her Christian duty to bring him out to community events like the annual policemen's softball game. Everyone was there, including me. And I made it a point to get in line with the rest of the community and pay my respects to O'Grady. When
my turn came, I told his wife what a fine police commissioner her husband
had been and when she turned her attention to the ballgame, I bent down
and whispered in his ear: “Payback's a bitch, muthafucka. That was a helluva injection the good Negro doctor gave you, don't you think? You
bragged about sending Baby Cakes to hell. Welp, she's not living in misery
like you are. I bet you'd give damn near anything to end your miserable life and join her. But you have to keep on living—shitting your pants and being fed like a baby. A pretty woman like your wife probably has a couple gentlemen callers to take care of her needs. After all, with you being a pissy-pants invalid, you can't do anything for her.”

I spoke those words with a sweet smile on my face while O'Grady grimaced and twisted in his wheelchair. He'd understood every word I'd spoken, but there wasn't a damned thing he could do except grunt and drool.

• • •

Grandma Eula Mae's story had gotten real juicy, and I reluctantly clicked off the tape. I wanted to take a leisurely bubble bath so I'd be refreshed and smelling good when my boo returned.

As I grabbed a towel, my thoughts returned to my grandmother.
Wow! Grandma Eula Mae and her doctor friend were G's. They handled that O'Grady dude—assigned him a fate worse than death. And he deserved it.

I had no idea that she'd ever been in love with a doctor, though. Hearing the way her voice had gone all soft and sugary when she described him revealed a side of her I had never known. I wondered what had happened between her and Dr. Felder Bradwell that caused her to leave him for the man she eventually married and had two daughters with.

But I forgot all about Grandma Eula Mae's love life when my phone pinged and the concierge announced that I had a guest. “Send him right up,” I said, twirling my hair and smiling in anticipation of more earth-shattering orgasms.

CHAPTER 28

I
t was the best weekend I'd had in a long time. Blissful and sensual, yet wild and raunchy at the same time. My only regret was that Maverick wouldn't get an opportunity to witness the cum-stained sheets. I'd changed them twice over the course of the weekend because sleeping on crisp, clean sheets was an absolute must for me.

Michelangelo and I fucked all over the apartment, and I felt vindicated in the knowledge that our naked asses had not only desecrated my marital bed, but had also christened the kitchen counter, the dining room table, the sunken bathtub, the shower, and the balcony.

Unabashed lust came at a cost, however. My cooch had been fucked raw and felt like it required bedrest for a week.

Monday morning rolled around, and both Michelangelo's and my presence were required at the studio. He slipped out of bed at four in the morning. I could hear him tiptoeing around, trying not to wake me as he got dressed. He was so considerate, I couldn't help comparing him to Maverick, who never let me sleep in peace whenever he got up first. Maverick would shake me awake and ask me if I'd picked up his black Givenchy suit from the dry cleaner, or he'd rouse me from sleep, using my cooch as a cum bucket during rushed, pre-dawn sex that didn't remotely resemble lovemaking.

My sweet Michelangelo was the complete opposite of my selfish husband, and I appreciated his thoughtfulness.

During the ride to work, I checked my messages and wasn't surprised that Maverick still hadn't gotten in touch with me. And for once, I didn't care. Having good side dick cured me of all my jealousy and insecurities over Brazilians and Russian bitches. Never again would I lose a wink of sleep over Maverick's whorishness.

At the studio, I was all smiles and my squad noticed the difference in me.

“Girl, you don't need any bronzer this morning; you have your own natural glow,” Clayton complimented. In the midst of him dabbing on foundation, there were two sharp raps on the door. Josh's authoritative, signature knock. Clayton and I shared a disgusted look.

“It's open,” Clayton called out.

Josh entered, looking frazzled and harried as usual. Raking his fingers through his hair, he said, “Would you mind excusing us, Clayton. I need to speak to Cori privately.”

“Not a problem.” Clayton sounded agreeable but his scowling expression told a different story. He put down his makeup brush, twisted his lips in annoyance, and pranced toward the door.

“What's his problem?” Josh asked after Clayton had left.

“You know how he gets when it's that time of the month.”

Instead of laughing at my attempt at a joke, Josh looked at me with a serious expression. “Cori, there's been a big change in the direction of the show.”

“What kind of change? We agreed that Becca's going home, right?” I searched his face, but he refused to make eye contact with me.

“As you know the majority of our viewers are women and we don't want to alienate that demographic. We decided to keep Becca around for the final two. She won't win, of course, but feminists won't be able to say that we've been discriminatory.”

“Okay, so who's going home…Yancy?”

“Of course not. We've already tapped Yancy to win this thing. Southern Baptist preacher…it makes sense.”

I blinked in incomprehension. “What are you saying? You're sending the one and only remaining African American contestant packing. Oh, hell no, Josh. Fuck that! You and your cronies better put your heads back together and make a decision on either Becca or Yancy because you're not sending the lone black man home. He needs to be in the final two and you know it!”

“Oh, Cori. It's so cliché to keep a black person around as a mere token.”

“A token? That man can cook circles around Becca and Yancy put together.”

“But it's not about who can cook and who can't. It's about the audience's reaction to the contestants.”

“We won't know how the audience reacts to any of them until the show airs in the fall. I can guarantee you that our female viewers will be creaming their panties over Michelangelo.”

“True, I don't doubt that he has sex appeal, but when we used a test audience, they reacted more favorably to Becca than Michelangelo.”

“That's bullshit.”

“It's true. As dippy as Becca is, the test audience loved it when she whispered chants over her food and used weird hand gestures as if casting spells over the dishes she prepared.”

I rolled my eyes. “This is an outrage, Josh. I am the only black woman who has a prime-time cooking competition show, and it was bad enough that there were only three black contestants on my show to begin with. Now you want to get rid of the last black person who also happens to be the strongest player in the competition. Michelangelo is articulate and handsome, and he can cook. He deserves a shot at success. I can't believe that you and those
other fucked-up producers prefer to keep a drunken, hocus-pocus bitch and an asshole country preacher over someone as genuinely talented as he is.”

“You always try to make everything about race, but I promise you, Cori, in this instance, that isn't the case. We want to keep the people that we believe will increase viewership.”

“Oh, so you're saying that a flawlessly beautiful black man who's in phenomenal physical shape will cause viewers to switch the channel, but a chunky, grizzly-faced, redneck preacher can keep them glued to the screen?” I got out of my seat and started pointing a finger at Josh. “You're talking so much shit, it's a wonder this room isn't reeking from the stench.”

Josh flinched and turned red when I called bullshit on his racist spiel.

I got all up in his space, frowning and snarling. “After that hateful rant from Angus on Friday about blacks, Jews, and Hispanics, I'd think that you of all people would be over your racist ways, but clearly you still hate and fear the black man.”

“That's not true.”

“Fuck if it isn't. You're singling Michelangelo out, racially profiling him exactly the way cops do when they encounter a young brother.”

“But some of my best friends—”

I waved him off. “Oh, kiss my ass. I'm not trying to hear that tired line of bullshit.”

My vile language caused Josh to wince. Seeing his visceral reaction inspired me to tell him off in a way that would rival Grandma Eula Mae's profanity-laced tirades during her final days.

“First of all, you need to fuckin' admit that you're a goddamn bigot. If it's too hard to tell me the truth, then you need to start being honest with your own goddamn self. Personally, I think a
racially intolerant person like you does more harm than a hatemonger like Angus. At least I know where the hell I stand with a racist bastard that's ranting and raving about his white superiority. But I can't stand a sneaky bitch-ass like you who tiptoes around, starting a bunch of bullshit behind the scenes. If I can't have a black man in the final two, then all of you discriminatory dickheads can kiss my black ass. In fact, talk to my lawyer because as of right the fuck now, I'm officially out of here.”

“What are you saying?”

“I quit!”

“No, Cori, please. Don't leave. You need to cool down and think about all the gossip and the bad press the show will receive.”

“America has a right to know what's going on here,” I retorted with a neck twist that I threw in for good measure.

“I heard every word, and you gave me a lot to think about. I agree that Michelangelo is a much better choice than either Becca or Yancy.” Josh began to inch backward toward the door. “I'm going to call another meeting with the producers and see if we can come to a different conclusion. I'm sure I can persuade them to look at the situation from your perspective. I want to thank you for your honesty, Cori. Thanks a lot.”

When he pulled the door open, Clayton, Robin, and Gina, who'd obviously been ear hustling, all toppled inside the room. Annoyed with them, Josh sucked his teeth and slammed the door behind him.

The four of us were silent as we listened to the sound of Josh's retreating footsteps. As soon as we were certain he was out of earshot, Clayton cried out, “Power to the people!” Robin and Gina raised their balled fists.

“You read his slimy ass,” Gina remarked.

“Mm-hmm,” Robin agreed. “You went in, Cori. You cussed him out and called him every name in the book.”

Clayton nodded his head. “I agree that Michelangelo should win. He's fine enough to host his own show or at the very least, he could be the sidekick to another celebrity chef. I'd volunteer to be his makeup man, free of charge. Ooo, I'd love to powder his nose and apply some long lush tongue licks to that tight anus.” Clayton flicked out his tongue, and it undulated in a disturbing snake-like manner.

I gave Clayton a curious look. “Do you get a gay vibe from Michelangelo?”

“Not at all, I'm sorry to say. But a man can dream.”

Relief flooded through me.

• • •

Becca forgot to add the turnip greens component to my famous, Southern crab cakes. She also substituted turmeric for curry powder, which gave the dish an unpleasant bitter taste that the judges and I found offensive. Her crab cakes were undercooked in some areas and burned to a crisp in others. Her macaroni salad was bland and tasteless. Overall, her dishes were a disaster, and it was out of the question for her to advance further.

She accepted her loss graciously and with humor. With her supposed spell casting and weird chanting, our Wiccan contestant would be quite memorable. Viewers would definitely respond to her madcap character, and I appreciated the zaniness she brought to the show. However, it was time to get serious and select a winner.

Tomorrow Yancy and Michelangelo would compete against each other. Unlike other cooking competitions, we wouldn't be bringing back the losing contestants to help them prepare their final meal. They would be assisted by Azaria Fierro and Norris Buckley, and I would be the sole judge of their dishes. Still, the whole thing was a farce since it had been predetermined that Yancy would win.

I was on my way to Josh's office when I noticed Azaria huddled
up with Michelangelo in the contestants' break room, supposedly discussing their strategy. I wasn't surprised that she'd angled a way to be paired with him, but what I found disturbing was her body language. She was sitting extremely close to him—so close her boobs grazed his arm. Clearly, she was trying to seduce my man!

I felt rage simmering inside me, but fought to keep it contained. Instinctively, I wanted to charge forward and scratch her eyes out, but I had to behave professionally and be mindful of keeping my side dude a secret.

Getting their attention, I cleared my throat. Azaria looked up and tossed me a fake smile. When Michelangelo gazed at me, I saw earnest eyes filled with something that was hard to define. Was it lust that I saw reflected in his eyes? Was he thinking about our long weekend together and how we'd fucked in every sex position of the Kamasutra? I wondered if like me, he was anxious to get together, again.

“Azaria and I were discussing strategy,” Michelangelo explained. “She thinks we should go with your fried catfish and grilled corn on the cob recipes, but—”

I held up a palm. “Don't tell me. If you divulge your strategy, I may not be as unbiased as I need to be.”

“Aw, damn, I blew it!” Michelangelo grumbled.

“It's okay,” Azaria soothed, patting his hand. “We'll start from scratch and come up with another winning idea.”

I noticed that her hand lingered on his caressingly. I didn't like it, but somehow I managed to keep my composure.

Sensing that I was getting upset, Michelangelo eased his hand from beneath hers.

“Well, I'll leave you two to continue strategizing,” I said, satisfied that Michelangelo wouldn't allow himself to be seduced by slutty Azaria.