C H A P T E R • 47
Samantha walked over.
“I’m fat with column copy this week. And I’m thinking I’ll let you all help me decide what secrets you want me to publish in my second column. Let me see. How about Pearl Washington is selling the Journal?” she offered.
“No.” Adrianne was firm.
The rest of the staff turned to us.
I spoke slowly, realizing I was moved. “I am Charles Washington’s daughter and I want you to know that whatever happens, whether there is a sale now or later, whether I end up here or not, I’ll look out for you. You all are the best. This paper gives this community what it wants—what’s happening and why, a laugh and a secret. And it gives them what they didn’t know to want—the truth without the excuses. I am privileged to work with you, all of you. Adrianne and I have been talking over these days and she will be in charge until I get back and we can figure this out. I will not have someone else second-guessing her.”
“Thank you again,” Adrianne said.
Sam tried another story. “What Harlem cop is back with his first love.”
“No,” I said, louder than I meant to.
Sam smiled at me and tried another one. “What bar owner and grieving widow can now give her full attention to her outside man?”
“Viola was running around?” I asked. “Who?” I felt the sour in my stomach rising dangerously. “I wonder if Daddy knew?”
“Yeah, I kind of doubt he wouldn’t know. How are you going to be tipping around Harlem and nobody knows? But it doesn’t matter who. I’m not one to use names in these cases.”
“You don’t have to run it.”
“I don’t have to. No. I never have to run any of this stuff. But I probably have a better one. How about somebody paid somebody to scare Cecelia Miller and he accidently killed her? Then they had to kill him because he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut. They found out where he was hiding.”
“Yes.” It’s a trio with Al. We all agreed to the hit-and-run story.
“He told me she stepped off the curb,” Al said. “She was supposed to be on the curb.”
“And Al, you won’t say who paid Heavy?”
“I don’t need them to think I know.”
“I love that Sam’s column can hold all the suspicion and rumor. You all can get to the facts soon. But we don’t have to wait for them.”
“I need a drink,” Adrianne said.
“Me too. But I need you to wait for me at the Kit Kat. I’m going to Jackson & Robinson for the preview of what Dad’s will has to say.”
“I’m coming too,” Al says. “Attorney Robinson told me I’m in the will.”
“He didn’t tell me. But that’s good. Adrianne?”
“Yes. I’ll see you at the Kat.”
After the printer’s messenger picked up the special edition, the staff started dispersing to catch the last hours of Veteran’s Day.
Adrianne said, “I know you’ve asked yourself this question. But what are the consequences if we’re wrong about the bank? And about all of it?”
“We’re not going to miss another scoop. The Wizard of Racism that Mister Bell talked about is out from behind the screen. We need to bust him.”
When they left, I got daddy’s 10mm out of the false bottom of the side drawer in his desk and loaded it.
But I noticed the possibility of once more stepping into a place of dishonoring the mindfulness trainings I had vowed to live my life by—a life where I was aware of how I showed up, where I could pause and intend no harm and hear the voices of others who shared my intention.
But here I was running around taking all manner of unskillful actions. I had harmed Bobby Bop, but as carefully as I could, and that was without a gun. It was true, as Roger said, my lovemaking with Obie could I suppose be called illicit sex since we both had commitments to others. I had consumed many substances that made me confused. Thank goodness, Ceel’s money was gone before I could steal it for my payroll. And at least, so far, I had only lied a little.
I saw myself slipping and sliding around my intentions and aspirations as I put the gun back in the drawer.