Deja Vu

even a thank you.”

“Angelica is not worth wasting your time on.”

“Why do you say that?” Margo searched Jefferson’s eyes. “She seemed resourceful when things weren’t…”

“No, Margo. Let’s not rehash this. I’m sorry I brought Angelica into our conversation. She is no longer part of our lives, and I want it to stay that way.”

Margo reached over and kissed Jefferson on the lips. The kiss lingered longer than she had planned, but it seemed to please Jefferson.

“I hope I can expect to receive more of those kisses.” Jefferson began to tremble. “Your lips felt good, Margo, and if you let me, I’d like to make love to you.”

“I can’t do it right now, Jefferson.” Margo jumped up from her seat. She turned and looked back at Jefferson sitting on the couch, a boyish innocence radiating from him. “I want to, but not now.”

“Will you hold me?” Jefferson begged. “I need you, Margo. I need you.”

Margo looked at him. He wasn’t the strong tower she was used to. Jefferson seemed weak, almost timid, and she hated a begging man, but he was her husband and she did love him.

Margo sat back down on the couch and wrapped her arms around Jefferson. She held him to her bosom and gave him a big hug. Holding Jefferson made her think about Malik. What is this sudden feeling I’m having for him? My covenant is with Jefferson and God.

But Margo felt like King David in the Bible who coveted the wife of one of his finest soldiers, after which he put the soldier on the front line of battle to be killed. But Jefferson put himself on the front line of battle with no thought that Central Prison would be his address. His absence made Margo long for another man, although she had never realized it. She hugged Jefferson tight, even though it was Malik who claimed her thoughts.

23

Angelica was unable to sleep. Images of Donna Barnes Reardon invaded her dreams. Donna’s hand with its twisted pointer finger was stretched to the limit, narrowly missing Angelica’s nose by a centimeter. Get out! Get out! Angelica heard Donna say. Get out, you miserable freeloader.

Angelica tossed and turned all through the night. Her sheets were pulled from the mattress as if a savage beast had been in the room. She rolled to one side and then the other. Unable to will herself to sleep, she sat up in the bed and waited for her eyes to focus.

Birds chirped outside her window, but the noise was irritating. Angelica ran to the window to try and scare them away.

Slowly, night gave way to day. Angelica lay down on the crumpled up sheets, balling up her pillow to form what looked like a bird’s nest, and laid her head on it. Before she knew it, she was fast asleep.

She bolted upright, not sure where time had gone. The sun was bright as it forced its way into her bedroom. She got up and tiptoed, listening for signs of life. Hearing none, she ventured outside the room on her tippy toes, her back hunched over and her eyes darting in different directions like a predator hunting its prey. When she was sure that she was alone, she let her shoulders relax and then air escaped through her lips.

Quiet was sometimes a lonely feeling, but this morning it was a welcome relief. Ari was gone to work, and she didn’t have to face his accusing stares and unspoken accusations, although she had nothing to worry about.

Sunlight flooded the dining room. As Angelica started to cross the length of it, there it was in bold black letters, DONNA BARNES REARDON, PHOTOGRAPHER TO THE STARS, FOUND DEAD IN HER MANHATTAN APARTMENT, on the front page of the New York Times. Angelica gasped and reached for a corner of the table and held onto it, looking at the newspaper once more, bringing herself face to face with a blaring press photo of Donna. It was real because the papers didn’t lie about the demise of the city’s elite-or at least Donna thought she was. Angelica couldn’t move and continued to brace herself on the table as Ari’s conversation in the wee hours of the morning came rushing back to her.

Finally able to move, Angelica sat down in one of the dining room chairs. Donna was dead, but how did she die? Angelica inched her hand to where the paper lay, hesitating a moment before picking it up. At first she couldn’t see anything for the blaring headline, but right there in paragraph one was the answer, stark and to the point.

Manhattan’s own Queen of Photography was found murdered yesterday in her Manhattan apartment. A close friend, who asked to remain anonymous, found her in her studio with her neck slashed and called the police immediately.

Angelica trembled and raised her hand to her throat as she read the words again, with her neck slashed. She wondered which one of Donna’s three companions found her: Jazz, Coco or Madeline? The paper shook violently in Angelica’s hand until she finally set it on the table, unable to read anymore. But her curiosity got the better of her, and she grabbed the paper and forced herself to read more.

There was an apparent struggle between the victim and her assailant. Camera equipment was strewn throughout the room, and one of Ms. Reardon’s award-winning photos that hung in her studio was slashed. This appeared to be the work of a cold-blooded killer.

The doorman, Ari Parrias, said that Ms. Reardon entertained lots of guests. They came and they went. He did recognize a female friend of Ms. Reardon who entered the apartment at approximately four in the afternoon.

Angelica put the paper down. “Thank you, Ari, for not mentioning my name.” The last time she spoke with him, he was visibly upset and throwing accusations her way. Why would she want to hurt Donna? Why would anyone else want to hurt her?

The cab drove up and she was on her way to her second night on the job. Angelica enjoyed the applause of the crowd-and the men that threw tens and twenties her way. There was an air of freedom in dancing before the gawking men and making the pole a slave to her gyrating body.

The cab driver stared at her in his rear view-mirror. Angelica hurled him a makeshift kiss and turned her head and watched Queens roll by. New York was not as intoxicating as she once felt. She had not even been in the city long enough to give it a failing grade, but something about it made her uncomfortable, like she didn’t belong.

The cab finally arrived at the club, and Angelica paid her fare and walked in. Tonight she wore a black, form- fitting dress that hit four inches above the knee and showed enough cleavage to get someone’s interest. A one- inch, patent-leather belt circled her waist.

A look of surprise enveloped Angelica’s face. The music was jumping, and it was not even time to start the show. She took a peek beyond the curtain that led into the main entrance of the club where all the entertainment was held, and a couple dozen men were sitting at round tables engaged in heavy talk. A rather well-built man offered a toast. “Aw, a celebration,” Angelica said to no one, backed away from the curtain and headed toward the dressing room.

As Angelica entered the room, the reception was lukewarm. “Hey, Angel,” said several of the girls as Angelica walked toward her locker.

“Hey, yourself,” Angelica said, throwing an appreciative smile their way. These girls didn’t judge, at least not openly, and it kept things in perspective because Angelica was only there to make a paycheck like the rest of them.

“We’ve got ourselves a nice crowd tonight, Angel,” Desiree said. “The money is going to be gooooooood. And the way I heard you were working your thang last night, you might have a down payment on a nice automobile when you’re through.”

Angelica laughed and patted Desiree on the arm. “I’m going to put it on them, girlfriend.”

The others turned to look at Angelica and Desiree as they filled the room with laughter.

“Can’t be that funny,” Kiki said, rolling her eyes.

“It was to us,” Angelica said, looking back at Desiree, who started laughing again and slapped Angelica five.

“Get this, you too old to suck a momma’s tit, wanna-be stripper. Those men,” Kiki pointed toward the club,