“Sweet ride,” Wargart said.
“It is.”
“Must’ve set you back more than forty grand.”
“Not quite.”
“Where’d you get the money?” Freitas said.
“None of your business.”
“Bet I know,” she said.
“Bet you don’t.”
“That’s one hot-looking broad sitting next to you, too,” Wargart said.
“I think you meant to say hot-looking lady.”
“This what you’re blowing Alfano’s cash on, Mulligan? Fast cars and high-class hookers?”
Beside me, I felt Yolanda’s whole body stiffen as she prepared to tear the officer a new one. I squeezed her hand, signaling her to let me handle it.
“Fuck you, Wargart. Want to take that badge off so I can teach you some manners?”
“Maybe some other time. For now, why don’t you two lovebirds join us at the station so we can discuss your newfound affluence?”
“Affluence?” I said. “Who bought you a dictionary?”
This had been fun, but I decided it was time to put an end to it.
“I just collected a six-figure wrongful termination settlement from The Dispatch,” I said.
“Oh, really?” Wargart said.
“Ask my attorney.”
“And who would that be?”
“You’re looking at her.”
He’d met Yolanda several weeks ago when she burst into the interrogation room to rescue me. Maybe he didn’t recognize her in her party duds. Or maybe he was just being an asshole.
After a little more bluster, Wargart wrote me a ticket for blocking traffic and let us go on our way. Ten minutes later, the maître d’ seated us at a table by the front window. Andino’s was becoming our place.
“Detective Wargart is a goddamned bigot,” Yolanda said as we waited for the waitress to take our drink orders. I was surprised her language wasn’t stronger.
“He’s got his faults,” I said, “but I don’t think that’s one of them.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s married to a nurse who works at Rhode Island Hospital.”
“So?”
“She’s half Dominican.”
“Oh.”
“The prick was just trying to get a rise out of me, Yolanda.”
After my Killian’s and her carafe of white wine were delivered, Yolanda started looking uncomfortable.
“People are staring at us again.”
“They’re just curious,” I said. “You mind if I give you a word of advice?”
“What?”
“I know I’m not you. I know I’ll never feel what you feel. But if you keep looking this hard for signs of racism, you’re always going to find them. Whether or not they’re actually there.”
“So I should let my guard down?”
“No. But you shouldn’t jump to conclusions either. It’ll drive you nuts.”
She sat silently for a moment, trying to decide whether to get angry. She chose against it.
“Why are the cops still pestering you about Alfano’s money?” she asked. “Don’t they think Mario Zerilli took it?”
“They haven’t found it yet,” I said, “so they’re keeping their options open.”
“If they bring you in for questioning again, you’ll call me, right?”
“Of course.”
When the appetizers were served, she turned the conversation to business.
“What am I supposed to do with the seventy-five grand I’m holding for you?”
“Seventy-six thousand two hundred and fifty, to be precise,” I said.
She smiled. “That’s correct. What did you think? That I was skimming?”
I reached into my blazer, extracted an unsealed business envelope, and passed it to her. The address on it read: Keenan Jefferson, 17 Willard Ave., Providence, RI. She opened it and found a business letter I’d created on my laptop. The letterhead said: Tuukka & Associates Insurance Underwriters of North America.
I watched her face as she read the text.
Dear Mr. Jefferson,
We are pleased to inform you that we have approved payment on a policy the Providence Vipers Basketball Club purchased on your behalf. The policy insured you against any physical injury incurred during the team’s recent open tryouts. Enclosed you will find our check in the amount of $76,250.
If you have questions regarding this policy, or if we may be of future service, do not hesitate to contact our legal representative, Yolanda Mosley-Jones, at McDougall, Young, & Limone in Providence, Rhode Island.
Yours truly,
Joseph DeLucca/Vice President and Director of Benefits
Yolanda laid the letter on the table and slowly shook her head.
“Does this company actually exist?” she asked.
“On paper, it does. I filed incorporation papers last week.”
“You really want to do this?”
“I do.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“So everybody keeps telling me. But I feel responsible, Yolanda. I destroyed his dream. This is the least I can do for him and his family.”
“What will you do for money?”
“The work I’m doing for McCracken and the stories I’m writing for The Ocean State Rag will pay more than I was making at The Dispatch. It’s enough to keep the sheriff from my door.” Of course, I was also in business with Whoosh and Joseph. I hated keeping secrets from Yolanda, but I decided she didn’t need to hear about that.
“You’re really sure?”
“I am.”
“Maybe you’re not really this much of an angel. I’m going to give you another week to think about it. If you haven’t changed your mind by then, I’ll send the check by registered mail.”
“Okay, then.”
So far, this wasn’t the romantic evening I’d envisioned, but by the time the entrees arrived, things took a turn for the better.
“I downloaded Brian McKnight’s old Back at One album yesterday,” she said.
“Love songs?”
“Yes. I love that man’s voice.”
“Does he put you in the mood?”
“Wanna find out?”
“Let’s skip dessert,” I said.
And this time, she let me stay the night.
In the morning, I awoke to an empty bed. Norah Jones’s “Come Away with Me” floated in from the next room. Beneath the music, I heard Yolanda rattling pans in the kitchen. I rose, stepped over the clothes we’d hurriedly shed the night before, and stepped into the shower. I was lathering up when she opened the shower door and stepped inside. I grinned and wrapped my arms around her.
“There’s nothing finer than a wet woman,” I said.
“Any wet woman?”
“Pretty much, but I’ve got a crazy thing for this one.”
“Maybe this will make you crazier,” she said. She smiled mischievously and slid to her knees.
After we toweled off, we slipped into terry-cloth robes, sat at the kitchen table, and devoured the cheese omelets she’d prepared.
“This is wonderful,” I said, “but you know what would be better?”
“What?”
“If we moved in together. Then every morning could be like this one.”
She fell silent. I held my breath.
“You haven’t said the words,” she said.
“I love you, Yolanda.”
“I think maybe I love you, too.”
“What will it take to get you to hit the delete button on maybe?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll wait,” I said.
“How long? They say black women are stubborn.”
“However long it takes.”
50
I was helping Yolanda clear the dishes when Johnny Rivers’s “Secret Agent Man,” my ringtone for McCracken, started playing on my cell phone.
“Haven’t seen your face for more than a week,” he said.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Think you could drop by the office Monday? We should talk.”