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“Plum!” Denzin shouted. “Plum!”
She heard slapping noises.
“Come on, Plum, Wake up. Wake up,” he said, his voice frantic.
“Denzin,” she called out.
He didn’t respond.
He must have put the phone down.
Desdemona heard a commotion and then a splash of water. She bit her bottom lip as she drove in and out of traffic trying to get to Riverdale as soon as possible, feeling helpless and hopeless.
“Boss,” he said into the phone suddenly. “She’s alive.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“She almost overdosed.”
“Plum?” she asked in disbelief, thinking of the young Latina with the brightest and most infectious smile and warm disposition that made you love her on the spot. To Plum, everyone was “love” or “mama” or “baby.” Everyone.
“There’s heroin in the room, boss.”
Desdemona came to a red light and was thankful for the chance to close her eyes and let her heart ache. Drugs. Addiction was tough. It was an illness. It was hard to kick. It was a whole new pimp. A different master.
No, Plum.
A vision from the past that left an indelible mark on her life flashed, and she shook her head to free it. To forget it. As she had done for years. As she had had to for years.
“Plum,” she mouthed, feeling overwhelmingly sad at the battle the young woman would have to fight to overcome heroin.
“I’m on the way,” she said softly, barely above a whisper, her eyes filling with tears as she ended the call and lowered her head to the steering wheel.
The long and steady blare of a car horn—or a few—behind her caused her to raise her head and accelerate forward. It took her twenty minutes to make it to Riverdale. She gathered herself during that time and calmly pulled her car into one of the spots inside the garage, closing and locking it behind her before she climbed out and entered the house through the side entrance.
Her steps echoed in the quiet of the house as she made her way down the hall and to the right to the elevator. What came next would not be easy, but she had prepared herself for it and was sticking to her guns.
“Hey, boss,” Denzin said solemnly, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed over his bare chest, wearing nothing but sleep pants.
She gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes as she walked up to him and squeezed his hand. “I’m responsible for y’all, you know,” she said softly.
“We appreciate you, boss. Trust me,” he stressed.
Desdemona looked to the open door. “Leave us alone, okay?” she asked.
“No problem.”
She let her hand trail across his arm until it fell to her side as she walked away from him and into the room, closing the door behind her. Plum was sitting on the side of the unmade bed, still in a barely-there black teddy, with her hands covering her face, leaving nothing in view but her shoulder-length hair dyed her trademark plum color.
Her eyes fell to the heroin packet on the floor. There was still a bit of the drug in the corner of it.
The devil.
“Hi, Plum,” Desdemona said, deciding to leave it there.
The beautiful Latina, who resembled Cyn Santana in looks and body, looked up at her. Even her ruined makeup couldn’t detract from her beauty. Nor could it hide the glassiness in her eyes.
How did I miss it?
