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Keith loved the idea, too, and so, the following Friday evening, the Black Pack meeting was held at Richard’s Soul Food Diner.
There was a huge sign on a wooden stand outside the restaurant that said CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PARTY.
Just in case the press had somehow got wind of the gathering, the group waited until dark and then snuck in unobtrusively one by one, at least ten minutes apart.
About twenty people showed up. We all crammed ourselves into a back room that held supplies (I wanted to press my body up against Victor’s, but Paul’s beady eyes never left me) and didn’t speak a word until the last person arrived. That’s when Richard locked the front doors, pulled all the blinds and curtains down so it was impossible to see inside, and signaled for the group to come out. It seemed like a very slaves-sneaking-out-the-cabin-to-gather-secretly-in-a-group-down-by-the-creek type of event.
Once we were released, I was enveloped in hugs, kisses, and handshakes before half the group headed for the bar to order drinks and the others to put their belongings in the empty chairs. Since we didn’t trust anyone, Richard was going to take food orders, mix drinks, and do all the cooking himself. I would have been beside myself if I were in his shoes, but he looked pleased to be a part of all the intrigue.
I saw Paul fiddling with a CD player that was set up at the end of the bar counter and soon dance tunes from our teenaged years by artists like Rick James, George Clinton, the Brothers Johnson, Kool and The Gang, and Whodini filled the room and Richard’s Soul Food Diner began to rock.
Joe sidled up to me.
“Jackie,” he said, “I’m so sorry that all this is happening to you.”
I felt a pang of dislike at the fascinated expression on Joe’s face; it had tell me all the sordid details pasted on it. I didn’t want to indulge his curiosity so I honed in on Tiffany Nixon’s totally unbalanced press coverage. “I’ve been keeping up with CNN and other papers,” I told him. “They are speculating about Annabelle’s relationship with her husband and reporting on other mysterious deaths that have occurred in that building since it opened. But Tiffany Nixon is supposed to be my damn sistah and she is not doing any of that.”
As I was talking, I became conscious of some other emotion that was flickering around Joe’s sober mien. Jealousy. Before I could fully absorb this oddity, Elaine Garner joined us, drink in hand.
“How are you holding up, Jackie?”
“I think half of me is still in shock.”
She nodded to show her understanding and played with the swizzle stick. “You ought to fight Tiffany Nixon right back. Get some of the Black activists to protest in front of her offices. If you’d like, I’ll give Frank Jenkins a call. He and I have never met, but his cousin Barbara went to Harvard with me.”
Frank Jenkins was the fiery leader of a young group that called itself The New Black Warriors. Although I respected their work, I didn’t want to turn this whole thing into some horrible media extravaganza that made the networks rich but ended without an answer to the only real question that mattered: Who killed Annabelle, and why?
“No, Elaine, but thanks for the suggestion.” Since my publishing career was ruined and I’d probably never see her again after tonight, I wanted to ask her why the fuck she had to mention Harvard every time she opened her mouth, but I restrained myself.
Joe shifted from one foot to the other. “Did Annabelle know about the Black Pack?”
“I doubt it, Joe. If she did, I’m sure she would have mentioned it to me,” I answered. “What difference does it make?”
“Just wondering,” he mumbled. “I’m going to get some food.”
I grabbed him by the arm so hard, he let out a yelp. “Not yet. Why did you ask me that?”
“Jesus! Take it easy,” he shouted.
I refused to let go. “Answer me!”
A hand landed on my shoulder. I turned around, and it was Victor. He gave me a slow, sweet smile. The gap between his two front teeth sent me into a lather.
Joe and Elaine skittered away like they were happy to get away from my sudden fit of temper.
“Jackie, it’s good to see you.”
“Thanks, Victor. Having you all here really lifts my spirits.”
He patted my shoulder. “I hope this nightmare ends for you soon.”
By now I was practically swooning. Suppose I went to jail in the morning and stayed there for the rest of my life, a victim of a terrible miscarriage of justice, having lost my last chance to go to bed with him? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself! And so, the words rushed out. “You know, Victor, I live right around the corner.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Jackie, Jackie, Jackie . . . what am I going to do with you?”
I could think of at least five things that would make the editors of Playboy magazine blush but my bold invitation had taken all my energy.
By this point, we were gazing into each other’s eyes and my tongue was tied.
