A young analyst with the Pentagon inherits a quilt knitted by a slave ancestor and with it a secret to an extremely rare and valuable diamond necklace. Her world spins out of control when elements of the Thai mob pursue our heroine in search of the quilt and its secrets.
Excerpt
”One roundtrip ticket to New York,” she said.
“Penn Station? Amtrak stops all over New York.” The ticket agent kept his head down, as his eyes seemed to reach over his bifocals. He studied her face, waited for his answer.
His nearsighted stare made her shrink away and she turned to give him more of a profile than a post office style headshot, straight away. She kept her left eye, the one with the angry bruise, away from the man’s view.
“I’m going to the city. Penn Station?” She posed her answer as a question because she wasn’t sure which stop was closest to Times Square.
“That’ll be a hundred and fifty-six dollars.”
She nodded then dug deep inside her purse. Rummaged through her personal items: hairbrush, makeup kit, cellphone, iPod, condoms and gun. She glanced up momentarily checking to see if the man at the ticket counter had seen the weapon. She breathed easy as he seemed to have not noticed the small caliber pistol secreted away inside her handbag.
He kept his head down, rubber stamp in one hand, pencil in the other. Heavy thump from one hand with the words: Originating city, Washington, DC – Destination New York, NY making an impression in ink on her ticket. He made a repetitive tapping on the counter with his pencil occasionally looking up to see if she was finally ready to pay.
She grabbed at a wad of bills, smiled uneasily and began unfolding the crumbled up currency. She seemed apologetic as she handed him a hundred dollar bill. “Hundred dollar bills are all I have.”
“I’ve got change. That’s one ticket. Return when?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Name?”
“Huh?”
He exhaled hard. “Your name, Miss.”
“Oh, Charity Trudeau.”
She watched as he typed her name into the computer. She had second thoughts about using her real name. Derek told her that catching the train wouldn’t involve the scrutiny passengers undergo when they fly the friendly skies. No metal detectors, no driver’s license or picture I.D. required. But she shrugged off the thought that anyone could trace her movements no matter how she traveled.
The agent slid Charity’s ticket and change across the counter in one motion. She swept everything into one hand careful not to open her purse again for the world to see her secrets.
He said, “Train’s leaving at Gate 7. Better hurry or you’ll miss it.”
She followed the signs to Gate 7, listened to the hiss of the train’s hydraulics that sounded like a snake then surveyed the platform for faces. Charity found an open seat in a car that wasn’t half full and settled in for the trip to New York City.
Minutes into the ride the porter strolled through the car asking for tickets. She was a middle aged black woman with a small frame and stoic expression. She stopped at every occupied seat asking for the rider’s ticket. The porter examined with her eyes and punched a hole in the ticket before sliding it into a slot on the back of the rider’s seat.
When she got to Charity she stood there looking at the young woman who was half asleep. The porter cleared her throat, which got the girl’s attention.
“Ticket please.”
Charity pulled her ticket out of the pouch attached to the seat in front of hers. She had realized that opening her purse was a risky venture so she took no chances. She handed her ticket to the porter without looking directly at the woman. She remembered Derek’s words: “Don’t make eye contact with anyone, but don’t look away either. You don’t want people to identify you if something goes wrong.”
The porter went about her task punching Charity’s ticket as she had with the other passengers then started to meander down the aisle. Charity breathed a little easier thinking that she had safely passed the second test until the porter stopped in her tracks and started walking back. She stood by Charity and stared at her purse.
“Is that a knock off?” she asked Charity.
The young woman felt a lump grow in her throat then swallowed it away. “Ah, no. It’s real.”
The porter shook her head unable to contain her own amazement. “What does a purse like that cost? About nine thousand dollars?”
Charity stared at the back of the seat in front of hers and not at the porter. “Yes, I think.”
“Girl, if I sold everything in my apartment, furniture, refrigerator, T.V. and all my clothes I couldn’t buy that purse.” The porter twisted her mouth, looked Charity up and down. “Scores?”
“Huh?” Charity looked up at the porter, but still avoided the other woman’s eyes.
“You dance at Scores? Lots of pretty girls do. Nothin’ to be ashamed of. I hear girls there make two-three hundred thousand a year just shakin’ their asses.”
“No ma’am. I’m an actress.”
The porter slowly moved away and continued down the aisle. She huffed and walked away mumbling. “I ain’t never seen her on television or in the movies. Actress my ass.”
Charity smiled at the thought that she actually had two purses like the one she carried. The other was folded and tucked neatly inside the purse the porter had admired. Derek told her it was large enough to carry the two hundred and fifty thousand in cash she was to bring back for him.
She reached inside her purse for her compact. Looking in the small mirror she could see the dark ring around her eye thinly disguised with beige colored makeup over her beige colored skin. She cursed Derek every time she thought about what he did to her eye and although she was making this run for him her thoughts spoke of revenge.
All of the apologies in the world couldn’t undo what he did to her. A backhand to her face unexpected, but not a shock to her. She told Derek she didn’t want to make this run for him. It didn’t feel right. But her protests were met with his forceful persuasion.
She thought: He’ll pay for this. I swear.
She lamented the fact that she wasn’t in control of the situation---not over Derek, not over her own life. His dominance over her was obvious. What better evidence could there have been to prove it. She was making the run, black eye, bad feelings and all.
When Charity arrived at Penn Central she wasted no time getting off the train. She made her way out of the station and on to West 34th Street. She could see Madison Square Garden in the background. She stopped and took in the scenery for the moment then raised her hand to attract the attention of one of the many taxicabs parked near the station.
She told the driver, “The Four Seasons Hotel.”
Easy directions, easy to remember.
Charity opened her purse as she kept a careful eye on the cab driver. She took out the brown envelope and peeled away the flap for the first time because her curiosity was getting the best of her. She wondered what was inside that envelope that was worth a quarter of a million dollars.
She looked at the envelope’s contents and felt a sudden rush of anger as she read. She whispered, “Son of a bitch!” then put the items back inside the envelope.
A few minutes later Charity was standing in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel waiting for the man that Derek told her to give the envelope to, the man who would give her the money. He said nothing when he found her sitting in the hotel lobby other than hello.
His unsmiling face, bald head set on top of a wide muscular frame was intimidating enough to make her want to run away. She thought: Screw this. Screw Derek. But it was too late. She followed the man without a will of her own as they headed to the elevator and to his room on the fifth floor.
Her fear mounted as she walked. She wondered why Derek sent her on this particular run. It was different, not like the others. Of course, he told her that she was the only person he could trust. Besides, he gave her the gun just in case. He told her there was nothing to worry about.
The man, of Asian background, remained straight-faced until they walked into his room. “You black girl, no?”
Charity didn’t answer. She thought her racial background was obvious.
The man speaking in halting English leered at her for a moment. “Ever been to Thailand?”
She shook her head.
“Not many black girls there. You do well dancing in go-go there. Blond girls and black girls make lot of money there.” His smile turned lascivious. “Girl like you do well. Men give you jewelry. Give you gold. Give you diamonds. They pay lot of baht.”
She felt her impatience start to rise. She wanted to get the hell out of that room. Get away from the man who stood there leering at her, leering at her the way men did at the club. But they paid for their visual intercourse and fantasy rides. This man was taking her in like he’d put her on a plate and sop her up like a biscuit. And the money he’d pay was Derek’s money---all Derek’s.
She thought about the envelope over his idle chatter. The anger returned. She gritted her teeth. She had reached a crossroad in her life. It was unplanned, unrehearsed.
“You got the money?” she said.
The man nodded.
“Derek said you need to show it to me before I give you the envelope.”
He smiled. “Derek. He not a trusting man. You just little girl. I could simply take it and keep the money.” He moved closer to her. “I could take you, as well.”
He was adding insult to injury. You don’t disrespect anyone with the power of life and death---even if she is a scared young girl. It was the final straw. She reached inside her purse, pulled out the chrome plated .380 and pointed it at the man’s head.
“Why don’t you just give me the money and shut the fuck up!”
Her voice was high-pitched and loud. She felt the adrenalin course its way through her veins as her chest heaved. Her expression was deadly. He realized right then that she would pull the trigger and ignite the firestorm that would end his life.
He did as he was ordered handing her the bag. “The envelope please,” he said.
Charity gave him an angry scowl in return to his demand. She took the bag with the money and stuffed it inside her purse to the point where it bulged at its designer seams.
“What about my envelope?” The man’s face was wrought with confusion. He was almost begging.
Charity twisted her mouth, made her pretty face look angry and menacing even if she couldn’t scare a three year old with that expression.
“I should blow your ass away just because of what’s in that envelope. Trust me, you’ll never get it.”
The man’s face hardened. He spoke through clinched teeth. “You give me envelope and I forget this little incident. Maybe, I spare your life. Maybe, I won’t have Derek’s ears put in jar. Maybe, my associates won’t pay a visit to your mother and father.
He smiled menacingly and waited with his hand outstretched.
Charity shook her head. Her gun was power, transforming her from an eighteen year-old exotic dancer from a small town in Georgia to an angel of death. The weapon emboldened her and made her convincingly real like the times when she starred in her high school plays.
The cold press of the weapon’s grip, its weight made her want to squeeze the trigger, hear its angry report, watch this man’s blood run.
“Take off your clothes! All of them!”
“You make big mistake little girl. Derek tell you who I am? Who I work for?”
“No. And I don’t care.” She leveled the gun at his head. “Do it!”
He unbuttoned his shirt and reluctantly pulled it off. Then came his pants. He twisted his face in confusion. “Underwear?”
“Them too,” Charity said.
He did as he was told.
She looked at him, smiled inside. “You must’ve just taken a cold shower. O.K. Pick up your clothes.”
She surveyed the suite still trying to decide the best way to stop him from following her. She thought about locking him inside the bathroom, but like most rooms the door only locked from the inside. She thought: The balcony.
She used her gun to point to the balcony. “All right, I think you need some fresh air.”
“You cannot do this. People will see me out there.”
“It’s up to you. You wanna be a little embarrassed or a lot dead.”
He mumbled something as he waddled ahead of Charity to the balcony some five stories in the air. When he stepped outside he quickly covered his most private parts and turned to face Charity. “I will see you again and when I do it will be a most unpleasant encounter for you. Where I come from death is a sport and killing someone, especially a young, pretty girl is to be savored and enjoyed like sushi. I will taste you one day soon, Tell Derek he will be kon dta-gla.”
“Yeah? Well back at cha----whatever you said.”
Charity locked the patio door and slowly backed out of the room. She took the stairs down to the lobby, just in case and jumped into a cab waiting in front of the hotel. “Greyhound Bus Terminal!” She barked at the driver.
Charity rode to the terminal thinking about her next move. She had changed Derek’s plan abruptly. She was operating on the fly, creating as she goes. Derek would be waiting for her call. The plan was that he would meet her the next day at Union Station in D.C. He had allowed her a day to do some shopping at the stores along Fashion Avenue. He would be at the station at the appointed time waiting for the money, but what was done was already done.
Charity had made an irrevocable move and it was too late to change it. She’d slip into D.C. by bus not the train as planned, catch a cab to some nondescript motel outside the city and decide what she should do from there.
Charity sat at the rear of the bus where no one could see her. She opened the sack she had taken from the man, kept a wary eye trained towards the front of the bus in case someone might venture to the back where she sat. There were stacks of bills inside with money wrappers designating a thousand dollars per stack. She counted two hundred and fifty stacks of bills or two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
It was still more money than she’d ever have all her own. Charity clutched the bag and wrapped both arms around it. Derek would never see the money or Charity again if she had her way. She just had to figure out how to elude him.
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