Going Broke (22 page)

Tremel walked in.

“Hi, honey,” I said from the living room as I approached him.

“Hey.” He wasn't as enthusiastic as I imagined he'd be.

I grabbed his hand. “How have you been?”

“I'm fine.”

I could tell that something was wrong.

“How is your father?” He let go of my hand and walked to the kitchen.

“He's okay.”

“He's okay, huh?”

“Yeah.” This was the trip where I really hadn't done anything wrong. “Why?”

“Nothing.” He opened the refrigerator and poured milk into a glass.

“What?”

“Nothing, Sarai.” He looked at me for the first time since walking into the apartment.

“Tremel, what's wrong?” I regretted lying to him. “Why are you giving me attitude?”

“Attitude?” he asked. “I'm not giving you attitude. I just asked how your father was doing.”

“But why do you keep asking me that?”

“Probably because the nursing home called here early this morning looking for you,” he said calmly.

“Oh my God.” My heartbeat was off the chart. “What happened? What did they say?”

“You tell me, Sarai.” He raised his voice at me for the first time since I'd known him. “Where were you?”

I was speechless. “I told you where I was.”

“Please don't lie to me.” He looked at me with eyes I knew needed to know the truth. He begged me. “Please tell me the truth.”

I still wasn't giving it up. “What did they say when they called?”

“It was a Nurse Gray. She said that it was an emergency. She also said that you needed to call her and oh, she said that she hadn't seen you in a while.” Then he repeated, “She hasn't seen you in a while.” He got closer to me. “Tell me where you were.”

I dialed the number to the nursing home on the speakerphone, while Tremel stared at me. “Hello, may I please speak with Nurse Gray?” She had never called me before. I just hoped that everything was okay. I was shaking by the time she picked up the phone. “Nurse Gray, this is Sarai Emery. Did you call me? Is everything okay?”

“Ah yes, Sarai,” she said. “How are you?”

“I'm fine,” I rushed. “Is my father all right?”

“Oh yes, he's doing great.”

“Okay. Was there a reason you called?”

“Yes, it seems that every time you come to town to see him, I'm off. I haven't seen you in quite a while. The only reason I knew that you were here this weekend is because I was processing the check that you left, but you forgot to put your driver's license number on it.” She continued, “I can't put the payment through without it.”

“Oh, okay, hold a sec. Let me get it.” I grabbed my purse and fished through it.

I did visit my dad on Sunday. I drove from Trenton to Dover, 160 miles roundtrip. I spent four hours with him and paid for another two months, so he was good until March.

I returned to the phone and gave Nurse Gray what she needed. “Anything else?”

“No, darling,” she said. “Just call me the next time you're coming so that I can plan to see you.”

“I will.” I pressed the speaker button off.

Tremel was quiet. He had the word
embarrassed
written all over his handsome face.

I made a move to leave the kitchen, but he reached for my hand and pulled me over to him. “Oops,” he said.

“Where did you think I was?” I punched him on his arm gently.

He smiled a little. “You weren't here.”

I rolled my eyes playfully and said, “You owe me fifty apologies.”

As I looked at the tiled floor, he lifted my head with his hand beneath my chin.

“I just missed you.” He kissed me softly on the lips. “I'm sorry.” He slid his mouth down to my neck. “I jumped to conclusions.” Tremel lifted my shirt above my head. “I was wrong.”

My bra was unhooked next, and I watched it fall to the floor.

“I just allowed my mind to over-think.”

His fingertips roamed my hills and valleys, and I allowed my body to enjoy his touch.

“I was dead wrong, baby.”

He unbuckled my pants and pushed them toward the ground. “I apologize.”

He didn't remove my panties, but he picked me up, laid me on the dining room table, where he pulled my thong to the side and I became his five-course meal. He penetrated me with his tongue, and I trembled.

“Damn, I've missed you,” he said.

We moved to the loveseat, where he gave himself to me for dessert. I was facing him, as I lowered my body to him and wrapped my hands around his neck. I felt him within me, as I softly bounced up and down on him.

“Do you accept my apology?” he asked, his hands on my waist.

“No,” I said as I grinded myself into him.

“You don't?”

I shook my head from side to side. “Nope.”

Tremel suddenly stood up and lifted me, putting my back against the wall. As he slid more of himself in, he looked me in the face. “So you're never going to forgive me?”

I wrapped my legs around him and looked into his eyes. “Why should I?”

He began poking me hard and fast.

“Shit.” I thought I had died and gone to some sort of heaven. “Oh my God,” I said as I held onto him around the neck.

“You forgiving me now, huh?” He smiled.

Lord, he felt good. “Damn.” He moved a little faster, and I thrust myself to him each time.

“Tell me that you're sorry for not believing me,” I said into his ear.

“I'm sorry.”

“Say it again.”

“I'm sorry.”

I made him apologize about ten times, and each time he sunk himself deeper than the time before.

I wasn't going to be upstaged. I started wiggling, jiggling, and whipping him with it.

“Damn, girl,” he groaned. “Oh yeah.” He kissed me. “I love it.”

Just when I thought I had control, he sped up and ran me out of power. “Ah, you can't take it,” he said. “You can't handle me.”

My eyes rolled back, and my body began shaking like I couldn't remember it doing before. He completely filled me. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I yelled over and over. I didn't care if the folks in the next apartment could hear.

He slowed down and looked at me. “You forgive me now?” he groaned.

“Why should I?” I asked him with a playfully intense stare.

He guided his chocolate wand deep into me again and made magic with it. He cast spells of love, lust, passion, and screams within my walls.

My flesh called out to him, and before long, my mouth was doing the same.

He kissed and felt me everywhere, but one thing remained the same—he kept asking my forgiveness.

In my heart, I had forgotten the situation, but the passion that built by saying no was incredible.

He knew the game I was playing; it excited him too. He asked me over and over and continued to make mad, fervent love to me. “I'm not gonna stop until you say yes.” He thrust himself faster and deeper into me. He seemed hotter and thicker than ever before. “Do you accept my apology?”

He was too good. I was biting my lips, digging into his back, screaming, groaning, and grinding him. I lost the battle. He was the victor, too much of a challenger for me, so I succumbed to him.

“Yes, baby. Yes, I forgive you.”

“Say it again.” There was sweat coming from every pore.

I moaned. “I forgive you.”

Tremel let out a loud grunt, closed his eyes, and fastened his lips to mine. I felt his body freeze, shiver, and then collapse onto mine, as we slid down the wall together.

Our night was far from over, though. Tremel apologized to me four more times, using his body as the peace offering.

“A man who loses his money gains, at the least,
experience, and sometimes, something better.”

—Benjamin “Dizzy” Disraeli

Bank Statement # 14

 

 

 

O
n Monday I sent overnight mail to sixteen different women. The packages all included pictures. The pictures that they received were innocent yet questionable. I was hoping that it'd make them want to see more. In the photos their husbands were talking to, touching, or having dinner with another woman. Each envelope also contained a note that read:
Shh! Be expecting my call.

I wasn't phoning Tronquesha up the street. I had to know what I was doing to get through to these women. It was going to take more than street smarts, Ebonics, and old-school girl talk. These women were probably highly educated, self-sufficient, and not easily intimidated. They had money; their husbands were partners at law firms, physicians, business owners, producers, and dentists. I was praying that they were smart enough to see past my obvious blackmail scheme and see that their black males were scheming.

Tuesday afternoon, using my cellular phone, I reluctantly dialed through my calling card to the first number. My breakfast was gone, butterflies overtook my stomach, and I was shaking like a leaf. I had written out what I was supposed to say and practiced the script numerous times. What were these women going to say to me? “There is only one way to find out,” I said as I pressed the final digit.

Before I placed the phone to my ear, someone was already on the other line.

“Hello?”

She picked up on the first ring. “Hello?” the middle-aged female repeated.

“Yes.” I tried hard not to use my regular voice. “Hello, may I please speak with Mrs. Stewart?”

“This is she.” She sounded pissed. “Who are you?”

“Good day, Mrs. Stewart.” I had to keep my cool. “My name is Tatiana Graham.” I paused. “Did you receive a package in the mail today?”

“I sure did.” Then she went off. “Who are you? Why in the hell are you trying to break up my home? How long have you known my husband?”

I tried to remain focused. “Mrs. Stewart, I can explain, but first I'll need you to calm down.”

“Don't tell me what you need me to do,” she screeched. “I don't know you.”

“Mrs. Stewart, I am not the woman in the picture.” I needed her to trust me. “I'm calling to try to help you. Like I said a moment ago, my name is Tatiana Graham. I am a private investigator out of Trenton, New Jersey.” I read from my script. “While I was working a case last week. I ran into your husband and this woman, and I thought you should know about it.”

“How do you know my husband?”

I did my research. “That's not important. The fact is that I knew that he was married and the woman he was with wasn't you.”

She started crying. “Well, who in the hell is she?”

“Honestly, Mrs. Stewart, that is a question only your husband can answer.” I took a deep breath. “I don't know her name, but I do know that she is someone that Mr. Stewart is seeing intimately whenever he's quote-unquote out of town on business,” I said. “I'm contacting you and other women like you today because I walked five miles in your shoes. I was married to a man that lied and cheated every chance he had. You, just like I did, deserve more than this.”

“When was this picture taken?”

The picture she was looking at was her husband and Star, the Elite girl, sitting in a booth in the hotel lounge having drinks. Innocent photo, you think? Try again. Star was sitting on his lap, dangling the cherry from her drink on the tip of his tongue.

“The picture you're looking at was taken over the weekend at—”

“The Black Businessmen Convention.” She finished my sentence then let out a sound of pain. “That lousy fuckin' bastard.”

Forget being proper, emotions had this sistah catching a ride on the bus to Ghettoland.

“I can't believe that this li'l-dick, fat muthafucka has the nerve to be cheatin' on me. After all these goddamn years.”

“Mrs. Stewart, I'm truly sorry.” I then went right for the jugular. “I went through the same thing, which is the reason I started my PI business.” I took a breath. “I followed my husband on what was supposed to be a business trip, but instead I walked into his hotel room and met a woman on top of him.”

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “I would've killed him.” She didn't stop there. “I would've grabbed him by his shit and bit it off.”

“Well, I did the next best thing. I filed for divorce and showed the judge the pictures of him and his mistress around town that a friend of mine had taken a week before I caught them. Honey, I cleaned his ass out completely.” I laughed and added, “Alimony is a lovely thing. That's how I started my own business,
and
I kept both houses.” I sweetened the pot.

“You go, girl.” She tried to laugh but sniffled instead. “That's what his trifling ass gets.”

“That's what they all need to get.”

“You're absolutely right,” she said weakly. “I still can't believe that this is happening to me. I am so damn good to this man. I cook, clean, take care of the children, make sure that I'm in shape, and fuck his bad-body ass whenever he wants me to.”

“Forget being his wife for free; being his ex-wife might be more rewarding.” I continued my pitch. “Mrs. Stewart, with the pictures that I have of your husband, you'll walk away with—”

“‘Pictures'? I only have one. You have more pictures?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why didn't you send 'em all?” she asked. “Send them to me. I want to see all of 'em.”

“I'll send them under one circumstance,” I said firmly.

“What?”

“Don't turn the other cheek and let him do this to you again.”

“Oh, hell no. You don't have to worry about that. I always thought that fat fuck was up to no good,” she said. “Send me the pictures. You only get one chance to make a fool out of Virginia.”

I smiled. “The picture I sent you is sadly just the beginning of his evening with this young lady. I have eighteen more of Mr. Stewart during the convention, but they may be hard to look at.”

I wasn't lying. I actually had a picture of Star on her knees in front of Mr. Stewart in what they thought was a dark alley. After Will brightened it up, the picture was a sight to behold.

“I can't believe this.” She was sobbing. “Please send them.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Stewart.” I really was. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I just can't believe this.” She was hyperventilating.

“Mrs. Stewart, I didn't call you today to hurt you. I just wanted you to be aware of what was going on. The truth of the matter is that I can't send you the pictures without you being a client of mine. I could lose my business taking pictures of your husband without you hiring me to do so. Mr. Stewart could actually sue me. He's a lawyer, and he knows all of that.”

“Well, as of right now, I am your client. You have my consent to go to the convention and find out what he's really doing,” she said. “I want those pictures. What do I have to do to get them?”

I took a deep breath. “First off, you might want to keep your findings on the down low until you make a definite decision and speak to a divorce attorney. Telling him about the pictures will give him too much time to confer with his legal team. We have to catch him off guard.”

I had no idea what I was saying, but it sounded good. Watching Court TV was paying off.

“That's what I was planning on doing. How much do you want for the pictures?”

She was making this too easy for me.

“I won't charge you as much as I normally do.” I pretended to be calculating figures. “How about two hundred and seventy five dollars each?” I closed my eyes and waited for the rejection.

“I don't give a damn. It's his money anyway,” she huffed. “Send me all of them.”

In another forty minutes, I promised Mrs. Stewart that she'd receive all of the pictures as soon as the blank money orders, totaling $4,950, were in my hand. To guarantee her that I was looking at pictures of her man, I told her what he was wearing in some of the pictures. I also told her that if she didn't have the pictures at least four days after sending off the money orders, she could call the police. My fingerprints were all over the picture that she had in her possession, and that was the truth.

By the end of our talk, she was willing to Western Union the money to me. I declined her offer because I'd have to give her my real name in order to claim the money. I instructed her to send the money orders to a post office box that I'd opened while I was in Trenton. However, I asked the postal worker to forward my mail to a Miami post office box belonging to Mrs. White. Tremel had given me the key to check his mail two months ago. I still checked it twice a week, and I had the only key.

For the next six and a half hours, I talked to fourteen other women, but only eight of them bought into my black male photo gallery. Six women were comfortable with not seeing anything more. They claimed that they knew about their men, and as long as he was bringing home the bacon and not an STD, it didn't matter.

I was cursed out several times, called everything, and told that they'd report me if I contacted them again. One brainwashed asshole of a wife had the nerve to put her “dick-been-everywhere” husband on the line. But still, after the chips were down, they didn't fall the way I had planned, but I was still looking at collecting $42,300 within a week.

In the midst of my jubilee, I suddenly thought of what those women were feeling, what I had selfishly put them through just so I could pay my rent. I tried to justify my actions, reasoning that I did what I did to free them from their doggish men, but once again, I was in it for the love of money. I had once more proven to myself that not only was I willing to hurt myself, but also others all for the love of that mean green.

The last call I made was a courtesy call. It was to the wife of the owner of the camera, Norman Hall. It turned out that he was the owner of several jewelry stores in Ohio. His wife sounded like she was going to meet her maker, when she answered the phone. I expected that reaction from her, because her package was different than the ones sent to other women. I sent her twelve pictures of Norman and I having sex. I didn't ask her for money; I just wanted her rapist of a husband to be exposed. I told Sheila the truth: I was the woman in the picture, and her husband paid to have sex with me but played too rough. I told her how I begged him to stop but he wouldn't. His friend snapped the pictures, and I was able to escape only when she called Norman on his cell phone.

 

 

By Friday, over half the money I was expecting was already in my bank account. I mailed out all of the pictures and was sitting pretty, until I thought about the dangerous reality of what I had done. I was sure that the husbands would somehow want to know who the private investigator behind the pictures was. I was paranoid times ten, walking around like a crackhead, looking over my shoulders, swearing I heard someone calling my name, and scared to turn corners.

I was even reluctant to meet Nat at the restaurant on Ocean Drive where we agreed to have drinks. Nat and I hadn't seen a lot of each other lately, so I made the sacrifice and drove the short distance. I got there at 7:00.

We first wanted alone time to catch up on all of the talking we missed out on, so we asked Nick and Tremel to allow us two hours together and to meet us at 9:30 for dinner.

“So how are you treating my buddy Mel?” Nat asked from across the table.

My mind was still cloudy. “Mel is fine. You should know, you see him every day at school.”

“I know, but I asked how you're treating him.” She smiled.

“He's okay.” I hadn't touched my drink yet. “We're okay.” I looked over at a man at another table. I sure thought I heard him say my name. I was trippin'.

“Are you okay?” She looked at me strangely. “You're like on another planet.”

“I'm fine,” I lied. “Just thought I heard something.”

“Well, hear me, damn it,” she joked. “Are you still looking for a job?”

“Not really.”

“So what are you doing for money these days?”

I snapped. “What are you trying to say?”

“Whoa, li'l mama.” Nat threw her hands up jokingly. “Who you think you talkin' to?” She playfully put her dukes up.

“Damn.” I dropped my head. “I'm sorry.”

“What's wrong with you?” She pushed her drink aside. “Don't tell me that Tremel has insufficient funds in his dick account,” she said with a smile.

“Naw.” My eyes welled up with tears.

“Talk to me.”

I stared at her for a while. There was too much to say. For me to tell her about what was happening now, I'd have to start from how I got involved in it all in the first place.

“Nat, I got myself involved in something crazy.” I was close to crying already. “It's a long story.”

She looked at her watch. “We have two hours before they'll be here. It can't be that long of a story.” She reached over and touched my hand. “Start talking.”

“I don't even know where to start.”

“At the beginning—My ears are wide open.”

I took a deep breath. “Well, it all started when I went to the Bahamas . . .”

Over the next thirty minutes, I told Nat everything, from my first meeting with Conrad all the way to me playing photographer in Trenton then making the phone calls.