Gold Diggers Read online

  “Mr. Russell called and should be here shortly, but if you’d like I’ll seat you now,” she said, eyeing the luggage distastefully, as if its tackiness were contagious. “Would you like to check that?” Without waiting for a reply, she gave Gillian a claim check and led her back sans luggage, in the direction from which Gillian had just come, to the premier tables that sat along the fence. With every step Gillian regretted meeting him here. Now that she had time to think about it, it made no sense whatsoever. Why meet at the Ivy to exchange bags? The Ivy was a destination in and of itself, not exactly the place for a quick rendezvous. Halfway through her mojito, Gillian’s phone rang. She checked caller ID, and predictably it was Paulette.

  “Hey, girl!”

  Gillian fought to keep the annoyance from her voice. “What’s up?”

  “Well, is he there yet?” Paulette was breathless with anticipation.

  “No, and if he’s not here in two minutes I’m out.” This was getting very old very quickly.

  “What about your luggage?” And more important, what about my introduction to Brandon Russell?

  “I’m sure he wants his luggage as much as I want mine, so we can always do an airport dropoff.”

  “Don’t be so hasty. Besides, we don’t have time to go to the airport and still make the party tonight in Brentwood.”

  Gillian began looking around for a waitress to settle the tab for the drink she’d ordered, when she noticed every head on the patio turn to the valet stand, where a taupe chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow had rolled up. From the regal look of it, she’d have expected Queen Elizabeth to disembark, waving stiffly to her subjects. Gillian’s mouth dropped to the floor when the driver hopped out to open the door for Brandon Russell, whom she recognized immediately from party shots in Vibe and Uptown magazines.

  He was a short, barely average-looking guy, so it took a Rolls and lots of money for him to turn heads. He reveled in it, while simultaneously pretending not to notice the undue attention.

  “Gillian? Did you hear me?” Paulette squawked.

  “I’ll call you back.”

  “Gillian? Gillian? Is he there? Is he—”

  Gillian hung up the phone, turned off the ringer, and slipped it into her bag before the roving fanfare known as Brandon Russell approached her table.

  “You must be Gillian.” She was surprised, since he hadn’t been escorted by the hostess; he’d simply walked right up to the table. He extended his hand, playing the part of distinguished gentleman to the hilt. He had a medium-chocolate complexion with wide-set eyes, a round, nearly pudgy face, and a mouth that was attractive because it didn’t draw any attention. To be blunt, his best feature was his money. Though he wore it unabashedly, he did attempt some restraint. His shirt was a simple cream-colored Nodus linen with fine burgundy pinstripes, but Gillian knew haberdashery; it had probably set him back at least six hundred dollars. He tried for the casually elegant look with a pair of kid-glove Italian loafers that she knew were handmade and cost no less than a grand. And the watch: Audemars Piguet, another seventy grand in accessories.

  “And you must be Brandon Russell?”

  “I am,” he said, smiling. “It’s good to see you again.”

  She had no recollection of ever meeting him, but before she could question his comment, Brandon was seated across from her ordering a dirty martini with Grey Goose from the solicitous hostess, who’d miraculously appeared at his side. It was clear from the gleaming smile she put on display that she was one of those white chicks who would date Mike Tyson if he kept her wrapped in Gucci.

  “Do we know each other?” She finally asked.

  “Not as well as I’d like us to.” His average appearance and humble beginnings were polished to a high gloss; only a mild trace of the skinny, gold-tooth-wearing homeboy from Mississippi remained. Like a cat analyzing trapped prey, he studied her reaction, which was to pull back and study him as well.

  In seconds flat she summoned up his game. He was one of the newly but outrageously rich and semifamous people who believed in using both assets to get from point A to point B as swiftly as possible.

  To put her at ease, he said, “Let’s just say that I’ve seen your work and recognized your name. And trust me, I never forget a beautiful face.” By now he was leaned back in his chair with his hand to his chin, taking her in. His mack mode was fully operational.

  However, it did not work. “It’s nice to have met you, Mr. Russell,” she said, gathering her bag. “Do you have my luggage?” she asked, looking in the direction of the insanely expensive car. With men like Brandon, it was best to give them a taste of rejection to cleanse the palate for any subsequent encounters, not that she had an appetite for him at all. He was simply not her type.

  Now he shifted in his chair. “Of course, it’s in the car. But, I was hoping that we could at least have a drink?” He leaned forward. “And I do believe in fate, so there must be some reason we ended up with each other’s bags.”

  Only good manners kept her in her seat. There was something about him that just didn’t sit well with her.

  “So, what brings you to L.A.?” He hoped a quick change of subject—to her—would get them past his trite mack lines that ordinarily would have worked. In fact, by now he should have tagged first base and be rounding the corner, making his way to second, but he shifted his game plan and settled down for his next pitch, hoping that it too wasn’t a strike.

  “I’m looking for film or TV work. Just needing a change.” She shrugged nonchalantly, betraying none of the anxiety she felt about her relocation.

  “Anything promising?” he asked.

  “I’ve just gotten here. Besides, I know that it does take time.”

  “I saw you in Chicago about six months ago. I thought you were brilliant. A real talent. The direction needed some work, but your performance was flawless.” He nodded his head thoughtfully. It occurred to him how to reel her in—not that he was even sure he wanted her, but at this point she was a challenge. He had to treat her like a vocal artist, and he was well known for his mike-side manner with his female singers. He had perfected the art of flattering, cajoling, and doing whatever was needed to tap into the emotion needed to produce a hit record. Rumor had it that one of his superstars hit a legendary note on her double-platinum single while he gave her a sample of his own oral skills right there in the studio, proving that he was from the school of By Any Means Necessary.

  “Thank you.” Though Gillian managed not to reveal it, she was impressed—not only that he’d seen one of her performances, but that he also understood the nuances of its production, and was accurate with his assessment.

  “Your next step should be a feature film,” he sat back and proclaimed as if he were Cecil B. DeMille. The only thing missing was a smoldering cigar.

  “Of course, who wouldn’t rather do a feature film?” she answered, ignoring his bravado.

  “My thoughts exactly.” He was equally undeterred by her nonchalance.

  Gillian looked up to see Paulette’s boobs, then Paulette herself, hovering over them like a vulture who’s spotted fresh kill.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” she asked, never taking her eyes off Brandon.

  “Brandon, this is Paulette; Paulette, Brandon.” Paulette bent over unnecessarily to shake his hand, her ample bosom spilling forth.

  “Hi, Paulette. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Before he got the words out of his mouth, she was pivoting to find a spare chair to pull up to the table that had previously been set just for two.

  EIGHT

  Abyssinian Baptist Church in Harlem, New York, held a full house of well-heeled mourners. At least, some mourned; others were simply on hand to witness the passing of Priscilla Baines-Reynolds, a prominent member of East Coast African American society. Since funerals were an irresistible opportunity to socialize, to see a
nd be seen, this one had quickly become akin to Must-See TV. Everyone who was anyone of a certain ilk in the black community was represented, including the most auspicious doctors, esteemed lawyers, and pompous Indian chiefs, in addition to politicians, and those who were just simply rich. Paulette, who helped organize the affair, wanted to have a VIP reception before the funeral, and a VVIP dinner, complete with a velvet rope, afterward. Fortunately—but to Paulette’s dismay—her aunt Mildred’s good taste and staunch sense of decorum prevailed.

  Sister Baines would surely be missed, many agreed. Most certainly her generous tithing to the church and her plentiful contributions to numerous charities would be. Priscilla Baines-Reynolds was as old-money as black folks got, and at ninety-four she’d still reigned over her family and community with the arrogant flip of a heavily spotted, arthritic wrist, one that was nonetheless still capable of writing checks. There were some people in the congregation who were genuinely saddened by her passing, and would miss the long-standing fixture at the church. And then there was her family, many of whom had simply been biding time, waiting impatiently for her feeble heart to thump its last beat.

  Lauren and her husband sat on one side of her mother, and her father, Nathaniel, sat nonchalantly on the other. True to form, Mildred looked like she’d walked out of central casting: perfectly coiffed and suitably attired for a high-profile funeral. Her suit was an ashy black, immaculately tailored Chanel ensemble, which was purchased in Paris a while ago in anticipation of this very moment. She wore a perfect face of makeup without a trace of tears, even if you could have seen past the French lace veil that draped off of a sweeping black Eric Javits straw hat.

  Her sister, June, sat beside her in a bad knockoff version of Mildred’s look. Not only was the suit last season’s, but it was last season’s Macy’s! In stark contrast, her eyes were red, swollen orbs, and her makeup was smeared by tears of grief. Though June was younger, telltale creases had been etched into her face by time and stress brought on by lack of funds.

  Paulette, her daughter, had boarded a flight from L.A. before rigor mortis had set in. She sat beside her mother, decked out in the shortest, tightest, and most cleavage-baring black dress that she could find along Madison Avenue. Said dress was accompanied by four double strands of pearls, a formidably wide-brimmed black hat, and a pair of large, black Jackie O sunglasses. Gillian, who’d arrived in town days earlier to audition for a second lead in Denzel Washington’s Broadway production, also sat behind them.

  After the interment, those who were invited milled about Priscilla Baines-Reynolds’s sprawling estate, which was an impressive early-1900s Tudor-style mansion in Westchester, New York.

  “The service was beautiful,” Gillian said to Lauren.

  “It was.” Lauren sighed. “Nana would have loved it.”

  They each lifted a wineglass from a server’s tray and toasted, “To Nana.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Lauren said as they embraced. They hadn’t seen each other since April, when Gillian left for L.A. Lauren missed their weekly excursions to museums, the theater, and small galleries. She had especially missed her since things with Max hadn’t been going so well. He felt distant, even though he slept next to her in the same bed. She talked to Paulette about her problem, but it was never quite the same. Optimistically she asked, “So, are you moving back?”

  “My old agent called to tell me about this new play on Broadway. He thinks I might have a chance at a leading role.” Gillian shrugged. “So, we’ll see.”

  “I’ve got my fingers crossed. New York isn’t the same without you.”

  Lauren’s mother, Mildred, made her way in their direction, fielding countless murmurs of condolence from friends and acquaintances along the way. She soaked up the attention like an actress expertly working the camera during an important close-up.

  “Mom, are you okay?” Lauren asked.

  “I’m fine, dear,” she replied, remembering to add a wistful tone of mourning to her voice.

  “I can’t believe that bitch!” Paulette hissed in her mother’s ear nearby as she watched Mildred with a wary eye. The angry words managed to escape the privacy of their conversation, fueled on by her second gin-and-tonic, which she swirled in a highly agitated manner among rattling ice cubes.

  It pissed Paulette off that her mother assumed her secondary role so passively, as though she deserved nothing more than her barren lot in life. But she would be damned if she’d let history play out the same way between her and Lauren. The ill will between Mildred and June had simmered steadily and quietly over the years like an infected boil, while Lauren—who avoided confrontation like polyester—pretended to be ignorant of her family’s ongoing drama.

  From the moment Priscilla’s great grandmother, a slave from South Carolina, saw the near-white baby girl with the silky blondish hair that her labor had produced, she vowed from then on to protect her family gene pool from the curse of dark pigment like her own. Ma Lizzie, as she was called, was as black as North Carolina coals, and her hair went beyond the description of kinky. A comb would sooner break every tooth before it ever passed through the matted tangles that covered her scalp. She had a striking presence, with the tall, elegant carriage indigenous to Africa’s Zulu tribe, but sadly it took only one generation in America to erase an entire continent’s concept of beauty and replace it with the European version. Consequently, the lighter the slave’s complexion, the closer to the big house he got, while the darkies toiled in hard, dusty fields under the blazing-hot sun. Farm animals were treated better. More simply put, black meant stupid, poor, and ugly, while white stood for goodness, purity, and beauty. Those in between held varying degrees of virtue, so Priscilla’s grandmother’s birth signaled redemption for Lizzie, who was in the master’s house only because she was unquestionably the best cook in the state, not because of her looks. Nor were her looks an explanation for the animalistic coupling that led to the birth of her nearly white child. Instead, it was actually the result of too much liquor, physical proximity, and an inbred sense of entitlement by her master.

  Late one night Master Thomas stumbled home sloshed after his weekly poker game, and as he shuffled past the kitchen, still clutching his empty flask, he backtracked, deciding to have a late-night snack. When he found Lizzie bent over, removing one of her legendary pound cakes from the stove, he decided he’d have her instead. Her face may have been lacking, for his taste, but her body was any man’s wet dream, particularly the rear view. As casually as if deciding to have a glass of milk with his cookies, Master Thomas had his way with Lizzie, humping himself to release, then zipping up his pants and stumbling off to bed. He took her the way one might relieve himself in the woods; it was a necessary physical relief performed under less than desirable conditions.

  Up until the birth of her daughter, she’d maintained relations with her “husband” whenever she could sneak off to the shacks that bordered the plantation, so when she came up pregnant, she assumed the child would be black like her other two. The baby’s color was as much of a surprise to her as it was a delight. Having a child by Master Thomas brought with it perks she otherwise would never have dreamed of, namely her freedom, a piece of property, and a first-rate education for her children—even the darkies. When Lizzie’s lily-white daughter, Ima, was of marrying age, her sole focus was to marry her off to an acceptable light-skinned, free, and educated Negro, who came in the form of Edward Baines, the son of one of the only educated free black men in the state. From then on, the Baines women hyphenated their illustrious surname, way before it became de rigueur to do so. All, that is, except for June, whose bad marriage banned her from her family’s legacy.

  The fixation on skin color and hair texture continued into the next generations, so when Priscilla had June, her second daughter, hers were not tears of joy that were shed in the maternity ward. When the nurse handed her the child, she wanted to hand it right back. Somehow June had reache
d way back down the family tree and excavated the darkest genes there. Priscilla blamed the child, never forgiving her for that genetic betrayal, while on the other hand, her sister, Mildred—God bless her!—could have passed for white. So obviously she was the favorite. Sadly, June had always known that her mother didn’t like her very much, even as a child. It was always Mildred who got the prettiest dress on Easter, and who was proudly paraded around, while June seemed to be a distant afterthought. When she was a little girl, she thought her second-class treatment must have been her own fault, but at the tender age of nine she learned by accident what everyone else had known all along.

  As children, June and Mildred’s favorite pastime was to sneak downstairs and eavesdrop on adult conversation during the many parties held at their house, listening and watching when possible as grown-ups drank, smoked, and gossiped. The two girls would giggle softly and scamper, unseen, back up to their bedrooms to mimic what they’d seen and heard—except on one particular night, when all their childhood illusions were swiftly shattered.

  “Did you see the man Brenda Holton married?” Odessa, Priscilla’s best friend and confidante, said to Priscilla. They were in the parlor, sipping brandy-infused tea, just the two of them after the weekly bridge game. They were both very yellow, with long hair which they wore pressed bone-straight, hanging down their backs.

  “I’ve seen mules that looked better than that man. My word, could he be any blacker?” Pricilla huffed. They laughed.

  “Let’s not forget, she couldn’t be expected to do much better. She’s nearly as dark as he is.” Odessa took a long sip of her spiked tea, pursing her lips together in disdain and harsh judgment.

  “And that sister of hers! She’s light, all right, but her hair is as nappy as a coon’s.”

  “What a waste of yellow that is!” Odessa sniffed.

  They exchanged knowing looks and laughed demurely, smug in the knowledge that without a doubt they could pass anybody’s brown paper-bag test, and could go swimming at Martha’s Vineyard without emerging from the waters with an unsightly Afro. After a few reflective seconds, Priscilla shook her head. “You just never know with children—even with the best breeding—what you’re gonna get. Look at June. She’s got me for a mother, and her father is lighter than I am, and she had the nerve to be born black as a skillet.”