exotic. Her wide-set almond eyes were offset by raven, wild, center-parted hair, and she’d often been told that her full lips gave her a certain voluptuousness often missing in the models.
He cupped his hand over the phone before he spoke. “Don’t worry, baby, you’re nothing short of gorgeous. Everything will work out fine. Just leave it to me. America hasn’t seen anything until they’ve seen you.”
Tomiko felt paralyzed. Just leave it to him? Could she trust him?
* * *
The following day, Saturday, it was back to the track. R.C. was again consumed by the races. Tomiko may have been young, but she wasn’t stupid. She calculated his bets as the day went on and realized that he had bet over two hundred thousand dollars. She figured that he’d lost as often as he’d won, but she knew for certain that if he continued to gamble this way, they’d either be using one-hundred-dollar bills for toilet paper or stealing cardboard boxes from the homeless. Her mother had taught her that women should be in charge of the household income, and Tomiko knew it was her job to be prudent with money.
Sunday she came up with a plan to get his attention back on her.
“Will you be ready soon?” R.C. asked Tomiko in a hurried tone. “The races start in an hour.”
“No, I thought I’d dance today.” Tomiko knew how much R.C. loved to watch her perform the Butoh dance. She had learned the dance as a child, in the years when it was being fine-tuned as an art form, having only been developed in Japan in the 1960s. As an expression of artistic individualism, the themes of the dance strike deep, ranging from personal suffering to fear, mortality, and wonder. As a child, she would think about her father when she danced. Since he had died when she was very young, she had found no other way to experience her sense of loss.
Tomiko hoped that if she kept his interest with her dancing, R.C. would change his mind about the races and he would stay home today. R.C. always got aroused when he watched her dance.
But when she beseeched him to stay, telling him of the day she’d planned, he only said, “I’d like to watch, but can’t you wait until this evening?”
She was already wearing her dance costume, the exposed parts of her body powdered and her thick hair wrapped in a printed scarf. “I’ll dance for you tonight if you’ll take me shopping this morning.”
Kissing her gingerly on the mouth, R.C. opened his locked desk drawer and wrote Tomiko a check for five thousand dollars. “Here, why don’t you go shopping instead?”
It was a clear dismissal.
“Caleb will drive you downtown. You can trust him.”
“R.C.?” she began, then stopped. The check felt like fire in her hand when she accepted it—dangerous, seductive. Easing her hands behind her back, she tore the check in half. “Oh . . . nothing.”
When he walked away, she crumbled the paper in her hand and tossed it in the trash. No, she wasn’t kidding herself about the value of money, but she knew that one day she would be able to give it to him. She would always remember a valuable lesson that her mother had taught her:
“Money spent on yourself may be a millstone around your neck; money spent on others may give you wings like the angels.”
4
__________
Sparkling glass panels flanked the corridor of Champion Motors’ new World Headquarters in the heart of downtown Detroit. Thick-piled, violet wool carpeting and expensive, rose-violet coordinated furnishings accented the plush entryway into the building, welcoming the visitor into the world of commerce and money.
At 7:45 A.M., dressed in a silk-on-silk navy pin-striped suit, white shirt, and red tie, Cyrus Tyler stepped off the elevator that led to his office on the fourteenth floor. Wet Paint signs were still affixed to the walls of the hallway, and Cy turned up his nose, but not at the smell of paint. The company reeked of contradictions. The swank interior of the plush building only underscored
He cupped his hand over the phone before he spoke. “Don’t worry, baby, you’re nothing short of gorgeous. Everything will work out fine. Just leave it to me. America hasn’t seen anything until they’ve seen you.”
Tomiko felt paralyzed. Just leave it to him? Could she trust him?
* * *
The following day, Saturday, it was back to the track. R.C. was again consumed by the races. Tomiko may have been young, but she wasn’t stupid. She calculated his bets as the day went on and realized that he had bet over two hundred thousand dollars. She figured that he’d lost as often as he’d won, but she knew for certain that if he continued to gamble this way, they’d either be using one-hundred-dollar bills for toilet paper or stealing cardboard boxes from the homeless. Her mother had taught her that women should be in charge of the household income, and Tomiko knew it was her job to be prudent with money.
Sunday she came up with a plan to get his attention back on her.
“Will you be ready soon?” R.C. asked Tomiko in a hurried tone. “The races start in an hour.”
“No, I thought I’d dance today.” Tomiko knew how much R.C. loved to watch her perform the Butoh dance. She had learned the dance as a child, in the years when it was being fine-tuned as an art form, having only been developed in Japan in the 1960s. As an expression of artistic individualism, the themes of the dance strike deep, ranging from personal suffering to fear, mortality, and wonder. As a child, she would think about her father when she danced. Since he had died when she was very young, she had found no other way to experience her sense of loss.
Tomiko hoped that if she kept his interest with her dancing, R.C. would change his mind about the races and he would stay home today. R.C. always got aroused when he watched her dance.
But when she beseeched him to stay, telling him of the day she’d planned, he only said, “I’d like to watch, but can’t you wait until this evening?”
She was already wearing her dance costume, the exposed parts of her body powdered and her thick hair wrapped in a printed scarf. “I’ll dance for you tonight if you’ll take me shopping this morning.”
Kissing her gingerly on the mouth, R.C. opened his locked desk drawer and wrote Tomiko a check for five thousand dollars. “Here, why don’t you go shopping instead?”
It was a clear dismissal.
“Caleb will drive you downtown. You can trust him.”
“R.C.?” she began, then stopped. The check felt like fire in her hand when she accepted it—dangerous, seductive. Easing her hands behind her back, she tore the check in half. “Oh . . . nothing.”
When he walked away, she crumbled the paper in her hand and tossed it in the trash. No, she wasn’t kidding herself about the value of money, but she knew that one day she would be able to give it to him. She would always remember a valuable lesson that her mother had taught her:
“Money spent on yourself may be a millstone around your neck; money spent on others may give you wings like the angels.”
4
__________
Sparkling glass panels flanked the corridor of Champion Motors’ new World Headquarters in the heart of downtown Detroit. Thick-piled, violet wool carpeting and expensive, rose-violet coordinated furnishings accented the plush entryway into the building, welcoming the visitor into the world of commerce and money.
At 7:45 A.M., dressed in a silk-on-silk navy pin-striped suit, white shirt, and red tie, Cyrus Tyler stepped off the elevator that led to his office on the fourteenth floor. Wet Paint signs were still affixed to the walls of the hallway, and Cy turned up his nose, but not at the smell of paint. The company reeked of contradictions. The swank interior of the plush building only underscored
Similar Books
Behind the Yellow Tape: On the Road With Some of America's Hardest Working Crime Scene Investigators
Jarrett Hallcox, Amy Welch
