experience.
The salon also boasted private rooms for those women who desired to pay for the exclusivity of services. The music was always pumping. She had runners who would go out for food, drinks, or many of the other desires of her customers.
She employed shoppers, who would run into Manhattan for that last-minute forgotten item if a customer required it. She also kept a stock of liqueurs, natural juices, mineral and spring waters, on hand for those women who required her exclusive services.
Yes, she had thought of every need. She had catered to the whims of black women in ways they hadnât been accustomed to. Her attention to detail was legendary, and it paid off big-time. There were personal spas and masseuses to attend to every ache a customer might have. She had created a silken lap of luxury for these women.
Tracie couldnât have been prouder of herself. She was seriously having trouble counting the C-notes she was raking in. However, she had resolved that problem by purchasing some well-oiled money machines to count the cash. Yes, business was good, but her personal life was rapidly falling apart.
10
O ut in the front of the salon the door opened and chimes tinkled. Pete Jackson, better known as âWhiskeyâ to the neighborhood, due to the extreme amounts of alcohol he could down without getting drunk, stepped into the foyer.
Whiskey was a tough-looking man with a knife scar running the length of his ear to his mouth. He was suave and well built and possessed dark good looks. Whiskey was also Harlemâs most prominent underground arms dealer.
A good sixty percent of the guns floating between Brooklyn, Harlem, and the Bronx were supplied by Whiskey. He was good at what he did. He was discreet and dangerously well-connected. He was also a sometimes lover of Tracie Burlingame.
Whiskey was the kind of man who commanded instant attention upon entering any room. He had the kind of persona that swept over people. He left them feeling as though they should be bowing and scraping. Most of his associates did. So did many of his enemies. The dark aura that surrounded him scared most people. So when he entered Tracieâs salon the day after she had buried Randi, Whiskey commanded instant attention and got it.
Upon his entrance, Tiffany, the twenty-one-year-old receptionist, had looked up immediately. She cupped her hand around the telephone receiver. âWhiskey, sheâs in her office.â She waved him through without hesitation. He nodded his appreciation at the coffee-colored perfection of a girl.
He looked through the busy salon and spotted a sultry-looking Tracie behind the glass window, dressed in classic black. She looked stunning. Her skin was shining and flawless. Her eyes were hazel-colored lights beneath thick, brown lashes.
In the flash of a second they changed to cocoa brown, connecting with Whiskey, drawing him in like a magnet. She flashed him a smile.
He headed to her glassed-in domain while reminding himself that dancing with Tracie Burlingame was an experience in sensuality. It would serve him well to remember that, because it was easy to get caught up in the silkiness that was Tracie Burlingame.
Tracieâs office played off the same black and silver color scheme as the rest of the salon. A state-of-the-art computer, Persian rugs, Monet prints, a television, VCR, DVD, and a stereo completed the office. Off to one side a mannequin was draped in cloth with stickpins in it. The mannequin stood next to a sewing machine. Sewing was just one of Tracieâs hobbies.
Generally she sewed when she really needed to blow off steam. Her real love was playing piano and the organ, hence the expensive organ sitting in the corner of her office. On those black and white keys was where Tracie poured out her real feelings.
With every stroke, key, and melody, this was where she vented her anger, cried her tears, bared her soul, and left haunting melodies hanging in the air.
Every item
The salon also boasted private rooms for those women who desired to pay for the exclusivity of services. The music was always pumping. She had runners who would go out for food, drinks, or many of the other desires of her customers.
She employed shoppers, who would run into Manhattan for that last-minute forgotten item if a customer required it. She also kept a stock of liqueurs, natural juices, mineral and spring waters, on hand for those women who required her exclusive services.
Yes, she had thought of every need. She had catered to the whims of black women in ways they hadnât been accustomed to. Her attention to detail was legendary, and it paid off big-time. There were personal spas and masseuses to attend to every ache a customer might have. She had created a silken lap of luxury for these women.
Tracie couldnât have been prouder of herself. She was seriously having trouble counting the C-notes she was raking in. However, she had resolved that problem by purchasing some well-oiled money machines to count the cash. Yes, business was good, but her personal life was rapidly falling apart.
10
O ut in the front of the salon the door opened and chimes tinkled. Pete Jackson, better known as âWhiskeyâ to the neighborhood, due to the extreme amounts of alcohol he could down without getting drunk, stepped into the foyer.
Whiskey was a tough-looking man with a knife scar running the length of his ear to his mouth. He was suave and well built and possessed dark good looks. Whiskey was also Harlemâs most prominent underground arms dealer.
A good sixty percent of the guns floating between Brooklyn, Harlem, and the Bronx were supplied by Whiskey. He was good at what he did. He was discreet and dangerously well-connected. He was also a sometimes lover of Tracie Burlingame.
Whiskey was the kind of man who commanded instant attention upon entering any room. He had the kind of persona that swept over people. He left them feeling as though they should be bowing and scraping. Most of his associates did. So did many of his enemies. The dark aura that surrounded him scared most people. So when he entered Tracieâs salon the day after she had buried Randi, Whiskey commanded instant attention and got it.
Upon his entrance, Tiffany, the twenty-one-year-old receptionist, had looked up immediately. She cupped her hand around the telephone receiver. âWhiskey, sheâs in her office.â She waved him through without hesitation. He nodded his appreciation at the coffee-colored perfection of a girl.
He looked through the busy salon and spotted a sultry-looking Tracie behind the glass window, dressed in classic black. She looked stunning. Her skin was shining and flawless. Her eyes were hazel-colored lights beneath thick, brown lashes.
In the flash of a second they changed to cocoa brown, connecting with Whiskey, drawing him in like a magnet. She flashed him a smile.
He headed to her glassed-in domain while reminding himself that dancing with Tracie Burlingame was an experience in sensuality. It would serve him well to remember that, because it was easy to get caught up in the silkiness that was Tracie Burlingame.
Tracieâs office played off the same black and silver color scheme as the rest of the salon. A state-of-the-art computer, Persian rugs, Monet prints, a television, VCR, DVD, and a stereo completed the office. Off to one side a mannequin was draped in cloth with stickpins in it. The mannequin stood next to a sewing machine. Sewing was just one of Tracieâs hobbies.
Generally she sewed when she really needed to blow off steam. Her real love was playing piano and the organ, hence the expensive organ sitting in the corner of her office. On those black and white keys was where Tracie poured out her real feelings.
With every stroke, key, and melody, this was where she vented her anger, cried her tears, bared her soul, and left haunting melodies hanging in the air.
Every item
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