“Was that you just called?” Vermillion asked into the phone. “Um, okay. Don’t matter. What you doin’, anyway? Sure I know it’s 3 o’clock in the mornin’, I’m at work!”
Vermillion hung up the phone. She came back around the desk, sat back down in her chair, and resumed knitting. She started singing again, only this time it was “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”
The office door began to shake. Somebody was trying to open it but the door was locked. This was followed by a loud knocking. The knocking was hard, insistent.
From behind the door came a woman’s scream. “Open up! Open the door!”
Vermillion stopped singing and stared at the door. The knocking continued. The woman’s voice became hysterical.
“You got to help me! Open up!”
Vermillion put down her knitting, got up, and went to the door. She looked out through one of the missing slats as the woman outside continued to yell.
“Miz Chaney, it’s me! Revancha!”
Vermillion unlocked the door and a woman in her early twenties burst into the office, forcing the older woman back as she brushed past her.
“Shut it!” said Revancha. “Lock the door before he gets here!”
Vermillion stared at the young woman, who was half-dressed, wearing only a bra and panties. Clutched to her chest were other garments. Vermillion closed the door. Revancha ran back to it and fastened the chain lock.
“What’s goin’ on, Revancha? You look like a chicken in a bag full of snakes.”
Revancha retreated from the door and stopped with her back against the desk.
“He beatin’ on me, Miz Chaney! Chokin’ me! Usin’ a strap!”
“Man get what he pay for.”
“He gone too far, cat flip his wig. Call for security!”
Vermillion walked back behind the desk, reached down, and came up with a revolver in her right hand.
“This the onliest security I got tonight, baby.”
“Where’s Myron?” asked Revancha.
Vermillion shook her head. “He out the loop. Fool got hisself arrested yestiday for receivin’ stolen property. Fake beaver coats. Can you beat that? I’m alone here this eve-nin’.”
The office door started to shake.
A man shouted, “Vermillion! Let me in!” He rattled the door.
“Don’t do it, Miz Chaney!” said Revancha.
“Bitch stole my pants!”
“You’d best go on, Ray,” said Vermillion.
“Not without my pants!”
Vermillion looked at Revancha.
“You got Ray’s pants?”
“I scooped it all up, what was piled on the floor. Thought maybe he wouldn’t follow me.”
“Man ain’t gonna go away without you give up his trousers.”
Ray forced himself against the door, breaking the lock on the handle. Only the chain now prevented him from opening it. He stuck his hand through and attempted to undo the chain.
“Don’t do it, Ray,” said Vermillion. “I got a piece.”
Ray pushed against the door, breaking the chain. The door flew open and Ray entered. He was a handsome man in his mid-thirties, wearing only a half-unbuttoned white dress shirt, under-shorts, socks, and shoes. He moved toward Revancha.
“Give me my wallet,” he said.
Vermillion pointed the gun at him.
“Stop right there, Ray,” she said. “I’ll get it for you.” Ray stopped.
“I ain’t got your wallet!” shrieked Revancha.
Ray brushed past Vermillion and grabbed the garments out of Revancha’s hands. He felt around in them.
“It ain’t here.”
He dropped the garments on the floor and grabbed hold of Revancha.
“Where is it?!”
“Let go the girl, Ray!” said Vermillion.
Ray put his hands around Revancha’s throat and began choking her. Revancha screamed; she kept screaming.
“Turn her loose, Ray, or I got to shoot!”
Ray turned his head and looked at Vermillion but continued strangling the girl.
“You old whore,” Ray said to Vermillion, “you prob’ly in on the game.”
Vermillion trained the barrel of her revolver on Ray and pulled the trigger, shooting him in the side. Ray, stunned, looked down at himself and watched as blood began to stain his shirt. Revancha continued to scream. Ray looked back at the girl and tightened his grip around her throat. Vermillion fired again, this time hitting Ray square in the back. His hands came away from Revancha’s throat. He turned slowly and faced the old lady. She fired a third bullet, which entered his body in the middle of his chest. Ray dropped to his knees, holding his hands up, as if in prayer. He remained motionless in that position for several moments before toppling over onto his face.
Revancha stopped screaming. She looked down at Ray. Blood was everywhere.
From behind them came a man’s voice. “Mother of God.”
Vermillion turned and saw a short, middle-aged, long-bearded man, dressed like a tramp, standing in the doorway. He took a closer look at Ray’s corpse, crossed himself, and said, “If God knew what He was doing, He wouldn’t be doing this.”
The stage was dark. A single spotlight lit up, shining on an empty stool set in the middle of the stage. A microphone lay on the stool.
The voice of the club announcer boomed out at the audience: “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you have all been waiting for. The Blackhawk, San Francisco’s premier nightclub, is proud to welcome America’s favorite recording artist, Mr. Smooth himself, Ray Sparks!”
As the audience applauded, Ray Sparks, the man who had been gunned down in the motel office, skipped on stage.
He was nattily dressed in a sharp suit and tie. Lights came up behind him, revealing an orchestra, which began to play. Ray smiled and bowed to the audience, who continued to applaud. He then turned and picked up the microphone, sat down on the stool, and began to sing.
Twenty years later. In the corridor of a decrepit nursing home, elderly people in wheelchairs, mostly black, were either sitting in or being pushed along by attendants. One of the former, a woman in her eighties, sat in a wheelchair placed flush against a wall, ignored by the overworked staff. The woman, now blind, wearing dark glasses, was Vermillion Chaney.
“I don’t recall that night too good,” said Vermillion. “I’m old enough now I don’t recall most too good, though sometimes I surprise myself, rememberin’ the tiniest detail from way back in the day. I know Revancha was a workin’ girl, sure I did. Used to be she hung out at the Toro Club down Bayshore. Almost always she’d bring her man to the Chinita. Never had no trouble about her till that night.
“Ray Sparks? Everybody knowed Ray Sparks. Famous singer like him? Nobody miss that face. I heard he sometimes hung at the Toro, sat in with the band, after hours, like that. Maybe he just run into Revancha for the first time. Can’t say one way or another. About the shootin’, it’s like I told the po-lice when it happen, I was just defendin’ the girl and myself.”
Revancha Lopez, now in her mid-forties, was seated on a bed in a crummy hotel room. The evidence of a hard life showed in her face.
“My name is Esquerita Revancha Lopez y Arrieta. I ain’t been usin’ for six years, since before my last holiday at Tehachapi, and I won’t start again, the Good Lord wil-lin’. The street broke me. If you can believe this, I got me a straight job now, cleanin’ rooms at the Chinita. Ain’t that a twist? ’Bout that night, I heard so many stories, ’bout the man bein’ set up and all, ’bout Miz Chaney be in on a hustle, even that she and I was hired by the FBI or a black militant group to put him out the way. People make up shit like that don’t need no TV. They got enough goin’ on inside they own mind entertain’ theyself.
“I knew Ray Sparks for a while before that. He had this image, you know, clean-livin’ man, good family, still singin’ gospel some Sundays. Cat was a player! Not only that but I heard his wife was runnin’ the streets, too. I had just got back to the Toro Club after doin’ a piece of business when in walk Ray with his cousin, Anthony. Was Anthony come over to me, buy me a drink. We shootin’ the shit for a few moments, then here come Ray. Puts his arm around me, says somethin’ like, Señorita Lopez, I figure it’s about time you treat me right. I said, You got what it takes, Ray. We was playin’, straight up. He’d had a few drinks already, he didn’t want no more, and he was all over me, tellin’ me how beautiful I look, he don’t know why we ain’t got together before, makin’ me feel good. Back then, it don’t take but fifty dollars to make me feel good, but Ray, he liked to have some style, you know what I mean. He know it’s gonna cost him, but he liked to play like it’s on the house. One thing, with this girl was nothin’ doin’ on the house.