One Better Page 7

  She’d been warned by a few black pilots—those who weren’t put off by a female getting ahead—that the psychiatrist was notorious for concluding that the interviewee did not fit the airline’s psychological profile for reasons that were arbitrary. And there was a long list of pilots rejected for one reason or the other to prove this theory.

  The interview with the shrink had been in a room smaller than a bathroom. The doctor was white, he wore white, the room was white. Everything in that room was white except her.

  “Tell me about your home life as a child,” the psychiatrist had said, “and start from the beginning.”

  Mink tensed. Beads of perspiration started to form above her eyebrows. More sweat broke out on her toes and buttocks as she shifted in her seat. I’m going to need a straitjacket when they carry me out of here. Several possible answers stuck in her throat. Then an idea came to her, and she recounted a story she’d read in Essence years back about a child star. She wrapped it up with a teary account of how wonderful her parents had been in encouraging her to pursue this career.

  Apparently he believed her. His smile seemed genuine when he asked, “Which parent did you love best, your mother or your father?”

  When Spice married David, Mink was old enough to know that David wasn’t her natural father. Though she had loved him, she knew her feelings weren’t as deep as her love could have been if he were her blood father. “I love them both the same,” Mink said, thanking God that a lie detector band wasn’t attached to her fingers.

  Mink’s entire body felt as though it had been immersed in water—she was sweating bricks. She had no idea who her real father was, yet she didn’t hesitate to lie, telling the doctor that she was from a sound, loving environment and that her parents were in sync with each other about her education and future. What did it matter if she only had a mother and a stepfather? she thought to herself. But in the eyes of white America, it did.

  To this day, each time she stood to greet Pyramid’s passengers, she thought about those tests. Now her family’s financial future was secure with the $270,000 she earned yearly. Like the other employees at Pyramid, she owned a piece of the airline, thanks to a strike two years earlier. There was also the 401(k) retirement plan that the company had offered that provided for an annual pension of seventy-five percent of her salary. The struggle to get here had been worth it, even if occasionally her daughter and husband got the short end of the stick.

  She came back from her reverie as the last passenger boarded. Mink waved at Julie, the flight attendant she’d known for years.

  “Later,” Julie said hurriedly.

  “Sure. See ya.”

  There had been ugliness between captains and flight attendants during the recent strike, but Mink felt comfortable with Julie.

  After shutting the cockpit door, Mink took the seat opposite her co-pilot, Harrison Fielding. She’d never flown with him before and was mildly curious about him. Harrison was an African American male, approximately fifty to fifty-five years old, Mink guessed. With a fiery copper complexion as smooth as a rose petal, his barber-trimmed mustache and hairline made him look every bit the professional. He must be just under six feet tall, Mink guessed.

  Mink always liked to let her crew get settled comfortably before she took her seat. “Hello,” she said tentatively, feeling out the vibrations, “I’m Captain Majors.”

  “I know.” His voice was guarded. “Harrison Fielding,” he said, extending his hand. “I’ve seen the press releases about you.”

  “Who hasn’t,” Mink said in a self-mocking voice, thinking of the Ebony article. “I wonder if they’ll ask me to do a piece for Wired next.” Luckily Fielding got the joke. “Let’s have a good flight, Harrison.”

  “Agreed,” he said, smiling.

  Mink locked both seat belts and checked the interior equipment. She moved through the normal procedure of setting her side of the control panel for departure, then checking the navigation and information systems. As she went through the routine of checking the safety items, she simultaneously monitored Fielding’s preparation and reviewed the log book to make sure the aircraft was legal for take-off.

  Mink’s co-pilot went through his own routine, while he also kept his eyes on Mink’s preparation. Obviously he wasn’t as friendly as he pretended. They were two nervous enemies watching each other, Mink thought. They confirmed radio frequency, received procedure for the airport, received clearance from traffic control, and waited for departure time. As ground control guided the aircraft from the tarmac, Mink felt Fielding scrutinizing her every move.

  When the ground crew instructed Mink to start the engines, the stars sparkled in the black sky.

  As she moved the plane down her designated runway, she savored the feel of the power building. She was controlling and riding a 250,000-pound beast. The high was indescribable.

  Mink thought about her daughter and husband, as she always did during take-offs. After the skirmish over breakfast, Azure had kissed her mother good-bye and told her she’d miss her while she was away. Mink wished now that her fight with Dwight was over—forgotten. How could she tell him that when she’d said, “Leave me alone,” she’d really meant she was afraid to be alone? That when it seemed she loved him the least, she needed him the most? How could she let him know that the moment she left on a trip, she counted the minutes that would bring her back to him? Even though the professional side of her knew that she was a whole person, the other side of her never stopped questioning, Do you love me as much as I love you? Will you always love me?

  Mink wondered if Fielding could tell by looking at her crimsoned lips, her stockinged legs, her manicured nails, that inside she was not together. She felt the skeptical eyes of her co-pilot as they took to the air.

  Whoosh! A clean take-off. Mink felt her adrenaline surge, and she relaxed.

  Mink took in Harrison’s smile like a warm embrace. As she turned away to look outside the window, she felt an indescribable sense of calm around her, as gentle as infant love.

  Now, as the jet soared through a reef of clouds while they ascended, she felt yet another rush. A part of her could almost inhale the clean scent of the air outside lifting them higher, toward heaven.

  Under the canopy of the twinkling stars, the jumbo jet’s nose appeared as black as a thundercloud as the machine bulldozed through the dark night. The effect for all the passengers who were watching, she knew, was just as heady as it was for her, no matter how often she might fly.

  The rush she felt at just the moment when they climbed to cruising altitude always triggered her libido; she invariably wanted sex—right then, floating in midair. It was, of course, an unfulfilled fantasy. She couldn’t exactly fly a plane and have sex at the same time!

  As they leveled off at thirty-five thousand feet, Mink imagined she could hear the silence of the snow falling from the clouds to the ground below outside her window.

  They were scheduled to land in Tampa, Florida, at 11:45 P.M., leaving hours to fill with polite conversation. Mink, noticing Harrison’s wedding band, broke the silence.

  “How long have you been married, Harrison?” Mink asked.

  “Twenty-seven years,” he said, beaming. “My wife’s name is Jennifer.”

  “Congratulations. Being away so much must be pretty hard on your wife.”

  “She’s got a pretty hectic schedule herself, even though she’s a housewife. Jenny does volunteer work three times a week at the University of Shiloh Hospital, where both our son and daughter were born.”

  Mink didn’t miss the admiration in his voice.

  A housewife. That was pretty rare. Though she would never admit it, she felt envious of women like Jennifer. She couldn’t imagine being in that kind of marriage, being totally dependent on someone. Yet she fantasized about having someone take care of her. It was just one of the battles raging inside her, pulling her in different directions.

  Mink, in turn, told Harrison about her and Dwight’s upcoming eighth anniversary
this summer. And, of course, she had to brag about Baby-Z.

  “How about your parents?” Harrison asked. “What does your dad do?”

  What dad? Mink thought fast. “He’s a research chemist.”

  “Oh.” He seemed stunned by this. “What a family!”

  Mink kept her gaze ahead as she inhaled the scent of him, as fresh as morning sunshine. He also seemed totally unaware of his natural sensuality. Coming up through the ranks, she’d had a mentor, an older pilot. He’d warned her not to talk about herself. But she felt herself relaxing with Harrison.

  “What do you do for fun?” he asked.

  “Fly,” she said in a dreamy voice. “I own a 310 twin-engine Cessna,” Mink added casually.

  Now that was the truth.

  OTIS

  The child’s heart curseth deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath.

  —ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

  A ll of Detroit’s best contractors were currently lusting after the so-called empowerment zone, Detroit’s hot spot of redevelopment for minority neighborhoods. Otis Witherspoon was sitting in the catbird seat. As senior inspector in the building and safety and engineering department, he had the power to halt or give the go-ahead to every building under construction in the city of Detroit. His enviable position garnered him a lot of friends over his twenty-eight years in the field, as well as a passel of enemies. But the rush on the empowerment zone properties had his brain spinning with ideas and his pockets loaded with cash from those eager to persuade him in a friendly way.

  Otis answered the phone on his desk on the fourth ring while filling in the final entry on his daily route report. He listened as he wrote. “Send him in, Doris.”

  With the tax advantages of building in the eighteen-square-mile zone, developers naturally had rushed in to buy, which had resulted in a shortage of available land. Only one year after the zone’s creation, all hell was breaking loose.

  At the moment Golden Westbrook, briefcase in one hand and a mound of paperwork clutched in his other fist, loomed in the entrance of Otis’s small office, located on the fourth floor of the City-County Building in downtown Detroit.

  “Can I help you, Westbrook?” Otis asked calmly.

  Golden tossed three sheets on the desk in front of Otis. “Is this your signature?”

  Without giving it a side glance, Otis stated, “I’m certain that it is. Problems?”

  “Yesterday you issued a stop work notice to my foreman on my Sand Dollar Court Condominiums.”

  Otis shuffled through the papers on his desk as he mumbled the name of the complex. “Yep,” he said, finally looking up, “the interior walls going up in Sand Dollar were installed before the inspection was made on the electrical system.” His voice hardened. “I’ve warned your man Bond on several Westbrook Renaissance projects in the inner city not to try this stunt again. Apparently he didn’t listen.”

  Golden leaned against the door and waited until a group of men passed by the office. “I don’t want to have to file a complaint. But if necessary I—”

  Otis laughed lightly. “Whatever. We’ll both do what we have to do.”

  “Don’t try and intimidate me, Witherspoon.” Nearly all developers doing business in most metropolitan areas knew that building inspectors took kickbacks. But Reverend Golden wasn’t just any developer. “I may wear my collar backward, but make no mistake, I’m a serious businessman. And I only do business in a proper manner.”

  “Hold up, Westbrook.” Otis feigned righteous indignation, though in truth he was getting angry. He kicked his chair back and stood face-to-face with Golden. “Are you suggesting that I’m guilty of malfeasance, sir?” Otis knew that Golden’s Renaissance Development Corporation was currently $3 million overbudget. Any delay was costly at this point, and both men knew it. This project, located in downtown Detroit, was expected to cost nearly $50 million and create 250 town houses for lower-income families, renovate 5 apartment buildings, and build a 37,000-square-foot retail strip and a 58,000-square-foot Farmer Jack grocery store.

  “I’m told you’ve overlooked first-level electrical inspections in the past,” Golden said quietly.

  Before Otis could continue, Golden cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Look, I’m thirty days behind schedule on Windstar, thirty days on Pinewood Villas, and ninety days on Shoreline Condominiums because of this office.” He breathed deeply before adding, “And one of my main investors is ready to back out. If you don’t pull that stop work order, I’m done for, and you know that my Renaissance project makes up almost half of the empowerment zone. Work with me, Witherspoon.” All the Westbrook properties, which collectively fell under the title Renaissance, were created to upgrade the zone. Golden didn’t understand how Witherspoon could deny his own people.

  Otis felt agitated. He didn’t want to help this preacher, not if the preacher wasn’t going to help him. He returned to his seat. “Why don’t you take this up with the inspector in charge of complaints, Mr. Westbrook.” With each flex of his arm as he straightened his desk, each fold on Otis’s Armani charcoal gray suit slipped subtly back in place. His time was as expensive as the clothes he wore.

  It wasn’t the city’s bimonthly paycheck that enabled Otis to afford his closet full of expensive suits, the Lexus SC 400 he drove in the winter, and the Cadillac Seville in the summer. Nor did his $55,000 salary pay for his six-figure home or the two vacations he took a year. No, it was men in Westbrook’s position who allowed him to live so luxuriously.

  With a chronic backlog in the inspection department, both men knew that politics played into everything. It was about who you knew, or who you were paying on the side, that enabled you to sidestep the bureaucratic bullshit. “I’ve inspected all three of your development projects this week,” Otis said to Golden. “I could have cited your company ten violations. Several of the structures, besides Sand Dollar, weren’t in compliance with the building codes.”

  Golden looked at Otis skeptically. “In a matter of three minutes, you’ve managed to thwart three years of work.” It was clear that Golden was trying to hold his temper. “Don’t you have any kind of conscience for the citizens in the city of Detroit?”

  “Most definitely,” Otis said. “I am also aware that the city’s tax base is at a disadvantage when we overbuild low-income housing projects.”

  For a brief moment the two men stared at one another. Clearly the lines had been drawn, and Otis was in the power position. Golden extended his hand toward Otis and said, “I’ll look into that complaint. Good afternoon, Witherspoon.” And Golden Westbrook walked out of Otis’s office.

  * * *

  After Otis checked his messages and made a few calls, he locked the door to his office and headed for the elevator. He was surprised to see that Golden was still in the building, ahead of him down the hallway. Maybe he did file that complaint.

  “Westbrook—” Otis Witherspoon called out. “Hold up.”

  Dressed in a moderately priced black suit and white shirt, with a multicolored bow tie and brocaded vest, Golden looked every inch the upstanding preacher-businessman. He continued to walk ahead of Otis a few feet, stopping at the elevator. After setting his briefcase on the floor, he slipped on his overcoat, then checked his watch.

  “What is it, Otis?” Golden asked wearily. “I’m on my way to a dinner engagement. As it is I’m going to be late.”

  “Oh, a date?” Otis pressed the elevator button.

  “No,” Golden returned quietly. “Dinner with a few NAABR committee members.”

  Otis knew who would be there, and he relished the opportunity to meet them tonight. “Mind if I tag along? It’s possible we may be able to work something out. Besides, I’m starved.”

  “Certainly,” Golden said flatly.

  “By the way, I got the word on my way out that the plumbing division has pulled your plans on that riverfront property. You’re out of spec again.” He tried to make his tone concerned. “But if you can be in my office by, say,
nine A.M. tomorrow, I’m sure we can have everything taken care of by ten, ten-thirty.”

  “I’m tied up tomorrow. Maybe Mon—”

  “Tomorrow’s the best I can do,” Otis said firmly. “Otherwise I have no choice but to write a new report and recommend a superseding notice.”

  Otis was giving Golden another chance to play ball, as he’d been trying to do since he’d first met the man.

  Just last year Otis and Golden had been through a similar scenario. For six solid months Renaissance Properties had problems with the city’s engineering department. One problem involved soil samples from Golden’s Galleria Town Houses, situated a half mile off the Detroit River, which came back with extremely high levels of contamination. Golden said he distrusted the results.

  “The costs and time involved in correcting the problem are unrealistic!” Golden had screamed at Otis. Luckily for him, Golden had known better than to accuse Otis of contaminating the samples. “Someone inside the city is deliberately manipulating the figures.”

  Each time a Renaissance property came to him, Otis gave Golden the opportunity to start playing by Otis’s rules. For the soil samples, Otis had explained he had put his top people to work on the project and that they’d rechecked the numbers. When Golden still wouldn’t come through with any incentive for Otis, Otis saw to it that Golden’s riverfront property was tied up with the safety division for quite a while.

  So why was Golden making the same mistake now? What would it take to bring the good reverend around?

  When the clamorous elevator doors opened, Otis waited for Golden to gather his briefcase and step inside. “Did you watch the Lions kick San Francisco’s butt Sunday night? They were awesome, weren’t they?” he said, smiling.

  He’d known Golden on a strictly professional basis for years but was certain that the man had never watched a complete game of sports of any kind in his life. Just the same, Otis carried on the conversation about football, then moved on to the latest hockey match until they reached the parking lot.