Page 78 of Madam, May I

“Absolutely,” she stressed with a laugh.

Chapter Eleven

Thursday, February 14, 2019

Drugs are and will always be the devil . . .

“A’ight. All done. Whatchu think?”

Her hairstylist turned the chair, and Desdemona looked at her hair in a bob that flowed above her shoulders when she turned her head left and right. “Love it, MiMi,” she said, running her fingers through the silk-pressed strands.

The tall and full-figured beauty with a shaven head and beautiful lips coated in red matte gave her a wink as she removed the embroidered cape. “You needed a good cut, and this fits the shape of your face so well,” MiMi said, still running her fingers through the layers.

It was MiMi who had revitalized Desdemona’s hair after the damage she had done to it when Zena gave up on fixing it for her. And that’s why years later, wealthy or not, Desdemona still made the trek to the small Harlem salon. MiMi’s skills, the soul music playing in the background, and the abundance of sisterhood and good conversation were addictive.

“Did y’all see the Grammys?” someone asked.

“Girl,didI?” someone else answered.

Desdemona smiled as she stood and played with her own hair in the mirror as she eyed the women laughing together. “I saw it, too,” she said, reaching into her leopard print Yves Saint Laurent crossbody bag to remove the cash to pay and tip MiMi.

“See you next week,” MiMi said with a smile, sliding the money into the black cape she wore before motioning for her next customer to sit in her chair.

Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.

Desdemona was laughing at one of the customers imitating a performer from the awards show, but she stopped as she reached in for her phone. Number thirteen. He was supposed to be having an afternoon delight with Plum at the Riverdale mansion. “Hello,” she said, grabbing her wool cape and rushing from the shop, leaving behind the smell of sweet-scented spritzes, chemicals, and hot curling irons pressed to curling wax on hair.

“She’s dead.”

She paused on the street, causing the crowd of people to bypass her as they continued at a fast pace. “What?” she snapped, her heart hammering.

“I’m out of here. Leave me out of it.”

Boop.

He hung up.

“Shit,” she swore, rushing down the street, dodging people and street vendors selling everything from food to books and artwork—even surrounded by the frigid air of winter.

Desdemona reached the side street where she had parked, hating that her hands were shaking in fright as she climbed behind the wheel and started her keyless ignition. “Shit,” she swore again.

She dialed Denzin, hating the tremble that caused her to miss and hit the wrong number and have to back up and start again.

Keep it cool, Desi. Calm down. Gather yourself and keep it cool.

She released long, steadying breaths and continued to do so as she dialed him successfully.

“Hey, boss.”

“I need you to go up and check on Plum. I got a call that’s she’s dead in the house,” she said, putting the phone on speaker and setting it on her lap.

“What?!” he exclaimed.

“Go check,” she said, surprised by her calm voice even as her heart pounded fast and hard.

“She’s dead.”

“I’m getting too old for this,” she muttered as she turned the corner and eased into traffic, gripping the wheel to help steady her hands.

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