depositing airline passengers. "What's he done this time?"
"You haven't heard?" Yasmine gasped. "Jesus, Claire, what have you been doing this morning?"
"Going over invoices and… Why?"
"You didn't see any TV news? Listen to the radio?" Jasmine noticed that a cassette was playing in the car.
"I've deliberately avoided newscasts all week. I didn't want Mama to catch Jackson Wilde taking potshots at us while he's in town. By the way, we received another invitation to debate him, which I declined."
Yasmine continued to gape at her best friend and business associate. "You really don't know."
"What?" Claire asked with a laugh. "Is French Silk under attack again? What did he say this time, that we're going to burn in eternal hell? That I'd better clean up my act or else? That I'm corrupting the morals of America with my pornographic displays of the human body?"
Yasmine removed the large, dark sunglasses she wore when she didn't want to be recognized and looked at Claire with the tiger eyes that for a decade had graced the covers of countless fashion magazines. "The Reverend Jackson Wilde won't be saying anything about you anymore, Claire. He won't be badmouthing French Silk or our catalog. He won't be doin' nuthin', honey," she said, lapsing into the black lingo of her childhood. "The man has been silenced forever. The man is dead."
"Dead?" Claire braked hard, pitching them forward.
"Deader'n a doornail, as my mama used to say."
Claire stared at her, whey-faced and incredulous, and repeated, "Dead?"
"Apparently he preached one sermon too many. He pissed off someone enough to kill him."
Claire nervously wet her lips. "You mean he was murdered?"
A furious driver gave a blast of his horn. Another made an obscene gesture as he steered around them and sped past. Claire forced her foot off the brake pedal and back onto the accelerator. The car lurched.
"What's the matter with you? I thought you'd be applauding. Do you want me to drive?"
"No. No, I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. In fact you look like shit."
"I had a rough night."
"Mary Catherine?"
Claire shook her head. "Some bad dreams that have been keeping me awake."
"Dreams about what?"
"Never mind. Yasmine, you're sure about Jackson Wilde?"
"I heard it in the airport while I was waiting for my luggage. They had a TV on in the Avis booth. People were crowded around it. I asked somebody what was going on, expecting something like the Challenger explosion. This man says, 'That television preacher done got hisself shot last night.' And since I have a voodoo doll in the image of one particular television preacher, my interest was naturally piqued. I shoved my way closer to the set and heard the news for myself."
"Was he killed at the Fairmont?"
Yasmine looked at her curiously. "How'd you know that?"
"I heard that's where he was staying. From Andre."
"Andre. I forgot about him. Bet he's having conniptions this morning." Before Yasmine could comment further on their mutual friend, Claire asked another question.
"Who discovered the body?"
"His wife. She found him this morning in his bed with three bullet holes in him."
"My God. What time did she find him?"
"Time? Hell, I don't know. They didn't say. What difference does it make?" Yasmine took off her head scarf and shook loose the long, full Afro for which she was famous. From her oversized handbag she retrieved several bangles and slid them over her slender hands. Next, she put on gigantic disk earrings. With no more than these few cosmetic changes, the image of the most successful ethnic model since Iman began to emerge.
"Have they arrested anyone yet?"
"Nope." Yasmine applied coral gloss to her lips with a fine-tipped brush. After dusting her cheeks with blush, she viewed her exquisite face from all angles in the visor mirror.
Rush hour was over, but as always there was heavy traffic on the expressway. Claire weaved through it with the ease of experience and familiarity. She
"You haven't heard?" Yasmine gasped. "Jesus, Claire, what have you been doing this morning?"
"Going over invoices and… Why?"
"You didn't see any TV news? Listen to the radio?" Jasmine noticed that a cassette was playing in the car.
"I've deliberately avoided newscasts all week. I didn't want Mama to catch Jackson Wilde taking potshots at us while he's in town. By the way, we received another invitation to debate him, which I declined."
Yasmine continued to gape at her best friend and business associate. "You really don't know."
"What?" Claire asked with a laugh. "Is French Silk under attack again? What did he say this time, that we're going to burn in eternal hell? That I'd better clean up my act or else? That I'm corrupting the morals of America with my pornographic displays of the human body?"
Yasmine removed the large, dark sunglasses she wore when she didn't want to be recognized and looked at Claire with the tiger eyes that for a decade had graced the covers of countless fashion magazines. "The Reverend Jackson Wilde won't be saying anything about you anymore, Claire. He won't be badmouthing French Silk or our catalog. He won't be doin' nuthin', honey," she said, lapsing into the black lingo of her childhood. "The man has been silenced forever. The man is dead."
"Dead?" Claire braked hard, pitching them forward.
"Deader'n a doornail, as my mama used to say."
Claire stared at her, whey-faced and incredulous, and repeated, "Dead?"
"Apparently he preached one sermon too many. He pissed off someone enough to kill him."
Claire nervously wet her lips. "You mean he was murdered?"
A furious driver gave a blast of his horn. Another made an obscene gesture as he steered around them and sped past. Claire forced her foot off the brake pedal and back onto the accelerator. The car lurched.
"What's the matter with you? I thought you'd be applauding. Do you want me to drive?"
"No. No, I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. In fact you look like shit."
"I had a rough night."
"Mary Catherine?"
Claire shook her head. "Some bad dreams that have been keeping me awake."
"Dreams about what?"
"Never mind. Yasmine, you're sure about Jackson Wilde?"
"I heard it in the airport while I was waiting for my luggage. They had a TV on in the Avis booth. People were crowded around it. I asked somebody what was going on, expecting something like the Challenger explosion. This man says, 'That television preacher done got hisself shot last night.' And since I have a voodoo doll in the image of one particular television preacher, my interest was naturally piqued. I shoved my way closer to the set and heard the news for myself."
"Was he killed at the Fairmont?"
Yasmine looked at her curiously. "How'd you know that?"
"I heard that's where he was staying. From Andre."
"Andre. I forgot about him. Bet he's having conniptions this morning." Before Yasmine could comment further on their mutual friend, Claire asked another question.
"Who discovered the body?"
"His wife. She found him this morning in his bed with three bullet holes in him."
"My God. What time did she find him?"
"Time? Hell, I don't know. They didn't say. What difference does it make?" Yasmine took off her head scarf and shook loose the long, full Afro for which she was famous. From her oversized handbag she retrieved several bangles and slid them over her slender hands. Next, she put on gigantic disk earrings. With no more than these few cosmetic changes, the image of the most successful ethnic model since Iman began to emerge.
"Have they arrested anyone yet?"
"Nope." Yasmine applied coral gloss to her lips with a fine-tipped brush. After dusting her cheeks with blush, she viewed her exquisite face from all angles in the visor mirror.
Rush hour was over, but as always there was heavy traffic on the expressway. Claire weaved through it with the ease of experience and familiarity. She
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