Bricktop's Paris by T. Denean Sharpley-Whiting

Author:T. Denean Sharpley-Whiting [Sharpley-Whiting , T. Denean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: State Univ of New York Pr
Published: 2015-01-30T22:00:00+00:00

“It’s terrible,” moaned the wispy blonde woman with painted-on eyebrows and an upswept hairdo. “Not the poem you read, but Pippa. I’m Ollie Knolton.”

I could smell the wine oozing out of Ollie’s skin as soon as I’d sidled up to her. She was the fast rabbit that I had observed earlier, scampering away from Renata. “Yes, baby,” I responded, “it is a terrible thing. Did you know Pippa well?”

“We were friends, you know.”

“You and Pippa?”

“Me and Josie,” she confided. “We were all three good friends. At least, until Pippa and I fell all the way out.”

“But now, here you are, forgiving all that. What did you two have a falling out about?”

“She wanted something from me that I wasn’t willing to share.”

This sounded suspiciously similar to Natalie’s story. What exactly was this thing that nobody was willing to share? I said, “Give and take is the key to any friendship, Miss Knolton.”

“Ollie. Please call me Ollie. I share. I’m very generous. I’d like to share with you.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you like women, Miss Bricktop?”

I thought about Peter. “It’s Missus, baby. I like ’em alright. Just not that way.”

Unlike Nat, clearly this Miss Anne dealt in Queens of Spade.

“Having an M-R-S in front of your name is hardly a stumbling block. Are you sure? I was thinking we could catch a drink at Le Boeuf sur le Toit and then head over to my place.”

“Even if I did like women like that, I wouldn’t take advantage of you in your present state.” I gave her a wistful smile.

“You’re beautiful, Missssssus Bricktop,” she shamelessly stressed out the syllables. “What are you anyway? White, colored, both? I’d love to take some pictures of you.” She leaned back clumsily and made the motions of a photographer behind a camera. Her hands were gloved.

Ollie Knolton now had my undivided attention. It was half past one Saturday morning, and the whiskey was muddling my thinking just when I needed to be nimble.

“I’m a Negro. I’d like to see some of your work when you have the time,” I suggested, almost too quickly.

Ollie moved back awkwardly and retreated to the table topped with liquor and eats. She clutched the table for balance. The tightly woven scarf around her neck stayed dutifully in place. She reached for a leather satchel on a nearby chair. She pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. “They’re artistic.” The salacious grin on her face morphed into a wan smile, which only emphasized the scratches that ran along the creases on the left side of her mouth.

I took the bait and opened the flap. Sacre bleu! There was Josie. She was doing the huck-a-buck, hoochie coochie, and a six-leg frolic. The photographs were not the run-of-the-mill porn that you could purchase on the banks of the Seine; they were very creative—almost staged. Some were of Josie, Pippa, and Ollie, and others, of a higher quality, showed Josie and Pippa with more women I didn’t recognize. The quality of the photographs without Ollie

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