French Silk(6)

"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 had lived in New Orleans all her life. Since Yasmine now divided her time between New Orleans and New York, Claire usually picked her up at the airport.

"Did the killer leave clues? Did they find the murder weapon?"

Impatiently Yasmine flipped the visor back into place. "It was like a news bulletin, you know? The details were sketchy. The reporters were after some guy from the D.A.'s office to make a statement, but he didn't say zip. What's with the twenty questions?"

"I can't believe he's dead." Claire hesitated before saying the last word, as though she couldn't bring herself to utter it. "He preached at the Superdome last night."

"They showed film of that on the news story. There he was on the TV screen, face red, white hair bristling, screaming about fire and brimstone. He pleaded with every American to get down on his knees and beg for redemption." Yasmine's sleek brows drew together. "How could the Lord hear anybody else's prayers with Wilde yelling so loud?" She shrugged. "I'm glad he's finally been shut up. Now he's out of our hair."

Claire sharply cut her eyes toward Yasmine. "You shouldn't say that."

"Why not? That's how I feel. I'm sure as hell not going to burst into tears and pretend to mourn his passing." She made a scoffing sound. "They should give the one who plugged him a medal for ridding this country of a pest."

The Reverend Jackson Wilde had used his television program as a forum for his crusade against pornography. He had adopted this issue as his special mission, pledging to eradicate obscenity from America. His fiery sermons had whipped thousands of his followers into a frenzy. Consequently, artists, writers, and others in the creative arts were being virulently and personally attacked, having their work banned and in some instances vandalized.

Many viewed the televangelist's crusade as a threat much more severe than the prohibition of peddling dirty magazines. They considered it an endangerment of rights granted by the First Amendment. The legal definitions as to what was obscene and what wasn't was unclear, and since the U.S. Supreme Court had been unsuccessful in establishing definite guidelines, Wilde's opponents naturally protested using his narrow opinion as the standard by which material was measured.

Warfare had been declared. In cities and towns, battles were being waged in movie theaters, bookstores, libraries, and museums. Those opposing Reverend Wilde found themselves lumped together and labeled "nonbelieving heathens." They were promoted as this era's heretics, witches, and pagans, anathema to every true believer.

Because the catalog for the lingerie line French Silk had fallen under Jackson Wilde's censure, Claire, as its creator, had been thrust into the unwelcome limelight. For months he'd lambasted the catalog, grouping it with hard core pornographic magazines. Yasmine had agreed with Claire's assertion that they should ignore Wilde and his ridiculous accusations rather than try to defend what neither felt needed defending.

But Wilde wasn't easily ignored. When his sermons failed to provoke the response he wanted—a televised debate—he'd used his pulpit to attack Yasmine and Claire personally, citing them as lewd, lascivious, contemporary Jezebels. His sermons against them had heated up even more when, a week earlier, he'd brought his crusade to New Orleans, home of French Silk. Yasmine had been in New York taking care of other business interests, so Claire had had to bear the brunt of Wilde's vicious insults.

That's why Yasmine was baffled by Claire's reaction to the news of his death. French Silk was Claire's brainchild. It had been her conception. Her business acumen, vivid imagination, and instinct for what the women of America wanted had made the mail-order business a stunning success. For Yasmine herself, it had prolonged a waning career. It had been her salvation, although even Claire didn't realize to what extent.

Now the bastard who had threatened to end all that was dead. To her way of thinking, it was cause for celebration.

Claire, however, saw it differently. "Since Wilde had labeled us his enemies, and considering that he was murdered, I don't think we should be heard gloating over his death."

"I've been accused of a lot of things, Claire, but never of being two-faced. I don't mince words. What I feel, I say. You were bred in a hothouse of gentility, while I was scraping and clawing to survive in Harlem. Me, I come on like gangbusters, while you barely flutter the air when you move. I've got a mouth as wide as the Lincoln Tunnel. Your voice would melt butter.