Gates Of Hades

Chapter Forty-four

Hillwood

4155 Linnean Avenue, Washington, D.C.

Shirlee Atkins was no more than a cleaning lady. Oh, she had a free uniform furnished by the foundation that supported this big ol' house, an' she had the benefit of a union contract, an' she was called a "custodian," whatever that was, but other than that, this job wasn't no different from the ones she'd had in homes of senators and representatives and them lobby people, houses some bigger than this one over to Georgetown an' Kalorama an' even Arlington. 'Cept Arlington wasn't really in Washington, was it? She wasn't sure.

Anyway, this job paid enough for a small apartment away from the projects where the kids could go to school without dodgin' between crack addicts, dope pushers, and hos, where the sirens didn't wail all night. Place like hers, the kids had a chance to grow up an' be somethin' more 'n a housecleaner.

But she'd never worked in a house furnished quite like this one. Ever' day she come to work, walk right up to the columned brick front an' into that room at the front door.

Foyer, yep, that was it, the foyer. Big, two-story entrance, whatever it be called. She never seen no chandelier like that before. Mr. Jimson, he say it be Louie somebody, some French king. Rock crystal, he tell her. An' those people lookin' down from their golden frames, most of 'em draped with more fur than your average black bear. Course, they be Russians, and Shirlee understood it got pretty cold in Russia. Still, it suit Shirlee jus' fine that most of them Russian pictures were out in the little house in the yard, the dacha, Mr. Jimson called it, a place Ms. Post built for her Russian art. Weren't no nesting dolls there, though. Jus' paintings and jeweled things.

Cabinets on either side of the foyer full of porcelain, too. Why anybody want to eat off somethin' painted with flowers 'n' stuff, she didn't know. Couldn't hardly tell if it be clean even when you wash it.

Mr. Jimson laughed when she said that. But then, he laughed at a lot of what she said. Not that shitty you- dumb-nigga laugh some folks had when she said some- thin', but a warm chuckle, like she 'n' Mr. Jimson enjoyin' the same joke. He an' Shirlee, they had a lot of laughs together. Like the time he said Ms. Post done bought his place when she run out of husbands an' chose it over successive… monog, monag… mahogany. Shirlee hadn't unnerstood 'xactly what he meant, but she laughed anyways. It made Mr. Jimson happy for her to laugh. He understood when one of her kids needed to go to the doctor or had a problem at school, too. Ain't easy raisin' three kids with no daddy. Mr. Jimson understood that, too.

She sighed deeply and wiped away a single tear rolling down one fat cheek.

Mr. Jimson.

Done got hisse'f keeled by a car, steppin' off the curb two days ago. Driver never found. D.C. cops be lucky they could find the fly on their pants when they needed to piss.

This new man, the one called hisse'f some Russian-soundin' name, look like somethin' outta one o' her kids comics: big guy, head shaved, and from some country other than this one. He hardly spoke to nobody, all nervous and such. Yesterday, he 'bout jump outta his skin when Shirlee come up 'hind him to ax if she could leave a few minutes early. Him standin' there, lookin' outta the dinin' room window into the rose garden.

Shirlee guessed he was thinkin' 'bout that meetin' gonna take place in that room. Must be some kinda meetin', needin' thirty chairs around the marble inlaid table.

She needed to vacuum that rug, polish the table again 'fore any meetin' started. She wasn't too sure 'xactly what sort of meetin' gonna take place, but she heard tell the president hisse'f gonna be there. She wasn't 'bout to have no president come in 'n' think Shirlee Atkins was no sloppy housekeeper, no, sirree, Bob.

Thing was, those men diggin' in the rose garden right outside the French doors. They prolly Russian, too, judging by the way they talk English jus' like the new man. Make sense, the house full of Russian art an' all. She'd have to keep watch on 'em, see they didn' track no dirt into her house. Funny thing was that most of the diggin' in the rose garden should be in winter, when the plants were dormant. She'd heard tell that some of the mens come to this meetin' wanted some plants of their own. Why? Them roses pretty 'nough for anybody.