Bassment Deep Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by CS Bennett

  Cover Model: O Robinson

  Copyright © 2011

  PREFACE

  Margo Cassaneto is a freelance journalist who is contracted to do a feature story on an up and coming jazz musician named Ma’Kentu Eu’Tabee and the members of his five-piece jazz ensemble. Having been hand-picked for this impromptu and prize assignment, she finds herself rushing off to join the talented musician and his ensemble, which are presently on tour. Her hope is to get the musical scoop of the year.

  Margo immediately puts her proven skills to work as an interviewer to gain Ma’Kentu’s trust. Before long he finds himself sharing, not only his professional life, but personal things he would never have shared with anyone else. Because of their growing bond and her respect for him as a musician, composer, and man, she begins to see him as being more than just a passing front page human-interest story.

  Ma’Kentu, a favorite to win this year’s Grammy Award in the best new jazz group category, finds Margo more challenging and more exciting and more appealing than many of the jazzy tunes he has written. It has been sometime since he has met a woman with such beauty, charm, integrity, and grace. And for a while, life is blissful for them, as each day on tour promises new experiences. Spring is in the air, no doubt. And so is love. From afternoon walks in America’s oldest city, St Augustine, Florida, to sharing cocktail drinks at the trendiest nightclubs of Baltimore, Maryland, to chauffeured-driven limousine rides through the granite and concrete maze of government buildings in the city of Washington, DC, the two find themselves carrying on as though they have a new lease on life. Such is love.

  But love and sometimes our past has a way of making us forget about the harsh realities of life and the skeletons in our closets, and in time, we all come back down to earth. It is no different for Margo and Ma’Kentu. In time, the two discover there is a lot more going on between them than the love they share.

  The question is will they ever be able to return harmony to their troubled relationship.

  Come join the tour.

  CS Bennett

  Chapter 1

  It was just like in the movies. Margo appeared to be living the dream. There was the beach bungalow, the tropical garden, the swimming pool, the luxury SUV, and of course, the successful career. She had it all. Well, nearly all. Men and romance were noticeably absent at this point in her life. Her career was her great love and as far as she could see, there was no man in her future and no room for one with her busy schedule. So there she sat, as on other nights, glued to her computer and laboring over an article for a regional magazine. Remaining focused was a challenge. The air, deeply scented from the red hibiscus outside of her window, caused her mind to wonder. And it didn’t help that across from her workstation was a splendid view of the beach and the vast Atlantic Ocean.

  Having taken time off to attend a friend’s birthday party the night before, she was pressed to complete her month old assignment without the benefit of having that one extra evening to prep. Add in her picturesque view and all of it proved too much of a distraction for her already fragile concentration.

  There was something seductive and mysterious about the ocean, especially at night when it glowed under the soft fluorescent sheen of a silvery moon and that fascinated Margo. What intrigued her more were the mysteries that lied beneath the surface. It was like the people we meet. There was the surface side and what lied beneath. Finding out the latter often meant jumping in and getting wet. Like the ocean, one had to wonder once you’re in; could you get out of it when things turned rough? Relationships often reflected the same concerns.

  Needing a break, she rose up and sauntered over to the opened bay window for a better view. When she did, a sudden breeze enveloped her slender form, causing her to hug herself. Glancing skyward, she could make out several dark clouds rolling across the sky. An earlier forecast had called for rain. And it had rained but only briefly. Suddenly three shooting stars, one right after the other, streaked across the twilight sky. Slightly superstitious, she took this to mean that something special was on her horizon. That was always mother’s interpretation of shooting stars.

  God, she thought, her mind wondering. This was the perfect setting for a romance novel: a moonlit expanse of ocean, a white sandy beach, and a lovely woman peering out into the night from her bedroom window. Unfortunately, Margo’s writings had nothing to do with romantic matters. She was a bona-fide work-at-home freelance writer. A journalist extraordinaire!

  Her ‘24/7 bread-and-butter’ occupation was in the arena of human-interest stories and an occasional celebrity biography. Her current assignment was an article entitled Women Living the Single Life in a Married Situation. The article focused on the declining state of Black marriages and morality in America. The very popular North Florida African-American Culture Magazine had commissioned her to do the article. And they were paying her six grand for her research, travel, and the article. She wanted to finish the final edit tonight so that she could e-mail it to the main office in the morning. It was an article she hoped would add weight to her recent nomination as a possible recipient of the prestigious Hitchcock-Prescott Freelance Writer’s Award, sponsored by the Florida Freelance Writer’s Guild. Her nomination stemmed from a series she had written over the summer on early teen pregnancy and its impact on the community. She was paid ten grand for that project, she fondly recalled.

  Reflecting back on her busy day, and the procrastinate mood she found herself in, she concluded that she just wasn’t in the right frame of mind to wrap this project up neatly this particular moment. Oh well, it would not be the first deadline she’d missed, she mused, gazing out into the St. Augustine night.

  A minute later her cell phone rang, starling her. Picking it up, she answered it. It was D’Sandra Williams, her best friend. “Hey girlie! How are you?” she asked.

  “Just fine,” her friend replied.

  “Great party last night, I must say,” Margo said rubbing her temple lightly. She had a headache earlier that evening.

  “Yeah, it was quite a blast,” D’Sandra replied as she clutched the phone loosely in her hand

  “It was. But please do me a favor and don’t introduce me to anyone else anytime soon,” Margo chuckled. “That friend of yours stuck to me throughout half of the party like sub-freezing ice on a wet tongue. The guy gave me chills.”

  “Vernon?”

  “Yes, who else?” Margo came back.

  “Well, Vernon is kind of strange but in a good way,” D’Sandra added. “It’s all good. He’s a good Christian man, someone I thought you might be interested in since you’ve been getting a little religious on me here lately.”

  “I’m not so much religious as I am spiritual,” Margo corrected her friend. “Anyway, I have to admit he was kind ‘a cute; he just didn’t have much to talk about outside of religion and his favorite hobby.”

  “And what hobby is that?” D’Sandra asked.

  “Collecting bugs.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” D’Sandra sighed. “I forgot that Vernon collected creepy bugs for a hobby. Oh, you poor girl. I won’t let that happen again.”

  “You promise,” Margo said.

  “I promise. As of now, consider myself officially out of the match making business,” D’Sandra winked into the phone as her mouth curved into a mischievous smile. “So, what are you up to?”

  “Supposed to be finishing up this Times-Union assignment. Why, whatz up?”

  �
�Remember the Dominique lingerie party I mentioned a week ago. Girl, it’s tonight. As I told you then, Renee and I were supposed to model but she called me an hour ago and said that she couldn’t make it. I called around but I am not having much luck finding a replacement. I was wondering if you could help us out.”

  “Now D’Sandra, you know how I feel about lingerie. Besides, I’m closing in on thirty.”

  “Wait a minute! You just turned twenty-nine last month,” her friend chuckled. “Hell, if anyone has got the body for lingerie, it’s you Margo. You and I both know you have the body of a healthy twenty-two year old. A body to die for, might I add.”

  “Thank you for the compliment but the answer is still no,” Margo chuckled, as she stole a look at herself in her full-length mirror.

  “Margo! If it’s men you’re worrying about, only two are expected to be there. The rest are all women.”

  “Doesn’t matter who’s there. Besides, like I said, I have this article to finish tonight.”

  “What is it with you and lingerie, anyway? I mean, an attractive looking woman like yourself could have the pick of the litter every other night if you wanted to. Why waste that beautiful bode of yours? Hell, I know it’s got nothing to do with religion or spirituality with your partying ass self.”

  “No, it’s not religion,” Margo chuckled lightly. “And I only like partying because I love to dance. I’m just not ready for a relational commitment. And just because I chose not to be involved, doesn’t mean I’m wasting myself.”

  “Try telling that to some lonely heart who’s out there looking for Mrs. Right or at least a good roll in the hay.” D’Sandra chuckled. “Anyway, girlie, you go ahead and finish your assignment. And get paid. I’ll call Shakara and see if she can stand in. She thinks she’s all that anyway.”

  “Look, if it was anything else other than lingerie, you know that I’d be there for you. You do know that?”

  “I know. You’re still my number one girlie, just the same.”

  “Go on and have fun. And take some pictures so I can see how it went. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “You know, you really need to get out more Margo. Let some of these men see that nice round ass of yours, especially the way you fit those jeans of yours. I’m telling you, with all the potential romance and primetime African snake out there just waiting for some action you should be jumping at the opportunity to get out. And I’m talking long and thick Zulu Nation python, girl.. Child, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  Margo couldn’t help but chuckle. “Girl, you need to stop being so midnight fresh. Like I said…I’ll talk with you tomorrow. Bye!”

  For a moment, she paused to gaze at a picture of her mother, Juanita Cassaneto, which set on top of her dresser. Though she loved her mother dearly, the memories were something she’d rather forget.

  Returning to the computer she decided to check her e-mail before turning in. It was a routine she had gotten into since going online four years earlier. At the time, going online was just a curiosity for her. Today, nearly all of her assignments were submitted through electronic mail.

  Slipping on her reading glasses, she glossed over several messages. One grabbed her attention right away. It was from Abdullah Zoe, a senior editor, and dear friend, at the Florida Times-Union newspaper in greater Jacksonville, Florida. Over the years she had been commissioned to write numerous articles for the Times-Union and was constantly in demand for her services there. The message was a request for her to be in his office by 10:00AM the following morning, and promptly. Must be a new assignment, she thought.

  Abdullah was a man who believed the clock was invented for his sole consuetude. He lived his life by the clock and the deadlines he imposed on those orbiting his world and sphere of influence. Three minutes past the hour meant exactly three minutes past the hour to him. He did not believe in mortal excuses either. Just acts of God. And he determined what was and what wasn’t an act of God. A soft-spoken man, he was a great guy to work for and Margo delighted in the fact that she had an excellent rapport with him. Still, she was not sure she was ready to take on a new assignment. She was exhausted and wanted to rest up for the awards ceremony coming up two weeks later. Since Abdullah was not one to discuss business over the phone, she’d have to make the drive to Jacksonville to discuss the assignment with him.

  Standing up, she reached for the Bose radio she had recently purchased. A twist of the dial tuned in her favorite station. Though anything but in the mood, she decided it would probably be in her best interest to complete her article tonight in the event he talked her in to taking on a new assignment. With a muttered curse, she sat down and resumed her editing. Later, after turning in for the night, she pondered the significant of those magnificent shooting stars and what good might be coming her way.

  Trying to be prompt for Abdullah’s meetings was always a monumental challenge when you lived 65 miles from his riverfront office. But Margo seemed to be up for the challenge. Mindful to leave home early, she began her hour-long drive to Jacksonville. Her gallant efforts seemed not to matter, though. The northern lanes of Interstate 95 were bumper-to-bumper traffic. Only occasionally was she able to cruise the posted seventy miles per hour speed limit unimpeded. She turned on the traffic report. No good news there either.

  Pissed was too kind an expression to relay her true feelings on this off and on traffic jam. It’s the damned FDOT’s fault, she thought, which was always involved in some colossal early morning road construction work. Add to this numerous stretches of concrete barriers, two to three lanes merging into one, and huge construction vehicles scattered about. A recent fender bender capped off an already frustrating experience, as it brought traffic to a slower crawl.

  Inhaling deeply, she glanced at her watch then pounded her fist on the steering wheel. “Damn this traffic!” she muttered, wondering if Abdullah would consider a traffic accident an act of God. It seemed to take forever, but traffic cleared up and to her delight and relief. It was warp speed from that point on.

  Pulling into the nearly full Times-Union parking lot, she breathed a sigh of relief. Once again, and against all odds, she had managed to arrive on time. And doing ten miles over the speed limit didn’t hurt her cause one bit. “Not bad for one who was once known more for her tardiness at high school events than for her beauty,” Margo murmured, as she gazed at her image in the dropdown mirror, checked her lipstick, and patted her hair in place. And a rare beauty she was …unanimously voted both Prom Queen and Homecoming Queen during her senior year in high school. And she was late for both events, she remembered with fondness.

  In the sterile corridor, people hurried across the mirror buffed tile floors, as if on an urgent mission of sorts. For Margo, who cared not for the hustle and bustle of office life, working at home was an absolute relief. The quiet laid-back atmosphere she enjoyed in her home setting - sans children - suited her well. For the moment, her reality centered on the hustle and bustle of the here and now at Florida Times-Union. Though inside, she still had to make it through a gauntlet of friends and associates to get to the fourth floor where Abdullah’s office was located. It was hustle time. And hustle she did. She prided herself being prompt, almost as much as Abdullah expected her to be. But there was still the human gauntlet.

  Fortunately for Margo, a mandatory training was in session. And many of the employees were required to attend. Exiting the elevator, she hurried down the corridor and was an office away from her destination when she ran into Chuck D. Lambert, a fellow Black news journalist who was considered one of the Times-Union’s best front-line journalist, and one of its tallest at 6’ 8.” After a career ending knee injury, during a NCAA tournament, Chuck switched his major from future NBA superstar to journalism. Thanks to his college travels, as a basketball player, he had connections like Pizza R ‘Us had pizzas. He knew people in high places as well as low places. Among his contacts were the Mayor, the Chief of Police, the fire commissioner, the Chairman of the School Board, se
veral Chamber Of Commerce members, college presidents, business owners, and prominent neighborhood activists. He was also was on first name bases with local pimps, their stable of prostitutes, crack addicts, bar owners, and bookies. If ever there was going to be a news scoop, Chuck D. Lambert was usually the one to bring it to print. The two hugged, exchanged pleasantries then parted.

  A heartbeat later, another voice called out. “Hey Margo! Damn, it’s good to see you again.”

  By now, she wondered if she’d forgotten to say her prayers the night before, for some higher entity seemed to be working against her. Recognizing the voice, she turned and smiled at the tall Italian Stallion named Bernardo Burtelliano, who was a former assistant managing editor for the Baltimore Sun before he moved his wife and two children south to North Florida. “Hello Bernie! It’s good to see you too,” she greeted him, preferring his nickname.

  “Hey, whenever you’re in the vicinity it usually means Abdullah has an important assignment for you,” he chuckled, his hands struggling to contain a bundle of paperwork.

  “You can never tell with Abdullah.” She feinted a slight grimace, then smiled.

  “Well, you let me know, first thing, okay!”

  “I’ll let you know. Gotta go!” she said.

  “Finally!” she gasped, as she stood in front of Abdullah’s office.

  Inhaling she knocked and awaited an invitation to enter. When it came, she opened the door to find him sitting patiently behind his mahogany desk, his hands clasped behind his balding head. For a man nearing sixty, he looked good. Damned good, she thought. He had weathered the idealistic sixties and turbulent seventies and rejuvenated eighties well, along with a thirty-two year marriage and three children, all now tax-paying citizens, and without his face showing the stress of it all. A fitness fanatic, he worked out at the gym three times a week and swam laps at the local health club.