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carried a burden. Sometimes she saw things she didn’t want to see. Disturbed, she worked quickly, wrapping the cloth this way and that way, the design draping itself across the mannequin easily from her experienced fingers.
    She would stay off the streets of Harlem for a while. After all, she had accumulated a small fortune. It was not as though she needed to work every day. She did so because she loved being around people. She loved the streets and the electricity that filled the streets. She was in tune with the special harmony of the people that populated Harlem.
    Nowhere else had she ever found the spirit that surrounded these people. She greatly appreciated being a part of that. However, she had decided she would cool her heels for a bit, stay off the streets and out of sight. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Or so she hoped.
    Something was brewing just beneath the surface of Harlem, like a tidal wave that hadn’t yet reached shore. She didn’t know what it was, but she didn’t like the feeling. It was queer.
    And that Tracie Burlingame was like a magnet, attracting the wrong kind of things. She was a patchwork quilt. Anita didn’t like what she had seen on her. It gave her a bad feeling, as if it were the tip of the iceberg. Yes, she would definitely stay off the streets.
    Her apartment was littered with antiques and fabrics from every continent, and pictures of the famous graced almost every inch of wall space. Models, politicians, composers, musicians, and athletes—you name a famous person, and you would pretty much find them on Anita’s wall.
    All had been given their place, and space along her coveted walls. She loved people who possessed gifts.
    Mannequins sat in every corner of the living room, all draped with their own designs. A rich array of vibrant colored fabrics covered the walls, sofas, and chairs. Silks, velvets, chintz, and soft transparencies littered the room.
    There was also a scattering of Tiffany lamps. She was a collector. Crystal balls sat in brass holders; some dated back as far as the eighteenth century. Decks of cards sat in their designer cases, ready to be used at will. Ready to tell a story. Ready to reveal a secret. Sometimes ready to turn a life upside down. Oh, well. Their job was not to feel, only to tell.
    Anita heard a noise. She looked down to find one of her five rabbits nuzzling an empty bowl next to the couch. She knew what that meant. It was time for them to eat. She had five black rabbits. Their coats were sleek and as shiny as velvet.
    Anita had spoiled them shamelessly. They slept on the couch amid an array of colorful stuffed pillows. She fed them romaine lettuce. The little rascals loved music. They especially liked instrumental jazz, classical, and hip-hop. You name it, they were there. They loved a good beat. They would curl up on a pillow and listen for hours to the music, a contented look on their distinct little faces. Their whiskers would pucker in musical peace.
    Anita smiled down at Pesky, the one who had brought her attention to the fact that it was dinnertime. He lived up to his name, because he was the one who kept Anita on the straight and narrow by nipping at her heels when she entered worlds that didn’t include them.
    But, that was all right, because Pesky knew what it took to bring her around. And right now he knew it was time to eat. He had her attention.
    Anita filled the bowls with the fresh lettuce she had acquired from the market. She watched as they scrambled forth.
    She was about to return her attention to the mannequin when the kitchen shutters banged open loudly. “Goodness,” she said.
    She walked toward the kitchen, intending to close the shutters. Something stopped her in her tracks.
    The man standing before her was tall—huge. His eyes gleamed brightly. His bald brown head glistened. It shone as though it had been dipped in floor wax. It looked like a brown, shiny globe.
    He had the sort of disciplined