𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄

―𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆³

interlude³ | TIME CHANGES THINGS

❝Funny how time changes things,
rearranges things.❞

●

DETROIT, MICHIGAN.
AUGUST 1968.

Detroit was a sweltering hell.

Diana could feel it in every sinewy crease of her arm, in every bend in her neck, in every tiny, forgotten tendon between her fingers and toes, and along her forehead in the heavy, low hanging swoop of her dark, ear-length hair. It billowed in the wind, thrashing her across the eyes like a switch. She tucked it behind her ear, praying this time (surely this time) she had done it just right, but within seconds, the strands came whirling back, obscuring her view more than before.

She slammed on the brakes, her hand wildly searching the side of the door. She fumbled for the window handle and jerked it until it let out a loud groan of protest. One window down, another to go. Her left hand took over the steering wheel as her right hand groped for the other handle across the car. She glanced—just a few inches more—and leaned until she felt it between her fingers. Struggling, she wound the handle, heavy summer perspiration filling the car with a grinding squelch. It closed not a moment too soon. The right tire let out a warning screech as she jerked the wheel, sending violent spurts of gravel and sand across the shoulder.

She could see Berry's face now, twisted in outrage. It was his car, he reminded her. He wouldn't take kindly to her recklessness. Diana laughed. Since the Biscayne was no longer hers then Berry shouldn't mind if she took it for one, final joy ride—possibly in a ditch or over a bed of nails. Clearly he had because he tried reaching for the keys, an idea that had gone flying out the window when she planted a heavy-handed slap across his cheek.

Just like his cufflinks. She had thrown those out sometime during the long ride down his driveway.

Her bloodlust was as ferocious as the sound of the engine. Over the horizon, dark blue and permeated with stars, she could see the glorious, lakeside mansion rising in the distance. Midday walks in their rundown neighborhood had all led up to this. "Smokey Joe" had accomplished his dream, a home on Michigan's Orchard Lake with enough space to house as many cars and—because she knew men—women as possible.

She brought the car to an abrupt stop just outside the gates. The large driveway overflowed with cars. People loitered by the stairs, leaned and laughed around a massive canopy. Someone cursed her, throwing insults at her back as she stalked towards the front door, the car a barrier to entry and exit.

The edge of the door nearly barreled into a woman as Diana forced it open. She could feel people's stares, startled, confused, and angry, but kept walking, scanning the room for a familiar face. Amongst the fray of swishing hips, swaying glasses, and strobes of light, she spotted a tall figure. A hefty guitar was swung across his lap and he was flanked by a harem of women. Without a moment's thought, she stalked across the room, forcing her way into his sight.

"You've been dodging my calls all week, Marvin."

It was usually "Marv", but time, impatience, and anger had taken away the little bit of impunity she had left. An okay thing, too, considering the way he tore his attention from the women at his side.

He was scowling. "As a fellow artist, I'm sure you can understand how busy things can get."

The difference was striking. Years ago, they were a cordial pair, working the same circuits, clubs, and tiny event spaces as two of five of the Primettes. Smokey took Marvin Toplin off their hands not long after, a fair trade after working tirelessly behind the scenes to grant them an audience with Mr. Gordy himself. All that was left from that time was history. The rest was nothing more than static.