Basketball Jones (10 page)

Just as I’d expected, Maurice had topped himself—or at least he talked a good game. I was rendered speechless by these absurd ambitions, but I couldn’t help ask how he intended to sink not only one diva but two—and on the biggest weekend of the year, no less!

“Oh, don’t you worry. I’ve not yet determined how best to stomp Mr. Jackson Treat, but I can safely say right now that Austin’s pool party won’t be happening next year—or ever again, if I have my way.”

“Mo, what are you up to?”

A public bus thundered past me, advertising on its side the new hit TV series in which Blair Underwood starred as a preacher moonlighting as an amateur sleuth who solved crimes with the help of exotic birds. Jade was an avid fan and couldn’t figure out why I refused to watch it. At the moment I had my hands full with the drama unfolding before me.

As if speaking to a child, he said, “Don’t you remember that little scandal Mr. Smith got caught up in with the city councilman he was blackmailing for city contracts? I heard the bitch
sent most of his money to the Dominican Republic and was building a villa over there. I also heard from a reliable source that he was dating some second-level pro football player who was looking for his ass after talking about their business. I’m told there’s a video of them doing the do that’s floating around and that Mr. Football wasn’t too happy. Now that couldn’t happen to a more evil bitch, if you ask me. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“No one’s asking you,” I added quickly, trying not to get caught up in his gossip. Sometimes I had to let Maurice know the black gay social scene in Atlanta wasn’t a big deal to me. “But how do you plan to pull off an event so big? A party of that level costs a lot of money. How do you expect to pay for it all?”

“I have my ways. Trust me, AJ. I’ll get food and liquor sponsors. Honey, these companies know us sissies have lots of disposable income and they also know how and where we spend it. Paying for the party is going to be the easiest thing in the world. The real challenge will be deciding who not to invite. That list is going to be longer than the list of people who will get the invites! I think I’ll call it the ‘Glitter and Be Gay Ball.’ “

In spite of his harsh remarks and the mean-spiritedness behind them, a small part of me actually sympathized with where Maurice was coming from. I’d never made the A-list either, and there were times when it felt as if these lavish parties were thrown to make ordinary people like Maurice and me feel like shit for not having made the grade. Make no mistake: I wouldn’t have participated in those events even if I had been invited. The self-ordained movers and shakers of the black gay social circuit held about as much interest for me as a rodeo. But for someone who’s as closely aligned with gay culture as Maurice, the sting of exclusion was clearly felt more sharply. What I
couldn’t sympathize with or fully grasp was the lengths to which he’d go to right whatever wrongs he may or may not have experienced. When it comes to Mo, it’s impossible to know what’s for real.

Rather than draw him into an argument about the low nature of this new enterprise, I chose instead to take a less confrontational route in the hope that I might talk a little sense into him. That was the thing you had to remember: Maurice was thin-skinned and quick to anger, but sometimes a well-reasoned talking to—brother to brother—worked wonders.

“I have to tell you,” I began in my best therapist manner, “what you’re planning is going to take a lot of time. What about your business? You can’t neglect your work over this party. Besides, who really cares whether there’s a ‘fabulous’ new party? To tell you the truth, I think there’s too much of this stuff going on already in gay life. You can’t open a magazine without being hit over the head with the offering of some new gay cruise or huge party. What we need for a change is some substance, something that you don’t throw out the next morning when the next fad comes along.”

“Child, boo,” Maurice said. It was his favorite saying and was the ultimate gay-boy brush off. Like he was telling me, I can’t be bothered by the likes of you.

If you could detect a smirk over the phone line, I would have felt it at that instant. “Come on, AJ, when you say things like that I have to ask myself if you’re really gay. Do you know how many gay party planners there are in this city? They will be lining up to work this party! I was going to hold it at the penthouse of the Four Seasons but that’s in Midtown and so last decade. I think I’ve finally decided to have it at the Mansion. Won’t that be fabulous?”

Clearly what I’d just said hadn’t registered. I looked at my watch impatiently, wondering how I might make a graceful exit from this conversation that was spiraling downward. “And why will the Mansion be fabulous?”

“It’s only the grandest hotel in Atlanta, and it hasn’t even opened yet. My extravaganza will be the first big event held there. Everyone is going to hear about it and wish they’d been there. Oh, I can’t tell you how happy I am right now. I knew if I waited long enough revenge would be mine.”

A pause hung in the air for a second, as if he were expecting congratulations, with the noise of the lunchtime street traffic instead filling the silence. I wanted to tell him flat-out that this was the craziest, most harebrained scheme he’d ever cooked up. That it was bound to blow up in his face, and I wanted no part of it. Rather than saying that, I told him, “I guess if it makes you happy, then I’m happy for you.” The line went silent again, which I took as my signal to bow out of the call. “Listen, I need to run. I gotta few errands to take care of. Call you later?”

“Why you running off so fast?” he asked, sounding almost hurt. “There’s more. The official announcement will be made tomorrow on the TT 2.2 blog. The tongues will be wagging— and I mean that in a good way!” Maurice was talking about Tay Tenpenney, or TT as everyone called him. Tay was the most popular black gay blogger in the country. His blog was called Unsweetened Tea, because Tay wasn’t always kind to strangers—or friends for that matter. Nobody dared cross Tay. He not only dropped hot gay and straight gossip like all the other bloggers, but his blog—unlike all the others—was political as well. When people wanted to reach the black gay community, they went to Tay first. Mo knew this better than anyone.

“All of Atlanta will see tomorrow that I have arrived. And I don’t just mean gay Atlanta but the whole fucking city, because I’m going to break with tired, old, sorry-assed gay tradition by inviting straight allies to the party too. No point in wasting all that good liquor on a bunch of faggots in black tie.”

A young white woman pushing a child in a stroller walked up to the mailbox to post a letter. She smiled as a way of asking me to step aside, which I did with a polite nod. I felt almost relieved to be brought back into the real world by her. Once she’d finished, I returned to my call. “Can’t wait to see what you pull together. Let me know if you need a hand.”

“You better believe I need your help! I can’t do all this by myself. I have something special for you in mind,” he said mischievously. “I want you to help me audition the strippers … I mean ‘waiters’ for the party. We’ll bring in the hottest boys from across the country for top dollar, then later have them serve me and my good, good girlfriends the ‘house specialty’ in the VIP area. And I mean the real VIP set. You always have to have a VIP area for A-list guests.”

“I’m sure you can handle that all by yourself, Mo.” I lifted my portfolio from the mailbox, preparing my exit. “Hey, congratulations. Seriously, I’ll call you a little later, okay?”

“You don’t sound very excited for me. I thought my best friend would be as happy about my plans as I am.”

“I am happy for you, Mo, you know that. It’s just that I was in that meeting most of the morning and have some stuff to take care of before the day gets away from me. I want to hear all about it.”

“Child, boo,” he said with playful sarcasm, “believe it or not, I can take a hint when it’s handed to me on a plate, thank you very much. I’ll let you go for now, mister, but you’d better
call me later. Don’t make me chase after you. I can get ugly.” Then, as if lost in his own thoughts, he added to himself as much to me, “Like the church queens say, ‘God is good all the time.’ But don’t piss him off.”

His question came after the first set of leg lifts and if I hadn’t been sitting down I might have fallen over.

“So how long have you known Dray?” Cisco asked.

“Who?”

“Dray Jones, the new point guard for the Hornets. You must know him. I found out that’s who hired me as your trainer.”

How had Cisco found that out? Dray went to great lengths to avoid evidence of a connection between the two of us, even going as far as creating a dummy corporation to handle some of the big purchases he made for me. No one in six years had so much as a clue that we were connected.

“Uh, I did some work for him,” I answered vaguely, avoiding Cisco’s inquisitive eyes. I reached down for a towel to dry my face.

“So are you guys close?”

“What do you mean ‘close’?” I started the second set of leg lifts, praying his inquisition would be over soon.

“You know, like bois, or maybe ya’ll kinfolks.”

“We’re not family, but we cool.” I tried to sound like someone from the hood, thinking I could pass us off as old college buddies if pushed in a corner.

“You think you could introduce me to him?”

I thought for a second and said offhandedly, “Sure.” I was willing to do anything to stop his questions.

“Yeah, maybe he can hook up a brotha with some tickets or
a few of those crazy groupie bitches I know he be meeting in every city,” Cisco said with a cocky grin.

“Okay, if I talk to him I’ll mention it. And by the way, he’s not paying you, I am. I just figured a professional basketball player would know the good trainers.” Years of covering for Dray made it easy to think fast and lie through my teeth.

But this wasn’t over just yet.

“So why did you move to New Orleans?”

Damn! Why was Cisco suddenly so nosy?

“For work,” I said, finishing the last set of weights.

Cisco slapped my hand with a high five. “That’s what’s up. You ready to work your abs?”

“Yeah, let’s do that,” I said, my body crashing to the mats.

I was looking through a West Elm catalog when my phone buzzed to let me know a new text message had arrived. I looked at the screen and there in all caps was a message from Dray that read, “HEY.”

I sent a text back: “Hey.” This was his way of letting me know that he was by himself or just thinking about me. It was a small gesture but it always made me feel good. I thought Dray hated living a double life as much as I did, and in some strange way it created a special bond between us over the years. Those texts were especially important when I hadn’t seen or heard from Dray for days.

A few seconds later, another message: “What are you doing?”

I wrote back: “Thinking about you.”

Seconds later I read: “THAT’S GOOD.”

I wrote back: “When will I see you again?”

He responded: “VERY SOON.”

I sent back the letter “K” and tried to turn my attention to the catalog, even though furniture was the last thing on my mind now.

Jade stepped in my living room, her heels clicking on the hardwood floors. She paused in the middle of the room and nodded her head approvingly. “I don’t know what you do, but you must do it well,” Jade said.