“I should’ve kicked her ass again when I got out of jail.”
Emotions rolled those words off my tongue.
Claudio sulked. “Look, what about Timothy, Charles, or what was that other dude I found out you were seeing?”
“Anybody I was seeing was when you were MIA. Nobody walked in on you in the middle of the night and went psycho. You didn’t go to jail. I’ll never forget how they sprayed me between my legs like I was an animal.”
I stopped, killed that memory, raised a palm in a way that said I wasn’t going to create a scene, that I was cool and back in control.
He said, “That’s over and done with. Let go. Look, let’s move on. I’m doing a show at the civic center in Carson next week. Edwonda White, Emil Johnson, D’-Militant, a few other West Coast comics on the show.”
“Good for you.”
“I’m gonna be in L.A. awhile.”
“What’s awhile?”
“Few weeks. I’m kicking it at the Wyndham in Fox Hills.”
He said the name of the hotel like he wanted me to get in contact with him in the wee hours of the night.
I responded, “That’s a pretty expensive hotel. What’s up with that?”
He licked his lips. “Let me buy you a drink. We’ll talk.”
I wiggled my engagement ring in his face.
Claudio said, “Where’s your man?”
“He’s that fine brother over by the piano.”
Claudio saw Vince. Saw my thick-armed man dressed in all black. Claudio’s bushy eyebrows knitted; he made an
unh
sound, amplified his voice, “Dee Dee, can he take you farther than the A train and higher than the top of the World Trade Center?”
My trite grin turned upside down. “Did you have to go there?”
We stared at each other, knowing what that meant.
Years ago we had made love on top of the World Trade. An exhibitionist sort of thing, brought on by a dare from Claudio. Back when he was my teacher in the department of freaky deaky. On the A train, late one night when we were coming home from an event we’d put on with WBLS down at Le Bar Bat on West Fifty-seventh, I’d dared him and he’d given me oral love on the subway.
Those old feelings of yesterdays and yesteryears stirred in my chest, tightened my throat, created a sudden swelling in my breasts.
My tongue spat out words that were nothing but business: “Let’s cut to the chase. Do you intend to pay me back for all of those charge cards?”
“Whoa, now a lot of those charges were yours too.”
“Most were because of you.”
“I told you to be patient, but you were the one who jumped up, ran out here, and filed bankruptcy. Nobody told you to do that.”
“Well, you weren’t the one getting stressed every time the phone rang. I had to disguise my voice when I answered my own damn phone, then lie and tell people I had moved. Creditors didn’t garnish your wages, call your job all day, or ring your phone at the crack of dawn.”
“Let’s hook up and talk about this, one on one, not in a crowded joint like this where we have to yell back and forth.” He slid a stylish Mont Blanc pen and paper toward me. Always smooth, so damn hypnotic and convincing. But now, I have to admit, success was written all over him. I’m not surprised. He could sell a fish a glass of water. In a gentle voice he went on, “Give me your digits. We’ll talk.”
I shook my head. “I’m living with my fiancé.”
He looked like he’d been slapped with a skillet, but he recovered. A lot of urgency in his tone as he told me, “No problem. Drop me a number where I can reach you. My money is tied up—”
“Don’t bullshit me. Untie enough to reimburse me.”
“You need it that bad?”
“Well, yeah. My money is kinda funny.”
“Your man not taking care of you?”
“That’s not the point. I’m planning a
wedding
. That costs a grip.”
Another pause while he stared at me. Pain was his middle name. Finally he said, “I’ll kick you down something after Carson.”
“You joking?”
“I don’t joke about money. I’ll need a way to contact you.”
“Leave the cash with Western Union, then leave me a message. I can pick that up anywhere in the world.”
“Dee Dee, c’mon. All I want to do is talk to you, nothing more.”
I’d been here too long. I hurried and gave him my business card.
He grinned. “Real estate? You went out and got a real job?”
I nodded and felt good. “A career. I have a career.”
He said, “I’ll send you two tickets to the show. Cool?”
“Keep your tickets. Send my money.”
With that I turned around, headed through the crowd toward Vince. Felt Claudio’s eyes and thoughts crawling all over me.
Small fucking world. Getting smaller every friggin’ day.
Vince said, “I thought you had fallen in the toilet.”
“Long line at the ladies’ room. You know how it is.”
“Want to get a drink at the bar?”
I held his arm and stopped him from moving that way. “Vince, it’s too crowded. Let’s go to the Cheesecake Factory.”
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold.”
“You’re sweating.”
“I must’ve sipped too much Kenyan coffee at Dick’s.”
Vince stalled, eyes searching to see what had upset me. Wanting to protect me from all the evils that lurked behind my back.
I glanced toward Claudio. Wish I hadn’t done that and just left the building.
He was bumping his way through the crowd, eyes on Vince, coming toward me. He stopped right outside of our personal space, stood there like a black gangster from a Donald Goines novel. And if he was a black gangster, I definitely felt like a black girl lost.
Claudio’s lips crept up into a shrewd and determined smile. He winked at me, then walked right by us.
Vince asked me, “Who was that?”
I shrugged and made sure I didn’t look behind me. Again I tugged Vince’s arm. “Just some fool trying to flirt. Let’s go. I’m hungry.”
We waited out on the curb, a few feet away from Claudio. Vince gazed at Claudio a time or two. His hand tensed each time, squeezed my hand. I was discombobulated. These light brown eyes stayed on the ground, smiling and counting cracks, pretending I was so interested in everybody’s shoes. My hand was inside Vince’s, so he knew my palm was sweating.
A dark Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows pulled up, the driver hopped out. Claudio stepped off the curb. The driver opened the back door, and Claudio crawled into the backseat of a Dav-el limousine. Fine as wine, that I couldn’t deny. Doing well, from what I could tell, just like Renee had said.
No regrets, I told myself. No regrets whatsoever.
He rode away the way Prince Charming does at the end of the fairy tale.
13
Dana
The next sunset, my troubled mind was at Gerri’s condo. Her crib is in Carlton Square, a secluded tract next to the Great Western Forum in Inglewood, where the L.A. Fakers used to pretend they were a basketball team. Her place was laid. Quiet. An African American borough of about four hundred homes that was damn near under the incoming flight path for the planes floating into LAX; the hum and roar of a plane echoing every thirty seconds or so. Her private life hidden behind castle-high iron gates, pine and evergreen trees, acres of manicured grass. The kind of place that when the L.A. riots broke out, armed guards kept the greedy misguided bastards from jumping the walls and stealing peeps out of house and home.
Jefferson’s voice rang out: “That’s the truth.”
Gerri retorted, “Don’t touch me.”
My road dawg was in the bedroom with Jefferson. Sounded like they needed a couple of guards; they’d been going at it nonstop. Accusations and denials rang louder than a church bell.
I fidgeted from corner to corner, sat down on the light green leather Italian sofa for a moment, moved to the love seat, adjusted my black suit and stared at the vaulted ceilings for a while, played with my braids, then went and looked at her reproductions of Van Der Zee photos.
I was a wreck. Nobody could tell—well, outside of watching me chew the pink and purple nail polish on my baby finger, nobody could tell.
Jefferson’s voice boomed, “You’re wrong.”
And of course, Gerri’s did the same. “We’ll see, but I’d advise you to start packing your Hush Puppies in the meantime.”
“I don’t wear Hush Puppies.”
“Then pack up your ugly ass overpriced FUBU shoes.”
Gerri had a framed poster that was time-worn around the edges. Big-lipped, bubble-eyed caricatures of charcoal-colored Africans depicted over an announcement that read:
July 24, 1769—TO BE SOLD On Thursday the third Day of August next—A CARGO of NINETY-FOUR prime healthy NEGROES consisting of Thirty-Nine Men, Fifteen Boys, Twenty-four Women, and Sixteen Girls—Just Arrived—In the Brigantine
Dembia,
Francis Bare, Mafter, from Sierra Leon, by Claudio & John Deas.
All around the room were Gerri’s daughter’s gymnastic trophies, her son’s basketball trophies, pictures of Gerri and her kids in suits and dresses. The perfect Christian family.
Last night, the weirdest thing happened. I stared in Vince’s face and went blank, forgot his name. Now, that was some scary shit. I prayed. Asked for understanding, needed to know what was going on inside me. At day-break, that ball of confusion was still rolling around inside my belly.
I went to Gerri’s kitchen table, picked up the newspaper. Read, word for word, a full-page article that the Langston Law Center had in the
Sentinel
about child support, a page that Gerri had highlighted. Her day planner was open. Two dates were circled in red. One said TRAFFIC FUCKING SCHOOL AGAIN. The other MELVIN/COURT 8 A.M.
Her bills were in her day planner too. Gas. Electric. Cable. Air Touch Cellular. Car note. MasterCard. The one that stood out was in a white envelope with a thick red trimming. Red trimming always meant bad news. It was from AIS/MERCURY, I think that was her car insurance.
The kitchen phone rang. My butt jumped away from dipping all in Geraldine Yvette Green’s financial business.
Gerri rushed out of the bedroom, legs moving like she was riding a bike. My road dawg was dressed in a beige skirt suit with the double-breasted jacket open, low brown heels, matching camisole, reddish brown hair pulled back and slicked into a conservative bun.
I asked, “You okay?”
“I’m sorry you had to witness this, Dana, but—”
“You need to calm down. You’re getting a bit too loud.”
“Sorry. This is just so unbelievable.” She pressed her palm on her forehead like she was holding a bale of thoughts inside, took a deep, cleansing breath before she answered the phone in a calm, corporate voice: “Gerri Greene, how may I help you? Uh-huh. Give her directions.”
All six foot five of Jefferson hurried into the living room, stumbled over a magazine rack, his roan complexion looking flushed. He had on a colorful FUBU sweatshirt, matching jeans, and Timberland hiking boots.
“Who that on the phone?”
“It’s Mister None-a-ya-damn-biddness.”
“You can’t speak to a sister?” I interrupted, did that so that maybe, with me in their presence, both of them would take the insanity down a notch or two. “What’s up, Jefferson? How’s the rap group you managing?”
He responded, “We, uh, they’re having problems.”
Gerri snapped, “Probably because you were screwing two or three of those non-singing video-ho bitches. I’ve been struggling so I can help him save enough to do a good demo, and his dick runs amok and fucks it up.”
I asked Gerri, “Where are your kids?”
We made eye contact. Gerri’s posture changed, became motherly. “I sent them to View Park. I don’t want them to see me like this.”
Jefferson said, “You running my business all into the cordless. That’s an open frequency, and you know how we keep picking up other people’s conversations. Ain’t no telling who can hear you.”
“You want me to chill? I don’t think so.”
“Aw, Gerri, calm down. Don’t believe the lies.”
“If she lied, how did she get pregnant?”
“How would I know? If she is, it ain’t mine.”
“You’re supposed to be producing records, not producing babies.”
Gerri marched away; Jefferson rubbed his neck, mumbled, and followed. Even with those big feet and long legs, his pace was half of hers.
I moved the stray braids from my face, pulled my hair behind each ear, went back to the balcony, and watched a world of lesser chaos.
Giving Claudio my biz card was a bad move. He’s sent flowers to my job—roses, tulips, carnations—three days in a row. Every delivery came with I’LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU messages. Can’t count the messages he’s left on my service. Or count the e-mail. WE COULD STILL MAKE A GREAT TEAM.
And he’d FedExed me two tickets to the comedy show tonight.
Tickets that were wiggling in my purse right now.
Gerri’s voice calmed down a bit. So did Jefferson’s.
Gerri, Gerri, Gerri. Girl, what kinda mess have you gone and gotten yourself into? Her life looks so together. Very nice condo. Kids in private school. Doing it without getting her C.S. Hardworking, determined woman. I wondered how much spare change she was pulling down at Blondies.
I jumped when the doorbell ding-donged three quick times.
Jefferson rushed out of the back room, bumped into a wall, and almost stumbled over nothing. Gerri was right on his heels, closer than his cute little mustache. He looked through the peephole and exhaled, “Shit.”
“Open the door,” Gerri declared firmly. “Since she insisted on paging me every other minute, I called her and told her to bring her lies on over here so we could straighten this out. That was the guard down at the gate on Manchester who just called and told me she was here.”
Jefferson gave up a distraught breath and opened the door.