Authors: Shannon Dianne
“What were you thinking tonight?” Marla yells after me. “I thought you were over Danielle!”
“I am.” I turn around to face her, lose my balance and almost fall over. She hurries to catch me before I slam against the wall. One of the liquor bottles from behind the bar had fallen and knocked me right in the temple. Damn, I think I have a concussion.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” she says as she drapes my arm around her shoulders.
“I’m fine.” I put my arm down and slowly turn back around. “I need to take a shower.” I feel her eyes on me as I walk away.
“Once you feel better, we
will
be talking about this,” she says from behind me.
“Marla, there’s nothing to talk about.” I stop in the bathroom doorway and grip it with my hands for balance. “I thought you, Danny, and Jasmine would want to grab a drink with me and my boys.”
“You are such a liar!” she screams out. My ears start to ring.
“Lower your voice,” I say as I close my eyes. Damn, maybe I should go to the hospital. “By the time I saw that he was there, you all were already on your way.”
“Bull, Jon. You called us to that bar because you saw Malcolm handing out drinks to his
fans
and you wanted Dan to see it. I cannot believe you would do that to my best friend. You know that she’s full of pregnancy hormones and the aura of Yang right now, so why would you make her mad? And the funny thing is that in the end, the only ones mad are you and me.” Her voice cracks a little. “Because this is the thing: for as long as Malcolm lives, he’s gonna have hens clucking around him. And as long as he’s the lawyer to the President, he’s gonna have to kiss people’s butts. That’s his
job
. That’s what the President wants him to do. He wants Malcolm to be ‘a man of the people’. Isn’t that what Rossi always says about Malcolm in interviews?
That boy’s a man of the people. Everyone loves him. I promise you
,” she says in Rossi’s thick Boston Italian accent. “Anyone with a
brain
knows that. And because Rossi’s so full of it-”
“And Malcolm’s not?”
“Malcolm is the only reason why people even like Rossi. Let’s just face it. Malcolm’s the smiling, fun times, have a drink, go to a rap concert, give the kids pounds, hug the old ladies, type of guy. He gets paid to be charming.”
“Why is it that every woman I’ve ever lived with likes to ride this dude’s dick?”
“The hell with you, Jon! I do not ride Malcolm’s thing! But come on! We all know he gets paid to flirt with everybody. And I do mean
everybody
. There isn’t a person, man, woman or child, in this city who can say a bad thing about him. You know why? He knocks their damn socks off when he comes around. So yeah, he buys women drinks. That’s what Rossi
pays
him to do. Yeah, he shakes a little kid’s hand and talks about their pet rabbit for hours. It’s included in his job description. Sure he’ll go to a Kanye West concert with an arena full of black people. That’s what he’s paid to do. Sure he’ll go down to the nursing home and sit with little old grannies and their boyfriends and talk baseball and apple pie because that’s what he’s paid to do. He’s paid to make Rossi and his men look good. And that means if a woman comes up to him and asks for a drink, then darn it, he buys it. You know why? She’s a voter. And guess what? She probably voted for Rossi. And guess what else? Cadence Blair is
sure
to make his bid for the White House after Rossi.
Everyone
knows that. I heard Dan whispering about it over the phone to Malcolm’s mother tonight. And guess who’s gonna be Cadence’s right hand man? So you’re a fool if you think that drink he bought that bimbo meant
anything
. And you know what else, Jon?”
“What? Are you thinking that after years of speculation that it’s actually Malcolm, and not Jesus, who’s the Messiah? Can I expect you to be helping Danny and his crew—or should I just call you all his disciples—to edit the Bible? Possibly name it the King Blair Version?” Why is everybody riding this dude’s dick! “Get the fuck out of here with this shit. You know, I’m so tired—”
“You’re a fool if you think that Danielle will ever take you back.”
With those words I turn around slowly. And now I see that Marla has tears running down her face. Damn, I’m not trying to make Marla cry.
Silence.
“Listen. Marla—”
“And you know what else?” she asks. “I’m a fool for staying here with you, knowing that I’ll always be second best. It happened back in college and it’s happening right now.” She takes a violent swipe at her cheek to brush away her tears. “You will
always
love her, won’t you?”
I…I don’t…there’s nothing I can say.
JACOB
What the hell? My key won’t work. I look over to Mac and see him leaning against the wall in the hallway, his hands in his pockets, his eyes grazing the ground, his gym bag on the floor next to him. Saturday morning basketball sessions at the club means that most of us carry a gym bag with clothes and grooming supplies in our trucks. That came in handy for Mac because, well, he has no keys to get into his place to get clothes and grooming supplies. I, on the other hand, have keys to get into my place but currently my keys won’t work. Please tell me she didn’t…
I knock on the door. I’m actually knocking on my own damn door.
“Who is it?” Winnie says from inside in a sing-songy voice. Here we go with Winnie’s dramatic interludes.
“Winnie, I’m tired. I’ve had a long night. And trust me, baby, I’m not in the best of spirits. I’ve been in two fights night, and I got my ass beat in one of them. By the way, thank you very much for that. So unlock the door.”
“Nope.” I inhale deeply and then let it out. Let’s try this at a different angle.
“Winnie, I’m not playing. If you don’t open the door, I
will
knock this muthafucka down. Alright? So stop playing around; open the door and give me the new key.”
“Sorry, can’t do it, Cuz.” I take another deep breath before taking a look at Malcolm. He has his head leaning back against the wall now, his eyes closed. He’s not in the mood for another argument tonight and neither am I. Not only do I have the cops out here looking for me, but somewhere nearby Jasmine is looming.
“Winnie. I’m serious. Open the door.” She says nothing. I jiggle the lock.
“It’s still locked.”
“Winnie, what the hell? I just left the damn condo and you changed the locks already? What, you’ve got a locksmith on deck?”
“Oh Jacob, if you only
knew
who I have on deck.”
“Listen. I’m serious Winnie. Alright? I’m serious right now.”
“Oh, please.”
“Open the door.”
“Negative.” Oh my
God
! This
fucking
woman! “Heard your mistress popped up at the bar tonight.
Quelle surprise
.”
“Listen, I had nothing to do with that, okay?” When I saw Jasmine, or more importantly, her face, I panicked. Her scratches, her busted lips…you can’t see them until you get close enough but still, they’re there. I remember thinking: how in the hell is she going to explain this? I instantly grabbed hold of her arm and said,
Jazz, we’re keeping what happened between us, right? You feeling okay?
I was thinking about Winnie. She shook her head and pulled her arm away. I pulled her back.
No cops, right?
I said to her.
No promises,
she said before turning around and walking away.
Great!
“Do you know that bitch tried to tell Danny that she scratched up her face and busted her lip because some pots she was reaching for fell out the cabinet on her? Like I wasn’t going to tell Danny what happened! Then, when Danny confronted her, she had the gall to say that she was actually looking for Malcolm. Bullshit.”
“Then that’s why she came, Winnie!”
“Bullshit, Jacob.”
“Winnie, come on. Do you think I’d have a woman come to our home? You think I’m that damn stupid?” And then the memory hits me.
Her
. Jasmine reminded me of
her
. I clamp my eyes shut and try to push the picture of
her
out of my head.
“Actually Jacob, I think you’re very stupid.”
“Listen, I’ll make sure to have Malcolm notify Jasmine that if she’s looking for counsel, she shouldn’t come to our home.”
“
Looking for counsel
. Shut up with that lawyer voice.”
“And under no circumstances is she to come to my place of residence.”
“There you go with that voice again.”
“Baby, work with me here!”
“She showed up at the bar, Jacob.”
“Because of Jon! Listen, I was at the bar, with Mac—”
“Malcolm’s on his way to divorce court—does he know that?” I look back at Mac and see him drop and shake his head. “You might as well drive him. The two of you have back-to-back appointments.”
“Winnie, Malcolm and I were having a drink when Jon started some shit with him. Before I knew it, Danny was barreling over to us and Jasmine was right there.”
“We’re taking you muthafuckas to the
cleaners
.”
Oh no. Not another divorce payout.
Winnie never took me for child support or alimony during our divorce; she knew I’d take care of her and our kids. But according to the fine lines of our prenup, I did have to give her a lump sum payout: $32 million, plus the condo. Even when we remarried, I never saw that money again. No. God, no. Not another divorce payout. I look back at Mac and see him staring straight ahead now.
The payout.
This is the secret about Malcolm: he has dough. Both of our fathers came from old money. The Blairs came to America from Denmark on a ship they owned and operated. They immediately settled in Boston, back when it wasn’t called a city, but an ‘area’ named Trimountaine
.
Because of that, the Blairs are known as Boston Brahmins, or in other words, one of the first families of Boston, right along with the Cabots, Lowells and Delano families. Like most of those families, shipping was the Blair’s livelihood and it’s how we made our fortune. We sold gunpowder to the Union army during the Civil War. Next came Wall Street.
What I’m trying to say is that Mac and I both have trust funds, but the difference is that his mother, Aunt Angie, also came from one of those first Boston families. Mine didn’t. My mother came from a good respectable family and, yeah, they were part of Boston’s elite but they
weren’t
a first family. They owned restaurants around the city that paid the bills and afforded them a spare cottage in New Hampshire for summers, but they didn’t have the type of cash that my father’s family had.
So, Malcolm’s got the dough coming at him from both sides of his family. Also, my mother and father had a shitload of kids. We’ve all had to divide the cash equally. Aunt Angie and Uncle Wynston only had two kids; there’s more cash to go around. Not to mention, the law firm pulls in a nice lump sum each year that allows Malcolm, Nat and me each to bring home a base salary in the seven digit range. You add Matt and Rena to the mix, investment
geniuses
, who work on Mac and my accounts without the usual fees, and Mac, Nat and I are bringing in the double-digit millions each year. Add to that the millions that Mac brings in with his trust fund which, according to my mother, is in the triple-digit millions, and Mac is worth somewhere near a half
billion
dollars.
A half
billion
dollars.
I watch him close his eyes and shake his head.
Danny doesn’t mind taking a man for every cent of child support he can muster—just ask Jon. Mac told me Jon pays $12,000 a month for Nicky. That’s $144,000
a year
…for one child.
Goddamn
, I remember saying to Mac.
I know
, he said to me with a laugh.
He might as well go and give her an even quarter million
, I said
, Hell, why not
? Mac thought that shit was hilarious.
“Damn, I feel sick,” I hear him say to himself. “The Scotch…”
Nah, it’s not the Scotch.
“Where the hell am I supposed to go, Winnie?” I ask as I turn back towards the door.
“A hotel? To Malcolm’s? Oh right, you can’t go there. D. kicked him out; she’s planning on taking the condo in the divorce. So go to Cadence’s. Oh wait, no, I changed his locks, too.”