by Jim Stevens
She catches up to me and immediately asks, “What are you doing? We’re special, we get to walk past all those people, make them feel jealous, and get right in.”
“We need to do something else first.”
I lead her to a spot about twenty feet from the employee entrance and the loading area. “What can we possibly be doing over here? This is like where the hired help goes.”
“I need your expertise, Tiffany.”
“Oh, which one?”
“Housekeeper Spanish.”
“No problem. I can do that,” she assures me.
We only have to wait a few minutes. The Hispanic barback comes out of the building, meets an in-kind buddy, and sits. The buddy smokes, our guy doesn’t; smart guy.
“See that guy over there?” I say to Tiffany, pointing to the barback. “Go find out how he got beat up.”
“Him? He’s hardly my kind.”
“I’m not asking you to make-out with him, just find out how he got beat up. Use some of your fabulous aura.”
“Mr. Sherlock, I told you, my aura’s not in a good shade right now.”
“Well, this’ll give you a chance to help get it back in shape.”
“Okay.”
Tiffany walks over to the barback. I wait in the shadows. If I go along, the guy will clam up faster than my daughter Kelly when I ask her about boys. Tiffany makes contact, spends a few minutes chatting away, and returns to where I’m standing.
“What did he say?”
“Yo, no say mucho.”
“What does that mean?”
“Not much.”
I start again, “What did you ask him?”
“I asked him if he uses bleach on his whites.”
“Why did you ask that?”
“Because it’s bad for the fabric and you can smell it on the clothes when you’re wearing them,” Tiffany explains. “It’s a pet peeve of mine.”
“That’s not what I want to know.”
“But when you’re talking housekeeper Spanish, that’s always very important.”
“Tiffany, did you ask why he got beat up?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“I’m not sure.” Tiffany sees the displeasure on my face. “He started yapping faster than Speedy Gonzales on speed and he lost me.”
“Did you pick up on anything he said?”
“He might have said something about not doing windows.”
So much for my assistant’s expertise.
We walk back to the front of the club. “Tiffany, you go inside and see if Bruno’s working. If he is, come out and get me.”
“Why don’t I just text you?” she asks.
“Because, I don’t text.”
“Mr. Sherlock, we’re going to have to sit down and have a long talk one of these days.”
Tiffany leaves me standing at the valet stand. I’m not sure what to do. A lot more people are coming to the place than going. The line gets longer. I still don’t understand why anyone would wait to get into this place. Do they have some secret desire to spend all their money, sweat through their best clothes, and have their eardrums damaged?
A black SUV, bigger than my apartment, pulls up. The windows are so heavily tinted I can’t see inside. I move to the side so as not to be confused with the guy who parks the cars and wait. The back doors of the land yacht open. Four babes and three guys pile out, each wearing more gold bling than the sundries section of Fort Knox gift shop. I’m almost blinded as their outfits reflect the lights coming off the front of the club. This group doesn’t wait in line either. And not many of those standing in the line seem to care.
I come around to the side to get a clear view of the group of seven approaching Arson and Sterno. They don’t speak, but they do exchange a few head bobs, shucks, and jives. Each of the men gets a pat down. The girls don’t have enough on to hide anything under, but their purses get the once-over. The velvet rope is opened and the gang of seven proceeds inside. The SUV drives off from the valet stand. Somebody drew the short straw and has to watch the car. Life’s tough.
It’s probably a good idea to go inside and check-in with Mr. DeWitt, since I’m in his employ and want to show him I’m busy on the job, but I can’t get through the door to the stairway that leads to his top floor office. Instead, I head for Gibby Fearn’s office.
“Was I right about the Fantastic Four saving the world?” I ask the Behemoth, who sits in his usual spot.
“Dun’t know.”
“Good answer.”
“What do you want,” Gibby asks me, not rising from his desk which is festooned with all sorts of pictures of him with rappers, athletes, and other celebrities I don’t recognize.
“I’d like to see Mr. DeWitt.”
Gibby shrugs his shoulders in response.
“Is this his bowling night?”
“Dun’t know,” the Behemoth speaks.
“Anything I can help you with?” Gibby asks.
I’m about to say “no,” but come up with a thought. “How well do you know Jimmy Cappilino?”
“Who?”
“Jimmy Cappilino,” I repeat. I figure a guy like Gibby would have to know the CEO of the corporation that owns this high-tech dance hall.
“Who?” Gibby repeats.
I look over at the Behemoth.
“Dun’t know.”
This guy would not be your first choice as study group partner.
I tell Gibby, “The CEO of the company that owns this joint.”
“Sorry, name doesn’t ring a bell,” Gibby says.
“Sure?”
“He dun’t know,” the Behemoth says.
I wonder if Gibby enjoys having the Behemoth speak for him, but this does not seem to be the time to ask.
I bid farewell to the pair and go out to find Tiffany at the bar. Monroe Chevelier is hovering over her like an umbrella. It doesn’t bother Tiffany in the least. I watch the courting ritual for a while; maybe I can learn something.
Monroe has the presence bit down to an art form. He’s obviously not there to make idle conversation. He wants to encapsulate Tiffany. He moves around her, shifting his muscular body in a constant display of power. He leans forward towards the object of his desire, just close enough to let Tiffany play her part in the game. Her hand on his wrist. A gentle tug on his lapel. Smoothing her fingers down his tie to feel the silk. She’s perfected the art of the hair flip; a casual brush-back, using two fingers to sweep the strands from her face then raising her head slightly, opening her blue eyes wide, and adding a slight smile as the pièce de résistance.
I can’t watch the ritual any longer, I feel like an ornithologist studying the mating rituals of a couple of sapsuckers. I step up to them. “Excuse me,” I say politely.
“Oh, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany says. “You remember Monroe?”
“Of course.”
He doesn’t offer his hand to shake, so neither do I; that’ll show him. “Tiffany, what about Bruno?”
“Fired him.”
“Who fired him?”
“His boss.”
“Why?”
“The new guy said he hasn’t made a shift this week.”
“Tough to find good help,” I conclude.
“But you know who I did see here tonight?”
“The posse of drug dealers that just came in?” I make an educated guess.
“No, the two guys with too much mousse who were in the video the night I got roofied,” Tiffany says. Monroe adds a nod to second the fact.
“Are they still here?”
Tiffany rises from the barstool and looks around at the crowd. “Nope, I don’t see ‘em.”
“They probably struck out and went home,” Monroe remarks in a less than positive tone.
“Well, that’s what I’m going to do too, but I’m not going to bother with the striking out part.”
“You mean you want to go now?” Tiffany asks, a
s if it’s the one question she fears.
I allay her worst fears, “I’m a big boy. I can get home by myself.”
She quickly opens her purse, pulls out two twenties, and hands them to me. “The cab’s on me.”
“Thanks, but I got it,” I tell her, refusing the money.
She pushes the bills at me anyway. “I insist.”
“Okay, you convinced me.” I take the money. “Nice to see you again, Monroe.”
“You too, dude,” he says. He gives me a quick fist pump. This guy must be great closing a high stakes negotiation.
“Night, Tiffany. Careful what you drink,” I say before leaving the happy, almost couple.
“I’ll have Monroe be my taste tester,” she says and repeats the hair flip.
Instead of a cab, I take the ‘L’ home and pocket a profit of $38. Every little bit helps.
CHAPTER 9
As a rule, Tuesday is my kid day. I pick my daughters up from school and they spend the night with me. They use this important time with their dad to complain about my cooking, having to sleep in the same bed together, the basic cable TV package, my dial-up Internet connection, and the absence of sugary snacks in the house. These are the times I really feel I’m building a vital and long-lasting bond with my children.
However, today is Thursday and it’s today that I’m picking up the girls from school. For some unknown and unexplained reason, my ex-wife has been flipping my weekday with the kids around more often than Tiffany changes shoes. I lodge complaints to her about the sudden shifts, explaining that I have been working non-stop, but I always get the same reply, “If you’re working so hard, you should be able to pay more child support.” The one time somebody finally listens to me and this is the response I get. I can’t win.
“Dad,” Kelly says getting in the car, “do I have to go to Care’s dumb basketball practice?”
“Yes, Kelly, I made you the assistant coach. Don’t you remember?”
“You didn’t tell me it was going to be boring,” Kelly answers.
“It’s boring because you don’t make the best out of the situation.”
“No, Dad,” she says. “It’s boring because the team sucks.”
“Don’t say sucks.”
“That’s not swearing.”
“I don’t care, I hate that word.”
“Okay,” Kelly says. The team is sucky and terrible.”
I raise my voice one decibel level. “Well, then together it will be our job to make the team better.”
“Oh yeah, like that’s gonna happen.”
Care, whose grammar school is adjacent to Kelly’s middle school, joins us a few minutes later. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Care. Did you learn anything in school today?”
“No.”
“Don’t forget our school motto girls,” I repeat for the umpteenth time, “Learn something new every day.”
“Oh, Dad,” Kelly says. “You can be so lame.”
I drive around to the back of the school and park close to the entrance of the gym. Morrie’s Bail Bonds Bailouts are already on the court playing with their cell phones instead of the basketball. I see Mrs. Whiner of “transition game” fame and give her a slight smile. She rises from her seat in the bleachers, walks down, and presents me with six one-page diagrams of plays she believes will work in our next game. “What you should do is post-up the center on offense.”
My team couldn’t tell the difference between a post-up center and a Post-it note.
“Mrs. Whiner,” I tell the woman. “If there’s ever a contest for School Parent of the Month, you’ll get my vote.”
She’s not sure if I’m kidding or not, which is good.
I turn to my team, “Okay girls, pretend you’re in a movie theater, and silence your cell phones.”
Reluctantly, they follow my orders, except Kelly, who can’t go three minutes without scrolling. “Today, we’re going to work on our defense.”
“We hate defense,” Annie, our point guard, speaks for the team. “We want to shoot.”
I ignore the request, even after I hear Mrs. Whiner scream out, “Practice the pick and roll play I gave you.”
“All in good time,” I call out for all to hear. “All in good time.”
I arrange the girls on the sideline in two lines. “All right, everybody put your hands up in the air.”
“What is this Dad,” Kelly asks, “basketball or the Hokey Pokey?”
“I want you to run all the way to the end of the court and back. And don’t drop your hands down. Keep them up.” I blow my whistle and the team takes off running. They look as if they’re auditioning to play trees in a kindergarten play.
As soon as the girls are on their way, I move to the opposite side of the court, as far away from Mrs. Whiner as possible. And from this point on, every time I move, she moves all the way around the court to sit behind me. As soon as she does, I move to the other side. If you can’t beat ‘em, avoid ‘em.
Three of my players don’t make it to the end of the court before they rest their arms. A couple others start to complain immediately, one isn’t coordinated enough to run and raise her hands at the same time. Another says she’s “too pooped to pop.” And our best player, Shemika, waves her arms back and forth like an overtly gay Dorothy Gale impersonator, skipping merrily down the Yellow Brick Road.
“God, they look like a bunch of deranged wannabe ballerinas,” Kelly tells me.
We try two more Hands Up defense drills that I found in a Basketball for Dummies book I read at Barnes & Noble. They work about as well as the first one. After hearing: “This hurts,” “My fingers are numb,” and “this could cause permanent damage,” I let the girls shoot baskets for the remainder of the practice hour.
I blow the whistle a final time. “Okay, team, we’ll see you all Saturday when we really take it to Charlie’s Chilidogs.”
“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen,” my soon-to-be ex-assistant coach comments.
---
I fix a new turkey meatloaf recipe that I found on the back of the ground turkey package for dinner. The kids hate it, so I boil some water, toss in some pasta, and serve it up with butter and parmesan cheese. I eat the meatloaf, sans real meat. It’s not bad, but it does need a little kick.
“Don’t you have any Ragu?” Care asks.
“Mom always has Ragu,” Kelly adds.
“Those bottled sauces are filled with preservatives. They’re not good for you,” I tell them.
“Couldn’t be any worse than this turkey meatloaf,” Kelly says stabbing my gourmet delicacy with her fork as if she’s Tony Perkins in Psycho.
After dinner, after homework, and after showers, we usually sit in the front room and argue about what to watch on TV. I always lose.
“What’s going on with Tiffany, Dad,” Care asks. “Is she better?”
“I am happy to say that Tiffany is back to normal.”
“Tiffany’s not normal, Dad,” Kelly says. “Tiffany’s rich.”
“Well, whatever she is, she’s back to it.”
“What happened to her?” Care asks.
“Somebody slipped something into her drink.”
“What?” Kelly asks.
“Something that made her sick,” I answer.
“One time at lunch Ricky Starr blew a load of snot into Billy Merrit’s Mountain Dew can when he wasn’t looking,” Care informs us.
“That happens all the time in my school,” Kelly adds.
“Well, let that be a lesson to you,” I tell them.
“What?”
“Don’t drink Mountain Dew or anything else out of a can.”
“What happens if we’re out in the desert and the only thing we have to drink is out of a can?” Care asks.
“It’ll be on your conscious, Dad, if we drop dead of thirst,” Kelly warns me.
“I’ll drown myself in guilt with a 12-pack of Mountain Dew. Would that make you
happy, Kelly?”
“No, but a Diet Coke right now would.”
“Did you find the guy who did that to Tiffany?” Care asks.
“I’m working on it.”
“We’re available if you need some help.”
“I’ll call if I need back-up.”
They go to bed. I go to bed. In the morning, I get up. They get up. I take them to school. Kiss them goodbye. End of joint custody for another week.
---
I’m across the street, in front of Bruno’s condo building, when Tiffany shows up her usual half-hour late. She doesn’t look too chipper.
“You okay, Tiffany?”
“I’m not sleeping well.”
“Is that your fault or someone else’s?”
“Are you asking me if I’m doing someone and they’re keeping me up all night?”
“Not in so many words,” I answer.
“The answer is ‘No,’ but I do wish that was the reason.”
“How about you and Monroe?”
“I got him hooked,” Tiffany says, “but I’m waiting to reel him in.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure, that’s why I’d better wait.”
“Good choice, Tiffany.”
We have a few seconds of silence before Tiffany asks, “What are we doing here, anyway?”
“We have to go see Bruno. This is where he lives.”
“His parents must have money,” Tiffany says, reviewing the building.
“See that doorman?” I ask pointing out my buddy.
“How could I miss him? That outfit is atrocious,” Tiffany critiques. “Nobody wears epaulets anymore.”
“Doormen do.”
“Why do you think doormen wear uniforms, Mr. Sherlock?”
“Because they’re in the service,” I answer.
“You go in the army to be a doorman?” Tiffany continues her line of questioning.
“No, they’re in the service business.”
“I think it would be a good idea if all people in service businesses wore uniforms,” she says. “It would take the guess work out of who I could order around.”
Tiffany’s comments of this nature should never be responded to and die a very sudden death.
“Right now, Tiffany, all we have to be concerned about is getting past that doorman and into the building.”