I stopped my questions, because I had the answer I needed. I knew there were a lot of women in both New York and California with the name Ava. But I also knew there was only one “goddamned Ava.”
Batman Returns
I walked into my office building on another dreary, gray day, as winter headed into its final slide. When I walked into the suite, Kendra greeted me with several messages and said Brison and Nico were waiting for me in the conference room.
“Do we have a meeting scheduled?” I asked. I didn’t recall a meeting, and I had taken my time getting to the office. I had been trying to get in touch with Daschle, who wasn’t returning my calls. I wanted to find out who he had spoken to and wanted to make sure he’d gotten in touch with the person who could help him with his reading. He didn’t have to be my client for me to try and help him out, I told myself.
I walked into my office and took off my overcoat and sports jacket, grabbed a legal pad and a cup of coffee, then headed to the conference room. When I opened the door, Brison and Nico were huddled at the end of the maple conference table.
“When did we schedule this meeting?” I asked.
“Basil, we got some major problems,” Brison said.
“Yeah, dude. Two more clients have left, and the basketball player I was about to sign called me last night and said he couldn’t sign with a firm that was run by faggots,” Nico said with an air of superiority.
“What are you talking about, Nico?” I said, looking directly into his eyes and ignoring Brison.
“I’m talking ’bout you, man. You got to come clean with us before we lose everything. I told you guys we should have sold the firm when we had a chance. Who is going to want to buy a company whose clients are leaving by the hour?” Nico said.
“You’re overstating the facts,” Brison said.
“I don’t know who’s spreading these lies, but I’m not letting somebody else’s bullshit run my life. Who left the agency and why did they leave?”
“Martin Gill and Terrence Allen. Both said they were called and told we had a child molester running the firm,” Brison said.
“So now I’m not only supposed to be a faggot but a child molester as well?”
“Aren’t they one and the same?” Nico asked with a smirk. He was now sitting on the edge of the table with his arms folded across his chest.
“Nico, be cool,” Brison said.
“Brison, you don’t have to protect me from Nico. I can handle myself,” I said as I slapped the pad on the table. A fire-hot burst of anger came over me, and I wanted to punch Nico in his fucking mouth. I thought about it for a few seconds and knew punching Nico was about as stupid as this conversation. I also thought about Yancey and Bart. I still hadn’t determined which one was responsible. I was wondering how a person could tap into our company’s database, contact our clients and spread lies about my life.
“What are you saying, dude? You want some of me?” Nico said as he unfolded his arms and moved toward me until Brison moved in front of him and pushed him back.
“We’re not going to handle this like little kids,” Brison said.
“Say what you want. But I don’t think somebody’s lying on him. I mean, I listened to the song by that woman he was going to marry, and the story is pretty clear if you listen to the words,” Nico said. “What else could lyrics like ‘you want him and not me’ mean? It ain’t the kind of love song I’m used to.”
“What song?” Brison asked as his expression grew uncertain.
“He’s talking about Yancey’s song that doesn’t have jack to do with me—it’s about making money. That’s what they do in the music business,” I said.
“And that’s what we should be doing, but we can’t, as long as your ass is a part of this firm,” Nico said.
“Then buy me the fuck out. I never stay anywhere I’m not wanted. Write me a mutherfuckin’ check and I’m out of here,” I said.
“So you are a fucking faggot,” Nico said as he pointed his finger in my face like he wanted to poke my eyes out in disgust.
“Nico, point your finger in my face again and you’re going to pull back a nub. I mean that.” I glanced over at Brison for support, and he reacted quickly.
“I think we need to just chill. Basil, why don’t you take the day off and think about what you want to do. Then we can sit down as a firm, as partners, and come up with a plan that’ll be acceptable to everyone,” Brison said.
“Cool. This room is beginning to feel stank anyway,” I said as I picked up my pad and walked out of the conference room.
• • •
A couple of hours later, I was standing in front of Yancey’s town house taking a deep breath before I rang the bell. After I had left the office, I went to the Upper West Side to watch Remember the Titans for the third time. I left midway through the movie, when the Titans were close to their emotional state championship game. It took everything I had to keep the tears in my eyes, and I realized what an emotional disaster this day was turning into. I don’t know if I had come close to tears because of the confrontation with Nico and Brison, or because the movie triggered memories of a happier time in my life, when I was a star on the University of Miami national championship team. Maybe it was the realization that as wonderful as the experience was of playing with the same players for over four years, I was at risk of losing the one friendship I had managed to maintain with another player. I deeply treasured my relationship with Brison, and now some mofo was trying to ruin it and my life. I realized that with the exception of Raymond there was no one in my life I could trust with my true feelings, my true self. I was on the verge of some kind of mental meltdown that I had avoided since the first time my uncle Mac crawled into my bed and “touched” me.
• • •
I got home a little after eight o’clock. I was going to make myself a drink and then order some dinner, when I felt the vibration of my beeper on my belt. I thought with the bad day I’d had, the evening was only going to get worse. I didn’t want to see who was calling, because I figured it might be another client telling me they were jumping the XJI ship as well. Then I decided that if my clients wanted to leave because of what they’d heard and not how I represented them, then let ’em jump.
I looked at the beeper and could tell from the 816 area code that it was my Pops calling. He never paged me unless it was an emergency. I thought I should check my answering machine first to get an indication of what was going on.
Sure enough, there were two messages from my father, one from Brison saying he was just checking on me and that everything was going to be fine and another call from Rosa. What did this woman want? She hadn’t called me this much when we were dating. My Pops’s voice sounded paper-thin, and all he said was, “Call me, son. It’s important.”
I picked up my phone and hit speed dial. After a few rings my Pops answered the phone.
“Pops. What’s going on? You called twice and beeped me? Are you all right?”
“How are you, son?”
“I’m fine. Is everything all right?”
After a few moments of silence, my father asked, “Basil, are you a homosexual?” I was stunned into silence for a few seconds and then I said, “Pops, what are you asking me? Hell, no. You know me. It’s me and the ladies, and why would you ask me something like that?” I could feel thin beads of perspiration begin to form around my neck, and if Nico had started the burn in my body, my Pops’s question was about to ignite a certain explosion. Yancey and/or Bart had taken this little game of revenge too far. It was okay to mess with me, but this was my Pops. He was my heart.
“I didn’t think so, son. But a couple of nights ago, some young man called me and told me you were a homosexual. That you’d been one all your life.”
“What young man? Did he say who he was?”
“No.”
“Pops, I think it’s somebody from one of our rivals who’s upset that we won’t sell them our firm. They’ve called several of our clients, telling the
m the same thing. Trying to run us out of business. But it’s all bullshit,” I said as I started to unbutton my shirt. So Bart was behind these calls, but how did he get my Pops’s number? As far as I knew, he didn’t even know where my Pops lived.
“I asked him how he could say something like that about my son, but he just yelled for me to shut up and listen.”
“Why didn’t you just hang up?”
“I did. Then he called back and said something that just broke my heart. Basil, you got to be honest with me. Did my brother …” My Pops paused, and his voice sounded strained, like it was pleading for answers.
“What, Pops?”
“Did my brother, your uncle Mac, do unnatural things to you when you were a little boy? Did he make you homosexual? Tell me the truth, son.”
“No, Pops. It never happened,” I said quickly as I lowered my body to the floor in my dark and silent apartment. I couldn’t believe how my life was unraveling right before my eyes, hour by hour. As I sank to the floor, I felt shame and embarrassment wash over me like some stank body wash. I wanted to step into a steaming shower and never leave.
“You promise me? ’Cause if it did happen, I will go and dig the sick sonofabitch out of his grave and kick his ass,” Pops said. My heart began to pound at each word, and I could feel the pain in his voice.
“Pops, don’t do this to yourself. I promise it didn’t happen,” I said as I began to rock my body back and forth in anger.
“I spent all day just thinking back. I used to leave you with Mac so many times when I was on the road driving all the time. But it was the only thing I could do. I couldn’t take you with me and keep you out of school. It wouldn’t have been right. I also ’member how once your mother asked me if Mac was funny. I know he had his ways. But he was married. He was a man.”
“Yeah, he was. Don’t believe this stuff, Pops. Remember Uncle Mac the way you used to. It’s just playa-hating at the highest degree. It’s a lie,” I said in a reassuring voice.
“I believe you, son. I’m sorry,” he said, and then he added as an afterthought, “I’m supposed to go out and do a little bowling. Drink a few beers with my lady friend.”
“You do that, Pops. I’m going to come and see you soon. We still got to take our trip to Las Vegas,” I said.
“I look forward to it, son. We need to spend more time together. You ain’t gettin any younger.” He laughed nervously.
“I know that, Pops. I got to go. Roll a strike for me.”
• • •
One hour later, I was on my way to Harlem with an aluminum baseball bat in hand. As I walked the two blocks to the garage where I kept my car, I felt the coldness of the wind rushing from the dark sky, but my body was still warm with anger.
After I hung up with my Pops, I located the piece of paper with Bart’s number and his address from our first encounter. I called him a couple of times, and when I tried for a third time, an automated voice informed me the answering machine was full.
When the attendant drove my silver Porsche in front of me, I hopped in without even tipping. As I drove toward the West Side Highway, I became more convinced that Bart was behind the phone calls. And that Yancey was helping him. She was the only person besides Raymond who knew what my uncle had done to me. If it was in fact Yancey, then how did they know each other? I thought about all the press Yancey’d gotten recently, the store promotions, and wondered how their paths had crossed. I also remembered Bart talking about doing some videos and how Yancey had some men in her video but you couldn’t really see their faces. Was Bart one of them? I made up my mind that somebody was going to answer my questions or else there was going to be a massive beat-down. I didn’t give a damn if I had to spend the rest of my life behind bars. Somebody was going to pay for messing with the Henderson men.
I exited on 125th Street and turned south. I came to a stoplight near the train station and turned west again when I got to 122nd Street. I drove cautiously, looking at the numbers on the buildings. When I came to the end of the street, I saw a brownstone tucked neatly in a curve at the end of the block with the numbers Bart had printed neatly.
I looked out my window and then the passenger’s side. I reached in the tiny backseat and pulled out the bat, which had been a gift from one of my major league clients, Purvis Turner. I looked at the metallic blue lettering, which said “1999 All-Star Game,” and Purvis’s signature scribbled in black Magic Marker.
I zipped my jacket to the top and got out of my car. I beamed the key toward the lock, and I heard the sound of my car doors locking automatically. As I walked up to the brownstone, I looked at the buzzers. I realized there were three floors. I pulled out the paper with Bart’s address and noticed the B next to his name and figured he lived in the basement apartment.
I stepped quietly down toward the basement apartment with the baseball bat in my hand. I was determined to do damage to Bart and anything he owned. When I got to the door, I noticed a black mailbox with the name “Bart Dunbar,” and I suddenly felt my heart begin to beat at a rapid pace.
I knocked on the door forcefully and waited for Bart to answer. A few minutes went by, and then I knocked again. When Bart didn’t come to the door, I looked in a window covered with black bars. I didn’t see any lights or hear any movement in the apartment. Bart must not be home. But he had to come home sooner or later, and I had nothing but time. I gripped my bat tighter and headed back to my car.
Two hours later and still no sign of Bart. He must be shaking his ass at some gay bar in the village, I thought. I was listening to The Quiet Storm on WBLS, when I decided to check my messages at home. Another call from Rosa, and one from Raymond saying he was just thinking about me. I looked at the clock and saw that it was only 10:20 in Seattle, so I dialed Raymond’s number. I knew from the events of the last thirty-plus hours that with my luck, Raymond’s partner would probably answer the phone. So I was a bit surprised when Raymond picked up himself.
“Hello?”
“You lookin’ for me?” I said.
“Just checking in. How are you doing?”
“Chillin’.”
“Where are you? Sounds like you’re on a portable.”
“I’m in my car.”
“Is it cold there?”
“It’s winter, so you know it’s cold. But I’m hot as hell,” I said.
“Why?” Raymond asked. It sounded like he was whispering. Maybe old dude was close by.
“Would you take a criminal case if it was somebody you loved?”
“Who are you talking about?”
I spent the next ten minutes telling Raymond about my day and evening. I told him how difficult it was hearing the pain in my Pops’s voice and how I had never been so mad in my entire life. I wanted to punish Bart and Yancey for making me look weak and soft in front of my Pops and business partners.
“Why didn’t you just tell your father the truth? You know he loves you. Basil, what your uncle did to you wasn’t your fault,” Raymond said.
“And it wasn’t my Pops’s fault either.”
“Basil, do me a favor. Turn on your car and go home. Don’t make matters worse. How is your father going to feel with you in jail? He’ll know you were lying to him. What about your business? Please don’t do this.”
“I got to, dude. People can’t fuck me over and expect me to just walk away. You know that’s not how I roll,” I said.
“Would you do it for somebody who cares a great deal for you?” Raymond said.
“Who?”
“Me.”
I thought about what Raymond had asked. The sincerity and concern in his voice were powerful, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Bart. I pictured him and Yancey celebrating as they completed each call. Finally I said, “Naw, Raymond. I know you’re right, but I can’t do it. Not even for you.”
I’m a Survivor
So, Bart, are you really going to move down here?” Yancey asked.
“I’m pretty sure that’s what I need to do. I rea
lly don’t have much of a choice,” I said. Yancey didn’t respond as she took a bite of the salmon omelet we both had ordered. We were having breakfast on a deck near the hotel pool. With the state of my finances, I realized the three-egg omelet with skillet potatoes and onions might be the last decent meal I was going to enjoy.
I had spent the previous evening trying to reach Ava, without success. I tried her cell phone number when I woke up, but a recording told me the number had been disconnected. Ava had pulled a fast one. I was very depressed, and I was overdrawn by $33,000. I figured I could buy a little time by not returning to New York right away. With all the criminals in New York, I didn’t think my bank was going to send the police to South Beach to get me. Besides, they couldn’t prove that I was trying to defraud the bank. I deposited the check from Ava in totally good faith. I decided to move into one of the cheap hotels on South Beach and try to find work as a waiter and model.
The only saving grace was that I had paid my Visa down to a zero balance, and the $7,500 check had cleared. After a few bites of my omelet, I looked over at Yancey and thought how wonderful her life must be. Adored by fans both male and female, she was most likely blessed with a big bank account as well.
Yancey was wearing all white, a sleeveless sweater and capri pants. Her face was beat to perfection, like she was getting ready for a photo shoot. She had her hair styled in a long sophisticated ponytail fastened with a tortoiseshell clip. Her eyes were a warm brown, with little flecks of gold and long lashes. Yancey stopped eating and looked over at me. Her smile was soft, like she was watching a newborn baby sleep. She touched the top of my hand and offered, “Cheer up, Bart. Things will work out.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” I said. “I guess I’m getting what I deserve. I did a horrible thing.”
“Are you sorry for going after this guy?” Yancey asked.
“Should I be? I mean, is he sorry for what he did to me? I doubt it. He’s probably lying up in his fabulous apartment, in his big king-size bed, with someone else,” I said. I was so mad at Ava that I had forgotten about Basil in the last twenty-four hours. I wondered why Yancey was so concerned about the feelings of his bisexual ass. Maybe she was thinking about the man who had dumped her. Maybe it was a good thing I had added a little twist to my story by telling Yancey the guy was sleeping with both Ava and me at the same time. Women hated that. Besides, now I wasn’t so certain Ava was telling me the truth about why she hated Basil so much.
Any Way the Wind Blows Page 21