Have to Have It

by Melody Mayer

  Things are definitely going to be different, Kiley thought. That, or the kids were going to mutiny. Either way, she didn't intend to go down with the ship.

  “You don't think this is bordering on the melodramatic?” Jonathan asked Esme as they headed up Alvarado Street in Echo Park to meet Junior. It was twilight, and the busy street was teeming with people shopping, flirting, or just hanging out. Jonathan wore casual olive green cargo shorts and a black T-shirt with simple Reef flip-flops; Esme appreciated that he'd dressed so as not to stand out in her old neighborhood. Esme had followed suit in her low-slung black pants with a white men's tank, but was still conscious of the junkie who was nodding out against a streetlight, the spilled garbage from an overturned trash can on the corner, and the graffiti covering the bus stop that had no bench lest hookers or the homeless wanted to make themselves comfortable.

  “I've known Junior a long time,” Esme replied. “If he says he wants to see us together, it's respect for us to come.”

  “You don't think his homies are going to be there to kick my ass, huh?” Jonathan asked archly, clearly only half-joking.

  “If he wants to kick your ass, he'll do it himself, at a time and place of his own choosing, but definitely not here. You're safe for the next hour.”

  Jonathan lifted his eyebrows. “Really. Well, that sure fills me with confidence.”

  Esme had been grateful that Jonathan had decided to play by the rules. She'd been conscious all day of not seeing him: not after the twins finally woke up and she gave them breakfast/lunch; not afterward, when she was with them in their giant sandbox, building a fort complete with moat (filled with water from the garden hose). Instead of coming to her, he'd left a cell phone message inviting her to a record-release party for a new ska band that he loved. Esme had called back to say yes, but that she wanted him to go with her to Echo Park first, to meet with Junior.

  He'd been reluctant for so many reasons, not the least of which was that it struck him as some sort of macho game, two cholos battling over the same woman. From Jonathan's point of view—he'd told Esme as much—Esme was a grown-up. She could pick whom she wanted to be with; he and Junior simply had to respect her decision. Esme understood Jonathan's thinking, but once again it just reminded her that her boss's son came from another world, pretty much a foreign planet compared to her world.

  They'd parked as close to La Verdad as they could. Esme was sure there would be no trouble, as the coffeehouse was kind of a flagship for the whole neighborhood; it was sacred ground.

  “How long do we have to stay?” Jonathan wondered aloud. They edged around a rollicking family chattering away in Spanish. “I'd still like to get to that party.”

  “We'll see how it goes” was the best Esme could do. She'd tried to stay cool about this meeting, but as she approached the coffeehouse, she realized that her stomach was heavy with guilt. She should have gone to Junior herself and told him how it was. But no, she hadn't had the cojones to do it.

  As usual, La Verdad was crowded and noisy, with people chowing down on Mexican pastries and drinking coffee and horchata. Some heads turned when Jonathan and Esme entered; there were whispers and titters. They all knew Junior.

  “I'm doing this for you,” Jonathan muttered.

  “I told you, I'm sure it's fine,” she assured him as he led her through the crowd.

  Junior was sitting calmly at a rear table. He wasn't alone. A beautiful girl Esme recognized as Tia Gonzalez sat next to him, sipping a Coke. Tia was Esme's age, and had dropped out of school at thirteen when she got pregnant by a guy from Junior's old gang, Los Locos. This guy—Nardo—had been killed in a drive-by before his baby was even born. Tia's grandmother was raising the baby since Tia's mom was a junkie. This allowed Tia to do whatever it was that Tia did, which seemed invariably to involve changing her hair color every week or so. At the moment, her ebony hair was streaked with fiery red and crimped into long, frizzy strands that swung around her face; her eyes were heavily lined in kohl. She wore a red spandex T-shirt that was two sizes too small—exposing several inches of stomach— and low-cut enough that her breasts swelled above the neckline.

  Tia saw Esme. Her reaction was to lean so close to Junior as to practically bury her pierced tongue in Junior's ear.

  That could have been me, Esme thought, and not for the first time. To say Esme had no reaction to Tia's being all over Junior would be a lie. But her face betrayed none of her thoughts.

  “Dejénos solos ahora, muchacha bonita,” Junior told Tia, keeping his eyes on Esme.

  He'd told Tia to leave them alone for a while, and he'd called her a pretty girl. Esme knew. Jonathan didn't. That didn't matter. The words had been said for Esme's benefit, not his. Tia rose and sauntered away on red velvet stiletto heels. Junior gestured to the two empty wooden chairs at his table. “Please,” he told them.

  Jonathan held out Esme's chair, then sat himself. The courtly gesture was not lost on Junior, Esme knew, but nothing at all showed on his face.

  “Jonathan Goldhagen,” Jonathan said, introducing himself. He put out his hand to Junior, who stared at it contemptuously.

  “We don't need to pretend this is some happy occasion, gringo. You feelin' me?”

  “The name is Jonathan. But yeah, I'm feelin' you.”

  “How's your shoulder, Junior?” Esme asked.

  “I heal fast, esa,” he replied. “I got bandages under my shirt, but it's like I never got shot. So, okay, I didn't ask you two to come here to shoot the shit, we gonna get to it. You should have come to me 'bout this, Esme. But you didn't.”

  Esme flushed, because she knew he was right. What she wasn't sure about was how much Junior knew.

  “I was in Jamaica with my employers,” Esme explained.

  “Yeah, and lover boy here wasn't on the trip,” Junior retorted. “You think I don't got people watching your back, Esme? Watching his back?”

  She should have known. To someone in Jonathan's world, Junior's devotion might have been a little scary. To Esme, it was strangely heartwarming.

  “Okay, you're right,” she agreed, not knowing where this was going. “Jonathan stayed here in L.A.”

  Junior leaned back against the wall behind him; the chair's front legs hovered in the air. “You miss him?”

  Esme hesitated, her eyes boring into Junior's. Damn. What was she supposed to say? They were talking about Jonathan in the third person, but he was sitting two feet away.

  “No,” she finally uttered. “I needed some time to think. About both of you.”

  Junior's eyes grew narrow and he folded his arms behind his head. She noticed he didn't wince in pain. His gunshot wound really must have been healing. “Thinking time is up, esa. Time for action. Time to shit or get off the pot.”

  “Look, if I could just jump in here—” Jonathan began.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Junior snapped. His chair's legs slammed back onto the floor abruptly. “I'll let you know when you can speak. Esme?”

  Esme could see that wasn't sitting well with Jonathan, so she put a restraining hand on his leg. No need to escalate things. Oh God, this was the moment she'd been dreading. She swallowed hard.

  “Junior, I owe you an apology, eh? You're right. I should have come to you myself.”

  Junior barely nodded. He looked as if he was trying to choose his next words very, very carefully. “So he's your man now? Is that it?”

  Esme knew that in Junior's world, her world—one of her worlds—this was a yes-or-no question. It was shit-or-get-off-the-pot time. No middle ground.

  “Yes,” she said quietly, staring straight at him.

  Junior nodded and tapped a large, blunt finger on the scarred table. He didn't speak for a long time. Then he directed what he said to Jonathan.

  “Let me give you some advice, gringo. Every girl here in the Echo makes a mistake. That girl before? Tia, the one who was sitting with me? Her life is one big fucking mistake. I think Esme is making her big fucking mistake right now, but I kn
ow her a long time. She has to get it out of her system. I seen this shit before, with homegirls and gringos, cholos and white girls. They get dazzled. Then they get undazzled. No matter what happens, Esme is special, eh? You fuck with her, you fuck with me. You got that?”

  “I got that,” Jonathan agreed, his eyes blazing. “I care about her. A lot.”

  “I don't really give a shit how you care. I'm talkin' about how you treat her. Now get out of my face.”

  Jonathan looked bewildered. “That's it? We're done?”

  Junior eyed him contemptuously. “Did I stutter?”

  Esme reached across the table for Junior's hand, knowing it would be the last time she would touch it, touch him. She felt an ache behind her eyes, a catch in her throat. But Esme Castaneda never cried—not with all the things she'd seen in her life that would make a grown man weep—and she wasn't about to start now.

  Her eyes met Junior's. There were no words to express how she felt. Better not to say anything.

  She pushed out of her chair. Jonathan rose too.

  “Esme?” Junior asked.

  She turned to him. “Yes?”

  “Usted es una estrella brilliante, ahora y por siempre.”

  She nodded, then followed Jonathan out of the coffeehouse.

  When they hit the street, Jonathan exhaled loudly, as if he'd been holding his breath the whole time they were in there. “Well, that's what I call trial by fire. You good?”

  “Yes.” They headed for his Audi.

  “So what did he say to you before you left?” Jonathan asked.

  “It doesn't matter,” Esme replied. Translating Junior's words felt like a betrayal somehow. And also, Esme was afraid that if she did translate, she really might cry. Because Junior had said: You are a shining star. Now and forever.

  Lydia saw Billy as soon as he dashed into the Tower Bar at the Argyle Hotel on Sunset Boulevard; he was soaked from the driving rainstorm outside. Lydia was at the bar, drinking a virgin Mary—the idea of anything with alcohol in it turned her stomach. It was nearly eleven. The storm had come up out of nowhere, but it was just as well. Lydia thought it pretty well reflected how she was feeling on the inside.

  Billy had called her that afternoon to offer another driving lesson that evening, but she'd explained that she had the kids until ten because Kat was coming back from the East Coast and Anya had decided to pick her up at LAX. So Billy had offered an alternative: he knew of this great bar, the Tower Bar, where an up-and-coming young singer-songwriter named Alexandra Munson would be at the grand piano. Lydia definitely needed to check her out. Lydia accepted the invitation gratefully—at the moment, being with Billy in a public place sounded wiser than a private place.

  He smiled that darling, slightly crooked smile as he made his way across the room toward her, which looked more like a comfortable living room than a bar. Billy had said that the place had been featured on DailyCandy as being one of the great new places in the city to mingle and drink. With its wood paneling and upholstered chairs instead of barstools, Lydia did think it was beautiful. Off in the far corner, Alexandra was at the grand piano, wearing jeans tucked into slouchy boots and a black newsboy cap, wailing soulfully about lost love and betrayal.

  Well, wasn't that just perfect.

  “Hey,” Billy greeted her, giving her a sweet kiss on the lips she had just slicked with gloss. “Man, it's a bitch out there, huh? There's like a dozen car accidents on the freeway. People have no clue how to drive in the rain.” He nodded his chin toward her glass and slid onto the next chair. There was plenty of room; the rainstorm was keeping Los Angelenos home. “Whatcha drinking?”

  “Virgin Mary,” she replied.

  He ordered a Guinness, then kissed her again, more slowly this time. “Much better greeting,” he decided when he took his lips from hers. He nodded toward Alexandra at the piano. “She any good?”

  “Just okay” Lydia lied. Truth was, the lyrics were hitting a little too close to home to be enjoyable.

  “You lay with her and lied to me. …”

  Lydia definitely did not want to listen to that. She turned to Billy, who slid a forefinger over her upper lip. “You look damn hot, did I mention that?”

  Lydia was dubious. She'd thrown on a denim skirt she had hacked into a mini back in the rain forest and a white tee that she'd liberated from the lost-and-found at the country club—a treasure trove of clothing that was serving no useful purpose. “A million girls in this town are wearing some variation on this.”

  “Maybe,” Billy allowed, “but it looks better on you. So listen, speed demon, when we doing driver's ed again?”

  “This weekend?”

  Billy nodded. “Works for me.” The waiter slid his frothy Guinness onto the bar and Billy took a long pull once the foam had settled. “Oh hey, I've got good news. My boss is chattering about how he's getting his daughter a new Mustang, and he wants to sell her old Honda Accord.”

  Lydia frowned. “Wait, you mean Eduardo, the designer? I thought he was gay.”

  “Not exactly. He made that decision in the late nineties. Before that he lived near the WB lot in Burbank with his wife and three kids. He started cheating on his wife with guys, which is how he met his current lover.” Billy shook his head in disgust. “Gay or straight, cheaters suck, huh?”

  Lydia cocked her head to the side. “Well, some people are in relationships where they haven't pledged eternal troth, or whatever that's called. Maybe the two of them had some kind of an open agreement. For all you know, his wife was doing the gardener.”

  Billy shook his head firmly. “Nah, that never works. It's bullshit. You're either in a relationship or you're not.”

  Lydia gave him a noncommittal smile and took an uneasy sip of her drink. When she'd arrived at the bar, she hadn't decided whether or not to tell Billy about Luis. She figured that some boys would accept the news easily; especially because it would give them the freedom to do whatever and whomever they wanted to do. Others, though, might not, even if—like Billy— they had not yet extended visitation rights below the waistline.

  Lydia wasn't sure what kind of relationship she wanted, but she did consider the previous night a mistake. Hell, yes. Once she'd gotten wasted, everything that had happened afterward was a big blur. That was not the way she'd envisioned losing her virginity. Now she wasn't a virgin and she still didn't know what sex was like. It really, really bit her butt.

  “So you interested?” Billy was asking.

  Lydia blinked. “Sorry?” She'd missed whatever it was he'd just said.

  “I asked if you were interested in buying the Honda. It's really, really used, but it runs. He's only asking fifteen hundred dollars.”

  “I haven't got fifteen hundred cents, Billy.”

  “Wow, you really weren't listening. I told you I can loan you the money.”

  Well, things were just getting worse and worse by the minute. How was she going to explain that she now had a car, a car she had parked all day in a vacant lot down the street from the moms' mansion because she didn't want to face the questions from Anya? She couldn't. He'd ask where she got it. She'd say a friend. He'd say how close a friend, because “friends” don't go around giving “friends” cars. And she'd say …

  Damn.

  Billy didn't deserve games and subterfuge. He was so wonderful, in every way. Well, almost every way. If only he'd just come through in that way, she wouldn't be sitting there that very minute trying to decide whether or not to tell him about another guy who had come through in that way.

  “Billy, there's something I need to tell you.”

  He sipped his beer, licking a little of the foam off his lips. So cute. “Yeah?”

  “I… I…” She couldn't make herself say it. Just as she was about to, she thought of Billy and Becca, and their drunken tryst. She didn't want him to think that she was capable of that, even if his own experience might make him more likely to understand what had happened with her.

  “You?” he prompted, set
ting his beer on the bar top with a heavy clunk.

  “I… want to dance.” She took his hand and tugged him away from the bar.

  “There's no dance floor,” he pointed out.

  “Right by the piano is fine.” She slipped an arm through the crook of his and led him over to where Alexandra was playing and singing, then wrapped her arms around his neck. He pulled her close and together they swayed to the sultry sounds of Alexandra's voice. This was where she wanted to be, and who she wanted to be with. She was sure of it.

  There was still a lot to deal with, and one was a biggie. She hadn't gotten a morning-after pill, and didn't know where to go for such a thing. She didn't even know whom to ask.

  Usually, Lydia was the girl with all the answers. As she danced in Billy's arms, for the first time she could remember, all she had was questions.

  Kiley bustled around Platinum's guesthouse cracking ice trays into a large bowl and digging out the bags of junk food that had been there since before Platinum's arrest. Though it was late, Esme and Lydia were coming over. Kiley wanted to tell them about the incredible turn of events that had her back at Platinum's estate; her friends were happy to join her, even though it would be after midnight.

  Her first day on the job had been very strange, because the colonel was a very, very strange man. When he said that Bruce had to have his lights out at twenty-two hundred hours—which translated to ten o'clock—and the little kids had to have lights out at twenty hundred hours—eight o'clock—he meant it. In fact, he proved it to Sid and Serenity by flipping the basement circuit breaker that supplied electricity to their rooms at exactly 7:59.99 p.m. (The precision had been achieved with his Marine chronograph, which featured timing to the hundredth of a second.) Bruce took the hint; his lights were out at ten.

  There were two good things about the colonel. One was that he inspired confidence in other adults. When he and Susan had telephoned Jeanne McCann back in La Crosse, to inform her that Kiley was back at Platinum's property and that he, the colonel, was in charge and responsible for her well-being and safety, Jeanne had practically cheered. Kiley knew all this because the call had been made on the kitchen speakerphone. So there would be no difficulties on the parental front with this third job shift.