Cracker Bling

by Stephen Solomita

  Alexei is seated behind his desk, working on a spreadsheet. Though he’s not a large man, not nearly as large as the Russian, he’s skilled at his craft. The shelves behind his desk are lined with trophies. But there’s something in Chigorin’s eyes, not to mention the color of his face and the hair standing up on the top of his head, that compels Alexei to sound a temporizing note.

  ‘Hey, cuz, is this about Murray and Sonia?’ Alexei removes a bottle of Stolichnaya from a desk drawer. He pours a generous shot into a paper cup and offers it to Chigorin.

  ‘I want my money back, right now.’ The Russian’s sorely tempted to slap the vodka out of his cousin’s hand, Alexei’s skills be damned. Karate school was supposed to be about Sonia overcoming her timidity and now she’s more intimidated than ever.

  ‘Yeah, well … I don’t have it right now. But I’ll tell ya what, give me five minutes and I’ll make the problem go away.’

  ‘You should have made it go away when Yolanda spoke to you, not waited for me.’ That said, Chigorin downs the cup of vodka. He pauses for a minute, until the fire rushes up into his brain, then gets to the point. ‘If Sonia fails at karate, if she runs away and hides, she’ll carry the loss with her for a long time. I trusted you to make sure that didn’t happen.’

  Alexei straightens in his chair. He’s wearing a muscleman T-shirt beneath a black karate gi that reveals a nicely sculpted body. He’s thinking that he could tear his cousin’s head off, that Chigorin’s so out of shape he’s growing tits. But Alexei’s always been intimidated by Chigorin, who’s carrying a gun and who’s crazy enough to use it if he feels threatened.

  ‘Just watch for a minute, OK?’

  Alexei stands up and leaves his office. He steps out on to the floor and circles around the class. The brown belt leading the class has separated the students into two rows. As one row steps forward to throw a reverse punch, their counterparts in the second row block the punch, then answer with a reverse punch to the chest. Even from the doorway, the Russian can see that no one’s hitting anybody else very hard, a situation that changes abruptly when Alexei shakes his head and walks to the center of the practice floor.

  ‘Murray, step out.’

  Murray’s heavy-lidded eyes fly open. He’s maybe a couple of years older than Sonia, wearing a yellow belt, which makes him somewhat more proficient than the white belts in the class. But no match, of course, for Alexei. The Russian almost feels sorry for the kid.

  ‘Reverse punch,’ Alexei instructs, as he gets down into his stance. ‘Give me all you’ve got.’

  Yeah, right. Murray’s punch comes in virtual slow motion, as if calculated not to give offense. Alexei brushes it aside and smacks the kid in the chest, a solid thump that reminds Chigorin of a blackjack slamming into a perp’s kidney.

  ‘Again,’ Alexei orders.

  The Russian doesn’t wait around for the end, though he’s not entirely sure that Murray will get the message, which is several times removed from what’s happening on the floor. Sonia’s not even here. But the Russian’s sure of one thing. Alexei will do everything in his power to ward off another visit from his cousin. And that’s good enough for one day. Chigorin will definitely drink to that.

  FIVE

  Hootie doesn’t want to get out of bed when he awakens at three o’clock in the afternoon. The mattress is incredibly comfortable and the sheets are as soft as a caress. Plus, there are all those worries out there, about his mom and his probation officer and his ongoing lack of gainful employment. The air conditioner is throwing out enough cold air to make a comforter mandatory, a comforter like the one snugged up under his chin. But Hootie knows he has to rise, not least because the odors wafting in from the kitchen are singing to him like the Sirens to Ulysses. Hootie knows about the Sirens because he read The Odyssey in tenth grade. That was before he got in with the wrong crowd, before he started smoking weed and snorting cocaine, before he started hanging out at the clubs.

  Resigned, Hootie slips into the clothes he wore on the previous day, the only clothes he has. He stops for a few minutes in the bathroom, brushing his teeth with his fingers. As he comes into the kitchen, Amelia greets him. She’s sitting behind a stack of pancakes at the breakfast bar, looking very young. Behind her, a small TV is tuned to NY1, the cable news channel.

  ‘Hi, how’d you sleep?’

  ‘That mattress was unbelievable,’ he finally admits.

  Amelia and Bubba laugh. ‘Hey, check this out,’ Bubba says.

  Hootie peers into a saucepan. He notes raspberries, blueberries and small chunks of mango bubbling away.

  ‘You’re making syrup.’

  Bubba frowns. ‘Compote,’ he corrects. ‘I’m making a fruit compote to ladle over buttermilk pancakes enhanced with a touch of Grand Marnier. Plus, instead of buttering the pancakes, I’m using crème fraîche.’

  Hootie doesn’t know what crème fraîche is. He’s thinking maybe that’s the point. No matter what he told his mother about rejecting his black identity, he feels uncomfortable around white people. He just can’t shake the sense that he’s being judged, and harshly at that.

  Bubba ladles pancake batter on to a cast-iron skillet. ‘I started cooking when I was assigned to the kitchen at a minimum security joint up near the Hudson. The con who managed the kitchen was a restaurateur-conman named Allen Michaels. Talk about a jerk. Michaels didn’t know his ass from his elbow about doing time and I had to jump in more than once to protect him. But he could really cook. He inspired me to start watching the Food Network. You know, Mario Batali and Rachael Ray.’

  ‘Shit,’ Amelia says, ‘here comes the lecture. Hootie, pour yourself a cup of coffee and sit by me.’

  Hootie fills a cup with coffee, adds sugar and cream. ‘Gourmet coffee, right?’

  ‘Tanzanian beans,’ Bubba replies. ‘Freshly ground.’

  Hootie takes his coffee to the stool next to Amelia’s. As he sits, she proffers a forkful of pancake and compote. Hootie accepts the offering – what else can he do? The tastes explode in his mouth. These are not his mother’s pancakes. They did not come out of a box, nor have they been drenched with imitation maple syrup and smothered with butter.

  ‘Whatta ya think?’ Bubba edges a spatula beneath one of the pancakes on the griddle. He peers at the underside for a moment, then quickly flips it over.

  ‘They’re great.’ Hootie’s mouth is so filled with saliva that he nearly spits.

  ‘So that’s good, right? That I can really cook, that it’s not bullshit?’

  ‘Good for what?’

  ‘For my image. See, when middle-class people look at me, people I’m hopin’ to do business with, they see a big goon. I don’t blame ’em, Hootie. Hell, I am a big goon. But I’m a goon who cooks. I’m a safe goon. I’m the goon who makes a mean risotto, a sumptuous coq au vin, a delectable crème caramel. So, yeah, maybe I committed this violent crime way back when, but I’m harmless now. Ordinary folks can deal with me.’

  Bubba makes a shooting gesture with the fingers of his right hand. ‘If you don’t learn to make people feel safe, they won’t do business with you.’

  Hootie accepts another bite from Amelia. It does not disappoint. ‘So I should maybe take up astrology?’

  ‘The astrology bit is a little old. Nowadays, you can get a chart on the Internet for a few bucks. No, I got something better for you. What kind of Indian did you say you were?’

  ‘Crow.’

  ‘So learn everything you can about the Crow. Collect Crow memorabilia. Buy some jewelry. Memorize the stories. Become knowledgeable. Be interesting.’

  Hootie gets the point. In order to become safe for white people, he’ll have to become a professional Indian. He looks away for a moment, toward the glowing TV, just as the anchor introduces a story about a massacred rodent who closed down the 1 Line for three hours on the previous night. The reporter on the scene, an Asian woman with a pointy little chin named Indira Chitterjee, plays the story for laughs. She sobers only at the very end,
when she declares that the police are trying to connect the hit on the rat to the murder of a suspected drug dealer on Hamilton Place.

  ‘Awright, here we go.’ Bubba flips Hootie’s pancakes on to a plate, adds a thin layer of crème fraîche to each, finally ladles the compote on to the stack. Watching the performance, Hootie remembers the money Bubba passed to Amelia. Seed money is what he’d called it.

  ‘Chef Bubba, at your service.’ Bubba lays the plate in front of Hootie, then retreats to the stove. He picks up a long wooden spoon, gives it a theatrical twirl and begins to prepare his own breakfast. ‘There are three secrets to cooking: fresh ingredients, organization and experience. Now me, I was only joking before. I mean about being a chef. I’m like Rachael Ray. I cook, but I’m not a chef.’

  Bubba finally slows down long enough for Amelia to get a word in. She pats Hootie on the shoulder and says, ‘Don’t worry, he shuts up when he eats.’

  Hootie cuts into his pancakes with the edge of a fork. He’s thinking Bubba wants him to know about the dealer on Hamilton Place. Bubba and Amelia, both. They want him to know that they’re not fucking around.

  Amelia cleans up after breakfast. She loads the dishwasher, cleans the stove and the table, takes a hand vac to the floor around Bubba’s stool. Hootie and Bubba head off to the living room, where Bubba gestures to a facing pair of leather couches. The couches are armless, their cushions mounted on polished chrome frames.

  ‘Hang on a second.’ Bubba walks over to a closet near the front door. He plucks a box off the top shelf, carries it back to Hootie and lays it on a glass coffee table between the two couches.

  ‘You know what this is?’

  Hootie examines the side of the box. ‘A Cuisinart?’

  ‘Wrong. It’s a Cookinart.’

  Hootie takes a closer look, then smiles. ‘It’s a knock-off.’

  ‘No, no. If it was a knock-off, it would say “Cuisinart” on the side of the box. The guy who designed this food processor wanted to compete with Cuisinart, especially on price. But it didn’t work out.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Bubba smiles his happy-toddler smile, a parting of narrow lips revealing rows of neat square teeth. He puts the box to his ear and shakes it. ‘They don’t work, Hootie. They don’t slice or chop or shred or mince or knead. Most of them don’t, anyway. Oh, they’ll turn on. They’ll turn on and rotate like crazy, but the shaft that turns the cutting discs wobbles. So whatever you put into the unit ends up the consistency of a mashed potato. No surprise, right, that the asshole went bankrupt?’

  Amelia strolls into the living room. She’s carrying a fat joint in one hand, which she passes to Hootie. Then she opens the window.

  ‘The dude who owns this apartment,’ she explains, ‘you don’t wanna get on his bad side.’

  Hootie sucks on the joint. There’s a trap here and he’s falling into it. Already, he can’t imagine going back out on the street. He offers the joint to Bubba, who declines.

  ‘I got a game tonight,’ he explains.

  ‘Yeah, OK.’ Hootie gestures to the still unopened box. ‘So, what does this bankruptcy have to do with Bubba Yablonsky?’

  Bubba spreads his hands. ‘Hootie, my boy, even as we speak, there’s seven thousand Cookinarts sitting in a warehouse in New Hampshire. I can get my hands on them for a dollar apiece.’

  ‘And then what?’

  Amelia rolls her eyes. ‘You’ll be sorry.’

  Bubba looks at her for a moment, his expression fond, and Hootie gets the impression they’ve done this bit before. ‘Close your eyes a second, Hootie. Imagine a sweaty, middle-aged woman, maybe fifteen pounds overweight, preparing a meal in the kitchen. She’s tired, she’s cranky, her hair is mussed, her lipstick is smeared. Except for a small cutting board, the counter space is covered with vegetables, everything from string beans to zucchini, along with a variety of hard cheeses.’

  Bubba’s got the irritating telemarketer voice down pat, including the Aussie accent. ‘Are you sick and tired of chopping and grating and slicing and dicing? Do you need a professional quality food processor, but can’t afford to go out and spend two hundred dollars? Well, the Cookinart fourteen-cup food processor is the food processor for you. It does everything that hi-price processor does, not for two hundred dollars, or even one hundred dollars, but for a single payment of thirty-nine, ninety-nine. Yes, you heard me right. You get the Cookinart processor and four different blades for the unbelievably low price of thirty-nine, ninety-nine.’

  Hootie takes another turn at the joint. He sucks the smoke deep into his lungs and holds it there. Two hits and he’s already stoned, the weed so fresh the joint sticks to his fingertips when he hands it to Amelia.

  ‘But wait,’ Bubba cries. ‘If you act today, we’ll send you, absolutely free, a three-piece specialty disc set. A ninety dollar value absolutely free. That’s a two hundred and ninety dollar value for only a single payment of thirty-nine, ninety-nine. But wait. For the first two hundred callers, we’ll throw in a stainless steel holder for your discs, a sixty dollar value, absolutely free. That’s a three hundred and fifty dollar value for only thirty-nine, ninety-nine. Call now while supplies last. Sorry, no CODs.’

  Bubba settles back on the couch and Hootie applauds. ‘That was crazy, Bubba. You could go on the air tomorrow.’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Bubba shakes his head. ‘Not me, Hootie. The agency that makes the spot will supply the actor. Remember, the machines don’t work.’ He leans forward, letting his elbows fall to his knees. ‘Seven thousand units. We’ll get forty bucks apiece for ’em, plus fifteen for shipping and handling. That’s fifty-five dollars times seven thousand. That’s three hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars. You hear what I’m sayin? For thirty grand, total, I can purchase the units, make the spot and buy the air time. And you wanna hear the most beautiful part? The whole operation won’t take more than three months. In and out, here and gone, so long and thanks for the money.’

  Initially, Hootie finds himself with nothing to say. The burglaries that got him sent to Rikers Island netted him a grand total of three hundred dollars. Money spent so fast it was gone almost before he got it.

  ‘Lemme tell ya,’ Bubba continues, ‘about a cellie I had in a minimum security joint upstate, a guy named Peter Talley, doing three years for fraud. Pete was an investment counselor. He convinced elderly widows to invest their life savings, young couples to establish college funds for their children, families to put up their homes. But he didn’t invest in anything. He took their money – a grand total of five hundred thousand dollars – and he spent it. You listening close? Five hundred grand – three years. I knew dudes in Attica got seven years for burglary, fifteen-to-life for selling an ounce of coke to an undercover. And you wanna hear the funny part? Ten minutes after they hit the streets, they were back to committing the very same crimes in the very same ways. This, Hootie, is not gonna be my fate. I don’t see any way to get ahead without taking a risk, but it’s gonna be the least possible risk for the greatest possible gain.’

  Amelia carries the joint to an ashtray on the window sill and stubs it out. She turns off the TV, turns on the stereo. Luther Vandross’s seductive voice invades Hootie’s body from every corner in the room, a specter in search of a soul. This is the stereo system he’s wanted since he was old enough to want a system.

  Hootie’s expecting the big pitch. If there was ever a right moment, this is it. He’s ready to say yes to anything short of murder. But it doesn’t happen. Bubba rises. He looms over Hootie, his look almost regretful.

  ‘I got a game in a few hours,’ he explains. ‘I gotta go.’

  SIX

  By the time Bubba retrieves his gym bag, it’s all settled. Hootie and Amelia will hang out for a couple of hours, then come over to watch the game. Afterwards, all three will attend a private party at a club in Chelsea. The party is being thrown by a men’s fashion magazine celebrating its fifth anniversary.

  Hootie feels hugely relieved when the
door closes behind Bubba. He’s not ready to make any decisions. But the last part of Bubba’s monologue weighs on him. Hootie knows a number of third-strike offenders sentenced to long stretches for relatively petty crimes. And just like Bubba said, they went back to committing the same crimes as soon as the state let them out of prison. As if prison was the whole point.

  Hootie recalls one of Eli Scannon’s many lectures. ‘The black man is a prisoner of his limited imagination. When he closes his eyes, he sees an original gangster playin’ the fool in some music video, girls suckin’ his dick and men kissin’ his ass. The white man, he’s hard-focused on the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He’s not wearin’ hip-hop and he doesn’t have a gold rope around his neck. And the folks that kiss his ass? They’re called maître d’s, investment counselors, doormen, hotel managers, real estate salesmen. You listenin’ to me? The black man uses fear to get respect. The white man buys respect.’

  Even then, Hootie knew this wasn’t altogether true. Scannon had a way of talking about the black man as if every black body was connected to a single brain. But there were black men out there, like his chump of a stepfather, who lived by the white man’s rules, and lived well. What Scannon was really talking about was dumb-ass convicts like himself.

  ‘Hootie, what’re you thinkin’?’

  Hootie opens his eyes to find Amelia offering the joint. He takes it and lights up. ‘Thinkin’ about my probation officer, how I’m gonna explain not havin’ a job or a place to live. Say, you think I could borrow your phone?’

  Amelia disappears into her room. She reappears a moment later and tosses a cell phone to Hootie, a burgundy Motorola Razr phone.