I smiled and stepped over his long legs to extinguish the incense. “I missed you too, but before you get any more comfortable, we have to run over to Petland to get Blinky some nice juicy mice.”
“Ah, the highlight of the day.”
I walked over to my aquarium and sprinkled some chips into the water. Stooping down I watched my school of tropical fish swirl towards the surface and made sure everyone got a fair share. I looked at Yero and caught him staring at me. As he sat there, I noticed how wonderful he looked sitting in front of my black-and-white collage of tribesmen. His strong African features and thick locks had the same commanding majesty of the warriors, and his expression had the same pride and contentment as the sisters.
I sat down next to him and gave him a big hug.
“What was that for?”
“Just for being you.” I mushed him playfully and smiled. He looked at me with those deep sleepy eyes of his.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, putting my hand on my hip in a fake sistah-girl fashion.
He touched underneath my chin gently and pulled my face towards his. When he kissed me, it was light and tender, without a hint of pressure. Actually, it felt like an embrace from a supernatural being and I was in a trance. If it wasn’t for Blinky slithering impatiently off his body, we probably would have never stopped.
After our lips separated and we sat there examining each other with love-filled eyes, I stroked his dark brown face and was unable to speak. But that was all right, the silence said what I could not.
Chapter 3
ASHA
I slipped into a cobalt blue pencil skirt and a Rochas collarless floral brocade jacket in pale blue with aqua accents. It was a new outfit from a wonderful store called Bagutta. I slid my feet into a pair of silver Jimmy Choos as Brent frowned from his lounging position on the king-size bed that we had rocked and rolled on for most of the day. Brent was sitting up with his back against the plush headboard, in a beige Armani suit and matching shoes that were polished so hard, they seemed to gleam and reflect back every light in our luxurious hotel suite. His hands were folded neatly in his lap.
“It has taken you one full hour to bathe and get dressed. You still haven’t done your hair or makeup.”
“You’re a handsome, refined gentleman, Brent. Don’t you care what the woman on your arm looks like?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to grow old waiting for her to get it together.”
I ran my hands slowly up and down the sides of the skirt. “Why don’t we forget about having a night on the town and just go back to bed?”
Brent sighed. “Asha, please stop fooling around. We’re going to be late.”
What a priggish fucking fuddy-duddy! If I’d said that to Nick or Randall, my clothes would have been off my body and scattered all over the plush purple carpet within a matter of seconds. How on earth did this man’s wife put up with him? What was her name? Amanda? She was probably glad that his boring ass wasn’t home.
Time for makeup. I get such a kick out of staring at myself in a full-length mirror and admiring my knockout figure. My body is nothing short of perfection. The essence of womanhood itself. Flawless creamy skin with a slight red undertone gives it a warm subtle heat and a sexy glow that most women imitate with tacky bronzing powders. My Siamese-shaped eyes are hazel in color and sexy as all get out. And, although I’m only 5 feet 2 inches tall, I have the best pair of legs God ever created, and they look their best when they’re freshly shaved and given the smooth sheen of sheer panty hose.
Once my makeup was on and my hair combed smoothly into a flip, I stood back to admire myself. Boy, I’m one great package and it is so no wonder that every man who isn’t gay or retarded wants to be with me.
“Asha!”
I stopped preening. “Okay! Okay! Could you get my coat?”
We pulled away from the Parker Meridien hotel in his ivory pearl Infiniti G35 coupe.
“Where is this place?” he asked. Translation: Please tell me that you haven’t picked a nightclub that Amanda might walk into.
“Relax, this place has been described as the temple of hip and it has the flash and brash to prove it.”
A woman married to Brent Washington probably preferred dinner and a movie over rump shaking.
“What’s the name of it?”
“Pergola 289. It’s on Eleventh Avenue.”
He turned west. “What do you like most about Pergola 289?”
“Stargazing.”
“What?”
“The last time I was there, Wesley Snipes, Snoop Dog, and Terrence Dashon Howard were all in the house.”
“Weren’t there any female stars?” he asked dryly.
“I heard someone say that Vivica Fox was around.”
Brent once said that it was safer to drive with both hands on the steering wheel. So, while he drove like he was trying to earn a fucking Boy Scout medal, I just stared out the window knowing that he wouldn’t risk an accident by putting an arm around my shoulder.
I daydreamed about Nick Seabrook while Brent chattered on about the day-to-day problems at his job, how annoying Amanda was becoming, and what a joy it was to spend two nights in my presence.
Brent is an executive at Tiffany’s jewelry store. He is married to a white lawyer. They have plenty of money but no kids because his wife has a fertility problem and doesn’t like the idea of adoption. I get the impression that he doesn’t have much of a social life, because he is always telling me that I “really know how to have a good time.”
Whatever.
Nick, on the other hand, was a true romantic. He couldn’t drive without leaning over for a kiss, touching my thigh, or drawing me closer to him. He couldn’t watch a movie with me without making out or at least holding my hand and, above all, he always noticed what I wore and commented on how good it looked.
Nick was also a freak. He was in Houston on a business trip and I couldn’t wait until he returned to New York.
“Asha, are you listening to me?”
I smiled sweetly at the man who paid my monthly rent, phone, cable and utility bills. “Of course, baby. It’s just that I get a little jealous when you talk about Amanda.”
Brent took one hand off the steering wheel and patted me . . . on the shoulder like he was my brother or uncle. “Sorry, sweetheart.”
Whatever.
The club was located in an abandoned factory just a stone’s throw from the Hudson River.
“Look at this place,” Brent complained as he searched for a parking space. “There is a meat packing plant on one side of it and a park full of whores and crackheads on the other. It is a mugger’s delight. We’ll be lucky to make it in and out in one piece.”
I soothed him with a peck on the cheek. “Would I bring my Main Man to a place where he could get injured?” Main Man was our pet name for Brent’s dick.
He loosened his tie and grinned. “Let’s get jiggy, sweetheart.”
Jiggy, I thought as we crossed the threshold. Real jiggy. I planned to dance until the sweat poured down my back.
Pergola 289 was designed to look like a turn-of-the-century bordello. The walls were covered in red velvet and the floors were brick. The bases of its round tables were ornate iron grillwork. Faux Spanish moss dripped down the sides of the bar, which was shaped like a naked woman. A chandelier provided the only light, which left most of the place in shadows. There were many curvy sofas covered in a red brocade fabric around the walls; and to complete the atmosphere of decadence, four barely clad, busty women swung from red velvet swings suspended from the ceiling. The majority of the crowd was expensively dressed black folk but there were some young whites and a sprinkling of Asians. Those patrons who weren’t dancing to the blasting rhythm & blues were tongue kissing on one of the sofas.
Brent whispered into my ear. “This is what I like about you, Asha. You’re so adventurous.”
We grinned at each other and hit the bar. A cosmopolitan with Grey Goose vodka for me
and a cappuccino martini for him. We drank without talking, just grooving to the excellent music that the DJ was spinning. After the second round of drinks, I put my arms around his waist and our lips met for a kiss. Then we moved in closer. Normally, Brent hated public displays of affection, but even his conservative ass understood that a nightclub didn’t count.
I was pressed right up against him and his tongue was halfway down my throat when the bartender, a woman dressed as a whore to keep the bordello theme going, stopped us with a friendly tap on Brent’s shoulder. “Take it to the sofas, honey. That’s why we have them.”
Hell, we’d been in bed all day. It was time to dance.
Chapter 4
PHIL
She stood in the doorway of her apartment, which must have contained a gazillion kids judging by the noise coming from behind her. It could not have been cleaned in weeks judging by the funk that wafted over her shoulder. She was wearing a super tight, hot pink vinyl miniskirt and a red-and-black tube top. Her ashy looking feet were shoved into a pair of dirty gold sandals. The outfit told me she was either blind or on drugs. The sunken cheeks, missing teeth and once pretty eyes gave me my answer.
“Are you Maria Gonzalez?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Phillip Patterson and this is my partner, Detective Hugo Montana. I’d like to ask you a few questions, please.”
She responded in rapid-fire Spanish aimed at Hugo.
Hugo answered her through gritted teeth. “Miss Gonzalez, do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“Then I want you to stop being so mutherfuckin’ rude to my partner and pay attention to what he is saying.”
Hugo and I have been partners for many years and we’ve been through this scene many, many times. Black suspects talk to me like he isn’t in the room and Hispanics talk to him in Spanish, which leaves me totally out of the loop.
I waited a beat and then continued. “Miss Gonzalez, do you know a young man called Beany Cruz?”
She shook her head to mean no.
It was a lie and a stupid one at that.
“That’s strange. Because you and Beany were seen laughing and talking together in the park last night and then again at the liquor store.”
“You got a picture of this guy?”
She was stalling for time.
Hugo flashed a photo of the now-dead Beany in front of her face.
“Yeah. I know him.”
“Do you know who shot him?”
“No.”
“Do you care who shot him?”
That bought a gap-toothed grin to her face. “No. Can I go now?”
I unsnapped my cuffs. “Yes. We’re all going right down to the 103rd Precinct. You’re under arrest for murder.”
Her eyes grew huge with fear. “I didn’t kill nobody.”
I cuffed her hands behind her back while Hugo rattled off her right to remain silent and all that shit. We both knew she hadn’t killed Beany but her brother certainly had and the only way to find out where he was hiding was to put the squeeze on his crackhead sister.
It didn’t take long to get the truth out of Maria Gonzalez. She held up pretty well through the reading of her Miranda rights but when we got downtown and it was time for fingerprinting and picture taking, brotherly love flew right out the window. She gave us what we needed to catch the real killer.
When I got home that evening, it was good to find the driveway empty. Saundra’s boyfriend, Yero, spends so much time at our place, he might as well just move on in. As I opened the door, I could hear the sound of some music that sounded like monks chanting coming from her room.
I knocked on her door. “Honey, I’m home.”
Saundra opened the door and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Hi, Daddy. Did you have a good day?”
“I’m a cop. There is no such thing as a good day at work.”
It was an old joke between us that started six years ago when Saundra first moved in. Back then she used to be really sad all the time about her mother’s death and I didn’t like to tell her about the human misery that I encountered each day. So, I’d make up these stories that had happy endings. One night I was just too tired to come up with another I saved/rushed a little boy to the hospital and he is going to be fine story and just told her that there was no such thing in my business as a good day at work.
When Saundra first came to live with me, I studied her every word and gesture, looking for signs of her mother that I could stamp out immediately. With all respect to the dead, Lola Smith was a weak, indecisive, and chronically depressed female who spent far too much time waiting for Mr. Right to show up on her doorstep. Saundra is the only child I will ever have in this lifetime and I wanted her to be the complete opposite—strong, educated, independent, with clear-cut goals and money of her own. To be honest, I’d hoped she would win a scholarship to one of those fancy girls’ schools like Spelman or Barnard and land one of those jobs where she’d have a big office and a six-figure paycheck. But she decided to study the rag trade and open a boutique. That’s okay by me. Saundra has turned out to be a terrific young woman and there is nothing wrong with raising a family and selling clothes. I’m going to give her the start-up money and pay for her wedding to Yero. Then I’m going to sit her down, tell her a truth that has always needed telling and live the life that will make me happy.
Chapter 5
EVELYN
Phil is taking me to B.B. King’s blues club in Manhattan so I’m trying to find the right pair of shoes to go with my lime green wrap dress and listen to my best friend, Josephine Styles, at the same time. That’s what I like about Phil. I don’t have to beg him to take me out or buy me a thoughtful gift. It was his idea for us to hang out in the city tonight and he even picked out this new dress for me to wear. He is a wonderful boyfriend. But just because he hasn’t given me an engagement ring, I have to listen to Mama’s mouth and Josephine’s mouth. They harangue me constantly but I don’t pass the stress on to Phil. He and I agreed that as soon as Saundra moved out of the house, it would be my time. Phil said that back in his hometown of Dayton, he saw many relationships fall apart simply because two grown women could not share the same space in peace. I agreed to wait for him to handle his business with his daughter. I’m happy with the way things are. So, that’s that. Or it should be.
Josephine and Mama think that Phil is dragging his feet for some unknown reason and that I should push his back up against the wall and drag a wedding date out of him. That’s crazy. I’ve waited six years and Saundra is getting married in a few months. Why should I start some mess now?
Even now, instead of helping me pick out the shoes, Josephine is sitting on the side of my bed, running her mouth, “Sweetie, when is his daughter getting married?”
I waved my hand airily, trying to look unconcerned. “In June.”
“So, why can’t Phil buy your engagement ring now?”
“We’re both always so busy. The subject just hasn’t come up.”
Her voice rose. “Hasn’t come up?”
I shushed her. “Keep your voice down. Mama is trying to get some sleep.”
Josephine lives down the street with her husband and two handsome teenaged sons. I love her but right now she was creating negative energy.
“I’m surprised your mother can sleep at all with her only child dangling on a hook for the past six years.” Josephine slipped off her shoes and put her feet up on the ottoman.
“Why should I rush this man down the aisle, Josephine? I’ve never been interested in having children. I’m not feeling insecure because I always know where he is, and we’re only going to City Hall when we do tie the knot. We can just jump up and do that any time.”
Josephine was still a brainwashed sistah. Meaning that her hair was streaked with a red that is unnatural to African-American women and it was also chemically relaxed. She flipped it over one shoulder now. “Fine. Call him now and tell him to jump up and marry you next Friday. I’ll g
o with you.”
“Phil is one of the last good men left and I don’t plan to lose him by listening to you,” I said.
“Don’t get me wrong, Evelyn. I like Phil and everything, but something just isn’t right. I think he must be one of those commitment-phobic men who I read about in this book called Men Who Can’t Love.”
“Phil definitely loves me!” I protested.
She took a long swig of Sunny Delight. “Yes, he loves you, but the idea of saying “I do” probably makes him wake up screaming in fear. I’m not putting him down. It’s a serious emotional condition and he’ll need to see a shrink to get over it.”
“How can you drink that stuff? Why not just buy orange juice?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Actually, I am going to change the subject.”
“Fine. Just ask Phil to set a date and see what he says.”
“I don’t want him to feel pressured.”
“Pressured? After six years? Puh-leeze, girl. He’s lucky you haven’t shot his ass.”
“Josephine, I’ve been married before and it flopped. Plus, it’s not like I don’t have any life outside of Phil.”
“Something just doesn’t seem right to me, Evelyn.”
I’d had enough. “How are your boys?”
She sighed. “You just saw them yesterday. They’re fine.”
“Look, Josephine. I believe in Phil and you’re just going to have to respect that.”
She clicked the remote and started surfing for something enlightening to watch. “Fine. I’ll never bring it up again.”
“Good.”
Josephine and Mama need to handle the procrastinators in their own lives. Mama and the local butcher have been flirting with each other for the past ten years. She spends hours standing in that store talking to him about God knows what and sometimes he comes to our house and they yammer some more. Has he ever taken her to the theater, out to a nice romantic dinner or held hands and traded kisses with her during a movie? No. Does he buy her a card and a gift on her birthday? No. Does he show up with candy and flowers on Valentine’s Day? No. So, what is she pushing me for? The butcher has it made. Mama listens to and counsels him about all his personal problems. They cheer each other on. Talk about their disappointments and sharing what few dreams they each have left. In other words, he has a free girlfriend without any of the responsibility (financial or sexual) that goes along with a real romantic relationship.
The Other Side Of the Game Page 2