“Yeah. Fine.”
“You sound pissed off, man. Look, this is the last time.”
“I’m under a lot of pressure right now, James. Gotta go.”
“Can I pick up the money right now?”
“Yeah, man.”
I hung up before he could thank me. Hugo and I were waiting for a call from one of our snitches. We’d been waiting a long time—she was supposed to check in more than an hour ago. If she came through, we might take down one of the busiest crack dealers in the area. If she chickened out, we had lost a whole lot of man hours and a few hundred dollars that belonged to the NYPD. The boss wasn’t going to be happy.
The next call was from the boss. He barked out some orders.
I gave Hugo the thumbs down sign and he groaned.
“We’ll be there in a flash, sir.”
“You have five minutes.”
The captain hung up without another word. I grabbed my jacket and Hugo raced toward his desk to retrieve his own.
“Where we goin’?” asked Hugo.
I didn’t answer him until we were out of the precinct and on the road. “We got a body in Laurelton. Woman says she came in and found it . . . doesn’t know whodunit.”
Hugo groaned. “Why did I become a cop?”
I had to laugh. When shit got too thick, Hugo and I had this routine that we did.
“Same reason I did. To protect the good people from the bad people.”
“Who are the bad people?”
“Rapists, burglars, murderers and drug dealers.”
“How do you tell the difference?”
“We can’t. So fuck it. Let’s lock everybody up and figure it out later.”
Sometimes the cops are the bad guys. That is an unfortunate reality. But Hugo and I were both clean. It’s really sad that the bad cops get so much ink in the newspapers because they are the minority. We’ve never even taken a free cup of coffee or a donut. We’re old-fashioned, honest cops and proud of it. So we rode through the busy streets of Queens in our black unmarked vehicle hoping that the woman who called about a dead body would just confess to the goddamn crime and save us a whole lot of trouble.
“Did you buy a Lotto ticket this week?”
“Nah,” answered Hugo. “You?”
“Hell, yeah. Something told me that the bitch was going to flake out on us. I’m going to need that Lotto money after unemployment runs out.”
“We should find her and kick that ass.”
Hugo was always talking about kicking ass but he never really did it. In fact, neither of us has ever used excessive force on a snitch or a suspect. We’re proud of that, too.
I turned right onto what was normally a quiet block. It was crowded with crying people, nosy people and stunned people. Uniformed police officers kept them all behind the yellow crime scene tape. We showed our identification and entered the house.
The woman who had made the call, a Miss Jane Hunter, was a slim, attractive black woman in her late twenties. She wore a typical ghetto hairdo—twirled and gelled into a towering structure about eight inches from her scalp. Her makeup was streaked with tears. We questioned her for about ten minutes about the covered body of a black teenage male in the kitchen. Everything that came out of her mouth was a lie.
We finally gave her the right to remain silent spiel, slammed the cuffs on and hauled her ass back to the precinct.
There was a coded message waiting for me. It meant that our snitch had called with the information we needed. Our jobs weren’t on the line after all.
Chapter 21
EVELYN
I had just finished twisting a gorgeous swath of turquoise fabric into a turban around my head when Hugo called. I knew right away what that meant. Phil had decided to pull a double shift and his partner had agreed to take me out instead.
“Hi, Evelyn. How would you like to keep a short Puerto Rican man company this evening?”
Hugo and I had been friends since our days at the police academy. . . long before he introduced me to Phil. “So he is doing a midnight to eight, huh?”
“Yeah, chica. Our boy has some heavy-duty expenses coming up. Comprende?”
It was true. Saundra’s wedding. Saundra’s boutique. Our wedding. And Phil knew that I was making my career change right after we tied the knot. The retreat for women would satisfy my soul but my paycheck would be a lot smaller. How could I get mad?
“I’d love to have dinner with you, Hugo. It will give us a chance to catch up.”
“Good!” He sounded genuinely pleased. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, but I have three conditions.”
“What are they?”
“The food must be cooked . . . nothing raw, like sushi. They must serve meat even though you aren’t going to eat any of it.”
“What is the third?” I already knew but he really wanted to say it.
“They have to have a real bar. No spritzers. No wine coolers. I want Jack Daniel’s both straight up and on the rocks.”
“So, I have to watch you keel over with a massive heart attack? That’s not my idea of fun, Hugo.”
“What if I promise not to collapse until you’re back home? My living room is huge. Plenty of room for me to lie facedown until the medics arrive.”
I had to laugh. “Suit yourself.”
“Good! See you in a few minutes.”
I hung up, poured myself a glass of organic apple juice and stared out my bedroom window. It was dusk—a crisp autumn evening with a slight wind that was blowing the red and gold leaves around on our lawn. I wondered if my first husband, Jerry Turner, still lived in New York City. We had promised each other all the usual things: remain friends, stay in touch, blah, blah, blah; but after all the drama died down, there really wasn’t anything more to say. We were just kids when we got married, and after it was over, I couldn’t afford to keep the apartment. Not on a McDonald’s cashier’s salary. Besides, we’d had so many hopes and dreams there. I just didn’t want to look at the space where we had placed the crib or inside the drawers that held stacks of baby clothing from the shower that Mama and Josephine had thrown for me. So, when Mama suggested I move back home and take a bunch of tests to land a city job, I figured she was right.
That’s one thing about Mama: she keeps moving forward and never looks back. Dad was a sanitation worker and one night he had an asthma attack and died. I was a ten-year-old—away at summer camp. When the counselor told me, I was stunned—too lost to even cry until many years later. He had been a wonderful father and I adored him. Maybe I didn’t cry because mama didn’t dwell on it. She used the life insurance money to pay off the mortgage on our house and kept on working at the nursing home where she’d been the resident dietician for years. She still works there part time, even though she retired many years ago.
I took every test that the City of New York had to offer that year and the New York Police Department was the only organization that showed interest. So, I jumped at the chance to earn a good salary and benefits. The notion of good vs. evil never even entered my thoughts. These days, you can’t get on the force without a college degree but back then all you needed was a high school diploma.
Hugo and I were the only minorities in the academy that year and he helped me through the grueling physical challenges. What a nice guy! I wish he would find a nice woman, settle down and have kids. I’ve been to several of his family parties and he really has a kind and gentle way of dealing with children. But Hugo says he doesn’t ever want to get married. He has his little bachelor pad in Manhattan and a very simple life that seems to make him happy.
Boy, when Hugo and I first joined the force, we had some grand old times. We’d go out after our shift was over and drink ourselves silly. In fact, I used to be able to out-drink Hugo. The hard stuff. Rye. Scotch. Whiskey. It didn’t matter. We would go someplace with loud, live music and get totally wasted to shut out the eight hours of human misery that we had just shoveled our way through. Our friendship didn’t change until
I met this guy named Miles Galloway. He was a high school math teacher. A deep man who lived a holistic lifestyle that I didn’t understand at first. But the more I fell in love with him, the more I was eager to learn. He introduced me to yoga, meditation, veganisim and various eastern philosophies. The relationship lasted two years and ended when he asked me to quit the force. At the time, I was too afraid to leave. Where else was I going to make such good money with only a twelfth grade education? Miles said that if I still cared about money, then I hadn’t totally thrown off my shackles. He wouldn’t have minded my working if the job didn’t involve guns, violence, and some laws that are just plain unfair. I understood where he was coming from but what if we didn’t work out? I visualized myself back at the McDonald’s counter and let Miles Galloway depart in peace.
Meanwhile, Hugo had won kudos for risking his life in the line of duty. He had also become a savvy political animal and was now Detective Hugo Montana while I was still pounding the pavement in a blue uniform. That’s fine.
We all have our place in the universe.
Chapter 22
ASHA
Randy wants me to spend Thanksgiving with him and his family. I’m nervous. He bought me a cuddly pet, now he wants me to meet a mother that even he hardly sees. These are clear indications that he’s getting serious and that’s exactly what I don’t want.
I took the day off from work today and I’m glad I did. The rain was hitting the pavement like a ton of bricks and the constant honking of the car horns outside indicated that the traffic was hell. I’m recuperating from another wild all-night sex-fest with Nick. I told Randy I stayed home because I felt a slight case of the sniffles. He said he’d be over later to check up on me. Great, I thought, now I have to waste real energy faking a fucking cold. I watched the Price Is Right and realized in disbelief that I was genuinely entertained. That is frightening and I am so glad I don’t do this every day. Just as I was cursing out a fat, hunched over, blue-haired old lady for winning a sports car, the doorman knocked.
“Yes?” I shouted.
“Delivery, Miss Mitchell.”
“Just a minute,” I responded, as I pulled my red satin robe together.
When I opened the door, he was balancing a long white box in his left hand and shoving a clipboard at me with his right.
“Sign here,” he said, pointing with his pen to the only free space on the page. I snatched the pen out of his hand. I hate when people instruct me on the obvious, like I don’t have eyes to see a big-ass red X in bold marker.
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the box from his hand.
“No. Thank you,” he said eyeing my breasts that were spilling out of the Satih robe.
I closed the door without giving him a tip. Normally, I’ll give him five dollars for bringing something upstairs, but I only had a one hundred dollar bill in the house.
As I rushed toward the couch with the box, I managed to kick over the glass of grapefruit juice I had been sipping from all morning. That didn’t matter right now; I had to see what was inside. Flipping the top on the floor, I discovered two dozen yellow, long-stemmed roses resting neatly on top of one another. They were soft and fragrant. I picked up the accompanying note nestled between the leaves.
It read:
I hope these roses
brighten your gloomy day.
Get well soon.
Love, Randy
Shit. Now he was sending me flowers because of a cold. This was getting way out of hand. Something had to be done and fast. He would have to get cut off after Thanksgiving so he could heal in time for Christmas.
I ended up sleeping the rest of the day and only woke up when a cousin called. She wanted to know what my plans were for Thanksgiving. I told her I was going to Randy’s mother’s house for dinner. God, I hate the holidays; you have to sit in a scorching-hot living room with family members you don’t see at any other time of the year, a fake smile plastered on your face. Not only that, you have to deal with rambunctious male relatives whooping and hollering over the football game as they throw cans of beer down their throats. Thank goodness, the only family Randy has is his mother, sister, and niece. I definitely wouldn’t go if I had to be inspected by a house full of people just for a dried up piece of turkey.
Randy arrived at about ten P.M., while I was finishing a TV dinner. Peaches started to bark when he heard the doorman’s buzzer and I quickly began doing jumping jacks so I could get hot and flushed. I repeatedly rubbed my nose as hard as I could with the back of my hand so it would look red and bulbous. A couple of pieces of what appeared to be snotty tissues by the sofa was the grand finale. I told the doorman to let him up.
Randy knocked on my door three times and I got up on the fourth, to milk my “illness” for all it was worth.
“Hi, Bandy,” I said, faking a nasal voice.
“My poor baby. I bought you some chicken noodle soup and some saltine crackers,” he said, placing a brown paper bag in my hands.
“Dank you berry much. And danks for the blowers. Dey are bootiful.”
“No problem.”
Peaches ran to Randy with his tale wagging furiously back and forth in a friendly gesture.
“Hey, boy, how you doin?” he said, reaching down for his head.
After putting the bag down on the kitchen counter, I took his wet coat and umbrella and hung them up in the bathroom.
“Do you feel any better than you did this morning?”
“Yeah, I slept all day.”
“That’s good. You think you’ll be well enough by Thursday? I really want you to meet my mother.”
“Sure. I’ll just have to dose up damorrow and Wednesday.”
“Do you need anything from the store? I have to get some work done on my computer at home tonight, but I’ll run out first if you need me to. You shouldn’t go out in this weather.”
“Nah, I’ll be albight. You get going; it’s going to be hard to catch a cab.”
“I feel bad leaving you in this condition but I have a very important deadline to make; please forgive me,” he said, getting his things out of the bathroom.
“Don’t burry about it. I’ll see you on Dursday.”
“OK.”
Two minutes after I closed the door behind him, he knocked again. He was always forgetting something.
“Yeah?” I asked.
“It’s me.”
I opened the door and he stood there in his soggy wool coat with a corny smile on his face.
“I just came back to tell you I love you.”
He kissed me gently on the lips then bolted without giving me a chance to utter a sound. My heart ached as he said those dreadful words and I wanted him out of my life as soon as possible. I sat down on the floor next to Peaches and contemplated my strategy.
Thanksgiving morning was a nightmare. All my cousins began calling me at the crack of dawn, showering me with good holiday wishes. I spoke to those who have interesting lives and left my machine on for the others. They were my dad’s people and maybe I should be grateful that they wanted to keep in touch—we just don’t have much in common. I called Saundra even though she doesn’t celebrate “exploitive European holidays.”
“Hello?”
It was dumb-ass Evelyn. Was she going to grow old waiting for Phil to change his mind?
“Hi, Evelyn. Its Asha.”
“Sweetie! How is life treating you?”
“Fine. What is new in your world?”
She laughed, a soft tinkling sound. “Wondering how we’re going to pull off a big graduation party in June and a wedding eight weeks later. Whew! It makes me tired just thinking about it.”
“Graduation party?”
“Yes. Phil wants her to have both.”
Oh, brother! Now he had a believable excuse for not marrying her ass next year. He would say that he didn’t have the money and didn’t want her to foot the bill alone. How could she deal with the bullshit?
“Is Saundra home?”
“Uh
. . . sure.”
I knew that she was hurt by my abruptness, but stupid women get on my nerves.
Saundra picked up with Jamiroquai playing loudly in the background. I hate Jamiroquai.
“Hi, Ashie,” she said playfully.
“What’s new?” I asked.
“A lot, but you don’t know how to call nobody?” Saundra said in a ghetto-type voice.
“You got my number,” I said.
“You tell me your dirt first and then I’ll tell you mine.”
“On Sunday Nick came over because he was in town visiting some friends and he dropped by to see me before he left on Monday morning.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, as if she already knew the rest.
“And we ended up throwing down all night long,” I said excitedly.
“That’s foul but you are a female Mack, complete with the big brim. Whoa, wah, wow.” She laughed, imitating the wa-wa pedal from the seventies.
“I am not! I learned it from watching you back in the day.”
“Don’t even try it. So what else happened?”
“I took the day off because I was so worn out and Nick didn’t leave until seven. I told Randy I took the day off because I had a cold. You should’ve seen me dart around here trying to look sick when he came over!” I laughed.
“You are too much.” Saundra chuckled. “Are you spending Thanksgiving with him?”
“Yeah, unfortunately. He wants me to meet his mama.”
“Where does she live?”
“Up in Harlem on 145th and Lenox”
“Yikes, that’s Good Times area,” she said, snickering.
I laughed at the comparison, hoping his mother did not look like the late Esther Rolle.
“I don’t know, but I’m no dumb thrill seeking teenager anymore. Slums are not my favorite place to be,” I said, grabbing a bottle of clear nail polish off the nightstand.
“Smart choice,” Saundra agreed.
“So what’s your news?” I said, doubting it’s juiciness.
“Me and Yero picked out our wedding bands and auditioned a jazz trio.”
The Other Side Of the Game Page 7