by Amarie Avant
We hang up, and I exit the locker room.
As I'm sliding the phone into the silk lining of my suit, the captain’s head pops out of his office. He eyeballs me, then slams the door.
I cock my head for Tyrone to get up from his desk.
“Nope, you're big boss, bro,” he shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. As I start around the desks to our captain’s office, my partner hightails it out of his seat and he jogs into the office in the nick of time.
The instant the door meets its frame, Raynor points and shouts, “You, and you, have everyone that is somebody in Los Angeles eye fucking us under a magnifying glass, waiting for another incident. Dumb and Dumber, keep this shit up and I can't save your sorry asses. You all are gonna have to screw the mayor and that little redheaded bitch...”
“I think I've got the hot, redheaded DA covered,” Tyrone laughs. “Evan, you handle the mayor. He’ll be more agreeable with your wavy hair.”
“Knock it off.” He points to Tyrone. “That little fucker Cooper is dead. Two of our very own are dead! We don't have shit!”
“Cooper?” I inquire through gritted teeth. It was nothing short of a miracle to learn that Derek Cooper hadn’t died in the shootout. He was barely breathing when Emergency Medics finally got onto the scene. His surviving was also a bit of information not given to the press.
I still don't know what the Russians wanted with Derek Cooper. Their connection to Riker and his band of redneck idiots is beyond me.
The Russians and guys like Riker only have one thing in common, alcohol. Riker and his guys cook meth, they own a bunch of dive bars to legitimize their business. The Russians are a more cultured group, and that's saying a lot. Most of their smuggled alcohol becomes the ultra-rich’s bragging right. But the two can coexist because bars like Riker’s only sell cheap, non-Russian shit. And the Russians don't dabble in meth.
“The warden just gave me the call,” the Captain huffs. “Cooper got iced by a big motherfucker named—”
“Something Russian,” Tyron scoffs.
“Winner, winner chicken dinner. The bastard who snuck his seven-foot, crazy-ass into the highly guarded infirmary’s name is Popov.”
“Who is he representing?” Tyrone asks.
“Everyone and no one.” Raynor sighs, pulling his flask from his side drawer. He uncaps it and places it to his lips before taking a large swig. “Popov was representing the entire Soviet Union as far as we know. Popov was a war dog, in it for the money.”
“And being that capital is the almighty persuasion, there’s no way to pinpoint who funded this,” I conclude.
“Yup, no amount of encouragement,” Raynor annunciates every syllable, ideas of torture flash before his eyes, “will amount to shit. Popov ain’t talking.”
I rub the back of my neck. Cooper was one of Riker’s flunkies. Not high enough on the totem pole to even put the energy into swatting like a fly. Why would Popov go through so much stress to shank a nobody?
“We've gone over this a gazillion times now, Evan. All the cops on the beat have their eyes peeled for Riker and his bicycle club,” Tyrone shakes his head. The day Reese came into my life, Riker has been MIA. I’ve been on thin ice for intervening before the meth deal. “And now we've added these motherfucking Russians to the equation.” Tyrone rubs at his temples.
“Let’s go meet Popov,” I say optimistically. Though the outcome is clear as the Monopoly game “Don’t pass GO.”
17
Reese
18
As soon as there was a knock on the door, I hightailed it from my bedroom like I'd just escaped the State pen. Down the tiny hallway, hands over my ears to cut down on Lolita's incessant screaming and crying. I opened the front door of my one-bedroom apartment so harshly it almost fell from the already loose hinges.
Jamie was dressed to kill in all red. A tube top, suede shorts so short that his shiny, dark-chocolate legs looked a mile long. He had a shiny gift bag in his hand with red and pink hearts; the words scrolled on the side had an “I love you” cutesy punch line.
I grabbed his other hand. “Come in before the neighbors call the police!”
“No, come outside,” he tried to argue as I yanked him into the dim, dank living room and shut the door.
Jamie's shimmery, smoky eyes glared down the hall to the bathroom, then to the mound of clothing and expensive luggage crowding the four-by-four I call a living room and back to me.
“So she moved in?” He simpered, speaking over the sound of my mother’s incoherent shouting.
“It's just short-term,” I shot back, heading toward my bedroom. Once we got inside, he slammed the door.
“Sheesh, you guys wanna get me fucking evicted,” I snapped at him when I honestly wanted to kick my mom out. It's my second year in college. I should have stayed at the dorms one more year; instead I opted for a cheap one-bedroom apartment.
“Honey, are you motherfucking addicted to the pain?” Jamie asked, hands on his narrow almost inverted hips. He’d always bragged about and was obsessed with his ass, but prayed to Jesus to give him a curve or two in the thigh area.
I blinked at him. “No comment.”
“Oh that works perfectly,” Jamie turned toward my full-sized bed, which was covered with college textbooks, and opened his leather purse. I leaned against the wall opposite from him, wishing he’d just leave already. He had a concert to attend; the only concert going on around the sleaze apartment I shared with my mother was her loud lamenting. Husband number three had left us. What am I talking about ‘us’? She always loved to tell me that her husband’s left the both of us. But for almost a year I haven't had to deal with her shit. So husband number three technically gave her the boot, and tossed her ass back into my court.
For now, it was mom and I again with only the part-time job that I had, and the financial aid I received from school to live on.
A red sequined skirt falling near my feet took my mind away from my mother’s screaming in the background. A pink and red blouse was tossed at me just as I chose to speak. “Um, Jamie, what are these clothes for?”
“The damn concert. You just agreed to see Kings of Leon.”
“Kings of Leon?” I almost shouted, face a bright beam. “Wait, what are you talking about?”
“Those fucking white boys, you love so much. You elected ‘no comment’ a few minutes ago which technically equals your agreement to go. I had intentions of getting tickets to see Sasha Fierce but decided to put you before me. I know that dynamic is something you’re not use to, being put first but—”
“Trent got the two of you tickets to Drake tonight, Jamie, what the hell are you talking about?” The befuddled look on my face disappeared. I opened the door to the bedroom and shouted, “Mom, please, the dentist broke up with y… The two of you split over months ago!” It’s true; Lolita ruined it with the dentist, who seemed like a rather good guy. He didn’t follow the asshole protocol in which every subsequent husband was worse than the last.
Lolita stopped for a second and then she shouted incoherently about it being Valentine’s. Lolita has never been without a valentine. It was five months after my father’s death, February 14th, and she whipped the river falling from her cheeks to go out with her sister. The next day, the ‘I’m gonna fucking blow my brains out without Milo’ returned.
I, on the other hand, saw Valentine’s as the date only, I was only aware of it because my college professors were cliché enough to require each student to transform any pastry into the epitome of ‘love’.
“Trent bought me the tickets for Valentine’s to spend with my best friend, Reese. You and I have already seen Drake and I was feeling altruistic. Get dressed.” Jamie eyed me up and down.
“Oh… that’s so… sweet…”
“Again, we previously decided that you had ‘no comment’ so there’s no need for an ice-cream social, Reese’s Pieces, GET DRESSED.”
That night, I almost made it out of my tired, little apartment. N
o course syllabus ruled my psyche, and I wasn’t mentally constructing the perfect Baked Alaska, which was a feat in itself. Making ice cream hadn’t been my forte at that time, and the process of it all-together was beyond me.
I sauntered out of my bedroom, singing Kings of Leon’s Sex On Fire, Jamie by my side when Lolita stopped me.
Vomit breath and all, Lolita promptly let me know that I didn’t love her. And my dumbass caved; leaving Jamie with second-row seats to a band he didn't give two shits about.
Now, I’m parallel parked on Rodeo Drive. Lolita is already seated beneath the olive colored umbrella of a French bistro. There’s a glass of wine in her hand, and she waves to me before I can drive off. It's too late to return the guilt-trip ticket. I loathe her ability to tell me how I don't care about her when things don't follow her gilded path.
“Sheesh, I am so not ready for this,” I grumble, taking the key out of the ignition. As I step one leg out of the car, I notice a few splatters of cake batter on the front of my jeans. I rub a hand over my makeup-less face hoping that she’s not mortified by my appearance. This is an impromptu lunch visit, and heck, I had no intentions of saying yes, it’s just that in two days I see my addiction. I’ve consented to this lunch in order to subtly inquire about Evan, or rather, her timeframe for divorcing his father.
Just like a crack mule, I can see myself that hooked on Evan Zaccaro. If it weren't for my business, I'd want to lose myself in him, totally, utterly lost. And to be honest, that's not just what is keeping me from him. Jamie knows that I’d die before mentioning what happened to my mother’s ex-boyfriend.
But I want to have a quick chat with Lolita about Tony’s impending get- together.
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” the maître d gives a white, toothy grin as a greeting. Upon noticing my mother wave at me, he escorts me toward the veranda.
“Shall I obtain the wine list?” he asks.
“Goodness no, lemon water will do just fine,” I say all too quickly.
“My daughter will take the house-wine,” Lolita smiles her appreciation, and then she stares at me. The look in her eyes read volumes, reprimanding me for the assumption that we can’t afford wine. She says, “Reese, you’ve had a busy day, one drink will only settle your nerves.”
A deep inhale siphons through my lungs as I take a seat. An awkward silence takes over. I grab the French baguette from the wicker basket in the middle of the table. I snatch off a piece, press the linen back over it, and smile as Lolita mentions calories.
“Order something to eat, Reese,” my mother slides a menu toward me, which is printed on a silk scroll. “The frisée salad looks—”
“Expensive,” I cut in, not necessarily attempting to be rude. “Twenty-seven dollars and no meat, sheesh. I’ll have the…” Gee, I should just stick with a side of lemon water.
“She’ll have the frisée salad,” my mother gestures toward the waiter who has made his way my direction. There’s no declining the overpriced lettuce as Lolita makes her request and then waves the guy away.
Her hazel eyes warm over. “Look, Reese, I haven't always been able to say what I mean to say.”
It's true. Either Lolita needs a muzzle, she's just that emotional when arguing, or you'd think there was invisible duct tape over her mouth. Not sure what I prefer, the high or the low.
“I know,” I mumble, shoulders rising just slightly.
“Tony reminds you of him?” She hasn't said my dad’s real name since the day he died. Either Lolita would be bitter, hell bent on calling Milo out on his name or she’d be depressed to the point of catatonia. However, it's evident shit-talking the dead isn't her intention.
I shake my head, ‘no’. “Nah, not really. Well… Tony reminds me of my dad just a little. When Tony said, ‘C'mere, doll,’ during our first encounter.” I shrug it off and pluck up the French baguette again.
She wants to tell me to wait for the salad, but I suppose today Lolita is picking and choosing her battles. “Okay, good. I’m glad Tony doesn’t fully remind you of him. But, yy-you miss him.” Her gaze flits away. She misses him too, and I don't see a problem in that. Milo was a helluva guy, when he wanted to be.
The waiter returns. Snapper is placed in front of my mom, and the salad that I must eat every morsel of is placed in front of me.
Lolita toys with her snapper. “I've told Tony about your father.”
My pupils burn. “What? How could you–”
“Reese, you made me feel so guilty.” Lolita rakes a hand through her bone-straight hair. “I love Tony. I’ve never been so frank with a man since…”
I wave her off, heartbeat blearing through my ears. “What if... What if Tony tells–”
“Tells? Who, who would he tell?”
I lean back, attempting to extract my feelings from the moment. Only Jamie has acknowledged my feelings for Evan, and I’d like it to stay that way. Torn between an attempt to stay blasé and true worry, I say, “Uh, his son? What's the guy’s name again?”
“Evan?” My mother smiles. “He's rather handsome. Tony brags about him lots. He’s a good guy.”
Oh you bet your ass, I know him! Evan is a self-assured, karmic sex God. He’s damn good at blowing my mind. Though it’s been weeks since he’s touched my body, I feel him within my being. I will keep a piece of his soul forever, to that I'm grateful.
“Reese, I know cops across the nation are getting a bad rep these days,” Lolita continues as if my silence indicates I need to be further convinced. “Evan truly is a nice guy. You should get to know him. We're all family now.”
Isabella said how much of a good guy Evan was the night we met and I was consumed with envy. Now mom. It’s starting to sink in but I refuse to allow it.
Tossing the baguette back toward the center of the table, I lean forward in my seat. “Why do you keep saying that? Me. You. We're family, Ma. We are family. Your sister and her children are all we have left. Grammy’s gone. You’ve never mentioned your father, so, Ma, our family can be counted on one hand.” I mention, as if my mother needs a mental breakdown of her dwindling family tree.
The silent treatment is the only gift my mother offers me. I glare at her, as she demolishes her entire plate. Carbohydrates my ass, when she gets home I bet she eats her ass off and colonics are just the beginning of the reversal process.
After leaving a proper morsel on her plate—not enough to seem gluttonous, but the plate is clean nonetheless—Lolita says, “There'll be no more divorcing, I'm in love with Tony.”
Now I shove away my costly salad, appetite gone.
“Oh okay, don't believe me, baby. I'm sure only time will prove it,” she promises.
The waiter returns to inquire how my salad is, he’s satisfied with my mother’s cleaned china. “Can I interest the two of you in the dessert menu?”
“No,” I snap, and am too angry to give a damn about his feelings.
“I’ll leave this right here,” he grabs the ticket from his black apron. I purse my lips, a feeble attempt to apologize for being an ass.
“Eat, Reese.”
“I’m not even a lettuce and grass type of gal,” I grumble. “So you told him,” I repeat as if speaking the words makes it true.
“My running-record is fucked, Reese’s Pieces, but this one’s gonna stick and that's a promise. I love Tony.”
“Yeah, well, while you’re living a friggen happily ever after, I just hope Tony keeps his lips clamped when it comes to the shit you just had to divulge.”
“I don't mind, Reese. Like I said, Tony is the best thing that has ever happened to me, well besides you.” She gives a smile of encouragement. “I honestly have no reservations with him telling Evan, baby...”
I start to arise unable to hear any more of her delusions. “You invited me, Mom. So you got this, right?” I gesture toward the check.
I start to walk past, but my mom stands. In six-inch Manolo’s to my off-brand ballerina flats, she is a dominating force.
“Uh
, no.” My mom slides the leather-bound book, which was equidistant from us both, toward me. “Now, sit back down so we can finish talking.
“Thanks, Ma.” I snatch the tab off the table. “And nope, I’m a little too restless to sit. FYI: I prefer street tacos and pico de gallo at the hole-in-the-wall restaurant–which is only a skip and a hop away from my apartment. And just so you know,” I say grabbing my wallet from my purse, “I almost fired a really stand-up guy, because of your last divorce. His name is Luis. His children's names are Maddie, Pablo, Carla, and Anna-Maria. His wife is named Lara, she's big as a house right now, confined to bed due to a complicated pregnancy.” As I angrily blab on and on, I toss four twenties on the table for lunch and realize this doesn't even cover a tip. Then I shovel out another ten because karma can be a bitch if I don’t. “So I bring this up because, as I said, I almost fired Luis. Everyone was willing to take less hours and pay cuts. But we made it. Wedding season is upon us. And one day, once things are really on the up and up, I’ll have Nook–my breakfast spot I’ve told you about on a hundred occasions.”
“Look at me, Reese’s Pieces.”
My long lashes flutter before my eyes roll to meet her gaze.
“You’re so smart, Reese, I’ve bragged about ya to anyone who perked an ear. I’ve traveled far and wide showing people photos of my gorgeous, independent, super smart daughter,” she says, looking me in the eye. “That being said, Reese’s Pieces, you don’t know everything.”
My face must be a cloud of confusion because she elaborates. “Everything about Milo, Reese.”
I haven't said his name aloud in over fifteen years. It's clear she hasn't either, because she shifts, as imaginary ants seem to rattle her feathers.
“Milo was charismatic. Charming. He was the devil you know and couldn’t help but love.”
“Oh yeah, alright, Mom.” I nod in irritation. “Hell, I know he was as crooked as the Colorado River. But for whatever blood he spilled, Mom, you enjoyed the profit. Sadly, I did too. He's my dad. Now, don't say shit that you’re gonna regret.”