“You’re pranking me, right?”
“This look like a prank?” She flashed her breasts. “Remember this playground?”
I whispered, “Damn.”
She whispered, “I remember how you made me feel. Not many men can make me come, but you did. That thing you did when you were on top of me and straddled me, good Lord.”
“I remember the things you did to me as well.”
“Do you?”
“You were comprehensive.”
“I’m over the last relationship. I need to have some fun. Don’t crave anything intense. Not looking to have my heart broken again. Don’t want to be broken like singer Adele had been, especially since I can’t sing about it and become as rich as a queen. Don’t want anything that will change my life. Just want to drink, play bones, and have sex. Or we can skip the bones.”
“You’re making my day. After a day like today, you’re making my day.”
“Come over later and I’ll make your night. But you have to be gone before sunrise.”
I nodded, knew the first rule from Booty Call 101. “I’ll look for you in the window.”
Then with a broad smile and a final wink, Bernice Nesbitt disappeared from her window.
I jogged back, crossed the street to my building. I checked the mailbox at the bottom of the stairs. I threw away the junk mail; then I opened bills from DirecTV, State Farm car insurance, car registration, State Farm renter’s insurance, and my health insurance at Kaiser.
Not many women came at me like that. She was one of the light-skinned numbers, had that complexion that many admired and many despised, a half-and-half woman who was never seen as black enough when it came time to pump a fist and quote from Baldwin and Angelou.
If I had had a baby with her, if she had been Margaux’s mom, then there would have been no bleaching. Maybe Margaux was right. Women like Bernice Nesbitt had it better. Bernice was categorically black, yet she was light enough to marry a prince and no one would see her as a hard-core black woman. I’d had her once. And she wanted me in between her thighs again.
When she came it was beautiful; with each orgasm, she sang like Angela Bofill. Last time I had tried to fuck her into oblivion. Reverse cowgirl, she’d tried to ride me to the same destination. The next evening, she was all lovey with her boyfriend, holding hands, walking to a book signing at Lucy Florence. I was at that same book signing. Standing almost next to her and her man. She didn’t look my way, acted like my tongue hadn’t opened that sweet crevice, like I hadn’t eaten her pussy until she came crying, acted like she’d never had me down her throat. She was my secret. It did boost my ego. It turned me on. I needed that distraction.
But that heat went away. I wondered how many men I had stood next to, men who had had my wife when I was married. My face became a frown. I thought about Margaux, and the heat Bernice Nesbitt had generated became a glacier. I had to get my phone, search for my daughter while Jake Ellis was taking his beautiful Haitian lover to Africa. If Jake Ellis was looking for her, he might put his Haitian lover to sleep, then make a trip without me. I’d get my car out of the garage and spend the rest of the evening looking for Margaux. I’d look for her while I waited on Esmerelda to call me with info on Margaux’s ex-boyfriend. When that was done, if the mood remained, if common sense was still on hiatus and I didn’t end up once again covered in blood with dead bodies at my feet, I could cross the pond and relieve my monumental stress as I ascended to heaven.
I went up my stairs two at a time, reading mail. The last letter was an announcement that the building had been taken over by McBroom Property Management. They were black women, so the gentrifiers hadn’t taken over everything. Didn’t fucking matter. Black or white, a landlord was a landlord, and money was money. An opportunist was an opportunist. My rent was about to go up. I laughed. Not one fucking good thing had happened since I woke up this morning.
I leaned against the wall, inspected my ripped jacket, wanted this day to be over.
I wanted to drink dark liquor and wake up after tomorrow’s tomorrow.
Bernice Nesbitt’s illicit offer made me want to say fuck it all, run away, cross the pond, join the cheaters, and fall between some warm thighs, down stroke, and work off some stress too.
But this day wasn’t over. Margaux was coming after me, was desperate and was going to be relentless, and at the same time I had to save my child from Jake Ellis. I had to save her from crossing a line and waking up the rage inside of an already pissed-the-fuck-off San Bernardino. Against Jake Ellis or against San Bernardino, I might have to do what a father was supposed to do. I knew that was a battle I couldn’t win. I had killed before. I knew I couldn’t kill again.
Jake Ellis had no such problem. He’d buried many men in the soils of Africa.
A noise and anxious voices made me jump, and again I reached for the gun I had left in Jake Ellis’s car. Hands in fists, tense, I checked behind me, was ready to pounce like I was a cornered black panther, made sure no one had trailed me so they could try to shank me or run me down at my front door. No one dangerous was there. Just people passing. The boy with the bloodied nose hadn’t doubled back with a gun in his hand. Fifteen white people walked by. All looked like investors on a tour. They were their own kind of trouble, the kind that was legal, the kind that had laws written in their favor. But I should’ve considered what kind of trouble might be in front of me. Distracted, I didn’t notice that the deadbolts were disengaged, not right away. I never left the apartment without putting those on. Mine had been masterfully undone. That was a sign.
As soon as I opened my door, I was attacked again. The same way Jake Ellis and I had burglarized our way in in Pasadena and waited on Mr. Garrett, someone had been waiting on me.
CHAPTER 15
THE CRIMINAL HAD bypassed two deadbolts to get inside. She was in my living room on the cream-colored sofa, resting on her back, eyes on the spackled ceiling. She didn’t gaze at me, but I considered her silhouette. Her left foot was on the floor, her right leg over the arm of the plush sofa. She wore luxurious stockings and a garter, matching bra, and sexy high heels.
Looked like she had just gotten off work and decided to do a B and E to pass the time.
A .38 was on the floor next to her, within reach. That was my backup .38. It was loaded. It was always loaded. In South LA an unloaded gun was as useful as an oversize paperweight.
I looked behind me, saw no one else who had me on their list, then closed my door.
My intruder bounced her foot and calmly asked, “Where were you all day?”
“How’d you get in?”
“There ain’t a door I can’t open in less than a minute.”
“One day you’ll tell me why you really left Alaska.”
“You know why I left. Every time I tell you that story, you get aroused.”
“You stabbed a white man in Whittier, Alaska. That man was your husband. He used to take tourists for rides on his snow sled, sixteen lightweight dogs. He didn’t come home for two days, and you went south to Whittier looking for him. Pissed him off. He attacked you. Beat you halfway to hell. That was a bad move on his part. He was outraged because you caught him with his mistress. You stabbed him as many times as you could stab a man, and got on a train, went back home to Talkeetna, up near Denali National Park, where the honorary mayor is a cat named Stubbs. Police came for you. They found you at the hospital, in bad shape, in bed, an IV in your arm, eyes swollen, body covered with the bruises your husband had left behind. They handcuffed you to the bed. Then decided that was unnecessary, took the handcuffs away. When the hospital released you, they took you to jail. Trial. It was big news in your small town. Black Eskimo kills her white husband. A reverse OJ situation in Alaska. You beat the rap. Left Alaska. Changed your name.”
She hated me for bringing that up, her life when she had lived where three great Alaskan rivers kissed, the pla
ce where she used to do glacial tours with tourists, the place where she worked on the railroad, the place where it was harder to find blacks than it was to find Cinnamon Hitler’s bone spurs, the place that held her shame. Once upon a time the beautiful Rachel Redman was a small-town girl who had lived in a hopping town in the land of the midnight sun.
She demanded to know, “Where were you all day, Ken Swift?”
“Stabbed your abusive ex-husband in Whittier, stabbed him while he was still in his mistress’s bed, and now you’ve come to shoot me and maybe write a song and sing about it.”
“And if I pull this trigger, I’ll make it pop until it stops, long after you drop.”
“Bet the Russian you mess around with would love that. He’d pay for your defense.”
“Don’t start with that shit. Don’t keep throwing that one thing in my face, you hear me?”
“Don’t waggle a gun at me while you talk. Don’t point a fucking gun at me.”
“You don’t get to tell me where to point a gun, not today.”
Chinese food rested on the end table, on top of old newspapers. Grubhub. Asti Spumante was at her side. An L.A. Focus newspaper was on the table, opened to HEADLINES FROM AFRICA. Shaken, I stormed through the living room. Rachel followed me, her sexy booty wagging in protest. Wicked woman followed her bad boy. She was queen with a sexy ass and a loaded .38. This was the woman I was seeing now. Her bloodline went back to Eritrea. She had taken a DNA ancestry test and that had been the result. Another East African woman was giving me grief.
I said, “Stop following me. Don’t push up on me when you’re angry like that.”
“I go where you go. You go to the bathroom, I’ll hold the toilet paper.”
“Go watch television.”
“Nothing on but bad news.”
“You are bad news that makes all the other bad news seem like good news.”
“Nucca. You don’t deserve this love. Only so much of your bullshit I can take.”
“What did I do?”
“Are you being serious right now, nucca? Are you serious? You are joking, right?”
She’d spent two years with the Russian, had been the cause of his divorce. Rachel was no saint. She did what she had to do. She was both an open book and a mystery. She had a lot of devil in her blood. She could break into a locked room and you’d never know she’d been there, and that came with years of practice. She had left Alaska and had left her reputation behind her.
Her burgundy dress was on one of my wooden hangers. The hanger hung from a hook on the bedroom door. It was a curve-hugging, above-the-knee showstopper, a dress that didn’t require a bra and would show cleavage to the areolas. It was the kind made for a woman on stage singing her heart out under the spotlight. I could roll that dress up and put it in my back pocket and still have room for my wallet, cell phone, two condoms, and a pack of peanut M&M’s.
I asked, “So, are you coming from work or on the way to a gig somewhere?”
“Are you fuckin’ serious? What do you think I’m doing here looking for you?”
I faced her and met her undying fury. Her jaw was tight and tears were in her eyes, sitting there like lakes begging to become streams that led to an ocean to be created at her feet.
She picked up the .38 and stormed toward me. She handed it to me, butt first.
I put the gat away and asked, “What did I do wrong this time?”
Hands on her hips, her words came hard and fast. “You don’t remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Today is my birthday.”
I groaned. “Shit.”
Her birthday. That was what I had been trying to remember all day long. Margaux’s call, that slice of blackmail, then Garrett, had had my mind going in many directions. I stood like a statue, mouth open, no defense.
The lakes in her eyes finally became two streams. “You forgot, huh?”
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”
“Hashtag, men are trash.”
“Happy birthday, babe.”
“Hashtag, unbelievable. Hashtag, men will always be trash.”
“I am so sorry. I forgot. I’ve had too much other shit on my mind today.”
“More important stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“Could you at least lie? I mean, fuck. Couldn’t you at least say some stupid shit like, ‘Sweetheart, did you think I was a thoughtless narcissistic dumb-ass? I ordered the best present online, didn’t even use a Groupon, and I wanted to surprise you, but the stupid delivery guys made an error, and I’ve been out all day trying to sort that out. But, hey, since they fucked it up, we can just run out and have a beautiful dinner, candles and red wine, Italian cuisine or whatever you want, and I’ll buy you twelve dozen roses, get you a dozen pretty gifts, take you dancing, and when we’re done, we can swoop by Beverly Hills and buy you that drop-top Lamborghini Huracán Performante you wanted.’ But did you say any of that? Hell no. ‘I forgot’ is the best you got?”
“Rachel, dammit.”
“Hashtag, wish I could unfuck you. Hashtag, I hate you so much right now.”
“Stop acting crazy. The day has been hell and I forgot. I’m so sorry.”
“I called you. Called you over and over. Was mad. Then got worried and came here. Broke in and hoped I would see a dead body on the floor that looked like you. Called you again.”
“When you did your B and E and came into my apartment uninvited, you saw that I left my phone here on the charger. You’ve been here awhile, so I know you’ve snooped around.”
“If you can’t remember my birthday, then don’t bother trying to remember me.”
“One more chance, Red. It’s been a hella day. Let me make it up to you.”
“That was your one more chance. You vanished on me once, now this. Glad you weren’t ghosting me. Or dead. I had no idea what was going on. I even left a note at Jake Ellis’s place.”
“Rachel . . . Red . . . let me talk. A brother can’t get a word in when you’re on a roll.”
“I can’t keep doing this. It’s time for me to swipe left on this relationship.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m done waiting for you to fit me in. A man will make me a priority in his life. A man who cares about me will remember my birthday. This was important to me. This would have been our first time celebrating my birthday. And you forgot? I’ve wasted six months of my life here.”
I stepped toward her, moved like my feet were stuck in dried concrete.
She raised her right palm. “Keep away from me, Swift. Don’t touch me.”
She got her dress zipped up, found her composure, walked out the door, eased it closed.
I said, “I got ninety-nine problems. And a woman is every one of them.”
I went to the bathroom, washed my face, then told myself to try to catch Rachel Redman before she was gone for good. I changed pants, put on a fresh Ali T-shirt, another three-button jacket. When I stepped out the front door, Rachel was standing in the hallway, back against the wall. She didn’t glance in my direction when the door whined open.
“Wow. Took you ten minutes to come after me. Ten fucking minutes. You didn’t even try and stop me from leaving. Do you even want me in your life? Am I wasting my time?”
“I’m the one who should be asking you that question.”
“Don’t try and turn this around.”
I paused, felt defensive, decided to deal from the bottom of the deck to try to get in a win, then said the name of my rival, “Vitaliy Zavadskyy.”
“I told you, I ended that. When I’m done, I’m done.”
“You saw the Russian again after you were done.”
“You didn’t call me for two weeks. I’d only been seeing you a month and it felt like you popped the panties like a boss and ghosted me. You know
how y’all do it. Put in all the effort to get a taste, then mission accomplished. You vanished for fourteen days and fourteen nights.”
“I was working. You knew I was working. You knew I was out of the state.”
“If I don’t hear from a man who is supposed to be my man for a week, all bets are off and I move on to the next episode. We had had a few good nights, but men get new pussy and get amnesia, so I figured you had found some newer pussy, then slipped and bumped your head. Look at this. Why would you not call this for two weeks? Why would you want to take that Mandingo stick and give the Shaka Zulu dick-down to some thot and you had all of this sexiness trying to hook up with you? Because that’s what men do. You didn’t call me for more than . . . six hundred thousand times two seconds, whatever that is. Over twenty thousand minutes. You left me lonely. As far as I knew, you had done like prison bae Jeremy Meeks did his wife and was off in Turkey having sex with some millionaire thot like Chloe Green. Fuckboys ain’t loyal. You might’ve turned starboy. You were gone and doing your own thing. So, I did mine.”
“I ain’t no motherfuckin’ starboy. See? Now you have me cussin’ for no reason.”
“You were MIA for six hundred thousand times two seconds. One million two hundred seconds.”
“I don’t need to hear from you every eighty thousand seconds to know we’re good.”
“Well, I do. Learn the ways of a woman, or you’ll never have one for long.”
“Don’t act like I walked out without a word. I told you I had to go work for San Bernardino. You knew I was going back east to do what I do to get what I got.”
“They have these things called phones all around the world. No matter where you had to go, they had phones. Even if you were in Villa Las Estrellas in Antarctica, or working in La Rinconada in the Peruvian Andes, or beating up folks in the Scandinavian town of Longyearbyen, you could’ve found Internet and Skyped a sister. Or sent a text. You know my numbers, my social media, and my e-mail addresses. Nothing. I gave it a week. Seven whole days. You know what it feels like to wait to hear from a man you’re crazy about for a hundred sixty-eight hours? I gave you over six hundred thousand seconds, and I didn’t care how you reached out to me, even if you sent a postcard. Nothing.”
Bad Men and Wicked Women Page 15