“You broke down the seconds? Why would you do something insane like that?”
“Because I felt every second. Do you want to know how many milliseconds I waited?”
“If women are nuts, you are the leader of the pack.”
“This woman is nuts because she loves you. But I know how to unlove a fool. I can unlove you as easy as I unfollow assholes on Twitter. I can mute and block you in real life.”
“Don’t do crazy shit and blame it on love. If you’re flying over the cuckoo’s nest, own it.”
“I waited seven days. One-fourth of a month. Not one word from you. Not one emoji. Wherever you were, I assumed you were swimming in recycled pussy. That’s why I moved on.”
“You didn’t move on. You reversed and went back to the Russian’s bed.”
“You were gone for fourteen days. This was your pussy. But after day seven, if it hasn’t been touched, licked, stroked, or otherwise nurtured, due to neglect, this pussy reverts back to the original owner and she can distribute the goody to whoever she wants, however she wants.”
“I didn’t smash anybody. You couldn’t wait to get the Russian back in your bed.”
She stood in her red dress with her head held back, expression of a silent scream.
I chewed my bottom lip. “Your Russian lover hit you up today?”
“He’s not my lover.”
“You slept with him. That pissed his wife off.”
“You slept with those pretty girls from South Africa and Namibia.”
“A year, maybe two before I met you.”
“They still message you.”
“Once in a while.”
“I wonder why.”
“I don’t see them. You read the messages. Your Russian is still in your life.”
“The Russian is past tense.”
“You fucked him a month ago.”
“It wasn’t a month ago, it was five months ago, and I’m tired of you bringing that up.”
“A month ago, Rachel.”
“You know what? You really need to forget about last month and worry about the future, as in if we have one.”
“Did he call?”
“Fuck. Yes. The Russian called.”
“When?”
“At six this morning.”
“That was early.”
“You should’ve called me at midnight. You should’ve been there whispering in my ear, kissing my neck, then had me facedown, ass up, singing Stevie Wonder’s birthday song.”
“The Russian told you happy birthday.”
“I guess I’m important to somebody.”
“I guess the Russian is important to you too. You said he tried to buy you a nine-hundred-thousand-dollar condo downtown, wanted to buy you that to get you to come back to him.”
“It cost eight hundred and fifty thousand and I’m not trying to be no man’s side chick. Too grown for that.”
“But he’s ringing your phone day and night. So what’s really going on?”
“The jerk caught me when I was at the gym in my complex doing weights.”
“Your ex asked to take you out on your born day?”
“You didn’t.”
“Did your ex buy you a born-day present?”
“Did you?”
“What did he buy you?”
“A Gibson guitar.”
That hurt paused me. “Which? That Hummingbird?”
“The 1959 Les Paul.”
“That cost three grand, right?”
“Twelve thousand.”
I swallowed, felt my head throb. “Big Money Grip still trying to win you back.”
“He’d buy me a drop-top Lamborghini if I asked him to.”
“On your knees, talking to the mic.”
“Baby, if I got on my knees, he’d buy me a Lambo dealership, and you know that. I ain’t never talked to that mic. I will give it to you like that. I used to. And you still forgot my birthday.”
“You going to keep the guitar?”
“I told my ex I can’t accept his gifts anymore. I wasn’t impressed. My face said it all.”
“You saw the Russian?”
“FaceTime. You have heard of FaceTime? People do that with special people.”
“The guitar? How did he get that to you?”
“Was shipped to my apartment yesterday so it would be there on time.”
“You’re keeping it?”
“You need to worry about if I’m keeping you.”
“What did you talk about?”
“He rambled about the house in Hollywood Hills, the one he bought for about two million and now it’s listed for three million. Then my ex sent me a picture of his hard-on.”
“He did what?”
“Sent me a damn dick pic.”
“Did you send him something?”
“Hell no. Why would I do something foolish like that?”
“Not like he hasn’t seen it before.”
“He’s seen this ass, and I’ve seen his package before, but that didn’t mean I wanted a pic. He’s not my man and he knows he’s not my man, and him sending me a dick pic, especially when he knew I was seeing someone else, that mess is fouler than the foulest of the foulest foul.”
“What happened then?”
“Oh, is the nucca who forgot my birthday and did a disappearing act acting jealous?”
“What happened?”
“Then I called him, cursed him out in Russian, we argued, then I blocked him.”
“You blocked him?”
“Happy? And, nucca, I blocked you about two hours ago too.”
“That motherfucker sent you a dick pic and you blocked me?”
“Don’t you dare come in here and flip the script. You can’t remember my birthday?”
The intensity in her face, the firmness in her eyes, softened me up a bit. It looked like she was thinking about everything at the same time. I remained motionless in the open doorway for a moment, then got down on my haunches, my eyes everywhere but on her. She moved around, shifted. I did the same. We fought to not look at each other. We both lost at the same moment.
Rachel said, “I want to be happy. If not with you, then with someone else.”
She turned and headed toward the stairs, high heels clicking, keys jingling, but she took only five heavy steps. She sat down on the concrete. I sat next to her, kissed her wet eyes.
I said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Can we move on now?”
Rachel stood up. Her legs juddered, threw her off-balance. I’d never seen her upset before. It scared me. I grabbed her shoulders and she eased her arms around my neck.
Her insides were shaking. I held her a couple of minutes, until she was in control. She took a step away from me. My phone rang. This had more weight, so that call was ignored.
She said, “Your friggin’ phone has been buzzing nonstop since I broke in here.”
“I figured it would be ringing all day today.”
“Who is Jimi Lee?”
“Jimi Lee? You know that’s my ex-wife.”
“I thought she was Ethiopian.”
“That’s the American name she used.”
“It’s almost Ethiopian New Year.”
“Is it? I lost track of their calendar years ago.”
“You see your ex-wife today to celebrate?”
“We have no reason to talk.”
“Why is she blowing up your phone?”
“No idea. Child support and alimony days ended years ago.”
“Why was your ex-wife calling you back-to-back-to-back all day on my birthday?”
“About my daughter. Our daughter. I told you about Margaux.”
Rachel backed down from Category 5 to a tropical storm. “O
h. She okay?”
“My kid called out of the blue.”
“She’s an adult now.”
“Yeah. We met for an early lunch.”
“How was that?”
“She’s bleached her dark-brown skin. She’s paler than Lady Gaga now.”
“She’s gone from being the dark Lil’ Kim in the nineties to the beige Lil’ Kim now?”
“That was the start.” I nodded, wrestled with emotions. “She brought the drama.”
“What kind of drama?”
“Long story short, she cursed me out, left mad, so I guess her mother is pissed off.”
“Tell me everything.”
I posted a fake smile. “We can talk tomorrow.”
“And some asshole was banging on the door not too long ago.”
“I saw him downstairs. We had a short meeting.”
“What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, Ken Swift?”
I redirected the conversation. “What can I do to fix this birthday faux pas?”
She took a hard breath. “You’re the man. Figure it out.”
“How about I take you to the Mark Taper Forum to see that new play Head of Passes.”
“When?”
“Next week. I’ll buy the best seats and see if I can get you to meet Phylicia Rashad.”
“My birthday is today.”
I was too drained to have another fight.
She cried. “Wish you could look inside me and see how much I love you.”
“You’re right. I’ve been asleep at the wheel. I’m awake now.”
“You forgot my birthday.”
“I forgot this time, this one time, but you know what I didn’t forget? You’re Alaskan by way of East Africa. Your people are Eritrean, but you’ve never been to Africa and aren’t really interested in going to Eritrea. You’re five seven and a half, weigh one thirty, thirty-two–twenty-three–thirty-six, and you like it when I cook okra, you love my greens, you love my baked barbecue chicken, but when I break out the grill on the back porch you’re going to eat until the last rib is gone; you like creamy peanut butter and hate that I only buy Jif crunchy, you make the best sweet potato pie for a woman not from down south, you’d rather bake food than fry because you hate cleaning the stovetop, you put honey in your coffee, you put honey in your grits but you prefer cheese grits, you put honey in your oatmeal, you like brown sugar in your spaghetti, you don’t eat coleslaw unless you make it, you only eat the thick turkey bacon, you prefer pork bacon over turkey bacon, you think tofu is the devil, yet you pile pineapples on your pizza and think that makes it a food of the gods when pineapples on pizza should be a sin, and you hate Jake Ellis because he makes better Jollof rice than you can make. And you wear size seven shoes. I can go on and on.”
“I weigh one twenty. You called me fat.”
“Did you hear all the things I didn’t forget?”
“That means I’m fat and I’m not a priority. It’s time to swipe left.”
“You’re quitting me?”
“We’re done.”
“We can be done with each other after tonight.”
“You’re taking me out?”
“But not if you’re going to look like a brokenhearted raccoon.”
Rachel Redman smiled, new tears in her eyes, new rivers flowing, new lakes forming.
“You know all the things I like. Down to the grits.”
“And I like you.”
“Like? All I get is you like me? So, you love cheese grits, and like me?”
“You weigh one twenty now?”
“In my mind.”
She came back inside, kissed me twice, then ran to the bathroom to fix her face.
She called back, “I’m still mad at you.”
“Just get the ugly off your face so we can go and have some drinks.”
I went to the window, frowned down, made sure no one else was waiting on me.
Across Stocker, on the other side of the pond, I saw Bernice Nesbitt. She waved at me. Rachel came and stood next to me, spied out the window. By then the Brit was gone.
Neighbors initiated call-and-response. Someone played Mic Stewart’s “I’m Not from Brooklyn.” Gyft’s “Caskets” played hard. Wizkid. SZA. Lost Kings. DJ Quik. Team Gentrification introduced themselves, played No Doubt, Dave Matthews Band, Taylor Swift, and Nirvana. But then again that might not have been Team Gentrification. Black people liked the same music.
Rachel Redman danced up against me and yelled, “Oh my God. Someone is playing ‘Confidently Lost’ by Sabrina Claudio. This is why I love this part of the neighborhood.”
“Nothing like this up in the land of penguins and dog sleds.”
“Nothing like this at all. This is what I love about this part of Los Angeles. The black pride. Long-lost relatives have found each other here. Leimert Park has so much life. The drums jamming in the park on the weekend. So much fuckin’ life with my melanin-ites. I love my people.”
“Keep rolling that booty up on me like that and you better assume the position.”
“Stop pulling at my dress. And get your hot hand off my breast.”
“Get that Alaska ass off me before it gets baked. Keep it up. I’ll tear that dress off you.”
“Your stressing me out is why you don’t deserve this pussy ever again.”
“Pussy is an ugly word.”
“Stop it. Don’t start sucking on my neck trying to make me weak. And it’s still too damn hot in this apartment. Don’t get me all sweaty. Stop rubbing that bamboo up on me.”
“Please baby please baby please baby please?”
“No baby no baby no baby no.”
“Just the tip. You know you love it.”
She smiled, rubbed her fingers along my erection, then moved away from me.
“And tell that basic bitch across the street to stop looking over here.”
“She’s just watching the neighborhood. She’s our nosy-ass Mrs. Kravitz.”
“If those old women hadn’t been walking by, I was going to put her ass in check for looking over here. I was in the window, didn’t have any clothes on, and she was watching me.”
She walked away. I checked my phone to see if Esmerelda had called or sent a message. There was nothing. I knew the info wouldn’t come that fast, not for me. I wasn’t San Bernardino. A thousand thoughts came, and I exhaled, had to refocus. My erection waned. Sanity returned. I took out the money I had been sent by San Bernardino, put most of the loot away. On the dresser was a worn brochure and old application for UCLA. I threw that in the garbage.
Then I stood still a moment, wishing things would change on their own. But I’d always been a man of action. I took out my phone, dialed the number that had popped up this morning.
Margaux answered. “What do you want, Ken Swift?”
“Let’s get one thing straight. Don’t ever address me by my first name. I’m your daddy.”
“You jumped Kevin.”
“Now I know the idiot’s name. I didn’t jump him, but when I got home from the Grove, he was out here, waiting on me. He assaulted me. Said you sent him. He tried to draw first blood. I have a witness.”
“You broke his nose and maybe his jaw. He doesn’t have insurance. Had to give him my Vicodin. We’re going to sue you. We’re going to sue you and kick your old ass for what you did.”
“Can I meet with you and that fool tomorrow?”
“This is too much for me. I can’t take this.”
“What’s too much?”
“Life. Everything.”
“Let’s handle this like adults.”
“You have the money? That’s the only reason you need to call me.”
“We got off on a bad foot. I just want to meet and talk, maybe try and do the day over.”
“The seventy thousand I need? If you follow me again it will become one hundred thousand.”
My daughter hung up. I remembered a quote by Martin Luther King Jr. It said everything we saw was a shadow cast by that which we did not see. Margaux had left me in the shadows, in the darkness. Hands dank, throat tight, unable to blink, I couldn’t deal with Margaux’s bullshit.
Not tonight. This reminded me of dealing with her mother’s bullshit for years.
If Jake Ellis went after Margaux, so be it. I was her father, not her god.
Rachel came back, asked, “Are you driving your hoopty and letting the top down?”
“Not if we’re drinking the way you drink when you start drinking.”
“You okay?”
I took a slow exhale. “I need to drink the way you drink tonight.”
“You never drive your car anymore. You barely have any miles on that thing.”
“The boys in blue can’t Rodney King with a bro on GP if he’s not driving.”
“Hashtag, passengers become hashtags too. Hashtag, they kill black women.”
“Stop that childish hashtag bullshit.”
“Stop acting like it’s only the black men they kill. Sisters have a long roll call too.”
“Can we talk about this on the way out the door?”
“Makeup on fleek, dress is hot, and these protuberant buttocks popping and ret ta go.”
“Let me order a four-door stranger-driven chariot for my queen.”
“No ride sharing. I don’t share nothing, not even an Uber.”
“Your stubborn, difficult, sassy ass better remember I’m the same way.”
“Don’t vanish seven days, won’t happen. And take some supplements for your memory.”
I left that right there, Margaux in my heart, the Russian on my mind, jealousy rising. I told God I didn’t mean what I had said about hoping Jake Ellis found her. That was my biggest fear. If he touched her, best friend or not, that Ghanaian knew I would have to kill him. Or die trying.
CHAPTER 16
I SUMMONED AN Uber and we headed to where the young, millennial, and restless congregated, L.A. Live. Rachel Redman was on Periscope, letting her followers know it was her born day. I waved at the unseen crowd of nobodies who sent hearts and messages from all over the world. She posted a lot of pictures, never anything political, just pictures of her. She was beautiful, and some women used their appearance as a basis for self-worth and posted photo after photo online. She needed to be liked, noticed, and appreciated. I had a war in my mind and it felt good to leave the battlefield, to be able to leave my world and fall into hers, no matter how vain.
Bad Men and Wicked Women Page 16