by Cortney Gee
"Get the fuck out of my house and lose my number!"
I was in no mood to argue and I was already out of her home and her life before she'd made that demand.
I grabbed my computer bag, took a long drag on my cigar, and left her without saying a word.
CHAPTER THIRTY
"Damn those television appearances must be finally paying off," said Henry Arnold as he plopped down into the passenger seat of my Range.
Henry was my ex-college teammate who played power forward for the Cleveland Cavaliers with an emphasis on the word power. The six-foot-nine athlete was in town to play the Clippers and then, the Lakers.
"Yeah, things are finally popping for me," I replied, not telling him the truth about my illicit gains.
It was cool to see my friend. It was even better to be finally able to afford the damages that we would incur while dining and hanging out. Over the years, Henry's generosity toward me when the bill came was appreciated, but tonight his money was going to be no good.
"So what do you have in mind to eat, my brother?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"The same shit I always have in mind, steak and side orders, bruh!" the hulking giant exclaimed.
With Ponderosa and Golden Coral beneath the standards of my millionaire buddy, I suggested that we head over to George Hamilton's restaurant and cigar bar in Beverly Hills.
"I heard that George actually hangs out there and mingles with the patrons," I told him as we pulled away from Hotel Nikko and headed to Jed Clampett's hood.
Maze was flowing over my system. My Louisianan passenger was singing “Joy and Pain” note for note with Frankie Beverly when he paused to say, "You will never guess who I ran into after the game in Dallas."
Henry was right. There was no way in the world I could surmise who the fuck he was talking about. I mean he was only talking about one of the most densely populated metropolitan areas in the country's biggest state.
Dallas, where folks thought JR Ewing really existed and the place where my ex-girlfriend, Chandra Chones, called home.
"I don't know, who Steve Harvey?" I asked, feigning dumb.
"Nope, I saw Chandra from Monroe," he told me, awaiting my reaction.
"Oh, Chandra, yeah I heard she was staying there. How is she doing?" I questioned like her name alone hadn't pierced my once-wounded heart.
"She's still fine as frog's hair. The cute country college girl has given over to a sophisticated executive, but all and all, she's the same."
I wondered had she asked about me. But I knew better than to give Big Henry that much ammunition to riddle me with for the rest of the evening.
"That's good. I'm happy to know things are going well for her."
"I bragged about how you were out here in Hollywood doing it big, rubbing elbows and shaking hands with the real players in the industry."
"I remember her telling me I wasn't going to be shit without her," I replied, unable to contain my contempt.
"Man, it's folks like that who we used to fuel or inner fire to succeed. People told me before the NBA Draft I was too slow and not athletic enough. I worked my ass off to improve and now, while all those guys drafted before me are either overseas working in inferior leagues or out of basketball altogether, I'm looking to sign a max contract this summer. I applaud my naysayers and embrace my haters as should you," he told me as we pulled up to the valet.
I couldn't have agreed with him more. Of course I had a few folks I wanted to show that they were wrong for doubting me. Even though I didn't think Henry would judge me for hitting a few licks, I still hadn't confessed it. His thinking that comedy was the goose I was retrieving golden eggs from suited me just fine.
"I have reservation for two under Bernard," I told the maitre'd.
He looked inside a leather covered book, then ushered us through the dimly lit room to our table.
"It's dark as fuck in here," said Big Henry as we navigated to our seats.
"It's called ambiance," I quipped.
"Then ambiance must be the polite way to say dark as fuck."
I laughed at my friend's retort as we reached our table.
"You know we played up in Seattle the other night and I ran into GP," Henry stated as the waiter filled our glasses with water.
"Yeah, I saw the game. You did more than run into him. I can't believe you argued that charge call, he was definitely planted and in position."
"I'm not talking about during the game. I'm talking about afterward and just to answer your lack of loyalty, that motherfucker's feet were moving. That blind ref cost us the game," he spat.
Our conversation was put on pause while the waiter took our drink order.
"I'll take a Jack with a splash of coke and my friend will have a Seagram’s 7," I instructed.
"So as I was saying I ran into GP and he tells me you have one of Bay Area's finest chasing behind you."
I nodded to affirm his statement.
"You doing too much, youngster. If Karen finds out, she is going to skin you alive."
"The operative word is if. That's a powerful little word. If my aunt had a dick she would be my uncle."
As we laughed at what I had said, the waiter returned with our beverages and took our requests for Porterhouse steaks and loaded baked potatoes. Satisfied that he had us together, he darted off to the kitchen.
Henry was right about how dark it was in the establishment. I speculated that the clientele dug it because of how it hid the famous and influential faces who dined there.
I amused myself by trying to figure out who else might be in our midst. I was sure Henry didn't share my same pleasure. He was too busy filling me in on his latest road conquest.
"I heard you two gentlemen ordered the best we offered, so I took it upon myself to personally deliver your meals," said the handsome well-tanned man with his hair combed back and not a strand out of place.
Both Henry and I were surprised to have the iconic 80's actor serving us.
"Mr. Arnold, I assure you my cooks, who are fanatics about the Lakers, did nothing to you and your friend's meals. So as a show of returned courtesy, could you go easy on our boys’ tomorrow?" Mr. Hamilton asked, flashing his brilliant white smile.
"I wouldn't expect anything but impeccable service from someone of high class like yourself. I have to admit though, I get a kick out of giving it to Elden Campbell, so I can't make any promises."
"Understood. Well, you two enjoy your meals and when you are finished, please feel free to join me in the cigar room. I would be honored to be in your company,” he said with a wide smile.
We both thanked him for coming to our table, accepted his invitation and dug into our delicious entrees.
After dinner, I instructed the waiter to bring me the bill.
"What, you trying to start a new trend or something? You know I can handle the damages," Henry huffed.
"It's all good, Big Fella. You're my guest and it's a pleasure to take care of one bill out the hundreds you've handled," I said giving the waiter two hundred dollars to settle the bill and slid him a fifty for himself.
We gathered ourselves and walked through the "ambience" to the connected cigar bar.
Mr. Hamilton had quite an impressive walk-in humidor. The walls were stocked with all the brands Cigar Aficionado had highly rated.
"Well, I see you two decided to take me up on my offer. I hope you find the selection up to par," said the slick proprietor.
"Your inventory is amazing. As a habit, I tend not to smoke during the season or better yet, I don't smoke anything but Cubans when I go against my general rule," Henry replied.
"I wouldn't expect anything less of you," Mr. Hamilton said, ushering us to another room.
"For only the most discerning of guests."
I was enjoying riding the wave of my good friend’s celebrity as we hobnobbed with Mr. Motherfucking Hollywood while we smoked Fidel Castro's illegal offerings.
After forty-five minutes of puffing stogies and tossin
g back glasses of dark liquor, Big Hen and I thanked our gracious host, then left to get our boogie on.
It was Friday night and the happening spot was Tilly's Terrace in Santa Monica.
My boy, Spike, promoted the night and I had already alerted him to my bringing Big Hen with me.
"You sure you can hangout for a while? I don't want you to miss curfew or no shit like that," I told Henry as we pulled into the parking garage.
"It's all good. First off, I'm a veteran and secondly, coach told us to enjoy ourselves within reason."
I didn't know what the coach considered too much fun, but if there was such a thing as too much, Tilly's Terrace was definitely the place to find it.
Spike and his promotions team set the place out.
There was a comedy show on the heated patio with grilled food and drinks offered to the patrons. Inside the restaurant, General Lee and Fred Loc kept the party jumping with all the latest jams.
The security was super tight and the doormen were ultra-selective. Spike gave them orders to drag out whomever wanted beef and to disallow anyone who wasn't sexy.
"What's up, Cameron? I see you brought your homie with ya." Spike greeted us, extending his meaty mitt for a pound. "Tonight is off the hook, bitches are in there dressed like it's June instead of January."
Most people would be taken aback by a six-foot-two, two hundred and sixty-five-pound dark-skinned brother with the pension to refer to women as bitches and hoes. I didn't judge dude because I realized that his verbiage was just a byproduct of his 5th Ward upbringing in Houston.
"Spike, I don't know how you do it week in and week out, but this joint never disappoints. Let me introduce you to my big brother, Henry Arnold."
"No introduction is needed man, you practically shitted on my Clippers last night. Please just do me the favor of dogging the Lakers tomorrow."
"That's funny you should say that. We were just dining at George Hamilton's and he begged me to go easy on the purple and gold," Henry replied.
"Leave it to Cameron to have you chillin' with Tinsel town royalty. Right now I can't say we have any Hollywood starlets in the building, but there are some broads who were extras in movies and a couple fluffers in here tonight," Spike told us as he ushered us into the party.
Spike hadn't lied. The place was littered with a plethora of prime pussy.
"Damn, it's like The Mirage to the tenth power up in here," Henry said, comparing Tilly's to Cleveland's top urban nightclub.
"This ain't shit; wait until you see the dance floor. It's so many bad bitches grooving, you're going to think you're on Soul Train," added Spike.
We walked by the heated patio that had sixty chairs facing Buddy Lewis, a brilliant biological engineer turned comedian. He was serving as the host for the comedy show.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I would bring up the brother who's walking by, but he's too busy to bless the microphone," Buddy said, causing the crowd to turn in their seats.
I didn't want Buddy's sarcasm to have people thinking I was bougie, but I really wasn't in the mood to perform either.
"Go ahead and give them a taste, Cam as a favor to me. The crowd will appreciate you for it," Spike said, nudging me in the ribs.
I hadn't prepared a set.
My training over the years had me in perpetual readiness, though. To my advantage, the clientele at Tilly's didn't take to the heady material. They dug the down and dirty stuff and I had a full armory of blue jokes to spray them with at my disposal.
While I walked to the microphone, the audience buzzed with anticipation. With each step I made, I was determining what my verbal assault would consist of.
"I appreciate the warm welcome. Obviously y'all recognize me from my recent television appearances or y'all think I'm someone else. Being recognized ain't always a good thing. I took out a girl the other day and she flipped on me. She told me because of my being on Def Jam and ComicView she needed at least five hundred dollars to fuck. I was like, ‘a whole five hundred dollars?’ Then she said, 'Yup a whole five hundred dollars.' So I told her obviously you don't know the blue book value of your pussy." I paused long enough for the crowd to calm down from the shock of my words and the laughter. "Because you're trying to sell me some used pussy for new pussy prices."
My punchline caused the sixty people in the audience to erupt into uncontrollable laughter. Though I had their approval the only two folk’s reaction I was concerned about was Big Hen and Spike. To my delight, both of them were doubled over cracking up.
I continued on for fifteen minutes more, conscience of the other comics who were actually booked, and I was also anxious to get my party on. By the time I finished with my set, Spike had already introduced Big Hen to one of the fluffers in attendance.
I was hoping that Spike had at least explained to my boy exactly what the doe-faced, raven haired vixen did for a living.
"Big Hen, this is LA; what happens here can stay here, ya dig? But do not kiss her."
"Your man already filled me in, I got it."
"Good, 'cause I don't want you to get it."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It was a surprise. Karen had no idea I had bought Lance's boat.
"Cameron, what does your Midwest raised ass know about boating in the ocean?" she asked.
I could have told her that Lance and I had dumped a body somewhere between Los Angeles and Catalina Island, but loose lips sink ships.
"It's no different than sailing a great lake. It's great with larger waves and sharks to contend with, but other than that, it's relatively the same," I replied as my family approached the Marina. It was an excellent day for leisure boating. The ocean was as blue as the sky and the surface was smooth as a sheet of glass. The thirty-one foot Rinker powerboat was part of the liquidation sale Lance had when he bolted town. I still hadn't made up my mind whether I was going to keep "Go-Go Gal," but I was certain I would be rechristening the white and burgundy water vessel with a new name.
The twins were excited to be on their first boat ride and even though Karen was being apprehensive, I sensed that she was equally stoked.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Bernard. I've stocked the boat with the provisions you instructed. We're ready to sail when you give the instructions," said Captain Grant.
I hired the fifty-three-year-old seaman with the recommendation from Lance. The Captain stood six-foot-tall and had a build that suggested if we got into a rumble, he could hold his own. The salt and pepper bearded man helped Karen and the boys board the boat.
I hopped onto the dock brandishing an envelope with five hundred dollars.
"Your fee of five hundred is all there. If my family is pleased, of course there will be a hefty tip at the end of the voyage," I said, handing him the envelope.
Karen and the boys had already headed onto the lower deck of the watercraft. Before joining them, I asked the Captain if he needed anything of me.
"No, sir. I have it all handled. Go join your family and enjoy the ride," he responded.
"Cameron, this is too much. I mean just a few months ago we were facing starvation and eviction. Now we have a home, luxury vehicles, and a friggin yacht," Karen said as I entered the lower deck of the Go-Go Girl.
Yeah, I was definitely going to change that name.
If Karen thought we were doing it big because of the things she knew we had in our possession, the knowledge of the two Porsche sport cars and condo would have blown her mind. I had decided to keep that close to the vest.
I didn't see any reason to hip Karen to the fact the girls were staying in my North Hollywood hideaway. I couldn't burn enough sage and sweet grass in that place to use it for my own carnal purposes.
Karen was enjoying the white wine that Captain Grant brought aboard. I could tell she was getting buzzed because she kept inviting me to show her the bedroom.
"So this boat has two bedrooms?" she questioned.
"Yep, and a shower as well."
"That means we can be frisky and wash off the scent of
sex," she whispered back.
I had the twins put on their life jackets and told them if they wanted they could go up and see the dolphins swimming alongside the boat. Just the mention of dolphins excited the two mini me's and they bolted upstairs.
Then, I said to Karen, "You just follow me. I have some trouble I need you to get into."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
There is nothing on earth like a Mike Tyson fight to entice black folks to congregate together. The Honorable Louis Farrakhan had made a call to a million black men to gather in DC. If he had said Iron Mike was going to be in combat that day, Washington Mall wouldn't have been large enough to accommodate the seven million motherfuckers who would have shown up. But they had shown up here in Vegas. The city was on fire with anticipation over the WBA and WBC unification bout and the merchants were looking forward to the opportunities of being bombarded with tourist dollars.
I was looking forward to the concert, after party and the illegal gains I stood to gain.
TMB had provided me with the perfect getaway excuse by booking Cameron B's Wild Wild West Comedy Tour at the Palace Station Hotel and Casino. It wasn’t located in the strip, but it did make me proud to view my name and picture displayed on the brightly lit sign for all to see. I had enlisted a few good friends to join me on the show.
Marc was sulking in my passenger seat because I hadn't booked him for the show and he was pissed he didn’t see his name in lights. I had tried to explain to him that I wasn't slighting him or questioning his ability to be able to deliver, but Cedric the Entertainer's manager was specific about how many acts were to perform before him. Marc was my dude, but I wasn't about to breech a contract just to please him. The fact that I was footing the bill and set him up with a slick hotel room should have been all the proof he needed but that wasn't enough. When the picture of Jemmerio and AJ Johnson popped up in the display, he flipped.
"Man, you booked those two niggas and they ain't even funnier than me."
"Marc, this fight is going to have folks from all over the country looking for something to do and the more diverse I made the bill, the better chance we have at selling some tickets. Jemmerio is hot as fish grease in the south and AJ has been in more movies than Jesus."