by Ritz, David
When Slim talked this way, I never paid much attention. In a smooth way, Slim liked to brag about lots of stuff—his money, all the people who worked for him, all the smart moves he made. Hard as I tried, he still beat me at chess on a regular basis and loved to brag about that. I let him. I saw it made him feel good and that was fine with me. But now I had to wonder about his women.
The night after I tore up the report he was giving a party. Mo Turner, a dude Slim had known his whole life, was turning fifty. Mo owned a fleet of taxis—I think Slim might have bankrolled him—and Mo liked to party. He was a short squat cat, no taller than five feet three, with a full head of hair glistening with gel and a Bluetooth stuck in his left ear. The Bluetooth was studded with diamonds. Mo also loved cigars, the longer the better. A cigar was always sticking out of his mouth. He was a happy-go-lucky man who’d been married six or seven times. Slim would always say, “Some ho throws a hot fuck on Mo and Mo thinks it’s forever. Mo thinks good pussy equals true love. Mo’s a fuckin’ fool when it comes to the bitches, but Mo’s my man. You wanna have a good time, you wanna have a good laugh, you call Mo.”
Usually I skipped these parties. The guests were the older crowd and I felt out of place. To Slim’s credit, though, he always let me know I was welcome. “Boy,” he’d say, “this is your house as much as mine. You part of everything I do, the good and the bad. And tonight, we gonna be bad.” I’d drop in to say hi to Slim’s guests. I’d make a quick appearance so as not to offend Slim. But then, when the old-school jams started and everyone started dancing like old-school fools, I’d skip out.
This time, though, I paid a little more attention to the guests. There were some friends and even married couples from back in the day, but there were more single women than usual. It looked to me like Slim had hired some professionals as birthday gifts to Mo. What made them seem like pros was that they didn’t act like pros. They dressed cool and spoke well and acted like they could be managers at the local bank. I knew, though, by the way they made a beeline for Mo that Slim had arranged this special birthday treat. It was funny to see these gorgeous ladies, some of them nearly six feet tall, tower over Mo. “Mo likes to mountain-climb up those long-legged bitches,” Slim whispered to me. “Look at the smile on that motherfucker’s face.”
I was just about to go out to the garage apartment when Wanda arrived along with Dre and his wife, Gloria.
“Br-br-br-br-brother Power,” said Dre. “Haven’t s-s-s-seen you since you g-g-g-g-got back from Chicago. Everything cool?”
“Everything’s cool.”
“How’s my m-m-m-m-man I-I-I-I-I-I-Irv?”
“Having some health problems.”
“Hate to h-h-h-h-h-hear that. H-h-h-h-h-he’s beautiful people, ain’t he?”
“Beautiful,” I agreed. “And talking about beautiful, here’s your beautiful wife and the beautiful Wanda.”
“Boy,” said Wanda, “last time I saw you in Chicago you were working in a beauty salon. I didn’t know you were running a charm school as well.”
I smiled and gave Wanda a hug. She had on a blond wig with black bangs where the sides flipped out in opposite directions like the wings of a bird. In her green satin dress, Wanda looked like she was about to fly. Not to be outdone, Dre was done up in a mustard-colored sharkskin suit and matching gator shoes.
“Are those d-d-d-d-d-diamonds Mo has in his Bluetooth?” asked Dre.
“You best believe his ice is cold,” said Slim, who came over to greet the guests.
Wanda took me aside. “You on your way out?” she asked.
“Figured I better get some rest.”
“Everything turn out okay in Chicago?”
“The old man isn’t exactly seeing things right.”
“Old age will do that to you. Besides, men are funny,” she said.
There was something about Wanda that always made me feel good. I knew I could trust her. Her spirit was warm and loving. And even when she didn’t tell me things—like how Beauty was doing up in New York—I got the sense she wanted to. She genuinely cared.
“Can we walk outside for a second?” I asked her.
“Sure thing.”
We strolled over to a little patio area to the right of the big house. The night air was warm and the half-moon looked close enough to touch.
“I wanna ask you something that I know you’ll keep to yourself,” I said.
“Naturally, sugar. Everyone knows Wanda can be trusted. Wanda knows how to keep a secret.”
“Well, this isn’t exactly a secret. It’s a question. Do you think Slim’s a normal man?”
Wanda laughed. “Baby doll, ain’t no man who’s normal.”
“I mean, normal in the physical way. In the sexual way.”
“Do you mean is he a sissy? Oh, no, Power, Slim ain’t no sissy.”
“I know he’s not gay. I wasn’t wondering about that. I was just wondering whether he had some problems in doing it with women.”
“What makes you think something like that?” Wanda asked.
“I saw a medical report.”
“What you doing pokin’ in Slim’s private papers?”
“I found it in the garbage.”
“Then leave it in the garbage. Ain’t none of your concern.”
“It just made me curious and I was wondering—”
“Look, Power, there’s a lot about Slim that makes folks wonder. But I know the man. Been knowing him a good part of my life. Been working for him a good part of my life. Been praying for him a good part of my life. There’s a lot to him. He got lots of sides, lots of angles, lots of good points and some points that ain’t so good. You know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. So my advice is to do what you been doing. Let the Lord lead you. The Lord put this man in your life, and the Lord is protecting you. Slim’s protecting you. That’s a beautiful thing, so keep it beautiful, child, but stay out of his garbage. And I do mean garbage. You feel me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Next thing we heard was Slim calling everyone into the dining room to sing Mo “Happy Birthday.” A huge cake, covered with five diamonds carved of frosting, was carried out of the kitchen and placed on the table.
“Before we start singing,” said Slim, “I want to ask Dre, one of Mo’s closest friends, to say a few words on his behalf. Dre . . .”
I could see Dre’s body react nervously.
“I-I-I-I-I j-j-j-j-j-just w-w-w-w-w-w—”
“Spit it out, boy!” Slim cried.
By now everyone, even those who tried to stop themselves, was laughing at Dre. Naturally the one laughing hardest was Slim.
That night I didn’t sleep well. The noise from the party was loud enough to keep me up. I kept falling in and out of a dream about Beauty. The dream kept changing. In one dream, she was living in a high-rise in Chicago. In the next dream, she was sitting in the back of a taxi and I was following her on a Harley. I never could catch her. In the last dream, she was water-skiing on a lake surrounded by snowcapped mountains. She was wearing a black bikini and her hair was blowing in the breeze. A big storm came up. Lightning was everywhere. She got washed away, and the last thing I remembered before waking up was frantically swimming in the middle of the sea, looking everywhere for Beauty and not being able to find her.
I was still looking for her when a loud knock snapped my dream.
“Hey, boy, you alone in there?”
It was Slim. “I’m alone,” I said. “Come on in.”
He walked in and sat in a chair across from my bed. Even early in the morning, he was clean. He was rocking a yellow Gucci tracksuit and fresh white Prada sneakers. His matching diamond wristbands caught the rays of the sun streaming in the window. His cologne was so strong I almost choked.
“Sleeping in, boy?” he asked.
“Bad dreams.”
“I don’t ever dream,” said Slim. “Don’t need to. I’m living my dream. And last night was like a wet dream come true. You see that tall bitch with them crazy corn
rows?”
“Not sure I noticed.”
“You had to notice. She was the one with the wiggle and walk that had every head turning. I’m telling you, last night she was the finest thing in the state of Georgia. Last night she was Georgia on my mind and Georgia in my bed. I nearly broke that bad girl in half, that’s what I did. Power, I should be slowing down. Man my age shouldn’t be rocking it hard as I’m rocking it. But what can I do? If it’s in you, it’s got to come out.”
“I guess so,” I said.
“Where’s your board?” Slim asked, meaning the chessboard.
“In the closet,” I said. “You wanna play?”
“Only if you wanna lose.”
Slim had a habit of waking me up early to play chess. He knew I wasn’t a morning person. Just after waking, my head’s foggy and my mind’s not too sharp.
“Can’t wait till this afternoon?” I asked.
“You’ll be gone this afternoon.”
“I will be?”
“You got a plane to catch.”
“Where am I going?”
“I’ll tell you after I whip your ass.”
Slim did whip my ass. It took him a little longer than he wanted it to, but he cornered me. He outthought me. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the cobwebs from my sleepy eyes.
“Don’t wanna hear no excuses from you,” he said. “Good chess player is ready to get it on, morning, noon, and night. And, boy, you got a ways to go.”
“You gonna tell me where I’m going today?”
Slim walked over to my kitchenette and opened the refrigerator.
“You don’t got shit to eat in here, boy.”
“Try to stay lean and mean,” I said.
Slim patted his stomach. He was vain about getting fat. “Never had this problem before,” he said. “But I’m gonna cut out that sweet stuff and be back in shape in no time. Just a question of will. Never had no problems with willpower before and don’t see no reason why I should have any problems now. If I can satisfy the bitches, that should be enough. I get me all the sweet pussy I need. I don’t need to be eating like a youngblood. I can push back the bread and the potatoes. You watch, Power. When you get back, I’m gonna be leaner and meaner than you.”
“Where am I going?”
“Like I keep telling you, youngbloods need schooling. I’ve told you that before, haven’t I, boy?”
“You have.”
“Irv was a righteous teacher, wasn’t he?”
“He was,” I said.
“Well, time for the next lesson. You ready?”
“I am.”
“Had enough of that ass-freezing Chicago weather?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then how does Miami Beach sound to you?”
“Real good, Slim. Sounds real good.”
Slim didn’t say another word. In his ultra-cool way, he just smiled, reached deep into his pocket, fished out a boarding pass, and handed it to me.
“Your plane leaves at eight tonight. You’re gonna love Sugar. And Sugar’s gonna love you, especially when Sugar sees what you got for him.”
Sugar
It was short plane ride, but the envelope that Slim gave me to give to Sugar was burning a hole in my pocket. It was thin, so I knew it wasn’t cash. I figured it was a check, but it was sealed so I couldn’t open it. When Slim had handed it to me, I’d asked him what was inside.
“Want you to be surprised,” he said. “Want Sugar surprised too. All I can say is that when he opens it, you’ll see a motherfucker smiling.”
“What’s Sugar like?” I asked. “Is he an old-timer like Irv?”
“You’ll see him at the airport.”
“He’s coming to pick me up?”
“He’s coming to pick up the envelope,” said Slim. “You just happen to be the cat carrying it.”
All during the flight, I kept fingering the envelope, holding it to the light, trying to see what I could see. I couldn’t see anything.
When I landed in Miami and walked down to baggage claim, I spotted a Hispanic man in his sixties or seventies wearing a straw hat and looking like he was waiting for an arriving passenger. He had an unlit cigar in his mouth and a bored look on his face. His loud print shirt had flowers and palm trees all over it, and I got the idea he wanted to hurry up and find whoever he was waiting for so he could go outside and light his cigar. His pinky ring held a small diamond that had me believing he was my man.
“Sugar?” I asked him. “Are you Sugar Ruiz?”
He looked at me like I was crazy before saying, “No habla ingles.”
I figured that, like Irv, he probably liked to play it low-key. Just as I was about to approach him again, I felt a tap on my shoulder before hearing the words “I’m Sugar Ruiz.”
I turned around and looked in the face of a man in his twenties with a big broad smile and crazy green eyes—I mean deep green, fluorescent green, green so blazing that it was hard to look right at him. I felt almost blinded by the blaze. He had a big gap between his front teeth and shiny slick black hair carefully combed back. He was of average weight and average height but dressed extra dope: baby-blue Akoo driftwood shorts with cargo pockets running up and down the legs; an orange, blue, and green Akoo polo shirt that gave him a preppy edge; and butter-soft leather Ferragamo penny loafers worn without socks. Where you usually slip in pennies, Sugar had slipped in flashy green stones that looked like emeralds. I wondered if they were real.
“Hey, man, you must be Power,” he said. “You gotta be Slim’s boy.”
“Right.”
“Well, bienvenido a Miami, my brother. Let’s roll.”
“I got luggage.”
“Give me the claim check and I’ll make sure it’s sent to the place.”
“What place?”
“Sugar’s Shack.”
“Is that where I’m staying?”
“Hombre,” he said, “that’s where you be living.”
Five minutes later I was sitting next to him in a black Lamborghini with thin red pinstripes running around the sides and up and down the trunk. The top was down and the night air was sweet. On that evening of my arrival, there wasn’t anything in Miami that didn’t look sweet. Women were waving at us. Women were everywhere. Palm trees were swaying, music bumping, music coming out of the cars on the causeway. The city seemed to be dancing to a beat that couldn’t or wouldn’t stop. Sugar lit a joint, passed it to me. I refused.
“You kidding?” he asked. “This is primo like you never known primo before.”
“Makes me tired,” I explained. “Makes me paranoid.”
“Makes me happy,” he said. “Energy. Creativity. Filters out the bad and makes the good even better. One hit is all you need. This is a special occasion, bro, so let’s mark the occasion. You’re about to see shit you never seen before. Open up your eyes. Open up your taste buds. Open up your heart. Life down here is a whole lot different than conservative old-school Georgia. Get ready, baby. Take a hit.”
I figured, What the fuck. I took a hit. A very little hit, and suddenly the night got even brighter. The hum of the Lamborghini was like a sexy song by Sade. The twinkling stars in the sky looked like diamonds I could touch. The moon over Miami was fluorescent white. A week before Thanksgiving, and the weather was like summer. I felt like we were on a jet stream, no turbulence, just smooth sailing ahead, boats and yachts bobbling in the marinas, high-rises hugging the beach, fancy old hotels and hip new hotels lining up Collins Avenue, South Beach a colony of soft-skinned tan women in tiny skirts and too-tight shorts, little halter tops and skimpy blouses blowing in the breeze, women looking like superstar models, actresses, athletic women in perfect shape, women with perfect form, women walking like they owned the world, women giving off fragrances that had my head spinning, women coming up to the car at every stop sign and red light. Looked like Sugar knew every woman in town.
Sugar’s Shack was a nightclub/hotel/condo high-rise situated at the southern tip of South Beach o
n Ocean Drive. I later learned that Sugar had hired a guy named Ortega Bouza, a world-famous Barcelona architect well-known for his super-funky style. The Shack was a thin building some twenty-five stories high designed out of pieces of rock and colored stones and sheet metal. The windows were all uneven and various shapes—circles and triangles and crazy oblongs. In between the rocks, stones, and metals were tubes of neon in candy colors like red, orange, and lime green. Maybe it was because I was blasted on grass, but the building looked like something a schoolkid might have drawn in his art class—but a cool kid.
“This is it,” said Sugar. “This is the Shack.”
“No sign in front?” I asked.
“No need. It’s invitation-only.”
On the ground floor the doors were wide open but a line of security guards protected them. The security guards were gorgeous women well over six feet, the kind who win volleyball championships. They were wearing khaki army shorts that showed off their long muscular legs. The minute they spotted Sugar, they stood at attention and gave him a smart salute. I watched as he went up and kissed each luscious chick on both cheeks.
I followed him through the first-floor club that had the same look as the outside of the building—cut-off pieces of blazing neon; walls made of metal, rocks, and brightly colored stones; tables of rough granite and chunks of slate; chairs of orange-Popsicle plastic; a dance floor made of burnt cork; and so many dazzling women with flashing smiles that I got dizzy and had to sit down when we reached Sugar’s office in the back.
I had never seen an office with black leather walls before. The carpet was some kind of black suede. Sugar’s desk was a shiny black Steinway grand piano. The keyboard had been ripped out and replaced by a flat plane where Sugar put his phone and computer. He said the massive chandelier hanging over the piano had been taken from the Hotel Nacional in Cuba just after Castro came to power. I later learned that Sugar’s people came from Cuba.