by Shelly Ellis
“Dad, we had to make our reservation three weeks in advance just to get our table. We can’t just show up with a fifth person.”
Jamal glanced at Blake, waiting for him to interject and say that he was fine eating dinner alone. After all, getting reservations at a four-star restaurant in D.C. for five people with little to no notice was almost impossible. Some had waitlists going out a couple months. But instead, Blake continued to smile foolishly, like he was enjoying watching them argue over him. The man who usually could not shut up had gone conspicuously silent.
“Don’t you have a friend who owns a restaurant, Jamal . . . I mean, Sinclair,” Susan asked, turning to him. “I believe you mentioned it once. A Creole restaurant.”
Jamal’s face went blank. She was talking about Reynaud’s—Ricky’s restaurant. He hadn’t spoken to Ricky in more than a month, not since the last time he’d seen him and Derrick at Ray’s. There was no possible way he was going to just roll up at Ricky’s establishment with a party of five and expect to get seated. He’d be lucky if Ricky didn’t cuss him out as soon as he stepped through the door.
“Mom, you don’t want to go there,” Bridget said with a nervous laugh, darting her eyes up at Jamal. He wondered if the desperation showed on his face. “You wouldn’t like the food there anyway.”
“Why not? I bet the food would be lovely,” her mother gushed. “I’m in the mood for something hearty and African American! You people make such soulful, filling food, Sinclair. I’d love to eat there! Wouldn’t you, Marty?”
“It’s fine,” Martin mumbled. “Frankly, I don’t care at this point. I’d just like to eat somewhere.”
“I’m okay with some soul food, bro,” Blake said with a shrug. “Bring on the fried chicken!”
Jamal’s jaw tightened as he narrowed his eyes at Blake.
“I don’t even think the restaurant is open today,” Bridget said, laughing nervously.
“What’s the name of the restaurant?” Blake suddenly whipped out his cell phone.
“Why?” Bridget asked.
“So I can see if it’s open. The hours should be listed online, right?”
Bridget hesitated. “It’s . . . it’s Reynaud’s.”
Blake furiously typed on the glass screen, waited a beat, then nodded. “Yep, it’s open. Open from five p.m. to eleven p.m.”
“There you go!” Susan exclaimed. “Let’s head there now!”
Bridget gave Jamal a panicked look, silently asking him what they should do next. Jamal felt just as panicked.
“Look, Sinclair, if it’s an issue getting us all in there tonight, I can work my contacts to try to get us a table somewhere else.” He gave a broad smile, infuriating Jamal even more. “Being deputy mayor and all, I would think you’d have no problem, but I guess that isn’t the case in a town filled with politicians. I know a few guys who—”
“I can get us in,” Jamal said firmly, cutting off Blake. “I hope you guys don’t mind squeezing in the back of my SUV. It might get a little tight back there. Let me take your bag, Susan,” he said, reaching for her rolling suitcase.
“Why thank you, Sinclair! What a gentleman you are!” Her mother patted him on the shoulder.
He began to walk swiftly toward the exit, fury propelling him forward. Bridget raced to catch up with him.
“What are you doing?” she hissed in his ear. “Why would you agree to go to Ricky’s restaurant?”
The real answer was that he couldn’t stand Blake’s smugness for another second, and he was pissed to be put in this situation in the first place because Blake decided to tag along for dinner. But he couldn’t admit that, so he forced a smile and gave Bridget a wink instead.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”
Bridget pursed her lips. “I hope you do. I’d hate to be embarrassed in front of my parents!”
He’d hate to be embarrassed too, but he knew he ran a good chance of that happening.
* * *
They arrived at the restaurant thirty minutes later and saw the line of patrons waiting inside for seating already stretched to the door. They could barely fit in the confined waiting area.
“It smells divine,” Susan said, looking around. “It’s decorated quite nicely, too!”
“Wow!” Blake exclaimed. “This place is packed, bro! You sure you can get us a table?”
“Just wait here,” Jamal said before he walked toward the reservation desk, feeling his throat go dry. He hoped to God that Ricky wasn’t working tonight; that one of the assistant managers was on duty instead. He had no desire to be called a “bitch ass nigga” in front of Bridget’s parents.
He approached the pretty young woman who stood at the marble-topped desk.
“Hello, welcome to Reynaud’s,” she said, brightening her comely face with a smile.
“H-hi, uh, I have a party of five and wondered if you could seat us.”
“Do you have a reservation, sir?”
Jamal shook his head. “No, I don’t. But how long would the wait be to get a table?”
“Right now the wait time is about two and half hours, unfortunately, sir.”
“Two and half hours?”
She nodded.
He leaned toward her. “Do you have specially reserved tables for . . . well . . . for local celebrities?” he whispered.
The young woman raised a finely arched eyebrow. Her polite smile disappeared. “I’m sorry, sir. What do you mean by ‘local celebrities?’”
“I mean D.C. dignitaries. You see . . . I’m . . . I’m deputy mayor for economic development.”
She continued to stare at him blankly.
“I’m with mayor’s office . . . I work for Mayor Johnson.”
It pained him to have to drop the name of a man whose integrity he now questioned. And this would be the second time Jamal had done it tonight. It felt sad and desperate, but the truth was that he was sad and desperate at that moment. He would do just about anything to avoid humiliating himself in front of Bridget’s parents, to avoid looking like a fool in front of Blake.
The young woman tilted her head, sending her long hair swinging. “I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t keep special tables like that, even for ‘local celebrities.’”
Jamal’s shoulders sank. “I see.”
“Would you like me to add you to the waiting list anyway?”
He shook his head again. “No . . . no, that’s okay. I’ll just try somewhere else. Thank you.” He turned away from the reservation desk. He began to walk back toward Bridget and her family who stared at him expectantly. He was prepared to make some half-hearted excuse for why they couldn’t be seated at Reynaud’s tonight.
“Jay?” a familiar voice boomed.
Jamal stopped in his tracks when he heard Ricky’s voice behind him. He turned slightly and saw his childhood buddy strolling toward him, looking standoffish and imposing in his dark suit and blood-red shirt.
“What the hell are you doing here, man?” Ricky asked, glaring at him, leaning his elbow against the edge of the reservation desk.
Jamal opened his mouth to answer, but no words would come out. He closed his mouth, cleared his throat, and tried again.
“I . . . I came here for dinner,” he answered weakly.
Ricky’s glare didn’t soften. “There’s plenty of damn places in this city to eat dinner. Why’d you come here? I’d think my place would be beneath a dude like you, since you’re so elevated and shit now.”
Jamal lowered his eyes. He had wanted to avoid this, but he should’ve known he wouldn’t be that lucky. “I know you’re pissed at me. It was a mistake coming here.”
“Yeah, you right about that.”
“It’s not like I can get a damn table anyway. You don’t have to kick me out. I was just about to leave.” He then turned on his heel again. “See you, Ricky.”
He walked back toward the restaurant’s doors, wondering if Bridget’s parents had witnessed their whole exchange.
“Hey, Jay!”
Ricky shouted again. “Jay, come back, man!”
Jamal paused. He turned around again to face his former friend, only to find Ricky rolling his eyes and waving him back toward the reservation desk.
“Bring your ass back over here. How big is your party?” Ricky asked.
Jamal stared at him, unsure if he had heard him correctly.
“How big is your party, Jay?” Ricky repeated, slower this time.
“Uh . . . it’s . . . it’s five of us.”
“Five?” Ricky grumbled. “Okay, I’ll get y’all seated in a bit. Give me fifteen or twenty minutes. One of our larger tables should come open by then.”
Jamal gaped. This wasn’t at all what he’d expected. “Th-thanks, Ricky.”
Ricky waved him off before whispering something into the young woman’s ear. She nodded as she tapped a few buttons on the screen in front of her.
* * *
They were seated twenty minutes later, like Ricky had promised. The food was as good as expected—even better. Susan had raved about the jumbo crawfish cakes. Martin grunted contentedly at the end, rubbing his full belly. Blake looked mildly annoyed the entire meal, which frankly made all the drama surrounding their dinner reservations worth it for Jamal.
When Jamal asked the waitress for their bill, she told him he didn’t have to pay.
“Mr. Reynaud said your meals are on the house, sir.”
Jamal stopped midway, tugging his credit card out of his wallet. He was left speechless again.
After he left a sizeable tip for the waitress, Jamal removed the napkin from his lap, pushed back his chair, and rose to his feet.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, leaning down to whisper the words into Bridget’s ear.
She nodded. “Okay, we’ll wait for you at the door.”
He walked past the tables, excusing his way through a maze of restaurant goers and pausing to let a waiter pass who was carrying a tray of food. Jamal glanced around him—at the high-end décor with its aged wood and brocade booths, at the happy patrons who were drinking wine and almost licking the last of the meal from their plates.
Ricky had done this. He had done it all on his own, without a college or culinary degree. Yeah, he’d had to borrow money from Dolla Dolla to get here, but Jamal couldn’t deny that Reynaud’s was a huge success. Just looking around made him incredibly proud of his childhood friend.
The childhood friend who I dropped, Jamal thought forlornly.
He started walking again and headed to a corridor near the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, sir,” one of the spikey-haired waiters said, striding toward him and pointing in the opposite direction. “The bathrooms are that way. Customers aren’t allowed back here.”
“It’s okay. Umm . . . I’m a friend of Ricky’s. I just wanted to go to his office and tell him thanks for comping my dinner. That’s all.”
The waiter slowly looked him up and down. Finally, the young man shrugged.
“Okay, whatever. He’s three doors that way,” the waiter said, nodding toward the corridor then walking off.
“I know,” Jamal replied to the waiter’s retreating back. He then continued on his way. When he reached the door to Ricky’s office, he found it closed. He knocked and waited. He knocked again.
“Yeah? What is it?” Ricky finally answered.
Jamal slowly pushed open the door and found Ricky sitting at his massive oak desk. He was peering down at a stack of papers. When the door opened, he looked up and raised his brows in surprise. Ricky leaned back in his leather chair. “What’s up?”
“Look . . . uh . . . I just wanted to say thanks for giving us that table . . . for taking care of our meal. You didn’t have to do that. I mean . . . I appreciate you doing that for me.”
Ricky laughed. “Nigga, you ain’t special. I’ve been doing a lot of shit I haven’t had to do lately. Guess I’m in a generous mood.”
“Either way, I know how you feel about Bridget . . . about me. I . . . I wanted to say thanks.”
Ricky didn’t respond.
Jamal lingered in the doorway, wanting to say more. He wanted to confess to Ricky that he missed him and Derrick. Jamal missed their monthly meetups at Ray’s, and stupid text chain messages they would send to each other throughout the week that would have him cracking up at his office desk. He didn’t have to be on guard when he was around them. He never had. He could always just be himself with his boys.
He wanted to tell Ricky that he’d made a mistake—a big one. He had been wrong for putting him down; he was actually amazed at all that Ricky had accomplished on his own.
He wanted to say he was one sorry motherfucka, and he hoped they could all just hug this shit out and start all over again.
But he didn’t say any of that. It felt wrong. It felt weak. So instead, he nodded and grabbed the door handle. “I’ll let you get back to your work. Peace out, man.”
“Peace out,” Ricky called to him just as Jamal shut the office door. He walked back down the hall, and to the restaurant’s glass doors where Bridget and her family were waiting for him.
Chapter 13
Derrick
Derrick was sitting at his office desk, finishing his second cup of coffee, when he heard a break in the crackle of static on the walkie-talkie sitting on top of his file cabinet. Up until that point, it had been the background music of his morning as he worked.
“Hey!” he heard Morgan shout. He then heard banging and the clamor of male voices. “Hey, uh . . . I need some help here in room 342! Rodney! Somebody! Anybody! Shit!” she yelled then the line filled with static again.
Derrick dropped his coffee cup to the table top, almost spilling its contents onto the numerous documents splayed on his desk. He then shoved back his chair and leapt to his feet, charging to the opened door and into the hall, barely pausing to excuse himself as he bumped into one of the other instructors on his way to the stairs.
He knew this would happen.
Sure, the first few weeks had gone smoothly in Morgan’s carpentry class. He hadn’t heard any complaints from her about the students, and all the boys generally seemed to like her. At the end of each day, Derrick had tried to pepper her with questions to make sure that everything was as tranquil as it seemed.
“You don’t have to worry,” she had assured him. “I’m settling in and so are the kids. The boys seem to really like the class. They’re having a ball. I am too.”
A ball?
It had seemed like she was laying it on a bit thick, but he hadn’t questioned her about it. Maybe he should have though because now it sounded like the honeymoon period was officially over based on the ruckus he had heard over his walkie-talkie.
He thundered down the metal stairs to the basement level and shoved the steel door open. When he did, the shouts became even louder. He could hear Morgan screaming, “Tory, put it down! Put it down now!”
Derrick rounded the corner and saw Morgan standing with her back facing the entrance of the shop room and her hands extended outward, like she was being held at gunpoint. The rest of the students were on their feet, standing near the work tables and overturned stools, all staring in the same direction. Even Rodney—Otis’s replacement and the new head of security at the Institute—was in the room, and had his hand on his holster.
“Drop it! Drop it right now, or I will light your ass up, boy!” Rodney yelled.
Rodney didn’t carry a gun so Derrick supposed the security guard was referring either to his Taser or the pepper spray he only used in the case of emergencies. If he was planning to use either one of those today, whatever was going down inside that room had to be bad—very bad.
As Derrick stepped through the doorway, he saw what everyone was staring at. One of the boys—Cole, the new student whose mom had begged Derrick let him into the Institute—was leaning back over one of the tables. His lip was bloody and his clothes were disheveled. Defiance was on his face and in his dark eyes.
The other student—Tory, who had bee
n to Derrick’s office more than once in the past year for behavioral issues—had the front of the Cole’s T-shirt fisted in his hand and was holding a nail gun only inches away from Cole’s temple. Tory had not only a bloody lip, but also a bloody nose and torn collar.
Derrick stared at the nail gun warily. It wasn’t a real gun but it could still do quite a bit of damage if Tory fired it.
Derrick walked toward Morgan and lightly touched her on the shoulder, making her jump in surprise. She whipped around to face him. “Oh, shit! Derrick, thank God you’re . . .”
She instantly quieted when he held his finger to his lips and slowly shook his head. He then turned to look at the two boys and crept toward them. He wondered what he should do to defuse the situation.
What the hell would Mr. Theo say right now?
He knew that his mentor would be calm, but self-assured. He would speak with authority. Derrick swallowed, took a deep breath, and pressed forward.
“Tory,” he began softly, “what are you doing?”
“What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” Tory barked in reply, seeming almost wild-eyed. “I ain’t lettin’ this nigga disrespect me. I don’t care who the fuck he is, or who he fuck with! Nobody disrespects me!”
“He disrespected you so much that it’s worth going to jail twenty to thirty years for it?” Derrick continued. “Come on, Tory! Think about what you’re doing! Put down the gun.”
Tory seemed to hesitate. His eyes shifted from Cole to Derrick and back again.
“It’s not worth it, son. You know it’s not,” Derrick said taking another tentative step toward the boys.
“I ain’t no punk!” Tory yelled. His hand was shaking now. Cole leaned back even farther, keeping a watchful eye on the nail gun.
Derrick nodded. “We know you’re not.”
“I ain’t no bitch! A nigga’ step to me, he gets dealt with!”
“We’ll deal with it, Tory. I promise you.” He then reached out his hand, gesturing to the nail gun. “Just give it to me. Give it to me and we’ll chop all this shit up in my office. But we can’t do that if you don’t put that thing down.”
Tory glanced again at the nail gun. Finally, ever so slowly, he lowered it from Cole’s temple, and Derrick breathed a sigh of relief. Derrick took another step and took the nail gun, ripping out the cord attachment as he did it. As soon as he did, Rodney leapt forward, grabbed Tory’s shoulders, and shoved him to the floor.