by Leo Sullivan
As they continued down the street, for the first time in ages she felt like a young girl, free, an ordinary person. An old, beat up truck passed them, its thick cloud of smoke fumigating them both. Playfully, she coughed and waved at the air, fanning her face. With her shoes in one hand and her other arm lassoed about his waist, she walked barefooted and occasionally skipped and hopped exuberantly. Her fame and good fortune had taught her that there was one thing that money couldn’t buy…but when she looked at Freddy again, she wondered could it?
“Listen, I have an idea. Once we enter the restaurant, I want you to go along with what I say okay?” Freddy nodded his head obediently at the beautiful woman. If he had been a puppy, he would have wagged his tail for her. She rewarded him with a smile.
“You need to know and understand that in the past few years, a lot of doors have been opening for me. In some ways, it’s as if I’ve become a sort of institution.” The tone of her voice changed. Even though she was looking at him, Freddy could tell her mind was far away. “Family and so-called friends,” She continued, “and even their cronies somehow find a way to leech off me…but the real bloodsuckers are the agents and manager, the shady characters who sit in their luxurious offices in the high-rises, playing Monopoly with people’s lives using real money. I realize now that I’m nothing more than a slave to this business.” Freddy watched her closely as she bit down on her lower lip. “Billy Dawson, my so-called manager, he’s also my--” Marilyn stopped short of what she was about to say, blew air through her teeth in frustration. “I owe him too much,” she said pensively.
Freddy shrugged his shoulders quizzically. “You owe him too much?” he asked.
Marilyn just shook her head somberly as she looked at Freddy, a complete stranger. And yet somehow his youthful innocence was endearing and contagious, seeming to emanate from his pores. There appeared to be nothing superficial or pretentious about him, just rough edges and a hard core. For some reason, she felt comfortable with him, safe even, in a way that she hadn’t in a long time with a man.
Their pace slowed considerably. Marilyn reached up and picked a piece of lint from his neatly cropped Afro. The gesture itself seemed intimate. She then took his hand and squeezed it gently as she looked up into his handsome face, the night’s waning moon giving his brown complexion an opulent glow. Her words scratched the surface of the peacefulness that he was feeling. “Billy Dawson is dangerous! When we go in the lounge, let me do all the talking.”
“Ms. Fox—“
“Call me Marilyn, please…”
“Okay, Marilyn, I’m dangerous too…” Gleefully, she watched him inflate his chest in disdain for Bill Dawson. Something about him attracted her powerfully. Perhaps it was his roughneck persona… “…I’ll beat his ass and show you how dangerous he really—“
“I’m sure you could Mr. Thug-sting.” The flippant way her sensuous mouth and tongue curled and played with his name, pronouncing the syllables separately, the “Thug” and then the “Sting,” made it sound sexual. They smiled at each other, realizing that they now shared a personal joke. Then, as if a dark shadow had passed over her face, she turned deadly serious. “Please don’t try any stunts with Billy Dawson like you did back there with the big imbecile.”
“Marilyn, I’m from the South Side. I represent it to the fullest. If this Dawson nigga act—“
Ever so gently she placed a finger on his lips, silencing his boisterous threats. “Shhhhh,” she lisped. “Tonight I fired my bodyguard, who also acted as my chauffeur, and now I’m hiring you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. I want you to be my bodyguard. I’d only need you on special occasions.” Her expression changed the way a woman does when she is being femininely persuasive. She stopped and suddenly took two steps back, with her legs spread apart as her tight skirt rode slowly up her thighs. In a sultry drawl, the same way she did daily on her commercials as she lured millions of men with her potent sexpot charm, she asked, “Thug-Sting…do you think you’d have a problem guarding this body with your life?” For emphasis, she pushed her breasts up firmly as if adjusting her bra. The succulent swells of flesh rose and fell with the manipulation of her hands.
Freddy noticed that her skirt had driven up her legs, and through a gap he could see light behind her, thighs curved and silhouetted. She followed his staring eyes and quickly pulled her skirt down, embarrassed. She had not meant to show him that much cleavage. Eyes bulging, Freddy felt something stir deep within him. He stared at her, hypnotized.
“Well,” Marilyn asked again, “Will you be my body… guard?” She smirked at him as he nodded his head up and down, dumbfounded…
Chapter Six
They arrived at the Foxy Lady Bar & Grill, an all-night joint that catered to the black bourgeoisie and other elite groups. At this hour of the morning, there were only a handful of patrons who sat huddled over their drinks as if the liquor contained an elixir for early morning blues. A permanent haze of smoke hung in the air. Freddy could feel the plush gray carpet beneath his feet, a long row of swivel chairs accentuated the length of the polished teak bar. Crystal glass and fine-crafted mirrors gleamed as strobing achromatic slits of light danced and sparkled, bedazzling Freddy. On a two-step platform, an elderly black man wearing a ruffled white shirt and black tie, played a soft melody on a piano. His rhythm was fervidly intense as he stroked the keys, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, its ash teetering as his body swayed back and forth.
“Remember what I told you. Let me do all the talking,” Marilyn whispered. She distanced herself from him and went into her supermodel strut. Her whole demeanor changed noticeably as she walked ahead of him, shoes still in hand.
In the back row of the lounge, past the bar section, there were two rows of sitting booths, in the very last one the silhouette of a man could be seen. As a waiter approached, Marilyn gestured with her thumb, pointing behind her. “He’s with me,” she said as she continued walking. The waiter looked at Freddy with suspicion as the figure in the booth rose up to meet them.
Billy Dawson was a mountain of a man, with broad, thick shoulders. He stood six-foot-five, a full inch taller than Freddy. His baldhead shined as if waxed. He hugged Marilyn and then stood back, inspecting her at arm’s length, looking at her shoes in hand and her naked feet.
“Where’s George? And what happen to you? You’re late.” His deep baritone voice was intimidating, reminding Freddy of James Earl Jones. Dawson’s dark features helped camouflage his age. What gave him away was the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the deep creases in his face. Freddy judged him to be anywhere between the age of 45 and 60. His attire was as immaculate as his speech, a fastidious dresser. He wore a grayish-black suit with a matching tie cleverly decorated with the gray shadow of a nude woman leaning over backwards. The diamond cufflinks on his writs glittered, and looked as if they had cost a fortune.
“I fired George,” Marilyn said.
“You did what?” The deep bass in his voice seemed to vibrate.
“The man was a drunk! Tonight, he almost got me killed.”
Dawson’s jaw almost dropped to the floor. “What happened?” he asked.
“I was almost mangled by a crowd as I walked out the hotel. I forgot that the Jazz Festival was going on. Someone tried to abduct me and another man groped my ass. It was awful!” Marilyn covered her face with her hands as if she was about to cry.
Freddy watched her melodramatic performance. She was good, real good at doing what she did best--act.
“And then he came,” she pointed at Freddy, “and rescued me.”
Freddy swallowed air as he looked at Dawson, trying to take the stupid-ass smile of his face. The man should have been giving her a standing ovation, but instead he stared at Freddy blankly until he turned back to Marilyn.
“Where was George when all this was goin’ on?” he asked as he gestured for her to sit down.
“George was nowhere in sight, ‘til it was too late. I c
ould have gotten killed,” she huffed with her bottom lip poked out, near tears.
Uninvited, Freddy flopped down in the booth next to Dawson. If looks could kill, Freddy would have been assassinated right then and there by Dawn’s stare. “Youngblood,” Dawson rumbled, “don’t get too comfortable, ‘cuz you ain’t gonna be here long… So, you helped Marilyn out a jam, huh?”
“Oh, it was no big deal,” Freddy said nonchalantly.
“Umm huh,” Dawson sighed.
“See how modest he is,” said Marilyn, smiling a little too much for Dawson’s liking.
Freddy continued to look at the nude picture on Dawson’s tie so as to keep from meeting the man’s stare. Dawson sniffed the air and twisted his face like he smelled a fart or something. “How old are you, young blood?”
The question caught Freddy completely off guard. “Twee, twee, twenty-two,” he stuttered.
Marilyn raised her eyebrows at him and then chirped, “I’m hiring him as my new bodyguard.”
Dawson chuckled as if Marilyn had just told a funny joke, saying, “This skinny nigga don’t weigh a hundred pounds soakin’ wet!”
Marilyn shot Freddy a glare that said shut up. He chewed his bottom lip as Dawson reached into his breast pocket. Retrieving his billfold, he placed two crisp twenty-dollar bills in front of Freddy and was about to tell him to beat it. Before the money even landed on the table, the barmaid appeared. She wiped her hands on her apron and took out a pad and pencil.
“May I take your order, pleeze?” she asked in a southern drawl. Then she recognized Marilyn and said, “Heeey, girl! I ain’t seen you in a while. Nowadays I see you more on television than I do in person. Chile, don’t you forget where you come form.”
“I won’t, Gladys. Is the kitchen closed?”
“Not for you, girl. Whacha wanna eat? I’ll get y’all some menus.”
“That won’t be necessary. I want you to fix my friend here the biggest steak you have in the house.” Marilyn pointed at Freddy.
Gladys asked Freddy whether he’d like anything else to go with his order, as she bent down establishing eye contact and presenting a revealing view. He blushed. Dawson snorted loudly. Freddy looked in his direction and then proceeded to order food as if it was his last supper; onion rings, mashed potatoes, and side orders of chicken, cheese cake and a large Coke. The waitress walked away shaking her head.
Freddy pretended to be fascinated with the décor of the lounge, all the while feeling Dawson’s eyes upon him. He heard Marilyn asking Dawson why he acted like that. Freddy’s stomach began to growl so loud that he thought it must have heard him talking to the waitress. His starving intestines joined the chorus, hooping and hollering, dancing and doing somersaults, praising Jesus as well as the Food god.
Dawson was now arguing with Marilyn loud enough to draw his attention. “No, Marilyn! The man’s a damn bum, a young vagabond, and he smells like burnt motor oil—“
“Yes, you will, or I’m not going tomorrow and that’s final!”
As they argued back and forth, Freddy hoped they would at least keep it up until his food came, so if they kicked his ass out, he’d have a full stomach for the rest of his journey. He felt his empty stomach applaud his anti-hunger strategy.
The waitress finally brought the food. The steak was so big it filled the whole plate. The onion rings were golden brown. He cut a piece of the steak and placed it in his mouth, savoring the taste. He closed his eyes and chewed, juice dribbling down his chin. If they kicked him out now, he made up his mind, he was taking the food with him.
He opened his eyes, and both Marilyn and Dawson were staring at him. Only now, Dawson looked at him in a different way, as if thinking about assaulting him. Freddy smiled as he ate his food, and Marilyn’s eyes smiled back as he grunted between bites.
Dawson was talking to her, but she wasn’t paying him much attention. Freddy felt something on his lap, and he jumped as he looked under the table. Marilyn had placed her foot on his crotch and was wiggling her pedicured toes. Freddy smiled to himself at her bold antics.
Someone came in the door, drawing Dawson’s attention. Marilyn made a face, blowing air into her cheeks and crossing her eyes cockeyed. Freddy burst out laughing. A chunk of food flew from his mouth and landed on Dawson’s tie. Marilyn covered her mouth in shock but began to laugh too. Now the picture on Dawson’s tie looked like the lady had a blindfold on.
Marilyn started coughing to play off her laughter, announcing, “Excuse me, I need to go to the lady’s room.” She scooted out the side of the booth. Dawson politely stood as she exited.
Freddy just sat there and continued to eat his food, using his cornbread to mop up the last of the mashed potatoes. Suddenly, Dawson grabbed his wrist in a vise-like grip. Freddy slowly looked up from his plate and cursed, “Damn, man! What’cha think you doin’?”
“You come in here flirting and shit with Marilyn, playin’ with her feet an—“ With lightning quickness, Freddy stood up, snatching his wrist free. The Coke glass fell over and Dawson looked at him with a hint of surprise in his eyes. All heads turned their direction.
“Sit the fuck down, Youngblood,” Dawson’s baritone voice growled, “you’re drawin’ attention.” Freddy just stood there with his fists balled tightly at his sides, staring daggers at the older man. Then he remembered what Marilyn had asked him, so hesitantly, he sat back down.
“Who do you think you are? I should kick your ass right here in front of everybody, you little sonuvabitch!”
Dawson was talking his finger in Freddy’s face and, as hard as he tried, he couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He grabbed hold of Dawson’s finger, making him cringe. “Now! You listen, you old ancient mothafuka! You ain’t gonna be disrepectin’ me… I’ll fuck you up in fronta that bitch and all these people in here. I’m tryin’ to be nice on the strength you’re an old cat.” Freddy placed more pressure on the finger and Dawson grimaced. “Put your hand in my face one more time and I’ll personally show you what the inside of the joints look like.” Freddy threw the man’s hand back at him.
“Dawson smiled a sinister grin as he rubbed his finger. Then he casually pulled back his jacket to show Freddy the butt of a gun. “For that I should bust a cap in your young ass. Son, I’m gonna tell you one more time.” Dawson was about to raise his hand, but thought better of it. “You gotta go. What part you don’t understand?”
“That lady, your boss, Ms. Fox, asked me to be her bodyguard and that’s what I plan on doing. Don’t worry old man, I don’t plan on being around long, if that’s what you’re worried about. In a day or two I’ll be gone.”
Dawson shook his head. “Obviously, somebody forgot to mention that Marilyn Fox is my wife, not my boss.”
The words nearly knocked Freddy off his seat. “Your wife?”
“Yeah, young nigga, the old man got game too. Now you just got to respect that.”
Freddy looked at him and knew that something was terribly wrong. The man was old enough to be Marilyn’s father, plus Marilyn had expressed contempt for him in a way that indicated she might be in some danger.
Dawson read his somber expression and laughed. “Cheer up young blood. You look like you’ve just been kicked in the nuts.” Turning serious as he wiped the water from his eyes, he said, “Let’s make a deal…”
“What kinda deal?” asked Freddy.
Dawson’s voice was a grumbling whisper. “Tomorrow night, Marilyn has a modeling assignment. It’s a highly unusual request, something she’s never did before—“
“Freddy interjected, “What’s that got to do with me?”
“You’re her bodyguard, ain’tcha?” Dawson asked.
“Yes,” Freddy responded.
“You can stay at the hotel for a few days and I’ll pay for your room, but let’s keep this our little secret. Deal?”
“Deal.”
They shook hands. Then Dawson said threateningly, “Marilyn is very conniving. Don’t let her get you tricked out your life.”
Marilyn returned all high spirited and jovial, but as soon as she saw Freddy’s face her spirits crashed. She eased into the booth trying to discern what was wrong.
With a sad face, Freddy just stared above her head, trying not to see her anymore. He looked at the old portrait of Louis Armstrong as he remembered the deal Dawson offered. He had to honor and respect the old player’s game, even if it meant that for the next few days he would have to view it from the sidelines.
Marilyn Fox was off limits.
Chapter Seven
Freddy pushed the button on the bed, slowly elevating it almost to the level of Sasha’s eyes. Her eyes were swollen and red and she sniffed back tears as she looked at Freddy’s battered body.
Marilyn Fox stood next to Sasha, her composure as always imperturbable. Her eyes twinkled with the knowledge of a woman who is fully cognizant of her advantages as she looked at Sasha.
Sasha wore her long hair in a ponytail and had on blue jeans and a T-shirt that read on the back in big, bold letters, “Freddy & Sasha Forever!” Sasha cut her eyes at Marilyn as she stepped forward and kissed Freddy on his bruised lips.
Marilyn’s voice shattered the hard silence of the room. “Hi, Freddy. I brought your girlfriend Sasha. As your aunt, I figured that was the least I could do.”
She smiled disingenuously, her pearly white teeth for some reason reminding him of the cat that ate the bird. He couldn’t believe that she had the audacity to show up here, much less bring Sasha with her.
Freddy was baffled as he lay there looking back and forth between the women, feeling uncomfortable. Tactfully, he changed the subject. “Where’s Mykle and Dee?” He looked at Sasha, searching her face for an answer.
“The police are looking for both of them. I think they want to charge them with the murder of Dirty Red.”
“Shit!” Freddy cursed as he hung on her every word. Marilyn sat down in a chair behind Sasha, saying nothing.