by Odie Hawkins
“Well, you know how it is. A game is a game,” Elijah added, and watched Hassani cross the room to bring Toe a drink. Damn! that bitch is fine.
“You wanna taste?” Toe asked in a sly voice, judging Elijah’s thoughts from the look in his eyes.
Elijah slid his eyes away from Hassani’s body. That’s the kind of woman I needs … a real together, stomp down, nitty gritty lady.
“Uhh, nawwww, bruh Toe … I got to be gettin’ on. We got all our shit squared away?”
Toe shrugged, a hip, philosophical curl at the edges of his mouth. “Everything’s cool,” Toe responded. Elijah stood up … ’way, ’way up …
“It’s been real, man,” he said and solemnly shook hands with Toe, noticing that he had a semi-erection.
“Right on, blood,” Toe replied, winked and juggled his nuts with his free hand.
Elijah let loose a low, meant-to-be-dirty laugh, in tune with the moment, and glided out of Toe’s apartment the sexy vibes making him anxious to get off onto his set. Ramona, look out bayyy-bee, here I commme.
Elijah followed Ramona, pinkie fingers linked, through six stiff, cold, correct introductions in a row before he begged off, whispering into her ear that he had to go take a piss. She reluctantly excused him, her bottom lip pouted.
Bitches! he muttered viciously in the back of his mind … you long stroke ’em a few times and they think they own you. He groped his way through the black cocktail-whiskey ’n soda everything-now crowd and fumbled into one of the four toilets in the house.
Standing above the seat, taking a few dribbling shots at the blue-tinted water in the stool, listening to Aretha outside, his dick firmly clenched between thumb and forefinger, he found himself watching a quiet, cold-blooded erection develop and collapse. Ain’t really nobody here to fuck, he reflected, and composed himself to re-enter a world filled with Ramona Browns … blacks who had pulled off the supreme contradiction.
Two banana skin colored, middle-aged women, modishly dressed, swished past him into the toilet as he made his exit. Jiveass booshiee bitches … either gossiping about some dumb chump one of them digs, or slipping a lick to each other’s pussy on the sly … who knows?
He scooped a glass of cold duck from a waiter’s passing tray and stood off to one side of a long hallway, checking out the action. A bunch of superficial assholes, he decided after a few minutes of careful study. Grating against the sound of soul music, their metallic, nazalized voices irritated him, made him feel that he wanted to jump on top of something and scream, “Awright! three or four of you wall-eyed spooks done got a degree or two or somethin’ but it don’t mean shit! y’all still just niggers! like me!”
He absent-mindedly dug down into his leather vest pocket for a home-rolled joint, thought about it for a split second and short-circuited himself. Wowwww! these motherfuckers don’t even get loaded! They’d probably call the law on me if I fired one up.
He had noticed the absence of smoke in the house, of all kinds, and had come across a hand-lettered sign on a coffee table that said plainly, “No smoking inside the house, thank you.” He smiled at the thought, his head already smoky from the dope he and Ramona had smoked during the course of an afternoon of strong sexing.
“Phil, I don’t know what you’re making out of me … God! I just feel so horny all the time.”
“Dr. Johnson, this is Phillip Dobson.”
Elijah spilled a little of his duck turning to face Ramona and a bulldog of a brown-skinned man who had eased up to his left side. “Phillip, this is Dr. Mordecai Johnson …”
“I own the establishment,” Dr. Johnson said metallically, dark circles rimming his eyes, shaking hands with Elijah as though he were handling a cold fish, all the while maintaining a constant vigilance over the gathering as he did so.
Motherfucker looks worried shitless, Elijah thought, watching the doctor’s eyes shift from one person to another. He’s watching people’s hands, Elijah noted with surprise … watching people’s hands to see that they don’t steal something. Ain’t that a bitch!
“What do you do, Mr. Dobson?” the doctor asked in a hard, flat voice, his eyes taking in everything.
“I’m an orgasm maker,” Elijah cracked, testing the good doctor for some sign of life.
“Did I hear you correctly?” the doctor asked in the same hard, flat voice.
Elijah placed a hip, conciliatory-type smile between them, like, after all, we are soul brothers.
“Awwwww, I was just jokin’, mannnn … I … uhh …” The doctor looked, glared into Elijah’s face for the first time, contemptuously, and abruptly performed an about-face and waddled away.
Ramona leaned closer, her arms folded across her bosom, a frozen smile on her face, and whispered, “You didn’t have to say that!”
“Fuck you talkin’ ’bout, woman! didn’t have to say what?!” Elijah raised his voice slightly, pissed off by the doctor’s treatment, the general atmosphere, and now, by Ramona. Several people nearby turned to check them out.
“Phillip, you don’t have to get all excited,” she grated out between her teeth, trying to maintain. “All I said was …”
“Rahhhh mona!” two debutante types trilled in unison from halfway across the room and swayed over, all fashion and facade.
“Girrrrl! where in the world have you been keepin’ yourself? I haven’t seen you since the Morgan party.”
“I haven’t seen her since the Debs had their affair … I hear you’re planning to get married? Reeelly!”
Elijah watched the three women stick their heads together right in front of him, looking, for all the world, like three teenagers talking on the telephone at the same time. Dizzy ass young bitches! don’t really hardly know their asses from a hole in the ground. Parties, shopping, keeping up appearances for appearances’ sake, doing what was supposed to be hip. He had to stop himself from sneering as they practically drug each other away by the armpits. Where were they going? To meet someone? take a triple-deck shit? smoke some opium in a far corner? ooopps, no smoking in the house. “Be right back, Phil … don’t get lost,” Ramona sang out super-sweetly as she was being pulled away. Elijah waved her away casually. They had saved her ass from a frightful chewing. The nerve of this young booshiee black bitch trying to tell me how to act! He snatched a fresh glass of something from a nearby buffet and wandered around the house feeling mean ’n evil. Big house. Rich. Shit hanging all over the walls. Phony ass people. He stood off to one side of the huge main room and shot out a host of bad vibes and one low-keyed fart toward an assembly of Ebony Fashion Show types grouped around the circular fireplace in the center of the room. Jiveass black motherfuckers! can’t even talk right. Sound like they all got dictionaries in they mouths.
Her eyes met his from the other side of the fireplace and held. Once, twice, three times. Yeahhh, uhh huh, I’m for real, they seemed to say.
He looked around coolly, cautiously. Where is Ramona? What the hell, he decided, I shouldn’t even be here with her square ass anyway.
He took his time circling to her side, checking for obstacles as he made his way.
He paused within her peripheral vision for a few minutes, giving her a full understanding of his intentions with his slow movements. Finally, he wedged himself next to her. “How you doin’, Miss Lady?” he whispered near her ear.
She gazed up at him from her seat on the bricks, a nice even expression in her eyes. “Fine and you?” she answered in a low, private voice.
Elijah shrugged expressively. What could you say? He measured her three quarters of profile carefully. Thirty-one-two, maybe. Some kind of Indian woman, dress wrapped all ’round her body, close-cropped pixie haircut, bamboo cane earrings dangling. Pretty cocoa-colored lady, hip, Out There.
She gave his shrug a half smile and slowly returned her attention to the debate, showing obvious boredom with the proceedings.
He leaned back to her ear, a fine, delicate perfume floating up to his nose, “Uh, I notice you don’t have a drink
, can I get you one?” She turned her face fully to his.
“I’d rather have a smoke.”
He juggled his cigarette pack out before realizing his mistake. A smoke?! a smoke … right on!
“Sorry ’bout that,” he covered up suavely. “I got some smokes … but, uhhh …”
She stood up to reveal a well-designed five feet five. “Well, make a move, brother, I’m right behind you, ain’t that the way it’s supposed to be?”
The question sounded so sarcastic that he frowned.
“Well, ain’t that the way it’s supposed to be?” she repeated.
Elijah turned away without attempting an answer and walked ahead, clearing people from their path.
They were in the middle of the block when Elijah heard Ramona call him. “Phillip! Phillip! Phillip!”
He ignored the desperate voice, confident that she would never be indiscreet or indignant enough to come out onto the sidewalk.
He lit one of the joints, took a couple deep hits and passed it to her.
Toni Mathews clicked the radio onto the local jazz station.
“Did I hear your li’l ladyfriend call you Phillip?”
Elijah exhaled slowly, trying to look innocent.
She laughed softly in the darkness. “Awwww, c’mon on, you don’t have to bullshit me. You should be able to tell by now that I’m regular people.”
Elijah forced himself to laugh in turn. “My fo’ real friends call me Elijah, Elijah Brookes. You didn’t tell me your name?”
She sucked in a big swallow of smoke before replying. “I’ve been called a sack load of things, but my fo’ real friends call me Toni, Toni Mathews.”
“That’s a pretty hip name,” Elijah tried flattering her.
She shrugged and passed the joint back, three-fourths smoked. He pulled on it, down to the roach level, flicked it out of the window and lit another one.
They passed it back and forth, getting high.
“That’s pretty mellow smoke,” she announced after a few more hits.
“Glad you like it,” he replied suavely, and slid down in the seat to let his mind play with the reflections on the water, the good herb smoke in his head, Mark on the radio, Toni’s perfume, Toni Mathews.
He quietly turned to stare at her profile, suddenly loving the idea of being parked on the lakefront at half past midnight with an elegant, groovy sister.
“Can you dig this?” he asked, not indicating anything in particular, but everything …
“Uhh huh,” she nodded, completely at ease, her head laid back on the seat, her eyes half slitted from the dope.
A few minutes later, minutes passing like giant globs of time, mistaking her quiet for an invitation, Elijah slid his light hand up the crease in the center of her dress, from knees to upper thighs.
“Oooh no, no baby.” She eased his hand away gently. “No hot ’n heavy touchin’. Momma is on her bad days.”
Elijah dealt with the putdown by sliding over against the door. Where is this bitch comin’ from?
He felt like pressing the issue, but decided not to, for fear of being guilty of the kind of behavior that would cool out any future play, if there was going to be any … but, he was still feeling severely pissed. Where is this bitch comin’ from?
After reordering himself, staring at the waves for a few minutes, he asked, in as cool a voice as he could manage, “Where would you like to go?”
Toni sighed, a little disappointed that he hadn’t tried harder, but at the same time relieved because he hadn’t.
By the time he made his way back to the block, driving as slowly as he could, he had decided that he definitely wanted to get next to her, in the worst way possible. There was something about her that turned him on. She was no Dee Dee, no Leelah, nor anything like the amateurs he had been playing on. She was a style of her own. An original.
“Uhhh, would it be possible to get in touch with you?” he asked, getting out of the car, hating himself for the tone of voice he heard creep into his question.
“Are you sure you want to?”
“Why not? shit, between the two of us, ain’t no tellin’ what we might get off into. I’m damned sure we can have a better time than we had tonight.”
Toni looked up at him from the driver’s seat and pouted her lips out at him playfully. “Awwww, did Momma give you a bad time, baby? here, let me kiss the bad vibes away.”
She reached out for both sides of his face with her long-nailed fingers and spooled a half yard of lascivious tongue into his mouth.
He stood back to look at her after the kiss, trying to decide whether he should press his luck or control his frustration, or what?
Toni dug into her purse and handed him a card. “Don’t call before six p.m., I don’t get up ’til late, usually.”
He solemnly saluted her with the card between his fingers as she pulled away, waving at him in her rear-view mirror. Wowwwww …
He strolled to his car, muted party sounds coming to him from down the street, Ramona Brown all but forgotten, sat at the curb thinking about the past forty-five minutes.
Miss Toni Mathews was obviously into something. He pulled the last joint out, the one he had been saving for the Total Experience Motel, lit it smiling at the memory, and wheeled away from the curb, the seeds of a game crinkling up his forehead … it would take some heavy sugar to get into a bitch like Toni, some heavy sugar.
CHAPTER 9
Elijah slouched inconspicuously at one of the stand-up desks alongside the east wall of the First National Bank, making all the motions to give the appearance of writing out a deposit or withdrawal slip, one eye on the plainclothes security man and the other one riveted on the slow actions of an apple-cheeked, blue rinse-haired grandmother type transacting business at a nearby window. He slowly, studiously scrawled a number of doodles on the withdrawal pad, allowing the grandmother maximum time to finish her drawn-out transaction and leave the bank before he followed. This was the eighth likely prospect he had tried to pin in three days. Was she with someone? Was she driving? Was she …?! Beautiful!
From midway the block, he watched her stop in the southbound bus zone and casually check out the sign telling which busses were going where. Beautiful! the bus. What could be better?
He rushed to board the bus at the last minute, being very careful to keep himself fully out of the woman’s sight.
He positioned himself close enough to observe her as they held onto the strap holders of the swaying, lurching bus. Sixty, if she’s a day, not rich or else she wouldn’t be on the bus, but not poor either, from the look of her garments. And kindly looking … yeahhh, kindly looking.
Yeahhh, this looked like the one, awright. There had only been one other one who seemed a more likely prospect before this one, but for some reason his instincts pulled him back from her. Something a li’l bit too robust about her, a li’l too keen looking. His heart thumped a little faster as the bus wound around a corner and headed into a Hyde Park route.
At this point, I wouldn’t care if she was the chief of police’s momma, I’d still make my play. A salt ’n pepper neighborhood to play in, not too much danger of someone calling the pigs just because a black had been spotted on the block. What could be better?
The game had buzzed around in his mind for a week after the party. When was that bitch going to answer her own telephone? “Don’t call before six p.m., I don’t get up ’til late, usually.”
He reviewed the times he had called and left messages with her service. “Elijah, alias Phillip, called you six-fifteen.” “Elijah Brookes, the First, called … seven-fifteen.”
The corners of his mouth dragged down with the thought of his frustration. It never failed, let some cold-blooded bitch stick her finger up … oops …!
He shut off his other flow of thoughts and got back on his game; the grandmother was getting off the bus. The Hyde Park shopping plaza.
Rushing to get off, he almost knocked a middle-aged black woman with a shopping bag off
her feet. She glared at him. “I swear fo’ God, y’all …”
He was off the bus and trailing his prey at a discreet distance before the woman had finished her lecture on his manners. Be cool … be cool … he warned himself, filtering into the late-afternoon crowd of shoppers, strollers, Hare Krishna-ites, bearded University types, blacks, whites, Sikhs, yellows, the University of Chicago announcing itself through the interracial character of the neighborhood.
He followed her to the co-op supermarket and decided to wait in the mall … no need to follow the old girl around a damned supermarket, that would be, how would they say it? “counterproductive.” He lounged around the front of the bookstore opposite the supermarket for a full ten minutes, studying titles and hairy-faced authors, wandered over into the big concrete patio of the mall and sat on a bench, waiting, a good profile of the supermarket’s exit doors in view.
Assuring himself that he had the best seat in the house, to keep tabs on the lady, he gazed around the patio. A couple third-rate fiddlers scraping their hearts out about something. He gave them a half nod and a cold smile … they didn’t seem to have too bad a hustle, if you had the patience to wait for enough suckers to fill up your hat.
A trio of white dudes with their hiking shoes laced across their sleeping bag-back packs, full beards framing their innocent, sunburnt faces, limped past him, almost made him laugh aloud. The Eternal White Boy, never satisfied with life as it is, always got to try and make it harder. Too bad they couldn’t’ve been born with some cold ashes in they jibbs.
Couple brothers with Japanese chicks … or Chinese, or whatever they were, hard to tell the difference … hmmm … that’s a different scene. Niggers and chinks … yeahhh, that’s sho’ ’nuff a different scene.
A couple young sisters, skulls braided to the bone, swept through and gave him an opaque look. He gave them his full admiration look and received an even more opaque look in return. He crinkled the corners of his mouth into a sign of mild displeasure. Some of the latter-day sisters could be so stuck up ’n shitty sometimes. They talk about you like you stole something if you don’t pay ’em no attention, and then, when you do, they look at you like you got a tail.