Two Thin DIMES
A Novel
ALSO BY CALEB ALEXANDER
Eastside
Strebor Books
P.O. Box 6505
Largo, MD 20792
http://www.streborbooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2007 by Caleb Alexander
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-8498-8
ISBN-10: 1-4165-8498-6
LCCN 2007940440
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
This book is dedicated to my sons, Curtis and Caleb,
and to my daughter, Cheyenne
Acknowledgments
First and foremost I want to thank the Almighty Creator. It would take an entire novel for me to list all of the blessings that have been bestowed upon me. I know that it was during some of the darkest moments of my life, that He carried me. I am a living witness to His kindness, forgiveness, charity, and compassion. He’s real, and His mercy and greatness is bottomless.
I want to thank my brother Theron, for giving me my imagination. He helped to develop and foster my creativity. He has an imagination and wit that is uncanny. If he ever picks up a pen and starts writing, the world is in for a treat. I want to thank my grandmother, Lillie. There are no words that could even begin to convey my feelings there. She is my heart. I want to acknowledge my wife, Jennifer; my sons, Curtis and Caleb; and my daughter, Cheyenne. My mother, Gwen; and my dad, Charles.
I want to say thank you to Zane, and Charmaine, and to the best agent in the world, Tracy Sherrod. Big ups to Keith Saunders for the cover design. Thanks to Shayla Cobb for her typing skills.
Shout out to: Stacey Wynn, Cornell Cleaver, Syidah Shaheed, Omar, Maleek, Momma Robinson, Big Lou (Sheffield), Greg Palmer, Wayman Goodley, Bart, Twin, Fresh Reggie (Williams), Magic, Stag, Unc, Tuck, Tyrus Foster, Charles Deese, Mo-Mo (Elmo Johnson), JP (James Peters), Terance Spellmon, Quentin Henry, Wynell, Stephen, Theron Duncan, Edward Brown, Timmy, Skibo (Dashawn Batts), Chrissy Barefield, Baby Ray Mathis, Dimebox, Charlie Hustle, Buggy (Albert Gistard), Shawn Butler, Smoke (Keith Theus), Ron Johnson, Ced Quigley, JR, Keith Franklin, Black, Jesse Brooks, Fred and Sharonda Carter, Tyshea Wagner, Julon, Jarveon, Low Life (Stacey Robinson), Nick Clay, Nikki Smith, Monekka Smith, Jo Ann Smith, Dwayne Pleasant, Ernie and Valerie LaCour, Mike LaCour, Brian Green, JV Green, Can't Get Right, Kenneth Macracken, Shawn Macracken, Staci Denise, Erin, Polly, Cibon, Greg, El ijah, Kennedy, Arboni, Janice, Devean, Kelvin, Michelle Monciaviaz, Nicole Hood, Teke Beck, Jason, Pat, Joe Linton, Quick (Terry Williams), Grave Digger (Donnell), Billy Pen, Anthony Frisco, Tony and Olga Owens, Dana, Deon, Ronnie, Marcus, Thomas, Lisa, Mildred, Betty, Matthew, Bubba, Marshall Simmons, Rene Simmons, Tony, Daphane, Briana, Ebony, Belinda, Avante, Amaya, Audrey, Darlene, Jimmy, Keanna, Deandre, Jennae, Juwan, Gail, Rodney, Ivory, Sylvia, Uncle Jerry, Aunt Libby, Aunt Joyce, Cookie, Pam, Uncle Richard, Uncle Thomas, Uncle Billy, Aunt Fanny, Thad, Comfort, Big Cibon, Trisha, Anna, Gloria, the Smith Family, the Spellmon Family, the Williams Family, the Lacour Family, the Washington Family, the Small Family, the Luna Family, the Gafford Family, the Small Family, the Stephens Family, the Hearn Family, the James Family, the Bailey Family, the Sheffield Family, the Dawson Family, the Childs Family, the Huff Family, the Owens Family, the Shaheed Family, the Moorman Family, the Zumalt Family, the Hernandez Family, the Gordon Family, the Capprietta Family.
Those of you who I forgot to mention, it was not on purpose. Please forgive me. I owe so much to so many, and I sincerely thank you all for being there for me all of these years.
Chapter One
Jamaica had always been blessed: physically, emotionally, spiritually, financially, and mentally. From her beautiful, silky, copper-colored skin to her captivating emerald eyes. She was blessed with smooth almond-colored hair, which flowed steadily down her miraculously well-proportioned, sultry, sinewy figure. But most of all, she was blessed with a voice.
It was a voice that could deliver notes so high, that the bats which inhabited the cool dark Gotham night danced and rejoiced at each melodious rendition. It was a voice that could resound so low that walls shook, and a cannon’s deep thunderous boom would fall silent in envy. It was a harmonious voice, a melodious voice, a multiplatinum, over one hundred and fifty million albums-sold worldwide voice. It was the voice of Jamaica Tiera Rochelle, who, to her tens of millions of fans worldwide, was simply known as Tiera.
“Cut! That’s a wrap!” bellowed Tony Battles, the hottest young director in the entire music video industry.
Tony was young, black, gifted, and arrogant. His short-cut, wavy hair, and hip, urban fashions, which hung from his thin frame with just the right amount of cool baggyness, along with his quick devilish smile, made him feel that he was God’s gift to women. ALL WOMEN.
Tony rose carefully from his director’s chair, which had been custom made so that the word DIRECTOR loomed large on its front and back. He sauntered confidently across the set, stepping over cables and wires, dodging video cameras and lighting equipment, as well as personnel.
The video shoot had occurred outdoors at night. The weather was quite mild for New York this time of year, and everyone was taking advantage of it. Dancers, lighting equipment, cameras, spectators, fill-ins, gofers, makeup artists, pyrotechnic experts, models, choreographers, animal trainers and animals, along with the usual assortment of bystanders and hangers-on, filled the area.
Jamaica, tired and perspiring from the previous dance routine, as well as the intense heat of the lighting and the thick layers of commercial makeup, strode across the set to speak with her friend, publicist, and personal assistant, LaChina Anderson.
“Good job, Jai.” LaChina clapped. She pulled several pieces of tissue from her pocket and handed them to her friend.
“Thanks,” Jamaica told her. She took the tissue and wiped away her beads of perspiration. Along with them came thick globs of television makeup.
Jamaica exhaled a cool sigh of relief. “Ooooh, girl, I’m glad that’s finally over.” She smiled wearily at her friend. “No more videos?”
LaChina returned Jamaica’s smile and nodded reassuringly. “No more videos…for now.”
“I need a vacation,” Jamaica told her. She rubbed her hand across her stomach, now realizing how little she was actually wearing, and how much she was actually exposing. Her black knit tights were almost see-through, while her white cotton half-shirt exposed her sexy, tight mid-section. Her well-proportioned figure was the product of natural endowment, as well as a dedicated and expensive personal trainer.
LaChina, on the other hand, was exquisitely dressed as usual. Chanel frames rested comfortably midway down her nose. They stylishly matched her DKNY pantsuit and Ferragamo shoes. And, of course, in her hand rested her ever-present, leather-covered, gold-embroidered Mont Blanc clipboard.
LaChina had been Jamaica’s best friend since as far back as either could remember. They had grown up together in several of the wealthiest communities in New York state. Each of their futures had been decided by their mothers prior to their births.
Jamaica’s mother designed a future for her daughter that included singing, acting, dancing, modeling, and a life of sheer glamour. Hundreds of talent shows, music lessons, voice coaches, personal trainers, and performance academies later, here she stood.
LaChina’s university professor mother stressed education
over all else, despite her daughter’s natural beauty. Growing up, LaChina often tied, and sometimes even defeated, Jamaica in beauty contests. Her flawless skin, pearlescent smile, and long silky hair often caused men to stop in the street and stare. Nevertheless, many honor rolls, academic awards, certificates, scholarships, and class presidencies later, here she stood.
LaChina graduated magna cum laude from Spelman College in Atlanta, and returned home with a degree in management to New York, where she began working for her best friend.
“Jai, girl, Bev and I were just talking about how tired you’ve been looking,” LaChina told her. “I think a vacation would be a pretty good idea.”
LaChina lifted her index finger to her face and tapped lightly at the bottom of her chin. “How about a working vacation?” she asked Jamaica. “We want to shoot the next video in a sunny location, so…while we lounge around like tourists, we put on hats and sunglasses, and scout locations.”
Jamaica clasped her friend’s arms and shouted excitedly. “Yes! Yes! You know how I love the Caribbean. When do we leave?”
“Actually, we have to do the Sea World promotion first, and from there we can head to the Caribbean.”
The thought of sea animals and slimy skin made Jamaica recoil. “The Sea World thing, yuck!” Jamaica’s head fell to one side and she exhaled forcibly. “Do I have to?”
“Jai, it’s for the kids,” LaChina told her. “Plus, every time somebody kisses that damn fish, their popularity goes up, their record sales boom, and their bank accounts fatten.”
Jamaica released LaChina’s arm and shook her head emphatically. “I have to kiss that thing? Uh-un, hell no!” Jamaica turned and started to race away. “There is no way that I’m going to kiss a giant fish!”
LaChina quickly grabbed Jamaica by her arm stopping her. “It’s a whale.”
Jamaica turned and stared at her friend. “You called it a fish first, not me.”
“We’re going,” LaChina told her.
Jamaica pouted. “It might eat me.”
“Jai.”
“It’s slimy!”
“Jai.”
Tony Battles, who had stopped to chat with Jamaica’s label representatives, finally closed in. He had the gleam of money in his eyes. Lots of money.
“Hello, ladies,” he greeted them.
Jamaica smiled and gave a slight wave. “Hello, Tony.”
“Hi, Tony,” LaChina replied.
Tony Battles’ smile resembled the cat that bought the canary and had it tied up inside of its litter box. He focused in on Jamaica. “Tiera, with you we didn’t even need lighting. Your beauty lit up the place.”
When Jamaica turned to LaChina, she found that her friend was already staring at her. Their eyes locked for several seconds, before Jamaica spoke.
“Girl, I give that a one,” she told LaChina.
LaChina nodded. “Yeah, that was kinda weak. I was gonna give it a two, but when I consider the fact that it came from a Morehouse man, who should have come a lot stronger, I’m inclined to agree with you. That’s a one.”
Together they turned and faced the young director.
“Good-bye, Tony,” they said in unison.
Deflated, Tony’s mouth remained open, as he watched them walk away.
Jamaica placed her arm inside of LaChina’s, as they casually strolled toward the dressing room. In this case, the dressing room was a converted trailer, which had been lavishly outfitted.
“See what I have to put up with?” Jamaica asked her friend. She exhaled loudly and tossed her hair back over her shoulders as they walked. “From dancers, actors, professional athletes, and scores of other people. Either they want to screw me because of the money, or they want to fuck me because of the fame.”
“I know, girl.” LaChina nodded. “I get it all of the time, and from educated, professional brothers too.”
Jamaica rested her head on her friend’s shoulder and clasped her hand. “I just want a good man. One without a line, without the number to the tabloids inside of his back pocket, and without dollar signs in his eyes. I want a man for Jamaica, not for Tiera, the Grammy Award-winning artist. Not for Tiera, the Billboard R&B and Pop Artist of the Year. Not for Tiera, the Soul Train Music Award-winning songstress…”
LaChina poked out her bottom lip and interrupted her friend. “Not for Tiera, the ga-zillion platinum-selling recording artist, and most sought-after actress in Hollywood?”
“You understand?” Jamaica asked.
LaChina smiled and leaned to the side, wrapping her arm tightly around Jamaica. “Oh, my sister! Looking for Prince Charming to come and rescue you from a life of wealth, stardom, and fame. Poor little rich girl.”
“Don’t tease me,” Jamaica whined.
They stopped just outside of the trailer, where Jamaica reached for the door. She pulled it open while still laughing at her friend. Inside at the table sat Jamaica’s mother, Beverly Rochelle. She saw them first.
“Oh, Jamaica darling, I’m glad that you are…”
Jamaica closed her eyes and rapidly shut the trailer door, cutting her mother off in mid-sentence. She turned to her friend and leaned her back against the trailer’s door.
“China,” Jamaica called out softly.
“What?”
“Girl, get me outta here.”
Chapter Two
The Wheatley Courts were some of the most worn-down, trashed-out, poverty-stricken, housing projects in America. Located on the east side of the city of San Antonio, they were home to a variety of sorts. From drug dealers to gang members to teen mothers and drug addicts, its tenants’ lives mirrored the worst of society’s ills. One apartment in this massive, bullet-riddled, rat-infested, broken-windowed, trash-strewn brick complex, was currently bearing witness to a heated discussion concerning one of America’s social ills which knows no boundaries.
“I’m tired of coming home and having to clean up after you every day! Stop drinking and throwing up everywhere, and leaving your empty beer bottles all over the place!” Tameer kicked several of the empty bottles across the floor. “You get drunk, and you find the nearest corner thinking it’s a toilet, and you piss all over the place! I can’t even bring any of my friends over to study!”
Eddie Lee’s answer was a solid, bellowing belch. A large-framed man now of expanding girth, Eddie Lee stood swaying in the center of the room. His muscle shirt now several times too small, and his once white boxers completed his unshaven scruffiness. Scratching his small, peppered, uncombed, and rapidly graying afro, he expanded on his first reply.
“You get the hell out, if you don’t like it!” Swaying, Eddie Lee waved his massive arm toward the front door, almost losing his balance in the process. “Leave! If you would have kept playing football, instead of writing that gay shit, you wouldn’t be here to see it!”
Eddie Lee’s first step sent him stumbling. The floor of the apartment was littered with clothing strewn to and fro, and numerous crushed beer cans and bottles rested on top of the clothing. The coffee table, which had never hosted a cup of coffee, was covered with stacks of old newspapers, many of which had yellowed with age. The end tables were no better off, for they were turned on their sides indicating that once again, Eddie Lee had trashed the place.
“And leave Savion here alone with you? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Tameer shouted. “You’d like to beat up on him like you beat up on the apartment, and like you beat up on my mom!”
Eddie Lee came alive like a bear awakening from a long hibernation. His inebriation seemed to decline.
“Shut up!” Eddie Lee shouted. “Just shut the fuck up! You don’t know what happened between me and your mom, so just shut the hell up!”
Eddie Lee turned, lifted a nearby beer bottle, and tossed it against the wall. Only the tip of it shattered.
“Besides, she’s the one who left your ass!” Eddie Lee continued. “So why are you always mouthing off at me?”
Tameer planted his feet and stood erect. �
��If I had some place to go, and take Savion, I would leave you too, Dad! Look at you!” Tameer’s voice crackled, so he swallowed hard to try to get rid of the crackling. It didn’t work. “You hurt your back, you retire from work, and you become a drunk. You sit around all day and drink, and then you want to fight. She couldn’t take your punches anymore, Dad! I’m glad she left. I’m glad she jumped ship and saved herself! Somebody had to survive!”
With that, Tameer turned and jogged up the creaking stairs and into his bedroom.
Tameer’s room resembled that of a high school’s athletic department. All District, All City, All State, and All American pennants, banners, trophies, certificates and letters were spread all throughout the room. Three Five A state championship football trophies shared a desk with two Five A state basketball trophies, and two for baseball. The dresser held the state championship trophies for track and field, and swimming. Ribbons and plaques adorned the walls, sharing space with posters of great athletes and literary notables.
Of the two paths Tameer had to choose from, he took the one most disappointing to all, but most fulfilling to himself. He chose to accept an academic scholarship at a local university, declining several athletic scholarships from numerous national ones. In fact, many of the major universities had pursued him with considerable vigor.
Born with a powerful frame, natural speed, and unnatural maneuverability, he quickly transformed his body into a muscular sports machine. His father drove him relentlessly, and starting with his freshman year in high school, Tameer had dominated the Texas sports scene. He was a college coach’s wet dream.
The boosters had offered him jobs, cars, credit cards, daughters, and everything else under the sun. The Catholic schools offered him God, Heaven, absolution, redemption, and salvation. The California schools offered him movie roles, Hollywood, a life of wealth, fame, and fortune, along with his choice of sunny bunnies to share it all with. The Texas schools offered him oil, oil money, cattle, cattle money, and Houston, or a nice patch of land comparable to. He turned them all down.
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