Addie Combo

by Watson, Tareka

  I look at him, almost tempted to feign anger just to see how he’ll react, but I have much more pressing things to worry about; staying out of the gutter, for one. And getting closer to Randolph, for another.

  I simply ask, “Do we get along?”

  He offers up a little chuckle. “I’d say so; enough to offer thirty grand a year to start. It’s not much, but it’ll get you going. And we’ll see how things go from there.”

  “Wow, um, thirty grand ... ”

  “Plus little ... bonuses along the way.” He looks around, holding his hands up to the glistening store around us; and at the clothes he’s already buying me, as yet unseen.

  “And what would this job entail, exactly ... roughly?”

  Randolph seems to give it a little thought. “Seeing to my daily agenda, business errands, acting as my secretary on out-oftown trips and so on.”

  I nod slowly, to show him I’m still not convinced. “Personal assistant. But ... more assistant than personal, I trust?”

  “Addie, do you think I’d go through all this just to -?”

  “No no, Mr. MacLeish -“

  “Call me Randolph, please.”

  “Um, okay, Mr. Mac -Randolph, I’m not implying anything at all, just ... just making sure. Y’know, with the clothes and all ... ”

  Randolph takes a step toward me and sets his large hands gently on my upper arms. He looks me straight in the eyes. “I can teach you a lot, Addie, things I guarantee you never learned in school. This is a whole new world opening up to you. All you have to do is be open to it.”

  His voice gets very sultry and gravelly at the end of his sentence, but I’m not sure if it’s a matter of his intention or my imagination. Either way, it certainly makes an impression.

  I say, “Randolph, it’s a very flattering offer ... ”

  “Oh, okay, I understand,” Randolph says with a kind of sympathetic disappointment. “Well, you can keep the clothes, I’ll give you a ride home and we’ll always be -”

  “No no, that’s not what I ... I mean, I was going to say that it’s a flattering offer ... and I accept, definitely.”

  He smiles, seeming a bit surprised.

  I wonder why that is. Did he really think I’d walk away from an offer like this? Is there some reason I should?

  I put that all aside and smile with genuine excitement.

  Randolph seems to read my expression and matches it with one of his own, a debonaire smile that twinkles with an elevated charm.

  After paying for the clothes and arranging to have them delivered to my apartment, Randolph drives me back and walks me to the front door, where the intercom system stands not-so-silent guard.

  I say, “I’d invite you up, but I’ve only just arrived here myself a few days ago, and -”

  “Nonsense,” he says with a warm smile. “You relax, wait for the clothes to arrive, take it easy. We’ll start bright and early tomorrow morning.”

  When I get upstairs and tell Emily and Quinton about my new job, there’s only one thing to do (in Emily’s own words):

  “Parrrrrrr-taaaaaaaaeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!” We go to a place called Narcissus, which turns out to be a perfect name. Everybody seems to have put tremendous care and effort into what they look like, insistent upon being seen even more than on seeing something or somebody else, no matter how spectacular. I’m used to roadhouses and country/western bars, with denim and leather and beers. This is a world of flashing lights, girls in half-dresses which cling to their glistening bodies, glow sticks floating everywhere. The music is ear-splittingly loud, a synthetic drum pulsing in a never-ending beat that seems to match that of my own heart and extends from one song to another.

  Well, not songs exactly. Back home I’d hear tunes with lyrics and bands with drums and guitars. Here it’s all synthesizers and digital sound processors, a single melody repeated over and over. The place smells of stale beer, perfume and sweat.

  But it is hard to resist. I feel that throb pulsing through me. My hips move without me initiating it and, after not too long, without me being able to stop it.

  And why should I? I ask myself. Emily dives right in, giving her little body over to the music. She’s quite sexy, I have to admit in a purely objective way. She’s little and curvy and fit, like a gymnast. And as she sways and grinds, hands over her head, eyes closed and lips pursed, I can’t help but join in.

  It isn’t too long until young men are dancing around us. I attribute it more to Emily than to myself; but whatever the reason, they’re close and interested and numerous. These are very good-looking young men, too. They’ve put a lot of time into their hair, their clothes, even their eyebrows. Much more than I do, but I can’t deny that they look good.

  Real good.

  My heart beats louder, perfectly in sync with that unending beat; my lungs pumping in time, my blood and pulse locked with that pounding bass drum. My skin tingles, sweat cooling the stifling heat that collects on the dance floor. I lose track of time. Without the three-minute increment of one pop song into the next, it’s hard to tell how long I’ve been dancing.

  My shoulders roll and my hips buck. I throw my head back, my long brown hair flying around my head. My mouth goes dry, sweat cooling my skin, goosebumps rising on the backs of my arms. But that drum keeps pounding, the synth strings keep driving those minimalist harmonies into my brain. The room starts to spin around me, the heat pressing on me from all sides. My legs get the message my brain is scrambling to send.

  I push my way through the dance floor, leaving Emily surrounded by the group of grinding admirers; if they can take their attention off themselves long enough to lust after her the way she seems to want them to.

  I make it back to our little table and find Quinton sitting, sipping a St. Pauli Girl and smiling at the dancing bodies, flashing lights and blaring music. I sit down and he turns his smile on me, stretching even wider.

  I ask, “You don’t dance?”

  He shakes his head. “Emily likes it though.”

  We both look out on the dance floor, Emily a twisting and tantalizing centerpiece in a circle of young men. They dance, they sweat; they flicker in the strobed, colored light.

  Quinton tries to keep that smile on his face, dropping it long enough to take another sip of his beer and gaze into the crowd. But I can see the sadness that creeps over him, the dissatisfaction. I can see that he puts it away, into some corner of his mind, heart, body and soul. I know because I do the same thing.

  All too often.

  I can’t resist leaning forward a bit to ask, “Would you mind if we stepped outside for a moment?”

  Quinton gives it a little thought, looking back at Emily amongst her gyrating men. He looks back at me, nods, and soon enough we’re outside; nice and cool and quiet.

  “Wow,” I say, shaking my head, “we don’t have too many places like this back in Boulder.”

  “I remember my first year here, it wasn’t quite the same.”

  “The city’s changed?”

  “Not sure; I was six, we came in from Portland so my dad could work for Disney. Contract law was his idea, actually, hoped I’d stay with the House of Mouse. And my brother’s an animator there.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty exciting.”

  “His kids think so too. But Pixar’s killing him with all that computer generated stuff.” We sit in the growing awkwardness; the silence stretching out around us, constricting us like some big, invisible snake. “Hey, we better get back inside, Emily’s gonna be -”

  “Jealous?”

  Quinton clears his throat. “I was gonna say concerned.” After a little, wriggling silence, he adds, “Jealous sounds about right though.”

  So he opens the door and holds it as I step inside.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “There’s no more land, Addie,” Randolph says as he steps on the accelerator and pushes that beautiful Benz down the 10 freeway going east. We head out of Los Angeles and into San Bernardino, endless rows of suburban
houses in varying degrees of decay. Randolph goes on to say, “That’s why land is the best investment in the world; doubles every ten years no matter what. They didn’t teach you that in business school?”

  “I may have heard it somewhere.”

  “Well, believe it. Stocks, bonds, metals, forget all that. If gold and diamonds come out of the earth, and they’re the most valuable things there are, how much more valuable is the Earth itself?”

  I give it a little thought, trying to follow his circuitous logic.“I don’t think it works that way.”

  “Exactly!” He steps on the gas, the engine grinding louder. “That’s why we invest in real estate.”

  After a moment, I ask, “We?”

  He shrugs, giving it some thought, keeping his eyes on the road, his hands on the wheel. “You’re my junior associate, that’s an integral part of the team. I mean, look around you, who else is there but us?”

  “Is it ... is it just us? I haven’t been to the offices ... ”

  “Offices?” He chuckles, his white teeth flashing. “I do most of my business on site. I meet with investors at their offices, I buy real estate where it is. I don’t really have an office.” After a weird little moment, he says, “Who has an office anymore these days? Even accountants only keep them for half the year. Doctors and lawyers and senators have offices.”

  “But, your mail? Where do we do business when we’re not ... driving around?”

  “My mail comes to my house, where I keep a small home office. You’ll be keeping track of a lot of things from a home office of your own, Addie. You’ll just have to be available for me when I need you. Don’t over-worry things, it’ll work out.”

  Randolph pulls off the freeway and drives a few miles into the flat, barely beating heart of Riverside. Block after block, street after street, house after house; it’s a blur of suburbia and a flash photo of a time that the country has left behind.

  The era of the Middle Class.

  This once-thriving community is pocked with empty houses marked by boarded-up windows tagged with graffiti. Some stores are even boarded up, helicopters flying overhead. I have to ask, “You’re investing in property here?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Your own money?”

  “Absolutely not!” He chuckles. “Well, it’s not all my own anyway. I represent little companies that are put together byseveral investors, like a cartel. And I’m one of the investors, in this case anyway.”

  I take a look at the neighborhood as we glide down the streets; the blocks of houses are punctuated by timeworn liquor store signs, old motels, little churches. I say, “And what are you investing in here?”

  Randolph shoots me a little grin. “The future!”

  We drive down another residential street and park at the corner, near one rundown house with signs taped to the window from the inside, declaring it a hazard and announcing plans for its sale. The word foreclosed jumps out at me as we walk past the overgrown brown lawn and peek inside.

  I say, “Doesn’t seem like much.”

  “Addie, what’s the first rule of business?”

  I don’t have to give it much thought. “Supply and demand.”

  “That’s right. People will always need a place to live, a roof over their heads. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs puts it in safety, the second basic level on the list of mandatory elements of a sustainable life. That means there’ll always be a demand.”

  I peek into a crack between two boards over one of the windows; at the ratty carpet of this single-story home, the soiled walls, the piles of books and clothes and other junk on the floor. “Doesn’t seem like there’ll be much demand for this place, even if you fix it up. How many families around here can afford to pay what you’d need to charge?”

  “None, Addie, that’s the entire point!” I look at him, waiting for the explanation I know is coming. Unwilling to disappoint me (not for the last time, I hope) Randolph goes on to say, “But put up a few walls, a new kitchen sink, buy a few appliances and a fresh coat of paint and this three-bedroom single-family house becomes two rentable units; a one-bedroom and a twobedroom. More affordable for the renter, more flexible for the owner. There’s also a university nearby, and several technical schools, which means a steady influx of students to rent to. And once the owner or owners are ready to sell, the property is worth even more because it’s both a single-family and a duplex; perfect for a family with a teenager, or an older person who wants to rent out the other unit for some extra cash and to have somebody nearby.” Randolph turns, as if struck by inspiration. “That’s a great idea; contact the local homecare agencies and hook them up with special rates. We’ll do about eight of these; it’s a lot quicker and easier than renovating a big twentyunit apartment building, because you can do them one at a time.”

  I look at the house and, I have to admit, I see it through new eyes.

  Randolph’s eyes.

  I imagine ten empty houses giving shelter to twenty or thirty or even as many as forty people each, at rates they can afford. Filled, rented houses are bound to elevate the area, I reason, and that itself will bring up property values.

  “My partners and I are spending two million on as many of these as we can get. We’re looking for seven or eight houses for one million, then put another mil into renovating. Since we’re buying the houses for about half their normal worth, there’s no way we’re gonna lose.”

  “You’re spending two million? Aren’t you borrowing any of that?”

  “We’re borrowing all of it!” Randolph winks. “That’s how I know it’ll work.”

  I take a deep breath. “I have to say, it’s impressive.”

  He looks at the house with his hands on his hips, feet astride. “It really is. Okay, get Parmenter Realty on the phone. Let’s get this done!”

  And that’s just what we do. We place a number of calls, of which I only hear Randolph’s end, but I learn a lot; mostly about attitude. Randolph is quick and sharp, his voice always reasonable but his word unyielding.

  “No ... ” he says calmly, “that’s on you, and you know it ... that’s not my concern ... three weeks? I can’t manage that. But I can give you three days, can you make that work? ... No? Are you sure, because I could make a few calls and ... Oh, okay, three days then.” Every call ends with a smile, most of them his.

  A lot of them mine.

  Finally we call it a day and get dinner at Scarpetta, in fabulous Beverly Hills. We drive past row after row of mansions, stately behind impressive lawns and arching driveways, double gates and rod-iron fences. Everything about the area feels elite, wealthy; the trees seem perfectly trimmed, the wide streets are immaculate and well-lit.

  I have the amazing coconut panna cotta guava soup with caramelized pineapple, and it’s so warm and sweet and thick that every sip fills my mouth and my body and my heart. I’ve never eaten anything like it. A nice chardonnay is the perfect contrast, cool and crisp.

  Randolph asks, “How do you like Los Angeles so far?”

  I try not to show too much too soon, lest I come off like a little kid at Disneyland, which is actually how I feel. Instead I say, “You’ve got some very good soup.”

  We share a little silence, then an even smaller chuckle. He takes a bite of his short rib agnolotti, which looks as succulent and delectable as it smells, glistening with juices.

  I catch him up on my brothers and father, not wanting to linger on the subject. I’m more interested in learning about him. He takes a sip of wine, seeming to admire the glisten of golden light that flickers off the crystal stem.

  “I was married,” he says after as much prodding as I dare. “She was ... just a great girl, quite lovely, so smart. History buff, was going to teach at U.C.L.A., before the diagnosis.” He peers into an imagined distance, a terrible memory. Finally, he says, “We thought the baby might have survived. It was the last joke we shared, Melanie and I, which would grow to maturity first. Turns out, it was the tumor.”

  “Oh, Ran
dolph -”

  “Yeah, it was ... ” He swallows hard and takes another drink, this one longer, nearly draining the glass. “It was years ago,” he adds, forcing his smile beyond its own endurance.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean to bring up any unpleasant memories.”

  “No, not at all, it’s okay. She wanted me to move on, be happy.”

  After a tense moment, I feel like I have to ask, “Have you moved on? Are you happy?”

  “I ... ” But the words stick in his throat and even another gulp of chardonnay cannot free them, until he coughs a little and says, “I’m still here.”

  I let the moment sit, not sure what to say. I decide to change tack a bit, in fact as much as I can. When I finally decide to speak, I still can’t think of what to say.

  Thankfully, he asks me, “How about you? I imagine you have big plans for your future.”

  I think about it, not very pleased with what I come up with. “I haven’t given it nearly enough thought, I’m afraid. I was so concerned with getting out of Colorado, getting through day to day, I just figured the future would sort of take care of itself. I have to admit, it seems to be doing just that.”

  “You’ve been lucky, Addie.” Now Randolph looks at me with greater gravity; eyes piercing, voice lower,tone more serious. “No business anywhere ever has succeeded without the concerted attention of the people who run it. Businesses that run themselves run themselves into the ground. Businesses that thrive have leaders with drive.”

  I can’t help but smile. “That sounds like good advice.”

  “As you’ll soon see.”

  “And what about you?” I have to ask. “What are your plans?”

  He sets his fork down, the little clink rising up to punctuate his silent pause. After a sip of wine and a bit of thought, he says, “I’d like to try again, raise a family, children.” He stares right into my eyes, a thrush of excitement coursing through me. “Meanwhile, I plan to double my worth every three years until I’m fifty, then retire.”