“Me too. I miss risking getting good old meningococcal meningitis.”
“I could kiss for the sake of kissing and kiss all night.”
“Me too.”
Mocha Latte hesitated, the broken staring at the damaged, almost too nervous to ask. “Could you love me?”
“I could.”
“We blew it.”
“Did we?”
“Love has to be built from the ground up, from the first smile, from the first laugh, from the first dance, from the first kiss. Not by fucking first, not by being paid to have sex with each other, then trying to reverse engineer it from there. You don’t start a relationship with sex, then try to reverse engineer and see what’s there to hold both of you up. If it starts with sex, then sex is your foundation, and sex is never a good foundation.”
She rubbed her nose, tsked, hummed, sighed, took a breath, made eye contact with me.
I nodded. “What do you want?”
“To be in love, to be loved, and have raw sex with the same person forever. I want the love of my life.”
“Me too. Maybe the love of my life got stuck in a condom. Or was a slow swimmer.”
“Mine probably got swallowed.”
“Or ended up on some woman’s tits.”
“Or up her ass.”
Again I nodded.
She whispered, “You made me miss being loved.”
The eye contact remained as she rocked from one foot to the other, licking the edges of her lips.
She whispered, “Part of me wants to stay. You want me to stay, so I’ll stay under one condition.”
“What’s the condition?”
“If you can answer one question correctly.”
“Okay.”
“What’s the flattest state in America?”
“Texas.”
“You blew it.”
“Wyoming?”
Wine on her breath, smelling like Kush, bottle in hand, she headed toward Penny’s apartment.
I stood in the cool air, watched her go inside Penny’s spot. Once the door closed, I took a deep breath, sauntered away. I sent a text to André, told him I might come back to his comedy show, the third show. Then I texted Dwayne, checked in, tried to find out if he wanted to meet me in Long Beach. Before I made it to my apartment, Penny’s front door opened and closed again. Christiana hurried out and called my name like it was urgent as fuck.
CHAPTER 26
BRICK
CHRISTIANA WORE GRAY slim jogger sweatpants. Black CUBA T. Unadorned, she looked ten years younger, like a breathless, sweaty teenager.
I asked, “What’s going on?”
She raised her phone. Showed me a photo of a woman of a certain age.
I stared at Christiana. “I saw her tonight. She was staring at me all evening.”
“She saw you at the bar. She went there to see you in person. To assess your energy.”
“You’re as persistent as I am irritating.”
“I know other men I can message, and they will go in a heartbeat. But she wants you.”
I asked, “Who is she?”
“In due time. Names will not be important. Only the date. I sent her your photograph. That was how she knew who to look for at the hotel. I knew you’d wait at the bar when Mocha Latte went on her date.”
“So Mocha Latte knew you were going to put me on the auction block.”
“Don’t be upset with her.”
“How did you get my picture?”
“From your Facebook page. Very nice photo of you in a suit.”
“Why me? Hotel was filled with good-looking escorts. They probably have an app for that too. There has to be a GrubCoochie or InstaDick or WineDineSixtyNine app out there by now.”
“It will be her first time too. She loves your name. Brick. It conjures images of something sturdy, arouses her curiosity, and rhymes with what she longs for. She will want more than your company if you consent.”
“She had on a wedding ring.”
“Her husband betrayed her, and she will take a lover. It’s what she deserves. She wanted to see you first before booking. She is old-fashioned. You will be her treat. This is her revenge, and she has rules. Strict rules.”
I paused, spoke as if talking to the winds. “Why would a man become an escort?”
“Some for fun. Some for debt. The money is tax-free; you get to keep it all and not share with the IRS. Some to help others like family. Some to be like clients and feel revenge from being rejected by someone they trusted or loved. Maybe I should ask you. You have been betrayed. You have been hurt. You are the man and only a man knows what causes a man to do the things a man does even when he has a wife who would have loved him forever.”
Her past rose in her eyes, and a tribe of tears fell.
I thought about love. That was no longer existent in my life.
I thought about my debts. Those had to be handled to achieve any of my dreams, and I wasn’t ready to slap on a white collar and go back to the widget factory. I was still out on disability. I could ride that train a little longer.
I asked, “When?”
“Soon. I have to see when she will be back from Washington and available.”
“Okay.”
“Just in case, I will get you prepared this week. Physiologically as well as physically.”
“Psychologically.”
“Psychologically. It is a hard word to remember and say. For me it is.”
“But you can say ‘entrepreneur’ with no problem.”
“It is that way, learning a language. One day I forgot the word to say ‘chair.’ I learn words that are of a higher level in order to gain more respect. I learn to talk like a true entrepreneur, not a street person.”
I nodded. “What do I need to do?”
“I will wax your body. There should be no hair from your face to your feet.”
“Anything else?”
“No sex until then.”
“Why no sex?”
“The client wants you capable of having a substantial orgasm.”
“What’s that about?”
“Her request.”
“Anything else?”
“I will arrange a haircut.”
“I have a barber.”
“I have a stylist. The person I use charges three hundred dollars to groom men.”
“They charge three C-notes to cut hair? Get the fuck outta here.”
“She cuts your hair, waxes hair from your nostrils, gives you a facial, neatens your eyebrows, pops pimples, and exfoliates. Your skin will glow, and you will see the difference immediately.”
“Three hundred dollars?”
“I will pay for it this one time.”
“Pimp.”
“I am an entrepreneur, and I am altruistic. Another word I love to say. Altruistic. I help everyone, and I want to help you. There is no obligation. It’s up to you if you want the experience. And the money.”
“Never forget the money.”
“I know other men I can call. Many men do this, and I could send one of them to meet her. You’re curious about what goes on in Vegas. Think of it as an experience for yourself, and you will get paid for carnal knowledge.”
* * *
—
AS I DROVE away, my cellular rang. It was Penny. I didn’t want to be bothered. I was in that mood where I wanted the world to go away and leave me alone for a while. I answered with a negative attitude.
Penny asked, “What the hell happened tonight?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was there an issue with Mocha Latte and her client?”
“I sat at the bar. Her client came. They went upstairs. Her client came. Two hours later, she left the hotel.”
“She’s getting
on my nerves. All attitude. This bitch doesn’t know me like that.”
“If she’s too moody, send her to my place. Tell her I’m not home, so she can have some space.”
“Mind if I go over there?”
“Sure.”
“Where are you going right now?”
“I need some air.”
“Want some company? I can ride with you. I need to get away from everybody. Maybe we could ride down by Dockweiler.”
“No. I’m good.”
“Rejection. Payback.”
“I’m not being petty. Just don’t feel like I’d be good company right now.”
She took a breath. “You’re really going to let Christiana book you for a trip to Vegas?”
“She told you.”
“Is this my fault? What if I don’t want you to, would that matter?”
“I’m a grown man. I make my own decisions. And like you, I have financial obligations.”
She took a deep breath, was about to say something, but decided to hang up on me.
* * *
—
RIDING WITH AN anger that refused to sleep, I drove to Fox Hills, where a half million duckets bought a one-bedroom, one-bath condo. I parked, remembered that Saturday I’d been insulted at a barbershop in front of a league of black men, took a knife out, and went to the Maserati. It was the least I could do. I stabbed the rear passenger-side tire once. Coretta’s luxury car was there too. I stabbed her back tire; killed it. Then I got in Miss Mini and drove away.
CHAPTER 27
BRICK
A NO-NONSENSE VOICE called from the other side of the door, “Who is it?”
“Frenchie?”
“Wrong answer. I’m Frenchie. And just to be clear, Frenchie is strapped and in a bad mood.”
“It’s Brick.”
Frenchie opened her front door, lantern in one hand, small gun in the other. Every nation had a bomb, and in America, urban or suburban, there were enough guns for everybody to be strapped.
She said, “You here to help or chastise and criticize?”
“Let me in.”
There was enough light from when her neighbor’s motion sensors kicked on for me to see her unfriendly expression. She had a face that reminded me of the girl next door, if you lived in Malibu. Her golden hair had been dyed a rich shade of violet with violent maroon streaks. Even the colors in her hair looked like they were in a civil war. When her hair was all blond, she looked like she should be on Hermosa Beach playing professional volleyball.
Her look and attitude had changed. Life had put her through some changes.
Frenchie had been an actress. She was a singer before that. She’d had a hit song once, “Everybody Knows.” It was an R and B number that peaked at number eleven on the soul singles chart, number four on Billboard. There was a nomination for a Grammy. She lost, and no one hung on or followed a loser. Music industry dropped her. The pop star went to stage to try to reinvent herself as a legitimate actress. Dwayne had met her when they were touring. Frenchie had been married. Not many knew it, unless they looked on Wikipedia. She’d been on the road for six months, then went home to a new marriage in Vermont and found out she was three months’ pregnant by Dwayne.
I said, “Heard you had some damage over here.”
“What, are you the inspector? Or you calling the cops on me too?”
“You gonna shoot me or let me in to get a better look to see if I can help?”
“Dwayne with you?”
“No.”
“Don’t play with me.”
“It’s just me.”
“I will shoot you.”
“You know I’m not worth the bullet. Now, take that misplaced anger and get out of the way.”
She stepped aside. I stepped inside.
Carpet was fucked. It had been flooded, then dried out, that sour stench soft but present.
She said, “Pipe had burst in the ceiling over the kitchen. See that big hole?”
“Yeah.”
“The furniture had water damage.”
We moved toward the epicenter of the damage.
I said, “Ceiling will take some work but can be patched up. After that, you could redo the walls with Behr paint. They have a paint and primer in one. No odor. Hallway looks like it needs paint too. Paint one part of the house the rest will look bad, so I’d redo everything. Start fresh. Mexican and Central American day laborers that hang out at Home Depot can do it better than me and will be a lot cheaper than a contractor. One thing at a time. Don’t need electricity to do that. I’d just rip the carpet up for now. You need to make sure you’re not sitting on a nest of mold.”
“I can’t afford it, so it will have to stay like this until whenever I can come up with some extra money.”
“Your mortgage?”
“Don’t worry about it. I talked to Chase and I’ll get that worked out some way.”
“You have equity?”
“At least three hundred thousand. At least. But I don’t want to borrow.”
“Why not?”
“That equity is college money for Fela, worst-case scenario. We have to rough it out.”
I headed back outside, stepping over overgrown grass, into the fresh air. Frenchie followed, that torchlight swinging like a night watchman. She was embarrassed, frazzled, and stressed, and it showed on her face.
She put the gun in her waistband and marched me back toward the street, got me off her property, a sign she didn’t want me going back inside of her home. It didn’t occur to me until that moment that dropping by this late, uncle to her son or not, might have been taken the wrong way. Or maybe she moved me from the house because her power was off and the street lighting was better. I saw she had on blue Juilliard leggings and a light gray Juilliard cap.
She said, “I’m working, hustling, doing this and that.”
“What kind of hustling?”
“I work at a place called Plots to Die For.”
“Clever name. You’re writing movie plots? Screenplays?”
She cringed. “I sell burial plots.”
“Not so clever. Actually, that’s kind of morbid.”
“I buy and sell real estate for people as dead as my acting career. Oh, how far I have fallen.”
“It’s honest work.”
She said, “And I just applied for a job teaching theater at Cerritos Community College in Norwalk.”
“Community theater?”
“They have a great program. Underrated.”
“So what happened here? Dwayne not paying his child support?”
“My accountant. She stole everything.”
“Fuckin’ serious?”
“She had access to all of my accounts to pay my bills, then took all of my money.”
“Just you?”
“Did the same favor for her other clients. Now she’s living on an island and we can’t touch her. I found out she hadn’t paid my property taxes or my mortgage, had just stolen all of my money and left for the West Indies.”
“The money, all the child support Dwayne has sent you—”
“Stolen. And I can’t afford to hire anyone to do anything.”
“White-collar crime. Low priority. Get in line behind Madoff’s victims.”
She laughed. “Karma made its rounds and finally got to me. I had a series of unfortunate events.”
“What else happened?”
“After the pipe burst? Refrigerator went out. Then I started a load of clothes when we were leaving one morning, and the washing machine didn’t shut off, ran water for six hours, flooded our service porch, kitchen, living and dining room areas, flooded the whole damn house when I was gone. Then the dishwasher went out.”
“Fuck, Frenchie.”
She sighed. “And the air cond
itioner died during the hottest summer on record. One thing after the other. Because I depended on my accountant, and she hadn’t paid my home insurance, I’m fucked.”
“Sorry to hear that, Frenchie.”
“Then we were dead broke. Lights got cut off.”
“Why didn’t you call somebody?”
“Don’t tell Dwayne any more than he already knows. Don’t give him any ammunition.”
“He needs to know how Nephew is living; nothing personal against you. Nephew is stressed.”
“I’ll never forgive you. If he writes this in court documents, if the judge asks me how this happened and makes me sound like I’m irresponsible, or stupid, or incompetent . . . I won’t forgive you.”
“He loves his son, Frenchie. He’s his parent too. He wants Fela to be comfortable.”
“But not me.”
“That’s his son.”
“I love my son more than I ever loved Dwayne. Dwayne loves my son more than he ever loved me.”
“Circle of life. Dwayne wants to be a dad to his son, so let him do it, in his own way.”
“Fela is my responsibility. Full custody.”
“He has a dad.”
“A Disneyland dad. Me and my son, we’re a team. We have been a team since the day he was born. The ups and the downs. I’m letting him down. This problem. My bad luck. I’ll find a way to fix it.”
“You’ve been living this way for months. Why didn’t you reach out? I’m just a few neighborhoods away.”
“Independent woman. Too embarrassed. Too angry. This shit is numbing.”
“Why didn’t you tell Dwayne how bad it was? He found out from Fela. The boy is hungry, Frenchie.”
“I don’t want to hear his fucking mouth. All he does is figure out how to tour more and more and still pay less and less. I don’t want him to be able to use any of this against me. If he knows, I know he will.”
“He’s got it rough too.”
“He’s all over the country, taking pictures with fans and posting them on Instagram, at bars with the cast tweeting how good life is, probably fucking as many fans as he can fuck, or fucking someone in the company, and I’m here, trapped, having a hard time with a kid I’m responsible for. I do all I can and all I get is backtalk from that boy, but Dwayne sends a fucking text message and gets treated like he’s a king. Dwayne isn’t going to doctors’ appointments and dealing with teachers like I am. Some boy called my son the n-word, and I had to deal with that bullshit. Not Dwayne. He’s the famous dad and his son loves having a famous dad. If you look at the pictures Dwayne posts, you’d think they lived in the same house. He’s a social media dad, sends a text to check in. I’m the one here every day making breakfast, doing laundry. Even when I’m dead broke, stressed, crying through the night. What Dwayne doesn’t understand is that nobody cooks for me. Nobody cleans for me. Nobody makes me meals or does my laundry. Nobody makes sure I’m okay. Nobody caters to me, period. A woman is always looked at as someone who needs to take care of everyone but her-damn-self. I take care of Fela, Brick. This is my struggle. I’m dealing with this the best I can. I just have to figure out how to get more money somehow.”
The Business of Lovers Page 18