The Business of Lovers

by Eric Jerome Dickey

  “C’mon, man. I’m getting married tomorrow morning. You can’t jack up my face up like this.”

  My heart thumped hard. “The girl.”

  “Bathroom.”

  The suite was tossed: TV smashed, art ripped off the wall. The other two pandas were on the floor, one by the bed, the other across the suite, both half-dressed with bloodied faces. The biggest one was balled up in the fetal position, moaning and groaning with his agony, his virtuous snowy outfit spotted in bloodred. His front tooth had been knocked out. Lamps were broken. The desk was flipped. Unopened condoms were scattered all over the floor.

  Penny’s clothes were neatly folded, resting on a table.

  I went to the bathroom door, called out, “Penny.”

  Penny opened the bathroom door fast and hard. She was dressed in pink lingerie. Her makeup was smeared, her hair as wild as her wide eyes. She held her high heels in her hands like weapons. She ran into my arms and held on to me, clung to me crying and shivering, terrified like I’d never seen a woman terrified before.

  “You okay?”

  “Two black guys. They came in kicking ass. It was horrible. Something about a debt owed to someone in San Bernardino. It happened fast. I ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and called you, Brick. Brick, I called you over and over and it took you forever to answer your damn phone. Took you forever to get up here.”

  I had to pry her off me. Had her wait in the bathroom. I went and got Penny’s clothes, handed them to her, told her to get dressed, to fix her face. I went into the jacked-up suite. Six terrified eyes looked at me, three of those eyes uninjured, three swollen as big as a fist. The groom was going to have an interesting wedding.

  “My girl has been both traumatized and inconvenienced. She has to be compensated.”

  Pandas dropped money like leaves falling from a tree during the change of seasons.

  I said, “And her tip.”

  Again, the pandas opened their wallets, shook the money tree, and made it rain.

  I told them, “Whoever did this to you, for whatever reason—”

  Panda one groaned. “Goddamn African.”

  Panda two moaned. “And his crazy-ass friend.”

  I said, “We had nothing to do with that.”

  Panda one. “What am I going to tell Brianna?”

  Penny rushed out, dressed, shaken, and stirred, hair redone the best she could. I took her hand like she was my woman, and we split the scene, left the embarrassment to deal with their own problems.

  As soon as we hit the hallway and headed toward the elevators, there was another surprise. We ran into Penny’s ex. Javon was heading into a room with his wife. Penny saw him looking happy as he took his wife to a seven-hundred-dollar bed. She held my hand tighter, said nothing to him, but the wife’s eyes were on Penny.

  The married woman snarled like a dog, then mumbled, “Bitch.”

  That set Penny off, and she went after the woman. I had to catch her and pull her back.

  Penny shouted, told her to tell her husband to stop calling and texting and coming to her apartment and bringing her flowers and begging to come back because he despised the bitch he married.

  I had to drag her to the elevator, and her ex had to hold his wife back too.

  * * *

  —

  THREE HOURS LATER, we were back at my apartment, karaoke machine on, sipping expensive wine, pulling names of old-school songs from a hat, and singing out loud. Penny pretended she was okay, tried to be strong, but I saw the levels of trauma in her eyes. I didn’t know if seeing Javon or what had happened with her clients had upset her more. When the singing was done, she showered, put on Doctor Who pajamas, and stayed in my bed, slept wrapped around me all night. We woke up the next morning to the scent of blueberry pancakes being made.

  CHAPTER 32

  BRICK

  THE NEXT MORNING, I drove Mocha Latte to the Coral Tree Café in Brentwood.

  She wore her hair natural and dressed like everyone else on that side of the 10 freeway did, like she was going to a gym that served infused water. I found free parking by the Brentwood Veterans Memorial Building. The streets were filled with homeless veterans, an encampment large enough to make the problem on my side of town seem insignificant.

  I parallel parked right in front of a homeless man, a man of European descent, and his just-as-homeless girlfriend. She was on her side, using her hands as a pillow, as her worry-faced man covered her with a soiled blanket. Both were under thirty, with dirty faces, faces so dirty it made me wonder if they were trying to do blackface. Worn and dirty military backpacks and duffels were at their side. It was eighty degrees, hot as fuck, and he was covering her with a thick blanket. She was in bad shape. I locked my ride, then headed down San Vicente to the café.

  Mocha Latte frowned back at the row of snowy homeless veterans, saw it went on forever, then shook her head and asked, sarcastically, emotionally, and rhetorically, “How’s that American dream working out?”

  Everybody inside the café looked clean and moneyed. The only things black in the eatery were me, Mocha Latte, and the Latino servers’ uniforms. I checked out the spot. There was a nice-looking woman in her twenties at a bistro table by herself, MacBook open, law school books stacked next to her. She was dressed in a pretty, sleeveless, flowered minidress and sandals, her long hair pulled back. The woman’s dress was the tell, the sign of whom to look for. Mocha Latte went to the woman, smiling like an old friend. They sat and talked over iced coffees and muffins, ate and warmed up to each other for twenty minutes. They were all laughs and smiles. A moment later Mocha Latte left with the woman. She sent me a text as they headed out the door: the one-hour appointment was now a two-hour deal.

  Today the café was my Barstow, one with a sweet view of both the rich and the disenfranchised. While I relaxed under cool air and ate the best omelet I’d had in recent memory, I waited.

  Twenty minutes after Mocha Latte left, Frenchie messaged me, told me that she was ready for Dwayne to meet with Fela, and it had to be now, for breakfast, while she was feeling good on a sunny day and in this mood. I sent the message to Dwayne. Marked it as urgent. This would be his only window. He’d messaged me earlier, angry that I had vanished from the Viceroy party, said his broke ass was looking for me all night, thirsty for that greyhound I had promised. He had seen Frenchie with her date, and he had also seen his ex, the woman he’d cheated on with Frenchie. Chickens had come home to roost. Seeing Frenchie had had the biggest impact. I knew that had thrown his anger and jealousy meter into the red zone, same as Penny seeing her ex had done to her, and my seeing Coretta had left my heart rattled and unsettled. He didn’t start a scene, though. He was too close to seeing Fela.

  My eyes were on the juxtaposed lifestyles. I watched the wealthy kissed up against abject poverty. I thought about the sick girl out there on the pavement, and all I’d been through, alone and in silence.

  I grabbed a menu, hurried back to the homeless couple, offered to order them whatever they wanted to eat and drink, then bring it back to them. My treat. Brentwood Medical was half a block west, maybe eight hundred feet away from where they had been forced to make nasty concrete their pillow-top hospital bed. I told them that if the woman needed medical attention, I’d get them to Brentwood Medical. Two soldiers who had done multiple tours of duty, a man and a woman, both of whom had faced imminent dangers and confronted armed enemies abroad, both of them broke down crying. I was on my haunches talking to them, seeing them, as people walked by rocking two-hundred-dollar workout shoes and Lululemon gear. I felt their suffering. Those who had suffered understood. They were in an overpopulated world and still felt alone. I was glad she had somebody. When I had suffered, Coretta was gone. André was on the road and never noticed. Dwayne was doing his Broadway thing. We FaceTimed, talked, but they didn’t know. The thing about cancer was you could be sick and still loo
k well. Chemo three out of four weeks each month, and no one noticed I was sick; only had days when I was tired. I was glad she didn’t have to be sick by herself.

  I said something out loud to them, to strangers, that I’d never said before: “I’m a cancer survivor.”

  Their empathetic tears for me were profound, made me wish Christiana was with me so she could hug and console the ailing woman as I hugged the man and shook his hand like he was a brand-new brother. I acted as her proxy, became the representative of an ambitious and altruistic entrepreneur.

  The man who ran Tres Dwaynes would’ve spat on them before he helped them.

  After I had gone back, ordered food for the homeless soldiers, and taken it back to them, I made it back to the eatery, eyes on phone, checking time, looking at the GPS location Mocha Latte had sent when she made it to the client’s mansion, more concerned with her than anything. I copped a squat at a table that was being cleared, then sat sipping on a fresh latte, but the energy in the room felt off. I glanced around and damn near spilled my drink from the surprise. Coretta was seated four tables away, close enough to spit and have some of it rain on me. Maserati Mama was holding her hand across the table. They glared at me in a threatening way. I glowered at them and went back to my latte. They had stopped eating whatever the fuck they had ordered, now too busy grumbling about me. I’d fucked up their romantic morning by being in their space. That ache in my chest was once again strong. She was too close to me. I inhaled, smelled Coretta, and I was once again disturbed.

  Mocha Latte came back through the door, just as my alarm sounded. Two hours had passed to the second. I went to her. She was freshly showered. I kissed her cheek, then with an accent said, “Mine own pussy-eating ex-girlfriend is h’re with h’r new lov’r, across the cubiculo, but behold not. Those braches art watching me.”

  “If the witch is h’re, kisseth me f’r real. Kisseth me. Alloweth h’r t’ seeth thee kisseth me.”

  I kissed Mocha Latte, gave her my tongue, then took her hand like she was my new and improved woman and led her back to the exit. I opened the door for her like a gentleman, put my arm around her, and we strolled away in Cali sunshine, laughing. I heard Maserati Mama’s curses, felt Coretta’s eyes stabbing the back of my head.

  When we made it back to Miss Mini, she had two flat tires, both on the passenger side.

  My lips curved up into a smile.

  Checkmate, bitches.

  Checkmate.

  CHAPTER 33

  DWAYNE

  DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN BEACH.

  I was cut off by an arrogant fuck rocking a black convertible Porsche, waxed and glistening in the sun. In the bumper-to-bumper crawl down Highland Avenue, a Gomer cruising in a showroom-new, pearl-white, drop-top Rolls-Royce let me in traffic. I found a metered space on the roof of a garage behind the restaurant called the Kettle. Every eatery was packed and had a line running thirty feet out front. For every Lupita and John Boyega, there were three hundred Emma Stones and Jonah Hills. Droves of locals and tourists marched uphill from the beach carrying surfboards or hurried downhill for a volleyball tournament. Women in colorful bikinis and men in Speedos mixed with men in Dockers shorts and svelte women in pretty dresses that showed off their suntanned figures.

  I saw my son in front of the Kettle waiting for me. I hurried to my boy and he hurried to me.

  “I’ve missed you.”

  “Missed you too, Dad. Missed you too. But don’t break my back, okay?”

  We laughed. I was carrying a hoodie. I handed it to him, his gift.

  He said, “A Leimert Park hoodie? Cool. This is dope af, Dad.”

  I smiled. “Love it when you call me Dad. You know that? I smile every time. Trying to earn that title.”

  “Bruh, you already have that title. From day one. You gave me life and are helping me through life. You’re here. You left your show for me and came back just when I needed you the most, and I love you for that.”

  I almost told him I was let go. I never wanted to lie to him. He had texted me that he was hungry, told me that they had no lights and the water had been turned off, and I freaked out, snapped on the next motherfucker in the show who said something sideways to me while I was trying to call the police to go check on my son’s well-being. It was my burden. Wasn’t his fault I’d lost the plot. I would never want him to think anything was his fault.

  As he wrapped the hoodie around his waist, I asked, “Hungry?”

  “You have to ask?”

  “How much time we have?”

  “Mom said one hour.”

  “Let’s break bread.”

  “She’s going to meet me right there where she dropped me off.”

  “Why couldn’t we have met down at Venice Beach instead of here?”

  “You love Venice Beach.”

  “I can find free parking there. Took me an hour to get a space here.”

  “She said it’s cleaner, safer. She’s always wanted to live on a nice beach.”

  “With white people.”

  “Is there any other kind of nice beach in Southern California?”

  * * *

  —

  FELA ORDERED THE French Quarter burger and a large soda. I got a stack of pancakes and chicken sausage.

  As we enjoyed breakfast, I told him, “Don’t turn on me.”

  Fela bit into his hamburger, chewed, swallowed. “What you mean, Dad?”

  “I know me and your mom have problems, but that’s me and her. If you have problems with me as a dad, as a man, as a human being, tell me. Keep the door open; never burn the bridge between us. I love you and you’re all in this world I love. Kids grow up and somehow things change and dad and son become bitter enemies.”

  “Like you and Grandad.”

  “I don’t ever want for us to be estranged and not in touch or not talking.”

  Fela hesitated, his eyes watering. “Are you dying or something?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why you being dramatic af?”

  “Boy, I’m trying to be a better dad. Therefore, I need you to let me know what you need from me, what to do to make sure you’re okay and we’re okay and . . . I know I’m not the best dad, Fela. I know that. But I’m trying.”

  “There are worse.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You better not be dying.”

  “Now who’s being dramatic? And whassup with you saying af all the time now?”

  “Got that from Mom. She’s the queen of saying af all the af-ing time.”

  “Stop it.”

  “What’s going on? That look on your face is the one you get when you’re stressed.”

  I got to the point. “I have to go to court again. I don’t want to, but my accountant tells me I have no choice. Not making enough money, so I have to ask for a reduction. You want me to go to court and fight for full custody?”

  “You mean, to make it legal for me to come to stay with you? You moving back?”

  “In Florida. I’ve been renting out my house, but I can get my spot back with a sixty-day notice.”

  “All my friends are here. I’d be the new kid. No one wants to be the new kid.”

  I asked, “Sure you don’t want to move to Florida with me?”

  “My friends are here.”

  “After you graduate. When you’re a legal adult.”

  “Dad. Florida. Stand-your-ground state.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where they make up reasons to shoot black people.”

  “Son.”

  “A crazy man can follow me, harass me, shoot me, kill me, and blame me, even though he was stalking me. No, thanks, Dad. No, thanks. People with guns will shoot you because you’re black and a male. Police, neighborhood watch, random person who is mad that your music is too loud. It’s scary. Especially in Flori
da. I’d rather avoid the Crips and Bloods and the LAPD in California. I don’t need to go where every fool is strapped and shooting blacks.”

  That ended that.

  I said, “Okay. I’m trying to do what I think is best for you. My conditions are better; that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Mom would be upset with me. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”

  “Okay, Son. I wasn’t trying to stress you.”

  “No matter what, I can’t leave Mom. Besides, you know she won’t sign off on that idea.”

  “I want you to know I’ll fight for you. I’ll spend my last dime to make sure you’re okay.”

  “What good would spending your last dime do if that left everybody broke? We’d be worse off.”

  “I’d do what I had to do. I’d take out loans. Sell my house to pay to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Dad, eat your pancakes and let me enjoy my juicy burger and fries, please?”

  “I’m trying to be your dad.”

  “You showed up. You always show up. Job done. Now, eat.”

  Another moment passed. “I’m your dad and I’m supposed to give you sage advice.”

  “Shoot your best shot.”

  “Be humble. Be hardworking. Be kind. Be generous. Be curious. Be trustworthy. Be forgiving. Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Work hard. Have to say that twice. Enjoy being young. Time will go by fast. Feels like I was your age yesterday. Above all, be yourself. Be yourself and know you have a dad who loves you unconditionally and beyond the grave.”

  He asked, “What else you got? Keep going, Pa.”

  “It’s unavoidable, but you’re going to get your heart broken one day. Happens to us all, whether you deserve it or not. One day a friend will not be your friend anymore. You will lose a job and it won’t be your fault. You will fail at something, some test life throws at you. There will be moments where people will make you feel less, and guess what. I’ll always be here for you. No matter the ups or downs, I’ll be here for you, Fela. I will always do my best.”