The Business of Lovers

by Eric Jerome Dickey

  Penny said, “So, Brick, you’re actually doing this.”

  “Gave it a try last night.”

  Mocha Latte shifted, kept her opinion to herself. Judge not, that ye be not judged.

  Christiana smiled like she had found a new source of gold. “He received five stars from his clients.”

  Penny said, “Clients?”

  “He had three.”

  “Damn, Brick. Damn.”

  We ordered like king and queens, sipped mimosas, talked about irrelevant things.

  We all noticed Mocha Latte. She smiled, but we saw that mood had her once again. Her demons.

  She said, “I should go back home, get baptized again, rededicate my life to Christ, start over.”

  Penny asked, “And forget about us heathens?”

  “I won’t look back, but I will remember you, Brick. Jesus was friends with the common man, with thieves, with Mary Magdalene, no matter how her reputation had been tarnished. He was friends with people like us.”

  I said, “Texas. The Deep South. Where slavery began, and its impact still resonates.”

  “I’m going to look at a place on the Gulf of Mexico. A brand-new house in that part of Mississippi costs less than two hundred grand. If I live there, I can drive my Rubicon back and forth to Malakoff to see my folks.”

  I said, “Hurricanes and floods will turn that house into a boat that don’t float.”

  “They’re building the houses higher now. Living room is on the second level.”

  Christiana shook her head. “The humidity will make you sweat like hell. Mosquitoes bigger than your fist.”

  “I’ll buy a shotgun, sit on my porch like I’m skeet shooting.”

  Penny asked, “What’s to do there in Mississippi, besides leave in a hurry and never look back?”

  “Eat at Dunk’s. Get doughnuts at King’s. Get drunk at Rum Kitchen. Get crayfish at C&R’s Bar and Grill. Go to church. Walk out on the pier holding hands with someone you like. Help people repair the damage to their homes from Katrina. Build something more than a house from the ground up. Fall in love. Real love. The kind that is really scary. Make beautiful babies. Pretend this part of my life never was. Ain’t no love in this life. No love at all.”

  When we were about to pay, the waiter told us that the six-hundred-dollar tab had been taken care of, tip included. We didn’t ask any questions and headed toward the valet.

  Bellies full, we headed home in Miss Mini under the warmth of the California sun.

  Mocha Latte sang a tune by Elizabeth Grace called “Perfect.” She had a beautiful voice. Surprised me. When she was done, I cranked up some Bruno Mars and we turned the ride into a hard-core carpool karaoke.

  Happiness only lasted so long.

  When I made it back home, the enemy of all enemies was demanding an audience.

  A Maserati was in front of my building like a stalker waiting on me to return to my castle.

  CHAPTER 50

  BRICK

  MASERATI MAMA’S IMMACULATE ride was parked outside my building when we made it back to Leimert Park.

  Christiana said, “The fuck. Brick, isn’t that Coretta’s lover’s car?”

  “Yeah. Miss Intergluteal Cleft seems to have gotten lost in my zip code.”

  Mocha Latte asked, “What are they doing here?”

  “They probably came to hit me in the head with the claw part of a hammer.”

  Penny said, “Keep away from them, Brick.”

  “I’ll be fine, Penny.”

  Mocha Latte added, “Said many a man right before a woman blew his brains out.”

  I parked. The pace got out and headed to Penny’s crib, scowling back at Maserati Mama’s ride. Maserati Mama stepped out of the car. I waited for the passenger door to open. It didn’t.

  Maserati Mama was alone.

  She stood tall, regarded me, took a hard breath, then sashayed my way like an angry model. Her hands were open, a good sign. I walked toward the Nilotic woman dressed in her usual glamorous suit, this one a shade of purple, with reds and blacks and a slash of white. Her hair was as it had been each time I saw her, to the middle of her back, in one braid.

  She said, “I came here against my better judgment.”

  “Your eyes are red and you smell like expensive weed and cheap wine, so I know you’re not making the best decision.”

  “But you are the only one who can help me.”

  “What’s going on?”

  She struggled. “I don’t fucking understand her. I’ve never met anyone like that bitch.”

  “Coretta?”

  “Help me understand her. She’s destroyed my heart. I’ve never had my heart broken before and I never imagined it would be broken in such a massively cold-blooded, uncaring, fucked-up way.”

  She tried not to weep, but it was too much, and suddenly she was crying.

  “You flatten my tires and come to me for advice?”

  “You flattened mine first.”

  “I flattened one of yours. You flattened two of mine.”

  “Coretta flattened the other one because you flattened hers too.”

  Maserati Mama shuddered and sobbed.

  I took my adversary’s hand, and she walked with me.

  * * *

  —

  I WASN’T SURE what was appropriate, so I opened a bottle of three-hundred-dollar wine, poured her a glass, and poured myself one. We sat in my living room at opposite ends of my oversize classic sofa, facing each other, civilized, wine in hand. All that arrogance and self-confidence I’d seen in her eyes and body language was gone. I guess today Coretta was her foe, and the enemy of my enemy was my friend. Outside on Stocker, cars passed by with music bumping. Three helicopters were overhead looking for someone on the run; sirens wailed in the distance.

  Maserati Mama ranted, “She’s expensive. She pays for nothing and makes all the rules.”

  “Hard habit for her to break.”

  “She’s a cheater-o.”

  “Is she?”

  “I looked at her receipts for the mountain of things she bought herself. She bought a pregnancy test.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I am too.”

  “My heart dropped. Dropped and shattered. A pregnancy test.”

  “She was never good at tests. Thank God for social passing.”

  She ignored my habitual facetiousness, turned very serious. “Is it yours?”

  “Only if she is about eight months pregnant.”

  “It was negative. But still. She took a pregnancy test. I feel so foolish and threadbare now.”

  I dialed down the flippancy, turned up the empathy. “You gonna be okay?”

  “I’m mentally drained.”

  “She’s seeing a man. She has a side dude.”

  “At least one, I guess.”

  “And you thought she was seeing me?”

  “I did. I mean, I didn’t know. I don’t know. She keeps changing her passwords on her social media accounts. Keeps locking me out. She defriended me on Facebook. Blocked me on Twitter. She has my passwords. I have nothing to hide, but when it comes to her phone, she always deletes everything, all her messages and texts, as soon as she reads them. Who does that but someone guilty of a crime? She texts someone through the night when she thinks I’m sleeping. One day I came home early from work, and she was in the shower and had left her phone unlocked. I found out that she has secret Twitter and Facebook accounts. Then I found she has a second phone hidden in the trunk of her car underneath her spare tire. She got busted because she left it on and forgot to turn off the ringer. Something is going on. I’m going crazy. I don’t know what to think. How many ways can she lie? She lies when she cries, lies when she smiles, lies when she talks. She lies when we make lov
e. I had a good life before her.”

  “And she doesn’t double flush.”

  “She doesn’t clean the bathroom, period. That’s how I know she had a man in my condo.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The lip of the toilet had urine drops on it. I saw that filth when I cleaned the bathroom.”

  “Wow.”

  Maserati Mama raised her glass to mine and said, “A toast to the fools-o.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Jos, a city in the Middle Belt of Nigeria. We call it J-Town. I graduated from Unijos. Master’s.”

  “Unijos?”

  “University of Jos.”

  She had befriended me for the moment, gained my confidence, my truth, made it hard for me to lie, and then came the question that was burning her. “Have you been with Coretta since she’s been living with me?”

  “She’s called because she wants a box of things she left behind, but the only time I’ve seen Coretta was in public and you were at her side holding her hand. I haven’t seen her alone since we broke up. Not once.”

  “You sure?”

  “I might forget my password to Facebook, but I’d remember if we hooked up.”

  “You pop up everywhere we go like you’re jealous and following her.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. If I could GPS Coretta’s location, we’d never cross paths.”

  “She’s sneaky.”

  “Were you with her while she was with me?”

  “I was. I’m sorry. But I never came here.”

  I nodded. “At least we know her character. No need to be angry at each other.”

  She rubbed her temples. “Feels like I’m loving her on borrowed time. Her love for me was never true.”

  “I was her fool too. Maybe the clock was ticking down from day one, but I never heard it.”

  “She has secrets.”

  “Maybe her secrets would be revealed if she had shown me her credit report or tax papers.”

  She laughed. “You actually asked to see her credit report and tax papers?”

  “No comment.”

  Maserati Mama sipped. “This wine. I love it.”

  “Another glass?”

  “Yes-o.”

  I poured her a fresh glass, did the same for myself.

  She said, “This has been the worst six months of my life-ooooooo. But I’ll be so much better for having my heart shattered by her. She has broken my heart three times a day in some way-o. I’m strong, uncontrollable, kick-ass, affectionate, kindhearted, gorgeous, and amazing in bed. I know what I deserve from a lover. I have offered her nothing but good, nothing but happiness and ecstasy-o, and all I asked for was respect, love, and to be able to depend on her. I deserve a lover who isn’t self-absorbed, one who doesn’t lie when I beg for the truth-o.”

  “When did this pregnancy-test thing happen?”

  “This morning.”

  “What happened when you confronted her?”

  “She walked out. Left me begging for answers.”

  “So you came here. Sat outside and waited. Probably banged on my door off and on.”

  “Because she vanished, turned her phone off, and I thought she was with you.”

  “More wine?”

  “Please.”

  “I’ll open another bottle.”

  This time I opened a four-hundred-dollar bottle of wine and poured her a fresh glass.

  She said, “She’s no cheap date-o.”

  “You deserve to be held by someone who wants more from you than to ride in your ride.”

  “Same goes for you-o. I ain’t saying she’s a gold digger, but . . . you know the rest.”

  “You love her.”

  “Are you still in love with her?”

  I confessed, “I’m not out of love with her. Time is the novocaine for the toothache in my heart.”

  “One day, she’ll hurt the wrong person.”

  “True.”

  “I trusted her with my heart.”

  “Me too.”

  She took two long sips. “You get the closure you need?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I need closure too.”

  “I’ll work it out in other ways.”

  “She’s probably with that guy now.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Probably fucking him.”

  “Let me pour you another glass.”

  “Too bad we didn’t meet first.”

  “Aren’t you a sexual vegetarian?”

  “I identify as having fluid sexuality. I’m attracted to men and women, but no one more than Coretta.”

  “Didn’t know that.”

  “I just haven’t been with a man in a while. Not in a long, long while.”

  “That would have been interesting.”

  “I should stop drinking before my clothes fall off. Drinking wine makes my clothes fall off.”

  “Okay. No more wine for you.”

  “Is it the wine talking, or do I sense a curiosity?”

  “I never would have imagined you looking at me without eyes filled with disdain.”

  “I’ve never seen you this way, just as you are. I have felt this energy coming from you, the energy that attracts Coretta to you. I feel your testosterone. You are attractive, strong, tall. And you are kind.”

  “I’ve never seen you this way either.”

  She grinned, rocked, maybe surprised at where we suddenly were. “Should I go?”

  I examined Coretta’s lover, took in her dark mood, her vengeful eyes. “Do you want to go?”

  Her voice softened. “Lover of my lover, what’s on your mind?”

  “You go first.”

  “They say if you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.”

  “They do.”

  “Well.”

  “Well.”

  “Your bedroom is that way, I assume. See? My. Clothes. Are. Falling. Off.”

  CHAPTER 51

  BRICK

  THE NEXT MORNING at sunrise, I went to Home Depot in Ladera.

  I bought five gallons of Behr paint, blue painter’s tape, rollers, paintbrushes, trays, and everything I needed to patch up ceilings and walls. While I was filling my cart, I ran into my neighbors Ken Swift and Jake Ellis. They were buying chainsaws, shovels, and plastic. We chatted about quality paints. I had picked the best. On my way out, I talked to Central American day laborers who were desperate for work. Next I stopped by Leimert Park, picked up the pace of asses, and drove Miss Mini toward Inglewood. André and Joëlle trailed me on his iron horse the hue of flames. Dwayne was already at Frenchie’s.

  I introduced Frenchie, Fela, and Dwayne to the attorney from Cuba, the student at USC, and the out-of-work engineer. André introduced Joëlle to everyone. She and Mocha Latte became nerds and talked engineering. Two men I had talked to at Home Depot showed up. Both were from Ecuador. We assessed the damage and ripped out carpet, left it all curbside. Minutes later the lights came on and everybody applauded. Frenchie cried. Dwayne had used the money I had given him to help get Frenchie sorted. After the carpet was out, we patched the holes and painted the walls museum white. The men from Ecuador gave me a good price for labor to install new carpet.

  Two middle-aged black men I had hired showed up and cut the front and back lawns.

  Coretta sent me a thousand text messages. She was angry and hurt. Maserati Mama and I had taken selfies, in my crib, in my bed, and Maserati Mama had sent the evidence to Coretta. Now Coretta was blowing up my phone. Maserati Mama was petty. I, too, was petty at times, just like everybody else. Coretta had wronged us and now she felt wronged by us. She had betrayed both of us and now felt doubly betrayed. Yet I still loved her. Just not the way I used to.

  I put some
more money in Dwayne’s hand, told him to take Frenchie to look at new carpet.

  My older brother cried. He told me he’d pay me back. I told him it wasn’t a loan.

  I wasn’t like Dwayne Sr. and didn’t aspire to be. We were family. We were all we had.

  My phone buzzed, and it was Maureen. Paintbrush in hand, I answered with a kind voice. She told me she had an unexpected trip back to LA and wanted to schedule a session. Just me and not Mocha Latte. I told Maureen my price to meet her for a night at the same hotel near LAX.

  The second we ended the call, my phone buzzed again with a text message. Birthday Girl wanted to see me. So did the self-important politician. They wanted to try something different and see me at the same time. I sent the Birthday Girl my marked-up fee to become a three-headed beast.

  She agreed on the exorbitant price. I’d learned from Mocha Latte and Christiana.

  A couple of hours later Dr. Allison Émilie Chappelle texted me. I sent her a smiley face and hearts. She sent me the same. I imagined Strawberry reading the message, barking and wagging her tail.

  Not long after, Christiana came to me smiling, her phone in her hand, new customers on the horizon.

  While we worked, Frenchie and Dwayne were different. They were getting along.

  If I didn’t know any better, the way they were singing, I’d think they were flirting too.

  When I stood in her bedroom door, I saw Dwayne’s luggage in her room.

  She saw me looking, putting it all together, then grinned and said, “Don’t judge me.”

  * * *

  —

  WHEN I PULLED up at my apartment building, Coretta was on my porch, enraged, banging on my door. She saw me when I pulled up, realized I wasn’t inside avoiding her. I got out of Miss Mini, jeans and T spotted with white paint, same for the pace of asses. They walked alongside me like they were Charlie’s Angels. I told them all was cool, and they headed up the concrete stairs and went toward Penny’s apartment but didn’t go inside.