The Business of Lovers

by Eric Jerome Dickey

  “We do dinners. Movies. Go to Santa Monica Pier and play arcade games. That is who I am to you too.”

  “You do what I hired you to do.”

  “Okay. You came to me as a client, and you only see yourself as a client.”

  “First impressions are important. I live it every day. My intellect, being a polyglot, my degrees, my trophies, none of that matters once they see my wheelchair.”

  “I don’t see you as a customer. I see a remarkable woman. Compared to you the world is handicapped.”

  “But you’ll never be able to see me as who I used to be. You’ll never know her.”

  “The first time I saw you, I should have come over to you and asked you to play chess.”

  “What first time?”

  “Ask Strawberry.”

  “Tell me. Did we meet before?”

  “I saw you, the whole you, but I was invisible to you; you didn’t meet me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I didn’t tell her. I didn’t tell her because it didn’t matter. She’d been firm, put me in my place.

  I was unworthy because she had paid me to be her lover.

  I said, “I shouldn’t have brought you flowers.”

  “I just need things to be clear. We’re just smashing for dollars.”

  Her phone rang. She talked to someone in French for a moment, then, as her dog barked, she turned to me.

  She smiled and asked, “Chess?”

  I smiled. “Sure.”

  She in her kimono, me in my boxers, Mozart played as we fought as if it were the final chess war, the war to end all wars, as methodical and intense as Magnus Carlsen battling Mikhail Tal. When the mental war ended, a new battle began. I gave that Mensa sex the same way, methodical and intense, like a man in battle, like a man who had to win, only it was like sensual poetry. I made her sing sonnets and haikus as she went three levels deep over and over. On the way out, I picked up the money she’d put on the dresser, enough cash to cover every session, then whispered a soft good-bye as she slept.

  CHAPTER 54

  BRICK

  I STOOD AT the stunning ceiling-to-floor sliding glass doors of Christiana’s new penthouse, gazing down at the beaches. She had a prize view of the Pacific Ocean and could watch a sunset from either her living room, or her patio, or one of the two French balconies. The former attorney from Cuba had a stunning bird’s-eye view of the world. Her penthouse was split over two floors and had an elegant living room with a luxurious private pool deck. White walls. Contemporary furniture. Beautiful art. Not a speck of dust to be found. Two more girls and a guy were working with her now and living here. Like she had planned, this new zip code encouraged clients to pay triple the price.

  Christiana said, “Leave Leimert Park. Move here with me, Brick. Enjoy this view every morning and night.”

  I took in all she presented, then shook my head. “I’m done, Christiana.”

  “Work with me a while longer. Do in-calls from here. Once, maybe twice a week.”

  “No. I’m done. Before the cops come knocking, before addiction takes root, I’m hanging up this trade.”

  “Why?”

  “Vegas has a lot of tourists, but not everybody wants to live there. They visit and go back home. It’s time for me to go back home.”

  “One more client. She lives in New York on Billionaires’ Row, has a ninety-million-dollar penthouse, lives in an ultraluxury residential skyscraper that faces Central Park, and she would love to have you come there for two days, to go to the theater every night, to eat at the finest restaurants, to be her lover when it pleases her.”

  “No.”

  “Imagine waking up in a One57 penthouse.”

  “Have you?”

  “I have.”

  “Finally making seven thousand a night?”

  “Yes. I was taken to Costa Rica for nine days, enjoyed seeing volcanoes, rain forests, and beaches, and was paid seven thousand a night to be a companion. I can negotiate and get you at least five thousand.”

  It made me pause, but I declined that offer, and she didn’t press it anymore. She knew I was done. This was but a pit stop.

  The front door opened. A curvy ginger came inside, a very sexy size twelve. It took me a few blinks to realize who she was. The only time I’d seen her was from a distance, and that was the night when I met Mocha Latte and Christiana in Hancock Park. Back then she was wearing UCLA sweats. Now she was dressed like a model ready for the cover of Cosmopolitan. She was from Chapel Hill and used the name Sunday Domingo. She was with a middle-aged white man in a swank Italian suit. They waved, then disappeared toward the bedrooms.

  Christiana asked, “What will you do now?”

  “I’ll put on my white collar, go back to my old job at the widget factory.”

  “You make more money here. You can make as much in a day here as you will in a week there.”

  I stroked her hair. “You should stop too. Become a lawyer again. Become an advocate.”

  “I don’t know how to get back to who I once was. Each day I have looked for the innocent girl who once lived in Cuba, the girl who loved so profoundly she was taken advantage of, but I can’t find her.”

  “She’s inside you, Christiana. Look deeper. Where is she?”

  “She drowned in the ocean. When I jumped from that boat, she drowned, and I survived.”

  We stood in the window, up high like gods, spying down on the world.

  I smiled. “I love your place, Christiana. This is an enviable lifestyle.”

  “There will always be a room here waiting on you, Brick. You can have your own space. There is a full gym downstairs. A meeting room. A room with pool tables. A swimming pool. You can walk to many restaurants. We have security. It’s very safe here. People are discreet. And we are two minutes to the beach.”

  After she finished her sales pitch, I smiled in a way that let her know she still hadn’t sold me on this upgrade.

  It would be so easy to stay here. It would be easy to feel like a god.

  I said, “I want you to take care of yourself, Christiana.”

  “I will miss you. I will miss cooking for you.”

  “I’ll never forget you. You were my first.”

  “You will meet a woman. You will meet the woman who is perfect for you and marry.”

  “I’ve slept with enough married women to know I don’t want one. Not living in my house.”

  “You’ll meet someone special.”

  “I did meet someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Her name is Dr. Allison Émilie Chappelle.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “I was at Hot and Cool Cafe. When I saw her, it felt like love at first sight. I was invisible to her. She was waiting on someone else, so we didn’t talk. She left the café and I thought I’d never see her again.”

  “How did you find her again?”

  “One day there was a knock on a hotel room door and she came into the room.”

  “A client?”

  “A client.”

  “Wow. As if it were meant to be.”

  “It felt that way.”

  “So, you will leave here and be with her?”

  “No. She knows what I do. Used to do now. She only sees me as that kind of man.”

  “That is a pity. She cannot see your heart as I see your heart.”

  “She is who I used to see on Mondays.”

  “How long will that last, seeing her on Mondays?”

  “It ended.” I gave her the details, told her that flowers had been a bridge too far. “So now, that is over.”

  “To make it last, Brick, as it is with all things, you must maintain the illusion.”

  “And if I don’t maintain the illusion? If I tear down that wall and try to be who I r
eally am?”

  “All clients go away. There is nothing wrong with you, nothing at all, but they all either stop or hire a new lover to fulfill their needs. They come to us because they are bored and stay until we become bores to them.”

  I whispered, “They redecorate their basements.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I didn’t answer, just moved on. “I will go back to love. Before it’s too late to turn back. Before I’m too cynical.”

  “I passed that point a long time ago, and I never realized I had. Love feels like a farce.”

  “It’s never too late. Not for a woman as kind and as beautiful as you.”

  “I could not keep my husband happy.”

  “Happiness is an internal thing. His unhappiness was not your fault.”

  “I tried and failed. I was a loyal, God-fearing woman, and I failed.”

  “No, you tried, and he failed. He failed you. You didn’t fail him.”

  “I must leave that in Cuba and keep moving forward.”

  “I know it still hurts.”

  “Yes. Todavía me duele mi corazón. It still hurts, and it will always hurt.”

  Keys jingled and turned in the front door. Another roommate entered, followed by a tall, well-dressed African American driver who was almost treading on her five-inch heels. The driver brought in five suitcases while she had her own cute little luggage on wheels in tow. She tipped him, and he left. She had just come back from a two-week trip to Dubai, had returned on a private plane with a chauffeur waiting to bring her back to her new address facing the Pacific Ocean. A wealthy client had taken her to the city of the future, treated her like she was Princess Grace. She looked stunning, dressed in new jeans and expensive heels, her hair whipped like a model’s.

  I said, “Hey, Penny.”

  She ran to me, arms open for a hug. “Are you moving in with us? Say yes; say yes.”

  I kissed her cheek, told her the same as I had told Christiana, that I’d only come to say good-bye. Penny told us about her adventure, about her trip to Dubai. She’d had a taste of Arabia in a downtown palace, ridden on yachts, looked at the old town from Dubai Creek, tanned at Jumeirah Beach, played at Aquaventure Waterpark, ridden roller coasters, skydived, had spa days, done helicopter and balloon tours, gone on desert safaris, taken in Burj Khalifa, and shopped until she dropped at Dubai Mall. She’d had a taste of what she called the Beyoncé lifestyle, a lifestyle she felt she deserved. For her, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Hong Kong, and Singapore were the next clients Christiana had lined up. The three of us stood side by side, sipping bubbly, taking in the view.

  I asked Penny, “What about USC?”

  She shrugged.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

  She was a grown woman. This was her choice.

  Just like leaving was mine.

  I remembered Mocha Latte’s speech that time at breakfast. There was no love here. Never would be.

  But even the heartbroken needed a place to rest, a place to hide.

  CHAPTER 55

  BRICK

  I SAT IN the back of the packed comedy club in Long Beach with Dwayne, watched André do his thing.

  As the crowd laughed so hard the city rumbled, I sipped my beer. “So, you and Frenchie.”

  Dwayne sipped his greyhound, nodded. “I’m moving in with her for a while. Just while I’m back.”

  “How’s that work? You pay child support and rent and don’t get a rebate?”

  “I’ll tell you about that when André stops sounding like a bigot.”

  “He’s no bigot. White people started it with the Department of Racism.”

  He sipped. “I’m trying to help her get sorted. Need my snarky-ass son to be okay.”

  “You doing it for Fela or for Frenchie?”

  “For myself. I need to be around my son. Maybe I need to be around Frenchie too.”

  When the third show was done, we sat in the green room.

  Dwayne told us that Frenchie might leave for six months. She had an audition back in New York in two weeks, and he was sure she was going to score a part on the tour of Phantom of the Opera. He said it wasn’t Broadway, but it had a strong cast, and it paid well. It would be a great reintroduction to show business.

  André asked, “So what’s the plan?”

  “She goes on tour while I stay here and take care of the house and Fela.”

  “You get to spend time with Fela.”

  Dwayne nodded. “And Frenchie gets to chase her dreams. She feels guilty for doing it, but I’m pushing her.”

  “What about you?”

  “I audition, hopefully get local parts, or become a regular on a TV show. Maybe get a spot on Insecure, since they’re filming right here. I might sell the income property in Florida, if it gets too tough. That’s my backup plan.”

  “The script?”

  “I have an offer. Not much of an offer, but an offer.”

  André asked, “How much?”

  “If the film gets made, they’ll pay fifty thousand for the screenplay. Then I’d get an additional fifteen-thousand-dollar producer’s salary, which is paid at fifteen hundred per week for up to ten weeks, so could be slightly less.”

  “That would be sixty-five grand on the front end.”

  “Shane Black sold The Long Kiss Goodnight for four million; Joe Eszterhas sold Basic Instinct for three million; Tom Schulman and Sally Robinson sold Medicine Man for three million. I could go on and on and on.”

  André said, “Movies with white casts.”

  “Black Panther was supposed to change everything, but it’s back to business as usual. Follow the money. Black cast, but who got stupid rich? Wasn’t the black people involved. Movie made a billion and I read on Twitter that the main black actors didn’t pull a million each. They should’ve gotten between ten and twenty million each, at least.”

  “Checkmate.”

  “Nigga.”

  They laughed.

  Andre asked Big Brother, “What do you have to do now?”

  “In between making sure Fela is okay and well-fed, I have to spend some time breaking down the script, and I need to get some more skrilla, buy movie-magic scheduling software so I can figure out the logistics and true cost of shoot days. I need a location, crew, background actors, talent days, and meals. I have to figure out wardrobe for the characters in the background. Everything costs more money.”

  Andre nodded. “I’ll help with all the tedious stuff.”

  “Big Legs gonna give you time?”

  “Family first. She’ll be there. If not, then she’s not meant to be here.”

  Dwayne looked confident, happy, that hangdog look he’d worn when he’d come back to Los Angeles all but gone.

  I drank my beer, listened to my brothers talk. A smile ruled my face because I remembered when we were young, running in parks and reading my worn-out comic books, remembered when we were boys and didn’t carry the worries of grown men. When we were done chopping it up, we all hugged and went our separate ways.

  We’d gone from being boys to being men.

  André headed to be with Joëlle.

  Dwayne headed to be in the arms of Frenchie.

  I headed toward an empty apartment, one that had no women, no laughter. Penny no longer lived across the walkway. Christiana and Mocha Latte no longer slept in my bed.

  I missed them all.

  Yesterday Mocha Latte had sent me another photo. She was down at the Gulf of Mexico looking at homes. She was wearing my red T-shirt, the one that proclaimed MAJORED IN COMPUTER ENGINEERING. TO SAVE TIME, LET’S JUST ASSUME I’M ALWAYS RIGHT. I missed them all, but I missed her the most. Part of me wished I had left with her.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN I GOT home, I saw mail had come to my apart
ment for Coretta. It was stuffed in the crack of my door. A note said it had been left in my upstairs neighbor’s mailbox by accident, and they had been on vacation in Trinidad for the past few months.

  It was her income tax papers, the precious documents she had asked me about the last time I saw her.

  I unsealed her mail like it was my own and saw what Coretta had been hiding from me since the first kiss.

  I saw the shame she had kept concealed from Maserati Mama and any other lover she’d had recently.

  Clouds moved away, and I saw the truth in black and white and signed by her as being her absolute truth. Being lied to was as soul crushing as it was enraging. Enlightened, I opened a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine, sipped, and reread her duality top to bottom and front to back, took a marker and highlighted her dark side, circled her secrets.

  CHAPTER 56

  BRICK

  WITH A CLEAN bill of health from my team of doctors, I stopped delaying the inevitable and went back to my high-tech widget factory job. Went back to being a project manager and handling a team of fifteen. On my door was my given name, DWAYNE DUQUESNE JR. Same as my older brother’s name. Here I wasn’t Brick. Exercising my duality, I stood in the window to my office and looked out on the madness on the 405, looked east and took in the smog covering downtown LA.

  The timer on my phone sounded, let me know it was time to head to another meeting.

  The life I’d had for a short while seemed like a dream. I got to see behind their erotic and exotic curtains, heard the private thoughts they’d never tell their husbands, boyfriends, priests, or lovers. Felt them tremble, felt their hearts race, some wide-eyed like they saw the light of God. It was good for the ego to be good enough to make a woman think she loved a man she didn’t know. Women wanted to feel like a woman, that definition different for each. For some it was dominance. For others, submission. For a few, it was equality. For some it was escape from the world. For others, a strong round of sex was what they needed from the world. Sex was always about some other need, or some rejection, or revenge, or acceptance. Sex was rarely about sex. So, I had had to learn to adapt and play all roles, be it spoken in Shakespearean or street slang or broken English or with extreme vulgarity or with beautiful euphemisms or done in total silence—except for the cete of animalistic grunts and intrigue of passionate groans and nonstop guttural breathing that ended at a tribe of orgasms—and then watch them come down from level three to level two to level one. Once on the ground floor, the stunned expressions were always followed by a smile, then a laugh, and the desire to pay to get back on the same ride. For them, money was an e-ticket.