A Love of My Own (6 page)

4
__________________

On my fifth day in New York I had a long lunch with my new boss, Davis McClinton, at Le Bernardin, on West Fifty-first between Sixth and Seventh avenues, one of the city's toniest restaurants.

The maître d' had a strong French accent and greeted us with a warm smile. He clasped Davis's hands and said, “Monsieur McClinton, so great to see you again. I have your regular table ready for you. How's business?”

“Très bien, Henri,”
Davis said.
“Et la famille, comment ça va?”

I followed Davis and Henri and noticed several of the lunchtime patrons staring at us. They probably recognized Davis's face from the covers of both
Fortune
and
Forbes
magazines. Finally black men were beginning to be recognized for their business smarts instead of for playing sports, or being in entertainment or being associated with crime.

We reached our table and Henri pulled out the leather chairs for Davis and me and said, “I'll send Tucker right over.”

“Thank you,” Davis said as he removed his glasses and put them in a snakeskin case. The waiter came over and warmly greeted Davis with a smile and an amber-colored drink resting over several ice cubes. He looked at me and asked, “And what can I get for you, sir?”

“Just some iced tea,” I said.

Davis looked at me with a frown and teased, “Are you trying to impress the boss? Order a drink.”

I didn't know if I should follow his instructions, but I remained firm and said, “No, iced tea will be fine. I want to get some work done this afternoon.” When Davis nodded, I was happy to see that he wasn't one of those egomaniacs who thought things should be his way or no way.

“Are you glad to be back in New York, Raymond?”

“Yeah, I am,” I said.

“New York, the most exciting city in the world. I wouldn't live anyplace else, even though I have homes in Paris, The Hamptons, Telluride and Miami. But if I'm away from the city for more than a month, I start to get a little crazy,” Davis said.

“Yeah, I must say I've missed the city a lot,” I said as I looked out on the busy sidewalk.

“So tell me about yourself. I mean, the stuff I don't already know,” Davis said.

“Like what?”

“Your family?”

“You know I'm from Birmingham, Alabama. I have a younger brother who plays for the San Diego Chargers. My parents are retired and live in Naples, Florida. My father was a civil rights attorney and my mother was a teacher. They're both retired and enjoying life. What about you? I mean besides the stuff you read in magazines?” I asked, trying to turn the tables on Davis.

“My family is from New York,” Davis said.

“Harlem?” I suggested. There was very little personal information about Davis in the case study.

“Fuck no,” Davis snapped. “I grew up on the Upper East Side.”

I started to apologize, but Davis didn't give me the opportunity as he began to speak proudly of parents who were second-generation millionaires. He told me they had made their money selling insurance and burial polices to African American families all across the country, but mainly in the South. Davis told me he attended prep school in Boston, then went to Harvard undergrad and Harvard Business School. He created his first business while he was a student at Harvard, a messenger service for students in the Boston area. He described it as a ground FedEx for students at Harvard, Radcliffe, Boston University, and Tufts. After graduation Davis sold the business and bought his first radio station, a country-western station in Huntsville, Alabama, and turned it into one of the top R&B stations in the South. When he talked, he glowed with boundless pride. I wondered how Davis had gone from insurance to media.

“Who did you hire as messengers?” I asked.

“Some black kids from Roxbury. At least it kept them from begging on the streets in Cambridge,” Davis said as he shook his head in a mixture of frustration and disappointment. Then he added, “Our people. Can't do with them. Can't do without them. This is a great country. I just wish more of our people realized that.”

I didn't have a proper response for Davis's statement, so again my eyes roamed the spacious restaurant. I was relieved when the waiter returned with my drink and the menus. Davis didn't look at the menu, he just instructed the waiter to bring him the usual. I knew that didn't leave me much time to decide, so I just asked for grilled salmon and a vegetable.

“Would you like a salad, sir?” the waiter asked. Before I could answer, Davis told him to bring me a green salad.

“So, you're married?” I asked.

“Yep, been married more than fifteen years. Some good and some bad. I have two perfect children, Morgan and Logan,” Davis said proudly.

“How old are they?”

“Logan is thirteen and he's away at prep school in Connecticut, and Morgan is eight going on twenty-eight and she attends the Chapin School here in the city. Do you plan to have kids? Even though you're gay? Not that it's a deterrent, especially in a city like New York,” Davis said calmly.

I raised my eyebrow in surprise, even though I figured it would come up sooner or later. My sexuality had become public several years before, when I was nominated for a federal judgeship.

“I didn't realize I'd put that on my résumé,” I joked.

“Raymond, now, you don't think I'd hire someone for such an important position and not know as much as the best investigators in the world can find out. Besides, I have no problem with it. I think it's best to tell the truth about yourself so no one could ever blackmail you,” Davis said.

“Was my being gay something you thought about when you offered me the job?” I asked.

Davis responded quickly, “Hell, yeah. You're a double minority, black and gay. I get a lot of points for that when I go after government contracts. Now, if I can just find me a handicapped black lesbian, I will have hit the jackpot,” Davis said, laughing. I was shocked by Davis's insensitive remark and suddenly I felt as if I were being entertained by the devil himself, but instead of challenging him, I decided to change the subject.

“Tell me about Zola Norwood, your editor in chief,” I said.

“Smart girl, Zola. I think she's doing a good job, but she's made the mistake most women do, she thinks her pussy can take her places in the world of high-powered people, and it's good pussy, so it can, but only so far. She'll learn,” Davis said, leaning over the table, whispering as though he wanted to make sure Henri or the other waiters or patrons heard the sudden change in his language from business-speak to straight from the 'hood.

“So your relationship isn't strictly business?” I asked.

“She's one of my women,” Davis said. “But someone like me got a lot of bitches who think they can serve me up some good pussy and get over because I got both wealth and power. Women love that shit. Even though they think they're the only one, they don't know I have more than one box of diamond studs in my safety-deposit box. My assistant makes sure everyone gets fresh flowers every week, especially my wife.”

I didn't know what to say next, so I changed the subject again.

“So what sports do you enjoy besides golf?” I asked.

“I like sailing and riding horses. I just bought a new mare. She's a beauty,” Davis said.

“I'm anxious to improve my tennis and golf games, but it doesn't look like I'm going to have a lot of time, between getting adjusted to the new job and the temporary living situation.”

“You don't like the corporate apartment? I can get a designer to come and redo it to your taste,” Davis said.

“Oh no, it's great. But I know I can't stay there forever.”

“Stay as long as you like. It's a write-off, but when you're ready to find your own place, let me know. I have a great real estate guy,” Davis said.

“Thanks,” I said, knowing full well I couldn't afford anyplace Davis's real estate agent might show me, even on a good day.

The waiter served the meal, which ranked as one of the best I'd had in a long time, not counting my mother's fried chicken. Our lunch was interrupted several times by Davis's two-way pager and his cell phone. Once, during the meal when both were in play, the waiter brought a phone over and said he had an urgent call for Davis.

Davis took the phone and after a “Yes. Sure. I can make it happen,” he asked, “How much do they want for it?”

Then Davis hung up the phone and said, “I need to get back to the office. If you want dessert, you can stay, and don't worry about the bill. I have an account here, so everything's taken care of.”

“No, I'm fine. I'll just head back with you if it's okay,” I said.

“Sure. My driver's out front.”

We walked out of the restaurant and were greeted by two young lanky black guys with their pants hanging off their butts, holding boxes of candy.

“Excuse me, sir. Would you like to help support our youth basketball team by buying a box of candy? We're trying to buy new uniforms.”

As I stuck my hand in my pocket to see if I had any singles, I was disappointed when I heard Davis's response.

“What are you kids doing out here harassing this restaurant's clientele? Where are your parents?” he demanded.

“What?” one of the kids asked. He looked like he was ready to challenge Davis to a duel.

“Don't question me. Why don't your parents pay for your uniforms?”

“Dawg, you gon' let him talk to you like that? Who dat short niggah think he is?” the other one asked, laughing.

“Davis, is that your driver over there,” I asked, trying to intervene.

Davis made eye contact with a middle-aged white man dressed in a black suit and black hat and said, “These little project people better be glad I've got business to handle, or else I would show them. Raymond, do you want to ride back with me?”

“Uh, I think I'll just walk back,” I said. I didn't know what had made me angrier, Davis's behavior or the young boys' foul language and disrespect. Still, I couldn't resist giving each boy a ten-dollar bill after Davis's limo had pulled off.

5
__________________

I walked into the bar, greeted by the chalky glare of fluorescent lights and a warm smile from a man who I knew would never disappoint me: Hayden.

“Hey, Miss Zola. What are you drinking today?” Hayden asked as he took a swig from a green beer bottle.

“The usual,” I said.

“Bartender, a white wine for the beautiful sistah in green,” Hayden yelled as I scooted into a booth near the bar. I leaned over the table, gave Hayden a kiss on the cheek and said, “Good seeing you, baby boy.”

“You, too. You smell good. What are you wearing?” Hayden asked.

“After eight hours? I guess it would be funk mixed with a little Angel,” I said.

“Oh, I love that scent. You know they make that for men, too,” Hayden said.

“I know. Which one do you wear, the funk or the Angel?” I teased.

“It's too early in the evening to come for me. My reading skills are sharp since I've had only one beer,” Hayden said, laughing.

Thursdays were reserved for my best male friend. Right after I leave the office, Hayden and I would usually meet at our favorite hangout, Joe's Pub, in the village on Lafayette and Astor Place. We'll have a couple of drinks, then head uptown to my place or over to Brooklyn, where Hayden lives. We watch
Survivor
and
Will & Grace.
Most times we fall asleep and wake up in the middle of night and talk about life and the perfect relationships neither one of us have but secretly dream of.

Joe's Pub was a cute little spot that featured live entertainment of up-and-coming R&B groups and poetry slams. It was also a place where both Hayden and I felt special because of the attention we received from the male patrons.

Hayden was from Pittsburgh and had moved to New York to perform with the Dance Theatre of Harlem and was later a principal dancer for a new group called Evidence. He had injured his knee and was now concentrating on acting and Broadway. He was tall, almost 6'5" with a well-proportioned dancer's body and sculpted biceps. He had an angular face with unusual gold-flecked dark brown eyes.

“So what did you do today?” I asked as the bartender brought over a glass of white wine for me and another beer for Hayden.

“Nothing special. Went to the gym after all the gym bunnies left. Dropped my pictures off at a couple of casting agents and then I did a little broke shopping, looking in the windows, since I don't have any money to buy anything,” Hayden said.

“Anything look promising?”

“Are you kidding? Child, if I don't get a callback for
The
Lion King,
then I can forget about Broadway,” Hayden said.

“Didn't you say something about auditioning for
Oklahoma!
?”

“Yep, but it didn't go that well. I must admit that ole Hayden can't high kick like he used to. I'm getting old.”

“Please, you're not even thirty,” I said.

“For a dancer I might as well be fifty. Besides, I don't care what the doctor said about making me as good as new, I still feel a little pain after I've danced for more than thirty minutes. That won't cut it on the Great White Way.”

“But you're not going to give up, are you?” I asked as I squeezed Hayden's hand.

“Naw, I'm not going to do that, but you might have to fire that assistant of yours and let me come work for you,” Hayden said, smiling.

“But you can't even type,” I said.

“Yeah, but I'd look good trying,” he said, laughing.

“You got enough money?”

“I'm okay. I'll let you know before I head to the soup kitchen.”

“So how's your love life?”

“You mean my lust life?”

“Whatever.”

“I've hit a dry spell. I was hoping there would be more prospects in here than this,” Hayden said as he surveyed the room with one scope. His eyes suddenly lit up when a handsome, brown-suited UPS man walked into the bar, carrying a box.

“Hayden, don't embarrass me,” I warned. Hayden approached
any man
in whom he took an interest. It didn't matter if the man was gay, bi, or straight. In fact, Hayden preferred men who were somewhat confused, and I had been captivated by his stories of seducing so-called straight men. When I protested, telling him if he had them they couldn't be straight, he would tell me what he told them: As long as they messed around with only him, then they kept their straight status.

Hayden didn't have time for romance with gay men because he said they brought him too much drama and heartache. I knew his current dating strategy was just a phase he was going through and that one day he'd give true love a chance. I was also a little concerned that he had such an easy time meeting and having sex with men who were either married or living with a woman. I was comforted by Hayden's promise that he wouldn't let me date any man who swung both ways, and whenever I had a concern I made sure Hayden met the guy before I became intimate. I remember how mad Hayden was when I introduced him to Jabar and Hayden had to admit that he didn't stand a ghost of a chance to get him to cross over, even for just one night.

“So how is my man?” Hayden asked.

“Who?”

“Zola, don't be coy with me. You know who I'm talking about.”

“Jabar?”

“Yes.”

“You know I don't see him but once a week. Twice if he's lucky.” I smiled.

“Stop frontin'. If you get that dick twice a week, then we both know who the lucky one is,” Hayden said.

“As Jabar would say, ‘That's what's up,'” I said, laughing.

“Tell me about it. What time is it?” Hayden asked as he looked around the bar for a clock.

I checked my cell phone and realized that it was almost seven-thirty. I gulped down my wine, dropped my phone in my bag, and told Hayden to drink up, that it was time for us to dash.

From
Bling Bling
Confidential

When Davis met Veronica Meadors during orientation at Harvard, it was love at first sight for him. For Veronica, the leggy beauty from Philadelphia it was love at fifth sight—once she learned from his close friend Seth, that Davis came from old money. She was even more interested when she discovered that both of Davis's parents were deceased and there were no siblings to share his inheritance, which he would receive once he turned twenty-five. Since Veronica had her own trust fund, she decided she could wait.