Liar's Game (27 page)

I said, “You guys play Beethoven all night?”

“That ain’t Beethoven, idiot,” Womack said, then turned to Rosa Lee. “That one’s Peter Tchaikovsky, right?”

Rosa Lee added, “Symphony Number Five, The Destiny in E minor.”

She microwaved us orange spice tea seasoned with honey, then glanced at the time on the microwave.

“Keep an eye on Vince.” She shook her head. “I’m going to sleep for a while. Ramona’s going to wake up wet and hungry in a little while.”

Then she was gone.

My back stung like an insect was gnawing me to the bone. I rubbed my wrists; the handcuffs were still there, invisible but there, cutting deep into my flesh.

Womack said, “Damn-di-damn-damn. Dana burned Kwanzaa’s pictures up?”

I didn’t answer; it wasn’t a question.

He said, “You can crash upstairs at Poppa’s.”

“You sure about that? I can get a room somewhere.”

“No problem. I don’t want your butt driving into a light pole or running off a pier somewhere. You know he’s got a hideaway sofa in the front room. Louie and Mark are up there sleeping in the bunk beds.”

His two older boys stayed upstairs most nights. A two-bedroom duplex with two parents and four kids can start to feel cramped, so everybody spread out. I’d seen his youngest son asleep on their bed. Which was good. I’d hate for the little ones to see me looking torn up like this. That’s why I had called from a pay phone before I came over.

Moments like this, when Womack, Rosa Lee, and Harmonica all worked together, made me realize that Womack lived in a village. A true community. Everybody under his roof took responsibility, helped raise the children. Raise each other. Tonight I was younger than his youngest son.

Harmonica woke and went into the bathroom. Stale water mixed with hard water as he emptied his bladder. When he came into the front room, Womack told him that Malaika was back and I’d gotten into it with Dana.

His jowls dropped some. I’d disappointed him. That hurt.

He said, “Even a worm will turn when she gets riled.”

I nodded. “Yes, sir. I know.”

He stood in the doorway, scratched his belly. “Both of you are young pups on a long chain. Live and learn. Can’t sang the blues with no bad times living on yo’ breath. It just so happens that a fastidious woman brings out the funereal of a man’s soul, takes away his right to felicity.”

I said, “Guess you’ve mastered the F’s.”

Womack looked at me. “See what you created?”

Harmonica said, “I done got emancipated in the head.”

We laughed and yawned. Womack smiled at his old man. Only Harmonica could make a man feel like a juvenile delinquent and have him cracking up when not a damn thing was funny.

Harmonica told me, “Stay long as you need, son. This your port in a storm. Sleep on it. We can talk on it tomorrow if you like.” He went back to the bedroom.

When I got settled, I noticed Womack was uneasy.

I whispered, “What’s the problem?”

“Rosa Lee did it again tonight. Her gym clothes were bone dry.”

I waited.

He said, “I might be getting some outside help I don’t need.”

Womack went into the bedroom and checked on his two boys. When I headed to the bathroom to drain my anaconda, I caught a profile of him standing in the doorway, smiling down on the little rascals. Never saw a man look so happy. I was a little jealous. Actually a lot jealous.

My best friend left. I went and stood in the bay window and gazed out on South Fairfax Avenue. So quiet over here. I thought about Womack and Rosa Lee. About what Womack had asked me to do.

Rosa Lee was my friend, but I’d known Womack longer. We’d been together as boys, were still tight as men. And I owed him. If I hadn’t rented a car from Hertz and had Womack follow Malaika from my home to her lover’s den, I never would’ve known where she’d been creeping. Womack was my backup the night I went rampaging through Moreno Valley and knock-knock-knocking on that door in the middle of the night. I wasn’t a fool. He didn’t want to do it back then, because, just like I’m Rosa Lee’s friend, he was Malaika’s friend.

All he was doing was calling his favor in.

I lay down in the dark, stared at the ceiling for an hour. I sat up, scratched my head, pulled my pants back on, grabbed my keys, and headed out the door.

As soon as it opened, Harmonica’s voice came: “Son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank before you do anythang foolish.”

“Yes, sir.”

I eased the door shut.

I drove La Brea, took the 10 freeway toward San Bernardino. I was going to ride deep into those drought-ridden boondocks and find Malaika.

I chug-a-lugged as far as the 710 freeway, twenty-five minutes from home, fifteen minutes east of downtown, before my senses came back to life and I realized that the inside of my car smelled like a gallon of gasoline. Damn car was twitching like the fuel injectors were on their last legs. My rearview mirror showed me that I was hell warmed over. And, to be honest, with my mood, it wasn’t the best time for a family reunion.

I turned around, headed home.

 

When I went up my stairs, my landlords’ door yanked open. Juanita rushed into the hall, her teardrop-shaped earrings and golden bracelets rattling an anxious waltz. She was barefoot. Pink toenails. Short jean skirt. Sleeveless red shirt tied loosely at the waist. Belly exposed.

Her dark red lips were pursed, but came unglued when she saw me.

I said, “You’re up late.”

“As are you.” Her voice was severe. “Have you seen Naiomi?”

“Afraid not.”

She paused like she was waiting for me to change my answer.

I put my keys in my door.

“Vince, I need to have a word with you.”

I left my keys hanging in my door, faced her.

She said, “This has been a truly heinous evening.”

“Pretty much.”

“This situation makes me feel uneasy, and I don’t want you to think I’m overreacting. I thought about it all evening. It’s best I voice my problem with what seems to be happening. If I don’t say what’s on my mind, I get too resentful. Nothing personal. I’m being real.”

I stood firm.

“How could you hit a woman?” Her finger was aimed at me as she went on, “You’re just like them. Billy Dee, Warren Moon, Rodney King, Darryl Strawberry. You’re just like them.”

My chest was swollen, branded and inflated by misunderstanding. I took a gentle breath and chilled. Told myself not to disrespect Juanita. She had the right to say whatever she wanted tonight. Tomorrow would be different.

“You’re uncivilized and unruly. Certain types of behavior have zero tolerance in this building. And a code of ethics, what is necessary for expulsion from the property, is outlined in your rental agreement. I’d suggest that you review that document.”

We stared. Her face and body were positioned like she was waiting for a rebuttal. In my Rolodex of insults, outside a bunch of “your momma” snaps, all I could find to say was, “I see.”

“I don’t want Naiomi associating with you.”

“You’re saying, don’t speak to her anymore.”

“After this conversation, to us anymore.”

“I see.”

“I’ve made myself clear.” The less I said, the bolder her tone became. “I don’t want anything to be misunderstood by you, Dana, or myself. Naiomi and I have our own problems that we’re trying to work through, and I don’t want her getting distracted.”

I leaned forward. “Distracted?”

Juanita’s expression told me what she meant.

“You think I’m after your woman?”

“I see the crude way you look at Naiomi. I don’t appreciate that.”

“The way I look at her?”

“Naiomi is very naive. She grew up in Oklahoma, hasn’t been exposed to her own culture, and needs to be around positive African American people so she can build herself some solid character. So I don’t want her around anyone like you.”

I nodded, not in agreement, but anger.

She stayed firm. “Everything understood?”

Seconds passed before I opened my mouth.

“I’ll put it to you like this. Your girlfriend has a mind and a mouth. If Naiomi tells me that to my face, then, yeah, understood. Other than that, roll up all that bull you yacked off and use it for a tampon.”

“You abusive, misogynistic, lowlife jerk—”

I went inside my own cave, closed the door on her insults.

 

My place was spotless. Dana had put a new umbilical cord on the phone. The air smelled like Pine Sol, Carpet Fresh, incense. The ashes had been scrubbed away, but the scent from the fire was still in the air.

Dana was gone. Two or three outfits were on the bed, like she couldn’t make up her mind what to wear. None of her other clothes was missing, her briefcase was in the corner, so that meant she was coming back. Eventually.

No messages on the machine from Malaika.

They were back. Had been back half a fucking year.

Heels click-clocked up the concrete stairs. Relief cruised through my blood. She’d made it back home okay. There was a pregnant pause. Like she was waiting for me to open my door and stick my head out. Either that or I was witnessing the birth of contemplation. Keys jingled.

The door across the hall opened. Closed. Juanita’s voice came, went. Naiomi set free a few leave-me-alone sounds. Then silence.

This had been a pretty fucked-up day. I didn’t know if I should laugh, cry, or ask God where the reset button was so I could do this one over.

Gerri was onstage wearing fishnet stockings. Captivating and stimulating, bebopping and hip-hopping. She came out like she was Janet Madonna Jackson—adjusting her glittery bra, slinging off her brown tam, then tugging off the elbow-length leather gloves she had on.

Ten minutes after that Gerri had thrown a white shirt on over her bare skin and headed toward my table.

Gerri said, “Come on in the back.”

“You sure about that?”

“C’mon. I have to change. No time to waste.”

When I went into the den of mostly naked vixens, nausea set in. My nose scrunched, eyes burned a little. I could’ve OD’d on the thick smell of nail polishes alone, not to mention all of the different perfumes.

Somebody asked, “Is she a new girl?”

“She’s cute.”

Gerri shook her head. “Friend of mine. Knock it off.”

Eyes rose from the mirrors and vanity tables. A couple of the girls smiled. Others gave me gangster stares. A couple had catty glares sharp enough to cut diamonds.

Gerri changed her outfit, slipped on a black leather G-string that was the size of an eye patch on her kitty cat.

The dancers forgot about me, started back rumbling, helping each other with their wigs and lipstick. Like actors getting ready to go onstage.

Mesmerizing and obscene. I took a glimpse of each woman: black, brown, and pale faces. Wanted to ask what their relationships with their parents were like. Most of them sounded like silly girls who thought they were grown.

Gerri finished in less than a minute—not much to change—then we stood to the side. I told my road dawg about the phone call, about the pictures I burned, the fight, about the police coming and humiliating me.

She shook her head and said, “Jealousy arouses a man’s fury and—”

“And he will have no mercy when he takes revenge. Yada, uh-huh, whatever. The same goes for a woman.”

She shook her head. “I would’ve kicked your ass from here to Iraq.”

“I didn’t do what he—”

“Not the point. Mind games’ll get you hurt.”

“He came in, foaming at the mouth, making all kinds of accusations—”

She slapped one hand with the other and raised her voice enough to scare me. “The bottom line: what you did was fucked up.”

“Shit, thought you were my friend.”

“No, you thought I’d say what you wanted to hear.”

“Mustang Sally” was bumping wall to wall. The Asian girl was center stage, swinging from that golden bar, showing the world how flexible she could be for a few buckeroos.

Gerri put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Look, youngster, I’m sorry. With all of my shit hanging over my head, I haven’t been in the best of moods lately.”

“I know. How’re you feeling?”

She shrugged. “Worn out.”

“You talked to Jefferson?”

“Yeah. This situation is jacked up.”

Another pause.

I asked, “How long are you gonna do this?”

“Two more sets, then I’m home to the rug rats.”

“No, I mean, how long?”

“Don’t, Dana. Not tonight.”

Her eyes turned to the women who were getting ready to hit the stage. I don’t know what Gerri thought about all this, but I thought of that poster on her wall at home, the one with the slaves.

“Gerri?”

“Yeah, babe.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Make it quick. Gotta go and wrap up this paper route.”

I asked, “Is it possible to be in love with two men at the same time?”

My question stopped her in her tracks, made her blink a few times. “Yes, in different ways, yes. You can love somebody, they can stimulate you in some ways, and love somebody else in a different way. It’s selfish and frustrating as hell, a hell of a dilemma, but hey, youngster, that’s why God gave you two breasts.”

She adjusted her blonde wig, and we headed back down the hallway, left the overwhelming odor of perfumes and nail polishes behind.

She went to work. I clutched my stun gun and crossed the room, strutted through the smoke like a 767 cutting through the evening clouds.

So much anxiety. I needed to talk to someone, had to calm down.

Out in the middle of the decadence and carbon monoxide that was funking up Sunset Boulevard, I thought I saw Butter standing across the street. Lingering near a homeless man who was sleeping in a furniture store’s small doorway. Dressed in all black. Right underneath a rainbow-colored neon sign flashing in Asian writing. I could have sworn it was Butter, but so many girls in L.A. have that same wanna-be-a-ghetto-superstar look that I couldn’t tell.