Two Thin Dimes (21 page)

T
he motel room had long been empty. It was a fact that made Tameer's heart feel as though it had fallen into his stomach. Jamaica's beat-up Volkswagen sat abandoned in front of the now empty motel room, giving rise to some semblance of distant hope—at least until he realized that Jamaica had left the vehicle, because she no longer had any need for it. It had served its purpose, it had protected her identity, it had shielded its owner's deceptions. But still, it had to be registered to some address and location. He would find her, he told himself. Be it in New York, Switzerland, or visiting her father in Louisiana, he would find her. He needed to write down the car's license plate numbers, and start from there.

Tameer patted his pockets frantically, searching for a pen. There was none to be found. He didn't trust his memory enough to leave without writing down the car's license plate numbers, so he had to find a pen, a pencil, a marker, or anything that he could use to write down the numbers. He knew that the motel's office would have something to write with.

The large cow bell that hung above the glass and steel doors of the office entrance announced his presence. There was no need. The clerk had been watching Tameer suspiciously since his arrival.

“Noticed you were looking at the red VW over there, Mister,” the clerk told him. “Are you interested?”

Tameer frowned. “Interested in what?”

“In buying,” the clerk said, as if it were obvious.

“I know the owner of that car. How are you going to sell something that's not yours?”

“It is mine,” the clerk replied. He quickly reached beneath the counter and pulled out a stack of papers, and set them on top of the counter in front of Tameer. He lifted the document on top of the stack. “See, I have the title.”

Tameer quickly reached for the piece of paper. “Give me that!”

The clerk snatched the paper from the air. “Nope.”

Tameer frowned and leaned forward. “Mister, I need to find the owner of that car!”

“I'm the owner.”

Tameer examined the clerk for a moment. His disheveled clothing, missing tooth, scruffy beard, and alcoholic breath told him much of what he needed to know. He was getting nowhere, and he knew that it was only going to get worse. The clerk spoke only one type of language, and Tameer was angry with himself for not recognizing this in the first place. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. He held the money up in the air, directly in front of the clerk.

“I'm looking for the former owner of that automobile, sir,” Tameer said politely.

The clerk snatched the twenty from Tameer's hand. “Sir? I like that. I haven't been called sir since…Well, hell, I ain't never been called ‘sir'!” The clerk let out a high-pitched gasping laugh.

Tameer folded his arms. “Where is she?”

The clerk scratched his head. “Well, son, if I remember correctly, they left here, and said they were going to some fancy pants hotel. She said, ‘Here, Mister, you can have this here car, if you forget ever seeing any of us.'”

“Which hotel?” Tameer demanded.

“Well, I forgot!” The clerk again let out his high-pitched alcoholic laugh, and began slapping his hands together.

Tameer pulled out another twenty-dollar bill.

“Which hotel?” he asked again.

The clerk straightened up. “Son, I'm a man of principle. The lady asked me to forget they were here, and I agreed. Now, for you to come in here, pull out some money, and think that I'm going to compromise my principles for a measly twenty dollars…”

Tameer pulled out a third twenty.

“Well, she did say to forget they were here.” The clerk slowly slid the twenty-dollar bill from between Tameer's fingers. “But she never told me to forget where they were going. She had me forward all of their business calls and correspondence to another address. Hold on, I'll get it for you.”

The La Cantera was something that Tameer had never seen the likes of before. He had seen advertisements in magazines, and once in a while, he had been able to catch episodes of
Lifestyles of The Rich and Famous
, but nothing could ever have prepared him for what was now sprawled before him.

The grandeur of the lobby, which shot up several dozen stories, was breathtaking. On each floor, balconies overlooked the massive lobby, and the gigantic, marble water fountains, which stood imposingly throughout the lobby. Water sprouted from the fountains, several stories into the air, all of it neatly falling back down into the fountain's base, daring not spill a drop. There were massive silk floral arrangements throughout the lobby as well. They were set inside of humongous vases of intricately carved stone. He surmised that one of the vases would cost twice his annual salary, after he finished college!

The carpeting in the lobby was so thick, that each of his steps reminded him of walking on top of a pillow of cotton. The seating spaced throughout the lobby, was leather covered, with intricately carved legs of wood or gold. Massive silk tapestries draped several of the walls, and legions of uniformed servants fanned throughout the establishment, catering to their guests' every whisper.

The guests, of course, were the beautiful ones. Tameer thought them to be lifted straight from the pages of
Vogue, GQ, Essence
, and
EM
. The women were young, gorgeous, designer, and toned, while the men were older, conservatively suited, and sported distinguished gray streaks in their immaculately trimmed sideburns.

The young blonde behind the massive marble-and-cherry service desk was exceptionally friendly. Once he told her his name and asked for the Rochelle party, she acted as though she had been expecting him.

“Yes, sir, the Rochelle party is here, and I've been instructed to have you shown up to their suite as soon as you arrived. Hold on for just one moment, while I buzz a concierge.”

It was the motel clerk, Tameer thought. It had to have been. The little weasel must have called ahead and warned them. Beverly was smart.

The elevator was speedy enough, slightly slower than the arrival of the concierge at the desk after the blonde called for service. His instantaneous appearance made it appear as though the establishment employed genies of some sort.

The double doors to the penthouse suite were of the massive, solid, light-pecan-shaded variety. Their beauty was accented by the highly polished, gold, French-style door handles and gold hinges. To Tameer's surprise, the doors swung open to reveal a smiling Beverly. She quickly handed his escort an undetermined amount of money, causing him to disappear as quickly as he had appeared downstairs. Beverly waved for him to enter.

“I've been expecting you,” she told him, as he stepped inside of the massive suite.

“Is Jamaica here?” Tameer asked.

Beverly ignored his question.

“I garnered that you would probably not let go that quickly, that easily. My daughter was quite distraught, and judging by your anger at her deception, you were quite hurt. Therefore, I take it, that you have some type of feelings for my daughter.”

Beverly motioned her hand toward a love seat, offering Tameer to sit. He accepted. She turned to a nearby table and lifted a crystal tanker of Scotch, and poured herself a glass. Never one to be impolite, she offered her guest a drink as well. Tameer waved her off.

“No, thank you, ma'am, I don't drink. Is Jamaica here?”

Beverly sat uncomfortably close to Tameer on the love seat, and began to sip from her glass of Scotch.

“How much will it cost me, to have you forget about my daughter?”

Tameer shook his head and looked down. “I don't want your money, ma'am.”

“I see…you are a hard bargainer.” Beverly nodded slightly. “I'll tell you what, you name your price, and I'll write you a check here, right now.”

“It's not about any money. I love Jamaica.”

Beverly threw her head back in laughter, and chuckled in a demeaning manner for a moment, before sipping from her glass of Scotch again.

“What is your name again?” she finally asked him.

“Tameer.”

“Tameer, you are from a low-income housing development, are you not?”

He nodded.

“Jamaica was basically raised in Europe, and in the Hamptons. You wear clothing from a rack; Jamaica's clothes are usually designer originals. You drive a Ford; my daughter is a Ferrari.”

Beverly smiled at Tameer. “My dear son, you are from two different worlds. Remember what you said to my daughter? To leave you alone and go back to her world? Let her go back.”

“I was angry, I was hurt,” Tameer replied. “Mrs. Rochelle, I was wrong. I love Jamaica.”

Beverly shook her head. “But you don't even know my daughter. How can you love someone you don't even know?”

“I do know Jamaica. We talked, and talked, and talked. We shared our dreams, our past, and we very much want to share our future. We want to make one together, Mrs. Rochelle.”

“You knew her? You shared your past? Young man, you did not even know who my daughter was, until a few days ago.”

“I didn't know her name, but I knew who she was. I didn't know of her fame, but I knew about her dreams. I got to know Jamaica on the inside, the real Jamaica. Not the TV Jamaica, or the Jamaica on stage, but the Jamaica who throws snowballs, rides roller coasters, and dances around sombreros. I got to know the Jamaica who cares about people, who cared about me. I love that Jamaica, Mrs. Rochelle.”

Beverly leaned back against the love seat, and sipped on her drink. She shook her head slightly as she examined Tameer.

“You are a smooth one. No wonder you were able to get my daughter to fall for you.” Beverly turned and stared at the coffee table for several silent moments, before turning back to Tameer. “You know, I'm willing to let you write an obscene amount on one of my checks.”

“I don't want your money,” Tameer told her again.

“Why not?” Beverly snapped. “Why are you doing this to my daughter?”

She turned away from him and exhaled forcibly. “Why can't you just let her be happy?”

“That's what I want. I want to make her happy!”

Beverly turned and faced him again. “What makes you think that
you
can make Jamaica happy?”

“Because I've done it before. I've made her happy, and she's made me happy.” Tameer locked eyes with Beverly. “You know she loves me.”

Beverly closed her eyes for several seconds, and then took his hand into hers. “Sometimes, if you really love someone, you have to let them go. Sometimes, you have to sacrifice your own happiness, for theirs. Sometimes, you have to love someone enough to let them go on with their life and be happy.”

“I've heard the song.”

“Don't be selfish,” Beverly snapped.

“I love her,” Tameer replied.

“Why?” Beverly asked him again.

Tameer stood, and began to pace around the floor of the suite.

“Because she makes me happy.” He balled his right hand into a tight fist and pounded the air in front of him. “Because Jamaica makes me whole.”

Beverly sipped on her glass of Scotch again, and stared at him.

“You're a shoe salesman?” she asked condescendingly.

Tameer nodded. “For now. I'll finish college in May.”

“Really?” He had surprised her. “What is your major?”

“Business. Business and literature.”

Beverly recoiled. “Why?”

“Because I want to get a good job. Because one day I want to own my own business.”

“Why literature?”

“I love poetry.”

“Do you write?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Well…let me hear some poetry.”

Tameer shook his head. “No.”

The answer startled her.

“No?” she repeated. No one had told her
no
in a long time. “Why?” she demanded.

“Because I'm not in the mood.”

Beverly wanted very much to call him an arrogant bastard, but Tameer was a heathen. You do not lose your temper with heathens, she reminded herself. They could react in some very unpredictable ways. She settled for asking him a different question.

“What type of business do you want to have?”

“Financial services. I also want to open up a small shop, and import African art.”

“What kind?”

“Masks, Sub-Saharan masks. Sculpture also, and some plate carvings, and paintings as well.”

“What areas, what tribes?”

“Any and all. It's all beautiful.”

Beverly sipped from her glass again, and then sat up. “I'll give you the money to start your business.”