All About Eva (9 page)

The first thing Donovan did with his first ten million dollars was to buy his mother a home in the prosperous suburban enclave of Scarsdale, NY, which with traffic is about forty-five minutes away from the city.

It was a little after one
PM
on a Wednesday afternoon, so traffic was light. Add that to the speed demon way I was driving Vance's black E-class Mercedes coupe, and I landed on Mama Dorsey's doorstep in thirty minutes flat.

Technically, Vance hadn't exactly given me permission to borrow his car. I had noticed that there were a couple of sets of car keys hanging on the key rack in the kitchen, and seeing as how this was an emergency, I was certain he wouldn't have minded.

Besides, it wasn't like the Benz was Vance's only means of transportation. He had three vehicles, two of which were just sitting in the underground parking garage collecting dust. I grabbed the set of keys with the Mercedes Benz emblem, but when I got to the garage, I was surprised to see that there were all kinds of Mercedes parked down there.

Vance's neighbors were also doing very well for themselves, because there were Mercedes trucks, sport wagons, coupes, convertibles—you name it. Thank God for modern technology. Otherwise I would have never known which one of those vehicles belonged to Vance.

I pressed the alarm button on the remote key and viola! There it was. Luckily, the E-class had a full tank of gas, which was plenty to get to Scarsdale and back. The plan was to replace whatever gas I ended up using, and have Vance's car back before he even knew it was missing.

Annette's sprawling, ivy-covered mansion sat on several acres of manicured land and was surrounded by poplar and pear trees.

The house was rumored to have been owned by Nicky Garofalo, the legendary goodfella who had wisecracked to the media years ago during his racketeering trial that there were multiple bodies buried deep beneath the property. I'm not sure how true the story is—it could just be hearsay—but I am certain that Nicky Garofalo and Annette Dorsey were cut from the same cloth and would have gotten along very well.

Blanche hadn't lied. There really was some kind of social function going on, because Annette's circular driveway was filled with dozens of expensive vehicles. Several uniformed chauffeurs milled around outside smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze with each other to pass the time until their employers were ready to leave.

My bet was that it was a luncheon to benefit whatever cause Annette wanted to kiss the ass of that particular week. Her social standing was very important to her, and she was constantly writing checks and throwing elaborate functions in an effort to keep herself relevant and in the good graces of the social hierarchy powers that be.

Blanche, who I placed at around 108 years old, led me into the massive living room that looked like a page straight out of
Architectural Digest,
which is great if you like your home to have the look and feel of a museum.

Everything inside, including the lady of the manor, was overwhelmingly ornate, overstuffed, and antique. The decor was personally not my style or taste, but was the old-money style that Mama Dorsey cultivated, with her nouveau riche ass.

The thing about Annette Dorsey was that she was so snotty and relentlessly high-minded that one would never know she was born and raised in Hell's Kitchen and that she was once a short-order cook, and also sold Avon in order to make ends meet.

Annette's living room was dominated by women, so it was clearly an intimate girls-only luncheon, and they had all dressed exquisitely for the occasion, some of them in elaborate Mad Hatter–style hats. The Grande Dame herself looked resplendent dressed in a fire-engine-red Escada pantsuit and so many sparkling diamonds that she looked like a walking Christmas ornament.

Annette was shocked to see me, but she played along nicely as if I were an invited guest that she had been expecting and was thrilled to see.

“Eva, sweetheart, it is so good to see you!” Annette said, calling me over to introduce me to the group of women to whom she had been talking. There was the wife of this mogul and that, a celebrity or two, and the heads of several notable charities and foundations.

“And everyone, this is Eva Cantrell, a dear, dear friend of the family. . . .” Then she stage-whispered, “She's a piece of work. . . .” out of the corner of her mouth, which caused a few titters.

“And it certainly takes one to know one. Right, Annette?” I tittered a couple of times just like they had and then stopped abruptly, sending the clear message that I wasn't there for idle chitchat, or to play games.

It was an awkward moment for Annette. But she sailed through it gracefully by straightening her back and smiling broadly. “Eva, dear, can I have a word with you in private?” she asked.

“But of course!” I said in a voice that matched her theatrics.

She had some nerve. Carrying on as if
I
were the one who'd stolen millions of dollars of other people's money, money that more than likely helped pay for her home as well as this little afternoon shindig for which she had pulled out all the stops.

Mama Dorsey smiled and said, “Pardon me for a few moments,” to her guests, and I followed her down a long hallway into her cherry-paneled private study.

Once the door was shut Annette whirled on me like a fire-breathing dragon. “Why are you here?” she snapped

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

“No, actually I don't,” she said, giving me a steely-eyed stare. “But I must say that this was certainly a pleasant surprise.”

“Pleasant? Really?”

“Yes, really. I've always enjoyed having people show up at my doorstep uninvited.”

Annette was being facetious, but I knew how to play that game as expertly as she did.

“Right, and I just love being robbed of just about everything I own by someone who is certainly old enough to know better.”

She nodded. Now that she knew exactly why I was there, she seemed to relax a bit. Like a predator who had caught its prey but wanted to play with it before devouring it.

“Do you have any idea what this last month and a half has been like for me?” Annette asked quietly, reaching into her desk drawer and pulling out a pack of Newport Menthol 100s. She lit a cancer stick and inhaled the smoke deeply as if it were both calming and refreshing. “While you and Donovan were off traipsing around Europe, I was here, from day one, right in the eye of the storm. . . .”

I could have sworn I heard violins playing as Annette sadly filled me in on how life had been for her since the scandal broke.

“You're so lucky that you and Donovan never married. You'll move on and put this behind you one day, but can you imagine what it's like being the mother? The stench of this is going to be with me for the rest of my life, and I know full well that none of those bitches out there are really my friends. I know that at this very moment, they are all out there laughing and talking shit about me behind my back. . . .” Annette daintily dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “And do you know that the turnout for this luncheon was much lower than expected? I can't get anyone on the phone anymore, and this is all just too much! I worked so hard to get here, only to have it snatched away in the blink of an eye. . . .”

It was pure, unadulterated drama. Mama Dorsey had certainly missed her calling as an actress, because I was on the verge of feeling sorry for her until I noticed that she was wearing a large pair of Deco Dome diamond earrings that looked alarmingly familiar. I would recognize them anywhere, because they were mine.

“Nice earrings, Annette,” I said, casually. “Where did you get those?”

She was busted and she knew it.

And it was interesting to watch her eyes go from lukewarm to ice cold in a matter of seconds.

“Let me give you a bit of advice, Eva,” Annette said, furiously smashing her cigarette out in a crystal ashtray. “What I've done may seem unfair and unethical, but when the ship goes down, it's everyone for themselves.”

That was all the confirmation I needed that the rest of my belongings were stashed away somewhere in her mausoleum. I saw red, and it wasn't just from the loud pantsuit she was wearing.

I advanced toward Annette calmly, without saying a word.

Reading my mind and body language correctly, she made a run for the intercom built into the wall and frantically pressed a call button: “Gary, get in here NOW!!” she screamed as if she were about to be killed.

Gary was Annette's butler-slash-bodyguard-slash-part-time-lover, and by the time he made it into the room, I had tackled her to the floor like Ray Lewis and it was Queens versus Chi-Town round one.
Ding-ding!

To his credit, Gary didn't throw me out as forcefully as he could have. Instead, he scooped me up into his big, solid arms and carried me outside, past all those expensive-looking broads who were watching and whispering out the sides of their mouths.

Lucky for me, lawyers keep notoriously long hours and Vance hadn't made it home from the office yet by the time I returned to the city from Scarsdale. I parked his car in the exact spot I'd found it and walked out onto the avenue headed to the post office over on Canal Street. There, I forwarded my mail from the Central Park West address to the new P.O. box that I paid thirty dollars to rent for six months.

Afterward, I wandered into the super-deluxe twenty-four-hour CVS that people were so excited about and couldn't seem to get enough of. I went in there for just a couple of personal items like apricot body wash and carrot oil for my scalp, but ended up going on a mini, and I mean
very mini,
shopping spree in the cosmetics/skin care aisle. Sephora it wasn't, but hell, lip gloss is lip gloss, and the Cover Girl Queen collection has some awesome shades of eye shadow that really compliment my skin tone.

I also bought one of those cheap pay-as-you-go cell phones. It was a far cry from my beloved iPhone, which I considered to be the best invention since Spanx and the oxygen facial. But it was now function over style, whereas before, it had been the other way around.

You know you're doing bad when a purchase of $78.52 hurts your pockets. My attempt to retrieve my stolen goods from Annette Dorsey was futile, and still left me with next to nothing to sell toward helping me get back on my feet.

Four hundred and forty dollars was all I had left to my name, so the
HELP WANTED
sign in the window of a bakery where I distinctly remember a pizzeria used to be the last time I'd been in the area really caught my attention.

Watching my grandmother work as hard as she did gave me an appreciation for the almighty dollar, and luckily I had never been one of those people whose pride would not allow them to perform certain jobs they felt were beneath them. The truth is, you have to crawl before you can walk.

A bell dinged overhead as I stepped inside the small mom-and-pop establishment, whose only customer was a guy seated by the window drinking coffee and working a
Reader's Digest
crossword puzzle.

“Welcome to Belle's Bakery, how can I help you?” asked the man behind the counter. I was taken aback for a moment when I saw him, because black-owned businesses were a rarity in this part of town.

“Hi. I actually came in to inquire about the sign in the window.”

“You sure I can't get you something else?” he asked, laughing at his own joke. He was tall, good-looking, and shall we say “fluffy” the way most bakers tend to be, which was probably due to an overabundance of carbs. “Seriously though, do you have any professional baking experience?” he asked.

“No, but I'm a fast learner and I'm really good with customers.”

“Oh, yeah? And I'm sure you have a
brilliant
personality too, right?”

Again with the jokes. One thing was for sure, if I got the job he would be fun to work with.

He said his name was Steve. Belle was his mother, and she had been out on sick leave for a few weeks due to a mild heart attack. God willing, Belle would return to work within the next month or so, and she would make the final decision as to who would be hired.

After filling out a job application, Steve looked it over and said, “You haven't worked in almost three years? Is this right?” He was judging me. And that made me not want to tell him the truth, which was that I had been luxuriating on an extended vacation thanks to a wealthy boyfriend but was now forced to fend for myself.

So I lied. “I'm just coming out of a marriage, and yes, it is time for me to support myself. . . .” I said wistfully, and rubbed my eyes as if trying to hold back tears.

Steve backed off, and even gave me a sympathetic pat on the back. “Hey, I know what that's like.... You're gonna be fine, trust me.”

I left Belle's Bakery with a spring in my step. No, Steve didn't hire me on the spot, but I still came out with more than I had going in, which was a concrete and tangible prospect.

“I still have a few more interviews to do, but we'll let you know something one way or another within the next couple of weeks” were Steve's parting words to me.

Good enough!

Before, everything looked either black or gray. But now that I was in a better mood, it was like I could see color again. The oranges, pinks, and purples of the setting sun, and the red, yellows, and electric blues of neon signs on the avenue, which was vibrant and alive with activity.

I wasn't ready to go back to Vance's apartment just yet, so I decided to take the longer, scenic route. I crossed the street at Franklin and Hudson streets, quite sure that Robert De Niro had just passed me in the crosswalk. I did a double take and although I couldn't see his face, the body language said that it was De Niro. Love him! Not only for his stellar acting talent, but also because he has always been unabashedly down with the swirl.

I actually used to stomp through this part of town quite regularly back in my early days in New York, and found the TriBeCa neighborhood to be quite charming. Cobblestone streets, quaint shops, and a world-class restaurant on every corner. What's not to love?

Oh, and they make movies around there too, which explains why there are goo gads of movie theaters to choose from.

I walked past the Landmark Sunshine Cinema, my favorite because they offered a variety of options from old classics and international films to documentaries and cutting-edge independent films.

Donovan and I had gone to the Landmark once to see
Sometimes in April,
and he'd made it a miserable experience, because he viewed hanging out downtown as slumming it.

Even though he had been born and raised in Queens, Donovan J. Dorsey had eventually evolved into a bona fide snob. He hated being around what he called “pretentious artsy motherfuckas” who dressed as if they were literally starving artists, with their paint-splattered clothing, ripped jeans, plaid shirts, and those damn black Fedoras with the red feather stuck in the band.

Donovan avoided downtown like the swine flu, and identified more with the uptown crowd who lived in their own exclusive world—the one he had introduced me to after we had met. It was a world of fashion mavens, socialites, entrepreneurs, and people who were on the fast track in the music industry and corporate America. In hindsight, even that had been a “chess move” for Donovan, because uptown was where the big money was.

Speaking of that night at the Landmark, Donovan had also gotten on my nerves because he swore that there were rodents running rampant throughout the theater. “Did you see that?” he had whispered every two minutes, pointing in the direction where he'd supposedly seen a mouse or some other creature whiz by. I didn't actually see the alleged varmints, but there was an undeniable squeaking sound that proved Donovan's claims had some merit.

Continuing my little sightseeing adventure through the TriBeCa neighborhood, I passed a bar called Tutti Fruity where a brawl had spilled out onto the street. Burly chicks in flannel shirts were shoving each other around and trying to smack each other in the face. A little farther down from the fray was a rough-and tough-looking female wearing a white wifebeater, Timberland boots, and a doo-rag. There was a toothpick stuck in her mouth, which she took out to lick her lips and say, “Sup, Ma?”

No judgments, I'm just saying . . .

I read the novel back in high school, and to be honest, I'm not the least bit interested in playing around in another woman's
Rubyfruit Jungle.

After passing a couple more clubs, I found the name Amanda Sardi had popped into my head. Amanda was a former roommate who since the days when we roomed together had managed to make a name for herself as the “empress of nightlife” after opening several successful clubs throughout the city. She was also the darling of all the New York papers, and while we weren't BFFs, we were close enough that I knew that I could count on her for a favor if I needed one.

Since my contact numbers for Amanda had been lost along with my iPhone, I stopped at a corner pay phone and asked information for the address and phone number of each of Amanda's clubs: Visions, Compound, and the ever popular Chateau.

After writing down the information, I called Compound first.

“Hi, is Amanda Sardi there by any chance?”

“And who wants to know?”

“This is Eva Cantrell, an old friend of hers.”

“Hold on. . . .”

That was a good sign. Amanda was always on the go, and hard to track down because she had this nervous, frenetic energy that suggested she'd already had the nervous breakdown but was too busy to notice. After putting me on hold for several minutes the person on the other end of the line came back and said, “Amanda said to tell you that she's on her way over to Visions—you got a pen? I'll give you her cell number.”