Apple Brown Betty (9 page)

“You silly,” the dancer told him.

Desmond nodded. “Yes. I mean, yeah, I am.” He handed her the bills. She shook her head and indicated the soft spot between her breasts. Desmond placed the bills as instructed and she winked and twirled her way to a gentleman farther down the front row.

Desmond sat back in his seat, let out a breath of air. Over the bang of music, he caught the tone of his cell-phone ringer. He got up and went to a far corner to answer.

Desmond covered his ear, flipped the cell open. “Desmond Rucker.”

“Desmond?” It was Karen from the restaurant.

“Karen,” he said.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“I'll be in shortly. I had to make a quick stop.”

“Sounds like booty music in the background.”

Desmond laughed. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“Well, look,” Karen said, “you need to get over here right away. Your sister's here. She was okay when she first came in, but then turned solemn all of a sudden. She's very upset about something, but she won't speak to any of us. She's holed up in the bathroom.”

A breath held in Desmond's chest. “On my way,” he said, closing the flip in the same motion.

 

Slay stood in the lot outside his sister's place. He couldn't force himself to leave, couldn't even make himself get inside his car. He kicked his tires, slammed his hand on the hood. Breathing heavily, mouth filling with saliva, he hocked a glob of mucus and spat it against the windshield of the car parked next to his own. He pounded his two fists together, staring with narrowed eyes at his sister's apartment window. As if on cue, her lights turned off. He imagined her in there, in the dark.

Slay turned his back, leaned against his car and fished out his cell phone. He had to think for a moment to remember the number—the last digits were either 06 or 07. He pushed in the digits ended with 06.

“Hullo.”

Slay straightened his posture, moved the phone to his right ear. “'Sup, baby?”

“Slay?”

“Yeah, Kenya. What's going on with Boom? He still locked down?”

“Umm-hmm. They saying he might have to stay in past Thanksgiving, maybe even past Christmas,” Kenya said. There was more vibrancy in her voice than one would expect from someone with a loved one in jail. “Why?” she asked, softening her voice. “You wanna swing by?”

Slay turned and looked at the still-dark window of his sister's apartment. He gritted his teeth, looked at the night sky. Something stirred in his groin, a need he had to satisfy. “Yeah, if that's cool with you,” he said to Kenya in his sexiest voice.

“I'd like it,” Kenya replied.

Damn, he could barely hear her speak. Her voice was getting softer, farther away.

“I'll see you in a minute.” Slay closed the flip without waiting for Kenya's reply. He paused for a moment, thinking. He was forgetting something. Damn, it hit him. He had business he hadn't attended to. He opened his cell phone again. Scrolled through his message book and stopped on
William Jeffries, esquire.
He dialed the number.

“Mr. Jeffries, Shammond Slay here. How are you?” Slay asked, struggling to sound professional.

“Good, Slay,” Jeffries answered. He put Slay in mind of that cool white dude that wore the dark suits and used to host that who wants to get-a-million show. Jeffries cleared his throat. “You have some good news for me?”

“Yeah, I mean, um, yes,” Slay said, really mangling this. “She'll be checking into the Berkeley Carteret tomorrow. Rooms booked under Gabriel Cohen as you asked. She's yours for the weekend.”

“Hispanic as I asked?” Jeffries asked.

“What you mean?”

“Puerto Rican, Cuban, something like that?” Jeffries said.

“Oh, yeah…yes, she's Spanish. She'll be real good to you, Mr. Jeffries. She dances at one of the clubs around here.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Slay,” Jeffries said. “My associates have told me you do a wonderful job. If this goes well, I'm sure we'll be in touch again.”

That was candy to Slay's ears. He fully understood the impact of repeat business. “Thank you, Mr. Jeffries.” He was prepared to hang up, but something ate at him, something he had to ask. “Mr. Jeffries, what's that e, s, q for at the end of your name?”

“I'm an attorney. A lawyer,” Jeffries said, and then he hung up.

Slay pocketed his cell phone, nodding in understanding. He'd made himself some cheddar, was about to get some ass. Still, though, his mood wasn't the best. He opened the car door, shot one last quick look at his sister's window. “This ain't over,” he said aloud. “This will never be over.” He started the engine, gunned it out of the lot without looking back.

Within ten minutes, he was at Kenya's, walking through her small living room. He patted her two boys on their heads as he passed. Neither of them acknowledged him with more than a quick polite nod, busy playing video games on their outdated Nintendo 64 system. Slay made a mental note to get them either an Xbox or a PlayStation 2, possibly both.

Kenya's bedroom was neat like the rest of the apartment, neat, but small and crowded. Her bed and dresser took up all the floor space in the bedroom. She had a little stereo playing—one of Tupac's slower sentimental songs, the ones the media never quoted from, never credited to his mind and pen. Only one of her secondhand speakers actually worked, so the music, which she had turned down low to begin with, wasn't very clear. The room smelled good. She had a burning incense stick lit, jutting out from the surface of her dresser, held in place by a pickle jar weighted down with a fill of pennies.

“You went all out for me, huh?” Slay said to her. He leaned over and inhaled the incense.

Kenya beamed. “That's Jamaican Spice,” she said proudly.

“Shit smells real good,” Slay said. “I feel like biting off a chunk of that shit and eating it.”

“You hungry?” Kenya asked. “'Cause I got some KFC left over.”

Slay shook his head. “I was just joking. Save that for the kids' lunch or something.” He moved over to Kenya, sat down next to her on the bed. She pulled his hooded sweatshirt over his head, pulled off his wife-beater undershirt, started to massage his shoulders.

“You been lifting?” she asked. “You're like totally diesel.”

“Nah.”

“You tense,” she continued.

“Sister got me all upset.”

“How is she doing? I never see her around anymore.”

Slay sighed. If they had to talk, he might as well ask her what he came to find out. “I didn't get a chance to stop by your uncle's and check out those dogs yet,” he said, “but, yo, check it out. He not working no job or nothing is he?”

“Nope.”

“He still got that truck?”

Kenya nodded. “True.”

“Is it running?”

“Yeah,” Kenya said. “He runs me places sometimes. Moves shit for people every now and then. Why?”

Slay thought about Cydney. Something or someone had brought out this hatred in her. That wasn't his usual sister, or how she truly felt, he was sure. “I want to see if he'll do something for me,” Slay told Kenya. “Follow someone for me. I would do it myself but I got a lot of other shit I have to take care of.”

“I'll ask him,” Kenya said. “I'm sure he'd do it.”

“Cool,” Slay said. He kissed Kenya's cheek. “So when is Boom getting out?”

Kenya got up and moved in front of Slay. She eased him back on her mattress by the shoulders. “Don't be worrying 'bout Boom or your sister stressing you. Let me take care of you.”

“N
ot much to tell,” I say.

In my mind, I'm not even here, lying across my sister's bed, free. I'm still inside juvie. When I close my eyes to try and squeeze away the fucked-up shit that happened in there, something unexplainable happens to me.

I lean over the side of Cydney's bed and rub my fingers over her carpet, but instead, it's the cold concrete floor. Her bed is actually a small cot. The bandages haven't been put on my right hand just yet. I have nicks on the inner and outer part of my hands—from a fight earlier that day with the kid whose last foster mom fed him cat and dog food. A kid that didn't have anyone to go home to, so he talked shit to all the rest of us without caring what happened to him. I may not have liked George, but I had a mama and a sister at home that I couldn't wait to get back with.

I look toward Cydney's door and her Salt N Pepa poster disappears like a shaken Etch A Sketch drawing. “Slay!” One of the guards raps his stick against the wall. I sit still, except for my fingers spiderwalking the cold concrete floor. “Slay,” the guard repeats, “your counselor needs to have a word with you.”

I rise at my own pace, which angers the guard—Fuck him!—and wipe at the corner of my eyes, expecting them to be moist, but they dry. I stretch my body, then move forward in short, choppy steps. Walking like I did as a little boy when I'd sneak my father's too-big shoes, put them on and step around the house in them. I didn't care that they weren't Adidas or Chuck Taylors, they were my father's.

The guard opens the gate and offers me an escape from the loneliness of these four walls.

“Take the lead, Slay, stop at the door!” the guard says. This toy cop motherfucker don't seem to realize that he don't need to waste all his energy barking out shit all the time.

As I work my short but stocky body down the narrow hallway, the other youth offenders yell out stupid shit, trying to punk me down, but I keep moving forward without even a blink.

“Pussy-ass nigga!” one of them yells. “You soft punk.” I keep moving, don't look in the direction of the voices. I know later on, when we're congregated together, that a few of them will do their best to “punish me” for not acknowledging them, but I'll deal with that when the time comes.

As I come upon the conference room they have set aside for me, I notice someone waiting other than my faggot-ass counselor. Cydney!

“What you doing here?” I ask her.

“What?” she says.

I blink my eyes. I'm in Cydney's bedroom again. I'm draped across her bed. The conference room is gone. “I'm home?” I ask her.

“Yes,” she tells me, touching my wrist. I look down and touch her hand. I'm not dreaming.

“Were you scared inside there?” she asks.

I start to smirk, smile, brush aside any thought of fear, but with Cydney I can't be anything but what I am. “Yeah, plenty of times,” I tell her.

She sucks in air and rubs her hand across my head. I'd spent so much of these early years in trouble that I didn't really know the softness of a female's touch. I almost said bitch instead of female, but Cydney ain't no bitch. I like how Cydney's fingers feel on the curve of my head. I'ma close my eyes and when they reopen, she'll be that cute girl from the famous Jackson family that I've been seeing on that show Different Strokes. The one dating Willis on there.

“It's been so tough not having you around,” Willis's girl tells me as she continues to rub my head. Cydney is gone now.

“Tough not being around,” I answer, my eyes still closed. I can practically feel hairs sprouting on my little thirteen-year-old chest as I think about what's gonna happen next. I sit up facing Willis's girl and smile. She smiles back. I'm 'bout to steal her from Willis same as George stole my mama from my daddy. I lean in and kiss her on the mouth, force my tongue inside her lips.

“What are you doing?” she asks me, wide-eyed and pushing me back.

“So many things I don't know about, haven't had a chance to get down wit' 'cause of my problems. Dudes be talking about getting a nut and I have to pretend I'm doing something else so they don't ask me questions about how many girls I done fucked.”

“Well, I'm not an Easy-Bake Oven for you to practice on,” Willis's girl tells me. “You have to do your cooking in a real oven, with a real girl that isn't me.”

I ignore her, reach forward and grab her breasts. She fights me off for a short while and then her muscles and her mind get too tired to fight me any longer. She gives in, let's me do everything I want, short of sticking my shit up in her. I'm satisfied just to suck her titties and run my fingers through that rough hair between her thighs.

I hear something and let up. The door cracks open and I'm expecting Mr. Drummond to step in the room. It's…George? “What's going on?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I answer. I notice that I'm breathing heavy and my voice cracked.

George looks at Cydney. I do too. Her hair is all wild and her eyes got big ol' tears in them just waiting to fall down. “You okay, Cydney Doll?” George asks her.

She nods her head. “He was telling me about how bad it was inside that place,” she stutters. Her voice trembles as she answers and I'm surprised because I know how Cydney usually locks up when grown folks question her.

I nod at George, too, though I don't remember talking to Cydney and don't even know how I got here in her bed. “Telling her horror stories 'bout inside the hole,” I add.

George turns his gaze back on me. “It's late, why don't you get on in your own room and get some sleep, boy. Try to will yourself a dream where you figure how to keep out of the hole.”

I turn and kiss Cydney on the cheek. “Night, thanks for letting me rap with you.” She squints slightly, then forces a smile as I rise and brush past George.

George lingers in her doorway. He's good for that shit. I remember him doing the same thing with my mama after he brought my daddy home from watching their games. When I was little, I thought my daddy was sick. I realize now that he was drunk. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that George opened my daddy's mouth and poured a bottle full of shit down it himself. “You sure you all right, Cydney Doll?” I hear George ask Cydney.

I stand on my tiptoes and look into her room. She nods her head and pulls the covers up to her neck.

George turns to hit the light switch and leave.

“Leave the light on, would you, Pop G?” Cydney says. That's right, I think to myself, watch your back. I wouldn't put it past that fool to come in there and get you.

“Sure thing, Cydney Doll,” he says.

He turns back into the hall and sees me watching him. “Thought I said get on to bed, boy.”

“I'm just watching to make sure you get on, too,” I tell him. I know his game, talking Mama into taking on extra night work so he could have us here alone.

“I can dig that,” he says, trying to be cool to me, “'cause I'm watching you too, boy.”