Cheaters (18 page)

Skin was slapping, sounds from them high-fiving. Using the remover was another bad move. Wasn’t thinking. It stripped off a couple of layers of the paint, but all I did was leave spots that revealed some of the same lettering I was trying to remove.

“I don’t believe you fell for the okee-doke, man. First Toyomi set you up and you fell for the oldest—”

“Shut up, Jake.”

“—dumbest trick in the book. Now she’s doing drive-bys on your butt. You’d better check your pots for boiling rabbits.”

I was destroying my door. I said, “Damn, this remover took too much paint off.”

“It’s paint remover,” Jake said. “That’s paint, it’s getting removed, what you expect?”

I asked, “Can you still make it out?”

Jake leaned in. “Looks like
Wheel of Fortune.
”

“I’d like to buy a vowel.” That was Darnell.

Jake said, “You need to redo the whole door. Run up to HomeBase and get what you need. Slap some paint on it.”

“HomeBase is closed until seven in the morning.”

Jake said, “Ain’t a WalMart behind this complex?”

“Man, don’t nobody care about that,” Darnell said and tapped his watch. “It’s nine-thirty. You start messing with that door, you’ll be out here for two more hours.”

I grimaced. My door faced inward, toward Rebecca’s, so nobody who passed by could see that humiliation.

Three tears in a bucket, motherfuck it.

I asked Darnell, “Where’s Dawn?”

“She went to see her mother.”

I asked Jake, “Charlotte gonna meet you up there?”

He frowned. “She was going next door to Valerie’s house. Valerie and her sister what’s-her-face are having a girls’ get-together thing. Valerie is encouraging Charlotte to push for a wedding date. I’ve got enough pressure to get married as it is, without her sitting around them lollygagging all evening.”

Darnell said, “Jake, you better marry that girl.”

“I don’t like the same old chicken every night.”

Darnell shook his head. “You just have to be creative and find new ways to cook that chicken.”

“Why don’t you go on and I’ll just hook up with y’all at

the club?” I exhaled some anger. “It’s going to take me a while.”

They didn’t argue. I wasn’t in the mood for crowds or entertainment, but the longer I sat around the house, jumping every time a car went by my door, the more unnerved I’d get. By the morning I’d be a wreck, ready for a strait-jacket and a trip to a white room with soft rubber walls.

And I wasn’t going to be a prisoner in my own home. I could stand fresh air for a few. At a safer place.

I called Brittany. No answer.

I called Samantha, left her a tender message. Told her I missed her like crazy and I wanted to see her tonight.

Heavenly music poured out of Shelly’s and washed through the adjacent coffee shop. In the daytime, Rancho Cucamonga was a serene, palm tree lined bedroom community that was framed by strawberry fields, industrial areas, shopping plazas. But tonight a saxophone, guitar, and electric keyboard made it sound like people were stomping at the Savoy.

Shelly’s was a seafood restaurant by day. At night they crammed in a band on the bar side of the room and left just enough room for a few dancers to bop to the groove.

Sistas were ready to party. Sophisticated attitudes all over the joint. Positive energy grooving in business suits, scandalous minis, or ripped and ragged designer jeans.

I just hoped my weariness didn’t make me look unapproachable. I didn’t want to slide into the room, give up negative vibes, and repel all of the wall-to-wall fineness. Toyomi had tripped out, but ain’t nothing better to make a brother forget about a woman than another woman. It was time to start forgetting.

I give props when they are due, so I’d have to admit some of the brothers looked all right. A few could take some fashion tips. One brother had on a decent off-the-rack suit, good cut and it hung well, but his shoes were from the age of the Flintstones. Cheap, unpolished, and cracked.

All of the outside seating was taken, and the inside was SRO—standing room only. I stuck my head in and felt the energy coming through in a surge of body heat.

I saw Jake walking away from the dance floor, following

a sista who wasn’t responding. She gave a half-ass smile, then excused herself back over to a table occupied by European guys and another group of women. One of the white guys shot an insecure frown at Jake. A couple of seconds later, Jake adjusted his African threads and headed back to the dance floor with somebody else. He saw me and nodded. I waved. His dance buddy in the black cat suit slowed down, smiled and waved back at me like she thought I was waving and flirting with her.

Darnell stood up long enough to wave me down. He was in the far corner at a glass-topped table, underneath a lazy-moving ceiling fan. A full-figured sista was damn near resting in his lap. She owned a nice ethnic shape—small waist and hearty butt. One hundred percent his type. But for him, getting that close to a female other than his wife was out of character.

I grabbed a non-alcoholic beer from the bar and weaved through the vivacious crowd. By the time I bumped my way to the table, I was warm, and Darnell was alone.

He tapped his watch, gave a twisted smile.

I hunched my shoulders in defense, said, “Got tied up.”

“It’s almost eleven.”

“I know how to tell time. Who was that babe?”

“What babe?”

“The one who was keeping your wife’s favorite lap warm.”

“Don’t you recognize her from the Sunkist commercial?”

“Nope.”

“She’s an actress. A singer too. She’s a writer.”

“And you’re a married man with a beautiful wife.”

“She knows that. I was just saying.”

I nodded. “Just checking your flow.”

“I was talking to her and her friends when we first got here. Talking about writing, music,” Darnell said. He pointed at the band. The girl had waltzed up and taken the microphone. Her thick frame was draped in a long light brown dress and pearls. The outfit looked good on her fair skin. She was a little tipsy. He said, “She has a set of lungs on her, a serious range.”

I said, “I didn’t know she sang with the band.”

“She doesn’t.” He hunched his shoulders. “She asked if

she could sing a couple of songs. Standing ovations both times.”

“Yeah?”

From the stage the sista smiled; Darnell returned the playful come-on with a wink.

I said, “Darnell.”

“What?”

“Knock it off.”

When the sista took the microphone, everybody hushed.

“Hello, how’s everybody doing?” She smiled, told everybody she was going to sing an old Nina Simone tune, then nodded to the band. Pee Wee clacked his drumsticks as the count. At clack four the band fell into a soft and passionate melody.

She started singing about being the other woman. Her strong contralto voice took control and quieted the room. Everyone listened, hypnotized by her. Even the bartenders stopped making drinks and leaned over the counter. The pain of how the other woman sat and waited, all polished, manicured, covered in expensive French perfume for her part-time lover. Waiting for him, but in reality living her life all alone. Sistas waved their hands, hummed like they were cruising back down memory lane.

Everyone applauded, loud and long. Darnell clapped so loud it sounded like God’s thunder.

The thick singer curtsied, blew a kiss, walked away smiling.

“Sister’s bad to the bone.” Darnell grinned. He was still applauding as he exited the table. “Damn, she can
sang.
”

I said, “Where you going?”

He stood there for a moment, staring at that girl the way a man stares at a woman. But it wasn’t lust. It was a deeper yearning. He ran his hands over his lips, shuddered like he was trying to shake off the feeling.

He answered, “Watch my drink. I’m going to go check in with the wife. I want to make sure she stays up until I get in.”

Everybody hurried over to the singer, touched her and shook her hand. The sister in the diva cat suit walked over and gave the singer a big hug; they laughed, rocked side to side.

The cutie with the booty in the cat suit saw me staring

at her every move. She waved at me from the bar. I waved back. She bumped through the crowd and eased over to my table.

She set free a serene smile. “Long time no see.”

I repeated, “Long time no see.”

“Oh, now you don’t know me.” She held out her palm.

I hesitated for a moment and wondered where I knew those tight eyes from. Then I saw the butterfly on her shoulder.

I said, “Kismet?”

She said, “That’s right. Kismet.”

Makeup, high spirits, and nighttime made her look like a different woman. More mature. Less vulnerable.

I reached into my pocket. “Let me give you that ten dollars.”

She grinned and pushed my hand back. “I told you I wouldn’t take your money for helping me.”

“Well, let me buy you a drink. I forgot your name.”

“Never told you. I’m Chanté Ellis.”

“That’s pretty. Chanté Ellis. It has a nice flow.”

“Thank you, but only if you mean it.”

We shook hands. “I’m Stephan Mitchell.”

“Stephan Mitchell.” She smiled. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“I didn’t recognize you either. Your hair is different.”

“I curled it. And my seventy-five percent must be showing.”

We laughed.

I asked, “How often do you change your hair?”

“Often. But you’re the one who looks different. Look at you. All jazzed up in a green suit. That’s a nice tie.”

“Thanks. Guess I was pretty tore up when you met me.”

She beamed. “We both were.”

We both laughed.

She leaned closer. “I’m not messing up your action, am I?”

“Nah,” I said. “I’m here with a couple of buddies.”

“I saw you trying to be slick and look at every booty when they walked by. You still looking for that special perfect one?”

“You still searching for your spiritual ugly man?”

She laughed again, soft and sweet this time. “I’m teasing.

But you’ve got to learn to be discreet. Women were checking you out, but you didn’t notice.”

“Who?”

“I’m not telling.”

“You?”

“Don’t even go there.”

Her singer friend was at a table on the other side of the room with another sista who was dressed in ripped jeans. They all waved at each other. I told her that her friend was good.

Chanté said, “She just landed a part in a play in Hollywood.”

“Really?”

“Un-huh,” she said with much pride. “We’re celebrating. We were going to go to either Club Century or Pandemonium, but Karen didn’t want to go into L.A., then drive back to Riverside and drag her butt in to work in the morning.”

“Hold up. Your girlfriend’s trying to get your attention.”

Chanté’s friends motioned toward the glass doors that separated the inside from the concrete balcony with the waterfall and greenery. A short brotha wearing Kani jeans was walking in with a thick-boned, young-looking, caramel-skinned sista. She had on a cream, wide-legged pant suit and was clinging to his elbow.

Chanté peeped over her shoulder just as the brother gawked in our direction. Her feminine grin turned into something morbid.

“Stephan, I’ll be right back,” Chanté said, then bumped through the crowd and went over to her girlfriends.

The brotha and his lady friend stood in the doorway. She was smiling, singing along with the band’s version of a Norman Brown style Janet Jackson remake. The brotha had a constipated expression. She was oblivious to the tension that breezed in on their coattails. They headed to the far side of the room, but she pulled his arm when she saw a table being vacated right next to mine. He fingered his mustache and cut his eyes down at me.

I said, “What’s up?”

Not so much as a head bob from him.

His date grinned. “Nothing much. How’re you doing?”

“Better than some, worse than others.”

Before they could get settled, his date said, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to the little girls’ room.”

When she snaked through the crowd, Chanté’s eyes followed the girl like she was prey. Chanté and her friends huddled. A second later she and the petite woman in the ripped jeans hopped off their bar stools and headed in the same direction.

On the way out Chanté cut her eyes at the brotha.

The guy groaned, a sound of fear mixed with anger and depression.

Before long Chanté, her friend, and the girl bumped back through the crowd, laughing. The brotha’s fingers had been drumming the table ever since they vanished, not in beat with the music. Chanté’s girlfriend made eye contact with me. She casually licked her lips. I nodded. Interest was in her eyes.

Chanté slowed homeboy’s date at my table, said, “I want you to meet a friend of mine.” Her eyes told me that something was up.

I stood and extended my hand. “Hi.”

“Stephan Mitchell,” Chanté spoke loud enough for her words to carry a table over. “This is Peaches.”

“Hi, Stephan.”

Chanté asked, “Are you here by yourself?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Peaches said as she stepped past me. Her man friend grunted and took his time about getting up from the table. She said, “This is my fiancé, Thaiheed.”

Thaiheed’s eyes bounced back and forth between Peaches and Chanté. He never gazed my way, not even when we were formally introduced. I was being dissed.

“This is Chanté.” Peaches smiled. “And that’s Karen.”

Karen winked at Thaiheed. “Congratulations on the engagement, my
true, strong
, and
righteous
brother. Not many of you around.”

Thaiheed and Karen locked eyes.

Karen said, “You have something to say, Thaiheed?”

“So, when’s the wedding?” Chanté asked.

“You want to—” Thaiheed tried to say.

“Next June.” Peaches blushed. “It sure would be nice to get your friend Tammy to sing me and my man across the broom.”