Hittin' It Out the Park (19 page)

Cheryl didn't run into him until seven years later when she and Stephen were dining at The Cecil on 118th Street in Harlem. If she had seen him when they walked in, she would have turned right back around, but it wasn't until the waitress was placing their salads on the table that her eyes wandered to the corner of the restaurant. He was sitting there, as cool as could be, drinking a bourbon and nodding his head to the tune the saxophone player was blowing while looking at her.

She was about to signal Stephen that they needed to leave, but before she could, he jumped up to go say “hi” to a cute guy he recognized. Before she was aware, the man was sitting in Stephen's vacant chair.

“I saw you in
Essence
magazine, Cheryl Blanton.”

She didn't know if she were more surprised that he remembered her name, or that he actually read
Essence
. She wasn't inclined to ask about either, but he responded as if she had.

“Naw,” he said with a dry chuckle, “I don't normally read
Essence
. I was taking my lady to the doctor's office, and there was nothing else to read. And when I saw your picture, I recognized you and later dug up that card I took. Then I looked you up on the Internet.”

“Oh, that's nice,” Cheryl said, trying to keep her voice level and a smile on her face.

“Do you have a card?”

“A card?” Cheryl looked at him quizzically.

“A business card.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold business card holder, removed a card, and handed it to her.

“Dwayne Ligon,” Cheryl read out loud. “But it doesn't say what you do.”

“I do whatever needs to be done,” Ligon said carefully. “Do you understand, ma?”

Cheryl nodded.

“Good. Now give me your card.”

Cheryl handed him one, and for the first time, she saw Dwayne Ligon smile.

“I'm glad you've done well for yourself, Cheryl Blanton. Get in touch with me if you need me,” Ligon said, getting up from the table. “But only if you need me.” He winked at her, then added before walking away: “After all, I owe you one.”

The first time Cheryl called on Ligon (she always referred to him by his last name) was when a client she booked on her own, rather than through an agency, refused to pay her. Two days later, she had her pay, minus the ten percent commission Ligon charged for his services. Over the years, she had used him a few more times, but she had never been to his home, and this was the first time he was in hers.

“You got a lotta flowers.”

Cheryl tried to hide her surprise. It was true there were vases of flowers of all sorts around the room—and around the entire house—but most people who visited the apartment for the first time mentioned how fabulous and spacious the place was. And Ligon certainly didn't seem to be the type to be in interested in flora. But then again, who knew? Maybe he studied botany while he was in prison. After all, if there could be a Birdman of Alcatraz, why couldn't there be a Flowerman of Leavenworth?

“Shall we get down to business?” Ligon asked, pulling out three folders from the satchel.

Cheryl eagerly leaned forward.

“Okay, I've shadowed your man and I have his schedule down.” He handed her one of the folders. “All I need is your word and I'll take care of it.”

Cheryl nodded, and placed the folder on her lap without looking at it. “And you're sure that you won't get caught or anything? Will you be doing it yourself?”

Ligon answered her with a cold stare.

“Sorry,” Cheryl said, biting her lip. “I say let's go forward as soon as possible. But please make sure that he knows that if he ever contacts me again, it'll be worse the next time.”

“Not a problem,” Ligon said, with a nod. “I'll let you know as soon as it's done.” He tapped his finger on the second folder. “Now, the first matter is already paid in full, but as we discussed on the telephone—”

Cheryl pulled an envelope from her pocket and handed it to Ligon who placed it in his satchel without looking inside.

Ligon tapped the folder on his knee before handing it to her. “There's a full report on your second matter—from her birth to present. I don't know how much you know about the young lady, but this one here is a trip. And,” he stood up and picked up his satchel, tucking it under his arm, “if you want a job done on her, it's going to cost a little more.”

“Why? Because she's female?” Cheryl took the folder, and had to call on an enormous amount of willpower not to immediately flip it open.

“No.” Ligon was already halfway to the door. “Because there will be a lot more people asking questions. That family of hers will be all over it.”

Cheryl locked the door behind Ligon, then leaned against it, breathing heavily as she gazed at the folder still lying on the chair.
Okay, Miss Sexy Sanchez, let's find out what dirty secrets you have that I can use to hang your little stank ass.

She tried to calm her breathing as she poured herself a glass of Chablis. If there was one thing she knew about the Yankees organization, it was that they hated even the possibility of a scandal. If there was something really dirty in Sexy's past and they found out about it, they would be quick to call Yusef in and give him an ultimatum, get rid of the skank or get put on the chopping block. And that would automatically cool Randy's ardor for the slut. He might have the hots for her, but he wouldn't put his playing career on the line for her. Of course the Yankees wouldn't get rid of Randy—under any circumstances—but he still didn't really realize his worth to the team. No, he wouldn't want to take the chance.

Cheryl sat down and slowly opened the folder, surprised at the neatly typed report Ligon had prepared. She wondered if he had a secretary or if had typed it himself. She ran her fingers over the papers, her mouth actually watering as she anticipated the salacious information she would soon be reading. She took a sip of wine, and settled to read.

Amanda Nehru, huh? She knew, of course, that Sexy wasn't her real first name, but she had assumed that Sanchez was authentic. However, her exotic features and wavy hair could very well be attributed to an Asian heritage rather than Latino.

Birth date, April 15, 1997. Figures she would be born on tax day—if there was ever a taxing bitch, she was certainly it. Whoa! Cheryl reread the birth date.
Nineteen ninety-seven? That means Sexy, or whatever the hell her name is, is barely seventeen! Oh, shit!
Cheryl jumped up, not caring that the folder fell to the floor, and pumped her arm in the air.
Oh, I got that little bitch now!

She picked up her glass and gulped down the rest of her wine, then poured herself another. This was too good to be true. She'd only recently turned seventeen in April. The wives said Sexy had flown down to spring training to play freaky-deaky with Yusef, and spring training had ended in March. That meant Yusef had actually been fucking an underage girl back in March!
Ooh, wait until the Yankees' brass hears about this!
Cheryl took another gulp of wine. True, the news would end Yusef's playing career, but, oh, well, she thought. Collateral damage. And perhaps Sexy would do the right thing, and simply back out of the picture if told what would happen if she didn't. Then no one would have to find out. But somehow, Cheryl doubted it. That skank didn't care about anyone but herself.

Cheryl reached for the telephone, eager to tell Stephen the dirt she'd dug up, but then changed her mind. She bent down and retrieved the folder and papers from the floor, intent on seeing the other scandalous information that was available. May as well hit Stephen with everything at the same time. One of the papers, however, was a photocopy of a photograph—a headshot of a man who looked vaguely familiar. She hurriedly put the papers in order, and eagerly sat down again to resume her investigation.

Born in New York City, but raised in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. Father: Dr. Patag Nehru, dean of the University of Pennsylvania Medical School. Mother: Clarissa Nehru, a socialite.

Patag Nehru? Cheryl flipped through the papers until she found the photograph again. Could it really be? The same Dr. Nehru who'd adopted her son? But the report showed that Amanda was the couple's only child. She flipped through the papers until she finally found the birth certificate. There it was. Patag Nehru was listed as father, and Clarissa the mother. Child born . . . Cheryl gasped. Child born at New York Hospital at 6:17 a.m. The same year, the same day, the same time, and the same hospital—could this all be a series of coincidences? But no, her child was a boy. Dr. Nehru had told her so. Cheryl closed her eyes, remembering that day. Yes, that's what he told her, but she'd never seen her baby. Had he lied?

Cheryl stood up and slowly walked toward the window in a daze. She held the folder loosely in her hands, and the papers fell out, one by one, with each step she took, but she didn't notice. She stared out at the beautiful view, but saw nothing. Her last thought before she lost consciousness and fell to the floor:
That little bitch is my child.

S
exy and Randy didn't have to wait in the ridiculously long line at the Empire State Building. Putting his celebrity status to good use, Randy was given the VIP treatment, and management whisked them past the throng of tourists waiting to visit the world's tallest structure.

The view from the eighty-sixth-floor observation deck was breathtaking. “I'm not super religious,” Sexy commented, “but being so high up in the sky makes me feel closer to God.”

“I know what you mean,” Randy said, nodding.

Sexy glanced at the ESB brochure and grinned at him. “Are you ready to go higher and visit the Top Deck on the one hundred-second floor?”

“I thought we were at the top.”

“Nope. There're sixteen floors above the observation deck.”

“Okay, let's do it.”

They boarded an elevator and when they exited and looked out the window, Randy muttered, “Whoa, this is a little too high up for me.”

“Don't tell me you're afraid of heights,” Sexy teased while snapping pictures of the spectacular view of the city and beyond, and with several clicks, she posted the images on Instagram.

“Can't say I've ever been up this high—except in an airplane.”

“It feels incredible being up here,” she said excitedly, continuing to take pictures from different angles. “Don't you want to get some pictures of the view?”

“No, thanks; I'm good,” Randy said, looking somewhat nauseous.

Sexy gazed at him with her head tilted to the side. She noticed that his complexion had taken on a grayish tint. “Aw, you're not kidding around—you're really feeling a little woozy, aren't you?”

Randy nodded, and Sexy returned her camera phone inside her purse. “Let's go to one of the restaurants and see if we can find something to settle your stomach,” Sexy said, sounding mature and nurturing. In reality, she didn't know the first thing about caring for a sick person. She was merely repeating something her mother often said when Sexy was a child and complained of a tummy ache.

“Yeah, let's go,” Randy agreed, eager for a decrease in altitude. As the elevator descended, Randy's complexion returned to normal.

“Feeling better?” Sexy inquired.

“Much,” he replied, looking embarrassed.

“Lots of people are afraid of heights. That's nothing to be ashamed of.”

Randy peered at Sexy curiously. “How is it that you read me so well?”

She shrugged. “I feel like I've known you for a long time. Like maybe in another lifetime, you were my big brother.” She glanced down at the brochure. “Hey, you wanna get something to eat? Inside the building, there's a Chipotle and also Europa Café.”

“I'm not crazy about Mexican food, so let's try that Europa place.”

They found their way to Europa Café, and Sexy ordered a quiche and lemonade and Randy ordered a hearty turkey breast sandwich and a cup of coffee.

Sexy wrinkled her nose. “Never could understand why people drink coffee. It tastes bitter and it gives you the jitters, so what's the point of it?”

Randy laughed good-naturedly. “It tastes good to me, and I don't know anything about getting any jitters. It gives me an energy boost. Besides, I'm grateful to get a regular cup of Joe. It's nice to have regular coffee instead of always drinking that African kind that Cheryl brews at home.”

Sexy tilted her head curiously. “African kind?”

“Cheryl is into this imported, African coffee. She says the high-quality beans are grown a certain way and it's the only coffee she allows in the house. She drinks two and three cups a day, but I don't touch the stuff. It's too strong for me. I love me some Dunkin' Donuts coffee, and usually get a large cup every day. My wife is a class act, and you wouldn't catch her stepping a foot inside no Dunkin' Donuts—she's a Starbucks kind of girl. Yeah, Cheryl is something else; she really enjoys the finer things in life,” he said fondly and with a trace of pride.

Argh! It was a struggle for Sexy to keep her mouth shut and not speak her mind about Cheryl's pretentiousness, but she managed to smile sweetly, as if she thought that haughty, self-absorbed tramp was absolutely adorable.

At the table, Randy fussed with his sandwich, painstakingly, pulling out slivers of onion and slices of tomato. “I have a confession,” he said, looking up at Sexy.

“Oh, yeah? What do you want to confess?” she asked with eyes widened, inquisitively.

“I really enjoy gazing at your face. Aside from my wife, you have to be one of the most beautiful women I've ever set eyes on. Those Hollywood celebrities ain't got a thing on you, girl.”

Sexy pretended to blush, but hearing that she was beautiful was not a news flash; it was something she'd heard her entire life. “Thank you for the compliment,” she replied with a demure smile.