Liar's Game (11 page)

A
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newspaper was on his front lawn, covering a sprinkler. I picked the paper up, glancing at the front page. A woman police officer who lived in the neighborhood had gone ballistic, pulled out a .22, and shot her also-a-cop boyfriend four times in the upper torso.

The fight that me and Malaika had was bad, but not that tragic. It still haunts me. If I had’ve had a .22 on my hip back then, blood would’ve been flowing like the Miss’ssippi River. That just goes to show, because I would’ve taken Malaika back. Wanted her to come back. Would’ve gone to counseling because I wanted my child to have both of us in the house, a mother and father. Didn’t care if me and Malaika never made love again. My child was all that mattered. My daughter sitting in my lap would make me feel wealthier than Trump and Perot combined.

Womack was in the back, near his three-car garage, washing his ’64 Impala. His toy. Every man should have something that lets him hold on to the boy inside. His everyday car was out front, a plain-wrapped Honda Civic that he hardly ever washed. He’d had the Impala since the days we used to cruise Crenshaw on Sunday afternoons.

He still had on his brown UPS uniform. A manager at the hub over at LAX. He’d no doubt worked last night, then come in and hit the ground running, doing family stuff. My ace saw me coming down the concrete driveway, heading toward the backyard with the cardboard box, his newspaper in my other hand, and said, “You done already?”

“Yep. Sold about half of what you left on my door.”

Womack said, “When I dropped that off, I saw Naiomi. Good-googity-moo. She was walking ’round in a sports bra and spandex, looking bootyful.”

I chuckled. “Man, you need to quit.”

He made a face. “You should find out when she gonna be home alone and tip across that hall and borrow a cup of sugar.”

I shook my head. “Dana is enough to fill my cup.”

Outside of a few premature gray hairs, Womack looks the same way he did when we went to Morningside High and El Camino College—skinny, six foot two, thick eyebrows on his honey-colored skin. He was scarecrow thin; a good Santa Ana breeze could slap him over on his homemade Jheri-Kurl.

I told him, “Somebody should’ve put an expiration date on that flammable hairstyle ten years ago.”

“Don’t hate me ’cause I ain’t a conformist.”

He inhaled his cigarette, a Djarum that made the air smell like cloves, dipped the end in a spot of water on the ground, flipped it into an open trash can, then leaned back on one boney leg and asked me, “Vanessa Williams or Chanté Moore?”

“Vanessa Williams, from dusk to dawn.”

“You a fool.”

“Takes one to know one. Besides, Chanté got a man.”

Womack said, then asked, “How much we make?”

I echoed, “We?”

“You heard me. We.”

I answered, “Four hundred. We split it fifty-fifty.”

“Shyster. I’m supposed to get more than you.”

“How you figure? I’m in the sun sweating my butt off.”

His face was stiffened. “I’m the boss. You the employee. Those my damn T-shirts, Black Man Negro. I invested the money. I gotta offset my damn costs. You shouldn’t get no more than a hundred. Matter of fact, I got four kids and a wife, plus my daddy living over my head. Therefore, all you should get is fifty dollars. And you owe me twenty-five of that.”

I shook my head. “Punk.”

He frowned and said, “Gimme my money and the rest of my T-shirts, then get off my property, Black Man Negro.”

I gave him two hundred fifty dollars; I kept one-fifty.

He smiled at that, then pushed the other fifty in my pocket.

Friends. Always friends.

 

We hopped in his tootmobile and rode two blocks up to Slauson and stopped in at LA Hot Wings. I’d been craving spicy chicken because I’d passed by all the BBQ chicken places on the strip.

Back at Womack’s duplex, we went upstairs to his daddy’s place. He had been living there for the last six years, rent free. Womack complains night and day, but he takes care of his own.

John Lee Hooker blues was playing strong when we made it through the back door. Harmonica—that’s what everybody called Womack’s daddy—had his silver harp to his lips and was bumping along with the gritty voice on that bluesman groove.

He smiled at me from the oak dining room table. “Well, if it ain’t Vince. Ain’t seen you since the last blue moon.”

Harmonica’s voice had a southern drawl and was bulldog mean, but he was one of the nicest men I’d ever met. He always wore fifties-style slacks, white T-shirts, and a colorful sweater, even if it was a hundred degrees in the shade. A receding hairline was on his dome, a crop of razor bumps lived under his neck.

I smiled because I’d missed him too. “What’s up, old man?”

“Keep on livin’, youngster, you’ll find out.”

I laughed.

He said, “I hear you done got yourself another one of those women that’s trouble on two legs.”

We laughed.

Harmonica winked at me, licked his chops, and said, “Brang her by so we can get acquainted.”

I winked back at my mentor. “If you promise not to take her away from me and leave me heartbroken, I might do that.”

“Oh, now you know I can’t promise you that. I got what all the girls like, and I can’t help myself sometimes.”

Again, we shared locker room-style laughter.

A book rested on his table:
The Words That You Should Know
. That was my present to him the last time he got out of Cedar Sinai, right before I met Dana at the Townhouse.

I asked Harmonica, “Dionne Warwick or Nancy Wilson?”

He grinned so hard his teeth slipped. “Nancy Wilson. Now, that’s a fine-looking young woman. Dionne all into that Psychic Friends voodoo mess. Can’t deal with no mojo women like that.”

Harmonica is old, about the same age my daddy would be. His bronchitis has gotten worse; he has a medicine cabinet filled with more pills than a Rite Aid drugstore. A few times he’d been to the hospital; the last time he left in an ambulance and we didn’t think he would come out breathing. I’ve already seen my folks get weak, hooked up to machines, then fade like sunshine at the closing of the day. I didn’t want Harmonica to ever die on me.

He put his c-band harmonica up to his mouth and jammed with the blues like he was part of that southern-fried philharmonic.

The building shook, jerked like it had been hit by a small truck. Walls creaked, noise from the foundation. The CD player skipped, then stopped. Ceiling fans moved back and forth.

The room swayed.

Harmonica said, “Earthquake.”

I yawned.

Womack said, “Poppa, how many pieces of chicken you want?”

“Put ’bout ten on the plate, son.”

That made me miss my daddy. Made me miss my momma. I’d never be able to argue with them or make them a plate again.

Harmonica said that he’d seen where aerospace was still cutting back, then asked me how Boeing was holding up. I told him everything could be better, but it could be worse. For now, I’d hang on to the good.

He asked, “You keeping up with sending your girl money?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keeping records like I told you to?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, good. Send her something to let her know that no matter who her momma laying up with, you her daddy down to the bone.” His heavy face motioned at Womack. “I done took care of all nine of my children, and this one here the only one that even offered me a glass of water.”

That was his pain, his way of telling me to do right, but not to expect anything in return.

Womack stopped eating his chicken long enough to tell his daddy, “Don’t get too comfortable. Next week you’re gonna start paying me some rent money. This ain’t no free hotel.”

“Boy, you crazy as a cat chasing a pit bull’s tail.”

Womack rambled about how this place—just like the one downstairs—had hardwood floors, a fireplace, den, bay windows.

Harmonica growled, “Vince, see how he comes in my house acting all bumptious and impertinent?”

I laughed, then overarticulated the same words he’d taught himself, “Bumptious and impertinent?”

The old man tapped the book on the table. He’d been studying. Again, me and Harmonica shared a chuckle and a wink.

Womack sucked his teeth and blew off a little steam. “I could get twelve hundred a month if I had a real tenant.”

Harmonica said, “Let’s see if you can get yourself a tenant who gonna baby-sit every day and cut the grass every Monday.”

Womack shut up.

The CD player had come back on, but I hadn’t noticed it until now. John Lee Hooker was singing about covering the waterfront. Harmonica played along with the mellow tune. Made me wish I had Dana in my arms.

I pulled out the dominoes, grabbed paper and a pencil. Harmonica had pictures of him when he was young, down South, playing in a five-piece blues band, The Night Blues, up all over the place. He was as slim as Womack, hair conked, a bona fide playboy. He had about a thousand photos of his eighteen grandchildren and his ten great-grandchildren. Outside of those memories, he had African figures in almost every room of his two-bedroom castle. Nkondi figures dating back to the 1700s, double-headed snakes, brass hips masks from Nigeria, bronze heads from Benin. In his retirement he’d become a collector of culture. And new words.

Womack poured soda for everybody. He made his with Coca-Cola, root beer, Sprite, mixed it up like a kid.

We held hands. Womack blessed the food.

Then we ate, played bones, talked shit, and laughed.

Thirty minutes into our bonding, the garage door rattled open. A Ford Explorer came down the driveway. Classical music floated up from below. Doors slammed, kids laughed, and a set of petite feet came up the wooden stairs. A slim, bowlegged copper-colored sister with fascinating eyes, wearing a denim vest and long floral skirt. Every stitch of clothing on her said Rodeo Drive, but I knew better. Middle-school teachers slaving for L.A. Unified didn’t make that much.

I said, “You’re looking sweet sixteen, Rosa Lee. Still got that homecoming queen figure.”

She sort of blushed, then bounced her gurgling baby on her hip and said, “Teach your buddy to be so sweet with his words, Vince. This marriage will be a lot better for the both of us.”

The three boys were outside running around the yard. Basketball bouncing, hitting the rim, bouncing, yells, challenges.

“Momma, tell Louie to stop making faces at me.”

“Nobody looking at you. Ask Jordan, Momma. I’m being good.”

“Mark won’t give me the ball.”

Rosa yelled, “Knock it off before I come take that ball.”

Dribbling, bouncing, no more arguing.

Womack said, “I left y’all some hot wings in the fridge.”

Rosa Lee handed Womack their youngest, said, “Your turn.”

Womack asked, “Where you going?”

Rosa Lee answered with an exhausted breath, “Beauty shop. Cynthia said she can squeeze me in if I get to La Brea and Olympic in thirty minutes. Maybe she’ll make me pretty enough for my husband to notice what’s left of my homecoming figure.”

She kissed my lips, did the same with her father-in-law, then went downstairs to feed her three little men.

Me and Harmonica shared a look, then looked at Womack. I was going to ask him if life was okay downstairs, but he was busy smiling at his baby girl, asking her which bone to play next.

Harmonica said, “Son?”

“Yeah, Poppa.”

“Son, look at me for a minute.”

Womack’s eyes went to his daddy’s.

Harmonica asked, “Why didn’t you get up and kiss yo’ wife?”

“I’m tired. I did the grocery shopping, cleaned up when they left. She know how to kiss me when she wanna be kissed.”

Harmonica said, “She been with the chirren all day. She’s tired, son. A woman gets tired just like you do.”

Womack shifted like he was a six-year-old child.

I stayed out of their family business.

Harmonica sighed, rubbed the razor bumps under his flabby chin, and put some daddy-tone in his voice. “Why don’t you go downstairs, send my grandchirren up here with enough clothes to last them until the sun comes up, and spend some quality time with your wife? Give her some kind words, tell her how much you appreciate her while you rub her feet.”

Womack looked at his daddy, then at me. I nodded.

Harmonica said, “Son, when a woman gets tired, and has the mind to stray, the man in her own home is the last one to know.”

Womack handed Harmonica his grandchild.

When the door closed behind Womack, Harmonica turned to me. “Wisdom ain’t seeing what’s in your face, but recognizing what’s about to come.”

Two minutes later the three boys—Louie, Mark, and Jordan—were in Harmonica’s living room, watching television.

After they came up, I never heard Womack’s door open downstairs. Never heard Rosa Lee leaving for a late-evening hair appointment. We heard love and laughter coming from downstairs.

I changed Ramona’s diaper; Harmonica made her a fresh bottle.

Harmonica told me, “Straighten out your business with your woman. If she ’cepts it, y’all can move on. If she don’t, y’all can move on.”

“Should I tell about, you know, that night?”

That was all we ever called it, “That night.”

“Nah,” Harmonica said after he’d thought a few seconds. “That don’t need to be discussed. A man’s past is his own business.”

“Wonder how she’ll react.”

“Man never knows how a woman will take thangs.”

Dana lowered her candy apple and snapped, “You’re married?”

“Divorced.”

“And you have a kid.”

“Yeah. A little girl.”

Her candy apple slipped from her hand, rolled across the concrete into the thick of the crowd. She swayed, and I thought she was about to pass out, fall over the wooden rail and plunge fifty feet down into the murky sea. I put my fingers on her shoulder, but she moved my hand away. Held herself. Made a gasping sound.