All About Eva (12 page)

Since Vance selfishly refused to let me borrow his car to get to work, I had no choice but to take the bus. As luck would have it, I only had to wait several minutes before the number 6 bus came along to take me down to the meatpacking district.

It had been years since I had stepped foot on a bus, and I had no idea how much it cost, which pissed off the people behind me waiting to get on.

“How much is it?” I asked the driver, who jerked his thumb toward a laminated sign that listed the fare as $2.25, coins and metrocards only.

I didn't have a metrocard so I rummaged through my purse for change.

“What's the fucking holdup?” shouted one of the people behind me.

“I'm looking for change!” I shouted back, which caused some of the more seasoned riders to snicker and shake their heads.

Ahhh . . . public transportation.

I hate everything about it, from the stickiness and the germs to people looking warily at each other, wondering where they were going and what their story was.

The most annoying thing besides the various body odors coming at you from all directions is that everyone, and I mean everyone from the oldest to the youngest, is yakking on their cell phones all at once.

And in the day and age of iPods and other MP3 devices, there is still at least one Radio Raheem toting around a ghetto blaster cranked up to the max, playing disparaging, woman-hating lyrics.

Bitch this, ho that, suck this, and get down on the floor and crawl like a dog . . . Exhausting!

Sometimes it feels as though the black man has waged war against us. After all that we have done for them, and all we've been through together, this is how they treat us? How about lifting us up, singing our praises, and calling us “Queen”? Then again, I guess that wouldn't sell very many records, now, would it?

No one says a word, unless it's something nasty like, “What the hell are you staring at?” or “Hey, you just stepped on my fucking foot!”

Instead, everyone takes turns sighing impatiently until the bus finally reaches their stop. My stop was one block away from Visions, because I didn't want anybody to see me getting off.

“Hi, you must be Eva!” said a cute, perky blonde who introduced herself to me as Heather. Heather and I had arrived at Visions' employee entrance/ the back door, at the same time.

“Yes, I'm Eva,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” Heather said. “We're gonna make tons of money tonight. Did you see that crowd?”

I had. Out front, there was a long line of well-to-do hipsters waiting to pay the cover charge of fifty dollars for men, and thirty dollars for women.

Heather rang a doorbell, and seconds later a tall, thin guy with a shiny bald head and a goatee opened the door.

“Hey, Paul,” Heather said. “This is Eva.”

“Ah, Miss New Booty!” Paul said with a laugh.

“Poor girl,” said Heather. “She hasn't been here for a full minute yet, and she's being sexually harassed already.”

“I'm only joking, of course. This is a fun place to work, so you'll find that we laugh and joke around a lot here,” Paul said to me. “Come on in, ladies. The pre-shift meeting is about to start.”

I followed Paul and Heather into a large office that had MANAGER marked on the door. There were five other women waiting inside, and I noticed that they were all wearing the same skimpy outfit: black short-shorts and a tight black T-shirt that had VISIONS written across the front in purple.

“Everybody, this is Eva,” Paul said. “She's our new VIP hostess, and the friend Amanda told us all about.”

The other ladies smiled and waved, but the energy I got from most of them was
Great, just what we need around here, another bitch taking tips away from me!

After Paul introduced me to everyone, he ran down the half-price drink specials for the night, which were vodka and cranberry juice, Ciroc and Red Bull, and three hundred dollars for a three-liter bottle of champagne.

There had been a huge awards show earlier in the evening, and all of the VIP tables were reserved by some serious heavy hitters. Paul dropped names like Bono, Diddy, and Lenny Kravitz, and some of the other ladies went gaga over just the mere mention of some of the names.

I wasn't impressed. I had met plenty of them before and had concluded that some of the biggest assholes in the world were celebrities. Except when it comes to Prince Rogers Nelson, I just don't get fan worship. At all. They were just regular people whose jobs just so happened to have landed them in the spotlight.

After the other girls left, Paul had me stay behind so that he could give me my uniform and a crash course on how to be a successful and popular party hostess.

Basically, my job was to get the party started and to keep the party going by persuading customers to buy bottles of champagne and liquor. The bigger the bottles, the better it would be for my pockets at the end of the night. Not only was I working for tips, but as a special favor to me Amanda had agreed to give me 12 percent of the total of my combined bar tabs at the end of the night, compared to some of the other hostesses who were only getting around 8 percent.

Since everybody loves to show off their club pictures these days, I was also expected to play photographer and party with my guests by encouraging them to dance and whoop it up.

It sounded like so much fun, I could hardly wait to get started.

Paul showed me to a small locker room where I changed into my uniform, which I must admit I filled out very nicely. I followed Paul out into the club, where it was so dark and crowded, you could not tell the famous faces from just the average Joe.

Paul's parting words to me as he left me in my section of the VIP area was to “Keep smiling, keep your energy up, and have fun!”

My party hostess cherry was broken by a bachelor party of six who were all great guys and excellent tippers. Four hundred dollars just to smile and look pretty and keep the drinks coming? I could get used to that!

Overall, my first night working at Visions was successful. I raked in a little over three thousand dollars, but like Donna Summer said, I worked hard for that money. From eleven
PM
to four
AM
, I'd had to deal with folks who should have been popping Altoids instead of more and more bottles of alcohol, and I'd had to deal with a few touchy-feely assholes who obviously thought that buying out the bar entitled them to grab all the ass and tits that they wanted.

“This ain't that type of party, sweetheart!” I told one boozed-up loser, who thought it was funny to lift my skirt up every time I passed by him. I threatened him with my pepper spray, which he thought was even more hilarious. Having had enough of him, I signaled for the bouncers to take care of the guy, which they did, immediately.

My pockets were definitely fatter by the end of the night, but I came away feeling like there was a whorish quality to being a party hostess.

There was no sex involved, of course, but I still had to show off my body, stroke egos, make people feel good, and pretend that I was dealing with the most wonderful and interesting people in the world, yet in the back of my mind I was counting my dough.

I spent Thanksgiving day with Tameka and her three boys. Besides the noise and the multitude of toys underfoot, Meka had a beautiful five-bedroom townhouse in Gramercy Park that I couldn't believe that Jamal was trying to force her and the kids out of—the heartless bastard. He was really taking Tameka through unnecessary changes, talking about selling the townhouse and setting her up in a smaller, much cheaper apartment.

Tameka can't put a decent meal together to save her life, so she hired a caterer to do all of the cooking for the holiday. Being that she was from High Point, North Carolina, dinner was a Southern feast that included Cajun turkey with wild mushroom and oyster stuffing, green rice, yeast rolls, and Waldorf salad. Scrumptious! I could get with everything on the menu except for the chitterlings, which Tameka insisted were delicious when doused with hot sauce and accompanied by cole slaw.

“No, thanks!” I said, moving the proffered plate of pig guts out of my face.

“Girl, where I'm from, this is good eatin'! You just don't know what you're missing!”

“Yes, I do,” I protested. “I've had chittlins before, it's just that my grandmother made me stay up half the night cleaning forty pounds of that disgusting mess for Thanksgiving one year, and I vowed right then and there that nary a chitterling would ever pass my lips again.”

“How old were you?”

“About eleven.”

“Umph!” Tameka shook her head as if I had her deepest sympathy, then proceeded to devour the chitterlings herself. “You sure you don't want a bite?” she asked, with chitterling juice running down her chin.

“Yeah, I'm good.” I frowned, and it was a comical moment, with both of us sitting there shaking our heads at each other as if we just didn't get the other's point of view.

After dinner, Tameka took the boys to go see the latest animated Disney movie, and I went back to Vance's place to shower and get ready for work. I certainly didn't feel like catering to a bunch of rambunctious drunks, but since the gravy train had come to a screeching halt, it was imperative that I keep the coins rolling in by any means necessary.

 

 

After working another shift at Visions, it was around 5:30
AM
when I got back to Vance's apartment. He was in the kitchen fixing Sydney a bowl of Fruity Pebbles, and even though it was our first time laying eyes on each other, she smiled when I walked through the door, as if she knew exactly who I was and was thrilled to see me. Five years old and cute as all get-out.

“Good morning!” I said, smiling at Sydney and trying hard not to stare at Vance's pecs and biceps, which flexed inadvertently when he moved. He was shirtless, and wore nothing except a pair of Burberry pajama bottoms.

“Hey there,” said Vance. “How did it go?”

“It went well enough to make almost three grand,” I said, waving the cash in the air for him to see.

“Great—” Vance said, but was interrupted when little Sydney asked, “That's your friend, Daddy?”

“Yes, Syd, this is Eva,” he said. “She's the friend that I told you would be staying here for a little while.”

“ 'Cause she in trouble?”

Kids say the darndest things, don't they? Vance looked caught, and I wondered just what he had said to his daughter about me.

“Umm . . . eat your breakfast, Sydney, all right?” said Vance. “Then we'll get dressed and go to the museum, how's that sound?”

“Kay!” Sydney wiggled excitedly in her chair, and slopped up her cereal, letting milk run down her chin. Vance wiped her mouth, and then gestured for me to follow him into the living room.

Once we were out of Sydney's listening range, Vance said, “I have some not-so-great news for you.”

My heart dropped. “Is it Donovan?”

“Well, yes and no. I got a phone call from the district attorney's office, and they want to talk to you about Donovan.”

“What? And why would they contact you about me?”

“Apparently they got wind of that press release I sent to the media on your behalf, and obviously assumed that I was your attorney.”

I suddenly became a nervous wreck, but Vance remained calm, cool, and reassuring.

“You don't have a thing to worry about, Eva. You were close to Donovan and were the last person to see him before he disappeared, so I'm sure they just want to ask where you think he might be right now.”

I remained a nervous wreck for the rest of that week. I worked at Visions on both Saturday and Sunday nights, but I felt like Rosie the Robot, just going through the motions.

 

 

Monday morning could not have come fast enough for me. Vance and I rode together to the district attorney's office in lower Manhattan.

Ronald Nash was a mountainous man with cold, piercing gray eyes. When Vance and I walked into his office, he wasted no time with niceties or pretensions. “Well, now, if it isn't Eva Cantrell. Just the woman I wanted to see,” he said. “Did you have knowledge of Donovan Dorsey's illegal business dealings but just chose to turn a blind eye?”

“Not at all,” I answered truthfully.

Without pause, Nash proceeded to grill me for almost two hours, not asking, but
demanding
that I reveal Donovan's whereabouts.

I told him I had no idea where Donovan was. He didn't believe me.

“You're playing dumb right now,” Nash told me. “You don't get a bachelor's degree from the University of Chicago majoring in journalism and English if you're not highly intelligent.”

“You've obviously done a background check on me, so you should have concluded that I am as shocked about all this as everyone else,” I said.

“Actually, I have concluded the opposite,” Nash said with a crooked smile. “You see, more than a few people have stepped forward to say that you were a feeder for Dorsey Capital Management and that they never would have invested with Donovan if you hadn't practically bullied them into doing so.”

“That's an outright lie!” I said. “Donovan had a very exclusive client list and was selective about who he took on as a client, so people came to me all the time asking if I could somehow persuade Donovan to let them open an account with them. I never once solicited or ‘fed' anyone to invest with Donovan's company.”

“Well, the jury is still out on that,” Nash quipped, grating on my last nerve. “What I do have so far that is undeniable is the two foreign bank accounts that list you as the trustee.”

I gasped sharply. It was all news to me, and I was blown away by the fact that Donovan had constructed such a complex and diabolical scheme that on paper made me look just as guilty as he was.

“How much money are we talking about here?” Vance asked.

“Seventy million dollars,” said Nash, “which leaves eighty million still unaccounted for. Where's the money, Ms. Cantrell?”

“What? You can't be serious!” I said, feeling as if I was in the perfect storm with no means of escape. The whole situation was absurd and unreal. Nash's brutal, relentless interrogation made all of my other problems pale in comparison.

“That money is out there somewhere, and we're going to find it,” Nash said, “but Ms. Cantrell, you could save us all a lot of time, and the taxpayers a lot of money, by just telling me where that eighty million dollars is buried.”

“Okay, that's more than enough—Eva, don't say another word,” Vance said. “Mr. Nash, this meeting is officially over, on the grounds that my client may inadvertently incriminate herself.”

“Ah, so soon?” Nash whined sarcastically. “We were just getting started!”

“I'm sure you were,” Vance said. “Have a good day.”

“We'll be in touch!” Nash shot back as Vance and I left the office.

Out in the hallway, my knees were so weak that I almost collapsed.

“This is not a joke; these people really want to send me to jail!” I said, with my voice echoing through the hallowed halls of “justice.”

Vance put his arm around my waist to keep me steady. “Calm down,” he said. “I don't think it's nearly as bad as he tried to make it seem. Honestly, I think Nash was bluffing a bit, hoping that you would crumble and lead them to Donovan.”

“And I wish I knew where he was hiding out, because I swear I would drop a dime on his black ass in a heartbeat.”

Later that day, news crews filed into a conference room at Vance's firm, where he made a public plea for Donovan to turn himself in.

Shortly afterward, the district attorney's office put a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar bounty on Donovan's head.

Enter the bounty hunters. From that point on, anybody anywhere in the world essentially had the go-ahead to track Donovan down and bring him to justice.