Apple Brown Betty (16 page)

S
lay came down from his mother's apartment showered, shaved and well rested. Nancy had stumbled in late last night, shame in her eyes, and curled up with Slay on the bare mattress. They slept in each other's arms, keeping each other warm.

Now Slay wore oversize Rocawear jeans that fell into a bundle on top of his gray Timberland boots. He had on a gray Sean Jean cardigan V-neck sweater with a burgundy stripe shadowing the neckline. He rapped twice on Kenya's door.

Kenya stepped out, backward, and locked her door. She turned around all smiles. “Ready,” she said.

Slay couldn't believe his eyes. She wore a two-toned leather jacket over a lace-trimmed top, and black wool trousers.

“You like?” Kenya said, noticing the dumbfounded look on Slay's face.

He nodded.

“Hope so,” Kenya offered. “You bought it.”

Slay crinkled his forehead. “What you mean?”

Kenya started walking, Slay on her heels. “That money you gave me for my birthday a while back, told me to get something nice for myself.”

She stopped at the lobby door, Slay rushed to open it for her. “You did a good job,” he said as they stepped outside.

“Thanks,” Kenya said. “You look nice, too.”

Slay shook his head, his gaze trained on Kenya. “Not like you.”

He forgot about the purpose of this outing as he drove to the restaurant, all shook up by the look and smell of Kenya. “What's that you wearing…that perfume?”

“Waters Sheer Passion,” Kenya said, adding, “You got me this, too.”

“I ain't never smelled this on you before.”

“I was waiting,” she told him.

“For?”

She turned away and looked out the window without answering.

As they neared the restaurant Slay remembered his purpose again. GQ Smooth.

“Ooh, this is nice,” Kenya said as Slay parked across the street from the restaurant in the metered spots.

Slay nodded. “Right, right.”

They walked in, shoulder to shoulder. A pretty woman behind a small podium greeted them.

“Welcome to Cush,” she said. “Party of two?”

Kenya nodded.

“Smoking or nonsmoking?”

“No smoking,” Kenya told her.

The woman gathered two menus, tapped them on the podium and waved Slay and Kenya toward her. “Follow me this way.”

Slay scanned the place, noticed a well-dressed dude walking around making conversation with the people at each table. When Kenya and Slay reached their quaint table, Slay motioned to the hostess. “Who's that?” he asked, nodding his head at the well-dressed gentleman.

The hostess blushed. “That's Desmond Rucker, the proprietor.”

“The what?”

“He owns the restaurant.”

Slay nodded. “I thought so.”

The hostess walked off.

“This is the straight bomb,” Kenya said as she looked over the menu.

Slay picked up his menu, squinting his eyes to read the offerings.

“You still need glasses?” Kenya asked.

Slay smiled at her. “Yeah, probably.”

Desmond Rucker came to their table. “Hello, folks,” he said. “I hope you're enjoying everything so far.”

“We just got here,” Slay said.

“It's real nice,” Kenya added.

“I'm Desmond Rucker, the proprietor,” Desmond said. “I'll be right around. Holler if you have any concerns or anything, and I truly hope you enjoy.” He turned to leave.

“Yo, Desmond?” Slay called to him.

Desmond turned back. “Yes?”

“Good luck to you with this,” Slay said. “This is a tough neighborhood for a business. Most of the places that try get chased away eventually.”

Desmond smiled. “I don't give up so easily. I fight to the end.”

“It'll be a fight,” Slay said.

Desmond smiled again, nodded and walked off.

Slay sat back in his seat, leaned to the side like he did when he drove, rubbed his fingers over his lips and smiled. It was going to be a fight for GQ Smooth for real. Word up.

 

Cydney was watching the Lifetime Channel again, absorbed in a movie, when the phone rang.

“Dang, you people just don't want me to finish a movie,” she said as she moved across the carpet to the phone stand. She looked over the number on the caller ID; it was unfamiliar, but the 973 area code let her know it was from North Jersey. She picked up. “Hello.”

“Cydney Williams?”

“Yes,” Cydney said to the female on the other end. Immediately she thought about Desmond. Please don't let this be a live-in girlfriend, or worse yet, wife, connecting the dots after finding Cydney's number in Desmond's shirt pocket. “Whom am I speaking with?”

“My name is Villa Moore. I don't believe we've ever spoken before,” the woman said. “I'm Mr. James's personal assistant.”

What, Stephon had his staff making calls on his behalf now? “What can I do for you, Ms. Moore?” Cydney asked.

“Mrs. James asked me to contact Mr. James's friends and business associates, especially the people from the magazine. I came across your name and number in his PalmPilot.”

Cydney swallowed. “Has something happened?”

Villa's pause told it all. “Mr. James has had an unfortunate—Mrs. James would like me to call it an accident, but I know Mr. James wouldn't want me lying to you. It's a very awkward situation. They were divorcing as you probably know.”

“Accident?” Cydney took a breath, sat down on the floor where she had stood. “Is he dead?”

“Hospitalized,” Villa told her. “He swallowed quite a few prescription pills.” Villa seemed to be gathering herself on the other line. “Quite a few.”

“Oh, my goodness, are you telling me that Stephon tried to kill himself?”

Villa lowered her voice. “I just thought you should know. I hope you'll keep this quiet. Mrs. James has asked that no one contact her but go through me for the time being. She's trying to get everything sorted out.”

“Is he going to make it?” Cydney asked, tears in her eyes now.

“I'm not sure,” Villa said, “but I'll personally keep you posted. I—” she hesitated “—I know Mr. James thought very fondly of you. He was shockingly open to those of us he was close to about how he felt about you…”

“You make it sound like he doesn't stand a chance,” Cydney said.

“I'll keep you abreast,” Villa offered. “I'm sorry.”

Villa said her goodbyes and hung up. Cydney slumped against the wall, phone dangling in her hand. The obvious question hung above her head: Was this all her fault?

 

Desmond slipped into his office for a quick phone call. He dialed the numbers, which he'd memorized overnight, and sat humming to himself as the rings cycled. It picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hey, there,” Desmond said. “I've been thinking about you all day and had to call and check in on you. I had a wonderful time yesterday.”

“That's good,” Cydney said.

Her demeanor was ice cold, to Desmond's dismay.

“Am I catching you at a bad time?”

“No,” she lied.

“So what are you up to today?”

“Not much.”

“Up for some company?”

“Honestly,” Cydney said, “no.”

Desmond's face fell. He shifted in his seat. “Oooo-kay.”

“Talk with you later?” Cydney asked, in a hurry to hang up.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good.”

“Cydney, are you—” His query was halted by the sound of a click, then the dial tone.

She'd hung up.

Desmond stared at the phone for a moment. Eventually he placed it back in the cradle. He sat back in his chair, rocking even though it wasn't a rocker, tapping his fingers together. Once again the gods of romance had thrown him a pitch he had no capability of hitting, one that appeared to come at him straight, but just as he tightened his grip on the bat and prepared to swing it looped beyond his reach.

A knock came to his office door.

“S'open,” he said.

Karen poked her head around the door but didn't enter the room. “The performers are here, they're just setting up.”

Desmond nodded. “Good.”

Karen hung around like a dust cloud. “Everything okay? You look down.”

“I get in these thinking moods from time to time,” Desmond said. “I'm fine.”

“Well, hurry on back out. I miss seeing you milling around talking to the people.”

Desmond got up, clasped his hands and flashed Karen a smile. “Coming right now, can't have you missing me.”

Karen smiled in return and disappeared from the doorway. Desmond pushed his chair flush against the desk, gave the phone one last hard look and moved from the small office.

 

Slay drove his BMW up the main thoroughfare of Asbury Park, Kenya beside him, bobbing her head to his Nas CD, turned down quite a few notches below the level he usually played it at. She had her purse in her lap, her hands crossed on top of it, sitting how he imagined that bitch from the college that dissed him—Theresa/Pamela—would sit. It surprised him to see Kenya, so, so…womanly, sophisticated like.

“Had a good time?” he asked Kenya.

She smiled, kept bobbing. “The best.”

“What you thinking about now?”

“Thinking about the boys,” she said. “It's good to get a break, good to spend some time with you, but I miss they bad asses.”

“You a good mother, Kenya, you know that?”

She looked at him, smiled. “I get plenty of help.”

Slay tried to smile. Couldn't.

The light ahead turned a shade of orange, Slay could have punched the gas pedal and made it through but he braked to a stop. By the side of the road a couple of white guys, their hair spiked and colored, their dress a collage of army gear, clown suit and white-collar worker, held up large white placards with handwritten Magic Marker messages.

Asbury Park police are bullies who abuse their power

Criminals don't wear black, they wear blue

Slay nodded to the sign, smirked. “Asbury Park cops are expensive, too. Costing me a grip to keep them at bay, let me handle mines without interruptions.”

Kenya stopped bopping to the music, turned to Slay. “You ever thought about doing something else?” she asked. “You smart, got all kinds of connections, all kinds of respect. My uncle says you got a good business mind, he could tell.”

Slay moved through the green light. “Nah, I like where I'm at with my life.”

“Do you?”

He looked at her, started to smile, but the look in her eyes made him hold the smile. “Everything ain't perfect, but yeah, for the most part I like it.”

“I don't wanna ever see you go back in, that's all.”

“That makes two of us. I can't. I won't.”

Kenya pursed her lips, went back to bobbing her head to the music. She didn't say anything for the balance of the five-minute ride and Slay didn't either. He pulled up to the front of the apartment tower and put the transmission arm in park. He seemed nervous, as if he had something to say but didn't have the words clear, as if he wanted to kiss her but was too bashful.

“Best time I think I ever had,” Kenya said. “I won't be forgetting this for a long time.”

Slay smiled.

Kenya leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thanks again.” She turned and opened her door and was half out when Slay said, “I'll be around to see you soon.” Kenya nodded without turning back, eased out of the car and shut the door carefully. She knew how Slay was about his car, the handle-with-care directive that guided anyone lucky enough to get a ride in his whip.

Slay watched her walk up the sidewalk toward the front lobby. She had a strong dignified strut just like his mother had at one time. Kenya looked like a woman from Social Services coming to check on one of the poor families inside, not at all like someone who actually lived here. In all his years of knowing Kenya, today, for the first time, Slay really looked at her. She was beautiful.

Kenya moved through the front door and turned back toward Slay. He was embarrassed that he was still sitting here watching her, until she raised her arm and waved. The embarrassment left him. He waved back, and then when she moved from the entrance, he pulled off from the curb. His stomach was doing funny shit, shit he couldn't explain.