Apple Brown Betty (21 page)

“Gabriel Cohen wants the Berkeley for the week, I take it?”

Jeffries panted. “That would be lovely.”

“Clarissa would like that. I suppose you want her the entire time?”

“You read minds, Mr. Slay.”

“Yours ain't too hard to read,” Slay said, laughing. “Clarissa. You got it, and again, good looking on the hookup.”

“What's that?”

“Thanks for the information.”

“Oh. Not a problem. I guess that's it, then?”

“For you, yes,” Slay said. “For me, the fun is just about to begin.”

“B
yron Bodeen?” I say to the police officer outside my door.

I pretend the officer asked me about a James Muhler or some other name I truly had never heard of before. I pretend he hadn't asked me about Byron Bodeen, who unfortunately I know of all too well. I stand with the door propped open, George next to me. I'm squeezing George's hand to let him know that he never heard the name Byron Bodeen either.

“Yes, that's right, Mrs. Williams,” the Asbury Park police officer answers. “He claims to be involved with your daughter. Says your son was the one stabbed him.”

“This is all so…” I feign not having the words to finish. Next to me, George's jaw muscles tense and now he squeezes my hand harder than I'd been squeezing his.

“I'd like to have a word with your son, Mrs. Williams,” the officer continues. “Would he happen to be in?”

“No,” I say. I'm thankful this is the truth, so I can stop with the pretending. Been doing too much pretending lately, it sickens me.

“Would you know where I could find him, Mrs. Williams?” the officer asks.

I'm back to pretending much quicker than I'd hoped. “No,” I assure him, shaking my head to double up the point.

George clears his throat. “Could I have a word with you?” he says to the officer.

George breaks free from my grip before I can squeeze the blood out of his fingertips, before I can damn near break his knuckles and mangle his fingers. I look at him but he ignores my eyes and steps down the hall with the officer. I come out into the corridor and watch the two men speaking in hushed tones by the elevator. The officer nods solemnly after a moment and touches George on the shoulder. He then presses the elevator for down and a short moment later disappears inside, the door closing him in. George turns, stops when he catches my piercing eyes, then steps toward me with his head held high. I know he's punishing me for the bit of a problem I've been having since that night I stayed at Darlene's, but this is oh so wrong.

“What did you tell him?” I ask as George brushes past me and heads inside.

“The truth,” he says as I follow on his heels. I slam the door shut behind us and take a couple of hard steps in his direction.

“Why?” I demand.

George shrugs. He goes and ruins my life and the best he can do is shrug. Now I'm really mad. He eyes me. I can tell he's appraising me, down about ten pounds these last few months, spending more time than anyone ever needed to spend at the grocery store, though the cupboards and the refrigerator don't seem to carry any more food than normal. The supermarket is my cover, you see, when I go hunting for salvation in those little rocks.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I snap.

“Can't,” he says, shaking his head. That one word and how he said it almost make me forget the betrayal with the police officer, almost make me take him in my arms and beg him to place his hand under my arm and carry me to joy. Almost.

Sweat beads dribble down my forehead like big clear marbles rolling across a maple-wood tabletop. “Why, George?” I repeat.

“That boy needs help,” George tells me. “He's headed for an early grave.”

My nostrils flare. “And who are you? You're not his father. You never did give him a chance, never tried to guide him. You always treated him and Cydney different.” I want to place some of the guilt George has been placing on me back onto his shoulders, see how he deals with it. Who ever heard of adopting one of a woman's children and not the other? That'd mess up any child.

“I did give him plenty of chances,” George disagrees.

Not the answer I was looking for. “Like I said, who are you?” I ask him. My voice is thick and I can barely see through my squinted eyes.

George sits on the couch, away from my wild eyes. “I don't know who I am anymore, Nan. But I'm starting to think maybe God put me here to save all of you. And that's what I'm gonna do, if it kills me.”

D
esmond stepped from Cydney's bathroom fully dressed and groomed for work. Cydney was in the kitchen, still in her robe, her back to him. Desmond tiptoed to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She inhaled in surprise and then settled back into the warmth of his embrace. He kissed her neck and then rested his chin on her shoulder. “What you doing?” he asked in a child's drone.

“Fixing you a little something,” she said.

“What you fixing?” he asked. Still talking like a curious little boy.

“Toaster strudels, I hope you like apple.”

“I love apples,” he said.

“Apple juice, too?”

He nibbled on her ear. “Mmm-hmm.”

She closed her eyes; let her head cock back as he ran his fingers through her hair and kissed the spot behind her ears. Her ears had always been a ticklish point, an area she didn't like men to touch, but Desmond's lips there now didn't make her giggle or move away. It took her breath away. Desmond turned her toward him and reached inside the flaps of her robe, cupping her breasts in his hands. He could feel himself stiffening and he pressed her close to him so she could feel what he felt.

She opened her eyes. “Whoa, we better chill or you'll never get to work and I'll never get my chores finished before class tonight.”

“You have to give me a rain check, then,” he said.

“You got it.”

He shook his head. “Uh-uh, I want it in writing.”

Cydney pursed her lips and ran her hands up the curve of Desmond's biceps. She batted her eyes at him and ran one of her fingers over her lips. She then took that finger and drew an R on his chest, then an A, then an I—

“Rain check,” she said, plucking her luscious lips and staring at Desmond with a sexy smirk as she finished spelling it out on his chest.

“I was thinking of a simple note on a scrap of paper,” he said. “But I'll definitely take that.”

“I figured you would.” A bell dinged and his strudels popped up from the heat of the toaster. She turned and pulled the pastries and dropped them onto a paper plate, blowing on her fingers afterward to cool the heat.

“You didn't burn yourself on my account, I hope,” Desmond said.

She shook her head and poured him a long glass of apple juice. She sat the quick breakfast on the small kitchen table, pulled a chair across from his and sat down herself.

“This is a real treat having someone cook me breakfast,” Desmond told Cydney.

She studied him like the morning newspaper as he took bites of his food, sips of his juice.

“What?” he asked.

“You have nice lips.”

“Smacking lips,” he said.

“You eat nice,” she replied.

“You think?” He licked his lips, put a finger in his mouth and sucked on it.

“See, now you had to go and be nasty,” she chided.

“You bring it out of me.” He took his last bites, swallowed the last drops of apple juice and pushed back from the table. “That was great, now I have to get going.”

She rose and came around the table to meet him. “I'll call you as soon as I get in from class tonight, okay?”

“You better.” He leaned down and took her in a hug, running his fingers through her hair again. “I can't tell you how much I enjoyed last evening.”

“I don't want you to tell me anyway,” she said. “Show me. Actions speak louder than words.”

He nodded, kissed her forehead. “I'll be counting the minutes to tonight.”

“Me too.”

He held her hand as he took a step back and took one last look at her. “Okay, I'll see you.”

She walked him to the door, where he gave her one more knee-shaking kiss. She bolted the locks behind him and went to the bathroom to take a shower.

 

“Yes?”

Slay was thrown for a loop by Felicia Rucker when she answered the doorbell. Her skin was bronze colored, her facial features carved in deep angles, her legs longer than his drive over here.

Slay had an associate of his, Ryan, who worked for the local telecommunications company, look up Desmond's telephone number from the address and call the house earlier, pretending to be a telemarketer. To his surprise, instead of Desmond, Felicia answered the phone. She immediately shot down the pitch of Slay's friend but she seemed to want to talk to the guy anyway. She went on and on about staying with her brother for a little while, how unexciting it was for her out in the middle of nowhere. Her flirting voice oozed through the phone lines like blood through veins.

Nonconformist.

Slay had slowed and passed by the house once, making sure there wasn't a car in the driveway and then came up and parked his BMW in the circular driveway, the music turned low, the car running, his driver-side door ajar. It had all been part of his ruse to make this seem to be a random visit. He'd made sure his right pant leg was rolled down, that his Timberland bootlaces were tied, that he had on his good watch. He'd run through his little routine a thousand times on the way over, but now, seeing Felicia up close, the script was lost. She was that stunning.

Felicia smiled as Slay took her in like a Blockbuster movie rental. She grabbed the zipper of her outfit. “Zipper-front jumpsuit,” she said, “in an eye-catching, patchwork mix of indigo blue denim and white cotton twill.” She ran her slender fingers down her stomach to her waist. “Plus a wide hipster belt—all by House of Field.” Slay still hadn't spoken a word. Felicia pointed one of those luscious fingers at his chest. “Okay, your turn,” she said. “I see the sweater's Enyce. What're the jeans, Ecko?”

“Excuse me?” Slay finally managed to say.

“You were looking me over so damn hard I figured you wanted a rundown of what I'm wearing,” Felicia said.

Slay smiled. “I apologize. You caught me off guard. I wasn't expecting a Nubian queen, such as you, to answer the door—” he turned and looked over his shoulder “—out here.”

Felicia had her hands on her hips. “Well, isn't today your lucky day.”

Slay smiled again. “It just might be.”

Felicia looked past his shoulder. “Nice car…how many keys did you have to move to get that?”

Slay turned and looked at his vehicle as if he'd never seen it before. He turned back to Felicia, his eyebrows furrowed. “Say what?”

“I listen to rap,” she informed him. “I know about moving keys—kilos of cocaine. I know about holding heat, popping collars—all that stuff. I know a drug dealer's car when I see one.” She narrowed her eyes. “A drug dealer, too, when I see one…”

“That's a dis,” Slay said.

“Oh, I'm wrong. Don't tell me.” She left the one hand on her hip and the other she dramatically tapped against her chin. “You got in on the dot-com boom and made a killing. You're like the ghetto Bill Gates or something.”

Slay pointed a finger at her. “You got a sharp tongue, shorty.”

Felicia smiled. “Shorty? See, I knew it would come out of you eventually. That's rap vernacular 101.”

Slay shook his head, damn, this chick was about to make him nut his jeans. She had sass.

“I'm fooling,” Felicia said. “I don't mean to give you such a hard time. I'm bored as hell out here in Vanillaville.” She batted her eyes. “What can I do for you, cutie?”

Showtime, Slay thought.

“Actually, you were right in a way. I do some work with a rap group out of Asbury Park,” he said. “And they got me out scouting locations to possibly shoot a video. I was passing by your place and it caught my eye.” Slay had seen a scene like this in a movie once, but if Felicia asked him anything whatsoever about the specifics of “scouting locations” he'd be up shit creek. The point was to get himself into her presence and then, once there, move past this rap-video scouting nonsense and never return to it again.

“You'd have to talk to my brother on that,” Felicia said.

Slay looked over her shoulder into the house. “Is he in?”

“He's working,” she said.

Slay made a point of having his face drop in a display of disappointment.

“Don't do that,” Felicia said. “That puppy-dog thing gets me every time.”

She's a nonconformist.

Would a nonconformist go out with a complete stranger who showed up at their doorstep?

Slay looked up, smiling. “Enough to convince you to come with me for a ride, maybe get some lunch or something?”

“I don't know you from a can of paint.”

Slay extended his hand. “Shammond Slay.” Felicia took his hand and he pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it. She pulled it from him and rubbed where he kissed as if it were sore.

“You're a player, I can tell,” she said.

“Far from it,” Slay said. “If anything, you are. What's your name, player?”

“Felicia Rucker.”

“Felicia. That's definitely a player's name.”

“What about Shammond? And Slay as a last name?”

Slay shrugged.

“Got kids?” Felicia asked.

Slay shook his head. “Not me. What about you?”

“I'm asking the questions.”

Slay raised both his hands, made a play of taking a step back. Felicia smiled. He moved forward again, this time closer to her. “By the way, you're wearing that indigo-blue denim and white…What did you call it?”

“White cotton twill.”

“Yeah, that. They must have designed it specifically for you. You're looking like a model and shit.”

Felicia smiled. “Actually, I am a model.” Her heart was racing. “Thanks.”

“I thought you might be. Who've you done work with?” Slay asked.

“Still getting my feet wet,” Felicia admitted, embarrassed.

Slay narrowed his eyes. “You wet…now, that's an image I like.”

Felicia blushed.

“You have to pardon me,” Slay said, “but I've also got this image in my head of me kissing those beautiful lips of yours.”

“Maybe by the time we finish lunch,” Felicia said.

Slay's eyebrows arched, a smile crossed his face. “You're down, then?”

“I probably shouldn't,” Felicia said. “After all, you could be some dangerous psycho, but something about potentially dangerous psychos excites me. Give me a minute, I'll be right out.”

Nonconformist, for sure.

“Don't keep me waiting too long,” Slay said.

“I won't,” Felicia said. “I'm just going to write my brother a note and grab my Mace and a steak knife.” She looked Slay up and down. “Just in case.”

Slay smiled, turned and walked back to the BMW.

 

Slay turned down his Nas CD for the fifth time. Felicia immediately turned it up to the highest level for the sixth time. Frustrated with the tug-of-war, Slay hit the power button on his stereo. “I can listen to Nas anytime, can we talk?”

Felicia frowned. “Whatever.”

“So how old are you?”

“Nineteen in a couple weeks,” she said. “You?”

“Twenty-five.”

“So how did you come upon such an expensive car at such an early age? And don't give me that BS about working with a rap group.”

Slay looked at her. “That wasn't BS, you thought that was BS?”

Felicia held her stare.

“I broker things,” Slay admitted, wondering why he was opening himself up to this girl like this. “Them suit-and-tie types that want certain things but don't know how to go about getting it. I hook them up, for a fee, of course.”

“Illegal things?”

“Sometimes,” Slay said honestly. “Things their, what's the word—colleagues—would be surprised to see them wanting. Things they can't shop for online or at their little strip malls.”

“This pays well, I take it,” Felicia said, tapping his dashboard.

“Sometimes,” Slay said.

“Particularly when it's illegal items, right?”

Slay simply smiled.

“So why did you come by my brother's place? I know it wasn't to scout for any rap video.”

Slay had to think quickly. “I did some business with a gentleman—I'll call him a gentleman—up that way about a month ago. Let's just say he owes me some money. I messed up, though. I'm not sure which one of those houses he lives in.”

“They do all look similar,” Felicia agreed.

Slay took a deep breath; he'd moved through that smooth enough.

“So where do you stay?” Felicia asked.

Slay was telling her a bit too much but he couldn't seem to bite his tongue with this girl. “My mama's place, here and there, wherever.”