Cafe Romance (42 page)

"Before I slice into your ass, homeey, I want to know who the hell do you think you are strolling in here with your pressed designer pants and designer shirt, all cool and suave. All fly, and talk’n that
ole-school-back-in-the-day-rap
while you’re looking like you’re finally liv’n the
American Dream
now. Who do you think you are,
Mr.
American Idol
?” the hostile blade man demanded to know.

"The name's Kurt Douglass and I'm not your homeey," he replied, his fists now clenched at his side. He was about to ease into a gung-fu stance and kick the crap out of them but to his complete surprise, the ringleader suddenly froze, as if he had seen a ghost. "Wait a minute. Who did you say you were, man?"

Kurt eased up slightly and studied the young man before him. He looked extremely familiar now. "You know me, don't you, or heard of me?  Who are you, son?"

"Shit man!  What's your mother's name?  Tell me, what's your mother's name?"

"Jocelyn Douglass." Kurt answered.

"Ahh shit, man! You're my father's cousin," the leader conveyed, his face now a mask of mixed-emotions.

Yes, it was indeed his cousin's son, Christopher, Jr.. That's why the lad appeared so familiar to Kurt. The resemblance was now unmistakable. His father Christopher, Sr. and Kurt had hung out together on these very same streets when the two were youngsters. Unfortunately, his cousin died, not far from here, sixteen years earlier while resisting a robbery attempt on himself and a friend. The last time Kurt had laid eyes on Christopher Jr. was at the wake. He was a kid then.

Obviously shaken up, the young family member was in the process of apologizing to Kurt when they were interrupted by the loud screeching sounds of four black sedans now converging on the scene, and from all directions. The posse had arrived.

The thugs displayed a look of deep concern as nine or more well-dressed, shotgun toting, men filed out of the four sedans looking like Nation of Islam Leader Minister Louis Farrakhan's personal bodyguards, the
Fruit of Islam
. One of the security men approached Kurt. "Is everything alright, Mr. Douglass?" 

Kurt took a step away from the wall, exhaled, and looked at his distant cousin, then returned his gaze to the security guy. "Yes, everything's cool now. It’s hard to believe, but I've just been re-introduced to a very lost and troubled family member." 

The lead security man was soft-spoken but direct and to the point. "Listen, and listen well, my young brothers. Everyone single one of you. Mr. Douglass is a very important client of ours. He is here on important family business and he will be allowed to continue on unimpeded. Make his stay here pleasant, for your own sake, I advise. Gentlemen, I hope I have made myself very clear.  Have a good day."

Chris instructed his homeboys to back down and disperse, that he'd hook up with them later. At that point, the security force returned to their vehicles and, after one final look, drove off.

Small security detail, Kurt mused. It was more like a goddamned commando force. Kurt made a mental note to thank Earl for looking out for his best of interest. 

Turning to Chris, he asked if his grandmother was home. Chris responded in the affirmative, asking afterwards, “Hey, what’s up with the Muslim Nation? What the hell was that all about?”

Kurt replied, quite frankly. “Their job is to protect my ass while I’m here, that’s all.”

With an incredulous gaze, Chris uttered, “Hell, just who are you? Damned Secretary of State or something?” Then as an afterthought, said, “Wait a minute! Hey, aren’t you’re the family member who won all of that damn money from the lottery? You are, aren’t you?” 

Kurt nodded.

“Damn! I’m talking to a real live millionaire. Hell, even better, I’m related to him,” Chris bellowed as he hopped around in circles.

When Chris settled down, the two walked towards Kurt’s aunt's house. Along the way, he gently admonished his blood relative for what had just taken place, and what could have taken place, and for not doing something positive with his life that would have made his father proud of him. 

After a warm homecoming visit and home cooked meal, Chris escorted Kurt to the rental car, saying that he had learned a lot the past two hours, and promised to call Kurt once he returned to Florida. His older and wiser family member had given him some options to think about. Offering his cousin a warm-hearted farewell Kurt climbed into the rental then drove off to visit his distraught sister.

C
hapter 24

 
K
urt parked the rental and climbed out and inhaled the refreshing suburban New Jersey air.  Closing the car door he walked slowly towards the unassuming two-story home. There was litter and children's toys sprawled across the lawn, which looked as though it had not seen a lawn mower in months. The grass was at least nine inches tall.  He plowed slowly forward.

The house was totally trashed out, he discovered upon passing through the unlocked door. There were soiled children's clothing lying about, opened food cans, month old magazines and newspapers, broken toys, crushed beer cans and cigarette butts littered throughout the place. There were several cockroaches meandering about feverishly on top of a half-eaten roast beef sandwich on the lamp table, their antennae waving about wildly above them. He even saw a tiny mouse run behind some furniture. Sickening, he thought, as he walked into the dining room area. If he hated anything it was rats and roaches. 

Looking about he focused his gaze on the dining room table, which was littered with needles and other drug paraphernalia, more cigarette butts, more beer cans, and a large whiskey bottle.  Seated at the table were two counter-cultural looking people shot-gunning each other with a joint stick, both apparently as stoned as they come. The two had not even noticed Kurt's entry. Pressing onward he entered into the kitchen. The sink was dirty and cluttered with unwashed dishes, bowls and utensils. It looked like several days' worth of mess.

Walking back to the front of the house, where the staircase was located, he climbed it slowly and deliberately until he had ascended to the second floor. There were no children to be found. Kurt did not know it but the children had been taken out of the home several days before by state authorities. 

Peering into one room he observed a young white tattoo laden woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, on her knees having oral sex with a black biker type; denim clothing, biker's boots, shades over the eyes, trousers down to his ankles. Her blouse was unbuttoned and her breasts exposed. Neither one seem to notice Kurt's visual intrusion.  Either that or they just did not care.

 Off to the side of the room was a stereo system blaring out an old sixties island tune entitled
Montego Bay
by Bobby Bloom. Moving on to the next room, he found his sister Trish alone, on the floor, beside a bamboo coffee table, and about to inject herself with some kind of drug - heroin, he speculated. If it was heroin, then it was true, she was strung out on narcotics again. Trish had been known to indulge in rock cocaine.  Never had he known her to shoot up.

"Trish!" he yelled swiftly, emotionally.

"Kurt! Is dat you, brother?" she cried out from her crouch position by the corner wall, her West Indies accent thick. She was not a pretty sight, not the beautiful young woman and sister he remembered. Her eyes had dark rings around them, as though she had not slept in days, her usual coal black hair was nappy and unkempt, almost dreadlock looking, and it looked as though she had not eaten in weeks. She looked thin and burned out.

"Ahh be damned!  Ma brothur Kurt in de flesh. Well, how are yah, my lottery rich brothur?" she leered, as she continued to search desperately for a good vein in her arm.  "Feel like being ah little charitable todey?"

"Drop it, Trish," he commanded as he approached her. 

"Wha' dis?  Ma only friend?  Ma only peace of mind?" She uttered. "Yuh must be out duv yah damn mind, brothur, if yuh tink am'ma juz going to let dis good shit go ta waste?"

"Drop it!"  He said more forcefully. "Please Trish."

"Hell nooo, mon," she slurred. "Kan't let dis go ta waste."

Look, you're who’s wasted Trish," he began. “You know something? Anyone that has ever loved you or tried to help you, you’ve managed to turn against you. Grandma took care of you most of your life and you did not even have the decency to show up for her funeral to pay your respects. Look at you now, Trish…a slave to man-made chemicals.”

"Please go Kurt," she half pleaded, half cried. "Tis good seeing yuh, but I don’t tink ah want yuh meddling in ma life. Ah don't need yah preaching or yah from-the-heart advice. Just lay ah few Franklin’s on me and go. Ah don't need any ting from yuh, except maybe yuh fock'n money," she chuckled like a demented person. “And Grandma, she luv’d yuh, Kurt.  It t’was always you Kurt, she luv’d!  Not me.  Always Kurt dis.  Kurt dat.”

"You don't mean that Trish," he replied, closing in on her. "I know you don't. Because that’s not the way it was."

"Ah means every ting ah say, ma brothur, now am'ma politely asking yuh not to come an-ty closer," she warned, pumping her vein by making a fist several times over and extending and retracting her forearm in an upward and downward motion, a narrow band of rubber tied tightly around her bicep.  She was about to inject herself when he reached out with lightning speed, with a slap to the wrist, and dislodged her grip on the needle. As the needle went flying across the room, Trish went flying into a rage. "What da hell’s wrong with yuh, mon?" she yelled as she rushed to recover the needle. Kurt dashed after her and grabbed her just before she could secure the needle in her grip.  A brief struggle ensued. 

Though she scratched and kneed and kicked at him he held onto her with a firm grip. Growing tired of kicking him she balled her small fists and pounded away furiously at his massive chest until she could pound no more. She eventually broke down and sobbed as he embraced her.

"Kurt, ah need help," she cried, hating herself for the hurt and pain she had caused him. "Ah really need help.  Ah didn't mean all doze terrible tings ah just said to yuh.  Oooh, God!  Please forgive me!  Ah didn't mean any of doze tings. Yuh know ah didn't Kurt!"

"I know, big sister," he said, tenderly stroking the side of her head. "And I am going to get that help for you. We have got to try to get you through this.  And we will!" he assured her.

"Oooh Kurt, am’ma so miserable," she added, her eyes wet with tears. 

"Trust me. I am going to get you the help you need, okay?"

"Ah just want ma babies back," she sobbed angrily. "Doze bastards took ma babies!"

            "Who took them Trish?"

"Da goddamned State, daz's who."

"Don't worry, I'm sure they are alright. I promise, we'll get them back Trish, as soon as we can get you some help, alright?"

The next day he convinced Trish to check herself into a rehab center, for the fourth time in six years. Again, he promised to do everything in his power to help her regain custody of her children once she successfully completed her drug treatment program.

After ensuring that the mortgage was paid to date Kurt made arrangements to have her house professionally cleaned, from top to bottom. He instructed Earl to lease it out for the six months his sister would be undergoing drug rehab and counseling. Before departing Trenton, he visited Trish’s twins, who had been placed with a family member. That evening he flew back to Florida.

The plane ride was solemn and thought provoking. He was haunted and deeply troubled by the images of his sister in her disheveled state of mind, and her poor physical state. He could not fathom how anyone could succumb to such self-degenerating vices. And of all people, Trish.

Though frustrated he knew Yvette would smooth things out, make him smile again. By talking about it and sharing his feelings with her, he felt he could restore some of his faith in humanity.

When he arrived at his Brentwood estate he quickly settled in. The weekend had been long and emotionally draining. He felt low and longed for the comfort of Yvette's embrace, her wisdom and reassuring smile.

Picking up the phone he called her but she failed to answer. He tried later and again, no response. A sense of frustration weld inside of him. He wanted to leave a message but her answering machine was turned off. This whole scene had déjà vu written all over it. Where was she, he pondered? Surely she remembered that he was scheduled to return home today. Had he not clearly state the time he expected to be at home, the night before, when they talked briefly on the phone? 

Setting the phone down, he walked thoughtfully over to the bay window of his study and glanced out of it. Something must have come up, he reasoned. What, though?  Minutes later he decided to run a few errands, picking up dinner for two along the way. Surely she would be home by the time he completed his rounds, he reasoned. Not that she had to be, just that she should be. Deep inside, he needed her to be.

As he neared her condo he saw a familiar black sports car pull out of her driveway. The person inside apparently noticed Kurt's approach and waved as the two passed each other. With a slight hesitation Kurt released one hand from the steering wheel and waved back, though half-heartedly. The smiling face belonged to Antwan, as expected. Smirk was more like it. What the hell was he doing here, he pondered anxiously?

Yvette answered the doorbell promptly, greeting Kurt with a warm southern smile.  She pushed her face close to his and kissed him with warm lips. Very tenderly, she stroked a lock of his hair and told him how much she had missed him. "Come on in!" she invited. "Boy, does that food smells good!" she exclaimed, glancing into the brown bag.  "How was the trip?”

“It was draining, to say the least. But we’ll talk about it later.”

“I understand,” she replied. “I know you’re probably tired and hungry. By the way, there's someone here I want you to meet."

"I thought your company just left?" he said drily, still holding two brown bags, one containing his piping hot Chinese food, the other frozen yogurt.