From the Streets to the Sheets (10 page)

“They’ve always called me that. They couldn’t think of anything new? I’ve heard that all of my life.” He patted his stomach. “Well, since I’ve grown this. A stomach doesn’t make a man, Jarvis.”

Pretty laughed with him. This was the first thing they’d ever shared. And it happened to come at Mr. Patterson’s expense.

“Come back to my office at exactly one-thirty if you want to hear the proposition,” he said plainly. He offered Pretty the door. He knew that he’d put enough in Pretty’s head to stimulate it. He never said what it was, and he knew that would get Pretty interested. He couldn’t run a ship so tight without being smart.

                  •                  •                  •

At one-thirty Pretty knocked twice.

“Come in, Jarvis.”

Pretty walked in and found Mr. Patterson standing by a makeshift bar, with a drink in hand. The shabby silver cart housed two big bottles of liquor, a long slender bottle of red wine, and three glasses: one shot glass, a wineglass, and a wide glass people used when they swirled around expensive scotch.

Mr. Patterson held his glass in the air. “Scotch, Jarvis?”

Pretty stopped in his tracks. He looked up toward the ceiling and searched for hidden cameras. “No, thank you. I’m good.”

Mr. Patterson noticed the apprehension and walked near. “Who runs this establishment, Jarvis?” He took great pleasure in saying the name “Jarvis.” He knew he wanted to be called Pretty, but it wouldn’t be by him. Every chance he got, he would let Pretty’s government name put him in his place.

Pretty found the antique mirror again and tightened his tie. He pounded his braids. “Of course you run this. I don’t doubt that.”

“Well, have a drink, Jarvis.” He walked back toward the bar. He held up an empty glass. “What do you drink?”

“Henny.”

Mr. Patterson’s laugh was full of pity. He not only looked down on Pretty’s apprehension to drink, he looked down on his choice of beverage. He needed a go-getter, but Pretty wasn’t biting. He needed to get to the crux of this black man.

“Who drinks Henny, Jarvis?”

Pretty’s tone was defensive. “The brothers I hang with.”

“The
brothers
you hang with?” He poured Pretty a drink. “Do the brothers you hang with drink the good stuff?”

Pretty accepted the beverage and put it to his nose. “Is this the good stuff?”

“Taste it.”

Pretty put it to his mouth and before he took a sip, Mr. Patterson interrupted, “Toast first, Jarvis.” He held his glass in the air. Pretty’s glass made contact with Mr. Patterson’s. Mr. Patterson continued, “Let’s toast to a proposition you cannot turn down, Jarvis.”

Pretty remained silent and took a huge gulp. He gagged, choked, and spit out the remains that didn’t go down. “Damn! What is this shit?”

Mr. Patterson laughed and handed him a napkin. “Wipe up your mess, Jarvis.” He took a sip of his own and uttered, “You gotta crawl before you can walk, son.”

Pretty wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What is this?”

Mr. Patterson held his glass in the air. “This, my friend, is the good stuff.” He took another sip. “This is Johnny Walker Black. Thirty dollars a shot at the bar.”

“Well it tastes like crap.”

“Everything tastes like crap until you get used to it. This warms the throat and soothes the soul, Jarvis.” He put his glass down and offered Pretty a seat. “You ready?”

Pretty took his seat.

“I have a great deal for you, Jarvis.” He closed his eyes and calculated with silence. He snapped himself out of his thoughts and continued, “I am willing to pay you three thousand dollars. Can you use three thousand dollars?”

This got Pretty’s attention. His back stiffened. “Yes.” His eyebrow shot up. He eased back and looked toward the door. “What do I have to do?”

Mr. Patterson pressed the intercom. “Can you send the party in, Ms. Randolph?”

The secretary answered politely.

Pretty readied himself for anything. He sat on edge, his weight rested on his toes. He interlocked his hands and waited.

The door opened slowly.

Pretty’s hands went to his head. He twisted the ends of his braids and tapped his foot. He began to sweat.

Mr. Patterson grinned boastfully as he stood and extended his hand. His voice brimmed with pride. “This, Jarvis, is my wife. Tamanda Patterson.”

Mrs. Patterson strode in as if she had just jumped off a high horse. She smelled expensive and looked rich. She appeared to own something. She walked with patient steps toward her husband. She reached her destination and gave him adequate affection. Their kiss was cursory; their hug was even worse.

Mr. Patterson switched hands and introduced Pretty. “My dear, this is Jarvis.” He turned back to his wife. “Jarvis, this is my proposition.” He walked around his desk and poured a glass of wine. Mrs. Patterson accepted his offering. She didn’t kick her feet up as he did; instead, she folded her legs and fell into the throes of his leather. She took a sip of wine and closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply and let it out silently.

Pretty sat in disbelief. He looked behind; his eyes transfixed on Mrs. Patterson. Her skin was as creamy as whole milk, and her hair was as short as his, and blond. She had many features that were youthful. He assumed she was in her early thirties and regularly visited the gym. Her cleavage brought men near; her beauty made them fall. She opened her eyes and reached for her pocketbook. She moved her lips seductively as she painted them with an earthy tone of brown. She pushed her compact below her eyes and stole a peek at Pretty. She couldn’t hide her smile.

Pretty watched Mr. Patterson as he sat on the edge of the desk watching the incident unfold. His eyes went from his wife’s legs to Pretty’s expression. He nodded his head, cleared his throat, and began, “Should I explain what I would like, Jarvis?”

“Let’s see what the lady would like, Mr. Patterson,” Pretty said.

Mr. Patterson ignored Pretty’s feeble attempt at assertion. He asked his wife, “Do you like what you see, dear?”

Mrs. Patterson pressed her lips to a napkin and observed her print on it. Her lips were oversized and perfectly shaped. Her tongue glided easily against her teeth and she inhaled. She folded her legs seductively and let her fingers trail down her athletic calf. She spoke slowly, “I do like what I see, Geronimo.”

Pretty snickered. Mr. Patterson shot him a quick glance. It stopped the laugh, but it wasn’t potent enough to erase the information. No one knew Mr. Patterson’s first name, and now Pretty had something to combat his disrespectful tone when he spat “Jarvis” like Pretty was his slave. Pretty glanced at the desk and reread the designer golden nameplate.
G. TONY PATTERSON
.

Pretty called his horse, laughed, and jumped high. “If I do accept this opportunity, I would prefer to be called Pretty.” He paused. “Can you do that,
Geronimo
?” Pretty watched Mrs. Patterson’s reaction. She was appreciative of his thriving nature.

Mr. Patterson exchanged glances with his wife. She won. He twitched and mumbled something incoherent under his breath before nodding in agreement. “Anything else, Pretty?” The word stumbled from his mouth.

Pretty felt more comfortable than earlier. He felt the change in power. He walked around the room, his pace full of questions. He wanted to be a part of three thousand dollars. He realized Mr. Patterson didn’t make the decisions. He broke silence. “What do you want from
me,
Mrs. Patterson?”

She popped up and offered Mr. Patterson his seat. He begrudgingly obliged. She walked around and sat on the edge of the desk, watching Pretty shuffle in his chair as she positioned herself in front of him. She offered him a peek.

Her tone was stimulating. “I love black men,” she started. Mr. Patterson coughed, and nearly hacked up a lung before settling back in his seat. She looked behind, shot him a glance of pity, and returned her stare to Pretty. “And you are a
beautiful
black man.” Her eyes raped.

Pretty knew this feeling. He’d felt this power before. He unloosened his tie, and wrestled with his shirt before a few chest hairs snuck out. “I
am
beautiful, bitch!” he agreed.

Mr. Patterson waddled to the edge of his seat. “
Bitch?
What a minute!”

Mrs. Patterson held her hand up, not turning around. “
You
wait a minute, Geronimo. I can handle this.”

Mr. Patterson must didn’t know that she could handle it.

He hesitantly relaxed and sat back.

Mrs. Patterson looked at Pretty with confusion and closed her legs. “Did you just call me a bitch?”

“Yeah!” He didn’t hesitate. His look told her that he would do it again if given the opportunity.

She turned to Mr. Patterson, and then back toward Pretty. Her blank stare didn’t waver.

For a second, everything went deathly still.

Mrs. Patterson broke the silence when she jumped to her feet. She asked Pretty to stand.

He lifted himself up and stood a foot taller than her, arms folded.

She inhaled his body. “Show me why they call you Pretty.”

He laughed. It wasn’t that easy. She called the shots, but he gave the bullets direction. He held out his hand for payment; his eyes never left hers.

She adjusted her shirt. She showed more cleavage and her lips pouted. She imposed her sexuality on her young thug.

“No disrespect, Mrs. Patterson, but I got to get paid before I release the hound.” His joke had serious intent.

She immediately snapped her fingers. Her movements were mechanical, like she had done this before. Mr. Patterson reached for an envelope in his suit jacket; his movements were choppy and unsure. It appeared to be his first and last time in this arena.

Mr. Patterson retrieved the envelope and slid it across the desk. Mrs. Patterson scooped it up and banged it against the palm of her hand. She offered Pretty the envelope. “Will this do?”

He accepted it and pushed it deep into his back pocket.

“You’re not going to check?” she asked.

“I don’t need to check. My bitches never short me.” He knew what she wanted. He used the word “bitch” like a tool to put women like her in their proper place. He figured Mr. Patterson wanted to call her quite a few “bitches,” but they had their parameters set, and it was hard to move in that direction after years of having it one way.

“Now ask me again.” Pretty paused. “Nicely.”

Mr. Patterson watched in awe. Pretty saw the way he scrambled with the air to get eye contact with him. Pretty looked in Mr. Patterson’s direction, but not directly. It pissed him off. Pretty would fuck with his head for all those times he called him Jarvis and meant it. Pretty figured that Mrs. Patterson would be careful not to let Mr. Patterson interfere with their situation. She was no different than the other white women that Pretty was around. They had dated white men all of their lives and wanted to see what the myth was all about. They thought that black men were hung like stallions. They thought that black men were unruly. They assumed that black men made love differently and fucked much differently than the rest of the world. Pretty put on his “black man” suit and gave the bitch what she wanted.

She changed her tone and spoke quietly, “Can you show me why they call you Pretty?”

They were a few feet away from each other. Pretty closed the gap. She smelled fresh, like a floral powder. Her cleavage showed freckled C’s or possible D’s trying to break free.

Pretty’s demand was low-key, “Ask him to leave us first.” Now he gave Mr. Patterson eye contact. Pretty’s lips creased in victory as Mrs. Patterson spun around and ordered Mr. Patterson out. He put up no fight as he once again slowly lifted himself from his chair. He went to the bar and finished his scotch and, without uttering a word, walked out the door.

“Is that better, sir?” she asked, proud of showing her authority at a split second’s notice.

“Sure.” He looked toward the bar and pointed. “
Now
I’ll have a drink.”

“What kind of drink would you like, sir?”

“The same kind your
husband
had.” Pretty slung the word around like mud.

She washed out the glass Mr. Patterson had used and filled it halfway with scotch. She brought it with her and watched him sip. He took smaller swallows. The fact that he wasn’t used to the finer liquor made him more appealing. She wanted something short of the jungle.

He ushered her over with his finger. “Come here.”

She followed direction. She wanted to touch his braids. She wanted to see if he had tattoos. She wanted him to rap about the hood. She wanted everything that MTV and the NBA had to offer.

“Why do you want this to happen?” he asked.

Her head dropped. Embarrassment crept in. She remained silent.

He sipped. It didn’t burn as much as it had before. “Did you hear me?”

She whispered, “Yes, I did, sir.”

He moved close. She smelled the liquor. “I don’t want a whisper.” He invaded her space. Got real personal. “I want the boardroom beast. I want the wild wife that can’t get what she needs from her husband. I want the bitch that I know you can be. Can you give me that voice?”

Her voice reached a higher decibel. “Yes, you can get that woman,
sir.
”

“Well, why do you want to be a part of this?” he growled.

“Because my husband can’t fuck, sir,” she shouted.

Pretty lost his composure. “Huh?”

She stood proud even though she gave away part of her family’s secret. “He cannot fuck, sir.”

“So, why me?”

She gave no eye contact. The schoolgirl in her came out.

“I said, why me, bitch!”

Her answer was short and aggressive. “Because you’re black, sir.”

He pointed toward the door. “There are a few black men out there. You could have any one of them. Why did your husband call
me
into his office?”

“Because I asked him to.” She paused. Irritation flared.
“Sir.”

“And how do you know me?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, why did you ask for me?”

“Because
you
are the one that they call Pretty, sir.”