Liar's Game (3 page)

A tall brother peacocked his way across the room, tapped her on the shoulder, then leaned in and smiled like he was auditioning for a Colgate commercial.

He said, “Mind if I talk to you for a minute?”

“Do I know you?” was Gerri’s stiff reply.

“Not yet.”

He had a reddish complexion, built like a solid oak tree, goatee trimmed, hair short and texturized to make it look curly, dressed head to toe in Tommy Hilfiger jeans, shoes, probably had on matching Hilfiger drawers. The walking billboard had jumped right into the flow of our verbal intercourse, burglarized his way into our conversation.

His name was Jefferson. He was the proud manager of the rap group Dangerous Lyrics, which was about to hit the stage in the back. He bragged, told Gerri how the group had just got back from Atlanta. They’d won a talent show for HOT 97, had a big after party at someplace called Plush.

Chris Tucker. Holyfield. Chilli. Miki Howard. In the middle of his flattery and nonstop macking he dropped a lot of names.

Gerri asked him, “Ain’t you kinda young to be playing me so close?”

“I ain’t young. I’m twenty-six.”

“Well, this chunk of Little Rock is thirty-six.”

“Damn, you don’t look no more than twenty-one.”

“Thanks, but look. Let’s not waste time. I’m divorced with two kids. My daughter is in middle school. My son is sixteen, almost your age. What you wanna do, come over and play Nintendo with him while you baby-sit?”

“Hey, age ain’t nothing but a number.”

“In some states it’s ten-to-twenty singing jailhouse rock.”

“Five minutes, that’s all I ask. Let me buy you a drink and we can talk, and in the end if you wanna step off, cool.”

He didn’t back away. Stood in front of her like he had been appointed the spring to her summer. Six foot five, thick, and when he strutted, most of the sisters looked like they were ready to start throwing him their panties and keys to hotel rooms and charge cards.

Jefferson took Gerri’s hand, pulled her away from us, got her a glass of wine, hemmed up in a private spot, and got his mack on.

When they left Dana smiled, looked the young buck up and down, let her eyes dance to a rhythm of envy and delight, then made a sexy, humming sound.

I asked, “What was that all about?”

“What?”

I mimicked her scandal-lust humming.

She laughed. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

While me and Dana tainted our souls with a strong and smooth French Connections, I played the role and hid from my memories, told Dana I was a black man working hard every day, as single as a dollar bill, no kids, no ex-wives, no problems. With every word I dug my hole deeper. Dana shifted closer, gave me serious eyes, said she had the same résumé.

Dangerous Lyrics took the stage. A group of five girls. Most of them barely looked legal. All dressed in tight-tight black pants made of that trendy, stretchy-tight material that let you know where a woman’s panty lines are. Colorful halter tops—satin lying across their majestic breasts—made them look like rainbows above the waist. All of them with nicknames like Big Leggs, Goldie, Butter Pecan, Pooh Bear, Chocolate Starr.

Butter Pecan stepped up like she was the leader of the crew. From her looks, her nickname was based on her complexion. The D.J. kicked on a preprogrammed tape. People stepped back and the group found some space on the tiny wooden dance floor, danced with the same ferocious energy M.C. Hammer did when he had a job, sounded like TLC with a NWA edge and did an edgy song of possessiveness of a lover. They set the room on fire with a catchy melody that praised sex, retribution, violence, pretty much everything wrapped in one tune.

Gerri was on wearing out the carpet, hands up high, pumping it up and grooving. At thirty-six she danced better, had more choreography than most of the girls in the rap group.

Dana smiled, bebopped where she stood, shoulders bouncing to the beat.

I spoke up over the music, asked her, “Wanna dance?”

“About time. I was wondering when you were gonna ask me.”

She took my hand, anxiously led me through the heat. We had to settle for the carpet; the floor was only big enough for about ten people. It was awkward because the carpet was worn, held stains that made the fabric sticky to my shoes.

That stylish native New Yorker had wicked rhythm. She adapted to the carpet, turned up the volume on her rhythm, moved so good that other men tried to sneak a peek and women tried to mock her style.

After Dangerous Lyrics finished two records, the room applauded loud enough for the girls to O.D. on their egos, then the group went to another room. Gerri and Jefferson were between the fireplace and the exit sign in the back, slow dancing, laughing, talking nonstop, her southern grin gazing up at that roan-colored statue with dreamy eyes. Dana turned down my offer to slow dance, didn’t let me get that close. The music changed.

Then Gerri vanished with the spring to her summer.

Dana said, “Gotta go potty.”

“I’ll be right here.”

I headed for the narrow hallway between the front of the club and the back, where the loud music from the front collided with the loud music in the back, canceling each other out. The girls from the group came out of the bathroom. Somebody sounded upset, like she was holding back tears with every pissed-off word: “I don’t believe that fucker brought us down here, then was all over that old-ass bitch, dumped me like I ain’t shit.”

“Why you tripping, Butter? He ain’t your man. He set your ass straight down in Atlanta. Stop playing up on him and quit tripping.”

“I ain’t trippin’. He the one trippin’.”

“Well, you need to think about the group. Like he told you, this is business. That other stuff you running off at the mouth about ain’t—”

They felt me listening. Ten eyes snapped my way at the same time. Butter stepped out, gave me a cold what-the-fuck-you-looking-at expression before she stormed away. Her girls followed their leader.

As soon as Dana came out of the bathroom, she said she was ready to raise up out of here, so I escorted her out to her car. We talked and headed beyond the Brenda’s Talk of the Town and the Chinese dry cleaners, strolled down on the far side of Ralph’s grocery store. Dana stopped in front of a dark-colored Infiniti Q45. Her ride was ten years old.

She looked disturbed. “Full moon.”

“Full moons means romantic.”

She shook her head, her mood changing, becoming dark and distant. “Drama. A full moon is a flashlight so everybody can see your drama.”

I opened her door, peeped inside before I let her get in. No child seat, no sign of those cheap throwaway toys that come inside a Happy Meal. No man’s belongings. No leftover cologne scent.

Dana kept the door between us, that subtle yet straightforward move a woman does when she’s letting a man know that she ain’t in it for the kissing. Her lips, full and dark with color. All evening, every time they opened and closed, my mouth watered. She tossed her purse over to the passenger seat; it turned over and some of the woman stuff she had inside spilled across the seat.

Makeup. Pager. Checkbook. A coal black stun gun.

That caught my eye.

She followed my eyes to the stun gun and said, “I was mugged on the subway.”

“Mugged?”

“Got jacked for my little old purse. Damn near fell in front of a freakin’ subway train and got run over.” She cleared her throat like she was trying to cough the memory out of her system, then picked up her urban assault weapon, let it rest in her lap, in ready position. “I was almost run over by a train, but this guy caught me before I fell.”

“Good thing he caught you.”

Her tone turned flat. “Good thing, yeah. Bad thing too.”

She fired up the engine; it purred like a newborn kitten.

She took my digits, gave me her red-white-blue business card. Her office was near the golf courses in white-bred Westchester. The card had her smiling face on the front, an office number, pager number, web site, e-mail address, but she didn’t give up the home number. That made me question whether she really lived alone. Or was single. I’ve been on a few dates with sisters, and when we made it back to their crib, a boyfriend or a husband that they’d forgotten all about was waiting in the parking lot. Not a good way to end a night.

It’s all part of that dating game. You lie about this, I lie about that, you don’t tell me this, I don’t tell you that, we date a while, have sex, some lies come out, we mention the unmentioned, we realize how incompatible we are after about six months of fun in the sun, then bygones.

I offered, “Wanna hit Roscoe’s for some chicken, maybe coffee?”

“My girlfriend in New York said Roscoe’s stole the idea from Well’s Chicken and Waffles on Seventh Avenue in Harlem.”

“Never heard that. Never heard of Well’s, actually.”

“Said Roscoe stole everything but the recipe.”

“Is that fact or fiction?”

“Well, my fact is this: I support my people back in Harlem.”

She gave me a firm good-bye handshake, then drove away.

Three tears in a bucket, motherfuck it.

I headed three parking spaces over to my old 300ZX. A ride that needed a set of new tires and new fuel injectors. With the layoffs, I’d been cutting corners. Aerospace had been as steady as a two-legged table during an earthquake.

When I came down a moment ago, I hadn’t looked out across the lot, had been too focused on the woman from New York. Her friend, Gerri, was standing between an Eddie Bauer and a Range Rover, under the full moon, living in the broken shadows with Jefferson. His arms were wrapped around her like he was her protector. They were kissing and I heard their sound. Moans and groans that come from hardness and wetness. Her slim arms up around his shoulders, intense tongue dancing like high school kids.

I watched them until heat warmed my groin and envy burned in my lungs.

Yep, once again I’d wasted half the night and too much money on the wrong woman. I tossed Dana’s ReMax business card facedown on the black pavement. I knew that I’ll-call-ya routine.

During my three-mile drive, I passed by bus benches. Saw Gerri’s photo plastered on a few. Felt relief. That was why her name and her face were familiar. It had nothing to do with my ex-wife, nothing to do with my past.

When I made it home I had a message. It was from my ex-wife. I heard her soft, cultured voice of deception and my blood changed to ice. Her first call in over a year. That was about how often she rang my phone. She’d talk for a hot minute, but she’d never let me talk to my daughter. Never gave me a way to get in contact with them. It was her way or no way.

No matter what happened between us, I’d still been sending checks. Womack’s daddy, Harmonica, told me to keep up with that because it’d come back to haunt me. So I’d been doing right on my end, hoping she would grow up and come to her senses on hers.

“It’s Malaika. We’re still in Germany. I just wanted to leave you a message and let you know that Kwanzaa is fine. Getting tall. We’re living on base. She’s speaking a little German.” There was a pause, an emotional stammer. When my ex-wife spoke again, anxiety, maybe guilt, was in her tone. “She’s a smart girl. Too smart for her age. Maybe when we get back to the States, after I’ve talked to Drake and we’ve gotten settled . . .”

Then there was noise in the background. Maybe her chicken shit husband walked in the room. I don’t know, and when you don’t know you imagine.

What I do know is that Malaika hung up.

Disconnected once again.

Nonstop rain. Anger. Screams. Fighting.

On that night of thunder and lightning, when I stood under a crying sky and let my temper take control, I did shameful things that have marked me as a criminal in the eyes of my ex-wife’s family. I wished I had done things differently. Wished I hadn’t given my pain to two other people.

 

Dana called me early the next afternoon. I’d run in the a.m., put in eight miles flat, then came back and tried to decide what I was gonna do with the rest of my weekend. My friends, Womack and his family, lived right over the hill, and I was thinking about going over that way. He has a house full of kids, three little boys and a brand-new little girl, so we’d end up either shooting hoops in his backyard, playing Nintendo, or watching a Disney video that we’d seen a thousand times. That was my plan until Dana called me from a cell phone, a technological device that players use.

I cut to the chase. “I wanna see you today.”

She maintained her business tone: “You don’t waste no time.”

“Nope. Tomorrow’s never promised, have to go for what I know today.”

“Before we go any further, do you have a girlfriend?”

“Nope.”

“I’m not looking for drama. Been there, done that, wrote a postcard.”

“Same here.”

There was a pause. In the background I heard her car radio whistling soft jazz, the echo of traffic too. She said, “I’m leaving church.”

“Want to meet me for lunch at either Aunt Kizzy’s or Dulan’s?”

“No can do. I have an open house today with Gerri.”

“Open house can’t last all night. Wanna catch a movie after that?”

“I’ll call you when I get some free time.”

“Well, can I get a number where I can reach you?”

“I’ll call you.”

Then she was gone again.

After my wife, I didn’t have a lot of faith in women, not on a romantic level, so I didn’t expect Dana to be a woman of her word.

Monday evening after work, Dana and I met up in Ladera at Magic Johnson’s buzzing Starbucks, another overcrowded meat market for the twenty-something that’s been disguised as an extravagant coffee house. We talked for about an hour, then she glanced at her watch and said she had to go. Her pager had been blowing up the whole time. I figured she must either be living with somebody or had somebody in her life. Tuesday, on my lunch break, I called her job, had a short phone conversation. Wednesday, didn’t hear from her at all. Thursday, another brief conversation during lunch.