Naughty or Nice (16 page)

“Oh, please. The flip side of that, a sister ain't got those kind of options. Hard to meet a man who ain't a piranha in that feeding frenzy. Hell, just hard to meet a decent brother in L.A.”

“I think it's the other way. The shortage of men has made women turn into piranhas. Men have buffet after buffet to choose from. Women are starving. Hungry and desperate.”

“Good point.” I hated that truth. “There is no equilibrium in the dating world.”

“C'mon, I know you've met at least one decent man.”

“The brothers who come up to me are either fugly and smart, or handsome and dumb as a brick . . . or handsome and broke . . . or fugly and rich . . . or fugly and—”

“Fugly?”

“Oh. Never mind.”

The conversation stayed smooth and we ordered another round of drinks, this one on me.

“Damn. First time a sister ever bought me a drink.”

“You're welcome.”

Then he said, “Wanna catch a Laker game with me day after tomorrow?”

“That might work.”

“Your call. Let me know. I've got floor seats.”

“That will most definitely work. Popcorn and parking will be on me.”

I usually gave out a business card that had the e-mail address and the number to the fax machine; the fax line had a message center that I checked every blue moon. It was a long and hard climb up Kilimanjaro to get to the A-list and earn the digits to the phone next to my bed.

But I was feeling . . . well . . . sentimental. And since Dick Clark was warming up to sing “Auld Lang Syne,” reflective too. I needed to plant some seeds if I didn't want to keep running up and down my B- and C-lists from now until Valentine's Day.
Anybody below the A-list wasn't obligated to buy flowers, presents, or cards. Yep, all they had to do was throw the morning paper on the porch on the way out.

Right about then this brother to end all brothers stepped into the room. Man was so fine he made Denzel look like Pee Wee Herman. Four-button black suit, yellow Italian shirt and no tie, caramel skin, looked like the centerfold out of every woman's fantasy book. All of those lonesome queens around the bar, they all did some quick tit adjustments and positioned their bodies so homeboy would know they were volunteering to become flavor of the night.

But his eyes were all over me.

Then the guy headed my way, and I was thinking, damn, talk about being bold. I was thinking more along the lines of me slipping away to the ladies' room and sliding him my digits on the way. He moved around the crowd, glass of wine in hand, like Bogart going to Ingrid Bergman in
Casablanca
.

That made me lose my place in the conversation I was having with . . . uh . . . with John. Good angel and bad angel started having a tug of war inside my head. John was cool, but hell, there was no commitment. Hell, I didn't even know his last name.

The brother stared like he was offering me a chance to upgrade from coach to first-class.

I smiled back. Then his smile changed. His eyes looked a little weird, off-center. That busted my buzz and all sorts of burglar alarms started clanging inside my head.

I'd seen that expression before. I'd had that expression a few times myself.

I patted John's arm, then pointed. “I think you might have a fan.”

John saw the guy and his body jerked. “Ramón? Oh, shit.”

The brother got right up on John. “Aren't you supposed to be home with the flu?”

The moment John opened his mouth, Ramón tossed his drink in John's face. Ramón must've done that a thousand times
before because his aim was awesome, damn near as good as squirting water in those plastic clown faces at the L.A. County Fair. Half of the wine went down John's throat. He started coughing and gagging with fluids coming out both his mouth and nose, choking like he was drowning in the Pacific Ocean.

The crowd parted and Ramón marched away, adjusting his suit, shaking his head.

Talk about sucking the zippity right out of my friggin' doo dah.

John gagged, was flustered. “I'm sorry . . . but that's my . . . an old associate.”

“Whatever.” Strange that he picked a word that started with
ass
and ended with
ate
to describe their . . . relationship. “Knew you were too pretty . . . dressed too damn nice . . . damn basketball throws a sister off every friggin' time.”

“You're leaving?”

“The refrigerator light is off and the game is over.”

“Here's my card. Call me.”

“Nigga, please.” I shook my head. “I'll call you when Dr. Laura becomes grand marshal at the Hollywood Gay Parade.”

I
snapped, “I don't have any cash.”

Livvy yawned and checked her watch. “They have about twenty ATMs in the lobby.”

Tommie asked, “Is the concession stand open?”

It was after seven in the morning and at least ten thousand people were here, more coming in every second. CP-time was in full effect.

Somebody's phone vibrated. Like cellular gunslingers, Tommie, Livvy, and I reached into our purses and yanked out phones at the same time. Livvy's was humming and glowing. She'd been getting text messages all morning. She turned away from us, read the message, blushed like she was in high school, then typed something back.

Tommie said, “There go the spotlights.”

“Reminds me of UniverSoul Circus. They need a contortionist under the Christmas tree.”

“Damn, Frankie. Let me get this straight.”

“Shut up, Tommie.”

“You were out on a date with John . . . then this guy named Ramón—”

“Didn't I just tell you to shut up?”

“And you saw Ramón out on the curb crying like a three-year-old?”

I snapped, “I don't want to talk about that ever again.”

Livvy didn't look up; too busy sending and receiving text messages.

The band started playing. The Solid Gold for the Glory of Jesus dancers came from everywhere, spinning and twirling their way down the aisles, followed by the Gaudy for God choir members who Crip-walked in dressed in gold lamé, being led by a midget choir director who was a wannabe Kirk Franklin.

I said, “Laker flashback time, people.”

Tommie and I started doing the wave.

Livvy cut her eyes at us. “Y'all going to hell in gasoline thongs.”

The sanctuary still had a scoreboard letting people see the score: SAINTS 100 SINNERS 0. Left-behind championship banners from the Lakers and the Kings were high up on the walls. We were in the nosebleed section, under Kareem, Worthy, and Magic's retired jerseys.

Tommie said, “This is better than the All-Star Game.”

I added, “Much better.”

“Y'all going to hell.”

L.A. was a city where preachers bragged about the size of their congregations, and no matter how large the congregation, it was never big enough. They all wanted a congregational-enlargement. But if you asked me, their congregations were never as large as they claimed it to be from the get-go. Not that I've seen that many congregations. I was just saying.

“Damn,” Livvy said. “You see what that heifer has on?”

I groaned. “I have on a thong bigger than that dress.”

Livvy retorted, “Surprised you have drawers on at all.”

“Who is that?” That was Tommie. “Those are stripper shoes.”

“I think that's the preacher's wife.”

“No, that's his mistress. The wife sits on the other side.”

I shook my head. “Viagra has kept these old school players in the game too long.”

Livvy bumped us both. “Smile. One of the cameramen is pointing the camera at us.”

“No! I have on what I'm wearing to Pier 1.”

“Act like you're a praying leprechaun, start shouting that people are always after your Lucky Charms or something.”

The camera shot changed from us doing our Hallelujah dances with the other people in the nosebleed section, and switched to all the women down on the front row, the true season-ticket holders. Short skirts, super-cleavage, three-inch heels, and leather pants.

I said, “Bet them sisters had the same clothes on last night at Bistro 880.”

Tommie shook her head. “Reverend has more groupies than the Lakers.”

We were up so high that everybody on stage looked like hand-clapping ants, so we had to watch the Greatest Spiritual Show on Earth on one of the five sixty-foot-tall monitors.

Right after that, all of our cell phones rang. People we know in church had seen us on the monitors and started calling. I had calls coming in on top of calls: two from old B-list lovers sitting in the choir, one from a C-list deacon I had long forgotten about. Everybody was trying to hook up later on tonight. Everybody was getting turned down. Tommie was smiling hard, the way a woman did when she was talking to a man. Whoever it was, she told him to tell Monica hi before she hung up. She was floating after that. And Livvy, well her call put her in a bad mood.

Livvy had her arms folded, leg bouncing, staring off into space.

I stopped clapping and asked Livvy, “You okay?”

“That was Tony. He's here. With his family.”

“You want to leave . . . or go down there . . . or—?”

She shook her head as an answer to all my questions.

I asked, “What did he say? Did the DNA—?”

She exhaled. “I'm gonna need a divorce lawyer.”

“You're going to try and serve him before he serves you?”

I waited. Tony's call had rocked her. I put my hand on Livvy's right hand. Tommie was on her other side, holding Livvy's left hand. Livvy closed her eyes. I understood what she was feeling. Been there, done that. Divorce was like losing your
past. Your future . . . after going through that trauma, you didn't know what your future was.

We sat like that the rest of the service.

The minister hit the stage and asked everybody for an extra thousand dollars to help the needy in the community, said that message came straight from the man above.

Tommie laughed that I-know-you-ain't-asking-me-for-no-mo'-money laugh.

I reached over and slapped her arm. She slapped me back.

Tommie said, “What did he do with the chunk of money he asked everybody for last year? The community looks jacked up the same way it did after the L.A. Riot.”

Livvy said, “Well, he just put new twenty-four-carat-gold fixtures throughout his estate in Palos Verdes. Heated marble floors. Don't know what he has at his home in the Hamptons. So, yeah, his communities are looking better every year. And his mistress is hooked up big time.”

I mumbled, “Both of y'all going to hell in gasoline . . .”

I was about to feel guilty and write a check for extra money I didn't have. Then I looked at the man on the sixty-foot-tall monitor, stared and remembered that the minister rode through the hood in a limo, wore tailored suits, and, when he had to walk with the masses, did a special announcement and let everybody know he had on two-hundred-dollar tennis shoes.

Now that I thought about it, the last time I saw him in public, he didn't have any idea who I was. I've been coming here for ten years. When I ran into him at Aunt Kizzy's all I wanted to do was say hello and move on and get my Sunday dinner, but I couldn't get in two words to my spiritual leader before his gorilla-sized bodyguards whisked him away.

I put my checkbook back and told the McBrooms, “Time for us to shake this spot.”

As we were leaving, they were doing the announcements, “Today's first service was brought to you by Coca-Cola . . . it's the real thing . . . just like Jesus.”

 

Livvy said she didn't want to get her grub on, that she had more shopping to do. She told Tommie that she'd be at her place tonight, then hurried to her SUV and drove away.

Tommie and I stood out in the sunshine and watched her blend into traffic, then vanish.

I said, “She's stressed.”

“I know. It's like she's pushing us away and holding on at the same time.”

“Watch out for that broken forty-ounce.”

She stepped around the broken glass. “They must've had a concert here last night.”

We were parked in the back forty of the parking lot. Tommie didn't have to be at Pier 1 for a hot minute, and I didn't have anything on my plate for a while, so we headed over to 'Bucks, grabbed a cup of java, found an empty table outside, chilled out and talked about what we needed to do on Christmas morning. We had our own little McBroom tradition.

She said, “I don't want to end this year holding on to old issues.”

“What are you saying?”

“Think . . . Think I'm going to . . . maybe not be celibate.”

“The nappy-headed creamy-vanilla guy with the LL thang? . . .”

She blushed. “That's who just called me at church. He invited me to go pick out a Christmas tree with him and . . . with him. After I get off work.”

“You make that sound like a date.”

She shrugged. “Have to start somewhere. It's about time, not money.”

I felt small when she said that. Like maybe I expected too much because I had so much. But I had a lot to lose. I shook it off and said, “You're two years into being a nun, right?”

“It ain't easy.”

“You haven't—?”

“We kissed. That's where I was when the sheriff came . . . kissing him.”

What she was bringing to me, well the conversation surprised me because she hadn't talked about hooking up with anyone, not on that level, not the two years she was gone to Galveston, hadn't brought anybody around us since she came back almost nine months ago.

“He's older . . .” She swallowed and shifted around. “. . . and has a child.”

“How much older is—?”

“Real old. Your age.”

“Be serious. His child?”

“Four.”

I was bothered by it, maybe even envious because she'd been floating around like she was IV'd to helium, but I could tell she expected me to give her grief over the age difference, twice as much grief over the guy having a kid, but I saw how she was glowing, and I smiled.

“I talked to my therapist about him. And the explicit dreams.” She laughed her cute little shy laugh again. “And I think the
vitamins
I take, damn; the side effect is a high sex drive.”

“They're not
vitamins
.”

“Whatever. The meds have me so . . . excited. I think I almost have orgasms in my sleep.”

“Can you get me a prescription? I promise not to OD.”

“Hush. But I don't quite get there.”

“You're telling me that you haven't—?”

She shook her head. “Never had an orgasm. I don't feel complete.”

“You don't know what you're missing, Boo.”

“Oh, I have an idea. When I first came back and crashed at Livvy's, I'd wake up in the middle of the night and hear them going at it . . . whooping and hollering . . . and—”

“Damn. Sounds like Momma and Daddy.”

“Tony would growl, and she'd whine like a cat. Thought he was killing her butt.
What's my name? What's my name
? He asked her his name so much, I thought he had amnesia.”

I laughed.

She laughed too. “Livvy is way louder than Momma used to be. And Livvy . . . she gets vulgar.
Fuck that pussy eat that pussy slap dat ass dat dick is soooo good.”

“Tommie, lower your voice. It's Sunday. We just left church.”

“Oops.” She moved a loose braid from her face, looked to the skies. “Sorry.”

“Well, when you get it good, trust me, you'll say and do some vulgar things too.”

I laughed because I'd done some freaky things and let a man make love to me in ways I never thought I would, and loved every minute of it. Trusting and loving a man made a woman ready and willing to try almost anything, if only one time.

Tommie was in question-asking mode, almost like a woman climbing a mountain in search of answers from the master. It was hard to explain to Tommie what good sex was when she didn't really know her own body, not the way a woman should be familiar with herself.

I told her, “Explore your own body.”

“I'm not into paddling the pink canoe.”

“Stop acting silly. Swing by the Hustler Store and get a vibrator.”

She shook her head. “That's why God made men.”

“After you've had a few men, you'll understand why we buy so many vibrators.”

She smiled, got a little giddy, then checked her watch. It was time for her to get to Manhattan Beach so she could clean bathrooms and sell candles.

Before she could get away I asked, “Who is Livvy having an affair with?”

“You know that she's—?”

I made the get-real face. “I'm not stupid.”

She shrugged. “If you find out, tell me.”

We hugged, kissed cheeks, and I watched my sister as she pulled her braids back into a ponytail and headed toward her Jeep. Saw how the brothers in the area stopped doing what they were doing and broke their necks staring at that Amazon queen.

Hell, maybe I should give up the locks and get me some braids the color of Epsom salt, put a silver earring in my nose, belly button, and left eyebrow, too.