‘Yeah, I’m paying attention, I’m paying attention. Look, I don’t know what you want me to say. Besides, I don’t see what the big deal is anyway. So it’s in the papers - so what? This is gonna be a high-profile wedding, baby. And you better get used to it, because this is what the rest of your life is gonna be like. You’ll always have the press on your back, following you around. You’re not gonna be Christina Mer . . . Mer . . . Mer . . .—’ He forgot her last name for a couple of seconds, then said, ‘Mercado. You’re not gonna be Christina Mercado anymore; you’re gonna be Mrs Jake fucking Thomas. The spotlight’s gonna be on you twenty-four seven.’
Jake heard sniffling. He had no idea what the hell she was crying about now.
‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Just this one time I wanted it to be something / announced, not that people had to read about in the papers.’
‘It doesn’t matter, baby.’
‘Yes, it does matter. You have no idea how much it matters.’ Jake wondered if there was something wrong with Christina mentally. Her father was a nutcase, so maybe she had screws loose too.
‘There’s nothing I can do about it now, baby,’ Jake said. He tapped the phone against the bed’s box spring then said, ‘Whoops, there’s the call waiting.’
‘Don’t hang up on me.’
‘I have to take it - it must be my agent calling me back.’
‘When did you call the papers anyway? I was with you all night.’
‘I gotta take this.’
‘Don’t go—’
‘It’s an important call—’
‘Jake-’
‘I’ll pick you up at seven, baby.’
Jake clicked off, relieved. He lay in bed with his eyes closed, trying to chill. He didn’t know how much longer he could take this getting-married bullshit. Christina had way too much baggage, and he wasn’t just talking about her ass. He was starting to think about Patti, the United stewardess, wishing there was some way he could go hang with her, when his cell phone started bocking like a crazy chicken.
‘Yeah,’ he said to his lawyer, Ronald Lufkowitz.
‘I wake you?’ Lufkowitz asked.
‘Yeah,’ Jake said.
‘Sorry. Just wanted to give you an update on the Marianna Fernandez sitch.’
‘Stu told me last night - they want two hundred grand.’
‘Yeah, well, things have gotten worse. Just got a fax from his lawyer. He says because you missed the first deadline now he wants one million by midnight tomorrow.’
‘Is he high?’
‘I know his lawyer and the way he deals - honestly, I think it’s all a ploy. I think if we go back and say two hundred grand and that’s our final offer, this all goes away.’
‘No,’ Jake said.
‘Well, we have to come back with some kind of counter or—’
‘Didn’t you see the papers?’
‘The papers? . . . Oh, yeah, Stu mentioned it. Your wedding. Congrats.’
‘You see what kind of PR I’m getting? The whole country loves me. Wh o cares what the Fernandez girl says now?’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘No deals,’ Jake said. ‘Let ‘em go public - nobody gives a shit. People’ll just think it’s some blackmailers, some scammers trying to bring me down. It might not even make the papers.’
‘Right . . .’ Lufkowitz said, sounding confused, as if waiting for Jake to go on.
‘Right,’Jake said confidently, as if Lufkowitz were a stupid jerk idiot lawyer who just didn’t get it.
‘Look, I think I know what you’re getting at,’ Lufkowitz said. ‘You think one thing outweighs another or something like that, right?’
‘You’re catching on.’
‘I’m not sure I agree with that, Jake. Statutory rape is a serious allegation - I’m not sure the public will just ignore this.’
‘Whoa, I never touched that girl.’
‘I’m not saying you did, but the right thing to do in a negotiation—’
‘I’m not negotiating anything. The offer’s off the table. End of story.’
‘I think that’s a mistake, Jake. My opinion, from a legal standpoint, is we should make some kind of deal with them. Maybe we can get them down to two, three hundred thou. It’s a bite to take for you, I know, but it makes the problem disappear.’
‘The answer’s no.’
‘Maybe you want to think about it and get back to—’
Jake ended the call, deciding that he was going to fire Lufkowitz ASAP. He didn’t care what that asshole said; there was no way in hell he was going to play ball with the Fernandezes. If he made any payoff now, and the press got wind of it, it would make him look guilty as hell, like he was trying to cover something up before his wedding. No, those greedy Mexicans had had their window to make a deal, and now the window was shut. If they wanted to go public with the rape story, nobody would believe them, and if it caused any flak at all, Jake would just do a smear job on the girl - have his people make shit up if they had to - and she and her family would wish they never set foot in the US of A.
Jake left the guest room, confident that he had the whole situation under control, when he saw Ryan standing in the hallway.
‘Hey,’Jake said, surprised, his smile fading quickly when he saw how demented Ryan looked. His face was sweaty, and he had a dazed, lost expression, as if someone had just hit him over the head with a brick.
‘You feeling okay, dude?’ Jake asked.
Ryan continued staring stupidly.
‘I didn’t hear the bell ring,’ Jake said. ‘You sure you’re okay, man?’ Then Jake smelled alcohol. ‘Dude, you been drinkin’? Isn’t it a little early in the day for—’
And that was when Ryan attacked him. It happened so fast that Jake didn’t realize what was going on until he was on his back and that little faggot was on top of him, squeezing his throat. Jake was gagging, barely able to breathe as he looked up at Ryan’s crazed, beet-red face. Finally Jake managed to pry Ryan’s fingers away long enough to get out the gargled words, ‘What the fuck—’ but then Ryan pushed down and squeezed with more force.
At six-three, two-twenty, Jake had five inches and maybe forty pounds on Ryan, but Ryan was so bonkers that Jake had a tough time fighting him off. He couldn’t get Ryan’s hands off his neck, so he pushed up against Ryan’s chest, trying to bench-press the nut away. Still, he couldn’t free himself, and Ryan was squeezing even harder. Panic set in as it hit Jake that this was it - he was going to fucking die - and then he was holding his throat, gasping for air. He realized that Ryan wasn’t strangling him anymore, and he looked up and saw Antowain holding Ryan back.
‘She fuckin’ loves me!’ Ryan was shouting. ‘She doesn’t love you, you fuckin’ asshole! She fuckin’ loves me! You’re never gonna get her! Never!’
Jake had no idea what Ryan was talking about. The guy was totally whacked out of his mind.
‘Fuck you,’ Jake said hoarsely, and then he started coughing.
Ryan tried to break free, to go after Jake again.
Still holding Ryan back, Antowain said, ‘Son of a bitch.’
‘What did you say to her?!’ Ryan screamed at Jake. ‘What kinda fuckin’ bullshit lies did you tell her?! Huh?! What fuckin’ bullshit?!’
Jake realized Ryan was talking about Christina, and he remembered how Ryan had gotten all psycho over her yesterday. He obviously still had a crush on her and had flipped when he heard the wedding news, going out and getting ripped, then coming here. Jake had always known Ryan was pathetic, but he had no idea the guy was this far gone.
Jake coughed some more, catching his breath. He was okay; maybe he hadn’t been as close to dying as he’d thought.
‘Just get the hell out of here,’ Jake said, pretending it was difficult to speak, ‘before I call the cops.’
Donna Thomas called from the bottom of the stairs, ‘What’s going on up there? Jake? Antowain?’
‘She doesn’t want you!’ Ryan yelled at Jake. ‘She never wanted you! She thinks you’re an asshole - a cheating, lying, fuckin’ asshole! You think you won her back? You didn’t win shit back! She hates you! She couldn’t give a flying fuck about you!’
Feeling sorry for Ryan because he was such a loser, Jake said, ‘You need some serious help, dude. Maybe you should go on Prozac, or lithium, or check yourself into fucking Bellevue.’
Ryan broke away from Antowain and went after Jake again. This time Jake was ready and stuck an arm out, easily knocking Ryan back against the wall. Antowain grabbed Ryan again, and Ryan took a wild swing at him, his fist just missing Antowain’s jaw. This set Antowain off, and he grabbed Ryan by the shoulders and pushed him back hard. With his face maybe two inches in front of Ryan’s, Antowain said, ‘I want you outta this house now. Hear what I’m sayin’ to you? You come in here again I’m callin’ the cops on your sorry ass.’
Donna, who’d come halfway up the stairs, said, ‘Stop this fighting - all of you! Just stop it right now!’
Ryan was screaming at Jake: ‘I’m marrying her - not you! She loves me - she loves me, damn it! All year we’ve been together. You didn’t know, did you? You had no fuckin’ clue, huh? You know why you had no fuckin’ clue? Because you don’t give a shit, that’s why. You were too busy fucking everything that moved to give a shit what your fiancee was doing. Now you want her because I want her. It’s all a fuckin’ game to you - a stupid fuckin’ game! But I love her and I’m marrying her, and I don’t give a shit what I read in the paper. I don’t give a shit!’
Antowain was still holding Ryan’s arms, restraining him from going after Jake.
‘This what your father taught you?’ Antowain said to Ryan. ‘Get drunk in the middle of the afternoon? Act like a fool?’
‘Fuck you,’ Ryan said.
‘I don’t need none of this bullshit in my house,’ Antowain said, and he pushed Ryan ahead of him toward the stairs.
As Ryan went down he screamed up at Jake, ‘You’re not fuckin’ marrying her! There’s no fuckin’ way! I’ll kill you first! I swear, I’ll fiickin’ kill you!’
Jake remained on the second-floor landing, hearing Antowain warn Ryan to ‘Stay the hell out of my damn house’ before the door slammed.
Donna stood at the bottom of the stairwell and called up to Jake, ‘Are you okay?’
Jake didn’t answer. He went into the bathroom and locked the door.
Staring in the mirror, he noticed that his neck looked a little red, but he didn’t think he was seriously hurt. If he wanted to, he could probably call the cops and press charges against Ryan -aggravated assault. . . hell, maybe even attempted murder. But he knew Ryan was just drunk and he didn’t want to get him into that kind of trouble.
As Jake restyled his hair, he thought about what Ryan had said, about how he’d been screwing Christina. He didn’t know if Ryan was lying, but he had a hunch he wasn’t. It explained why Christina had been acting so weird last night, hitting him with all that wanting-to-break-up bullshit, and why she’d gotten so bitchy on the phone about the wedding announcement in the
Daily News.
Christina had probably told Ryan she was going to break off the engagement, and then Ryan had to read all about the wedding in the morning paper.
Jake didn’t care about Ryan fucking Christina. Actually, he thought it was kind of funny. Poor Ryan - the guy just couldn’t catch a break. He probably went after Christina only because she was Jake Thomas’s fiancee, because he was jealous of Jake Thomas’s career, and he figured that if he started banging Jake Thomas’s girl it would be the next best thing to making the show. Poor fucking Ryan. Didn’t he know the deck was stacked against him, that there was no way he could ever come out on top?
Then Jake smiled widely, looking in the mirror, realizing that finding out about Ryan and Christina was probably the best thing that could have happened. Now the pressure was off; a huge door had been opened. After all, if Christina was getting some on the side, why the hell couldn’t he? Quid pro quo, tit for tat, and all that shit.
Jake took out his cell, wondering who he should call first - Patti the stewardess, or Jasmine the light-skinned chick from last night? Or maybe he could swing some way to get them both into a hotel room somewhere.
Nah, Jasmine was a dumb idea. She was way too young, and he definitely didn’t need another Marianna Fernandez in his life. So, from his wallet, he slid out the card with Patti’s number.
He dialed, ready to leave a message, when a sexy-sounding chick came on.
‘Hello?’
‘Patti?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s your lucky day, baby.’
Saiquan sat shotgun, staring at his lap as Marcus backed the Saturn out of the lot. They drove down Seaview Avenue, past the park. Saiquan could still hear sirens, probably heading toward Jermaine’s house.
‘Can’t believe I gotta give up my motherfiickin’ BMW for this bitch ride,’ Marcus said. ‘Shit’s fucked-up.’
He turned right onto Rockaway Parkway.
‘Shit ain’t gonna work, man,’ Saiquan said, shaking his head. ‘Ain’t gonna work.’
‘What ain’t gonna work?’
‘All this switchin’ cars, thinkin’-we-so-smart-when-we-ain’t shit, that’s what. That bitch seen you, man. The cops prolly already makin’ a cartoon of yo’ ass right now. They gonna have the shit posted all over Brooklyn. I open the paper tomorrow -I’m gonna see yo’ ugly motherfiickin’ face lookin’ back at me.’
Marcus was shaking his head, not paying attention. ‘I tellin’ you, yo - we pass another BMW, Jeep, anything looks cool, I’m takin’ that shit. I feel like a pussy drivin’ this shit-ass ride.’
‘Yo, you hear what I’m sayin’?’ Saiquan said. ‘They gonna have a cartoon of you. That bitch is gonna pick you out in a lineup.’
‘She ain’t pickin’ out shit,’ Marcus said. ‘Ho’s prolly home right now, happy she ain’t dead. She ain’t goin’ to no po-lice.’ He looked at the dashboard. ‘Damn, look at this bullshit - don’t even got a motherfiickin’ CD player. Shit smells too. Nigga be eatin’ tuna fish in this car.’
Saiquan looked away, rolling his eyes. J’s girl Ramona was probably talking to the cops right now - why wouldn’t she after somebody killed her man and tried to rape her ass? Shit, the cops would probably show up at Marcus’s crib tonight to bust his ass hard, if they weren’t waiting there already. After that, how long would it take Marcus to say the name Saiquan? Once them cops took him into the back room and started Louima-ing his ass with a motherfucking plunger he’d cop a plea real quick. Then the cops would be busting into Saiquan’s joint, slapping the damn cuffs on him, telling him all that you-got-the-right-to-remain-silent bullshit. Saiquan never understood why they said that shit for. What kind of fucking right was it to shut up?
Wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, Saiquan started thinking about how it was gonna go down. While the cops were cuffing him, his kids would be standing there screaming and crying, just like
he
used to scream and cry every time the cops came to take his old man away. And Desiree . . . Damn, Saiquan couldn’t even imagine the shit that’d be flying out of her mouth. Then the cops would take him out of the building, and the kids from the projects would be out there, looking at Saiquan like he was a hero. Saiquan would have to play it up, acting like getting picked up for murder was cool, and no big deal, and that he was down with all that shit. The cops would push him into the backseat, cracking his head against the top of the car while they were doing it, because cops always cracked niggas’ heads against the top of the squad car - must’ve been some bullshit they taught them all in the police academy. He’d probably need five stitches in his head to sew that shit up, but the cops wouldn’t care. They’d stop off for some Mickey D’s or White Castle and start talking shit about how good the food tasted -
Ain’t these fries great? I love these little cheeseburgers.
Then they’d book him and stick his ass in jail. First night in the pen he’d have to put on more of that cool, ril-fuck-you-up-if-you-look-my-way shit so he wouldn’t get his ass greased. But then, when the lights went out and he was alone on his cot, he’d start crying like a bitch into his pillow, wondering how his life got fucked-up all over again.
‘It’s only, like, nine o’clock, man,’ Marcus said. ‘Let’s go party.’ Saiquan felt a tear drip over his upper lip. He licked it up quickly and looked away, out the window.
‘Come on, man,’ Marcus said. ‘They got this new ho house open on Argyle Road. Only been there one time, but they got some tasties there, yo. West Indian bitches like to swing low, know what I’m sayin’? And they got drinks there too, so you sip on a margarita while you watchin’ yo’ dick get sucked. . . . Yo, ‘less you gotta get back home. Yo’ bitch got a curfew on yo’ ass?’
Saiquan remembered the way Jermaine had screamed when Marcus shot his feet off. The man wasn’t lying. Nobody goes through that kind of pain and starts making shit up.
‘Whatever,’ Saiquan said.
‘You serious?’ Marcus said. ‘You comin’?’
Saiquan knew he was going away for thirty to life. When he got out he’d be a stupid old man, if he got out at all. Why not go to the ho house with Marcus? It was gonna be the last night of his life anyway.
‘Whatever, man,’ he said.
‘Shit, I can’t believe it,’ Marcus said. ‘Maybe you ain’t such a pussy after all.’
At a red light Marcus took out his crack pipe. He put some more rock in, lit up, and took a hit. When the light turned green he handed the pipe to Saiquan.
‘Want some?’
Thinking,
What fuckin’ difference does it make?
Saiquan took the pipe. He lit up and inhaled as long as he could. A few seconds later everything went away. There was no more jail, no more being poor - no more nothing except that good, fucked-up-on-crack, not-giving-a-shit-about-nothing feeling taking over his whole body.
Then the good high faded as fast as it came, and he wanted more.
As Saiquan lit up again, Marcus said, ‘See? You based with me before, maybe you wouldn’t be freakin’ so much.’
‘Where the fuck’s that ho house at?’ Saiquan asked.
‘Chill, man, chill. Gotta get some money for the honeys first, know what I’m sayin’?’
‘What you mean? Where’s all yo’ money at?’
Marcus turned right onto Glenwood Road and started driving slowly. A couple of brothers were hanging out in front of a candy store on the corner, but no one else was around.
Picking up the empty Baggie, Saiquan said, ‘Where’s the rest?’
‘Ain’t no more.’
‘What about all that shit you had at your crib?’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll get all the rock and all the hos you want.’ Marcus pulled over and stopped the car. ‘C’mon.’
‘What you—’
‘Just c’mon.’
Marcus took out his piece and got out of the car. Saiquan waited, then followed him.
Marcus stopped in front of a parked van and held out his hand to block Saiquan. After a few seconds, an old dude carrying two shopping bags came by. Marcus let him pass, then went up behind him and put the piece up to his head.
‘Give it up,’ Marcus said.
‘Hey,’ the dude said, ‘what the hell’re you—’
‘I said give that shit up, yo, ‘less you wanna die right now.’
‘C’mon,’ the dude said, ‘I don’t got nothin’ on me. Lemme alone.’
Still holding the gun up to the guy’s head, Marcus let go of him with his other arm and reached into the dude’s front pocket and took out his wallet. The guy wasn’t as old as Saiquan thought. Maybe he was forty.
‘C’mon, man,’ the dude said. ‘I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble with y’all. What’d I do to you?’
Marcus handed the wallet to Saiquan and said, ‘What he got?’
Saiquan opened the wallet and took out the bills. ‘Twelve, thirteen, fourteen dollars.’
‘Where the fuck’s the rest?’ Marcus said to the dude. ‘In your shoe? In your damn Fruit Of The Looms? Maybe I should pop a hole in yo’ head and look there.’
The dude shoved Marcus backward with his elbow and ran down the sidewalk.
‘Stupid motherfucker,’ Marcus said, and he shot the guy in the back. The guy made it a few more steps, then went down, falling on his face.
‘Shit,’ Marcus said.
Saiquan was staring at the man who was lying on the sidewalk, blood leaking out of his back through his coat.
‘Let’s get the fuck outta here,’ Marcus said, walking fast back to the car.
Saiquan stood there for a few more seconds, staring at the man on the ground. Then Marcus shouted, ‘Yo, c’mon, man!’ and Saiquan went back to the car too.
Driving away, back onto Rockaway Parkway, Marcus started laughing, saying, ‘See that shit, man? I shot that nigga in the back, right up where the heart is, but he was still runnin’ - was probably already dead ‘fore he hit the ground.’ He laughed harder. ‘They should put that shit in one of ‘em Jackie Chan movies. Shit was fucked up.’
Life.
Saiquan thought.
I’m goin’ away for life now for damn sure.
‘Don’t worry, yo, don’t worry,’ Marcus said. ‘We’ll find more cash. Next nigga we see we gonna bust hard, gonna get enough money for some titty for both of us.’ He looked over and saw that Saiquan was still holding the dead dude’s wallet. ‘Yo, you crazy, nigga? Chuck that shit.’
Saiquan just sat there, dazed. Marcus grabbed the wallet from him and tossed it out of his own window.
Marcus was driving slowly again.
‘Life,’ Saiquan mumbled.
‘What?’ Marcus said.
Saiquan didn’t answer.
Life. Motherfiickin’ life.
‘Yo, check out my man Eminem,’ Marcus said.
Saiquan saw the white guy in a Ronnie Lott jersey, new LeBrons, and a backward Spurs cap, stumbling along the sidewalk.
‘Man’s so fucked-up he can’t even walk straight,’ Marcus said. ‘It’s like my man be
tryin’
to get his wallet jacked. He might as well have a sign hangin’ off his ass sayin, “Take my money. Please take my money”.’
Marcus pulled over and took out his piece.
‘Wait,’ Saiquan said.
Marcus looked at him. ‘What?’
Saiquan wanted to say,
Fuck it, man; let’s go home,
but he needed to get high again.
‘Nothing,’ Saiquan said.
Marcus and Saiquan got out of the car.
‘Shit,’ Marcus said.
The drunk white dude stumbled into the Canarsie Bar and Grill.
‘Fuck it, man,’ Saiquan said. ‘We’ll find somebody else.’
‘Naw, naw, man,’ Marcus said. ‘White boy’s so fucked-up, shit’ll be easy. Prolly got money on him too - get us some rock
and
some booty. C’mon.’
Ryan was waving, trying to get the bartender’s attention, when somebody grabbed his forearm. He turned his head slowly to his left and saw Aretha Franklin. At least, she looked like Aretha. She must’ve weighed three hundred pounds, and her eyes looked as glazed over as Ryan’s must’ve.
‘Hey, baby, wanna buy me a drink too?’
‘Sorrrry,’ Ryan slurred. A few seconds later he realized the woman was still holding his arm, and he yanked it away.
‘Don’t be like that, baby.’
Now the woman was squeezing his right ass cheek, rubbing her huge tits up against his back. He moved closer to the bar and shouted, ‘Hey, hey!’ to the bartender, over the loud Missy Elliott song.
The bartender was having a conversation with a guy at the other end of the bar. He glanced at Ryan, then ignored him.
Ryan headed toward the end of the bar where the bartender was when his foot caught on something - maybe the leg of a bar stool - and he stumbled and fell onto his side. It didn’t hurt as much as he knew it should.
He made it back onto his feet and stood next to the guy the bartender was talking to.
‘Rum and Coke,’ Ryan said. His lips felt numb, and he wasn’t sure he was talking clearly.
The bartender ignored Ryan and said to the guy, ‘That’s what I tell her. I tell her that all the time.’
‘Excuse me,’ Ryan said, talking extra slowly, just in case the bartender couldn’t understand him. ‘I want a rum and Coke.’
‘I saw you,’ the bartender said without looking at Ryan. Then he said to the guy, ‘But that’s just the way she is, know what I’m sayin’? She don’t listen. . . . Hey, you know who I saw yesterday? You remember that brother with his dog who used to come ‘round here?’
‘Dog?’ the guy said.
‘Yeah. One of ‘em rottweilers.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘Well he come in here and—’
‘Can I just get my drink?’ Ryan asked.
‘Wait,’ the bartender said. Then he said to his friend, ‘What was I sayin’? Right, the brother with the rottweiler. So he come in here yesterday and . . .’
Ryan stood there, staring at the bartender, who was going on, bullshitting to his friend. After a few seconds Ryan realized he was swaying, and he stumbled over to an empty bar stool. He sat down, feeling some pain in his hip from the fall he’d taken. Then he looked around, noticing for the first time that everyone in the bar was black. He tried to remember how he’d gotten there, but, like just about everything else about the day, it was a blur. He remembered having his hands around Jake’s throat and drinking at Vinny’s Bar on Ralph Avenue and then not being able to find his car, but that was about it.
He figured he was probably on Rockaway Avenue, maybe near Avenue D? It was definitely a shitty part of Canarsie, a place he would’ve avoided, especially at night, if he were sober; but right now, as long as there was alcohol to drink he really didn’t give a shit.
Ryan was about to scream for his rum and Coke again when he saw the bartender coming over with it.
The bartender put the glass down in front of Ryan, but before he let go of it he said, ‘Five bucks.’
Five bucks sounded like a rip-off, expecially in a dive like this, but Ryan didn’t feel like arguing. He opened his wallet and stared at it, forgetting what he was looking for, and then he thought,
Oh, yeah, money.
He took out a single, stared at it for a couple of seconds, then took out another bill. He was pretty sure it was a ten - yep, there was a one
and
a zero - and handed it to the bartender.
The bartender released the glass and brought Ryan his change. As Ryan guzzled the drink he could barely feel his lips. He couldn’t taste much either - he could’ve been drinking piss on the rocks, for all he knew. But the alcohol was giving him a nice buzz, and at least he wasn’t thinking about
them
anymore, which was all that really mattered.
As Ryan was finishing the drink, he felt a hand touch his arm. Expecting to see Aretha Franklin again, he turned his head as quickly as he could, and it took him a few extra seconds to realize that the woman wasn’t standing there. There was just a skinny guy with long braids, smiling, showing a mouthful of braces. He had a few long scratches on his face.