Liar's Game (31 page)

“Lisa Leslie or Tina Thompson?”

“Lisa Leslie.”

“Man, you a natural-born fool.”

“Takes one to know one.”

AAA showed up and got ready to drag my ride over to the Nissan dealer, the one in downtown L.A. If the leak in my injectors became any worse, a spark would start a flame and the fire department would be hosing down belts and wires that had been burned like toast. Like what had happened between me and Dana. I’d been in a defective relationship, living in a powder keg, and that phone call from Malaika was the spark that caused the explosion.

LAPD came by. Seeing them made me tense, but they stopped and held off the impatient traffic so the tow truck driver could do his thing.

I said, “That’s the thing about police, one minute you hate ’em for what they do, the next you love ’em for what they do.”

Womack put out his cigarette. “Just like women.”

“Tell me about it.”

I’d called Womack so I could use his AAA card, and he’d driven over before the dial tone was gone. A friend in need, a friend indeed. And indeed I was in need. Harmonica was watching Ramona. Womack had a little while before he had to pick his boys up from school.

Womack said, “Don’t forget, Nissan has a recall on the fuel injectors for all those Z cars. Any dealer has to fix ’em for free.”

My ride was strung up like it had been caught by a lynch mob.

“Mr. Browne?”

Naiomi was coming out of the building, heading for her golden Jeep. Her silver jewelry sparkled in the sunlight. She stopped close enough for me to see she had an open jean shirt over dark blue spandex.

She tilted her blue-lensed shades from her eyes. “What happened?”

I told her that my car would be in the shop for at least a week, maybe two. Nissan had a backlog of defects to deal with.

She said, “Need a ride anywhere, let me know.”

“I’m taking vacation from work this week.”

“Still, you might need to go somewhere. I’m here for you.”

“Juanita will kick both of our butts if I do.”

“Let me worry about that.”

She smiled and waved at Womack.

She asked me, “How’re things between you and Miss Smith?”

“That’s a done deal.”

“Aw, that’s so sad. I was hoping for the best.”

“You and Juanita?”

“I’m not sure. One day chicken, next day feathers.”

Our eyes, expressions lingered a moment.

Naiomi hopped in her Jeep and zoomed up Stocker, bounced over the dips.

Womack came and stood by me. “Jamaica got hot eyes for you.”

“Not her type.”

“And Michael Jackson marries black women.”

Womack signed the AAA papers, followed us downtown, waited for me to TCB with the dealer. Then we went over on Slauson and grabbed Chinese food at Yee’s. Across the street, Gerri Greene’s cinnamon skin and freckled face was on a bus bench, light brown hair flowing down over her shoulders, Kool-Aid smile like she owned this corner of the world.

We sat at a booth. I broke down and told him what was burning to get out of me. Let him know I’d seen Dana getting out of a limo at the Wyndam Belage, kissing her ex-boyfriend, her arms up around his neck, his hand on the round of her ass, slow-grinding their way to the edge of heaven.

“You saw her kissing?”

“Busting slob like it was prom night at Morningside.”

“Damn-di-damn-damn. How did you manage to bust her?”

I told Womack that I’d stolen the hotel number off Dana’s pager one night, had been checking her pager off and on, saw that number popped up around four times a day. When I got back from his place, the night after LAPD put me on display, and I saw all of her clothes spread out, her dress clothes, that left me feeling uneasy. My male intuition pulled me back to my car. I drove to that hotel, saw her car parked in the lot, its hood turning cool. No parties were going on in the hotel, I’d gone to the lobby and asked. Then I waited. Would’ve waited for three mornings if I had to. Then that limo pulled up, she got out like she was Queen Sheeba.

After that, I saw what I didn’t want to see.

He asked, “What did you do when you saw ’em locking lips?”

“Called her name. Let her see me. Walked away.”

“Why didn’t you bust his chops like you did, you know . . . ?”

“Dana’s not my wife,” was my honest answer. “If a man who had done her wrong could show up and get her back in fifteen minutes, she never was mine for the having.”

Womack mumbled, “Like Poppa said, a man would be the last one to know.”

We ate, let the world pass us by. After the food was gone, he drove me by the Chinese dry cleaners next to the Dance Collective, then he brought me back home. Small boxes that belonged to Dana were in the bedroom. Those were things she had packed when I asked her to leave, things she didn’t take, so I wanted them moved to make some walking space. My buddy helped me lug them down to the garage.

I opened the double locks, and we raised the door on the garage I hardly ever used. The space I shared with my landlords. More of Dana’s books, a few boxes filled with other things, waiting for pickup.

Womack motioned at the furniture. “Whose sofa and love seat?”

I said, “Naiomi’s. The furniture, the stack of boxes with U-Haul on the side, all of that stuff is what she had when she was married.”

A voice called out from the other side of the gate. “Hello. Excuse me. Hello. Who’s back there in my garage?”

I stepped to the side so I could be seen. It was Juanita.

She was in jean shorts and a T-shirt, a red silk scarf around her head, pieces of her golden hair sticking out. She was coming out of the laundry room, a bright yellow basket of white clothes on her hips. Womack spoke to her. She returned a brief hello, nothing for me, but her gaze told me that conflict and misunderstanding lived between us.

She left. Her stride, soft and easy. As indifferent as the wind.

Womack groaned out a sorrowful feeling.

I said, “What’s wrong?”

“You see those legs. That’s a waste of natural resources.”

We headed through the back gate, passed by the row of plastic garbage cans, moved toward the wooden stairs that led to my back door. Womack wanted to talk. Mostly about Rosa Lee. About his fears that were clogging his heart. My ill feelings were sheltered.

He asked, “When you want me to get that rental car?”

I asked, “You sure you want to do that?”

“What you mean?”

“Look where it got me.”

“I really need you on this one. Like you needed me.”

I told him that I’d been through West Hell over the last few hours. Couldn’t take anymore, not right away. Told him to think about it a day or so. He made an unsure sound when I didn’t give a solid answer.

Womack left, massaging his neck, head held low.

I checked my messages.

Malaika had called.

Around eleven the next morning, Juanita and Naiomi were out front hugging like schoolgirls at recess. Juanita ran her fingers through Naiomi’s braids, a glow in her eyes. Minutes later, Juanita headed toward her car; Naiomi was out front in her gray sweats, playing with the brim on her Mighty Ducks baseball cap, leaning against a dirty Chevrolet.

Juanita’s little red Toyota backed away from the curb and putt-putted toward MLK Boulevard. They waved, blew soft kisses.

Naiomi ran upstairs, and soon she banged on my door.

“Hurry.” She had changed into a peach skirt and an upscale multicolored blouse. No bra. “Thought she’d never leave.”

“Why were you two brawling at the crack of dawn?”

“Oh, she had her panties in a bunch because I played one of her funky CDs and didn’t put the darn thing back on the rack in alphabetical order. I put Sade after Sting, and that heifer had a cow.”

“Kind of meticulous.”

“More or less. But the real reason she’s mad is because she don’t know where I was most of last night. She thinks I was out cat’n.”

“Where were you?”

“Out cat’n.” She laughed. “Now hurry, walk up and meet me up at the mall. Be on the bus stop outside of Founder’s in about twenty minutes.”

Naiomi’s temperamental Jeep rattled down La Brea toward Pico Boulevard and the Mid Town Shopping Center. While the winds tossed a Snickers candy wrapper around the cab, Naiomi told me to stop checking my face in the mirror and quit wringing my hands. There was an oil leak, and the grease stink drifted in through the vents. Extra cans of 10W40 were in the back bouncing around along with extra water in an antifreeze bottle.

Naiomi leaned forward, struggled, pulled a pack of cigarettes from underneath her worn seat cover. “Closet smoker.”

I wasn’t paying attention. My mind was sorting through my past, getting ready for the future. A rap tune came on. Naiomi frowned, changed the radio to soft rock. An old Madonna love song was playing. Naiomi’s cocoa face turned ecstatic, like she’d found the goddess of blue-eyed soul. Naiomi puffed and yodeled along, sounded like a whale in heat.

She laughed a little, confessed, “Closet rocker.”

“Anything else you plan on bringing out the closet?”

She laughed a lot. “Never knew you had a sense of humor.”

“I don’t. Naiomi, why you going out your way and risking yourself by bringing me out here?”

“I want you to see your child.” Then her voice went soft, deepened and sounded serious. “I understand what it’s like to miss your baby.”

“What do I owe you for the favor?”

“Put your money away. I might get you to do me a favor.”

I asked, “What kind of favor?”

“Get your mind out the gutter.”

“That’s your mind slumming.”

“I can’t get my modem to work on my computer.”

“What happens?”

“Juanita lost her mind because I was on the Internet, chatting with somebody I’d met in blackvoices, and she did something to it. Now when I try to log on, the stupid computer says that it can’t find the modem. I was hoping you could look at it for me.”

“That’s an easy fix. Sounds like Juanita has unplugged it.”

“Unplugged?”

“Yeah. The same way somebody unplugs a telephone. Look at the back of the computer and see if the phone line is running to the modem.”

“That cow.”

I asked, “Anything else?”

“Since we’re on the subject, pillow behind the headboard.”

“What?”

“Pillow behind the headboard. Next time you have a woman over and you’re getting busy, put a pillow behind the headboard.”

“You heard us?”

“A time or two. Y’all be moaning on that squeaky bed. You need to work on your rhythm. Sounds like you need to work on your endurance, too, ’cause the moaning don’t last till morning.”

I said, “If you do it right, don’t take all night.”

 

World on Wheels was the urban skate haven where I used to take Malaika. Back in the day, it was our Friday night hideaway. Womack, Rosa Lee, all of us used to come here. Thought those days would never end. Friday night was the night that the riffraff and gang-bangers didn’t show up to get their boogie on because it was gospel night. Upbeat, spiritual funk.

Malaika was outside at the door, waiting in a crowd of hip-hop’n teens who were lined up with roller blades dangling over their shoulders. First my heart stopped, then it did an anxious dance. I nodded at my ex-wife; she barely responded.

Naiomi mumbled, “Oh, boy.”

I hopped out. Naiomi went to park on the side nearest the Bank of America. Malaika’s shoulder-length hair had been cut, colored golden brown, slicked back in a wavy style. Her loose jeans, black military-style boots, and FUBU top showed how well she’d been taken care of. She stood there, brown leather purse over shoulder, restlessly jingling her car keys.

Yesterday had become today.

We looked at each other for a second. I smelled her perfume, soothing and sweet. Her attitude had a stench like pork gone bad. That sent a chill up my back.

Malaika said, “I was just about to give up on you.”

“You’re pretty good at giving up.”

“Don’t start.”

A rough second passed. “How’ve you been?”

“Blessed. And you?”

I shrugged away her righteousness. “Surviving.”

I took short steps, moved the unsure way an intelligent man approached a wild horse. My bygone took her fist off her narrow hips, the hand with the glittering wedding ring, slid the other into her back pocket and held on to her butt. Her right hand came up to her neck, massaged like she was reliving the pain from when I’d touched her in anger. I saw that memory in her eyes. She saw the memory of me finding her fucking somebody else in mine.

She was my first love. The one I would’ve died for. No matter how many times a man fell in love, he never tumbled like that again. Never as far. Never as deep. Never as hard.