But even still, with no ass from Winnie whatsoever for two entire months, I was happy to be home with her. Was it because within three weeks’ time Jasmine had given me my fix and I’d be good for another month or two? Is that why I was still happy? Was it that I didn’t need Jasmine every day, or even every week, like I thought I did? Maybe I just needed her here and there. The sporadic fuck. Is that why I felt totally at peace? And wait—Jasmine was mad at me. Shouldn’t I have been bothered by that?
I was confused as hell. But still. I was happy.
Then this morning came.
After a week of no Jasmine, she texted me. She wanted to meet tonight, but I already had plans. I couldn’t shoot down my boys so I texted her back and said I couldn’t make it. Why did I do that? Obviously, Jasmine doesn’t pay attention to the text and misdemeanor rule; she blew my cell up:
What do you mean you can’t meet me?
Why not?
Are you going to be with Winnie?
I heard Danielle mention to Rena that Winnie’s going out tonight.
So what’s the problem?
Why did you get that tattoo?
Did she force you to?
Have you gotten a vasectomy yet?
Actually, are you even planning on getting one?
You don’t want another baby with her, do you?
Why can’t you meet me out tonight?
Why aren’t you answering?
It was hell, because every time I went to send a message, another one from her popped up. She sent me message after message after message. Sometimes I could respond:
Jazz, I can’t meet tonight.
Jazz, I already have plans. Can’t break them.
Winnie’s around and my phone keeps going off.
She’s giving me the eye, Jazz. Just cool it with the messages for a second.
Jazz, give me time to answer a fucking question!
Alright, Jazz, I gotta turn my phone off.
Too many messages.
My wife is here.
Sometimes my cellphone circuits were too busy to send a message to her at all. This was familiar. How could I forget that Jasmine used to page me nonstop when she was in high school? She used to call and leave back-to-back messages, once cell phones hit the scene. Where are you? Why didn’t you answer? Are you with someone? You’re such a liar! And then, when texting became the new thing, she’d text me nonstop every night…all night. Did you go out tonight? Why aren’t you answering? Are you having sex with someone? We are so over! And don’t pretend you were sleeping in the morning! JACOB! ANSWER ME!
Goddamn, I totally forgot she used to do that shit.
But tonight, finally, after all the texting, Jasmine called me. I saw her number and hurried onto the balcony outside of the kitchen.
“Jasmine, you can’t text me back-to-back like that. If Winnie was-”
“Can we meet at eleven? To, um, make up?” she whispered. I ran a hand over my face. It was freezing outside and Winnie was calling my name to help her find her missing stiletto. “Listen, I’m just still trying to get used to this whole thing. I feel really, I don’t know, possessive of you and I know I shouldn’t. But…can we meet at eleven?”
Once again, I told her I couldn’t. She whispered something I couldn’t hear just before I heard a knock on the door on her end. She hung up without saying goodbye.
I stepped back into my condo as Winnie was walking into the bathroom to get ready for tonight, having found her stiletto on our daughter’s nightstand. I shook off Jasmine and poured Winnie and me a glass of wine. I cut my cell off and tossed it on my bed, before standing in the bathroom door to watch Winnie as she got ready.
After that call, to say that I was on edge was an understatement. Jazz was acting like she did back in our high school and college days. That only meant one thing: this shit was about to get worse. I remembered one weekend when she couldn’t get in contact with me—I was at Yale and she was at Boston College. She hopped on a train to Connecticut, caught a cab to the apartment I shared with Malcolm and pounded our damn door down yelling, Open the door Jacob! I know you’re in there with someone! He has a girlfriend, thank you very much! Mac and I were in there with a couple of senior girls from Brooklyn, Bed-Stuy, where Biggie, Li’l Kim, and Junior Mafia hail from. Open the door, Jacob before I knock it off the hinges! The Brooklyn girls had to hide in Mac’s room until I locked Jasmine in mine. So yeah, when I ended that call with Jazz tonight, I was nervous. But I kept it together as I talked to Winnie about whether or not she should wear earrings to the bar tonight.
“Okay, so earrings it is,” Winnie said as she put her left diamond stud in her ear. “These diamonds! These diamonds! These rocks! My rocks! I WOKE UP LIKE THIS!” She started singing Beyoncé’s Flawless at the top of her damn lungs.
“Winnie, keep it down,” I said as I casually turned my head, looked at my bed and eyed my cell, scared to death that Jasmine would somehow, some way, get a call or text through to me even with the power off. Something wasn’t right. I could feel it. But I had to act cool. “You know Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds complained about the volume of that mixtape you were playing last week when you—”
Knock. Knock. Knock. Three knocks at my front door.
Oh. Shit.
JON
“What’s the face for?” I say as I take a seat at the table and look at Marlon.
“Nothing,” Marlon says before taking a long swig of his Crown and Coke.
About twenty minutes ago, as soon as I pulled up to Pirahna’s, walked inside and sat down at the table with Marlon and Matt, my phone rang. So I’ve been outside on the phone with my eighteen-year-old brother, Seth. The kid has a full ride to Georgetown come September, his girlfriend has a partial scholarship to Howard and she ends up pregnant. How do they plan to make this work with a full-time school load and a move from LA to DC? Who’s going to pay for daycare so that they can go to class? Or a babysitter when they need to study all night? And why is it that people believe in fucking before marriage but don’t believe in abortion? There’s no way in hell anyone in his or her family can help support this baby…except me.
Yeah, I need a drink.
“Damn, I stepped outside for two minutes,” I say with a nod to the five empty Scotch glasses already on the table, ice cubes halfway melted. I look at Marlon and see that his eyes are halfway shut, focused straight at the bar. I steal a look at Matt; he looks at me and shakes his head. “What did I miss?”
“I think Jasmine’s fucking Jacob,” Marlon says as he nods his head slowly, his eyes still on the bar in the center of Pirahna’s.
“And I told him that he’s drunk as hell and needs to go sleep it off,” Matt says, looking for me to say that he’s right.
“Why do you think she’s still fucking Jacob?” I ask. I catch Matt rolling his eyes. What’s that for?
“Still?” Marlon says looking at me now. “What do you mean still?”
“Nothing,” Matt says with a smile. “He just meant—”
“I meant, do you think after all these years, she’s fucking him again?” I say. I don’t need Matt to explain my sentences. I know exactly what I’m saying. Jasmine was sleeping with Marlon and Jacob at the same time back while we were in college. I want to know if Marlon thinks she’s still doing it. “I put nothing past the Blairs. A woman belonging to another man means nothing to them. If anyone should know that it’s me.”
“Did you hear something?” Marlon asks. “Did Marla say anything?”
“So now you think Marla is Jasmine’s confidant?” Matt asks with another smile. “Yeah, you’re cut off.” He makes a show of sliding all of the half-empty Scotch glasses away from Marlon.
“Jon,” Marlon says, his eyes wider now. “Did Marla say anything?” At that moment, a waitress comes over and takes all of our drink orders before smiling, winking at the table and walking away. This is what I’ve learned about Boston: it’s a big city with a small town feel. If you’re a somebody, and by that I mean i
f you own or run a firm or business, then you’re the man around town. Back at home, in LA, I’d be a nobody. Here in Boston I’ve got trashy-ass barmaids with platinum blond hair winking and waving and shit. Appreciate it, Susie, but just give me my damn Rum and Coke. I’m the wrong black man for you to be trying to hit up for money. White girls. What is the fucking point of them?
“Jon?” Marlon says again. “Did Marla say anything?”
“Dude, you sound pathetic as hell,” I say as I stretch my legs out. Ah…better. Much more comfortable.
“To hell with you.” Marlon picks up an empty glass and drinks the melted ice, hoping for a drip of Scotch to be diluted in it somewhere.
“Listen, all Marla’s talking about these days are kids.”
“Yes, now this is a subject worth discussing,” Matt says with a smile as he sits up in his chair like a damn schoolboy. “So Jon-Jon, do you ever plan on telling her that you’re fixed?” Hmm…interesting. It’s obvious that Matt’s eager to change the subject from Jasmine and Jacob, to my impending death . Because that’s damn sure what’s bound to happen to me once Marla finds out that I can’t have kids.
“I’m hoping she’ll just forget about them,” I say.
“Forget about what? All of her hopes and dreams?”
“Did Marla go out with Jasmine and Danny tonight?” Marlon asks. “Because Jasmine said she was hanging out with Danny.” It’s obvious that he’s desperate to believe Jasmine told him the truth. Damn, I didn’t realize things were going so bad between them. I thought since she came home, everything was cool. She was working on some cookbook, he was selling more properties. Things seemed perfect as hell in the Kyle s house.
“Actually, I left Marla with Danny and Jasmine tonight.”
“Oh yeah?” Marlon says, sitting up a little in his chair, happy that Jasmine’s alibi checked out.
“Yep.” I see Matt look away and let out a light puff of air. What the hell is wrong with this dude?
“Jazz told me that she and Danny were planning to catch a movie tonight.”
“Yeah, so when I heard Danny outside the building making plans with Jasmine, I told Marla about it.”
“That’s wrong,” Marlon says with a small smile, picking up another melted ice glass. “You know Marla gets on Danny and Jasmine’s nerves.” He drinks the ice water.
Actually, she doesn’t. Yeah, she may get on Jasmine’s nerves but secretly Marla and Danny have become friends. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve handed my keys to valet outside of my condo building and seen Danny and Marla across the street at some coffee shop, laughing and eating crumpets and shit. But Marla swore me to secrecy: Dan says that she doesn’t want people to know we’re friends because she doesn’t want people in our business, giving their opinions and breaking our friendship up. Yeah, right. Danny doesn’t want everyone to know that you’re friends because she’s talked about you like a damn dog and now she has to eat her words.
I watch Marlon move his eyes away from me and settle them back on the bar.
“So, a game of ball tomorrow morning?” Matt asks as he smiles, claps his hands together and rubs them back and forth. “Ten? At the rec center in Roxbury?”
“I’ll be there,” I say as Matt and I look at Marlon. He’s still looking at the bar. Who’s at the damn bar? Matt and I both turn our heads towards the bar at the same time, moving our heads around as we try to see through the crowd. Who the hell is he looking at?
“What are you looking at?” Matt asks as he turns back around to look at Marlon, who keeps his eyes steady on the bar and picks up another melted ice glass.
“Something’s not right,” he says while taking a sip. “She’s leaving the house at all hours of the night, claiming to go to the market so that she can try another recipe with some tricky ingredients. Then she comes back home with an onion.” He takes another sip of the water. “She’s out all weekend, sending the girls to her grandparents’ house.” He takes another sip. “And tonight, she spent an entire hour in the bathroom, fixing her hair, just so that she could go to the movies with Danny and sit in the dark? Then I heard her on the phone, in the bathroom whispering, before she left. Whispering.”
Both Matt and I are focused on Marlon at this point, damn near clinging to his every word. And then what happened? He says, “I heard her say ‘can we meet there at eleven?’”
“She was just trying to meet up with Danny,” Matt says.
“Then she said ‘why not?’” Marlon looks at Matt. “And I can tell you why they couldn’t meet up at eleven tonight.” He looks at his watered-down Scotch and then at his Rolex. I look at mine. 11:06.
“Who? Jasmine and Danny?” Matt asks.
“No.” He looks back at the bar. “Jacob.” He nods towards the bar. “I can tell you why he and Jasmine couldn’t meet tonight at eleven. Because he had plans.” Matt and I look at the bar in unison. And now, clear as day, we see what Marlon’s been staring at.
White boys.
MATT
I was driving to Marlon and Jasmine’s townhome when my cell rang. Jacob called me right after he, Malcolm and Winnie darted over to a side stairwell of their condo building, ran down thirteen flights of stairs, slipped single-file past the lobby full of cops and met in the security room. Jasmine ran to Malcolm’s condo. Jacob, Winnie and Malcolm’s trusty security guard, Rusty, was in there as well. Rusty’s a sixty-year-old Irishman who was never accepted into Boston’s police academy and carries a chip on his shoulder because of it. He runs his own security firm with sites around the city, but has his main office in Brookshire Condominiums, the building he personally works out of because, well, it’s Brookshire Condominiums, home of the Blairs. All he does these days is allocate jobs to the much younger security team he runs. Rusty’s just an old guy who likes people to know that he’s the protector of the Blairs and their offspring.
But he comes in handy. That is, according to Jacob, who called me right after he slipped out of his condo building, avoided the cops, called me while in a cab and told me the whole story:
“Rusty,” Jacob said, “the cops are trying to find us.”
“Not on my shift,” Rusty said defiantly, not even knowing what the hell Jacob, Winnie and Malcolm did to warrant the cops looking for them. Apparently Rusty was upset that he wasn’t called first. “If there was a problem of life or death, why the hell would somebody call the cops? If anyone can protect you, I can. Come on and follow me.”
Jacob said Rusty grabbed his cane and walked them out the back door of the security office and through some hallways that led them right onto the street. Jacob hurried and hailed Winnie a cab. Winnie was still reeling when Mac grabbed his own cab, so Jake said he tried to hop into Winnie’s cab to calm her down.
“Wasn’t hearing it,” Jake said. Apparently Winnie got into the cab, pushed Jacob out of the back seat and told him to pack his shit. “But this is the thing, Matt. I wasn’t planning on meeting Jasmine. And truthfully, I’m not sure if I was ever going to meet her again. She reminded me of…” He let the sentence drift off.
“Who?” I asked.
Silence.
Who did Jasmine remind him of?
“Nobody. But you should see all these texts she sent me.”
“Jake,” I said as I pulled in front of Marlon’s place and parked. “Cut this shit out. For real. Alright? That’s my man’s wife. And I don’t give a shit if she came to you or not, end this shit before somebody gets hurt.”
“I’m done,” was all he said. “This shit is too risky.” And so it was over. I hoped. But as soon as Marlon stepped into my truck, I could tell something was wrong with him.
“You good?” I asked him as we drove to Piranha’s.
“Yeah.” He was lying. Marlon’s a talker. He gives a one-word answer and you know something’s up with him. I tried my best to pry some conversation out of him, but it was a no go. He was staring out of the passenger window, his eyes narrowed. Twenty minutes later, he and I were at Piranha’s. Soon
after that, he was staring at the bar and ordering five glasses of Scotch in a row.
And now we’re all looking at Jake, Nat, Malcolm and Jake’s in-laws. Nat is standing by the bar, his fingers punching into his cell phone, his eyes glued to the screen. Everyone else but Jake is talking to women—your standard bar girls: women who want to have a friendly chat with seven white guys who look like they reek of money. Oh, isn’t that Malcolm Blair, President Rossi’s lawyer? Malcolm slides Jacob a glass of bourbon and a brunette has just made her way to Malcolm’s right side, sliding onto the barstool next to him. By the time he turns around, she’s batting her lashes at him. True to form, Malcolm gives her that smirk of his and I see him mouth, What’s going on? Her head is turned away from me so I can’t see what she’s answering. I watch as Jacob downs the glass of bourbon Malcolm passed him, while the other guys stand around laughing with each other, a few women trying to make their way into their mix. But that’s standard. Happens all the time when we’re out.
People know who you are. Nat’s a lawyer for Blair & Associates; Jake’s group of in-laws boasts a surgeon, a state senator and a lawyer. Women know them; they’re drawn to the power and the money. For example, right now there’s a table of women all dressed in black spandex and six inch heels looking at my table. One of them just took a picture of Jon, Marlon and me. Some of them are laughing loudly to get our attention. The quieter and more dignified ones think they’ll be the ones who capture our attention. Sooner or later, the boldest of the bunch will make her way over to our table, and her friends will soon follow. Since they’re white, Jon will ceremoniously ignore them. Marlon will offer small talk with a smile and I’ll send a drink their way and carry on a private convo with Jon. It’s what happens when we’re out with the Beacon Hill set. Completely normal.
War. Page 2
