Gumbo

by E. Lynn Harris

  “We've been teaming up and looking for jobs together.”

  “So, he's getting back on the hustle?”

  I debated telling Jackson's business but Scamz wasn't the type to spread the word about someone else's misfortunes. And nine times out of ten, he already knew what was going on.

  I said, “His ex is suing him for back child support.”

  “Sabrina slapped Jackson with a lawsuit?”

  “Yep. She filed papers and claimed Jackson never gave her a dime.”

  “I don't believe that. He cared about his kids if nothing else.”

  “He showed me the papers from the district attorney.”

  We said a few more things about that.

  In the end Scamz told me, “Be careful where you stick your dick.”

  I laughed at those sage words. He laughed too. They were laughs of disbelief.

  We chitchatted about a few other people from our little clandestine world. A few were on lockdown, a few more were about to get out. A couple had died along the way.

  “Big Slim told me you were down at Eight Ball gambling with Nazario,” Scamz said.

  Eight Ball was a place people went when they were desperate for cash. Trouble and money was always down there. You just had to outrun the trouble to get the money.

  “Yeah,” I said. “That psycho was so mad he lost his mind.”

  “Then he didn't lose much.”

  “He wanted to pay me on the spot.”

  “People say he made a scene.”

  “Big time. He made his wife give me her wedding ring to cover his debt.”

  Scamz said, “He hates to lose, especially in front of a crowd.”

  “I pawned the ring. Got five hundred.”

  “You know he's looking for you. He wants a rematch so he can get that ring back. Heard he's been down at the pool hall at least three times a day trying to find you.”

  “Kinda figured that. That's why I ain't been back down to the pool hall.”

  “If you're sweating over chump change, you must need some economic relief.”

  My eyes went to my pine dresser. My bills were over there, piled up next to a stack of job rejection postcards. Frustration was bringing out the wolf in me.

  I told Scamz, “Just need something to hold me over until one of these jobs come through.”

  He said, “Come see me. You're a good worker. I could use your help.”

  I paused. The jury in my mind went out to make a decision. “I'll pass. I have a few job interviews around the corner.”

  “Then come make some ends so you can take your woman out and have a good time.”

  “Me no got no woman. Got my eye on this waitress at Ed Debevic's.”

  “You ever stopped her yet?”

  “Not yet. She has an L.A. face and an Oakland boot that won't quit. Pretty much out of my league.”

  “How can a waitress be out of anybody's league?”

  “True.”

  “Be a man at all times. Never let a woman scare you. Never.”

  Scamz was working my disposition in his direction word by word, phrase by phrase.

  “Either way,” he said, “it's hard to get a woman being broke.”

  Scamz wasn't lying. L.A. had its own mentality and it cost to be the boss out here. Whenever I hit Atlas Bar and Grill it was five bucks to park, twenty to get in, and close to ten bucks for one drink. If I met a honey, triple that drinking budget. Breakfast at Roscoe's would add another twenty. If I got lucky, a box of condoms would cost another five. Trojans were the cheapest thing on the list. Not using one was the most expensive thing on the list.

  Scamz said, “Pussy and money, Dante. Got money, you can get pussy. Got pussy—”

  “You can get money.”

  We chuckled at his phrase.

  My eyes closed when I thought about that waitress, saw her dimples, heard her mature voice, even could see her hips when she did her sensual stroll, and wondered what she was doing right now.

  A second later I exhaled. “Is this hot or cold?”

  Hot meant difficult. Cold meant smooth, minimal problems.

  I could hear Scamz smile when I asked that. His easy words had worked me toward his team.

  He replied, “Easy rent money.”

  “Let's be up front. I'm not down for nothing long term.”

  “What do I have to do to get you to reconsider?”

  “You can't.”

  He didn't say anything for a few seconds. He did that when his mind was in overdrive. Sometimes I thought he had so many thoughts he had to shut down to keep from overloading.

  Scamz said, “You know how to find me.”

  We left it at that. He wasn't going to give me the specifics, not over the wire.

  I hung up.

  3:41 A.M.

  I dialed another number. Jackson answered on the first ring.

  I said, “You're up?”

  “Yeah. What's up Cool Hand?”

  “Scamz called. He's back and it sounds like he has a few things going on.”

  Jackson hesitated. “Yeah, Dante. We can check on those interviews after I leave court.”

  I understood why he was talking in code. I said, “Robin must be over.”

  “Right.”

  “See you in a few hours.”

  We hung up. No matter what time of night I called, he was awake. I didn't think much about that because I wasn't sleeping on a regular schedule my-damn-self. Not having a job stole away the importance of an alarm clock. It also made it easy to lose track of my days. When a man didn't have a job, didn't have a Monday, a hump day, and a payday, all days started to blend and lose value. All were just today. All he wanted was a better tomorrow.

  I was on edge, a little hungry. I walked over my two-shades-of-brown carpet, went to the kitchen sink, washed my face, dried it with a paper towel, then opened the fridge. Not much in there except leftover salmon and rice and a frozen Healthy Choice meal.

  Restless. Scamz had left me agitated.

  I did two hundred sit-ups, crunches, worked on my obliques. Did half as many push-ups. Stretched my legs into a split on the left side, did the same on the right, then went down into a Chinese-style split. Shadowboxed against my old memories until a layer of sweat glistened on my skin.

  I looked at that stack of job rejection postcards.

  Anxiety was all over me, clinging to my skin like a thousand ticks.

  More push-ups until my arm burned. More sit-ups until my abs were on fire.

  Dealing with Scamz meant I needed to be in shape. Ready to rumble, ready to run.

  I rested in my sweat. Put on my Levi Chen Liquid Gardens CD. Meditated a few minutes.

  Then with that music calming me, I stood in my window and looked out at the palm trees.

  I was lonely. Broke and lonely.

  L.A. was an expensive bitch. A whore who sucked your dick and swallowed all of your money, then left you sleeping on the concrete.

  A man stayed broke and hungry long enough, his value system was bound to change. And when it did, Scamz was waiting.

  FROM P. G. County

  BY CONNIE BRISCOE

  Barbara stepped back and smiled at her daughter. Rebecca looked regal in her beaded ivory satin gown, and for a moment Barbara forgot the utter chaos on the lawn. She forgot about the tent being decorated with flowers, the tables and chairs being arranged, the band, the buffet, the bar.

  Rebecca stood in front of the mirror above her dresser and picked at her upswept do. “Does it need more hair spray, Mama?”

  Barbara glanced at Pearl.

  “No indeed,” Pearl replied as she reached up and fussed with a tiny stray hair on Rebecca's forehead.

  From all that Barbara could see, Rebecca's hair looked absolutely smashing. Pearl had done a fantastic job, as always.

  “Another drop of spray and it will be sitting up there looking like a rock, child,” Pearl continued. “Your hair looks beautiful just the way it is.”

  “I've never s
een you look prettier, sweetheart.” Barbara kissed her daughter gently on the forehead, being careful not to muss her makeup, then she turned to Pearl. “Let's get the veil on her now. It's already twelve-fifteen, and the photographers are due at twelve-thirty.”

  Pearl reached for the floor-length veil sprawled across the bed as Barbara took a quick glimpse out the bedroom window onto the lawn. The wedding planner, a petite black woman named Darlene Dunn, was leading the florist around the grounds as they placed brightly colored centerpieces and other doodads on the tables inside and outside of a large white tent. The caterer and his staff were running back and forth between the four-car garage, where they had set up a temporary kitchen with food warmers, and the buffet being set up under the tent.

  Despite the busy atmosphere, everything seemed to be falling into place, Barbara thought thankfully. Well, almost everything. The only exception was that husband of hers. She checked her watch. The photographers would arrive soon to take pictures and video before the family left for the church, and the father of the bride was still out banging his mistress. Unbelievable.

  She needed a cigarette badly. But she had promised Rebecca that she wouldn't moke on this day. She sighed and turned to help Pearl lift the veil just as something outdoors caught her eye. She looked out the window to see a black car turning onto their driveway. Now who on earth could that be? Rebecca's godmother had offered to come by and ride to the church with them so she would be there to supervise the procession of the wedding party and Barbara could take her place in the front pew and relax. But Marilyn drove a tan Lexus.

  Barbara frowned with disapproval as the car approached the house. Anyone arriving at this early hour was either extremely rude or just plain ignorant. Her frown deepened as the sporty little car ran right up over the edge of the asphalt on the freshly mowed lawn.

  What the devil? Barbara blincked hard. Her eyes must be playing a horrible trick on her. She had been awfully busy planning this wedding lately and sometimes she didn't know if she was coming or going. It was entirely possible that her eyes were giving out.

  Barbara blinked again as the little black sports car kept coming across the lawn. This was no illusion. Some idiot had lost control and now the car was plowing straight toward the reception tent.

  “Oh my God!” she screamed just as the car smashed headlong into the tent frame. Pearl dropped the veil on the bed and followed Rebecca to the window. Barbara could have sworn the whole tent would come crashing down, but mercifully it didn't. The car, which by now Barbara realized was a small late-model BMW being driven by a woman, backed up. Thank goodness. What an idiot.

  But before Barbara could catch her breath, the engine revved and the car jerked forward. Barbara gasped as it picked up speed and rammed into the tent frame. This time the tent sagged on one end.

  This woman wasn't drunk. She was doing this deliberately. Barbara covered her open mouth with her hand as Darlene, the florist, the caterer, and the waiters all ran to and fro. It looked like a fire had broken out under a circus tent.

  “Lord have mercy,” Pearl whispered, clutching her breasts.

  Rebecca shrieked. “Who is that?”

  “I have no idea,” Barbara said, turning toward the bedroom door. “But I'd better get down there.”

  “That woman is crazy,” Pearl said.

  “Mama!” Rebecca cried. “Daddy just pulled up.”

  Barbara turned back to the window to see Bradford's silver Jaguar convertible come to a screeching halt. He jumped out, ran toward the BMW and yanked the driver's-side door open.

  Slowly it dawned on Barbara that she recognized the little black car. It belonged to Sabrina, that hussy mistress of Bradford's. Barbara twisted her lips with disgust. This was utterly ridiculous. She snatched her cell phone off Rebecca's dresser.

  “I'll be right back,” Barbara said hurriedly. “Pearl, can you stay here and help Rebecca finish getting dressed? I know I'm only paying you to do her hair, but—”

  Pearl put her forefinger to her lips. “Shh. Don't worry about a thing. Of course I will.”

  “Thank you so much,” Barbara said as she raced to the door.

  “Mama, wait!” Rebecca shouted. “Oh my God. She's getting out of the car and yelling and screaming and waving her fists at Daddy.” Rebecca lifted her gown and followed Barbara to the door. “I'm going down there with you.”

  Barbara held her hand out. “Oh no you aren't,” she said firmly. “Your father and I will handle this. I don't want you getting involved.”

  “But Mama, she's—”

  “No buts.”

  Rebecca sighed and ran back to the window and stood next to Pearl. Barbara walked out the bedroom door so fast she nearly bumped into Robin, Rebecca's older sister.

  “What's going on? Who is that crazy woman outside?” Robin asked. She was wearing her lavender maid-of-honor dress and fastening pearl earrings.

  “I'm going down there now,” Barbara replied.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Robin asked.

  “Absolutely not. Go help your sister get ready.”

  Robin blinked, clearly puzzled by her mother's harsh reaction. Barbara didn't like the tone of her own voice. Certainly none of this was Robin's fault. But she couldn't help it, not when Bradford had allowed his whore to pull such hysterical antics on their daughter's wedding day.

  She took the back stairs in her satin Ferragamo pumps two at a time, threw the back door open and marched out onto the lawn. Sabrina was still in the driveway screaming at the top of her lungs as Bradford, dressed in a navy running suit, held his hands out and tried to calm her down.

  Darlene Dunn and the others stood around in a small cluster nearby, listening and watching like it was the latest installment of their favorite soap opera. Barbara was so embarrassed but determined to stay calm. She had to get this mess straightened out before Marilyn arrived, not to mention the photographer and the three hundred guests expected later that afternoon.

  “You bastard,” Sabrina screamed. “I can't believe you didn't invite me to the wedding. How could you do this to me, Bradford?”

  Barbara couldn't help but notice how young and thin Sabrina was—and how beautiful. The woman couldn't be more than thirty and had one of those size 4 figures with forty-inch boobs. Barbara also noticed how the spaghetti straps to her black negligee kept slipping off her honey-colored shoulders. The skinny little whore hadn't even taken the time to get dressed after her little tryst with Bradford.

  “You're going to have to calm down, Sabrina,” Bradford said in a firm tone of voice. “Look at the mess you're making here. You're going to ruin Rebecca's wedding, and I won't have that.”

  “Like I give a fucking shit,” Sabrina retorted, oblivious to the black mascara streaming down her cheeks. She ran toward a cluster of tables on the lawn outside the tent and grabbed a chair by the back. She flipped it over, then ran inside the tent and knocked another chair down.

  Barbara was appalled. She ought to grab that whore and throw her off their property. But she was wearing a two-thousand-dollar silk suit, and Sabrina looked downright dangerous. Barbara was not about to get into a public fight over a man, even her husband. Better to let Bradford handle it. She wished he'd hurry up and get rid of her. Marilyn would be arriving any minute, and it would be horrible for Rebecca's godmother to see this.

  She followed Bradford as he rushed inside the tent.

  “After all I've done for you the past year, Bradford Bentley,” Sabrina wailed as she stopped in front of the buffet table. “And this is the thanks I get. A whole fucking year I wasted on you. I do everything for you. I cook for you. I listen to you talk about your problems with your wife. I give you every fucking thing you want in bed.”

  Bradford stole a glance at Barbara. She glared back at him, eyes smoldering. It was about time he noticed her. And yes, she had heard it. Every word.

  “Sabrina, don't make me have to force you to leave. It'll be better for everybody concerned if you just go a
nd get in the car quietly.”

  “Fuck you, Bradford Bentley,” Sabrina yelled. She grabbed a carving knife off the buffet table and held it out in front of her.

  Bradford clenched his fists and circled Sabrina silently and cautiously just as Marilyn's Lexus pulled into the driveway.

  Damn, Barbara thought, as if all this wasn't enough. Marilyn turned off the engine but stayed inside her car. She looked over the scene with a puzzled expression on her face and rolled down the window.

  “What's going on here, Barbara?” she called out.

  Barbara waved toward the house. “Go on inside and wait for me there.”

  Marilyn got out slowly, then ran to the front door and disappeared inside the house.

  “Bradford, do I need to call the police?” Barbara was damned if she was going to let this woman ruin Rebecca's wedding day. She lifted her cell phone to dial.

  “No,” Bradford responded without taking his eyes off Sabrina. “Just stay back.”

  “Bradford, you'd better tell that bitch to put that phone away,” Sabrina shouted. Then she swung the knife in Barbara's direction and lunged.

  Barbara screamed as Bradford grabbed Sabrina from behind just in time and they both fell to the ground. They tussled for a moment until Bradford wrestled the knife away. He stood up quickly and stared down at Sabrina with such fury that she began to crawl away in fear.

  Barbara put her hand to her breast. She was huffing and puffing like she'd just run a marathon. She couldn't believe that woman had come after her with a knife. On her own property. The woman was clearly out of her mind and needed to be locked up. She punched the buttons on her cell phone and marched toward the house.

  Bradford took his eyes off Sabrina, who by now was sprawled out on the grass and crying like a baby, and looked at Barbara. “Who are you calling?” he asked gruffly.

  “The police. Who else?”

  “You don't need to call the cops,” he said tersely. I'll take care of this.”

  Barbara turned and glared at him. Take care of it? You call this taking care of it? Letting her put all your dirty business out in the street? She'd had enough embarrassment as a child to last a lifetime. Barbara the bag lady. She didn't need this, especially on her daughter's wedding day.