Blind Ambitions

by Lolita Files

  Randall gave the couple beside him a quick glance. Thankfully, they were making eyes at each other, not him.

  “What pleasure would you get out of being paged by that bitch?” Steve mumbled, crumbs dropping out of his mouth, staining his shirt with grease.

  “Have some class, player.” Randall smirked, watching the crumbs bounce off Steve’s chest and hit the table. “Check yourself. You don’t look like you’re about to be one of the heads of a soon-to-be-powerful company.”

  Steve laughed, looking around to see who had noticed. He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and brushed away the crumbs.

  “That doesn’t happen often.”

  “Considering how well you were brought up, it shouldn’t happen at all.”

  “It’s the company I keep,” Steve replied.

  Randall chuckled.

  His pager went off again. The young couple flashed him a fiery look. He quickly pressed the button to silence the beeping.

  “Just put it on vibrate,” Steve suggested. He dug into his waffle, which was swimming in butter and syrup, and closed his eyes as he savored the bread.

  Randall sighed, pulled the pager from his hip, checked the number, changed the alert to vibrate, then put the pager back in place.

  “The Diabolical?” Steve asked, still smacking his lips from the syrup.

  “You know it.”

  “Now tell me again, why is it you’re enjoying getting all these beeps?”

  Steve took another drink of lemonade.

  “I never said,” Randall replied. “Your crumbs distracted me. It’s because I haven’t been sweated this much since I was in college.”

  Steve pretended he was choking on his drink. The young couple rolled their eyes.

  “Who sweated you in college? You were probably a nerd. You didn’t get hip until you moved out here and started hanging with me.”

  “Please!” Randall laughed. “LA is wack and so are you! If I didn’t have to live here for business, trust me, I wouldn’t.”

  Steve snickered.

  “And I was very popular in college, thank you very much,” Randall continued. “All the ladies were feeling me. I had my pick.”

  “Yeah,” Steve countered, “I figured as much, with all the women you’re constantly beating off. Here comes a throng of them now.”

  “I guess you’d know about beating off, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m choosy. I’ve got standards.”

  “Which is why you have to shave your palms so much. When was the last time you had a girlfriend?”

  “Girlfriends bring drama,” Steve remarked, reaching across the table for the chicken breast on Randall’s plate. “You’re not gonna eat this, are you?”

  Randall looked down at Steve’s hand as it touched the chicken.

  “Nah, man … help yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  Steve took the chicken and bit into it. He held up his finger for Randall to wait until he finished chewing. “Anyway,” he continued, “like I was saying, I’m not trying to have any more girlfriends. I’m looking for someone to have a serious relationship with. I want a woman. Someone who knows what she wants, and who isn’t trying to play any games.”

  “Lots of luck finding that in this town.”

  “Right. And to top it off, now that we’re about to move into another tax bracket, it’s going to be even harder to find someone who isn’t just interested in money.”

  “You’ve always been in another tax bracket, Beverly Hills boy. What are you talking about?”

  “That money belongs to my parents,” Steve replied, “not me.”

  Two buff men in their mid-twenties walked in. Both wore muscle shirts and sweats, as if they’d just left the gym. One was reddish-yellow with freckles, all height and sinewy muscle, his hair a sandy red. The other was dark-skinned and squat, his shoulders taut and sturdy. They sat at the table across from Randall and Steve. Both men studied Steve intensely. The freckle-faced one leaned over and whispered something in a husky voice.

  “What’s their deal?” Steve muttered.

  Randall glanced over at them. Both men were staring at Steve. The dark one cut his eyes at Randall, as if demanding an explanation. Randall, accustomed to the drill, shook his head and smiled.

  “This is so silly. They’re just posturing. It ain’t nothing but bullshit.”

  “What are they posturing about?” Steve asked.

  “Come on, man, what do you expect? You’re a white boy up in Roscoe’s. That fascinates everybody least once.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, if a white person’s gonna be here, he’s not gonna look like you, all spiff y in your well-tailored clothing, perfectly tanned with golden hair highlighted just so. You look like someone who should be eating pâté, not sitting across from me with a ring of grease around your mouth.”

  Steve quickly grabbed his napkin and wiped his face.

  Randall laughed.

  “I was just joking. But it’s good to know you follow instructions. I guess that means I get to be CEO.”

  “I’m the CEO,” Steve corrected.

  “You’re the president,” Randall protested.

  “The legal documents and corporate structure have already been drafted and executed.”

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t force you to switch.”

  Randall’s pager vibrated against his hip again. He reached down and pressed it to get it to stop, then turned his attention back to Steve.

  “What difference does it make if I’m CEO? We both own equal shares.”

  “You just don’t want a white boy having the title,” Steve joked.

  “And you just think all black boys want is to be pre-sodent.”

  The both laughed.

  “Whatever,” Steve said. He picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth one last time, tossed it down, and pushed away his plate. The waitress, who had been invisible, except for once, since she brought the food, returned quickly and swept everything away. She placed the bill on the table in front of Steve. He smiled and nodded knowingly at Randall.

  “See. She knows who’s got the paper in this place.” He pulled out his wallet and threw a platinum card on the table.

  Randall laughed.

  “You won’t get any grief from me,” he said. “Actually, that’s an unwritten rule with black folks. ‘If you dine with someone white, they’re the one who pays that night.’”

  Steve’s eyes widened.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” he asked. “That’s not real, is it?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding? Besides, my card is gold, and yours is platinum. I’d say platinum wins every time.”

  “I wondered why I was always paying,” Steve said.

  “Please. Like you haven’t been turning those receipts in for reimbursement.”

  Randall’s pager vibrated again. He checked it, anxious.

  “M.?”

  “Yep.”

  “You should be hearing from dude soon, don’t you think?” Steve asked, leaning back in his chair.

  “I hope so. He said we should know something no later than four.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s a quarter till three now. I expect to hear from him anytime.”

  “What do you think she’ll say?”

  Randall leaned back.

  “I hope it’s a yes. This thing is win-win for her, and the contract we’re offering is tight. Not many people get the kind of structure we’ve set up. Desi’s not crazy. She knows this could work for her.”

  “Did you tell her agent we’ll pay her a hundred just for signing?”

  “Of course I did. That’s how I know he’ll take us seriously, and so will she. It’s unheard of for a second- or third-tier actor to get that kind of money up front. We’re going make this thing fly, Steve. I just know it, man. And we’re going to make Desi Sheridan a big star in the process.”

  Steve unrolled his sleeves and buttoned the cuffs, glancing up at his good friend and partner. Randall’s eyes wer
e fiery and intense. Steve wondered if he wasn’t seeing something more.

  “So does she know we haven’t even pitched it yet?”

  “Of course not, man. That would only make her nervous, and we need her signed on, at least verbally, by the end of today. It’s the twenty-fourth. Pitching season is almost half-way over. We need to be able to go into those meetings we have scheduled on Monday and throw her name around. It would have taken too long to woo and convince her if she didn’t think we had a chance.” Randall narrowed his eyes. “What made you ask that anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” Steve said. “It just feels kind of funny.”

  “Funny how?” Randall asked, annoyed. “Getting the star to commit first can be the biggest key to getting picked up. It makes the pitch that much easier. Why am I schooling you about shit you already know? It’s not like she’s not getting a hundred thousand dollars, guaranteed, out of this.”

  “Did you lie to her and tell her we already had a network lined up?”

  “No. I told her we had talked to some network execs on the quiet, and that they were highly interested.”

  “So you lied to her,” Steve said pointedly.

  “What’s your deal, man? Don’t you have any confidence in us as a team?” Randall huffed. “Don’t you think those Emmys stand for something? A network will pick us up, and it will be the network of our choice. When I told her we had interest, it wasn’t a he. I was just speaking truth to power. Something you need to learn how to do.”

  Steve glanced over at the cars traveling up and down Pico.

  “Tell me again why we waited so long to approach her,” he said.

  “I never told you to begin with.”

  “So tell me now.”

  Randall took a deep breath.

  “Look, man, I like working under pressure. You know that. That’s when I do some of my best work. I knew we wouldn’t be able to get to her the way I wanted to by going through her agent. My homegirl Sharon Lane knew her, so that was one way I knew I could at least get her ear. Sharon was the route I expected to go, and I had planned to call her at the eleventh hour and sell her on what we were doing, knowing that she would go back and sell it to Desi on our behalf. I was going to tell her that we needed a commitment now so we could still get in for next year’s season. But then this golden carrot just drops into my lap and made everything else fall right into place.”

  “What golden carrot are you talking about?”

  “A golden carrot named Lansing Ward. She’s a personal shopper at Neiman Marcus. She’s also a friend, and someone I used to date now and then. I went by on Tuesday to pick up a new suit that had just been altered, and Lansing asked me if I knew Desi Sheridan. Made my ears prick right up. I said no, not directly, and asked her why, thinking maybe she could get me to her. Well, she informed me that Miss Sheridan had been interviewing for a job. As a personal shopper. Lansing said her boss was going to be calling Desi late the next day to offer her the job.”

  “She was going to take a job at a department store?” Steve asked. “Why on earth would she do something like that?”

  “Come on, man,” Randall replied. “She’s a black actress in Hollywood. What the hell else is she supposed to do?”

  “So you got to her before the Neiman people did.”

  “That’s right. I dialed up Sharon, gave her just enough info to make her feel comfortable enough to give me Desi’s number, and then I made the call. You should have heard how Desi sounded. She had this fear in her voice when she answered the phone that was just”—he made a waving gesture in the air—“I don’t know. Sad. She sounded just pitiful. So I stroked her. I said all the right things. Which was easy anyway because I’m a fan, but you know I combed the Web that night and did a little extra boning up on her body of work. When we met for lunch, I was Superfly. She was eating out my hand, and I was loving that shit!”

  “You are one lying, arrogant motherfucker.”

  “No I’m not,” Randall replied. “I’m one helluva salesman. And if you expect to have any longevity in this business, you need to drop that goody-two-shoes act of yours and learn the game, too. Look at how you handled Meredith today. Now that was a step in the right direction.”

  Steve was amazed at Randall’s cool, deliberate behavior. He shook his head and gazed out at Pico.

  “This is only about getting Desi for Ambitions, right?” he asked without making eye contact. “Or is there yet another agenda you’ve got going on that I don’t know about?”

  “I want her for the show. You and I are already on the map. Having Desi and Jet on our team will guarantee that Vast Horizons gets off to a serious start.”

  Steve leaned forward, rubbing his chin.

  “So, um, again, you have no personal interest in her. None at all.”

  Steve’s eyes were locked with his partner’s.

  “This is about work,” Randall said in a firm tone, leaning in towards Steve’s face. “This is about what you and I have been planning for months. This is about making dreams come true.”

  “As long as you’re not talking about wet dreams, my friend.”

  Randall scowled. Steve threw up his hands.

  “Alright, alright. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Randall’s pager vibrated again. He glanced down and pressed the button. He squinted. He removed the pager from its sheath on his hip and brought it closer to his eyes. His tightly pursed lips softened and spread into an enormous grin.

  “What?” Steve asked, piqued. “Is it Meredith again?”

  “Not at all,” he said, beaming.

  “Then what is it?”

  Randall turned the pager around and showed it to Steve. Steve read it. He snatched the pager from Randall’s hand and read it again. He looked up, in a reverie.

  “You Mensa-belonging, lying, scheming, brilliant son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered.

  “That’s right, potna,” Randall shouted, not giving a damn about disturbing the other patrons. “Our girl said yes!”

  WHERE THERE’S TOKE,

  THERE’S IRE

  So look …. we gon’ do this or what?”

  Jackson Bennett sat behind the desk in his office on Wilshire. He was leaning back in his comfortable black leather chair, a wooden chewing stick in the corner of his mouth. His hands were behind his head and his feet were propped up high in front of him, partially blocking Sharon’s view of his face. He was wearing Tims. Cheese boots. A big, oversized pair.

  Big enough, Sharon thought, to stuff his tiny ass all the way inside.

  “The Spark,” from The Roots’ Things Fall Apart CD, was softly thumping from the speakers of the stereo system. It might as well have been thumping from Jackson’s soul. The man carried East Coast flavor with him wherever he went.

  Behind him she could see the brown-gray cast of smog hovering over Beverly Hills. It looked like maybe rain was threatening.

  She hoped to get out of Jackson’s office before the heavens opened up. She needed a break and some fresh air. He had been talking nonstop for more than two hours, and she was exhausted.

  Jackson Bennett had canyon-sized lungs and a mouth to match. When he had something to say, he didn’t stop until the last gulp of air and every oxygen molecule in the room was spent.

  Sharon had been interested, very interested, in what he had to offer, but she found it hard to show her enthusiasm. Her mind was scattered. She hadn’t eaten that morning. Perhaps, she figured, that was why her energy level was so low.

  “Count me in,” she said, getting up from the draconian wooden Ethiopian chair where she had been sitting. She smoothed down the front of her white cotton blouse, then began walking around the room, her hands thrust into the pockets of her black cotton slacks.

  “Where you goin’?” Jackson asked, startled by her movement.

  “Nowhere. My ass is raw from those hard chairs of yours. You ever think about getting cushions?”

  “No,” he said proudly. “I want people to fe
el the same way the Ethiopians who carved them feel when they sit.”

  Sharon was standing at the window behind him, peering out. She glanced at the back of his head, which was sprouting twisties, his newest look. She assumed he wouldn’t have the patience for the time and upkeep it took to let them grow into full-fledged locks. Another new look would probably appear inside of a few weeks.

  “Do you ever have Ethiopians sitting in your office?” she asked him.

  “Well… no.”

  “Then you need to get some real chairs. Shit, go to IKEA. Chairs are cheap.”

  “It’s about style, shorty, it’s all about style.”

  “Which is why you have on cheese boots as hot as it is outside.”

  “This is straight-up Brooklyn flavor. You’ve spent so much time out here, you’re losing your New York vibe.”

  “I’ll never lose my New York vibe, and you know it.”

  She stared out the window at the cars passing below. Just across the street at an angle were UPN’s offices in a tannish-brown adobe-style building.

  “You ever been over there?” she asked absently, her finger against the glass.

  Jackson turned to see where she was pointing.

  “UPN?” He laughed. “Hasn’t every black person at one time or another? I heard they got a li’l Negro factory in there where they just mix us up, roll us out, bake us up like cookies, then turn us loose to be eaten by the white folks.”

  “Stop it.” She chuckled halfheartedly, walking away from the window. “Everybody’s always dissing UPN and the WB. At least they’re getting black projects on the air.”

  “For now,” he said. “Wait’ll they get themselves a certified white-faced hit. Those black shows will be sent packing quicker than you can say jigaboo.”

  “You can’t blame them for being all about the money,” Sharon said with a listless sigh. “Who isn’t? Isn’t that what we’ve just been sitting here talking about for the past two hours? All the cheddar I’m about to make. Your thirty-million-dollar budget. Two hundred G for me, plus points. Everything is all about money and connections these days, so why shouldn’t UPN and the WB be down for theirs, too?”