Davida walked backwards, holding my member. She unzipped her skirt and took it off carefully so it wouldn't get wrinkled, then folded it and placed it on the coffee table.
I pulled off her panties and bit on them between my teeth. She laid on the couch and I got on top of her. "Him and his self-actualization wife." She nibbled on my ear. "Plus some city council people and the Coliseum commissioners."
"Cool," I grunted between thrusts. "I'll be on the down low, smile and laugh at his weak-ass jokes."
"Get on his good side," she whispered in my ear.
I sat back and put the panties around the back of her neck. I tugged on them, rocking her head as we banged. Slowly, I crossed the panties across her throat. Her eyes got wide as she held onto my rib cage. I pulled tighter.
"Faster," she hollered.
I pulled the panties even tighter, her breath gurgling out from her throat. I got scared and excited and let up. She hit my arm with her fist her signal for me to continue. I pulled tighter again and her dark eyes got so round they all but swallowed me up. She pulled me close, driving her tongue into my mouth. I still had hold of the panties, my arms pinned against her. Davida could barely breathe, but she grabbed my forearms as I tried to right myself.
She dug her nails into my butt and I bucked like a mule in a stall, letting go of the panties. She held onto me and we crashed onto the floor. We finished there, scooting around in heat.
''Shit,'' she said, rubbing her butt as she got up. She looked over her shoulder, turning her leg to try and get a look at the red mark on her butt. "You big ol' panther." She gently pushed the point of her shoe underneath my balls.
I laid on the floor, looking up at her and laughing. "Hey, is Weems gonna be there?"
She gave me a funny look as she marched off to the bathroom. "You must have taken too hard a hit in Germany, baby. What the hell would that Christian creep be doin' in a den of sin like Napoleon's club?"
"He's the football commissioner." I got up, disoriented. Rough sex did it to me every time. "His holiness might be there to keep everybody in line." Where the hell did my Jockeys go? A quick pain went through my leg, and my knee went out from under me for a second. I sank down, leveraging myself against the coffee table.
"What you doin' in there, boy?" Davida called from the bathroom.
"Nothin'," I said, "just lookin' for my underwear." I massaged my upper thigh.
"Make some coffee, will you, baby?" She got the shower going.
"Okay." I tried to keep the strain out of my voice. I got up and made my way to the kitchen, hoping to work the kink loose in my hip. The socket was grinding and I took a punch at the cupboard, frustrated.
"You ain't going nuts out there without me, are you, Zelmont?"
"Yeah, that's it, Davida." I leaned my butt against the drain, working my leg up and down until the hip joint moved back into place.
Later I left Davida's apartment in Lennox and went over to the NFL offices on Century Park East. I signed some papers for my pension. I had about fifty grand left in the bank after living expenses and fronting the high life in Spain. Fifty grand might be a lot to some, but I was used to a certain lifestyle, and that wasn't gonna get it.
Plus I knew I couldn't get out of sending at least ten or so to that ballbuster Terri in Savannah. It had been damn near a year since I'd last mailed her a wad of dough. And there was no way a judge, let alone her low-rent Johnnie Cochran of a father, would let me plead poverty. But the mortgage on the pad was kicking my tail, so the half-a-hundred wasn't gonna last long at the rate I was going.
I spent the next couple of days trying to chase down the other people who owed me money. Most of them were unfindable or just plain gone, no forwarding address. In a pool hall near Lynwood, I ran down Harper "Lemon" Woods, who owed me 20Gs.
"Eight in this pocket." He tapped the hole with his cue, glancing past me. Like I was some bitch he never intended to call again.
He stroked the white ball and it angled against the eight, sending the ball against the cushion. The black ball banked and sunk just where he'd predicted. The guy he was playing, an older gent in a brown leather jacket, handed over two Benjamins.
"You got nothin' to say, man?"
"What?" he barked. "I'm supposed to be lightin' up fire-crackers 'cause you strolled in?" He held the cue in both hands like he was gonna do a Jackie Chan on me.
"Where's the money you owe me?" People were watching. Brown jacket moved back. I moved in on Woods.
"You gettin' all in my business like I'm some mark."
"I want my money"
"Shit, Raines, everybody knows you ain't nothin' but yesterday's news." He looked around, grinning and seeing if he got a reaction from the others.
"The twenty grand that belongs to me is fresh in my mind." I didn't wait for a reply or for him to swing the cue. I straight hit him in the jaw, knocking him back against a table. I jumped forward, but Woods tripped me with the cue. Off balance, I fell against a stool, crashing to the floor.
"Who the fuck you think you is?" Woods screamed, pulling out a gun from underneath his loose-knit shirt. He had it pointed at my head, sideways like he probably saw gangsters do on TV shows.
There was no way I was gonna do the backdown in front of a crowd. "You better get that thing out of my face, fool." I got off the floor.
"The only thing I'm gonna do is bust some caps in your ego, you arrogant motherfuckah. Like I'm supposed to be all intimidated 'cause you think your reputation is gonna scare me." He shoved the Glock alongside my cheek. "Now what you better do, Zelmont, is walk the fuck out of here and see if you can make like Adam Sandler and be the waterboy for the Barons or some shit." That got a laugh from the dudes standing around the joint.
I held up my palms. "Okay, man. You the one with the gun. I guess that makes it your world."
Woods grinned and I knew he was caught up in feeling superior. I faked with my right, then grabbed his gun hand with my left. Doing what I knew he would, he tried to pull back, freeing his gat. I let his arm go in that direction, bringing my elbow up and into his nose in the same movement.
"Dammit," he hollered.
The whack made him loosen up and I snatched the gun away. I backhanded him with the business end of the thing. There was a line of red where the skin had broken open over his nose. There was respect in his eyes as he looked at me over the hand he held to his wound.
"Look, Zelmont."
"Shut the hell up." I was enjoying this. The tingling I got in my gut was like sex with Davida. "Don't say a goddamn thing unless it's how soon you gonna have my cash."
"What you better do," a voice croaked from behind me, "is take your niggerish behavior out of my establishment." The man with the frog voice was a round-bellied brother in suspenders and an athletic T-shirt. His ugly, greasy face had a Barons cap pulled over his activator-starved Jheri curl. There was a Mossberg pump laying on the counter with a choke on the end of the barrel. He stood behind it, a pudgy hand resting on that bad boy.
I didn't pull the piece," I said, eyeing Woods again.
"Say, man, I don't give a fuck who did what. Take your bullshit outside." The Mossberg was in his hands.
"Come on." I motioned to Woods with the pistol.
He tucked in his lips.
"Don't try to be slick. Do what I tell you."
We marched past the slit eyes of the owner and came out into the sunlight on Atlantic. Several of the dudes from inside also tagged along. I put the gun in my back pocket since it didn't seem too good an idea to broadcast the piece.
"Well, what about it, Harper?"
He looked from side to side as if an answer was floating around in his lopsided head. I know you heard about my mama."
I slapped him with the pistol again. "Your mama ain't the one that signed a loan agreement. She can't read no way." I returned the gun to my back pocket.
"You think I don't know you been ridin' all over town lookin' to collect your debts?" His voice went up higher with f
ear and anger. "But if I ain't got it, I ain't got it."
He was gonna step to me and see if I was ready to up the play I cracked him hard on the jaw with my fist. He went down on one knee, sobbing like the punk he was.
"Oh God," one of the men watching said.
"Now what you gotta say?" I kicked Woods in the face. He dropped over like a kid's doll on the pavement.
"Hey, you gonna kill him if you keep that up," somebody said.
I didn't care. Motherfuckah tried to bitch me up in public. You don't do that to Zelmont Raines. Unlike some wide receivers who were scared to take a hit, I didn't sweat that kind of action. You didn't get your name in the record books 'cause you couldn't perform. Art Monk, Warfield, them dudes didn't hear footsteps. They kept their minds on the ball, getting banged up time and time again as they caught the pass. No matter, they got up and went back to the job.
" 'I ain't got it' won't do, Harper." There was a new gash over his left eye and he had a hand over it as he looked up at me. Blood leaked out between his fingers. I decide who owes me and when they owe me. You get my fuckin' money together."
"Okay, Zelmont, okay."
"That's right, man. You better make it okay."
I walked away with all eyes on me. I felt good. I'd handled my business and I knew this was a sign things were bound to get better. I felt so good, I drove over to the Pico Union district near downtown and copped a dime bag of rock. I wasn't getting back into bad habits. The thing about being in rehab three times was I knew the signs, I knew when I was getting out of control. This little jolt was just to give me an edge to keep my senses sharp. After I smoked up at my crib I changed to my sweats. Then I jogged over to Runyon Canyon Park, not too far away.
I forgot there would be kids around, it being summer. Usually it was only on the weekend where you had to put up with the crumb snatchers and their yacking and goofing while their parents walked or ran with the family dog. But there weren't too many of them, plus I had my buzz on. Naturally there were the 40-something blonde types talking about the latest colonic or how they had to get the dishwasher fixed or some other ordinary bullshit.
There were a few hotties, models, and wannabe actresses trying to keep their shit tight. Out and about too were a few fags, cruising for a set of hairy, buffed legs to wrap around come nightfall. And, of course, a few Hollywood studs, execs of some sort getting their workout while trying to figure out how to screw the next shithead on the ladder.
I was going up the path that went around the big mountain. A young Latino in blue short shorts and a Yale logo sweat top, his black hair colored with streaks of bright red, was walking down with his cocker spaniel and gave me the once-over as I moved past.
"Excuse me, didn't we meet at one of Napoleon Graham's parties?" He had a long earring dangling from one ear. It was shaped like something that fell off a chandelier.
Great, now the bungholers were the only ones who recognized me. "Could be, man. I gotta hit it. Sorry," I mumbled, churning my knees hard. My hip socket began to ache as I rounded the bend. The grinding pain made me want to stop several times but I kept putting one foot in front of the other. Sweat was making my lips salty, and every time my right leg came up it was like a jab with the point of a knife in my upper thigh.
Come on, Zelmont, it ain't nothing to do but to do it. I huffed, then grunted, clamped my teeth, and kept moving, eyes straight ahead.
I made the bend, where the path leveled off and you could see out onto the city in several directions. I stopped, bending over more from the pulsing in my hip than being out of breath. Straightening up, I wiped my face with my old Falcons top. Not far away to the left I could see my house tucked up on its hill. The thing looked solid and safe, like the day I first spotted it running this mountain. I was up for Rookie of the Year and knew I had to have a pad like that.
People assumed I did it to have the fly chicks and swinging parties. Have me a cool address and be able to look down on the city where I was raised. Well, I guess there was something to that. Hell, my mama never had nothing but the hot cramped apartment me and my two sisters were raised in growing up near the Coliseum.
We didn't skip no meals, but there wasn't too much extra either. I made do with out-of-fashion kicks when all my friends were getting the next new thing. When I made it to the pros, I set my sights on getting used to things I never had as a child. I should have been smarter at holding on to the money. I could have listened to people, including my mother. But there was always the next pass I was gonna catch, the next product I was gonna pimp.
Them days ain't done yet, I promised myself. I took a deep breath and started a slow jog down the other side.
Thursday, me and Davida, in her used Mercedes Kompressor roadster, went over to the NFL owners' set at the Locker Room. Graham's place, on the corner of 11th Street and Georgia, was real classy. Across the way was the Staples Center with its glass and metal arena and music auditorium. The place was shaped like a giant 'Q' knocked on the side.
There had been a lot of rigmarole in getting the NFL owners to agree to bring a team back to town. They pretty much wanted the City of L.A. to kiss their collective butts and mortgage the public piggy bank to build a new stadium complex, like Cleveland and San Francisco had done. But the crew of local high rollers who'd put the deal together, along with city representatives, played it cool. They knew the NFL needed the number two media markettheir ad revenues had been down for several years. So they held out for a better deal, and got it. Ellison Stadanko, who'd made his money in solid waste retrieval, was a pal of one of the movers and shakers and got the inside track on being the main backer of the Barons. And the Coliseum, built for the Olympics in '32, fixed up for the traitorous Al Davis in the '80s, got a new life and a dome to go with it. The Sports Arena next door was hollowed out and turned into a food and bar court that led to a five-story parking structure.
Further north, alongside the Staples Center, was the Convention Center. Nobody was at any of those venues that night. And the fans who kept the machinery of pro sports going by buying the tickets and getting a snack at the Denny's or Wolfgang Puck Café alongside the complex weren't invited to the Locker Room. This set was reserved for players, coaches, agents, and others in the loop.
The outside of the club was done up in polished steel panels with rivets showing. The roof had goalposts on one end and a gigantic hoop on the other. There was a two-story-high TV monitor on one side of the building. An old Jim Brown flick, Three the Hard Way, was showing on the giant screen when we walked up from the parking lot.
People were backed up at the entrance. "Zelmont," I heard as a hand the size of the end of a shovel rose from the crowd chatting and standing around.
"Napoleon," I said, making my way over. We hugged. "This ain't making you hard, is it?" I only half-joked. His dreads were tied back, the last inch of each dyed bright blond. He was wearing blue-green mascara and his eyebrows were V'd up like Mr. Spock's. Other than that he looked normal in a black double-breasted suit with white pearl buttons, a white no-collar shirt, and a ruby stud at the neck.
"Nigger, please. I may be a switch hitter, but I got good taste.
"That's what I mean."
Nap pretended to ignore me and kissed Davida on the lips. "You lookin' good, girl."
"Always a pleasure when I'm in your company, Nap." She touched his buffed chest, scoping the scene.
Chicks in short, tight black skirts, and black and white striped halter tops passed out drinks on trays to the crowd.
"Sorry about Barcelona," Nap said.
"Hey, you know how it gets. But I'm on a program, getting stronger every day. I've got a couple of years left yet."
"Right on."
I wanted to get inside, get off the discussion about my hip. Nap was a nut for those goddamn "reaching-your-full-potential" courses. He even was a speaker at some of the conferences. I remember after he'd been busted with his boyfriend, this Hollywood director of big shoot-'em-ups. They had been tossing their
salads at a resort in Palm Springs, and the tabloid fucks had been stalking him, trying to prove the rumors about my boy. But rather than hide and deny, Nap went on Montel preaching the virtues of bisexuality. Jesus.
You'd never think I'd be tight with a guy like him, but when the league came after me with both feet, only Nap had my back. I guess he felt bad for me since he knew what it was like to be hassled 'cause of who you were. We'd been roomies on the road, and you can't help but get to know a cat, talk to him about things that are on your mind now and then. I didn't go in for all his get-to-know-your-inner-self bullshit, but he'd shown me he could be counted on when it mattered. We'd been out of touch for a while before I went to Europe, but it felt like old times seeing him.
"I'll see you inside, Nap."
"All right. I want to talk to you about something later." Some dude in loafers and a Prada suit came up to Nap. He was talking in some foreign language on a cellular, and at the same time shaking the former All-Pro tackle's hand. Davida had already gone in, and I did the same.
"Mr. Raines, hope you enjoy your evening." The waitress' healthy chest strained the material of her top. I barely noticed the martinis on her tray.
"I will now that you've said hello." I took a glass and toasted her. There was a R &B band playing on a raised stage supported by clear cylinders off to one side. The backdrop was glowing footballs that swirled around and around in a black sky. A spread was laid out on several tables, with an ice sculpture of downtown L.A. surrounded by some huge shrimp as the centerpiece. Monitor banks on one wall of the place played NFL and NBA game films.
Mama said never turn down free food, so I headed for the grub.
"Yo, Zelmont, how'd it crack in England?"
"Spain, Danny, it's a whole other country." Danny Deuce, Nap's brother, was standing with a couple of his boys, chilling along one of the walls.
"Spain, Mexico, it ain't the real pros, is it?" he cackled. One of his homies put his hand in front of his mouth, giggling. The other dude was too busy zeroing in on the honeys.
The Jook Page 2
