“Girl, you can’t ever be downstairs when you know that I am on my way. I pump down here and wait 20-minutes in this sun. Have you forgotten that you live on the sunny side of the street? And above a bakery that calls my name, while I live above a men’s shoe store.”
“Oh, calm down, sweetie. The sun is fabulous for your complexion. Let’s go,” Margaret said, and began to walk down the street. “I called Shaunte, and she can’t meet us.”
“Too bad,” Lundin said. “Curve has some fabulous pieces in the window.”
“She also said to tell you to get a new cell phone carrier. She kept calling you and some bitch kept telling her that you were being located as if she was running around an office looking for you,” Margaret said, laughing, as they stepped in front of Curve. “I was pissed that she called me only to deliver you a message,”
“Retta, cut it out. That’s so small-minded. You two talk far more than I do, both of you, considering I always work.”
“Uh! Hun, today is Monday and you are out shopping at one in the afternoon,” Margaret joked. “Not at work.”
“I’m working. My schedule says I’m on a styling mission with one of my girls. It’s not my fault that your high-priced modeling contract was garnered by me, your bestie, sister, and neighbor. And you love to be escorted by me to shop. Thanks, Retta. I’ll pencil you in at any time.”
The bellow of laughter awakened Curve proprietor, Sandy Dahli. He was a husky man, with wide eyes, handsome-clever face and a wide flat pig nose. He looked like a tackle rather than a high-powered fashionista.
Sandy stood and greeted his best customers. He prayed Lundin never moved and hoped that she invited all of her friends to high fashion candy shop. He gave Lundin and Margaret hugs and offered them champagne.
“And, what are you wearing today?” Lundin asked.
“Well,” he said with a deep, raspy lisp. “If you must know, this hat is Philip Treacy; the shirt Comme de Garçon, the belt Barry Keiselstein-Cord, the knickers Vivienne Westwood, the socks Etro, and the sneakers, Hermes.” He confessed and twirled androgynously in a circle. “My show’s over. What brings us in today?”
“I’m browsing, which you know translates to a high American Express charge. I’m going to the New York shows, so I need to get right,” Lundin said.
“Oh, honey!” He exclaimed. “Then we have to go the VIP section.”
“Sandy, when did you get a VIP section?” Margaret asked.
“Ten seconds ago,” he said ushering them to a doorway leading to the basement. He yelled to the store clerk, “Celeste, I am going down stairs for a while.” He then told his VIP’s, “I have the shit down here, honey.”
“I like the sound of that,” Margaret said, avariciously. She imagined clubbing in the new pieces, before any of the other LA bitches had them.
An hour passed and Lundin contemplated an excuse to hand William for spending $8,000 without consulting him.
TWENTY-TWO
While Lundin shopped, William worked on his manuscript:
Amir and Justice strolled into the luxuriant Plaza Hotel on W 59th Street and 5th Avenue. Even at that time of morning the doorman was outside to collect them out of the cab. Amir looked over at the horse carriages parked on the side of Central Park. Finally, he had the chance to see the park not on a TV screen. He got himself together and waltzed into the Plaza.
Hotel guests were returning from a $1,000-a-plate gala for breast cancer research. The two frauds approached the cream and brown marble-topped front desk and prepared to put their plan into effect.
“May I help you sir?” a coffee induced front desk clerk asked.
“Hopefully, you can,” Amir said.
“You’re in luck. I’m sure that I can,” the clerk responded, and tapped some keys on his keyboard. “Name on the reservation?”
“We just arrived from O’Hare and our reservations were screwed up the block at the Waldorf Astoria. Please tell us that you have rooms available? We have had a rough night. Our plane was delayed, so our room was listed as a no show. Our luggage did not travel with us, and United plans to have it on a flight in the morning.” Amir rattled off hastily.
Justice scanned the man’s name tag pinned to his blazer. “Come on, Harry, I’m sure that Mr. Oforgbu does not want to hear our drama.” Justice then asked the clerk, “Do they talk this much in Ghana?” He had read the clerks country origin from his name tag, and personalized the situation.
“You’re in luck,” Mr. Oforgbu said, and looked up from his computer monitor. “We do have suites available. They’re $629 a night. And they talk more in Ghana. I just need an ID and credit card, and I can check you in.”
“Unfortunately, my credit cards are in my luggage. I do have my check book, though,” Amir said, and then stacked above that, he said, “It’s a good thing that I kept my passport in here, or we would really be screwed. We’re going to Spain in three days.”
Mr. Oforgbu checked Amir in for three days after his check was approved. He printed Amir a receipt for him to sign and gave him a copy. He gave them both gold metal keys for entrance to a room that overlooked Central Park. Before they walked off, though, Amir had one other trick up his sleeves.
“I’m a little short on cash,”—he flashed a smile—“and wondered if you cashed personal checks?”
“Sure, up to $500. Make the check payable to the Plaza and I’ll give you cash.”
Amir left the desk with $500 in his pocket. So much for being broke.
# # #
The following morning, Amir left Justice in the room and went down to the busy lobby. Transient guests ebbed about and checked in and out. The grandfather clock read 10:30. He scanned the lobby and assured Oforgbu had left before he approached the front desk. He left, once again, $500 richer. One thousand dollars in 8 hours ain’t bad, he thought. Now I see why it was so easy for the kid in Home Alone: Lost in New York to get con this very hotel.
The room service that Amir ordered before leaving the room had arrived by the time that Amir returned. He and Justice ate breakfast and wondered what the day had in store.
With breakfast finished, Amir pushed the cart into the hallway, and then sat at the desk that looked out over Central Park. He skimmed through the hotel directory and New York Magazine. It was his first time in the Big Apple and he wanted to make the best of it.
Justice interrupted his train of thought. “What now, brain?” he asked perched on his bed, and flicking through the TV channels.
“First, we need Alimu-Shine to bring up your computer in your truck, so that we will have it. We need to make fresh work. We can get new ID’s from New York somewhere, I’m sure. And you know the rest.”
“Do I?” Justice asked with a touch of sarcasm. “Left up to me, I’ll jump outta that window, and have my guts splashed across the front page of the New York Post. You have all the hope, so I’ll just sit back and let you put things in motion.”
“You can do that after you have Alimu-Shine bring the shit. I’ll do the rest.”
“This I have to see,” Justice said, and placed a call to Alimu-Shine.
William sat back from the computer monitor and stared blankly at the fish swimming above him. He had no idea what he wanted to do next with his characters, especially with Amir running the show. William had no idea if Amir was capable of anything that fell into the description of directing.
For a moment he was flushed out of avenues to turn to. He wanted to be done with Justice and this script. He stood and walked over to the recliner. He sat and kicked his feet up. Fifteen minutes of flexing his brain muscles and wrestling with the plot had gotten him nowhere. He checked the time and saw that he had plenty of time to make it to Fed-Ex and the ATM.
He realized that no author was an island. He had friends in places. Putting his pride aside, he boxed up the pages that he needed to ship to a friend to review. He saluted himself for putting his macho aside.
TWENTY-THREE
Thursday night along with the rain
, William parked in the airport parking lot around 8 p.m. He unloaded Lundin’s luggage from the car and held her hand as he rolled her new suitcase and duffle bag through to the ticket counter. He knew that her breasts and derriere were both jealous of her hand, because he was not holding them tightly. Lundin had been running around all day gathering everything that she needed for the trip. He could not understand the packing psyche of the female species. Not only did she have the suitcase and duffle bag, she shipped a box of things to her hotel.
He really did not like her traveling to the city of quiet mornings and incomparable nights by herself, but she had a professional duty. He was glad, though, that she had Margaret to bug, so that she would not bother him.
William watched her show her boarding pass and ID to airport security and proceed through the metal detectors. She waved at him, and then blew him a kiss which he caught and placed on his lips. He watched her go up a short escalator and through a set of metal detectors. Her backside looked more and more magical and alluring, as it danced into the crowd.
* * *
Back on Robertson, William caught a few moments and rested his eyes, before he grabbed his laptop and went to work:
Justice and Amir emerged into the Plaza’s lobby looking debonair, and rightly so. Amir had gone to the gift shop and billed expensive garments to the room. It was after noon, so they had had a late start, but they were ready.
The two men walked over to Fifth Avenue and stepped into heaven. All was perfect.
Clean sidewalks were loitered by New Yorkers selling faux jewelry and artificial Louis Vuitton handbags.
The buildings of disproportionate sizes were lined shoulder to shoulder selling high fashion couture.
The sky was as clear as a baby’s blue eyes, and the air was permeated with a mixture of all the street vendors’ who sold pretzels, nuts, and hot dogs.
Amir looked around carefully. He could not decide what he wanted first. He did not want to walk through the wrong gate. He and Justice walked southbound on Fifth Avenue and ducked into Prada. Amir knew that Justice could buy everything in Prada from underwear to suits. To be safe Justice told Amir not to spend more than $2,000.
They both perused the store and then selected what they wanted. The sales rep rang up their items and the total reached $4,400. Amir, in his seasoned script wrote a check, which was declined. Time for plan B, Justice thought, and then acted.
“There must be some mistake,” Amir said, perplexed.
The rep offered Amir the number to Tele Chex—a check authorization company—as well as the land line to call them. After all, the rep wanted the commission.
“Let me go hold the reservations at Justin’s, while you handle your business,” Justice said and left the Prada store.
Amir called Tele Chex and gave them all of his account and ID information. After a brief hold, Tele Chex wanted to speak to the boutique rep. The rep gave Tele Chex the Prada merchant number, the amount of the check, and the account information.
The Tele Chex clerk said, “Oh that was a Code 1 decline. We just had to verify the account holder. Your approval code is 834973.”
Amir grabbed the garment and shopping bags and headed out of the boutique with a conniving sneer on his face. He met Justice on the corner, and handed him some of the bags. They then pranced around the corner.
“I see you still got it,” Amir told Justice. “He was goofy and I knew when I called you to act like Tele Chex, he wouldn’t even catch on to your Levern Grisby voice.”
“They never do,” he said, and smiled. “We have work to do. I’mma need to be fresh to death while on the run.”
Hours later, their arms were tired from carrying bags, which was their only reason to stop shopping. Amir had served Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Versace, SAKS, Fendi, and the NBA Store. Before they swung around to 57th Street and conquered Nike Town, Hermes, Burberry, and Helmut Lang. Then, they had gone up Madison and destroyed Barney’s New York, Emporio Armani, DKNY, and Swarovski.
They dropped the bags off at the hotel, and then grabbed a cab to 42nd Street and 8th Avenue. They hopped out of the cab, and hustled into a gift shop that offered all things NYPD. Justice approached a glass display full of cell phones, and spoke to a Mexican man.
The man had a signature Mexican mustache and jet black hair. Justice pulled out his wallet and tapped on his Pennsylvania ID. The Mexican knew exactly what he wanted.
The Mexican handed both men forms to fill out with all the information that appeared on a driver’s license. On the line marked social security number, Justice instructed Amir to only put an eight digit number beginning with zero on the form. They filled out the forms and then handed them back to the Mexican.
Amir whispered to Justice that the ID’s did not look anything like a real Pennsylvania ID.
“No problem. New Yorkers behind the counter have never been to Philly to know the difference,” Justice said, confidently. He then posed and let the man take the picture for the ID.
# # #
Amir was exhausted when he returned back to the hotel, but that did not stop him from busting another $500 check at the front desk. When he and Justice entered the hotel room, they found Alimu-Shine in the room. He was on a laptop, as if he had been left in the room.
“How the fuck did you get in?” Amir asked, perplexed.
“Come on. That was easy. I still have game. Simply because I fell back, do not count a brother out. I drove all the way up here and had to go through all of the traffic, something had better be in those many bags for me.”
“Nope,” Justice said, and plopped on the sofa.
“That’s crazy,” Alimu-Shine said. “And it’s cool, because I want back in.”
“Cool. Did you bring everything, homey?”
“Yes-sir.”
“Printer?”
“Yes.”
“MICR ink?”
“Absolutely.”
“Blank checks?”
“Dammit! Yes. Yes. Yes!”
“You’re an arrogant, clown,” Amir said, and sat on the bed.
Justice could not believe that he was in that predicament. Alimu-Shine was his number one friend and was glad that he had come through. Justice was too smart to be going through that experience. He was 12-credits shy of a degree at Villanova U. Extremely proficient in Microsoft Office. He had taken enough advanced mathematics courses to work for NASA. And he knew a host of languages. Why was he hurting himself? Shit, why was he hurting his mother and father, who were back together after a 20-year split? He wanted to break down and let a river of tears flow, right there in front of his homies. Justice was a foolish man trapped in a fantasy world. A world presented to him on TV. He was subconsciously a celebrity. He shopped like one. Wore expensive garments like one. Slept in five-star hotels like one. And he was unhappy like one, too.
Amir walked over to Justice and waved his hand in his face. “Earth to Justice Lorenzo.”
“I’m here, Dirty Harry.”
“Oh, you got jokes. It’s cool, though. Let’s just chill for a sec and then go to the movies or something. You know I’ve never been to NY, except through your stories in jail. Around midnight, we can hit a club, snatch up some women, and then tomorrow get mo’ money.”
“Oh, is it that simple?” Justice asked, sarcastically.
“Oh, so.” Amir confirmed.
William began to nod off to sleep before he was startled awake by the telephone ringing. His senses were groggy as his brain registered what it took for him to answer the phone. He yanked the throw blanket over himself and the telephone rang a third time. He ignored the caller, as he only expected Lundin to call, and she would get the hint and call his cell phone. Annoyed by the ringing, William walked to the phone base and pressed the speaker phone button.
“Yes, Boopsie,” William answered. He stretched one raised hand to the ceiling and the other pressed down an erection. He was happy about the prospect of phone sex with Lundin. The idea was palatable.
The c
aller did not respond to his greeting. He snatched up the receiver.
“Hello!” he said, continuing his sleepy voice to assure Lundin thought that he was asleep. He seriously thought that she had called the house phone to verify that he was home.
No response.
The caller disconnected.
William was pissed. He had gotten up for naught. He sat a few moments and then turned off the living room TV and trekked to the bedroom. It was one a.m. Four a.m. in New York. He had to have received a wrong number caller.
He turned on the stereo and let Mary J. put him to sleep.
The phone rang at two a.m.
He looked at the caller ID and tried to zero in on who had the audacity. The caller was anonymous. He was pissed.
“Who the hell is this?” he asked, gravely.
“A friend. Could be become a foe, though.”
“Are you threatening me, asshole?” William asked, his heart and thoughts raced. He slammed the phone down.
William sat up on the bed and ran his right hand across his chest. He walked to the bathroom and wondered about the caller. The sun had not risen and he needed to catch up on some sleep before he took his BMW to be repaired, and picked up a rental to drive to San Francisco. He had to meet a friend that he sent his chapters to review earlier in the week.
He had flushed the toilet and the telephone rang again. He raced to the living room phone, his penis loomed in front of his body—a tool swaying from side to side that could hypnotize a woman.
“Stop fucking calling my home!” William barked into the mic of the speaker phone.
“Didn’t know that you were a psychic,” the man said. “Our little secret can stay a secret for a $100,000 gift. What do you say?”
“I say you’re a nut basket.”
“Probably.”
“What’s this about?” William asked and sat on the sofa and squeezed the life out of a pillow.
CON TEST: Double Life (A Mystery) Page 9
