by Noire
She pushed the lit cigarette to the ashtray and mashed it. Smoke trailed like a snake toward the ceiling. She mumbled something incoherent and walked out. There was nothing seductive about her gait. It was forced. Her hips didn’t know they were supposed to rock with her foot from the same side. He told her it made her appear stronger than most. She trotted to the rear and came back with an envelope. It was standard and full. She fixed him a drink and set both next to him, got her coat and closed the door. She never looked back. His eyes never left his computer. Spirals swirled about the screen, the music blared. His first shift went without incident.
He sipped from his crystal glass. He wouldn’t drink from another glass. His lips were accustomed to the finer things in life. He let it warm his throat before he swirled the orange cognac around. He wiped the corner of his mouth like Denzel in Mo’ Betta Blues. His stance, his sip, and his style were all purposeful. Appearance was everything.
• • •
“Jarvis, can you please come into my office?”
Pretty hated that shit. Fucking Jarvis. Niggas in the hood called him Jay; the bitches on the block called him Pretty. Said he had the prettiest dick they ever seen. Chocolate. Thick like an eclair. Long like a summer day. Tastier than a Krispy Kreme. They ate it like it was going out of style. He slung dick like dope and selected the very few who had the looks and the goods, as long as they came with the right price.
He closed his drawer and nodded at the teller next to him. He lifted his pants and tightened his belt. He shook his tie into the corporate position, and then mashed his cornrows flatter against his head.
He pushed the door open. “You wanted to see me Mr. Patterson?”
Mr. Patterson rocked back in his chair and kicked up his feet. His shoes were black, expensive, and filthy. Dry mud splattered the soles and traveled up the side. He folded his hands and rested them across his stomach. He was at least six months pregnant. “Sit, Jarvis.”
Pretty snarled without the facial expression. He peered through Mr. Patterson. He wondered why his boss didn’t cut off the three silver strands that lay across his pasty forehead like wet noodles. Each one spread out quite a distance away. They loved their space. His ties never matched. His shoes was always dirty. His double-breasted suits begged at the seams and his suspenders were frayed at the sides. With all that, he still commanded respect. His heavy footsteps introduced his authority. His billowing cough demanded attention. His sky blue eyes mesmerized the crowd. And he always smelled great. All that coupled with being the vice president of the biggest bank in the area.
Pretty sat across from him and inched back slowly, never once letting his eyes leave his boss. His voice was considerate. “You wanted to see me, sir.” His “sir” was forced. Almost massa-like.
Mr. Patterson whipped a pack of cigarettes from his suit jacket’s inner pocket and began banging them against his fat palms. He unwrapped the package with anticipation. His lips quivered; his squinting eyes helped his hands unwrap his craving. He pulled one out and slammed it five quick times against his desk. He leaned back, opened a drawer and pulled out a lighter. The blue got bluer and he eased his face to it. He blew out smoke. “I need you to do something for me.”
Pretty pushed away a cloud that neared. “What is that, sir?” His “sir” flowed easier than the first.
“Are you street?”
Pretty choked on his own air. “What?”
Mr. Patterson hustled slowly to the edge of his seat. “I said, are you street?”
Pretty put his defenses up. His tone echoed his mood. “Am I street?”
Mr. Patterson laughed. His laugh was throaty, loud and full of machismo. “Yeah. Street? Like um . . .” He snapped his fingers to jar his memory. “Fifty coins.”
“You mean cents?”
He threw his hand at Pretty. “Coins, cents, it’s all the same thing. Anyway, are you street like him?”
Pretty thought about it. He wasn’t street like the thugs he knew that sold drugs. Pretty thought of himself as the ultimate individual. He had his own street credibility.
“I’m street enough. Why?” He had no clue what this meeting was about. He made sure his braids were always tight. His edge up was always maintained. His pants sagged a little from time to time, but it shouldn’t have been anything to write home about. Maybe I do present myself in a thuggish manner, he thought. He didn’t want to lose the best job he ever had due to some cornrows and saggy jeans. He humbled himself and steadied for the blow.
Mr. Patterson struggled to lift himself from his chair. His ascent was slower than most, but when he stood he was steadier than a rock. “I bet you’re wondering why I had you come into my office this morning, right?” He walked to the door and opened it swiftly, and then shut it just as fast.
Pretty remained cool. His temples throbbed as he bit down. He didn’t struggle to stand. He didn’t rock when he began his rise. He turned around to face Mr. Patterson. He didn’t feel comfortable with someone behind him that he didn’t trust. “You can say that.”
“I’ll tell you. I have a proposition for you, Jarvis.” He came back to his seat and flopped into his chair. The cushion held his body like a mother would a fallen child.
Pretty found an antique mirror on the wall adjacent to the door. He pushed his braids flat to his head with one smooth stroke from front to back. He gave the ends a few determined twists to get them proper. He turned his head to the side and practiced his look, and then he straightened his tie again. He never said he wasn’t cocky, but arrogant? He wouldn’t buy that. That’s what women around the way said. They told him that he looked better than most, but he knew it. They always marveled at his skin. They said it was Hershey brown, but smoother than the candy bar. They loved his teeth. He always smiled. He couldn’t wait for the summer so he could wear the hell out of his wife-beaters. His arms spoke volumes for his work ethic. He looked back toward Mr. Patterson and wondered if he loved the winter. It was a way to hide all that shit he had underneath his shirt. Pretty checked his watch and cleared his throat.
Mr. Patterson offered Pretty a seat with a hand gesture. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“No.”
“The ladies love you, Jarvis. You want to know how I know?”
Petty’s tone was defensive. “How?”
“I listen. Women rumble like volcanoes when something is hot. That’s what they talk about. They refer to you as Pretty.” He smiled. “Isn’t that what they call you, Jarvis?”
Pretty dusted his pants off. His nerves got the best of him. He was getting a little uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going in. References like this on the street would’ve gotten his boss the shank. His foot beat the ground. He closed his eyes and rocked back. It calmed him. He inhaled with strength and blew it out softly. “They do call me Pretty,” he said with pride. His eyes opened slowly. “Is there a problem with having a nickname?” He massaged his face and felt anger and heat on it. Two more quick breaths did little to calm him down. He rubbed his hands together and rest his lips on them when they went to mock prayer position. “And they call you?” He paused and laughed. It wasn’t hearty. It was a gritty laugh that cut into Mr. Patterson and left him wondering.
Mr. Patterson’s thick untamed gray eyebrow shot up. Phlegm hustled and bustled around inside his mouth; his face showed his distaste for the texture and the comment. His tone was aggressive. “They call me what?”
Pretty loved the power of the unknown. Mr. Patterson had never seemed fazed by anything until now. He controlled the whole ship. He stayed in his office and peeked his head out from time to time to scare a few, but if people really paid attention they would know that. He let his pen do the talking. It talked about raises and firings and promotions. Mr. Patterson always remained in control, even when the ship seemed to be sinking.
Mr. Patterson’s thick fingers strummed against his desk. Pretty picked up the pattern and bobbed his head every time he heard the thud. He wasn’t going to
answer automatically. He felt the transition of power. He had something Mr. Patterson wanted. The knowledge of Mr. Patterson’s self. Mr. Patterson thought everyone loved him. He thought no one ever said anything bad about him. Sure he ran this ship like a slave one, but he gave out great Christmas gifts. He gave rewards like Scooby snacks when people met quotas. He pampered on his own time.
Pretty held on to the information like an informant did to get a better deal. What was it worth to Mr. Patterson? He watched Mr. Patterson glance at him through his bluest eye.
Mr. Patterson’s voice was huge. “Well?”
“Tell me your proposition first.” Pretty wasn’t going to let Mr. Patterson string this proposition out for hours. He wanted to know what was going on. He needed to know the particulars.
“Enough of the bullshit, Jarvis. This proposition benefits you more than it would me.” He spoke slowly, and with conviction. “What do they call me?”
Pretty laughed. “Mr. Fatterson!” He fell back into his seat and awaited his response. He figured Mr. Patterson would want to know who it was. He thought Mr. Patterson would be angry and disturbed that someone would actually call him such names. Instead, Mr. Patterson chuckled loudly.
“They’ve always called me that. They couldn’t think of anything new? I’ve heard that all of my life.” He patted his stomach. “Well, since I’ve grown this. A stomach doesn’t make a man, Jarvis.”
Pretty laughed with him. This was the first thing they’d ever shared. And it happened to come at Mr. Patterson’s expense.
“Come back to my office at exactly one-thirty if you want to hear the proposition,” he said plainly. He offered Pretty the door. He knew that he’d put enough in Pretty’s head to stimulate it. He never said what it was, and he knew that would get Pretty interested. He couldn’t run a ship so tight without being smart.
• • •
At one-thirty Pretty knocked twice.
“Come in, Jarvis.”
Pretty walked in and found Mr. Patterson standing by a makeshift bar, with a drink in hand. The shabby silver cart housed two big bottles of liquor, a long slender bottle of red wine, and three glasses: one shot glass, a wineglass, and a wide glass people used when they swirled around expensive scotch.
Mr. Patterson held his glass in the air. “Scotch, Jarvis?”
Pretty stopped in his tracks. He looked up toward the ceiling and searched for hidden cameras. “No, thank you. I’m good.”
Mr. Patterson noticed the apprehension and walked near. “Who runs this establishment, Jarvis?” He took great pleasure in saying the name “Jarvis.” He knew he wanted to be called Pretty, but it wouldn’t be by him. Every chance he got, he would let Pretty’s government name put him in his place.
Pretty found the antique mirror again and tightened his tie. He pounded his braids. “Of course you run this. I don’t doubt that.”
“Well, have a drink, Jarvis.” He walked back toward the bar. He held up an empty glass. “What do you drink?”
“Henny.”
Mr. Patterson’s laugh was full of pity. He not only looked down on Pretty’s apprehension to drink, he looked down on his choice of beverage. He needed a go-getter, but Pretty wasn’t biting. He needed to get to the crux of this black man.
“Who drinks Henny, Jarvis?”
Pretty’s tone was defensive. “The brothers I hang with.”
“The brothers you hang with?” He poured Pretty a drink. “Do the brothers you hang with drink the good stuff?”
Pretty accepted the beverage and put it to his nose. “Is this the good stuff?”
“Taste it.”
Pretty put it to his mouth and before he took a sip, Mr. Patterson interrupted, “Toast first, Jarvis.” He held his glass in the air. Pretty’s glass made contact with Mr. Patterson’s. Mr. Patterson continued, “Let’s toast to a proposition you cannot turn down, Jarvis.”
Pretty remained silent and took a huge gulp. He gagged, choked, and spit out the remains that didn’t go down. “Damn! What is this shit?”
Mr. Patterson laughed and handed him a napkin. “Wipe up your mess, Jarvis.” He took a sip of his own and uttered, “You gotta crawl before you can walk, son.”
Pretty wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What is this?”
Mr. Patterson held his glass in the air. “This, my friend, is the good stuff.” He took another sip. “This is Johnny Walker Black. Thirty dollars a shot at the bar.”
“Well it tastes like crap.”
“Everything tastes like crap until you get used to it. This warms the throat and soothes the soul, Jarvis.” He put his glass down and offered Pretty a seat. “You ready?”
Pretty took his seat.
“I have a great deal for you, Jarvis.” He closed his eyes and calculated with silence. He snapped himself out of his thoughts and continued, “I am willing to pay you three thousand dollars. Can you use three thousand dollars?”
This got Pretty’s attention. His back stiffened. “Yes.” His eyebrow shot up. He eased back and looked toward the door. “What do I have to do?”
Mr. Patterson pressed the intercom. “Can you send the party in, Ms. Randolph?”
The secretary answered politely.
Pretty readied himself for anything. He sat on edge, his weight rested on his toes. He interlocked his hands and waited.
The door opened slowly.
Pretty’s hands went to his head. He twisted the ends of his braids and tapped his foot. He began to sweat.
Mr. Patterson grinned boastfully as he stood and extended his hand. His voice brimmed with pride. “This, Jarvis, is my wife. Tamanda Patterson.”
Mrs. Patterson strode in as if she had just jumped off a high horse. She smelled expensive and looked rich. She appeared to own something. She walked with patient steps toward her husband. She reached her destination and gave him adequate affection. Their kiss was cursory; their hug was even worse.
Mr. Patterson switched hands and introduced Pretty. “My dear, this is Jarvis.” He turned back to his wife. “Jarvis, this is my proposition.” He walked around his desk and poured a glass of wine. Mrs. Patterson accepted his offering. She didn’t kick her feet up as he did; instead, she folded her legs and fell into the throes of his leather. She took a sip of wine and closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply and let it out silently.
Pretty sat in disbelief. He looked behind; his eyes transfixed on Mrs. Patterson. Her skin was as creamy as whole milk, and her hair was as short as his, and blond. She had many features that were youthful. He assumed she was in her early thirties and regularly visited the gym. Her cleavage brought men near; her beauty made them fall. She opened her eyes and reached for her pocketbook. She moved her lips seductively as she painted them with an earthy tone of brown. She pushed her compact below her eyes and stole a peek at Pretty. She couldn’t hide her smile.
Pretty watched Mr. Patterson as he sat on the edge of the desk watching the incident unfold. His eyes went from his wife’s legs to Pretty’s expression. He nodded his head, cleared his throat, and began, “Should I explain what I would like, Jarvis?”
“Let’s see what the lady would like, Mr. Patterson,” Pretty said.
Mr. Patterson ignored Pretty’s feeble attempt at assertion. He asked his wife, “Do you like what you see, dear?”
Mrs. Patterson pressed her lips to a napkin and observed her print on it. Her lips were oversized and perfectly shaped. Her tongue glided easily against her teeth and she inhaled. She folded her legs seductively and let her fingers trail down her athletic calf. She spoke slowly, “I do like what I see, Geronimo.”
Pretty snickered. Mr. Patterson shot him a quick glance. It stopped the laugh, but it wasn’t potent enough to erase the information. No one knew Mr. Patterson’s first name, and now Pretty had something to combat his disrespectful tone when he spat “Jarvis” like Pretty was his slave. Pretty glanced at the desk and reread the designer golden nameplate. G. TONY PATTERSON.
Pretty called his horse,
laughed, and jumped high. “If I do accept this opportunity, I would prefer to be called Pretty.” He paused. “Can you do that, Geronimo?” Pretty watched Mrs. Patterson’s reaction. She was appreciative of his thriving nature.
Mr. Patterson exchanged glances with his wife. She won. He twitched and mumbled something incoherent under his breath before nodding in agreement. “Anything else, Pretty?” The word stumbled from his mouth.
Pretty felt more comfortable than earlier. He felt the change in power. He walked around the room, his pace full of questions. He wanted to be a part of three thousand dollars. He realized Mr. Patterson didn’t make the decisions. He broke silence. “What do you want from me, Mrs. Patterson?”
She popped up and offered Mr. Patterson his seat. He begrudgingly obliged. She walked around and sat on the edge of the desk, watching Pretty shuffle in his chair as she positioned herself in front of him. She offered him a peek.
Her tone was stimulating. “I love black men,” she started. Mr. Patterson coughed, and nearly hacked up a lung before settling back in his seat. She looked behind, shot him a glance of pity, and returned her stare to Pretty. “And you are a beautiful black man.” Her eyes raped.
Pretty knew this feeling. He’d felt this power before. He unloosened his tie, and wrestled with his shirt before a few chest hairs snuck out. “I am beautiful, bitch!” he agreed.
Mr. Patterson waddled to the edge of his seat. “Bitch? What a minute!”
Mrs. Patterson held her hand up, not turning around. “You wait a minute, Geronimo. I can handle this.”
Mr. Patterson must didn’t know that she could handle it.
He hesitantly relaxed and sat back.
Mrs. Patterson looked at Pretty with confusion and closed her legs. “Did you just call me a bitch?”
“Yeah!” He didn’t hesitate. His look told her that he would do it again if given the opportunity.
She turned to Mr. Patterson, and then back toward Pretty. Her blank stare didn’t waver.
For a second, everything went deathly still.
Mrs. Patterson broke the silence when she jumped to her feet. She asked Pretty to stand.
