“Exactly.”
Moji was trying to wrap her head around what Jill was saying. This aspect of the ‘Houston Hook’ was not part of the infamous Jill Harrow lore. Moji had heard plenty of stories of the work Jill did with the cheerleaders and how she created a group of sexualized sluts to rev up the collective libido of the fanbase, but she had never heard of something like this. She cleared her throat. “Obviously, the strategy is extremely unethical and even if it could work, wouldn’t it cost you way more than any potential savings you’d derive from lowering salaries? I mean, football players attract women like flies to garbage. What do you do, follow them around and try to hire every girl they meet? Not only is it unethical, it doesn’t seem feasible.”
“It may seem unethical to you honey but it’s just business to us. Yes, players are constantly surrounded by beautiful women, but haven’t you wondered where all those beautiful women come from? Child, most of the women chasing the players around were hired and trained by me.”
Jill’s confession hit Moji like a runaway freight train. This woman can’t possibly be serious, Moji thought. It’s well known that professional athletes are a close-knit demographic. Players tend to have a small circle of friends and people they trust, so it’s feasible to assume that if you could introduce just one mole into their inner circle you could influence their decision making. And it’s no secret that Jill is skilled in the art of male manipulation. Given the number of cheerleaders she has trained over the years, she potentially could have a small army of informants at her disposal. But Moji just couldn’t fathom how one could make such a nasty scheme work or keep it secret for very long.
Jill interrupted Moji’s train of thought. “I bet you’re thinking, how do you make this idea work? I mean, a girl may start out thinking that she is just doing a job but things happen, right? A girl meets a handsome, strong guy with lots of money, all of a sudden she thinks she’s in love, and now, instead of working for me, she wants a big house, a nice car, and a bunch of brown babies.”
“Well,” Moji said, “I hadn’t thought it through quite that far but yeah, the whole idea seems kind of farfetched. To many women, especially the type who might be attracted to your initial offer, hooking up with a successful professional athlete is like hitting the lottery. Why would they continue to help you? Especially if helping you means that their husband or boyfriend will make less money. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well honey, most of my girls ain’t as smart as you, so most times they don’t know how anything they tell me will affect them or their boo. They just ain’t thought it through that far. But you’re right, almost every one of them at some point starts thinking that the grass is greener on the other side and wants out of our little agreement.”
“What do you do then?”
“I tell them the truth. I tell them that a professional football player is a modern day gladiator and that he cannot be trusted to remain a faithful and loving companion. I point out all the cheating and physical abuse that they are likely to be subject to. I tell them all the lonely nights they’ll spend looking out the window, waiting for a man who won’t be coming home that night because he found him another sweet piece of ass at the club to entertain him. I tell them that no matter what they think, their man can’t be trusted, so they have to look out for themselves, protect themselves by tucking away that extra little something that they can use to break away if need be. What’s the harm in it? They give me a little information or afford me a little influence, and I give them the means to build a safety net. Everybody wins, right?”
“And they believe you?”
“Not at first. Most think that their situation will be different, that their relationship will persevere despite the statistics that show otherwise. They’ll say, Jill, my man loves me! He would never cheat on me or hurt me! Oh no, our relationship is a gift from God and what therefore God hath joined together let no man put asunder, blah, blah, blah.” Jill expelled a short snort of disgust.
“I take it you’re not a big advocate of true love and lasting relationships.”
“Honey, it’s all a bunch of hooey. Men in this industry don’t give a rat’s ass about love or commitment. For them, it’s all about conquest and ego. They gain your trust and then trample it underfoot like horse shit on a hot day. They don’t care who they hurt.”
Jill’s voice trailed off and she had that faraway look in her eyes again. Moji thought she was going to cry. But as suddenly as it came, Jill swept away her dark mood with a wave of her hand and she once again addressed Moji with a smile.
“You see, I love my girls too much to see them ground up like yesterday’s garbage when the men they thought loved them break their hearts.”
Jill walked over to the far wall of her office. It was covered practically wall-to-ceiling with built-in filing cabinets, beautifully veneered in a light oak. She pulled open one of the cabinet drawers and removed a thick folder. She dropped the file on the table in front of Moji. The name ‘Dickerson, E.’ was scrawled neatly on the folder’s tab.
”That’s why I take the liberty of documenting the reports of every fight, argument, divorce, and breakup that occurs between a player and his significant other. When one of my girls starts getting weak in the knees, I bring her up here and let her peruse my collection—Jill waved her arms toward the file cabinets that covered the wall—That’s usually all it takes to get them back on board.”
Moji stared at the folder on the table and then back at the wall of file cabinets. There’s got to be thousands of folders in there, she thought.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Jill said, pulling her chair close to Moji’s before sitting down, placing herself squarely in Moji’s personal space. “You’re thinking, what does all this have to do with me?”
“Well…” Moji said.
“Well, I’m going to tell you what it has to do with you,” Jill said, “I’m about to send you out there to help us promote our draft day activities and when I do you’re going to be like a sheep amongst a whole bunch of hungry wolves! All those potential draft picks just salivating to get a piece of some Mojisola Douglas! And when you’re out there just doing your job, and one of those potential draft picks in particular, one that I know for a fact will be attracted to a woman of your type, should take a fancy to you, the Vipers would be mighty grateful if you would show him the utmost in Texas-style southern hospitality.”
Moji backed away from the table and stood up. “Jill, if you’re asking me to lower myself to the level of some whore—”
“Whoa, darling! Like I said before, nobody is asking you to do anything unladylike. All I’m asking is that you be nice to the man. Show him some attention. Maybe flirt a little bit, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry Jill, but no. I will not play those types of games and I’m insulted that you would even ask. I’ll be happy to work with you and the Vipers in any professional capacity that you deem appropriate, but I will not take part in the emotional sabotage of another human being. If you hired Leland just so you could use me as some sort of lure, then I would ask that we terminate our relationship right now.”
“Honey, just relax! I admit I hired your company so I could get access to you, but not to use you as bait. I want you on the team because I only want to work with the best, and I heard you are one of the best damn marketing and promotions people in the city.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you.”
“Well, you’re welcome. Now sit back down and let’s talk about how the Vipers can best leverage their draft exposure. We have two picks in the top twenty this year so every news outlet is going to want a piece of us. I want to make sure they pay for the privilege.”
6
Jill never mentioned the Houston Hook stuff again and although Moji was able to settle in and do good work for the Vipers, she could not shake the feeling that Jill always had some ulterior motive brewing just under the surface of their professional collaborations. To tell the truth, I haven’t truste
d that woman since day one, Moji thought. The whole Houston Hook thing just crystallized her misgivings about the woman. And now that little she-pimp has managed to plant her hired whores smack dab in the middle of my personal life. Moji caught up with Darryl just as he reached the main house. She grabbed his arm. “Please Darryl, honey, we need to talk.”
He casually shrugged her hand from his arm and entered the house. Moji followed Darryl through the door. It led to a small mud room which opened directly into the home’s expansive kitchen. A group of about fifteen people milled about in the kitchen and the adjacent great room, talking and sampling trays of finger food that were spread throughout the kitchen’s countertops and on portable tables. Several middle-aged women, adorned in black pants, white shirts, and bowties, scurried amongst the guests, refilling empty glasses and clearing food trays. The great room’s french doors were open and through them a steady stream of partygoers flowed back and forth between the house and the backyard. She and Darryl moved easily through the sparse crowd gathered in the house, heading for the backyard where the majority of the guests were situated. Moji was surprised at how few people acknowledged Darryl’s presence even though he was the guest of honor. Probably because most of the people here don’t know him well, if at all. They’re just here for the free food, drinks, and hookups.
Just as they were about to step outside, a very large man, a head taller than Darryl and at least one hundred pounds heavier, dressed in a bathrobe, knee length basketball shorts, and wearing sneakers without laces, barreled through the doorway, and came close to knocking them both over.
“Blaze!” the large man said. “I’ve been looking for you man! Where’d you go?”
“I had to go pick up my girl,” Darryl said, gesturing in Moji’s direction.
Moji thought she heard a hint of regret in his voice.
“Moji, this is my homeboy Bruce. Bruce, Moji.”
Bruce pulled back his slightly cracked lips and exposed a big toothy grin. “Moji!” Bruce said, holding his arms out wide, his man-boobs jiggling manically underneath his open robe. “Come give your Uncle Brute a big hug!”
Moji forced herself to remain still and calm as Bruce’s blubbery folds of flesh enveloped her in a hot, sweaty bear hug. The smell of stale malt liquor, marijuana, and body odor punished her nostrils as Bruce held her tight to his chest for one or two beats longer than Moji thought was appropriate. When he finally released her, his fingers tickled the skin of her bare thighs and his palms brushed the seam of her bathing suit. Moji flinched and her stomach churned in disgust. She turned to see if Darryl had witnessed the violation of her personal space. He didn’t seem to have noticed. She took a deep breath and tried to shake off the uncomfortableness she felt. “So, Darryl called you Bruce but you referred to yourself as Brute. Is that a nickname or something?”
“Yeah girl,“ Bruce said, his face still locked in that big toothy grin, and his eyes, what little could be seen through the slits formed by his eyelids, were a red, glassy mess, “everybody calls me Brute.”
“Yeah,” Darryl said, a faint smile on his face, “we call him Brute because he’s big, clumsy, and always running into people.”
“Hey!” Bruce said, loud enough to pierce the cloud of blaring background music and turn heads out in the backyard, “They call me Brute because I blocked for your black ass from middle school all the way through high school. I was a brute, they said, so the name stuck.”
“Yeah, that’s right man,” Darryl said with a smirk, “You were the man back then.”
“Damn straight,” Bruce said, taking a couple of drunken steps backward, “and if I had graduated from high school, I woulda’ been blocking for your ass in college too.” He paused to run his tongue over his lips. “Yeah, Brute and Blaze! We were sumthin’ back then, weren’t we Blaze?”
“Yeah man, we were something.”
Bruce’s eyes shut momentarily and he rocked back on his heels. For an instant, Moji thought he was going to fall backward through the doorway and crack his skull on the concrete patio. But just as she thought he had reached the tipping point, Bruce’s eyes snapped open and he caught himself, wobbling forward like an unbalanced washing machine. Darryl side-stepped Bruce’s teetering dance and darted through the doorway. Moji followed, stepping in behind him before Bruce's wobbling frame could block her path.
“Hey Blaze hey Blaze hey Blaze,” Bruce said, the words spilling from his mouth like a broken record. Darryl, visibly annoyed, turned to address his friend.
“Yeah Brute?”
“Hey Blaze man, I just wanted to say thanks man. Thanks for not forgetting your boy. I told’em that once you made the big show, you wouldn’t forget your homies. And now look at you! You big time! Fine house, fine food, fine drink, and some super fine honeys!”
“Yo Brute, just relax and have fun, ok?” Darryl said, turning and walking away, not waiting for a response.
“Yo Blaze!” Bruce said, shouting at Darryl’s back as he and Moji disappeared into the crowd, “I’m trying to have fun brother, but none of these honeys will give me some time! I’ll take that one you have on your arm though. Damn straight!”
Though the loud music drowned out most of it, Moji heard the gist of Bruce’s rant. She sulked as she followed Darryl through the crowd. Their path took them parallel to the huge fifty meter pool that dominated the beautifully paved patio, dotted with deck chairs cradling a plethora of toned and greased beach bodies, and toward an outdoor kitchen area set at the far end of the pool. I can’t believe that big drunken oaf had the nerve to think I would even give him the time of day! Moji thought, First he gropes me, then he acts as if I’m some sort of slut that can be passed around like a bottle of cheap wine! And Darryl is acting like he’s deaf and blind to the whole thing! Moji took a few deep breaths to tamp down the anger she felt. She focused her attention on Darryl, her eyes throwing daggers at his back as they walked through the crowd. Moji, she thought, you need to calm down or you’re going to create a scene.
The sea of people finally parted as they reached the outdoor kitchen’s expansive counter. Two well-attired bartenders were busy mixing the concoctions being barked at them from a wall of mostly men that formed two rows deep around the bar’s perimeter. Darryl wormed his way to a prominent place at the end of the bar and signaled for a bartender’s attention. The bartender looked in Darryl’s direction and shot up an index finger—the universal sign for ‘Wait one moment. Be right with you.’ Darryl turned to Moji, and for the first time in a very long time, acknowledged her existence.
“You want something?” Darryl asked, his voice full of an I-don’t-care-if-you’re-here tone.
Moji stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, trying her best to read his emotions, to figure out what was going on behind that confused mask of a face. She so wanted to grab him by the ear like a petulant child, drag him to an isolated corner, and shake her finger at him until he started to cry. She choked down the urge, sighed, and blurted, “I’ll have a mojito” loud enough to be heard over the drone of a hundred conversations and DMX’s “Tear it Up” blasting from the DJ’s loudspeakers at the other end of the pool.
“Yeah, ok,” Darryl replied, without so much as a smile. When the bartender finally signaled he was ready to take their order, Darryl repeated Moji’s request to the bartender then added his own. The bartender nodded and sped away. Darryl continued to ignored her, casting his gaze in every which way except at her. Moji had had enough. She tugged on Darryl’s arm to get his attention.
“Yeah?” he said, in that gruff, nonchalant manner he used when he was being passive aggressive.
“What’s wrong with you?” Moji asked.
“What?” Darryl replied, pointing to his ear.
“I said, what’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like I’m not here?”
Moji had to take her voice up several decibels so that Darryl could hear her clearly. There’s no way I’m going to be able to have this conversation privately with all thi
s damn noise, she thought, but right now I don’t really care.
Darryl didn’t seem to care either. His voice grew loud enough to attract the attention of some of the other people waiting at the bar. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said. “You asked that I come and get you, to bring you to the party. Here you are.”
“And you’ve ignored me since we got here.”
“Moji, I have not ignored you.”
“Yes, you have. You’ve either ignored me or accused me of bringing drama into our relationship. If you don’t want me to be here just say so.”
”All I want is to have fun with my friends and celebrate my contract. It seems like all I’m getting from you is grief. You complain about my parents not coming, you complain about how I spend my money, you complain about who I invited to the party. Ever since I signed the contract all you seem to be doing is complaining.”
Moji felt tears coming on.
See? He hates you! the small voice in her head ranted.
She concentrated, fighting her emotions. I will not let these people see me cry! “So that’s what this is about? You think that I’m complaining? That’s not complaint you hear Darryl, that’s concern. Baby, I love you. I want you to be happy. I want us to be happy. So when I see you doing things that worry me, I want us to be able to talk about it.”
Their exchange had attracted a small crowd. Moji could feel their eyes on her back, hear their murmurs of amusement and crosstalk. She did not want to lose her composure. She kept her eyes focused on Darryl.
The bartender appeared at Darryl’s back, a tray of drinks balanced in his left hand. He tapped Darryl on the shoulder with his right. Darryl turned and took the tray in both hands. “Moji, I don’t want to talk about this today. Let’s just find a place to sit, drink our cocktails, and try to have some fun.”
Darryl pushed himself off the bar and walked away, the sea of onlookers parted in his wake.
Moji was incensed.
The Scourge Page 7
