Apple Brown Betty

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  Slay smirked, his heart rate moved back in the direction of normal. “Felicia Rucker.”

  She sucked her teeth. “Dang, I blocked the number and even changed my voice. I’m that recognizable?”

  “How you been, girl?”

  “Good today,” Felicia said. “I just got a call from my agency. They’ve got a gang of shoots lined up for me next week. I’m going to be heading back to the city.”

  “You ain’t leaving before my little thing on Saturday, I hope?”

  “I might be,” she said. “I wanted to know if you could get together with me before then. Maybe you could come hang here. My brother was here for a hot minute but he’s gone off to work now. We’d have the place to ourselves.”

  Slay grumbled. “I’ve been thinking about Saturday since we first hooked up, girl. You’re breaking my heart here.”

  “So that’s a no for you coming over then?”

  “I’m busy. I wish I could, though.”

  “Brokering?” Felicia said, putting emphasis on the word.

  Slay looked up through the windshield of his car toward Kenya. Kenya was on line inside the fast-food joint with her neck craned to the overhead menu. “Right, right…brokering.”

  Felicia sighed. “If I stay, and I come to your party, you really better show me a good time, Slay.”

  “You got that,” he said.

  “What time is the party?”

  “Party starts at eleven but I thought we could hang out earlier. Listen, take a taxi over to the Berkeley and then tell them my name at the front desk so they can give you a key to my suite. My boy Barkley will be working that night, he’ll take care of you. You can come, like, around seven o’clock.”

  “Taxi?”

  “Yeah,” Slay said. “But I’ll pay you back. I’d come give you a ride myself but I’m gonna be running late, got some—”

  “Brokering to do?”

  Slay laughed into the receiver, his voice a tonic to Felicia’s ears. “Who are you, Miss Cleo?”

  “You know that chick isn’t Jamaican or psychic?”

  “I heard that,” Slay said, “shame.”

  “Three dollars a minute for a scam,” Felicia said, sucking her teeth.

  “Buyer beware, right?”

  Felicia smiled. “Right, right.”

  Slay cupped a fist to his mouth. “Oh, you’re taking my shit, now?”

  “What’s yours is mine,” Felicia said, pausing before adding, “And what’s mine…is yours. All yours.”

  Slay let out a puff of air.

  “On that note,” Felicia said, “I think I’ve gotten your attention. See you Saturday.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Remember you come around seven, and wear something sexy.”

  Felicia harrumphed. “Judon’tknow. I could make MC Hammer pants sexy.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Slay said, “but don’t prove it to me on Saturday. I want to send you back to the big city with a smile on your face. I’m not sure Hammer pants can get me inspired.”

  “Oh, behave,” Felicia said.

  “Sexy, Felicia,” Slay said with the sternness of a father.

  “Saturday, Slay.”

  They hung up and Slay closed his flip, tapped his cell phone like a pack of cigarettes and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He scanned his watch and blared down on his car horn. Through the glass of the KFC he could see Kenya still on line. Kenya, so beautiful and so sweet. She deserved so much more than what he’d given her, what he still gave her. She deserved so much better than to be mixed up with a guy like him.

  CHAPTER 19

  Shake what your mama gave you

  Back that thing up

  Shake your ass and show me what you workin’ wit’

  She’s a brickhouse

  Jacinta ripped the sheet she’d been scribbling on out of her personal journal, balled it and tossed it in the garbage container across from her. She took her pencil in a fist, holding it like a stake, and ground the lead tip into black crumbs on her makeup counter. The mirror in front of her, with the high-wattage bulbs running down the side, pulled her in. She studied her reflection. Her eyes were shaped like a slit heart, her lashes were long and vibrant, she had a nice even skin tone, straight teeth, full lips, a nice linear nose. She was beautiful. She also was a performer on a stage that no longer felt good under the sharp point of her pumps. A stage that felt as if it might collapse from the weight she carried on her back. She hung her head to avoid the mirror.

  Beside her chair, on the floor, was the forgotten one-liter bottle of ginger ale she’d picked up on her way in to Hot Tails this morning. She reached down, grabbed the bottle, twisted off the cap and swallowed the lukewarm soda. It stung her raw throat as it went down. Her chest burned. On top of everything else she appeared to be getting a cold or the flu. She took another swallow anyhow, put the cap back on tight and set the bottle on the counter next to her makeup bag.

  Her set was fast approaching and all she’d done in the twenty minutes she’d been backstage was remove her socks and sneakers and scribble in her journal. She couldn’t seem to muster the energy or care to remove her Clark Atlanta University jogging suit or put on her makeup. She sat back in the fake-leather swivel chair and closed her eyes. Phyllis Hyman’s angelic voice sang out from the speakers of Jacinta’s little cassette recorder. Jacinta had pulled the cassette with the faded lettering from the door console of her car and brought it inside with her today. She hadn’t even known who or what it was. The choice ended up being perfect, for Phyllis spoke to Jacinta’s soul like few others did. Phyllis’s music touched the deepest layers of the soul, leaving smudgy fingerprints behind as evidence.

  Two taps came in quick succession against the wooden door. Jacinta gritted her teeth. She knew the distinctive knock. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with this fool today.

  Tap. Tap.

  Pesky bastard wasn’t going away.

  “S’open,” she said, relenting.

  The door cracked and the heavy bass music from outside poured in. Then the door closed after he’d come inside, and the heavy bass subsided. He didn’t have his usual grin, Jacinta noticed, and his eyes looked almost as haunted as her own.

  “Ha-seen-ta,” he said, subdued.

  Where he normally emphasized the “seen” part of her name, today he said all three syllables with the same lack of enthusiasm. Jacinta wondered what crawled up in him and died. She hadn’t kneed any more clients in the balls recently.

  Jacinta turned her chair sideways as he slowly moved to his usual seat on the table below the mirror. He hunched his shoulders in and rubbed his hands together as he sat on the table.

  “It’s getting cold as shit out,” he said.

  Jacinta recognized it as small talk. He seldom if ever engaged in small talk. She nodded at Slay. “I woke up with a scratchy throat. I think I might be getting a cold or something. My stomach is kind of queasy, too. Could be the flu coming on.”

  “I been thinking about getting one of those flu shots,” he said, “someone told me about.” Kenya, his something borrowed.

  “Yeah,” Jacinta said. “They’re good to get.” Now she was volleying small talk back at him.

  Slay jutted his chin at her. “You dressed up warm, that’s smart. For some reason I pictured you coming in here wearing one of your outfits, a big trench on to cover up.”

  Jacinta laughed. She was actually comfortable in his presence today. “Only in the movies would you see that.”

  Slay turned to her little radio, rocked it back on its haunches like a chair, looked at the spinning cassette through the clear window. “What’s this you listening to?”

  “Phyllis Hyman.”

  He set the radio back down, chewed his lips up in approval. “She’s tight.”

  “As a drum,” Jacinta agreed.

  Slay turned back to Jacinta and wove his fingers together, squeezing his knuckles until they cracked. “I got a little something coming up for you.�
��

  Jacinta shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’m reevaluating that part of my life.” She looked around at the plain concrete walls of the dressing room. “This place, too.”

  Slay nodded his head, jut his lips out. “I can understand that.”

  Jacinta crinkled her forehead. This wasn’t the Slay she knew. “You got a fever or something?”

  He smiled. “Nah. Just finished tearing up some KFC, I think it weighed me down.”

  “You’re taking this mighty calm.”

  “What I’m gonna do, bitch-slap you? Pardon the word.”

  “Oh, hell no,” Jacinta said. “But what’s up with you? You’re acting like someone bitch slapped you. Pardon the word.”

  Cracks, like thunderbolts, formed in the skin around Slay’s eyes. He blinked a few times. “Going through some things, is all.”

  Jacinta wasn’t about to let him leave it at that. “Like?”

  “It don’t matter,” he said. He looked away from her. Studied the walls, the crude comments someone had spray painted on an entire section of one of the walls. When he returned his gaze to Jacinta she was still watching him, waiting for him to open up. He sighed. “I’m having a little situation with my mama. I had to put her in the hospital. She’s, she’s got a bit of a problem…”

  Jacinta’s eyes widened with understanding. Dollars to donuts his mother’s problem wasn’t a urinary tract infection or even something decidedly more serious, such as high blood pressure. No, it was drugs or alcohol he spoke of—the abuse of drugs or alcohol. She recognized that uncertain look in Slay’s eyes that people got when dealing with a loved one fighting the substance abuse demons. “Sorry to hear that,” Jacinta said.

  Slay nodded, pursed his lips. There was more he needed to unleash. “And this dude I grew up with, Boom, he’s been locked up for a minute. It looks like he’s coming home sooner than originally thought.” Kenya had discussed it with him while they ate their honey-barbecued wings. Slay laughed to himself. “Probably get out in time for Christmas.”

  “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  “It’s one love for him. But dude ain’t handling his shit right.” Slay’s eyes drifted. “He’s got shit dudes would die for.”

  “You should let him know that,” Jacinta offered.

  Slay’s eyes moved to her again. A smile teetered from his mouth. “I don’t think so. Some things you just can’t tell someone. Plus, I ain’t exactly the right dude to be telling him.” How many times had he himself been told by his mama, the only person that knew the realities of his relationship with Kenya, only to shrug it off?

  Jacinta leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath that seemed to never end.

  “Damn,” Slay said. “What was that for?”

  “Drama,” Jacinta told him, shaking her head. She had her demons as well. “Life is drama.”

  “Tell me about your drama.”

  She shook her head.

  “Come on now, Ha-seen-ta. You had me all up in here like this is Oprah or Montel. Bring it on.”

  Jacinta couldn’t help but smile. Slay had returned to emphasizing the “seen” part of her name again. Just talking to her had done him a world of good. Maybe that trick would work for her. She took another breath. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my life lately. I want more than what I have. I want to be able to feel good about myself when I lay my head on the pillow at night, and when I move from it in the morning. I need to start treating myself with love. I’ve been disrespecting myself for a long time for a dollar. And the dollar just isn’t enough anymore. I keep telling myself I’m just a big ol’ sex freak and there isn’t anything wrong with that, but I know I want more in my life.” She shook her head again as the words poured from her, her voice rising. “I had sex with that guy that owns that restaurant the other day thinking that—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Slay said, easing off the counter. “You fucked Desmond Rucker?”

  Jacinta dropped her eyes, nodded her head. “I knew it was wrong, but I was hoping he’d see something in me, something of value, and want to give me a chance.” She snickered. “Foolish. He hasn’t even given me a second thought. No call. He hasn’t even stopped in.”

  Slay stood in the middle of the floor, shaking his head.

  “I played myself,” Jacinta said. “Bad.” She looked up at Slay. He was somewhere far off from her. She tried to call him back. “Slay. Slay. Slay…”

  Desmond had just finished a meeting with his staff, a meeting in which he’d acquiesced to every want and whim his workers wanted. Not at all like the typical hard-business Desmond that usually conducted these meetings.

  Everyone pulled from the table, stood and left; everyone except Desmond and Karen.

  “Have you lost your mind?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “You’re giving Jacoby carte blanche to add menu items?”

  “He is the head chef,” Desmond defended. “I have to trust his judgment. He’s been doing his homework, talked over most of what he wants to do with my father.”

  “Mrs. Green will have your payroll through the roof,” Karen added. “You’re gonna let her hire three more people, for what?”

  “We get busier with each passing day.”

  Karen shook her head. “It’s not right. This isn’t how you run your business. What gives?”

  “I need to take some chances,” Desmond said.

  Karen ran her gaze over him. “You take plenty of chances, Desmond.” She propped her elbows on the table. “Are you planning on any more wild rides in a certain red sports car with a certain wild lady anytime soon?”

  “It was just that, Karen,” Desmond said, “A wild ride and nothing more.”

  “I hope you don’t crash, Desmond. I really do.” Karen smirked, pushed from the table and left him to his thoughts.

  Desmond sat back in his chair. He hoped for the same thing. He was alone, buried in his thoughts, and didn’t immediately realize that Karen was standing over his shoulder a few minutes later.

  “Desmond,” she called to him.

  Desmond turned. Karen was flanked by an Asbury Park policeman. Desmond’s heart started to race. “Yes?”

  “It looks like you crashed after all,” Karen said.

  Desmond stood. “What do you mean?” he asked, looking at Karen and then the cop.

  “Somebody took what looks like a sledgehammer to the front grille and window of your truck, Mr. Rucker,” the officer announced.

  Desmond squinted and looked at Karen. She shook her head and moved away, back toward the front.

  “Something you should see,” the officer added. He handed Desmond a slip of paper. “This was lodged under your windshield-wiper blade.”

  Desmond looked down at the slip.

  Keep your dick in your pants was scribbled on the paper in black Magic Marker.

  “Have any idea who would send you this message, Mr. Rucker?”

  Desmond looked at the officer. “No idea whatsoever.”

  Cydney had just filled the tub with water for a hot bath and was in the living room picking through her CD collection for mood music when the doorbell chimed. She turned and looked at the door in surprise. No one ever rang her bell. She hardly ever had visitors. She walked across the floor, slow enough for a second chime to break out. She stood on tiptoe and looked through the peephole. Desmond was in the hall, his arms busy with a large brown bag, his head down. Cydney unbolted the latches and opened the door. He looked up as she stood before him with a hand on her hip.

  Desmond lifted the large bag. “I brought some food over.” He waited for her to scoot to the side or say something. She did neither.

  “I wasn’t sure what you’d want,” he said. “I know you have your cravings. So I picked up a pint of shrimp fried rice and spring rolls from the Chinese place.”

  Cydney just stared at him.

  “And,” he continued, “just in case you didn’t want Chinese, I picked up a ham, salami and c
heese sub from the Italian place.”

  Cydney sucked her teeth.

  Desmond smiled weakly. “I also got you a meatball sub in case you wanted a hot sub instead.”

  “I kind of have a taste for some of that honey-fried chicken from your place,” were Cydney’s first words.

  Desmond’s shoulders sagged. “Damn…I was there, too. That would have been easy.” He grimaced, bit into his lip. The devastation looked as if it might topple him.

  Men.

  Cydney shook her head. “Come on in. I’ll eat the fried rice, you can eat one of the subs.”

  Desmond looked up, his eyes immediately brightening. “I can come in?”

  Cydney gave him some neck action. “Oh, you don’t have to, now. I know you’re wishy-washy.”

  Desmond struggled to raise a hand. “No, no, no. I want to come in.”

  Cydney took her hand off the door, turned and walked back toward the kitchen. Desmond stepped in, slipped out of his shoes and closed the door behind him. He placed the bag on the carpet and fastened the locks, picked the bag up and joined her in the kitchen. She had two paper plates and two glasses on the table by the time he got there.

  “I was about to take a bath, but I don’t want that food to get cold. Shrimp fried rice doesn’t go over so well in the microwave,” Cydney said.

  “How are you coming along with your paper?”

  “Shitty.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be.” Cydney poured soda into the two cups and turned away from him.

  “I was acting kind of strange this morning, yes?”

  “Yes.” She dropped a cube of ice in Desmond’s cup and the soda shot up like a spray from a water fountain. He jumped. Cydney turned from him and placed the ice tray back in the freezer.

  Desmond cleared his throat. “I have different issues from time to time, and instead of—”

  Cydney sat down, bowed her head and closed her eyes. Desmond did the same. “Lord, we thank you for the food we are about to receive. Bless the hands that prepared it. For Christ’s sake. Amen.”