All About Eva

by Deidre Berry

  Clarence had Warren, the building maintenance guy, man his post for him while he took me a couple of floors down, into a dark, dank storage room that prior to that moment I hadn’t even known existed.

  There was an unmistakable my how the mighty have fallen! expression on Clarence’s face as he pointed to several large trash bags. “This is it,” he said, “everything that Mrs. Dorsey left for you.”

  Perched on top of one of the garbage bags was a bundle of mail addressed to me, which was held together by a rubber band.

  There was also a note from Donovan’s mother.

  Dear Eva,

  Unfortunately, I had to sell the apartment along with a number of Donovan’s assets, because there is no telling what creditors will want to seize and liquidate.

  As you may know, the property was worth $8.6 million, but since real estate properties involved in scandal rarely go for the asking price, I had to scale the price down to $5.9 million.

  And I am sure that a huge sum of that money will be needed for Donovan’s bail and defense.

  In any case, these bags contain everything you came into my son’s life with.

  Good luck. Annette Dorsey

  “Everything you came into my son’s life with . . .” Just how the hell would she know what I came into her son’s life with?

  I ripped the letter apart and tossed the pieces on the floor, which Clarence clearly did not appreciate, because more than likely he’d have to clean the mess up.

  Rest assured that if Annette Dorsey were within my grasp at that moment, I would have torn that old, pretentious bitch apart, starting with that gaudy, gaud ugly bleached-blond head of hers.

  I didn’t have to look through the bags to know that my personal belongings had been significantly reduced down to one-fourth of what I had actually owned. I had no idea what Mama Dorsey had done with all of my things, but I did know that Donovan wasn’t the only thief in the family. He had gotten it honestly.

  Downward Spiral

  The nameplate on the closed office door read VANCE MURPHY, ATTORNEY AT LAW. I barged into the office unannounced, and with a frantic and very pregnant receptionist on my heels. “Excuse me, miss, but you can’t go in there without an appointment!” said the frowzy frump in a navy blue polyester pants suit.

  Vance was Donovan’s attorney.

  I went to his office in midtown Manhattan because, looking back, I recalled that Donovan had conferred a hell of a lot with Vance during the weeks before the scandal broke. There were countless secret meetings, and phone calls outside of business hours that Donovan all of a sudden found necessary to take in another room behind closed doors.

  So in light of all that, I did not doubt that there were questions only Vance could answer.

  When I walked in on him, Vance was seated behind a stately wooden desk, poring over a stack of legal briefs.

  “I tried to stop her, but obviously there’s some dire emergency that needs your immediate attention,” Vance’s receptionist said in a snippy manner that I felt was unprofessional and uncalled for. The Blind Boys of Alabama could see that I was in distress. Where the hell was her compassion?

  “It’s all right, Sonya. I’m pretty sure I know what this is about, and I’ll take care of it,” Vance said, signaling for Sonya to leave and close the door behind her. He came from behind his desk and helped me to a chair opposite his desk. “Eva, I heard you were back in town. . . .”

  “Yes, for better or for worse, I am. . . . Now, if I had known all of this was going on, I would have kept my ass in Switzerland and become a milk maiden or something like that.”

  Vance chuckled as he went and sat back behind his desk, which was framed by a large plate-glass window that looked out over the city skyline. Behind him, the Chrysler and Empire State buildings served as a backdrop.

  I had known Vance socially for years, but this was the first time I had ever been to his office, which I noted was filled with expensive paintings, sculptures, high-tech gadgets, and lots of glossy bonded leather furniture accented with brass studs.

  Everything in his office spoke to the fact that the brother was very good at what he does, and was being compensated accordingly.

  “Have you talked to Donovan?” I asked anxiously.

  “Unfortunately, the last time I spoke with Donovan was a few days before he fled the country. While I can’t go into specifics due to client confidentiality, I can say that it is as bad as it looks.”

  “I have heard a lot of different things from different people, but I want to hear straight from you just what it is that Donovan has supposedly done.”

  “How much time do you have?” Vance laughed, but I didn’t crack a smile. My patience was too thin for corny-ass jokes. Vance took the hint and continued.

  “Well, I can’t say too much, but it’s hard not to get a God complex when you’re used to people constantly patting you on the back, telling you how brilliant you are. Sooner or later, you mistakenly start to believe that you are invincible, and that if you say five plus five equals a thousand, then everybody is supposed to believe you.”

  Without saying anything directly, Vance had said a mouthful. And it made sense.

  Donovan was an intellectual snob who always assumed that he was the smartest person in every room he entered. He loved the game of chess, which he said was a good way to relax while also sharpening his mind and strategy skills. Donovan termed everything he did as either “a chess move” or “good business.”

  For instance: paying for expensive lunches and dinners with clients was good business. Doing favors for colleagues was good business. Buying expensive gifts for people he was in business with, or who he wanted to be in business with, were chess moves that he fully expected to pay off later down the line, which would then result in good business.

  “Life is nothing but one big game of chess,” Donovan had said once, while teaching me the game, “and the trick is to always anticipate your opponents’ moves, and to stay at least five steps ahead of them at all times.”

  All of those traits, along with his considerable charm, is what I had always thought made Donovan such an outstanding leader in his field. I had no idea that he had a dark, evil side lurking within him. One that could mastermind such a diabolical scheme that so far looked like it just may have been the perfect crime.

  I listened intently as Vance explained the basics of a “Ponzi scheme” to me. In a nutshell, Donovan pretended to be buying blue-chip stocks but never did.

  Meanwhile, the money was pouring in, and investors were happy and none the wiser, because they received monthly statements that showed that their “investments” were growing by leaps and bounds, but they had no idea that the statements were bogus.

  “It is essentially a house of cards that continues to grow, as long as people don’t start cashing out all at once,” Vance said, then gave me a colorful analogy: “Say you’re a sports bookie, and you have all these people coming to you with a minimum of a hundred dollars, all wanting to bet on the Knicks to win over the Los Angeles Lakers. Now, as the bookie you know damn well that the Knicks aren’t going to win, so instead of turning in all those bets to the big boys, you pocket everybody’s money and nobody is none the wiser as long as the Knicks actually lose the game. Now if the planets should all line up and the Knicks should happen to win—”

  “—I, the bookie, have to pay all those people, all that money, which more than likely I don’t have because it has already been spent supporting my lavish lifestyle.”

  “Exactly!” Vance leaned back in his swivel chair and laced his hands together behind his head. “Or maybe you do have it, but instead of paying everyone what you owe them you’d rather keep the money hidden away in various offshore bank accounts.”

  “So what about the apartment? Donovan and I lived together for almost three years! Can his mother just swoop in and sell the place out from under me like that?”

  “Unfortunately, she can. You have no recourse because you and Donovan never legall
y married, and the state of New York does not recognize common-law marriages. Also, Annette is Donovan’s trustee, meaning that she is legally authorized to act on his behalf, and at her discretion she can do whatever she wants in regards to his assets and personal property, and that includes the sale and liquidation of said assets.”

  Vance saw the confused look on my face and added, “In layman’s terms: if Mrs. Dorsey wants to evict you and put the penthouse up for sale, then there ain’t nothing you can do about it.”

  My worst fears had come true. It was all so surreal that I felt outside of myself, like I was watching myself star in a tragic movie and no amount of shouting at the screen would help change the outcome.

  The name of the movie was LIFE: Starring Eva Cantrell, and it was one part comedy, with some melodrama and suspense thrown in for good measure. I didn’t know how the ending would play out, but quite frankly, it was turning out to be one of the scariest movies I had ever seen.

  It was so scary, in fact, that I began to howl as if I were in mourning, which in a sense, I was. My life with Donovan as I had known it was over. I felt like Cinderella after the ball. The clock had struck midnight, and I was back to rags, and back to being nobody, as if it were a beautiful and elaborate fantasy that had been just too good to be true.

  It was a surreal moment, one that left an indelible impression in the depths of my soul.

  The thought of going back to Chicago crossed my mind, but I quickly banished the thought. That was definitely not an option. While I loved my family dearly, New York was my home now. Besides, I refused to be like all the Cantrells before me who had gone off to various other big cities vowing to make it big, only to end up back in the projects mere weeks, months, and in Uncle Booney’s case, within days of their departure.

  Vance came out from behind his desk and handed me Kleenex after Kleenex as I cried. I had no home to call my own, no job, no money, and no prospects for any of the above. Staying with Kyle was out of the question because I couldn’t stand the sight of Irwin, his live-in lover, and the feeling was quite mutual. If we were to force a co-habitation situation, surely one of us would be either dead or in jail in less than twenty-four hours.

  What would become of me now? Would I inadvertently be sucked into the New York underworld, out on Hunts Point Avenue having to do something strange for a little bit of change?

  Would I be reduced to living in squalor in some condemned flophouse in the Bronx? Ragged and filthy, scrounging for food outside of fast-food restaurants, and taking dumpster chic to a whole new level of realness. My signature scent of Prada Infusion d’Iris would be replaced with a new fragrance. One with top notes of old garbage and stale urine accented by undertones of human musk.

  Or, since liquidating seemed to be what was in vogue, maybe I should sell off what few possessions I had left, cash in my chips so to speak, and get the hell outta Dodge.

  It was common knowledge that the Bloomberg administration wanted to reduce the city’s homeless population so badly that they were actually buying one-way plane and bus tickets for the homeless to leave the city.

  Puerto Rico? Paris? Oklahoma? Fine, just pack up your cardboard box and go be dead weight someplace else. Maybe I should take the mayor up on his offer and head out to the West Coast. After all, it was late fall. Winter was right around the corner, which is definitely not a good time to be homeless in New York.

  Coincidentally, I’d seen a news piece several weeks earlier that claimed Beverly Hills was the best place on earth to be homeless.

  Not only is the weather great all year-round, but the homeless in that area have direct access to rich people who can afford to be pretty generous. One street dweller boasted that handouts can go as high as a thousand dollars, and the segment backed up the guy’s claim by showing the wealthy pulling up in their expensive cars and offering trays of leftover gourmet food, unwanted jewelry, and last season’s designer clothing.

  Yeah, that sounds like a plan. . . . I thought as I snapped the last Kleenex out of the box and blew my nose long and hard. It might not have been much, but it was the only plan I had.

  “What am I going to do, Vance?” I asked simply.

  “Well, I can put out a press release first thing in the morning letting everyone know that you weren’t complicit in what Donovan has been accused of doing, and to essentially back off,” he said hopefully, but totally missing the point.

  “I appreciate that, Vance, but where am I going to live?”

  It was the multimillion dollar question, which hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity before Vance replied. “You can stay at my place, at least until you get your bearings and find a more permanent living situation. Okay?”

  I smiled for the first time all day, and jumped up and hugged Vance so hard that he started to cough.

  Damsel in Distress

  In just a matter of hours, I had gone from being “TUF,” The Ultimate Flyygirl to “TUF,” The Unfortunate Fool.

  I was officially a charity case, but at least I had a roof over my head—for now.

  Vance’s TriBeCa apartment was spacious and very well appointed, even though the building itself was an unassuming red brick high-rise that could have easily been mistaken for a warehouse.

  The building paled in comparison to the Funderburk, but at least there was a doorman downstairs, which was a pretty good indication that the building had other great amenities to offer as well.

  Inside, it was a bachelor’s pad, to be sure. And while Vance had good-enough taste, his apartment was in desperate need of a woman’s touch. The walls were plain, stark white, with no artwork, and very few accent furnishings that help make a house a home.

  There was no theme to speak of. Just a mishmash of offbeat and unusual furnishings, like a leopard-print ottoman, a large Buddha statue, and various artifacts that Vance had obviously gathered from his travels around the world.

  I admired the high ceilings, exposed brick walls, tall windows, and glossy, pinewood floors; however, it was clear that cleaning was not one of Vance’s strong points.

  Dirty laundry was scattered all over the place, and judging by the smell, the garbage needed to be taken down to the incinerator ASAP.

  Clearly, Donovan and Vance were worlds apart in terms of taste and style. A stickler for order and cleanliness, Donovan had no problem cleaning up after himself even though we had a housekeeper who came in five times a week. Nothing in Donovan’s world was ever disorganized or in disarray, and no matter how late it was, he would not go to bed before everything in the house was cleaned and in its proper place.

  In contrast, Vance may not have been a neat freak, but to his credit, he was for sure a stand-up guy.

  After agreeing to let me move in with him for the time being, he was kind enough to take time off from work long enough to load my things from Tameka’s vehicle into his, then took me to his apartment where he brought all of my bags upstairs for me and gave me a spare key.

  “It’s not much, but it’s all yours for as long as you need it,” Vance said, showing me to his “guest bedroom,” that in all actuality was just his home office with one of those disastrous, floral pull-out couches. Whose idea was that? I wondered, but kept my mouth shut so as not to bite the hand that was helping me out. It wasn’t the W Hotel or the Ritz Carlton, but it would certainly do in favor of a shelter or the cold, hard streets.

  “I really appreciate this, Vance. This is like, going above and beyond the call of duty,” I said. “And I’ll tell you just like I told Tameka: I don’t know how, or how soon, but I promise I’m going to pay you back one day.”

  Vance shook his head and waved me off. “No repayment necessary, and you’re more than welcome. Donovan is one of my best clients, and I would like to think someone would do the same for a loved one of mine if she needed it.”

  The words “Fuck Donovan!” came to mind.

  That conversation to determine the future of our relationship was no longer necessary, because as far as I was co
ncerned, we were over. He had practically left me for dead in a foreign country, with no way or means of getting back home. It was best for him to stay on the run, because if his punk ass ever returned to New York, he would have more than the law to worry about.

  But if Vance wanted to think that he was doing Donovan a favor by letting me stay with him, then so be it.

  “Now, there isn’t much in the way of groceries around here, but write down what you want and need, and I’ll swing by Zabar’s tomorrow and do some grocery shopping.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Don’t go out of your way on account of me. Beggars can’t be choosers, so whatever you have or decide to get is fine with me.”

  “Okay, well, I’m sorry I don’t have time to give you the grand tour, but I’m running late for a dinner date.... Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” I tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. “Ooh, excuse me! To tell you the truth, I’ll probably just sleep. You go ahead and enjoy yourself.”

  Before leaving, Vance gave me a pillow and a blanket, which I intended to put to use immediately.

  I was so jetlagged and emotionally drained that I didn’t even have the energy to take the cushions off the sofa and pull out the mattress, or to call Kyle and let him know that I was back in town.

  Ugly as the couch was, I curled up on it and slept for more than twelve hours.

  No Money, Mo Problems

  I woke up the next day disoriented. For a brief moment, I didn’t know exactly where I was, but one look down at that disastrous floral couch I was laying on and it all came rushing back to me. I rubbed my eyes trying to make it all go away, but unfortunately, this was my new reality. Instead of waking up on my Sleep Number bed in my luxurious bedroom on Central Park West, I was at Vance Murphy’s apartment in TriBeCa.

  Damn.

  I had slept soundly, but I’d had a vivid, violent dream in which I was a medieval queen sitting on a throne, being fed peeled grapes by a muscular manservant. In the dream, the entertainment for the evening was watching Donovan and Annette Dorsey get their just deserts, which included water-boarding and being flogged with a cat-o’-nine-tails. After they had been sufficiently tortured, I shouted “Off with their heads!” And the mother and son duo were carted off to the guillotine where they were beheaded. Their eyes bulged in their severed heads, which were tossed to an angry mob that got satisfaction out of kicking them around like soccer balls.