Flamingo Place (Mills & Boon Kimani)

by Marcia King-Gamble

  “Um! Um! Um! It’s D’Dawg coming to you live from the coast,” Tre sang. “Yo, Flamingo Beach, you awake? This is the broadcast you all been waiting for. Last night it was Chet Rabinowitz, owner of All About Flowers and Executive Director of the Gay Alliance, saying his piece. Tonight Chet’s old man, the mayor’s, going to tell you what he thinks about this ‘queer business.’ And tomorrow, Dear Jenna’s coming on the air, y’all. She’ll be stirring things up as only she can do.”

  Tre broke to play CDs. The music kept the audience entertained when he needed to take a break. At this hour of the night it was usually just him and the cleaning people, but tonight for some strange reason WARP’s brass had been popping in under one pretense or another.

  Boris had allegedly forgotten important paperwork. He, who never showed up unless he had to, was supposedly working late. Even the program director stuck his head into the studio to ask what Tre was doing after the show and if he wanted to go out for a beer.

  Tre wasn’t stupid. He knew he had to deliver. These broadcasts could make or break him. Even more than WARP’s management, he needed the listeners on his side. They might not all agree with him, but his challenge was to keep them hooked and listening. The more people tuned in to WARP the better his ratings.

  “Mayor Rabinowitz is on the line,” Bill, the intern producer said, his finger pointing to a spot on the lit console. “He’s got a tight schedule. He has to be off at ten on the dot. He’s catching the redeye to Los Angeles.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Tre went back on the air and made the obligatory introduction. The mayor was actually not one of his favorite people but he would never voice that publicly. Solomon Rabinowitz was the type of old school politician who spouted a lot of hot air: promises, promises and little delivery. But he was well connected and in many ways Flamingo Beach was a “good-ole-boy” town.

  Instinctively, Tre knew his glib homeboy style would not go over well with the seventy-two-year-old politician. Tonight he would have to tone it down a bit.

  “Mr. Mayor,” he began, “I know you’re a busy man. Thank you for making the time to speak to your constituents.”

  “The pleasure is indeed mine. The good folks of Flamingo Beach are the ones who elected me. I am your public servant, here to do what I can.”

  Tre wasn’t sure what exactly that was. So far it had been nada. Roads badly needed repair and the educational system was abysmal.

  Tre envisioned the mayor, a ruddy-complexioned man with a fringe of hair circling his sunburned pate. He was given to wearing pastel jackets, suspenders and bow ties. The man spent most of his day at the exclusive Flamingo Beach Yacht Club yakking it up with his buddies.

  “Last evening, your son, Chet came on the air,” Tre said assuming his D’Dawg persona. “He let it be known he’s gay. How does his daddy feel about his choice?”

  Tre held his breath, waiting. The comment and question had just slipped out. It was just his nature to push the envelope.

  “Chet is an adult,” the mayor said carefully. “I respect whatever choices he makes.”

  “So you’re saying you support his alternative lifestyle.”

  “I am saying I support his choices.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Please clarify your statement.”

  Through the glass pane, Chet saw Boris’s expression. His camel-colored skin had taken on a pinkish tinge. In the next glass-enclosed studio, he’d clamped on headphones and was listening to the broadcast. Clearly he was growing uncomfortable.

  “We live in the United States, a country that embraces people of every race, nationality, creed and lifestyle. Give us your poor…blah, blah, blah,” Mayor Rabinowitz preached. “…We encourage freedom of speech. The women’s movement has made incredible headway giving women in many states the right to choose.”

  What a bunch of rhetoric the mayor was spouting. He was going around in circles, pandering to both sides of the fence. If he didn’t cut through the bologna quickly he would lose his audience.

  “Agreed, Mayor, but what I want to know is where you stand on the subject of gay rights?”

  “What does my opinion have to do with tonight’s discussion?” the mayor came back with. “I thought I was here to talk about the controversy that’s consuming this little town of ours.”

  “Exactly,” Tre shot back. “And that is why I and the good citizens of Flamingo Beach need to know where you stand on the issue of gay rights. What do you think of this Dear Jenna using a controversial word like queer?”

  Boris in the adjoining Studio removed his headphones. He appeared to be in the midst of a coughing fit.

  “I believe,” the mayor said emphatically, “that this whole controversy has gotten out of hand. I believe Dear Jenna was doing her job and meant no harm. Her words were taken out of context by people who may not have kept up with the current jargon.”

  “Hold that thought while we break for our advertisers, the people who help pay WARP’s bills and my salary!” Tre shouted. “When I get back I’ll be opening the lines for questions.”

  Tre tossed off his headphones and went off to speak with Boris who was gesturing frantically.

  Chapter 9

  “Yeah,” Jen crooned, dancing a little jig. “I’ve got the mayor on my side, that’s got to count for something.”

  Tonight she’d accepted Eileen Brown, the advertising manager’s invitation to come over to her place. Jen had agreed because it was time she got to know more people, especially people she had something in common with. As entertaining as Chere was, the two came from different social backgrounds, and had unrelated goals.

  “Yes, it helps to have Solomon on your side,” Eileen answered. “He is old-school and well-connected. And he still carries some clout in this town.”

  “I was under the impression he was facing stiff opposition in the upcoming election.”

  “True. Miriam Young is a fairly recent transplant. She moved up from Miami about four or five years ago. She’s a single parent, in her forties, who has made a point of staying in touch with the people. She recognizes the problems and shortcomings of a small town and she’s youthful enough, optimistic enough, and energetic enough to want to fix them. She’s not above canvassing door to door and in fact already has.”

  “It sounds like she stands behind what she’s been saying. She’s about the people and for the people.”

  “Exactly, while Solomon is out for himself.”

  “You must know him well.”

  “I do.” Eileen’s fingers smoothed the crevices on both sides of her mouth. She’d told Jen she’d returned to Flamingo Beach after a bout abroad to marry her high school sweetheart. She was also in her late forties.

  “When you’re born and raised in this town,” Eileen continued, “you know pretty much everything there is to know about everyone. I left briefly to go away to college, and then I lived in Paris for a while, but nothing really changes in these small towns. The players stay the same…”

  Jen held up a hand silencing her. “He’s back on the air. That mouthy DJ’s now taking questions. Do you know him? Is he always this way? Cocky, pushy and pursuing his own agenda?”

  “Actually he’s a pretty nice guy.”

  “Shhh, here comes the first question.”

  The woman who called in wanted to know if things were so boring in the town, that a comment made by an advice columnist could keep folks glued to their radios.

  This voice of reason was hustled off the air and the next call taken. The man who clearly had an axe to grind was given more time. He was gruff and uneducated and took the conversation in a totally different direction. When he began quoting scriptures out of context, supporting his homophobic position, Jen rolled her eyes.

  It was the third caller who got to her. She professed to be a friend of Ms. Mabel’s and was calling in on the mother’s behalf.

  “Ms. Mabel’s a friend of mine,” she said. “She
thought Dear Jenna gave great advice. She’s put an ad on Café Singles. You won’t believe the responses she’s gotten. Let it be known Ms. Mabel has no issue with the columnist. So you people shouldn’t.”

  “Yes!” Jen yelled again. “Yes!” This time the jig evolved to a full-fledged dance.

  The tables had turned and about time. Now that the mother had indicated publicly she was on Jen’s side that should make the difference.

  But the next caller had apparently not been listening or just didn’t get it. He immediately began to lambaste Dear Jenna for what he called, getting the mother to “pimp” her son. Jen was just about over it. Emotions were already running high and there was no point in getting upset. It was what it was.

  “Do you mind?” she asked Eileen, motioning to the radio and signaling she wanted to turn it off. “This was supposed to be a get-acquainted visit. I’d hoped to make Flamingo Beach my home for a long time to come. Are the townspeople always this volatile?”

  “It depends. You have several that are old school or just not very well educated.”

  “You know what’s ironic about this situation. My brother is gay. He lives in France. I’ve always respected his choice and I love his partner like a second brother.”

  Jen sneezed and reached for a tissue in her purse.

  “What is it you’d like to know about the players in our wonderful town?” Eileen asked, while sipping on a glass of wine. She looked at Jen with some concern. “You’re not coming down with a cold, are you?”

  “Hopefully not.” For the next hour, between sips of wine and mouthfuls of crackers and cheese, Jen quizzed Eileen about the irreverent DJ whose show she was to be a guest on tomorrow. She’d decided to take a page out of Solomon Rabinowitz’s book and was taking advantage of remote access. She would go into work and from there call into WARP. Luis had indicated he would be there for support but regardless, she wasn’t looking forward to this interview. Her intuition told her “the Dog” would go for the jugular. He would make it his mission to shake her up.

  She could not and would not let that happen.

  Tre had been expecting to hear from Jen and within twenty-four hours at that. If he was a betting man he would have lost. The evening went with no word and so had the better part of today. He’d thought that basic decency would have kicked in and she would have contacted him to at least say she’d had a nice time and thank him for dinner.

  When five o’clock rolled around with still no call, he decided a quick visit next door to see if she was okay was more than justified. To Tre’s surprise no one answered. Jen kept hours that were even funkier than his. Her occupation remained a mystery. More upset than he was willing to acknowledge, Tre retraced his steps and slunk back to his apartment to get some shut-eye.

  His concentration now needed to be on the upcoming broadcast and rattling Dear Jenna. For the past two weeks the folks of Flamingo Beach had been all riled up. These last three days he’d kept them interested and tuned into the station. He needed to keep them that way.

  This third and final interview could not be anticlimactic. The audience, now better educated on the topic was already divided. Recently, the columnist’s sympathetic and well-thought-out advice to a pregnant teenager who’d wanted to end her life, had gained her new fans. His career was now on the line; the manner in which he handled this third and final interview was critical.

  With that in mind he went to bed to awaken an hour later feeling invigorated and with a new plan in mind. An hour and a half later he was at the station getting ready for the D’Dawg show.

  Even though her cold had broken and she had a hoarse voice, Jen called in to WARP at the appointed hour. She was placed on Hold by the person screening the radio station’s calls. Despite Luis’s being there, allegedly for support, his presence only made Jen’s stomach feel queasier and more nervous than it already was. She thought about all the angles the irreverent DJ could take. Since her using the word “queer” seemed to no longer be at issue, D’Dawg could attack her based on the advice itself and say she was meddling.

  She would stand firm. Internet dating offered options. How otherwise were two busy people with similar interests going to connect? D’Dawg could say that she had no business encouraging a mother to be this involved in her son’s life and that might very well be true. But what was different from two parents putting their heads together, and determining their son and their daughter were the perfect match, then setting them up? It was done all the time.

  “You’re on the air in five minutes, Dear Jenna,” a production assistant said.

  That gave Jen a few minutes to take a deep breath, compose herself and suck on a lozenge.

  Luis who was seated next to Jen gave her the thumbs-up sign.

  “Breathe and do a lot of listening. Don’t let him rattle you. Take your time answering. When in doubt say, ‘Well, let me think about that for a moment.’”

  “You’re on the air.”

  Jen’s heart fluttered in her chest as the disk jockey’s deep, melodious voice came over loud and clear and he smoothly made the introductions.

  “Coming to you live from WARP, the station that brings you those memorable tunes, is our third and final interview. It’s the person we’ve all been waiting to meet. The woman whose name is on everyone’s tongue. It’s Flamingo Beach’s own Dear Jenna. What’s up, Jenna?”

  “It’s an honor to be invited on the D’Dawg show. I’ve enjoyed the past two night’s broadcasts immensely.”

  “You hear that, people? Dear Jenna liked what I had to say.”

  Jen still wasn’t sure what angle he’d be taking.

  “So you straightened us out on the use of the word queer. We’re all more educated now from having read your column.”

  Luis who was listening to the broadcast through a headset darted a look, frowning. There would be more forthcoming, Jen was sure. She waited, not acknowledging the host’s words.

  “I owe you an apology. My mama didn’t raise no slowpoke. Apparently I need to keep up with current terminology. I’m going to eat humble pie and issue a public apology. I’m so sorry, Dear.”

  It didn’t sound as if he was at all sorry. The dear dripped with sarcasm and machismo. But what was she to say? This was a public airing. “Apology accepted,” Jen said, graciously.

  “What I still don’t understand is why a grown man has to have his mama take care of his business for him,” D’Dawg needled.

  “That may very well be a question for the man’s mama,” Jen shot back, giving as good as she got.

  D’Dawg guffawed. He seemed to be enjoying the exchange immensely.

  “Maybe we should have Mama on the show,” he said. “How many of you out there want to hear from Ms. Mabel? Someone called last night saying she was a friend. Maybe we need to have her hook us up with Mabel.”

  “And what purpose would that serve?”

  “For one, we’d find out if your advice really works. We’ll hear how many applicants actually applied for the girlfriend job. And we’d hear how Mama’s going about screening out the ones she don’t want.”

  “And you’d be violating the man’s privacy. Both mother and son wanted to remain anonymous or Ms. Mabel would have chosen a very different medium to air her angst.”

  “Listen to these big words you’re using. You sure you one of us?”

  A direct shot. A put-down.

  Luis’s green-eyed gaze flickered over Jen. “Don’t let him goad you.”

  But she was on a roll. She could be as combative as he if she chose. “As sure as I am a Dear,” Jen said sweetly. “And as sure as you are that you’re absolutely, positively straight.”

  Both of Luis’s palms clapped the sides of his head.

  D’Dawg chose that moment to announce they were breaking for commercials. Jen took a quick sip of water. She conceded that the DJ was very good at what he did. He’d left the listeners hanging. Phones were probably ringing all over Flamingo Beach.

  “You’re holding yo
ur own,” Luis said. “Handling yourself well. Round two coming up.”

  It was a backhanded compliment. Luis had said it as if he didn’t expect Jen to be that composed.

  They were on the air again. Questions were coming fast and furiously now. Most of the population seemed to have forgotten what had started the controversy and the comments ran the spectrum, ranging from Internet dating to the Mama Boy’s sexuality.

  Right before Jen’s interview ended, the next caller brought down the house.

  “Son,” the woman said, “if I knew that my writing to the paper about you would have caused this much commotion I wouldn’t have done it, but I’m at my wit’s end, boy…”

  “Mother?”

  And then WARP went to commercial again.

  Jen was laughing so hard her sides ached.

  “That’s got to be a joke,” Luis said sagely. “It’s just another ploy on the broadcasters’ part to send ratings skyrocketing through the roof.”

  “If that’s so, D’Dawg gets an A-plus for ingenuity. It doesn’t get much funnier than this. He’s got to be one confident man. I mean one portion of the audience is going to believe that was his mother calling, and another segment will believe that he’s gay. I’ve rethought my position.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I think I’d like to meet him.”

  The funny thing was Jen meant it. The wisecracking, fast-talking disk jockey with the familiar-sounding voice fascinated her. She wanted to put a face to a name. She wanted to see the confident-sounding man in the flesh. In her mind’s eye she pictured a dark-skinned man with a shaved head and an earring in one lobe. He’d be dressed in something hip and trendy. And he was used to women eating out of his hands.

  There were several things she could learn from him.

  One was definitely the art of self-promotion.

  And promotion was what it was about; making sure your name stood out.

  D’Dawg was hip, fast-talking and glib. Maybe it was time for her to get with the program.