“What he does isn’t any of my business.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s your time, it’s your body, and it’s your business. Let him leave you with something. He couldn’t go into a store and walk out with something without leaving some bills with the cashier, could he?”
“No.”
“So then why shouldn’t he pay you?”
“Look, I just wish I would’ve known that I was being used.”
“You weren’t being used, darling; you were given an opportunity.”
“But why me?”
“If not you, I would’ve gotten his regular.”
Julian’s fine physique and face came to mind. “Why in the hell is he paying for sex?”
“He pays because he knows that my girls are clean, discreet, lots of fun, and he won’t hear it on the streets tomorrow. Better yet, his wife won’t hear it on the streets today.”
I laughed. “How do you know that I’m clean?”
“I know everything,” he assured me. “Including your middle name.”
“What is it?” I dared him.
“It’s the word that brought your parents together.”
He couldn’t know. “What word?”
“Jazz.” He spoke with certainty; he was right.
I stood up. “Who are you?”
He laughed. “I’m Conrad.”
“No.” I was nervous. “Tell me who you really are.”
“I’m Conrad Johnson.” He extended his hand as though we were meeting for the first time.
I shook his hand; then he graced me with a brief history of who he really was.
Conrad Johnson, a 50-year-old man, earned a living at what he called “profit-sharing.” The way he saw it was, he provided the clients, who provided an income for the women, who in turn “shared the profit” with him. He enticed young women with his charm and wealth, to turn them into employees. Their job was to sexually entertain men. He ran a very classy, reputable, and extremely profitable organization called the Elite Establishment.
He selected what he believed to be the best merchandise: women between the ages of twenty-one and thirty. They traveled to major cities during important events such as conventions, reunions, parties, and business meetings. Among the women, there was a high code of discretion, which was why Conrad’s Elite Establishment was so popular. Names never leaked, prices were discussed privately, and his girls were never tacky enough to walk the street.
Conrad gained a thirty-percent profit from every “transaction.” Only under special circumstances would the money touch the hands of the woman. The men normally paid by credit card, check, cash, or money order to the establishment, then it deposited seventy percent into the woman’s account. This was to avoid things appearing criminal. If one of Conrad’s girls was working without his knowledge or without the man paying him first, it would result in a two-month suspension for the woman.
With girls working at all times all over the United States, Conrad never had to break a sweat. From a fully functional office in his home, his secretary took calls from members phoning to inform the Elite of their company’s various events. They picked up a portion of the air, train, or rental car expenses in order to transport the girls to that city.
Conrad saw that the Elite girls stayed sexy and irresistible, but above all he stressed the importance of conducting themselves as ladies. His customers were mostly very wealthy African-American married men looking for excitement while they were away from home. The girls were considered “escorts,” but they did a lot more than frequent fine restaurants and clubs with their dates. They were encouraged to earn thousands in just one night by doing “whatever was asked.”
“The men that deal with me know that I don’t half-step. They pay high prices for quality and discretion. They realize that in their professional positions, marriages or relationships, getting free sex could cost a lot more, like sexually transmitted diseases, unwanted pregnancies, divorce, and blackmail.” He paused. “These are men. Just like all men, they want to have sex with women that they find attractive, women that are wild, and women that are not like what they have at home.”
“They’re all dogs,” I said, adding my two cents.
“So you’ve never cheated?”
Oops, he got me. “What does that have to do with the price of cheese?”
“Everything,” he said. “Most men or women under the age of forty-five can’t stand the thought of sleeping with one person for the rest of their lives. It doesn’t mean that they don’t love their husband or wife. They just have needs away from the relationship or marriage. It doesn’t mean that they love the person they’re doing it with. It’s just the excitement of a different body, and releasing the sexual tension they’ve been suppressing.”
I hated to admit that he was sort of right. “Okay, I see where you’re coming from.”
“Thank you,” he said with smile. “These men have no time to deal with jealous lovers or another relationship, having rumors sparked all over town. The grand he leaves on your pillow costs a hell of a lot less than a divorce where his wife walks away with half of everything he’s worked for. These men pay high prices for beautiful women, but most of all, because they know that I don’t kiss and tell, they’re paying for confidentiality.
“This is not the love connection. You’re not in it to think that you got yourself a man. You’ll be in it to keep up your appearance, which will generate more business for yourself. But most importantly, you’ll be able to stay in your apartment in downtown Miami, you can keep your truck, and your father’s medical care will continue.”
“Are you trying to sell me on the Elite Establishment?” I joked.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” He looked at the money in my hands. “Baby, you got enough money for another month’s rent, in just a few hours.” He stood up and looked down on me. “Now that I see what you can do for me, let me see what I can do for you. Be a part of my establishment.”
I clapped my hands. “What a great speech.” I stood up and walked toward the door. “Thanks, but no thanks.” I opened the door.
“All right.” He grabbed his coat. “I can’t force you. But at least keep the money.”
“One last question, though.”
“Shoot,” he said as he walked through the door.
“How did you know my middle name?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He smiled. “If you change your mind, I’ll have the answer to your question in the Cigar Bar tonight.”
I held my hand out and offered him a handshake to signify the end of our dealings. “It was nice meeting you, Conrad.”
I closed the door behind him then stared at the money, wishing that there were something I could do to undo the last two weeks of my life. I should’ve stayed in Orlando that night because what I didn’t know about Damian wouldn’t have had the opportunity to hurt me. I’d still have a job, and this vacation would’ve been a lot better.
Instead of playing the pity game with myself, I changed into a royal blue bikini, tied my black wrap skirt around my waist, and journeyed downstairs in search of the nearest pool. I needed to plunge into something therapeutic.
Once at the pool, I kicked off my sandals, undid my wrap, and dove into the far end of the pool, away from people. I swam back and forth like a shark was chasing me. When I got tired, I just floated about. The sun was shining down on me and I loved it.
When I bumped up to the pool’s edge, I checked out the scenery. There were kids everywhere, and they all had one thing in common. Whether they were throwing beach balls, sliding down the waterslides, running through the sand, or swimming, they were all screaming.
I dipped my head below the water and was a little more thankful just to be alive. So what if I didn’t have money? There were a lot of people that didn’t, and they got along just fine. Actually, they were some of the happiest people I knew. I’d just have to learn how to get off my high horse; my whole life was a financial facade, a fron
t that Damian footed the bill for.
I got out of the pool after an hour, laid out in one of the poolside chaises, and ordered a glass of red wine from the waiter circulating the area. I closed my eyes and awaited his return.
“Here is your glass of wine, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” I twisted to face him. “I might want another one soon. Today is chalking up to be a—” I was thrown off; I was staring up at Doctor William Baker, my gynecologist. I jumped up and almost dropped my glass. “Doctor Baker?”
He laughed. “There I was, sitting at the bar. When I looked over here, I thought that I saw someone that looked like you. I told the waiter that I’d deliver it.”
I sprung to my feet, tying my wrap to cover me below. “Wow.” I gave him a quick hug. “What are you doing here?”
“You should know how hard I work. I need a break too.” He smiled.
William Baker was a fifty-something-year-old African-American gynecologist, the only one in my area. He wasn’t Denzel Washington. Hell, he wasn’t even Forest Whitaker, but he was a good man. Doctor Baker was my height but almost doubled my weight, somewhere in the area of 250 pounds. He wasn’t sloppy fat, but fat and unattractive enough to be my doctor. I didn’t want a stud talking to me about a yeast infection. I definitely couldn’t ask Doctor Fine-ass to give me a pregnancy test, because then he’d know that I had a man.
Doctor Baker was doing a great job. He was very professional and extremely nice to me during each visit.
“I can’t believe that you’re here.” I looked around. “Where is Mrs. Baker?”
“She’s at home. To be honest with you, I’m not on much of a break. I do pro bono work here one Saturday a month,” he said. “I normally get out of here on Sunday morning, but I decided to stay an extra day . . . to treat myself.”
“You deserve it.” I looked over at the bar. “Come on, I’ll join you at the bar.”
I hadn’t seen him in over a month, so we sat and talked for a while. We chatted about everything from Damian and India to my father’s health. When I told him about my job, how I wasn’t working and no longer had health insurance, he told me not to worry, promising that if I needed his services he’d chalk it up to more pro bono work.
Doctor Baker was always privy to my personal, non-medical life. I always asked his advice about my relationships, work, and finances. He also made me a part of his life. Over the past five years I was invited to every Christmas party at his home, birthday gathering for his wife and kids, and various seminars where he was the speaker. He was more than a doctor; he was more like an uncle.
After three glasses of wine, Doctor Baker was still a sore sight for good eyes. We said our goodbyes minutes before six o’clock because he had a massage appointment. He inquired about my plans for the evening, and I lied, telling him that I was meeting someone for dinner. We hugged, and I promised him that I’d be seeing him in two months for my pap smear.
I walked into my suite, and a joyful feeling overtook me. I looked over at the check and cash still lying there. Though I wasn’t happy about how it was earned, it was still money and would allow me to stay in my apartment another month. I lounged around watching TV a while until a hunger pain hit.
The hotel phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hi, Sarai.”
“Savion?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He paused. “It’s Daddy—”
My heart was already racing. I sat back down. “What happened?”
He knew that I was about to flip. “Well, calm down first,” he said. “Dad is doing okay, but there was a little situation a couple days ago.”
“‘A couple days ago’? What happened?” I was wondering why he was talking so slow. “And why are you just calling me?”
“Everything is fine, Sarai. He had another asthma attack. He had to be hospitalized on Friday night.”
I yelled, “Why didn’t you call me, Savvy?” “Calm down, Sarai. I have everything under control. I’m in Dover as we speak. I got here yesterday morning.” He continued, “He was released about an hour ago. He’s back at Concord.”
“I mean, so what happened? Are you positive that he’s okay?”
“Yeah, he’s okay.”
I sighed. “How bad was the attack?”
“It was about the same as the one last year.”
“Okay.” I was trying to process what he was saying.
“I made a joke to myself, saying that it knocked some sense into him because he recognized me.”
“What?” I smiled.
“Yeah,” Savion said. “He even asked about you.”
“Are you serious?” I was elated. “What did he say?”
“Well, he asked how you were doing and if you were still pretty. But it didn’t last very long. He went back into being five hundred miles away a few minutes later.”
“Well, that’s okay.” I was trying to keep myself from crying. “In my dreams, we have long talks.”
“Sarai, I plan on helping you with the hospital bill.”
“Shit.” I hadn’t even thought about that. I was afraid to ask the next question. “How much is it?”
I heard paper rustling close to the phone. “Four thousand three hundred and sixteen dollars.”
“What the fuck?” I yelled. “Did he fuckin’ die and come back?”
“Sarai, it’s the two-night stay, his medication, and all of those tests.”
I put my head in my hands. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one paying his bills.” I didn’t mean to say it quite like that.
“I’ll try to help,” he said. “I’m flying back to Atlanta on Tuesday. I’m still not working, but I can’t expect you to do this all alone.”
I felt like screaming. I still didn’t know why he left Houston to move to Atlanta to be a hermit. “Savion, I normally wouldn’t ask this of you, but I really am going to need your help on this. I’m going broke.” Then I thought about it. “No, let me rephrase that—I am broke; I have just enough money to pay my rent for a couple of months, and that’s it.”
“I just said that I’d help you.” He sounded like he thought I was picking on him.
“I’m sorry. All I mean is that if we don’t start paying this bill, it’ll result in the hospital refusing to treat him if something like this happens again.”
“I’m going to find a way to help you, Sarai, I promise. I just wanted to call and let you know. Please don’t let this dampen your vacation.” He added, “Daddy is doing fine now.”
“All right. I’ll give him a call later tonight.”
“I love you, sexy,” he said.
I smiled. “No, I love you, sexy.”
I looked out the glass door and wanted to scream. Who decided who would get rich and who would stay poor? Why was I chosen governor of the poor? Why are some people selected to be broke, never to have anything and live in misery?
I curled up in the bed and cried, sobbing over the fact that I couldn’t find anything in my life to be happy about. What happened in my life that led me to being who I was today? Where did I go wrong? Sometimes I believed that maybe Esther’s curse was really plaguing my life. It was funny that I didn’t think of any of this when I thought my life was on track. Reality was a bitch. This trip was turning out to do more harm than good. It had me realizing things I wasn’t quite ready to take on.
I picked up the phone and received the hotel’s instructions for international dialing. At three dollars per minute to dial, I called my father and gave him fifteen dollars worth of conversation. Though he thought I was some girl he went to high school with, he was very nice to me. He told me about the hospital stay and how the staff treated him like royalty.
I ended our conversation by telling him that he was royalty. He was and would always be my king.
The only thing stopping me from taking a concrete dive from the balcony was the fact that, without me, no one would prov
ide for my father.
I couldn’t sit in the room another minute. I put on a brown pant suit and made the journey once again to the lobby. I ate dinner at the Café at The Great Hall of Waters. Afterward I walked slowly, trying hard to find a reason not to go back to my room so quickly. I paced the halls leisurely, looking in the windows of closed stores and imagining what it would be like to walk in and purchase things on my Visa check card without saying a prayer while the clerk ran it.
I noticed a red gown; it was six hundred dollars.
“Do you want that dress?”
I heard Doctor Baker’s voice and spun around in shock.
“Hey, Doctor Baker.”
“You like that dress, huh?”
“Yeah.” I scooted back so that I wasn’t so close to him. “But I wouldn’t have anywhere to wear it.”
“You could wear it for your next appointment,” he joked and changed the subject. “How was your dinner date?”
I frowned. “He didn’t show up.” I wasn’t lying. The stingray was a no-show for our Sunday supper.
“What a jerk.” He grabbed my hand. “Come and have a drink with my friend and me.”
I didn’t want to give off the wrong vibe. “I don’t want to intrude on your friend’s time.” Plus, if he was with a woman, I sure didn’t want to know. I wouldn’t be able to look in Mrs. Baker’s face again if I saw him with someone else.
“I insist.” He gently guided me to the bar across the hall. “Come on.”
We walked into the bar.
“Where is your friend?”
“Weak bladder, I guess.” He looked around. “Let me get a cigar. I’ll be right back.”
The bartender approached. “What can I get for you?”
“Kendall Jackson Merlot.” I smiled.
“Nice choice.” I heard a voice behind me. “No mango martinis tonight?”
I turned around and saw Conrad. I thought I would faint. The last thing I wanted was for Conrad to say anything in front of Doctor Baker. “I’m with company.” I tried to get him to go away.
Going Broke Page 10
