I raised an eyebrow. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“And you want to pay me two hundred thousand dollars to trap him?”
“Yes.”
I was silent for a moment. Like I said before, I’d taken on the clients not because I was on any type of moral crusade, but rather because they were paying me large sums of money. Having said that, each one of my clients’ husbands had deserved what he’d gotten.
The scales have never been balanced when it comes to the battle of the sexes. Men have always been able to play the field the way they see fit. I was doing what I was doing for the money, yes, but there was a part of me that was enjoying it and taking some pride in the fact that for once, the scales had been tipped the other way.
I’d never taken down a man that didn’t deserve it, but I’d never been offered that kind of money in one shot before.
I said, “Two hundred thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Your husband hasn’t done anything and isn’t doing anything, but you want to pay me to set him up. Why?”
“I’m offering more money than anyone’s paid you before. I can take it somewhere else, you know.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t have called me.”
Seconds of silence was her response.
What I’d said had been the absolute truth. She’d called me because there was no one else that could do what I did. That’s what she’d heard from any other clients she may have spoken to. That’s what she’d heard from Marlene, if Marlene was that person. I was worth every penny, because I was the best.
She exhaled. “My husband is a rich man. He gives me anything I want. He treats me like a queen, never disrespecting me in any way, shape or form.”
An incoming e-mail popped up on my screen. A message from the head of the company. Something about the company and its focus on diversity. I deleted it and said, “So what’s the problem?”
A sigh. “He’s killing me.”
“Killing you?”
“Yes. Every damn day, I’m dying from boredom.”
“So take up a hobby.”
“I don’t want or need a hobby. What I need is to get out of this god-damned fairy tale.”
“Does your husband sleep around with other women?”
“No. But God, I wish he did. I wouldn’t have needed to call you.”
“How do you know he’s not?”
“I’ve tried setting him up before. I’ve paid hookers—good looking, stunning ones, to seduce him.”
“And he’s never given in to them?”
“Not even once.”
“So he’s turned down the high-priced ho’s. What about the women you haven’t paid?”
She chuckled again. “What women? I’ve had him followed daily for the past four months, hoping to catch him doing something. Do you want to know what his daily routine is?” She didn’t wait for a response. “At six in the morning he goes to the gym, where he proceeds to keep to himself and work out. At seven-thirty, he’s off to Starbucks to have a morning cup of coffee and work on his laptop for a few. He never once flirts with the attractive twenty-something female behind the counter who practically drools over him every time he comes in. At eight-thirty he heads to the office, where he does nothing but work.
“For lunch, he eats whatever meal he’s packed the night before. If he’s not eating something he’s packed, then he’s out with a client, conducting business. And not business in quotation marks. He stays at work until eight, nine o’clock, leaves the office, and makes a pit-stop at Starbucks for his nightly java fix. The twenty-something girl from the morning is gone, but there’s another twenty-something hoping to be noticed, that he ignores just the same. After his coffee, he comes home, gives me a peck on my cheek, and then heads into his study to continue working.
“That’s his daily routine. So to answer your question . . . there aren’t any other women aside from the high priced hoes.”
“What about other men?”
“What about them?”
“Could he be on the down low?” I asked, thinking back to Lisa and her ex-captain.
“No chance.”
“How do you know? Ever tried to test him that way?”
“Yes. And the end result was a threat to the guy I’d paid to get the fuck away from him before he killed him.”
I nodded, sent another meaningless e-mail—this one from DeDe in H.R.—to the trash. “Are you sleeping around?” I asked. I knew the answer already, but I asked anyway.
“I have.”
I shook my head and leaned back in my chair, wondering just who the hell Marlene had sent my way and why.
“What’s your name?”
“Does it really matter?”
I closed my eyes a fraction and thought about her question. Then I said, “No, it doesn’t. Find somebody else. I can’t help you.” And then I disconnected the call.
Fifteen seconds later, my silver Sidekick vibrated again. I let it vibrate a few times, and then answered. “Yes.”
“Have you ever seen the movie Hitch, Lisette?”
First time she’d used my name. I didn’t like the way it sounded coming from her. Hitch. I’d seen the movie many times. Drooled over Will Smith and swore Jada wasn’t good enough every time I saw it. I didn’t know where she was going with the question. Something told me I didn’t want to know. I said, “I have.”
“Do you remember when his occupation was outed? Do you remember what happened?”
Things crumbled for my man, that’s what happened. He lost his job, he lost friends, and he lost respect. He did get the girl in the end, though, but that was only because it was a movie. This wasn’t a movie.
The control—I could feel it slipping away again.
I don’t know why, but for some reason, I wasn’t so sure I would get it back. That gave me a chill.
I said, “He got the girl in the end and lived happily ever after.”
She chuckled and said, “If your occupation were to be outed, what do you think would happen?”
I sat forward. “Excuse me?”
“You get paid to set men up. What if those men were told the truth about who you are? Do you think they’d come after you? What would happen to the women that hired you? What would happen to the comfortable lives you set up for them? Do you think you would get that happily ever after, Lisette?”
I closed my eyes a bit, drummed my fingers on the top of my desk, and said, “Who the fuck are you?”
“I told you I want you to trap my husband.”
“Didn’t you say he treats you like a queen?”
“My husband is an asshole!” she suddenly screamed out. “Five million dollars for every five fucking years of marriage! That’s what he presented to me in a prenuptial agreement one hour before we were married. Anything less than five years and I wouldn’t get shit!”
Her outburst came out of nowhere and surprised me. Made me wonder even more about who the fuck I was dealing with. I reached for my black Sidekick, found Marlene’s name, and sent a text message with 9-1-1 attached. Then I asked, “Why did you sign the agreement?”
“How could I not have? The church was packed with friends and family. What was I supposed to do? Say no and then deal with the embarrassment and scrutiny of telling everyone the wedding was off? I don’t think so.”
“Do you love him?”
“My husband is rich. I don’t have to love him.”
“Then why are you so upset about the prenup? Stay in the marriage, do your time, and get your money.”
“I’ve been living in boredom for one year. I’m not waiting four more to get a measly five million dollars. And I’m not going to waste ten years just to get more. I want money. A lot of it. And you’re going to help me get that money now.”
“Is that so?” I said. As I did, my black Sidekick vibrated. Marlene’s response. I downloaded the message and read her reply.
She didn’t know who the fuck was calling me.
She hadn’t sent a client my way since our last one, three months prior.
She wanted to know who the hell I was talking to.
I did too.
I sent her another message, and then said, “What makes you so sure I’m going to help you?”
“Because unlike the movie, when people find out about what you’ve done, things could get ugly.”
I leaned back in my chair. Interesting, I thought. This bitch really thought she had my back pinned against a wall.
My Sidekick vibrated again. I reached for it. Marlene saying she was sure she hadn’t given anyone my number. She wanted me to call her ASAP. I put the Sidekick down. I was tired of this shit.
“Let me help you understand something,” I said, sitting forward again. “You signed the prenuptial agreement, which means that as much as you think you have me backed into a corner, your ass is standing in the corner right beside me. Actually, you’re standing farther back in that corner than I am, because if you out me, I’ll still have something you won’t have and won’t ever get . . . money. You want to out me, bitch, go ahead.”
And then I ended the call, grabbed my black Sidekick and called Marlene. When she answered, I said, “Meet me at Justin’s in twenty minutes.” I hung up before she could say anything.
Twenty minutes later, Marlene was sitting across from me.
“She didn’t give you a name?”
“No.”
“What about her number? Did it show up on your caller ID?”
“No. It was blocked.”
Marlene shook her head and passed her hand through her hair. The same nervous habit she always had. “So what do you want to do about her?”
I thought about it for a moment, and then said, “Nothing. Fuck her.”
“Are you sure? Aren’t you worried about what she’ll do?”
I shook my head. “No. She won’t do anything, because she knows if she does, she’s screwed. Fuck her,” I said again.
Marlene nodded.
I nodded.
We stayed at Justin’s for another hour. In that time, she told me about another client that was going to be calling me. The mysterious caller became a memory.
That changed two weeks later.
14
“We have a problem.”
Diddy’s restaurant again.
Lunchtime.
A table toward the back.
I’d just gotten there. Hadn’t even gotten a chance to sit down yet. Marlene was seated with a half-empty martini in front of her. It was obvious by the glazed look in her eyes and the panic in her voice that she’d had more than one drink before my arrival.
I hung my Coach purse on the back of my chair and sat down. “What’s the problem?”
Marlene shook her head and breathed out. “She called me.” Then she swallowed down the rest of her drink, grabbed the waitress as she was walking by and ordered another. The waitress, a thin woman with breasts entirely too large for her frame, asked me if I wanted anything. I told her a glass of water and then watched her saunter off.
I looked back at Marlene. She was nervously passing her hand through her hair. “Who called you?”
“She did.”
I said, “She could be a lot of people.”
“The one who threatened to expose you. She called.” Marlene cursed, said, “Where the hell is my fucking drink?” and then passed her hand through her hair again. “She threatened to tell Steve that I paid you to set him up,” she said, the stress in her voice intensifying. “She said that if you don’t agree to set up her husband, she’s going to tell Steve that he wasn’t the only husband I’d fucked over. Bitch. She called me, Lisette. She called me. How the hell did she get my number? And who the hell is she?”
Marlene looked over to the bar. Any second, she was going to get out of her chair and storm over there for her drink by her damn self. I could see it in her body language. She was tense, freaked out. This was the Marlene I remember from Houston, only magnified.
This caller; she was more resourceful than I’d given her credit for. She and I were at a stalemate. She needed me to get her money. I can’t say that I really needed her too, but I preferred for her to keep her mouth shut about my business. Maybe I should have, but I hadn’t thought of her going after anyone else to force my hand.
Interesting.
Marlene was tapping the index finger of her right hand repeatedly on the tabletop and staring at the bar.
I said, “Relax, Marlene.”
She looked from the bar to me. Her eyes were wide, as if my words had been a slap instead. “Relax? Relax? I could lose everything I have!” she said, her voice too damned loud.
I ignored the glances in our direction and said again, “Relax.”
Marlene shook her head. Passed her hand in her hair again. Began tapping her index finger once more. Seconds later, the skinny waitress with what were undoubtedly fake Ds, arrived with our drinks. Marlene grabbed hers as soon as the waitress had set it down in front of her, drank nearly half of it down, and then gave the waitress a scowl when she asked if we were ready to order. I told her that we wouldn’t be eating. She nodded and—no longer worried about a tip—gave Marlene a scowl back and then walked away.
Marlene let out a laugh filled with incredulity. “You want me to relax? Lisette, you may not care about her revealing what you do—”
“What we do,” I said, giving her a look, reminding her of her role.
She nodded. “Fine. What we do. You may not care, but I do. I took Steve to the cleaners. The child support alone that he pays is enough for me to live on. Throw in the house, the percentage of his earnings . . . if she told Steve the truth, he could literally take me to the cleaners and back again. Maybe . . . maybe you should just do it and get this bitch out of our life.” She ran her hand through her hair again and then finished off the rest of her drink and looked around for the waitress again.
I shook my head. “How do you know she wasn’t bluffing?”
“Because she gave details. She knew about the plan to get pregnant. She knew that he ate you out in your office. She knew about the setup at the house.”
I closed my eyes a bit. “How would she have gotten that information? How did she know about what went on in my office?”
Marlene looked down at the table cloth.
“Do you know who she is?”
“No! I have no idea who she is. I’ve never spoken to her before.”
“Then who the fuck did you talk to about what went down?” My voice was low, but Marlene could hear the ferocity behind it loud and clear.
Marlene sighed and looked at me. “Lisa. She knew.”
“You said that you only told her that I had seduced Steve into sleeping with me. You said you hadn’t given out any other details.”
“I know. I . . . I lied.”
“Obviously.”
“Who else did you tell my business to?”
“No one. I swear! I was just so excited about what you’d done for me. I’ve known Lisa a long, long time. I didn’t mean to give her details . . . they just kind of slipped out.”
“From your lips to Lisa’s ears. From Lisa’s lips to someone else’s ears.”
“She wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Besides her, did you let details slip to anyone else?”
Marlene dropped her chin to her chest and shook her head.
“And you don’t know who this bitch is?” I pressed again.
“No.”
I said, “Then it slipped from Lisa’s lips too.”
“I’m sorry, Lisette.”
“Too late to be sorry.”
“I was just . . . excited, happy.”
“Your elation got you a phone call.”
Marlene looked up. “Are you saying this is my fault?”
“Nothing slipped from my lips, Marlene.”
“Really? What you do, never once slipped from your lips?”
“Don’t challenge me, Marlene. What happen
ed with Steve would have been known only by you and God.”
Marlene opened her mouth to say something, but with nothing that she could possibly say, she closed it and began to tap her finger on the table again. After a few seconds, she said, “What should we do?”
I said, “We? I’m not doing a damn thing. You’re going to figure out who this bitch is.”
“How?”
“Start with Lisa and work your way through all of the clients we’ve had until you get a name.”
“What if I don’t get one?”
“If you want your life to stay the way it is now, then you better get one. Fast.”
15
“Shit, Lisette . . . it . . . it’s never been this . . . this . . . good. Shit.”
Marlene’s house.
On the couch again.
Dancing on Steve’s dick.
I was windin’ clockwise and then counterclockwise to a soca tune I’d listened to the other day. “Roll it,” by Allison Hinds.
I loved all kinds of music. Latin, R&B, calypso, jazz, classical, hip hop. Notice I said hip hop and not crap. Crap is the rap the radio stations try to pass off as hip hop these days. It’s imitation rap. I’ve never had time for fake bullshit, just like I’ve never had time for a fake-ass man. Hip hop was born in the seventies and died in the late nineties. That’s what I listen to. That’s real hip hop. To this day, I’ve never met a real-ass man.
The music I listen to on a daily basis is all dependent on my mood at the time. The other day, I was feeling sexy in a pink halter top and black jeans that hugged my ass like a frightened child clasped around his mother’s leg. I was on my way out to S.O.B’s to get a drink. I was going alone. I liked to do that. Liked to go to a club, grab a drink, hit the floor and be noticed.
Alone.
Always alone.
I don’t like to share the spotlight.
Never have.
The power of being watched turned me on. Sometimes I’d get so turned on by the stares and the images I knew I created in men’s minds, that I’d go home and give myself one hell of a happy ending. Other times, I’d choose one of the admirers and let him give it to me instead.
In my pink halter and black jeans, I was windin’ to Allison’s soca rhythm. It put me in one hell of a mood. I went to S.O.B.’s that night and rolled it for everyone to see. I fucked the space around me, and then made men wish they were fucking me when I rolled my ass against their hard crotches on the floor.
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