by Dijorn Moss
Jamal put his hands over his heart, as if he were going into cardiac arrest. “I didn’t want you anyway, chickenhead,” Jamal said.
“Oh, you know you did.” Chantel stood up and walked over to Jamir.
Jamal followed Chantel to the floor where the two sandwiched Jamir.
“Here!” Jamir handed Chantel a building block.
Chantel played with the block in her hands before she handed it back to Jamir.
“So Friday is the big day? Isn’t it the Retreat?” Chantel did not divert her eyes from Jamir.
“Yeah, so I need to make sure I go see my father this week before I go.”
“Humph! Is he going?” Chantel grunted.
Chantel and Otis, Jamal’s father, did not get along. Otis saw Chantel as a complete waste of Jamal’s time and he made sure to treat her with as little respect as possible. While Chantel remained respectful, she made it abundantly clear that she did not like Jamal’s father either.
“I don’t know. To tell you the truth, I haven’t seen him in a while now.” Jamal checked his phone for any missed messages.
“Well, don’t let that stop you from getting what you need to get this weekend,” Chantel said.
“Oh, for sure.” Jamal put his phone away.
Jamal did not know what to make of today. He wished it were that simple that he could go from loving a child like a son, to that child feeling foreign to him in a matter of moments. He hoped that this weekend’s retreat could provide him with some much-needed answers.
Chapter Five
The ice in Quincy’s glass melted with the warmth of the Glenfarclas single malt, slowly dissolving into an oval shape. The coffee brown ballpoint pen matched the color of his complexion and stood suspended between his recently and expertly manicured fingers. It was the same pen he’d used over the years to close multiple deals that made him and his business partner embarrassingly rich. This pen, he thought reflectively, this pen. It had paid for itself and would keep on paying.
This pen would also come in handy when Quincy began the divorce process on Thursday when he returned home. For the last two days he had indulged in the aphrodisiac that only Sin City could provide. For two decades he had regulated his trips to Las Vegas. A little gambling and a lot of booze. But since Karen was not going to honor her marriage vows, this time neither was Quincy.
Of course it was not as easy for Quincy to disregard ethics. He had been faithful to a wife for twenty years. Quincy was not an avid churchgoer, but he did believe in God and he did see a simple prayer go a long way. Even though he used Karen’s affair to justify his actions, Quincy’s principles vexed him. His train of thought was derailed by a knock on the door.
“It’s open,” Quincy called out, gently placing the pen back on the stand next to his drink.
Candy walked in with a silver dress that hugged her curvaceous body. The springs in the hotel room door slid the door closed quietly behind her. As she approached, Quincy casually leaned forward and flipped the chrome top off of the ice bucket.
With acrobatic ease, he used the tongs to gently place a couple of cubes into his glass, all the while making a drink for her. Some said the ice diluted the flavor. Well, single malts were his drug of choice, and he bought it, so he was going to do what he wanted.
“What’s the occasion?” Candy asked.
“We’re celebrating.” Quincy handed Candy a drink.
“If there’s one thing I love to do, it’s celebrate,” Candy replied.
Quincy squinted and exhaled lightly as the warm liquid spread across his palate. “You’re looking at the man who develops new lavish condos in Culver City. Did I mention that I’m also back on the market?” Quincy flashed a LeBronsized smile.
“How come you’re not celebrating with the Mrs.?” Candy nodded toward Quincy’s ring finger.
Why did she have to call his attention to his wedding band? Quincy was not in the wrong. Karen cheated first, and as a result, it was only fair that he got a little something on the side.
“That’s not something that I care to talk about.” Quincy removed his wedding band and placed it on the nightstand next to his bed.
“That’s fine; we don’t have to talk about anything that you don’t want to talk about. Okay, baby?”
Quincy loved the sound of her voice. He took Candy by the hand and spun her around, almost spilling her drink. He placed her honey blond hair on one side of her neck, as he leaned forward to kiss her shoulder. Both gazed out of his Wynn Hotel Fairway apartment. He loved the seclusion that the room offered.
There were no views of the luminous Mirage Hotel or the kiddy Treasure Island. This room offered a view of the Las Vegas desert at night and of the golf course. He just might take her out on the balcony and have his way with her on the outdoor dining table. How could a woman not be impressed with a man who could provide her with such an awe-inspiring view? Why wasn’t this life enough for Karen?
“My wife and I are going through a divorce,” Quincy muttered in Candy’s ear.
Candy turned around and pulled back from him a bit. “You seem very happy for a man who is about to split from his wife.”
Quincy tenderly broke her grasp, took a quick pull from his glass, and walked deliberately back to the wet bar to pour himself another drink. Quincy took a sip, regaining his composure, as he surveyed her from across the room. “Why shouldn’t I be? There is nothing that she can use to keep me.”
“Money! Money always talks.” Candy took another sip of her drink.
Money was not the issue. Karen was unfaithful and she would not be entitled to a dime. Of course, admitting the truth surrounding his pending divorce to her would be a massive blow to his pride.
“It’s only money. There’s a ton of it out there that I can make and I have made. I couldn’t care less about the house. Too many bad memories.”
“I hope she is taking it as well as you.”
“What’s that suppose to mean?”
Candy crossed the room deliberately. She lifted the glass effortlessly out of Quincy’s hand and took a hard swallow before setting the half-empty glass on top of the TV.
“I deal with married men all the time. Most of them love their wives very much, but they desire something different every now and then. I can’t imagine being married for as long as you have and it being easy for me to walk away,” Candy surmised.
An image of Karen in her two-piece turquoise bathing suit popped into Quincy’s head. The image came from a trip to Jamaica two years ago. Karen had a flat stomach with caramel skin and brown hair with blond highlights in it. Most men would die to be with a woman like that. But when he thought of her it was in abstract terms, like she was a house he had paid to renovate.
All he could see was all the money he had paid to keep her forty-two-year-old frame looking like a twenty-five-year-old. He could not explain why such a random image had an emotional impact on him. Maybe it was because, for the first time, he felt lucky to be with her.
“What do you know about what she’s going through?” Quincy asked.
“I don’t know. In fact, I’m the last person to give advice about marriages and relationships.”
“All I know is that I’m having too much fun. I got a hotel room, I called you up, and we’re about to have a good time. Then I’ll go to the casino, and hit up the blackjack table before I fly back to LA to work with my architect firm. Whatever joy or fulfillment I find out here, it will be gone by the time I reach LAX.”
“Well, I don’t want to hold you up, so if we could…” Candy held out her hand.
“Oh, of course.” Quincy pulled out his reddish-brown leather wallet and removed a stack of one hundred dollar bills. The money was so crisp that some of the bills stuck together as Quincy counted out $1,500.
“Hopefully, we’ll still see each other after the divorce. You’re lots of fun,” Candy said as she placed the money in her matching silver purse.
“We’ll always have Vegas.”
Can
dy put the cash in her purse and started to take her dress off. With her standing there naked, Quincy had an epiphany: for twenty years he had paid to be with a woman he no longer wanted, and he was about to pay for a woman he could never have.
Quincy checked the two jacks he had in his hand. Candy had done her job and relaxed him, but the night was far from over. He tapped on the table with his fingers as signal for the dealer to hit him.
The dealer flipped over the card, and before he knew it, Quincy was up ten grand and the envy of the entire table. It was just as well, he could have been down ten thousand and that would not have mattered. Quincy was wired differently than most people.
He either had to be the richest guy in the room or the poorest. Quincy had an either/or personality; no room for moderation. Quincy avoided contentment at every turn. His inner circle did not consist of people who were satisfied with being able to pay their rent on time and take an occasional vacation. He enjoyed the company of people who wanted to purchase a Lear Jet or an island.
Quincy checked his cell phone and noticed that Gregg had called, probably to discuss one of the pending deals.
Gregg remained in a constant state of worry. The Culver City deal was scheduled to happen on Monday.
Quincy was not about to waste a Wednesday night worrying about something that would not take place for several days. He was too busy trying to live in the moment. Quincy took a sip of his drink and tossed some more chips onto the table. Gregg can wait. And Karen could too, for now. Besides, she would suggest a prayer and a fast for an occasion like this. All Quincy needed to close the deal was a cranberry and vodka and a modest game of blackjack.
“You are being too kind to him, Dan,” a white woman in a blue evening dress said to the dealer.
“I guess it’s my lucky night.” Quincy took a sip of his cranberry and vodka.
“Not mine; half of my kid’s college tuition is on the table,” she replied.
Quincy had seen the woman before. She seemed to know the dealer on a first name basis and she would beg him to go easy on her and let her win once in a while. It seemed like a pathetic sort of friendliness; one side always asking and giving, the other side always taking.
Lost in his train of thought, Quincy was unaware he’d won until he saw the dealer push more chips toward him. The woman’s head dropped in despair. She began to comb her fingers through her hair, as if she were searching for loose change.
“I think I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.” Quincy gathered up his chips and walked away from the table. He turned in his chips and checked his voice mail. There was a message from Karen.
“Quincy, I don’t know where you are, but please call me,” she’d said.
Quincy felt the buzz of the alcohol, but still had good control over his faculties. Thursday he would fly back to Los Angeles with a divorce to finalize.
This had been a long week, and one that he still could not completely wrap his head around as he entered his hotel room and laid across the bed on his back. As he stared at the ceiling, his BlackBerry started to vibrate. He had a dinner planned tomorrow with his prayer partner, Jamal. They’d met at last year’s Men’s Retreat and were assigned to be prayer partners by Pastor Dawkins.
They barely spoke, but, occasionally, Quincy would take the young man out for dinner. He liked Jamal and thought he had a lot of promise. Quincy wanted to cancel the dinner, but Quincy had given Jamal his word. His father taught him that when a man gives a person his word to do something, no matter how small or insignificant it may be, it better be a matter of life and death that causes him to not make good on it.
Quincy started drifting off to sleep. He knew that tomorrow would require him to have fortitude. He would start to put the final touches on the Culver City deal and work with his lawyer to get the divorce papers filed. It was a good thing he’d had fun tonight with Candy and the roulette table, because it would be some time before he had fun again. Emptiness and heartache were what awaited him.
Chapter Six
Stealing a car was not that difficult. Will’s father was a smooth car thief and Will had become an able apprentice. By the time Will’s father had gone to prison two years ago on a seven-year sentence, he had taught Will how to steal everything from cars to a girl’s heart. Odell had also taught Will another trick, how to be invisible, since he was barely around for Will and his two younger siblings. Will’s mother did not mind Odell’s absence so long as she was able to maintain a comfortable lifestyle that did not require her to work.
Will got an adrenaline rush whenever he stole an exotic car. He loved to speed down the highway and test how fast a car could go before he turned it into Tony’s chop shop or his gang leader, D-Loc. The job, like all other jobs, had its down moments. Boredom grew from a lack of a challenge.
Like this Mustang GT that Will was about to steal. It was jet-black, with gold racing stripes along the top of the car. It had R1 drifting rims to match. The owner obviously cared more about the look of the car than its safety, because Will didn’t see any car alarm.
Will leaned into the window to double check the interior, but no red light flashed in the midst of the darkness. Will had had this car in his sights for a few weeks now. The occasion had arrived where he could finally claim it. Will removed the dealer-issued key from his pocket. It was amazing what a car thief could accomplish with a VIN and a stack of money. Car dealers were willing to part with duplicate keys to the cars Will planned to steal, which made stealing cars a lot easier, but more boring. It wasn’t the same as hot-wiring a car.
His suspicion was confirmed that there was not a car alarm as he entered the car. After he inhaled the vanilla-scented air freshener, he revved up the V8 engine. Will pulled away and got halfway down the block before he turned on the radio and was engulfed by Kelly Clarkson.
“What kind of crap is this?” Will said to himself.
He scanned the radio stations and found a hip-hop station that played the latest Jay-Z song. The music put him in an aggressive mood. So he scanned the stations until he found a jazz station. Will would not consider himself a jazz fan, but the slow melancholy sound of a saxophone or trumpet was soothing, checking any adrenaline that lingered after a boost.
Will had been a car thief since he was eleven. At fourteen he joined a local gang called the Untouchables. They found his skill helpful and lucrative. Now he was barely nineteen and he was already restless, ready to do something different. What, he was not sure of yet.
Lost in deep thought, Will neglected to stop at a red light, which prompted a siren to flash from a police car. The police siren grew louder as it approached Will and pulled just behind his rear bumper.
“Oh, shoot.” Will turned off the music.
“Pull over!” the officer said from the loud speaker.
Will’s size eight black-and-white shoe pressed on the accelerator. The Mustang GT went from sixty-five miles per hour to ninety in a matter of seconds. The police were in hot pursuit. The engine roared as the Mustang cleared one hundred miles per hour, leaving the scent of burnt rubber in its wake. He maneuvered around cars that obeyed the thirty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit, and cleared the intersection right when the light turned red.
As the speed increased, so did the interest in his activities. One police cruiser quickly became three. Will’s adrenaline, no longer under the spell of Coltrane, spiked. A blur of jagged thoughts crisscrossed his mind before he pulled things into focus: he had to shake the police. The three behind him would be matched by the flying “Squirrel,” the Eurocopter AS350 training its infrared on him. Once the Squirrel had him in its sights, Will’s fate would be sealed.
Will approached another red light and hooked a right. If not for the aftermarket sway bar that held the ’Stang to the ground, the chase would have been over. Instead, it created a small window of opportunity.
A black SUV, lurching to avoid him, collided with a rust bucket Honda. The damage was enough to stop the police cars dead in their tracks. Will d
id not have time to worry about the mess fading in his rearview. Instead, he gained a mile of distance and then darted into a residential neighborhood. Turning off the lights, he slid into the curb, a not-so-anonymous car at rest in a very anonymous suburban neighborhood. The sounds of the sirens grew faint, but then seemed to be picking up. No time for reflection. Will turned the car off, got out, and chucked the keys across the street. Time to move.
His baggy pants hung low and made him feel like he was entered into a sack race. But Will pushed on, running until he could not run anymore. No matter. Will was not that much taller than a bar stool, so it was easy for him to hide. Wait! What was that? Will heard the helicopter in the distance. No time to hunker down. He needed another set of wheels. Running alongside the edge of the neighborhood, he reached the back end of a commercial building. He saw a late model minivan idling in the empty side lot.
As Will drew closer, he could make out the words “Celebration Christian Center” stenciled along the side of the van. About fifty paces out, Will slowed down and started to advance on the van, crouching as he moved toward the driver’s side door. The door was suddenly thrown open. Will pressed hard against the side of the van. The guy who got out was head and shoulders taller than Will, so Will had to act before the guy turned around. The guy moved to close the door, and with his profile exposed, Will tackled the guy against the door. While the guy was stunned, Will delivered several swift hooks to the guy’s chin. While the punches staggered him, they did not render the man helpless.
The guy braced himself against the van and used his free hand to grab the nape of Will’s sweatshirt, swinging him to the ground in a heap. Now Will was at a disadvantage as his much bigger opponent towered over him.
“Are you out of your mind?” the man asked, his voice a loud but nervously cracked baritone.
Will managed to right himself, and kicked the man in the groin. He howled like a wolf. Back on his feet, Will followed his kick to the groin with a knee to the face. Now the guy was on the ground, and Will stomped on his stomach until the man yelled out in pain. Will then gave the man a punt to the head.
