Looker

by Stanley Bennett Clay

  He called Jeanette and Clymenthia from his office the moment he got the call.

  “We’re due in court at one,” he told Clymenthia. “I’ll pick you up at noon.”

  “Thanks, Bran.”

  “How is she doing?”

  “She’s hanging in there. We both are. We have faith.”

  “See ya at noon.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  Dee Bohannon rang Selma’s doorbell several times. Still there was no answer. She then pulled out her cell phone and dialed Selma’s number. Voicemail picked up. She pulled out the key Selma had given her for moments like this. More likely than not, Selma was inside drunk and blacked out (even though it was the middle of the afternoon), a not uncommon state for her, one Dee had gotten used to, though it worried her more and more.

  “Sel?” she called out as she opened the door leading into Selma’s wide foyer. Still no answer. She shut the door quietly behind her, and in the stillness she heard the familiar grunts and growls of Selma’s booze-induced snoring pouring out from behind the slightly ajar door to Selma’s media room. She knew she would find her poor drunken friend laid out in a stupor.

  Easily she pushed the door open. And there she was. Selma. Sprawled out on the sofa. Saliva dribbled from her mouth, down her neck.

  Dee shook her head, pulled out a Kleenex, and dabbed at the mess. Selma did not budge, save for the snoring that blew the stench of stale liquor in Dee’s face as she wiped it.

  Drinking and watching her gay porn was Selma’s great pastime. The drinking Dee could barely keep up with, and did not desire to. The gay porn had become a guilty pleasure for Dee. She and Selma had spent hours viewing and reviewing titles like Black and Huge, Hot Rod, and Ruffneck Workout. Not only were they erotically thrilling but they provided great education and reaffirming. For Dee, sex with her ex could not have been better, and viewing the experts on-screen reaffirmed that dick sucking and ball licking and salad tossing and taking Kevin’s delicious penis in every hole of her body with the greatest of ease and desire were arts she had truly mastered.

  So while Selma lay drunk, asleep, and slobbering on the sofa, Dee decided to treat herself. The viewing would be in honor of a wonderful man she could not figure out why she divorced.

  Good old Selma. Something was already on top of the machine. Dee picked up the video and read the handwritten label. Sexy Secret Spycam Special, it said in Selma’s familiar scroll. Dee put it in the machine and hit PLAY on the remote. As the images rolled before her, she was surprised at the poor quality—stagnant and grainy, certainly not up to Selma’s spit-polish standards. But what struck Dee—pleased her—was the sweet gentleness of the sex, which was not just mere sex.

  Lovemaking.

  It was lovemaking. Personal, passionate, and caring lovemaking. Two beautiful black men on-screen kissed and held each other as only lovers would. She smiled as only a person truly touched smiled.

  Then her smile froze, and her eyes slowly bulged. At first she was unable to believe what she saw, but the video dumbstruck her horrifically.

  Brando!

  Brando on-screen, making love, love so private, so intimate that he in no way could have known he was being filmed. Dee felt like a violator, a vile voyeur, his betrayer. And even as she was getting sick to her stomach, she could not turn her head or run away.

  She then realized the remote was still in her hand. It stung, then it stiffened. Robotically she hit POWER.

  Standing in the middle of the dark room, she was unable to budge except for a slight tremble that moved quickly through her.

  She tried to remove the images from her mind, but could not. The sight of Brando and the man—most assuredly his ex-lover, Collier—played over and over inside her head. She then suddenly remembered something Selma had said: “I’ve had a set of keys to his house since he moved in. When I first sold him the place. Good neighbor policy.” And it all made sick sense.

  What had Selma done? What had she done?

  Dee’s cell phone ringing and vibrating shot through the silence. She flinched.

  “Hello?” She answered her phone in a whisper.

  “Dee?” A familiar voice asked.

  “Brando,” she spoke with a forced lightness.

  “It’s over,” he said. “It’s over.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Although Judge Canton W. Stork had warned the court that any outburst or displays of emotions would not be tolerated at the reading of the verdict, the courtroom exploded into an uproar when the foreman read from the folded paper: “Not guilty.”

  Jeanette, standing next to Brando, grabbed him and shook him with a glee she had not known since the proceedings began. Clymenthia burst through the docket gates and grabbed the both of them. Tears flew everywhere.

  There were few present who disagreed with the verdict. There was Marion Madrano, of course, and even she approached Brando and graciously congratulated him.

  And now it was over. Dee congratulated Brando over the phone in a strange voice that he was too paralyzed with excitement and happiness to note. He managed to tell her that he would talk to her later. He had to get back to his client. On the drive home he began planning the victory celebration.

  The Jeanette Bell case would become a cautionary tale and a cause célèbre. Halle Berry snapped up the film rights. Brando was, of course, set to broker the deal. He was back to being an entertainment lawyer, though that return to criminal law changed him forever. He did not have to sit on the sidelines of life and miss the passion of life’s ups and downs. Instead of watching the parade, he would be in it. He promised himself at least that.

  Back home, where he popped champagne before Jeanette and Clymenthia went off to the guest bedroom to celebrate in their own special way, Brando picked up the phone and dialed a number he had not dialed in nearly two years.

  “Brando.” Collier answered after the second ring.

  “How you been?”

  “Good. How about you?”

  “Great.”

  “So I’ve been reading and seeing and hearing.”

  “Collier, man, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

  “Same here, Brando. Same here.”

  “Ah, listen. I’m throwing a little victory party for Jeanette early Friday night, around six, before Clymenthia and she head back to Connecticut. Why don’t you drop by? She’d love to see you again. They’d love to see you. A lot of people would. Me included.”

  There was a long pause on the other end. Then finally: “Sure, Brando. I’ll be there. Friday night. Six o’clock.”

  Dee thought on it long and hard. Still, she was not sure what to do about it. The video of Brando and Collier she had seen at Selma’s was shocking enough; the idea that Selma had clandestinely filmed them was simply immoral. This act told her more about Selma Fant than she cared to know, and more about herself. She didn’t know whether to hate or feel sorry for Selma.

  It was the eve of Jeanette Bell’s victory party. It would be the first time Dee would encounter both Selma and Brando since seeing the tape, and she wasn’t quite sure how she would handle it.

  Omar knew that Brando’s ex, Collier, was going to be at the party, and it was breaking his heart. If Brando and Collier were getting back together, if there was even the possibility of it, Omar would have no choice but to surrender his romantic desires, which were growing out of control, and settle for the platonic love he and Brando had shared so long; still shared.

  For a fleeting moment Omar thought about the track runner and the Silver Lake thug prince, Thomas and Andrew, and for the first time he thought about them as something more than sex partners. Or maybe nothing more than sex partners.

  Who knows? Who really knows?

  All he knew for sure was that he liked them, genuinely, but was not in love with them. He liked Shane enough to be hurt by him, but he was not in love with him. He had only been in love once. Still was.

  On the way to the party he stopped at the Liquor Bank on Stocke
r and Crenshaw and bought two magnums of Dom Pérignon. One for Jeanette. One for Brando.

  Part Three

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Jazz poured through the grand portals like a gardenia-scented I breeze, whispering tales on the sly. Here Brando lived isolated but comfortably. That’s how Senior Father felt it in his melodramatic mind when he rang the doorbell at exactly 6 PM. Brando answered with hugs and kisses, but Senior Father sensed scandal in the air.

  “So I hear Collier’s on the guest list,” he purred.

  “Yes.” Brando beamed unconsciously, leading Senior Father to the kitchen, where Omar was garnishing the hot duck salad.

  “Liz and Dick. The second act,” said Senior Father.

  “Do you know how old you’d have to be to get that?” Omar snapped.

  “You got it,” Senior Father snapped back.

  “And how are you this evening?” Omar asked, cracking a smile.

  “As fabulous as ever!” Senior Father declared.

  “Yes, you are,” Omar agreed.

  “Damn, that looks good,” Brando said, eyeing the beautiful salad arrangement.

  “Thanks, Bran.” Omar blushed coolly. Brando reached out to sample a piece of hot duck and was rewarded with a terse slap on the hand.

  “Let the guests see it first, Brando,” Omar reprimanded.

  “Sorry.” Brando pouted like a little boy lost in the do-not-touch cookie jar.

  “My God, the two of you act like lovers,” Senior Father mused.

  It’s no act, Omar thought while Brando smiled.

  “So where’s our guest of honor?” Senior Father continued, having read Omar’s mind and Brando’s smile.

  “They’re getting dressed,” Brando answered.

  “Good,” Senior Father insisted. “This is Jeanette Bell’s night. An entrance is essential.”

  Radar led him to the bar, where he made himself a perfect three-olive Tanqueray martini.

  The doorbell rang again and Brando answered it. Selma and Dee were age-before-beauty divas, though the younger, Dee, was less cheerful. Clearly there was something on her mind. Selma was torn up, way ahead of the game, and after obligatory kisses and a pinch of Brando’s ass, sonar took her to the bar, where Senior Father lounged, the oldest man she knew, though she was several years his senior.

  “Lacey,” she sang whiskey-voiced while fixing her drink by touch. She never referred to Lacey Cannon as Senior Father. From her perspective, he was clearly not a senior.

  “The diva of Baldwin Hills,” he saluted with his cocktail.

  “So they say,” she lamented as she took her first gulp at this station.

  More guests arrived—Brando’s parents wearing their weekend Palm Spring tans, church children dropping in on their way to the clubs, colleagues of Jeanette and Clymenthia, sisters from ULOAH, congregants from Unity Fellowship and First AME, writers and warriors in the cause—and still no Collier. Brando refused to worry and Omar felt a moment’s relief.

  And then there he was.

  Three pairs of eyes picked Collier out of the swarm entering Brando’s house. The third set belonged to Dee, who recognized Collier from Brando’s sweet reminiscence and Selma’s tawdry and scandalous tapes.

  Then a swell from the far hallway averted attention, and shrills and applauds erupted and rolled through the house.

  Jeanette Bell, on the arm of her partner, seemed tired but jubilant, thinner but stronger. Her smile was graceful and dignified as she embraced the goodwill of the crowd of well-wishers. Senior Father highly approved.

  Jeanette and Clymenthia would be taking the red-eye to Boston and then an hour’s car ride across the state line, in the next day’s new sun, to their farmhouse in the snow-covered countryside of Connecticut. They had not been home in months. This party was a great send-off, a great good-bye, until the next time.

  “You made it,” Brando said to Collier loudly, over the surrounding jubilance.

  “Yeah,” Collier answered, accepting Brando’s hug, which Omar could not bear.

  “Listen, you know your way around,” Brando said, reluctantly abandoning Collier for host duties.

  “I do, don’t I?” Collier said to the air.

  “Damn, man, what’s it been?” Omar said from behind.

  “Hey, Omar,” Collier said warmly, recognizing the voice even before he completed the turn. He gave his former best-friend-in-law a hug. “It’s been a while. So what have you been up to?”

  “Same-o, same-o.”

  “I see you’ve been taking care of my boy,” Collier said, eyeing Brando smiling and cutting respectfully through the crowd toward the open arms of Jeanette and Clymenthia. “He’s looking good, he’s looking happy.”

  “Yeah, well I’m a good babysitter.”

  “You’re a good friend, Omar. He’s very lucky.”

  “Yeah, he is, isn’t he?”

  A holler went up as the guest of honor and her lady draped their host, then all three clinched fists they held high in the air over smiles of relief, encircled by ovations of pride and respect.

  “And the trial.” Collier was amazed, touched by the sight of it all. “Damn!”

  “He did a great job,” Omar agreed. “The next Johnny Cochran. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I did. I always did. He’s quite a guy.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “Listen to us,” Collier then said, “a two-man fan club.”

  “One of many,” Omar said to the air.

  From the bar, which he comonitored with a drunk Selma Fant, Senior Father delighted in the body language and readable lips of Brando’s two men. He sipped to the sight of it and the irony of it all.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Eight PM. The party was two hours old. Omar’s hot duck salad was a ravaged hit. Two cases of champagne had been consumed festively. Omar’s magnums of Dom Pérignon had not been touched yet.

  Selma Fant was finally led to the sofa by Dee. The older woman’s high was wearing off and Dee was relieved, but still very much disturbed by all that she knew.

  “Do you ever wonder why she drinks so much?” Senior Father had eased up on the two women and observed the semilucid matron with condescending admiration.

  “I’m drunk, you old dowager queen, not deaf,” Selma rattled off suddenly from under her slouch.

  “And so you are,” Senior Father acknowledged with pisselegant glee. “How’s the baby?” He began to dig deeper.

  “You should know better than I,” Selma answered.

  Dee deciphered from the sidelines. Lacey’s prowling into this area so sensitive to Selma confirmed for Dee what she had suspected upon first meeting Senior Father Lacey Cannon. She did not like him.

  “Please,” Lacey responded to Selma’s nuanced-filled tiff, “I don’t go out much anymore.” He continued fleetingly, “No clubs, no drag shows. I only do house parties. In fact, why weren’t you at my winter supper?”

  “Was I invited?”

  “It’s every year, Selma. You know you have a standing invitation.”

  “Perhaps I was not standing at the time.”

  “Well I hear that Miss Zara—”

  “Earl-Anthony.”

  “—Miss Zara Earl-Anthony is back in town.”

  “You okay, Selma?” Dee cut in. On more than one occasion, during their drinking confessionals, Selma had told and retold the story of Peter Caise.

  “I think it’s time for me to go,” Selma said.

  “I’ll see you home,” Dee said as she helped Selma up from the couch.

  “I’ll go with you,” Senior Father chimed in slyly.

  “Thanks, Lacey, but it’s just next door.”

  “Nonsense, Miss Dee. Two lovely ladies let loose unto the badlands of these black bourgeois hills without proper male escort? I think not.”

  “Selma, you’re not leaving, are you?” Brando appeared out of nowhere.

  “I’m feeling a little sick, hon. If I’m going to throw up, I
’d rather throw up in my own commode,” she lied with a feckless grin. “Give the ladies my regards.”

  “I will.”

  “Dee and I will be right back,” Senior Father said, opening the front door and escorting Selma out. Dee followed.

  “You guys hurry back,” Brando said. “Feel better, Selma.”

  “I will,” Selma answered, her voice fading into the night.

  Chapter Fifty

  Peter Caise took a chance. It was a winter night that grew dark early. When he rang Selma Fant’s doorbell it was already pitch-black, save for the porch light and fully lit party next door. And it was a chance. The Baldwin Hills security patrol units would not take lightly to someone unknown in these parts, soliciting at this hour.

  He rang the doorbell again. Still no answer. It took everything he had to return to the scene of the crime. But here he was, ready to say he was sorry to both mother and child.

  “May I help you?” he heard from behind, the voice of a rather stern man. He turned and looked up into the face of the powerfully effete gentleman, and the face of the woman next to him, and the drunken face of the woman next to her; the woman he’d made love to two decades ago, and it hardly seemed possible.

  And then she looked at him, through drunkenness and all. And Selma shivered with recollection in the arms of her stalwart friend Dee.

  “Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater.” Her words were soft and awestruck, spoken with hardly a slur, spoken slowly to self-convince.

  And then Dee knew, suddenly realized. This was the man Selma had hidden in a bottle from all these years. This was the man Selma Fant had spent so many years hating herself for.

  Dee felt a sudden haughtiness that placed a barrier between the illicit lovers from the guilty past.

  Peter stumbled nervously. “I didn’t know any other way to contact you.”

  Selma looked at him, quizzically, amazed at how much he seemed not to have changed in face and body, yet how different he was from the cocksure teenage sex machine who fucked her and her son, forever enslaving her in a relentless perversity she could not escape, even if she had wanted to.