Apple Brown Betty (13 page)

Slay sat with the engine running, the music playing, the heat blasting, and waited as Cydney went into the CVS pharmacy. “Bet her trick ass is going in there to get body spray and condoms,” he said aloud, disgusted. He fumbled at the CD player, struggling to move to another track as the current one finished playing. This wasn't his beloved BMW, instead the car of an acquaintance; Slay hadn't wanted to risk Cydney spotting him. The last thing in the world she'd expect was her brother tailing her in a Toyota Camry.

Cydney emerged from the store with a small shopping bag and got into her car. Slay was dying to know what it held. She pulled from the curb and rode on up the block. He followed a few car lengths back. Not too farther up the main stretch she stopped in front of a small record store, Mike's Music, and emerged from her car. She walked into the record store with a purpose. “Hooker is really setting this up nice,” Slay fumed. “Bet she's getting some Maxwell, some smooth shit like that. Gonna work this nigga over good today.” He pounded his fist on the steering wheel and accidentally hit his horn. He looked to see if she'd noticed. She hadn't. She'd already gone into the store.

Cydney emerged from the store a short while later, another bag under her arm. She got in her car and drove off. Slay continued to follow her. She surprised him by driving back in the direction of her home. He was sure she'd be going to this dude's house. She probably planned to have the guy come over to her place instead. Slay shook his head at her bravery as he continued his tail.

A short while later, she made the turn into her apartment complex and parked in her numbered spot at the front of her building. Slay eased into a spot on the other side of the Dumpster enclosure and parked out of her view. He moved from the car quickly and rushed around to meet her on her way in.

He could see her sitting in the car, appeared as if she was singing to her music, waiting for the song to finish before she got out of the car. Eventually she killed the engine, grabbed her bags and got out. She walked around to the trunk and pulled another bag from there. She sure is spending some cash, Slay thought. Probably some of the money he gave her.

She walked up the sidewalk toward her place, whistling, swinging the bags with her stride. Slay rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He glanced behind him and at all the windows to make sure no one was looking out with their phone propped to their ear, worry on their face as they dialed 911. Everything seemed normal and peaceful. That was the thing about these condominium complexes, they were so quiet.

Cydney was about ten feet from him now. He readied himself.

She stopped suddenly. He wondered if she'd spotted him and would try to make a break for it. But no, she dropped her bags and bent down and ran a finger under the sole of her foot. He saw a small pebble fall out, heard her say, “Woo.” She picked up the bags and started moving forward again. She was five feet away now.

Showtime.

Slay stepped out in her path.

“Hello there, sis,” he said.

Cydney jumped, startled, and dropped one of her CVS bags.

“Here, let me get that for you.” Slay moved forward and picked it up for her. It didn't appear she had the capability of moving or speaking. He handed her the bag but her hands didn't, or couldn't, reach for it. “I'll hold on to this for you then,” Slay said. He narrowed his eyes. “So, Cydney, tell me something—who's this GQ Smooth dude I hear you been hanging with?”

Her eyes were on him and he could see that she was trembling. That bothered him, she should know she didn't need to fear him; he loved her, he was her brother. The sight of her trembling took some of the hardness from him. “Cydney, come on, don't do this.”

“What are you doing here?” she said finally. She had the coldhearted demeanor from their last encounter back. She looked to him like a soldier willing to spill blood right here on the sidewalk for the cause, if need be.

Now he was angry again. This was no way to treat a loving brother. “I'm asking the questions,” he barked. “Now, who the fuck is this GQ Smooth dude I hear you been hanging with?”

She smiled. Slay smiled, too. This was more like it.

“None of your damn business,” she said with edge, still smiling.

Slay's smile disappeared as Cydney's held.

T
he DJ interrupted his spin of a club version of one of Whitney Houston's songs to introduce the next performer coming to the stage. Desmond had raised his glass to his lips, but held it without taking a sip, his ears and eyes on the DJ, waiting. Since he'd come in, over an hour before, he'd endured the white girl with the silicone boobs, a clumsy Asian girl who didn't have the sense to get her own boobs inflated and a black girl with overlapping teeth, reddened hair and a trail of brown freckles that traversed her entire body. Still, no Jacinta, though.

“Muy caliente,”
the DJ said with a hint of excitement and rousing in his voice. “Coming to the stage to shake what her mami and papi gave her…Jacintaaaaaaa.”

Desmond took that sip of his drink, actually gulping down the rest of it in one shot. He wiped his mouth with the back side of his hand and moved to the front of the room, directly by the stage. The entire room seemed to perk up. The DJ replaced the revved-up Whitney Houston cut with what he billed “a hot one from Shakira.” Desmond nodded his head to the syncopated rhythm, adrenaline shooting through him because of the three drinks he'd downed and the performance he'd come for.

Jacinta came on, spotlighted in the center of the stage, her hair pulled back, dressed in a brassiere with tassels swinging. Desmond's eyes started at her feet and worked their way up. He very much liked what he saw. A strong urge started to pull at him in that place where men's urges began and ended.

Jacinta held to the pole and shimmied around it with the grace and poise of a figure skater or a ballerina. She kicked her legs up, presumably to show her flexibility, and then fell into a split. Two men on the other side of the room who looked as if they were a couple of drinks away from needing CPR applauded Jacinta's moves. She moved in their direction to take advantage of their adoration, and to fill her collection plate.

The Shakira cut ended and an even faster one took its place. On cue Jacinta sped up her moves, thrashing her head and body furiously, that long tail of hair flapping like a “just married” stringer on a car bumper. She moved back to the side of the stage where Desmond sat. He pursed his lips and held a breath in his chest. Jacinta reached behind her and pulled the Velcro bra strap loose. She deftly covered her bosom with her hands as the material fell in a heap on the floor. Desmond released that breath, licked his lips. Jacinta moved over to him.

“Back again,” Jacinta said.

Desmond's eyes hunched. “You remember me?”

“Of course,” she said, winking.

“How?” Desmond wanted to know. “So many come through here?”

“Majority of 'em horny neighborhood guys or the suit-and-tie types headed home to their wives. They're hard to differentiate. You, you're neither.”

“You're pretty smart, Jacinta.”

“Why?” she asked, making her voice extra sweet and sexy. “Because I used
differentiate
correctly in a sentence? What's your name, cutie?”

“Desmond.”

She leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear, “Life is a stage, Desmond. Everyone is a performer on that stage. Nobody is as they appear.”

It took Desmond a moment to recover, her hot breath lingering on his earlobe even after she'd moved back to a more appropriate separating distance. “What happened to that accent you had the other day?” he said after a while.

“Part of the performance,” Jacinta admitted. “See, I told you.”

“So, you're a philosopher now?” Desmond asked her, smiling.

“How many people from your real life know you're in here today, Desmond? That this is your second time here in a week?”

Desmond was rendered speechless. He thought about the wrinkle that would form on his father's nose if his father knew he was here. The I-told-you-so look in his father's eyes.
I told you that you couldn't measure up to me, son.

Jacinta smiled, took Desmond's money and wiggled on across the stage.

 

“What did you say to me?” Slay said, gripping hard to Cydney's bag, leaning into her with a scowl on his face.

“None of your business,” she repeated. “Who I spend my time with is of no concern to you.”

Slay grinded his teeth, looked around him. “You lucky we all out in the open.”

“You're luckier than I am,” Cydney responded. She held out her hand. “You can give me my bag now.”

Slay looked at the bag—from CVS. “Let's see what kind of freaky shit you planning,” he said, opening the bag. His brow furrowed when he saw the contents: a pack of black pens, pack of white lined paper and a Skor candy bar. He looked up at Cydney.

She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “You can have the candy bar if it's that important to you.”

He pushed the bag into her hand and this time she took it. “This ain't no game, sis.”

“No, it isn't,” Cydney agreed, “and I think it is best you realize and recognize that. I'm done being your chess piece, Slay.”

“Don't call me Slay,” he said, dropping his head, defeated.

“Why not? That's your name, isn't it?”

He looked up. “Not with you, Cydney.”

Cydney sighed, shook her head. “You're just not good for me now.”

Slay nodded. The toughness he always projected was gone. His shoulders sagged, his eyes narrowed, not from anger, but to keep him from getting emotional. “You probably right,” he said. “
Cydney Williams
has always been about something. No use in
Shammond Slay
pulling her down, keeping her from getting all her goals and shit.”

The difference in their last names had been a source of angst for him for a long time.

“Pop G would have adopted you, too,” Cydney said, “but everything was so confusing then. He didn't know if they were going to let you out of juvie or what. It looked like that place was going to be your home away from home. Look at how many times you were sent down. He didn't know if you were ever coming home for good and what you'd be like if you did.”

Slay forced a smile. “Right, right.”

“We're still brother and sister. I just need some time to get my life in order. You should do the same,” Cydney said.

“I won't bother you again, Cydney. You should check in on Mama every now and then, she ain't gonna be around forever.” He balled a fist and placed it over his heart and moved around Cydney to walk to his car.

“I'm always going to love you,” Cydney called to him as he walked down the sidewalk. And despite everything, she would. Truth be told, Shammond was just a damaged soul, same as she was.

Slay didn't respond. He kept his slow bop toward his car. This GQ Smooth dude was the source of all this heartache. Cydney was different than she'd ever been. Slay didn't have any beef with her, but GQ Smooth, that was his newest enemy. That dude had managed to come in and take one of the only good things this world ever gave Slay. For that, GQ Smooth, would pay, in full.

 

Desmond moved from Hot Tails with a new lease on life. When you started getting mother wit from women who made their money being coy with their breasts it was definitely time to reevaluate the route you traveled. Jacinta, the go-go Aristotle, had hit him over the head. Her words echoed in his ears like the baseline from that Shakira song.

Life is a stage. Everyone is a performer on that stage.

Desmond gripped his keys and pressed the keyless entry button for his truck as he crossed the street. It chirp-chirped like a bird. He looked up at the sky absent of sun as a light breeze from the nearby ocean swept across his face. He got in his truck, turned the ignition, but sat thinking instead of pulling away.

Life is a stage. Everyone is a performer on that stage.

Why? Why was it so difficult to let down our guards and allow people to see inside our hearts and souls? Desmond looked at himself in the rearview mirror. Jacinta had him talking to himself. “I'm a son, a brother, an entrepreneur,” he said. “I'm a decent, proud black man. I've never put my hands on a woman with any intent other than tenderness and caring. I've never abused drugs. I'm a careful lover, always use condoms. I'm a romantic. I love women…” He sat back against the plush leather of the truck's interior, closed his eyes and sighed.

He thought about his parents, married all these years. As far as he knew, his father had been faithful the entire time, his mother the same. Desmond wondered if there was any hope of the same for him. He thought about Miss Wonderful, Cydney Williams. She'd come into his restaurant with two other beautiful women, and yet, all he could see, all he desired, was Cydney. She was his hope.

Desmond opened his eyes and looked across the road at the sexy, curvy silhouette of the Hot Tails sign. In there, right now, Jacinta was in the back room fitting her bodacious body into some awe-inspiring outfit. In a short while she'd be back onstage again, gyrating to a club tune. Desmond smiled and fished in his pocket for his cell phone. He had to try his hope again. Hopefully, this time, Miss Wonderful would pick up the other line.

 

Slay got in his loaner Camry and watched Cydney climb the steps to her apartment. He felt the urge to cry but opened the flip of his cell phone to attend to some business—moneymaking always chased away the fiercest blues. He scrolled through his address book, stopping on J. He selected the option and waited.

It rang three or four times before a soft voice picked up. “Hello.” There was loud music in the background and Slay could tell she had the phone cupped to keep out as much of the noise as possible.

“Hola, Hah-seen-ta,”
he said. “I was going to leave you a voice mail message.”

“Slay,” she said.

“How did I do with your name, my
español
any better?”

“Getting there,” she acknowledged.

“You working?”

“Always,” she said. “I just finished my set, preparing for my next one as we speak.”

“You killing 'em today, or what?”

“You got something for me, or what?” she shot back.

“You can't even have a word wit' a nigga for a minute. All business and shit.”

“Cash rules everything around me,” she responded.

Slay laughed. “Cream, dollar dollar bill, y'all. That was the shit, wasn't it? What's going on with Wu Tang now?”

“I look like Ol' Dirty Bastard or something, Slay?”

“You look like new clean pussy, baby, you know that,” Slay told her. He thought the comment clever and quick-witted. She seemed unmoved.

“You got something for me?”

Slay shook his head, this was not a good day on the female front. “Dude named William Jeffries, esquire.”

“A lawyer…great,” she said, sighing.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I'm just not looking forward to this guy.”

“His pockets are deep,” Slay told her.

“Is that a fact,” she said. “Good. At the Berkeley?”

“Always. You know I take care of my ladies.”

“Don't front on me, Slay. I don't like how that sounds. I'm not one of your ladies.”

“I try to broker a good situation,” Slay corrected. “That better?”

“Much.”

“Same deal as usual. His room is registered to Gabriel Cohen. Your money will be waiting for you at the desk, wrapped up with a bow and the whole nine.”

“Pleasure doing business with you again,” she told him.

Slay smiled. “Right, right.” He closed the flip and pocketed his cell phone. He looked up at Cydney's apartment, toward her window. This was one time moneymaking had failed to chase those fierce blues away. A knot sat heavy in his stomach. He shook his head and pulled from the lot.

 

Cydney rushed down the hall to the bathroom, used the toilet, missed the flush but didn't turn back, and ran her hands under the water spigot. She wiped her wet hands dry on the extra-long shirt she wore and grabbed a two-liter bottle of Coke from the refrigerator. She scooted across the carpet and plopped down on the couch. A commercial for Tide laundry detergent ran its course and then a silky-smooth woman's voice came on.

We now return to Lifetime's
A Vision of Murder: The Story of Donielle.

Cydney closed her eyes and took a breath to steady her heartbeat. She was proud to have accomplished so much in the short ninety-second span the advertisers gave her. Cydney pulled the coffee table closer to the couch, a bowl of microwave popcorn—mixed with a bit of butter and a touch of sugar—within reach. She sat crossed-legged, her caramel-colored legs smooth beneath her after a nice shave and the pampering of an earlier bath.