A Good Man (13 page)

After twenty harrowing minutes of bobbing and weaving through traffic, Manny pulled off the freeway and pointed at a hill. “You see all those lights up there?”

“Yes.”

“That is the mansion.”

All lit up like Christmas. “What a waste of electricity. You could probably see it from space.”

“The lights are brighter because they are filming.”

“Oh. Already?” But I’m not there to be filmed.

“They only use those lights when they are filming live.”

Did he say… “What?”

“They did not tell you.”

“No.” They like keeping the white man in the dark. “But if those lights are on, that means they are already filming, right?”

Manny checked his watch. “It is seven fifty-five. They are getting ready. They begin in five minutes.”

“And how much longer until we get there?”

“Ten minutes.”

“I’m going to be late. Is that good or bad?”

“Bad,” Manny said, squealing tires up a winding, hilly street past massive mansions. “You are going to arrive after the princess’s big entrance.”

“Oh.” There are many degrees of bad, so … “Um, will that be bad for me, bad for the show, bad for her, bad for you—what?”

“Bad for all concerned.”

John looked at his clothes. “I look a mess.”

“Yes.”

“I need a shower, too.” I have travel funk.

“Yes.”

“This isn’t good.”

“No.” He checked his watch again. “It is, as they say, showtime.”

“How much longer?”

“Five minutes.”

And now my stomach is crawling up my chest to my neck. Geez.

“When you get out,” Manny said, “stay in the light.”

“I’d rather hide in the dark.”

“Yes.” Manny pulled into a driveway a few car lengths from a long black limousine. “They have not begun introducing themselves to her yet. You may be okay.”

“You don’t think they’re waiting for me, do you?”

“They are not waiting on you.”

I feel so important. “I haven’t even signed the contract yet.”

Manny stared at the papers in John’s hands.

“Oh.” John signed all the places marked with an X.

“I will bring your suitcases inside. Just stay in the light.”

John opened the door. “That’s okay.” The ground feels good. “I can carry them.”

Manny got out and opened the trunk. John took out his suitcases. “Where exactly do I go?”

Manny shrugged. “Get in line. I recommend that you go to the end of the line.”

“Yeah.” The last shall be first. “Thanks for the ride.” He extended his hand.

Manny shook it. “You are a funny man.”

“I hope it’s a good kind of funny.”

Manny didn’t respond.

“Um, what are the other guys like?”

“They are nothing like you.”

I already knew that. “Is that a good thing?”

“It cannot hurt. Good luck.”

John took a deep breath, hoisted his suitcases, and walked directly toward the lights.

Now I know how the Apostle Paul felt on the road to Damascus …

As Graham McNabb, former child sitcom star and the gabby host of Hunk or Punk, had talked to hear himself talk, Sonya had sat in the limousine, hating life in general and her high heels in particular.

Why’d they choose Graham McNabb to host this show? He’s a punk, not a hunk. He has to be the whitest black man on TV. Carlton Banks from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air was blacker. “Marky” Mark Wahlberg is blacker. The average white man has more soul than Graham does.

But what am I? I’m a black Barbie in an electric blue party dress sitting in a limousine in Point Dume in the hills above Malibu. My hair keeps tickling my cheeks, and it’s even getting in my mouth. I hate to have my own hair in my mouth. I don’t know whose hair this was! I hate that I have to wear electric blue contacts. What was wrong with my hazel eyes? And these little torture chambers on my feet, these Pollini high heels, are like tourniquets for my toes. I just know I’m going to fall. I wonder if Cinderella felt this way on her way to the ball.

“Crew,” Graham said, “it is time for you to meet your Nubian princess. Jazz, come out and meet the Crew.”

There’s my cue. Lord, You promise to uphold me with Your right hand. Please, I’m begging, use both of Your almighty hands to keep me vertical until I get to that little X on the ground.

Sonya had waited until the white-gloved chauffeur opened her door, had reached out her manicured hand, had grabbed onto the chauffeur’s hand, had stepped out onto the driveway with one shaky foot, had followed that foot with another just like it, and her first thought when she had finally stood was: Look at all that man meat.

She had walked through the brightest lights on earth toward a vaguely host-shaped glow and had heard the glow say, “Crew, say hello to Jazz.”

I can’t see a thing with those lights in my face. Smile, girl. The whole blue world is watching.

Sonya had smiled.

And stumbled.

She had heard Graham whisper, “Jazz, say something to the Crew.”

Oh, yeah. I have to speak. It’s in my contract. “Hey, Crew,” she had said. That was stupid but not as stupid as what they wanted me to say: “Hello, my suitor princes.”

“Each member of the Crew will now—”

Sonya thought she had been prepared for just about anything, but when the white man arrived carrying his suitcases, his clothes wrinkled, his church shoes just plain wrong with those jeans, and he walked right up next to her, she thought, Why is that man ruining my entrance?

“Sorry I’m late, y’all,” the man said. “Traffic was a mess.”

What part of the deep South is he from? Sonya thought. And why is he still standing next to me in all of his funk? What, did he ride his horse all the way from Texas?

The man tipped an imaginary hat to her. “Ma’am.”

Ma’am? I am not old enough to be a ma’am! Now … shoo!

The man carried his suitcases to the end of the line of man meat.

“Uh, okay,” Graham said. “Now each member of the Crew will introduce himself to the Nubian princess.”

Okay, Sonya thought, let’s see who is worthy of me.

Let’s also see if I can get some feeling into my toes. I see my feet.

I just don’t feel them at all.

Oh, God in heaven, what am I doing here?

John sized up the Crew and found himself lacking, and not just in pigment. Each of the Crew was taller, wider, and much better dressed. The man next to him had more teeth than two normal people. The man taking Jazz’s hand had a linebacker’s shoulders and a basketball player’s legs. The tattooed man now hugging her should probably be playing for the Lakers. The next man in line had muscles on top of his muscles, his shirt crying for a much smaller man.

I am in the wrong place, I am in the wrong place, I am in the wrong place …

But she is so beautiful, she is so beautiful, she is so—

Not twenty-five.

John looked more closely at Jazz. She looks older and wiser than an aspiring actress and surfer. Why’d they put such thick makeup on her? I bet she’s fine under all that mess. Her voice was deeper and more textured than I expected it to be. I half-expected Minnie Mouse sucking on helium. She doesn’t sound like an airhead, and she’s very sexy. She has sense and sex appeal—what a combination. There can’t be an ounce of fat on her. Curvaceous as the street I just came up. But her eyes are too blue—and they match her dress. What woman does that unless she’s vain?

She is definitely swaying in those high heels. Oh! Now she’s switching feet!

John smiled.

That’s what Sheila used to call it when her feet were killing her. She’d bend one knee to put all her weight on that foot to relieve the pressure on the other foot. Or she’d straighten a leg to let the other leg dangle in the air. I’ll bet Jazz wants to kick those high heels off and leave them off.

Jazz has a lot of hair. Sheila used extensions a couple times but preferred her own hair, even though she wrestled and fussed with it every morning.

John frowned.

Why are they all pawing at her, touching her, hugging her, some even kissing her cheek? Y’all just met her! Show some restraint! That is a lady! She is not some—

Oh, Lord, it’s my turn.

Be strong and of good courage.

And don’t say or do something stupid.

Are we done? I have so much cologne and body spray on me that I might asphyxiate! I think I even have bruises on my back from all those probing fingers. One left? Who is it? Oh. It’s the show crasher. I believe that traffic was heavy, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Bob and Larry didn’t delay him on purpose for the effect his entrance would have on me.

Sonya watched the man approach, and unlike the rest of the Crew, he took his time, his eyes affixed to the ground, his smile hard to read. Is he sneaky? Devious? Mischievous? At least he isn’t staring at my chest like most of the others. But what is he looking at? She looked down. He’s staring at my feet! And my toes have turned white! Geez, can you get gangrene from wearing high heels?

“Hi, Jazz,” he said. “I bet your feet are killing you.”

Sonya looked into the man’s brown eyes. “They are,” she whispered.

He looked down. “Mine, too. Been traveling all day. Rode three planes to get here. They didn’t want me to wear my boots. These church shoes look terrible with these jeans, but I didn’t think I should wear running shoes on TV.”

The man then slipped off his shoes.

Oh, no, he didn’t. He just … took ’em off. Make yourself at home, pardner.

“Much better,” the man said. “Oh, I showered this morning. Sorry about the funk now.”

A man just took off his shoes on national TV in front of a Nubian princess. What kind of man takes his shoes off in front of any woman he just met? This has to be a setup. “Um, it’s okay,” Sonya said. And he did call them church shoes. He was very clear about that. What man calls shoes “church shoes” unless he goes to church?

The man had dropped almost an inch. “And now I’m shorter than you,” he said. “I’m really sorry I ruined your entrance, Jazz. I should have just slipped in the back.”

He seems sorry, but that could be part of a scam. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

The man looked down again. “I am worried that you’re ruining your toes.”

So am I. Sonya smiled. I am about to make TV history, too. Oh no, the diva took off her heels! The folks at Pollini are going to be angry I took them off, but I don’t care. “My feet are killing me.” She slipped off her heels, and feeling returned to her toes. Oh, thank You, Jesus! Thank You, Jesus! Thank You, Blessed Savior! She looked at the man. “And now I’m shorter than you are.”

“Your feet feel better?” the man asked.

“Much,” Sonya said. “Um, what’s your name?”

The man hesitated and looked up. “Um, my name is … Art. I think. No, it’s … Artie. No. Arturo? No. It’s Arthur. Yeah, that’s right. Arthur, age thirty, film editor, Chicago.”

Either he’s extremely absentminded, or he has just told me that he’s not really Arthur, thirty, a film editor, or from Chicago. He does have a cute squint. No, those are wrinkles. And he has worry lines around his eyes and on his forehead. Gray hairs, too? He’s closer to my real age than to thirty. At least he has the good graces not to be touching on me. “It’s nice to meet you, Art, Artie, Arturo, or Arthur.”

He smiled. “May I ask you a question?”

Sonya looked at Darius Thompson, the director, who twirled a finger in the air. I know, I know, Darius. Move it along. But I am having fun and relaxing for the first time. Calm down. “Sure, Arthur. Ask me your question.”

“Do you always match your dresses to your eyes?”

Sonya couldn’t stop her mouth from dropping. “No.” The stupid producers do that for me! “This is the first time.”

“And now that you’ve met the Crew,” Graham said loudly, “Nubian princess Jazz, welcome to your castle.”

Arthur glanced at Graham. “Guess he thinks I’m taking up too much of your time, huh?”

“The show must go on,” Sonya said.

“Yes,” he said with a smile, his eyes narrowed and locked on hers. “The show. It must go on.”

He is really into my eyes, Sonya thought. I wish I could show him and the rest of the world my real ones.

“Nice to meet you, Jazz.” He picked up his shoes and returned to his place in line.

That was strange, Sonya thought. Strange, but nice. He had soft brown eyes, and he really looked at my eyes and not my fake D cups. The others practically had their tongues down my—

“Nubian princess Jazz?”

Oh, yeah. I’m on TV. How soon I forgot.

She wiggled her grateful toes and picked up her heels. The Crew parted, and Sonya walked a velvety black carpet into the house behind Graham. Instead of pausing in the two-story foyer, he rushed her through the kitchen and out to the pool.

This wasn’t in the “script”! Aren’t I supposed to admire the house and smile at the ridiculously overpriced inkblot paintings in the foyer probably done by three-year-olds? Larry told me we had to—

“We’re behind schedule,” Graham whispered. “Gotta catch up.”

Whatever, Graham, Sonya thought. It wasn’t my idea to do this thing live. She blinked at a glass table beside the pool that contained thirteen glasses full of bubbling champagne. One of those bad boys is going to remain full.

“Now it’s time for each member of the Crew to toast the Nubian princess,” Graham said. He held out a glass to Sonya.

“I don’t drink, Graham,” she said sweetly.

Graham looked past Sonya to Darius.

Darius glared and twirled his finger in the air.

I am really gumming up the works, aren’t I, guys?

“Well, um, the Crew can toast you anyway,” Graham said.

“Sure, Graham,” Sonya said. Sorry to confuse you with information you already should have known. “You could get me a bottled water. I am a little thirsty.”

The UCLA-attendee doesn’t drink, John thought. She won’t even hold a glass of champagne for show, and she seems to enjoy messing with the entire process. Man, if I weren’t in this show, I would definitely be watching at home just to see what she’ll do and say next.

John also couldn’t help thinking: She’s real.