The Importance of Being Dangerous (5 page)

It
was
a beautiful dress. A knockout dress. The kind of dress four hundred and fifty women believe they must own and only three can wear. It was a strapless gold lamé evening gown, with a low-cut V revealing maximum cleavage and short slits at the top of the calves. You had to have the calves and the cleavage to wear it. Then you needed to have a statue's neck and only the most sculpted African shoulders. Even if you had all that, plus height enough to show how it all worked, you had to have the figure of a most bodacious mermaid to make it look like skin.

“It's gotta cost a fortune,” said Sidarra.

“Let's go see,” Aunt Chickie decided, and they went in.

The store was one of a thousand identical cheap clothing stores on strips like this all over the country. New York City had at least half of them. They stretched cheap evening gowns and party clothes from hooks on the walls and ceilings. Neon-colored two-piece outfits hung everywhere on hangers from above. If it wasn't tacky in some way or another, the Arabs or Asians or Colombians or Russian Jews who owned the place refused to stock it. Somehow you rarely saw anyone ever wearing such clothes. Yet in spite of all the hundreds of thousands of clown outfits hanging on racks throughout the huge place, there was this gold lamé wonder in the window.

The store was crispy cool and totally empty except for two eager brown salesmen. “Young man, I'd like to sit down near the dressing room. My niece would like to see that dress in a size eight,” Aunt Chickie ordered.

“Well, maybe a ten, too,” Sidarra added.

The salesman led the three of them through tight pinball rings of circular clothing racks to the middle of the store. Aunt Chickie
had ambled her way to a bench when the man came back holding two dresses and gesturing toward the changing room door. Raquel wanted to come in with her mother. They crowded into the small cubby together while Sidarra undressed. She was relieved when the size ten was too big. Raquel sat cross-legged on the floor. As soon as Sidarra had managed to get out of the first one, Aunt Chickie was sticking her head between the lime green curtains.

“What's goin' on in here? What's taking so long? Y'all stealin' something?” Sidarra just laughed, standing in her underwear, ready to step into the dress. Aunt Chickie looked her up and down as only an old aunt or a mother could do. “Well, look at you, Sid.”

“What?” Sid blushed, bending her knee to pull the dress up.

“Raquel, take a good look at your mother.
That,
my dear, is a body. And you gonna have one too. Apparently for a very long time.” Aunt Chickie pulled her face away and disappeared back to her bench. Still in earshot but out of sight, she added: “Don't give that thing away, either. I mean, who knew?”

Sidarra paid her no mind and finished slipping the dress up and around her torso. The size eight was it. That much she could tell in the sliver of a mirror on the wall. And from the look in her daughter's eyes. “Wow, Mom. You look mad fine. Like a queen. Or even a princess.”

“Really?”

“No doubt.”

Sidarra smiled sweetly and stepped out into the fluorescent light of the big, open room. “Ta-da!”

Aunt Chickie put her hand to her mouth, not for herself but for her sister, who was not alive to see her own child shine so beautifully. “Incredible,” is all she could say, her graying eyes slowly going over every inch of the dress fitting perfectly on Sidarra's frame. “It's like they made it for you, Sidarra. My God, that's a pretty sight.”

Like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, the fantasy ended. There was no way in the world she could afford that dress. The longer Sidarra stood there wanting it with them, the deeper her disappointment would be. She had just been unable to afford Raquel's cheap shoes. Letting this go should be easy. This was a luxury. She didn't have any money. Simple as that.

“We gonna make you autograph the others,” said the salesman. “I give you a good deal on that today. Serious.”

Sidarra shook her head and started back into the dressing room to take it off. “How much?” Aunt Chickie asked.

“Every day, three hundred dollars,” the guy said without blinking. “Today, for lovely lady, two hundred and fifty.”

Even Raquel joined in the you-gotta-be-joking look he got. Everyone knew these stores ask for twice as much as they ever hope to get. There was a long silence, like a bunch of gangsters waiting to see who'd shoot first.

“I'll give you a hundred and fifty,” Sidarra suddenly spat out.

“A hundred and seventy-five,” he shot back.

Silence again. “C'mon, Mommy. Nothing you have is nice.”

“What? What do you know, little girl? You ain't even got any school shoes.”

“Do it, woman,” Aunt Chickie said, searching in her purse for a piece of gum. “You'll be old tomorrow.”

“Well…” Sidarra fidgeted and fumbled, standing there in the dress like a bolt of light. “I can't do it today, but we can do that price. I'm a little short today. I'll give you a small deposit to hold it. You give me a receipt, and, uh, we'll go from there.”

“No layaway,” the guy said, trying to be firm about it despite the fact that the big store was just as empty now as when they came in.

“It's not layaway,” she said, quickly coming up with investment club knowledge. “It's securitization. I give you something as collateral, and you hold it in trust for me on installment.”

That seemed to work. Sidarra gave him ten dollars, saving just enough for three hot dogs when they got out of there. She left with a receipt, and they walked out into the setting August sun. Raquel smiled ear to ear all the way home, saying not another word about children making shoes in Taiwan.

A few blocks from home, while Raquel was busy singing, Aunt Chickie had to say something she had been keeping back. “I wished I coulda helped you out back at that store, Sid. I truly do. I wish I coulda bought Raquel's shoes, too. I wasn't sure how to ask you, but I'm in a bit of a fix myself right now. My rent is due, and I had to buy some medication I lost on the bus. They only pay for it once, you know. I see 'em kick old folks out if they get behind more than a month, the lists are so long. But I think I'm okay. I think we gonna make it anyhow.”

Raquel kept singing into the thick evening air. Sidarra held both their hands and kept them on a slow, even pace uptown. She knew without a doubt that she might as well have given that ten dollars to Tyrell, because she was never going to see that dress again.

AFTER SIDARRA'S PARENTS DIED
, she became the kind of person who sleeps with the TV on. She was never that way before, though she knew many older people, especially women like Aunt Chickie, who regularly fell asleep to the sounds of old movies and commercials and awoke to morning news shows and more commercials. They did it for the white noise, she discovered, because they preferred that to their own thoughts. For her it had been better than reenacting her parents' violent death in her mind. It was better than thinking about the stubborn silence that commenced soon afterward between her and her oldest brother, Alex. That stupid breakup kept sadly repeating itself, an unavoidable fixture of her nighttime mourning, until she discovered how white noise could distract her into sleep. The TV also interrupted the endless replays of demeaning conversations she had at work. When he slept over, it could drown out Michael's long, throaty snoring, which had always managed to remind Sidarra of her loneliness—even in
Michael's presence. And most of the time the TV could even overcome her worries about Raquel. The TV's white noise muffled the sound of a bad song her life kept playing in her head.

Yet a strange thing started to happen to her: the song of Sidarra's life seemed to change just a bit. It still held the halting low notes of Tyrell creeping up on her from behind a corner, and the tired blues chords of every day at work. Her shame inside the Payless kept up its steady reprise, and a soft requiem for the four schoolgirls still lingered. But it had some high notes now. It was her own curiosity about a life with less fear that led Sidarra to a stock market investment club. She discovered friends again when she had forgotten how, a crew with its own stuff to talk about, and she had at least one night a week when, led by her uncle's beautiful pearl-handled cue stick, she could play in the green glow of a pool table and talk tough about business. She felt different and talked different. But usually the best thing to think about in bed was this long, brown, intense man, Griff. He had good voice. He had good tone. And she loved the way he said her name. She could listen to that all night. Which is why Sidarra began to sleep with the TV on but the sound turned off. It would still be several weeks before she would sing her new song aloud. For now she began instead to dream.

“Sidarra,” Griff said. “It's your turn, baby.”

They were playing in another beat-up place, an underground pool hall on West Twenty-second Street, when the second sidecar martini allowed Sidarra to turn the mischief of a private worry into words, which she was now ready to spit out. “Is anyone interested in making some money? Because I need some money,” she asked.

Yakoob smiled. “You're not saying you wanna start some action up in here, are you, baby?”

“Not pool, Koob. Stocks. I hate to admit it, but I really need to see some profit. Soon.” She almost began to whisper, as if she'd be embarrassed if someone could hear her over the blaring rock
music. “I mean, I might have to sell off some of my positions. Did you ever expect making a little gain would come so slow?”

The ice above the river of moneymaking discontent was now officially broken. Griff and Yakoob each wore looks of pure commiseration. They had all learned a lot in the investment club, but they had made almost nothing yet.

Yakoob pulled himself off the stool and prepared to take a shot. “Well, I'ma tell y'all a little secret. This ain't likely the unit that's gonna bring down the cash, you know what I'm saying? This club is carrying some low-level yokels.”

Sidarra and Griff didn't want to hear that. They wanted to keep drinking and playing in the hopes that someone would come up with something reassuring, like a stock tip. But shot after shot Yakoob kept pressing his point.

“I'm not kidding. I know. Y'all keep talking like the
group
could do this, the
group
that, combine shit, whatever:
ain't gonna happen
. That Spanish dude who sits in front, Julio? He ain't got no money. He got more idea than money, y'all, and I promise you he ain't got
no
idea. Nice guy. No clue. Maybe invested eleven hundred dollars at first. Been sold off over six hundred and fifty by now.
Six hundred and fifty dollars!
Think about it.” Sid and Griff put down their cue sticks, and Yakoob went on to recite detailed financial information about every single member of the investment club.

“Koob, how the hell do you know all that shit about these people?” Siddara asked with a hand on her hip.

“I know.”

Griff squinted and walked up on Koob real calm. “The fuck you know?”

“All I need to know, blood. I know their names.”

“Social Security numbers?” Griff asked.

“That's not a problem.” Both Sid and Griff had to take a sec
ond before saying more. Yakoob continued. “Not to mention that the broke blind is leading the blind broke,” he giggled, a little impressed with his own wit. “Harrison's real assets, bless the nigga's heart, look like a paperboy's. He keeps his gains in a piggy bank, and it's a small one. The only thing he owns is a state-subsidized cooperative apartment, but he couldn't sell it at market if he wanted to.”

“He's a good group leader,” Sidarra said.

“Yeah, but this ain't summer camp, sweetheart,” said Yakoob, back on his stool, getting serious. “If it is, it's the Fresh Air Fund for little street niggas like us and we supposed to be glad to see a real tree.”

“Okay, you can learn this stuff, but can you manipulate it, too?” Griff asked.

“It can be reached,” Koob answered, making a tap-tap-tap gesture with his fingers on an imaginary keyboard. “Most times, a name, maybe an address, will get you through to account numbers, credit lists, available funds statements. Nowadays people are dumb enough to e-mail credit reports all over the place. You don't even need to break into databases.”

“PIN numbers?”

“PINs, too. Eventually. It's easier than you think.”

“That is some real shit!” Sidarra exclaimed. She was stuck trying to figure out in her head what all that could mean. “So you don't think this club's in any position to make real money soon? That's what you're saying? You just like to play pool with us?”

“Not really. It could,” Yakoob answered. “And yeah, I like playin' with y'all.”

“Hold up, Koob,” Griff said. He had to be clear about something. “This is your chance to tell me you did not do a check on me.” His eyes were hidden in the shadow of the pool table lamp, but his meaning was unmistakable.

“Not you, Griff,” he answered, and they shook hands in relief. “'Cause you're a fucking lawyer, and I'm not interested in all that.”

“Good, 'cause I know people who'll kill you if that ever happens.”

Yakoob kept his eyes down on his cigarette. “I probably know 'em too, but okay.”

That was uh-oh for Sidarra. Suddenly she felt like she wasn't wearing any clothes. “You wouldn't,” she said, squinting and pointing a finger at Yakoob.

“Well, gorgeous,” Yakoob sighed, and smiled at her. “Let me just say I'm sorry about that bullshit at Payless. I coulda helped you with that one if I'd known ahead of time.”

“You motherfucker!” she screamed. Now she really felt naked.

“For real. I could,” Koob went on. “Emergencies, baby. Just emergencies. Look, before y'alls' looks get too hard on a brother, remember, I'm in the class, too. I'm trying to go legit. I'm trying to learn just how the game is played. But at the end of the day, we gotta do what we do to do what we gotta do.”

Griff took a long shot that thundered down the whole table and spanked a ball in the pocket like the crescendo pop of somebody bowling a strike.

“I don't know what you mean by emergencies, Koob, but I was just trying to get my little girl her school shoes,” said Sidarra, hiding her curiosity badly.

“I can set you up with a new card, with a new name. Just for emergencies.”

“It would be someone else's, though,” Griff said.

“Probably so,” Yakoob answered, and lined up a shot. “Something to think on.”

They continued to play pool. They learned some, but not all, of what a hacker can do. Yakoob knew people who were serving time for getting too crazy. Or just being foolish. And he learned enough about their mistakes to know he was not easily persuaded
to use his gifts like that. That is, he could be persuaded to use them, and he at least felt the potential for persuasion amid the three of them. Though he never said it out loud that night, what could change things was knowledge. Knowing how to do certain things with computers didn't always mean knowing
what
to do with them. He might also need a crew.

Sidarra started to act a little high on the secret, missing trick shots all over the table and enjoying forbidden thoughts about what good this new credit card could do for her world. And the company she was in. She enjoyed that more than the heavy sweetness of a sidecar martini. Mischief had not occurred to her since she was about Raquel's age. It hadn't been known to Griff since high school. Once again, Tuesday night had put everything into a different perspective.