Black Buck(63)

I looked from the man’s hand to Ma, then to the other blond man pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee like he owned the place.

“Who are these people?” I asked, ignoring the men.

Ma looked over her shoulder, and said, “This is—”

“Richard Lawson,” the blonder man said, taking the papers out of Ma’s hands, flipping through them. “And this is Harry Richards.” He nodded at his associate.

“So many dicks,” I said, still stuck in place.

“Darren!” Ma shouted.

It hit me. Richard Lawson was someone I’d spoken to months ago; the real estate agent from Next Chance Management who sent that letter to Ma and kept calling about buying the brownstone.

“Ma,” I said, slowly walking toward her, shoving both Richard Lawson and Harry Richards away from the table. “What are they doing here?”

“Calm down, Darren.”

I snatched the papers from one of the dicks’ hands and leafed through them. One was the deed to the house. The others were copies of the floor plans. Another was a contract to sell.

I slammed the contract on the table, sending a coffee mug crashing to the floor, drenching the dicks’ leather shoes.

“Answer me, Ma!”

“We need to get things in order, Dar. Nothin’ is finalized. But jus’ gettin’ things in order, you know?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t know.”

My heart was pounding and I could feel my veins bulging, threatening to tear and leave me bleeding out on the floor. The room was spinning worse than during a bad hangover, and all of it—Ma, the dicks, the smell of coffee, the sun slowly disappearing over the horizon—turned into some unidentifiable Picasso-like painting.

“Do we need the money, Ma? Are you sick? Is this what all the coughin’ and missed days have been about?”

“No.” She wrapped her hand around my clenched fist. “I jus’ wanna know how much everything is worth. That’s all.”

“You promised,” I said, ripping my fist out of her weak grasp. “You promised that you wouldn’ reply to these, these fuckin’ parasites.”

“Darren, please.” She feebly stood up and reached for my arm.

I ran up to my room, stuffed clothes in my bag, and headed for the door.

“Baby, don’ leave me,” she begged, blocking the doorway. “Not now, baby. Please, not now. You don’ understand.” Thin streams of tears traveled down her cheeks, filling the dry wrinkles around her mouth.

“I do understand, Ma,” I said, moving her out of the way. “I understand that we made a deal, and you broke it. I understand that you’re a fuckin’ liar.”

Down the stairs. Scream my lungs out. Turn the corner. Shatter my phone. Hit the subway. Wipe my tears.



* * *





On Friday, I woke up suffocating. Not in some metaphorical way. I mean I slept on Rhett’s couch the wrong way, and folds of its soft leather covered my face so I literally couldn’t breathe.

“Ahh!” I shouted, clawing my way out. I rolled onto the floor, gasping for air, thinking that Rhett would run out to help. But it was just me, a fresh pot of coffee, and broad waves of sunlight pouring into the living room. Without a phone, I was disconnected from everything I wanted to avoid: Ma, Soraya, the news. It felt good.

I took my time getting dressed, grabbing one of Rhett’s expensive button-ups, denim joggers, and even a pair of his calfskin Maison Margiela high-tops. I devoured the plate of blueberry pancakes, eggs, and sausage that Rhett had left out for me, tossed his wretched excuse for coffee, and found a cab.

When I got to Sumwun, the sales floor wasn’t its normal, chaotic, in-need-of-a-large-animal-tranquilizer self. Instead, everyone quietly fiddled on their keyboards, rearranged their desks, and occasionally looked around before gluing their eyes back to their monitors. Even Clifford the pig looked like someone had died.

“Yo,” I whispered to Charlie, quietly putting my bag down. “What’s going on?”

He leaned in closer, his voice barely audible. “You didn’t see the video? Shit, where have you been?”

“I don’t have my phone, man. What’s going on?”

Charlie grabbed his phone, handed me earbuds, and pressed play on a video. It was of a shirtless Rhett at a club, probably from a month ago, standing on some couches. He was rapping along to Ja Rule and spraying bottles of Dom P everywhere like a madman.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

Charlie shook his head. “Yeah, he could’ve at least picked a better song than ‘Mesmerize.’”

I played it again. Rhett had two attractive women sucking his nipples as he sprayed champagne all over them, exposing their own hard nipples through tight white shirts. Rhett’s eyes were barely open, and the neon lights exposed the outline of a large hard-on.

“Who?”

“A fucking bottle girl, dude. Supposedly she tried blackmailing him, but when he didn’t budge, she sold the video to fucking Bonnie Sauren, and PSST News uploaded it to YouTube.”

“So why is it so quiet in here? Shouldn’t everyone be on the phones?”

Charlie shrugged. “Rhett’s in Qur’an with the board. The windows are all covered.”

I turned toward the frosted doors.