Chapter Five

Three days after the Knicks game, D was chilling at Emily’s Tea Party without Emily, who was home meeting a design deadline for Phat Farm. She would have been happy to know her boyfriend was watching her club for her, though not too thrilled with his companion. Her name was Luna and she was a long-limbed fashion stylist of indeterminate national origin with reddish hair. When D asked, “Did you say you were Irish and Cherokee or Vietnamese, Senegalese, and Spanish?” Luna’s reply was, “Yes,” which meant she either didn’t understand his question due to the music or was not as swift as she was attractive. Either way, D left it at that. The only reason he didn’t excuse himself was that he figured his potential client would be amused.

Ivy Greenwich slid into the club around 12:30 a.m., just as his assistant had said he would. He was alone, which was surprising, but otherwise this was that same commanding, cajoling, crisply dressed dude D had long admired from a distance. As D was taking note of Ivy’s beige suit and sky-blue silk shirt, instinct led the older man to kick game to Luna. After all, he was solo, which made him uncomfortable, and for a true club crawler, the night was young and tender.

Ivy worked the girl with more than just indiscriminate desire. Like most paid players, Ivy understood how to drop science about his bank without flatly stating, I’m rich, baby. Like all old players, Ivy attempted this feat without revealing his age. Also like all old players, Ivy vainly believed he looked at least ten years younger than he was. A young player can ramble on about his virility, and his presence will do the rest. An old player must make it plain that his juice, when properly squeezed, can do wonders for worthy females.

So, before D’s conversation with Ivy began, he kicked game to Luna with all the guile you’d expect of a white-Negro Mack Daddy. With his largeness established at the table and Luna vaguely smitten, Ivy finally focused on D. “I like the crowd here,” he began. “It’s a hip thing, but it’s a pop thing too.”

“Emily,” D answered, “will be flattered you said that.” Seizing the moment to sound sage, he added, “Hip black shit becomes pop over time. Something starts underground. Something or someone introduces it outside the core audience and from there it eventually penetrates mall America.”

“I agree,” Ivy said, as if he were endorsing D for president. “That’s my problem now. I have something that’s already mall America, but it wants to be hip.”

“You talking about Bridgette Haze?”

“I am, indeed. When I signed her, she was fifteen, had played Annie in six productions, and just wanted to be the queen of every mall and state fair in America. I had Debbie Gibson for the new millennium. Not as suggestive as Britney, not as nasty as Janet. Kinda Olsen twins, you know. Sweet, cute, fun, and sang well enough. Two CDs, three major tours, fifty fan websites, one Christmas special, and a Sprite campaign later, she’s twenty-one and wants to move to New York and become the white Mary J. Blige. What do you think of that?”

“Well, Ivy, I’m no expert,” D said, “but from what I’ve seen, that can’t be done with a hard sell. You can’t just drop a load of money, make a few videos, and expect tastemakers to respect her. You got to reposition her by giving her some edge.”

Ivy nodded. “I know. Let people know she dislikes certain things and loves others. Let her be seen wearing the right designers. To be pop, you’ve got to be fuzzy, you know, but to grow and develop, you have to redefine that fuzziness so that you’re shifting as the culture shifts. Mary J. Blige used to be too edgy for mass America—now she’s Aretha Franklin for people who don’t know any better. Bridge could become something new—but it has to be an evolution, not a revolution.”

“Excuse me.” It was Luna, who’d fallen silent during the talk. She stood up and announced, “I’m gonna go dance.”

“Really?” Ivy said. “Well, save one for me. I’m coming out there after ya.”

“I’ll be out there then, waiting,” she said, clearly not expecting Ivy to come.

With a lecherous grin, the older man watched her multiculti body sashay away. “Lovely young lady,” he said, and then shifted gears. “We have a problem, D.” His Southern-by-way-of-Brooklyn voice emphasized the word we.

“This Bridgette Haze thing isn’t a problem for me,” D replied, confused at where this was going.

“No, I’m talking about Night. You told me you were tight with him. I checked up and found out that was true, that you’re like my client’s guardian angel. So what I’m about to say to you is between friends, right?”

“Okay, what’s going on?” D said with deceptive calm. “I haven’t heard from Night in a week and that’s unusual.”

“He was kidnapped, D. He and his girlfriend were on the way into the city from Kennedy after coming in from Atlanta. They want two hundred thousand in hundred-dollar bills to be delivered on Sunday, or they’ll kill Night.”

“What do the police think?”

“The police don’t know,” Ivy said, clearly embarrassed. “The FBI doesn’t know. No one knows except some people in my organization and now you.”

“Why is that?”

“If it gets out that kidnappers snatched Night, I believe it’ll set off a rash of copycat crimes. People these days are followers. Snatch a kid, drop a bomb, or whatever, and ten other people have set up websites about it and made some asshole a minor celebrity. I’m not allowing the crooks or the FBI to hype this out of proportion. I just need someone I can trust to deliver the money and receive Night. After it’s done, then I’ll bring in the bulls.”

“I’m not sure that’s the right call, Ivy.”

“It’s my money they want, so it’s my call. Look, D, I saw you handle yourself with that egoed-out NBA player. You are the perfect person to handle this because you’re cool under pressure and you care about Night. Plus I’ll pay you ten Gs. What do you say?”

In the big scheme of things, ten thousand dollars wasn’t much, but it would still cover a multitude of bills. “Of course I’ll do it,” D answered, “but again, I gotta say I’m not sure this is the right call.”

Ivy was about to say something else when he started coughing—a deep, hacking ejaculation that seemed contemptuous of his aging body. After struggling to suppress the cough, Ivy excused himself and wobbled toward the restroom. D now had a throbbing headache and a stirring in his stomach. Night was like a little brother to him, someone to protect and guide and laugh with. He’d looked out for him many times, but this was a whole other level of risk. It made D queasy. It made him remember.

When Ivy reappeared, the aging mogul looked refreshed. His voice sounded stronger and there was new color in his cheeks. Strong chemicals were at work. “Where’s Luna?” he asked, as if he wanted to banish his short illness from D’s memory.

“Remember,” D said as he surveyed the man, “she went dancing?”

“I’m a great dancer,” Ivy said as he sat back down. D saw that his eyes had a glowing, faraway look. “From the camel walk to the Bankhead bounce, I’ve danced many a woman right into my bed.”

D glanced at Ivy oddly and was trying desperately not to laugh at his new meal ticket’s childish boasting. The strain was showing on his face.

“D,” Ivy said, “I’ll bet you one hundred dollars I can dance that exotic young lady—”

“Luna.”

“Yeah. That I can dance Luna right into my bed.”

“Like you said, it’s your money, Ivy, and you’ve got a lot more of it than I do. In other words, I’ve seen how you roll, so I’m not betting against you.”

“I like you, D. You speak your mind when you need to and you kiss ass when it won’t hurt.” He winked at D. “Help me get Night back on the DL and there’s no telling what we’ll work on,” he said conspiratorially. The two men shook hands, and then the well-medicated Ivy strode toward the dance floor in search of Luna.

Heading to the manger’s office and Chester Himes’s autobiography, D spotted the same young, light-skinned black man who had been clocking him the week before, now leaning against the bar and talking to two other men. They were looking out at the dance floor where Ivy was moving with all the confidence of an unself-conscious fool. Bald head. Small, dark eyes slanted like those of the model Tyson Beckford. Lips with a petulant, know-it-all curl. He caught D glancing his way and turned to face the bar.

D was contemplating going over to him when a small hand grabbed a big hunk of his ass.

“What are you doing here, Emily? Did you finish the designs?”

“I needed a break,” she replied, “and what better one than my party.”

“I hear that,” D said. Then he leaned over and hugged her deeply, craving some physical affection. He was still shaken by Ivy’s revelation.

“I must come late more often, my lovely. You aren’t usually this forthcoming with the public displays.”

“I need you tonight, Emily,” D whispered in her ear.

“Oh my,” she said. “I do have a deadline after all, but I’ll try to squeeze you in.”

* * *

Sometime just before the crack of dawn, D was wiggling like an eel out of water. For the first time in a half hour, his eyes looked up from Emily’s yellow visage and toward the bedpost he held with his left hand. “AHHHHHHH!” His shout of pleasure went on so long it drowned out the Toni Braxton oldie on the radio. Emily didn’t seem to mind. She just gazed at him, grinning like a bookworm acing a spelling bee.

His right hand let loose of Emily’s wet behind and flopped down on the bed, tired from alternating squeezes and caresses. His back had arched like a cat’s when he came. Now, as his cry died, D lowered himself atop her. For a moment, D shut his eyes. Blissful but still very aware, he reached down and slowly eased himself out of Emily, grabbing the ends of the two condoms he wore in an orderly fashion. It had taken months for him to get used to wearing these layers of latex, and even now, aided by a liberal sprinkling of K-Y Jelly and a very careful entry, he felt guilty coming inside Emily. It was dangerous for her, but she wanted to feel him, and every now and then, his male needs overwhelmed his sense of safety. Here he was protecting people for a living and yet he regularly put Emily in mortal danger.

Still, once he’d rolled over and placed the two condoms in a tissue, D lay there wondering how Emily had gotten so good. Was I that good a teacher, he wondered, or had Emily been doing extra homework?

“D, how are you?”

“Oh, I’m good, baby. I’m always good with you.”

“No.” She was insistent. “How are you?”

Now D opened his eyes. Emily’s head rested in her hand and loomed over him. “You think much about your family?”

“Sweetcakes, why are we gonna have this conversation now?”

“Because you never talk about them. I think that maybe that’s why you’re so distant.”

“Emily,” he said sternly, trying to cut this convo short, “I’m fine. I’ve dealt with it, okay?”

“But you being an only child, I think—”

“Emily.” He spoke in a quiet, hushing tone. “Baby. Thank you so much for caring. No one else does, you know. I mean, you have been so understanding about all my issues. In my heart I know that you care about what I’m thinking and how I feel, but now, while I feel so satisfied, is not the time to talk about this.”

D reached down and took Emily’s breasts in his hands, rubbing his palms against her nipples, slowly, and licked the sweat off her neck and shoulders. “Are you sore?” he whispered.

“No,” she whispered back, her mouth on his ear. “Not if you aren’t.”

Now they were back in a groove and, for the time being, D’s lies were obscured by passion. He moved one large hand to her thigh and the other under the bed. He pulled out her mechanical toy and laid it on the bed next to her as he kissed her neck, lips, and face. After she put up with his condoms, he owed her. As he moved his face down her belly and one hand squeezed her nipples, D clicked on her toy. Emily began to breathe heavily. He smiled as he reached her belly button.