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NEW YORK, NY—HECTOR’S Brazilian Bistro
Sunday evening, Naim Butler, Derrick Adams, and their depression settled into their regular corner four-top at Hector’s Brazilian Bistro. Their favorite waitress dropped off champagne glasses and a bucket with chilled bottles of their favorite stress medication: Dom Perignon coupled with shots of Ciroc red-berry vodka. They enjoyed the therapeutic concoction while reflecting on their eventful day.
Easing through their second dose, they were joined by Hector, the restaurant’s namesake and their close friend. He threw them a suspicious smile. “Well, aren’t you two on your sartorial worse. Costumes? It’s only August.”
“On-demand movers,” Naim said, smiling, raising his eyebrows. He cocked his head to the side.
“We delivered the boys to Columbia today to start their freshman year. They’re the school’s problem now,” said Derrick, laughing.
“Good, it’s not Halloween?” Hector said. “Dumped them off at college, so now your misery begins. Drink up.”
“How?” Naim asked, pouring himself another Perignon/Ciroc mix.
“Empty-nest heartache,” Hector said. “And good luck with the thoughts of what they’ll be doing. Jesus. Do you recall our freshman year at Tulane?”
“I was fucking my brains out,” Naim replied.
“As was I,” added Derrick, sipping and chuckling.
“And remember, I’ve been a dad barely nine months, so I’ll manage,” Naim said.
“Still can’t believe Sinia didn’t tell you that she had a baby by you for seventeen-damn-years. Tragedy,” Hector said, shaking his head.
“Indeed. Grateful that we’re over that. He has to reside on campus for his freshman year, but he lives in the former maid quarters attached to my house—”
“Mini-manse,” Derrick said, interrupting him. “Where you live is hardly described as a house.”
“Words are powerful,” Naim said sarcastically. “Has anyone ever told you how impeccable you are with words?”
“Well, a judge or two complimented me on my closing.”
“You’re an ass,” Hector said, laughing.
“That he is,” Naim said. “What prosecutor isn’t? I’ll be teaching a Criminal Law class at Columbia, too, so I’ll be on the campus keeping an eye on my boy.”
“Now you’re a spy?” Derrick asked, laughing. “First you get a license to practice law, and now you’re an investigator.”
“Better than all of those clowns investigating at your office.”
“You two are crazy,” Hector said. He stood and asked, “What are you two eating tonight? After moving stuff all day, I know you’re famished.”
“Something healthy for us,” Derrick said, “because I’m trying to lose my gut.”
“I have a six percent body fat, so he’s speaking for himself,” Naim said. “I’ll have a fully-loaded Hawaiian flatbread pizza. Give him water and a Hydroxy Cut Black pill.”
They laughed and Hector walked away in time to avoid a tall, almond-hued, bottle-blonde in an expertly tailored Chanel tweed suit. She was headed for their table. Arriving she sat. “Well, hello, boys,” Sinia Love said, leering a little.
Naim furrowed his brows. “Hello, Sinia. We’re men by the way.”
“Tomatoe. Tomatah,” she replied, rolling her eyes.
“What brings you into this fine restaurant?” Naim asked. A large gulp of vodka straight from the bottle followed the question.
“This is where the New York upper-assholes, oops, I meant, Upper East Siders, that can afford to eat here hang out, right?”
“I live in Brooklyn,” Derrick said flatly, sipping his cocktail.
“Then I’m not referring to you, right?” Sarcastic smirk followed an exaggerated wink.
Her emphasis of the word right crawled beneath Derrick’s skin. “Let’s start over,” he said, clasping his hands together. “Why are you here?”
“Not to see you,” Sinia replied.
The last time she had been in Hector’s, she created a Broadway musical scene, and was asked to leave.
To Naim, she said, “I need to hire an attorney of the criminal defense kind.” She gently pat Naim’s hand. “I need to hire you because—”
“Wait,” Naim said, holding up a hand. He pinched his bushy eyebrows together and blinked uncontrollably. “I cannot discuss a case, rather, a potential case, in front of a prosecutor. Ethics and privilege conundrum.” He had only passed the bar exam months ago, but he knew that much.
“How sad your life must be, Naim. I mean, a prosecutor for a best friend has to be miserable,” she said, curling her lips, and throwing eye-daggers at Derrick.
“No, what’s sad is...You being the sad mother of his child, I’ll contain my atrocious comments out of respect for Naim and Marco, but know—” Derrick began as the waitress placed plates on the table interrupting him.
The waitress asked, “Can I get something for you, ma’am?”
Sinia stood and said, “No, I was just going.”
“Thank God,” Derrick said.
Ignoring him, she looked down at Naim, and said, “I’ll be at your home office tomorrow at ten-thirty a.m.”
“No, you’ll call my secretary tomorrow and schedule an appointment,” Naim replied, tucking a cloth napkin into the collar of his T-shirt.
“Look at you all professional and stuff. You’ve always had epic etiquette.” She playfully tapped his shoulder. “I won’t be handled by your people like I’m a stranger.”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, your boyfriend held me, our son, and our dates at gunpoint in my home. Our son killed your lover. Ring a bell?” Naim asked, smiling.
“If Marco wasn’t under eighteen and unable to make his own decisions, you’d have a restraining order lodged against you,” the prosecutor added.
“Naim,” she said, clutching imaginary pearls. “Is this how you allow a man to talk to your child’s mother? Does the pathetic prosecutor talk to Brandy Scott with such venom?”
Both men were amazed at her animation. She was an aloof, uncreative woman, and quite predictable. This new person was a bit much.
“Sinia...Sinia,” Naim said, frowning. “Tomorrow, I have to teach and I have other engagements, so you will call my secretary. Or not. Your call. But you’re not welcome to my home.” Another scorching gulp of vodka. Pain spread across his face.
“Trespassing is a crime in New York City,” the prosecutor said, biting into a crunchy slice of vegetable flatbread pizza to punctuate the threat.
“Congrats on the professorship, Naim,” she said, ignoring Derrick again. “Your class is at eight a.m. You have a conference at Baker and Keefe at eleven-thirty. I’ll be at your office, your home office at ten. Toodles.” She pivoted and walked away.
“How’d she know your schedule?” Derrick asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Not quite. My guess involves nefarious methods. Hacking. Home invasion. Crimes that I’d go above and beyond to lock her ass under the jail for committing.”