RASHEEMA Lawrence’s burgundy-tinted arched eyebrows raised again as she read over the deed to the condominium she and her husband were closing on today.
“And the lien search was clear?” she demanded through shiny full lips outlined in dark brown pencil.
The wiry man with the blond curly-top from the title-search company, Oscar Kratt, nodded and said, “Yes ma’am,” eager to prove that he had done his job. As Manny was discovering, nobody wanted to suffer the wrath of Rasheema.
Everyone sitting around the blond wood oblong table in Manny’s brightly lit conference room nodded. Though it cost him way too much rent, Manny had office space at Sixty-fifth Street and Columbus Avenue. He used a per diem receptionist, calling a temp agency when clients showed up. His goofy-looking personal assistant cost him forty thousand a year plus a bonus every time the young man brought in a listing or referral. But the expenses were worth it. The office made the agency look sound, a stable, growing business.
Rasheema fit every physical stereotype of a young NBA millionaire’s wife. Manny imagined that the twenty-seven-year-old was attractive beneath the layers of blond hair dye, weave, and green contacts. She wore designer monograms from her pink-tinted chrome Chanel glasses to her Louis Vuitton leather jacket, from her Dolce & Gabbana skintight T-shirt to her Gucci belt, down to her Prada shoes. She was a designer billboard, only she hadn’t bothered to conceal the labels on the inside of her clothes. Her ensemble screamed to the world, “Look at me, I’m wearing expensive designer clothing!” She and her Afro-wearing, overgrown child of a husband were newer than nouveau riche and were not even ghetto fabulous. At first they just seemed to be plain ghetto, with the distinguishing characteristic of a hundred-million-dollar NBA contract. Despite appearances, Manny had come to realize, Rasheema had them all fooled. He watched her meticulously reading over the closing documents.
Manny was certain that the seller’s broker, Gerald Locke, an uptight WASP recently out of the closet, hadn’t expected the closing to be so protracted. Gerald was such a snob he probably assumed that the Lawrences would blindly sign all of the closing documents without reading them, especially since there was no bank involved. The Lawrences were paying cash for the five-million-dollar penthouse condominium at Riverside Drive and Ninety-fifth Street. Unlike most New York Knicks, Faheed Lawrence had decided to live in the city instead of Purchase, New York, or Englewood, New Jersey, or Stamford, Connecticut—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that his wife had made the decision for them. She thought the city would be a better place to jump-start her modeling career. The woman was delusional, Manny thought. Rasheema had proudly informed Manny when he started showing them property that her credits included the side of a hair-relaxer box; a billboard for alligator stilettos, displayed only in Detroit and Chicago; and, as Manny embarrassingly discovered, she was a “booty” girl in several rap videos. So many, in fact, that a teenage boy in an apartment Manny had shown the Lawrences on West End Avenue had asked her to autograph the poster of her well-oiled booty prominently displayed on his wall.
When the couple contacted Manny after seeing several of his ads in magazines two months ago, he agreed to take them on as clients, figuring they would buy quickly. Tacky as they seemed, a five-million-dollar cash deal was worth any shame he might endure, especially considering how flat the market was. Entertainment money, Manny had learned, was usually recession-proof.
In spite of her appearance and misplaced aspirations, Manny kind of liked Rasheema. She knew how to handle Faheed, and much to the surprise of the white folks congregated around the table—all waiting to get a piece of the Lawrences’ basketball money—she knew how to manage their affairs. It was also refreshing to deal with someone who was so real, even if he did occasionally feel like he was baby-sitting.
“If you would like, Mrs. Lawrence, you can also pay your property taxes for the remainder of the quarter to my title company,” Oscar said, obviously feeling it was necessary to address Rasheema only now. Not that Manny could blame Oscar. Faheed was sitting in his chair with his head bopping and six-inch Afro flipping back and forth. His eyes darted everywhere in the room other than at the participants. He glanced at the colorful Michael Ray Charles posters on the wall, at the white KRUPS coffeemaker on the marble corner table, out the twelfth-floor window overlooking Columbus Avenue. He barely looked up long enough to sign the closing documents. Manny wondered what Faheed might be thinking; he had definitely checked out of the closing. He reminded Manny of a street person living an alternative life in his head, as if he were playing a pickup game of one-on-one in his own mind.
Meanwhile, Rasheema stared at Oscar quizzically and said, “When are the taxes due?”
“At the end of the next quarter.”
“Which would be?”
“Mid-January.”
Setting down the document, Rasheema stared at Oscar as if he were crazy. “It’s October now. Why would I give your company my money to earn interest on until then?”
“Well, it’s common practice,” Oscar began, before Rasheema abruptly cut him off.
“No, thank you, I’ll keep my own money until the taxes are due, and I’ll keep my own canceled check as a record that we paid our taxes,” she said before turning to her white male attorney, who looked like he would rather be playing a round of golf than sitting here with them. “What’s next?” she asked.
In response, the pasty-skinned seller’s lawyer, acting on behalf of his absentee clients, took the lead and informed Rasheema that the remaining taxes for the quarter were due, as well as the prorated maintenance fee for the remainder of the month. He then handed Rasheema the supporting documentation, and home girl promptly pulled out her two-way pager and began using it as a calculator, cross-checking the tax and maintenance-fee figures. Her expression resembled that of an overly aggressive cross-examiner waiting to find an inconsistency in the witness’s testimony. After completing her calculations, she carefully wrote out the two additional checks. She asked, “Who gets these?”
Tentatively, Oscar raised his hand and told Rasheema, “I’ll take the one for the remaining taxes, and I believe the seller’s attorney will take the maintenance-fee check.”
“So, I presume I don’t have to write any more checks today,” she announced.
Manny told her that was correct, especially since he had his hundred-and-twenty-five-thousand-dollar check in his coat pocket and was anxious to get on with the day. He and Trenton were going to a straight party with Lauren later on, and then to the Dive in the Village. Trenton was always more available on the days Manny was collecting commission checks. Also, Manny was trying to make Trenton feel more comfortable around his friends.
“Doesn’t the settlement sheet need to be signed?” the pasty lawyer asked, looking at Gerald Locke and then at Manny. He was referring to the sheet that listed all of the payout information: who received what money in the closing.
“Oh, yes it does,” Locke began, then said what Manny was thinking. “But it hasn’t been filled out yet. We can just all sign it, and we’ll fill in the numbers later.”
Even though it was common practice, Manny could see by the look on Rasheema’s face that she wasn’t going to put her name on anything without knowing exactly what she was signing. As their broker, Manny felt obligated to suggest filling out the settlement sheet appropriately and then sending it to the Lawrences. The absence of the payout information would not stop the closing from going through, but Rasheema’s attitude about signing an incomplete form would prolong the already endless meeting.
Rasheema immediately accepted Manny’s suggestion and gathered up her belongings before telling her lawyer, “I’ll bind my own closing documents.” Then she stood up, glanced down at the still-seated Faheed, and said, “Come on, Boo.” Obligingly, he bopped up, all six feet ten inches of him, and followed his wife, who looked more like his older fly sister than his spouse.
After Manny ushered everyone out of the conference room, he sighed in relief. He then headed to his office to check his voice mail. As he was reaching for his high-back leather swivel chair, it spun around to a grinning shirtless Trenton.
“Surprise,” he said, grabbing Manny to him. Falling into Trenton’s lap, Manny knew in the back of his mind that it was no “surprise” that Trenton had shown up at his office on the day of a closing. Trenton could sniff out money better than a hound tracking the scent of a missing child. But as Trenton began rubbing Manny’s legs and then his groin, Manny didn’t care why his lover had shown up; he was too lost in the moment.