TWENTY-SEVEN

There is nothing romantic about poverty. Having no money meant no weekly spa facials at Mario Badescu in Midtown to ward off telltale wrinkles, no familiar greetings at four-star restaurants, no exquisite one-of-a-kind jewelry from Ethos. In general, being poor was hard on a girl, and downright devastating to a legendary glamour-puss like Reese, who was now forced to witness the dimming of her bright light in real time.

The mirror was no longer her trusted friend. The two-faced bitch was betraying her with sad images of dark shadows lurking beneath her eyes, lackluster skin with overenlarged pores, and hair as limp as two-day-old, overcooked spaghetti. Not to mention the ten extra pounds that a couch, no trainer, and comfort food had added in all the wrong places, or the haunting memory of her six-pack, which she’d proudly sported with midriffs and low-riding hip-huggers. The sour cherry atop these layers of tragedy was walking up Madison Avenue and not having one single head turn. It was sadly sobering not to have one person admire, envy, or lust after her for the entire ten blocks it took to walk—as opposed to being chauffeured—from the subway to her lawyer’s office.

When Justin was finished explaining the terms of her measly settlement in his monotone legalese, Reese was one blink away from an onslaught of tears. How much more humiliation would she be forced to endure?

“If you’ll just sign here, here, and here,” he said, flipping through the pages of the document, “that should do it.” By the time he took his unfair cut, and Uncle Sam grabbed his, Reese would be lucky to have enough to start her life again in, say, Kansas City, let alone in Manhattan. There was a time when she would have scoffed at two hundred thousand dollars—she was fully capable of blowing through that during a long weekend in Saint Barts. But with a sum total of $47.73 left in her checking account, she was relieved to get anything.

Reese sucked it up, put her ego and emotions in check, and focused on survival. “When do I get the money?” As it was, she barely had enough to make it through the day, and her cell phone had just been cut off for nonpayment. She’d called her family for help, but of course they regurgitated every snotty and condescending remark she’d ever fed them during her days of riding high. Her mother wouldn’t even let her come home to live, and her slacker brother started bitching about the basketball tickets she never gave him, and parties she didn’t invite him to, blah, blah, blah.

“As soon as you sign, I’ll have the contract couriered over to Chris’s attorney. He promised to have the money wired immediately. So, let’s say first thing in the morning.”

She was picking up the pen to sign her life away when Paul’s assistant barged into the room.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Nolan, but Paulette Dolliver is on the phone for you.”

“Tell her I’ll call her back later.” As bad as things were, the last thing she needed was a conversation with Paulette. Besides, she couldn’t imagine what Paulette could possibly want that would be urgent enough for her to track Reese down all the way from California—in her attorney’s office, no less.

“But she says it’s urgent.”

Agitated, Reese picked up the phone, which sat on the credenza behind her. “What’s up?” she answered.

“Have you signed the contract yet?” Paulette asked, sounding breathless.

“If you’ll let me off the phone, maybe I can.”

“Whatever you do, don’t sign those papers!”

“Are you crazy? You know I don’t have any money.”

“Listen to me and you’ll have a lot more than what you’re about to get.”

Still aggravated, Reese planted a hand on her hip. “Paulette, what the hell are you talking about?”

“If you had your cell phone on you’d know already.”

“Are you suggesting that I’ve intentionally not paid my cell phone bill? Remember, I have no money!” she shouted.

“Which is exactly why I’m calling you,” Paulette bitched.

“Would you get to the point?” Reese and Paulette had the strangest love/hate relationship. Since they were both hustlers, they were also thick as two thieves, but knowing each other so well, one didn’t really trust the other. Neither of them identified with Lauren, who was way too Goody Two-shoes, nor with Gillian, who was too esoteric. Reese and Paulette had both grown up having to scrape for every crumb, and didn’t know how to operate otherwise, even when bread was plentiful.

“Chris was arrested last night!” she finally announced. There was glee in her voice. Paulette was the kind of person who took delight in other people’s misery; it always made her feel so much better about herself.

“What?! You’re kidding!” Bewildered, Reese shifted the phone from one ear to the other. Her soon-to-be ex-husband was one of the straightest arrows she knew, so it was hard to imagine what he could possibly have been arrested for. He wasn’t a drinker or a partyer, and he didn’t do drugs. It would be easier to image Mother Teresa in cuffs.

“Listen, honey, I wouldn’t kid about anything this important. This is the break we’ve been waiting for.” She’d been trying to reach Reese since she heard the news from her private investigator early this morning.

“What happened?”

“He was stopped in Beverly Hills at four this morning. They charged him with auto theft and drug possession.”

“Auto theft? That makes no sense; Chris can afford any car he wants. Why would he bother stealing one? And the man barely takes a drink, so I can’t believe he was doing drugs, especially the night before a big game.”

“I’m hearing that it was a mistake. Apparently he rented an Escalade and had valet-parked it at the Peninsula, and when he got ready to leave he just didn’t recognize that the one he drove off in was the wrong Escalade. And, of course, an LAPD cop, seeing a black man driving an expensive car at four in the morning, that had been reported stolen, wasn’t hearing any of that.”

“What about the drug charges?”

“Apparently his passenger had Ecstasy and coke, and some meth was found hidden in the car.”

“That’s what he gets for fucking around with Kira!”

“It wasn’t Kira, Reese. It was a guy.”

Reese ignored the instant swell of relief that she felt at knowing Chris hadn’t been with Kira. “This is all very interesting, but what does it have to do with me and my empty pockets?” For Reese, the only urgent matter was the near-zero balance in her bank account.

Paulette was never happier than when she was dishing or stirring hot gossip. “There’s more,” she teased.

“I’m listening.”

“Try this on for size. Chris and his mysterious male passenger had just left a get-together at the Peninsula Hotel.”

“And?”

“It was a down-low party, Reese. Your soon-to-be ex-husband is a bona fide bisexual. He’s been on the DL for years.” Had there only been time, Paulette would have flown back to New York to drop this bombshell in person, just to witness the look of shock on Reese’s face.

She looked as though someone had told her that Mrs. Saint Nick was a dyke. “Wait a minute! I don’t believe that for a minute. Hell, he’s a baller!”

“In more ways than one.” Paulette laughed. “I know this is hard to believe, especially since you were married to the guy, but trust me. Besides, this is just the ammunition we need to get you a bigger check.”

The mention of cha-ching put things back into perspective for Reese, so she pushed aside her shock and got back down to business. “Do you have proof?” She dropped the pen she’d picked up as though it were suddenly poisonous. To think she had been this close to signing a settlement for a measly two hundred thousand dollars.

“How’s this? My detective, who fortunately was still tailing him, was able to use a high-powered lens and got a good shot of him getting a blow job—by someone who obviously isn’t a girl—through the hotel room window.”

“I’ll be damned.” Reese had to sit down. The thought of the man she’d slept with for five years having sex with another man was earth-shattering. And what about AIDS? Oh, my God, she thought, I could be infected!

Paulette was oblivious to Reese’s mental repercussions, and was still in story mode. “Apparently this down-low sex party is a monthly event for a group of like-minded high rollers. That’s how they keep it so discreet. They all have a lot to lose: reputations, wives, girlfriends, kids, and the picket fence. It’s some shit, girl!”

Reese was beginning to feel physically sick. The more she thought about it, the more she was determined to make him pay for what he’d done to her. “Bottom line, how much is it worth?”

“This shit is priceless! But for starters, tear up that ridiculous contract that you have there, and have Justin reopen the negotiations, starting at twenty million. He can afford it, and more important, he can’t afford not to. I’m sure his Nike contract is already in peril, but if we add this to it, he’s doomed—not only with Nike, but with any potential sponsors. He’d even lose his negotiating clout with the NBA, so I say we go for the jugular.”

This was the best news Reese had had in months. Suddenly her future didn’t look quite so bleak. Two hundred thousand was one thing, but $20 million…Now we’re talking!

She hung up the phone, picked up the contract, tore it in half, and turned to a bewildered Justin. “We need to talk,” she said, as visions of shopping sprees danced in her head.