CHAPTER 13

Today wasn’t half bad. Maxwell pulled his black Hummer out of the parking garage and headed home. He still had not gotten used to Sheila not being there. Why did Sheila need to steal? She hadn’t shown any signs that she needed money or was in any kind of trouble; if anything, she seemed happy and relaxed. Her boyfriend, Michael, had just proposed, and they were planning their wedding. Everything seemed fine. Maybe she stole the money for her wedding reception. She was having it at the Houstonian; that place was definitely expensive. But with what Dee Dee was paying her and Michael’s new promotion at NASA, they should be able to afford a big wedding. It made no sense…Why did Sheila take that money?

He had to find out. Sheila had cleaned out her office but had left one box of files on Maxwell’s desk. She was the only one Dee Dee entrusted with unlimited access on her business credit card. He’d looked through the files and had seen evidence of cash advances withdrawn on Sheila’s card. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why she would need such large sums of money when she was getting paid so well. He owed it to her to find out what really happened. The last time they’d talked her voice had been so choked with tears that Michael had come to the phone and ended their conversation, explaining that she was getting too upset.

He pushed the thought out of his head and instead focused on the beautiful trees around him. He loved the fact that even though Houston was a big city, it was surrounded by nature. It was not unusual to see parking lots surrounded by pine trees, sidewalks filled with azalea bushes, and street medians overflowing with crape myrtles, their fragrant blooms a rainbow of pinks and purples.

Maxwell turned the radio on to his favorite jazz station. He had a ritual going; R&B and hip-hop in the morning to wake him up and smooth jazz in the evening to calm him down and help him unwind. Another lesson learned from his father, Ray.

He was in a pretty good mood, and since his father’s restaurant wasn’t too far from his loft apartment downtown, he decided to make a quick detour and get a drink. It was still early, he might even catch the happy hour crowd.

His father owned Ray’s, one of the hippest Creole restaurants in Houston. It catered to Houston’s elite: wealthy businessmen, rich, bored housewives, and young urban singles. What made his place stand out wasn’t just the delicious food, it was the entertainment that he managed to get on most weekends. It wasn’t unusual to see the latest R&B crooner on the small stage, making the Cajun blackened chicken breasts with homemade Cajun seasoning taste even more delicious than before. His father had a knack for charming people in the door, and for the past eight years the restaurant had seen huge success. The Houston Chronicle had called it “first class in food and entertainment.” He loved the atmosphere at Ray’s Place, from the ocean blue walls to the contemporary chairs. His father had been, and still was, involved in every detail of the place. He liked to call the décor jazzy, classy Las Vegas.

On his way, Maxwell passed the sleek new Metrorail, the first phase of a city planning initiative meant to meet the transit needs of Houston’s growing population. When it expanded to other parts of the city the system was expected to make a major dent in Houston’s traffic problem. During the initial phase, his father complained that all the construction would deter people from coming to the restaurant. But his patrons stood by, and he was busier than ever. Maxwell waited patiently for traffic to let up so he could start looking for a place to parallel park. He saw a prime spot right in front of the restaurant, but knew he could never swing his Hummer into such a small space. After several tries, he gave up and knew his lazy butt would just have to walk. He parked a block away and got out in the hot, heavy summer heat.

Walking quickly to avoid ruining his Egyptian cotton shirt with sweat, Maxwell prayed for a breeze. Thank you, he thought, as he felt a small, pitiful excuse for air sweep across his cheek. He finally reached the heavy oak doors to the restaurant and welcomed a burst of cool air.

“Hey, Debra,” he said to the beautiful hostess.

“Hey, Maxwell,” Debra responded in a friendly voice. A little too friendly. “You here to see yo daddy?”

“Yeah. He around?”

“Check in the back.”

“Thanks.”

“Wait, Maxwell, you want me to hang your suit jacket up for you?”

“No thanks, I’m fine.”

She reached out and touched his shoulder. He stopped and looked down at her. “You sure?” she asked, a look of desperation in her eyes.

The desperate look in Debra’s eyes disgusted him, as it did every time he saw her. He tried to be pleasant to her because he knew she had strong feelings for him, but at every opportunity he let her know he wasn’t interested. “No thanks, Debra,” Maxwell said firmly, walking to the back of the restaurant to find his father.

It was crowded, filled with people laughing, drinking and eating; the triple threat, his father used to say. “Son, if you feed people, make him laugh and give them a little alcohol, that money will slide right out of their hand.” His theory seemed to be working as he maneuvered himself through the sea of white tableclothed tables, the smell of bacon-wrapped shrimp and chicken and sausage gumbo, making his mouth water. Maybe he’d stay and have a bite to eat…He reached his father’s office and knocked.

“Yo, Pop, you in there?”

He put his ear against the mahogany door and heard a woman’s laugh.

Not again.

He was about to knock again, but the door swung open and a beautiful woman walked out. Laughing, she looked Maxwell up and down and walked past him back into the restaurant. Maxwell slammed the door behind her.

“I’m tired of this, Pop. This has got to stop.”

Smoothing his pinstripe Armani suit, Ray stood and glared at his son.

“I’m serious, Pop.”

“Stop acting like that. You worse than some of these women. I ain’t doing nothin’ but being a man. If you don’t like what you see then stay out of my restaurant. Last time I checked it said Ray’s, not Maxwell’s.”

“I’m not tryin’ to preach, Pop…”

“Sounds like what you doing.”

“Look, I just want you to slow down.”

“Maybe you need to speed up,” Ray said. “What you doing here, anyway? I thought you’d still be at the sissy parlor. I mean, beauty parlor,” Ray said, chuckling.

“Not funny, Pop,” Maxwell said quietly.

“Come on now, boy. What respectable man would want to work at a beauty salon? Besides to get women? And you doing a poor job at that. When you gonna come be my partner at the restaurant? You know I could use your help.”

“We’re not having this discussion again. I’m well aware you hate my job, but I like it. I went from dumping trash for Dee Dee, to sweeping hair, to barber, then manager, then maybe one day partner. That’s what I want.”

“Oh, boy, wake up!” Ray said sharply. “You know Dee Dee ain’t giving you no partnership, especially when her own daughter works there! She’s gonna keep that salon in the family; I keep tellin’ you that!”

“Yeah, Pop, you keep telling me that, but I don’t wanna hear it right now! All this mess just to get a drink.”

“Boy, man up! Stop being so sensitive,” Ray said. “Come on, let’s go to the bar and I’ll get you that drink.”

They walked out together and Maxwell wondered why he came to see his father as often as he did.

“Who was she, anyway?” Maxwell asked.

“One of our new waitresses,” Ray said, winking at him.

He burst out laughing. He couldn’t help himself.

Walking behind his father, Maxwell watched as he worked his way through the restaurant, a king surveying his kingdom. He looked pretty good for his age, Maxwell thought. In fact, take away a few gray hairs and they could pass for brothers. Ray was tall, at least six feet, two inches; not as tall as his son, but still taller than the average man. They shared the same dark, smooth skin and both were physically fit.

Maxwell watched him flirt with a group of women half his age.

If mama were alive, he wouldn’t give those women a second glance.

She had died of cancer only a few years ago, but Ray was acting as if everything was all right. He wondered if he would ever go back to the father who played golf with him and read his Bible for fifteen minutes every morning. He was afraid that the good part of his father had died with his mama.

He reached the bar and ordered a vodka on the rocks.

“Hey, Rick, get me a glass of merlot,” Ray said, taking a stool next to his son.

“You was walking behind me; how you get here so fast?”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

“Watch it, boy,” Ray said, smiling.

Maxwell smiled, too. Even he was not immune to his father’s charm.

“Did you speak to Debra when you came in?” Ray asked.

Maxwell gave him a weird look, thanked Rick for his drink and took a sip, feeling the pleasantly familiar liquid burn his throat.

“Well?” his father said impatiently.

“Yeah, I spoke.”

“What happened?”

“Nothin’.”

“She likes you, son.”

“I don’t like her.”

“Then who do you like?” Ray asked. “You haven’t brought a woman around in a while. What you waiting for?”

Maxwell thought about it. What was he waiting for? What did he want? He knew he was tired. Tired of the playing around, tired of the games, the schemes women played. He was bored with the life he’d carved out for himself. He wanted a wife. Kids. He wanted more, and he was beginning to fear he would never find someone to share his life with. Especially after Theresa.

“I don’t know, Pop.”

“Well, you better find out. You ain’t gettin’ any younger.”

Maxwell looked at the gray in his father’s hairline. He was right; he didn’t have much time at all.