That fucking ho!
Cheryl fumed as she drove up Amsterdam Avenue toward Washington Heights. She always prided herself on being a lady—at least in public—and to have gotten into a physical brawl with Sexy in the owner’s skybox the previous night was not only out of character, it was completely out-of-line. If it wasn’t for the fact that Randy was one of the Yankees’ superstars whom the team couldn’t afford to piss off, and also that she’d already made a good name for herself, she probably would have been banned from the skybox for life. She knew for sure, though, that Sexy wouldn’t be so lucky. It would be a cold day in Hell before she was up there with the VIPs again.
After passing 195th Street, she started looking for a parking space. Amazingly, there was one right in front of the apartment building where she was headed. Of course the elevator wasn’t working, and of course the stairway smelled like urine. Luckily, there weren’t too many stairs to climb; Jocko lived on the third floor.
“Hola, mami! Que pasa?” he said when he answered the door.
Cheryl rolled her eyes. “When did you start speaking Spanish?”
The man grinned, revealing gold caps on his two front teeth. “Since moving up here with the Dominicans, babe. When in Rome . . .” He laughed, exhaling a revolting gust of rum and tobacco breath. “Come on and get your pretty little ass in here.”
Cheryl walked past him into the living room and sat down on a raggedy and dingy-looking blue armchair without waiting to be asked. Her face and her actions both displayed the disgust she felt about being there, but she didn’t care. He needed to know how she felt. “If your ass didn’t get picked up on a parole violation, we could have had this meeting two months ago like we were supposed to.”
“Hey, I’m lucky they only held me for sixty days. Wanna drink?” he asked, holding up a red plastic cup while pointing to a nearly empty bottle of Bacardi sitting on the coffee table next to her.
“No,” she answered sullenly. “I merely came to take care of this business, and then I want to get the hell out of here.”
“Yeah,” he said, pouring a healthy dose of rum into the plastic cup and taking a sip. “I was real lucky. They could have violated me and sent my ass back up the river for seven years, all for dirty urine. Ain’t that some crap?”
Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Well, thanks for the information. I’ll file that under ‘shit I don’t care about.’ ”
“Damn, girl,” Jocko sat down on the couch, spreading his legs open and his arms across the backrest, “No need for you to be sporting an attitude.”
“It’s not an attitude; it’s the way I am,” Cheryl snapped. “Now can we get down to business?”
A look of annoyance finally crossed Jocko’s face. “Fine. Did you bring the—”
“I’ve got the seventy-five thousand handy,” Cheryl said, cutting him off, “but first we have to get some things straight.”
“Handy? Exactly what does that mean?” Jocko’s lips twisted into a snarl. “You got the dough with you or what?
“It means,” Cheryl said, leaning forward in the chair and putting her hands on her knees, “like I said . . . first we have to get some things straight.”
“Like what?” Jocko growled.
“Like the fact that I think that it’s real fucked-up that you charged me five thousand dollars for a social security card, passport and birth certificate, and I paid it without trying to chisel you down or anything; and now, eight years later, you contact me talking about you want another seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“And?” Jocko didn’t bother to try and hide his smirk.
Cheryl’s eyes narrowed. “So is that how you usually do business?”
Jocko chuckled. “Occasionally. Like anytime I find that a person who was only probably worth a couple of ten thousand dollars when I did them a favor—”
“A favor?” Cheryl said incredulously. “People don’t have to pay for favors!”
“Is now worth a couple of ten million dollars,” Jocko continued, ignoring the interruption. “I’m a craftsman, top guy in my trade. I coulda charged you a lot more than a measly five stacks for those papers, you know. I cut you some slack because I knew you didn’t have a lot of money. But now you do.” He took a leisurely swig from the plastic cup, then got up and poured himself another large shot and sat back down. “The way I see it, you’ve been dancing to the rhythm for eight years, and now it’s time for you to pay the piper.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“And you’re full of money, and I want some,” Jocko said simply.
“And if I don’t give it to you?”
Jocko chuckled, then took another swig before answering: “You figure it out.”
Cheryl leaned back in the chair, and chewed her bottom lip while contemplating him. “So, if I give it to you, how do I know you won’t come back at me for another shot?”
Jocko shrugged. “You’ll have to take my word for it, I guess.”
“Or,” Cheryl reached inside her Versace bag and pulled out a neatly typed piece of paper, “you can sign this contract.”
“This what?” Jocko started laughing. “Get the fuck outta here. You want me to sign a contract saying that I provided you with forged documents?”
“Not exactly,” Cheryl replied. “The contract says that in return for seventy-five thousand dollars, you agree to not contact me, or anyone in my family regarding any financial situation, and that you also agree not to leak any confidential information about me or my family to the media or to the public.”
“You’re crazy.” Jocko shook his head.
“I’m serious,” Cheryl insisted.
“If you’re serious, then you’re not only crazy, but you’re also stupid,” Jocko said. “Even if I did sign it and then renege, what are you going to do? Take me to court? You’d be outing yourself, sweetheart.”
“Maybe what I’m saying is that I’d rather out myself than keep paying you forever for something that’s already been paid in full,” Cheryl retorted. “I’m not going to lie down and play victim to blackmail.”
Jocko let go a full laugh. “Bullshit. If you felt like that, you wouldn’t be ready to give up the seventy-five thou.”
“You’re not getting it unless you sign,” Cheryl insisted.
Jocko made a face, then waved his hand dismissively. “Fine, fuck it. I’ll sign. Give me the money.”
Cheryl pulled a white bank envelope from her bag and placed it on her lap, then handed Jocko the paper. “Sign first.”
An hour later, Cheryl was on the third floor of Bloomingdale’s. She and Randy were scheduled to attend a black-tie charity ball the following week, and while she had already bought a fabulous navy blue, floor-length Vera Wang formal gown for herself, Randy still needed something to wear. She looked over the tuxedos, vacillating between the Burberry London Milbury, and the Ralph Lauren Black Label Anthony. She finally chose the $3,000 Ralph Lauren, and then picked out a Ralph Lauren Black Label tuxedo shirt for $450 and arranged a time for Randy to come in the next day for custom fitting. She then purchased a pair of David Yurman Chevron cufflinks with black diamonds. Only $1,500.
Riding down the escalator to leave the store and passing the second floor, she couldn’t help but remember the trip she had made there seventeen years earlier, when she was only fifteen and a wannabe shoplifter, trying to support herself. Now here she was dropping almost $5,000 on a single outfit without batting an eye.
She made it to the first floor and was walking toward the exit when a display with men’s watches caught her eye. Randy needed two, she decided. One for special occasions and another for everyday wear. He needed to stop depending on his cell phone to know the time. It took her almost ten minutes, but she finally decided on a Movado and a Michael Kors. She looked up to catch the clerk’s attention when she saw a teenage boy looking at her intently. Staring at her, actually. He was tall, a few shades lighter than her own bronze complexion, but with the same reddish tones. Under the baseball cap that he was wearing backward, she could see that his hair was a mass of curly ringlets. He looked almost identical to a picture she’d seen of her father playing baseball in high school. Cheryl gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she did. It simply couldn’t be. Or could it? She hoped the young man hadn’t noticed, but all of a sudden, he started walking toward her.
She lowered her eyes, and started edging toward the exit, but he caught up to her before she reached it.
“Excuse me, is your name Cheryl Blanton?”
Cheryl was shaking inside, but she tried to keep her face composed. Was it him? It had to be him. He looked to be about fifteen or sixteen. It had to be him. This was the baby she’d given up all those years now. The doctor must have told him her real name after all. And now he was here confronting her. Had he been following her? For how long? What would he want? Should she lie?
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Are you all right?” the teenager said, a concerned look on his face. “Do you need to sit down or anything?”
“Why, why, why would you ask that?” Cheryl said, trying to control her breathing.
“Well, you suddenly look kind of pale,” the boy answered. “And your hands are shaking.”
Cheryl tried to broaden her smile as she leaned back onto a wall to ensure her knees didn’t buckle. “No, I’m fine, but I need to get something to eat.”
“Oh, do you suffer from hypoglycemia?”
“What?”
“Low blood sugar. My friend’s mother has it. She gets dizzy whenever she misses a meal,” the young man answered.
Cheryl shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
“Oh, good.” The boy grinned and patted her arm. “You are Cheryl Blanton, though, aren’t you?”
“Why?” Cheryl’s heart raced. “Do I know you? Exactly who are you?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude, ma’am. My name is Ronald Davidson,” the boy said quickly, reaching out and shaking her hand. “No, we haven’t met, but I’m a big fan of your husband, Randy Alston. I play third base, too. I was hoping he might be here with you.”
Relief washed over her, and she felt she could breathe again. His last name was Davidson. The doctor who had adopted her baby was named Nehru. It wasn’t her son. Her smile suddenly became genuine. “No, I’m sorry he’s not. But I tell you what, since you’re such a nice young man, if you give me your name and address, I’ll have him send you some tickets to one of next weekend’s games.”
“Oh, man! Would you?!”
Why am I tripping like this? Why would I, all of a sudden, imagine a kid was my child simply because he looked a little like me? Probably because of Randy talking about wanting a baby. Wanting a son. Cheryl walked out of the store, completely forgetting about the watches she had planned to purchase for her husband. I wonder what he does look like, though. Maybe he looks like me. Maybe he looks like his father, whoever the hell he is.
Her face clouded as her thoughts drifted back to seventeen years ago, when her mother’s former boyfriend had convinced her to give up her virginity in exchange for $15,000. She’d gone through with it, only to find out that the man had paid Jackson the money upfront. And of course, by the time she found out, Jackson had already disappeared.
Leaving her even more depressed and just as hard up for money.
A few weeks later, while on a school trip to Washington, D.C., she ran into a good-looking older man whom she at first thought was a friend of her late father. She went over and talked to him, then realized she’d made a mistake. Embarrassed, she excused herself, but the man was very gracious, and they continued to talk. When he asked her age, she lied and said she was seventeen. One thing led to another, and he propositioned her. She ditched her schoolmates and spent the evening with him in D.C., returning to New York City the next day in a limousine and with $500 in her purse.
Inspired, Cheryl began traveling out of town on a regular basis, and pretending to innocently bump into well-to-do men, whom she seduced—for pay. She was adamant about never going back to the same man twice. She rationalized that if she didn’t see a man more than once, he wouldn’t recognize her if they crossed paths later in life. She didn’t need any skeletons in her closet that would come back to haunt her. In her young mind, Cheryl believed she had it all figured out.
Until she started feeling nauseous and her small young breasts became so tender it hurt when they were touched.
Pregnant? How could it have happened? Cheryl had looked at the urine strip in shock. She’d made every man she slept with use a condom, even when they offered to pay extra to ride bareback. Now what was she going to do?
Three days later, she was sitting in Planned Parenthood’s Margaret Sanger Clinic on Bleeker Street, waiting for her name to be called so she could go in the back and get her abortion when she noticed one of the doctors kept walking through the waiting room, and staring at her. Finally, he quietly beckoned her to follow him, and led her into a private office. He spent a half hour explaining that she bore an uncanny resemblance to his wife, and that they’d been trying unsuccessfully for years to have a child. Seven months later, they had a child and Cheryl had $30,000 in the bank.
Cheryl shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the memories, as she climbed into her Maybach.
“Girl, you’d better stop worrying about the past and start concentrating on the present to ensure your damn future,” she said to the image reflected in the rearview mirror she was adjusting after starting the ignition. “You had a baby once, dammit; you’d better hurry up and pop another one out, soon.”