09 – Sonya’s Day at the Office
So I woke up totally late and hung-over to no end at this French-guy’s place who was gone by the time I came to (big surprise) and left me with a little note and rose on the pillow where his head should have been (thank god it wasn’t) and the note said something in French I think he did on purpose under the impression it would make my clit grind – which it didn’t.
If he couldn’t get me off the night before what’s a few scribbles in his pussy foreign-tongue going to do for me? Really?
And a flower? Come on? Where’d he get that one from? Real original pal.
At least by the time I made it to the kitchen I found another note – this time written in English – inviting me to anything and to make myself at home.
Which believe me, I did.
By the time I was off the elevator and outside on Wilshire waiting for a cab to fly by and scoop me up I had cleaned him out of half his jewelry box – full of gaudy, over-extravagant, diamond covered shit explaining by way of platinum just how small his cock really is – you know, the typical shit foreigners buy to be more American. They actually say that you know, I dress more American than most of my friends. Which is total shit to me on account what most these morons consider American-Style is nothing short of dressing like, and forgive the invective here, a nigger.
Apart from cleaning out the jewelry he won’t even notice is gone that I’ll sell to Donnie’s friend Slim Charles (who although is Black is hardly a nigger) – I too left Frenchy a little note that said: Had fun, call me when I get back into town with the number to a Thai Bistro I luckily had a pack of matches from in my purse. Best of all of this is I’m sure when he gets back and sees the note he’ll feel on top of the world, hardly remembering the three seconds of sex we had, but probably certain it was good. Granted I didn’t even want to give him the three seconds, but unfortunate for me the Ruphie I slipped him took forever to kick in. Sometimes the ol’ pussy has to take one for the team, if you will, hardly ever though. The last guy I really fucked was Donnie and although I was horny as all hell off the blow – as much as I hate to admit – I actually didn’t mind fucking Donnie – all three times that night in fact. If the asshole didn’t skate early and leave me at Cal’s after taking all the blow and (I think but am not certain) some cash from my wallet, we probably would have balled again. His loss, not mine.
Speaking of Donnie, which is totally weird by the way, I keep getting private calls on my cell phone today (which isn’t unusual given the company I keep) and every time I answer they hang up. Little do they know I got that privacy blocker thing on my iPhone and every time on the third ring get the identity of the caller.
It’s been Donnie every time.
Why? I don’t even want to know.
I’m fixing my hair and makeup in the back of a Beverly Hills Cab on the way to the parking garage I left my SUV in last night in Century City… this literary agent over at Andrew’s & Jefferies that I have dinner with once or twice a month lets me park overnight there anytime I want which is convenient as all hell in cases like last night when I’m not only hammered, but have no intentions at all of giving away any personal details of my life away to whatever douche-bag asshole I’m taking advantage of. The last thing I need is some over-the-top-stalker-type at my door early morning like in the beginning of Breakfast at Tiffany’s… spare me.
Speaking of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I totally flaked on Rachael not yesterday but the afternoon before. No big deal though. Turns out just off half a Xanax alone my new little Grasshopper-Hepburn knocked herself into a mini-coma and hadn’t actually woken up until I called her a few minutes ago. I’m shocked to say this, but I really like this girl. Tons and tons of potential.
Anyway I told her to shower off at my place – carefully outlining exactly what soaps to use in what order and what hair-products to use and whatever. To this she surprised me pleasantly by not making a lame-dorm-mate deal out of it and treated my offer like business as usual. She’s picking up quick. When it came to clothes I trusted her best judgment because whatever she may lack in the departments I’m handling – she over-compensates without question in regards to her taste in style. Shit, if she had my resources right now – same men and money in the bank and all of that – I’d bet her closet would probably hipper than mine. Sucks to admit sure, but maybe once we’ve groomed her a bit, she can give me a tip or two when we go boutique-hopping.
Soon enough…
About ten minutes after our first chat, right about when the cabby was leaving Beverly Hills and getting into Century City – she calls back asking what she should do with her afternoon. I ask her if she’s hungry. To this she says yes. Then I tell her to scroll down her phone-list and give a guy a call. She pauses a minute, probably because she thought I was inviting her out to lunch, and then gets over it and laughs (genuinely) and tells me she’ll see me when she’s through with Lunch – and then really impresses me by ending the call with – maybe I’ll bring some new boots by too. Who knows?
Fast learner.
About time I run into a chick with more than a double-digit IQ and one of those things, what are they called, oh yeah, personality…
I’m so over doing all this shit solo… now with a partner I’m sure to not only hook bigger catch, but am almost assured I’ll never have to sleep with any of these assholes unless of course I want to. The way it went down at Cal’s was not only perfect but a trial run to boot. Fuck, I don’t even want to think how things will be in two months.
The Armenian driving the cab says something to me while I’m busying myself checking my email on my iPhone to see if there’s anything popping-off tonight. I fucking hate Armenians and this one’s really pushing it interrupting me. I look up from my phone and say, “What I’m sorry I couldn’t understand a single word you just said.”
“Weheera” the smelly, bald, fuck-wad says to me.
“Weheera… what, are you like, sneezing?” I say patronizing him even though I doubt he understands any word in the English language outside of money or maybe possibly since he’s young for a cabbie the two-word-combo Armenian’s love – Hey Ladies.
“I say weeheera!” the asshole who is so not getting a tip barks at me.
“And I’m very happy for you” I say, returning back to my phone.
Now the jerk-off snaps his fingers at me like I’m a salt-and-pepper Schnauzer and while speaking gibberish points out the window. After a beat the jag-off restores his calm and repeats, “Weeheera!”
I look up from my phone and realize we’re at the building where I left my car. I start laughing uncontrollably and say through this laughter, “Ooooh now I get it Achmed,” then very cunt-like and slow, “We… are… here. I thought you were doing some sort of battle cry. Like a suicide-bomb-type thing.”
The loser Armenian cabbie hardly enjoys this one bit and I’m certain if there wasn’t Plexiglas separating us he’d treat me how he’s accustomed to treating women in his homeland – which despite all the sand-niggers flooding LA – we’re not. He mumbles some bullshit under his breath for a beat and then says angrily, “I’m not Muslim you bitch. You pay fare and get out my cab!”
Bitch huh, I think to myself, we’ll see about that Mohammad.
Now banging on the meter – which reads $38.95 – he’s squelching, “You pay fare and get out of cab!”
So not ready to give this fucker a single dollar out of my wallet that costs more than his monthly salary, I dig around my handbag for the French-Douche-Bag’s jewelry I stole, cherry-picking for the most inexpensive item of the bunch. I come up with a really ugly Breitling Watch with a leather bag and throw it through the cash hole. The thing’s probably worth $400 bucks at a pawn-shop and Armenian’s love those fucking watches anyway.
He looks at the watch and then back at me and says, “What the fuck is this?”
“It’s all I have on me,” I say with a devilish grin with traces of cunt around the corners, “I have to go to an ATM for cash and you’re an asshole and just kicked me out of your cab. It’s this or nothing. What are your other options? What are you going to beat me up in the middle of century city? Look at me? I cry rape you’re tackled before you can say Osama. Deal with it.”
His mouth drops.
“What?” I say, “You’re not used to mouthy women where you come from?”
Again nothing. He’s pissed sure, but this hardly changes the fact he hails from a breed of greedy, degrading, woman hating fuckers so of course, he studies the watch. After a beat asshole squints his eyes at me like he’s Colombo or something and says, “How I know this real?”
“Feel it asshole. It weighs more than me (I wish). Besides you should know better than anyone, fakes of those cost at least a hundred dollars. So uh…” I say while getting out the cab, “…you know, happy Mohammad-day or whatever it is you celebrate, asshole.”
I slam the door shut behind me and make way into the parking facility refusing to give captain-curry any regard. Of course he drives off and accepts the watch. Moron.
I decide I’ll give him about ten minutes before I call the cops with his driver ID number (which I thought ahead to type into my iPhone while we feuded) and tell them he stole the watch from my boyfriend or something like that. Maybe I’ll even throw in some terrorist shit.
Whatever. Fuck him. I’ve got shit to do.
It’s around just after lunch and I’m over my hangover (thank god I had Adderall in the car) and I’m actually kind of bored with the day so rather than walking down Rodeo and shopping – even though I so want to get something fresh to wear tonight, and not only for myself mind you, but Rachael too… although I’ve been more than generous already, I feel bad (for whatever reason, don’t ask) for leaving her at my place so like, I don’t know, I guess I want to do something… nice?
I called Donnie’s friend Slim just after reporting sweaty-cabbie to the police and asked him to meet me at the Starbucks in Beverly Hills right where Wilshire and Santa Monica cross. I’m ten minutes late and although this is nothing new and would normally never bother me, I don’t want to let Slim down or keep him waiting. Apart from being one of the only people in this town I respect (or at least consider an equal), Slim’s one of the only guys I’ve met not trying to get into my pants – it’s like he’s got better things to do. He’s real and above all things honest… despite being (ironically enough) a career criminal…
…Funny how it all works, sometimes the most dishonest of people end up being the only people you can trust.
I pull my SUV up to Starbucks – which thank God is one of the few (if not the only) in town with Valet and toss my keys to a red-vested Ceasar I assume is the Valet and without grabbing a ticket – high-tail inside where I can already see Slim is waiting (hopefully not too impatiently) with two members of his Posse.
Slim sees me from his table and smiles – sipping his Espresso with the pinky sticking out (which I fucking hate – while whispering for his boys to get me a seat… which they do before I take the twelve-steps it takes to reach the table.
In LA, people can talk all they want about gangs and drug dealers and all that shit… let them. This guy is his own man.
“How it do Ms. Sonya?” Slim says while taking my hand gently and planting a soft kiss – always the gentleman.
“Just you know, doing my thing,” I say while taking a seat, “Sorry I’m late.”
“Don’t trip girl,” Slim says with that deep voice of his, “The boys and me like to come out this way and chill any chance we get.” He points all around the coffee-shop and the people in it – all white, over-priveleged, and completely flabbergasted by Slim and his Crew’s presence (I’m sure all assuming without thought he’s either a rapper or drug dealer) – “It’s a thrill watchin’ all these white-folks wonder why the boys and I didn’t come in through the back door, if you can dig it? Fuckin’ Cotton Club type shit.”
To this Slim laughs. His crew follows. And I swear if he wasn’t black I’d fuck him retarded.
“Cotton Club, huh?” the reference is over my head, “what are you, like, a jazz fan or something?”
Slim smiles, looks over at each of his boys and says, “Nah… I’m a Bumpy Johnson fan.”
His boys smile. I don’t get it. He sees this and lets it go.
“So” he says, changing gears, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’ve got another bag for you,” I say with a smile he’s by now very familiar with.
“Shit girl,” he says, “I don’t know why you call me every time. Smart girl like you? By now you should’a done set up shop here in B.H. – got yourself a jewelry boutique or some shit. Call it Sonya’s.”
“Sonya’s…” I say, “Original.”
“Who needs original when you got simple?” he shoots back at me, takes another sip of his espresso (this time pinky in) and says, “So let me see what you working with here?”
Being as we’ve done this before, Slim and I that is, I already took the measures he doesn’t request but rather demands. Minutes after getting into my car back in Century City I took all the jewelry out of my purse (sans the Breitling of course) and transferred each piece into one of the many empty shopping bags I keep on hand for occasions such as this one. Today I chose to use a bag from Jacobs Jeweler’s being as they specialize in men’s jewelry. I know Slim could give a shit if I slipped him a Victoria Secret’s bag, but when it comes to these meetings I like to be thorough… lame as I may be to admit, I love when we do these things – feeling like a bona fide criminal… kind of a turn on.
Slim rummages through the bag for about a minute and I say nothing. Kind of uncomfortable in all the silence, I feel obligated to smile at both of Slim’s cronies – who unlike Slim – do want to get into my pants – repulsing my eyes back to the tile floor.
“Pretty okay shit here,” Slim says at last, “the usual suspects as far as bling goes… but defiantly not the type’a shit a brother would floss if you can dig?”
“This guy was French,” I tell him.
“Fuck me,” he says, “hope you didn’t have to give anything up to the motherfucka.”
“I dragged it out as long as I could,” I tell him, “but eventually he got in. Only about three seconds though, no bullshit. So I’m totally over it.”
Slim can’t laugh hard enough at this, “Fuckin’ white-boys. Three-seconds! I wish I could say I don’t believe it but the sad fact is, I do.”
“Oh it wasn’t his fault,” I say all cool-like as if I’m one of the boys, “I’m sure he would have lasted longer if the Ruphie hadn’t kicked in – but not much I’m sure.”
Slim looks at both of his boys and all three of them shake their heads, then Slim says, “Damn girl you cold. You gave the muthafucka a fuckin’ Ruphie!”
“I always do” I say, now so confident in myself I actually reach across the table and take a sip of Slim’s espresso and then say mischievously, “how else do you think I get away with what I do without fucking these morons?”
For a moment Slim says nothing, then, “But come on Sonya, you give a man a fuckin’ Ruphie! That’s some cold shit!”
“What,” I say, “Only men are allowed to use date-rape drugs? At least when my guys wake up with their memory washed they’re happy to find out they may have been fucked.”
To this Slim offers me his hand which I grab and follow his lead to what’s similar to a secret-handshake eventually leading to us bumping our fists together. Then he says “There ain’t no fuckin’ way around not agreein’ with that typa logic. Mad respect girl. Mad respect.”
Slim leans back in his chair giving me props by way of nodding his head up and down – his posse of course parrots this. After another sip of his espresso (this time pinky out, fuck!) he gets back into business-mode and says, “Which way you wanna go with this shit? Same options as always, I can give you cash now outta pocket or I can sit on it for a minute, off it, and get you in about a week minus a middle-man fee.”
“You always toss me the same pitch and I always throw it back to you the same way,” I say, trying my best to sound streetish, “You’re no middle man and shouldn’t be treated as such. This type of thing isn’t my business, it’s yours. I’ve already done my job. Like you don’t know by now how I’m so not the type to be bothered with dollar-and-cent headaches. You can give me 500 for one piece and sell it for 5,000 for all I care… you help me out and I help you out.”
Slim goes quiet for a beat – the criminal gears of thought turning in his brain – then says, “Sonya girl, you one of a kind you know that? You know I always be tellin’ you that?”
“Every time we see one another.”
“And real-talk, I really don’t even need to be concernin’ myself with this business we do, but I got mad respect for what you all about, you feel me?”
“Believe me I’m well aware… you haven’t needed my business for years. That’s why I always treat you right.”
“Word,” he says, then out of nowhere gets sort of defensive and says sharply, “And just so we clear I ain’t never tried to tap that ass, if you know what I mean, so I don’t want you thinkin’ that’s how I roll… cause that ain’t the typa’ brother I am.”
“Oh I know that. Never been a doubt in my mind, Slim,” I say, then eye-ball both his boys, who by the way haven’t stopped staring at my tits from moment one, “I just wish your friends shared your class.”
“Yeah well,” he says before slapping the sides of each cronie as to bring them back to eye-level, “I can’t control they fuckin’ morals. They say we all human but we ain’t, we all really animals, only some of us lucky an’ smart enough to grow into humans,” he slaps the chests of his guys with whichever hand they’re sitting beside then says with a very proud smile, “That’s why I’m chairman of the fuckin’ board and these boys workin’ down in the mail-room. You dig?”
“I dig”, I say, slightly taken aback by the musings of this sociopath.
“How’s about we go, I don’t know…” Slim looks over the contents of the bag once more and offers, “… Five stacks sound alright with you?”
“Five stacks!” I say not sure if my Ebonics-decoder is interpreting correctly, “You mean like, five thousand dollars?”
“I didn’t stutter did I?” Slim says with another smile, knowing full well the most he’s ever given me in the past has been two-thousand, and for much more than what is in the bag. I’m sure he’s quite aware by now I’m somewhat keen to jewelry prices and usually where he stands to make ten-thousand-plus profit-wise off me, with this bag he’d be lucky to get seven-thousand altogether.
“I just didn’t expect that is all, given the fact I’ve brought you waaay better in the past” I say, genuinely speechless.
Slim takes an envelope out of his jacket pocket and slides it across the table – leading me to believe he had planned on giving me five-thousand no matter what (which is strange) – and says very cocky, “Well what can I say? Business been good past couple days. And bein’ as we so tight an’ all, I’m feelin’ a lil’ generous.”
I slide the envelope off the table and place it in my handbag – trying with all my power not to let any signs of excitement show – then say, “I don’t know what to say, Slim…”
“You ain’t gotta say shit, we cool,” he says, then out of nowhere leans in real close and sets his face to serious just before whispering, “even though I should have the boys take you out back and beat your cute little ass for walkin’ out my girls fashion show the other day,” then (thank god) he starts smiling and makes quite clear he’s fucking around, “you couldn’t even say whatup to a brother?”
“What can I say? Those things really aren’t my scene.”
“They ain’t my scene either if you can’t notice, yet I shut the place down,” he says, “what the fuck kinda excuse is that?”
“You’re also fucking the main attraction. You’re obligated. I’m not.”
And with that Slim tosses another smile and says, “How many times I gotta tell you you one of a kind?”
Just before I can offer Slim a response from out of the blue a voice erupts from behind me- without question Cal’s – and by the time I realize this all I can make out of him are the words, “you fucking cunt!”
Cal, the moron he is, marches over to our table and although I’m sure his intention was to grab me or maybe put a finger in my face he has no such luck – Slim’s guys have Cal’s arms pretzeled and cheek on the table from the word cunt.
Slim is furious. Refusing to stand up he gestures for his boys to force Cal to the seat beside him – where once planted, I get a look at Cal’s face and see this isn’t the first physical altercation he’s gotten his dumb ass into since I last saw him – left temple all scratched up and not from Slim’s guys.
Slim grabs Cal by the chin and forces him to match eyes. He stares him down for a moment without getting too crazy – I suspect not wanting to make a spectacle of the situation – while Slim’s boys (who by the way I’m liking a lot more now after this) act all casual to assure any potential witnesses everything’s Kosher.
“If I didn’t already know all about you through other people,” Slim says very calm, yet somehow threatening at the same time to a petrified Cal, “I’d have to wonder if you crazy comin’ up to my table like that and treatin’ a friend of mine, a personal motherfuckin’ friend of mine who happens to be a lady, like she one of you dumb fuck ho’s you be havin’ up to that lil’ house yo’ daddy gave you to party in and waste all his money, dumb-white-ass-muthafucker you are…”
Part of me wants to get out of here as this is sooo not my scene, but the other part – the majority – loves every bit of seeing Cal on the cusp of pissing (or better yet possibly shitting) himself.
“You lucky I know who you are,” Slim continues, maintaining the same calm yet dangerous cool in his tone, “because like I said, I’d have to assume you a crazy ass white boy rushin’ my fuckin’ table like that, hootin foul-as-fuck words to a lady, actin’ a fool. I’d just have to think you a crazy-white-fuck. An’ despite what you hear, we brothers are tough and all, but nothin’ scares us more than crazy ass muthafuckin serial-killin white boys… You hearin’ what I’m tellin you or is you white-ADD-havin-ass only frontin’ like you listnin?”
Cal manages somehow to utter a yes and for whatever reason I actually believe him… pretty sure Slim does too.
“So what am I sayin so far?” Slim asks.
“You’re saying I’m…” Cal’s shaken up, almost sad.
“You what?”
“I’m lucky you know me otherwise you’d think I’m crazy…” Cal says while holding back tears.
“And if you can manage, riddle me why you lucky I know you then?”
To this Cal has no response.
“Because,” Slim enlightens Cal, “any white boy who comes and rushes a female sittin wit’ three big brothers, yellin’ invectives or whatever the fuck… any white boy doin’ somethin’ like that, has either gotta be loony-tune-padded-room-certified-crazy… or just stupid as shit… You hear what I’m sayin’ boy?”
Cal nods.
“So bein’ as I already know about you – you know – being as I’m filled in on yo’ game, I already know you one of the dumbest muthafuckers on the planet… Gump got more brains than yo’ dumb ass. So be grateful I’m hip to that shit…”
“I am” Cal says through tears impossible to fight back.
“You are!” Slim says at long last with a smile, “You tellin’ me you happy I an’ the rest of the west know you a stupid muthafucka!”
And although I’m sure Cal has no idea what to say next, stupid as he may be, he’s fully aware of being compelled to speak soon so he does pathetically, “Yes I am… very happy.”
“Lucky too!” Slim shouts, reminding me of Samuel L. Jackson for some reason. Probably because he’s black.
“And lucky too” Cal agrees automatically.
“An’ not only you aware of these defects of yours… shit, you proud of them!”
Cal says nothing to this.
“Well ain’t you proud of all that shit? Bein’ a dumb muthafucka and all?” Slim asks.
“Yes” Cal replies.
“You goddamn right,” Slim says, “And you know why that is?”
Again nothing from Cal.
“Because if you weren’t hip to how fuckin’ dumb yo’ white ass is and proud of it, then you’d be crazy. An’ I done already told you our views on crazy white-boys. An’ seein as you stupid – and luck fo’ you proud of this – you get to walk out the door on yo’ own rather than be carried out by the homies… you hearin’ me boy?”
“Yes, I hear you” Cal says, wanting nothing more I’m sure than to get the fuck out of the mess he put himself in.
“Good,” Slim says now significantly more relaxed, “Now before I ask you to drag you lame white-ass the fuck out my Starbucks, oblige me… just why an’ the fuck you callin’ my close friend a nasty word like the one you used and rushin’ her all crazy like?”
This I’ve got to hear.
Cal takes a beat, obviously frightened of what Slim may do in response to whatever he has to say. He takes a moment – digging deep into that jello-mold-of-a-brain of his for just the right words.
“She uh…” Cal begins, pinging his eyes back and forth as to address myself and the three gorilla’s willing and capable of breaking him into sixteen pieces if I was cunty enough to request they do so. Tempting as the idea may be to entertain, I sit firm and enjoy the scene – fully aware of the part I played in motivating Cal’s act of lunacy.
“She uh what muthafucka’?” Slim says in a way I can tell (but I’m sure Cal can’t) he’s over being pissed and just toying, “I’m sure you had some good fuckin’ schoolin’ boy,” I notice Slim gets a thrill calling a white-kid ‘boy’, “Seeing as my friends and I were nice enough to leave you with teeth and all, I’d say the least you could do in return is make some sense with that big fucking mouth of yours… so you know, get on that. I got shit to do. She uh what?”
“She uh,” Cal starts, this time with a sense of urgency rather than the preceding tone of fear, “She uh… well I mean I’m not like, you know, trying to be out of line here…”—
“Too late for that one” Slim interrupts.
He doesn’t say it, but through his face alone, Cal acknowledges Slim’s demand for him to get to the point, so void of fear or stutters or any of the rest of the shit that’s held him back since moment one he just comes out with it, “Long and short, last night her and her friend were over and spent the night while I was out cold. And… well there was an envelope with a thousand dollars in it in my bed room and this morning I was up and they’re… you know, still there, and the money was… like… not. So you know… I had reason to believe she may have… you know… taken it.”
“So this is how you go about that typa scenario?” Slim says, “Rush the girl like you OJ or some shit? You really expect to get any resolve without acting civil? Boy you is a dumb motherfucka’ aint you?”
“I was mad. I was surprised to see her here and just reacted without thinking” says Cal.
“You God damn right you weren’t thinking. Here you were comin’ in for a Latte and now you wearing the mutherfucka’,” Slim and his buddies laugh at this – I can’t help but to follow lead.
“Look here,” Slim goes on, “Let me give you a lil’ lesson in business and manners. From what you tell me, sparin’ the specifics and all, sounds to me like you got you self a problem that ain’t no one elses but your own… you diggin’ me so far?”
Cal nods his head in agreement – smart enough at this point to keep his big mouth shut.
“See when a man goes about keepin’ envelopes of cheese on his damn dresser, inviting people in and out, givin’ them free reign all about the motherfucker, an’ to top it you gonna go pass out or whatever the fuck the case may be… you ain’t got a fuckin’ soul on this concrete earth to be pointing the finger at aside from youself… you dig?”
“Yeah,” Cal says, “I dig.”
“Apart from you rushin’ on one of my friends like you done and bein’ all down-syndrome-like with your affairs, I respect what you tryin’ to do here – everybody gotta come up. But brother, believe me when I tell you, I don’t care who you are or who you daddy is or whatever… when you dig yo-self under a pile of shit, only mothafucka to blame is you… and you wanna guess who the only one you gonna be able to look to when shit goes fan-side and moves gotta be made?”
Cal takes a moment and then like a child learning the ways of the world atop an elders lap squeaks, “Me?”
“That’s right boy… you may not be so dumb after all. Maybe we gotta glimmer a hope in you” now Slim looks over at me, “Now as far as this bullshit with the envelope or whatever with Sonya here, that’s between ya’ll. But as far as shit goes between you and me here, she didn’t have not a thing to do with its disappearance. You dig?”
As much as I’m sure it hates him to do so Cal submits, “I dig”.
“Alright then, we got no more issues. And with that said, do us all a favor, including yourself, and march your white ass out my fuckin’ Starbucks before I stop feelin’ like such a nice guy.”
And with that Cal makes the first smart decision probably in his entire existence and dashes out the coffee shop practically leaving a dust trail on the way out.
Once the smoke clears and Cal’s a distant memory Slim switches to lean-back-mode as if nothing had occurred.
Again if he weren’t so black I’d fuck him paralyzed.
Then, “Sorry you had to witness all that drama there, Sonya” Slim says all gentleman like, “motherfuckers gonna get himself killed in no time. You can be from Beverly Hills or fuckin’ Compton, it still don’t mean a shit. Geography don’t be discriminatin’… a chump is a chump is a chump.”
“We ain’t the first he had words with either,” Slim’s left-side goon chimes in, “notice the little love tap on the side his head?”
“Probably a love tap from them Persian’s he been getting mixed up with.” Right-side goon chimes in.
“No doubt,” Slim says, “An’ word is ol’ Cal boy’s getting’ him wrapped up with Donnie… at least enterin’ his circle for the time being… which would leave one to believe, I mean not to rain on a mans game or be puttin’ him on or anything, but in the hypothetical that Cal gives any of the Persian’s money Donnie’s way…” Slim looks over at his buddies and laughs, “I don’t know… let’s just say if I’m Cal, I wouldn’t be expecting any returns…”
I’ve always known Donnie’s game and although all of what’s gone on since walking into Starbucks is sooo not my thing and I should be over all of this, I’m not. For one reason or another, all of this was simply entertainment for me up until the moment Donnie’s name came up… and that’s like, I don’t know, not how I do things.
“What makes you so certain Donnie has anything to do with Cal and all?” I ask.
“Shee-it,” Slim says, “Like I said, I ain’t the typa cat to go runnin’ a man’s business all over town. I was just layin’ out some hypotheticals for the homies if you know what I mean?”
“Yeah but you said something about Donnie,” I say, trying hard to get pass all the seventies-jive-meets-Ebonics he keeps throwing my way, “Like Donnie specifically, like he’s, I don’t know, purposely gonna rip Cal off.”
“Please girl, you comin’ off all surprised and shit? You know what he does…”
“Yeah” I agree, everyone (save for Cal maybe) is hip to what Donnie does, “But if he can get Cal killed…”
“Again, just throwin hypotheticals. Look around you girl,” Slim gestures outside the store window, “Look where we are. You see many tech-nine drive-bys on Robertson lately? All these white-folks on this neck of the woods here think they a bunch of South-Central-Cowboys. It all boils down to talk at the end of the day… Only fact I know is Donnie cooking some shit with Cal and Cal has a big mouth. Rest is fiction.”
“Donnie told you he was going to rip Cal off?” I inquire, now realizing what Donnie was doing at dip-shit’s place at such an early hour the other day.
“Spoke to the man himself a couple hours ago on another thing,” Slim says, then strangely starts to grin all funny-like – it’s hard to explain – but just not the type of smile you’d expect from a sociopath, “Matter of fact… forget it.”
“Matter of fact what?” Now I’m intrigued.
“He’s the reason you got the little cherry on top this time… you know, in the envelope…”
My mind spins out of control. Am I hearing Slim right? Did he just tell me Donnie gave him money to give to me? If I am hearing this right, why, why would Donnie of all people want to give me a thing? I mean he’s such an asshole…
“Let me make sure I’m hearing you right, Donnie told you to give me money?”
“Not outright like that no. But it so many ways the man told me to take care of you… look at it like this, that envelope in that little purse of yours, you was gettin’ that no matter what you gave me.”
“But I…” total loss of words laced with large amounts of shock and denial, “why would he just…”
“I’m not the type understand how the inner-workings of a man goes on and all that – especially a man like Donnie. All I know is the ABC’s.”
“And what were the ABC’s?”
“He asked you still bring bags by, I say yes, he tosses me a cherry of cash and tells me next time you come around to throw it on top… and that was that.”
“But why?” I ask, this time close to screaming as I can’t hold back – even for Slim.
“Maybe you should as the man himself… or who knows, maybe that thousand Cal’s goin’ on about was supposed to go to Donnie.”
“So.”
“So if that’s the case then that thousand that you may have lifted from Cal’s was actually Donnie’s.”
“And…”
“And maybe Donnie don’t want you to think you have to steal it when he’s willing to just give it to you.”
Still spinning and thinking about the blocked calls and the night at the party and the way Donnie’s been looking at me lately and everything is hard to put together and in—
“Who knows,” Slim pulls me away from my raging thoughts, “Maybe Donnie thinks you’re special or something…”
Something special.
I’m not special to anyone. Just another dress one step ahead of the rest. What’s special about me? At the end of the night I still go asleep alone…
Maybe Donnie thinks I’m special… what a joke.
Nothing is special to Donnie… not even Donnie is special to Donnie…
