Chapter One
Cafe Piel (Eric Jerome Dickey)
When the elevator dinged and opened, over twenty mad-as-hell people werecongregated outside of John's office. Camped out like they were trying to gettickets to a Jerry Garcia concert. Not one happy face.
An eviction notice from the L.A. county sheriff was stapled on John's mahoganydoor. The door was padlocked. By the date on the notice, all of that was atleast a week old.
A middle-aged Asian, dressed in a pinstripe suit and suspenders the color of theAmerican flag, was the loudest. Face flaming red. Spit leaping from his mouthas he screamed in his native tongue, his hands flying in kung-fu motions.Everybody stayed out of his way and let him Tae Bo his way up and down the browncarpet.
I asked the Mexican I had stopped next to, "What's his trip?"
"He lost a hundred thousand in restaurant equipment. From what I understand,John leased his equipment before he vanished."
"One hundred thousand?"
"One hundred thousand in top-of-the-line restaurant equipment. Enough to havehim looking at bankruptcy."
"Makes my loss sound like chump change."
"Same here. But it doesn't mean I need my money any less."
"No sign of John?"
"Are you kidding?"
He said he heard John had packed up and moved everything. He was down todaybecause of the check John had given him. A check drawn on the same account minewas.
I said, "Your check bounced too."
"No. Bank said this account was closed last year. I was hoping John'saccountant accidentally wrote me a check on a wrong account, but"-he made anirritated motion at the eviction notice on the door-"I don't know. With thismany people, this is fraud. I needed this two hundred dollars. I've got to getmy kid a uniform for school and supplies and stuff."
"This is messed up."
"My name is Manuel Torres."
"Robert Davis. Call my Bobby."
A woman and a child were standing next to him. His wife and ten-year-olddaughter. His wife was hardly five feet tall, with long black hair that touchedher waistline. His child was slim, had Bambi eyes, dark hair, and despite theruckus, she was polite with all smiles. He and his wife held hands in a waythat spoke of love. Real love. Something I've dreamed about, but never had.He suggested, "We should start a list so if we can get some sort of class-actionthing going, all parties involved can be informed."
"Good idea."
Manuel Torres turned to the crowd, put two fingers into his mouth, and whistledover their riot-level chatter. Everybody congregated at his feet. Everyoneexcept the Asian, who stood in front of John's door and scowled like he wantedto kick it down.
Manuel suggested we investigate legal options and file against Jonathan to tryand recoup some of our losses.
Avenues that would cost new cash to chase owed cash.
One of the women in the hallway blew out air that sounded like weeks, if notmonths, of frustration before she snapped, "There's no telling how many peoplehe ripped off. That Asian man lost one hundred thousand. I lost three grand."
Another said, "It hurts like hell, but anything legal will take well over a yearto settle. I've got a cleaning service to run, and I need every last dime ofthe capital I have. Most of you are probably in the same situation. We shouldjust take this as a lesson learned and move on."
Two more left without apologies.
I didn't feel comfortable with nonblack people attacking a brother. Not one ofthem would spend a night in our community, let alone spend a dollar where ablack man roosted behind a cash register. But this wasn't about being black.This was all about business. All about the green.
Something must've happened, like John had gotten ripped off at some higherlevel, and we were feeling the trickle-down effect of his hard time. If thesheriff had ridiculed me and tacked an eviction notice on my door, I don't thinkI'd be in the mood to rap with people over a few dollars. I'd be somewhereattacking my liver with a fifth of Bacardi 151.
Manuel said, "Everyone should contact this number if you hear anything. If youhelp one of us, you help all of us."
A couple of brothers got off the elevator. Both were draped in gold designerclothes from head to toe; each had a thick upper body and weak legs. Theylooked like South Central buffalo. They swaggered by without a word and stoodin front of the door.
They rumbled like an urban glee club, "Ain't this a bitch."
We told them what we were doing with the mailing list.
The smaller of the two sneered. "What y'all plan on doing, sending outChristmas cards?"
Manuel explained to them what he hoped to accomplish.
One of the buffalo had a hard expression that said he thought all of us wereidiots for thinking about dealing with John on that level, but the other onenodded his head, sighed like he had come to the conclusion he had nothing tolose, and signed the sheet of paper. Then both of those buffalo snorted,about-faced, and left with slow and angry strides.
I spent the rest of the morning in the sunshine and dry heat of Pasadena, on thestreets of Old Town. Walking through the smog that spread over ColoradoBoulevard, I held the classified ads in hand like a man in search of a dreamdeferred. The place I wanted to lease and turn into a photography studio, theopportunity that had been vacant for a few months in the heart of Old Town, wasstill there. Waiting. But like any woman worth having, she wouldn't wait forlong before somebody passed by and noticed her beauty, saw her true value. Shewould wait until she was seduced by some brother with a few more dollars in hispocket and better credit than I had on my TRW.
A couple of nice-looking sisters-both caramel-coated and looking fine andwealthy in pastel-colored business suits, shades with yellow lenses, andcorporate temperaments-sailed across the street at the diagonal crosswalk. Cametoward me like I was luring them in. I struggled for a little eye contact, thenspoke and gave them compliments like they were the finest of the fine.
They glanced at me, saw I was in Levi's, sandals, and a white T-shirt from theMinnie Rippleton 10-K, but they didn't stop their conversation or slow theirstride. However, two or three white women on their heels gave me a peppy "Hi."
I said, "Hi."
"I really like your hair. Awesome, dude."
I ran my hair over my reddish-brown dreadlocks, my mane that hung below myshoulders, and smiled. "Thanks."
The snow bunnies even glanced back and showed those pearly whites. The one inthe sienna miniskirt and white see-through top actually had a nice butt. Enoughcleavage to show off her bought-and-paid- for breasts. When she stopped infront of a store, she openly stared back at me like she was contemplating someflirtation. Had a gleam in her eyes like she was wishing on a star. Pasadenawas liberal, but my mind wasn't in that mode.
A few feet down, the women of African ancestry had stopped and chatted with somewhite boys. The Nubians were standing on the curb, kissing them on the cheeks.Blushing and smiling and touching them on the sleeves of their Brooks Brotherssuits.
I couldn't get a sister to give me a conversational crumb let alone a wholecolloquial cracker.
Time to move on.
I stopped at a pay phone and called the office that was handling the lease. Ihad called them at least ten times over the last few months. Had called so muchthey knew my voice.
I said, "What are the terms?"
"Still the same."
"Two-year contract."
"Yes, it is. Two-year contract with one year up-front."
"Is that negotiable?"
"Everything in life is negotiable."
I was facing Z Galleries and the space for lease. I checked out the number ofpeople who were shopping Colorado Boulevard at off hours. The nonstop consumerswere better than the regulars at most malls. Weekend nights up here had a partyatmosphere: sidewalks crammed with street performers, boulevard withbumper-to-bumper nonstop traffic on the mile-long strip.
I said, "That's what I need to hear. I've noticed the space had been empty fora while."
"Yes, it has. I thought you were coming in."
"Having a cash-flow problem."
"At least yours is flowing."
"Could you do a month-to-month."
"Depends on the credit."
"Now, how much would actually be required to secure a lease?"
"What would you use as collateral?"
"Would a used Nova be considered collateral?"
She laughed hard. "Used Nova? Isn't that redundant?"
I ran my hands over my dreads, chewed my lip.
She asked, "Will someone be co-signing the lease?"
"No. Not if I can help it."
"Think about it. Whew. Used Nova. I'm dying over here. You must be acomedian?"
She was still cackling about my Nova. Her laughter calmed down, sounded likeshe drank some water, and she went down the actual dollar amount they would needa month. A dollar amount that didn't include utilities, phone, liabilityinsurance, and a few other things. Like food. It sounded hard. With theamount of money I didn't have in my pocket or in my bank account, I was livingone block from impossible. But I knew I could do it.
She said, "You want to stop by and fill out a lease?"
My hand bounced against my pocket. Not even a jingle.
Too bad dreams didn't have sounds, didn't make noises that other could hear,nothing they could see or feel or taste. Nobody can taste the dream but thedreamer. Nobody could smell what I wanted for me but me.
I said, "Not today. Thanks anyway."
"Well, why don't you give me your name and number, and if anything changes, ifthe proprietor revises his stipulations and makes them more auspicious, I'llgive you a call."
I said a bland "Sure. If it's disconnected, call back in a day or two."
She laughed again. "You need to be onstage."
I hung up.
I stopped by the bulletproof post office on Crenshaw and Thirty-ninth, and senta certified bill to the only address I had for John. Then, I used my callingcard to phone every number I could think of, including his sister back east.Nobody knew where he was. At least nobody was saying. His family didn't carewhere he was. Sounded like they hoped he vanished for good, then hung up on me.
I made it back home late afternoon. Walked into my castle that had a mattresson the bedroom floor next to plastic milk crates with my clothes folded inside.Walls were plastered with pictures, black-and-white scenes of Los Angeles,Vegas, and Arizona, photos from riots, head shots I took for struggling actorswho never paid me for the work.
A roach was in the corner. Staring at me.
My answering machine was flashing like it was mad at me too. It had one messagethat had used up a lot of tape. The message was from Jonathan Curry. He leftme a number in the 619 area code to call him back. That southern Californiaarea code spread out south from below the Republicans in Orange County, all theway to the Tijuana border.
"Yo! Bob-bee! Heh, heh. Look 'a here, sorry about the mix-up. I just gotword through the grapevine that things got pretty wild up there in Los Angeles.Good thing I was gone, right? Heh, heh. I tried to contact you so I couldstraighten you out, but I guess you were down at the office too. Look, I'mmoving everything, and I want you to finish up the work for me. I've got ano-lost thing working. Same thing, different hotels and I don't have to dealwith labor unions or-"
And it went on and on for two minutes.
I called the number. A female with a strong Latina accent and a no-nonsensebusiness voice answered on the second ring. It was loud, lots of street noises.Too clear to be a cellular phone, so she had to be squatting at a phone booth.
I said, "John around there?"
"Who is asking?"
"Bobby. I'm looking for Jonathan Curry."
"You are who?"
"I'm the photographer. I did some work for him. He wrote me a check, and itbounced. I need some money so I can-"
"He is gone."
"Is he coming back?"
"No. He told me to give you a message."
I grunted. Ran my hand through my hair. I said, "Go ahead."
She told me where John was going to be working. When he needed me there. WhereI would be staying.
I said, "That's a long way to go on a secondhand promise."
"Secondhand promise . . . I no understand."
"Your words are hearsay."
She paused, then sounded flustered, "I no understand."
"A long way. It's a long way from here to there."
"Yes, it is. That's why you must fly. He will send you tickets to fly. Hewill send a note and tell you where to come to do your work."
The best I could figure was that he'd fled with all the equipment and machineryhe had "borrowed" and landed in a place with an attitude the opposite of the TVshow Cheers-he went where nobody knew his face and nobody knew his name. Itbasically boiled down to me lugging my camera equipment to a designated spot andwaiting for him to show up. Hoping he'd show up.
I said, "What about the money he already owes me?"
She said, "He say he pay you when you get there."
"Look, his check was no good. That made my checks bounce. I have people here Iowe, and I need to pay now."
"He say he pay you for what he owe you and pay you for your travel expenses whenyou get here."
"So is the ticket he's sending one-way or round-trip? Last thing I need is toget strand-"
"All I know is what I have already told you. He will send you the ticket youneed to fly. It will be at your home in the morning. He will tell you whereyou need to go."
"What is your name?"
"Who I am is not important."
Whoever she was, she must've had cataracts in her ears, because she surecouldn't see what I was saying.
"Whoever you are, give John a message for me."
She replied with an ambivalent, "Okay."
"Tell him I said to fuck off."
First she paused, like she was caught off guard; then in a harsh tone, shesnapped a few things in Spanish before she switched back to English and said,
"What you say is not nice."
More rugged words in Spanish. I tried to say something, but she hung up.Every-damn-body was hanging up on me.
Now I was pissed off more than I'd ever been pissed off. I picked up the phoneand dialed Manuel Torres.
He said, "Bobby, what's going on?"
I paused. Looked at the number I had for John. A quick call to 4-1-1 with thearea code and prefix could tell me what area John was in. Might even be able tocall the phone booth back and ask whoever answered exactly where they were.Thought for a second.
I rubbed my temple, said, "I called to say thanks for what you did today."
"Are you okay?"
"Just a little stressed."
"We all are."
"Thanks for . . . uh . . . for . . . looking out for everybody."
"Keep the faith, Bobby. This will pass."
I hung up. Hung up feeling bad. Like a fool to John's dealing. Like acoconspirator to Manuel Torres. How could I be a coconspirator if I didn't knowwhat I was a coconspirator to?
All I knew was what was real, that my rent would be due soon.
I had borrowed all I could afford to borrow. I had looked up my own wall. Sawthat one lonely roach. Thought about me. My own restlessness and anxiety. Myneeds. My wants. My future. So many thoughts.
Right now I had less money than a high school dropout. I was in a grind. Iknow that this time next year it wouldn't matter. It would be chalked up toexperience. For better or for worse, my life would have changed. That would benext year. But right now my situation was all that mattered.
Copyright © 2000 E. Lynn Harris, Eric Jerome Dickey, Colin Channer, and Marcus Major. All rights reserved.
