The Jook Page 3

  "Catch you, man." I walked off, knowing he was watching me as I did.

  I got some food and spotted Davida talking with a roly-poly short guy in a turtleneck and checkered sport coat. He was glancing everywhere but her direction. His face had that uncomfortable look I'd seen on owners' faces during contract negotiations. She circled around him, gesturing with her arms. I went back for more shrimp. I really like shrimp.

  I reached across a cute Korean chick in a slit dress and bumped shoulders with somebody else grabbing for a prawn.

  "Raines," Julian Weems said. His pinched looks were as sour as ever.

  "Commissioner." I rubbed my tongue over a side tooth. "Surprised to see you here."

  "What have you been doing these days?" He turned his head, concentrating on fetching his chow.

  He knew I'd gone to play in Spainsonofabitch had to sign the league transfers. "Not much. But I've been working out, staying healthy"

  "Oh, why?" Weems gave me his Moses-on-the-mountain glare behind those Ben Franklin glasses of his. He chewed on a piece of broccoli.

  ''I'm gonna get back into football.''

  "Have you been offered an assistant coaching job?"

  I should have pimp-slapped him. But it was his tune to call and I had to shuffle to it for now. "I aim to play for the Barons. I grew up here, this is where I went to the pros from Long Beach State, and this is where I'd like to finish out."

  A fade-cut white boy in a three-piece pinstripe with planed-off shoulders slipped beside Weems. The guy walked like he'd just taken three Ex-Lax and was holding it back. He passed his blues over me, daring me to breathe. There was a small flaming cross tattooed on the left side of his cheek. His jaw muscle bunched and unbunched.

  Weems gazed at this corn-fed husky like he was his favorite pet. "I didn't realize how droll your humor could be, Mr. Raines. You are a known child molester, sir. Our league is in the process of rebuilding its stature as America's sport after men like you worked overtime to tear it down. Dope parties, fornication, beer bashes on team flights, trashing hotel rooms, bar fights." He chomped on a shrimp. "Even if by some cruel test of the Lord you were healthy, and I read the account from Barcelona, do you think I'd allow you back in?"

  I shoved a finger at him. "That girl in the wheelchair said she was nineteen. And if you recall, commissioner, I wasn't convicted of that statutory rape charge. Although I know you were prayin' real hard that I would be." I leaned into him, his dog flexing. "I'm gonna be a player again."

  "Sure you will."

  The two of them walked off.

  Davida came up. "I can't believe this shit."

  All I got was a couple of blow jobs for all the goddamn trouble that handicapped chick caused me. She was waiting in the cold drizzle outside my pad one night. Said she was left by her friends, that they'd been teasing her for having a crush on me. Damn, she initiated the sex. She'd wheeled over and grabbed my crotch while I was dialing her a cab. I lost my endorsement contracts with the auto parts chain and the CD-ROM wide receiver game. Plus I spent a fuckin' armored car full of money on lawyers keeping my black ass out of jail.

  "Zelmont, are you listening to me?" Davida was digging her nails into my arm.

  "Yes," I said, pulling back.

  "What'd I say, then?" Her top lip curled over her capped teeth.

  "You was going on about how that producer in the turtleneck over there was supposed to get your album together for the fall, put money into promotion and so forth. But now he's givin' you static that some of the cuts ain't slammin'." The ability to have my mind in two places at once came from years of hearing everything the QB was saying in the huddle and still making eye contact with a babe on the 30-yard line.

  "You don't have to be so fuckin' smug."

  "Sweetmeat," I said, "I'm in your corner, you know that." A long tall sally walked up behind Davida. She was fine as bone china.

  Davida ran a hand through her black hair and shifted in her high heels. "You take me for a play thing, don't you?"

  "No more than you do me." She looked at me like she was trying to penetrate my mind. I kissed her, running a hand over her firm backside.

  "Excuse me," said the good-looking sister. She'd been standing there listening to us and now had come around front towards the ice sculpture and shrimp. She wore a blue shimmering number with specks of dark orange spattered all over the material. The hem was a few tasteful inches above her knees. Her hair was frizzed out around a high-cheek-boned face, silver teardrop earrings hanging from her chocolate-colored ears.

  "Mind if I get to the shrimp?"

  "Knock yourself out," said Davida, pulling on my sleeve to let her pass.

  I was careful to not take my eyes off Davida. "Did you see that big clown standing next to Weems?"

  "Yeah, he's one of his Internal Truth Squad bruisers," she said. "Napoleon told me that Weems had recruited these guys from groups like the Promise Keepers about a month ago."

  "To do what?" The woman in blue got her shrimp and walked across the dance floor to a table where Stadanko sat with some others.

  "Keep things kosher," Davida answered. "Keep bad boys like you from messing up the program."

  "Some kind of spies?"

  "I guess," she said, irritated. "What am I going to do, Zelmont?"

  "It's gonna work out, Davida. You got other contacts besides this dude, right?"

  "Yeah, but Jansen can make things happen without a whole lot of bullshit." She began gesturing again. "The songs are almost mixed. This album can put me over. This is my career we're talking about, Zelmont. It's very important to me. I ain't going back to what I used to do, you understand."

  I looked around, hoping to change the subject. This girl was wearing me out with her going on all the time about the work she was putting in to get her singing career started. Three years ago, she was the choreographer for the Laker Girls. And like them air-headed broads from Youngstown and wherever, she thought just because she could shake her tail feathers and had a halfway okay voice, she was going to be the next Paula Abdul.

  "Zelmont," Nap yelled from a balcony with a gold rail. He signaled for me to join him.

  "I'll be right back, baby Fact, I'll ask Nap if he's got some ideas for record people."

  "Whatever," she said, throwing me a glare.

  I copped another drink on the way up to the big fella. There was a white dude in a Zegna suit talking all excitedly to Nap. He stopped when he saw me. Then he walked away, smoking a thin cigar as he went past. "This set's live, home," I said to Nap, who leaned on the rail, swirling the ice in his drink.

  "The honest always pay up." He straightened to his impressive full height and took a large swallow.

  "Huh?"

  Nap smiled and held the drink out. The waitress who'd talked to me when I'd come in was there in a flash. "Another, Nappy?" Her voice was like butter melting on a hot biscuit.

  "Not now, thanks, Dora."

  "Okay, Mr. Graham." She smiled real nice at him and threaded her way back into the pack.

  "You gettin' that, Nap?"

  He put his hands on his hips. "It's men this month."

  "Wonderful." I sipped and watched the woman in the blue and orange speckled gown down below throwing her head back and laughing at something Stadanko said. Ysanya, Stadanko's missus, was rubbing one of the goddamn crystals on a cord around her neck, looking here and there like Timothy Leary's ghost was gonna show.

  "Who's the hammer at Stadanko's table?" I asked.

  "If you think she's gonna give you some trim, you might do better twirling your dick in a dyke bar."

  "Huh?"

  "That's Wilma Wells, lead attorney for the Barons. She's the one that put together the package the city and the team owners went for. She knows her stuff."

  Smart women and me went together about as good as Clarence Thomas and Al Sharpton on a double date. Plus she must have been a couple of years older than me. "What it be then, brah?"

  "You need work?"

  "
That obvious?"

  "I been there, remember?"

  I nodded and drank. A dark guy in a dark suit with black slicked-back hair eased behind Stadanko's old lady. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she put one of hers on his. Damn, Stadanko into some kinda threesome? Then I noticed the thing dangling from his ear. It was the gay boy I'd run into on the mountain who said he knew Nap.

  "That a friend of yours?" I pointed my drink at the dude. He was bending low, whispering something to the space lady.

  Nap rubbed a finger across his upper lip. "Pablo is a color consultant."

  "What the fuck is that?"

  "About 600 pretty little green ones a week from Ysanya."

  Pablo was looking around and spotted my broad-shouldered buddy. The fidgety fellow blew Nap a kiss.

  "How about you become the Locker Room's utility man?" Nap said, making a gesture like a duke or something to his boy down below. Pablo got all squirmy, and Ysanya's lids got real tight.

  "You wouldn't mean I got to be one of them bathroom towel-holdin' motherfuckahs in a bow tie, would you?"

  "Negro," he whined.

  "I ain't so hard up I want to be a greeter like how Joe Louis finished his days. Or how Tyson's gonna go out." A bad feeling exploded in my stomach even as I said the words. I hoped I wasn't predicting anything.

  "No, I have something more, ah, appropriate for you, Zelmont."

  I leaned my backside against the railing. "What in the hell are you talking about, Nap?"

  His mouth closed as fast as he'd started to speak. I could sense the man coming up beside us.

  "Good party, Napoleon," the dude with the accent and Zegna suit said. "You are making a good go of things. A good go." He squeezed one of Nap's broad shoulders like he was an old pal. "This another of your football friends?" He gleamed his teeth at me.

  "Zelmont Raines, All-Pro and Super Bowl winner," Nap said. His body was rigid.

  "Pleasure, Mr. Raines." The man lifted his eyebrows at Nap and trotted off after a redhead.

  "Who's that?" I asked.

  Nap was biting the inside of his lip. "Rudy Chekka, a biznesman as they say in his neck of the woods."

  "So who is he?"

  "That's Stadanko's cousin. Look, man, I'll call you tomorrow. We'll talk then." He clapped me on the arm and hauled his large self down the stairs.

  What was up with that? I wondered. I put my empty glass on a table and started back down to the main floor too. Wouldn't you know it but Stadanko and that stacked Wilma Wells were at the foot of the stairs, talking.

  "Mr. Stadanko." I stopped on the second step from the floor.

  "What are you doing these days, Zelmont?" Stadanko was a bear-sized man. He was almost my height, with a wide middle and a flat face that wasn't improved much by his bushy mustache. Stadanko was wearing a gun-gray drape coat, black slacks, and some old school black and tan Nunn Bush shoes like my Uncle Nate used to have.

  "Not through with playing some ball yet."

  "I heard you fired your last agent."

  "The Barons have a walk-on period in the next few weeks," I tossed out.

  He grunted and looked at the Wells woman. "That's 'cause our counselor here, who's conscious about the team's public image, finagled that with the Coliseum Commission to get them to give us the new sky boxes. Encourage local talent and all that. Personally, I've never seen a good prospect come along that way."

  He glanced hard at me. I knew he wasn't waiting for me to flinch.

  "Anyway, I have to go schmooze our favorite politician," he said to Wells, his personality picking up when he talked to her. He waved to Councilman Waters and pretended like I wasn't there as he went off to do his thing. Stadanko put his arm around Waters, whose district included the Coliseum and who was head of the Coliseum Commission.

  "Having a good time?" That was lame when I was in junior high. But them brainy chicks always threw me off. Never knew what to say, or how to say it.

  "Business," she said softly. "I'd rather be home reading a book or listening to Etta James and sipping a glass of merlot."

  Fuck. Last book I read was the thing that explained my NFL pension and benefits. "I know what you mean." I was dying. But she hadn't moved off.

  "I saw an interview you did while you were on the Dragons for the British Channel 4."

  "You doin' better than me," I said, impressed. "How'd you stumble on that?"

  "Interesting people always interest me."

  "Uh, thanks." Damn, Urkel was smoother.

  The muscle boy who'd been shadowing Weems all of a sudden decided to make himself handy.

  "This man crowding you, Ms. Wells?"

  "You better get back to the kennel, fang."

  He got in my face, huffing and puffing. "You are a nuisance." He put a hand on me and I slapped it away

  "It's okay, Trace, Mr. Raines and I were simply conversing." She smiled at me.

  "Yeah, you know what conversing means, don't you?" I said, taunting the chump. Let him go off. I'd wind up with a couple of million in my pocket from the league if he did.

  The muscle beneath his flaming cross throbbed, and we did the stare down for a few seconds. "As you say, Ms. Wells." Fang stomped off.

  I wish you luck with the Barons, Mr. Raines. You should know that Jon Grainger and Tommy Earl are also doing a walk-on for the wide receiver slots."

  I appreciate the tip." I wanted to ask her why she was giving me the heads up, but nixed it.

  I better work the crowd myself," she said.

  "Hope we have a chance to converse again."

  "Surely"

  I watched those hips moving underneath the clingy dress and forgot all about my problems, at least for a few minutes.

  Chapter 3

  What I need is some real support from you, Zelmont." Davida kicked at one of her throw pillows. "You say you're down for my career, but you don't act like it."

  "I'm sorry, was I supposed to have your picture tattooed on both my arms instead of one?" A big jet zoomed overhead.

  "Asshole." She threw a magazine at me.

  "Be cool," I warned, wondering how the hell she put up with living near the airport.

  She threw another magazine at me, a thick one must have been Cosmopolitan.

  "What I tell you?" I shoved her down on the couch.

  "Oh, the big bad wide receiver like to beat up on the poor Chicana from Boyle Heights who used to catch three buses to dance class and then go to work to help her family?"

  "That how you gonna sell it to the tabloid shows?"

  "Maybe. Could be the jump-start I need for my singing career."

  I laughed without thinking.

  She sat up in a hurry. "What the fuck's that mean?"

  "Come on, let's go get some breakfast."

  "No, we ain't got no time for no pinche breakfast. What did you mean?" She was right under my nose, shaking a red nail at it.

  "Davida, ain't neither one of us exactly at the top of their game."

  "Yeah," she said real quiet, waiting to spring.

  "Look," I moved around her living room, "you yourself have said you knew you didn't have the strongest voice in the world. Damn, all kinda singers use, what do they call it, recording over their own voice a couple of times to beef the vocals up." Come on, Zelmont, talk your way through this. Don't blow this thing where you can jug this fine mama any which way but loose anytime you want.

  "My voice is refined, Zelmont, like a precious vase. It isn't harsh like Tina Turner's or Anita Baker's." She was following me around.

  "If they's harsh, maybe you ought to get your nana to light one of her prayer candles so you can run up on some of that." I knew I shouldn't have said it, but she got me mad, talking down to me and all.

  She popped me in the chest and was about to go for two when I caught her wrist. I bent it hard.

  "Shit. Bully."

  "You like it."

  She kicked at me but I scooted back. "That's old, and you're slow."

  "Let go, motherfu
ckah."

  "No." I forced her back and bent to kiss her. She slapped me, stinging. I got a look from her 'cause I could feel my mouth twist on one side. "You don't want that."

  A shade of fear flashed in those black eyes of hers. "Zelmont, let go."

  "Hmmm." I was going to back off, but then she gave me a certain smile. Like she was playing me. Outside she was scared, which I liked. I wanted respect. But inside she was marking me for a chump.

  I put my hand on her face, my triceps tightening. I blitzed her head toward the wall, letting go right before she made contact with it.

  "Puta!" she screamed.

  I watched her, chewing on my bottom lip.

  ''Get the fuck out of my apartment, bitch,'' she yelled.

  I felt like doing something else to her. I got a warm rush in my gut, like the time I beat Henderson's coverage on me for the Bears in 20 degree weather. I cakewalked into the end zone, having outrun a dude who the sportswriters said was gonna make me eat muddy ice. I was getting hard, like I did back then too.

  "Leave." The worry was in her voice.

  I came closer. "Why, late for your singing lessons?" I put a hand on her chest, rubbing that mound.

  She stared at me, not blinking.

  I brought up the same hand like I was gonna hit her, getting a gasp from her. "See you, Davida."

  I was hungry but too worked up to eat. I started driving over to Nap's club for our appointment, knowing I'd be early. It was one of those gray, funky days that hit L.A. sometimes. I got off the Harbor at 9th, going around the one-way block. I went down Flower to 11th, then cut back west. I parked next to Nap's Lincoln and knocked on the metal door. Also on the lot was a silver Prowler with shiny black rims and one of those limited edition Nissans done up like a '34 Ford Coupe hot rod. Both had yellow running lights.

  "Nap," I said, knocking again. I didn't get an answer, so I tried the latch. The door was unlocked and I went inside. A bottle of something exploded upside the door, spraying glass inches from my head. I leaped over a low rail, slamming a foot into a dude in a long leather coat. He fell back, knocking over a cocktail table.

  He said something that wasn't English or Spanish, but I wasn't taking a language lesson. As he tried to get up, I brought one of Nap's thick ashtrays down on his skull and heard a satisfying crack. He wilted to the ground as I went forward.