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, motherfuckah."
"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.
Two others had ganged up on Nap. Another one was draped against the bar, his belly pointing to the ceiling. One of the two spun my way, bringing up an arm like a ref making a call. His gun clacked, but I was already diving behind a fat pillar.
I hunched there, heard a grunt, and came around the pillar. The gunman and Nap were mixing it up, Nap ramming one of his molded forearms under the dude's throat. The other one had been swatted against a potted plant. He now had a blade out and I lifted one of the small round tables.
"Yo, man." I threw it and tagged his ass in the sternum. I rushed over and stomped him twice in the face before he could spit.
"This is not good relations, Napoleon." The dude with the gun was holding one side of his head in pain. The gun was at his feet.
"Zelmont," Nap said, throwing the cat off his bar. He moaned as he hit the floor. "Help them find the exit." Nap picked up the gun and pointed it at the guy on the floor.
I made the guy on the bar and the one I'd hit with the ashtray carry the one I'd stepped on outside. The fourth guy, the gunman, Nap roughhoused outside.
"You must learn to relax," the guy said. "Discuss these matters in a rational manner."
Nap tossed the gun back to the cat, and I about peed on myself.
"Nigga, is you crazy?" I screamed, not knowing what to do.
The four chumps stood there but none of them did anything. Nap walked back inside. I hurried after him, shutting the door and locking it. "What in the fuck was that all about?" I was happy to hear their rides fire up.
Nap walked to the bar, and for a second it looked like he was gonna actually pour himself a real drink. But he was true to his tofu-loving ways and got one of those liter bottles of ginger ale from underneath.
"If you want something with more kick, help yourself, brah." One of his knuckles was bleeding. He closed his fist on some ice and tossed the cubes in a thick glass.
"Naw, I'm cool." I copped a seat on a stool at the bar and watched him.
Nap tipped his glass and poured his soda carefully, like a scientist mixing a secret formula. He held it up to the electric lights and swished the ice around.
Nap's gift as a tackle was his calm. His life off the field was as wild as a sixteen-year-old nympho pulling a train in the back of a Monte Carlo. But in the game, Napoleon Graham was famous for not blowing his top. Offensive linemen from various teams compared notes in the off-season on how to get underneath my man's exterior. When he was contained like that, that's when the brain power was churning, his mind snapping shit into place.