Читать книгу Flamingo Place - Marcia King-Gamble - Страница 10

You say your son is queer! Maybe he’s a confirmed bachelor or simply set in his ways.

Thump! Thump! Thump! The damn boom box next door was driving Jen St. George crazy.

Determined to ignore the loud rap music emanating from her neighbor’s apartment, Jen continued to type. Her next door neighbor was the most inconsiderate person she’d ever encountered and by far the rudest.

Jumping up, Jen banged on the wall and yelled, “Can you turn down your music?”

When her request didn’t produce the desired results, Jen called to her assistant, Chere, “Turn on the stereo, please. Loud.”

Jen’s attention returned to the letter she was working on. She banged out words no sooner than they’d popped into her head. This was her tenth letter of the day, and she was exhausted from dispensing advice. The moniker love diva hadn’t been earned easily.

The script in front of her was beginning to blur and tiny black dots were popping out in front of her eyes. On any given day being an advice columnist wasn’t easy, but she loved her job and got immense satisfaction from helping people. Giving advice had made her a popular and sought-after teenager. It had felt good to be needed. Today it still did.

“Chere, where are you? You’re supposed to be turning on the stereo,” Jen called, her irritation at her assistant reflecting in her tone. Not that Chere would even get it.

“I hear you,” her assistant called from the vicinity of the kitchen.

Dear Jenna made a living as an advice columnist to the lovelorn. This career came with a huge responsibility. People trusted her to choose their life partners or help them dump an inconvenient relationship. She was considered the diva of love because her advice was seldom off the mark. Normally her readership loved her in-your-face style.

The deafening music continued from next door. Jen thumped on the wall again.

“Please show some consideration. Jerk,” she muttered under her breath.

Jen turned on her own stereo, making sure her volume matched 5B’s. Now she could barely hear herself think.

Back at her desk Jen considered changing the wording of her response. Conservative Flamingo Beach, the small North Florida town where she now lived, might not get Dear Jenna’s hip-happening style. She really meant no harm; if anyone knew her family situation they would know that.

No, better to leave it like that. Maybe she’d bring this sleepy oceanfront community into the twenty-first century. The word queer was perfectly acceptable and in vogue now. It was totally embraced by the gay community. The TV show Queer Eye for the Straight Guy had made the word a household name, and it was one of the more popular shows around.

Still, there was always the chance some uninformed reader could interpret it as a slur, especially in a backwoods Southern town. She was on ninety-day probation at The Flamingo Beach Chronicle. The newspaper had wooed her way from Ashton, Ohio, an even smaller Midwest town.

In a relatively short time, Jen had acquired quite the following and The Chronicle’s circulation had increased. The competition, The Southern Tribune, was watching them closely. Of course her boss hadn’t said word one to her about this accomplishment. He dispensed compliments meagerly, just as she’d been warned he dispensed raises.

The loud noise next door continued. Jen glanced at her full to overflowing in-box and sighed. What on earth was taking Chere so long? She’d excused herself to use the bathroom earlier and must have detoured to the kitchen.

Chere was to have read and catalogued the mail by now but she’d arrived late as usual, leaving Jen to handle most of it herself. Two days a week they worked from home—Jen’s home. This was supposed to allow them to keep up with correspondence. But something needed to be done about Chere Adams—and soon. There had to be better qualified administrative assistants around.

“Chere!” Jen shouted over the din emanating from next door. “What’s the holdup?”

“I said I was coming.”

Jen rolled her eyes. Sure she was, when she was good and ready. There was a residential directory somewhere around. Jen searched and found it before realizing she didn’t know the neighbor’s name. This meant she’d have to go next door.

The hall was alive with music. Using her fist, she banged on 5B’s front door.

“What’s up?” he called when the sound registered.

She didn’t stick around to answer. Hopefully he would get the message. Rather than wasting energy debating his selfishness, Jen returned to reread Ms. Mabel’s letter. The old lady had a quirky sense of humor. She pleaded with Jen to help save her son, even likening homosexuality to a rare disease.

How had she come to such a conclusion? It was a metrosexual world. Men got manicures, pedicures and facials just like women did these days. Men were marrying later and later. Thirty-five wasn’t that old. Jen was thirty-two and very single, and left to herself she’d stay that way. There had to be more to it. Maybe Mother Mabel had found her son in a compromising position. Jen decided she would ask.

She typed her witty and well-thought-out prose, pausing to rotate her cramping shoulder muscles and stare out the living room windows. A beautiful coral and lavender sunset made her long to be outdoors, sipping on something cool and frothy. It was wishful thinking on her part—with the looks of that in-box.

It had taken Ms. Mabel a full eight pages to tell how her son had been engaged three times but never quite made it down the aisle. Mama was now speculating that her son’s loud “Cabana Boy” shirts and “butt-hugging” jeans were a clear sign he was batting for the other team.

The music next door ceased, thank God. Jen’s head still vibrated with the sound. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. She’d never regretted leaving Ashton, the small Midwest town where she’d worked for ten years. The Flamingo Beach Chronicle’s offer had come at the perfect time.

Jen’s romantic life had been in turmoil. She’d been happy to put space between herself and Anderson, the lying, cheating dog who’d broken her heart and put her off men, permanently. Now was not the time to think of him. She had a deadline to meet.

“I’m calling it a day,” huffed Chere, the assistant she’d inherited. She was still chomping on the chicken leg she’d taken from Jen’s refrigerator. She slid a glass of water Jen’s way. “Unless you need me for something.” Two plump cheeks parted to reveal perfectly white teeth. Then she made a chicken neck. “What’s with that brother? He tone deaf or what?”

Damn if she knew. She’d been wondering the same thing. Jen waved an expansive hand in the direction of her crowded desk. “Nope, just self-focused like we need to be. We’ve got work, girl. Those letters need to be read and logged in. Today.”

Chere placed two pudgy hands bedecked with gold rings on each finger on her oversized hips. Her nails were a work of art, depicting the New York skyline in black and silver. She proudly announced to anyone who would listen that she’d grown up in the Bronx, followed a man South, and although that relationship was long over with, remained because she enjoyed the Southern hospitality. Translation, the dark-skinned brothers had been good to her and delighted in her charms.

“Shoot. I have plans tonight,” she grumbled. “What am I supposed to tell Leon?”

“What you’ve told every man you didn’t want to be bothered with. You’re busy.”

“But I want to be bothered with this one—you should see how he’s hung.…”

Jen now fixed her hazel-eyed stare on the outrageous woman who thought work was a contagious disease and tended to disappear more often than not. Chere did serve a purpose though. She knew everything there was to know about Flamingo Beach and its residents. She’d slept with most of the men and could proudly list their long and shortcomings. As she’d said to Jen time and time again, you didn’t have to be skinny as a rail to bag a man. Booty was booty. Good loving just as easily came in an oversized package.

Chere harrumphed before settling in and attacking the pile in the in-box. She slid a nail that reminded Jen of a talon under one envelope flap while sighing loudly.

“You might as well get used to long hours. If we’d met at a small Midwest paper you do everything including your own copyediting,” Jen added.

“I’d rather be serving fries at Mickey Dee’s,” Chere grumbled. “Here you are, stuck in this big ass apartment when you should be lying around the pool sipping on Margaritas and strategizing how to get one of them personal trainers into bed. My mama used to say no employer’s ever dedicated a tombstone to a workaholic. Hell, you’re lucky to get a silver watch if you make it to retirement.”

Jen smothered a grin. Lazy as Chere was she did provide comic relief. “Here, take a look at this.” Jen flipped Ms. Mabel’s letter in Chere’s direction. “What’s your take?”

Chere’s double chins bobbed. She scanned the letter before guffawing loudly. “Uhhh, your advice ain’t going to sit well with the peoples.”

“Why not?”

Because this is Buppyville. We are nothing if not politically correct. These peoples aren’t going to like that you used ‘queer.’ Lover boy might be a player but you telling Mama to get on the Internet and place one of them there ads is meddling, baby girl. No man ever likes the babe Mama chooses.”

“Maybe you should be answering my mail,” Jen said jokingly. “You know how this town operates and you seem to know your way around men.”

“Yup, I sure as hell do. What if Romeo’s gay? You didn’t tackle that.”

Jen chuckled. “Maybe the number of letters from women offering to turn him straight will force him out of the closet.”

“I doubt that. I had me a few of them, even my antics couldn’t keep them on the straight and narrow. Listen, I have to go. Leon will kill me for being late.” She tossed the letters back on Jen’s desk and reached for an oversized Coach bag in a sickly shade of coral, hoisting it onto her shoulder. “Just tell the witch to butt out of a grown man’s life. She should be at bingo or learning to fox trot at Arthur Murray. She needs to get a life.”

Chere wiggled her bejeweled fingers and headed for the door. “Want me to take care of homeboy next door on my way out?”

“I already have.”

No sooner had Chere left than the cacophony next door started again. Jen’s walls vibrated. Her head felt like someone had parked a Mack truck in it and left the motor running. Enough was enough. Jen stepped out into the hallway in time to see a scantily clad hoochie mama exit 5B.

This was no tenant. 5B seemed to get more than his share of action. Women were constantly coming and going at all kinds of hours. Jen had heard the fights, the broken glasses and the slammed doors.

“Call me,” the woman with the belly-button ring said to someone Jen couldn’t see.

A grunt followed before the door closed firmly behind her.

Jen’s Midwestern good manners kicked in. “Hello,” she greeted the woman tottering by in too-high heels.

A disinterested glance was tossed Jen’s way. She’d been summarily dismissed as inconsequential. The music inside 5B’s apartment ended abruptly.

Jen returned to her apartment and decided to get comfortable. She slid into a pair of shorts and a halter top and considered what to do about dinner. There were at least three restaurants to choose from nearby but it was no fun sitting at a table eating alone.

Discarding the possibility of having food delivered, Jen opened the refrigerator hoping to find something edible. She slammed the door again. It looked like takeout was the only option.

The Godawful racket started again. Now it sounded like Middle Eastern chanting. 5B had turned up his boom box full volume again. An Indo rap artist was going on about bitches and whores.

Grabbing the remote phone, Jen punched in the numbers for a soul food restaurant that delivered and shouted her order. She would try escaping the loud music by taking the pile of mail out to the terrace.

Jen’s apartment offered a clear view of the beach. Tiny white lights were starting to twinkle on the opposite shore. On a sigh, she inhaled the smell of brine and thought how lucky she was.

The pounding music followed her outside. This new singer sounded like a cat in heat.

“You just got on my last nerve,” Jen mumbled, tossing the letters aside. “I have a right to a peaceful existence and I’ll have it if it’s the last thing I do.”

Tre Monroe snorted loudly. He was bored out of his skull. He needed constant stimulation. These wannabe artistes were not doing it for him. He’d hoped to find at least one potential star in the bunch, but nada so far.

WARP, the radio station where he was both musical director and on-air personality, was constantly inundated with unsolicited CDs; CDs that he as musical director was forced to listen to in his spare time. Tre had cranked up his music hoping that the lyrics and beat of just one of them would get his attention. But so far the pitiful talent just made him more restless than he already was.

He popped another disk into the player. He’d already had one uninvited visitor show up, a woman he’d dated casually; someone almost fifteen years his junior. At one time the sex had been good, but the conversation nonexistent. He’d quickly grown tired of her and tried to let her down gently, but she continued to hang on.

In a couple of hours he would be on the air, playing his tunes and broadcasting from the only black radio station in town: the happening station. Tre loved fielding calls from his late-night audience, often a colorful and vocal group.

Over the sounds of heavy metal, Tre vaguely registered the banging at his front door. Not her again. Had she forgotten something? Swearing softly to himself, he padded barefoot and shirtless to answer. Security was getting lax. He’d have to talk to somebody about this.

Tre ignored the peephole and threw his front door wide. The woman who stood before him looked like she had a definite axe to grind. He registered that she was attractive and had a great pair of legs. She had the kind of smooth cinnamon-colored skin you felt compelled to touch. Her lips were full, wide and inviting. Streaked, straightened hair skimmed her broad shoulders. High cheekbones and wide hazel eyes gave her a slightly exotic look. How come he’d never seen her before?

Tre’s gaze slid down the woman’s strong body. She was ripe. Her perfectly proportioned breasts filled that halter top nicely. Damn it but those long, shapely legs deserved to be wrapped around somebody, preferably him. He wondered how come he hadn’t run into her before. He would have remembered. When he smiled at her, she did not smile back.

It dawned on him it had to be the new tenant. He’d seen the moving truck pull up and unload a pitiful few pieces of furniture; mostly antiques though, so at least she had good taste. Sheer nosiness had forced him to inquire of the moving men where they were taking them. They’d told him they belonged to the occupant of 5C.

“Is there something you wanted?” Tre asked, staring at the woman. She’d folded her arms across those luscious breasts and now they threatened to spill from the low-cut halter.

“Your music is driving me crazy. I can hardly think. Much less work.”

“Who am I turning my music down for?” Tre asked, his glance sliding over her body again.

She seemed conscious of his assessment but not at all self-conscious. Yet she backed off, putting space between them. “I live in 5C,” she said, pointing up the hallway. “Next door. Show a little consideration. I’m surprised 5A and D haven’t called security.”

Tre narrowed his eyes, giving her the look that usually made women’s legs buckle. He’d been told often enough he had bedroom eyes. He swept his gaze over the tempting piece of flesh standing in front of him, letting his eyes linger for a second too long on the woman’s cleavage, then focusing on those long legs again. And what legs. He’d always been a leg man.

“No one’s ever complained about my music before, baby,” he drawled. “I’ve lived here two years. You’ve been here how long?” One eyebrow arched upward. He was at his most intimidating.

“About six weeks,” his pissed-off neighbor supplied.

“Long enough to listen to noisy altercations in the hallway and develop headaches from that obnoxious stereo of yours. I work at home a couple days a week.”

Tre draped an arm across the doorsill. “Who am I supposed to be shutting down my boom box for? You got a name?” On purpose he’d slipped into the dialect of the street.

5C actually had the grace to look embarrassed. She thrust a toned arm forward. She must work out with weights, another point in her favor. Toned arms with just a trace of muscle were sexy.

“Jen St. George. And you are?”

“Jen?”

Tre let the name wrap around his tongue. The last name was definitely foreign. She might be from the islands; Haiti quite possibly. He’d always had a thang for island girls. They were feisty and knew exactly who they were. She waited for him to tell her his name.

“Trestin,” Tre said, skipping his last name as he often did. Once women found out he was WARP’s music director, and popular radio personality, D’Dawg, they began acting like fools. The name was rightfully earned from his “poon hound” days.

“Well, Trestin,” Jen said, “can we come to an agreement? Can you at least lower your tunes so I can get back to work?”

The door of 5A located directly across from Tre pushed open. Ida Rosenstein stuck a head decorated with pink curlers covered by a net through the opening. She called in the loud croaky voice of a smoker, “You could at least invite this one in.” Looking from one to the other, she sniffed. “How come your girlfriends never wear clothes?”

“I am not one of his girlfriends,” Jen snapped. “Like you, I’m his next-door neighbor.”

“What was that?” Ida shouted, lighting a cigarette and blowing a perfect smoke ring.

Jen pinched her nose. “Must you?”

Tre’s palm cupped Jen’s elbow. He propelled her in the direction of the smokestack. “This is Jen St. George,” he said. “Jen just moved in.”

“John, did you say? Why does she have a man’s name?”

“My name’s Jen,” Jen carefully repeated. “Doesn’t his music bother you? How come you’re not complaining?”

“I’m too old to complain. It doesn’t do any good. I just take action.”

Tre tried to discreetly whisper to Jen that Ida was severely hard of hearing.

“His music,” Jen shouted. “Doesn’t it bother you? It’s too loud.”

“I like his music,” Ida boomed back. Good for her. “It makes me feel alive.” She began mimicking urban dance movements she must have seen on TV.

Jen was stunned.

Tre smiled brightly at Ida. She was taking up for him. He’d always liked the old lady and gave her credit for being so open-minded at her age. She’d told him she refused to move when the building was remodeled and the first influx of black upper-middle-class tenants moved in. According to Ida, she was the first resident to move in after the building was constructed. She’d be there until it was torn down or they took her out in a box.

A head poked out from 5D. “Can you keep it down?”

Camille Lewis was the last person Tre wanted involved in his business. Her mouth ran like there was no tomorrow. She thrived on gossip or made it up. Tre would have to convince Winston, her husband, to help put a lid on Camille’s mouth. That would cost him a handful of new CDs.

“This is Jen St. George, our new neighbor,” Tre said smoothly, forcing a smile. “Camille Lewis.”

“We already met.” Camille turned her attention back to her cell phone.

She had a heavy West Indian accent that came and went depending on whether she was talking to a relative or not. She waggled the cell phone at him. “I’m trying to talk to my girlfriend. Can you at least go inside?”

He was being ganged up on. Camille Lewis normally didn’t care about how loud he played his music; just that he made sure some of the disks came her way. She’d mastered the art of multitasking and knew everything there was to know about everyone in the building. They usually got along fine and Tre had learned to ignore her monitoring of his comings and goings.

“Fine. We’ll take our discussion inside,” Tre agreed. He held his apartment door open hoping Jen would come in. “Night, y’all.”

Camille grunted at him and slammed shut her door. Ida stayed put.

“Tomorrow this entire building’s going to hear about the threesome we had in the hallway.” Ida cackled loudly and stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray she held. Examining Jen through rheumy eyes, she continued. “You’re a step up from his usual. His taste is improving.”

“I am not his usual. I am nothing to him,” Jen answered before stomping off.

Tre said good-night to Ida Rosenstein and slipped inside his apartment.

Jen St. George wasn’t going to be easy. He’d have to plan a strategy, maybe take a bottle of wine over to her later in the week and turn up the heat.

With any luck, he’d have her on her back and those long legs wrapped around him.

Give him one month and he’d be in those tight shorts of hers. Then guess who would be complaining about who.