“You should try this,” Mrs. Sheridan had suggested, pointing to a golden-hued version of the short dark wig Nina held.
Nina had smiled. “I don’t think so.”
“Ohhhh, you too conservative,” Mrs. Sheridan scolded, scanning Nina’s bare face. “You pretty lady. Don’t be afraid to jazz it up.”
Nina was standing in Bruno Magli pumps and wearing an Italian blue tweed suit worth several grand. The suit’s short skirt proved one reason Tina Turner had hired her.
When Nina responded, “I’ll bear that in mind,” the temperature in that zip code dropped ten degrees.
Nina fell asleep after talking to Devon. It couldn’t have been a deep sleep; her armpits woke her up. Or maybe it was deep and she was just one frowsy bitch. She hadn’t showered and the stink enveloped her.
Suitably deodorized, she put on a T-shirt and yoga pants. Ate some yogurt and a banana. And turned on Betty Carter.
Nina checked her e-mail while Betty sang “Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most.”
Isaac had sent a thank-you message. He and the lawyer connected. I’m seeing her Monday. I’ll let you know what happens.
He did. The lawyer wanted cash up front, he explained in his next e-mail. He was a student. She said I was a little boy.
On Tuesday, Isaac’s case was continued. Nina considered this her cue to wish him Godspeed. Heading over to the Newton courthouse had entered her mind. Get a peek at the Collar. Check out the public record. Read the complaint. But she was saved from herself when a Berklee prof and his wife invited her to Martha’s Vineyard for a week. She rearranged her schedule and left Thursday.
From the ferry ride over to her last breakfast at The Grind, Nina continually ran into characters from her life’s first act. Most significantly Barry. Her stabbing victim.
They stared.
He did a playful bob-and-weave. “Do I dare come closer?” he asked.
Why not? It was only a superficial wound. He had easily disarmed her.
He had been a player. Did time for a mob-related shooting in the ’60s. Fresh out of Norfolk State Prison, he had cruised Boston with Nina in a spanking new ’78 Corvette one week, a ’77 Peugeot the next. Both cars compliments of the unofficial wives Nina knew nothing about. Barry was a decent bass guitarist and, these days, a vocational counselor.
It was late morning in Martha’s Vineyard. They sat outside an Edgartown café. He remembered how she drank tea instead of coffee.
“You crossed my mind the other day,” Nina told him.
“Why? Caught a foul smell or something?”
“I needed the name of a decent criminal attorney.”
“I don’t know any in Boston worth a dime,” Barry charged.
She told him why she had been tempted to call and gave the case CliffsNotes.
Barry’s lightning assessment: “This dude sounds like a jive turkey to me.” Then he told her-two types of guys volunteer to talk to cops: the ones who really are stupid, and the ones who think that they’re smarter than everyone else.
Isaac got a new lawyer. Juliette Choo Sheridan paid. The Collar asked for several more continuances. Too many and a case can get dismissed. But these gave Isaac more time to fuck up.
Late September, he and Devon came home to their Fort Hill sweet spot and couldn’t get in: locks changed. Later that night, while crashing with friends: Durango reclaimed. Juliette Choo Sheridan owned the property and knew where the tapes had been buried.
The money shot: Isaac yanking the leash on a bitch blowing his cock. Devon ’s plugging her ass. The leash was black leather and thin; the collar rhinestone-studded and delicate. Nina cataloged the scene as S &M Lite, but still unbecoming a former Marine and M.I.T. scholar-especially one facing an assault charge and looking for a university gig. The action around Isaac was more damning. Rocket from Paradise -her tits were like missiles-was one of two women being gang-raped. For insurance, the video was all over the Internet before Juliette Choo Sheridan sent copies of it to the prosecutor and the Collar’s home address. She and Sindi, former rivals, had become comrades.
Isaac took Mrs. Sheridan’s money, fucked to her satisfaction, but refused to move into her Newton contemporary mansion-which Sindi had frequently cased. And Sheridan joining an African harem had never been an option.
Early in December, Isaac’s attorney-he was back to the Roxbury sister-got a plea agreement. There was evidence of guilt but no hard proof. He could apply for a job and truthfully say he’d never been convicted of a crime.
By January, Devon was back in St. Louis and Isaac Elimu Sayif, a.k.a. Calvin Isaac Nethersole, a.k.a. Lite Dick Nethersole (most popular on the Internet), had unwanted websites sprouting like fungi after rain. The sexploits of Lite Dick streamed against the hazy image of his curriculum vitae and generated 87,000 hits on the worldwide web every day, 609,000 each week, 2,436,000 each month…
Isaac remains all but dissertation six years later.
TURN SPEED
BY RUSS ABORN
North Quincy
At the close of his twenty-third birthday, Michael Mosely sat behind the wheel of a 1968 Chevy Bel Air, looked around the empty bank parking lot, lifted a pint of vodka, and took a good slug. He screwed the top on and put it under the passenger seat. He sat up straight, shook his head like a dog drying off, pulled the shift lever on the column toward him, dropped it into drive, and eased the nose of the car out onto Broadway. Amped and fuzzy at the same time, he cranked the window down to let in the clammy night. The windshield wipers squeaked into action, smearing greasy mist into greasy streaks. He looked to the left, and cut the wheel hard right, making the power steering squeal and moan. He toed the gas. The right rear tire dropped off the curbstone, thumping into the gutter with a hollow, rubbery sound.
He inched along beside the high curb, rolled by the bank, and braked to a quiet stop in front of the steak house. Using his left hand, he pinched the fleshy web on his right hand. The pain yanked him back to his body and sharpened his mind.
A swirl of darkness exploded through the glass front doors of the steak house, and three men wearing Red Sox caps atop blurry faces rushed at the car. Two of the men held handguns, while the man in the middle clutched a satchel like it was Ann Margaret.
TJ, carrying the bag, yanked the front passenger door open and jumped in. Paul pulled the back door open and dove in headfirst, followed by Larry, large and loud. He slammed the door closed and yelled.
“Go!”
The air in the car boiled with kinetic energy, but the scenery outside didn’t change.
“Nope,” Michael said. “Not until you say please.”
The large man tried to articulate some sort of threat, but only produced a lowing noise.
The thin guy sitting shotgun looked sad but sounded giddy. “Oh no. That’s not funny, man.”
“Time, little brother,” the guy directly behind Michael said. He put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Gotta go. Not too fast. Slick road.” Michael looked at his brother Paul in the rearview mirror, then stomped on the gas, pinning them all to their seats. The five-year-old green sedan, as anonymous as a telephone pole, zipped down Broadway toward Sullivan Square.
“Okay, ladies,” Paul said, “get down so we can take off the stockings.”
In shotgun, TJ pulled off the stocking mask as he slid out of his seat and into the foot well like liquid mercury.
“TJ,” Michael said, “be a good fella and hand me my jug while you’re down there.”
“No, you can wait, Mikey,” Paul answered from the floor in the back.