Seven days later she was in my bed. We’d talked a few times, then I asked her to meet me up at the Ladera Center, thought we could chill on the patio outside of Magic Johnson’s Starbucks, where the community went to flirt and loiter. That was a no-go. She wanted to come to my crib, didn’t want to do anything in public. She parked in the back alley, did that so her ride couldn’t be seen, came into my place, kissing me, taking her clothes off, taking charge. Hunger in her eyes and the way she moved her body. My apartment wasn’t too far from LAX. She could swoop this way, stay an hour or two, and get back home before she had any missing hours.
She told me, “Wanted you so bad.”
“I could tell. Man, I could tell.”
“Haven’t had sex in at least two months.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Hubby’s never really sexual. His ex-wife told me the same thing happened with her. They had kids and he works a lot. The funny thing is, I used to think he was unusual, but a lot of married people complain about the same thing. Same exact thing.”
She rambled, guess she did that because she had some sort of sexual remorse. She justified what we’d done, told me that her husband had had an affair. I didn’t ask for the details.
We sat up, ate snacks, and talked about politics. Smart woman. That excited me.
She told me, “We lost the revolution.”
“When did we lose? I didn’t even know we’d reached halftime.”
“Game was over when the white man figured out how to make us stop fighting.”
“How did he do that?”
“He gave us a few jobs. Our people got a little change in their pockets and forgot about the Middle Passage. My daddy understood that. Understood people. He used to tell me that black people weren’t loyal to the black community, not on the level we should be, not on a level that makes a real difference, not like the Jewish people on the other side of town. We’re loyal to whatever improves our own economic condition on a personal level, not as a culture.”
“I’m not buying that.”
“Well, when a black person prefers to buy a new car over a house, you tell me. Image over substance, immediate gratification over economic longevity.”
Then she invited me to her pad. The house her husband had bought. Bold, even for me.
Lisa squatted in Hancock Park. Lounged in an eight-bedroom estate that was built back in the forties. The kind of place that had an enclosed tropical backyard set off with five different types of palm trees, a steam room the size of a small home, and a guesthouse larger than most three-bedroom apartments. All that and a swimming pool that was bigger than my rented nest.
Hancock Park was the real deal. Old money. Bankers. Music moguls. Real celebrities.
Lots of dirty money. Blood money. Honesty never got anybody to the top.
Her supersized crib was on Plymouth, north of Wilshire and south of 5th, on a strip of two-story Spanish- and Mediterranean-style homes that looked like mansion row. The streets were wider, the yards bigger. An area where it seemed like you could shake the palm trees and watch hundred-dollar bills float to the ground. This side of town made the affluent black people congregated in areas like Baldwin Hills and Ladera Heights look like paupers. The girl who grew up on the other side of Wilshire had done well, had come up like a motherfucker.
We talked about her husband. His name always came up. I made sure it did.
“He bounces to Vegas once, maybe twice a month.” She told me that. “Flies up there for the weekend. Does the part-time daddy thing.”
“Racking up the frequent-flier miles.”
“He has his own plane.”
“He charters?”
“No, he flies. Has a Cessna Skyhawk. Leather seats. The whole shebang.”
“How much that set you back?”
“About two hundred thousand.”
“Damn. Can’t you get a used one? With fabric seats?”
“He keeps it parked at Hawthorne Airport.”
I ran my tongue over my teeth. “He can fly you anywhere.”
“I have my pilot’s license too.”
“That’s tight. Mansion. Planes. A damn Lamborghini.”
“One plane, not planes.”
“Y‘all are balling out of control.”
She tisked. “Money doesn’t buy happiness.”
“Well, it’s nice to be able to pick where you’re gonna be miserable.”
We were in her heated pool. Naked. Adam and Eve. Swimming laps under the moonlight, her husband gone to Las Vegas to see his kids. I’d parked a block away and crept down in