The outside of the club was done up in polished steel panels with rivets showing. The roof had goalposts on one end and a gigantic hoop on the other. There was a two-story-high TV monitor on one side of the building. An old Jim Brown flick, Three the Hard Way, was showing on the giant screen when we walked up from the parking lot.
People were backed up at the entrance. "Zelmont," I heard as a hand the size of the end of a shovel rose from the crowd chatting and standing around.
"Napoleon," I said, making my way over. We hugged. "This ain't making you hard, is it?" I only half-joked. His dreads were tied back, the last inch of each dyed bright blond. He was wearing blue-green mascara and his eyebrows were V'd up like Mr. Spock's. Other than that he looked normal in a black double-breasted suit with white pearl buttons, a white no-collar shirt, and a ruby stud at the neck.
"Nigger, please. I may be a switch hitter, but I got good taste.
"That's what I mean."
Nap pretended to ignore me and kissed Davida on the lips. "You lookin' good, girl."
"Always a pleasure when I'm in your company, Nap." She touched his buffed chest, scoping the scene.
Chicks in short, tight black skirts, and black and white striped halter tops passed out drinks on trays to the crowd.
"Sorry about Barcelona," Nap said.
"Hey, you know how it gets. But I'm on a program, getting stronger every day. I've got a couple of years left yet."
"Right on."
I wanted to get inside, get off the discussion about my hip. Nap was a nut for those goddamn "reaching-your-full-potential" courses. He even was a speaker at some of the conferences. I remember after he'd been busted with his boyfriend, this Hollywood director of big shoot-'em-ups. They had been tossing their salads at a resort in Palm Springs, and the tabloid fucks had been stalking him, trying to prove the rumors about my boy. But rather than hide and deny, Nap went on Montel preaching the virtues of bisexuality. Jesus.
You'd never think I'd be tight with a guy like him, but when the league came after me with both feet, only Nap had my back. I guess he felt bad for me since he knew what it was like to be hassled 'cause of who you were. We'd been roomies on the road, and you can't help but get to know a cat, talk to him about things that are on your mind now and then. I didn't go in for all his get-to-know-your-inner-self bullshit, but he'd shown me he could be counted on when it mattered. We'd been out of touch for a while before I went to Europe, but it felt like old times seeing him.
"I'll see you inside, Nap."
"All right. I want to talk to you about something later." Some dude in loafers and a Prada suit came up to Nap. He was talking in some foreign language on a cellular, and at the same time shaking the former All-Pro tackle's hand. Davida had already gone in, and I did the same.
"Mr. Raines, hope you enjoy your evening." The waitress' healthy chest strained the material of her top. I barely noticed the martinis on her tray.
"I will now that you've said hello." I took a glass and toasted her. There was a R &B band playing on a raised stage supported by clear cylinders off to one side. The backdrop was glowing footballs that swirled around and around in a black sky. A spread was laid out on several tables, with an ice sculpture of downtown L.A. surrounded by some huge shrimp as the centerpiece. Monitor banks on one wall of the place played NFL and NBA game films.
Mama said never turn down free food, so I headed for the grub.
"Yo, Zelmont, how'd it crack in England?"
"Spain, Danny, it's a whole other country." Danny Deuce, Nap's brother, was standing with a couple of his boys, chilling along one of the walls.
"Spain, Mexico, it ain't the real pros, is it?" he cackled. One of his homies put his hand in front of his mouth, giggling. The other dude was too busy zeroing in on the honeys.
"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.