Dirty Rotten Liar (6 page)

T
he first thing Selah had done when she left Viceroy's hospital room was to place a call to Barron. He was at Dominion Oil headquarters finalizing some paperwork and Selah knew she had to stop him.

His cell phone rang until it went straight to voice mail, and the only thing Selah could do at that point was call her husband's secretary. She started getting nervous when nobody answered at the office either, and the best she could do was leave a frantic voice mail for her son and pray he would get it in time.

Selah walked down to the waiting room and pushed open the door. Crazy excitement danced in Dy-Nasty's eyes and Selah frowned as she beckoned to the girl.

“Wha' happened? Is it over? He dead yet?”

“Excuse me?” Selah said sharply as she paused in the doorway. Dy-Nasty was kicked back and lounging with her legs swung to the side and her crusty feet up in a chair. A faded corner-store toe ring complete with a fake plastic jewel was on her big toe.

“I mean,” Dy-Nasty caught herself and sat up straight, “what's up with Daddy Viceroy? Is the old fella doin' a'ight?”

“He's fine,” Selah said shortly, motioning for the girl to get up and follow her down the hall. “I've got some business to take care of,” she told Dy-Nasty as they headed out the exit where the limousine waited.

Selah nodded as the driver jumped out and opened the back door.

“Go ahead and get in.” She waved Dy-Nasty off. “The driver will take you to the heliport and put you on the jet. My pilot's going to drop you off at home, and then he'll pick up Barron and Dane and bring them down here to meet me.”

Dy-Nasty bucked. “Drop me off at home?
Whut?
So I came all the way down here with you and now you gonna be a flat-leaver and make me ride back by myself?”

Selah smirked, nodded, and shooed her toward the limo. “That's right. You'll be fine, Dy-Nasty. It's a very short ride. Take a nap or something, and by the time you wake up you'll be there.”

Dy-Nasty was pissed off about getting the boot, but there wasn't a damn thing she could do except poke her lip out and shoot Selah some eye-daggers as she climbed her booty in the back of the sleek, shiny whip and headed for the house.

 

“Uh-uh, I ain't going,” I said and stared out the window. “I ain't fuckin' going.”

“Umm . . .” Peaches twisted his lips and lit into me as we sped toward the airport in his boyfriend's whip. “I hate to be the one to tell you, boo-boo, but you ain't got no other choice!”

I pressed a cold can of Pepsi to my dotted eye and winced. It was like the Wild, Wild West in Harlem. The bullets was flying and Peaches was tryna sneak me outta Dodge. He had jetted outta Lower Manhattan and was zipping my ass straight over the bridge to the airport.

“I can't just up and leave like that, Peaches,” I protested into a tissue filled with the blood that Gutta had punched outta my nose. “It ain't that simple, dude.”

“Don't be stupid! It ain't that hard neither unless you wanna die! You gots ta get up outta here and take your ass back to Texas, Mink. Ta-
day
!”

I was grateful as hell that Peaches had tracked me down and rescued me from Gutta's crazy ass, but I wasn't feeling this plan of his
at all
!

I shook my head and got dizzy as shit.

“Boy you know I can't go back down there to them Dominions ! Their
real
daughter rolled up in the joint, remember? They ain't gonna let me stay there no more. Especially after they get them damn DNA results back and find out I was gankin' them the whole time!”

Peaches smirked, dismissing my excuse. “You's a con-mami, Madame Mink. A grifter. Your life is one big game of chance. Cross all them other bridges when you get to 'em. You can lie your way around that DNA test when the time comes, but right now you gots ta
go
!”

“B-b-but”—I glanced down at my black and white funeral dress that was covered in big red splotches of blood—“I can't get on no airplane looking like no stabbed-up penguin!” I protested. “As soon as some nosy-ass square peeps me walking around looking like a crime victim they gonna call the police. And besides, I ain't got no ends on me. I hid my last little bit of money at the crib. I taped it way up inside the toilet bowl plunger!”

Peaches smirked and waved me off. “I gives not a damn about none of that. You gots to get up outta here, Mink. Gutta is gonna
execute
your yellow ass if you step foot back in Harlem, baby. Don't worry. All we gotta do is call Bunni and tell her where your money is. She can get that shit and grab you some clothes and whatnot, and then she can catch a cab and meet us at the airport 'cause both of y'all heffas gotta disappear.”

“But what about
you
?” I moaned, scared as shit and trembling in my thong. “We can't leave you here by yourself! What's gonna happen if Gutta comes after
you
?”

Peaches sucked his teeth and tried to sound all brave.

“Just let that fool come fuckin' with me if he wanna! I'ma run right up in his tight ass, okay? He probably got his lil chocolate cherry took while he was upstate in the bing, but if he didn't and he brings it over here, it's gonna be
minez
!”

I stared at Peaches as silent tears rolled from my eyes. I owed this dude my life in so many damn ways that I couldn't even count them all. He was like a mama, a daddy, a big brother, and a best friend all rolled up in one. He had done more for me than anybody else in the whole damn world, and I woulda never forgave myself if Gutta or somebody went at his throat just because
I
had fucked up.

“P, please.” I waved him off. “I don't believe nothin' you saying right now, boo. You talkin' all that gangsta shit about drillin' Gutta's hole when that ain't even your role. You's a bottom bitch, remember? You ain't no top, so don't go out there tryna pop nobody's cherry and don't be playing Superman no more tryna save my ass neither, okay?”

He twisted his lips and cut his eyes at me as he drove. “You don't know
everything
about me, Madam Mink! Yeah I look damn good in a hot-pink dress but I ain't nobody's faggot! Besides”—he pursed his extra-glossy lips and batted his eyelashes—“when I feel like being on the bottom, I'm a bottom. And when a fool gets too fly and I need to be on top, then I gets my ass up on top! Now call Bunni,” he demanded, and reached into his bra and passed me his cell phone. “Call her,” Peaches said. “And tell her to meet us at JFK.”

A chill went through me as I thought about that killer look I'd seen in Gutta's eyes. And then I grabbed that phone and did exactly what the hell Peaches said.

 

With Dy-Nasty out of her hair, Selah headed back to the visitor's lounge and got down to business. Seeing Viceroy wide awake and sitting up in bed like that had shocked the shit out of her, but now that he was alert she wanted to make sure her husband was as comfortable as possible. The male nurse had said Viceroy would be downstairs in therapy for quite a bit, and it was going to take at least two hours for the jet to get Dy-Nasty to Dallas and then fly back with Barron and Dane, so there were a couple of key things Selah could do while she waited.

She relaxed in an armchair and took her cell phone out of her purse and got to punching in some numbers. She knew her husband, and she knew what he liked. No matter how far they'd crawled away from the ghetto or how much money they had stacked over the years, there were certain things about Viceroy that would never change. He still got his hair cut by Harvey, the slick-talking Houston barber who'd been edging him up since he was a kid.

Selah called Harvey real quick and told him she was going to send a car to pick him up so he could come to the hospital and give Viceroy a nice trim, and then she arranged to have a professional manicurist brought over from an exclusive Houston spa to give her husband a much-needed hot eyebrow wax and a professional shave.

An hour and a half later, Viceroy's fingernails had been cut and cleaned up, and his feet had been soaked, buffed, oiled, and massaged. A shopping service had delivered a bag filled with a rich man's luxury items. It contained his favorite cologne and all of his expensive personal hygiene items, along with copies of every top business magazine in the country.

Selah put in a few more calls and had several pairs of satin pajamas and smoking jackets sent to Viceroy's private room, and while he was downstairs in therapy the plain cotton hospital sheets had been switched out with a brand-new set that had two-thousand-count Egyptian fibers.

Selah was mentally exhausted when a nurse poked her head in the waiting room and said the doctors wanted to talk to her. She was led to a small conference room where Viceroy's doctors were waiting for her.

“How was your visit with your husband?” the internist wanted to know.

Selah shook her head in disbelief. “It was amazing. Simply amazing. You guys are miracle workers. You brought Viceroy back from the grave!”

“Well,” the neurologist cautioned, “Mr. Dominion has come a long way but he's not completely out of the woods yet. The brain is a very delicate organ and it can take quite a long time to heal. I advise you and your family to take it slow and be very patient as your husband recovers. Try not to bombard him with complex issues or overtire him with anything that might pose a challenge to his memory or his emotions.”

The doctor placed his hand on Selah's arm and lowered his voice. “I would also strongly advise you against placing any heavy demands on Mr. Dominion right now, such as leading a global enterprise like Dominion Oil. Give him time. It's likely that his cognitive functioning will return to normal rather quickly, but his emotional centers were badly damaged, and that kind of healing may take a little longer.”

The worried look on Selah's face prompted the doctor to go into reassurance mode.

“Don't worry, Mrs. Dominion. Your husband is a very strong-willed man and his prognosis is excellent. We've conducted an extensive battery of tests on him, and after being conscious for just twenty-four short hours, he's already alert and showing signs of a strong personality. Any residual effects from his brain injury will probably be short-term, and given enough time your husband could very well make a remarkable recovery. But don't be surprised if his mood swings erratically or if he's easily confused and forgets things. Brain trauma can have a really tough effect on a patient's emotions.”

Selah's head was spinning as she was taken back to the waiting area to wait for Barron and Dane to arrive. And when they finally showed up she cautioned them and gave them the same run-down that the doctors had given her, and then she kissed and hugged them and escorted them down the long hallway to their father's bedside.

Selah couldn't help feeling some kind of way inside. She was a realist from the streets of Brooklyn, and she knew her marriage wasn't going to catch a brand-new spark just because Viceroy had come back from the dead. But for the sake of her kids Selah was glad her husband was back in the world, and no matter how low she had been creeping while he was knocked out, deep in her heart she was happy that Viceroy had pulled through too.

But all those happy feelings went flying right out the window as soon as the three of them stepped inside his hospital room.

Viceroy was sitting up in a plush leather recliner that had been brought down from the hospital's executive suite. A copy of
Forbes
magazine was open on his lap, and the stock pages from the
New York Times
were folded up neatly at his feet.

“Ay, tell me something,” he barked, ignoring Selah and grilling his sons with ice chips in his eyes as they approached his bed. “Which one of y'all is the fuckin' idiot and which one is the goddamn fool?”

Selah's smile hit the floor as she froze in her tracks.

Barron and Dane shot each other a quick, puzzled glance and then Barron automatically stepped up to the plate.

“It's good to see you too, Pop! Hey, we missed you, man!”

“Oh yeah?” Viceroy looked like a snake on a hunt as he nodded. “Well I missed you too. Matter fact, I missed you so much I checked up on your asses! Lemme ask y'all something.” He leaned forward in his chair like a predator who was about to pounce. “Did anything go down while I was knocked out that y'all wanna tell me about?”

Barron glanced at Selah, then frowned and shook his head.

“Nope. No, sir. Not that I can think of, Pops. Everything's been pretty chill, actually.”

Viceroy leaned forward even more. “You sure about that? I mean, nobody got fucked up, ain't nobody pregnant, nobody's on drugs or in jail?”

“Nah, everybody's pretty stable, Pops. Why? Everything is good with you, right?”

“Hell naw, everything ain't good!” Viceroy exploded as he sat up straighter and tossed his magazine to the floor. “Matter fact, shit is wrong as all hell when I gotta find out from somebody outside my family that my own
sons
”—he spit, and then turned his icy gaze on Selah—“and my own damn
wife
, are out there trying to steal my fuckin'
company
away from me!”

Selah backpedaled from the killer heat burning in her husband's eyes as Barron held up his hands and tried to calm shit down.

“Whoa, whoa,
whoa
! Hold up, now! Nobody tried to steal nothing from you, Pops!” Barron glanced at Selah and Dane with a look of pure-dee panic on his face. “I don't know what's going on, but you got some bad info, man. Some real bad info!”