Flamingo Place. Marcia King-Gamble
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.
Chapter 2
“Yo, Flamingo Beach. This is D’Dawg coming to you live from WARP. Bad day at work? You been dumped, lied to, or just played? Come sit back and chill with me. My tunes are guaranteed to make you relax and take you on a trip down memory lane to the good old days when brothas and sistahs pushed getting high on life. Let’s conversate. You can tell me what’s happening in this sleepy little town of ours, the Southern answer to Peyton Place.”
Tre had a habit of slipping into urban vernacular when addressing his radio audience. He’d grown up in the ghettos of Detroit and knew this was what his people expected and what they understood. He punched a button and Luther Vandross’s soulful crooning dominated the airwaves. The singer was a man he’d deeply admired. Tonight would be a tribute to him.
Tre sat back, preparing to listen. He propped his feet on the console and took a bite of his sandwich, letting Luther’s sensual voice mesmerize him. It was times like this he wished he was with someone special, someone he had a connection with. So far that hadn’t happened and he didn’t want to just hook up with anyone. Times had changed and making the wrong choice came with consequences.
Another Luther song dropped, this one in a slightly different vein. As the singer began sharing his childhood memories with the radio audience, Tre unfolded The Flamingo Beach Chronicle and began flipping through it. This new advice columnist was a trip. Here she was giving some crazy old lady tips on marrying off her son. What if the man was a confirmed bachelor? And who cared if he was gay?
He reread the mother’s letter and dissected Dear Jenna’s response. Pushing a button on the console he drawled, “Nothing like a little Luther to soothe the soul and get us in the groove. So what y’all think about this chick Aunt Jemima, the new advice columnist from Cincinnati? Anyone read today’s column? Let’s break it down. I’m here to take your calls.”
Tre guffawed loudly. “Freudian slip, y’all. The lady’s name is Jenna. This brotha thinks she likes to stir things up, telling the man’s mama to get on the Internet and place one of them personal ads. Phone lines are open, y’all. I’ll be here for the next four hours.”
During the next fifteen minutes every line at WARP lit up. Tre took call after call and conceded he just couldn’t keep up. His show rocked.
“Sheila, what do you think?”
“Dear Jenna gave sound advice.”
“Why is that? What mama needs to get involved in a grown man’s business?”
To her credit, Sheila stood firm. “I’m a mama. My son brings home these hos. They come into my house, belly hanging out, disrespecting me. Who can blame a mother for wanting to see her son settled with a good churchgoing woman?”
“I hear that. But what if the man’s gay or as Jemima calls it, queer?” Tre now appealed to the audience. “Anybody else got anything contradictory to say?” He punched another button. “Rufus, you still hanging?”
“In for the duration, my man.”
“You