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“Naima?” Dame said. “No, she arranges my exit. That’s it.”
“I bet,” I said.
“I don’t want to go, but I have to do these interviews or they’ll just start making stuff up,” Dame said. “Can I call you?”
“Dame, I just told you, I can’t,” I said, watching Benji and the girl walk back over to us.
“I’m gonna call,” Dame said.
“Don’t.”
“You ready, man?” Benji asked.
“He’s ready,” I answered.
When I went back into the front, the place was just as packed with sweaty men and scantily clad women as it had been when Dame was on stage. A DJ had replaced the band and it seemed no one wanted to go home. I did, though. My toes were starting to burn and even though I didn’t have to drive back to Alabama, thinking of the trip made me wonder if I’d be able to open my eyes and get to work when the sun came up.
Once again, hoping luck would find me and my toes, I headed back toward the bar where Billie promised she’d wait at the beginning of the night, but I still didn’t see her there. So I started toward the door, praying she’d gone to the car, but then I noticed a small crowd gathered at the far end of the bar. Even in the darkness, I noticed the tall silhouette of a dark man standing in the middle of the group and as I got nearer, I saw that it was Mustafa and heard angry voices rising a bit above the music.
Many of the people, holding drinks and dance partners in their hands, stopped moving to the beat and just turned and looked toward the center of the crowd that seemed to grow more agitated with each step I took.
“You got some nerve,” I heard Billie protest even though I couldn’t see her. Instead, all I could see was her hand pointed accusingly at someone standing in front of Mustafa, who I couldn’t see either, but I certainly knew who it was. I quickened my steps then, weaving around the clumps of people that separated me from Billie’s voice.
“Nerve? I can go wherever I want,” Clyde said to Billie when I finally pushed my way past a tight circle of onlookers. He was standing beside Ms. Lindsey.
“What’s going on?” I asked, coming between Clyde and Billie, but no one answered.
“This isn’t about you being here; it’s about you having that two-bit skank, slut, bitch next to you,” Billie blustered, looking at Ms. Lindsey so harshly that I was sure she was about to spit. The circle, of course, highlighted this moment with a refrain of support.
“Slut?” Ms. Lindsey charged, trying to get to Billie. “Who you calling a slut?”
“Calm down, baby,” Clyde said, holding Ms. Lindsey back from Billie, but from looking at his loose hold, it was evident that wasn’t a hard task because Ms. Lindsey in no way intended to ever really reach Billie.
“Y’all stop it!” I snatched Billie’s arm. “Hold her,” I said to Mustafa, who was standing there, looking as if he was waiting in a crowd of strangers. And while he was, for the most part, I at least expected him to try to protect and control Billie.
“That’s right,” Clyde said venomously, “Tell him to handle her crazy ass.”
“Crazy?” Billie repeated and I turned from Clyde to her in what seemed liked slow motion at the time. I’d been involved in many Clyde and Billie fights in my life and what I’d learned, and Clyde knew, was that the best way to fully upset Billie was to call her “crazy.” More specifically, if it was anyone else, she might have laughed, but from Clyde, it was a fighting word—and with Ms. Lindsey standing there.... I’d never experienced it, but I knew it would be bad. Horrible. At that moment, she may as well have been Zenobia in the hallway and Clyde and Ms. Lindsey were Michael and Patrice.
“You’re going to call me crazy after all these fucking years?” Billie said, her face contorting into an evil war mask. “I got your crazy!” She raised her arm as if she was about to swing a punch at Clyde.
“No,” I hollered, going for her, but it was too late, her purse was already up in the air and by the time I got a hold of her arms, that book bag–sized, leather heavy hitter had bopped both Clyde and Ms. Lindsey. And even after I had the best hold I could get and Mustafa had lifted Billie up and was pulling her toward the exit, she was still swinging and hitting Clyde and Ms. Lindsey and anyone else who happened to get caught. Along the way, security caught us and one big, bald man with hands the size of car tires pulled me off Billie and in what felt like a snap of his wrist, threw me out of the club and onto the sidewalk.
My face inches from the dirty pavement, my hands splayed out in front of me to break my fall, I first looked down at my body to make sure I hadn’t been hurt and then over to see that both Billie and Mustafa were on the ground next to me.
“What the
hell?” I screamed, and a boy who was standing nearby and looking on with a bunch of other people waiting outside came and helped me up.
“You okay, ma’am?” he asked, and I just looked at him. I was too angry to answer. “I was just trying to help.” He held up his hands defensively and backed away. By then, Billie and Mustafa were up, too, and arguing again.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” Mustafa said, only his African accent was gone now and he sounded more like the guys standing around us.
“Don’t be a damn punk. Nothing happened to you,” Billie said dismissively.
“Nothing? That nigga was about to swing on me if you didn’t come between us,” he said. “Look, just give me my money for tonight, so I can go home.”
“Money?” I said, looking at Billie. “What is he talking about?”
