B**** Better Have My Money

Their ebony skin glistened of sweat in the pale moonlight. Still breathing heavily, he asked her, “I’m gonna make another drink. Do you want one?”

“No dear,” she said, as she adjusted to a seated position, “but do hand me a smoke.”

He grunted as he rolled over searching for his briefs. He was a large man — solid and well-built — unlike the other men in Nyon. She didn’t know what he did for work, but his hands were strong and rough like sandpaper. She was surprised that her desire did not return immediately after she stopped taking her medicine several days prior. But he had reignited it, and she was feeling more like herself once more.

He greedily gulped the shot of whiskey. “Ahh!” he exclaimed, “I needed that.” As he poured another brown waterfall into his glass, he grabbed the Piccadilly box and a book of matches. “So what brings you to Switzerland? Ain’t too many of us out here.”

She chuckled, “I was living in Africa, Liberia, and I ran out of money. I didn’t want to play that gotdamn piano and sing for them anymore. But it’s the only way I know how to make money. So here I am.”

“So you’re a singer?”

“No baby, I’m a star,” she said exhaling the smoke. She locked eyes with him in primal desire. She was still ascending on this high. “Now baby, let’s go one more round before we get some food, cause I’m getting hungry.”

“And you see, Lorraine was the first one to help me really understand the evils of capitalism.”

“Désolé de vous interrompre. Êtes-vous prêt à passer votre commande?”

She glared at the waiter for the annoyance, “ See capitalism won’t even let you finish your thought.” As her lover chuckled, she proceeded to give the waiter there order, “Nous prendrons deux crêpes avec des œufs et de la dinde, aucun oignon sur le mien. Et nous prendrons également deux tasses de café sans crème.”

As the waiter walked away, her lover marveled at her, “Your French is pretty damned good for being here only 6 months.”

She disregarded the compliment, “As I was saying Lorraine taught me about the evils of capitalism. If you don’t own shit, you’ll be somebody’s slave. Now they’re playing my song on that gotdamn Chanel commercial and I ain’t getting shit off of it.”

“You wrote ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’?”

“Well I didn’t write it. The tune had been around since the 1930s, but I put my spin on it and that’s what they used for the commercial.”

“I love that song. My late wife and I used to dance to that all the time.”

“I’m sorry. How did she go?”

“She died of breast cancer 8 years ago. When we knew she wouldn’t make it we decided to move to Europe and see the world. Unfortunately she didn’t last very long and I could never go back to the states.”

“My family’s still in the states,” she sighed holding her head in her hands. “Andy, that’s my ex, still has our house right next to Malcolm’s. I don’t have any money and nobody believes its me out here so I can make any real money out here. I’m gonna have to go back to the states and set things right.”

Lifting her head, she noticed a familiar face among the restaurant visitors. “That looks like Chuck from Bethlehem Records. I’m not sure, it’s been so long, but I think that’s him,” she said as she pointed to a table of three men in gray, pinstripe suits as though they had been copy pasted onto each of their figures. The fury inside of her started to swell.

She approached the table clutching her purse. “Chuck is that you? From Bethlehem Records?”

The older gentleman and his two younger colleagues looked up from their conversation with confusion. She stalked forward in all black, her eyes studied them intently. The older gentleman squinted, “Oh why yes, Nina!” he exclaimed nervously, “Gerrit had mentioned you were on this side of the pond now.”

Ignoring the comment she said, “I want my money.”

“What do you mean?” Chuck responded quizzically.

“That song that’s on the Chanel commercial. You put it there without consulting me and I’m not seeing any of the money.”

“I don’t understand. We paid you when we bought those rights. In any case we don’t own those rights anymore, now it’s owned by Charly Records. They’ll be re-issue..”

“BULLSHIT!” she screamed. Now all the other visitors were watching her and the table of suits. “You took my music and now you’re making money off of it with nothing for me! I want my money!”

Stiffening his back, Chuck retorted, “We’re not gonna give you any money!”

She exclaimed “oh yes you are!” as she reached into her purse and brandished a 22 revolver. His spine drooped like a lifeless slinky.

He stuttered, “We-we-we don’t, we don’t have any money..”

Infuriaritied. She pulled the trigger and fired.

Luckily for them, she missed. Her lover rushed to her, grabbed her and guided her out as the restaurant visitors watched with shock. As the door closed behind them one could hear the collective of sigh of relief.

She sat in the cab with Gerrit on the way to the airport back to New York. She massaged the vial of Trilafon between her hands looking out the window as they zoomed along the waterfront. Finally, Gerrit broke the silence, “So, you really pulled the trigger?”

She turned to look at him and burst out laughing, “Yes I did! I’m only sorry I didn’t get him!”

He started laughing too “well, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”