Liar's Game Read Online Free Page B

short phone conversation. Wednesday, didn’t hear from her at all. Thursday, another brief conversation during lunch.
    Finally, she gave me her home phone number. But that was because she was having problems with her PC, needed me to come by and look at it.
    Wanted to get some free work out of me. Just like a woman.
    A one-bedroom condo in Culver City, the side of town that used to be all movie studios but now was overpriced condos. Her place wasn’t a castle, but it wasn’t a dungeon either. IKEA-style furniture, gray carpet, white walls, vaulted ceilings, black-and-white pictures from Harlem, a lot of books. I mean, way over three hundred books, some new, most of them old, some stacked in a corner, some on a bookcase, a stack in the loft next to her white computer stand—and those were all she kept when she left Harlem.
    When I got there, her phone rang. It was a dude. I could tell by the way her tone dropped, the way she sucked her jaw in, the way her body shifted away from me.
    Dana wore black stretch jeans, dark blouse with three buttons open and sleeves rolled up to her elbow, silver bracelets on her right arm, scarf over her braids, glasses with small oval lenses, her look more genius than diva.
    Her hand went over the receiver and she whispered uncomfortably: “Long-distance. I’ll be back.”
    I pretended I was so into her computer that I hardly noticed.
    She left me in the loft, reformatting her disc drive, reloading all of her software, making sure her modem and fax were connected. She took the phone downstairs, went into her bedroom, stayed gone for almost an hour.
    When she came back, she had a confused lover’s disposition.
    I finished her PC. She thanked me with a handshake. I left.
    Told myself, don’t waste your time.
     
    “Black Man Negro, where you at?”
    I laughed along with my buddy, then told him, “I just got in from the gym, Womack. How’s UPS treating you?”
    “Same way they’ve been treating me for the last ten years. Working me like a Hebrew slave.”
    We talked for a while. His three boys all hopped on the phone at some point, all wanted to say hi to their uncle Vince before they got ready for bed. His little girl was asleep. I’m the godparent to his children. He’s the godparent to mine.
    Womack asked, “You see my wife up at the gym?”
    “Nope. Didn’t see Rosa Lee.”
    “She wasn’t in Evelyn’s class?”
    “She always works out up front by Dwayne. Didn’t see her.”
    “She came in a few minutes ago, huffing and puffing. Said she was bone tired because she had been up there working out. Ain’t but one aerobics class at six-thirty, right?”
    “Didn’t see her.”
    “You drinking water?”
    “Yeah. Sorry about that. Thirsty.”
    “Ain’t got no kinda phone etiquette,” he said, then asked, “Were you there the whole class?”
    “Didn’t miss a move.”
    “Where were you in class?”
    “My same old spot, up front by Robert and Jodi. Everybody asked about you.”
    “Yeah. I need to get back to going to the gym.”
    “Maybe Rosa Lee was downstairs riding the bike or something.”
    “Said she was in class. Told me that five minutes ago.”
    “Where she at now?”
    “Upstairs at Daddy’s place. She ran up there to put clothes in the dryer. We’re doing all of our laundry up there and down here at the same time.”
    He made a troubled sound, something so unlike him.
    I asked, “What was that all about?”
    “Nothing, nothing.” Then my buddy changed the subject. He perked up. “How thangs working out with that girl you just met?”
    “They ain’t. She’s a flake. I’m done with New York.”
    But two days later, I called Dana again. Irresistible impulse.
    Four weeks of hit-and-miss conversations, another brief moment at the Starbucks in Ladera. Then for days, not a word or a returned phone call.
    Friday evening, since our conversations had been going downhill, since it was an I’ll-call-you-don’t-call-me kinda thing, I had pretty much written