In nearly every major airport around the globe, he had scores of pilots, flight attendants, security guards, baggage handlers and even airport bartenders, all of which eagerly accepted his calls. He was generous with his bribes, and why not? He was rich beyond the wildest dreams of the average Japanese native, an accomplishment he achieved without ever harming anyone directly, despite his dealings in everything from cocaine to stolen museum exhibits.

Yoshida’s ‘industry’ made him a worldly man. He was familiar with every major city in the world; even the obscure burgeoning ones, like a museum curator knows priceless artifacts. He’d accumulated thousands of frequent flyer miles and hotel reward points throughout his travels. He could carry on an intelligent conversation about anything from fashion to sports to fine dining and he could wow them in four different languages.

People in airports often made idle chitchat with him, probably because he was such a good-looking man with eyes of steel and unusually sharp cheekbones. He was blessed with the body of a man younger than someone in his mid-thirties and was always dressed in an expensive, perfectly tailored, designer suit. Confidence oozed out of his pores, only adding to his charismatic aura, even on the rare occasion when he wasn’t in the mood to suffer fools.

“Are you from Japan, originally?” the Caucasian lady seated next to him on the plane asked. Despite the annoyed glare her husband shot her from the next seat she was inexplicably determined to talk to Yoshida.

“Yes,” he answered. “I was born in a small province outside of Kyoto.”

“You speak English so well,” the lady remarked.

It was his experience that Americans always marveled when a non-American mastered their bastard language. It was a contemptible issue, but one he was way too polite to address directly.

“Thank you!” he replied in such an overly enthusiastic tone that it made the moment awkward. The lady finally stopped asking questions.

“You’re all set. Welcome to New York,” the customs agent said with a nod and a purse of her lips.

He collected his forged passport and bowed slightly, not because he thought he had to, but he knew that Americans expected Asian tourists to bow. For him, it was all about blending in, even if that meant portraying a stereotype or two.

Walking through the aisles of John Fitzgerald Kennedy airport, he let his mind drift as he casually made his way to the luggage carousel. Eventually, he was as absent from the moment as a daydreaming school-boy. He was a consummate professional, at the top of his game, so he couldn’t help but be lulled into feeling overconfident and dismissive during what was essentially a low risk delivery. He was only human, after all.

Of course, while not mentally engaged in the present, a man like Yoshida always winds up juggling multiple matters in his head. He mulled over the details pertaining to the multiple heroin shipments he was to supervise, a suit that needed mending and a meeting with his son’s kendo sensei when he returned home. And like any virile male away on business, in his opinion, anyway, he was thinking about getting a ‘sleeper’ or as Americans more specifically describe it, some female companionship for the evening. So, as odd as the details of his current assignment were, there was no need to dwell on why his current client wanted thirty preserved blowfish livers or why he was being paid so much to deliver them personally to New York. In fact, he spent most of the time it would take him to meander from baggage claim to the cabstand thinking about everything but the merchandise he carried.

“Please take me to the Gardener Gates Hotel,” Yoshida instructed his cab driver after spending twenty minutes watching other people climb into vehicles.

“First time in New York?” the cabbie asked. He was a burly, unshaven man who smelled of Irish whiskey and cheap cigars.

“Not at all,” Yoshida answered. “I’m actually a big Yankees fan.”

“Yeah, I hear you got some good teams in Japan,” the cabbie volunteered. “Not as good as America, mind you. But decent.”

Yoshida sighed. At least the arrogant, sloppy-looking driver didn’t mistake him for Korean, or some other Asian ethnicity.

The cabbie didn’t say much else during the drive, he assumed because the trip wasn’t far and the fare would be fairly small. Without being engaged in conversations, Yoshida was able to take time to note how recklessly New Yorkers drive before the cab turned into the circular hotel driveway. He paid with one of his other identity’s credit cards and made his way to the hotel lobby where he was greeted by an overly friendly desk clerk.

“Welcome to the Gardener Gates Inn. I’m Henry. How can I help you?” Henry couldn’t have been a day over twenty-one, and was so skinny that the burgundy concierge jacket he was almost resembled a small child playing dress up with his father’s clothes.

“Yes, I am checking in. The name is Tanata,” Yoshida explained, handing over the forged passport with matching credit card. While Henry awkwardly punched the keyboard in front of him and eventually produced a room key card, Yoshida added, “I am expecting a package, probably within the hour.”

“You’ve got it, Tanata-san!” Henry said with a big smile and an exaggerated bow. Being a polite man, Yoshida did not reveal his aggravation.

“We have a great suite for you, Tanata-san! You’ve got a king size bed, with a huge bathroom. There’s also an office area. You’re going to love it.”

“Thank you, Henry-san,” Yoshida said with a bow as he collected his fake IDs and rushed for the elevator.

After a thorough inspection of his room, Yoshida loosened his clothes and called his wife to let her know he landed safely. His second call was to let the client know that he had arrived and was in possession of the items in question. There was no answer other than an automated outgoing message, so he left a voicemail. Afterwards, he had only one more matter to see to.

“Yes, Yoshida-san,” the soft-spoken, but very enthusiastic woman on the other end of the phone call said in Japanese. “So good to have you back in New York. What are you in the mood for this evening?”

“Well, I was on a Japan Air flight and they always have good movies. I saw one starring the American actress named Demi Moore. She had dark-hair, and a husky voice. White.” Yoshida answered.

“Yes,” the woman agreed enthusiastically, “trying something other than your usual blonde. I know the actress you speak of. I have just the girl.”

“She should be younger than Demi Moore, of course,” he clarified suddenly.

“Of course,” the woman agreed. “At what time would you like your visitor to arrive?”

“Midnight should be perfect,” Yoshida answered. “I’m in the Hilton as usual, staying under the name ‘Tanata’.” It was 6:32pm. He imagined he’d be done with the blowfish livers client by then.

Seconds after getting off the phone, there was a knock at the door. He approached the door silently and peered through the peephole to see a still smiling Henry.

“Your package arrived, sir,” said Henry. Yoshida opened the door and the young man held out a rectangular cardboard box wrapped in mailing paper.

“Thank you,” Yoshida answered, as he took the package and gave the kid a ten-dollar tip. After closing the door, he opened the package and took an inventory of the contents.

Inside the box he found a small glass tube with eight grams of cocaine in it, a box of condoms, one thousand American dollars and a .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol. It was a standard precaution of his to arrange for this kind of ‘care package’ to arrive at his final destination. He hadn’t felt the need to brandish a gun in years. Even when he was a young smuggler just starting out, it was only on the rare occasion that elder gangsters would try to test his mettle. Nowadays, as connected as he was, only a crazy person would try something during a merchandise exchange, even if they were only slightly familiar with world-renowned Ryo Yoshido.

He still checked the gun before hiding it in a bureau drawer near the front door of the hotel suite. He was a creature of habit, and at the end of the day, it was those habits that made him the respected professional he was. He was the product of a working formula and he enjoyed it.

Yoshido opened his suitcase and removed the delivery package from inside. An ingenious piece of equipment, it looked like an ordinary green and red picnic cooler bag, but it was lined with dry ice, creating it the perfect bag to transport this particular merchandise. Sixteen hours had passed since the contents had been assembled, if the client didn’t call soon he was going to have to either put the blowfish livers in the hotel suite’s refrigerator, or replenish the dry ice. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

As two more hours passed, the cocaine would be the only thing keeping him awake. Yoshida was terribly jetlagged and the client was taking much longer to call him back than he had anticipated. When 9:00pm came and went with no response, he became agitated. In another fifteen minutes, a text message finally came through:

With the end of this excursion in sight, Yoshida decided to calm down by ordering a quick dinner; a medium well steak that arrived by 9:40. He was relieved that someone other than Henry delivered it. He washed the steak and potatoes down with a glass of Pinot Noir and a Cialis gel capsule.

He didn’t suffer from erectile dysfunction, but always took a performance enhancer before entertaining a prostitute, to insure he was getting his money’s worth.

Finally, at 10:32pm, just minutes after he’d put the dinner tray in the hallway, there was a knock at the door. Grateful that the courier and the hooker were not showing up at the same time, he retrieved the gun and stuffed it in the back of his waistband before he slowly opened the door. Dimly, he wondered how the courier got past the front desk without calling ahead.

He did not expect to be greeted by a very attractive black woman wearing a form fitting, dark green dress. Curvaceous but physically fit, the woman was carrying a briefcase in her right hand. He assumed the woman was in the wrong place. “I’m so sorry, can I help you?” he asked.

The woman smiled. “You are Mr. Tanata, right?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. Her make-up was perfect; as was the symmetrical way her hair framed her face. Demi Moore was suddenly the last person on Yoshida’s mind. He began hoping the escort service had made a mistake in his favor.

“I’m here to pick up a package from you,” the woman explained as she smiled and batted her eyes

His penis began to swell against his leg. “Of course,” he said. He was clearly flustered. “I must apologize; I was not expecting someone quite so attractive. Please, come in.”

Yoshida stepped aside and let the woman pass him. He watched very intently as she crossed the room and reached the desk.

“You do have the package?” the woman asked as she put the briefcase down and turned to face him.

Do I have time to call and get a Beyonce look-a-like instead? Yoshida wondered quietly. “Yes, of course. It’s right in here,” he said, lifting the cooler from the top of the bureau.

“I’m also supposed to mention that we’re very sorry about making you wait,” the woman said as they exchanged packages.

“That’s really okay. Miss…I’m sorry, what is your name?”

“My name is Crystal,” she answered.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said.

“Well, it’s supposed to be, in any case,” Crystal said. “To make up for your inconvenience, I’m supposed to fuck you.”

It took a full three seconds for Yoshida to say, “I beg your pardon?”

“My boss says Japanese men call them ‘sleepers,’” she continued to explain. “He wasn’t sure you’d like me, but in the event that you do…”

“I like you just fine!” he said a little louder than he’d intended.

“All right then,” she chirped. “Well, count your money and get undressed.”

He opened the case and let his eyes drink in the sight of the agreed upon two million in yen. When he closed the case and looked up, the dark green dress was on the floor, forming an uneven circle around Crystal’s high-heeled shoes.

Even a seasoned man-whore like Yoshida couldn’t help but feel jolted with excitement. This was too good to be true. A total of four million yen to transport five hundred black market blowfish livers, which was barely a punishable crime, and sex with a beautiful, African-American female? The guys back home are not going to believe this story.

“Your employer is an excellent businessman,” Yoshida said. If he were going to have sex with Crystal and still have time and energy for the prostitute that was expected to show up in less than an hour and a half, he’d have to hurry.

Crystal turned her back to him, stepped away from the dress and walked seductively towards the bedroom. At the foot of the bed, she slipped off her thong and let it fall to the floor. Then, she spread her feet and bent over, placing her hands on the edge of the bed. Her ass was firm, round and the most delicious shade of chocolate brown.

He noticed two bulges in his pants and remembered the gun in his waist. So as not to alarm her, he removed the gun and tossed it onto a nearby ottoman.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he lied, as he walked into the bedroom and positioned himself behind her and dropped his pants.

She felt his hands grabbing her ass, and casually extended her arm back to him, offering a condom from her hand.

“Of course,” Yoshida conceded, graciously. He used both hands to and began fumbling with the condom wrapper and his erection.

“By the way,” Crystal interrupted in perfect Japanese, “I’m my own boss. Yoshida-san.”

Before he realized that he’d been called by his real name, Crystal stood up and swung her elbow out behind her, striking him in the temple with serpentine precision and follow through. Yoshida was unconscious before he hit the floor.

She stood over the smuggler, triumphant and empowered. It wasn’t the first time she’d knocked someone out, but it had been the first time she had assaulted an international criminal. Still, this was no time to gloat or forget that she had work to do.

Falling on one knee, she grabbed Yoshida’s chin in her right hand and a fist full of his hair with the left, and broke his neck with the ease a farmer would mercy kill a lame animal. Then, she rolled him over and retrieved the thong that Yoshida had fallen on.

She slipped back into her dress and made her way to the suite door, just outside sat the tray that Yoshida placed there after he finished his steak. Under the tray was the laptop computer that she left there before she knocked on the door. She glanced around; making sure no one saw her, before she snatched the computer up.

Back inside, she hummed to herself as she rifled through his things. The search of his clothes, the dresser drawers, his jackets and luggage revealed several wallets. Altogether, there were four different sets of identification in the smuggler’s possessions, and each fake identity was accompanied by two matching credit cards.

“All very common Japanese names, this is perfect,” she said under her breath, before shooting a mocking glance in the direction of Yoshida’s lifeless body. “Domo Arigato, Yoshida-san.”

She sat down at the desk and opened the laptop. Her eyes were filled with an ungodly determination as she furiously typed, until the image of a yellow frog sitting on a large green leaf filled the screen.

“There you are,” she said as if talking to a child she adored. “Now, my pet, you and I are going to change the world.”

Crystal, not her real name, laid the 8 credit cards out on the desk in front of her. She grabbed card that looked the newest, with minimal wear, and proceeded to shop online.

Almost an hour later, another attractive young lady in a black mini dress and red fuck me pumps approached the Hilton’s front desk and asked for Mr. Tanata. Gerald, the stand-offish night shift clerk, informed the woman that Mr. Tanata had been called away suddenly, but left her an envelope.

The woman carefully took the envelope from Gerald and peeked into it.

She was relieved to see that she hadn’t been stiffed out of her three grand.

“Anyone ever tell you that you look like that actress from the eighties?” Gerald asked.

The look-a-like rolled her eyes and stomped off.

As long time hotel employee who recognized a pro when he saw one, Gerald smiled to himself. “Some guys get to have all the fun,” he observed under his breath before turning to greet another guest.

When the stage manager appeared and lit a fire under the makeup artist’s ass, Bridgette had to stifle a sigh of relief. Many of the anchors at MXFBN enjoyed being showered with accolades by the crew, staff and random people in the cafeteria, but Bridgette was not one of those people. She was about the work, and that meant guarding her mental space whenever she could. It was unfortunate that people mistook that for being a diva, but as a young, attractive black female appearing on TV every day, she knew scrutiny and people jumping to erroneous conclusions came with the territory. Well, that and all the teen boys on social media openly speculating on how awesome it would be to do her.

Minutes later she calmly ignored the middle-aged cameramen stealing glimpses of her curves as she walked across the soundstage and let the audio assistant clip two wireless transmission packs to the back of her skirt, run a black wire through her blouse and clamp the lav mike on the end of the wire to her lapel.

“There were some script changes,” the stage manager warned as she took a seat behind the desk. Under the studio lights, her make-up felt too heavy. The stage manager was calling out that it was five minutes to show time, so it was too late to worry about it now. She scanned the hard copy of the script and sighed.

The audio assistant came to the desk and handed her a fleshtoned bud about the size of a pea and she promptly slid it in her ear. “Everything OK, Bridgette?” her producer asked from the control room via the earpiece. “You look a little perturbed.” Piper Jennings was a typical Ivy League news producer and a living television stereotype; in her late thirties overly aggressive and perpetually single.

“I’m good, Piper,” Bridgette responded. Her answer filled the earpiece of Piper’s headset as the news producer watched her on the monitor wall. As customary, Piper sat in the back of the control room, right behind the director in the front row. “Is this the new lead?” the director asked with a quick glance over his shoulder.

“Sure is!” Piper answered. “We got confirmation from the FBI half an hour ago.”

Bridgette took a deep breath. When she first arrived two years prior, a fresh young thing with a strong correspondent’s reel from her time in Chicago, the network was very different. Hosts like Rochelle Minnow and Lyon Donnell had free reign to fashion the direction of their shows. Now, with a Republican president in the White House yet again and FAX News somehow beating them in the ratings, new management was brought in to right the ship. Soon, the human resources department exploded with activity as severance packages were compiled and a purging commenced. She watched as one by one, they were escorted out of their offices and banished to the purgatory known as talk radio. Surprisingly, Reverend Sal Harpton was the last to go. He stopped by the office she’d inherited from Donnell to kiss her on the cheek and wish her well.

As she watched the forever outspoken and controversial civil rights leader exit she remembered a distinct feeling of loss. She remembered thinking that she was being spared because the new management sensed that she was too young and too hungry to piss away a shot at her own show over something as mundane as principles.

The stage manager shouted another warning. In less than a minute they’d all hear a pre-recorded announcement and dramatic music. As the director barked orders in the nearby control room, cameras glided into position across the studio floor. The viewers would see a stylized graphic open with bright, inviting colors and flying letters, before dissolving into one of the same letters superimposed over a wide shot of the studio.

Simultaneously, a red light flashed and the stage manager pointed at her. She was on:

“Good evening. It’s Tuesday, March 17^th, 2020 and I’m Bridgette Aries. Later in this hour, I’ll be interviewing former senator Rue Bachman. But first, our top story.”

The home audience watched a graphic flash and fly across their screens. Bridgette turned to a different camera.

“The National Freedom Association, or NFA, is the radical organization that is claiming responsibility for yet another attempt on the life of former President Garret Hussein. This marks the twenty-third day since the last attempt on either Garret Hussein or a member of his immediate family has taken place at the hands of this terrorist organization. With more on that story, we go live to Pat Fielding in DC.”

The control room cuts to a shot of Pat Fielding, a forty-ish Caucasian reporter stood quite upright with the Washington Monument at his back:

“Thanks, Bridgette. At a press conference held earlier today, FBI Director Ted Noonan and Secret Service Director Henry Gaines confirmed that they had received communications from the National Freedom Association claiming responsibility for this latest attempt to attack former president Garret Hussein. Director Noonan had this to say…”

The segment cuts to a pre-recorded statement from Noonan:

“All of our agencies are working in tandem to put an end to this quickly. In fact, many of the FBI’s resources will be remanded over to the Secret Service, and that includes access to personnel, additional surveillance technologies and weapons. Director Gaines and I are planning for this to be the most comprehensive joining of law enforcement agencies in the history of this nation.”

Back to a waist-high shot of Pat:

“Now, for the past six months Congress and the FBI have been engaged in a very contentious battle over the FBI’s budget. With the United States remaining the favorite target for everyone from practical jokers to fully indoctrinated terrorists capitalizing on America’s failed Middle Eastern polices, some sources are reporting that the FBI is stretched dangerously thin. In fact, the FBI has already been forced to abandon much of the work that doesn’t involve anything from global terrorism to local law enforcement; something the agency has been notoriously opposed to over the years. With the constant threats to the Husseins, it is hard to imagine how this is all going to play itself out. Back to you, Bridgette.”

Back in the studio, while Pat’s segment was running, the producers in the control room and the stage manager not fifteen feet away all watched anxiously as Bridgette searched her aPad. When the stage manager called out that there were fifteen seconds left in the video package, she put the electronic tablet away.

“What’s the matter, Bridge?” Piper asked. The young anchorwoman just shook her head and straightened up in her chair. The red light came on again:

“President Sanford has yet to make a statement on either the battle between the FBI and Congress, or the NFA and the safety of the Husseins.”

“You should let me know if you’re going to let her ad lib,” the director complained as he glanced back at Piper.

“She did that on her own,” Piper snapped as the red phone by her station rang. “Ah, fuck!”

Back in the studio, Bridgette had moved on to another story just as the graphic over her shoulder changed:

“Republican lawmakers who once stood against former president Hussein’s education reform policies are now singing a different tune. Senate Majority Leader Rick Tyler now claims that he is willing to sit down and discuss a common ground regarding Common Core. The one big change Republicans are pushing for is for Common Core to allow for prayer in the classroom. While many Democrats are citing that this sudden need to compromise only substantiates claims that Republicans only opposed Common Core to defy former President Hussein, Senator Tyler claims he is merely trying to put the past behind him and reach across the aisle. More on this story of education reform and what it could mean for your kids, after this.”

A musical fanfare sounded, then silence. “Clear!” the stage manager shouted as the show went to its first scheduled commercial break.

As the next tape piece played for the viewers, Piper’s voice blasted through her earpiece. “Babe, no more ad-libs! Upstairs called, and didn’t like that part about defying President Hussein!”

“Just felt like we needed to present both sides, Piper,” she growled.

“Well next time, bring it up in the script read thru, Babe! We have people whose job it is to decide which side said what!”

“Understood, “Bridgette confirmed as she rolled her eyes, then sighed when she realized that everyone in the control room saw her roll her eyes, thanks to the three cameras still trained on her.

“Back in three minutes!” the stage manager yelled.

She glowered at the stage manager. He was just doing his job, but she couldn’t resist the urge to direct her mental ire in his direction. Maybe I’ll just leave. He can host the show.

“Not trying to upset you,” Piper said after seeing a scowl spread across Bridgette’s face. “You know the network mandate. We have to appear neutral.”

“Understood,” she repeated. Fifty minutes left in the broadcast and the only thing she knew for certain was that it would feel much longer.

Married life used to be so simple for Max Baxter. His wife Shelia had never been the easiest person to live with, but at least in the early going she kept her socializing to the occasional night out with the girls. Recently, with everyone in her circle becoming so upwardly mobile, everything was party over here, party over there. The way he saw it, his police work was stressful enough without having to endure a night of pretending he cared about her narcissistic friends.

“You’re going because you’re trying to help your wife look like she has a good husband,” Shelia shouted from the master bathroom.

“I never understood having to go to someone’s birthday party when you know they don’t like you,” Max lamented. “It’s like being trapped in a reality show. I mean, back in the day, if you didn’t get along with someone, you avoided socializing with that person. The lack of an invite was their way of saying ‘fuck you!’ Consequently, my absence would be my way of saying, ‘fuck you, too’! Damn, I miss the good ol’ days!”

“Negro, please!” Shelia retorted. After three years of marriage, she had become all but exasperated by what passed for a sense of humor in his world. “Stacy doesn’t even know you well enough to dislike you.”

“That’s because all she ever talks about is expensive shoes and which celebrity is fucking which other celebrity,” Max explained. “Since I don’t keep up with that bullshit, being around Stacy leaves me at a loss.”

“I guess it’s too bad Stacy doesn’t read comic books,” Shelia said. If she hadn’t been standing in the bathroom mirror applying mascara, he would have seen the way Shelia’s mouth curled when the words ‘comic books’ passed her lips.

“She lives in her fantasy world, and I live in mine,” Max retorted.

“I guess I’m living in a fantasy world too,” Shelia snapped back. “That is, if I’m really expecting you to take those damn comics to a storage facility so I can make the spare room my office.”

“Honey, we discussed this,” he said in a slightly condescending, singsong voice.. “Renting a storage unit is a waste of money. All I have to do is finish the basement renovations. After that, I can put the comics in there and then you’ll have your office.”

“Ugh,” she groaned. “I don’t see why you can’t just read digital comics off a tablet!”

“I do, but I still need the space for the old printed ones,” he pointed out.

“And remind me once more why you need an office? I mean, I thought your executive producer gave you an office in a tall building somewhere in Manhattan,” he added, realizing that he was coming dangerously close to having her withhold sex from him for a really long time.

“Damn it!” she shouted. “You know I’m starting a production company with Stacy and Tiffany!”

“Speaking of fantasy worlds,” he muttered.

“What?” She stopped applying the make-up.

“Nothing, dear,” he covered, while putting a charcoal grey blazer over a light grey shirt. “You were saying?”

“The office is for the production company,” she said with a huff. “It’s for ‘Sassy Classy Productions’.”

“A video production company that would consist of you working with two women who have no idea how to run a video production company,” he summarized.

“What the hell are you talking about?” she barked as she slammed down her mascara brush and stood glaring at him from the bathroom doorway. “And what do you know about it? You’re just a policeman!”

“First of all, I’m a major case detective,” he said. He was about to point out how screwed up it was that she couldn’t even get his job title right, but thought better of it.

“Don’t get all high on yourself, just because the government gave y’all some bullshit promotion, so you can help them kill more of your own people,” she scoffed.

“It wasn’t bullshit,” he corrected. He considered it a sort of layered hypocrisy that she could produce ‘you’re not the father’ styled TV shows and not see how that failed society, yet held utter contempt for his profession.

Knowing that broaching that subject would start a verbal war he didn’t have the energy for, he resolved to explain the situation to his less than supportive spouse. “The FBI is swamped with domestic terrorism cases brought on by the radical Muslims and this new white supremacist group that keeps trying to kill the Husseins. So, all the police departments in all the major cities got additional funding so we can handle bigger cases. They can’t just walk in and take cases from us anymore. We’re all kind of on equal footing now.”

“Well, yay for you,” she sneered.

“By the way, as little as eight months ago, when Stacy was working under you on The Paul Jonas Show, you came home with a different ‘Stacy is so stupid’ story every other day. Now you’re going into business with her? What changed?”

“We realized that being an associate producer is not really her strong suit,” Shelia explained.

“Exactly!” Max shouted. “Because her ‘strong suit’ is being married to Jack Mammoth, who you’re probably going to lean on to bankroll this production company of yours…”

“Why are you always hatin’ on Jack?” she said with a huff. “He’s one of the hottest hip-hop producers on the planet and he makes more money than your entire police force combined.”

“For doing something not nearly as dangerous or important,” Max said. “The guy rakes in millions to make teenagers dumber.”

“When he could be arresting them for sixty-six grand a year,” she shot back. “Such a hater.”

“Who’re those new guys he’s producing?” he asked, seeming to ignore her criticism. “King-A-Ling and $onovabitch? Lord, where are Public Nuisance and DIS-ONE when you need them?”

“Get off of Chuck Dee’s jock strap! Hater!” she shouted. “Newsflash! The music scene has evolved!”

“Devolved is more like it,” he sneered. “And why is it that no matter how valid a point someone may have, you can’t disagree with a black person without being called a ‘hater’?”

“You ARE a HATER!” she screamed. Her hands were beginning to shake.

“Like if I was to tell a sister, ‘You know, you shouldn’t text while you drive,’ she’ll come back with, ‘Oh, you just a HATAH!” He grimaced in mock disgust.

She sighed and returned to the mirror. Meanwhile, Max continued his rant by using old movie quotes and butting them against his new punch line.

“These are not the droids you’re looking for!” he selected for the first one. “Oh, you just a Hatah!”

“It’s not funny, Max,” she sighed. “Nerd.”

Women always say they want a funny guy, when what they really mean is that they want Jamie Foxx, he thought as he reveled in her disapproval.

“Iceberg! Dead ahead!” he continued. “Oh, you just a Hatah!”

“Asshole!” she responded as she continued applying make-up.

“You had me at hello.” he said, imitating Renee Zellweger’s performance from Jerry MacGuire perfectly, before switching back to his hoochie mama voice. “Oh, you just a Hatah!”

“One more and you’re on the couch tonight,” she warned.

Not much of a threat when you only fuck me once a month, Max thought. He considered saying it but instead chose his next joke.

“You’re going to need a bigger boat. Oh, you just a Hatah.”

The bathroom door slammed shut. For a moment, he imagined her anger might exempt him from having to attend tonight’s party. Unfortunately for him, that was just wishful thinking.

Two weeks before the night of Stacy’s birthday party, Max and Shelia had driven their marriage counselor to the brink. “There is no reason why a good looking, intelligent, gainfully employed, African-American couple living in a two floor Victorian that’s paid for, in a quiet part of Queens should be fighting this much.”

Afterwards, the counselor revealed that she was giving up on them.

“In other words, you want to see other couples?” Max had joked.

“See, that’s it right there,” Shelia cried out, “he can’t be serious about anything!”

“I take it seriously enough to pay for it,” Max snapped at her. “Especially since all of your money goes to clothes and bullshit!”

“I am a freelance TV producer, working for some of the biggest networks and production houses in the country,” she protested. “I can’t just walk out of the house looking any kind of way.”

“No one said you should,” he said. “But you have hundreds of blouses, dresses and other things you’ve worn one damn time. You have a hundred pairs of shoes. All of your credit cards are maxed out. You’ve bounced more checks than the Knicks bounce balls, and all so you can hand DNA and lie detector results to some British lady!”

“THAT IS NOT ALL I DO!” she roared. “Not to mention that a real man would have figured out a way to make it work,” Shelia said with a huff.

Max turned to the marriage counselor expecting some form of vindication. He got it, sort of. “It took me a while to come to the conclusion that I have to let you both go. The truth is, I’ve never seen two people more wrong for each other. You’re both spoiled brats. The only difference is, Shelia, you’re a materialistic brat who wants everything she sees and Max, you’re an intellectual brat who always has to prove how smart he is. In fact, I’m sure the only reason each of you were willing to come to counseling is to be validated against the other.”

“If he was as smart as he thinks he is, he’d be making more money,” Shelia cut in.

“That’s Tiffany the man-eater friend talking,” Max intervened. “And her father. They’re always telling her how she should have married a doctor or a ball player.”

“I know,” the counselor said. “We covered that four weeks ago.”

“And I remember what you said,” Shelia growled, squinting her eyes and pointing at the counselor. “You said that if I was going to save this marriage then I was going to have to stop running to my daddy every time I didn’t get my way. But my daddy raised me. He put me through college. How’re you going to tell me not to listen to my daddy? And Tiffany is not a man-heater or whatever the hell you keep calling her. She’s just a strong black woman!”

“I’m not telling you to ignore your father,” the counselor shot back. “I’m saying he may not be the most objective voice when it comes to your marriage. I’m going to tell you the same thing I tell all women who discuss every aspect of their marriage with their friends; you didn’t marry your friends, you married your husband. As such, you should give consideration to his feelings when it comes to what you tell people, because you would expect the same from him.”

All of that made perfect sense to Max, but not to Shelia.

“C’mon Max, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. We shouldn’t have come to a white lady, anyhow,” Shelia dismissed as she grabbed her bag.

Max could only shrug. Even though the marriage counselor seemed to be siding with him more and more, in the end he was sick of paying her. As Shelia stormed out of the office, Max cut a check, thanked the counselor and went after his wife.

Later that night, they argued some more, but somehow managed to settle matters temporarily by having angry sex. That is, until he took too long to climax. Her initial excitement and vigor slipped away, as her walls dried.

“Maybe we could try a lubricant?” he suggested.

“Actually, Max, let’s call it a night,” she said as she turned over and wrapped the bed sheet around her. In minutes she was snoring while Max lay staring into the dark for another hour.

“You have to admit that something is fundamentally wrong with both of them if we could get kicked out of therapy,” Max said as they got dressed for work the next morning.

“Agreed,” she said. “I can try to be better if you can.”

It was hard to tell if she was sincere, or just trying to shut him, but they managed to give each other a good hug and kiss before going to work..

The next few nights they tiptoed around each other, until the inevitable disagreement over Stacy’s birthday party reared its ugly head. Max firmly believed that Stacy and her record producer husband were showbiz phonies who were incapable of real friendships, or at least that was the impression he was left with after his first night out with them.

Ironically, it had been exactly four years ago during what was Stacy’s thirtieth birthday party. Being a power couple, the Mammoths had reserved a private room at Gitano’s. The restaurant, located in the upper west side, was the hot spot of the time because the head chef had just taken grand prize in one of those cooking reality shows. Several music industry heavies were expected to be there, including a few wellknown rappers and music video directors.

At the time, Shelia was still hurting from a five-year relationship that had ended just before she met Max. To make matters worse, her most recent talk show producing job at CNPC had just gone down the toilet due to network budget cuts. It was a humbling time for her and she must have been feeling vulnerable. At least that’s how Max saw it. Why else would she suddenly invite him to this party that all of her friends were attending after six months of telling him they should take it slow?

As they drove to the party, Shelia told Max that since she had sprung this on him at the last minute, she didn’t expect him to pay for the dinner.

“That’s silly!” he protested. “I mean, your friends are a bit much, but I don’t mind.”

“My people just need to get used to you is all,” she said. “You’ve taken me to some very nice places over these few months. It’s only fair for me to treat you once.”

So there he was, at a dinner party mingling with people he had nothing in common with. Being an intelligent man, he did manage to hold his own during a short discussion that started around the table over appetizers. His clever icebreaking was broken up once one of the rappers decided to give a sudden and drunken performance in Stacy’s honor. Max was perplexed as to why the was the only one in attendance who thought a rap song about women making their ass cheeks clap might have been a tad inappropriate for the circumstance.

While everyone else ordered main courses, cocktails and deserts as if a sports championship had just been won, Max had the orange chicken with steamed vegetables and a tall glass of club soda. The dinner was tasty, but nothing to lose sleep over.

The guests eventually broke off from the main table, forming into smaller conversation groups. Shelia was never the doting sort, so she left Max and wandered off to congregate with a group of women and gay hairdressers, while the rappers and heavy hitters formed the second predominately male gathering. Somewhere along the way, it was established that talking to Max was not going to help anyone’s career, since he was a cop and not in the entertainment industry. That, and the recent rash of police brutality cases still being fresh on everyone’s mind, led to Max being subtly alienated from the larger groupings. After some awkwardness, he ended up settling into a conversation with the restaurant staff and Mammoth’s elderly uncle, a fascinating man who directed soap commercials in the 1960s. As one might guess, the waiting staff had nothing nice to say about their boss, the contest-winning chef.

As the evening winded down, Mammoth made his rounds and collected credit cards from the men. When he got to Max, who he almost overlooked since Max was still surrounded by waiters; Max unwittingly committed a social faux pas that would hang over him and his relationship with these people for years.

Max politely explained to Jack Mammoth that Shelia was covering the dinner and that he should get a credit card from her. Mammoth gave the impression of being fine with this, and walked away. Max considered the matter closed, but he was mistaken. In fact, Jack Mammoth was apparently uncomfortable with the prospect of having to ask Shelia for a credit card and decided not to. Instead, he talked about Max like a dog to anybody within earshot.

By the time Shelia had gotten wind of everyone in her social circle calling Max a moocher, the damage was done. Embarrassed, she confronted Max, who was quite bewildered by the whole situation.

“If he had a problem with it, why didn’t he say anything when it happened?” Max asked. “Why’s he gossiping about me like an old woman? Does he want the damn money?!”