I skimmed the article for any mention of her. She got one line that didn’t even include a name, just that his girlfriend had introduced him to a few party promoters. It was as close as he got to admitting how many hours, days, and months she’d put into his “overnight” success.
Disappointing.
I went to Instagram, which is as dependable as your period on the first day of vacation. Naut hadn’t posted any tributes to Desiree. He hadn’t posted anything at all. At least not for the last week or so. The few posts he did have this month were single covers and artsy-fartsy pics of studio and DJ equipment. Nary a selfie in sight, much less any Groupies—both the photo and the human kinds. His profile pic wasn’t even him, just a shot of his helmet sitting next to a soundboard. He also used the familiar fuzzy transmission signal on all his music productions, sometimes at the beginning, sometimes at the end, sometimes buried between the chorus and a verse. Always letting you know you were listening to a DJ Naut production.
His Instagram was all work to Desiree’s all play. Opposites attract and all that. She had no shots of him either, though she had once upon a time. But they were all gone now. Deleted. The twenty-first-century version of letting the world know you’re over. Right up there with no longer following each other. She wasn’t. He was.
I got off the subway, went up the stairs, and headed east. The last time I’d popped up on a guy had been an ex at Penn and it’d been three in the morning. Hopefully I wouldn’t find Naut in bed with his engaged TA.
The walk down West 125th—aka Times Square above Central Park—went by quickly. Lifelong residents whose idea of a vacation was a day trip to Coney Island passed oodles of tourists observing the natives in their habitat like zoo animals. A few even paid tour guides to take them to Black churches on Sundays, relegated to the upper levels, though they were far from the cheap seats. The pastor made sure the donation plates made it up there.
The phone call came just as I was about to get to Frederick Douglass. I didn’t recognize the number so I ignored it. The text came a few minutes later.
Hi Lena. This is Stuart from the Daily News. Wish you’d told me who you were when we talked this morning. I would have offered my condolences. I’m working on a follow-up about your sister. Would love to chat with you. Please call when you can.
How did he even get my number? Not that it mattered. There was no way in hell I was going to contribute to some hit piece with another shitty headline. I deleted it as I walked past the Magic Johnson theater. The apartment building across the street was big enough to house both a hotel and a lounge. The builders seemed to have realized rooftops topped people’s Christmas lists more than chimneys. There were several different ones on several different floors. The end result was a building with more shapes than a game of Tetris.
I looked up, wondering which square housed DJ Naut, then realized there was no front buzzer. It meant one thing. He had a doorman.
Shitnuts.
I don’t know why I was surprised. They weren’t uncommon. But this wasn’t in my plan. Part of me wanted to leave. The other part strong-armed me inside and up to the lobby counter, where the doorman waited. They hadn’t forced him to wear a top hat and white gloves, but they had put him in a suit jacket. He looked nice in it.
“And who are you here to see, ma’am?”
At least I’d prepared for that. “Neil Marks.”
He picked up the phone and I hit another snag.
“And who may I say is here to see him?” The doorman had the receiver mere centimeters from his ear, both he and the phone ready to be of service. More ready than I was to answer. I wasn’t wearing a uniform. I clearly wasn’t Uber Eats or Postmates. Grubhub or DoorDash. I should have anticipated this scenario, stopped by the Little Caesars a couple of blocks back. But I hadn’t, which left me with one option: the truth.
“Desiree’s sister.”
He looked at me like I was a member of Beyoncé’s original group. But this is New York, where the only things hood folks and rich folks have in common is a hatred of tourists and a love of creative baby names. Smiling, he finally dialed. “Yes, is this Mr. Marks? I have a Desiree’s Sister here to see you.”
There was a pause longer than in a reality competition. I felt like this week’s eliminated contestant, waiting to be sent home. The doorman’s eyes darted everywhere. The smile slowly dissipated from his face until he finally spoke. “Are you sure? It’s just that I can’t be responsible since it’s not protocol.” Another pause. More non-eye-contact. “I understand.”
He hung up and smiled at me like he didn’t really want to, reaching down to produce a white box with “MacBook Pro” displayed proudly in bold black letters. “Mr. Marks asked that you take this up with you.”
It looked like I’d be a delivery person after all.
Seven
It was only when I got to Naut’s floor and heard the music that I realized how silly this was. Like horror-movie-white-girl-running-half-naked-up-the-stairs-instead-of-out-the-door silly. It was eight o’clock and I hadn’t eaten since a nasty-ass protein bar for breakfast. I’d been subsisting on anger with a side of grief. Apparently, dessert was “Have you lost your mind?” topped with fear. I didn’t know this man, yet here I was traipsing up to his apartment after-hours to grill him on his relationship with my sister.
I was about to do a whole 180 when Naut popped out of a door a few feet away. Even sans astronaut helmet, he was taller than his online pics had led me to believe. He was also skinny enough we probably wore the same size jeans. His eyes were his crowning feature, pools of chocolate you just wanted to dive into. It was too bad he always hid them behind a mask.
I stood up as straight as I could, plastering my face with the expression I used when walking by a stranger screaming at the top of their lungs. The one that said “I’m not scared” even if I was. He said nothing, just held up his hand. For a split second I thought gun. It was only after the music abruptly shut off that I realized it was a remote.
I exhaled as he walked toward me. He stopped a few feet away to give me a once-over that was anything but sexual. More like taking in art or clothes. Based on his expression, he was ready to leave me on the rack. But then he got to my feet.
I had on Jordan 1 retro high-tops in black with a crimson tint. Reissues, but I had an original pair locked up tight at home. I’d read once that Elizabeth Taylor kept her diamonds in a vault and instead wore replicas. I understood completely.
Feeling more confident, I handed him his new laptop.
“Nice Jordans,” he said. “Take them off before you come inside.”
He didn’t wait to see if I did. Just padded in socks back into his apartment while I paused at the door under the guise of taking off my kicks. Then I swallowed down any lingering fear and went inside. The place was open concept. The kitchen looked more like a lounge than somewhere to make food. All blacks and dark woods with a bar in place of an island. The glass-fronted cabinets displayed top-shelf liquor.
Naut was already holding a cocktail shaker. Though alcohol was exactly what I needed to calm my nerves, there was no way in hell I’d drink anything from him.