Flamingo Place. Marcia King-Gamble

reach out to touch him. He would be an inspiration to his people, especially little black boys who’d strayed. He’d been kind of wayward himself growing up. Yes, New York City would be part of the plan. It was not an impossible goal if he played his cards right.

      As Tre continued to fantasize about New York City and a growing fan base his eyelids grew heavy. He jolted awake at the sound of the alarm clock that luckily he’d remembered to set earlier on.

      Jen had just gotten out of the shower and was wrapping her body in a fluffy towel when the doorbell rang. It played one of her favorite tunes. Jen groaned. Hopefully security would have called before letting Chere up.

      The bell rang again. It sounded like her visitor had put an index finger to the spot and forgotten it. Fine, she wasn’t going to be given much of a choice. Her robe, the one she hadn’t worn in years, was still in a box in her closet. Whoever it was would have to deal with her the way she was.

      She took her time getting to the front door, and took another second pressing her eye to the peephole. She assessed the distorted image, trying to determine whether it was male or female.

      Trestin Noisemaker had come to her. She hadn’t had to make that phone call to invite him to lunch. Jen made sure the bath towel was tightly tucked around her before opening the door a crack.

      “Yes?”

      “Can I come in?”

      “No you may not. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

      “I came with a peace offering.”

      “I invited you to lunch,” she tossed back. “That was my peace offering for parking in your spot.”

      An arm thrust through the opening, holding something in a tissue wrapper.

      “Uh-uh!” Jen said, closing the door an inch on that arm.

      “It’s wine. Try it, you’ll like it,” Trestin sang.

      “I can’t accept it.”

      “Why not?”

      She thought for a moment, her front teeth clamped down on her bottom lip. “Because, well because, I don’t accept gifts from men.”

      “I’m not just any man. I’m your neighbor. I’ve kept you up at night. This is my way of saying I’m sorry.”

      Camille Lewis probably had an eye to the peephole. Most likely so did Ida. The entire building could be listening to her business.

      “Can’t I come in for a minute?” Tre whined.

      “I’m not dressed.” One hand gripped the top of the towel even as she stood aside, allowing him to enter.

      Trestin placed one foot on the threshold, the other in the hallway. He was still holding the wine.

      “I’ve never been accused of forcing myself on a woman,” he said, smiling at her unease.

      “There’s always a first time.”

      Trestin’s gaze swept over the living and dining space. “Nice place.”

      “Thanks.”

      Jen took the wine bottle from him and set it down on her sideboard.

      “It’s a lovely cabernet,” Tre added. “Perhaps you can save it for when we have dinner.”

      “In that case it might turn to vinegar. We are having lunch, not dinner,” she reminded him.

      “Look,” Tre said, “I don’t have the time or inclination to turn this into a pissing contest. I’m on my way to work. Drink it alone and in good health.”

      “I’ll accept your gift on one condition,” she surprised herself by saying.

      He hiked an eyebrow. “And that is?”

      “We have our drink in public. And by that I don’t mean a cozy restaurant.”

      “Where did you have in mind?”

      “Neutral territory. We take the bottle to the beach or around the pool. Somewhere on the property where everyone can see us.”

      “I’ll accept your invitation on one condition,” he now countered.

      “And what is that?”

      “You wear your sexiest bathing suit to the pool. While you think about that, I have to go.”

      “What is it that you do?” Jen called to his disappearing back.

      “Let’s just say I’m in communications,” he tossed over his shoulder.

      “So am I.”

      The moment she shut the door she marched over to where she’d set the bottle down. Curious to see if his taste matched hers, Jen removed the bottle of wine from its wrapper and checked out the label. The wine had to have set him back at least a twenty spot.

      The annoying man actually had good taste.

      Boris Schwartz, WARP’s owner and station manager, was seated in his office, a cooling mug of coffee in front of him as usual. Tre leaned his butt against the doorjamb, fingered the diamond stud in his ear, and waited for Boris to look up.

      “You’re ten minutes late,” he announced, glancing up and beckoning Tre to come in.

      “Sorry. I got held up.”

      “Hmmmm.”

      “You said you wanted to talk to me.”

      “Have a seat.”

      “I prefer to stand.”

      “Suit yourself.”

      The Afro-German brought the mug to his lips. His eyes never left Tre’s. In one precise movement, he set the cup down on a desk that was painfully neat. “Get Dear Jenna on your show while the interest level is still there. It should happen in the next day or two. Understand?”

      Tre felt like clicking his heels and saying “Aye, aye, sir.” Instead he said, “And if the woman won’t agree to come on?”

      “Appeal to her ego. There’s something in this for both of you.” Boris’s index finger made a rat-a-tat sound on his desk. “There’s got to be some kind of carrot we can dangle to get her on WARP.”

      “I have an idea,” Tre said, a smile creeping across his face. It was raw and unformed but it just might work. “I’ll call Chet Rabinowitz.”

      “The mayor’s son? The leader of the gay coalition or alliance or whatever it’s called.”

      “Alliance. He’s an acquaintance of mine.”

      Boris scrunched a nose that took up the majority of his face. “Where are you going with this?”

      “Tell me what I can expect if these ratings continue the way they’ve been lately, and I’ll share with you what I have in mind.”

      “You drive a hard bargain.”

      For the next fifteen minutes Boris spoke and Tre listened, interrupting occasionally to get specifics when he felt he might be getting snowed.

      Tre left the station manager’s office feeling upbeat and positive. He was well on his way.

      Now to get Chet Rabinowitz to agree to come on the air. If he dangled the promise of an on-air discussion of the Dear Jenna column, that might persuade the vocal activist to say yes. Chet was a publicity hound, especially if it would further the gay cause.

      And, if these broadcasts went as Tre thought they would, D’Dawg would then invite Daddy, the mayor, to come on the show.

      Tre rubbed his hands together gleefully. Yes! He was onto something. He was on a roll.

      Chet Rabinowitz was with a customer when the phone rang. His partner Harley hurried off to get it. Business had been slow lately and they needed a large