“No.”
I said, “Not a condo?”
“Uh-uh. It’s my house. In Burbank. Three bedrooms, privacy fence in back, good neighborhood on a cul de sac.”
I asked, “You have a pool?”
“No.”
“Hot tub?”
“No, Ronny.”
“Butler?”
“Ha-ha.”
Hondo said, “That sounds good. Thanks, Marcus.” Marcus told him the directions.
**
An hour later, Hondo stopped the car in the driveway and Marcus and I got out, then Marcus said, “I’ll go inside and hit the garage door opener so you can pull it inside.”
I walked with him and looked over the house as we approached the front door. The house was brick, and we followed a curving brick walkway through the small front yard that showed recent evidence of landscaping. A new, fresh-turned area of dirt was along the front wall below a large picture window. Evenly spaced hedge was planted in it with each plant about three feet from the others. A small border of mondo grass separated the zoysia grass from the bed.
“Very nice, Marcus. Not exactly what I was expecting, but nice.”
“What were you expecting?”
“Oh, maybe something more, ah…black.”
Marcus put the key in the door and opened it. “More black. Like Snoop, or Fit-ty, maybe Timbaland, Wyclef Jean.”
“Well yeah, like them, but on a much smaller scale. You know, the salary diff and all.”
“Of course.” Marcus led the way inside and left me in the living room as he went into the kitchen and to the garage. Music was playing throughout the house in low but audible tones. Good sound system, good music. I heard a door open, then the garage doors rising, then Marcus returned to the living room.
The living room was immaculate, with plush leather chairs, sofas, throw rugs, and a modest sized flat-screen TV in the corner. The nice picture window looked out on the front yard and street and you could see the tops of the manicured hedge just under the window. I went over and pulled the curtains together. A tiny blade of sunlight still came through, but it was at the top third of the window so I knew nobody could see inside.
I looked at everything again and said, “Were you raised by white people from Vermont, Joel and Etta Gunderson, something like that?”
“Har-har.”
Hondo and Jett came in and Marcus said, “Make yourselves at home. Ronny, come with me.” I followed Marcus down the hallway to the master bedroom.
“Yay, I get to sleep in the master bedroom!”
“You don’t quit, do you? I wanted to show you this. Figured you’d get a kick out of it.” He opened the door. As soon as we entered, I started grinning.
The bed was big, circular and covered by one of those fake leopard-skin bedspreads. A disco ball was over the bed, and framed movie posters lined the walls. A flat-screen TV that must have had an eighty-inch screen was centered on the wall across from the bed.
And the posters! They were all of those great seventies black films: Shaft, Blacula, Super Fly, Black Belt Jones, Slaughter, and all their sequels. They were professionally framed and in excellent condition.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” I said and gave him a low five. “When I discovered Super Fly in high school, I almost wore out the DVD.”
Marcus said, “Uh-huh, and I bet the most worn part was the bubble bath scene.”
“Absolutely.”