“Okay,” I said, and then took a moment to really study her. Her face was moist and her eyes tired. Still, if I didn’t know what she’d just done, nothing about her manner would have revealed it. She looked like someone’s flirtatious girlfriend. We pass people every day on the street, people who have done the most unusual things. We think they are just ordinary people, but we don’t know who they really are or what they’re truly capable of. I thought I knew who Beatrice was. A freak. A stripper. She’s still both. But on this Sunday it was clear the lady was also one hell of a head coach.

She said, “You know, I think you’re cute.”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“No, Dwayne. Don’t be so insecure.”

“Did Walter ask you to do that to him?”

“Do what?” She wanted me to say it.

“You know. What you did in the kitchen.”

“No,” she said slyly. “I asked him and he agreed. I’ve done a lot for him. Things you don’t know about. It was something he owed me. A little returned favor, you know?”

“A little favor. Wow. You sure move through the world differently.”

“I don’t know. Everything’s about exchange. If we get closer, Dwayne, I may ask a favor of you, too.”

“You already had me kissing Walter’s hairy-ass leg. Isn’t that favor enough?”

“And that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I was, you know, distracted.”

“That’s how it starts, baby. One distraction leads to another.”

On the TV McNair was driving the Titans. The clock was ticking. A field goal wouldn’t do. A touchdown was the Titans’ only shot. Walter ambled in and sat next to me, requesting an update on the game. Sonja appeared next, seating herself partly on Beatrice’s lap and partly on mine. We sat there and, for a funny moment, we were just any close American family watching the big game.

Sonja asked for the phone—something about calling her boyfriend. I suppressed a chuckle and watched her ass bounce as she exited. A moment later Beatrice left, too. When they were gone Walter leaned over and said, “Soon as the game’s over, you say you’re going home and take all the freaks with you. I gotta call Daria.”

Daria Dinkins, black ingenue, decent actress, all-around cutie, was shooting a sci-fi/martial arts flick in Thailand. She was “the black girl” in a multiculti cast.

Whatever “favor” Walter felt obliged to do for his bisexual gal pal was in the past. The bass was back in his voice, and he’d reverted to mack mode. But now, of course, I would never, ever, see Walter Gibbs the same way again.