Guestlist

By Jay Fingers

GUESTLIST is the story of a bunch of beautiful people doing some very ugly things. It's spectacularly sexy, funny, and, at times, shocking. It's an audacious novel and the debut of a unique voice that's sure to be around for years to come.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985444907

Book preview

Norma

CHAPTER ONE

When Juliet Feliz took her first look at the short, slim guy standing at the velour ropes, she nearly burst out laughing. Really, who did this guy think he was?

Juliet was standing outside of Milk, the newest, hottest, most exclusive club in Manhattan. She was waiting on line with Sharane Hardy and Mare Weeks, her roommates and only two friends so far in New York City. Both ladies were what Juliet considered New York pretty—they were curvy with plain faces and straight hair that hung just past their shoulders. Neither would be considered a beauty queen or, as every woman on the Internet liked to fancy herself, America’s Next Top Anything, but both were pretty enough to attract the attention of enough men to make enough heads turn while walking down Broadway.

And that’s what happened as they ascended from the depths of the subway onto the street in the city’s Flatiron District. Exiting near the corner of Broadway and 23rd Street, Juliet and her roommates walked two blocks south, then two blocks west to arrive at Milk. Along the way, clusters of wannabe macks and playboys gave them appreciative nods and suggestive looks, and the ladies ignored them all. To let Sharane and Mare tell it, as cute as some of those dudes may have been, they were walking to their destination, just like the ladies.

But it’s New York City, Juliet said. Everybody walks here.

Not if you want to make an entrance, Sharane, the taller, curvier of Juliet’s roommates, said. Not if you want to stand out from the crowd. For a nigga to get my attention, he needs to pull up in a town car.

Or at least a taxi, Mare said in a soft voice that perfectly matched her tiny frame.

And so because none of the wannabe macks and playboys were pulling up in town cars or taxis, none of them got any play from the ladies.

They’d reached the club at around 11:00PM in hopes of gaining entry during the one-hour window that all ladies were admitted free. There was also an open bar exclusively for ladies until 12:00AM, sponsored by some new vodka brand that had been heavily endorsed by one of the few rappers still consistently releasing platinum-selling albums.

Upon arrival, however, the ladies discovered that even then they’d reached their destination too late. Barricades and ropes had been set up at the club’s entrance, and the line stretched the entire length of West 21st Street.

You can’t be serious! Sharane said. She’d been counting on the doorman letting them skip if the line had been too long, but after studying the other women that were being made to wait, Juliet came to the conclusion that these other women were much prettier, much sexier, much more liable to be let in before the three of them. She also suspected Sharane was thinking the same thing. And so, accompanied by a great deal of huffing and puffing, Juliet and her roommates stood at the end of the queue.

Over the course of the next forty minutes, the ladies talked amongst themselves, poked fun at some of the people who’d come out tonight, sent text messages to less fortunate acquaintances via Blackberry or iPhone, tried to see through the darkened windows of passing luxury vehicles, and, most frequently, impatiently checked their watches to make sure they were getting in before 12:00AM.

I didn’t bring any money, Mare said. So if we don’t get in by midnight, what are we going to do?

"I don’t know what you’re going to do, Sharane said, her face scrunched up in disdain. Juliet and I will be inside having a good time. Why didn’t you bring any money?"

I didn’t think I’d need to, Mare said. Not with free entry and open bar.

You’re a dumb bitch, Sharane said. You need at least twenty dollars, cash, on your person at all times. What if you need to take a cab home?

Mare didn’t say anything.

Sharane rolled her eyes. You’re a dumb bitch.

If it comes to that, Mare, I got you. Juliet often wondered how and why these two women became friends. It seemed they fought more than anything, and she got the feeling that Sharane forced Mare into some kind of competition. But whatever, that was those two. Sharane wouldn’t bully Juliet around like that—fuck that.

Luckily, by 11:40PM, they’d made it to the club’s entrance, with its tangle of white velour ropes, polished chrome stanchion posts, and remarkably unblemished plush white carpet leading to the doors. The doorman, a tall good-looking, light-skinned brother named Jerry, dapper in an all black suit, had acknowledged their presence, guaranteeing that Juliet and her roommates would make it inside, just under the wire.

Mare breathed a heavy sigh of relief and Sharane plotted on how they would each get two free drinks before the end of open bar. It was at this moment that Juliet turned and spotted the short, slim guy. He didn’t strike her as ugly, he just didn’t strike her as cute either. Oh, he tried his best, though. He certainly dressed the part, wearing dark jeans, loafers, and a white button-up shirt under a black velvet blazer. His clothes fit well—they weren’t overly baggy, like how most black dudes Juliet knew liked to wear their clothes; thankfully, they weren’t hipster tight either.

Juliet chuckled at herself, then at him. She chuckled for allowing herself such fleeting interest this guy. And she laughed because he was a wee little man, short in stature, certainly no taller than Juliet’s own five feet, seven inches, and couldn’t have weighed much more than she did.

Yet, displaying all the confidence in the world, the short, slim guy marched right up to the rope and called out to Jerry the doorman, who turned around, then appraised, and finally approached him. It was then that Juliet nearly burst into laughter. Really? For real? After she’d waited on line for forty-five minutes with two fairly attractive women, this little guy thinks he can just walk up to the rope and be let in? I don’t think so, Juliet said to herself.

She was right, too. Jerry turned away from the short, slim guy, leaving him on the other side of the rope, standing on the sidewalk, looking down the street and tapping away on his iPhone.

Knowing he couldn’t hear her, Juliet said, Better luck next time, and Jerry unhooked the white velour rope so that she, Sharane, and Mare could enter the club with five minutes left on open bar for ladies.

[\

Once they were inside, Juliet marveled at her surroundings. Tonight was the grand opening of Milk. It had been touted as one of the hottest, most exclusive nightclubs that New York had seen in a while, and it certainly lived up to the hype.

The club itself was ornate, but elegant. Sexy, yet restrained. Hip, but chic. Remaining true to its name, everything was white—the banquettes, the bartender and server outfits, the bars themselves, which seemed to have been chiseled out of ivory marble. The only things that did not seem to be white were the tables in the VIP section of the club. The tables seemed to be mirrored.

Of course, Juliet couldn’t really tell because the VIP was roped off and guarded by burly security men who didn’t seem friendly, no matter how much cleavage may have been shoved up to their faces. Their job, it seemed, was to keep the nobodies out, and in this world of celebrities, miscellaneous beautiful people, and their various hangers-on, Juliet and her roommates were indeed nobodies.

They’d made it to the bar just as the free drinks were being cut off. Once the bartender, a buff, clean-cut white guy, served the ladies the three vodka-and-cranberries they’d ordered, Sharane and Mare turned on their heels and walked away, not even leaving behind so much as a dollar for a tip. Mortified, Juliet reached into her purse and pulled out a five-dollar bill, handing it to the bartender. Sure, it had been open bar and the drinks were on the house, but goddamn. Show some class.

The music was a booming mix of classic old-school hip-hop and current hits. A male & female DJ couple, Huggy Bear and Lady Besos, collectively known as Hugs & Kisses, were in the booth, rocking on the turntables. They had a seemingly choreographed routine, an intricate Busby Berkeley-like series of movements when switching out records, mixing, and scratching. Juliet thought it was cool that they still spun actual vinyl records as she knew most contemporary DJs simply brought computers packed with digital files to the club.

The drinks were soon gulped down, and, with no intention of spending any money on more alcohol, Sharane began scheming on some of the men in the club. Fuck this bar shit, she said. I need to find a baller with some bottles. But there were many more women than men at this party, so the fellas were at a clear advantage. They could pick and choose, and pick and choose they did. They picked models, chose actresses, picked R&B divas, chose video vixens. Juliet and her roommates may have been New York pretty, pretty enough, but they still did not fall into any of the aforementioned categories.

When Sharane finally did snag a crew of guys, they seemed liked regular Joes just hanging at the bar. Introductions were made, and Juliet learned that these guys were aspiring music moguls.

Yeah, our company’s called K.A.N. Records, one of them said.

K.A.N.? said Juliet. Why’d you choose that name?

Because the State of New York wouldn’t let us incorporate our company under our original name, another told her.

And what was the original name?

All three of the mogul wannabes erupted simultaneously at the bar. "Kill A Nigga Records! " As they huddled together, chanting and rhyming lyrics to one of their songs, Juliet gave Sharane a look: Are you serious?

Sharane shrugged and held up her drink. The drink that was paid for by K.A.N. Records. Juliet got the message.

Sighing, Juliet turned away from the group and looked at the activity in the club. Across the room, at another bar, the bartender was creating a spectacle by fire breathing. His patrons broke out into thunderous applause and dropped bills all over the ivory bar. Hoots and hollers came from the raucous crowd in the roped off VIP section as well. Juliet took a sip of her drink, another vodka and cranberry, and that’s when the short, slim guy from outside stepped up to the bar, right next to her.

Juliet found it tremendously incredible that this guy was actually let inside the club. If you know how to dress, I guess that’s enough, she thought. Either that or this guy sufficiently greased the right palm to get in.

The short, slim guy called the bartender over and ordered something. Juliet really wasn’t trying to pay attention, she wanted to see more of what was happening on the other side of the club, but the short, slim guy was standing right next to her, on his tippy-toes, talking to the bartender, effectively blocking her view. Gritting her teeth, Juliet looked at him in disgust.

At that moment, the short, slim guy turned and looked at Juliet for the first time. He smiled at her, pleasant, and said, Hi.

Ugh. Juliet rolled her eyes and turned back to her group, who were in the process of leaving the bar.

What’s going on? Juliet asked.

The guys are getting bottles, Sharane said. Come on.

Juliet followed her roommates and the three dudes to one of the many tables set up on the perimeter of the club’s massive dance floor. These tables were not mirrored like the ones in VIP. They were white plastic.

Why didn’t they have a table to begin with? Juliet asked. Were all these reserved or something?

They know somebody. One of the promoters, Mare said.

Within minutes, a cocktail waitress whose uniform probably came straight out of a Victoria Secret’s catalogue danced over with a gigantic bottle of Perrier Jouët Fleur Rosé. Attached to the bottle’s neck was a sparkler, and it emitted a flame so high into the air, it rivaled the fire-breathing bartender’s antics in terms of sheer spectacle. As the waitress danced, two bussers set up an equally gigantic ice bucket and set out cylindrical champagne glasses.

Finally, the sparkler died, the waitress stopped dancing, and she handed the bottle over to her two bussers. A third busser emerged from the crowd, a small sword in his hand.

What the fuck? Juliet said. She looked over at her roommates, who were hugged up with the guys from the bar. Everyone’s eyes were wide, jumping with excitement.

Juliet turned just in time to see the sword-wielding busser slide the blade along the side of the bottle, hitting the lip of the bottleneck. The resulting jolt cleanly broke the tip of the bottle off, and the waitress was ready with a cup to collect the spill out and any resulting splinters.

Seeing the look of shock on Juliet’s face, the waitress smiled. "You’ve never seen sabrage performed before?"

Uh, hell no, Juliet said.

The waitress laughed.

Juliet turned to the wannabe moguls. What was all that?

You liked that, didn’t you? one of them said, grinning at her.

That’s champagne, Kill A Nigga style, another said, giving his homeboy a soul brother handshake.

"Ballin’!!! " said the third, shooting an imaginary three-pointer.

But why all the production? Juliet asked.

I told you, the first wannabe mogul said, accepting the champagne the waitress had poured into a flute for him. One of my boys is a promoter here. We told him we had some lovely ladies with us, so he hooked this up. Here, let me introduce you.

And it was at that moment that Juliet’s jaw went slack. The wannabe beckoned to someone standing nearby, and that someone walked over and shook Sharane’s, then Mare’s hand. It was the short, slim guy that Juliet had been appraising all night.

He offered his hand to Juliet and she accepted, now sorry that she’d acted like a complete bitch to him at the bar just moments ago. If he held any type of grudge or felt any animosity toward her, however, his eyes and smile certainly did not let on. He was pleasant, introduced himself, and asked if she was having a good time.

Yes, Juliet said. Thank you.

You’re welcome. He smiled at her, then told the fellas that if they needed anything else to let him know. With her eyes, Juliet followed him as he marched right over to the roped off VIP section, gave a handshake to the bouncer, and disappeared into the throng of beautiful people with mirrored tables.

And that is how Juliet came to know of Napoleon Fey.

CHAPTER TWO

Marcel Swann was not asleep. He was still in bed, still in his pajama pants and Detroit Pistons T-shirt, and still under the covers. It was Monday morning, about a quarter to nine, but Swann, as everyone called him, was not focused on sleep. Instead, he focused an unwavering gaze at the rock.

The rock sat on his night stand—coarse, dark gray, with a long, oval shape. It was of considerable size, too, about as big as Swann’s hand when he clenched his fingers shut to make a fist. He found the rock a few days day before, when, out of sheer boredom, he took the train out to Coney Island. He’d never been before and as a die-hard fan of The Warriors, Swann felt it was his duty to go out there to play-iy-ay at least once. And really, there was no excuse for not paying the area a visit. Seeing as he was unemployed and without any immediately foreseeable job prospects, Swann had all the time in the world to do whatever he liked.

Well, perhaps not whatever he liked. Money was, of course, an issue. Sure, he’d made good money when he was working with Omni Consumer Products and he was even able to save a few thousand dollars. But that was then. This was now, and now the gravity of having not received a paycheck in over eight months was beginning to take a serious toll on Swann financially, mentally, and spiritually. Mostly, financially. The cost of living in New York City—or specifically Fort Greene, Brooklyn—ate through his pitiful savings like Takeru Kobayashi in a hot dog factory.

No longer did Swann waste his free time perusing social networking websites, shopping for exclusive sneakers online, or surfing for pornography. He now bookmarked and scoured his new favorites: Craigslist, Monster, Backpage. For hours, days, weeks, months after losing his job, Swann applied to every open position of which he became aware. His résumé updated and impressive, his cover letter a masterwork combination of confidence and humility, Swann was certain that he’d receive an offer soon. After all, he was educated. He had years of work experience. He was capable, intelligent. Hungry. And he possessed an unparalleled work ethic.

As time went on, however, Swann became less and less sure that he would find anything. The phone never rang with requests for interviews, his email inbox never filled with replies to his inquiries. Eventually, instead of applying to the mid-level positions for which he was qualified, Swann began campaigning for entry-level openings. Still, nothing.

Optimism fading fast, Swann looked at other potential opportunities. Anything to help him stay afloat. Barista. Pet groomer. Math tutor. Line cook. Customer service superhero.

Nothing.

If he were back in Detroit, his hometown, maybe Swann would have been able to ask his friends if they had any inside information on available jobs. And maybe that would have led to getting hired somewhere. After all, most of the time, it was never what you knew but rather who you knew. Then again, if Swann were back home, the support system of his family and long-time friends would have undoubtedly assuaged the sense of doom and despair he was currently feeling.

Swann had friends in New York, sure. People he’d met since moving a little over a year ago. Take The Alcoholic, for instance. Perfect example of a friendship that usually stemmed from a conversation at a bar or something; and upon getting to know these people, Swann often wondered how they earned a living. Unlike the folks back home, most of Swann’s new acquaintances didn’t appear to have day jobs, they just existed in a vacuum. Slept until noon everyday, spent hundreds of dollars on bottles in nightclubs, and enjoyed expensive brunches on the weekends.

Were these people artists? If so, they dedicated more time to socializing, boozing, smoking, and fucking than to any creative endeavors.

And these were mostly young black people, so at first Swann didn’t think he was dealing with trust fund babies. What black people did he know that had trust funds? Later, though, he surmised that since he did live in a neighborhood straight out of The Cosby Show, the existence of black trust fund babies may not have been too terribly far-fetched.

Whatever the deal was, that was with them. Swann was not of the privileged caste of carefree nothing-doers. He needed to earn a paycheck on a consistent basis and all prospects were looking grim.

After the first couple of months of fruitless job-hunting,