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believed Junior had saved her life and for that she was his constant defender against any and all comers, including his siblings, his babymamas and whatever law enforcement and other agency officials found their way to her door. My appearing to ask that Sheila be allowed to join us for an anti-Super Bowl party would have been a fool’s errand anyway. My relationship with Anita had deteriorated rapidly after I encouraged Patrice and Tiffany to file for child support from Sonny and T. J. Their mother’s position was that since “those fast-ass girls” had “tricked” her boys into getting them pregnant in the first place, they had no business to expect money to start flowing now. When the family court did not agree, I earned a place on what she told me was her “permanent shit list.” I didn’t have just dropped by to say hello license at the Lattimore house anymore.
    The truth is, at this moment, that’s fine with me. I’m in no mood for a run-in with an angry matriarch. I’m in the mood for mango margaritas.

EIGHT
a con man’s dream
    I HEARD THE MUSIC as soon as I stepped out of the car. Something Latin. Bill and Sister were going to Havana with a group of ministers in August and their house had become a repository for all things Cuban. They were seasoned travelers who’ve spent at least two weeks out of the country every year since they met in graduate school. Bill says it’s important to regularly remind yourself that the center of the world is not necessarily the piece of land where you happen to be standing.
    Sister opened the door before I had a chance to knock, kissed my cold cheek and drew me quickly inside before the wind came in too. Bill, in baggy jeans and a big red sweater, was at the stereo programming a full evening of music in advance. I admire people who can use new technology effectively, but I still miss thoseold turntables with the plastic covers and the tone arm that could be set to repeat a single scratchy 45 forever. The day before we moved here from Detroit, I remember kissing Steven Robinson for three hours straight while the O’Jays sang “You are my sunshine” over and over until I thought I would surely die of desire right there in his parents’ rec room.
    “Buenas noches,” Sister said, smiling and taking my coat.
    “ Buenas noches to you.” Never let it be said that I am not an international woman.
    Sister was wearing a pair of billowy orange pants, a purple silk tunic and a pair of embroidered Chinese slippers. Her braids were tied at the nape of her neck with a bright strip of kente cloth, and delicate filigree hoops sparkled in her ears. She looked—there is no better word for it— festive. I felt like a strange black moth dropped into the middle of a butterfly’s nest.
    “Listen to these guys,” Bill said, already shouting to be heard across the room and then turning up the volume another notch so we could fully appreciate the sublime harmonies of the Buena Vista Social Club, a group of legendary Cuban musicians, average age seventy-five.
    My Spanish pretty much begins and ends with buenas noches but I recognize a broken heart when I hear one.
    “He’s been playing these guys nonstop,” Sister said. “Turn it down a little, sweetie, would you?”
    “They give me hope for old guys,” Bill said, reluctantly returning the sound to a more conversational pitch.
    “What’s he saying?”
    Bill closed his eyes, placed his hand over his heart dramatically and did the simultaneous translation.
    “A broken shadow/without you, Only the twilight accompaniesme now. Now your love is gone/there is no happiness for me.”
    The music ended on a note of perfect longing and Bill sighed with satisfaction and glided across the room to give me a welcome squeeze. Among his many talents, Bill is a world-class hugger.
    “Where you been, girl? Are you brightening up some other parlors besides our own?”
    “No chance,” I said. “This is by far my favorite parlor for at least a