No Love for the Wicked

by Tiana Laveen

  The rest of her work day was fairly uneventful, but fifteen minutes before she was scheduled to clock out, she wandered over to the women’s apparel section. As she went through the racks, she practically salivated at the sight of a baby pink romper with a rhinestone choker collar, a gray and silver fur floor-length vest, and a velvet midnight blue gown with the back exposed and amazing slits up both sides. She couldn’t decide right then which to get, but she definitely had options. As she made her way towards the shoes, she stopped dead in her tracks. A man with a similar black hat as Angelo wore was checking out a display of romantic greeting cards. The two guys looked nothing alike, but that damn hat was almost identical.

  She made a beeline towards the women’s shoe section and went crazy over a pair of taupe platforms. Yeah, a pair. Like Soulmates… I have told so many people that soulmates are what they make of themselves. I’m still not even sure soulmates exist. I just hate the way Angelo keeps popping up in my head! In the morning, he is on my mind. At work, he enters my thoughts. At night… never mind.

  She placed the shoes back down, then selected a pair of clear heels. Boy were they pretty. She checked the price tag and wheezed. Far more expensive than she’d expected.

  “Hey there, you work downstairs, right?” A tall lady with bouncy brunette hair asked. She’d seen her a time or two before.

  “Yeah, in perfume.”

  The woman put her hand on her hip. “I thought I recognized you. Aren’t you a doll? So pretty. A real looker,” she complimented, trying to get her damn commission even off one of her own.

  “Thank you.”

  “Those are to die for.” She pointed to the clear heels dangling in her hand. “We’ve sold three pairs today alone. That’s the last size eight. We’ve got a couple sixes in the back, and a few sevens, too. Do you want to try them on?”

  “Oh, no thanks.” Andrea shook her head. “I appreciate the offer though. I was just window shopping.”

  “Okay, well, if you change your mind or there’s something specific you’re looking for, let me know. Ya know we get a ten percent discount.”

  “Yes, and thank you.” She went to look at a pair of red heels, but didn’t like them nearly as much.

  Studio 54… I have to look the part. She really enjoyed Midtown for the club scene. On the weekends, it was a real joy. She didn’t go there as often as she’d like, but when she did, she and her friends always had a ball. She made her way back over to the ladies apparel and decided upon the midnight blue gown. It was pricey but well worth it, and just her luck, it was on sale. I can wear my other heels with this. Maybe I can jazz up those old shoes with some feathers or something. I’ll get creative with it. After purchasing the gown, she clocked out and waited for the bus.

  As she rode home, some man sitting across from her kept laughing to himself, to the point of tears. He clutched an empty plastic sack to his chest, holding it tight as if it were a precious baby. Another weirdo sat towards the front of the bus, scratching and digging in his ass while he complained about someone named Mickey using up all of his Preparation-H ointment. He went into great detail about his swollen, itchy hemorrhoid then groaned every time they hit a bump. She refused to give him direct eye contact as he seemed hungry for an audience. She couldn’t get off that bus soon enough.

  Soon, her stop arrived, and on her way home she saw a magazine in the window of a bodega displaying different artillery. She stepped a bit closer to check out the publication about guns. The pros and cons of each were described, as well as how to obtain a license to get one and the various state restrictions. One of her cousins had told her eons ago it was nearly impossible to get one legally, and she’d heard similar stories from a couple of friends.

  Such discussions had begun when the Son of Sam was terrorizing New York City, but those talks hadn’t stopped even after his capture, for crime was still soaring, including countless robberies, assaults, and violent rapes. Most of her loved ones already had guns, and she knew damn well they didn’t have a license. If it became too much of a hassle, she’d go that route.

  The police won’t help me, so I’ll have to help myself. Black dead rose petals aren’t a threat to them. I can’t prove anyone has broken into my apartment. The letters are seemingly ramblings with no real danger to them – just strange sentences strung together with no rhyme or reason. The police had told her all of this. In other words, ‘You’re a poor Black woman. Call us when you’re dead.’

  I’ll get my own protection. Something better than my knives. As far as she was concerned, they’d left her no choice.

  Five minutes later, she was coming out of the store with the magazine in hand, along with a banana and a Schweppes ginger ale. She walked a block home, went up the three flights of stairs, triple locked her door behind her, then kicked off her shoes.

  After calling Winona and taking a long shower, she put on some music. ‘Baby Come Back,’ by Player, spun on her record player. A couple of hours later, she ate a frozen Salisbury steak dinner, drank her ginger ale, and chomped down her banana slathered with peanut butter for dessert. She fell asleep in front of the television, then dragged herself to her bedroom a few hours later. It didn’t take long for her to go back to sleep in the comfort of her own bed.

  No… NO!

  Exhale…

  Inhale…

  Back arched…

  Legs shaking…

  She glanced at the clock. It was 3:07 A.M. She leaned over and turned on the lamp.

  A warm, wet spot soaked through the sheets between her thighs.

  “Shit!” She tossed her pillow across the room, fed up. Drawing her knees up and resting her forehead on them, she hugged herself and stayed that way for a long time.

  Okay, another hallucination. Another erotic dream. I can’t keep doing this. Once again, it seemed so real. She sniffed the air, certain she could smell his cologne. That was impossible. She hadn’t seen him in weeks. In this particular dream, Angelo kissed her all over her body, teasing her, taking his sweet time. He’d opened her legs wide and ate her pussy so good that the memory of it alone almost sent her into another orgasm. Her heart raced. The pain in her chest spread like wildfire, only subsiding after she’d taken several deep breaths. She plopped back down and clutched the sheet, staring up at the ceiling.

  I don’t understand what’s going on, but this has to stop. Then it dawned on her. Maybe this was more than just her dirty mind at work. Maybe it wouldn’t go away. Maybe she needed to do something about it. But what?

  I meant what I said about not wanting to date him, but this strange attraction we have toward one another won’t turn me loose. I have never seen Angelo a day in my life before he and his grandmother arrived. I am not going to try to contact him, either. I doubt that’ll help. In fact, seeking him out could make it worse. Besides, I don’t have his number even if I wanted to. But if I see him again, then I’ll take that as a sign. The only other option is sleeping pills. That’s definitely a last resort.

  Satisfied with her plans, knowing damn well she’d never run into the likes of him and would more than likely end up in some doctor’s office getting a prescription, she washed up; changed her sheets then got back into the bed. She pulled her fresh covers tight around her and turned off the light. This time, she didn’t go hump in the night…

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dance to a Different Tune

  Rule 7: If you want it, go get it.

  The sun shone a bit brighter in the apartment on W 61st Street. The corner of 4th and D, sometimes referred to as, Loisada. It didn’t afford Angelo the same views and favor. He ran his hand along a long white windowsill in the empty living room, collecting dust with his fingertips, then rubbed it off with a few good claps. Angelo was pleased to still reside in Manhattan, his digs upgraded, yet remaining close enough to his nonna to ensure she was well looked out for.

  He lit a cigarette and tossed his lighter on the top of a cardboard box, then paced back and forth. He stilled after a while, po
sitioned in the middle of the space, and surveyed his surroundings. The apartment was vacant with the exception of moving boxes, wardrobe hangers, and plastic bags. He contemplated what he wished to do with all that space. He’d been told his father used to do the same. Walked back and forth, thinking. Planning.

  Angelo coveted his quiet times. Times of stillness. Time during which to cultivate critical thinking. He always told his business associates and clients, when at times things got heated between them, ‘If you’re talkin’ that way, you can’t hear me. If you’re walkin’ away, you aren’t near me.’ He began to march again, getting a feel for his trappings. He resisted the sense of being caged, of needing more room to stretch his long limbs and unravel his big dreams and schemes. He just needed a place to unwind and be comfortable. Every step echoed, and now that he was on a top floor of a building, he received the benefit of higher ceilings and a grander view.

  He made his way over to his new living room window, one of four large ones, and leaned against the Sukumala ochre yellow wall-papered partition and peered out. There were plentiful people, tall buildings, and a few shops, too. I’ll unpack my clothes, then go to the furniture store tomorrow morning and pick out my new living room set. The bedroom, too. He’d had his eye on a few pieces already, and figured he could get them delivered the next day if he used his time right. He’d gotten rid of much of his old stuff, with the exception of a couple of lamps, his albums, and odds and ends, as he often did when starting fresh.

  It was like establishing an entirely new identity – one of many aspects that set him apart from men in his similar field of work. He never stayed still, and he re-invented himself like clockwork. He had no loyalty to anyone, except for himself, though he never ratted anyone out, either. He was always a different persona when ‘working.’ He walked different, spoke different – he was playing a role. That was what separated the men from the boys. He didn’t dilly dally, and he always did his research before taking care of business. He’d turned down jobs that didn’t feel right, no matter how high the price tag. He was leery of new clients with no one to vouch for them. Familiarity with the area, the people, and the habits of the police was mandatory.

  He changed his wardrobe often, too, some pieces tossed out, destroyed, or given to the Salvation Army. He did what was necessary to obscure himself when working. Gloves. Hats. Sunglasses. Faux accent when speaking was occasionally necessary. He was fluent in Italian and knew enough Spanish to skirt by. And he was protected by secret factions in the NYPD. Many were involved with receiving payoffs from several crime families to stay the fuck out of their way. That favor extended to him, too. The detectives that couldn’t be paid off and thought themselves the moral code constabularies had already questioned him over the course of several years, mostly about cases he had nothing to do with.

  They were nitwits, grasping at broken straws, going by hearsay and rumor. No one knew the real him, only what he presented, and he presented well. One thing however did cause him a bit of concern as of late. There was this new, more advanced testing that he’d heard about, physical evidence analysis. Material evidence, as they called it, where law enforcement could conclusively link people to crimes by their fingerprints or maybe their shoe imprint left in soft mud. He thought that was pretty interesting. More so, he was duly impressed, so he stayed one step ahead. The cleaning rituals he’d copied from his father had more than likely saved him from such a fate of some of his comrades.

  For years, he stuck by the rules. Never deviating. There were many procedures he implemented, but sometimes, the unexpected occurred. If something happened that was unforeseen, he was able to improvise. Not that there hadn’t been any close calls, but it was second nature to him to always be in survival mode, and stay cool under pressure. It was in his blood. Besides, he wasn’t doing this shit for enjoyment, sick fun and giggles. He saw nothing entertaining about it. There was no glory or fame. Only currency and fortune.

  He turned around and noted the boxes he’d brought from his old place. And the pacing began once more. He stopped at one of the windows again, spotting the big yellow van. He’d driven the moving vehicle himself and brought up his shit with the help of Fred, his brother Matteo who was in town for a few weeks, and his cousins, Giovanni and Luciano. When he touched the glass, the pane felt cool. Temperatures had started to drop in the city as the fall weather trickled in, bumping the humid summer in the ass to get out of its way. Leaves were beginning to turn gold and cinnamon. Before long, there would be snow on the ground.

  He made his way over to his new bedroom, opened the closet door, and checked out the space. Not too shabby. Putting his cigarette in an ashtray on top of a box, he stepped out, found his radio in another box, and plugged it into the wall outlet in the bedroom.

  The sound of the Bee Gees’ ‘Love You Inside Out’ came through. He dragged several more boxes into the bedroom, ready to get back to work. Unpacking his safe which contained his most expensive watches and favorite jewelry, as well as cash, he put the heavy thing in the back of the closet. The rest of his money he had in various bank accounts across the city, a few in his grandmother’s name. He pulled out a bunch of hangers from a bag and started to hang up his shirts. He slowed down a bit as he listened to the lyrics of the song, wanting to pay close attention this time around. For some reason, he felt compelled to do so.

  He’d been listening to love songs quite a bit lately. They weren’t his thing, but maybe there was a message in them he needed to hear. Something deep within him was disturbing his peace, and he resented it. He had to admit a hard truth. He’d been thinking about Andrea. Taking a drag of his cigarette, then another, smolder swirled from between his lips. He placed it back down in the ashtray. As he picked up a white silk button down shirt to hang with the cleaners’ tag still on it, mental images of himself in his old bed surrounded by white silk sheets, pleasuring himself, flooded his mind.

  One morning, he’d spent a good deal of time jacking off to the thought of that wicked witch while Steely Dan’s, ‘Let’s Do it Again’ blasted through his speakers. Then, it happened more times. He’d even spoke out her name as he came in harsh waves, flooding his comforter with copious creamy spurts.

  He went back and forth between the boxes, wardrobe protectors and closet… going through the motions. He’d wanted to make it with Andrea, but truly, he also wished to get to know her better. It went beyond the physical, but like he’d told her himself, wasn’t shit he could do about it if she didn’t feel the same way, too. He wasn’t interested in forcing something that didn’t want to budge, and he definitely didn’t steal pussy. He broke hearts. Anyone he desired wouldn’t have to be forced to do a damn thing. And that was just the bottom line.

  He placed his shoes on the closet floor. He lined up all thirteen pairs which included Western boots, Vans, a few pairs of shiny leather dress shoes, Adidas sneakers, and some platforms. He wasn’t too keen on the platforms, but they did make a couple of his outfits pop. The ladies seemed to dig them as they added another two to three inches to his already generous height of 6’4 and a half. Most of the women he went after, he got. No questions asked.

  But Andrea apparently wasn’t impressed by that, either. It was no sweat. He didn’t believe himself a pretty boy. In fact, with his long nose, flared nostrils, and deep widow’s peak, friends had teased him saying he looked like fucking Dracula with a goatee; Frank Langella to be exact, from the movie that had just come out that summer. Regardless, he had a certain look women went for. Andrea, however, hadn’t been captivated by his money or presence. She wasn’t impressed by much at all it seemed, and she didn’t accept him for who he was. There was no way it could work between them. She’d made that quite clear. He hated losing, though. He hated that no matter what he did, he couldn’t sway her, change her mind. He’d refused to grovel, but he’d laid it all on the line and she’d still refused him.

  When he’d left her apartment after the reading, he’d been mad as hell. He’d seen something prett
y, high up on a shelf, that he so desperately wanted. But nothing could make the beautiful thing mine… It was strange to him in a way. He didn’t see himself so different from any other hustler or businessman out in the world.

  Maybe she saw deeper inside of him than she’d let on? He had to admit most of the shit she’d said in the reading was accurate. Regardless, she’d only scratched the surface. It was spooky, yet he was fascinated by her, too. Maybe Nonna actually found a real one this time… Legit. There was no maybe. She had. It was now evident to him. Some people really could tell the fucking future, and see the past, too.

  She was a strange, beautiful woman who denied she was a witch, someone who could see things others couldn’t. But he knew better, no matter how much she refuted it.

  He didn’t care if she acknowledged it or not, but the woman was definitely into some heavy shit. His nonna had spoken of such people most of his childhood and though the majority of the family would ignore these rantings and ramblings, he’d listened. Now, his nonna was obsessed with the notion, but he imagined grief had spurred her more recent obsessions with such people. Andrea had a good dose of goodness in her heart, street smarts, and a sexy way about her that just came naturally. She had that sass he secretly enjoyed, too.

  She wasn’t a pushover, but still lady-like. She had the face of a beauty queen and the body type he went for: a brick house, curvy like a fucking back road. Nice headlights, thick dark hair, small waist, big thighs, long legs and a round, juicy ass. And her voice was like warm honey. Though he’d fuck anyone he found attractive, regardless of their complexion and race, he had a thing for the sistas, too. He liked their style. He never discussed it with anyone; there was no need to. He liked what he liked, and it was what it was.