No Love for the Wicked

by Tiana Laveen

  He walked over to the bedroom window and cracked it open. Looking out, he could see the hustle and bustle of people on their grind. The smell of the city was a mixture of slow death and fast life, sprinkled with shimmery beads of hope, crumpled delusions, and periodic rays of light.

  He worked beneath all of that light, in the cool darkness, in the murk and sludge, sliding around in the icy, wet slop. He destroyed optimism with a crushing blow of his fist, a punch from his brass knuckles, and a shot from his .357 Magnum or Colt .38 special revolver: the Cobra. He turned possibilities into a promise of an unhappily ever after. He was the dark side of human nature, a necessary evil. A wicked man with vile magic flowing through his body like venom. He was one of the top dogs in his tier. Politicians hired him. Doctors. Various important members of high-profile crime families, too. Even the occasional middle-aged rich housewife who’d had enough of her husband’s shit and wanted him gone, and the insurance money in her account, too. He didn’t struggle much with this reality.

  He accepted himself for who and what he was, even if a few others didn’t. He was born into this way of life. Society didn’t make him, so it couldn’t tell him what to do and how to live his life. It couldn’t break him. Killing, for Angelo, was as natural as eating, sleeping, and fucking. It had its downside, however.

  It cost him his freedom in some ways. He couldn’t move the way everyone else moved. He couldn’t have what everyone else had. Love? There was no room for that. No open areas to walk around and big windows to look out of. There was simply no space; at least, he used to believe so. Not because he didn’t want it. In fact, he did. Very much so. But why muddy up the waters like that?

  Now, he had to ask himself a new question: How long am I supposed to live this way? A revolving door of nothingness. An endless slew of women offering their wet pussies, big mouths and tight asses to him on a continuous basis was a repetitive page ripped right out of the book of his life. He’d fucked so many women, he’d stopped counting years ago. They all began to blur and he couldn’t tell them apart in his brain. Their names gelled together, along with flailing arms, screams of delight, and wide-open legs. A million wet pink tongues sliding against his stiff cock, sucking on his hairy sack. Womanly, airy voices all around, blending into one heap of feminine bullshit. He’d never dreamed, even a few years ago, that he’d feel this. Bored of it all. What had started out as pleasurable and exciting had turned into a routine drag.

  He paused, pressed his head up against his forearm as he leaned against the wall. Carly Simon’s ‘You Belong to Me’ was playing now. These damn love songs just keep on comin’. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but the feeling was in his heart. He wanted more out of life. He wanted a woman to completely belong to him, just like the song said. He wanted someone by his side, so they could depend on each other. He had no one but himself. He was his own bodyguard, encourager, lawyer, father, friend and enforcer. He was the one everyone looked to when they needed some muscle and advice on how to get out of a tight jam. He was bravery in the flesh; perhaps at times, foolishly so. Having little fear had consequences, too. Nevertheless, he had questions. Where was his protection? Where was the allegiance he deserved? No one gave him what he put out, and he didn’t expect them to because nobody in the fucking world was quite like him. He and his father were a dying breed. After I’m gone, there will be no others.

  People like him, when they said they were going to do something, they did it. By any means necessary. He didn’t even cry when he was born according to his mother. It took quite a while to get that first tear out of him – it was as if he’d come into the world without a beating heart. But he did have one. It was definitely there. He swallowed and rested his hand against his chest. He needed a softer touch in his life… a woman’s touch. Someone he could spend the rest of his life with. A warm, beautiful lady to come home to. That would be copasetic. A lady who would love him for him. She didn’t need to be involved in his business affairs. In fact, he’d insist she not be, but she would receive all of him, and in turn, she’d be his peace. He knew exactly what he desired, and he knew how to get it, too, but he couldn’t find a woman to fit the bill. He was choosy, according to Fred, but he knew what the hell he brought to the table. In fact, he was the table. Anyone he brought into his life would have to play for keeps. When he thought he had found a potential prospect, twice in his life to be exact, he discovered he was dead wrong. Andrea, with all her witchy ways that kept troubling him, didn’t want shit to do with him.

  Now, he was tired of thinking about it. What was the point? Making his way to his kitchen, he was pleased to see he had a bit more cabinet space. He’d only brought a box of preserved foods and canned goods, pantry items, and a few beers. I’ll go to the grocery store tomorrow. He placed canisters of peaches, soups and a ream of crackers in one of the cabinets, then the alcohol in the refrigerator to chill. After finishing his chores of mopping the floors, dusting and cleaning the windows, he bagged up the trash he no longer needed, then made his way to the bathroom to take a hot shower. It was going to be a long night. He had to pay a man who’d killed his ex-wife a visit. Apparently, this had been the wrong lady to knock off. The guy had a slick attorney and got off scot-free. That didn’t sit too well with the family. Her brother wasn’t anyone to toy with, and he let it be known. Said brother, however, couldn’t get his hands dirty. He already had a lengthy prison history. Besides, why would he chance it himself instead of hiring a professional? That was why he’d landed in prison so many times in the first place. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, and he’d finally, seen the light. If you have the dough, Angelo had the time.

  Rinsing off, he stepped out of the shower, wiped away the condescension from the mirror and winked at himself.

  It was showtime.

  He planned to pick up some Chinese carry-out on his way back home. Pork Lo Mein was his favorite. Don’t forget the fortune cookies…

  …The weekend

  Police sirens and flashing lights rent the air and lit up the night as Andrea and her friends stood in the insanely long line to enter Studio 54. Music pooled out of the place, enticing them, giving a taste of what was to come. They inched closer, then closer still. In the far distance she could see the front doors opening and closing every now and again. Every time they opened, she strained her neck to get a glance. She could see bits and pieces of a magical, out-of-sight scene, but it was mostly morphing shapes and sparkly colors. She presumed those shapes and colors were happy and high people dancing and laughing their cares away, the place a refuge for the jaded, a clan of misfits packing the place from wall to wall.

  Alicia Bridges’, ‘I Love The Nightlife’, could be heard now, teasing and tempting her with the catchy lyrics and rhythm. Winona began to dance, clapping her hands and snapping her fingers right there in the line. They all joined in, the whole crew of them looking fine as wine. She’d managed to pretty up her plain gold heels with an old pair of gold clip-on earrings, making them look brand new and sparkly. She’d borrowed a gold clutch purse from Tamala and succeeded to find her fake diamond necklace with matching earrings that commonly passed for authentic. She and her friends were all dressed differently: one of them in punk attire with spiky hair and leather collars, another a bit hippie with pizzazz, but boy did they look the part. After a few more minutes they were close enough that her heart blasted in her chest with anticipation. She and Jessie crossed their fingers, praying they weren’t turned away.

  One of the studs at the door looked her up and down, then when they drew closer, he did it again. She took it as a good sign. It was finally their turn to enter, and the big guy gave her a third glance. He practically snatched the twenty dollar bill out of her hand, then shoved her inside with a vigorous push. No words said. The cool breeze hit her face as he made the other ladies turn around to examine them. All except Jessie were admitted. Shit. They screamed and cursed, pleading her case as she stood there dejected in her jade green satin jumpsuit.

&nb
sp; “It’s the shoes. The fuckin’ shoes are a no-go!” he yelled. Without missing a beat, Jessie tore the damn things off her feet and held the clunky drab heels in her hand, exposing sparkling anklets and gleaming toe rings. He looked down at her toes, which were painted blood red, then back into her eyes. “Nice feet. All right. Go in.”

  They cheered as she rolled her eyes and gave a deep exhale, clearly relieved. Linking their arms together, they burst through the crowd. Jessie clandestinely slipped her heels back on and they got to work trying to find a good spot. It wasn’t even five minutes before a skinny man, bare-chested and covered in glitter with amazing long, platinum-feathered blond hair, approached them offering little white pills in the palm of his gold-dusted hand.

  Winona took one, perhaps Tamala too, she wasn’t certain, but she declined. They reached an area of the dancefloor as Rick James entered the establishment. A swarm of patrons immediately surrounded him. There were plenty of celebrities at the club, she had no doubt. They found a spot to dance, and boogied down. The shimmering disco ball, spinning lights, electric mood and heart-thumping music soothed their inner savage beasts. Her gown caught the light just right and for a split second, she thought about her benefactor: Angelo.

  Mr. Ferrari had indeed been the reason she could afford it. She twirled and twirled, then noticed a man across the room. He was tall, rich chocolate, and had a killer smile. Holding a cigarette in one hand, he eyed her in that telling way, then made his move.

  “Awww, shit!” Winona teased as the tall, dark, and handsome stranger approached in a white and green velvet sport coat, matching pants, and two-toned shoes.

  “Hey, pretty mama.” He took her hand and spun her around real slow. “Well, ain’t you lookin’ fine tuhnight?!”

  “You ain’t too shabby yourself!”

  “I was just scopin’ out the place and saw this fine babe over here, so I had to make my move. Wanna shake ya groove thang wit’ me?”

  Instead of answering, she let her body do the talking. Diana Ross’ ‘Love Hangover’ erupted through the speakers like gangbusters. The two danced to the music, boogeying against one another and having a blast. Her feet moved across the floor in a frenzy, then he spun her around and around, making her world spin, vivid and full of bright crystals and reflective rainbows. When the song was over, he caught her in his arms. She looked into a pair of bloodshot dark brown eyes that she would bet were gorgeous when he was sober and not stoned. Yet he was still good looking, high and all. He took her hand and began to lead her towards the back. She slowed, knowing exactly what was going on over there. Fucking. And a lot of it.

  “Oh, hold up. I’m not gettin’ down like that tonight. We’re not havin’ no cup of tea back there.”

  He turned to her, his brows bunched and a scowl on his face.

  “Come on now, little mama! Don’t be a drag! All uptight. I promise to make you feel good.” He grinned real wide, then snatched her once again, this time bringing her close enough to press his sloppy mouth against her lips. She shook loose and shoved him back, then waved her finger in his face.

  “I told you no, mothafucka. Don’t you understand English? I came to party hardy. I’m hip to the groove. You’re spaced-out. Your horny ass needs a cold shower ’cause you ain’t gettin’ none of this trim! If I wanted to wait two hours in a line to fuck, I would’ve held up a sign sayin’ I was here to get laid. That would’ve shortened it to an hour!”

  He burst out laughing, then nodded, seemingly getting a hold of himself.

  “All right.” He raised his big hands in surrender. “I can dig it. You’re just so sexy! You can’t blame me.” He chuckled.

  “I am. You got that right,” she jested as she stepped away from him, settling down after blowing her top. “I’m not one to stop no party. Do your thing. Take it easy.” He blew her a kiss and made his way to another woman.

  She danced away from him, snapping her finger and spinning all by herself. Song after song played and she finally spotted her friends, two of them dancing together, the other two hugged up with men to ‘Best of My Love,’ by The Emotions. She drew closer to the ladies, determined to dance until she passed out. It felt so good to let loose. Her friends laughed as they pointed in her direction, encouraging her as she tore up the dance floor. She figured they were still worried about her after their luncheon date earlier in the week. But she wouldn’t let that shit ruin her night. She had a new dress, bouncy curls, glossy lips, and had finagled her shoes to look like something out of Saks 5th Avenue. Couldn’t nobody stop her.

  A few songs later, barely able to breathe, they all congregated once again. She had fun with her girls and people-watched for a few moments.

  “Who is that? Is he a singer or somethin’?” Jessie asked, pointing through the swarm of bodies.

  At first, Andrea couldn’t see who she was speaking of, figuring it was some celebrity whose name may have slipped her girlfriend’s mind, or the weed she was smoking was too strong, making her memory fuzzy. And then, a lump caught in her throat. Everything spun like a record then stopped mid-rotation.

  There, with an entourage as thick as a bear’s pubic hair, was Mr. fucking Ferrari in the flesh. He sported a black silk jacket draped over his shoulder and an unbuttoned blood red silk shirt which displayed a chest adorned with shiny gold chains and a mop of silky ebony chest hair. Black bell-bottoms hugged the man in all the right places, advertising his package no doubt. That damn wide-brimmed black hat now had a matching red strip around it, possibly made of silk, and it was topped off with a long white feather. On his feet were black platform shoes, making him tower over practically everyone in the damn room. His dark facial hair was trimmed to perfection.

  The man leaned close to someone, a smirk on his face as he talked his talk, spoke his speech, and lit a cigarette. Waves of smoke churned out the side of his crooked mouth—reminding her of a dragon from the underworld—and he was just as cool as he pleased…

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bought and Paid For

  Rule 8: There’s no such thing as coincidences. Watch the signs.

  The moment she spotted him, girls swarmed him like bees in need of honey and Angelo was the last fucking flower on Earth. Andrea’s heart was beating the shit out of her. From the inside out, it thumped and jumped like trout on sand. Starbuck’s ‘Moonlight Feels Right’ was playing, bringing a new wave and urgency to sway and groove. Languid bodies began to bump together, air-fucking, twisting and turning against one another like vines blowing in the wind. Her friends were talking, but she had no idea what they were saying. She felt as if she were caught in a vortex. Spinning lights glowed against his skin in white, green, and red. He slowly approached, unaware of her presence. Women threw themselves at him, demanding to be seen and heard, while men slapped hands with the fool as if they were all old friends, desperate to be acknowledged. It was like he was some star. Mr. Big Time. A killer is a star? What a strange, strange world they lived in.

  “God, he is sexy! Who the hell is that? A singer? Actor? Stuntman?” Winona simpered, her hand on her hip and no doubt, that pill she’d swallowed with a gulp of red wine now taking full effect. Rooted to the spot, her friends danced to the music. As he drew closer, the crowd seemed to part around him. Maybe they knew better than to stand in his way.

  Just as he was passing, Winona called out to him.

  “Hey! Hey, baby!” But he seemed to not hear her. Andrea lowered her head, just a bit, as he passed on by. Eyes closed, she inhaled the air, smelling him. Taking in his scent. Her panties grew damp right then and there.

  Memories overtook her of an involuntary back arch, small shakes erupting into full body tremors, and a sigh before a hoarse scream of release. Invisible hands pulling at her thighs, and a hungry mouth devouring her essence, a torrid tale of torture of the flesh.

  She opened her eyes, and then it happened…

  He stopped dead in his tracks. Still looking straight ahead, he took a drag of his cigarette, real slow and easy lik
e. He placed one hand on his hip, exposing his gun resting in a black holster. No one seemed to bat an eye. And then, he turned toward her, his eyes piercing her soul.

  He kept staring so hard, she practically melted on the spot. A nasty smirk creased his face. One that radiated both lust and contempt.

  “Well, well, well… If it’s not the good witch, and me, the forever wicked, on the dancefloor. We meet again.”

  She could feel her friends staring daggers at her. They had questions, and hell, so did she.

  I said that if I saw him again, it would be a sign. I didn’t think I would see him again, and I sure as hell didn’t think there would be a sign! How am I seeing him now?! How is he here? What are the chances of him coming to Studio 54, of all places, and us even running into one another? It is so crowded, you can barely find your own feet. No doubt about it, she was definitely seeing him again, and he was standing there bold as shit. He scanned her form, from her head to her toes, real slow. Like she was a meal he wanted to gobble and swallow whole.

  “You look fuckin’ amazing tonight. Stunning. That’s a good look.” He pointed casually at her dress. “Fits you like a glove. I hope you’re havin’ a copasetic night, Sunshine.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Ten-four,” he cut her off, winked, then sailed on by. Moments later, he was absorbed by the crowd, and when she turned to her friends, they looked downright confused and amused, all at once.

  “What’s the skinny?!” Jessie demanded, pulling her arm. “How do you know Casper?!”

  Did everyone but Winona know this motherfucka?! Damn!

  “Yeah!” Starletta demanded. “Give us the lowdown, ’Drea.”

  “I don’t really know him, know him… ya know, it was just in passing.” She shrugged, knowing she made no sense whatsoever as she stumbled over her words. Lying her ass off.

  “I’ve never seen anybody I’m acquainted with actually speak to him.” Jessie shrugged, then sucked her teeth. “He hangs with rich guys and gangstas. Some guys you don’t wanna mess with, too.”