by Nikki Turner
That’s what I’m talking about, Calliope thought. Two things Calliope did as well as she boosted: dance and count. Utilizing the latter skill she quickly ran the retail numbers of the hot goods off the top of her head, cut the total in half, and said, “Oh, for you, bitch, just give me eighteen hundred…”
“Done.” Mocha plucked a Gucci wallet from her Gucci purse and practically threw eighteen Franklins at Calliope. Then, already looking ahead, she asked, “Have you seen the new-style Cavalli jeans?”
Calliope had a pair already for herself, too bad she and Mocha weren’t the same size, or she would’ve let ’em go with the quickness. She said, “I know the ones…”
“Can you get ’em?”
Calliope rolled her eyes at what she hoped was a rhetorical question, then answered, “Does a fat bitch eat cake?” Before Mocha could answer, “I will have them by tomorrow for you.”
Grinning, Mocha said, “Cool. That’s why I fucks wit you…’cause you be ’bout it, ’bout it.”
7
It was only a four-block hop, skip, and jump from Mocha’s pad to Mabel’s.
The words to the Master P song “Bout It, Bout It” echoed inside of Calliope’s head the entire way. Mocha giving her such an endorsement was a big deal for Calliope. Though she would never admit it, she really looked up to Mocha. It was something about the way she carried herself that she admired.
Not that she was a groupie or a follower. In fact, she was far from it. But Calliope had to admit, it felt hella good to be recognized as a heavyweight by other people that really had it going on.
’Bout it, ’bout it.
Easing the key that Mabel had given her into the bottom lock on the front door of the house, she let herself inside the cool-blowing AC, welcoming the chilly embrace. If she could, Calliope would’ve hugged it back—because it was hella hot outside, and anybody who didn’t have air—God blessed their soul.
The house was empty. That was one of the few pluses about living with Mabel. That lady never let no grass grow under her foot so she was always gone, if not out with her friends, then on some trip somewhere with the other golden girls, which allowed Calliope and Compton to come and go as they pleased. The siblings felt like they had the independence of living on their own even though they lived in Mabel’s house and were still confined to certain areas of the house.
Today, Mabel was probably at bingo, Calliope thought, and—glancing at her watch—Compton’s bus wasn’t due for another twenty minutes. Enough time to run a quick shower and change clothes. Though still not of age, she had many responsibilities, and while there was money to go get, she was going to get it to take care of her and her brother. She planned to catch the bus back out to Aventura Mall to poach those Jean-Claudes for Mocha and didn’t want to be wearing the same fit she’d rocked earlier today. That would sure send a red flag.
A couple of clerks wouldn’t have noticed a pregnant elephant taking a dump, but it was better to err on the side of caution.
She took nothing for granted—that was a rule that she had adapted. She understood how nothing was owed to her and it could all be taken away from her in the blink of an eye.
For some odd reason, under the pulsating spray of the double showerheads, Calliope thought about her mother. She wondered what bullshit her mother was caught up in now. And what would happen if they caught up with her? With Big Jack being dead and all would she be held responsible? Even though sometimes it seemed they made the laws up as they went along. They would find something to convict her of, leaving the kids or conspiracy. However, if Shelly was guilty of anything, it would be her unquenchable thirst to be validated by a man.
Calliope prayed that those traits weren’t genetically inheritable flaws lying dormant within her DNA. She wanted to be nothing like her mother; in fact she wanted to be everything her mother wasn’t. A strong woman, who made her own money, controlled her own destiny, and depended on a man for nothing. She only wanted to be with a man because she wanted to, not because she needed him to be her puppet master to contribute to her survival.
Though she had not been with a man and had never experienced the real love of a man, she knew what she would accept and what she wouldn’t. It was simple like that. In fact she had started making a list. But having a boyfriend now was one of the last things on her mind, for now she had other responsibilities to take care of. Besides making sure her brother was taken care of, she wanted to make sure that she looked her best and felt her best. After all how could she have an above-average guy if she was subpar? So being the best Calliope on the outside and inside was the goal.
Her thoughts were interrupted by her brother’s scream.
“Calliopppee! Where are you?”
He never sounded this happy when they were with Shelly. Ever.
“Coming out the shower,” she called back to him. “Go make yourself a turkey and cheese sandwich while I get dressed.”
She heard his feet scurrying to the kitchen, and then his voice: “Gonna eat some chicken tenders instead. You want some?”
“Nope, but make sure you clean up your mess.”
Done toweling off, wearing nothing but her birthday suit, Calliope got an eyeful of herself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. Turned to the side then forward again. Returning her gaze wasn’t the reflection of a little girl anymore. Her breasts were already bigger than a lot of grown women’s, and they pointed north and got the attention of the North Star. And when she wore light Jean-Claudes, her butt turned the heads of teenage boys as well as grown men.
Her mother’s genes indeed … they weren’t all bad.
After a light dusting of MAC cosmetics, she put on Roberto Cavalli Jean-Claudes, and a white fitted Cavalli button-up shirt with cleavage peeking out. She slid on her strappy wedge-heel sandals, showing off her freshly painted pedicure. She was all set. Divalicious.
Compton was watching a rerun of The Cosby Show when she came down the stairs.
“Where are you going?” he asked as if she was his pimp.
“Out.” She kissed him on the head and he quickly wiped it away. “Please, clean up your mess. You know we don’t wanna hear Mabel’s mouth. And don’t leave out the house, okay? And if Mabel gets home before me, not that she’d ask, tell her that I’ll be back soon.”
“Okay,” said Compton, eyes back on the TV screen. “But when you get home Ima kick yo butt in Madden.”
“You wish you could.” She tossed a pillow at him. “I got the last lick and ran out the house.”
Inside the mall, hordes of people bustled about at frantic paces trying to cash in on the best sales.
Calliope hopped on the escalator to the upper level. Weaving back and forth, trying to dodge through the mobs of rabid shoppers, she slowed down once she reached the store that carried the Jean-Claudes that Mocha had ordered. Inside was no different than all the other spots packed like sardines.
None of their things were even on sale, not even on the first of the month.
The first thing Calliope did was scan her surroundings. The clerk: the same one from earlier. Shit, I thought this chick would be off. Three other girls walked the floor offering help to the people that looked like they couldn’t afford to shop there, making sure nothing got stuck to their fingers, or inside a boosting girdle.
No one paid Calliope any mind. The lick she was killing screamed money and good taste. Babelicious.
She strutted straight over to the product she wanted, no aimless wandering around—fake window shopping.
With three pairs of Cavallis along with the pair in her hand, tightly folded, and tucked into what was practically an empty purse, she walked around the store. She hid the buzzers she’d removed under some other clothing. A couple belts and a pair of shirts and she was done. That was a wrap.
Now it was time to exit stage left.
Head held high, she waltzed toward the exit, and that’s when the buzzer went off. One of the salesladies said, “Can I see your bag?”
&nb
sp; “Sure,” said a brunette too pale to be a native Floridian. The brunette handed the saleswoman her shopping bag. Probably a mistake, the saleswoman said with an apologetic expression and tone of voice.
“I’m sure it is,” the brunette said.
Calliope exhaled, feeling a bit relieved, but kept it moving like she hadn’t the foggiest idea what was really going on, until she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Excuse me, miss.”
8
Her stomach felt like a fat chick in a broken elevator. “I’m store special security,” the man said, identifying himself. “I’m going to need for you to walk with me.”
What the hell he thought was so special about him? She flattered herself and chalked it up that maybe the store did realize that she was hitting them in a large way on a regular basis and the regular security wasn’t seasoned enough to deal with a pro like her, so they hired this clown. He was a real cocky tight ass, who acted as if he was somebody and she should be intimidated by him. The truth of the matter was that she was scared shitless, not of him but of the consequences.
Calliope said, “There must be some kind of mistake. The buzzer didn’t go off.”
There was something familiar about the security guy, but she couldn’t put her finger on it to figure out exactly what it was.
“I know,” he said, “but I’m still going to need you to come with me for a moment. Then, if there’s a mistake, we can get it all straightened out.” She wanted to try to break loose, but the hold he had on her was tight like vise grips.
“Oh, my!” one woman said. “I knew that little black girl couldn’t afford to step foot in this store.”
“Well, can you?” Calliope boldly asked, totally catching her off guard. She stared at the woman as she got closer, making her way past. “I bet yo credit card bill is about maxed out, living above your means, trying to keep up with the Joneses.”
Honestly it was nothing personal, but somebody had to say it. Calliope was already pissed that she had been caught and now this woman had the nerve to voice her thoughts on the situation, and to do it loud enough so that she could hear it. In Calliope’s mind, she deserved it and even though she wanted to wallow in her own tears, Calliope smiled when she realized she had made the woman turn red and hoped that her heart was pounding just as fast as hers. The woman dropped her head and that stopped the rest of the whispering of the store’s patrons.
Calliope couldn’t be embarrassed at the awkward sneak peeks from the other patrons as she was escorted to the back of the store. The only thing she could think of was how in the hell was she going to get herself out of this major jam? If she went to jail for grand larceny, then Compton would surely be sent back to The Home, and God knows that would kill her.
Once they reached the small room in the rear of the store, the “special ops” guy removed the items from Calliope’s oversized Gucci purse.
“Now what do we have here?” he asked, and just by the way he smiled, it hit her like a Mack truck; she immediately knew why he seemed so familiar to her.
“You’re the police that raided my mother’s house.”
Off-duty, Brad “Rusty” Cage, in plain clothes, was taken aback. He was doing a little security work over the holidays to earn a few extra dollars. At first he was confused, then recollection shone in his eyes. Somewhat.
He asked, “You have a younger sister or something?”
“Nope.” She shook her head. “But I got a little brother.” She teared up. “You sent us to Cemetery Grayshell.”
“Where?”
She informed him. “The Home. And you destroyed my life,” she said with pain, conviction, passion, and anger.
“I destroyed your life?” He was surprised and shocked to hear that. He’d been working the force a long time and came across criminals and none ever affected him in a way where he’d taken heed what they’d say. They all came with their bullshit excuses and stories.
When Calliope saw that he had a puzzled look on his face, she took cold advantage. “My life wasn’t the best before I met you. My mother wasn’t too much thinking of us. And, yes, my house was a drug enterprise. However, at least my brother and I ate every day, and we didn’t have to go to school hungry and get teased all the time.”
“And that’s my fault? And what does this have to do with me ruining your life and most importantly stealing clothes?”
“I have to take care of my brother, and our great-grandmother.” She put on a show for this one. “God bless her heart, but she’s old and is on a fixed income. That lil’ money the state give her, ain’t nothing on a fixed income, not to mention she has to get her medications and then my brother”—she shook her head and started crying real hard—“he hasn’t been right since. Lord have mercy.” She took one of the tissues off the desk.
“What’s wrong with your brother?” he asked.
“That boy hasn’t been right since our mother put us out and made us sleep in the outhouse in the backyard during the hurricane. He’s been traumatized. Nobody wants to take the time to understand the poor kid but me. I’m really all he got.”
He was quiet trying to assess the situation and she knew it.
“I begged you not to take us to that place, and you didn’t give a damn. So see your consequences, what you did?”
Rusty couldn’t believe this young woman was the same girl. She was so well developed, savvy, and beautiful. She had matured so much since he had insisted on having them removed.
“If you arrest me I’m not going to be able to watch out for my brother. He’ll end up back in The Home, and God only knows what will happen.”
“Grand larceny is a serious offense,” he said, remembering that he had a job to do.
“I’ll do anything not to go,” she said, knowing that he looked like he could be bribed. She was saying anything to get him to have mercy on her.
A funny look came over his face.
“Maybe there is something. If I could find you an easier way to make more money, would you be interested?”
“I told you already. I’ll do anything,” she said, unaware of how much things were about to change.
“I may be able to help you out.…”
That was seven months ago. Two hundred thirteen days ago to be exact. The same day she got caught slipping at the mall was the day she retired, bringing her brief and boosting—although fun, fabulous, and designer-label-filled while it lasted—career to a screeching halt … but it was the lure into a greater hustle.
Funny how quickly things changed, Calliope thought as she carefully applied a liberal amount of MAC Cosmetics to her cheeks, lips, and eyes. She loved not only the way makeup made her feel but also how gorgeous she looked in it.
Fear galloped through her bloodstream. “I can’t go to jail,” Calliope said, matching the face standing before her with the one of the lead police that had kicked in her mother’s door. That was a bittersweet memory to add to her collection of them.
There was no sympathy for Big Jack, it seemed, in Rusty’s eyes. He deserved to die a horrible death—he was an evil dude—but the chain of events forced her to woman up.
“If something happen to me…” She started to cry. “There’s no one to take care of my brother.” She thought about what she told Rusty that day in that back room as she searched the hotel closet for the right dress. She chose a form-fitting black backless number. After stepping into her dress, she pulled the fabric over her emerald G-string and matching push-up bra by Victoria’s Secret and smiled. “Yeah, some dresses are solely for knockout purposes.”
A hyper-developed body made it easy to transform from sixteen-year-old jailbait to the appearance of a twenty-five-year-old seductress.
And the perverted routine that she participated in once a month had gotten a lot easier to be a part of than it had been the first time.
She reflected on that experience over seven months ago. “I don’t know about this.” Calliope had cringed within herself.
Rusty was a long ways off fro
m the upstanding officer he pretended to be. He was one decorated cop with a hell of a dark side. He was as crooked and sneaky as a coiled cobra.
With a venomous smile that many mistook for comforting, Rusty said, “Think of it as role-playing. That’s all you have to do. Didn’t you always want to be an actress, in movies?” He kept trying to give her a pep talk. “Be like your favorite actress in a sexy movie.” He wore his uniform, badge, and gun … the whole shebang. But he sounded nothing like a police officer—he sounded more like one of the street swindlers that he was trained to lock up.
And nothing Rusty said made any of this any less crazy.
“So what part of the ‘movie’ do you play, Rusty?” Intentionally forgetting to address him as officer, shoot he was the furthest from one. She wondered how long it had been since he’d forgotten that he’d been sworn in to protect people.
There was that smile again—the one laced with poison.
“Producer,” he said. “Showtime is in fifteen minutes.” Then he slithered toward the door of the motel room he’d bought. Before he opened the door to leave, he turned back around, and said, “Just remember your scene, lines, and most importantly … your role.” Then he left the room, for the moment leaving her alone to stew in her fears
Shit! What have I gotten myself into? she wondered. I should have just taken my chances and went to jail, and tried my hand with the judge. Then she thought again, No the hell I shouldn’t. This is going to be okay. You gotta do what you do. It’s just that simple.
The knock at the door startled the bejeezus out of her, even though she was expecting … company felt like the wrong word to describe what was about to take place in the room.
She was a virgin, not only sexually but to this whole new way of living and means of employment.
The virtual elephant sitting on her chest made it impossible to breathe. She panicked. Asked God to get her through this. Then another knock at the door. This time harder. “Just a second, I’m coming.”