by Nikki Turner
Breathe, Calliope.
Silently pleading for the walls to stop caving in on her, she cracked the door.
“Pumpkin?”
That was the name Rusty said he wanted her to go by. She wanted to scream, “Get me outta here!” Then she felt like saying to the client, “Fuck no! My name ain’t no damn Pumpkin, it’s Calliope. Now go away, pervert.” She said, “Come in,” instead.
The pervert didn’t look at all like what she expected a pervert to look like. He’d probably celebrated at least about forty-five birthdays. Italian—most likely his nationality, and the type of designer suit that neatly hung from a muscular six-foot body.
“Nice to meet you, Pumpkin.” He seemed to like what he saw, marching around her in a full 360-degree turn. He licked his lips. “You are so beautiful.” Yet he still sensed her uneasiness. “My name’s Roberto.” When he smiled, his teeth were ridiculously even, the whitest she’d ever seen in person.
Roberto’s eyes, black as coal, roved up and down the red dress Rusty had picked out for her. Then she saw it. It was just a flash, but it was there in those black eyes of his. A perverted lust, it was the same look Joey gave her when he was coming out of the bathroom and she was going in. It made her sick to her stomach.
“Do you want me to take it off?” She said it in a tone just a little above a whisper, and batted her eyelashes, just like Rusty asked her to say it.
Roberto bit down on his bottom lip. “Why not,” he said.
He was supposed to be a ridiculously rich real estate mogul from L.A. that liked to buy young pussy. It was his only vice and he had this euphoric look as if he was on a high as he took her hand and spinned her around.
It must’ve been a while since he’d seen someone as young as her because his eyes almost jumped out his head when her dress fell into a silk puddle on the floor.
God was she scared, especially when she saw his manhood bulging out of his pants.
Roberto reached out, trying to cop a feel of her cinnamon-freckled ta-tas. She pushed his hand away.
“The money. Fifteen hundred up front.”
Calliope couldn’t help but to steal a peek at the huge bulge in the front of his pants. She tried not to imagine how much it would hurt inside of her.
She’d hoped that Roberto would change his mind, but he gladly and quickly reached for his wallet so fast that he would’ve agreed on any price.
“Will hundreds be okay? Because that’s all I have, baby.”
Rusty instructed her to act like she was her favorite actress performing a sexy scene; it was too late to turn back now. Lights.
Roberto stripped down, never letting his eyes leave Calliope’s body, which stood in front of him. He placed his suit over the chair.
Camera.
Then came the boxers. He was huge, a white cream already oozing from the tip; he showed disappointment and lust in his eyes both at the same time. “Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself. But I’m going to take care of you and then we will be back in business,” and that’s when he reached for her …
Action!
From that very second, it felt like the world moved in slow motion. It was the longest two seconds of her life, and then the door to the hotel was kicked in.
“Police!” Rusty barged in, slammed Roberto on his naked ass onto the floor beside his polka-dot boxer shorts.
“You are under arrest for soliciting a minor and statutory rape.”
He slapped the handcuffs and Roberto’s face turned a deeper shade of red than Calliope’s dress, which she quickly put back on.
Even now thinking about the way Roberto begged to “work this out,” made Calliope laugh.
To keep the scandal out of the papers Rusty taxed Roberto a mint: twenty Gs and Rusty played fair and broke her off five Gs. It wasn’t half, but it wasn’t bad either. Every month after the first time seven months ago, Rusty somehow managed to rustle up another mark. Where he got them? She had no idea.
Glancing up at the clock made her realize that she had to get herself ready. She took her brand-new Manolo Blahnik stilettos out of the box and strapped those bad boys on and was out the door.
It was that time of the month.…
9
“Five hundred,” Moo-Moo exclaimed, almost not believing his eyes when he caught sight of the fat grip his best friend was toting. “Where’d you get so much bread?” he asked in a lower voice, scanning their surroundings to make sure no one was clocking them.
Compton stuffed the money back into the pocket of his jeans.
The two had met over a year ago at school. Moo-Moo was Haitian and lived with his older brother, Jean-Claude. Both of his parents were deceased. The absence of that guidance cohabiting with grief was the glue that binded the two boys together. Other commonalities would unveil over time.
“Calliope hit me off. I’m s’posed to go get those new Jordans and some gear. Gotta stay fresh kid.” That was his best corny, fake New York accent.
Moo-Moo smiled at the diss. Florida cats weren’t too crazy about New Yorkers, which was crazy because there were so many people who had migrated from up north—why they all couldn’t just get along? Too be honest, the only folks Floridians disliked more than cats from the Big Apple were Cali dudes, and the feeling was mutual among each state.
“Check dis out…” said Moo-Moo. Compton could see the gears in full tilt inside of Moo-Moo’s noodle. “Me get a monster thought,” Moo-Moo finished.
Moo-Moo was barely a year older than Compton. He was only thirteen, but wise to the streets way beyond his years. And as a result of their closeness, Compton’s street IQ quickly rose.
Compton asked, “That is it?” Sensing that it was something big. That’s the way Moo-Moo ticked if it was something big. That’s the way Moo-Moo’s mind ticked, go big or go home.
And more times than not, his ideas were something that could potentially get them into even bigger trouble.
But even Compton had to laugh when Moo-Moo said, “Farming.”
“Dude you funny as hell.” Compton couldn’t stop cracking up, then he noticed that Moo-Moo was serious … as HIV in Miami.
“What, man? Go on ahead and spill the beans.” Compton had to know. “What we gonna grow? And better yet, what we gon’ do with it after we done growing it?”
Undaunted by Compton’s skepticism, Moo-Moo didn’t miss a beat.
“Cabbage,” he said. “We take that seed money in you pocket, invest with me brother, and watch our cabbage grow bigger and bigger.”
Now Compton understood why his boy was so stone-faced. “You want to buy work from your brother.” It was more of a statement than a question. They had done a lot of crazy things but selling drugs hadn’t been one of them.
Moo-Moo broke it down like this:
“You know me brother, Jean-Claude got the weight in coke. We give ’em the nickel you got een yo pocket and he looks out for us with a famlee discount.”
Moo went on to explain that he was certain that he could convince his brother into giving them two ounces for the money. “Cooked up we can pull een three Gs easilee.”
“If we don’t get robbed or killed first,” Compton added. “This’s Pork and Bean Projects.”
“Jean-Claude runs the city,” Moo-Moo countered. “We got the protection of his name and goon squad off top. These cats not stupid.” Compton was thinking of the advantages and the consequences when Moo-Moo said, “I tell yo what.”
It didn’t hurt to listen, he thought.
“We flip the bread one time,” Moo-Moo continued. “If you not cool then, we stop. You are cool, we step up. Deal?”
“Let me think about it.”
They slapped hands.
“No doubt,” said Moo-Moo, both knowing their premiere into the sport of trapping was soon to begin.
10
Cell phone ringing …
Calliope plucked it up from the end table by the third chime. “Hello?”
“A change in the meeting spot,” Rusty
said through the jack. A beat of silence passed. Another pause of silence passed before Rusty could feel her apprehension, said, “Not to worry. It’ll be at a public restaurant in South Beach.”
Calliope asked, “Why do it different?” Her whole vibe changed up.
Up until now, the routine had always been the exact same way. The johns show up at the room. She gets him in a compromising position—which usually meant unclothed—then Rusty busted in, caught them with their pants down.
“Sometimes you have to call an audible,” Rusty said. “Take him back to the room for a surprise dessert. It’s as simple as that.”
It shouldn’t be much to it, Calliope reasoned. She was so over this and really wanted out. Nothing about it felt right, and she wished that this wasn’t what she had to resort to, to take care of her brother. But the pay and the labor were damn sure better than flipping burgers at Burger King. She sighed, thinking how she had cramps and wanted to just stay home under the covers watching a movie, but she knew duty called, and nobody was going to make it happen for her and Compton but her. “Okay,” she said, “give me the address to the restaurant.”
The taxi ride to South Beach couldn’t end quickly enough; the vent blew warm air and the Jamaican behind the wheel drove like he got his permit at the dollar store.
Thank God, she had to give praise to him, when the Jamaican reached the destination.
“Twelve dollars,” said the driver in barely recognizable English.
Calliope got out of the heat box, handed him a twenty through the window. “Get the air fixed.” She walked away not bothering to wait for the change.
To her, Asia de Cuba, with its Alice in Wonderland décor, seemed too gimmicky. The hostess asked if she was dining alone.
She answered, “No, I’m supposed to meet Mr. Travoski.” Calliope had no idea what the man looked like. Dang I should’ve thought to ask Rusty.
The hostess beamed a canned smile. “Yes, ma’am. Right this way,” she said. They stopped at a table for two near a back wall. The man seated there was easy to recognize, being the only Russian in the place.
The Russian stood up to greet her. “Aahhh, Pumpkin—so good of you to make it.” He pulled out her chair. Calliope took a seat. “How rude of me,” he said once back in his own chair. “My name is Mikile Travoski. Good to make your acquaintance.” She was impressed with his bright smile along with almost perfect English.
Calliope returned the pleasantries. Glad that the air in the restaurant was pumping full blast, she could feel the light sheen of perspiration on her neck and back start to dry.
“Drinks?” Mikile held up a glass half-filled with a clear liquid over ice. “Again,” he said, “my apologies. For not waiting until you joined me to imbibe.”
“I don’t imbibe, “Calliope said, mirroring Mikile’s fancy word for drinking, and she knew better than to mention that legally she wasn’t old enough to indulge anyway. “Not alcohol anyway. But I’ll have a Coke … Coca-Cola that is.” She specified because she knew these guys were used to women in these kinds of situations indulging in drugs, but she wasn’t one of them.
He seemed to study her features with his dark dissecting eyes and dilated pupils. Calliope felt uncomfortable under his stare. Then his glare transformed. It went from hard as iron to cottony soft.
After studying the menu—with not nearly as much scrutiny as he’d used on her—Mikile said that she hoped she had found something because he was ready to order.
Mikile went with a Cantonese-style whole yellowtail snapper steamed in banana leaves with shitake mushrooms. Besides the banana, Calliope had never heard of any of it before. Aside from the once-a-month meeting with the johns, Rusty always took her out one time a month, independently of them working, to introduce her to the finer things, just to make sure she knew how to carry herself when she encountered these financially set men.
After conferring with the waitress for a minute or so, she said, “I’ll try the clams and the rock shrimp.”
“Excellent choice,” said the waitress.
More people poured into the establishment; a family of four, three girlfriends, and a biracial couple were all seated at various tables.
Calliope was wondering if Rusty was watching when suddenly her phone vibrated, and as soon as it did, he said, “You better check to make sure everything is okay.”
It was a text from Rusty: “Are you ok?”
“Everything’s okay.” She offered a slight smile.
Once the food came, Mikile could not resist the cuisine. He had his face so deep in his snapper that Mikile paid her little attention when she thumbed back a response to the inquiry, careful not to bring the phone above the table. “On the main course.”
But he had peeped her working the keypad, “Who are you communicating with?” Only a half smile. “Boyfriend?” he questioned.
That threw her for a loop, then her mind started to run wild. What if he asks to see her phone? Trying to get his mind on other things, she tamed her thoughts. Calliope teased. Still not legal but so quick on her feet. “You’re not the jealous type, are you?” she asked, pouting her lips.
“Do I have reason to be?” he said in a playful way. “Whatever it is trying to steal your attention away from me … it is too late. I’m here—with you—he’s elsewhere, wishing he’s where I am at this very minute.”
Who knew Russian men could be so smooth? Calliope milked the moment, knowing he really wanted an answer to his initial probe.
“He,” Calliope said, dragging the pronouns, “was a she.”
“Oh?”
But it was a curious “Oh.” Like, I’m open to threesomes type of “Oh.”
“Now I’m the one that’s jealous,” she quickly pouted. “I’m not enough for you?”
The bashful smile was confirmation that she’d read him correctly.
“Pumpkin, my darling, you’re enough for any man.” He downed a swallow of vodka like it was water and it seemed to have no effect on him.
Like yesterday, dinner was a thing of the past.
“Are you ready for dessert?” she asked, her meaning as clear as crystal.
“I’m more than willing to pay for the extra time I’ve taken.” He spoke softly so that no one overheard.
“I didn’t mean it like that. Actually, it was good food, and even greater conversation. But since you brought it up, time is definitely money,” she said coquettishly.
A good sport, Mikile had adopted.
“I can’t argue with the truth,” he said. “Your place or mine?” She hadn’t thought about what she would do if he wanted to change where their supposed rendezvous would take place.
Mikile had a hired car waiting for him. As soon as they walked out of the restaurant, the driver jumped out of the driver’s seat to open the door for them.
When Calliope gave the driver the address, that’s when things got complicated.
“So stupid of me,” Mikile said, patting his pockets as if he’d misplaced something. “I left my billfold with my cash in it at the hotel I’m staying. No cash.”
He’d paid for dinner with an American Express credit card so Calliope had no way of knowing if he was telling the truth about not having cash.
This wasn’t part of the plan. What does she do?
“My hotel is right around the corner,” Mikile said as if there were no problem. “We can play there. I’ll pay you extra. And pay for your cab ride afterward.”
Getting impatient, the driver said, “The meter’s running. Where’s it gonna be?”
Mikile looked at her with those probing eyes of his and lifted a brow.
Sometimes you have to call an audible.
The driver wasn’t the only one getting impatient. “Well, Mikile,” he pushed.
Under the pressure of the rush, Calliope opted for the audible.
“Okay.” She agreed but reluctantly said, “Your place it is.” She knew she’d just given up the home-field advantage, but what choice did she really have? T
here was nothing she could have said that wouldn’t have shouted “red flag” to the man. She knew she just had to text Rusty as soon as she could when she got to his room and hand off the new play, so he could get into position.
No problem.
* * *
Like Mikile had said, he didn’t have to go far. The driver gassed the Benz down a ramp that ended at the mouth of a sublevel parking area. Found a spot, beside a 6 series BMW, facing the wall. He killed the engine. “We’re here. Told you it was close by.”
An awkward silence filled the cabin of the Benz. It was weird, like a first date or something. They both felt the clumsy discomfort of what was about to happen next, then it passed.
They climbed out of the Mercedes. Dim lights made it difficult to make out the entire area. Painted on the cement columns were arrows, pointing out the direction of the elevators.
Calliope was beginning to second-guess herself. She didn’t really have a reason because Mikile had been nothing but a gentleman, but still … she was putting herself in a vulnerable position no matter the way she looked at it.
What? she thought. Stop being so paranoid. You’ve done this plenty of times. Girl, you got this. The truth of the matter was that setting these desperate perverted men up was starting to get the best of her. Though she was not really a victim, and she felt sorry for the girls who had been taken advantage of by these kinds of men. And the girls who were being pimped and having to deal with these johns and their creepy desires against their wishes, so having Rusty come in there and shake them down, oh well, that’s what the hell they get. But at the same time her luring men to the rooms was still not only wrong but deceptive and dangerous … and she knew that she needed to quit while she was ahead, because one day she may not be so lucky in such a vulnerable position.
On the elevator, Mikile pushed 3. Calliope felt a lot more at ease once the door opened and the bright sun washed away the baleful ambient of the close quarters. “My room is at the end of the walk,” Mikile said, leading the way as she followed. Though she didn’t show it, she was hoping and praying that Rusty was somewhere lurking and ready to get this over with.