Queen of Miami

by M?ta Smith

  We sit there cruising and sunning, not saying a word.

  “I have a question I’ve been dying to ask you, baby,” Amara says suddenly.

  “Go ahead,” I tell her.

  “Well, why would you choose to date a guy like Mikhail?” she asks.

  “Why wouldn’t I want to date Mikhail? He’s rich as hell. He’s sexy. He can help my career.”

  “Yes, but you come from money, you can date any man you want. Why would you get caught up with a man like him? Why would you risk your safe, secure life to be with a gangster if you don’t have to?”

  “Gangster?” I ask. “Mikhail isn’t a gangster, Amara. He’s a businessman.”

  “I have known this man for years,” Amara tells me. “I know what I know, and I know what he is.” She asks me, “What has Mikhail told you about his business?”

  “Nothing much really. We haven’t discussed it in detail,” I say.

  “What is it you think that he does?” she asks.

  “He works with a bunch of Russian guys. And he’s the new owner of Babylon. That’s pretty much all I know and that’s all that concerns me. If this is about those mafia rumors, I already talked to him about that.”

  Amara looks at me with deep seriousness. “How do you know they are rumors?” she asks. “You know, there’s always a shred of truth to every rumor.”

  “He said he wasn’t in the mafia,” I say.

  “And you believed that?” she asks, looking like she couldn’t believe what had come out of my mouth.

  “Shouldn’t I?” I ask her.

  “Oh, baby, I know you’re smarter than that,” she says.

  “Okay,” I admit. “I know that even if he were in the mafia, he probably would deny it; he wouldn’t admit it. But if he were really in the mafia, a gangster as you put it, would he be free to live like this? Wouldn’t the feds or somebody be on to him? They don’t let people get this large. Big Brother has too many eyes for him to be on this level and not get locked up.”

  “What if Big Brother is just watching and waiting? What if Big Brother is on to the whole thing and is just waiting for the right moment? Or what if Big Brother is in on the whole thing and making money from it?” Amara asks.

  “Is that the case?” I ask her. “I mean, you say that like you know something.”

  “I don’t know anything for certain,” she says. “I just know the world. Usually, nothing is as it seems.”

  Well, she’s right about that! I know Amara has a point, but I don’t want to admit it. I want to enjoy this lifestyle guilt free, and I can’t do that if I know that Mikhail is a part of some notorious crime consortium.

  “Come on, Amara,” I say, waving my arm at our luxurious surroundings. “This doesn’t exactly scream mafia, does it?”

  “Well, what do you think screams mafia?” she asks with a laugh.

  “Well, for starters, he’s not tacky at all. He’s classy. And all the mafia guys I’ve ever seen—and remember I’m from Chicago so I’ve seen plenty—were pretty cheesy. You know, gold chains and open shirts, clothes that are out of style and don’t fit right. They were greasy; you could see them a mile away. You know, real Guidos.”

  “Guidos?” Amara asks.

  “Yeah, you know. Gosh, this is so horrible I can’t believe I’m saying this. Okay, there are African Americans, and there are niggers. One group works hard, tries to live right, while the other group mooches off the system and commits crime. Well, just like we have divisions for black folks, other people have their little sects too. Like for instance, there are Cubans and then there are Cubanosos. Cubans ran from Castro; Cubano-sos are the folks Castro sent over to America to mess things up for us. Then there are Italian Americans, and there are Guidos. Get it? In every ethnic group there are the people who try to live a decent life, who have values and work hard to get ahead. Then there’s the lower-class type,” I tell her, “the kind of people who are looking for an easy way out, who don’t want to work and want everything handed to them. They have no class, no style, they’re just out to look rich, get rich, or die trying, and they don’t care who they hurt in the process.”

  “Careful, Bobbi, you’re starting to sound like an elitist,” she says.

  “Oh God,” I say, rolling my eyes. I sound like my mother and that doesn’t sit well with me. I also realize that what I said may have offended Amara on top of the fact that I sounded like a closed-minded moron.

  “You know I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” I tell her.

  “I know, baby,” she says and smiles at me. “I know exactly what you mean. But Bobbi, you mean to tell me that you bought the legitimate businessman bullshit?” she asks. I am comfortable in my denial, so I nod yes.

  “No one can make this much money legally,” Amara says with a laugh. “Name me one person, one family with this much wealth, and I’ll show you a crook, baby.”

  I sit there trying to think of someone. Amara cuts to the chase. I want to prove her wrong, but I can’t.

  “Baby, look, don’t waste your time. Maybe there are legitimate people with this much money, but not these guys. Mikhail and Dimitri are not businessmen. Not the way you think. They work along with a group of other men. There are thirteen of them all together. They’re all filthy rich and their corporations are somehow tied together.”

  “What kinds of corporations?” I ask her.

  “I don’t know what kind they are; I just know that there are a lot of them and they are worth a fortune. They use them to launder the money, no doubt. You’ll meet the Apostles soon enough,” Amara told me, “and then you can come to your own conclusions.”

  “The Apostles?” I asked her.

  “Oh, that’s just what I call them. They follow Mikhail about like he’s Jesus or something. Mikhail is—how do you say?—a Teflon Don. Nothing sticks to him. He’s got so much money and so many people in his pockets, nothing will ever happen to them.” Amara is so cavalier about it all.

  “Aren’t you afraid? Doesn’t it scare you?” I ask her.

  “Not as much as being poor does,” she says.

  FOR MOST OF THE AFTERNOON THAT FOLLOWS, I THINK ABOUT the conversation I had with Amara. I believe what she says. She has more reason to be forthcoming than Mikhail, but what was Amara’s purpose in revealing all this to me? Why did she tell me the truth about herself? Maybe Amara considers us friends and she doesn’t want to lie to me. Or is she watching my back? Perhaps she’s trying to scare me in an attempt to run me off to protect her turf. Who knows?

  What I do know is that Mikhail is not the innocent victim of gossip that he’s portraying himself to be. He’s shady. But what is the harm in taking a little trip? I ask myself. It’s a question I already know the answer to. Plenty! Back when I was in high school, one of my classmates, Tricia, disappeared. She had gone on a “little trip” to New Orleans to visit her boyfriend, who happened to be a drug dealer. No one ever heard from her again. There was a huge search for her; search parties canvassed the area, put up flyers, and her mother put in an impassioned plea for information on her daughter with the media. When Tricia’s body was found, she was nearly decapitated, and the autopsy showed that she’d been raped repeatedly, tortured, stabbed, and shot. It turns out that some goons kidnapped Tricia and her dope-boy at the airport because of some beef or other over turf or product or what have you.

  I won’t end up like Tricia, I reassure myself. Her boyfriend was probably small-time. Those are the kinds of hustlers that get caught up in those kinds of messes, right? Mikhail is different, right? Besides, he may not even be a drug dealer. I know he’s shady, but I don’t know exactly what he’s into. Maybe he’s into some Enron type of shit, which is really fucked up, but it shouldn’t affect me. I mean, it won’t put my life in danger. And if he is some prick who’s ripping off people’s pensions, then he deserves to get used by me.

  The voices argue back and forth in my head. I feel like one of those cartoons when there’s an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the
other.

  He’s in the Russian mafia, the angel tells me. He’s probably into far worse than Tricia’s boyfriend. Run! Now!

  Maybe he’s in the Russian mafia, but if that’s the case, the less you know the better. Besides, he’s more careful. He’s smarter. He wouldn’t have all this if he was into taking stupid risks, the little devil tells me.

  My grandfather used to say that the devil wanted my soul more than other people’s because of my lineage, because I came from “a good Christian family.” We were anointed. It’s a greater coup for him to reel me in. Satan gets to thumb his nose at God when he lures one of his children into a life of evil. Right now, God is raining tears from heaven for me, because the devil is winning. The devil replaces the fears and wariness that God and his angels have planted in my head and heart with twisted logic.

  It’s not like I’m going to marry Mikhail or have his children. I’ll get in, get the money and the power, and get out. Mikhail will probably grow bored with me before anything bad happens.

  Why are you doing this? I hear my angel say, though her voice is getting fainter. You don’t need that much money. You’re not a material girl. Are possessions worth your life? Your soul?

  It won’t get that far. Everybody bends the rules to get ahead, everybody that has anything. I may not be as worldly as Amara, but I’m not naïve and I know how Miami works. People grease the palms of building and zoning inspectors, or pay a little extra to expedite a liquor license’s processing. And I’m no stranger to the club scene; I know that a lot of club owners and promoters and the like have some pretty nefarious reputations. The way I see it, no matter where I work or who I work for, chances are I’ll be working with someone at least a little crooked. Better a guy like Mikhail than some foolish amateur who thinks that the game is like a movie and learned everything about the streets from a rap song.

  I’m sure the rest of the world works the same way. This is an opportunity. I get a chance to be something different, someone special. I’m not about to look this gift horse in the mouth. Besides, Amara seems to be doing just fine with Dimitri. I don’t see her shaking in her Christian Louboutins.

  Still, I know that I’m probably playing with fire. But what would you expect a rebel like me to do? Play it safe? Play by the rules? I don’t think so. Anyway, I know what I’m doing and I have everything under control. I’m not some naïve high-school girl, I’m Ms. Bobbi! This is business, and sometimes you have to get your hands a little dirty if you want results.

  WE’RE GETTING PRETTY CLOSE TO OUR DESTINATION AND Mikhail decides to have an extravagant surf and turf dinner consisting of gigantic, spicy, peel-and-eat prawns, boiled Maine lobster and Alaskan king crabs with drawn butter, and filet Oscar grilled to perfection. There’s plenty of salad, potatoes, rice, pasta, veggies, and bread to accompany the meal, as well as vodka for the guys and champagne for the women. After we dine like pigs and are full of liquor, we play dominoes. The funny thing about slapping bones is that it’s universal. I guess because numbers are the same no matter where you go. And I learn that shit talking while playing dominoes is universal as well, because Dimitri runs his mouth and runs us off the table.

  After dominoes, we go to the disco, and I play some old school hip-hop and deep Chicago house for them. It’s hilarious watching them dance all crazy and off-beat to Public Enemy and KRS-One, rapping along with the lyrics of the handful of songs they know, like “Fight the Power” and “Criminal Minded.”

  “When we reopen Babylon, Ms. Bobbi, you are going to be a megastar!” Mikhail says in my ear while wrapping his muscular arms around my waist. He’s slipped into the DJ booth while Amara and Dimitri are busy making out on a large sofa that sits just off the dance floor. The disco is laid out very similar to the nightclub B.E.D. in Miami, with four canopied beds that are recessed from the mirrored walls. If Babylon is done up half as nicely as the ship’s disco, the club is going to be tight.

  “Is that right?” I ask him, turning around and planting a kiss on his lips. “That’s hefty talk.”

  “That’s real talk, Bobbi. The club is going to be the most fabulous thing on South Beach that anyone has ever seen. It is going to be my best venue yet. You see, the nightclubs that I own . . .” he says.

  “Clubs? You own more than one?” I ask him curiously.

  “I have an interest in several clubs all over the world. New York, Budapest, Amsterdam, Stockholm. They are just a small part of my empire, but they’re my favorite. I work hard, and I play hard. You are going to be a very big part of Babylon, hopefully a big part of more than one of my clubs, and a very big part of my life. I want so much more than sex from you, Bobbi; I want something long term. I hope you know that,” Mikhail tells me, his green eyes transfixed with mine.

  “I do now,” I say, grinning. This has to be game, but I’m enjoying it.

  “I’m serious, Bobbi. You are a very special woman. You’re classy. You have a sharp mind. You have a way with people. You’re talented. And you’re very, very sexy,” he says, palming my ass and squeezing a handful. “You’re amazing.”

  I had believed until this point that Mikhail was in this thing with me just for kicks. And Bentley had called one thing right the night of our encounter: I’ve never been in a relationship with a white man. And as hard as it is to believe considering how big of a slut I am, I’ve never even slept with one before now. It’s not that I’m prejudiced. I just hadn’t gotten around to it. I sure as hell never expected a filthy rich white man, one who was probably a billionaire, or at least a megamillionaire, telling me that he wanted more than a roll in the hay. I don’t care what background I come from, guys like Mikhail like supermodels, blondes, and women like Amara, not around-the-way black chicks like me. There has to be a catch.

  “Want to go to the cabin?” I ask him. I plan on doing some sexual espionage: I’m going to fuck his brains out and then probe him. Plus, Amara and Dimitri are getting pretty intense over on the couch and I don’t want to stick around for what comes next. Amara has already stripped down to her LaPerla’s and Dimitri is buck naked. I like them, but I don’t really want to know them like that. Still, I can’t help but notice that Dimitri is hung like a horse, just like his cousin. Whoever started the rumor that white men were less endowed had obviously never bedded a Russian!

  “No,” he says to me. I turn to face him.

  “Don’t you want me?” I ask.

  “I always want you. There hasn’t been a time that I’ve been in your presence when I didn’t want you. I want you right here, right now.”

  “What about Amara and Dimitri?” I ask.

  “What about them?” Mikhail begins to tweak my nipples through my blouse.

  “Uh, I really care about you too but I’m not into the group thing,” I stammer. I am certainly not a prude, and I’ve been with women before and probably will be again. I’ve even partaken in a little group sex in the past, back when I first moved to Miami and had a tad bit of a cocaine habit. (Blow makes you do some crazy things, which is why I forced myself to stop.) And although Amara is alluring to say the least, I just don’t want to take it there. I don’t want to taint what is starting to feel like one of the first pure friendships I’ve had in ages. Amara may be on the shady side, but up till now she’s been pretty honest with me, which is more than I can say for most women. Besides, we’re going to be together on this ship for who knows how long, and I don’t want the trip to become some nonstop orgy. My face must be transparent to my thoughts, because Mikhail laughs and shakes his head.

  “Oh no, I was not suggesting an orgy,” he explains. “What I had in mind was a bit different. I would never share you with another man, especially not my cousin. I could never bear to watch what I feel is now mine with another man.”

  “What you feel is yours?” I ask.

  “Bobbi, let’s cut the bullshit. The games have been fun, but we both want more than games. Stop fighting the inevitable. You belong to me,” he tells me.

  “And where do you
belong?” I ask him.

  “I belong to you,” he says. “We have something special. We can do anything together.”

  “What is it that you want to do?”

  “I want to experience the sensation of watching two beautiful women watching each other make love.” I’m going to need a little more convincing because this doesn’t sound sexy to me. It sounds homoerotic and we are on our way to Greece. Before you know it, there will be sweaty, entangled bodies everywhere, a total freak fest. I’m freaky, but not that freaky. I’m not going to be a part of doing two cousins, or two cousins doing each other.

  “Look at Amara,” Mikhail commands in a forceful voice. Dimitri is behind her, kissing her neck and fondling her breasts. He removes her bra then slides her panties off her ass and down her legs, grazing her body with his lips. Amara and I make eye contact. This is embarrassing, but I don’t look away. She smiles at me and winks as Dimitri laps eagerly at her backside. From the distance I’m standing, I can’t tell if he is licking her pussy or her ass, but whatever Dimitri is doing, Amara is enjoying. She arches her back, spreads her butt cheeks, and Dimitri dives in, slurping loudly. This is as raunchy as the alleged R. Kelly sex tape, when the “maybe” R. Kelly allegedly has that chick (the grown one) on a chair and is tossing the hell out of her salad. Amara wiggles her ass like she’s dancing a sensual samba and moans as Dimitri ravishes her body.

  “Relax,” Mikhail purrs in my ear. “Enjoy.”

  I feel the tension ease from my body as Mikhail’s hands roam over my curves, removing my clothing.

  “Wait,” I tell Mikhail. I cue up a few songs by Prince. If there’s one thing I can’t stand to do, that’s have sex with no soundtrack.

  I kiss Mikhail deeply as the sounds of “When 2 R in Love” fill the room. He leads me out of the DJ booth to one of the canopied beds, and I lie down. Mikhail spreads my legs wide and begins to taste me.

  “Does that feel good?” Amara asks me as Dimitri works her from behind.