Black Queen, Dark Knight

by Amarie Avant

  Instead of heeding the warning, the Russian's hands wrap around my neck and he holds me back to him like a shield. A foul odor from his musty pits threatens to subdue me.

  "I'll take this little bitch out, squeeze her head from her neck in one quick sweep!"

  He begins to back away, while strong-arming my neck with one hand. The difficulty of breathing as my neck is being tightened, thrust me toward a hazy light...

  Victor

  Rubbing my face, I slowly sit up in my Bulgari bed. The Egyptian cotton linen slides down my bare abs. Damn, overslept. Now Burt is in my ear, telling me that this was only going to end one way.

  With the Whitsons’ death.

  Doctor Whitson because of the new assassin assigned to his case. Lux is collateral damage for fucking with me.

  “Hire someone to watch Luxury around the clock, we have an important event coming up back home, Vic,” Burt tries to interest me or deter me with the fact that I need to go home soon. His eyes are shrunken in as are mine since we’ve taken to watching Luxury in cycles around the clock.

  “No,” I shake my head, and begin into the bathroom to brush my teeth and shower.

  “Duke of Arlington! Why are we taking on a security stance? Tell me?” He tries to get in my face, but I have a one-track mind. The fatherly tone won’t work today.

  Spitting out the foam, I wash my mouth out. “Burt, your orders are to watch Luxury until you could be relieved of duty. You don’t look relieved to me!”

  “She’s at Urban Gardens virtually no customers today. That’s beside the point. Victor Wesley D’ Ross, when you accept a mission, you go in for the kill. It’s therapy to you. Allowing you to strategize the death of someone you know not, and care not of. There’s no connection involved.”

  “I need to get to Luxury’s shop.” I decide to quickly wash my face and dress in Burberry Exchange jeans and a shirt.

  Burt stands at my door; it’s all in his stance that I’m going above the call of duty for Lux.

  “You want to know why this isn’t just a closed case?” I ask, while hastily putting on loafers.

  “You decided to make the mark’s daughter yours!”

  I put a hand up in consideration. Burt is past the point of no return with regard to arguing his position. Since he’s always had this paternal stance with me, I decide not to get angry. He follows me to the living room, where I grab a stack of files off the coffee table. “This is why I’m not on top of my game.” I shove the papers in his hands. While Burt was out watching Lux from midnight to noon, I’ve been reviewing the files that Monica sent.

  Burt opens the manila envelope slowly. He gasps, ruffling through 8 by 7 photos of a female’s mutilated body. “Ghastly! Who is this and what has it got to do with us?”

  “Gina Whitson, Luxury’s mother.”

  He continues to search each angle intensely, livid at the thought of someone accosting Luxury’s mother. As a royal butler, his sole duty is my well-being and livelihood. He’s done well for my entire thirty-five years of life, but the little minx pulls at Burt’s heartstrings. Burt wants to help.

  “Who did this?” Burt asks, his voice holding a slight tremor.

  “The same man who put a hit out on the good doctor’s life,” I reply backing away. “Got to get to Luxury, she and Aliyah can’t defend themselves.”

  “Lux was alone today, that’s why I returned, arguing about you not being ready,” Burt replies as the door closes.

  I press the elevator button and start to tug into my leather jacket; it conceals the 9-millimeter. Elevator music does nothing to placate me; Lux being alone at the moment has me pissed. Traveling down the elevator, a call comes in from Monica, “Vic…it’s…in town…”

  “What?” I push the Bluetooth deeper into my ear, as if that will help. Fucking universal phone is useless.

  “Nowitsky…sighted…New York?”

  Nowitsky!

  Fuck.

  Nowitsky is ex-militia, has been a major player in the biggest terrorist organization in Europe, along with an intense joy of being an X-Member assassin. Normally he chooses political missions, but I’ve been known to bid on a few of his scores…

  Fuck. This is about the last political campaign. I stole his mark.

  Sidestepping sightseers in the lobby, I move past a bellhop with a roller full of Gucci luggage thinking about any previous X-Member assignments that might pique Nowitsky’s interest. None.

  I run hard and long, since the traffic is at a standstill. If Nowitsky has been here for a while, then he's seen Luxury with me and will use her as bait.

  As I dial her phone again, I sprint through the middle of the intersection and weaving through the traffic that decided to sit in the pedestrian lane. At the street right before Urban Gardens, I make a quick turn and into the alley, going around back, just to scope the place out before making a fool of myself, if Nowitsky is not around.

  Worry tangles the muscles in my abdomen. My selfishness won’t allow me to stop seeing Luxury. Now she’s the key to getting to me. Monica provided a report on Doctor Charles Everhart the brainiac who had hired my services. Monica had even provided the fact that he was the leading suspect in Gina’s death.

  I’ve never been off my game in the past. Too stubborn to acknowledge Burt was right in the first place, I see Lux off in the distance with his arm wrapped around her.

  Fire rushes through my veins at how fucking pissed I am that Nowitsky has placed a hand on what belongs to me. Lux’s legs are kicking out in the air.

  They’re attention is on something in the store, and my gun silencer comes out. Even though Nowitsky keeps moving around as she flails in his arms. No hesitation, I take the shot. Luxury twists and turns, and it takes ages for the bullet to meet its intended.

  Nowitsky goes timbering backwards, with Luxury in his arms.

  “Ahhhh…” she continues to scream, lifting up from his dead weight at the speed of light and running back into the building. I brace myself for the scenario playing out before me. What the fuck is Luxury doing?

  Sirens begin to ring out loud as I make my way to the building, back against the wall. Then I hear talking, as a man tells Luxury it will be okay and that he got the man. The guy is taking credit for my score. I notice a bullet that broke through the glass window of an abandoned shop on the opposite side of the alley. Yeah, he was a crack shot alright. Cracking windows right open.

  Sirens blare out and more voices and footsteps are already at the shop, as if spectators are waiting to get an eyeful of activity.

  Instead of saying anything, I take back down the alley and to the main street, and then cross over to the Taco shop across from Urban Gardens. Luxury is safe for the moment, and my identity won’t be compromised.

  Luxury

  Detective Caruso, really? Of all the NYPD blue’s, why this guy?

  Everything about the Italian man, with his kind-etched eyes, and the smile wrinkles around his lips, made me sad. Soon as he stepped on the scene, his face drained of color upon seeing me. We have a history.

  A year ago, Detective Caruso had been so sure about catching Mom’s murderer. For six months, I would come into the precinct each and every day, just to see what new information he had on the case. Breaking my heart each time I came by. Till one day I kept Gina from my mind. Totally and utterly from my mind, only to be resurrected on Wednesday’s an hour before noon, when I meticulously streamed together black roses.

  And then there was Victor who has brought a flurry of unwanted happy memories back to me.

  Now, back then, all though sure of himself, and encouraging, Caruso hadn’t been entirely forthcoming from the start. Caruso would tell me that speaking of the potential suspect wasn’t in the best interest for the case. He would promise that Mom’s murder would be vindicated.

  Each time I close my eyes, feeling Notwisky’s heavy body wrapped around me, I can see Mom…

  13 months ago

  … We had a two bedroom in the Bronx. Childhood hom
e. Just shy of 21, bottle of wine in one hand, with the other, I unlatch the arsenal of locks at the front door. It’s that annoying daylight’s saving time again, providing such a dark and dreary evening as early as 5:17pm. I’m walking in; trying to deal with Arnold’s dumping me, my dropping out of college. I really don’t drink, but Aliyah had said this Moscato was the tastiest. Since it was on sale, I picked it up, deciding Mom and I would enjoy it this evening.

  “Mom, … Mommy, nothing is better than your words of wisdom, but I bought us a drink,” I begin, stepping into the apartment and pulling off my crossover purse. It’s one of my hobo days, in khakis and a crumply t-shirt that may or may not have been clean when I picked it off the floor this morning.

  Smiling at the thought of Mom-and-me time since Dad is away at a health convention, I flip on the lights, saying, “Why is it so dark in here?”

  The smile on my face fades.

  At this very instant, my life as I know it is dead to me.

  Nothing would ever be the same, as my knees gave way to gravity. Equilibrium in disarray, I hit the floor as a sob escapes my lips. I begin to crawl frantically to my mom’s body, pierced with stab wound on top of stab wound, and soaking wet with blood.

  The smell of death brings bile up from the pit of my stomach, but I choke the sourness back down. Gina’s blouse is painted red, if I didn’t know that it was a blue and white flower design before, it’s fully indistinguishable now. Tears stream down my face, twining with snot and dribbling at my chin as I touch her once beautiful warm, brown skin. Lips purple.

  “Mommy, please,” I cry so hard that spit flies from my mouth. For a while, I hold Gina closely as every thought escaped me.

  Then I called the cops, and Detective Caruso promised that my heart would one day begin to beat again…

  Now I’m at the very same place, explaining a situation to Caruso, verbatim, what I told the uniform cops a few hours ago. We’re seated in a white interrogation room at the precinct off 157th street. There’s a two-way mirror to the left of us, besides that, and these two chairs and table chained to the ground, only cement and brick complete the sore ambiance. I take a sip of the stale, cold coffee that was offered to me about two hours ago.

  Stifling another yawn, I finish up the story. “The Russian guy, or Nots…? Nowitsky, as you say, was forcing me out of the back of my store. At that moment Deondre came in and pulled out a gun. Deondre was probably halfway into the store by now and he shot, twice.” I consider if I said two or three times before. But I’m so ready to go home that I hope I have satisfied the detective by now.

  “Miss. Whitson we’re almost done,” the Italian detective gives a warm pat to my hand. “So, Deondre Watts, he’s your boyfriend?”

  “No,” I shake my head.

  “How well did you know Xander Nowitsky?” he asks.

  “Not at all, Detective Caruso. He came into my shop at lunchtime. I thought he was going to rob me, then I… well, I guess I did something stupid,” I shrug, feeling so uncomfortable speaking with Caruso. This all plunges me back to the past when we were going over the timeframe that I stepped out to get more eggs for Mom’s éclairs. I’d ended up hanging out with Aliyah, since we hadn’t really gotten together while I was away at college.

  “I told Nowitsky that I had a gun, but–”

  “Was there another gun?” he asks, speaking slowly and articulate, “Besides Deondre’s gun?”

  “No,” I shake my head sniffling back tears. “I’ve never touched a gun in my life. Thank God Deondre was coming by to ask me for a late lunch. Today was the first time we had really talked.”

  Detective reroutes the questions again and I get confused.

  “You sure there wasn’t another gun?”

  “Look, I have blood on my shirt,” I say, looking down at myself. My hands come up and they’re shaking. For an instant, my slender fingers are drowning in cold, steely crimson. That familiar smell of blood has my mind playing tricks on me.

  “This is the craziest day of my… of my…” In another world I could complete the sentence, as ‘this is the craziest day of my life.’ Yet, I can’t stop thinking of Gina. Before Victor, like I said, Mom was only on my mind during the times that I took flowers to Dad. It has become my ritual to help me cope. Then Victor just listened as I talked about Mom and me from the past. The coupon shopping, the baking, the cooking. Victor had given her back to me.

  Now I need Gina to cease to exist. To leave my mind for a while again.

  Detective Caruso’s head tilts; he appears to have been asking me something, “Luxury… Luxury… Lux…”

  “Like I’ve said before,” my spine is ridged as I robotically reply, “Nowitsky, I don’t know him. Never heard of him.”

  “Luxury, my apologies.” Caruso gives me that comforting smile again. He gives this ‘you have the worst look in the world’ face, even though in know cops are supposed to be cool and aloof. Yeah, he’s still feeling it for not finding Gina’s murder.

  “Listen, Luxury, we had a few hits on Nowitsky around the States and he’s wanted by Interpol. So, if this had been just any bum off the street coming into rob Urban Gardens, I wouldn’t be asking so many questions.” Caruso smiles again as to apologize for what I’m going through. “My apologies for asking so many questions.”

  I frown, “Sir, I really don’t think you believe me.”

  “Why is that?” His eyes flicker to the glass mirror to the left of us.

  “You keep asking me the same thing. Never met Nowitsky in my life, and if I had crossed paths with him, I would know. Soon as he came into the building, I felt odd.” I shrug. “What else can I say about this man? You’ve been asking me so many questions that I feel like I’ve done something wrong.”

  “That was neither my intention Miss Whitson. As I said, any other perp and closed case,” Caruso almost winces at that inference. Closed case… “Deondre will be in some heat for that unregistered gun. But as far as our lengthily conversation goes, it’s for the purposes of Nowitsky’s sordid past. So, I will keep in touch.”

  Legs shaky, it takes all my strength to stand, “Sure you will.” I begin. Then I bite my lip, hadn’t meant to appear so sardonic. Yes, I expect Caruso to keep in touch. But after a year of my mom being gone, the detective won’t be keeping in touch about that. Still, I try to take some tiredness that has been transposed into mockery out of my voice. “Thank you for the coffee.”

  He nods. “If you think of anything. If you feel like you’ve been watched in the past, let me know. We’ll want to piece together Nowitsky’s time in the area, Miss Whitson.”

  I nod and start out the door. There has to be something that the cops aren’t telling me. But as suggested, I call Victor while a uniform cop escorts me from the interview area into the lobby of the police department.

  “Little one, I’ve been thinking of you.”

  Though he’s a delight to hear, my body is feeling heavy at the moment. I sigh, “Hello, Victor…”

  “You sound stressed? Where are you?” he asks, and I can hear honking of cars in the background.

  “At the Precinct on 154th street. My shop was almost robbed. Luckily a friend from one of the neighboring stores came in and shot the guy.”

  “My car is on the way, Lux,” he tells me.

  I open up my mouth to say that I just want to go home and be alone, but with Victor, that is not an option. Had Victor been at Urban Gardens earlier, maybe I wouldn’t have been so crazy or reacted so crass to Nowitsky. Surely telling Nowitsky I had a gun escalated the entire situation. But what am I saying, if Deondre hadn’t been there, Vic and me would’ve gotten murdered.

  Caruso

  Soon as my eyes lay upon the young lady, I went back to the case of Gina Whitson. The crime of passion was riddled with so many flaws, so much circumstantial evidence that pointed to one man in particular. It should have been opened and closed. Doctor Charles Everhart, the genius made sure that didn’t happen.

  I watch the petite wome
n’s retreat, knowing that Interpol is in the office right next to me, looking through the mirror. It took every string in the book to get to do this interview with Luxury Whitson without them prying. Certain questions took her back to Gina’s gruesome death, but I knew if Interpol had completed the interrogation that she’d have become a bundle of mess. We wouldn’t be able to get a word out of Miss Whitson edgewise.

  The night I met Luxury Whitson, she was covered in Gina’s blood. Delusional, hopeful, erratic, and expectant all at the same time. She wanted her mother to survive when Gina had been dead for hours. She wanted answers, and reasoning to accompany her mother’s death.

  I sigh, realizing that after a hard divorce and putting my last kid through college, I gave her such high hopes. It had been one of those days where everything went wrong, so just meeting Luxury, witnessing her breakdown had me making promises that a seasoned cop like me would never have done. Hell, in my defense, I was drunk while making assessments and promises.

  It doesn’t take a rookie cop to notice that Nowitsky had been shot at the side of his head. Ballistics indicated at a longer range of distance than what Luxury Whitson’s briefing of Deondre Watt’s location implied. Mr. Watts would have had to be on the South side of the alley while making that shot. The slugs didn’t even match.

  As I step out of the interview room and toward the adjoining conference room, I stop a new cop, a young Caucasian guy with a dash of red hair.

  “Tail Whitson,” I nod my head at another cop escorting Luxury to the front of the precinct.

  “Will do,” he replies eagerly.

  Then I step into the conference room with the two Interpol agents who were sent here to gather more information about Nowitsky’s last days. A Latina butch, Perez, and a black man, Jackson, who is a vet in the game. I hope they don’t plan to continue this fiasco. Luxury didn’t know Nowitsky, not one bit. But I’m going to keep tabs on her for a while.

  “Caruso, we’re convinced this isolated incident had nothing to do with Luxury Whitson,” Jackson nods to me.