“Sell your own old stank-ass pussy! You think I don’t know what you been doing all these years? Stealing my fuckin’ social security checks, you bitch! I found the stubs from the checks. So where’s my fuckin’ money?” Dominique ranted, not backing down.
“Oh, you wanna jump bad? You think you could live off that measly check your bitch of a mother left behind?” Awilda asked, laughing at Dominique like she was a joke. “You didn’t know that bitch fucked my man and got pregnant with you. Your grandmother took her side, of course, as always. You ain’t know that ya daddy was supposed to be my husband, but your mother was such a tramp that she fucked him right in my bed! But she couldn’t keep him either. You know why? Because she was a whore who didn’t get paid!” Awilda spat, hitting her hand up against her chest for emphasis, spit and tears flying from her face.
Dominique’s chest heaved up and down. She had never met her father. Her mother had told her that he’d died in a car accident right after she was born. She didn’t want to believe what Awilda was saying. Her mother wouldn’t have lied to her like that.
“I want my money!” Dominique screamed, pushing her bulky breasts into Awilda’s chest. Awilda wasn’t backing down from her niece. She let it rip.
“You think I chose to sell my ass? Huh? It was your grandmother who sold me to put that bitch of a mother of yours through school. ‘Aleese is so smart,everybody used to say. Then she got pregnant and disappointed my mother. And let’s not forget when the good sister moved out and threw her nose up at us. But what you don’t know is what killed the bitch! You ain’t know that bitch mother of yours was a cokehead, did ya?”
Awilda’s venomous words dropped around Dominique like small bombs, exploding in her ears. Dominique had heard enough. She pulled her fist back and punched Awilda dead in her mouth. Awilda didn’t have time to react as her false teeth slid from her lips and hit the floor. Getting her bearings, she shook her head slightly and dug her fingernails into Dominique’s face. Dominique squealed but held her own. She grabbed Awilda’s hair and yanked her down toward the floor. They both fell. Awilda hit her head on the floor and Dominique’s knees slammed into the hard project tiles. Dominique sat on Awilda’s chest, pinning her arms down with her knees. She swung wildly, throwing a bevy of wild punches to Awilda’s face and chest. Awilda’s lip split as she struggled under Dominique’s weight.
“You fuckin dirty bitch!” Dominique screamed as she took out years of frustration on her aunt.
“Get the fuck off me!” Awailda thrashed, trying to break free. Suddenly, Awilda bucked her body upward, throwing Dominique forward. Awilda slipped from under Dominique and scrambled off the floor. She raced to the kitchen, where she grabbed a butcher’s knife from a drawer. “You wanna fuck with me?” Awilda asked as she charged at Dominique with the knife. “You gon’ die, bitch!” Awilda screeched at her, her eyes bugging out of their sockets.
Dominique ran toward the front door, fumbling with the locks. With the door flung wide open, Dominique raced toward the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time down to the first floor. When she made it outside, she noticed her belongings scattered on the patch of grass outside the building. Awilda’s shrill, hateful voice could be heard from the window as she tossed out more of Dominique’s clothes and personal belongings.
Dominique ran across the street to the corner store and got a couple of plastic bags. Using her sleeve to wipe the snot and blood off her face, she hunched down and picked up as many of her clothes and belongings that she could fit in the bags. She walked down Fountain Avenue to the train station. Dominique held onto her pocketbook for dear life. Luckily for Dominique, Awilda had been so angry that she threw Dominique’s pocketbook out the window. It contained all of the money Dominique had been stashing behind Awilda’s back. Dominique had no idea where she was headed, but she decided to board the A train toward the city. Brooklyn held nothing but bad memories for her. Wherever the last stop was on the train was where Dominique would spend the night.
Harlem, New York
“Yo, bitch! You habla inglés?” Jordan asked, slapping Madi, the little Puerto Rican girl, upside her head like she was a little kid. The girl pouted and handed Jordan the stack of money she had spent the entire night working for. “Getcha ass back out on that track!” he barked.
“But, Daddy, it’s daylight,” the girl whined, addressing Jordan by the name he required her to call him.
“Madi . . . did you hear what the fuck I said? Ain’t no fuckin way you been fuckin and suckin all night and this all you got. A niggah was born at night, not last night,” Jordan replied, flexing his jaw as he watched fear dance in the girl’s eyes. She could barely stand upright. She was exhausted and her feet throbbed in the cheap high heels she wore. Just as Jordan was about to send Madi back to work, another halfdressed teenage girl walked slowly over to the corner of 116th and St. Nick, where Jordan and Madi stood.
“Daddy . . . this all I got,” the girl said feebly, handing Jordan a small handful of crumpled bills.
“What the fuck is this? Hold up, hold the fuck up!” Jordan growled, rubbing his chin like he was thinking. “A niggah is being played for a fool out here,” Jordan grumbled as he unfolded the bills and counted them. “You bring me a buck fifty and this bitch tried to come with two fuckin’ bills after being out here all fuckin’ night?” Jordan asked, incredulous. The girl whose name was Tasha but had been renamed “Tiger” moved closer to Madi. They huddled together, not knowing what to expect from their unpredictable pimp. “I got something for y’all . . . I see a niggah gotta make examples out here,” Jordan mumbled under his breath, digging in his waistband.
“Wait, Daddy . . . I . . . I . . .” Tiger started, her eyes stretched wide. She never got to finish her sentence. Her body folded to the ground like an accordion.
“Ayi!” Madi cried, bending down to check on her friend. Tiger was out cold; the butt of Jordan’s .40-caliber glock to the temple had taken her out. Blood leaked from the side of her head and Madi was afraid that Tiger was dead.
“Tiger!” Madi cried, shaking her friend’s unconscious form. It was so early in the morning in this part of Harlem that nobody was around except the fiends.
“Now . . . let that be a lesson. Help that bitch pull it together and I’ll be back for my dough in a few hours,” Jordan said before he sped away in his car.
Jordan pulled around the corner, stopped his car and took a deep breath. It took a lot for him to be the way he was. Violence was never his strong suit, but he knew his reputation depended on it. He popped his glove compartment, removed a fresh bottle of Mylanta and took it to the head. “Ah!” he winced as the smooth liquid coated his stomach. His ulcers were killing him. Jordan had developed them after the incident with C-Lo and the girl. Once Jordan had taken care of a problem for C-Lo, he had let Jordan “fly,” as he put it, and Jordan was able to get his own stable of chicks. Jordan had learned his pimp game from the best and he was already making a name for himself around Harlem. But Jordan made sure he was careful not to put his chicks on any of C-Lo’s tracks. C-Lo had warned him against it and Jordan knew firsthand what C-Lo was capable of if he went against his wishes.
Jordan drove, lost in thought. He was on his way home, but wanted to stop at a breakfast spot and get some grub. Since he’d moved out of his mother’s house, he often missed having a home-cooked meal, no matter how few and far between they were. “Look at that,” Jordan said out loud, stopping his car short as he noticed a gorgeous, chocolate-colored young girl standing on the corner of West 113th Street looking lost as hell. She held a small folded piece of paper in her hands, which she was checking against the street signs. The girl picked up two plastic bags and began walking. Jordan sized up her. Probably a twenty-eight waist; thirty-six C cup; and about thirty-nine around the hips.
Jordan was a female body connoisseur, they were his commodity; therefore, he had to know his shit. Jordan turned down the street the girl was on. He followed her discretely, researching as he went
. He took another swig of his Mylanta; he couldn’t let the burning in his stomach mess his game up. Jordan rolled down the window on his newly upgraded Lexus Coupe.
“Hello,” he called out of the window. The girl jumped slightly and turned to look at him. She wrinkled her eyebrows and kept walking. She looked like she’d had a rough night. Jordan noticed that her hair was a little wild and she walked like she was half limping. Looks like a chick who needs a daddy.
“It’s like that?” Jordan asked, inching his car along the street as the girl walked and scanned the buildings for their numbers. “You got a name?” Jordan asked. The girl continued ignoring him. He could see her looking out of the corner of her eye. “Okay . . . I’ll leave you alone then. But my name is Jordan Bleu . . . with the ‘e’ before the ‘u,’” he shouted. The girl smirked. Jordan was apparently breaking through. “See . . . you know my name, why can’t I know yours?” he continued.
The girl finally stopped walking. “Look, I don’t talk to strangers, a’ight? Now you can keep it movin’,” she said dismissively.
“Ahhh, keep it movin’,” Jordan repeated. “You from Brooklyn, ain’t you?” Jordan asked, flashing his pearly white teeth.
“How can you tell that?” the girl asked, surprised.
“See that? Now you wanna talk to me,” Jordan teased.
“A’ight then . . . I won’t,” she replied, turning toward the address she was looking for.
“Damn, baby girl. Who done pissed in your Cheerios?” Jordan replied, using a line he’d heard before.
The girl glared his way, clearly not impressed. “You thought of that one all by yourself?” she asked sarcastically.
“Well at least I got you to give a little smile. Now if I can get a name, I’d say we made progress,” Jordan said affably.
“Dominique. Happy now?” she asked, finally stopping and putting her bags down.
Jordan pulled his car over and got out. He walked over to Dominique. She was pretty in the face, with a small button nose and huge chestnut-brown doe eyes. A darker Halle Berry.
“So, Dominique, what is a little, gorgeous Brooklyn girl like you doin’ uptown, standing outside the Wanderer’s Inn?” Jordan asked.
“I’m visiting,” she answered, lowering her eyes. Close up, Jordan noticed the scratches on her face and slight bruising under her eye.
“You running from the niggah who did that to ya face?” Jordan asked abruptly, not holding back. Yup, she definitely needs a daddy.
“For your information—” Dominique started defensively.
“Shhh, listen, baby girl . . . you ain’t got to explain nothing to me,” Jordan began, placing his finger up to his lips. Dominique stopped talking and rolled her eyes, feeling the heat of embarrassment rise up her neck. “I think you’re beautiful. No, you are more like a rare, precious gem . . . like a diamond. If you want a tour guide during your visit,” Jordan said, putting up two fingers on each hand and bending them quickly, making the quotation sign, “or if you just want to talk about things sometime, call me . . . Ms. Diamond,” he continued, handing her a business card. Jordan Bleu, Talent Scout. Jordan was a business man and always prepared for moments like this. He bopped away from Dominique, letting her observe his swagger, and didn’t look back until he had gotten in his car. Jordan started his car and turned his system up. His favorite Jay-Z song blaring.
You know I thug ’em, fuck ’em, love ’em, leave ’em ’cause I don’t fuckin’ need ’em
Take ’em out the hood, keep ’em lookin good
As he pulled away, he could tell she was watching him, and he was confident he’d hear from her sooner rather than later.
Dominique checked in to the Wanderer’s Inn for twenty-eight dollars per night. She figured she’d pay for one night at a time until she knew what her next move would be. Dominique had stashed away over $1,000 from all the times she’d gotten paid a little extra from some of her regulars. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was enough for her to get started looking for a “lame” job, as working girls called it. She had long since dropped out of school, so she knew the job hunt wouldn’t be easy. She’d always been too tired to keep up with her school work after working long nights. If she got desperate for cash, Dominique knew she could contact some of her regulars and get it in with them for some fast money, but that might put her back in Awilda’s earshot. Dominique had vowed never to see Awilda again. If that bitch’s eyebrows were on fire Dominique wouldn’t even spit on her to put them out.
The rooms at the tiny motel were dormitory style so she was forced to share her space with five other women. The women all seemed hard up on their luck. One older-looking lady sat on one of the bottom bunks, swatting at bugs that no one else could see; another tall, slim, young woman, with a cigarette hanging between her lips, stood rubbing her very pregnant belly and looking out the window like she was waiting for someone to come save her.
Dominique put on the meanest face she could muster and ambled over to the small bottom bunk bed in the far left corner of the room. Placing her worldly possessions on the end of the bed, Dominique sat down and fumbled with a fresh pack of Newport Lights. Unfortunately, she had taken up more than one of Awilda’s bad habits. She hit the pack up against her hand to free one cigarette from the tight bunch. Placing it up to her lips, she heard the bug lady explode.
“There’s no smoking . . . no smoking . . . no smoking,” the lady hollered with a crazy gleam in her eye. Dominique raised her eyebrows and looked at her like she had lost her damn mind. The woman kept yelling until Dominique put her cigarettes away.
“What the hell? The bitch by the window is smoking and this crazy bitch ain’t say nothing,” Dominique cursed as she flopped back on the bed, too exhausted to fight about it. Forearm over her eyes, she told herself she’d just rest her eyes for a minute.
Dominique bolted upright as she felt someone touch her shoulder. The motel manager jumped too, startled by Dominique’s reaction. “Hey! Calm down,” the manager said. Dominique looked around, blinking. She must have fallen asleep. “It’s time to either check out or pay another night,” the manager demanded.
“What? I just got here late yesterday,” Dominique said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Doesn’t matter. New day,new pay,” the manager responded sarcastically.
Sighing, Dominique went to grab her pocketbook, which she had laid on the bed. She had meant to secure it under her pillow but her exhausted body made it impossible to think clearly. Feeling around frantically, Dominique came up empty. A sharp pain stabbed her in the abdomen.
“Wait . . . where is my shit?” Dominique screamed, looking around the room frantically, the panic setting in. Her little plastic bags and pocketbook were gone! Everything she had to her name had been in those bags. “Somebody took all of my shit!” Dominique exclaimed, her legs wobbly as she rustled the covers off her rented bed, hoping her items would magically appear.
“That has nothing to do with me,” the manager said, throwing her hands up dismissively.
“Where the fuck are the bitches who were in here? You let someone leave with my shit!” Dominique belted out, a huge lump forming in her throat and tears burning at the backs of her eyes. Everybody who had been in the room when Dominique arrived, with the exception of the bug lady, was gone. “Who took my shit?” Dominique screamed, rushing over to the bug lady. The lady’s hazy blue dilated pupils were glassy and beady like a cat’s. Dominique shook the little crazy lady’s shoulders.
“She doesn’t talk, so you are out of luck there,” the manager told Dominique.
“Y’all gonna have to do something . . . you fuckin’ let somebody leave with my shit!” Dominique cried, sweat dripping down her back.
“Look, you pay or leave . . . you decide,” the manager replied without sympathy.
“Pay with what?” Dominique shrieked, digging into her back pocket. All that was there was Jordan’s card and three single dollar bills–change from a five she’d broken to get a soda
on her way here.
“I will give you an extra hour to get out . . . but no longer than that,” the manager said, turning and dragging her swollen feet out of the room. Dominique slumped back down on the bed and put her head in her hands. What was she going to do now?
Dominique took the extra time the lady had given her to take a shower. Although she had to put back on the same dirty clothes she arrived in, at least her body wouldn’t feel so grimy. Dominique stepped out of the motel, looking down the residential block. There was only one way that she instinctively knew how to make fast money. Dominique told herself she would do it this one time and then she’d set out to find a regular job, even if it was sweeping up at McDonald’s.
She walked two blocks to a small bodega and asked for quarters in exchange for her three dollars. She used seventy-five cents to buy three bags of pretzels. She was starving. She stuffed her mouth with a few pretzels and walked until she found a pay phone, which were few and far between with the emergence of cell phones. Dominique lifted the receiver, wiped it on her pants, and dialed the only number she could remember. It was one of her regulars who usually came to pick her up at Awilda’s house in Brooklyn. Dominique started thinking of a story to tell him to get him to come to Harlem so they could score and she could make some loot. She pumped her coins in the phone and dialed.
“Wassup, papi?” she cooed into the dirty public phone when the man answered.
“Ah, mami, my sweet thang,” Gordo, the man on the other end, replied with his thick Dominican accent.
Dominique rolled her eyes, thinking of his fat, hairy-ass stomach and his little inchworm dick. “I wanna see you,” she whined. He was a quick lay at least. Last time they were together, he barely lasted three minutes. That’s what Dominique liked most about him; he got off on her real fast.
Price of Fame Page 6