by Sa'id Salaam
“Mmhmm,” Wanda replied, searching his worried face for answers.
“Ma’am…” the doctor began, then paused. He had given the same grim news more than he thought possible, yet it never got any easier. “You have several sexually transmitted diseases,” he said grimly, still avoiding eye contact.
“It ain’t the end of the world, Doc. I’ve been burned before,” Wanda interrupted. Her embarrassment caused her to cop an attitude. “Just gimme my shot so I can be up out dis bitch,” she shot.
“Well…um…I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that. While we can treat you for the gonorrhea and Chlamydia, there is, uh…well…there is no cure for the HIV virus,” the doctor said, struggling with the deadly diagnosis.
“You saying I got HIV!?” Wanda demanded.
“No, ma’am. Judging by your T-cell count, you have full-blown AIDS, I’m afraid,” he said, finally making eye contact. He went on to explain various treatment options and resources that were available, but Wanda didn’t hear any of it. The last words she heard were “full-blown AIDS.”
Wanda floated back to her car in a daze, clutching a handful of brochures and pamphlets that were given to her by the doctor. Once inside her car, she fished out her shooter and loaded a huge hit on the top. Wanda inhaled furiously, secretly hoping to stop her heart. When the first one didn’t do the trick, she tried another, followed by another. She sat there in full view of anyone who happened by, smoking cocaine. It wasn’t until the clinic rent-a-cop threatened to call the real police that she moved on.
* * *
The same way a cut doesn’t hurt until you see the blood, Wanda went downhill quickly, knowing that she was sick—that she was dying. The only thing that gave her solace were the drugs. With her money gone, she sold her car to support her habit.
Wanda’s only possessions were the dirty Coogi dress and a raggedy twenty-five caliber pistol that had gotten her laughed out of every pawnshop she tried to sell it in.
She knew she shouldn’t be tricking with the deadly disease, but she had burned through the few ounces at an incredible rate. With no other options or resources available to her, she hit the ho stroll, along with the other streetwalkers. Steward Avenue was Atlanta’s premier prostitution track. The name had been changed to Metropolitan Parkway in a failed attempt to clean up the area, but for those who bought or sold pussy, it would forever be Steward Avenue.
* * *
Tiffany had begun her downward spiral as well. After Mike’s upscale club closed and she’d burned her bridges at Dimes, she found herself dancing in a sexy club on Steward Avenue.
She was living in a rundown motel near the club so she could be close to the action. Her life was out of control, but she was powerless to stop it.
Cocaine had totally claimed her soul. She danced, tricked, and occasionally stole to get high. Every night, she swore it would be her last, but every morning, the vicious cycle repeated itself.
One morning, she headed home and made it only as far as her driveway. She couldn’t get out of the car. She sat there staring at the house until the demons demanded that she leave.
When Tiffany pulled up at work, she cursed at the heavy police presence. “Oh shit! What now!?” she lamented as girl after girl was carted out in cuffs. Upset by the loss of easy income, but grateful to have missed whatever went down, Tiffany pulled off. For once, her tardiness had paid off.
None of her usual tricks were available, so she was penniless as she headed to P.I.G.’s. She dreaded what might be in store for her. By now, she had witnessed every sex act known to man and P.I.G.
When Tiffany told P.I.G. that she didn’t have any money but had just come to watch a show and hang out, he knew it was time to push the issue. “Well, ain’t no show tonight,” P.I.G. said to the relief of Dondi, who was still sore from the show he’d just done with the Omen. “Tell you what…” P.I.G. said, grabbing his camera. “Lemme see this show you got that I’ve been hearing so much about.”
Tiffany was so grateful that she wouldn’t have to do anything more than masturbate. She instantly spread her legs and went at it.
The room was enveloped in silence as Tiffany worked her fingers. The only sounds to be heard were her moans and P.I.G.’s heavy breathing. He was drooling down the front of his shirt as he filmed the episode.
P.I.G. called for Blast so he could get a blow job while he watched. Blast came out and sucked her teeth at Tiffany, then headed back to her room. As it turned out, he really didn’t need her, because when Tiffany came, P.I.G. did too.
“Just about there,” P.I.G. surmised as he watched Tiffany suck her earnings through her shooter. “Almost ripe,” he said, feeling another erection growing at the thought.
“I gotta go,” Tiffany announced, wrapping up her shooter and drugs. She had smoked just enough to quiet the monkey on her back. The rest, she intended to smoke in the solitude of her room.
“Okay, lil mama,” P.I.G. said warmly. “We gotta do this again soon.”
“That’s what’s up,” Tiffany mumbled on her way out the door.
* * *
As soon as she left, P.I.G. forced Blast to blow him as he replayed the footage of Tiffany masturbating. Even though he was deep in his wife’s throat, P.I.G. took the call on his vibrating phone. After all, business was business. “Yeah?” P.I.G. barked into the phone after checking the ID screen.
“’Bout to come shop witcha,” Marcus said enthusiastically.
P.I.G. could hear his mouth twitching through the line. “Come on!” P.I.G. replied and flipped the phone closed. Like everyone, P.I.G. assumed Marcus was at least involved in Pony’s murder. All of the sudden, he was selling ounces and buying half-kilos. He also knew there was a $10,000 bounty on Marcus’s head. P.I.G. was waiting until Marcus fucked up all his money before turning him in. Since his re-ups were steadily declining from half-kilos to the couple of ounces he was now coming for, it was almost time to claim the reward. Timing is everything, P.I.G. mused as he let go in his wife’s mouth.
CHAPTER 24
Mrs. Williams felt her heart literally stop as she watched two sheriff’s deputies approach her door. “Will!” she yelled out, summoning her husband.
Hearing the distress in his wife’s voice, Tiffany’s father bolted from the den to her aid. “What’s wrong?” he asked urgently when he reached her side.
Far too rattled for words, Mrs. Williams could only point toward the front door just as the officers reached it.
“Is this about my daughter?” Mr. Williams asked plainly as his wife held her breath, expecting the worst but praying for the best. It had been almost a year since Tiffany had left home, and they hadn’t heard a word from her since.
“Sir, we are here with an arrest warrant for a Tiffany Williams, for failure to appear,” the younger of the two deputies announced. The two deputies were polar opposites: one young, white, and overzealous; and the other an older, laidback black man.
Mrs. Williams finally exhaled as her husband explained that their daughter no longer lived there.
“We have not seen or heard from her in months,” Mr. Williams said strictly.
“We will need to have a look around to confirm that Tiffany Williams is not in the residence,” the young, red-faced deputy said sternly. He was neither moved nor concerned with the pained expression on the couple’s faces.
“Um, actually that won’t be necessary,” the older deputy interjected, looking at his partner as he spoke. “Have her turn herself over to the jail or give us a call if she comes home,” he said, handing Mr. Williams a business card.
When the Williamses agreed to do one or the other, the deputies left to head to their car. They exchanged a terse glance that signaled an impending discussion on proper protocol.
Carlos had seen the sheriffs pull up and watched curiously from his window. When he saw them turn from the door, he went down to investigate. “Is everything okay over here?” he asked, making his way across the street. He hadn’t seen Tiffany since
that night at the club but had been hearing all kinds of rumors.
“And you are?” the gung-ho young cop asked, reaching for his pad.
“I’m a friend of the family,” Carlos told the older deputy. “Is Tiffany okay?”
“That’s what we are trying to find out,” the black officer replied. “Do you know where we might locate her?”
Carlos’s hesitation was obvious to the veteran deputy. He was clearly reluctant to deal with law enforcement on any level.
“Please. If you have any information, you need to be forthcoming. We want to help the girl,” the young officer said with sentiment his partner didn’t know he was capable of.
“Dimes,” Carlos said loudly. “I heard she’s dancing at Dimes.”
After writing down the information, the officer thanked Carlos for his cooperation and left. Armed with this new lead, they set off across town to scour the strip clubs.
* * *
Tiffany awoke in a strange bed with a stranger behind her. She scanned the room in an attempt to figure out where she was and with whom. It took several minutes for a few of the details that led her to the strange man’s bed to come back.
Remembering that she had agreed to $300 to spend the night, she quietly checked her purse. After counting the three new $100 bills, she began looking for her panties.
“Oww!” Tiffany winced from pain as she sat down. “Nasty bastard.” She frowned as the source of the pain came to mind. It was beyond her why some men wanted anal sex with a vagina an inch away. She tried to get dressed and leave, but her stirring woke the sleeping man.
“Mawnin’,” he said in a heavy Southern drawl.
A wave of shame swept over Tiffany as a view of the man’s face brought back more memories of the night she’d spent with him. He had definitely gotten his money’s worth…and then some. “Hey,” Tiffany replied, still rushing to dress. “Thank you for last night. I gotta go.”
“Hol’ up for a sec’, lil mama,” said the man, who looked to be the same age as her parents. He pulled back the sheets to reveal his morning erection.
“I gotta go!” Tiffany whined. She had enough money to get high for the day and definitely enough of this freak.
The man reached in his wallet and produced two more crisp $100 bills.
An hour later, she emerged from the hotel room with $500 and a serious pain in the ass. “Nasty bastard!” Tiffany cursed as she sat in her car.
* * *
Again, she thought about going home. But again, the monkey on her back demanded to be fed.
As she wrestled with the conflicting emotions, she watched curiously as an emaciated crackhead scurried away from P.I.G.’s house. “A knit dress in this heat?” Tiffany said, incredulous. It wasn’t until the junkie made a sideways glance before darting into traffic that she realized the horrid sight was her one-time friend and roommate and mentor, Wanda. The only thing in worse shape than Wanda herself was the Coogi dress she wore.
The enmity and malice Tiffany harbored toward the woman vanished in an instant. In that same instant, Tiffany saw what lay ahead of her on her own path if she didn’t pull it together. “What the hell am I doing?” she asked her reflection in the rearview mirror. She now noticed the changes in her appearance that she had ignored for months. “I’m going home!” Tiffany said adamantly. “Ima get me a few blasts, then I’m going home,” she said, her resolve vanishing.
When Tiffany walked into P.I.G.’s place, she was greeted by the usual suspects. They were all glued to the plasma screen, laughing as they smoked. She returned their greeting, then turned to see what had everyone so captivated. They were watching the just-shot footage of Wanda performing oral sex on everyone in the room, including the women. P.I.G. could be heard barking lewd orders that were immediately carried out. Wanda had the expressionless face of someone already dead. Her ribs and vertebrae could be counted through her ashy skin.
Tiffany felt the urge to drop everything and run home, but the urge to stay was stronger.
“You wanna be a star too?” P.I.G. asked with a chuckle.
“Excuse me!?” the old Tiffany asked, unsure if she had heard the fat man correctly. “You’ll never make me go out bad like that, you fat piece of shit!” she yelled as she approached him.
P.I.G. looked toward Earl for help, but Earl just turned his head.
If Tiffany had wanted to harm the man, she could have. Instead, she pummeled him verbally until her anger abated.
All of the occupants were in shock, knowing it was the kinda talk that got somebody either banned or degraded, the exact kind of insolence that had Wanda crawling on the floor performing for crumbs on the large screen that everyone was laughing at.
“Take it easy, sweetheart,” P.I.G. said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I was just joking.” His fear calmed as Tiffany did. “Blast, make sure you hook our girl up,” P.I.G. ordered as Tiffany took a seat.
Blast had a disgruntled air about her, sucking her teeth loudly as she set out to carry out her task. While she was gone, Tiffany saw the cause of her dismay. There Blast was on the screen with Wanda’s head stuck between her legs as P.I.G. barked sickening orders.
When Blast returned, she pressed the package into Tiffany’s hand and gave a discreet wink.
Tiffany glanced curiously into her hand and saw that Blast had slipped her an ounce instead of the eight ball she’d paid for. She quickly closed her hand, praying no one caught the exchange. They didn’t; they were too engrossed in Wanda, now blowing a reluctant Earl on the screen. Tiffany stood up and made her way to the door without bothering to seek permission.
Earl said nothing about the breach of protocol and opened the door for her.
When Tiffany sat in her car and stared at the large amount of dope, she swore it would be her last. The hotel room was paid up for a couple of days, and with that much crack, she wouldn’t have much use for food. The plan was simple: get high and then go home. But as was par for the course, when the drugs were gone, so was the plan.
CHAPTER 25
“Gurrl, the po-lice was by here looking for you!” a dark-skinned Hispanic dancer announced to Tiffany as soon as she walked in the club.
“For me? For what?” Tiffany frowned, scanning her frazzled memory for a reason the police would be looking for her.
Before Sangria could make up a reason she thought the police were hunting her, the club manager appeared. “Come with me,” the large woman said, wagging a thick finger.
Tiffany ran through a variety of excuses as they walked, but try as she did, she couldn’t come up with a good lie, as she had no clue what they wanted with her.
“Have a seat, dear,” the manager directed, taking a seat behind her desk.
“There must be some kinda misunderstanding,” Tiffany said, figuring that would cover a range of scenarios.
“Look, I don’t know why the cops are looking for you, and I don’t care,” the manager began.
Tiffany started to say something but was cut off by a wave of the woman’s chubby hand.
“They been here every day for the last few days, but of course you wouldn’t know that,” the manager said.
Tiffany tried to speak again, but again she was silenced by the puffy hand.
“You know I can’t have the folks in here like that. It’s bad for business. Once you handle your business, you can come back,” she said plainly.
“Well, whatcha gon’ do now?” Tiffany questioned herself as she walked back to her car. She’d smoked the last of the dope Blast gave her that morning. The rent was due, and she was dead broke. To top it all off, that monkey on her back would be squealing soon, demanding to be fed. It was beginning to stir already.
Tiffany pulled out on Metropolitan but had to slam on the brakes to avoid being hit by a car that cut across all lanes of traffic. “Where the fuck are you tryina go!?” she yelled as the reckless driver pulled a dangerous U-turn.
The driver pulled up to a skinny prostitute just before another car cou
ld. The woman jumped in, and the driver pulled off as carelessly as he’d pulled up. The second driver pounded his wheel, frustrated at missing out.
As distasteful as it was, Tiffany now knew where her next buck was coming from. It beat her first thought, which was to go perform for P.I.G. and his camera. The thought of Wanda crawling around on the floor unnerved her. She knew if she kept asking P.I.G. for handouts, he would try her too. In her drug-induced reasoning, turning tricks would allow her to keep her dignity. There would be no roomful of people, no camera, and no P.I.G.
Tiffany stood out among the skinny crack whores on the block. She only stood on the block for thirty seconds before a car came to a screeching halt in front of her. Once it was parked, it took her less than a minute relieve the middle-aged white man of his tension and money. She got out of the car, simultaneously spitting his semen on the ground and stuffing his money in her bra. “Not bad for a couple minutes’ work,” Tiffany said with a chuckle as she hit the block again.
In a couple of hours, she decided to close up shop with a little over $600 for her efforts. She wanted to stay a little longer, but the monkey wouldn’t have it.
* * *
P.I.G. was ecstatic about the impending drama. Once again, both Tiffany and Marcus had called minutes apart, saying they were on the way. Just to put more shit in the mix, he called Red’s son to claim the bounty. He sat back smugly and awaited the fireworks.
And fireworks were exactly what Marcus had in store for P.I.G. He parked in front and tucked the forty-caliber pistol in his pants. He had fucked up all the dope money from robbing Pony and turned exclusively to robbery. In his previous armed robberies, Marcus committed two murders. He heard about the price on his head and knew his days were numbered. The realization that his time on Earth had run its course only fueled his mayhem. He brazenly refused to wear a mask, not caring who recognized him. Besides Red’s sons, half of Atlanta was gunning for him.