Black Widow

by Nikki Turner

  Isis was on the phone with her sister. Phoebe had made the squad and was dishing on the other cheerleaders, and Isis was telling her about how her jewelry business was flourishing. Call-waiting beeped. “Phoebe, let me call you back. This is the third time this number has come up since we’ve been talking; it may be important.”

  “Okay, sister, but don’t forget what we talked about. I want one of your pieces for the guy I’m seeing. I’m headed to rehearsal.”

  “I won’t. See ya.” Isis pushed the connect button on her cell phone. “Hello?”

  “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” the caller asked.

  “Bam?” she replied. “Whose number are you calling from?”

  “Who the fuck you thought it was—Pebbles?” he half joked.

  “I’m at the mall. I was on the phone with my sister, and I didn’t recognize the number you were calling from, so I didn’t take the call. What’s up? Where are you?”

  “I’m in jail.”

  Chapter 7

  Nextacy

  It had been seven months, six days, and thirteen hours since Isis had received what she now just refered to as “the call.” From that point on, she faithfully showed up for every court proceeding related to Bam. Because Bam was a convicted felon, the Commonwealth of Virginia showed him no mercy whatsoever.

  Finding out that Bam had killed a man named Smiley, for reasons still unclear to her, raised mixed emotions in Isis. The prosecutor said it was a psychopathic, premeditated act. Bam’s lawyers said it was the act of a man in fear for his life and the lives of his family.

  Bam had broken into the house of Thomas “Smiley” Raskins through an unlocked basement window and waited for more than twenty-eight hours in a small pantry. The room was only five by five feet. It was unclear how Bam, at six feet two inches, had managed to wait for his prey for so long in those cramped conditions, but nothing can stop a man from achieving something that he’s determined to obtain. It doesn’t matter if that goal is to get the girl of his dreams, buy a new home, build a multimillion-dollar business, or kill a man.

  It was 2:17 AM on a Monday morning when Smiley returned home. Bam heard Smiley’s Mercedes 550 pull up into the driveway. The sound of two car doors being closed pierced the silence of the quiet neighborhood.

  Smiley was with a dancer whom he’d met at a club, Bare Essentials, three weeks earlier. Her stage name was Nextacy, and her body was the next best thing to Beyoncé’s, but she was prettier. She didn’t need a ten-thousand-dollar glam squad to make her look that way either. She was hands down the baddest chick in the club the night he met her.

  “Nothing has changed; you have to take your shoes off at the door,” Smiley said as he and Nextacy entered the house.

  Nextacy’s perfectly manicured toes disappeared into the three-inch-thick white carpet. “This house is even more beautiful than I remembered,” she cooed. “You sure you don’t have a woman living with you?” Smiley had brought her to his house the previous week while he took a shower before going out. They never did make it up to his bedroom that night because she had played the not-on-the-first-date card.

  Smiley had a white baby grand piano, white furniture, and a picture of a white albino panther on the wall. The panther looked like it was smiling. “Ya damn right I don’t got no bitch staying up in here with me, and I like it that way,” he said, flexing his independence.

  Smiley’s sharp tongue didn’t faze Nextacy one bit. He was a man, and she knew that once she gave him some real head, not that amateur shit that he’d been used to, and a dip between her legs into some of the best pussy on the East Coast, by morning he would have her ass on speed dial, money on the table, and a freshly cut key from Wal-Mart. Nextacy rubbed the front of Smiley’s pants; he was hard.

  “I feel you, playboy,” she teased. “Can I get a sip of something wet before I empty your tank?”

  Smiley knew that the bitch was superhot in the ass when he first laid eyes on her. That’s why he had to have her. “I got more than enough to quench your thirst,” he said, “but what else would you like?”

  Nextacy looked at his crotch and licked her lips. “Some Patrón, a can of whipped cream, and you will do just fine.”

  “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

  Bam heard Smiley enter the kitchen, get glasses from a cabinet, and take something out the refrigerator. He was tempted to come out and slump him right then, but the time wasn’t right—the girl. It had to be perfect. Patience pays the piper.

  Bam’s military timepiece showed that eight minutes had elapsed since he heard the two of them go upstairs. Another thirty minutes had passed when he heard the headboard of the bed banging against the wall. He smiled.

  It was time to come out of the closet.

  When Bam got to the top of the staircase, he followed the noise to the master bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. Looking through the opening, Bam witnessed one of the finest women he’d ever laid eyes on on her knees and handcuffed to the bedpost, and Smiley was behind her, shoving about ten inches of muscle in her ass. Unless this chick had taken acting lessons from Halle Berry, she was loving every stroke of it.

  Bam walked through the door and tossed his own set of cuffs onto the bed. Smiley jerked around, staring down the barrel of an AK-47. “It ain’t no fun if yo’ homie can’t have none,” Bam sneered. “Put ’em on.”

  When Nextacy saw the gun, she mouthed a silent prayer.

  Smiley looked at the cuffs, then at Bam, then at the assault rifle Bam was holding.

  “This ain’t no multiple-choice test,” Bam warned. “Wrap ’em around the other post just like you got the bitch.”

  Smiley did as he was told, and then Bam walked over to the side of the bed where Nextacy was and uncuffed her.

  “It’s about time,” she said. “What took you so long?”

  “You stankin’ bitch,” Smiley hissed. “You set me up?”

  Bam rubbed Nextacy on her backside. “Teach that fool how to treat a lady for me.” He nodded toward a dildo that was on the night table.

  She grinned.

  Smiley was horrified. “What do you think you’re going to do with that, bitch?” Smiley spat.

  Nextacy smacked the twelve-inch phallus in her hand one time and then spit on it. “I’m going to show you how to treat a lady.”

  If Bam hadn’t put the rag in Smiley’s mouth before Nextacy violated his private space, the noise from his screaming would have woken the dead. After she finished having her fun, Bam removed an eight-inch, razor-sharp hunting knife from his small gym bag with his latex-gloved hand. He pressed the blade against Smiley’s throat and said, “You shoulda just been satisfied with sharing the pussy. No ass is worth dying over.”

  Then he swiftly maneuvered the cold steel from one side of Smiley’s neck to the other, severing everything in its path. After he watched Smiley bleed to death, he placed the knife back in the bag, and this time came out with a .22-caliber revolver with a silencer and pointed it at Nextacy’s head.

  “Why, Bam?” she asked. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “It’s nothing personal.” He fired the small weapon three times into her skull.

  Isis sat and watched from the edge of her seat as Nextacy’s friend, Revlon, took the stand and told all the sordid details about how Nextacy had planned to stop dancing because of the money she was going to be paid by Bam for helping him set up a man named Smiley who had been frequenting the club.

  The prosecutor showed Revlon a picture and asked, “Is this the man you know as Smiley?”

  Revlon took a long look at the photo. “Yes,” she said, “that’s him.”

  “And is the man you know as Bam in this courtroom today?” the prosecutor asked.

  “Yes, he is.”

  Then the prosecutor asked, “Can you point to him, please?”

  Revlon twisted around in the witness chair, looking more like a secretary than a stripper in her gray business suit, and pointed to Bam. “That
’s him right there.”

  It took the jury just two and a half hours to bring back a verdict of guilty for both murders. Bam’s sentencing date was scheduled for two weeks later. The jury had to decide whether to give him a life sentence or the death penalty. It didn’t make much difference to Bam. To Bam, life inside of prison was death. But he wasn’t going to cry about it. The way he looked at it, you do what you do and you get what you get. That was all there was to it. He wouldn’t go out like a sucker in order for them to spare his life.

  Although Bam had mistreated Isis, she was still willing to stand by her man. He had rescued her when she was being evicted and made sure that she had all the necessary funds to chase her dream, and like her daddy had said, “You gotta love who loves you.”

  So at least Bam was alive and well, and that was more than she could ask for. So as long as Bam loved her, she was going to love him.

  When Bam was first arrested, he sent her to his stash, which contained just over a half million dollars. After she paid for his lawyer, the investigator, money on his books, and some other expenses, there was still a pretty penny left.

  It wasn’t that Isis had forgotten what Bam had done to her—she could never forget—but she had forgiven him. All couples had their problems; some were just larger than others. And although Bam had abused her, she was prepared to make his prison stay as comfortable as humanly possible, even if it meant paying a guard to turn his head while they snuck into the prison restroom to have sex. Maybe they would even make that baby that he had promised her that they would have when the time was right.

  Bam told her that he loved her and that he would never cross her. He said that she had been his only true love from the first time that he had met her, and that she would be his only true love until the day he died. In return, Isis vowed that she would stay faithful to him until the bitter end, much like the promise she had made to Dave when he was sentenced to death.

  Chapter 8

  The Motherfucking Ring

  Not knowing her man’s destiny caused Isis to have many sleepless nights. On the day of Bam’s sentencing, she ended her fight with the bed by throwing in the towel and getting up to get dressed. After she got her gear on, she hit the road early enough to stop for breakfast. The traffic on the highway was as slow as a snail going up a San Francisco hill, but she arrived at the courthouse at 8:55.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a guard yelled, “empty out your pockets of change and any metal objects. Cell phones are not permitted in the courtroom. We are not allowed to keep them at the desk, so if you have one, take it to your car now. It’ll save us the trouble of having to pat you down twice, and save you from having to stand in line wasting time.” He recited his spiel as if it were a nursery rhyme.

  Though long, the line moved quickly. In fact, the lady in front of Isis couldn’t get everything out of her pockets fast enough with her son on her hip. The woman caught her attention for several reasons. First, she was there unescorted with a baby, so she was fairly certain that the lady was there for the same reason as she: to witness the fate of her man, who was probably her baby’s father. Second, she felt sorry when she saw the lady struggling with her baby, a Gucci diaper bag, and a Gucci purse, which matched her and her child’s Gucci sneakers.

  Are kids even supposed to be in the courtroom? The thought ran through Isis’s mind as she smiled at how the mother was holding it all down. That’s the shit we do, that superwoman shit, whatever we have to do to make shit happen for our men. Now that’s the part that Maya missed in her poem “Phenomenal Woman,” she thought.

  The last reason was the jewelry that the lady sported. Isis had a habit of peeping fly jewels; it didn’t matter if it was on a person walking down the street, in a magazine, or in the window of a jewelry store. All of the girl’s pieces were immaculate. The watch was a Cartier, as thin as a silver dollar. She was wearing a beautiful tennis bracelet that had to have at least ten carats of diamonds running through it. The sparkle was reflecting off the Gucci shades that covered her sad eyes. From the looks of the rest of her outfit, Isis knew that the ring on the girl’s finger would be nothing short of stunning, but she would have to get a little closer to see it.

  The bejeweled woman could tell that Isis was peeping her, so she held her hand at an angle to better flaunt the ring.

  Isis finally just came out and said something. “That’s a beautiful ring you’re wearing. Can I look at it?”

  “Yup.” The girl threw her hand out there as if she were Elizabeth Taylor before adding, “My man had it specially made for me.” Before Isis could get in a compliment, the chick was quick to say, “Yes honey, they’re pink dye-mons, not pink sapphires. A lot of peoples gets dem mixed up.”

  Isis recognized it as one of her own creations. Then the woman spoke to her son. “Stop, Bam-Bam. Don’t do that. Don’t make me tell your daddy.” Isis felt as if a frigid dagger had been plunged into her heart.

  Could it be? she thought. “What?” she said, stunned by the little boy, who had an uncanny likeness to her man. Isis had been so busy looking over his mother that she hadn’t paid much attention to the little boy until now.

  “I was talking to my son,” she pointed at the little boy. “Are you finished admiring my ring? Because I got to get into the courtroom to find out what these crackers are gonna do to my man today.”

  To add insult to injury, Isis noticed a tattoo on the woman’s arm that was identical to the one she had on her inner thigh that read Bam.

  The woman said, “Come on, Bam-Bam,” and the little family stormed off.

  Isis didn’t quite know what to think as her man’s son and other woman strolled away. She couldn’t find the words to call the woman back, and if she did know what to say, her tongue didn’t want any part of the conversation. She just stood there as if in cement boots, trying to process what she had just seen.

  This is some motherfucking, fucked-up-ass shit. This bitch is wearing the same fucking ring that I designed—for myself—as a make-up gift from Bam, after he whipped my ass and made me lose my baby, she thought.

  The room started to spin when she reflected back on the brutally effective tactic Bam had used to ensure that she was no longer four months pregnant. “You have too much on your plate right now with your jewelry gig and all, and didn’t you tell me…that you wanted to do some traveling?…You will appreciate me when your career is booming and all is going well. When the time is right, we will have us a baby,” he had told her.

  Bam had played her like a video game. His best friend had even played a part in his little game of charades. He had had Drop-Top convince her to make him the exact same ring as hers—only in pink instead of yellow—as a Valentine’s Day present for his girlfriend. But in reality, it was for Bam’s girlfriend. Bam was sick. Only a demented, twisted person would do something like that.

  Isis started to feel light-headed. Her only thought before she fainted was I can’t let him get away with this shit.

  When Isis regained consciousness, she was at the hospital, where the doctor informed her that she had had a panic attack brought on by stress and anxiety. The doctor told her that the best way to avoid having another one was to try to stay stress free and do stress-relieving exercises.

  Isis listened as the doctor gave his diagnosis and decided that she had the perfect tension-breaking exercise: it was called the Pay Bam Back theory.

  Like mother, like daughter. History would indeed repeat itself. Just as Isis’s mother had killed her father for being unfaithful, she would kill Bam. But she was going to slay him in another way. That $313,000 he had left with her was history. She didn’t care if he didn’t have enough money on his books to buy a bar of soap; she was done with him.

  The way Isis saw it, because the other woman had the same ring, same tattoo, and his seed, he had probably left her double that amount of money. Let her take care of him; Isis was out. Now all she had to do was to convince herself that the $313,000 was enough severance pay for her broken he
art.

  After court, Bam tried to call her. He wondered why she wasn’t in the courtroom when the judge followed the jury’s recommendation and gave him life in prison. He tried calling her all day, but she never answered his calls.

  She decided to take the advice that Dave had given her in the very last letter that he ever wrote: “Live for yourself for a change. Let someone serve and wait on you. You deserve it.” She could hear Dave’s voice in her head saying the words over and over.

  “Thank you, Dave. I will,” Isis said out loud.

  All she needed now was a change of scenery, somewhere she could go to clear her mind, to find herself, to discover what she really wanted.

  She called Samantha to get some suggestions on where should she escape to.

  “Child, there’s only one place,” Aunt Samantha said.

  “Where?” Isis was curious.

  “Vegas!”

  “Vegas?” she questioned. Vegas didn’t seem like a place where she could find peace of mind.

  “Yes, Vegas. There you could see and meet all kinds of people. The shopping is fabulous; the shows and entertainment are great. You loved it that one time I took you, back when you first came to stay with me, remember?”

  “Yes, but I was hanging with a bunch of drama-filled drag queens.”

  “Which you loved, and besides, the weather is hot just like you like it…. And what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

  Isis let out a small chuckle, but her aunt knew her mind was somewhere else, so she called her on it. “Where is that little mind of yours roaming around to?”

  “Nowhere,” Isis quickly answered.

  “Oh, it’s somewhere, Ms. Thang. Spill it out. You know I know when you tell me lies.” The mother in her poured out in her tone.