From literary icon and Essence bestselling author of Imagine This and Dirty Red comes forth the classic urban novel that launched Vickie Stringer’s wildly successful career—Let That Be the Reason. This is the remix. Based on Stringer’s real-life experiences, this epic tale has changed the face of contemporary literature and continues to resonate and provide voice to thousands of urban readers as a cautionary tale of will and redemption.
Pamela Xavier is a young woman left for dead by her drug-dealing boyfriend, Chino. With stacks of bills, no food in the fridge, and a baby on the way, Pammy turns to the streets for survival. Her back against the wall, Pammy relies on her alter ego, Carmen, to guide her through the male-dominated game and to achieve what she thinks will buy back her life and her happiness: money. In no time, Carmen graduates from call-girl service to leader of a major drug cartel—all to raise her son so he may never know her same pain and struggle. But with money on her mind, Carmen soon realizes that the perilous choices and consequences of the game come at a much higher cost than she could ever have imagined.
Let That Be the Reason in this collector’s edition, including additional chapters and dialogue, is a true-to-life saga of a woman’s love, ambition to survive, forgiveness, and salvation.
VICKIE M. STRINGER is the author of the Essence bestsellers Dirty Red and Imagine This. She is the publisher of Triple Crown Publications, one of the most successful African-American book publishers in the country and abroad. She has been featured in magazines and newspapers such as The New York Times, Newsweek, Essence, and Black Expressions. She lives in Columbus, Ohio, with her two children.
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COVER DESIGN BY PATRICK KANG • COVER PHOTOGRAPH BY ERNEST WASHINGTON/GETTY IMAGES • AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY PETER CHIN
Also by Vickie M. Stringer
STILL DIRTY
DIRTY RED
IMAGINE THIS
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Vickie M. Stringer
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Atria Paperback edition March 2009
ATRIA PAPERBACK and colophon are trademarks of
Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Designed by Nancy Singer
Library of Congress Control Number: 2008922287
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-7048-6
ISBN-10: 1-4165-7048-9
ISBN-13: 978-1-41657-069-1 (eBook)
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Acknowledgments
For Valen-Mychal Stringer, my reason why
One
“Hello, may I help you?”
Click.
Ring… ring.
“Hello! May I help you?”
“You got any girls that speak Greek?”
“No!”
Click.
What did he mean by that?
It was my first day answering the phones—my phones. I could not believe I had actually started my very own escort service.
I was living in a very expensive two-bedroom apartment with my only child, my beautiful son. He was seven months old at the time. My stacks of bills were getting taller and taller by the day, but there was no help from his father or his father’s family. It was rough. I refused to ask for help from my own family because I had too much pride. When I was forced to go on welfare, it broke my spirit, but my son needed medical care. So I did what I had to. I was struggling to maintain the lifestyle I’d had with his father, Chino. Which led me right to tricking and the escort service.
Chino was a self-made millionaire. Okay, maybe not a millionaire, but he was paid. He was a big-time drug dealer, so we had plenty of material things and a ghetto-fabulous lifestyle. That came to a harsh end, and now he has a new wife and a new life.
Chino and I had been owners of an exclusive, full-service hair salon that we built from our vision… our dreams. The space we rented was in an up-and-coming shopping plaza on Columbus’s east side. It started as drywalls and cement floors. I can remember the excitement we felt as we watched the salon take shape and evolve into the vision we shared. On a daily basis, I walked the square footage of the salon planning, dreaming and envisioning what it would become. By night I browsed magazine layouts with the desire to duplicate the sleek images on the pages. With passion and complete faith, I communicated my particulars to the contracting team.
After months of hard work, our salon was finished—its black-and-white color scheme blended with state-of-the-art salon equipment to form our stylish yet practical enterprise. We included everything a salon should have: European-style shampoo bowls with padded recliners, marble countertops and inlays to hold hair products, silver cage towel holders and brass magazine racks placed within reach of the clients seated at the dryers. We installed individual oversized dryers with see-through hoods, which lined the west wall of the salon. In the reception area sat an oversized black lacquer desk with a fresh-cut flower bouquet. To show our clients that we appreciated them, we placed a counter stocked with complimentary snacks by the entrance.
Our salon was fit for the pages of a trendsetting magazine. It was the first of its kind in Columbus, Ohio, something the city had never seen. And we did this together. One could not have succeeded without the other. We were a team, and L-O-Quent Hair Salon was our dream. A dream that came true.
One of my numerous opening duties included wiping the fingerprints and smudges off the windows from the faces pressed against the glass the previous night of people peering inside to behold the transformation of the salon. We put over $50,000 into that place. Well, he did, because after all, it was his money. But it was my sweat and stress that pulled it all together.
I can remember Chino and me in the salon, when we had it all finished. We were alone, holding hands and walking around feeling the rush. Chino said, “Look, Pooh, we did it!”
Breat
hlessly I said, “I know, it is so beautiful. Thank you. Are you proud?” I always needed his approval. His opinion was everything to me.
“Pooh, I am so proud of you. It looks great. Let’s put on some music.” He turned on the Sony surround-sound system and jazz floated through the air.
After turning off the lights, he took me in his safe and reassuring arms, and we danced on the shiny checkerboard floor. I tingled from his touch and felt as if I were floating. At that moment, success was already ours and I knew there were even more remarkable things to come. The business partnership was only one facet of our commitment to each other. We knew that together, the sky was the limit. Chino and I even hoped to open an all-inclusive day spa if L-O-Quent was successful.
I became accustomed to the financial and emotional stability he offered, and to top it off, we had been discussing marriage. I was on cloud nine and ready to seal the deal. Pammy and Chino together forever. Whoever said that forever meant for life was a damn fool because my “forever” ended sooner than later.
I began noticing a change in Chino. He began to distance himself from me and what we had created together. I figured he was under a lot of stress and hoped that what he was going through was only temporary. After all, I was his Pooh.
Three years later, my whole life came crashing down. I sold my dream salon for only $20,000. A small fraction of what it was worth, but I was thankful for even that price since I had no money left. During our breakup, I allowed the salon to fall apart. Everything was jeopardized; the phone, lights, water—all threatened to be turned off. But the staff kept working, anticipating my return to work. I refused to go in and was unwilling to take phone calls from the stylists seeking answers. I had none. Unable to face them and deal with my situation, I walked away.
The breakup was humiliating. I escaped to my mother’s home for solitude, and I let go. I recklessly sped through money like everything was a bad dream and wasn’t real. I wanted to believe that my Chino wouldn’t do this to me. Not to me! We had everything, or I should say, he had everything. I was just the temporary beneficiary. After Chino left, to add more fuel to the fire, he refused to give me any support at all. Bastard! Alone for the first time in many years, I needed to learn to budget and to pick up other commonsense skills I had not developed under Chino’s controlling rules.
How could he be so cruel? I have asked myself this many times. How could he be unwilling to lend support to his son? Whatever the circumstances surrounding our breakup, he should not have allowed our child to suffer. That was not the man that I had fallen deeply in love with. This Chino was a stranger to me. His cold indifference toward my situation made me feel like I never meant anything to him, and that the child we shared was nothing more than an inconsequential result of a night’s passion. He was obviously punishing me by withholding support, but why?
“Chino, I can’t deal with this shit! Bitches callin’ the shop looking for you. What’s up with that?”
“What are you talking about? I’m right here, right now, with you. I can’t even walk in the door without you stressin’.”
“Darling, it’s three motherfuckin’ a.m. What am I supposed to say, ‘How was your day?’” As easily as he had come into our home, he snatched up his coat and car keys to leave. Not wanting him to go but to stay and discuss how we had come to this, I asked the obvious: “Where are you going?”
“Out!”
As much as I was overwhelmed by feelings of vulnerability, I was even more compelled by maternal instinct. The survival of my child was what mattered most. Flat broke, I was unable to provide for him. My family had given me enough “I told ya so’s,” so I couldn’t go to them. I needed money, and fast. I got a Sunday newspaper and began a diligent job search.
I was qualified for a little of everything because of my work at the salon: public relations, decision making, accounting, problem solving, and so on. Problem was, I had no “paper” to substantiate that fact. The importance of a college degree became apparent, and I immediately regretted not continuing my college education. I became a college dropout the day I met Chino. How could I trade in college so easily for a life of uncertainty? Only someone who has never met Chino would ask this question. He could persuade you that the sky was green when you knew it was blue. The gift of gab was what this man possessed, and eventually, he possessed me, too. It’s called selling a dream, or in my case, purchasing one.
Blinded by my first love, I bought into his ideas about how our life should be. At age seventeen, his words filled my heart and I abandoned my courses for his vision for the family—his family—the Triple Crown Posse.
I went on several interviews at fast-food joints and for secretary gigs, but no one called back. I couldn’t fully understand why. I had run a very successful salon. I had won hair show competitions and was even on TV because of it. I’d had a full staff of outstanding stylists and two receptionists. I’d sold hair products, clothes, makeup and more. Why am I not qualified?
In my desperation and embarrassment, I returned to the cosmetology industry. It was difficult for me to work in someone else’s salon since I had been a successful owner of my own business. But I had to feed my son, so I did it. Every day, customers wouldn’t allow me to forget that I was a has-been.
“Didn’t you own L-O-Quent?” a snobby woman with a mud mask inquired.
“What?” I replied with obvious contempt for the question.
“Did he take it from you?” someone else would ask.
“Did Chino take your salon from you?” The questions seemed endless.
They cut close to home because they all seemed true. Basically, I lost my salon over a piece of ass and a nervous breakdown. I discovered Chino was having an affair while I wore an engagement ring that I thought symbolized our bond. Chino wanted to betray me, and I wanted to escape the pain. Ultimately, he let go of me, and I simply let go of everything.
On the outside, I acted indifferent about it, but inside, it tore me into tiny little pieces that are still not together and may never be. But I had to go on, and I pray that one day I can let go of the pain for good and move on for the sake of my son.
I did well in this other person’s salon, and my confidence grew. After a few months, I could walk into work and not feel badly about myself. I was healing.
It wasn’t long before the salon owner began to demand longer hours from me. She was a very insensitive boss. I’d been a boss once and I knew the difference between reasonable and unreasonable demands. I had an infant and his day care closed at 5:30 p.m. I had no sitter for him; my mom lived in Michigan, the next state over. I had put all my trust in Chino and got burned, so I was reluctant to set myself up for another letdown by trusting other people to take care of my son. I quit working at the salon and began to do nails at home. The hours worked better, but I wasn’t earning enough money. For a normal lifestyle, it was enough, but what was normal for me? In my former life, the word “budget” was not in my vocabulary. I wasn’t used to worrying about rent, utilities, clothing and car maintenance. Welfare covered the food, but eating bologna when you’re used to eating prime rib is a big adjustment. Life with Chino was like “Whatever my Pooh wants, she can have.” Chino gave me the luxury cars, the expensive jewelry, and he kept a roof over my head. He took me on spur-of-the-moment vacations to Vegas and Mexico and on romantic getaways when he thought he hadn’t been paying enough attention to me. He would have paid someone to wipe my ass if that’s what I wanted. Going from being the center of his world to being shit on wasn’t something I thought would happen in my wildest nightmares.
With the demands of single motherhood and day-to-day living, I began sinking further into debt, all the while trying to live the lifestyle to which I was accustomed, hoping Chino would come back. I began to pawn things to get back on track. I even sold my son’s bedroom set to a children’s resale store. Yes! It was like that. So I returned to the newspaper with the hopes of finding something… anything that would help me live outside my definition
of poverty. With tears in my eyes and a weight on my heart, I read: HELP WANTED. START TODAY. ESCORT. GREAT MONEY. I thought, Can I “date” someone for sex? It repulsed me, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so I called.
A man named Tony answered the phone and was so convincing. Tony was a smooth talker. When I informed him of what I already knew about escort services, he didn’t deny or confirm anything. Instead he dangled the carrot of unlimited income in my face. He told me that most of the girls made a minimum of a grand a day. That did it. I took the bait and he reeled me in. I went to the address Tony provided and was disappointed that I did not find a building like in the movies, all glamorous and glittery. Instead, I found a house in the ghetto off Cleveland Avenue, and here I was in my nicest suit.
Tony had the look of a retired playboy, with a body that seemed like it used to be in shape. He had a few cuts on his arms that were visible as he took drags on his cigarette. He had handsome, light hazel eyes, but some facial scars like he had gotten his ass whipped a time or two. He had a way with words, using them to get his way. I knew it was a game. Chino had taught me a lot about smooth talkers. Not enough to outsmart him, but enough for me to spot a con. He’d say, “Pooh, game recognize game.” But I was desperate; the perfect mark, so I went for it.
Tony said, “You can make two hundred in fifteen minutes.”
That’s $800 an hour, I calculated quickly.
We talked while the phones rang like crazy. As I sat there, he described me to a caller.
The money got me moving. I went to what is called an outcall. An outcall is when the girl goes to the guy, known as a “john.” The address was a hot tub rental place, and when I pulled up in front of the building, my heart sank to the pit of my stomach. Feelings of shame swarmed over me until goose pimples surfaced on my arms. Dirty, filthy, tramp-like visions played tricks on my mind.
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