“Hand jobs is ten dollars, blowjobs is twenty dollars, sex is fifty dollars. Always use a rubber and don’t go anywhere suspect with more guys than you can handle. Stay away from the other pimps or they’ll think you’re choosing. That means like you’re looking for a new pimp. If you get locked up call Frankie, he gonna take it out cho’ ass if he have to bail you out, that’s what happened to Lexy. Rule number one, have Frankie’s paper, and rule number, um, one . . . don’t get busted.” She rattled off rules like she was reciting her bedtime prayers. I wanted to ask if both of the rules were number one because they were that important, but I left it alone. Royce talked in a spaced out, breathy little voice like she was in a galaxy far, far away.
Hours later, I was out there with thoughts flying through my head, driving me crazy at around 145 mph. All I knew was that it was gonna be a helluva long way before I saw $30,000. My first hand job was easy as hell, and after that I kept getting those left and right. Lacy walked over to ask my secret.
I shrugged. “I just stand there like y’all do and tell ’em it’s ten dollars; ain’t no secret.”
She looked dumbfounded. “Ten dollars! Ho, is you crazy? Hand jobs are twenty dollars. Frankie is gonna have your ass if he finds out the only reason you makin’ any money is because you out here giving discounts on your first damn day.” She rolled her neck at me.
I almost popped her smart ass in the mouth for threatening to rat me out, and Royce for telling me the wrong prices. Spacey or not, she only did that shit because she was ruthless and wanted to stay the top earner. Showed me to never trust nobody no matter what. Just to show them hoes I wasn’t playin’, I waited until all they asses went to sleep and any nasty douche bottle left sitting in the bathroom got dipped in toilet water. Nasty-ass heffas ain’t know better, then I’d show their asses better.
After about a week I was the top earner and everybody except Lacy was up in the clinic with they snatch smelling like a sewer rat’s ass. That week, Frankie Diamonds took me to see Rasheed for the first time. He cried when I tried to hold him like he didn’t know who I was, and Mona clucked her tongue, taking him back from me.
“Mona, you seen or heard anything about Ray?”
“He moved from what I heard, don’t know where. His ass win the lottery or something?”
I smirked. “Yeah, or something.” I couldn’t believe he’d just leave without even looking for me or trying to help me. He didn’t even have the nerve to face Frankie, and here I was selling myself to pay back the money he was out enjoying? I changed the subject. “How you been doing, though? You okay with the baby and everything?”
“Me and little man here is good. He get gassy at night and wake up fussy, but Auntie Mona taking good care of you ain’t she?” She cooed at my baby and he smiled up at her. “Oh, sis, let me borrow about ten dollars. I’m gonna need to go get Rasheed some more formula.”
I gave her ten out of the money I had to pay out to Frankie; it’d be nothing to make it back up. Frankie beeped, and I kissed Mona’s and Rasheed’s cheeks.
After working for Frankie Diamonds for three years, I finally decided to ask him how much I’d made him. He was sitting in the bathtub in the master bedroom at the house. It was one of the few times he actually stayed there during the week. The other girls were in the bedroom fighting over the clothes he’d brought us. He liked to keep us pitted against each other. Normally, I’d have already picked mine out and left the rest for them to fight over since I had the top spot. I had more pressing matters to deal with than cheap clothes.
“You ain’t the tally keeper, you the tail. You earn the tally and I run the tally wagon. When you hit your mark, I’ll give you your letter.” Frankie smirked at me.
He tried to brush me off, but I wasn’t having it. I handed him my notebook wrapped in a towel so he couldn’t complain about his hands being too wet to take it.
“I know, baby. You love your Diamond Ambassador pimp, and you wrote me a poem or song or some other beautiful sonnettical form of self-expression and shit. I’m relaxing in my bath. I’ll look at it later.” Closing his eyes, he laid his head back on the rolled-up towel on the ledge, mumbling, “Y’all hoes kill me thinking you worth a nigga every waking breath.”
“That’s because I am worth it. This year I started tracking every dick I’ve had to touch for a dollar. I’ve made you a total $115,200!” I screamed at him, throwing my notebook at his head.
You start to touch so many twenties and hundreds in a day and then you see a man with all these diamonds, watches, and furs. It makes you start to wonder what it all adds up to. The other girls didn’t question shit, because as long as they had their dope for the night, or Frankie got them that bottle of whatever they liked to drink, they were fine. My ass got out there every night. More sober than a got-damn saint. I seen what that shit did to Mona, and I wasn’t touchin’ none of it.
There was a particular Friday night when I got out on that corner before sundown at six p.m. and didn’t get in until the sun came up the next morning at seven. During those thirteen hours I made $975. That was in one day. Made me wonder where ol’ Frankie really went when he stayed gone days and nights on end. He took me on a run with him once, to get dresses. He told me to go try shit on while he paid. I watched through the slats in the fitting room; he leaned ’cross that counter, running his mouth. When he was done, we were pulling around back and the bags went in the trunk. That register didn’t ring, ching, or nothing. Our money wasn’t even going toward us.
It had gotten dead quiet outside that bathroom, which meant all ears were probably glued to the door.
“Look here.” Frankie sat up in the bathtub, adjusting the shower cap on his head. “What I tell you about trying to count higher than what you can hold in one night? Ho business is yo’ business and dough business is mine. Unless you got receipts, I don’t know what the fuck you talking about. Matter of fact, if you made that much and it ain’t cross my palm”—he slapped the palm of his hand, spraying bubbles and strawberry-scented water into the air—“bitch, you betta go find my motherfuckin’ money! Delusional ass. Hey, hey now! What the hell y’all give this ho to smoke before you . . .”
I didn’t think about it. It was one of those things that you just see in your head over and over every day. Especially when you’re laid up under some stranger and he’s just sweating and gruntin’ over top of you. Or someone’s got you by the back of the head and they’re mashing your face into they stank balls for a measly fifty dollars. This is life day in and day out because a nigga says he’ll kill you and everything you love.
One day I pulled that fantasy out of my head and made it happen. I turned to walk out of that bathroom knowing for a fact that I’d made this clown-ass poor excuse of a nigga well over $100,000. I’d lost my family behind it, and sad to say, for all that, I barely had more than three grand to my name.
The curling irons sizzled when I knocked them off the edge of the sink into that bathtub. I could never put in words the way Frankie the Ambassador Diamonds smelled as he stewed in his own excrements in that tub. Burning flesh has a smell that’s all its own. It’s kind of like how bacon smells exactly like bacon, you can’t describe it, you just know it. He got fried to a crisp, knocked out the power in a four-block radius. And it all smelled like salvation to me.
I took his car keys and drove home to see my baby.
Chapter 19
Burn Bitches Like Bridges
(The Other Side of Miami)
There’s only two times that a man is actually scared to walk into his own house. One is when you don’t know who in there. That morning, I’d stood in front of the door trying to perfect my game face before I walked in on that second moment—a pissed-off woman with Lord knows what as a weapon. I’d driven around the rest of the night hazy as fuck, piecing together exactly what I thought she’d heard, but the shit was fuzzy. There wasn’t gonna be any lying my way out of this; she wasn’t the one to play with like that.
Exhausted, I gav
e up and went home when the sun started hurting my eyes. I’d gone up in there, ready to face damn near anything except an empty house. Shiree sent my calls straight to voicemail, so I privatized my number and started calling. She turned off her phone. I kicked myself for being so damn stupid. Last thing I remember was laying my ass across the bed, fully clothed, still buzzing from the long night.
Hissing woke me up. Shiree hissed in my face; her nose was so close to mine I actually jumped when I saw her.
“Shiree, baby,” I started to explain, wanted to explain everything to her.
She held her finger up to my lip and shushed me. “You could have at least taken off your nut-stained jeans nigga. Don’t even try to start a lie. Worried about me at work and you out doing you.” She sneered.
I’d started to sit up; maybe I could reason with her or plead, beg her to stay, I didn’t know. She laid her hand on my chest, motioning for me to lie back down. I ain’t know if we was about to angry fuck or what. Tense as hell, I did as directed. My head wasn’t flat on the pillow before she was floating a damn Mason jar right above my forehead.
She looked down at me out the corner of her eye. “Ah, ah, ah. Don’t do that or you might make me spill it,” she said in a calm quiet voice.
“What’s going on, Shiree? What the hell is that?”
“Shhh. Acetic acid can eat through skin. You’d be amazed at what I have access to in the lab, Rasheed. I’d do worse to you, but karma is comin’ around and it’s gonna fuck you over better than I ever could. You’ve got me confused if you think I’m about to have this baby myself.”
Baby? I ain’t even know she was . . . was it mine? Of course it was mine. The cool glass bottom of the jar felt like a lethal iceberg resting on my forehead as Shiree removed her hand, letting it balance itself out. Holding my breath I watched her out the corner of my eye as she slowly backed away from the bed. I wanted to cuss at her ass so bad my lip twitched.
“I packed all my stuff while you were in your drugged-up, hoed-out coma. See how much the world loves you, when you and your pretty dick ain’t so fuckin’ pretty.”
I heard her call out in a petty voice from the doorway, but all my focus was on not breathing, blinking, or moving. Shit, she was probably bluffing and that shit wasn’t nothing more than bleach, but I didn’t want to take any chances with hit. The smoke detectors were going off and I could smell smoke, even see it out the corner of my eye. If I ain’t think of something quick that shit would have me coughing and it’d be a wrap.
I prayed every prayer I’d ever heard or read and I smacked the jar off my head, rolling to the side simultaneously. It shattered against the closet, sizzling and fizzing.
That crazy bitch really set a jar of acid on top of my fuckin’ head!
I’d be mad about it later; first I had to figure out what the hell was smoking. The couch in the living room was completely engulfed in flames. All my clothes were up there, my kicks, my dress shoes. I couldn’t have slept that hard.
Grabbing the fire extinguisher out of the kitchen, I got the fire put out. The fire department still showed up because all the smoke set off the alarms in the building. I lied and said a cigarette fell. Couldn’t risk throwing her crazy ass under the bus out of spite; she was liable to throw the bus right back at me. After the fire department left, I checked my voicemail and tried to find something clean to put on. She’d actually managed to fit every piece of clothing I owned on that damn couch. I was reduced to washin’ the crotch of my jeans in the sink until I could roll out to buy some more.
That made me think of car keys. I panicked. Thankfully, they were still on the table by the front door. I checked my car and it didn’t seem like she’d tampered with it, so I was good. It felt like a piece of my damn heart was missing, and it was my own fault. She ain’t even want to hear anything I had to say. On top of all that, she was havin’ my baby. How far along was she? Man, Shiree couldn’t get rid of it; that wasn’t an option. She’d come around; she’d have to come back around and hear me out. I returned Angelo’s call to get my mind off Shiree’s craziness.
The phone didn’t even ring a whole ring before he picked up.
“Angelo, what, was you sitting on top of your phone waiting for those chicks from the club to hit you back?” Hopefully he’d be able to get me out of this foul-ass mood I was in.
He shrieked in my ear, “You cut me out and cut a deal with my pop?”
Or not. I grimaced. It hadn’t crossed my mind that Angelo would eventually find out and that he’d be pissed when he did. Shit, Shiree messed up my planning process. I’d have normally sat down and figured something like that out.
“You act like I can’t still cut you in as a partner. Shit like this happens when you run off and get buck-naked with the natives when you’re supposed to be in the skybox discussing politics. I keep telling you that it’s all about opportunity and preparation.”
“Opportunity and preparation? That’s what it’s about you say? Well, I’m prepared to find other opportunities and I hope you have a backup plan. We are no longer equals; you will bow.”
The line went silent, and I sat there trying to figure out what the hell to make out of that shit. Why did these Italians have to be on that damn emotionally dramatic shit? On the corner, a dude would just be like, “Yo, I’m mad you cut me out of that deal. I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ you no more, watch your back.” At the end of the day, it was over and you knew exactly where you stood. You will bow? What the fuck was he on with that? I looked at the clock and jumped into action. Half the day was already gone, and I still needed to meet Don Cerzulo.
The plan was to get there an hour early and park around back. That way I’d know if anyone sketchy showed up, or if anyone had eyes on the building I could hopefully see when they arrived and set up. Don Cerzulo walked up to my car and tapped on the window.
“You’d have to have been here yesterday to get a jump on me, wet pigeon.” He cackled that old man version of a witch’s cackle, and I got out of the car laughing.
“I was just trying to make sure we were good. I don’t do these kinds of large transactions often.” I told him.
Don Cerzulo slapped me on the back hard before throwing his arm around my shoulder like we were old drinking buddies. “Well, Rasheed, today is your lucky day. Hey, Joey.” Don Cerzulo whistled through his fingers and a heavyset guy in black sweats wobbled over. He was breathing heavy, and I was hoping it was from carrying that heavy briefcase full of money, because it’s not like he had that far to walk. He wheezed as he handed it over and then turned and wobbled back in the direction he came from. Don Cerzulo opened the briefcase, and the smell of crisp, clean legal tender filled the air. He handed me a sheet of paper. I unfolded it, reading the neat handwriting before placing it in my pocket and nodding.
“Now you show us this works so I know it’s not quack science and we’re—”
Don Cerzulo stopped midsentence; he stood there with a circle of blood forming on the front of his white dress shirt. Since our backs were turned to his guys it would only be a matter of seconds before they figured out he’d been shot or before I got shot as well. Snatching the briefcase I jumped in and started my car as Don Cerzulo fell to his knees.
“He shot Don! Get him, he shot Don Cerzulo!”
I didn’t shoot any damn Don Cerzulo. I just saw an opportunity and I’d taken his damn money. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I realized my own words had come back and bitten me in the ass. Angelo couldn’t have shot his father over some petty business shit. Not only that but he was trying to make it look like I was the killer, Angelo was trying to run me out of Miami.
My phone went off and thinking it was a text from Angelo or Shiree, I flipped it open only to see a message saying my momma’s house was in bad shape. Any other time Angelo, would’ve had a fight on his hands. But I needed to go figure out what the hell was up with my momma. I didn’t even think about it, I just got on the nearest highway ramp and started heading north. It rang in m
y hand, I glanced at the number and started to ignore the call, but I knew I couldn’t.
“Yeah, this is me,” I snarled into the phone.
“Right now I’m looking at a little blue marker on a screen. That little blue marker is heading north. Now, where could you possibly be going, Mr. White?” he barked into my ear.
Special Agent Harper was a poorly socialized evil Rottweiler of a motherfucka who talked to anyone and everyone like they were plotting on his nasty-ass chewed-up lamb bone. And frowned like it, too.
I ain’t have time to be a crook turned rook in the damn alphabet boys’ chess game anymore. “I did what y’all asked. You got the deal on tape and on film ain’t nobody ever got Don doing a deal.”
“Wrong, you cocky son of a bitch! We got Don Cerzulo Campelli, the famous actor, handing you a got-damn piece of paper which could have been nothing more than a got-damn Kool-Aid recipe for all we know. The plan was simple. You get his trust, get inside, and get us his damn suppliers, find out if he’s behind the SAG murders and director killings. Lucky for you, the boys upstairs hit the kill switch on good old Donny before he could have you shot on spot as planned. We picked that bit of intel up from one of our informants who overheard the hit man complaining on a phone call at a gas station around three a.m.”
Rolling my eyes at the phone, I scanned the rearview to see if my ass was being followed. If Angelo hadn’t put the hit on Don Cerzulo, then he and everyone would definitely think I’d killed his pops. There wasn’t anything worse than a spoiled brat with an honest grudge.
Agent Harper finally decided to share why we were having this friendly little chat in the first place. “Your objective has changed. We need you to work an angle on Angelo. As Don’s only son, he’s most likely going to take over the family’s cartel. I need clean bodies on him, clean suppliers—”
Baby Momma Saga, Part 2 Page 15