by Kirk Alex
A beefy, blond-haired lady who wore her hair in a style that resembled a flattop walked in carrying a gym bag in one hand and a portable folding table in the other. Woman was in gray sweats and built like a sumo wrestler. The blond whiskers above her upper lip were visible enough to pass for a mustache.
“Hello, Frederika,” one of the strippers said. Frederika grunted. Walked in the back and began to set up. Unzipped her bag, withdrew a boom box, towel, containers of body oils and placed them on the vanity counter.
“Yo. I don’t hear nobody sayin’ nothin’ to me.”
Marvin Muck made little effort to conceal his frustration. The strippers suddenly became very good at appearing preoccupied. Lana couldn’t wait to lie on her belly on the massage table for the rubdown that Frederika was quite the expert at evidently.
Pearleen wanted to step in the shower, and needed Marvin to leave before she made her move. After she reminded him that it was not a good time for what he was after and that he needed to vacate their space, she considered skipping the shower altogether, getting into her street clothes and walking out of the club for good. Did she have the nerve to do it? Did she dare walk away from a steady, money-making gig like this?
Frederika, the Swiss masseuse, punched a button on her boom box and soothing New Age-type music filled the dressing room.
“We’ll make it some other day, handsome. We have a second show to do. It’s our chance to rest up and prepare. You have no idea how much performing on stage takes out of you.”
“Second show? Since when, Lana?”
“It’s a weekend night. It’s always that way. You know that.”
“Said the man don’t be killin’ no more chicken. You ain’t got to worry about that. He keep’ them Foghorn Leghorn around for fresh egg’ and to make chicken soup. Dude be watchin’ his health. Them croaker at the VA told him he better.”
“We get it. All right? All right, Marvin? Forget the chicken. It’s got nothing to do with that.”
Marvin didn’t know what to believe at this point. Mack Daddy wannabe hadn’t liked the way he had been out-slicked, but he had his own buzz going and he did not want to throw a tantrum that might’ve wrecked anything with the strippers in the future, scared them off completely.
Deacon had his smile going again. The smile was back.
“Cool, shuga-bush. No problem. Sure do enjoy your company. You know you got two of the biggest fan’ in the world in Omar an’ me. We sure love to watch you all move around on that stage. Ain’t nothin’ Hoss wouldn’t give if you was to do some of them fancy move’ in his livin’ room. My homeboy, Brotha Trusty sure know’ how to appreciate real talent.”
He thanked them profusely, released a series of farts—that he didn’t seem to be aware of, or else didn’t care—and left.
Pearleen shook her head, and reached for a can of air freshener. “Low-class a-hole.”
The only one who may have been unhappy about Marvin doing a disappearing act was Dione, who had stepped out of the shower, with water dripping from hair and body, looking for her share of something that was long gone.
CHAPTER 61
Biggs was waiting for his deacon in the hallway outside the men’s room door when Marvin ambled by in that contrived inner city hood way that he had, even though he was about as familiar with that world as he was with seasoned, tough-as-nails pimps and their street-hardened whores. He had the walk down, hand and chin gestures, way of sounding like a gangster rapper-cum-hustler, it still only added up to him being nothing more than another wannabe Iceberg. Biggs didn’t let it bother him. More-often-than-not, it didn’t, unless he was having an off day to begin with, unless something or someone, society at large, put him in a foul mood, and then it didn’t take much at all to trigger the ever-present, below-the-surface, simmering rage.
He was already stressed at having had his haunted house business shut down, not to mention being annoyed with himself at having given up a Ben Franklin and two Alexander Hamiltons without any assurance whatsoever that the cunts would even want to stop by his place later. Parting with money had always been painful for him, especially a considerable amount such as this.
“What about it?”
“What about what?” Still out of it from the dope, Marvin wanted nothing more than to be left alone and not be fucked with.
“In here.” Biggs shoved him inside the men’s room. “I want to talk to you.”
There were a couple of Mexicans standing at the urinals relieving themselves.
“Are they coming over? What happened back there?”
“Said they was busy.”
Muck found the third degree he was being given clearly amusing and was oblivious to Biggs’s surfacing anger.
The bishop waited for the Mexicans to leave, got both his hands on the nearest stall door and yanked it off the hinges and dropped it down on the floor to brace against the men’s room door and the stall—only it was short by a couple of feet. He turned, zeroed in on a cabinet on the wall, its doors locked. He pulled the cabinet out of the wall and dropped it between the door he had lying flat on the tile floor and the stall itself, thus preventing anyone who might wish to enter the restroom from being able to.
He spun in Marvin’s direction, slapped him hard enough to send the tinted sunglasses flying. Muck heard them hit the far wall of the restroom and drop to the floor. Hadn’t cared for it obviously, yet not able, or was inclined, to turn off the stupid grin entirely.
“What the fuck, Dawg? Yo.”
Biggs gripped him by the collar and threw him inside the doorless stall with all his might and jammed the Mag under his chin. Marvin was no longer amused by anything.
“Told you, Brotha: they say they was busy. Got a second show to do.”
“Bullshit.”
“Lana be the one. She don’t like seein’ you ice a chicken to get yo Jones up.”
“You motherfucker. That’s a side effect caused by the meds. They know that. I can’t be the only one who suffers from periodic impotence due to anti-depressants. You were conned. Plain and simple. Conned.”
“I explained about the med’. That you don’t be killin’ no chicken these day’.”
“Even if I did, what’s it to them? They’re a bunch of whores and well paid to do what whores do. They don’t have the right to question me and my methods of dealing with impotence.”
“Peach said some other time; she would do it some other time. They all tol’ me that. What can I do about it if they want to drop by the cribby some other time?”
“What do you got left? Let’s see it.”
“What do you mean what do I got left? I give it to ’em like you said.”
“You smoked the bait? You were supposed to entice them with it. You smoked the bait?” Biggs slammed him against the wall. “You’re not only fucking with the wrong man, but you’re fucking with the wrong Man of the Cloth, asshole. I don’t give you the goddamn shit so you can have a good time. I told you in plain English over and over: If they don’t want to come out to the house, you do not let them smoke all of it. Give them a taste. That’s eighty bucks worth of C they smoked. Eighty. Plus the hundred dollar tip that went into that bowl for them. Almost two hundred dollars—not including cover charge and drinks—and for what? The tip alone should have been plenty. You were supposed to reel them in with the other shit.”
“I tried, Cecil. Swear it. Tried to do what you tol’ me. They all laugh at me in there. Said I be wearin’ ‘Senile Citizen’ skins.”
“‘Senile Citizen’?”
“What they was sayin’.”
“You got blown. That’s what happened. You get ‘sucked off’ and I get ‘screwed.’”
“They rubbed my Jones. Stella had her hand on my leg—and was rubbin’ it. Made my dick hard, too.”
“Wait a minute, instead of getting laid, you got played.”
“Better than nothin’, ain’t it?”
“What’s better than nothing? Blue Balls? As opposed to what? Getting y
our rocks off?”
“Said if McCoy saw them doin’ me they would all get shit-can’. Piss’ him off that Peach an’ them, Dione an’ them other two, Lana and Stella, won’t give the nigga some pussy.”
“Bullshit. That’s a line they fed you. You got played, plain and simple. They practically have a whore house going on in there. He’s got parlors next to his office where the sluts give head 24/7. Head and hand jobs. Gets his rocks by watching through a peep hole. Evidently everyone knows it but you.” Biggs paused to collect himself. Had to. The excitement and stress wouldn’t do his health much good.
“They’re right. You are senile.”
“If I can’t do it, you the one should.”
“No, I’m no good with the sweet-talk. That’s why I let you hang around me, punk. Only you’re not pulling your weight these days. You’re supposed to be the Pussy Magnet, the slick, smooth-talking Mack Daddy with the broads, remember? You got the walk down, got the jive down—truth is you never spent a day in the inner city in your life. Never set foot in Compton or South Central.”
“Delivered phone book’ door-to-door for a week in South Central one time. Do it count?”
Biggs glared at him. One day, truly, he would enjoy tearing him to pieces. Strap him to the butcher’s block and sever his limbs with the Black & Decker. One day.
“I done my share of time. Cain’t nobody claim different.”
“I know all about the foster homes, orphanages—and none of it adds up to being a South Central gang-banger, or even an East LA cholo.”
“Was never my game plan. Graveyard’ be full of gang-banger’. Puttin’ a bunch of bitches together and gettin’ ’em out there to work the track was the plan.”
“That’s the plan?”
“Was always the plan. From the start—”
Biggs jammed the barrel inside the deacon’s mouth. “Bite down on it, bitch. Do it.”
Marvin did that. Biggs’s hands reached for Marvin’s ears. Held them this way as if he intended to tear them both off. Stared at him for a long moment.
“You’re mistaking kindness for weakness here, punk, and I don’t like it. I don’t like being taken advantage of. Hear?”
Marvin nodded his head. Snot and sweat dripped from his upper lip. Seemed to be out of excuses. Biggs withdrew the Mag from his mouth. Wiped the barrel against Marvin’s shirt. Re-holstered it. He walked over to a sink to wash his face. Marvin stayed put in the stall. Thought it be a good idea to stay there.
“When I was a kid people were always mistaking my kindness for weakness.”
Biggs shoved the cabinet and the stall door out of the way, and walked out of the men’s room.
“Hardly believe that.” Marvin made it out of the stall to wash up at the sink. “Man never heard of kindness. Mothafuckah be crazy. Should get me a piece and blow his fuckin’ head off, me.”
A drunk staggered out of a stall at the far end and gave Marvin a real start. The man was black, in his fifties, in a rumpled dark suit and stained white shirt and red tie. He was grumbling about something as he stooped to pick up Marvin’s rose-tinted glasses, and walked over to the sink next to the one Marvin was using. He handed him the shades without looking at him.
“Thanks. Yo.”
Muck checked the sunglasses to see what shape they were in. Lenses were intact. Muck put them on. Adjusted them in the mirror.
The drunk washed his hands under the tap.
“You a fuckin’ Oreo cookie, man.”
Marvin’s reaction was immediate and furious. He spun in the drunk’s direction and punched him in the belly twice. Watched him double up, about to vomit. Lifted him by the collar.
“Who you callin’ ‘Oreo,’ wino? I’ll tear both of your eye’ out. Call me a fuckin’ Oreo.”
The drunk, paralyzed with fear, could not offer up a verbal response. Saliva, mixed-in with bile, oozed down his chin.
“Don’t no wino go there wiff me. Hear what I said, nigga?”
Marvin removed his shades. Head butted the man. Saw his melon bounce against the wall, and he slid to the floor. Muck took the time to kick him about the jaw with everything that he had.
“Don’t nobody go there wiff me, ever. I ain’t no Oreo. Never been. You the onliest ‘Oreo’ ’round here, mothafuckah.”
The drunk at his feet was squirming, dealing with a serious attack of dry heaves. For all intents and purposes, was oblivious to the rest of it.
Marvin let it go. Didn’t need another ‘boo-shit rap’ added to his existing rap sheet. Not only that, peeps was entering the crapper and he needed to get the hell out. He walked out of there. Did feel better about having worked the big mouth over, but not much.
CHAPTER 62
He rechecked the shades for damage. Put them on and elbowed his way through the crowded hallway, the thick cigarette smoke and unmistakable reefer aroma. Bummed a smoke from a skinny black skank with orange hair. Ugly as sin. Now that sayin’ describe this ho to a T.
Marvin shoved his way past other sweaty bodies that reeked of cheap perfume and aftershave as he reached the main dance floor and finally made it toward the exit.
“Gonna take longer to get the bitches interested again. Meanwhile, the man be blowin’ bank on dope and he don’t like that—so you best get yo slick ass in gear, Base.” I can take care of my end, Marvin told himself. Only we got to work together on this thang. “Try tellin’ that to the crazy mofo.”
The deacon made it outside. The parking lot was a sea of cars and not as well lit as it should have been, but there was enough light for him to make out Brotha Trusty standing out there by his Caddy in the middle of it all obviously eyeing the females standing outside the entrance smoking cigarettes and chatting with other females or guys trying to pick them up. Then he saw Cecil make a sharp arm gesture for him to hurry up and get his behind over to the Cadillac before bending in himself.
Not all that pleased with his lame performance in the dressing room, Marvin Muck was not inclined to pick up his pace as he walked in the direction of the sedan.
Dude was gonna mess wiff him some more. Couldn’t even enjoy bein’ high from the crack he fired up wiff the hoes. Gettin’ a .357 Magnum shoved in his mouf and damn near losing both his ear’ ain’t made him feel too good, neither. On top of that, some old drunk nigga he never seen in his life had the nerve to call him ‘Oreo’—and he also knew that deep down he could have tried harder, worked the bitches a little better. Ain’t tried hard enough. Wasn’t smart what he done in there. Wanted to see all that tang again, up close, too, real nekkid and stripping and doin’ a lap dance for nobody but his partner Cecil and him, right there in the livin’ room—all their clothes off, shakin’ that fine booty and them beaver’ so close you could prob’ly stick yo tongue out an’ taste ’em.
That’ the way it was gonna be—and it will be, he was sure of it, only it took time. Bitches was there not that long ago, and they be comin’ ’round again. Watch. These dopefiend’ ain’t no different from all the rest. They actin’ like they be too good—but they all the same. They be comin’ around in time, you just got to wait. Problem was that mofo sittin’ in that red Cadillac over there don’t like waitin’, don’t like havin’ to spend his Benjamins on dope while the waitin’ be goin’ on.
He wished he could get his hand’ on Peach LaBelle. Ho was the best, and the hardest to get prob’ly, after Livia Duarte. The other’ wouldn’t be so tough, ’specially not Lana Da Bottom. Strawberry got the rep for puttin’ out long as the price be right, and sometime you could sweet talk Stella Storm to go that way, too. ’Sho nuff. Stella don’t be no easy lay like Lana, leastways she be actin’ like it, sayin’ shit like, “I got to like the man first.” Yo, so long as the dude come across wiff the coin’ an’ toot. Well, I be a likable Daddy, Marvin Muck thought. An’ the rest? We get to it. Yo. An’ what about Dione? What be her problem? Dione be loyal to Danny and they baby, but she like’ to get high as much as any ho. It be a fucked up society of doper and sex fiend. You
just had to get yo share of good time’, yo share of what was out there; yo share of vagina and dope; yo cut of the pie while you wuz alive—an’ the rest don’t matter. Don’t nothin’ else matter, he said to himself, while approaching the Caddy, as a familiar-sounding female voice called his name from somewhere in back of him. He turned to take a look. It was Dione Aragon. Running after him.
“What’s your hurry, Marvin? How about a hit? If you still got any left. Never did get my share. I was in the shower while everyone else got high, got theirs. Ain’t fair.”
CHAPTER 63
Bishop Cecil O. Biggs took the opportunity to flip toggles that disengaged his lights, all of them: to include headlights, parking lights, dash and dome light, brake lights and license plate lights.
Yes, the windows were tinted. Play it safe anyway. Wondered if he had time to hop out and switch the plates for the bogus ones behind them? No. Not now. Biggs had had front and rear plates rigged so that it was possible to swap them for stolen ones with the greatest of ease and without need of a screwdriver. He had the same setup in place with the plates on the cargo van that he used from time to time. The only risk involved when using fake plates came when you got pulled over by the rollers, if one got pulled over. Because then you were fucked. Unless you had a piece handy and could deal with the problem. Unfortunately no plan was one hundred percent foolproof. The only time he used fake plates was when he trolled the streets at night for fresh meat and as a hedge against eyewitnesses.
He remained seated. There was no time to get out and fool with the rear plate, not that he knew for certain what was about to go down. One fact was indisputable: the adrenaline was kicking in. The mere thought of abducting one of these bitches caused his groin to stir in his trousers.
He turned his head and could see them through his rear right window. Adjusted his rearview mirror so that he wouldn’t have to keep craning his neck and observed them this way.
