by Darrell King
“Meredith, I’ve got to tell you this. I think—in fact, I know—that it’s a really bad idea to hang out with that scumbag nigger. My God, please tell me that you’re not desperate or foolish enough to sleep with him!”
Meredith sighed loudly while folding her arms across her ample breasts. Wilhelm hated fighting with his acid-tongued lab partner, but this was one instance that he knew was important enough to suffer through the argument.
“All right, fine,” he said. “If you want to jeopardize this program, your freedom, and not to mention mine, and even your life, then go ahead and be my guest. I just hope it’s worth losing everything for.”
Wilhelm slowly turned his back on her and strolled over to a row of cages filled with rats. He’d grown jealous because even though Valentino was a sexual death trap to any woman getting into bed with him, his way with the ladies was beyond anything that most guys—even handsome ones—could muster. Wilhelm realized that the chances that Meredith had fallen victim to the streetwise seduction of the player pimp were quite high, and that scared the hell out of him.
Meredith shook out a cigarette into her hand and wasted little time lighting up.
“Ya know what, Wilhelm? You are not the boss of me, so don’t lose any sleep over what I do outside Coventry Laboratories, okay?”
Wilhelm felt himself getting angrier by the minute, nearly pushing a study cage to the floor as a result.
“I’ve had about all I can take of your snotty little attitude!” he said. “Right now you’re being an irresponsible little shit and it’s got to stop—here and now!”
Meredith tossed her long, dark hair back, all the while tapping her left foot as she bristled at her co-worker’s harsh words.
“You’ve got some nerve,” she said. “How dare you talk to me like that! Why, you didn’t so much as hold my hand after we were together that time, not to mention making me feel like a common whore on top of it. And now the high and mighty Doctor Wilhelm Von Strecker wants to belittle moi? I wonder why? Are you afraid that maybe someone other than you seems to finally give a fuck about me and maybe even find me attractive? Or maybe you’re afraid that his big black cock, tainted or not, will fill me up more than your little pale pecker did, huh? Is that it?”
The German’s face flushed red with fury, and he felt the urge to slap Meredith as hard as he could.
“You are one sick puppy,” he said. “You’re fucking mental, that’s what you are. You’re going to regret what you’re doing. Do you hear me?”
Wilhelm ran his fingers through his hair in utter frustration.
“Do you realize the seriousness of this?! You are dealing with a man who is a human biological weapon! Fucking him can and will kill you, and you know this! To make matters worse, your little ‘jungle fever’ fling could destroy this entire covert operation we’re all working on! My God, think of all political fallout that would occur if our secret got out! This would become an international incident of colossal proportions, Meredith! Every one of us who is involved would face the wrath of the U.N., which would then surely result in prison time, or even worse! I’m not asking you to stay away from Valentino—I’m fucking tell you!”
Wilhelm turned away from her in anger. He hated talking to her in this manner and hated feeling like such an úber prick even more.
“Look, Meredith, I . . . I’m really sorry to be bitching and moaning like this, but the guy is bad news—worse than bad news. He’s just another stupid porch monkey like all the rest of them. A test dummy to help us to eliminate everyone who doesn’t belong on this planet. You’re Anglo and you’re beautiful . . . way out of this loser’s league. So, please leave that degenerate to be with his own kind.”
Meredith seemed to be lost in deep thought. It was obvious to Wilhelm that his words of wisdom had gotten through to her—at least that’s what it looked like. That was exactly what he’d been hoping for. If his hunches about his lab partner and Valentino were correct, disaster would sure befall everyone involved.
“You make it seem like I’m the one who’s screwing everything up, Wil,” Meredith said, “like I’d be the cause of the whole HIV/AIDS thing going belly up. Well, listen up, mister man, you started this ball rolling when you shared my goddamned bed! What would your precious little Cindy think about that, Doctor Von Strecker?!”
“You know what? This is getting ridiculous, Meredith—or, excuse me, Doctor Nader, since we’re being formal here. Let’s cut the crap, okay? Remember we’re here at work and everyone needn’t be aware of this discussion. Secondly, I’m warning you . . . Cindy has absolutely nothing to do with this, so leave her out of it. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Meredith shot him a dirty look while simultaneously flipping him her middle finger. He, in turn, simply stared with an iced-over coldness in his blue eyes in her direction.
“I so fucking hate you. I curse the very day that I met you,” Meredith said just as coldly. “I hate you.”
“Go see a shrink, Doctor Nader, because you need one bad,” Wilhelm replied.
***
The huge plasma television screen illuminated the entirety of the living room with its pale glow. The majority of the prostitutes had retired to their respective rooms, leaving a lethargic, but still wide-awake Valentino leaning comfortably backwards in his plush leather armchair, watching back-to-back reruns of “The Twilight Zone” until he grew bleary eyed. He enjoyed the hauntingly real-life affirmations contained within the story lines of the classic Kennedy-era T.V. drama, particularly Rod Sterling’s cool delivery at the beginning and conclusion of each episode.
Silence was always a welcome visitor in Valentino’s world. Usually his days and nights were filled with activity of one kind or another. Between prostitutes and clients, not to mention the various dope fiends stopping by to seek a few dollars worth of joy, constant traffic circulated in and out of his doorway. He had a half-dozen stash and whorehouses to look after, and that in itself proved exhausting on most days, despite the good money they brought in. Then there was the ever-present danger of stick-up kids or undercover cops hoping to make a name for themselves.
Rest and relaxation were rare and welcomed luxuries for this busy man. He now had his best earner, Rosaria, back at home and she’d grown healthy and thick once more—a sure bet to keep the johns happy and paying well. Yet the closeness that had existed between them was gone now. The bitch could no longer be trusted because, unlike his other hookers, Rosaria had been more like an actual girlfriend to him than a mere sex worker. She was aware of pertinent information about his personal dealings that none of the other harlots were privy to. She’d been gone for a long time—long enough to have considered ratting him out to the boys in blue or hooking up with one of his many competitors from around the way, he was sure. Either way, if his hunches were right, she’d have to be put to sleep.
As he wrestled with those uncomfortable thoughts racing through his head, he continued to bask in the soft glow of the wide plasma screen, silently enjoying episode after episode of “The Twilight Zone.” Other than the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the occasional snore coming from one of the snoozing girls in the back, he remained undisturbed.
Chapter 16
Gentle spring showers fell down for a week all across the greater southern California area, soaking Los Angeles, Orange, San Diego and Lariat with more than 9.5 inches of rain in some areas, and a whopping 12 inches in others. The threat of landslides from loose soil on the Whistler Hills prompted the city government to declare Mego Avenue and its surrounding streets a danger zone, at least temporarily until the rains subsided. Meanwhile, the prostitutes for a time had to find somewhere else to ply their illicit trade.
Rosaria sat alone sipping on a steaming cup of white chocolate mocha, while staring out of the window in the dimly lit back corner of the local Starbucks. She was in a mood of deep melancholy, as was evidenced by the tears streaming down her lovely face.
The pitter-patter of cascading raindrops agains
t the window pane added to her feeling of sadness and introspection. She hated herself for ever having fallen in love with the likes of Lucien Valentino, a user and abuser of women and, for that matter, of men as well. He was a liar too. She used to believe every word he said. She’d have given anything to make him happy, and she did. She sold her precious young body for him, she peddled drugs for him, she even killed a man for him once. She should have listened to Mami and finished high school; then maybe she could have gone on to be a beautician or tried her hand at professional modeling like her friends had suggested.
But now everything was lost. She was a prisoner in a whorehouse and she’d be forever a slave to her pimp if she wanted to live. She was infected with some rare, aggressive and drug-resistant strain of HIV that mutated into full-blown AIDS within a matter of a few weeks. Without the special shots Lucien provided her with, she’d surely die. She nearly had a couple of months earlier, but for some reason he’d found her and nursed her back to health.
She was fortunate on one level, she knew—much more fortunate than some others. She knew of several girls who’d worked the streets for Lucien and eventually just disappeared. Each one turned up dead eventually. Their bodies were always emaciated to the point where they were literally walking skeletons shortly before their death, the skin lesions all over their corpses suggesting that they’d all succumbed to the AIDS virus.
She, too, had infected dozens of male customers with the virus Lucien called “HIV5X.” For at least two months earlier in the year, the Lariat Health Department was bombarded with visitations and phone calls form terrified and ill citizen, both males and females, seeking help for their sudden health problems. As a result of her work, as well as that of her fellow streetwalkers and their pimp himself, the township of Cushing in South Lariat reported 26 people—10 women and 16 men—who tested positive for an unusually aggressive strain of HIV. Within a month’s time, 15 of the infected people had died of AIDS. The remaining 11 were holding on by a thread as their bodies wasted away to mere skin and bones. The town officials declared the strange HIV/AIDS-related deaths a countywide health disaster, prompting Cushing-area health investigators to comb wide swaths of housing projects, searching for sick individuals from door to door. This large-scale operation forced Valentino to pack up and leave the immediate area, along with his prostitutes, in order to escape detection.
Rosaria’s eyes, though wet and red from crying were constantly scanning the entrance of the coffee shop, shifting from one rain-soaked customer coming through the door to another. Valentino’s drug and sex clients often served as his eyes and ears, informing him of anything of importance taking place in the ‘hood. Therefore, she’d have to hurry up and return to the house to avoid detection. She occasionally stepped away from her beachfront prison by bribing the chief bodyguard of the pimp’s security force, usually with a few hundred dollars. Even so, she was always threatened that she had better return within an hour’s time. It was a risky way to seek a small piece of solitude, however, it was more than worth it to her.
She peeked at her wristwatch before downing the last sugary sweet drop of her mocha and headed out into the rain. Beneath the cover of her umbrella, she breezed past a group of prostitutes, several of whom looked ill and much thinner since she’d last seem them. One poor chick could barely stand as she coughed repeatedly and limped on spindly legs while the driving rain drenched her gaunt frame. She was no more than a day or two from death’s door, and it looked like she was not alone.
Rosario knew that Valentino was no doubt the culprit. In order to both make good on his contract with the creators of the Operation Inner City Virus, and destroy the competition, he often masqueraded as a john himself, sleeping with many of the rival pimps’ staple hookers. In this way he also took the pressure off of himself as far as the city’s health department was concerned. By the time a major alarm was sounded, there would be far too many sick and dying individuals to trace ea single source of the virus.
Walking past the boardwalk of the neighboring shops, Rosaria thought about all of the people whose lives had been horribly altered by Valentino. She really couldn’t have cared less about the women who sold themselves for a fistful of dollars, who just happened to be unfortunate enough to have crossed path with the AIDS-infected pimp, however she realized that no one was exempt from Valentino’s seductive wiles. Even naïve high schoolers, star-struck by the man’s criminally acquired bling were fair game.
After viewing a series of homemade videos on YouTube of a masked man going by the moniker “Trash Man” and claiming to have infected over 1,500 women with HIV, Valentino gleefully adopted the nickname for himself with pride.
“Man, I like that nigga! Shit, I like ‘em a lot. As a matter o’ fact, I like that cat so muthafuckin’ much that I’m go’n use his shit...Trash Man...yeah, that’s what I am. Greasy, grimy, trashy, ‘cept I’m the real muthafuckin’ Trash Man ‘cause I got that killa shit in my nutsack, bitch! I got that ‘fuck you up on site’ type o’ shit, plus a nigga gettin’ paid to dead y’all sorry asses!”
He’d said it all with a sinister sense of pride.
“’Cept I’ll let that nigga make all o’ the lil’ videos an’ shit, ‘cause that ain’t my style, feel me? I’m go’n just keep ‘em kill muthafuckas ‘cause I agree wit the nigga, y’all bitches need to be taught a muthafuckin’ lesson and I’m go’n use my bad dick to give ‘em out!”
He laughed wickedly before his speechless streetwalkers, most of whom were already infected and actively taking Biomax-O shots.
Chapter 17
The golden glow of the California sun bathed the entire boardwalk as dozens of bikini-clad women mingled with the men proudly showing off their buff beach-worthy bodies below in the rolling white-capped surf of Winslow Bay. They engaged each other in a friendly game of volleyball upon the white sands, just beyond the busy foot traffic.
Meredith sat alone on a swivel chair at a bar under a thatched roof. To her, the Tiki Hut served the absolute best strawberry margaritas in town, and she awaited her date’s arrival as she polished off a tall glass of the red-hued alcoholic beverage. She was already on her second drink. The laughter and cheers of the volleyball competition kept her attention focused outside of the Hawaiian-themed bar until a gentle hand resting upon her shoulder broke the monotony of the moment.
“S’up, Doctor Nader? You been waitin’ ‘round here long for me, beautiful?”
Meredith turned around on her stool, staring up into the smooth, handsome brown face smiling down at her. He reached out, taking the mixed drink from her hand and taking a quick sip for himself before placing it down on the bar and settling on a seat beside her. Then he took her hand into his, placing a soft kiss on the back of it. She felt herself melting inside. It had been quite some time since she’d been shown the kind of attention from a man that she was currently receiving.
“You really know how to woo a girl, don’t you? Is this really real, or am I just another one of your skanks?” she asked. “Because I keep telling myself that for once maybe this is real . . . maybe I do matter to a man and, just maybe, he’ll love me.”
Meredith shed a single tear, which she wiped gently with a paper napkin lying beside her glass.
“Look, I...I’m sorry,” she continued. “It’s just that I’ve had a pretty lousy love life for the better half of a decade or so, so...yeah, I’m kind of desperate right now, you know? Especially with the whole biological clock thing...sucks, right? Maybe I should’ve become a lesbian. Then I wouldn’t be such a psychological mess right now.”
Valentino took hold of her soft, oval-shaped face and planted a kiss, long and warm, sensually upon her thin lips. The impulsiveness of it took her by surprise, yet she welcomed it by inviting his moist tongue into her mouth, fully enjoying a full thirty seconds of amorous self-indulgence before slowly pulling away.
“Girl, you gonna fuck around an’ make me beat that pussy up for ya?”
Meredith grinned slightly as t
he giddiness of both the alcohol and her sudden sexual arousal took hold of her.
“Beat my pussy up? I’m sorry, but I’m probably the whitest woman you’ve ever met, so I’m clueless as to what that means, but it sure does sounds interesting. Painful, but interesting.”
“Oh, don’t worry about the slang, baby,” Valentino said. “Once I get you in bed you gonna feel every inch o’ what I’m talkin’ bout.”
Raising the glass back up to her pink painted lips, Meredith took down a long drink, emptying the contents until only the ice cubes remained.
“I’d love to, hon, I really would, but you know as well as I do that we can never take this relationship to that level of intimacy,” Meredith said while placing a tip onto the counter for the cute, young bartender.
“You know that you have the know-how to make happen whatever you want,” Valentino said. “Am I right? Tell me I’m lyin’.”
She smiled at the pimp’s witty, but truthful reply. As he sat beside her, she wondered how she’d fallen for a black man—and Valentino in particular. With Wilhelm already aware somewhat of her infatuation with Valentino, she couldn’t afford for the others to find out about her extracurricular activities. Wilhelm still had a soft spot for her somewhere in that seemingly icy heart of his she felt, and wouldn’t turn informant on her, even when it came to this delicate situation.
Meredith rose up slowly from her stool, taking Valentino’s hand as she stood and walked arm in arm with him out into the sunshine and across the weather-beaten planks of the boardwalk toward his beach house in the distance. Once they arrived at the house, Meredith was ushered into a plush living room devoid of anyone else’s presence. It was dimly lit and filled with the pleasant aromatic fragrance of Egyptian Musk incense, which wafted through the whole interior of the home.
