No Love for the Wicked

by Tiana Laveen

  She turned her grandmother’s hand and looked down at her palm.

  “There’s no curse on your family,” she finally stated.

  Nonna’s eyes watered.

  “Oh God! Thank you.”

  “I know you were told that was so, but it’s not true. You’ve been trying to lift something that isn’t there. There is, however, an issue with your heart.” Andrea slowly released Nonna’s hand, got to her feet, and refused to look his way. They almost bumped into one another as she carefully maneuvered past him, cautious to not touch a hair on his body. She went to the kitchen, grabbed a small decanter filled with clear liquid, and brought it over, then sat back down. Oh, goody. More baby oil. “I want you to go to the doctor, but I also want you to take this. It’s all natural.” She handed it to Nonna.

  “What is it?”

  “It helps relax you. It’s like aspirin, but better. Your heart is working too hard, pumping too fast. It’s stress.”

  “My chest has been hurting lately!” Nonna confessed.

  Andrea nodded in understanding, playing into it. He looked at his watch again, hopeful this dog and pony show would be over soon. Outside, a gaunt Black woman with short cropped hair and unkempt clothing was checking out his car, peering through to the passenger side window. She looked like a druggie, probably trying to see if anything worth the effort of busting the glass was inside to steal.

  “Your car will be fine. Please sit down, Angel,” Nonna said, clear irritation in her voice.

  He huffed and made his way back to the bench. Time ticked by and he watched as Andrea shuffled those white and gold cards, speaking softly once again. He was barely paying attention, more focused on watching the time. The sun began to set, the clouds floating in a sea of tangerine and cotton candy blue. Finally, it seemed to be over. Nonna appeared thrilled according to the big satisfied grin on her face as she got to her feet. Andrea rounded the table and hugged his grandmother as if they were old friends. He slid his keys out of his pocket, ready to rock and roll and get the hell out of there. The two women said their goodbyes and as he approached the door to wait, Andrea called out to him.

  “Mr. Ferrari?”

  “What?”

  “Your father has passed on.”

  “Yeah. And?” He shrugged.

  “He always brought home a bag of chocolate for you as a little boy. You were his favorite. The youngest son. You loved those little gold chocolate coins, didn’t you?”

  He swallowed. Nonna wouldn’t have known that… She was his maternal grandmother, and he never spoke of these memories with her. That had been so long ago.

  Lucky guess. She’s a professional at scheming. A lot of people got chocolate as a kid.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “I don’t want anything from you, Mr. Ferrari.”

  “Yes, you do. I pay my Nonna’s bills, take care of what she needs. When you get something from her, you’re getting it from me. This stops right here, right now.”

  “I don’t know what you’re digging at, but it’s the wrong lawn.” She shrugged. “Your father… He’s not well, by the way.”

  “What the hell does that mean, ‘he’s not well?’ Of course he’s not fuckin’ well. He’s dead! He was killed!”

  “Angel!” His Nonna’s voice cracked.

  He stepped out in front of his grandmother, having had enough.

  Andrea’s eyes turned dark, like the shadows that danced in his soul.

  “I’m just trying to help.” She crossed her arms.

  “Yeah? Well, I don’t need your help. You tricksters all say the same shit. Vagueness. ‘Oh! You’ll get a present on your birthday!’, ‘You’ll meet the man of your fuckin’ dreams in five years.’ Now I hear, ‘He’s not well.’ Being slaughtered means you’re not well. Ya can’t get anymore not well than that! Come on, Nonna, let’s go.” He turned away and began to work on the locks, eager to get the hell out of there. Time was money. He’d spent the last thirty minutes trapped in a silly ass cartoon with no chance of escape.

  “Mr. Ferrari, he wants you to be careful. You looked up to him. He’s not trying to lecture you, just wants you to rethink how you do things. He feels responsible for who you are today. He says you could have been someone else if he hadn’t raised you the way he did. He’s sorry. That’s all.”

  He finally got the last lock undone, took hold to his grandmother’s arm, and led her out into the dingy hallway, slamming the door behind them. He said nothing as they made their way down all three flights of stairs in the sweltering heat. His heart beat like a damn bongo. The same woman he’d seen from Andrea’s window was still standing near his car, her nose practically smashed against the glass. He gave her an elbow shove out the way, then helped Nonna inside. The vagrant woman began to mumble, pointing her finger at him as she cursed and stumbled about.

  Hastening, he rounded the car, then looked up at that damn window. There Andrea was, leaning out of it, looking down at him. Smug. Those thick, fluffy black curls hugged her face like ebony clouds against the sun, and her full, glossy lips were faintly parted, as if she were about to whisper something slick. She had a cigarette hanging between her fingers and a strange look on her face.

  “Fucking weird ass witch,” he mumbled under his breath before getting in the car and driving away…

  CHAPTER TWO

  Flowers for the Living

  Rule 2: Always be prepared for surprises.

  I didn’t invite the Devil to dinner. And yet, he arrived dressed and ready to party. The Devil is apparently fine as hell. And Italian. Merda…

  Andrea sat on the edge of her bed, naked from head to toe. The air conditioner was on full blast, but the heat was oppressive, strangling her with its August night grip. Her curls drooped, no longer luscious due to the humidity, she pressed her knees together as she tried to get her damn mind right. Sweat rained down her body as if she were under a waterfall, and she rubbed her breasts, coaxing the nipples to harden as she self-soothed.

  Hours had passed since Mr. Ferrari had left, but his scent hung in the air like fried chicken grease long after the cooking was over. Not his cologne… yes, that was there, too. He sure did smell good, but his verve was the issue. He was full of himself without saying so. His essence, arrogance, and sense of self were strong. His egotism robust. It wasn’t simply bravado. He meant that shit. Every word he’d said. He smelled like envy, testosterone, and maleficence.

  Ramsey Lewis and Earth, Wind and Fire’s, ‘Sun Goddess’ was being played outside by a creep named Theo, a neighbor who lived on the first floor. Theo likened himself to a street performer. He liked to say he’d be the next Marvin Gaye as he blasted records from his radio and sang off key. Sometimes he stood out there with a little card table, selling stolen odds and ends that no one wanted. At least the guy was predictable. Theo was annoying, but harmless.

  Her thoughts drifted back to someone who was dangerous. The Devil who’d brought over his grandmother…

  When she’d first looked into his eyes, her spirit froze and her soul screamed. Typically, she could sense when trouble was afoot. This time, she’d had no idea. It unnerved her greatly. Even when she had looked down from her window, she hadn’t felt fear, or a need to protect herself. When the old woman had called her the day prior, she’d made arrangements to have her come. There’d been nothing off-putting about their conversation on the line. The woman hadn’t mentioned she was bringing her grandson, but of course, she hadn’t asked, either.

  Andrea pulled one leg up, resting her chin on her knee. The shells on her anklet rattled against the gold and silver beads. Plucking her cigarette from the clear glass ashtray on her bed, she took a smoke. Smolder filled the room as Cheryl Lynn’s, ‘Got to be Real’ played on her record player. Her thoughts drifted back to the moment Mr. Ferrari left her home. She’d sighed with relief, and couldn’t stop shaking for at least thirty seconds. Less than a couple minutes later, a few neighbors knocked on her door to see if she was still alive
.

  When they’d explained their concerns, she understood why her heart had nearly stopped beating when she’d looked into the sky-blue eyes of a man with a curtain of thick, black lashes that rivaled a woman’s with three layers of mascara.

  He was exceptionally manly and handsome, almost freakishly so, with his strong features. Arched eyebrows, as if suspicious of everyone. Alluring light eyes, a long nose with wide nostrils like the end of a devil’s tail, and plush lips. He had a short, dense goatee, so well-trimmed that perhaps he visited a barber on a regular basis.

  Exceptionally tall and broad shouldered, too, and naturally muscular, but not overly so, beneath his Adidas leisure suit. His big hands and long fingers were heavily veined, and he wore a large silver and onyx ring on one of them. His hands showed signs of wear and tear, cuts and the like, as if he worked himself to death on a daily basis. Yet his nails were clipped to perfection and they were clean.

  He obviously cared a great deal about his appearance. Not so much that it ruled his world, but it was a big part of his identity. A well dressed, amazingly striking cold-blooded killer had been sitting in her home, looking at her things, and invading her space.

  The banging at my door… They believed I was dead.

  Apparently, Mr. Ferrari was more than just a common criminal. He had a reputation that preceded him. According to Carla, her neighbor across the hall, when the man visited a residence in the middle of the night, the occupant of said residence would soon be breathing their last breath. She was told he went by the nickname of Casper, and that was because he was like a ghost when he did his dirty work. The predator slipped in. The predator slipped out. Without so much as a trace. It didn’t help that some of the police looked the other way or were paid off by the precarious punters that hired Mr. Ferrari to do the drudgery that only a fiend would sign up for.

  She took another draw of her cigarette, feeling the tension of a horrible budding headache. A bad feeling crept inside her, twisting like vines along her heart and squeezing it to death. Her eyes watered with sadness, but perhaps it wasn’t her own tears. In fact, she was certain of it. Being Empathic had a way of doing such things.

  She shrugged it off. It’s not like it’s the first time a murderer has been in my home. But shit. He’s definitely the worst. Not an ounce of remorse. Taking another puff of her cigarette, she closed her eyes, then opened them once again and smiled. That’s right. There was a silver lining. The rent was definitely getting paid next month. She did the readings to supplement her income. The old woman had placed a wad of cash in her hand after their reading. She hadn’t checked it until she and her grandson had left – something she never let happen. Some people had tried to stiff her, or give fake cash. Others had even tried to rob her. It was amazing what some fuckers would pull.

  But one thing she was not: a push over. She kept a switchblade in her pocket and could scream, claw, kick and beat some ass with the best of them.

  A client had once attempted to give her drugs in exchange for her services. Some damn PCP. She didn’t do that shit. She wanted cash, period. Mr. Ferrari dressed like he enjoyed cash, too. She’d waited to count that money from his grandmother because she didn’t want to take her eyes off the evil entity in her home, and she didn’t appreciate getting messages from a spirit who she was certain was his father.

  She hadn’t even wanted to tell him about his father’s presence, but she knew the consequences of ignoring a spirit, especially one as determined as this bastard’s dead daddy. He had the same heavy energy as his son. It was overwhelming, suffocating. Treacherous. She hated every moment of it. She could never explain how she heard the messages when they came through to her every blue moon, but she simply did. She read ruins, crystals, and used playing cards to gather details and time frames for her customers, when required. Blessed candles were for prayers, and she specialized in meditation exercises and special herbal love spells. Aphrodisiacs. Aiming to learn and understand, she’d read the Bible and studied several African religions, becoming well-versed in Eastern religious principles and the Koran.

  What she did not love was the dead approaching her. She didn’t speak to the dead as a rule of thumb, and after the first time it occurred when she was fifteen, she’d tried to ensure it would never happen again. Yet, it did. Twice. Once after her cousin had died, and another time when she’d attended the wedding of a co-worker. All of those instances she clearly recalled, and they’d left her shaken. That wasn’t her gift; at least, not the one she wanted. She desired no part of it.

  Feeling thirsty, she went to the kitchen to get a drink. She opened one of the cabinets, removed a glass, then screamed. Her voice was so loud, it crushed her eardrums. Glass shattered on the floor, slipping from her shaking hand.

  Leave me alone!

  On the counter was a single dark red rose. Dead. Dried up. Her chest constricted as she looked frantically about, searching the shadows and the light. The music kept playing, lyrics about love and desire, the polar opposite of the fear and anger that clutched her heart. After checking her surroundings twice over, she quickly clothed herself with a black silk kimono and made her way to each window and the front door, checking all three locks once again. She went back to the windows. He got in here some way. It had to be the fire escape.

  The windows were closed, yet one was unlocked and slightly ajar. She could’ve sworn she’d locked it. She looked out to check the nearby fire escapes, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, then quickly bolted the window. That night she slept clutching her knife as rock songs played on WNEW-FM 102.7…

  42nd Street and Broadway, otherwise known as The Deuce, was aglow with flashing red lights. Mannequins posed in twisted and obscene poses in storefront windows. Some donned paisley and pastel shirts, others chunky gold necklaces and wide brimmed hats with feathers. Times Square reeked of hot garbage, the acrid stench of fresh vomit, the occasional heap of human excrement, and walls sprayed with cum. It was heaven for a heathen, and there were plentiful spots to grab a fast burger or pretzel, or drown one’s sorrows in a glass of liquid sin.

  You could find some powdery nose candy in a split second, too, a toxic treat to shoot inside the veins. Or a money-grubbing whore to fuck and swear to you that you’ve got the biggest dick in town, a fag to dress up like your wife and fuck you in the ass if you were into that sort of thing, and just about anything you desired for a small fee and a sliver of pride. Everything had a price, even if it cost you your soul, and someone out there was willing to sell it. Despite being in the Devil’s den, Angelo wasn’t in the mood to get high or drunk off his ass.

  Angelo was trying to clear his head, take a chill pill. Live a little. His schedule had been quite hectic that summer. NYC was the killing field, miles and miles of endless grains of red – as far as the eye could see. It was a blood bath of epic proportions. A place populated by people trying to catch their breath as they gurgled bubbles of poverty and corruption. He was in the midst of it, standing tall with his scythe. Sometimes, this life wore on him. It had been a while since he’d had time to go out and have some fun.

  Each month that passed, he felt less and less emotion. Became more detached. Things were getting worse. Far worse. He was aware of this, but couldn’t stop the transformation.

  Dispassion.

  He forced himself to hang around the living when it got too bad. The smell of death was all around him, even when he wasn’t the cause. It followed him like a fog. It worshiped him, made him sick, and yet, it belonged somewhere close to him all the same. Crowds of people often did the trick to get him out of that funk. Loud music and fun times.

  One day soon I’ll probably be dead. I don’t want to leave here with no good memories. He recalled his father saying that, too. He had to do something before he slipped completely away from himself, forever.

  Sometimes he looked at himself in the mirror and saw nothing but the pitch black. He was the shadow of the shadows, the darkest spot in the deepest hole. The last door, on the last fl
oor, to the crypt gateway of the underworld. He remembered seeing that same blankness and blackness in his father’s eyes soon before he was gunned down. Pops had died way before he’d ever been killed.

  He glanced at his watch. It was two in the damn morning and he was gripping the neck of a beer bottle, his button-down shirt hanging open and his eyes trained on the traffic passing by. His friend, Fredrick, who he typically just called Fred, held a joint in one hand and pulled out his wallet with the other as they entered the Burlesque.

  It was dark and dank inside, the place smelling of mildew, cheap beer, and bargain-basement perfume. They each paid a few dollars to the fat man with missing fingers that doubled as a bouncer, then pushed past him. Angelo navigated through the crowd, past the drunkards, druggies, unhappy husbands with business degrees and pensions, and young stiffs too fucking awkward to get laid without a ten-dollar bill. The pair entered a vacant area of the joint, and he kicked a few empty chairs out of his way as he approached the stage trimmed with red and white lights. A dark burgundy curtain hung in the back of the platform. Showtime was starting soon. He and Fredrick slumped in a couple of chairs and waited for the spectacle to begin.

  “It’s good to see ya, Angelo.” His tall, skinny friend with light brown hair sucked on his joint, his eyes turning to slits. “Shit’s been crazy lately. My fuckin’ job is killing me.”

  “Get another gig. If you’re glum, book it.”

  “I’m going to quit as soon as I find another one. The warehouse is steady work. It could be worse I guess.” Fred shrugged. “Katie’s been on my back, nagging the hell outta me, Angelo. She’s never fucking satisfied but she doesn’t lift a finger to help. The apartment is fuckin’ filthy and she uses the baby as an excuse, saying she can’t get anything done with Frederick Jr, and now, Abby. It’s two fucking kids, man. Our daughter even takes long naps. My ma had five of us, and our house was sparkling, man. You could lick off the damn floor. Spic ’nd span. Anyway, I just needed some time to get away. Clear my head.”