by Tiana Laveen
Angelo nodded in understanding, though actually, he couldn’t understand at all. He’d be damned if he’d be married to someone who gave him nothing but trouble. He’d known Fredrick since grade school. Their families knew one another, and he was just a nice kid – the opposite of him and his brothers. Katie was his cute, selfish little wife who deemed herself on par with Raquel Welch. In her dreams. She’d worked as a waitress when they’d met. The type of broad who had champagne dreams on a Kool Aid budget. She also had no idea that Fred really had wanted her younger sister, but settled for her as a consolation prize.
They sat there talking for a bit, and Angelo lit a cigarette, forcing himself to ignore a scuffle in the back of the place between two guys over a missing wallet.
It wasn’t long before a lady bartender wearing black stockings, a bra, and belly chain waltzed over and took their drink orders. A Taste of Honey’s, ‘Boogie Oogie’ played through loud scratchy speakers as three women entered the stage, one by one. The first was a short blonde chick with bouncy, shiny waves that flowed along her shoulders. Her skin was alabaster white, flawless, and her big jugs sagged, bright pink nipples practically pointing to the ground. Her hips were wide and dimpled, and she had on shimmery red panties with tassels that spun around and around as she popped her hips from side to side. Boy could she move.
She sashayed from left to right, dancing to the beat with the other two women. One of the other whores was a White lady with long, straight brown hair. She looked to be the youngest of the trio. She was freakishly thin, and her small tits looked like Indian teepees. They stuck straight out with unusually large, light brown nipples. She wore a pair of blue panties that gripped her pussy lips like a fucking fist. She had a nice ass, too, despite her scrawniness. She couldn’t dance as well as the blonde. But she tried.
The last broad was Black, the color of silky milk chocolate. He smirked as he watched her work that stage like she was born to do it. She outshined the other two with her dance moves, and long braids adorned with glitter and beads swung about as she moved like a damn wind-up toy. Her breasts were about a C cup, dark and lovely as they jiggled every time she moved. She wore a shimmery gold sheer skirt, and he couldn’t wait to see what she hid underneath it. Soon, the beers they’d ordered arrived and he leaned back, chugging on the fresh one.
The girls weren’t that bad. Though not perfect, they were attractive, worth a second glance. A few guys in the back started wolf calling. Some nights they had some real dogs on the stage in these dives. He felt lucky to catch a break tonight. All three were definitely fuckable. The evening wore on and he considered propositioning one of the girls for a blow job, then heading home. It was a toss-up between the skinny brunette with the nice ass and the Black broad with the nice tits. Before he could make his final decision, Fred pointed to the Black one and said he wanted to fuck her. Maybe she’d take a five dollar bill for some head? The dance was soon over and in typical fashion, the ladies stepped down and began to work the crowd, offering private dances and more.
Additional women appeared from the back of the curtain, all in various stages of undress, gunning for prospects of money for their honey. Fred wasted no time coaxing the Black chick into a corner to fuck around. Angelo remained in his seat as the two other dancers stalled, seeing if he’d take the bait. He’d planned to get that BJ, some good head, but decided someone else could have them after all. He wasn’t into it much anymore, growing tired and distracted, no longer felt as laid back or comfortable.
As he sat there looking around, his thoughts wandered back to the previous day. Gold coin candies… Lucky fucking guess. Swindler.
He hadn’t thought about the crystal ball lady, as he now called her in his head, since he’d driven away from her apartment with his naïve grandmother in tow. He’d forced himself not to think about her. Now, she crept into his thoughts like the smoke after she snuffed out her candles. His grandmother was elated when he’d dropped her back off that evening – you would’ve thought the old woman had spoken to God Himself. When he got home, he’d made it just in time to get his money. That following morning, he got parts for the air conditioner, grabbed some coffee and bread, and picked up an ad for apartments to rent, too. Perhaps he’d move the following month? He never liked to stay in one spot too long.
“Hey, Angelo!” Frederick called out, a big smile on his face. He could only see the side of the man as he blended in with the shadows. “She’s gotta mouth like a vacuum!”
“Vroom vroom, Ms. Hoover.” He snickered as he watched the lady on her knees, sucking his pal’s dick while she simultaneously pulled on his nuts. Angelo turned away, listening to the music, enjoying himself. He figured after Frederick had gotten his rocks off, they’d be leaving soon. ‘Like It Is,’ by Yusef Lateef, played as he slipped further into his thoughts, leaving the bits and pieces of this shit called life. He was surrounded by rasping moans, broken screams of orgasms, high-pitched cackles and drunken rages.
“GIVE IT TO ME!” someone yelled, snatching him out of his state of semi-slumber. He looked to his right and saw the fat man at the front door with his arms up as two men wearing plastic President Nixon masks pressed a gun against his gut. “I’m not fuckin’ around! I want all the money!” one of them barked.
The other guy with him began to terrorize the patrons, demanding their wallets, jewels, and watches. He glanced at Frederick who was still standing in that dim corner, the whore now frozen, their eyes wide and looking scared as hell. He took another sip of his beer and set it down on the little lopsided table as the thief worked the crowd like a church service. Getting that third offering, ready or not, here he comes. The fat man yelled seconds before gunfire erupted, then hit the ground like a ton of bricks. The place became frantic, people scrambling and running to and fro, but the doors were blocked.
He glanced at Frederick once more, placing his finger to his lips in a hush motion.
Don’t you scream, you pussy. Don’t you say a fucking word.
It wasn’t long before the one working the crowd got to him.
“Nice fuckin’ watch, ring and chain. They’re mine now. Put ’em in the bag!” the guy yelled.
“I’m not giving you shit.” Angelo chuckled, reached for his beer and took another swig.
The guy aimed the gun at him.
“Don’t try to be a hero, you fuckin’ Guido. I’m kipin’ your shit. Give it to me!” He clicked the weapon. Angelo grinned at him. The bastard’s blue eyes were visible through the cheap plastic presidential mask, and his pupils were dilated, big as flying saucers. He smelt of liquor. His associate had stepped away from the doors and was clearing out the register, dumping big bottles of alcohol in a box while the fat man lay there grunting, gurgling and dying.
“I’ll give it to ya, all right.”
Screams rang out as the big-eyed fucker fell to his knees, a clean-as-a-whistle bullet hole smoking from the center of his empty head. Angelo looked down at the piece of shit, kicked the fucker over on his side, then lit a fresh cigarette. He made his way towards the fool who was working on cases of gin, wine, and whiskey, ransacking the shelves with his back turned. Somehow he’d remained oblivious, thinking that gunshot had been his partner in crime shooting a patron. He kept a steady pace, closing the gap. These sons of bitches must be high as kites.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
“Go! Everybody get tha fuck outta here!” Angelo yelled.
BAM!
More screams rent the air as people flooded out the entrance, charging towards the door, fighting for their miserable life and freedom. The naked women, men with their pants down to their ankles, and freaks of nature shot out of there, rushing out of the mouth of the beast.
He shot the fat man’s attacker in the back three times, then one more time in the head for good measure. He never left a target alive to tell the tale. That was a novice move. The chump lay there bleeding out, glass breaking everywhere from the liquor box slipping out of hands and the contents shattering once it
hit the floor.
Fred raced towards him, working his belt back into his pants with shaky hands. His eyes wild and crazy.
“I gotta get outta here, man! If Katie finds out I was in here, I’m—”
“Shut up for a second, Fred,” he said as politely as he could muster. He picked up the phone that was bolted to the wall and dialed the police.
“Hey, some turkeys came into Pinky’s Burlesque on 42nd Street and robbed the joint. One of ’em shot Dog Catcher. He might be dead. Send some pigs.” He hung up the phone, nodded towards the door, and he and Frederick walked out into the night. The air was pleasantly cooler. Matching steps as he smoked a cigarette, they passed by more strip clubs, liquor stores, cigar shops, XXX movie spots, and clothing stores that were closed for the night.
“Take it easy. It’s over. Done.”
Frederick lit a new joint, still shaking a bit as they neared his car. The man wasn’t cut out for such situations. The most he’d done was sell some weed, get high, and steal some crackers and bologna from a bodega. He knew a lot of people, and they liked him, but this was beyond his level. He was a family man with a guilty conscience, married to a woman who wouldn’t suck his cock, tell him he was all gravy, make him feel like a fucking man. He definitely didn’t want to end up like ol’ Freddy boy. Barely scraping by, not enough ass, and miserable. Being wealthy and miserable was far better.
They reached his car and piled into it. He turned on the radio, and it wasn’t long before they heard the police and ambulance sirens in the distance. Grover Washington Jr.’s, ‘Mister Magic’ blasted through his radio speakers as he headed to Fred’s place, so the scaredy cat could lap at a warm cup of milk to soothe his tattered nerves and fall asleep against his wife’s shaggy muff, offering the bitch guilt-driven pleasures with the slip of his quivering tongue. It was a good night gone bad, or perhaps a bad night that turned out incredibly good, depending on how one looked at it. He chuckled to himself.
Richard fucking Nixon masks, and robbing the place… Ironic. A couple of burnouts came into the wrong spot tonight.
Casper the fuckin’ Ghost was in there. Boo! Motherfucker…
“I am not a crook…” – President Richard Nixon
CHAPTER THREE
Hold the Phone
Rule 3: If at first you don’t succeed, try again.
…Two weeks later
Andrea hopped about in her kitchen, from foot to foot, because her pantyhose made her legs itch. She tried to remove the stiff legwear without causing a run and ruining yet another pair. Every muscle in her legs burned and the balls of her feet were on fire. It had been a long work day at the perfume counter of B. Altman and Co., selling colognes, creams, scented lotions and powders. After managing to get the sheer stockings down to her ankles without a snag, she tossed them next to her chunky black heels. Then, she washed her hands in the kitchen sink, grabbed the defrosted chicken from the refrigerator, and set it out to fry.
She proceeded to light a few white candles and sage incense throughout her place, then turned on the radio to facilitate some much needed R&R. George Benson’s, ‘Breezin’’ came through the airwaves. She snapped her fingers to the vibe, feeling better already.
And then… she paused when a cool sensation came upon her like an icy cloak settling along her shoulders. It then lifted and ushered past her, returning soon thereafter and racing through her like an unpleasant draft. She ran her hands up and down her arms to quell the goosebumps. A sense of dread thumped against her heart, plucking at the strings of her sensibilities and making a horrid song. Within seconds, her phone rang. She stared at it, frozen. Snapping out of the trance, she quickly turned the music down and answered it.
“Hello?”
“Andrea. You’re home. Good. Check it out, I need a favor.”
Her voice caught in her throat. A knot formed in her gut and made a mess of her resolve as she now flushed with heat. She leaned against the counter, feeling a bit dizzy. There was no way she could forget that voice. The deep, raspy baritone notes dipped in dark liquor and a miasma of cigarette smoke. A voice that was intimidating no matter what, even if he’d been reciting the alphabet. A voice that sounded beyond his earthly years. The Devil, of course, was timeless.
“Who is this?”
“You’re the psychic. Shouldn’t you know?”
“What do you want, Mr. Ferrari?”
“A reading.”
“Well, first of all, I’m not a psychic. Secondly, just because I read for your grandmother doesn’t mean I will read for you, and thirdly, even if I wanted to subject myself to entertaining the likes of you, I don’t care to be treated like some circus clown as you hurl more accusations and insults my way. I’m closed right now.”
“Tomorrow then.” He didn’t phrase it like a question. He was giving her the date, and she’d better agree to it. Or else.
“For you, I’m closed forever, mothafucka. No going out of business sale. Just closed.” Her nerves were a damn wreck. She wished she’d never answered the phone, but she had to nip this in the bud.
“I’ll pay you well. That’s square biz, baby.”
She placed her hand on her hip and hissed. This guy was a real piece of work. She teetered between terror and amusement. It made her sick to her stomach that she found him slightly comical.
“There’s no amount of money your ass could offer me, Mr. Ferrari, that would make me subject myself to you again. If your grandmother calls me for another appointment, I will also be requesting that you not come with her. I’m sure she’ll understand.” She heard what sounded like a soda or beer can being opened, then guzzling and deep swallowing. That was soon followed by the man smoking. The deep exhale, puff, and inhale proved it.
“You’re little trick worked.”
“What trick?”
“You gave me a nightmare that night. Just like you promised. I never dream. The night after I left your apartment, I did. Anyway, enough of that. I want to ask you a few questions. Some of ’em are about my father. You said he was there with you, tellin’ you stuff. That means you might be—”
“I didn’t say he was here with me. I just got a sense, a feeling. I told you this already.”
“A sense that he was there with you though, right? Was he telling you shit about me? His spirit? Is that how you do it? Ya know, the shit with the chocolate coins. I want to know exactly what happens… how it feels… what is said. The tone of the voice. Does your heart beat faster? Are you afraid when the spirits come? Do they use you like some rag doll, or was it like a dream you can barely remember? It just felt like something happened?”
She hesitated, realizing he wasn’t satisfied with her indifferent response. She’d hoped he’d let her go, but she’d figured wrong. Perhaps he was more perceptive, inquisitive, and intelligent than she dared give him credit for. Obviously, he wasn’t a fool, if what her neighbors had said about him was true. Besides, he’d asked the right questions. It was almost as if he, too, had a sixth sense. Maybe he did. He’d survived, some way, somehow.
“Why do you want these answers? You don’t believe in me anyway, remember?” She chortled as she nestled the phone between her shoulder and neck, trying to ensure she didn’t pull too hard on the cord as she made quick work of unwrapping the chicken breasts and thighs from the plastic packaging.
“I don’t know nothin’ about this kind of strange shit that you do, except that my grandmother has been taken advantage of by people like for you for years. Too many people believe in shit they can’t see, and deny what’s right in front of their face.”
“Can you tell me when the commercial break from your mouth runnin’ comes up? Because I have to go.”
“Andrea.” He chuckled. “You’re a funny one, aren’t ya?” He said the words, but it was obvious he wasn’t amused.
“I can be funny when I want.”
“I can too, baby. Check this out. I’ve got a joke for you. It’s gonna knock your fuckin’ socks off. Wait a minute. You’re p
robably barefooted right now, aren’t you?” Her breath hitched. “Your feet throb from standin’ all day at work. The floor is hard, and you’re probably in heels for hours… a pretty little thing like you.” A chill ran down her spine. “I can tell you stand a lot… It’s always in the curve of a woman’s back. It slopes different, bends forward as you try to get the pressure off your lower extremities. And then, if you’ve got some cans on ya, and you clearly do, your bra digs into your shoulders and back. It’s a vicious cycle of pain. Isn’t that joke funny? Hmmm, how did Mr. Ferrari know this? Is he psychic, too?” The phoneline was quiet for far too long. “Now, you listen here, sweetheart. Either you’re stupid or incredibly brave because you’re talkin’ to me like I’m some dope off the street. A fuckin’ chump. Nobody talks to me like that. I hope I’ve made myself clear. Do you know who I am?”
“No. Should I?” she lied as she grabbed a bowl to fill with flour, then some seasoning salt from a cabinet.
He laughed. She detested that arrogant sound.
“You’re lying. See, you said no. The right answer, if you didn’t hear anything about me, baby, would’ve been, ‘You’re Mr. Ferrari, or you’re Mrs. Russo’s grandson. Maybe even, you’re Angelo. But, you said no. And you said it fast.”
She closed her eyes and stood still as her hand slipped from the chicken. Her nerves were on the fritz, and that damn chill came over her again. Obviously the nightmare she cast his way wasn’t enough to dissuade him. She was curious as to what reaction he had. The details would’ve certainly delighted her.
“I’m making dinner right now. I’m busy and have to go.”
