No Love for the Wicked

by Tiana Laveen

  “That spine of yours, the one that has a bit of a curve from standing all fucking day… Hey, tell me, baby, ever have someone kiss down it real slow?”

  “What in the hell does this have to do with a reading, Mr. Ferrari?”

  “Absolutely nothing. I’m just gettin’ fresh.” Her lips twitched as they dared to try and form a smile. “I wouldn’t mind bangin’ if you don’t want to do a reading for me. The choice is yours, but both is better.”

  “I’m not doin’ readings tonight, tomorrow, next week, next month or next year where it pertains to you, and I don’t give a shit who you are, or who you think you are, or even how you believe I’m supposed to treat someone that I barely know because of some status or reputation that precedes you. And ain’t no freaky deaky going down, either.”

  “There’s more than one way to skin a cat, Andrea. How’s your cat doin’, baby? Is it purring, dripping wet between those long legs of yours?” That same damn chill ran down her body yet another time. “If you don’t want to mix business with pleasure, I can dig it, but either way, you’re gonna give me something. I always get what I want, one way or another.”

  “If that’s a threat, then you are wasting your time. I won’t bother cursing you. I will call the police.”

  At that, he burst out in raucous laughter.

  “Call the police? For what? They don’t give uh shit about this! They’ve got muggings to stop, and bribes to take. The pigs are gonna help you? Now that’s a damn good joke. I haven’t broken any law. I asked for a reading and offered a back massage. Yeah… that’s goin’ straight to the Supreme Court. Front page news.”

  “I’m done with this conversation. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but I know your energy and that’s enough for me. Forget this number, Mr. Ferrari. Don’t contact me again.” And then, she ended the call…

  Angelo sat in the middle of the sagging couch, his television broadcasting a re-run of ‘Welcome Back Kotter.’ It had been one of his favorite shows and he was pissed when he recently found out it had been canceled. Outside, darkness had settled and patches of fragmented light and frenzied motion glinted behind the pane. Cars honked and people talked loud over muted music. Off to his left were two empty beer cans on the coffee table, the third smashed into a disk by his fist, and to his right, a half full carton of Winston’s. As he rubbed on his chin, working a few things out in his head, his beard pressed into his fingertips. At the top of the list: He was due money from Simon Esposito. Ten grand, to be exact.

  Earlier that morning at 7:01 A.M., he’d surprised a Mr. Arnold and left him drowned in his tub. No bullets. No noise. No need to wake the kids. He’d been in the shower when Angelo had crept in and submerged the bastard’s face deep into the standing water. Now he was swimming with the fishes. Mr. Arnold had been a high falutin’ fellow who’d rubbed plenty the wrong way. It had all started with a business transaction gone wrong, followed by a fake promise of a big score for a cocaine deal. His days had been numbered for quite some time. Apparently, he couldn’t count.

  Maybe I’ll go on a vacation. Somewhere nice. The Rockies. Never been to the mountains before. Then, when I get back, I’ll move over to East 10th Street, Avenue C. Saw a spot over there that looked decent enough. Maybe I’ll leave the Lower East Side altogether. Go to Midtown, or Brooklyn.

  He picked up his lighter and began to flick the flame over and over again. His phone rang. He got up and answered.

  “What?”

  “Hey, Angelo. It’s Rick. Did you still wanna look at a Pontiac? I’ve got one. It’s practically brand new.” Rick was a guy who sold cars in the neighborhood. He was known for making dodgy deals and doing some under the table type shit, too. He found ways to trim the fat off the prices, or find you the exact make and model of a gem you’d been hurting for. If you were a car freak like Angelo, you needed a guy like Rick in your life.

  “Is it hot? I don’t want it if it is, Rick. Had enough trouble with that a few years ago with the Mazda RX-7.”

  “Nah, not hot at all. Got all the legal papers.”

  Angelo stroked his chin, then readjusted his nuts in his underwear.

  “I’ll check it out tomorrow. Put me down ’round two.”

  “Stellar, man. You’re gonna go bananas over it.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see. Catch you on the flipside.” He hung up the phone. The cord swung about until it settled. He stared at it. It didn’t ring again. He didn’t pick it up to make a call. Perhaps that’s what loneliness and self-isolation was? An old, dirty device hanging on a grease-splattered wall with no calls coming in or out. The telephone allowed people to talk to other people, but it offered no depth. It wasn’t balmy like the hot summer days. It bore no heat of genuine human connection. It wasn’t warm like two thighs wrapped around his head, squeezing hard as he drove a woman to ecstasy with his silver tongue, sucking her pussy like a motherfucker should. It was just him. In his self-made prison.

  Angelo had created a cell around himself, and he knew it. Brick by brick, iron bar by iron bar, his fortress stood tall. He had to be like that, or he’d get caught up, in prison or dead, like so many others. He minded his own business. But things were getting complicated. The fun was wearing off. The excitement of a fast life was diminishing, and some of the rookie cops wanted to be cowboys and try to stop guys like him from doing their due diligence. Even the money didn’t give him the same rush as of late.

  But damn was he brilliant. He was great at what he did, and many of the crime families kept him and a few others like him in rotation. It was important to some of these guys to not associate with the same men to solve their personal and professional issues in their circle. Those guys often had their house phones bugged, or someone they’d pissed off would be watching their every move, ready to rat them out. On the other hand, men like Angelo crawled in the night. They skulked under the radar, using an alias and moving about like chess pieces in the dark. They were hard to keep track of, unless they wanted to be tracked. They weren’t bound to an illustrious family, to oaths of honor, or to a legacy. They were only compelled by their fucking guns, knives, and bank accounts.

  Contracting outsiders helped confuse the untainted police, and it kept shit fresh. Yet, these factions and families had to trust you – and trust didn’t come easy. These clients and their relatives had once favored his father. The relationship had been long-standing, so now, they trusted him, too.

  He liked being his own man, working his own gigs, setting his own schedule. He worked for anyone who passed his sniff test, and could afford him. He turned down far more jobs than he accepted, for he belonged to no one but himself. Therefore, he called no one boss, and confided in nobody, trusting only his own dreams. He punched no motherfucker’s clock, answered to no one, and had no debts. Guys like him had nothing, not even a fear, and he hadn’t felt true, unadulterated terror since he was a teenager. The mean streets didn’t give a shit about him or his occupation. He’d had to toughen up, become one with them. The streets just wanted to get paid. Money was dirty; it didn’t matter if it came from a big company in the form of a paycheck, or as a balled-up, blood-splattered dollar bill clutched in a pimp’s hand as his bottom bitch lay dying from a date gone bad.

  Making money meant exploitation. Period. If you were underpaid, you were exploited. If you were making money off people’s misery, you were the exploiter. America had gotten duped. The founding fathers had pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes after they marched in, stole the land, and claimed it as their own. It was a dog-eat-dog world. The few big rats in charge, the ones making the rules, had convinced everyone else that getting a job would afford them the American dream. Whereas the truth was that they’d established a system one step above slave labor. Yet, only the Africans knew they were slaves, while the White idiots passing out in sweat factories did not. Sometimes they made it seem so fancy, giving pennies on the dollar and calling that shit a career with a corner office. These sheep worked sixty plus hours per week, forgett
ing what their kids looked like, while all along, Bob the big cheese CEO got to fuck his nineteen-year-old secretary, then ride on his yacht after taking the kiddos to Coney Island for an afternoon of fun.

  That was the meaning of capitalism to him. The pimp could be a bank, a job, a drug addiction, or a woman you were so madly in love with, you’d cut off your left nut to keep her. Everyone was either the pimp or the ho. You just had to choose your poison, get in where you fit in.

  He looked back at the television. The Sweathogs were at it again. Arnold was being groomed for a date. Making his way back over to the couch, he glanced down at his watch. His jaw tightened as his teeth clamped, anger brewing within him.

  Despite his lack of excitement, he wanted his damn money. In a few minutes, the son of a bitch would be considered late. Paying him late was a definite no-no. He pushed the thought aside and leaned back, shoving his arm beneath his head. The aroma of spaghetti drifted into his apartment from a neighbor’s place. Damn, it smelled good. His stomach growled as he licked his lips. He could smell the oregano, the basil, the garlic… He lay there, hungry and pissed, as he thought about what he wanted to get into that night.

  He’d heard his associate, Herbie, was having another bash. Herbie was a thick-necked Black guy with unusually small eyes who sold cocaine and tranquilizers, and always had a wild party every few weeks that was out of sight. Angelo figured he could go out and get into that, for it would be a sure good time. Maybe he’d even bring Fred along and a couple other pals. He could get high or drunk at a club, or get into makin’ bacon with some broad in a motel. He could ride around town, maybe pop back into Times Square and have a little fun. Maybe he could go pick up new threads, go hear some live music, or just listen to a bunch of records and dance all by himself. Angelo liked his own company. In fact, he preferred it.

  The problem was, he was a bad influence on himself. But how could he run from his own being? He was trapped in his body, with one brain and no soul he could reason with. He yawned.

  Moisture welled in his eyes from the sheer boredom of it all. Even his profession was getting a bit routine. A job would roll in, he’d handle it, get his pay. He didn’t want to dilly dally with the people on his hit list, talk to them extensively or drag shit out. He was in and out, without a trace. Unlike some of the other guys who worked in the same field, he didn’t get off on hours of suffering. He liked quick pain. The kind that was so mind-numbing, the person sometimes begged to be shot instead or passed out from the agony. He wasn’t just known to be a damn good gunman, but he had deadly hands that were no stranger to nunchucks, strangling, knife-wielding and brass knuckles. After raking his hands through his hair, he shoved one down the front of his pants.

  He looked at the clock on his wall. Three minutes until the fucker was late.

  I covet my cash, but I never let it make a fool of me. That was how he stayed under the radar. He never got too attached to anything, or anyone. Made sure he could fight his way out of whatever, and never took no for an answer. One person decided to try him anyway, see if he’d accept her refusal with grace. There isn’t shit graceful about me.

  The crystal ball lady, Andrea, had flat out snubbed him. His curiosity about the things she’d said regarding his father had been growing day by day until he had to act, and when he did, he was met with staunch resistance. On top of that, he’d had a nightmare that he was being strangled by a huge snake in the middle of the jungle. It was definitely her handiwork. He had no idea how she did it, but she did. He hated snakes, but he surmised the dream was more metaphoric than anything else. He was impressed. Regardless, this wasn’t over so he wouldn’t sweat it. Every nut could be cracked. What else did she know about Enrico Ferrari? His pops, the man who’d been half responsible for his existence? The guy who’d had taught him everything he knew. His father had been feared to the point that when he’d drive down the street in his white Cadillac, people would scatter and the street would get quiet. Everyone knew Angelo was being groomed to walk in his footsteps. It was just the way it was.

  His eldest brother, Matteo, didn’t have the stomach for blood. The second eldest brother, Alfonso, had failed as a marksman – couldn’t even shoot the shit. To add insult to injury, Alfonso had a drinking problem and kept getting in trouble. That left his sisters and him. He’d been his father’s last hope. He turned around and looked at the phone, then turned back away. No ringing. No calls. Then, the door buzzed. He grabbed his gun, checked the chamber to ensure it was fully loaded, got to his feet and checked the clock again. The son of a bitch was right on time…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pass the Smell Test

  Rule 4: Take the target off guard.

  “Of course. Anaïs Anaïs by Cacharel is one of my all-time favorites. A beautiful fragrance. You made a great choice.” She placed the customer’s cologne purchase in the silky white bag with the black ribbon, folded it over just so, and handed it to her. Perfectly manicured hands with fingers painted a sophisticated baby pink gently took hold of the parcel.

  “Thank you. Have a good evening,” the tall, stacked blonde stated.

  “Come by anytime.” Andrea waved to the woman as she walked away. She sold beautiful things, many of which she couldn’t afford. Sometimes she sprayed far too much of the samples on her wrist or behind the ear when no one was looking. She’d always loved perfume, even as a child. It was like a love potion in a fancy bottle.

  A certain fragrance would make men swoon, women smile, and children hold onto nostalgic memories of perfect mommies who smelled like English gardens and elegant mock tea parties with a favorite teddy bear. These patrons came from a world she was not a part of. Her world was full of ashy-faced, snot-nosed cousins crammed in a two-bedroom apartment in Harlem, fighting over the prize in a box of cereal. Bloody knees and swift elbows to the ribs were always the order of the day. Nobody heard their protesting stomachs over the growling in their own brains, fueled by a nitrate called racism, ego, and self-pity. That gave birth to a new world order. At least, inside of her own head.

  Loud arguments and boiling anger skulking up splintered walls, festering like black mold. Murky streets, the stench of hardened hearts split open from the pressure of the world came instinctively from the cries of a society steeped in poverty with no way out. Who put that pot of hot water on their table and told them to get in it and stew? They were dark brown and black tea leaves, mistaken for crushed, dried Autumn foliage, blowing in the wind. Something had to give. Where was the cure? Who was drinking them and asking for another cup?

  No sugar or honey. Nothing to sweeten the taste of despair. The aching pain was only soothed by the artistic and musical souls who patted the seeping emotional wounds of their fellow man with a damp cloth and said, ‘Take it easy, man… I’ve got something for you.’ It was an elixir.

  There were other potions, too. Quaaludes, dirty needles filled with slow death, strange powders fit for a nostril or two. Mix it all with Nuyorican melodies, soulful riffs born of lyrics from a love that was far too gone to rein in. Or hate potions, taken when one detested the shit deep inside of them so badly, it was the only way they knew to turn their back on their right to life.

  There were a million and one ways to kill oneself. Her family and friends had discovered them all, and were desperately trying to find a few new ones, too. She knew this even as a child. Children were wise with no words, no articulation for what they’d seen and heard, but danced for a chance at relief. She was no different. She knew, every time she clutched her stiff-haired, chipped-pink-lipped old white Barbie doll which told her in its own plasticky way that she wasn’t good enough, even in her Sunday best. What do you think of that, little girl? Even the second-hand toy rivaled her beauty.

  Beauty on the inside, not just the outside. You little Black bitch. You’re ugly through and through… You better take a potion, so you NEVER have to see you, too…

  Snapping herself out of these glum thoughts, she sighed with relief when realizing no one e
lse was waiting for her assistance. She’d been busy for two hours straight. Finally, a break. Bending down to grab her purse, she pulled out a pack of mints and unwrapped one, placing it in her mouth. As she sucked on it, she crossed her arms, looking about. Daydreaming.

  It’s going to get busy again, soon. The lunchtime crowd will be in. She glanced at her watch, then began tidying up as the tune of England Dan & John Ford Coley’s, ‘Love is the Answer’ played throughout the department store. She grabbed a new box of the small sample cards to place on the counter. When she stood back up, it felt like someone had taken their hand and karate chopped her in the chest.

  “Good to see you too, baby.”

  There, standing before her, wearing a silk cream and black polka dot shirt with a wide lapel was a person who made her blood freeze mid-flow. She could practically feel her veins padding with ice. His shirt was left mostly unbuttoned, letting dark chest hair and several gleaming gold chains show. His rust bellbottom pants were tight around the crotch, where a huge bulge was clearly visible beneath a chunky belt buckle. His diamond covered watch shone bright as Christmas tinsel as he slowly removed a black wide-brimmed hat from his head, allowing jet black tresses to fall forward, framing his bright blue eyes.

  Stroking the sides of his mouth nice and slow with his right thumb and forefinger, he leaned on the glass counter, ankles crossed, and looked around, as if about to impart a precious secret.

  “What do you want?” Her voice didn’t sound as strong as she’d wished. Shock filled her. Showing no signs of concern was a struggle to the death.

  He sighed, then tapped on the display case with his fingernail. The Devil had come knocking.

  “Let me smell this.”

  She began to reach for a tester tag to squirt on.

  “No. Give me the bottle.”

  She opened the sliding cabinet door and crouched down to pluck the bottle of Charlie from the shelf, then handed it to him. He stretched his arm out and sprayed the sweet mist into the air. His nostrils flared, his hand waved about, as if to usher the scent closer, spin it around like invisible dust. After a few seconds, he faced her.