Hard Betrayal (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Series 2)

by Jason Stanley

  Nikky put the tips of her little fingers in the corners of her mouth and blew. Her loud, shrill whistle cut through the chatter. She stood and, speaking into the microphone, addressed the crowd. “Hello, everyone. Move up and find a seat. It’s time to get this thing started.”

  Within a few minutes, most of the women were seated.

  “All right, listen up,” Nikky continued, “we have a lot of shit to explain. It’s best if one person at a time speaks so everyone can hear what’s said the first time.” In response, several small conversations broke out. Another shrill whistle filled the room. “Hey, I said listen up, not start talking to your friends! Now listen the fuck up.”

  The room quickly settled.

  “All right,” Nikky said, “in case you don’t know who’s who, I’m Nikky. You’re here to meet Michelle, who’s here to tell you where things stand in the hood, and where you stand with us.”

  At her introduction, Michelle walked over from where she’d been leaning against the wall, distinct in her bland street clothes. She wore low-rise boots, bootcut jeans, and a V-neck T-shirt under a dark blue blazer. A microphone clipped to her blazer’s lapel left her hands free as she stood in front of the speaker’s table to talk to the crowd.

  “Some of you already know me” —Michelle made eye contact with a few of the women— “but most of you don’t. So here it is: I’m the one who kicked Sugar’s ass out of the hood. She’s gone. Gone for good, and won’t be back — ever. Some of you might be down with Sugar, so you don’t want to deal with me. You’re welcome to hit the door at any time; nobody will ever make you stay.”

  “What, you’re in charge of running shit in the hood now?” asked a tall, thin, light-skinned woman in a gold spandex miniskirt and crop top. “I don’t gotta listen to this shit, you know.”

  “What’s your name?” Michelle demanded.

  The woman cocked her head, pursing her lips. “Real name or street name?”

  “Either one.”

  “Latoya, or Honey on the street.”

  “Okay, Latoya, or Honey on the street . . . you’re right, you don’t need to put up with no shit. Not from me or anybody else. I don’t, either, and I won’t. So, make your choice right now; either shut up, or take your bony ass out of my meeting, and when you find some manners, you can come back and ask for a job. Now, which is it?”

  “No, I didn’t mean I didn’t wanna hear nothing. I was just saying . . .” The woman ducked her head, busied herself lighting a cigarette.

  “Anyone else?” Michelle looked around.

  A few women said, “No,” while others shook their heads. Most didn’t respond though, meeting her with flat, non-committal expressions.

  “I’m taking over running hooking in the hood, both on the streets and call girls.”

  “I didn’t know there was any call girls around here,” came a voice from the middle of the room.

  “They’re a new part of the business. Some of them might be you ladies, here, in this room. Some will come from out of the area. Before you start asking more questions, let me run down the rest of the program. I’m sure I’ll cover most of your concerns.

  “First, can I offer protection?” Michelle said. “Yes. Protection is fully covered. It’s a big issue, and I’ll come back to it several times.”

  “You bet your ass it’s important,” said Latoya, Honey on the street.

  Michelle ignored her. “Will Trevon, the guy who took over Lewis and Jackson’s top spot, be interested in our business? No. Will he cause us any trouble? No. Can we count on him for backup if we need it? Yes, but we’re not going to be calling for his help. You’ll have the full protection you need without being mixed up with the drug business.”

  “How’re you gonna do that?” someone called out from the back.

  “I’ll explain that in a minute. First, let me finish what I have to say. I’ll only work with women who want to make good money; I won’t put up with no strawberries. I don’t expect you to stay clean, since a little chemical recreation is your private affair. Your being strung out is my business. If I see you’re strung out or if I even see tracks, you’ll be out on your ass. You may be working on your back, but you’ll still have class and represent both my organization and women in general.”

  “Why would we wanna go with you?” asked a short woman with a small chest and an ass that put Nicki Minaj to shame.

  “Lots of reasons,” Michelle replied. “One of the biggest is you’re either with me, or alone. From today on, we’re the only operation in Anglewatts. Any pimp who tries to do business here has a choice: He can either leave town permanently, or be dead. One more thing . . . your boyfriend had better be ready to die for his chance to take over. I grew up here, and I can almost hear the conversation where you guys crank each other up.”

  “Did she really grow up here?” someone asked.

  “Yeah, I remember her from school,” another voice answered.

  “Like I said, I can almost hear it . . . Yeah, you can do this!” Michelle mimicked. “You goddamned right, I’m smarter than Sugar and that punk, D’andre!”

  Several heads nodded.

  “Don’t do it.” She said. “You’ll lose both your boyfriend and your job.”

  “What about Jimmy?” asked a woman sitting in the front row.

  Michelle repeated the question into the microphone for the women in the back. “Any of you working for Jimmy over on Western, you don’t work for him anymore. He moved to Texas this morning. If you’re in this room right now, then he left you behind, but you’re certainly free to go join him and his woman-abusing ways.”

  “How do you plan on keeping others out?” the same woman asked.

  “Do you see Lewis, or any of his lieutenants here? No, you don’t. D’andre or his guys? No again. What about Sugar, Blondell, Dontrice? I already told you about Jimmy. When was the last time anyone spoke face-to-face with that half-assed Quantel?”

  The room erupted into many conversations, and Michelle let it continue for about a minute before she nodded to Nikky, who again let out a short, loud whistle.

  “No bullshit. Nobody’s seen or heard from those assholes for a couple of days, right? So,” Michelle said, “take a second to think about who’s still standing. I’m the only one. And like I said, Trevon will take it poorly if someone goes against us.”

  “Why will Trevon help you?” Red Stiletto Boots asked.

  “We have an agreement. Let’s leave it at that. Work with us, and you’ll have deep, solid protection. On the business end, things are very different from what you’re used to. We’re funding emergency and retirement accounts that are strictly yours, and I’m negotiating with a local clinic for real medical support. A nurse will help with regular stuff. They’re up on your job upfront, so they’ll know how best to take care of you. And they’ll be discrete — no cops, no bullshit. Any STDs will be dealt with immediately to get you back to work fast.

  “Now, back to protection,” Michelle said. “All of you will learn some self-defense moves. Learning how to better protect yourself is non-negotiable. Most of you think you’re good in a fight, and a couple of you are, but not the rest. I’ll make sure you’ll learn some basic defense.”

  “Who’s teaching us?” asked a woman in red spandex pants.

  “Me.”

  “No offense, but you look more like a school teacher than a pimp. I mean, check out your clean complexion and buppy jeans. You’re wearing a blazer, for Christ’s sake. You don’t look so tough to me.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way. Are you a scrapper?”

  “I can take care of myself okay.”

  “Great, you just volunteered to kick my ass.” Michelle strolled down the center aisle to the open area in the back. “Come on back here, where we have a little room.”

  “No,” the woman said. “I-I didn’t mean that.”

  “Sure you did. Most everyone in the room does. You’re the only one who had the balls to say so. What’s your name?”
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  “Pam. People call me PJ.”

  “Good to meet you, PJ.” Michelle gave her gun to Nikky. “As you can see, I’m unarmed, and I don’t carry knives. You can come at me with anything but a gun. Pull a gun, and Nikky will shoot you. Are you carrying?”

  “Uh, yeah. In my purse.”

  “Give it to Nikky. Here, let me take my jacket off first.” Michelle did and handed her blazer to a woman standing beside Nikky then she stepped into the center of the area between the back row of chairs and the room’s entrance.

  The women had gathered around them in a large circle, some standing on chairs to see over others’ heads.

  PJ gave her snub-nosed .38 revolver to Nikky, spun, and charged. In less than three seconds, the first round was over — PJ had been flipped flat on her back, looking up at the ceiling with Michelle’s knee pressed against her exposed throat and Michelle’s thumbnail a bare fraction of an inch away from her eyeball. Without any doubt, had the fight been real, PJ would be blind in that eye.

  Michelle jumped up and away. “Okay, PJ, that probably wasn’t fair. You were expecting to surprise me, and I surprised you instead. Try again.”

  PJ stood up and circled Michelle and the face-to-face dance began. Michelle smiled, open hands up in a defensive position like a boxer’s. Both women circled one another. PJ shoulder-feinted twice, but Michelle didn’t respond. PJ’s eyes squinted. Michelle held her reptilian stare. And they kept on circling.

  PJ pulled out a short knife from her bra and snapped open the blade. She feinted left, feinted a jab, and feinted another jab.

  On the second jab, Michelle stepped in and grabbed her wrist. Spinning into PJ’s body, she flipped her onto her back. As she did, Michelle twisted PJ’s wrist and, using her thumb, stripped the knife out of PJ’s hand.

  PJ lay on the floor, a knee to her throat, but this time, her own knife was poised above her eye. Not five seconds had passed before PJ she was looking death in the eye — again.

  Michelle moved the knife slightly aside to make eye contact. “We good?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh, we’re good,” PJ answered.

  Michelle stood, offering her hand to PJ, who accepted the help.

  She handed back the closed knife. “You’d better learn how to use that thing if you insist on carrying it,” she said with a friendly smile. “I can help you with some training.”

  Michelle stood there, clearly not tired or even breathing heavily; everything about her was relaxed. “Anyone else?” she asked in a loud, steady voice.

  No one said a thing — absolute silence.

  Michelle put her jacket back on, then started to clap. “Okay, everyone . . . give PJ a big round of applause. She’s more than earned it.” At first, only a couple of people joined in the clapping, but then, as if a dam had burst, the room erupted in applause, shouts, cheers, and whistles, although whether the celebration was for PJ or Michelle, both, or for women in general, remained unclear.

  Michelle returned to the speaker’s table. Nikky and Deja joined her. When the cheering began to die down, Nikky whistled three short blasts into the table microphone, and a little over a hundred happy hookers drifted to their seats.

  The light-skinned woman in the gold spandex miniskirt shouted out, “Can I ask a question?”

  “Sure,” Michelle said.

  “What do you do with a man? I don’t mean no disrespect, because you did some funky shit there with PJ, but what about some big, strong man?”

  “Good question, and I’m real glad you asked it.” Earlier, Michelle had seen Angel come in, and they had the chance to catch up, having not spoken since Michelle dropped her off at her cousin’s in Bakersfield. All was good, and Angel agreed to tell everyone about her recent incident of getting beaten up by that guy in the street. “Angel, stand up, girl. Everybody, this is Angel. She was one of Sugar’s girls. A little while back, Angel ran into some trouble with a freaky john.”

  Nikky handed Angel a microphone.

  “Angel, would you mind telling everyone what happened?”

  “Umm, yeah, hi, everyone. I’m Angel — I guess you already heard who I am. Well, anyway. I had this big guy — you know the type: big man, strong, real hard all over, and mean as shit. He wanted some kinky stuff I’m not into, so I said no. We were outside, in the middle of the afternoon in broad daylight, and he don’t care. Right in the street, he started kicking my ass.

  “He knocked me down behind a van and I thought I was done for. No shit, I knew he’d kill me or send me to the hospital hurt bad until Nikky, here” —Angel pointed at Nikky sitting behind the table— “jumped in. I was dazed, but I think he knocked her down, too.

  “The next thing I know for sure is, Michelle knocked him down and knocked his ass out! No shit, just as fast as we saw her take PJ down right now, that asshole hit the ground. But he didn’t stay out, so she jumped up and pulled a gun on the bastard. When he wouldn’t stay down, she didn’t hesitate or nothing — she shot his big ass.”

  With her fist and forefinger, Angel made a gun and pointed at the floor. “Shot his ass —bam!” When she said “bam,” her hand bucked with the recoil from her imaginary weapon.

  Then she smiled, looking around the room. “Muthafucka kept his big ass down after she shot him. My name’s Angel, but Michelle was my angel because she sure saved my life.”

  “Thanks, Angel, for telling us your story,” Michelle said. “Any other questions?”

  No one had anything.

  “All right, I want you to meet the team. This is Nikky” —she motioned to her right— “and she’ll be your day-to-day manager. She’ll work with you on territory, transportation, hotels, police, pay — all those business-type things. Before you leave here tonight, make sure she has at least your name and phone number. She’ll get with each of you for everything she needs.”

  Then Michelle pointed to her other side. “And this beautiful woman is Deja. She’s your go-to woman for your best glamorous look. Clothes, hair, wigs, nails, makeup — all that stuff. For some of you with little kids, she’s the person to help you with childcare. She’s also your medical connection; she’ll help with the clinic.

  “Now, ladies, before I turn the meeting over to Nikky and Deja, I have one last question for everyone here. Are you in, or are you out?”

  A woman with short purple-tipped hair shouted out from the back of the room, “Did you say childcare?”

  “Yeah, I did. We set up a house for your kids, where they’ll be safe while you’re out working.”

  “I’m in!” Purple Hair shouted, and her declaration was met with a loud chorus of: “Me, too!”

  .

  Thirty-Three: Pink Floyd

  AT SCOTT’S DINER, Michelle and Deja moved chairs out of the way to push together the two front tables. Before they finished rearranging the furniture, Nikky, Trevon, G-Baby, and Baby-Sister joined them. Conversations and laughing continued while everyone pitched in, organizing the seating arrangement.

  “Hey, Scott,” Michelle said. “How are you fixed to take care of a few hungry souls?

  “Your wish is my command,” he quipped.

  “Then I wish some for coffee, all around,” she quipped back. “And bring everyone the big breakfast special. Throw in a tall stack of pancakes and a pitcher of orange juice for the center of the table while you’re at it.”

  Scott strolled over to pick up a carafe, grinning at Michelle while eyeballing Trevon. He wiggled his eyebrows in a silent question, and Michelle winked back.

  Scott brought the full coffee carafes to their table, and Michelle turned to Trevon. “Trevon, did I tell you Scott, here, is the man responsible for Pink Floyd?”

  “No. We only officially met that one time after your big Muay Thai boxing match, and there wasn’t much of a chance to talk.” Trevon faced Scott. “All right, I’ll bite. How are you involved with Pink Floyd? I thought they were an old-time rock band.”

  “No, not them,” Michelle interrupted. “Pink Floyd is Pink’s f
ull name. I couldn’t call him just Pink. He’s a tom, after all.”

  “That Pink? You’re talking about your kitten?” Trevon asked.

  “Yeah. Scott talked me into taking him home.”

  “Hey, Trevon.” Scott shook hands with him. “Good to see you again. So, you’ve met Michelle’s cat. We’d appreciate your helping her take good care of the furry little creature.” With that, Scott left the table.

  Trevon raised an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that was rehearsed,” he said. “And I’m not too sure I do know better.”

  “Man, welcome to the club,” G-Baby said. “Michelle’s been getting the better of me since she was a little girl.”

  “Speaking of getting better, how’s the arm?” Deja asked.

  “Almost healed,” G-Baby said. “I’m back to work, half-days. I could do full days, but Baby-Sister doesn’t go into the shop until noon, so I’m going slow to build my strength.”

  “What’s one have to do with the other?” Deja asked.

  “Well, young’un, when you’re at my advanced years, you get your getting when the getting’s good, so I figure any excuse is a good excuse.” He winked at Nikky.

  “Uncle G, you’re so full of shit,” Michelle said.

  “I don’t get it,” Deja said.

  Baby-Sister laid her hand on Deja’s arm, drawing her attention. “G’s using healing as an excuse to help me with my Pink Floyd. You know, my little cat.”

  “Talk about being set up!” Deja said with a laugh. “I walked right into that one.”

  “On another happy note, did Michelle tell you about her new business?” G-Baby asked Trevon, who looked at Michelle.

  “How much do they know?”

  “They know about Lewis, his crew, and Jackson,” she replied.

  “All right, that’s a lot. What about D’andre?”

  “In general terms, that, too.”

  Trevon glanced around the table. “Looks like we’re in good hands,” he said, then turned to G-Baby. “Yes, I’m fully aware of her venture into the world’s oldest profession. I expect with Nikky and Deja’s help, it’ll be a huge success.”