He pulled out his cell. “Yo, Felice! I’m gon’ slide through later on tonight—around two or three. Listen for the door and keep that thing hot for me.” He frowned at his cell. “Yeah, I got something for you. Don’t worry about it—it’s a surprise.” Dane snapped the phone close.
Minutes later, he pulled the X5 into the back of Ziggy’s Barbecue Joint. His father, Marshall Newman, worked for Ziggy. He swept and mopped the inside of the place, carried large bags of trash and garbage to the commercial-sized waste bin. In between cleaning and garbage-toting treks, his father could always be found throwing down hard liquor in the back of the joint.
As expected, there he was, guzzling whiskey straight from a bottle concealed inside a brown paper bag. His mother claimed his father’s good looks had blinded her to his bad characteristics. What good looks? Dane wondered as he approached his bleary-eyed, haggard-looking father.
“What’s good, Pops?” he asked, his mouth giving the impression of a warm-hearted smile. Inwardly, he sneered at his bum-ass father. His old man had on a T-shirt, with the name Ziggy’s practically obliterated by dirt, grime, and caked-on barbecue sauce.
“Look who the cat dragged in,” his old man said sarcastically. “I know that ain’t none of yours.” His father nodded toward Misty’s truck.
“Naw, I borrowed it.”
Looking relieved that his son hadn’t struck it rich, his father nodded, then took another swig. “Whatchu want?” The drunken man eyed his son suspiciously. “You can tell your greedy mother that you’re too old to be still coming around hassling me about back-owed child support.”
“Mom ain’t thinking about you. She’s remarried.” Dane gave his father a fierce scowl for slandering his mother’s name.
“Oh, yeah?” His father chuckled. “What fool did she hoodwink this time?
“Hoodwink? She still got her looks. My mother’s smart and hard-working. But you already know that. Right, Pops? You wouldn’t have left a stupid, defenseless woman to raise your only child, would you?” he said sarcastically. He clenched his teeth to keep from throwing some hard body shots at Pops, but if he let go of years’ worth of pent-up anger, he’d probably kill his worthless father.
“Simmer down. I was just having fun.” Marshall chuckled. His laughter, however, was without mirth. It was a spiteful, disrespectful, croaking sound.
“I gotta question for you.” Dane narrowed his eyes.
“Yeah?”
“How many other brothers and sisters do I have?”
Marshall reared back, face twisted in disgust. “How the hell would I know?”
“Did you ever knock anyone up while you were married to Mom?”
“What the hell is this about?”
Dane slid the photo out of his pocket. Handed his father the picture of Shane and his brother, Tariq. His father squinted at the picture. Dane took a lighter from his pocket, flicked it, illuminating the photograph. “Anyone look familiar?”
His father continued squinting. His face twisted into a frown. “I’ll be damn. That tall, skinny fella…” He tapped Shane’s image. “He looks just like I used to. Looks like I spit that one out, but damn if his mother pulled my coat. I never saw this boy before.”
“Yeah, he looks like me, Pops. Like he’s my twin,” Dane interjected. “You wanna tell me about it. Do I have a twin?
“I don’t know this boy,” Marshall insisted. “Do you think your mother would give away her own flesh and blood? Boy, stop talking crazy. You ain’t got no twin.”
Dane sighed in relief, leaned close to his foul-smelling father and pointed out Tariq. “That’s his twin right there.”
“Hmm.” Marshall gave the picture back to Dane and then stared off into space. “Lemme tell you something, son,” he said, when he came back down to earth. “Some of the best pussy in the world can be found locked inside a mental ward.”
“Here you go…talking about that nut house you used to work in…” Dane blew out a burst of aggravated air. “I know all about it. That’s all you ever talked about when I was growing up. Bragging about it, like working in a mental hospital was something to be proud of. You wasn’t no doctor, Pop! You wasn’t nothing but hired help,” Dane blurted, angry and frustrated.
“You right, I didn’t have no fancy job title. But a young thug like you don’t know the reward of earning a paycheck—putting in a honest day’s work.”
Dane’s chest heaved in exasperation. “Man, what’s that old job of yours got to do with the question I asked you? Damn!”
“I was gon’ get to it, but if I can’t tell it the way I want to, then forget about it. Go ’head on about your business.”
Dane sighed. “Aiight, Pops. Run it down. Tell me all about the crazy house you worked in.”
His father shifted his body, stretching out his legs comfortably as he sat on a metal folding chair. “Schizophrenic pussy is the best pussy I’ve ever had.”
Dane grimaced.
“I ain’t lying. Schizo pussy…” He paused. “That’s what we used to call it,” he reflected fondly. “It don’t have no phony airs about itself, son. Nah, that pussy is raw and unrefined. Wild pussy! Un-inhibited. It grabs a hold of a dick and pulls it in—all the way down to the balls. Fucking schizo pussy is like trying to stay in the saddle when you sitting on top of a bunking bronco. I done had my share of women, but ain’t no pussy can compare to the dick ride given by the mentally unsound.” His eyes closed dreamily. “You listening to me, boy,” he barked, snapping himself out of his perverted reverie.
“I’m not tryna hear this shit. I just wanna know if you—”
His father made a snorting sound. “I know whatchu thinking. You think your old man is talking shit. Yeah, I’m feeling a little tipsy. I ain’t gon’ lie about it; your old man ain’t feeling no pain. But this ain’t drunk talk. I know exactly what I’m saying. That job I had at the mental hospital provided me with unlimited crazy pussy.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“You ain’t gotta believe it. But I swear by God, I had all the sex I wanted. More than I could handle most of the time. See, I had to help restrain patients. Help hold ’em down. Back in the day—way before my time, the doctors used to give the crazy people something called a lobotomy.”
“What?” Dane scowled in revulsion.
“A lobotomy. It’s an operation on the brain. I heard about it, but I ain’t never witnessed it, like some of the older fellas I worked with claimed. They told me there was a traveling psychiatrist who would give—”
“Man, come on. Get to the point. Am I related to the dude in the picture?”
Marshall continued as if Dane hadn’t said a word. “So, anyway, they said the traveling psychiatrist would come in and do ten to twenty procedures in one day. Had patients lined up, performed surgery on ’em, one right after the other. Some say the man was sadistic; others claim he was a visionary—ahead of his time. Fact is, he figured out a way to do cost-effective, quickie brain surgery.”
CHAPTER 40
The grimace on Dane’s face spoke volumes. “Quickie brain surgery? How the fuck he do that?”
“He’d knock the patients out with electroshock and then insert an ice pick underneath their eyeball.”
Dane couldn’t help from squirming at the idea of a sharp instrument anywhere near his eyeball.
“He’d take a hammer and drive that ice pick up into the frontal lobes of the brain. Then he’d wiggle it around to make sure he was hitting every dark corner of their violent, depraved minds.”
Dane felt nauseous. “Seems like that would have killed ’em?”
“Nah, it calmed ’em down. Calmed ’em real good, from what I heard. Those mental patients didn’t make much of a ruckus after they had ice pick surgery.”
“That’s fucked up.” Dane felt violated by having to listen to his drunk-ass father rant and talk trash. He doubted there was even a thread of truth to what his father was saying, but didn’t feel like arguing. He wanted information. He didn
’t know why it was so important to know, but it was. He always wanted a brother to run around and wreak havoc with. For his own peace of mind, he needed to know if their uncanny resemblance was a quirk of fate or if the deceased Shane Batista had been his brother by blood.
“But the mental health department…the feds or somebody came in and put a stop to lobotomies. So, by the time I was working there, those days were long gone. Most were made to relax with medication—Thorazine and whatnot. Those that didn’t respond to the medication had to be held down with leather restraints.” His father produced a reminiscent smile. “That’s where I come in the picture.” He took a deep, rejuvenating breath. “They needed young, strapping fellas like myself to wrestle with ’em and hold in place, and help cuff ’em to metal tables. Problem was you couldn’t keep those people cuffed up twenty-four hours a day. So, me and several others were called on and told to use what we were blessed with to keep the ladies nice and calm.” He gave his son a meaningful wink; his eyes roamed down to his groin.
“Now, you’re lying.”
“My hand to God. The doctor hisself gave permission to me and a few others. Told us we could sex down females as long as we kept it among ourselves and confidential. Doctor told us, don’t think of it as rape; think of it as therapy.”
“Aw, man. That’s sick.”
“I think banging an ice pick up in their skull is sick, but once upon a time, the medical profession thought it was therapeutic.”
“So, you was up in the crazy house raping bitches?”
“No, I gave therapy sessions.” Dane’s father laughed hard. It was loud, shoulder-shaking, knee-slapping, coughing-up, phlegm-rattled, raucous laughter.
Dane glared at his father.
“Why you looking at me like I’m wearing a shit suit? I did my job well and received extra perks. See, back in those days, they didn’t have hidden security cameras all over the place, taping niggas while they were giving behind-the-scenes therapy sessions. Shit, working in a crazy house could make a nigga lose his own good mind, if he didn’t have a way to relieve some of that job-related stress.”
“Did you know a woman—last name, Batista?”
“Puerto Rican bitch?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Puerto Rican bitches were okay to work with, but the doc was as prejudiced as they come when it came to us black men sticking our dicks up in the white patients.” He frowned at the memory. “White women were off limits to us blacks.” He tapped his hand with his forefinger, indicating his brick-red complexion and then shook his head at the shame of such blatant racism. “Humph! That man sure didn’t want a bunch of black dicks up in those white schizos. You wanna know something? A lot of interracial mingling went on behind closed doors. We figured what that doctor didn’t know, didn’t hurt him.” Marshall gave a burst of raucous laughter. “The joke was on the doc and the hospital—every time one of those crazy white women pushed out a half-black baby.” There was more knee-slapping laughter, followed by a bout of phlegm-filled coughing.
“Wasn’t none of that DNA mess. They didn’t investigate workers. They just blamed the patients, said they were all hot for each—too crazy to be separated by race. The kids got put up for adoption. Foster care and whatnot.”
Dane always knew his father was slimy, but he now realized he was worse than slimy. The man was bona fide crazy and he could only pray he’d hadn’t been contaminated too badly. He didn’t want to end up an alcoholic, talking about his glory days of raping and pillaging schizophrenic women in a nut house. Damn, his pops was worse off than he’d thought.
Still holding the picture, Dane pointed out Tariq.
“So, you admitting that you fathered these brothers?”
“Hell no! That yella one ain’t none of mine.”
“They’re twins, Pop.”
“I wouldn’t give a shit. That yella boy looks just like ol’ Roger Smallwood. Roger was a high-yella pretty boy. If memory serves me, Roger went in and calmed Marguerite down right after I did my work on her. He didn’t want to, though.” Marshall scowled. “Damn, sissy!” he snarled. “That’s probably why he had the last name Smallwood. You get it?” He laughed hard, coughed up and spit out phlegm. “Nah, he didn’t wanna tussle with that wildcat, Marguerite. Even after the long hard ride I gave her, she was still spitting and clawing. Me and the other fellas pushed Roger in the room with her; made him stand up like a man and take his turn. A woman like that needed two or three strong backs to calm her all the way down. The rest of us couldn’t give her no more therapy until our dicks recharged.”
“So, you expect me to believe that a woman can have twins by two different men?”
“Damn straight. Those boys ain’t identical. The mean-looking one is most likely your brother. But, that sweet-looking boy is the spitting image of Roger Smallwood. I know my own blood when I see it. Boy, we come from a long line of fierce Cherokee Indians. We made out of Cherokee and African warriors. There’s no white blood mixed up in my veins. I can’t make a male child who looks as soft and sweet as a girl. That yella twin ain’t none of my seed.” Marshall took a deep, satisfying breath. “Now, when can I meet my son?”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“He’s dead. Killed hisself.”
Disappointment contorted Marshall’s face.
“Yup, your son, Shane is dead and gone,” Dane informed him with a large measure of satisfaction as well as a modicum of sorrow over the personal loss of the brother he’d never known. “His twin is dead, too.”
“Umph!” His father uttered in disgust and turned the bottle back up to his lips. He took a long swig. “What about Marguerite? How she make out?” He looked hopeful, like there was a possibility for a spur-of-the-moment hook-up.
“She’s calm. Peaceful,” Dane taunted, deliberately fucking with his father for abandoning his parental responsibilities without a lick of remorse.
“Say what?” Marshall reared back in shock. “You mean to tell me that spitfire is actually taking her meds?” He gave a snort. “I’ll believe that when I see it. How can I get in touch with her?”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“She’s in her grave.” Dane glared at his father. “It don’t get more peaceful than that, Pops.”
“Damn!” His father spat out the word and then kicked out his foot, angry and regretful at having lost his last shot at schizophrenic sex.
CHAPTER 41
Claiming illness—a high temperature and cold sweats, Thomasina Bernard stayed home from work for two days in a row. Yeah, she had a fever all right. Love fever. She felt flushed just thinking about her hard-muscled, young lover lying in her bed. Umph! She smiled as she flipped pancakes in the skillet. Another pan contained scrambled eggs and cheese, bacon was crisp and waiting inside the microwave. Cooking for a man felt good—felt as natural as if she’d been doing it her whole life.
This morning, she’d really tried to get out of bed and get herself ready for her job, but after making love twice before six a.m., she didn’t have the strength or the will to put in a day’s work. “I’m still sick; can’t make it in,” she told her boss, using the convincing, throaty tone of someone not feeling up to par.
She replaced the phone in the base and two strong arms instantly wrapped around her waist. “You still sick, Ma?” Brick whispered, his lips nipping and teasing her ear. “Want me to make it better?”
She blushed, kissed one of his iron-hard arms. “If I keep messing with you, I’m going to wind up dead. The coroner’s gonna take one look at me and say this woman was obviously loved to death.” She broke out laughing.
Brick didn’t find it funny. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“I was just kidding, Baron.”
“I know, but I don’t even like you to play with the word death.”
“All right. Who would have ever thought you had such a sensitive side?”
“I’m sensitive when it comes to you.”
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He seemed to have swiftly and seamlessly transferred his love and adoration from daughter to mother. How was that possible? Brick had issues. Inevitably, Thomasina would have to start peeling away layers of his psyche and try to get to the bottom of the matter. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Being realistic, she had to accept that his presence was only temporary. She hadn’t heard a mumbling word from her trifling daughter, but it was just a matter of time before Misty turned up to collect her meal ticket. She lived off the money Brick made from doing only God knew what. Dark clouds loomed, threatened to take away the sunshine from Thomasina’s work-free day. Lord, please don’t let me find out Baron’s a hired killer. She wouldn’t put it past Misty to have him out there maiming and murdering for her own greedy purposes.
Thomasina pushed aside the dark thoughts and allowed herself to bask in the joy of having an unselfish, long-lasting, and youthful sex partner.
Diving under the covers, she drew Brick’s large, swelling phallus inside her mouth. Becoming skilled at oral sexing his enormous dick, she ran her tongue up and down the length of his shaft, swirled circles around the smooth head, moaning as she tasted his chocolate sweetness, sucking until she heard the harsh groan of masculine satisfaction.
“Breakfast is ready,” she sang the words.
Brick bounded down the stairs and strolled into the kitchen, wearing jeans and a wife beater that displayed his bulging muscles. Feeling good—better than he’d felt in years, he bounced over to the spot where Thomasina stood in front of the stove. He palmed her butt cheeks, uttered a low moan and then proceeded to fondle her big, round ass while kissing the back of her neck. “Mmm. The grub smells good…you smell good…that ass is looking good. I’m in love, Ma.”
“How is that possible?” Thomasina giggled and motioned for him to take a seat. He reluctantly tore himself away from her and pulled a chair up close to the kitchen table.
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