All About The Money

by Glenn, Roy

  ALL ABOUT THE MONEY

  By Roy Glenn

  © Copyright Roy Glenn 2011

  Kingstown Publishing

  1038-5 Dunn Avenue

  # 30

  Jacksonville, FL32218

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, without prior consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locals are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Roy Glenn

  Beneath The Surface

  The Cost of Vengeance

  Killing Them Softly: An Erotic Tale of Murder

  Commit To Violence

  Three the Hard Way

  Private Deceptions

  The Mike Black Saga: Book One

  The Mike Black Saga: MOB

  The Mike Black Saga: Outlaw

  An Urban Drama

  The Playa Chronicles

  On Sale Now from Escapism Entertainment

  The Request by LaVonda Kennedy

  Coming Soon from Escapism Entertainment

  Whatever It Takes by Angela Jones

  Off Limits by Navarre

  Going Down: An Erotic Tale of Murder by Roy Glenn

  The Divorce Chronicles by LaTonya Y. Williams

  Out of Control by Roy Glenn

  Visit www.escapismentertainment.net

  Jada West

  For me, it was all about the money. It always has been. I think it’s in my blood. I come from a family of hustlers. My moms and my daddy were both hustlers. That’s all my mother and father ever talked about. Money, money, money, and how to get it.

  They’d known each other all their lives. Moms was born six months and one day before daddy. They lived next to each other and my grandmothers were best friends. Both my mother and father used to say they don’t remember a time when they weren’t together. Even though they never got married and we didn’t always live together, we were always a family.

  My daddy was a gambler; that was his hustle. That’s how he put food on our table. He played poker and blackjack, shot craps, played C-low, but his thing was pool. In his day, my daddy could shoot pool with the best of them. He used to always say that when he was truly on his game: “Ain’t another man standing can touch me with a stick in my hand.”

  When I was a kid, he would take me with him sometimes when moms had something goin’. It used to make him madder than hell and he would rant and rave and say, “Swear ’for God, this the last time I let her do this to me. She know damn well I got shit to do, ’cuse my French; and if I ever hear you talk like that I’ll beat your little ass. But she knows what I gotta do tonight. But if she was to come home and I ain’t got no money, what would happen?”

  “She would lose her mind.” I would always say ’cause she would go off over the slightest little thing. It became kind of a runnin’ joke—us trippin’ on moms trippin’.

  “You damn right she would. I can hear her now. ‘What you mean you ain’t got no money? Well, I’ll just go on down to the rent office and tell ’em I ain’t got the rent ’cause my man couldn’t find no baby sitter’,” he went on and on. But the second he got in that pool room, my daddy was a rock. Makin’ shots and takin’ money.

  My moms used to boost from the mall and commit identity theft with checks and credit cards. She would do whatever it took to make money. “Honey, when you got a man’s back, I mean truly got his back, a woman gotta step up. Sometimes a woman gotta use what she got to get what she gotta get to take care of her family.” The fact that moms would give it up for money if she felt she needed to, used to piss my father off. But when he had a woman on the hook that he was getting money from, moms wouldn’t say shit. For them, it was always about the money. ’Cause no matter who or where they were gettin’ money from, it was always for us. We were always a family.

  But money turned out to be their downfall. When I was seventeen, my daddy had a woman who was givin’ him money. My father would bring the money home and was givin’ it to my moms. That’s just how they did it. But one night the woman followed him to our apartment and she waited for daddy to come out. I was watching from the window and saw her walk up on him, put the gun to his head, and kill him.

  “Daddy, no!” I screamed at the top of my lungs and kept screaming, as the woman looked up at me and ran to her car. I wanted to run out there, but I couldn’t move. My moms came to see what I was screaming about, but I couldn’t talk. All I could do was point out the window at my father’s body.

  “Oh God! God, no!” she yelled and ran out. It felt like all the life had been drained from my body. He and I were so close. And I loved my daddy so much that I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It felt like part me was dying out there.

  It still does.

  After that, moms had to go for herself. She went out and got herself a job and worked it for two weeks, before she accidentally slipped in the ladies room. She sued them and got a little settlement, but her plan was to do what she called “washin’ the check.” That’s when they use some kind of chemicals to erase the amount on the check, and then they put in a new amount. She got a fake ID and setup an account to run the checks through, and went for it. Good plan and it worked, except for the fact that the insurance company knew who they’d sent that check number to. So, it was easy for them to match her work ID with the bank’s surveillance video. Now moms is doin’ fed time in Illinois. If daddy were alive, he would have never let her make a mistake like that.

  I had just celebrated my eighteenth birthday when they took my moms away. With only a court appointed lawyer at her side, the judge gave her ten years. Now I was alone and broke. All they left me was a seventy-seven Monte Carlo. That bitch was beat down, but it ran like a champ. I had to get somethin’ goin’ and quick. Since I had barely graduated from high school, I knew college wasn’t in my future. I was determined not to turn out the way my people did, but I had absolutely no clue about how I was gonna do it. I had to learn from what they did and from their mistakes.

  I remembered what my moms told me about what a woman gotta do, but all the lyin’ and fakin’ you gotta do just wasn’t for me. See, when you gettin’ money from men like that, they think they own you. That’s the mistake daddy made. That woman was givin’ him her money for that dick, and that made him hers. No, no—not a life for me.

  For the first couple of months after they took moms away, I wrote to her once a week. You know, keepin’ her up on what was goin’ on with me. I remember writing her and sayin’ how I stayed in our old apartment for three months before they finally put me out. I had moved in with a friend of mine from high school named Love. She worked at a tattoo parlor. She let me sleep on her floor until I got myself together. I survived those days on whatever money daddy’s old friends gave me. I wrote her that I had to stop getting money from them, because some of them wanted something in return for their money and I wasn’t prepared to do that. I never got an answer to any of my letters, until one day I got a letter from her that simply said that I should stop writing her. She said that reading my letters was too painful for her. She told me that I shouldn’t even think about comin’ to see her ’cause she didn’t want me to see her like that. I was heartbroken ’cause now I felt like I was truly alone.

  With few other options on the horizon, I took a job at a market research company. My job was to call people and ask them survey questions about their buying habits, and direct them to Web sites where they could buy stuff. It didn’t pay much, but it allowed me to move off Love’s floor and pay rent for my hole-in-the-wall apar
tment. Well, at least it paid the rent most of the time, but this month wasn’t one of those months and I was late on my rent, again. For the last couple of days, I’d been dodging my landlord—a pervert named Chuck.

  A few months earlier, I caught Pervert Chuck, the rent collector/building super/loan shark all rolled into one, sifting through my underwear drawer. At the time, I was three hundred dollars short on the rent. I was able to convince him to forget about the money, in exchange for a pair of my worn Victoria’s Secret thongs, but he’s been riding my ass, trying to take it to the next level ever since.

  When the first knock sounded at the door I jumped, startled by the noise, then froze and stood completely still. It wasn’t like my super could actually see through the door, but I still tried to stop breathin’, and stayed as quite as humanly possible.

  I looked up my reflection in the mirror, which hung above the sofa. “This is really sad,” I said under my breath. I swear I could hear him leaning against my door. I knew he wouldn’t hear any music or the TV, since the power was off, so I stood still and I tried to remain quiet.

  “Shit! Missed that bitch again,” I heard him grumble. My heart was racing as I stood waiting for sounds of his footsteps walking away. Nothing. I was trembling, praying to God Chuck wouldn’t use his key to let himself in, and find me standing there pretending not to be home.

  When I thought the coast was clear, I tiptoed back into the bedroom. Things were really going downhill for me and I was at my wit’s end. I knew that I had to come up with a better plan than the one I was workin’.

  Later that afternoon, I was ridin’ past the project we used to live in and stopped to pick up a two-piece snack from Fat Larry’s. I don’t know how he does it, but that was by far the best chicken I’ve ever tasted. On the way in, I stopped in my tracks to admire what had to be the prettiest drop- top Beamer I had ever seen. It was sweet—royal blue with baby blue leather and wood panel interior. I mean this car was sparkling in the sunlight and the rims were glistening. A few other people walked by admiring the ride, and I was like damn, will I ever see the day when I can afford shit like that? I sighed and walked up to the entrance. When I pulled the door open, I accidentally bumped into a woman who looked like she belonged in the car.

  She was sporting a Baby Phat denim jumpsuit that hugged her curves. She accessorized it with old-school Gucci boots and a matching shoulder bag, with a pair of large designer shades that swallowed nearly half her face, and a Gucci fedora tilted to the side on her head.

  “I’m so sorry,” I offered.

  “Jada, that you girl?”

  I snapped my head toward her hidden face. I didn’t catch the voice, but she definitely knew me. When she snatched off the shades and pulled her hat’s brim back, my mouth dropped. “Diane?”

  Diane and I worked together at the marketing company for nearly a year. She rarely showed up to work and, at that time, hadn’t been there at all for a couple of months.

  “Yeah, girl! What’s up? I ain’t seen you in a minute!” she said like she was really glad to see me.

  I instantly felt self-conscious. There I was dressed in some raggedy jeans and an old sweatshirt that I usually wear when I clean the apartment on weekends.

  As Diane spoke, my brain kept trying to understand how one goes from barely coming to work, to being dressed in the finest gear and sporting a look that dripped money. When she pressed the alarm button and that pretty ride beeped, I was too through.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  I looked at the car then back at her, still dumbfounded. “Um, I ah—” I stuttered, but I was taking in everything fabulous about the new Diane. At five feet seven and one hundred and forty pounds, Diane was beautiful. Her once short hair had been replaced by long wavy and flowing tresses. She blinged from her ears to her neck to her wrists. The chick was iced out, and she looked good. “Ah, Diane, what’s up? I mean, did you hit the number or something?” I needed to know.

  She scrunched up her pretty face. “Number? Nah, girl, I ain’t hit no number.” She chuckled.

  I looked at the car again and then back at her. This time her eyes followed mine.

  “Oh shit!” she started. “Girl, that ain’t nothin’,” she testified, motioning toward the car. “You ain’t gonna make any real money punchin’ no damn clock. I can tell you that much for sure,” she said.

  “Well, what do you mean?” I asked her.

  She pulled me to the side, closer to her car. “Look, why don’t you go get you soma Fat Larry’s chicken,” she suggested.

  I shook my head reluctantly. It was like I didn’t want to leave her for fear that when I came back, she, that car, and my chance to make some real money, might be gone.

  “Go on, I’ll wait right here for you,” she promised.

  I glanced at her and the car one last time before going inside. When I walked outside and saw Diane sitting behind the wheel of her car, I gladly climbed into her luxury car and leaned back in the passenger seat like I belonged there.

  “Are you ready to make some real paper?” she asked.

  “Girl, you just don’t know,” I said.

  Little did I know what she had in mind would change my life in ways I never imagined possible.

  2

  I thought about the conversation Diane and I had that day, after we left Fat Larry’s.

  “Girl, I swear, I was you about a year ago. You remember, I was sneaking in and out of my cousin’s dorm room, barely able to eat and shit,” Diane shook her head at the awful memories she described. “I just got tired of tryin’ to play it straight,” she admitted.

  “Yeah, but the ride—I mean look at you, girl. You’ve got to tell me what you doin’ to get paid like this.”

  “It’s simple,” she said. “I dance at this little club called Ecstasy on Friday and Saturday nights,” she said calmly.

  I leaned in to her.

  “What you mean, you dance at a club? What kind of dancin’ are we talkin’ ’bout here?” I wanted to know.

  “I’m an exotic dancer,” she said without so much as a whisper to her voice.

  “What?” I screamed.

  She didn’t seem the least bit phased by my shock. It was as if we were discussing Larry’s chicken. “Say what you want, but I never leave with any less than five hundred dollars a night,” she said and eased back in her seat. I could sense she was studying my reaction. I let the figure roll around in my head. “I know what you’re thinking,” Diane said.

  “No, I don’t think you do.” Had she said five hundred dollars a night? For two nights worth of work she made one thousand dollars? That’s almost triple what I make for working eighty hours.

  She pulled her hair behind her ears and leaned toward me. “Yeah, I do, Jada. Your ass thinkin’ ’bout that paper. And you wonderin’ if you can do it.”

  I didn’t say anything ’cause she was right.

  I just nodded my head and Diane continued, “Look, I’ve been to the club with you plenty of times, Jada. I’ve seen you out there on the floor, shakin’ that ass,” Diane said and started shakin’ in her seat. “You just be shakin’ that ass naked.”

  “Naked in front of a room full of men,” I corrected.

  “I don’t. I dance for one man,” Diane boasted. “Which ever one is standin’ in front of me with money in his hand.”

  “I don’t know, Diane. Dancin’ at a club is one thing—but naked?—I just don’t think I could do that in front of a bunch of horny men.”

  “I’m tellin’ you, you could make a grip. You got a bomb ass body too. Them titties and that ass. I’m tellin’ you, girl, you sleepin’ on your best money makers!”

  “What, you been sizing me up?”

  “Nah, girl, I don’t even get down like that. Well I do, but that’s only for real serious money.” She giggled.

  I was used to men commenting about my double-D cups, and I’ve heard one or two joke about my bodacious booty, but it was strange sitting there and listening to Diane do
the same.

  “I’m telling you, all you doin’ is dancin’,” she persisted.

  “Yeah, but you talkin’ about dancin’ naked,” I said, seemingly not able to move past that point. I was just gettin’ to the point where I was comfortable havin’ sex without it being pitch-dark in the room, and that was definitely a huge jump from there. “I don’t know, Diane,” I said and hunched my shoulders.

  But there I was, pulling up in front Ecstasy. It was a little building that looked like nothing more than a shack from the outside.

  Once the car was in park, I immediately started having second thoughts. You don’t know these people, there could be rapists, murderers or whatever hanging out around here.

  I glanced around in both directions hoping no one was paying attention to me as I sat behind the steering wheel of my piece-of-shit car, and tried to summons up enough courage to go inside. I wondered if Diane’s car was parked on the other end somewhere, or maybe even in the back. I would definitely need her there to help me make it through the night.

  A couple of guys walked by my car and snapped me back to reality. “Okay, I can do this,” I whispered.

  I flipped down my visor mirror and looked at the job I had done with my makeup. I had plastered my eyes with so much shadow that I felt like one of the girls in the many porno flicks I’d watched to get myself pumped up. Diane had told me that’s what she did to make herself feel sexy. She said after filling her head with X-rated images and downing a few shots of Henny, she was usually good to go. I was hoping for the same magic when I felt for half-pint bottle of Hennessy that I had picked up on the way there. I opened the bottle and took another swallow. This is nothing more than a new adventure, the tiny voice in my head encouraged.

  I thought back to earlier that day when I was cornered and felt up by Pervert Chuck ’cause I didn’t have all the rent money. I felt disgusted with his hands all over me. If I really wanted to be honest about it, I let him do it. I didn’t scream or fight him off. I did very little in the way of protest. I allowed him to trap me in that corner and touch my body, because that’s what it took to cover the rest of the rent.