Ignoring him, she ran the blade across his cheek, drawing blood. “So you’re saying you don’t have the money?”
“Oww, bitch! Didn’t I just tell you I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about?”
The man holding him pushed him to the ground. All four men cocked their pistols and aimed at Darius. “That’s funny; your partner said the same thing.” She snapped her finger and one of the men walked inside the back door of the Lighthouse. He came back minutes later holding what looked like a bowling ball in the darkness. She took the object from the man and held it up to Darius. One of the masked men shined a penlight on the object in her hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to change your answer?”
Darius vomited on the forearm of his captor. “You sick fuck! Oh, shit!”
The object Cakes held was no bowling ball; it was the head of his partner. Gripping the handful of Tyrone’s hair tighter, she shoved the head in his face. “Last chance, Officer. Give me the money or I take your head. Either one is fine with me. I get paid for my services no matter what.”
The horrific agony on the head’s face was too much for Darius. He wilted like a rose in winter. “In the safe in my garage…in the floor under my freezer…”
“That’s better.” She handed the head back to the masked man. “Get a pen and paper.”
Minutes later, after having his hands duct-taped behind his back, and being dropped to his knees, Darius gave them the combination to his safe. He had almost half a million dollars in dirty money stashed there. “All right…you got your fuckin’ money… just don’t hurt my wife.”
Cakes chuckled. “Whatever you say, Officer.” She then whistled softly and two more masked men—wearing long, black rubber aprons and long black rubber gloves—emerged from the back door. “Is his bath ready?”
Darius looked around wildly. “What bath? What the hell is goin’ on?”
The shorter of the two men nodded his head. “Yeah…me crack-head friend Thin Tim was right. A month ago he told me for twenty dollars he would show me something I could use. I found a couple drums of acid in the basement. Nasty stuff. Me dropped a chicken in it and poof! It was gone.”
In her former home of Somalia, Africa, and in the criminal underworld, Cakes was known as the “Black Mamba; assassin extraordinaire.” She nodded toward the open back door of the Lighthouse. “Take him inside.”
Darius yelled with panic. “Hey! You got your money! Let me go! What the fuc—”
The same man that tied his hands slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth. Quiet, blood clot!”
After being dragged into the same basement a lot of his victims had ended up in, Cakes ripped the tape off his mouth. “Did you have something to say, Officer?”
Even in the dim light cast by the battery-powered lantern sitting on a dusty shelf, he could tell a pair of yellow, fifty-five-gallon drums of acid were open. His urine escaped as he watched the short man drop Tyrone’s head into one of the drums. Fear trumped his bravado as he yelled, “You had best to let me go; don’t you know I’m a fuckin’ cop?”
After being forced to his knees again, the Black Mamba smirked as she hoisted the razor-sharp, bloodstained blade over the terrified Darius and brought it down with amazing force, splitting his head. “You mean you were a cop.”
Unseen, behind the dense, unkempt hedges behind the Lighthouse, Thin Tim wept in silent terror as he watched the massacre unfold. He clutched the small, glass crack-pipe so tightly in his hand it cut deeply into his palm.
Fifty-Five
“You have visitors again, Ms. Fuqua. Do you want to see them?” the Baltimore City Jail correctional officer asked Trenda for the tenth straight day.
Trenda peered between the cold steel bars. “Is it my lawyer?”
“Nope,” the young red-headed C.O. replied. “It’s your parents again.”
“No…” She turned, walked to her bunk, flopped down and closed her eyes. “Not today.” For the twelfth straight time in the past two weeks, Trenda refused to see her parents. I’m not hardly ready for that…hell no.
Two weeks after Darius and Tyrone “mysteriously” disappeared and missed the beginning of the trial, Trenda had been forced to remain in custody. Because of her last cross country adventure, the judge, fearing her to be a flight risk, refused to let her out on bail.
During those past two weeks, the media had had a field day. Speculation about what happened to the missing officers went from them running off as gay lovers to them being silenced by some of the green-eyed gangster—Trenda Fuqua’s—criminal friends.
Per Dennis’s instructions, she kept her mouth shut regarding her case. C’mon, Denny. I gots to get up outta here before they find me swingin’ from a shower rod. I’m tired of seeing my face on TV or hearin’ my name on the radio every goddamn day.
As soon as her name first hit the airwaves, her family had tried to visit her. Despite having disowned them for over a decade, they still came to support her. She could not wrap her head around why they would do that. Fuck it. I ain’t gonna waste time worryin’ about that, she thought as she stared at the bottom of the empty bunk over her head. The only thing I need to know is how I can get out of this hell hole.
After dinner that night, she turned on the small TV in her cell just in time to see a live broadcast of a pair of vehicles she knew very well in the back of a house she knew very well. “Oh, shit!”
She got closer to the TV and turned up the volume. A middle-aged African-American reporter spoke to the camera. “Less than an hour ago, the Baltimore P.D. received a hot tip on the $50,000 reward hotline set up by the Baltimore P.D. for information leading to the whereabouts of missing Baltimore Police Officers Darius Kain and Tyrone Dash. A neighborhood resident, known as ‘Thin Tim,’ found the abandoned vehicles you see behind me, that the police are surrounding with yellow crime scene tape. According to DMV records, the vehicles belong to Officer Darius Kain and Officer Tyrone Dash. Both men, as you may know by now, have been missing for over two weeks, failing to appear at a major police corruption case here in Baltimore. This nationwide story also features the enigmatic Trenda Fuqua who sources say…”
After they showed a picture of her new mugshot, Trenda turned the TV off. “What the hell was those fools doin’ at the Lighthouse?” She unzipped her orange jumpsuit, exposing the wife-beater T-shirt beneath. “They had to be up to no good. I sure hope they find those muthafuckas. I can’t wait to testify against them.”
The following day, Trenda’s world turned into a Twilight Zone episode. A slew of reporters tried as hard as they could to get a statement from her after the drums of acid—containing evidence of human remains—were found in the Lighthouse. She had an unexpected visit from Dennis. “Wassup, Denny? I thought our next meetin’ was a couple of days from now.”
Instead of taking the seat across from her as he usually did, he stood behind the seat, hands in the pockets of his tan slacks. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, so I have no choice but to spit it out; I am not going to be able to represent you on this case any longer.”
Trenda cocked her head and furrowed her eyebrows. “Say what? Why not?”
He slowly paced the floor. “It’s strictly business, my friend. I have three other paying clients that I have to tend to. After traces of both officers’ DNA on the crime scene, the Internal Affairs case is pretty much moot. I had agreed to handle your case pro bono—with the intentions of recouping my fees by filing a suit—on your behalf—against the city for the pain and suffering the two rogue officers inflicted on you.” He pulled a business card out of the breast pocket of his shirt and handed it to her. “This is a friend of mine, Janet Bodine. She is a very good public defender. She will make arrangements to see you in a couple of days.”
Despair swallowed up her anger as she watched him prepare to leave. “So it’s like that now; I bet if I was to stick my finger up your ass and suck your dick you wouldn’t be actin’ like this,” she mumbled.
“Did y
ou say something?” he asked while checking a text message on his BlackBerry.
“No…ain’t shit left to say. I guess I’m on my own. The public defenders here in Baltimore ain’t worth a damn. Thanks anyway.”
He patted her on the shoulder as he prepared to leave. “You are going to be in capable hands, my friend.” Just before reaching the door, he snapped his fingers and walked back to Trenda. “I forget to give you this.” He reached the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “Your father asked me to pass this along to you. I ran into him outside the courthouse yesterday as I was trying to maneuver past the paparazzi.”
“What in the hell?” She stared at the familiar handwriting on the letter, ignoring Dennis. This looks like my father’s handwriting!
She hurried and tucked the letter into her panties before the guard came to take her back to her cell. Once back in her cell, her heart was beating like a hummingbird’s wings. The letter visibly shook as she held it, sitting on her bunk.
After looking at the words “For our daughter” for five minutes, she finally worked up enough nerve to open it. Her breath caught in her throat as she unfolded the first sheet of paper inside. It was a high-quality LaserJet copy of an eight-by-ten photo of her parents.
It felt as if all the heat in her body flew out of her open mouth. Oh my God! The photo showed her father in a dark suit and matching fedora standing in front of his church and behind a woman in a wheelchair. The green-eyed, old woman, wearing a scarf over her graying red hair, seemed to be staring off into space. Momma! Momma?
The amount of worry she had for the woman in the picture, whom she had convinced herself she hated over the past decade, overwhelmed her. “Why is she in a wheelchair?”
She gently set the picture on her pillow and looked at the second sheet of paper. Her father’s handwriting jumped out at her.
Praise the Lord! I can’t tell you how happy we are to find that you are still alive! After all these many years, not a day went by that your mother and I didn’t pray for your safety. Even though the circumstances of your return are not the best, we are nonetheless thankful to God for answering our prayers.
I hope the picture I sent you is okay. I am still trying to get used to this new age computer stuff. That picture was taken on your mother’s seventy-fifth birthday last month. The church and gave her a nice surprise party. I wish you could have been there. Your oldest brother, Ricky, was there; he flew out here from Washington State where he works as a bigshot for FedEx. That reminds me, you are an auntie! Ricky and his wife, Ava, just had a little girl a few months ago. And I swear, she looks just like you when you were a baby! Got those same emerald eyes, too. Well, I guess since both her grandparents and her daddy had green eyes, she was bound to luck up and get some.
Your brother Glenn is a chaplain in the Army. He is on his second tour of duty in Iraq. His wife, Octavia, has been living with us for the past year, helping me with your mother, but just moved back to their home in Tupelo, Mississippi. Glenn will be coming home for a few weeks and she needs to get their home in order.
Wow, so much to catch up on…that brings me to your mother; she suffered a stroke three years ago and was diagnosed last year with Alzheimer’s. She can barely speak and is getting very forgetful. But you know what’s funny? Whenever I show her your picture or say your name around her, she says your name clear as a bell! She asks me where you are every day. Sometimes a few times a day.
Trenda, we don’t care about all these nasty rumors and things the press is saying about you. No matter if they are true or not, you are, and will always be, our child. Family sticks together, praise the Lord. I may have to give up my church so I can tend to your mother. She needs full-time care and we can’t afford a full-time nurse right now. Anyway, just know we all love you and will be here for you, no matter what. Let me leave you with these words from our Lord:
Isaiah 41:10
Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God. I will strengthen thee; Yea, I will help thee; Yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.
Amen.
As if a huge mallet had been swung and shattered the ice around her heart, Trenda, for the first time, was able to accept the love of her parents. After blaming them for abusing her for all her life, she finally understood that they were just trying to lead her down the narrow path of the righteous; not the wide, glittery, crooked road of the Damned she preferred to travel.
The letter and picture fell to the floor. She buried her face in her pillow and unleashed a typhoon of tears while replaying in her mind how badly she had fucked up her life.
Fifty-Six
After three days of tears and solitude, Trenda finally had a face-to-face meeting with her parole officer, Mrs. Kennedy. “I’m glad you’re taking this news so well; anybody else about to do five years in prison wouldn’t be nearly as calm as you are.”
Trenda, having braided her fast-growing hair into neat corn-rows, sat up straight in her chair. The images of the lives she had negatively affected, as well as ended, hung in her mind like nightmare-colored wallpaper. The only comfort she found was in the letter from her father—and the copy of the Bible she had checked out from the prison library. Even though she hadn’t fully reverted back to her church roots, the comfort she found in the familiar verses and stories definitely helped her deal with her past transgressions. “Thank you.”
Still shocked by how un-combative Trenda had become, Mrs. Kennedy went on. “Fortunately, it appears the alleged bounty on your head has been lifted by the alleged person or persons that allegedly wanted you dead. That means you will be placed into general population as soon as they find a cell for you. That could be in an hour or a few days.”
“No problem.”
“Do you still have your lawyer?”
“No. I couldn’t afford him any longer.”
“I guess you will need your public defender then; you could still be subpoenaed in the case involving Officers Kain and Dash. It is still being heavily investigated.”
“I’ll be ready if it happens.”
Perplexed, Mrs. Kennedy let her reading glasses dangle from the chain around her neck, placed both her forearms on the table and leaned toward Trenda, who sat across from her. “I don’t get you. What’s your deal? You act as though you are going to a picnic or something.” The chunky, blonde, former police officer locked eyes with Trenda. “Whatever it is, I just want you to know I’m on to your bullshit ways.”
“You have every right to not trust me.” Trenda looked away from Mrs. Kennedy’s probing eyes. The images of how much her parents had aged over the past decade made her nauseous. And I bet money a hell of a lot of their gray hair is my fault. Maybe this five-year stretch will help me get my shit together. She returned her gaze to Mrs. Kennedy. “I’m ready to pay what I owe.”
Fifty-Seven
Less than a month after Trenda was shipped to the Maryland Correctional Institution in Jessup, Maryland to serve her five-year sentence, the bidding war for her story was turned up another notch. As worldwide interest in what had happened with Darius, Tyrone and Trenda’s wild lifestyle reached a fever pitch, the largest entertainment company in New York had its sights set on getting Trenda’s story. They were the best in the business at producing hit movies, bestselling books and reality TV shows.
“I don’t care how much it cost, you go get that story! And find the best lawyers available and get her out of jail—the case they have against her is bullshit.” Maximilian Kirk, CEO of StarShine Entertainment, said to his number one reporter, Alexis Cannon. “Offer her a book and movie deal. Let her know we mean business.”
“Got it,” Alexis said as she scrawled notes on her yellow tablet before wiping her flowing blonde hair out of her face. “But Chief, now you know every freaking paper, magazine and talk show in the free world has tried to get Ms. Fuqua to talk and she has refused. What makes you think she is going to give in to us?”
Reaching in
to the inside pocket of his $5,000 suit, he removed a checkbook, signed his name, and left the amount blank. “Money is a key that can open any door.” He slid the check across his expensive desk to Alexis. “I already found out about the financial distress her parents are in. I made a $100,000 donation to her father’s church to get her attention.” He smirked as he removed a Cohiba cigar out of the Gondolier humidor on his desk and clipped the end off of it. “Start the bidding by telling her to fill out any seven-figure amount she wants. It’s time for the world to hear her story.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Curtis L. Alcutt’s initial effort, Dyme Hit List, focuses on Rio, a single African-American man who grapples with finding his soul-mate after a lifetime of being a womanizer. His neighbor, Carmen, has all the qualities Rio wants….but can he commit to her?
Bullets & Ballads, his follow-up novel is an erotic, psychological, drama set in the music industry. The main character, a musical genius named Apollo, is twisted into a steamy love triangle featuring Nyrobi, a gorgeous, wealthy and sexually liberated older woman and a loving, sexy and talented songstress named Tricia.
He also has an erotic short story entitled, “Not Tonight,” published in Zane’s New York Times bestselling erotic anthology, Caramel Flava. Curtis also co-authored the self-help book, Your Road Map to a Book, published by his literary foundation, WriteWay2Freedom. His heated short story, “Drastic Measures,” is featured in the erotic anthology, After Dark Delights.
Curtis L. Alcutt’s literary style is “no-holds barred” erotica combined with everyday experiences the reader is guaranteed to relate to. “I believe my story ideas come from being a shy, quiet child, always observant instead of talking,” says Alcutt. “Growing up, I passed by the windows of bookstores and remember never seeing any novels with black people on the covers. I wondered what it would be like to see African-Americans instead. My love of writing song lyrics further fueled my desire to become a writer. My novel concepts were stored away for quite some time. After reading a few African-American novels I decided now is the time to write.”
Sins of a Siren Page 28
