by Tiana Laveen
“Hold on, baby, I got you…” he whispered as he placed his gun along the tub ledge before him, pulled out his switchblade and released her, cutting the thick tape that secured her wrists, and gently removed the gag from her face. The woman immediately gasped for air, and wailed out like a mother who’d lost her child, falling into his arms like a damp, limp rag. The fear in her hazel eyes was alive and breathing as she wheezed for air, shaking against him, bloodying his clothing with her battered and tormented body.
“It’s okay, baby. I’ll get you to hospital.” He patted her back as he looked around them cautiously. He kept his ears sharply tuned into his surroundings, just in case. He wasn’t so certain he may not have to utilize Mr. Midnight after all.
“I just saw him leave. Look at me for a second, baby.”
The woman’s eyes danced with fear as she looked around in a daze, looking completely and utterly confused. “Do you know by chance where he may have headed to?” He gripped her chin, forcing her to focus and look him in the eye.
“I…I don’t know, Smoke.” A trickle of blood ran down the side of her face, dawdling, moving in slow motion like a sole, rubicund raindrop down a windowpane.
“Stay in this hotel room and sit down on the bed.” He stated as he escorted her to it and placed her on the mattress, then marched towards the door, his cellphone gripped tightly in hand.
“Felicia, get your ass down here at the hotel. Stacia has been attacked. She’s in her usual room… Take her to the hospital, he did a number on ’er…Yeah, she’s alive, talking and everything…she’s okay, but he worked her over pretty good. Hurry up. I’ll meet you over there. I need to go after this motherfucker before he gets too far.” He disconnected the call and burst out the door like a flame doused in gasoline, his nostrils flaring and his breathing accelerated.
Like an enraged lion on the loose from the San Diego Zoo, he tore through the halls of the place then calmed himself down when he got into an area monitored by security cameras. He flew like a bird, made his way back out the hotel front doors and jumped into his car so quickly, he practically ripped the door off the hinges. Cruising the street with brute determination, he knew the bastard couldn’t have gotten terribly far, especially due to a traffic delay a few blocks ahead. He cursed and grunted as he maneuvered and swerved through traffic, causing a song of honking from annoyed drivers. He blocked them out; this matter simply couldn’t wait. He wouldn’t give up until he spotted the bastard and had a little pow-wow, a coming together.
“I can’t believe this son of a bitch!” He beat on his steering wheel with a heavy fist.
He always ran background checks on the johns that came to see his girls. No one was allowed near his whores otherwise. Still, it didn’t stop some of the lunatics from trying to do their thing. This convinced him even more that his plans to relocate his women were long overdue. He was set to implement a ‘John Check Out’ system as soon as they got into their new digs. The bastards could go in, but no one was leaving until he cleared them first.
“…A lot of damn audacity… Wait until I catch up with your ass.”
He knew the son of a bitch, an attorney originally from Texas, who drove a light baby blue Lexus with white wall tires. The guy had had a few uneventful dates with some of his other girls, all without a hitch. This time, he’d let his true desires get the best of him. Not only did the guy beat up his asset, knocking one of his top of the line whores out of commission, he ran off with her money, too.
“There’s that son of a bitch.” He grinned as he spotted the fucker’s car several feet away. He got behind him, following him from a safe distance until he arrived at the Pastaio restaurant in Beverly Hills, where the bastard was getting valet parking.
“Well isn’t this about a bitch…” Smoke scoffed as he cut the car off and patiently waited against a sidewalk curb. “So, you’re just going to beat up my woman and take my money to stuff your big fucking face, huh?! Worked up an appetite with all that biting, cutting and duct-taping, you sick bastard. I got something for you…” He turned his music on and leaned back against his seat, on phase II of his self-imposed stakeout. Arctic Monkeys sang, ‘Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High’, marking the start of his patient wait. After about forty-five minutes, the ferocious john emerged with a satisfied, smug smile etched on his round, ruddy face and his puffy hand grazing his extended stomach in gastronomic satisfaction.
You tortured and mutilated my girl, yet you stand there, without a care in the world…but you’re about to care…oh yeah, you’re going to care a whole fucking lot…
Sucking his teeth, Smoke swung his door open. He was making an entrance, and he wanted to be seen; it made the kill all the more enjoyable…
He waited for a clearing in traffic while the bastard lingered for his car to be pulled up. As he drew closer, the man appeared to be squinting, and then he stiffened up, as if realizing that the fast stride in Smoke’s step may not have been because he had insatiable taste for some good Italian food. There would be some chomping all right, but not the kind that required fine cuisine or a supple breast to sink one’s teeth into like some vicious wolverine. No, this would be a feast of a whole different kind.
Yes…it’s me, motherfucker…
Smoke fisted and unfisted his palms in delightful anticipation.
Oh yes, this is going to be gooooood. Damn good!
The man began to back up once realization set in, but it was far too late, Smoke was upon him like a dark cloud on a rainy day. He yanked Humpty Dumpty up by his crisp white collar like a trash bag from a curb and dragged his big ass to the side of the place, out of street view, to take care of a little business.
“What do you want?!” the man blubbered. “I paid ’er! I paid ’er!”
Smoke laughed lightly. “Liar. This isn’t just about the money. You enjoyed doing that fucked up shit, didn’t you? This isn’t your first rodeo. Nah, this isn’t your first time, that’s for damn sure. You’re far too calm and relaxed. You’ve done this to a lot of prostitutes, haven’t you, Mr. Lone Star?!”
“I haven’t done anything…No! Don’t know what you’re talking about!” he sniveled.
“Shut up! Some of you out-of-towners come to California and think you can do whatever the fuck you wanna do, when you want to do it! I should cut your gigantic ass up, let you see how it feels to bleed from every damn pore, but I’d be slicing all goddamn day and night and still never get to the white meat you big, sloppy son of a bitch!” He rammed his knee hard and fast into the guy’s crotch, causing him to moan raucously and bend sharply at the waist, his trembling lips parted.
“I hope you weren’t planning on having any more kids!” Smoke laughed. “I think I just made that an impossibility. You like beating up bitches?” He sneered, balled up his fist, and smashed it into the bastard’s nose, surely breaking it, as blood began to gush and splatter like cerise paint across a canvas.
“Give me my motherfucking money, goddamn it. I don’t have all fucking day!”
The man fell to the ground, spitting up blood, holding himself as if he’d surely die.
Smoke leisurely reached into the bastard’s pockets, pilfering about until he found the prize—a dark brown leather wallet. He pulled out the cash and the fiend’s ID.
“You see this, Mr. Ted Zurich?” He twirled the license around in his hand before distributing a swift kick to the asshole’s stomach. The wretched excuse for a man groaned and begged for his life, but his cries were ignored. He raised one shaky hand, pleading for mercy.
“Puh…please! Stooop!”
“Ohhhh, no sir! We’re just getting started!”
The man’s hands continued to shake, as if he’d withstood nerve damage.
“That’s funny!” Smoke guffawed. “You look like you got jazz hands! Puttin’ on the Ritz!” he teased, doing a quick six step shuffle tap dance routine before growing serious once more. “You didn’t give my whore any mercy, so you get none either, big boy! And if you try an
ything, and I mean anything, I will snap every fucking bone in your body then stomp them all into dust!”
“Pluh…pleaaasssse! Someone help!” the man called out, though his voice was too weak to carry past Smoke’s ears, due to the immense pain he was in no doubt.
“If you yell like that again, I will take out my gun, shove it in your mouth and serve you some dessert…and the kind I’m talking about will blow your damn mind… Now, that’s your final warning. Oh, and let me get the rules of this contest out of the way. If you report this or go to the police, I will go to your motherfucking house,” he snarled, pointing at his face, “and speak to your wife personally. Won’t that be nice? How’d you think she’d react to find out that her upstanding, conservative husband that buys her pretty little things has also been buying pussy like it’s street meat at the county fair and then coming home and fucking her botoxed, silconed-to-death ass, too?! And just so you know, Mr. Attorney, pictures will be taken of what you’ve done to my girl. You’re one stupid motherfucker, you know that? How in hell did you even make it through law school? I thought you bastards were supposed to be smart?! If you’ve ever been to a dentist, and I can tell by those played out silver fillings in the back of your damn mouth as you lie here begging like the pathetic piece of shit that you are, then you know all about X-rays and how that all works out in a court of law. You see, offenders such as myself have to stay up on the law. You should know that. Hell, we know the law sometimes better than you! No two mouths are alike, my die hard loyal johns that love a good blow job can attest to that!”
He laughed raucously.
“I will have her turn your ass in for rape and battery if you get any ideas, you understand? As it is, she is equipped to tell a lie, get medical treatment and rest up, but you’ve taken at least three days from her off the damn payroll and when you fuck with my bitches, you’ve fucked with my money, and nobody fucks with my money!”
Smoke tossed his head back, worked up a nice thick wad of phlegm from the depths of his throat and spat down upon the man with all that he had. He watched his saliva flow down the fucker’s face like frothy white lava, shoved the empty wallet in the jerk’s pocket and stormed off, practically knocking the young valet attendant over as he rounded the corner. He paused, slicked a fifty out of his pocket and jammed it in the guy’s hand.
“He beat up a woman, okay? So he had it coming. And remember, you didn’t see shit…” He winked at him and made his way back to his car.
This sort of situation didn’t happen often, but it transpired enough that he knew the drill and how to handle the occasional occurrence. Mr. Texas spoiled his damn mood. It almost dampened the fact that he’d been given an award for the Los Angeles Mack of the Year just a week prior. He’d made it, he was finally big time. He’d carved out a name for himself but some jokers, fellow pimps with an axe to grind, still wanted to come and dance, try him out for size. They tried all right. And they fell flat on their fucking faces. And he two-stepped on their memory…
It didn’t hurt that a retired, highly revered man of pure pimp royalty, The Emperor, had pulled his coat and gave him some essential tips as soon as he had his first four whores. When that got around, the animosity from his peers grew even more intense. The Emperor simply did not do such things, but for whatever reason, he’d shown special favor to Smoke. He’d never forget that day as long as he lived, for it was the last ingredient needed to turn him from just an ordinary pimp to an incredible icon that held onto clout like it was his damn nuts.
Regardless of how glorious that moment had been, life was full of ups and downs, battles on a daily basis. You win some skirmishes; you lose some, too, but the fight inside of Smoke’s heart to be something, to make his father proud, lived forever inside of him…
*
Chapter One
Late winter, 2001 – Monroe, Ohio
“THERE’S THREE PANS chock full of dirty water that have been sittin’ in the sink rustin’ all goddamn night!” she sneered. “They aren’t going to wash themselves!” Brent’s mother screamed from the living room as she propped her varicose vein covered, plump feet on the beat up, dark tan ottoman, the corners bound with beige tape. He stood in the doorway and drifted away in thought as he glared at the dingy walls. They were covered with small plastic-framed pictures of dried roses, the Lord’s Prayer, and a yellowed photograph, peeled at the corner, of her holding him as a baby. He looked back down at the woman, and found himself staring at those ugly, knotted feet once again. He cocked his head to the side, noting the way the fat cerulean trails crawled over thick, dry, pale skin, going nowhere in particular, just like him.
His mother worked hard, two jobs, on her feet all damn day. One gig she had was at the post office sorting room at the local community college, and then there were the nights she spent as a nurse’s aide, going door to door wiping old peoples’ piss and crap-covered asses. The woman looked almost fifteen years older than she actually was, her once vibrant rich auburn hair was now the color of muted hay since the gray arrived and took over the strands in record time. Brent turned away and shuffled into the kitchen, his fifteen-year-old body tired and his tongue thick from that afternoon’s over-cooked beans that swam in long-standing recycled bacon sludge.
Every day as of late, he dreamed of moving out west with his father, getting the hell out of Monroe, Ohio, but each time he rallied enough nerve to ask Mama, she’d scoff and remind him that his father didn’t want him around, that the man was no good, a womanizer and a complete drunk. She always said, ‘complete’ before it, making Brent wonder, ‘What is an incomplete drunk, then?’
He turned on the discolored sink faucet caked with years of white sediments crusted around the grooves and cracks. The nozzle quaked, then squawked, shooting water in a million directions until it simmered itself down to a low roar. He paused and looked over his bare shoulder; the damn bone jutted out, the point of the thing like the top of a fucking teepee. He hated it. Hated his body, period. He was unusually tall for his age and skinny as the slither of a door crack. Every day he wished he were bigger, and brighter, too. His grades flirted with a C average on a continuous basis, no matter how hard he tried, and he knew Mama was disappointed. One teacher wrote his mother a letter on a piece of bright pink paper, stating that he should be tested for attention deficit disorder.
Brent can’t seem to focus in class.
He chewed on his lip as he recalled the incident, and the conversation that followed.
His mother was perturbed, on her way out the door that day, waving the damn pink sheet around in the air like a matador for a bull. Her face contorted like she’d smelled something foul, she asked him to explain why he kept woolgathering in class. He didn’t have the heart to be honest and tell her the truth.
‘Why? Because it fucking sucks here, that’s why. School is boring and they talk to us like we’re kindergarteners. I’d rather daydream and pretend I’m anywhere than right here, Mama…’
That would’ve been accurate, but even if he did risk it all and blurt out the opinions hitched onto the wagon of pure, unadulterated honesty, she wouldn’t listen and would kick his ‘truth’ around until the wheels fell off. Matter of fact, she’d undoubtedly accuse him of being an ungrateful little bastard and storm out. Truth was, Mama was afraid of being alone. He could see that, and he owed her. She told him at least once a week how important it was for him to stay home and how lucky he was to have a mother that loved and took care of him. But he was getting older… And there was no man in the house. The ones that did come never stayed with her long, and they sure as hell didn’t pay him any mind. He’d even toyed with the wretched possibility that he may be destined to stay in Monroe for the rest of his miserable life. Maybe then he could pass for the age of sixteen, and help Mama bring in some money. Money was important, the one thing that made her smile, but the lack of it caused them a hell of a lot of grief. His poverty level was his reality, and as certain as the old, tattered, second hand clothing on his body an
d the growling stomach that was his and his alone, so were his dazzling daydreams of getting his hands on some cash.
If I’m gonna be stuck here, might as well make it better…
He made his way back in the galley and gazed out the undersized, cramped kitchen into the living room, staring at the back of his mother’s slumped head. She sat there, leaned against the threadbare muted orange headrest, her freckled arm hanging loosely over the side of the damn thing. Soon, she’d have to be right back up and out the door. He hated that for her. He hated it for him, too. Mama wasn’t no fun anymore. They used to laugh and listen to music when he was younger. She’d even go over his homework every now and again. Sometimes she’d even drive them to Dairy Queen or the local Kmart, for a change of pace. If he was lucky, or she was feeling particularly happy, he’d get a nice big cone of Superman ice cream and some new socks and underwear, but now, he barely saw her and when he did, she was in an ornery mood. But, she was all he had.
Mama was loyal. She took care of him. He wallowed in a shallow pool of guilt for his continuous aspirations of wishing to flee her, break their chains that strangled his very hopes and dreams. Something about her love was simply too much. It overwhelmed him, suffocated his spirit, and smothered the daylights out of his resolve; he couldn’t breathe in her presence. Turning away from the sight of her, he pulled the sour, yellow sponge off the edge of the basin, then reached for the emerald Palmolive dish soap detergent and used a meager, watered-down dollop to prepare to wash the dishes. The water barely got hot anymore, and it seemed all the scrubbing in the world wouldn’t remove the stuck on frosted flake cereal and hardened pasta from the bottom and sides of the dishes. He slid his hands into the cool water, elbow deep, bringing up a world of suds. His face split into a grin as he imagined that was similar to what deep-sea divers did when looking for treasure. Brent closed his eyes real tight, his smile growing a bit more as his long fingers sprawled around in the wet murkiness.
