Unable to help herself, Bubbles wriggled and moaned in obvious agony.
“Didn’t I tell you to be still?” Bullet kicked her, his shoe colliding with her hip. “Don’t make me stomp yo’ ass.” He raised his foot threateningly, and Bubbles became as still as a statue.
Gianna felt real bad for Bubbles. The girl had been given a brutal punishment that Gianna would have never wished on anyone. It would be somewhat refreshing to hear Bubbles’ loud mouth again. Seeing her hurt and helpless was awful.
“While you’re out, go holla at my drug connect over on Pennell Street.”
“Who you talking ’bout, that nigga, Smiley?” Bullet said, looking mad. “Lemme find out…”
“Please. Smiley ain’t my type but he has a serious stash of pharmaceuticals. Tell him I said to hook you up with some some Xanies, Vicodin, OxyContin, and anything else he got.”
“I don’t like that slimy mufucka. He be tryna charge a nigga up.”
“So what?” Flashy snapped. “Pay him whatever he wants. Don’t even try to bargain. I need this bitch to be highed up or better yet…knocked out while I’m working on her.”
A couple hours later, Bubbles was back in bed. The mattress, however, was protected with plastic. Drugged with something powerful, Bubbles was blissfully unconscious. Flashy had closed the cut on the left side of her face with what appeared to be a zillion or so criss-crossing Band-Aids.
“I’m tired as hell,” Bullet complained.
On cue, Gianna rubbed his arm. From the corner of her eye, she could see Flashy shooting daggers at her.
“We outta here, Lollipop. I gotta go feed Tootsie Roll before she starves to death.”
“What about this ho?” Flashy asked, fluttering his lashes angrily.
“Man, I said I need you to take care of her ’til she ready to work.” Flashy stuck his hand out. “In that case, I need some money for my troubles.”
“I gotchu. What’s the word from the babysitter? Any offers yet on that hooker’s baby?”
“It’s hard to get that kind of money you looking for in the ’hood. Niggas ain’t spending a lot of dough for no goddamn baby.”
“I thought the sitter had connections. That baby gotta be worth at least twenty stacks to one of those freak mufuckas.”
Flashy rolled his eyes. “Please. You watch too much TV. You’ll be lucky if you get a couple stacks. Nobody I talked to was even feeling your baby-selling plan. They don’t want any parts of it. You gon’ have to be happy with whatever you get. Your main concern should be getting that baby out of the picture. A-S-A-P!”
“I can dig it, yo. But tell that sitter to put out some more feelers for me, man. I was hoping to get enough loot to trade in my whip. A baby should be worth enough for me to be pushing a new Escalade, y’ah mean?”
“Umph. So selfish. Always have been. It’s all about Bullet. What about my cut?”
“I gotchu, man. You gon’ get yours.”
“Uh-huh,” Flashy said doubtfully.
Gianna’s stomach dropped. They plan on selling Samantha?
She’d heard about babies being sold on the black market, but never dreamed she’d be involved in such a heinous act. She wondered about this babysitter person. She hoped the person would do the right thing and take little Samantha to the nearest hospital. Or police station.
She wanted to plead with Bullet to spare the baby, but feared she’d end up like Bubbles if she said a word. As cruel a person as Bullet was most of the time, he had finally started treating Gianna slightly better than trash and she wanted to remain in his good graces.
Bubbles’ condition was a wake-up call. Gianna wanted to live. She didn’t want to be cut, kicked, or shot at anymore. She was determined to be Bullet’s favorite girl.
“With three young hookers, you should be gettin’ major paper. All this bloodshed, mayhem, and unnecessary trouble is getting on my last nerve. Do you hear me, Bullet?” Flashy wasn’t as tall as Bullet, but with heels on, he came to Bullet’s shoulder. Not exactly face-to-face, but close enough.
“Fuck you!” Bullet gave him a shove. “Your faggot ass can’t tell me how to handle my business.” A vein popped up in the middle of Bullet’s forehead. He looked seconds away from snatching up Flashy by the neck and choking the life out of the thin, gay man.
Flashy didn’t seem phased at all by the slur. There was no fear in his eyes. Despite his small frame, Flashy had a visible six-pack imprinted against his tight shirt. Maybe he was stronger than he appeared. At any rate, he seemed ready to go toe-to-toe with Bullet and continued to berate him.
“Your hustle ain’t shit. You supposed to be getting money, not cutting up and maiming bitches.”
“Look, I got a reason for everything I do.”
“Don’t seem like it.”
“What? I gotta run shit by you before I make a move?”
“You should since you felt the need to drag me into the middle of this crazy bullshit. I’m just saying…”
“Just saying what? You think you can school me on the pimp game?”
“Somebody needs to school your wild ass. I ain’t claiming to be no pimp, but at least I got common sense. You spazzin’ out like some maniac from a slasher flick.”
Bullet laughed at the comparison.
“You’re losing perspective. If you used your brains, you could be iced out by now, like the big ballers.”
Those words seemed to sink in. Bullet scowled in thought. “Nah, I got this. I ain’t listening to you. I know how to run my business.”
Flashy folded his arms. “There’s other ways to control your assets. Injuring these hoochies to the point where they can’t work is stupid. You’re acting like a dopeman who snorts or shoots up most of his own product.”
“I said I got this.”
“No, you don’t. You got two injured bitches that you can’t make a dollar off. And I got bills to pay!” Flashy yelled. “If you don’t start making it rain up in this dip, I’m gon’ cut you loose! That’s a promise!”
Bullet’s face softened. Gianna watched the vein in his forehead disappear. “Stop threatening me. I don’t like that shit.”
“I gotta keep you focused. I’m innocent, but in the eyes of the law, I’ll be considered as an accomplice to your deranged ass. Listen, you maniac, I’m not trying to go back to jail.”
Bullet smirked. “Man, stop bringing up jail. A muthafucka will have to put my ass in a body bag before I do any more time. Get it through your head…ain’t nobody looking for these bitches.”
Flashy took a deep, disgusted breath. “Do I need to remind you that ya girl, Bubbles, broke out of a detention center?”
“So what? Do it seem like anybody is really trying to find her? Po-po got better shit to do with their time than search for a runaway juvenile.”
Bubbles escaped from a juvenile detention center! Gianna’s ears were perked, but she kept a straight face, pretending that she had no interest whatsoever in the conversation between the two former convicts.
She didn’t know how the news about Bubbles would come in handy, but she had a feeling it might be useful information.
CHAPTER 22
The next day went by slowly. Portia dominated Saleema’s thoughts. Worrying about Portia took precedence over her dire financial state.
Hour after hour, she abused her newly acquired friendship card, calling Khalil relentlessly, asking him to use whatever influence he had in the juvenile system to try and find out any information he could about Portia.
Through a connection inside the detention center, Khalil found out that the girl who had escaped with Portia had been apprehended outside a McDonald’s in South Philadelphia. He had no other information…no encouraging news about Portia’s whereabouts.
“I need to talk to that girl,” Saleema said determinedly. “Can you arrange that?”
“No, I don’t have that kind of pull. I believe she’s being transferred to a more secure facility.”
“When?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Can you dig a little deeper? Ask your informant—”
“She’s not an informant…not a snitch…nothing that dramatic.” He chuckled. “She’s a friend. A colleague, who happened to be there when the girl was brought in.”
Colleague. The word evoked connotations of an elite society in which Khalil was an esteemed member. It was a harmless expression, pertaining to anyone from a coworker to an associate of the same profession. In this instance, hearing that the colleague was a she caused an irrational bubble of jealousy to fizz up, briefly distorting Saleema’s priorities.
She reined in her emotions. There were important issues to deal with…namely, getting some pertinent information that could lead her to Portia.
“Can you ask your colleague to give you the girl’s name?”
“What good will that do?”
Holding the phone cradled to her ear, Saleema shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a start. Having the name of the girl who escaped with Portia is the closest thing I have to a lead.”
“If my friend does know the young lady’s name, she obviously wasn’t comfortable committing a breach of confidentiality.”
Saleema sighed in frustration. “I’m so worried about Portia.”
“I know you are, but this is a case for law enforcement.”
“Law enforcement doesn’t care about Portia’s safety like I do. Khalil, you don’t know the really ugly side of human nature like I do. Believe me, Portia is in serious danger.”
“You seem to think that I’ve lived in some cloistered environment where bad things never happened. I told you why I opened the alternative school. I’m not blind to the horrors of this world.”
“Khalil, as much as you’d like to think we’re alike, I know that we’ve had totally different experiences. I used to be so greedy, so callous, that I was part of the problem with society.”
“You don’t have to reopen that old wound.”
Saleema ignored his advice. “I graduated from turning tricks to becoming a madam.”
“You told me.” Khalil sounded extremely uncomfortable.
“Who do you think I hired…bored housewives…hardened prostitutes? No, I hired young women who either had dreams of money and wealth or were so destitute they felt they had no other choice.” She paused for a beat. “I hate that I was so selfish that I robbed those girls of their dignity.”
“Did you hire underage girls?” Khalil sounded appalled and Saleema couldn’t blame him.
“No, not intentionally. I had some scruples and required identification…proof that they were at least eighteen years old.”
“At the time, you couldn’t have been much older yourself,” Khalil said, trying to cushion the self-flogging Saleema was administering.
“I was in my early twenties. Really self-centered. It was all about getting mine.”
“You were young,” he said, being the voice of reason.
“I never deliberately put those girls in harm’s way. But one of them, a young girl named Chanelle, was practically murdered. Perhaps you heard about it. It was all over the news. She was held captive in a nice house in Mount Airy. Turned into a sex slave by a man who seemed like an average guy.”
“No, I don’t think I heard about that.”
“Well, that’s when I got out of the sex business. But instead of bettering myself, I decided to marry one of my wealthy tricks.”
“Uh, how’d that turn out?”
“It didn’t. I stopped the wedding in the nick of time. But back to Portia. She’s in serious danger. Those antisocial, bottom feeders prey on the helpless.”
Khalil grunted in discomfort.
“In a case like this, I think it’s your friend’s duty to do whatever she can to save Portia’s life.”
“I’ll try and twist her arm.”
After several agonizing hours of searching her mind for clues as to where Portia might have run, Khalil finally called.
“I can’t talk. I have to meet with my board of directors in a few… but I have a name.”
“Really?”
“Maria Gomez.”
“She’s Hispanic?”
“I would assume.”
“That’s such a common name.”
“I know. Listen, I’ll call you back after the meeting. We’ll put our heads together and figure out a way to get you a visit with the young lady.”
“Okay. Thanks, Khalil.”
They disconnected and Saleema’s wheels started spinning. Time wasn’t on her side. Khalil had mentioned earlier that the girl was being transferred to a more secure facility. She could be upstate by now.
Surely the girl’s family members had been granted a phone call. If only Saleema had a way of contacting the girl’s parents, she’d plead Portia’s case and ask them if Maria had provided any information that would help her find Portia.
MySpace! Most teens had a MySpace page. She searched and found Maria Gomez, fifteen years old, and living in Philadelphia. The page was private, so Saleema clicked on the page of Angelica Galarza, one of Maria’s friends.
On Angelica’s page, Saleema found a picture of a smiling Maria Gomez wearing a tiara and dressed in a sparkly gown. She was flanked by Angelica and another girl. The running caption boasted: Maria’s Sweet 15!
There were tons of PictureTrail flicks of Maria’s coming-of-age celebration. Apparently, Angelica and Maria were best friends. And it was just Saleema’s luck that one of the photos was taken outside. A big sign bore the name of the banquet hall.
Latino parents spent a pretty penny to commemorate their daughter’s passage to womanhood. The owner of the venue would have kept records and would be able to point Saleema in the direction of the Gomez household.
Excited, Saleema searched the internet for the phone number of the venue. When she found it, instead of keying in the seven digits, she merely looked at the phone.
Like Khalil’s colleague, the owner of the venue would most likely consider his clients’ address as confidential.
Saleema needed the scoop, but she didn’t have the rat-like cunning of a journalist or the smarmy investigative cleverness of a private detective. She’d have to rely on good, old-fashioned mother wit, which informed her that someone working at that venue could put her in touch with the Gomez family for the right price.
Her cash on hand totaled ninety dollars. She sure hoped that was the right price.
Saleema grabbed her purse. She didn’t have time to wait for Khalil. He was rational, level-headed, and much too prudent to go along with this impulsive idea.
It was crazy. Journeying to the area that had the largest Hispanic population in the city had seemed like a good idea, but now deeply in the trenches, Saleema began to second-guess her decision.
The drive had begun smooth and without incident, but now she was slamming on her brakes every few seconds.
Kids darted out from behind parked cars and right into traffic at an alarming rate. Packs of teens at varying intervals would meander across the street, defiantly dragging their feet, deliberately halting traffic as if it were their right. Honking horns did not deter them or hurry their pace. Frustrated drivers were met with glares and a cluster of raised middle fingers.
Saleema had scarcely avoided collisions with other motorists who drove by their own rules. Some made sudden turns without using their blinkers, others pulled out of parking spaces without warning or any concern for oncoming traffic.
Unable to deal with the bad drivers, she turned off the main street and took a series of narrow, residential blocks.
Big mistake.
Mischievous children who played in water from an uncapped fire hydrant made sure Saleema’s Camry was splashed as she drove by.
The next block she ventured onto was a one-way street, where she narrowly avoided a head-on collision. Absurdly, a man who was either drunk or crazy, got in his car and began driving in the wrong direction—fast. The lunatic forced Saleema to swerve onto the sidewalk that was occup
ied by pedestrians and children at play.
Where the hell are the police when you need them?
For a few minutes, she was reluctant to move from the safety of the pavement, but for Portia’s sake, Saleema had to get back in the trenches. She had to press on.
It was summer madness at its height. Her journey across town was turning out to be an epic and perilous adventure.
CHAPTER 23
It seemed to have taken forever, but she finally reached Front Street and Lehigh Avenue. She spotted the banquet hall on the busy street, but it provided no parking lot for patrons. Over and over, Saleema circled the block. Eagle-eyed, she searched for a parking space.
A spot finally opened up in front of a meter. Looking over her shoulder, she quickly parallel parked into the space.
Outside the comfort of her air-conditioned car, she could hardly draw a breath. The air was thick with stifling heat and humidity. She searched inside her purse and scrounged up two quarters, which she hastily inserted into the meter.
Passersby, their faces scowled, were slowed by the heat. They moved sluggishly…cautiously…as if a faster pace would lead to heatstroke or some other life-threatening condition.
At the corner, the light changed to green and Saleema hurried across the busy intersection. She could feel the searing sun on her mahogany-colored skin, but thankfully, salvation was only a few feet away. The Lehigh Banquet Hall promised a cool refuge from the oppressive hot weather.
Three concrete steps led to the front door. She tugged on the sun-scorched metal handle, but it was locked tight. Unable to find a doorbell, she knocked sharply on the plate glass, and then peered inside.
From what she could tell, the lights were dim. No bustling activity. Too early for business, she supposed.
Maybe there were workers behind the scenes…prepping food in a kitchen or going over books in an office that was obscured from her view.
Hot and miserable, she rapped again. Harder. Still no one came to the door. She turned at the sound of footsteps behind her, and practically bumped smack into a tough-looking Hispanic youth who had bounded the steps.
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