Halleigh couldn’t believe she was heading down the same path of drug abuse as her fiended-out mother, Sharina, whom she hadn’t seen since Sharina had allowed two thugs to take Halleigh’s virginity just for a hit. Halleigh had heard of drug addicts selling off their kids just to get high, but she never thought in her worst nightmare that she would be the victim of such an act.
The brutal assault left Halleigh devastated. Her own mother had turned on her, sitting in the next room getting high while Halleigh cried out and fought, to no avail, to protect her innocence and escape from the clutches of the attackers. So afterwards, with nowhere else to turn, she went to where she thought she would be safe and protected. She went to Malek. Her high school sweetheart had promised to take care of her. He said he wouldn’t let anything happen to her before getting her up out of the hood. But look at her now. Not only was she still in the hood, but Malek wasn’t there for her.
“I hate my life. It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Halleigh whispered as she lowered her head and sniffed the cocaine into her nostrils. She immediately jerked her head back to prevent her nose from running. She had picked up this bad habit from a john she serviced frequently. He’d convinced her that the drug was an escape, the much-needed escape her mind had been desiring. She needed to escape from the pain. She needed to escape from life itself.
After her initial introduction to the vice, she had developed a steady habit for the drug. Whenever she was feeling down or needed a boost to cope with her profession, she leaned on her “new friend,” cocaine. She had to admit, ever since she started using the drug, her clientele had picked up and became more regular. High on coke, she got lost in herself, in the moment, willing to do things that she would not have done otherwise. Sexual exploration was like a side effect of the drug.
The phone rang, startling Halleigh as she was trying to enjoy her high. She wiped her runny nose and walked over to the phone.
“Hello?” she sniffed.
“You got another john coming up. He wants a number two,” Tasha said, referring to vaginal sex. They called oral sex number one and vaginal sex number two. Twelve was the total package, meaning the client paid double for anything his heart desired, or on some occasions, her heart desired.
The business of trickin’ wasn’t just exclusive for men out to throw away some cash for a few moments of pleasure. There were female clients every now and then also. A couple of the women were married with children, but secretly had desires to be with other women. They didn’t want to chance getting into a serious relationship with a woman and being found out, so this was the only other way they could think to cure the craving inside of them.
One time Halleigh had two female clients at once. Fortunately, all they wanted Halleigh to do was watch them. But another time, when they showed up as repeat customers and were assigned to Mimi, they wanted the third wheel to roll with them. Of course, Mimi didn’t play when it came to gettin’ money, so she was down for whatever. Every act had a price tag on it as far as she was concerned.
Halleigh took a deep breath and shook her head from side to side. She was sore, worn-out, and needed a while to recoup. Her last client had paid for a number twelve and she thought he’d never leave. But as long as the money kept coming, no pun intended, Halleigh had to keep him comin’.
Halleigh sighed as a stalling technique. “Tash, I just came on my period. I can’t do it,” Halleigh lied, trying to avoid having to take the job. Not even high off the cocaine could she force her body to cooperate with the next trick’s request.
What Halleigh failed to realize was that as the madam, Tasha made it her business to know every single girl’s cycle like clockwork. She even had a calendar; that way she knew to send the johns who only wanted oral sex performed on them to the girls who were on their periods. So she was very much aware of the fact that Halleigh’s period wasn’t due for a week or so. Just to double check, though, Tasha opened her calendar in the back of her appointment book and scanned down until she found Halleigh’s name.
“What you talking about, Hal? You know and I know that you ain’t on the rag yet,” Tasha replied in a confident tone after verifying such on her calendar. “Don’t even try that bullshit. Trust me, many a girl before you have tried that same lame-ass excuse. There is no time for laziness. In this business, a girl’s gotta put her stilettos on and hustle-hustle.” Tasha snapped her finger twice. “This is about making that dough. And you know what happens when someone tries to fuck with Manolo’s cash flow. Now, with all that said, do you want that trick’s dick up in your pussy, or Daddy’s foot up in your ass?”
Hal leigh knew that Tasha was right. Manolo didn’t deviate from the reputation pimps were known to have. He was as smooth as silk when he wanted to be, convincing a chick to sell her pussy and give him the money. But he was known for his short temper with the girls when it came to fucking up his money or just simply being disobedient and not following the rules. Manolo didn’t mind making an example out of any one of the girls so that the next chick wouldn’t get any ideas and try to follow suit.
Halleigh thought about that time when she’d first started in the business and Manolo had beaten her down after she refused to please him orally. Then, just like now, she had been worn out and tired after spending an entire day with johns. But even as she reflected back on the beating, as tired as she was now, she thought the beat-down just might be worth it.
“My body has been acting funny lately. I haven’t been getting a lot of rest, Tash. You know that,” Halleigh replied in a whiny voice, hoping to gain her madam’s sympathy.
Tasha felt bad for Halleigh and knew that she needed a break, but she also knew that Manolo would have a problem with that and take it out on Halleigh’s ass. If it wasn’t for Tasha coming to her rescue that time Manolo beat Halleigh, the nineteen-year-old might not even be alive today. Tasha couldn’t help but fear what would happen if Manolo got a hold of her again and she wasn’t there to protect her this time.
“Look, you can take the rest of the day off and get yourself together,” Tasha told her, “but you have to stay in the room so Manolo won’t find out. I’ll send your clients to some of the other girls.”
“Thank you so much, Tash. I owe you.” Halleigh was glad that she had found favor in Tasha’s sight.
When Halleigh first started working for Manolo, she saw Tasha as some hardcore, unfeeling broad who cared about two things only—Manolo and Manolo. This meant that she carried the whip, making sure that bitches followed his orders so that he stayed happy, and that no bitch tried to take her place. Getting paid and taken care of without giving up the pussy was a position Tasha was not willing to give up. On top of that, she got five percent profit off of whatever the girls made for Manolo. Being the madam over the Manolo Mamis definitely had its perks.
“Oh, please believe, you still working today. I’m just not going to send you any clients. I need you to make store runs for me today. So come next door and get some money and run to the store and grab some condoms and douches.” Tasha was in the room right next to Halleigh’s.
“No problem.” Halleigh smiled at the thought of a day off. She hung up the phone and went over to finish her coke before leaving for the store, glad to play the role of errand girl over whore any day.
Scratch, the neighborhood crackhead, sat in the alley next to a store, the place he had called home for the past two weeks after losing his bed at the homeless shelter. His body was yearning for another fix of crack, heroin, something. He’d been without a shot since earlier that day, and now here it was nighttime and it was like he was turning into a werewolf. His body throbbed as he clenched his stomach tightly. He frantically scratched his itchy and irritated arms, which felt like something was trying to burst up out of his skin. He stood up. His legs were as weak as a boxer’s in the twelfth round who had taken some hard punches. He had to try and think of a way he could get some money for his next fix. Scratch walked out of the alley, where the streetlights illuminated the sid
ewalk.
In his forty-one years, he had been through hell and back, and his near death appearance showed it. He had once been Flint’s “push man,” but now he was nothing more than a junkie. In the late eighties, he’d tried a dose of his own supply, and ever since then, he had been on the opposite side of the game, hooked on heroin and crack cocaine. Karma wasn’t no joke.
Scratch paced back and forth in front of the store, desperately seeking a way to get right.
“Ay, brotha,” he said to a man walking out of the store. “Look out for Scratch. Spare me a dollar, young blood.”
The man ignored him and proceeded to his car. “Come on, man,” Scratch continued to plead, legs wobbling, “I know you got it. I know you got some change back up in there.”
The man got into his car, shaking his head in disgust.
Scratch wanted to fire off a string of curse words at the man, but a pain shot through Scratch’s stomach as his body went through withdrawal. The only thing that came out of his mouth was a sigh of pain. Once the pain began to let up, Scratch slowly eased up back into standing position. Still clenching his stomach, he saw a beautiful girl in high heels and a miniskirt walking by him toward the store. “Ay, baby girl, can you spare a dolla? Come on, baby girl. Hook Scratch up.”
The bell over the door rang as the girl, her head hung low, walked right past him and entered the store without paying him a bit of mind. And it wasn’t as if she was trying to ignore him like the man before her had so blatantly done. It was just that she was so consumed with her own personal thoughts that she hadn’t heard a word Scratch had said to her.
Scratch watched through the store’s glass door as the girl stood in line at the counter, dug into her bra, and pulled out wrinkled bills. His mind began to work overtime. “Bingo!” he whispered. He now had a plan.
Chapter Three
Halleigh had just walked down the street and into the corner store, still high from the line she had inhaled minutes earlier. High as a kite, she kept her head down as she picked up a few items and then stood in line.
As she had aimlessly strolled to the store, her thoughts, just as they always managed to do, suddenly landed on Malek. Now she stood in the line, still consumed by thoughts of her past boyfriend, whom she thought was going to be her future.
I miss that boy so much. I wonder if he ever thinks about me. Halleigh’s eyes watered as Malek’s mother’s words filled her head, reminding her that there was probably no way on earth Malek was thinking about her.
“Halleigh, I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you, but Malek left this morning. His father came into town and thought that it would be good for him if he got away from all this madness, until things could die down and get cleared up. He didn’t want to see you, honey.”
Halleigh caught a tear that had managed to escape her eye and wiped it away. She couldn’t believe Malek had just up and left her just like that. Her mind understood the words Mrs. Johnson had spoken, but her heart just couldn’t believe them.
Ironically, Mrs. Johnson couldn’t believe she was telling Halleigh that boldfaced lie either, but she had to do something to keep Halleigh, whom she always felt was no good for her son, away from him. So, after filling Halleigh’s head with all those lies about Malek abandoning her and not wanting to see her, Mrs. Johnson had simply repented, making the excuse to God that she had done it for the sake of her son.
Lost in her thoughts, Halleigh didn’t even notice the crackhead eyeballing her through the glass door from outside the store. In all actuality, she’d never even noticed him when he tried to bum money from her as she was entering the store. But she would certainly notice him in a few minutes.
Scratch searched frantically throughout the alley. He needed to find some sort of weapon so that he could rob the girl he’d been scoping out inside the store. He felt bad about what he planned to do, but he had to get the monkey off his back, and quick. At the time, the dead presidents she kept stashed in her brasierre seemed like his only option right now. And since opportunity was knocking, he’d be a fool not to answer the door.
He grabbed a short but thick stick off the ground and quickly put it up under his shirt. He then proceeded to arrange it so that it poked through his shirt to look like a gun. He leaned against the side of the building in the alley and awaited his prey.
“Give me yo’ mu’fuckin’ money!” he whispered, trying to practice his approach. For years he had managed to get high without ever having to knock an old lady upside the head; ironically, something he was proud of. The girl he was preparing to rob wasn’t no old lady, but still, he was doing something he thought he’d never have to do and he felt ashamed. As an addict, Scratch had always comforted himself with the logic that he wasn’t hurting anybody but himself by getting high. But now that was about to change.
He looked down at the stick and knew that it wouldn’t pass as a gun. “Damn! This shit ain’t gon’ work,” he said to himself. He threw the stick down in frustration and became agitated as he sought out another weapon in the litter-filled alley.
Scratch’s eyes focused on a broken beer bottle. “Yeah, that right there will do it.” He walked over and picked up the bottle. He then rehearsed his line again. “Give me yo’ mu’fuckin’ money!” he spat softly. “Or I’ll cut your fuckin’ throat.” Scratch smiled, figuring he had found the right approach, but then his smile quickly faded. “What if she tries to run?” Scratch looked down at his wobbling legs and knew that he wasn’t up for a chase. “Damn,” he said, throwing down the broken bottle.
Scratch knew that the girl would be walking out of the store any minute. He had to think quickly. He looked down at his feet and then got an idea. He took off his worn-out shoe and then pulled off his soiled, stinky sock. He gathered up a bunch of rocks from the ground and filled the sock with them. He held up the sock, and the most horrendous odor reeked off of it.
“Well, goddamn!” He grimaced as the foul odor invaded his nose. “Whew! If the rocks won’t knock her out, the smell sho’ in the hell will,” he said, quickly distancing the sock from his face.
Once again, he leaned up against the wall and practiced his approach, which seemed even less threatening with a sock. “Fuck!” He knew that the “sock and rock” method wouldn’t scare anybody and decided to resort back to using the stick as a fake gun. He shuffled around real quick and found the stick that he’d discarded earlier. But that’s when he noticed an even bigger one. “Just in case I do have to knock her ass out,” he told himself. He threw down the smaller one and took the bigger stick and placed it underneath his shirt, as if he had a burner. “Yeah.” He shook his head, finally satisfied with his choice. “That’s what Scratch talking about.”
At that moment, Scratch heard the doorbell jingle, signaling that his would-be victim was exiting the store. Then he heard the clicking of the girl’s high-heeled shoes. Just as he had anticipated, the girl came strutting out with a bag in her hand. He quickly ducked and leaned into the alley and waited for her to pass so he could grab her. However, his guilty conscience began to set in. And in just those few seconds while he waited for her to cross his path, he went back and forth with himself about going through with his plan.
But the little red devil with the pitchfork sitting on his left shoulder got the better of him. When he saw the girl walk past, he went for it. He quickly grabbed her from the back and placed his hands over her mouth, dragging her into the alley and slamming her against the wall. “Give me all yo’ money!” Scratch was shaking just as much as the girl was.
“Please don’t hurt me!” she screamed, dropping the items in her hands, then raising her arms in surrender.
Scratch pushed her against the wall and pointed his fake gun at her. “Give me yo’ cash and you won’t get hurt,” he whispered harshly.
“Please don’t kill me,” she said, her knees shaking uncontrollably. One would think she was going through withdrawal as well.
“Just give me all the dough and I won’t shoot.”
Just as Scratch had watched her do before, she anxiously went into her bra to pull out all the money she had. Scratch looked into the young girl’s eyes and thought she looked familiar. As he stared into her eyes a little longer, he frowned. “Halleigh?” he whispered, lowering his fake gun.
Afraid to say anything, she nodded her head, not wanting to give him a reason to pop off.
“You Sharina’s daughter, ain’t you?” Scratch asked. He knew Halleigh’s face well, because of Sharina. The two looked more like sisters than mother and daughter, and he knew that since it wasn’t Sharina, it had to be her baby girl.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Scratch said as he smiled. “I can’t believe I’m standing here looking dead at Sharina’s baby girl.”
Sharina had been one of Scratch’s get-high buddies, and he’d seen pictures of Halleigh over at Sharina’s house whenever he was over there getting high. He had even seen Halleigh in person a couple of times, but of course she never paid her mother’s dope partners any mind.
Halleigh nodded her head again, confirming that in fact she was Sharina’s daughter. A small glimmer of hope ran through her. Since he knew her mother, maybe he really wouldn’t hurt her. For the first time since Halleigh could remember, she had never been more glad to be her Sharina’s daughter. She knew it had to come in handy and do her some good at one point in her life, and what better time than now?
“Can you let me go?” Halleigh asked Scratch, her back still pressed against the wall.
Scratch looked down and forgot about the fake gun. “Oh yeah,” he said. He pulled the stick out from under his shirt and then threw it to the ground.
“You out here robbing people with sticks?” Halleigh asked, a sense of relief passing through her. She couldn’t help but chuckle, although what she really wanted to do was take that stick and crack him upside the head; not for trying to rob her with it, but just for the pure stupidity of him thinking he could rob anybody with it.
Working Girls Page 2
