Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  The men in the house had already sprung into action. Wade was guarding the extremes with a revolver in one hand; his cell phone in the other as he barked information to a 911 emergency operator. Danni seemed to have gone through a total makeover, putting the final touches in place. Armbands, ankle straps and a Velcro vest were already tight on his limbs and torso. The next five seconds were dramatic, where Danni kneeled to the floor, placing his chess set in front of him. He popped the latches and flipped up the lid as if it was a laptop computer. On the side of the case an additional latch was actually a switch that when twisted and pulled, released the interior locks that held the panels in place. Suddenly the hidden arsenal was exposed. Danni picked up just about every blade on display and slipped them in their proper pockets around his body. Even Wade’s attention was lured by a reflection from a piece of steel. He turned his head towards Danni and jolted, thinking that he’d seen a ghost.

  “Now just what are you gonna do with all that?” Wade asked. “You don’t even know where the bullet came from . . . take a look out there . . .” Wade neared the broken window, cautiously standing to the side. “Police are shooting at dealers. Dealers are shooting at the police. It’s like New Jack City meets the Hatfields and the McCoys out there!” Wade was bold and erratic, though logical. Danni was left no choice but to think about his intentions.

  “If you wanna do something, you’ll help me get Mrs. Rose out of the back door to the car. She needs a doctor, quick.” Danni deflated some, although still not 100% convinced.

  “Come on—use your head, deputy! That’s the cliff and the canyon out there! You go out the door, you might as well be jumping over the edge. I don’t care if you know Billy Jack, Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan! Unless you’re Superman and bullet-proof, you can not go out there! What are you gonna do, collect all the guns, tell everyone to pipe down and ask them all ‘Who shot Mrs. Rose?’ It’s not logical. Use your head, buddy.”

  While the New Yorkers bickered, Debbie was moaning and sniffing. Rocking back and forth with her mother in her arms, soaking in a growing puddle of blood. Mrs. Rose was motionless, with eyes open in shock and tears. Danni and Wade finally reached to help move Debbie’s mom. Not a minute had passed since they raced into the living room.

  “Don’t! Don’t you touch her!!” Debbie held her mother tighter, demanding that they stay away. They tried to persuade her. Wade called 911 again, wondering how far away they were. Debbie brought her attention back to her mother—dying in her arms. “Mama? Can you hear me?” Debbie held her mother’s hand, ignoring the bullethole and blood. Tears pouring still. Mrs. Rose lay still, more or less lifeless. But Debbie could feel some pressure on her palm. Moms was holding on with whatever strength she had left. Debbie anticipated her own words. “Mom. I don’t . . . I don’t want you to try to speak or answer my words. Just please listen. I know you can hear me. Mom, you’ve had a wonderful life. You’ve given us the best you could . . . your service was to anyone in need and you’ve successfully raised two loving children. Ray Ray has gone. But he lived while he was here. Life has been good to us.” Debbie continuously choked on her words.

  “Mom . . . if . . . if it hurts too much . . . if you can’t take it, please . . . let go. Ray Ray needs you, Mom. I’ll be fine. Let go, Mom . . .”

  Wade and Danni looked at one another with disbelief. What was she saying???

  “Don’t hurt anymore, Momma.” Debbie sobbed audibly, hurt by her own words. It seemed like hours had passed, but they were just minutes. Precious minutes. Debbie continued rocking with her mom, her lips pressed against her mom’s temple in a long goodbye kiss. Eventually an hour had passed. Danni and Wade sat helpless on the floor for support. The ambulance didn’t matter anymore. Maybe Debbie was onto something, since Mrs. Rose had long passed away.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Deal or Die

  The days passed by slowly in the beginning. But in time, they glided by as nothing more than irritating pimples. Douglass had grown callous to all of the monotony. The shouting, jingling keys, electronic sliding gates, three square meals and the stand-up counts were now presumed as a way of life. However temporary. Communal living, warehousing, slavery . . . call it what you will, Douglass had successfully landed in this new world. He had so far survived the worst of it all with no suicide attempts, no extreme depression or nervous breakdowns. It was hard, but he handled it hard.

  There was a T.V. in the big day room where he was left. He ignored the conventional soap operas and Seinfeld sitcoms, but highly appreciated Soul Train on Saturdays. T.V. was the only medium of entertainment next to loud, boastful banter that inmates slung around on a day to day basis. And Douglass wasn’t claustrophobic by any means, but it was a survival course just to breathe. His first day was merely a challenge, how he was vying for air in the tiny holding cell with all those men smoking. And later, when that goon tried to “punk” him in front of other prisoners. But those wouldn’t be his biggest tests.

  Douglass’s personal items consisted of a towel, a small slice of motel soap, and a 2-inch toothbrush. (The toothbrush wasn’t the usual length because if it were any longer it could be whittled into a knife or dagger.) The slim pickin’s he was issued to wear were not interchangeable, and there were no laundry services. So getting into a crusty shower only to change back into the same dirty clothing was fruitless. The best Douglass could manage was to lounge in underwear while his hand-washed shirt and trousers dried. And nobody would dare steal his drying laundry since word got around that he knew kung fu real good. “Knocked that Newark cat right on his ass,” they were saying.

  The hand-washing continued almost every other day, just so he could feel clean. As time went by, a prisoner here or a prisoner there would get bailed out or set free by a judge, leaving scraps of excess clothing or linen (resources!) behind for the daily scavenger hunt. So accordingly, Douglass learned to make ends meet with time. Fortunately, he was tall and lanky enough to handle the frequent climbs up and down, to and from the top of his three-man bunk bed. It was either that, or sleep on the floor with ten or fifteen others. It had been a long first weekend at the jail. And looking at things with some novelty made all the difference in the world. To write down as much as a note to the doctor, a pen or pencil had to be smuggled from a prisoner with better privileges. Douglass got hold of one, but he couldn’t write a letter since he had no stamps with which to mail one. So he got creative and produced a chess set. With the back of some other paper scraps that he ripped into shapes, Douglass fabricated the game of strategy and even taught one or two others how to play.

  The meals were always generous. That much he appreciated. A thin, black man was quarantined by the rest of the room—visibly gruesome, with pock marks and lumps scattered about his face and body. He had discolored skin, and he was constantly coughing and vomiting. Word had already spread about him: AIDS. Another thin, white man constantly needed insulin and extra food. He even had a doctor’s note that ordered him to have a second portion of food at each serving. Prisoners stayed away from him, too. A few days passed and Douglass was moved along with a group of others to a fourth-floor pen. He was surprised that there was an elevator to lift them there. Such luxuries included elevators, electronically controlled doors, and steel doors and gates to protect everyone. Any time prisoners were near to passing one another, a corrections officer made one stand with palms on the wall so that there was no free-flowing communication. Besides that, all movement was announced by accompanying officers into their all-empowering tools of confidence—their walkie-talkies; anchors which were held onto like life-preservers.

  On the fourth floor, Douglass was assigned to 4B—one of three cages. The various cages were sectioned off by steel doors and electronic gates, creating one huge octagon of confined areas. There wasn’t much difference between the conditions at the jail and a zoo, so far as Douglass could tell. And at the center of the octagon, with a hallway that looped all the way around, was an officer’s station, positioned up a platfo
rm and enclosed with unbreakable glass. Behind that thick glass, an officer controlled prisoner movement with switches, buttons, clipboards and phones.

  Cell 4B didn’t differ much in comparison to the first-floor day room, but for an extra TV, more three-man bunks, and a warmer climate. There was a lived-in element, evidenced by the makeshift clotheslines and scattered personal effects such as legal work and articles purchased from commissary. Cigarettes, candy, cosmetics, etc. Unlike downstairs, where nearly everyone was a newcomer, and nobody was permitted to smoke, the occupants in 4B were long adjusted to the jail. They stared at newcomers with great curiosity and evaluation. Part defensive, part intimidation, one was either made to feel at home or snubbed as if they didn’t exist. Since Douglass was both a newcomer and from a different state, the label of outcast might have fit him well, except that the word had gotten around. Yeah, that same old tale about the kung fu and the beatdown on the first floor. The notoriety was apparently good enough to make him an attraction, and in no time other prisoners were bringing things to him. Stamps, excess underwear, commissary items; he was even given another inmate’s lower bunk. So much came to him so fast that you’d think he was the Pope here on a yearly visit.

  It took a couple of weeks to settle in and to discover his own way of doing this time. He could see that 95 percent of the prisoners were locals, caught up in local trends, and he sat and watched them, inconspicuously, of course, just to figure out how to penetrate the psychological mechanisms. In one of his routine phone calls home, Douglass asked Demetrius to mail in some photos. Demetrius didn’t understand why, but carried out the request nonetheless. There were 50 photos that came; and they featured an array of celebrities and shapely females to serve as incantations of success. Once all of 4B got a whiff of Douglass’s associations with international icons of music and entertainment, and with the most popular porn stars in the world, he became a phenomenon at Passaic County Jail. And once the word spread throughout the jail, other prisoners were sending Douglass notes for one reason or another: “Yo, I heard you a big willie up in New York. You know that nigga, Binkie? I need to reach that nigga bad, and I know he into the skin market deeep, like you.”

  “Yo, I heard about you in the newspaper, man. I got connects out here, so lemme know if you need somethin’. Anything. Word.” Douglass was getting these types of letters every other day, and that made him more or less a big fish in a small pond. He quickly earned greater bargaining rights than before, however whimsical. The drug dealers, bank robbers and violent offenders couldn’t match the fame that Douglass lived on the streets. And he can kick ass, too? His was the type of notoriety that couldn’t be bought. Moreover, it couldn’t be denied. Now, he was beyond welcomed. He was more than gifted with fresh, clean clothing, underwear, slippers, stamps or extra food.

  More introductions were conjured. Some common ground was established, which enabled him to cross lines of race, age and nationality. But, although Douglass settled in, the minor comforts weren’t getting him out of jail. And they weren’t helping him to breathe better either. Out of the hundred-plus men in 4B, ninety or more of them were chronic smokers. In Douglass’s bed assignment, the bottom of a three-level bunk bed, he could cover up, blanket over his head, and he was still planted in the midst of a thick fog of cigarette smoke that followed breakfast, lunch, dinner and persisted throughout latenight conversations. He wanted to complain. He wanted to move to some no-smoking area of the jail. But he kept his beef to himself. No sense knocking a good thing in the ass since he knew for sure, no matter how popular he had become, these men were stressed. And there was no way they were gonna give up smoking for a short-term visitor. Instead of bitching, day after day, for weeks, Douglass would erect his own makeshift tent with a sheet, attempting to shield himself from the deadly cloud. But it was pointless. There was no escape. On occasion, Douglass was near suffocation, tearing and coughing with ferocity before the buildup of smog eventually dissipated. A visit to the jail’s physician went nowhere. The doctor even hid his name tag when Douglass threatened to call on his attorney about the problem. And speaking of which . . .

  Douglass’s appointed lawyer was unreachable on most occasions, and had no answers on others. A bail hearing eventually brought the bond down to $350,000. Douglass felt that the judge was unmerciful for a reason, and that she had ultimately pigeonholed him because of his dark skin. The experience for the most part, the smoking and the legal turmoil, were similar to sleeping on a nail. With each passing week, for over six months now, the nail had become less and less of a discomfort, and more and more of a mere formality. The bottom line was that Douglass had to deal or die.

  Mechelle coped with her position as just another dancer. Half naked, in the same ol’ murky setting, with men fawning all over her by night and going to bed manless by day. She was growing tired and unexcited by her circumstances. After three months, she began to show. Her tummy could not be concealed any longer. She quickly threw together a resume and persuaded her way into a position with Bosuer Products, a creamy-white makeup company down in midtown Manhattan. They respected her, valued her and made her feel at home as their receptionist and gofer. She began to appreciate the standard of receiving legitimate paychecks. She grew more and more able to cope with her newfound independence without Douglass. Now, she had something more important to rely on other than a man. She had herself! Go, Mechelle! This was her very solid excuse to avoid visiting Douglass in jail. And his phone calls were even becoming inconvenient as she was out more; at the doctor’s, at pregnancy classes or with friends that were lending her a hand during this very lonely time.

  “Let me ask you something, Mechelle. What’s more important, that damned job . . . or me?” Douglass asked her pointblank on one particular phone call.

  “You.” She hesitated and still answered cautiously.

  “Well, then why can’t you get your ass down here?” Douglass heard himself shouting, but muffled the volume as best he could, with so many ears close to him. Mechelle hung up on him when he paused for her reply. That infuriated him more. She left the receiver off the hook. It wasn’t replaced until the next day when Demetrius found it on the floor. Mechelle quickly moved out, according to D. Douglass assumed that she’d be back, after all, she was pregnant, and she’d pulled this “leaving” thing before.

  Still Ticking

  In contradiction to the turmoil that Douglass faced, and the various tragedies that were connected directly or indirectly to Fool’s Paradise, the energy of the club persisted. Income was still strong and consistent. Gil was in his usual routine; in the office with his choice for a quickie, or else falling asleep cuddling a bottle of Guinness Stout as he stood overlooking the various club activities. Sometimes he’d be the cashier in the box office window, accepting ten-dollar bills that were pressed down into the stainless steel tray. Then seconds later, he’d swing out of the box office window to see that the doorman was doing his job properly, taking the admission ticket from the patron. The same ticket was then handed back to Gil. This confused routine was a comfortable one. One that offered Gil the security of that total control. The same security that he in turn surrendered when he explored his sexual adventures behind closed doors.

  A bizarre freedom persisted inside of Fool’s Paradise when Gil was back there tucked away in his office, between some young dancer’s legs. The absence of true organization and control made stealing easy. Douglass couldn’t even do anything about that before all the drama with his arrest. Now that he was away, shit was really buckwild. In essence, the young Gilmore’s original vision was never further from its mark. Even with the bouncers, dancers, bartenders and eventually the customers doing as they pleased, the popularity of the establishment continued to grow, with the biggest porn stars in the world endorsing the joint, and the lap dancers still drawing those crowds. Drink prices increased to $6. Even lap dances grew more expensive. Pushovers like Claudine were lucky enough to make $2 or even $3 when they took a customer to the wall, pressi
ng their big balloon behinds into the guy’s groin in a senseless quest for friction and an imitation of sex. But the top-shelf dancers like Sadie and Valerie were getting $15, $20 and more for the same dance. The top-shelf girls were so captivating that a little wind in a man’s ear might make him explode in his trousers without so much as a brush against him—well worth that top dollar. This was why men came to Fool’s Paradise in the first place; not simply to see the spectacles, the thrills on stage . . . but to touch some of it; to interact. To be touched and to feel the sensation all the way up until (and almost as if) they’d reached an orgasm.

  Tony really didn’t have any new statistics or methods to report to his Capo. There was little to explain; a club, some music, drinks, and a lot of black girls. Tony couldn’t figure out how all those women were drawn to Fool’s Paradise. He knew about the booking agencies. But what they sent in emergency situations was nothing close to the quality of women that showed up on their own. Tony wondered how the club became such a magnet for them. He could only stand around, buddy up with Gil, observe and remain consistent. Eventually, he expected to impregnate the sudden success with some loan sharking and some other vending contracts. It was clear to him that the Biancos would have to make more money off of the establishment, but Tony was challenging time. The time he was investing at the club versus the time it took for his investment to grow. On top of that, he was handling other deals and scams to meet his quota of $5,000 a week—money he was obligated to bring back to the family.