Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  “He’s just a man,” Valerie repeated to herself.

  Later, after dinner and some one-on-one private dancing in the on-board disco, the 4 retreated to the Sultan’s lair. The dancers prepared for their customary private showing, and one by one emerged from the bathroom in sexy garments. During the performance, the Sultan tried to get fresh, slipping a finger beneath Mechelle’s thong, touching the folds of her sweaty flesh. She quickly snapped out of the Arabian Princess-role and smacked him hard enough for his turban to jump off his head. The Sultan smiled devilishly like that was something he was accustomed to and all three girls left the room supportively, also laughing at his Royal Highness and his pressing erection.

  Mechelle, Debbie and Valerie inevitably left the boat within an hour, and in solidarity, they cheered about their $300,000, a fee that had already been wired to their U.S. bank account.

  Notwithstanding the peculiarities or the eventful experiences, these were exciting times and adventures for three young women who came from different worlds; all of them with their life’s challenges and with their skeletons in the closet. They didn’t think money, but they certainly worked like money machines. And Douglass was blessed enough to be their unofficial treasurer. They didn’t even much care about the how-much and the what-to-do part of the money. Because, as a team, they simply immersed themselves in the fun and frolic of it all. With all that financial freedom, Douglass lived like a king, and his daughter, Destiny, like a pampered princess. There was lobster, crab legs and salmon for dinner two and three nights a week thanks to Valerie, who was the cook in the group. And Douglass’s eighty-thousand-dollar wardrobe was just as complete as any one of his lovers’, even with their vast array of dresses, outfits and shoes. You name the maker, they had it. From the Jimmy Choo shoes, to the Gucci and Prada handbags; from the full line of Baby Phat wardrobes, to the Tiffany jewelry to the high-end perfumes—they had it all! Meanwhile, the atmosphere was stressless, and the living and loving, abundant. Altogether, their savings neared $600,000, most of it thanks to the Sultan’s binge. Now, since they experienced big, they got into the practice of earning big. So accordingly, they wanted to live big, too. First things first, the girls had to leave the Gilmore home. They were all too close to Douglass’s pop, who was as nosy as he was desperate to know how they were achieving all of their success. However, to them, he was merely a landlord now. They paid him a monthly rent to stay at the house, but other than that, there was no communication. They hardly saw each other. They no longer worked at Fool’s Paradise, and Douglass was too busy handling their affairs to give a damn. It was an unfriendly atmosphere at times, to see the father and son bicker over petty shit, and so it was inevitable that they all find a better place to be. They hung on for as long as they dared, until they located a large townhouse closer to the shore. The want for 100% liberation compelled Douglass to hurry the move. But he also wanted to separate the business and family life. Following the move and stabilization of Douglass’s entertainment enterprises, there were plans to take a much-needed and well-deserved vacation to Florida.

  Within days of their commitment, the North Avenue dwelling was emptied until it was hollow. The furniture was transported to the townhouse and the business equipment went to the new office on Main Street. The last string to sever was the car. Instead of the Toyota Camry that Fool’s Paradise financed, Douglass picked up a new Lincoln Navigator. Black, sleek and luxurious, the vehicle was a popular catch. He needed it to transport, protect and impress his women, as well as it was indicative of his rise to success.

  After the move and just before the trip to Florida, Douglass sat alone in the townhouse, looking out through the sliding glass doors. In the distance, past the back porch, was the Long Island Sound. It was a brisk winter’s evening with the moon glowing . . . illuminating against the water. Douglass was cozy, with a hand-knitted blanket to comfort him. In one hand was the manifesto and plans that he’d conceived while in jail. After a while, he set down the papers and affixed his focus out towards the horizon, as though Destiny was there. Meanwhile, Destiny (now 2 months old) was cuddled and sleeping like a warm, lil munchkin beside him. He couldn’t help but imagine his little girl and the future that awaited her, knowing how much of it might be predicted; as though he could see the future. He wanted things to be easy for Destiny, or at least easier. Not the trials and unnecessary struggles that he had to go through, many of which he managed to overcome. It was time for a firm decision. No guessing or playing it by ear. Douglass thought about the various directions that he was going and where he had come from. Who was with him. It was like reviewing a film in quick time, only now he was in total control. He could see his ultimate destiny as if it was the clearest image in his mind. All he’d have to do was press ENTER.

  All in the Family

  “See, Sal . . . We got dis here problem in the Bronx.”

  “I know a little bit about da Bronx.” Sal was the spittin’ image of Edward G. Robinson, with the “you dirty rat” voice and all. He was being facetious about knowing a little about the Bronx, having been born and raised there.

  “I know you do, Sal. Dat’s why I’m speakin’ wit’ you how I got issues.” The two mobsters sat adjacent to one another as they popped half-dollar tokens into the noisy slot machines of Bally’s in Atlantic City. The dinging and ringing sounds were constant in the air around them, although their surroundings already dazzled the eyes with mirrors, lights and colors that were dizzying to look at. The voices humming and the clanging of change might be a slight bit deafening for the average person, and perhaps that’s why so many elderly folks didn’t mind it. But not Sal, a capo with the Tocci family of New York, or Fat Jimmy, the porky capo from the Bianco family of New Jersey. They were accustomed to the life, the sights and sounds of the casinos. It was comfortable for them, and besides, the noise helped to conceal most any conversation.

  At any casino along the boardwalk, history had been made as the mafia elite played judge and jury. Hits and executions were ordered, hostile takeovers and extortion schemes were set up, and kidnappings and hijacks were common calls. And sure, Sal and Fat Jimmy (the two experienced “goodfellas;” the next generation of AC’s mafia families) were aware of the cameras high above, or hidden behind 2-way mirrors. Hell, they were responsible for quarterbacking the contracts to install the security system! Why wouldn’t they know!? However, this meet wouldn’t be of extreme importance to the Feds. It didn’t matter if Feds, or any other Atlantic City law enforcement, was hawking, so they decided. It was just a convenient spot to talk about, well . . . simple favors.

  “There’s a spot that your people got up there. Like an auto body shop . . . but some moolies moved in and made it a strip joint . . .”

  Fat Jimmy pulled his lever.

  “Oh . . . I know the one—I definitely know the one. My people can’t believe we slept that fuckin’ goddamned goldmine opportunity. Then a bunch of fuckin’ niggers move in, boom-bam-zip-bop-boom, they drop some change in there and badda-bing-badda-boom—they make millions.”

  “Yeah, well . . . dat’s water under da bridge, see? They’re in there now. And see, we got sumpthin’ special happenin’ just across the street.”

  “Oh yeah, it’s like dat?” Sal was scooping out 20 dollars in coins that he won. He didn’t give the winnings a second thought.

  “Oh yeah. A little sumpthin’, ya know. Anyways, we need you guys to bring some pressure. Any kinda pressure. Just do what you gotta do.” Fat Jimmy popped 2 more coins.

  “It’s not that easy like dat, Jimmy. They got a lease for a thousand fuckin’ years. It’s fuckin’ signed, sealed and delivered, too.” Sal pulled his leaver.

  “Well, then, there’s gotta be sumpthin’ else we can do.”

  “What’s in it for us?” Fat Jimmy ignored the 50 coins that fell and squinted as he turned to face Sal for the first time in nearly 5 minutes.

  “Sal . . . you know what’s in it for you? Peace of mind’s in it for you—that’s what . .
.” Fat Jimmy raised a serious eyebrow.

  “. . . How much interest you suppose your people have over here in A.C.? A hundred a year? Two hundred?”

  “Probably sumpthin’ like dat.”

  “Well, you just remember that next time, before you ask what’s in it for you’s guys. We don’t ask you’s no questions like dat concernin’ Bianco interests at da fish market or wit the construction . . . so . . .”

  “Hey, easy, Jimmy . . . alright. I gotta talk to my guys. You talk to yours. No more sit-downs from here. This could become serious. Anything we do, we go through the usual way . . . kapish?”

  “Uh—kapish.” A 7-foot wrestler-type was posted near the slot machines, waiting on his boss with another eye on Fat Jimmy and his escort as they headed out of the casino. Outside of the entrance as the limo pulled up, Fat Jimmy poked at his cell phone, looking like he had luggage . . . a pillow, under his shirt and in the seat of his pants.

  “Hey, Tony. I want you’s guys to stay focused on the Pretty Girl. Faggetabout about Fool’s Paradise from now on—understood?” No sooner did Jimmy get an answer before he snapped the cell phone closed and stuffed it in his blazer pocket. Sal was already being chauffeured back to the heliport, where a chopper would be waiting to cut through the sky towards his warehouse in Jersey City.

  “Jay . . . do we have any guys at the SLA in New York?” Sal was sitting next to the wrestler-type, but raising his voice, wanting to be heard over the puck-puck sounds of the helicopter propellers.

  “I believe I have a buddy who’s with their investigative unit—I could call him.” Jay didn’t carry the vocal dialect that was typical of the Guido mafioso-type. He was well read and didn’t hesitate to say he loathed the stigma that preceded such imbeciles. Whatever that meant.

  “Alright-then. Arrange a meeting. Work something out with them.” As the aircraft swerved towards the New York skyline, Sal considered the stakes of the Biancos building a strip joint in Tocci territory. Without a second thought, he opened his Nextel and punched in a number to his boss.

  Tony the Crow hung up the phone, finished his burger, and yelled for the next candidate.

  “Next!” A slinky, white girl in a one-piece bathing suit came strutting out from the dressing room. Clicking her heels across a wood floor that was complete with sawdust and debris, she stepped up to the stage that was enclosed by a circular bar. Her hair was dirty blond and she was piled with red lipstick, blushed cheeks and rose-scented perfume that tainted the air about her. Mixed with the smell of fresh sawdust and sweaty construction workers, the aroma in this club was nauseating.

  “Okay. Music!” Tony barked as he wiped the ketchup off of his lips and fingers. The pale, colorless dancer began to warm into a sway with her arms and body. Her legs were scrawny and her smile was artificial; and she was very focused on Tony as if she was trying real hard to sell something. She batted her heavily enhanced eyelashes at him and executed a cute half turn, holding onto a pole with one hand and pulling at her butt cheek with the other. She bent over as if to show him more assets, but it was no use. The candidate was not only flat-chested, she had no ass.

  “Okay, okay. NEXT!” Tony seemed unsatisfied with his cheek in his palm. He took a deep, helpless breath and rolled his eyes, wondering if this was the best that the booking agency could send in. There was less than a month left until the inspectors were to sign off on things, and then there was that week before Christmas Eve; the grand opening. The club was coming close to the finishing touches. A million dollars’ worth.

  Let’s Go

  Wade had never taken a vacation in all of his years on the force. Even when his partner was cut down, he remained loyal to the job, mainly to find his partners’ killer. And indeed, finding his partner’s killer was therapy in itself. But what kind of therapy was there for not finding the killer? Wade decided that he would finally take his vacation time, before the craziness of the holidays set in. The department owed him a year, plus he had little more than a year left before his retirement. So the opportunity was perfect. In all of his years on the force, he’d seen all of the lifestyles that a man could imagine; even that of a cavewoman (considering his meeting Juicy). He’d rubbed elbows with the rich and famous; the poverty stricken and the homeless. He’d experiences a career full of stories and pain, with very little joy and pleasure. And now, Wade decided that it was due time that he pursued pleasure and joy for himself. It was indeed the moment of truth, and these heavy concerns weighed on his mind as he cleared his desk and filled his box with the awards from the wall. He couldn’t help but to spin through the memories of each memento. Meanwhile, the office was sluggish and unusually quiet today. It was disheartening to see another good man leave—like losing an arm. There was also an overcast of dissatisfaction because of the unresolved matter of the past year. Still, the office gave Wade a standing ovation as he proceeded out of the squad room; a box under one arm and shaking hands with his free hand. His vacation was approved, but everyone knew what his plans were—hell, he cleared his desk out. His life as a detective was over. Wade stepped into Chief Washington’s office for a quick so-long.

  “I didn’t know if you wanted this now.” Wade reached into his belt for the service revolver.

  “Nahh . . . keep it till you come and see me after vacation.”

  “What for, Chief? You know I keep two others on me.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I don’t feel like doing the paperwork right now. Keep it with you . . . and that’s an order!” The chief was being jovial with his tone of voice. Then he turned friendly again.

  “Where you goin’ for your vacation? . . . I mean, it’s none of my business, but just in case a certain killer shows up and wants to surrender to you in person.” Wade couldn’t help smiling and shrugged in response.

  “Well, just be careful. After the force, we’re still friends, alright? And I want my friends all in one piece.” Wade and Washington exchanged a bear hug and abruptly parted, heads swiveling to the left and right in case anyone was questioning their masculinity. Not a chance. The entire office was under surveillance as the layers of eyeballs in the squad room were focused on the two and their compassion for one another.

  “Can I treat you to a drink, good buddy?” asked a rookie cop.

  Wade declined. He already had plans for the evening with Brenda, who agreed to an evening at the Blue Note jazz club down in the village. Brenda sort of shuddered when Wade mentioned “the Village” on the phone. He made a mental note to ask her about that later. The two entered the club side by side, suddenly feeling as if they’d walked into a warm closet space, just not quite as small. Everyone in the 200-plus seats in the house was offered an intimate, unhampered view of the stage where a 4-piece band’s instruments sat alone and waiting. Most of the food service and intimate conversation that took place before the show was underway and the couple waisted no time, each diving into separate orders of shrimp scampi and a “Rachelle Ferrell Daiquiri.” The room filled up quickly, with energy so busy and snug that celebrities went almost unnoticed. Almost. Even Wade could see Nancy Wilson at a corner table with a few friends to keep her company. And any novice would be able to recognize Carmen Bradford sitting with a friend on a tier with the very best view in the house. There was a knowing amongst the audience that no jazz lover or music aficionado could be in a more desirable place at a more appropriate time.

  Besides having that shoulder-to-shoulder closeness, the Blue Note could also boast about featuring the most notable performing artists and song stylists in the world, and accordingly the band of three men marched towards the stage to begin tuning and adjusting. A moment later, an announcement commenced, requiring no smoking or flash cameras and then a warm welcome . . .

  “. . . Give a warm Blue Note to Rachelle Ferrell!” The band began the opening bars to Rachelle’s signature song “Welcome To My Love,” while she did her best to smiling fans. Rachelle eventually grabbed the microphone and serenaded the crowd, suspending everyone’s belief with h
er incredible voice. Brenda and Wade were 2 tables from the stage, in the center of the club, basking in the melodies and swaying in song. It was a test to focus on one another with such an attraction soaring free on the stage; however, they did connect with a few glances here and there. Partway into the performance, Rachelle melted into her song “I’m Still Waiting,” and the lyrics seemed to penetrate the couple. Wade reached for Brenda’s hand across the table while they shared in the sensation. Brenda’s heart fluttered with each high note. The songstress provoked them more, standing at center stage, delivering a strong bridge in her song.

  You’ll be my knight in armor,

  I’ll be your queen.

  We’ll be together at last

  We’ll shaa-re our dream,

  Nothing’s gonna stop us now,

  Come, let’s begin . . .

  Right awaaay . . .

  Why not todaaaaay!!!

  Rachelle’s voice was a heavenly calling, floating through the misty, blue room . . . gently caressing the minds of everyone with her sopranic, melodious blessing of loving song. Her high notes flirted through the atmosphere like a loose sparrow, while her low tenor notes were sensual and riveting. The presentation was provocative of passion, and softened Wade to recognize the beauty before him. He had messages in his eyes, and instantly, Brenda could feel it. Their legs tangled under the table, and the feelings crept back up into their eyes. The magic in the music made this a magical, intimate moment, causing each to question how they arrived at that point of love and devotion.

  Brenda’s tendency, on the other hand, was one of addiction; she wanted to jump across the small table at Wade until they both toppled over onto the others seated directly behind them. She came to know herself and that sex was indeed a big passion in her life. However, she was wise about it and wanted to experience it wisely. She was tired of false assurances. Wade, she was certain, was as real as a man could be and her intuition told her that he in turn needed someone like her; someone caring and compassionate. But what she wasn’t sure of was the timing of their coming together. Her mind kept saying, “If I do this now, what will he say?” or “Would I be going too far?” For sure, Wade had her twisted upstairs . . . deliver that news, Miss TV Anchor!