Sweeter Than Honey

by Mary B. Morrison

  Some of my regular johns actually fell in love with me. Or so they’d said. But no amount of money can buy love. Happiness? Yes. Love? No. What I finally realized was it was okay to love somebody but longing to love and having no one to love created heartbreaks that caused death.

  For the girls who were given love even though their parents might have not had money to buy them nice things, generally those girls grew into women who cared about themselves and others. Since I didn’t have parents who gave me money or love, Sunny’s death awakened me from my conscious coma. I wanted to love and be loved before I died. The way Sunny’s family loved her. I knew I shouldn’t go back to my house, Valentino’s, or his mansion, but I wasn’t relocating from Las Vegas to Atlanta until I was certain that Summer was safe. I owed Sunny and her family that much.

  Thank God. If there was a God. I was smart while working for Valentino and over a one-year period was able to add more than a million dollars to my Sweeter than Honey business account.

  Selecting my business name was a spiritual movement for me. Although I was a prostitute, I knew the work I’d done did not define me. Sometimes a woman has got to make a choice. And that choice may not always be one that she is proud of or the best in someone else’s eyes, but those naysayers aren’t the ones offering any type of support either. If all somebody had to give me was their opinion, I’d tell them, “Fuck you. Kiss my ass,” to their faces, not behind their backs.

  They didn’t pay my bills and if I begged for food, most of them would walk by with leftovers in their hands shaking their heads while mumbling, “Get a job.” Did they realize how fuckin’ hard it was to get a job without an address? Live in a shelter sleeping on sheets where bugs ate away your flesh? Or what it was like to sleep on the streets and have no sheets at all? Waiting for someone to throw their food in the garbage, the same food they wouldn’t hand you, just so you could fetch a meal? And the saddest part was that most of the ones who wouldn’t help were women just like me…trying to fake it till they made it.

  I’d started my business while working at Pussyland because regardless of whether I was a prostitute, a madam, or a whore on the street, I knew retiring from prostitution was a dream for most women but I made sure it became a reality for me.

  I understood how difficult it was for women to sell their precious bodies for twenty, forty, or a few hundred dollars and struggle to make the mental transition to get a decent job paying minimum wage. That shit was hard and for most women in the game, illogical and impossible. I was once told a woman’s only ways out of the game were incarceration, confinement to a mental institution, or death. I disagreed but at that time I wasn’t prepared to make a difference. Now that my perspective has changed, I know that when I start providing consultation, a safe clean place for women in transition to live, and teaching women that their pussies have more brain cells than any other parts of their bodies, most women will get it…Pussy isn’t about sex, it’s about control. Not control over others but control and greater self-esteem for themselves.

  As I approached airport security, folks around me started mumbling. An old lady pointed, then whispered in an old man’s ear.

  What was her problem?

  Waiting at the gate to board my flight to Flagstaff, I sat next to a gentleman dressed in a gray suit. “You smell like you could use a friend. Soap,” he said, abruptly standing.

  Soap? A friend? Hmm. Both were something I didn’t have. But what I did have was a lot of shit on my mind, so I’d left my car at the casino where’d I’d checked in last night and walked to the airport. As prideful as I was about my body the last thing I wanted was some guy twice my age making fun of my hygiene. Ignoring him as he walked away, I buried my face in the morning newspaper. I flipped to the local news section to see Summer’s face…on the front page!

  HENDERSON WOMAN ABDUCTED AND HELD HOSTAGE BY PIMP.

  Fuck! Calmly I folded the paper over Valentino’s picture, feeling torn knowing I had to bury my sister so I couldn’t return immediately to help Summer, but there was something else I could do.

  Walking to the nearest customer service counter, I handed the woman my credit card and driver’s license, then said, “I’d like to purchase thirteen one-way open tickets from Las Vegas to Atlanta.” One by one I gave her the names for each of my escorts, Summer, and myself.

  Fumbling through my purse for a pen to sign for the charges, I noticed my nephew’s photo. Where was I going to take him? How was I going to raise him? The envelope I stepped on at the hospital was crumbled. Smoothing the paper, I poked my finger between the opening, ripping apart the top.

  Unfolding the paper, I saw it was Honey’s birth certificate and mine. I’d never seen either before. Rita never showed it to me and Triple D, based on Rita’s address, somehow got me a driver’s license before I knew how to drive. The two most important leverages in life were people with power and people with money. The combination of both could circumvent any system. Oh well. At least Rita was our mother and Jean St. Thomas was our father.

  Interrupting me, the ticketing agent said, “Excuse me, miss. You need to sign this. There’s a line behind you.”

  Without looking up at her, I mumbled, “Oh, sure,” scribbling my signature, then stuffed the electronic confirmations into my purse.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said, walking toward my gate. Next to our father’s name was his address on South San Francisco Street only a few blocks away from Rita’s house.

  “Okay, Lace. Honey is dead. Summer is alive. There’s nothing you can do to bring Honey back, but you can do your best to save Summer…but my daddy’s address is right here and I could find out once and for all why he abandoned us…shit!”

  I froze, standing between two rows of black vinyl seats.

  BREAKING NEWS! scrolled across the flat-screen television at my gate. I moved closer so I could hear the anchorwoman who announced, “The Henderson woman missing overnight was found an hour ago by Sergeant Sapphire Bleu. The victim, Summer Day, was unharmed. The pimp, Anthony Valentino James, who allegedly abducted Summer, is now under arrest for abduction, rape, illegal prostitution, and he’s being charged with the murder of Summer’s identical sister, Sunny Day, who was shot in the head and the heart. Her body was discovered days ago by Sergeant Bleu in Sunny’s condo located in North Las Vegas.

  “Sergeant Bleu, tell us how you solved this case.”

  “Well, there’s a lot of illegal prostitution going on in Las Vegas. I figured why waste my time busting johns one at a time? My strategy was if I could arrest the pimps with the largest operations, I could prevent women like Sunny from being killed.”

  “That’s highly commendable. We hear you’re up for a promotion. Well, after this case is settled you’ll probably become chief. Before we return to our regularly scheduled program already in place, two more questions. What about the prostitutes who were working for Valentino—were any of them arrested? And are there any more people working for Valentino’s operation that you’re going to go after?”

  I held my breath awaiting Sapphire’s response.

  “None of the prostitutes were arrested. Valentino’s security guards are out on bail, and—” Sapphire looked directly into the camera as if she knew I was watching, then firmly said, “No. There’s no one else involved. We’ve got our man.”

  Suddenly I heard, “Last call for Lace St. Thomas.”

  “Oh my.” Tucking my purse under my arm, I raced to the ticket agent and handed him my boarding pass.

  On my flights and my layover, I thought about meeting my father for the first time. Would he hug me? Hold me? Give me the love Rita couldn’t or wouldn’t? Anxiously, I wanted to drive directly to his house, but I had to go to the funeral home first and view Honey’s body. Parking in the lot next to a stretch limousine, I sat still for a moment remembering some of the good times Honey and I had shared as little girls. I felt myself smiling. We played with dolls, watched scary movies, then slept on the living room floor together. The nerves
in my shoulders crept up the nape of my neck, then stabbed the back of my head.

  Getting out of the car, I wondered if I would ever forget that Sunday morning lying on the living room floor crying with my legs spread open. Even in the midst of good memories, the bad things that men had done to me made me angry and sad at the same time.

  Entering the air-conditioned empty room, I saw Honey laid in a plain silver coffin dressed in a saggy black suit.

  “You’ve got to change this,” I said to the funeral director. “She’s dead but she doesn’t have to look it.”

  “Well,” he replied, pinching his nostrils, “I’ll see what we can do if you see what you can do. You know what I mean?”

  Damn, I forgot about my appearance. Rushing to the Flagstaff Mall on the other side of town, I made several stops at Victoria’s Secret, Bath & Body Works, Dillard’s, and JC Penney to buy enough clothes for three days and an outfit for Honey. I’d decided to stay in Flagstaff until I received a call from Sapphire.

  Hurrying to the Hilton on Highway 89, I showered, put on the best new clothes I’d bought, and drove back to the funeral home.

  “Here, put this on her,” I said, handing the director a beautiful honey-colored, long-sleeved lace dress with a matching head-wrap.

  “This is beautiful but not nearly as heavenly as you,” he said, staring at my juicy red lips.

  Ignoring his comments, I replied, “I’ll be back in a few hours for the services. You need to stay focused.”

  “I am focused,” he said, nodding. “Oh, we need a copy of her birth certificate.”

  Digging in the envelope, I handed him the certificate, then walked away.

  My next stop was my father’s home. Matching Jean’s address to one on…Honey’s birth certificate? Oh, shit! I realized I’d given the director the wrong paper.

  Or maybe not, I thought. My lips curved so high I swore they’d touch my nostrils.

  Lace St. Thomas was officially dead, and Honey, middle name St. last name Thomas, was strutting up to my father’s door to introduce myself.

  CHAPTER 37

  Benito

  Bam! Bam!

  “Aw, fuck! Lace, cut that shit out!” I yelled, lifting my ass, trying to keep the gun from shaking. I could’ve tightened my stomach muscles and pushed the barrel out a day ago, but I was scared I’d kill myself.

  Lying naked, unable to move for almost twenty-four hours, I thought maybe if the gun did fire I would’ve been spared from starvation and dehydration.

  Boom!

  Tears streamed down my temples into my ears. “Please, Lace, please, stop it,” I cried.

  A woman dressed in a gray sweatsuit with a gun in her hand pointed it at me and yelled, “Don’t move!” right before she fell on the floor laughing. “Y’all come in here. Ha, ha, ha. Oh my God, this is hilarious. And a first. Hurry up!”

  I didn’t see what the fuck was so funny. If I stuck that gun up her ass, she wouldn’t be laughing at all.

  “Ou wee! You got it funky up in here. Open all the windows guys, then get, hee, hee, hee, put on your rubber gloves and get that gun out of his ass, then untie him. Oh my gosh. Who did this to you?”

  One of the guys said, “Hey, boss. The gun is empty.”

  There she went, falling to floor, holding her stomach, laughing so hard she’d started crying.

  I bet if I were white they would’ve untied me first and I could’ve slapped her for making fun of me. But at least they hadn’t shot me. Not yet. “Lace St. Thomas did this shit. I want her ass arrested and I’m pressing charges against that bitch!”

  The smile on that woman’s face turned upside down. Two inches from my face she hissed like a cobra, “You ain’t gon’ do shit but what the fuck I tell you. You got that? Whatever it was you did to piss her off that she’d do this to you is nothing compared to what I would’ve done. I’m Sergeant Bleu. Sapphire Bleu. Whatever the fuck you say can and will be held against you in my court of law…”

  I was speechless. No, she was not reading me my rights while she was in the wrong. “I’m the one who was violated. Why are you reading me my rights?”

  Throwing her head backward, she laughed, then said to another officer, “I can’t believe how ignorant this man is. I bet he doesn’t even know his rights. Get him in the tub quick. I can’t even question him with him smelling like shit.”

  When Sapphire and her team broke down the door, I was grateful someone had finally rescued me. I was grateful I hadn’t died in a pool of shit. Appreciative that Sergeant Bleu gave me permission and time to sit in a warm tub of water filled with Epsom salt to soak the soreness out of my rectum. “Ah,” I said, leaning my head against Lace’s inflatable pillow. “Hot water never felt so good.”

  It felt even better to put on deodorant, cologne, fresh underwear, and my best clean suit. Thankful simply to be alive, and free to go after questioning, I was too embarrassed to call any of my teammates or the women I’d bought nice things for but hadn’t treated so well.

  With no money in my pockets, Valentino behind bars, and Lace only God knows where, I had no money and no place to live after this Sapphire woman kicked me out of Lace’s house, but I was grateful to be alive.

  Fully cooperating with Sergeant Bleu, I told her everything I knew about Lace, which I realized wasn’t as much information as I thought I had. I had no idea who Lace’s parents were, how Lace met Valentino, or where Lace worked before I met her until Sergeant Bleu said, “Lace was a prostitute for eleven years before she became a madam.”

  Suddenly that Pussyland rodeo ride made sense.

  I’d never trust closing both of my eyes around another female. After what Lace had done to me, I might be better off dating men. My manhood was violated. I seriously thought that gun was gonna go off in my ass. What had I done that was so bad that Lace would treat me like that?

  Sure I’d made a mistake putting my hands on her. I was man enough to admit that. But I didn’t kill Sunny. Sergeant Bleu said she could’ve arrested me as an accomplice, but instead I had twenty-four hours to get out of Nevada and never come back. I hoped they fucked the guts out of Valentino while he was behind bars. That wasn’t my boy. No friend would’ve set me up like that. Try to let me take the rap.

  With no place to go, I’d hitched a ride to the Strip, then entered a Mexican restaurant on Tropicana Avenue near Terrible’s gas station, picked up the pay phone, and dialed 0. It was hard to find a pay phone on the streets and ten times harder to find one with any privacy. Closing the booth, I motioned to hang up until I heard, “Operator, may I help you?”

  “Um, yeah. Sure. Collect call to Washington, D.C., to a Mrs. Hill.”

  “From who, sir?”

  “Um, yeah.” I wanted to hang up, but what were my options?

  “Sir, what’s your name?”

  “Benito. I’m her son.”

  “One moment please,” the operator said.

  After a few rings, a deep voice answered, “Hill’s residence.”

  “This is the operator with a collect call from Mr. Benito. Will you accept?”

  “Well, well—”

  “Sir, I need to know if you accept.”

  “Yes, I accept. Put him through.”

  Nervously, I said, “Hey, I didn’t expect you to answer,” opening the booth. Suddenly when I’d heard Grant’s voice it got hella hot in that tiny space and I could barely breathe.

  “Man, you’ve got a lot of nerve calling my mother.”

  “Your mother?” I questioned.

  Grant hadn’t changed a bit. Still arrogant and elitist.

  “That’s right. She was your mother.”

  “Was? Mama isn’t dead, is she?”

  Had it been that long since I’d called her? It felt like my heart stopped beating.

  “She might as well be dead to you. After all she’s done for you. This is the thanks you give her, give us, by acting like you didn’t know us when we came to your championship game.”

  I saw them. But they o
nly came because they wanted a piece of my fame, not me.

  “You were always her favorite, so what do you know about how I felt? Mr. Oxford.”

  “Man, I work hard. I don’t apologize for my success. You should be grateful my mother took care of you. How do you think you got that scholarship? My mother adopted you when she was a single parent struggling by herself without a husband, and all you can see is what she didn’t do.”

  “No, she adopted me when she thought she couldn’t have you was more like it. But what do you know about being adopted? Not a damn thing.”

  I didn’t need this bullshit. I would’ve hung up in Grant’s face but I had no place to go.

  “What do you know about respect? About love? Nothing. Now that your career is over and the IRS took all your possessions, what, you need my mother now? To help you? If it’s money you need, I’ll wire it to wherever you are as long as you promise not to set foot on my mother’s property. Where are you?” Grant said in a demanding tone.

  I told Grant what city and state I was in. Then I heard a warm, soft voice in the background and my heart began to cry.

  “Mmm, good morning, sweetheart. Who are you talking to this early?”

  “Nobody, Ma. Dad up yet?”

  “Ma! It’s me! It’s Benito! Your son, Benito!”

  “Grant, give me the phone.”

  The next voice I heard was my mother’s. “Benito?”

  “Yeah, Ma. It’s me.”

  My mother started crying. “Why, Benito?”

  “I’m sorry, Ma. Can I come home? I need you.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, son.” My mother cried harder.