Smoke and Mirrors (14 page)

S
moke watched two
of his whores squabble inside a bedroom with red walls about some missing costume jewelry. They were sister-in-laws, the best of friends, but this shit was bound to happen from time to time. Tempers would flare, but they never seemed to realize it wasn’t really about the damn articles of clothing, jewelry, or anything like that. It always boiled down to something deeper, and it would be revealed sooner or later in some fucking catfight he’d have to break up. In better news, the apartment building was shaping up nicely, but everyone was beat and he’d just added a new recruit to his stable. His bottom bitch, Felicia, his personal stallion, had to get the whores in check that morning. Word got back to him that one of his girls was dabbling in heroine, and that sent him into a bloody rage. His policies were strict, and he knew and understood the original source for his outrage. That is, the one topic that remained completely off fucking limits. He dived head first into his past, the thoughts gripped him by his damn throat and cut off his air supply.

The issue elicited atrocious sentiments inside him, drudged up more damaging memories he tried to bury with a shovel in the backyard of his mind. Problem was, his entire psyche was becoming one big ass pine box. There was virtually no more room for the dead, decomposing bodies of promises squashed, broken and torn to pieces right before his very eyes. Where would he store the sky-high, piled stinking remains?

His heart had been hardened for so long, his own mother’s tears no longer moved him. Despite her ways, he always kept a level of respect for her, but his anger kept crawling up and out of the ground like a brain hungry zombie, ravenous, wanting to slash her to smithereens when she’d not tread lightly, and run in screaming as if she had the fucking right. On one hand, he loved her something fierce. There had been good times… On the other hand, it was too much to bear. He had pity on her, hated and loved her all at once. This twisted psychological mess haunted him during darker times in his life, when he allowed the memories to come, surround him, and have their twisted way with his soul.

He also realized he’d given his father one too many allowances all of those years ago, putting him up and above the rest, when he barely deserved to sit at the same table with the filth of the world. Because of this and more, Smoke hadn’t contemplated hanging up his robe. He’d had no designs prior to these recent, strange inklings of leaving the life, or settling down. He’d never even considered walking away from the game; by most accounts, he’d just gotten started. And as far as women and relationships?

Hell. Fucking. No.

In his eyes, the majority of women did one of three things exceptionally well: lie, manipulate and emotionally torture…and now, so did he. However, he learned it honest, was groomed by one of the best. The Emperor, a revered, retired pimp, had shown him the golden ropes during his pimping infancy, allowed him to climb high into the heavens, to reign supreme…

The ‘Emperor’—a tall, skinny black man with pale, yellowed flesh, dotted by a sprinkling of light brown freckles along his high, chiseled cheekbones. He was a ladies’ man, once described as ‘picture perfect’ a ‘jewel for the eye.’ His hair, dyed jet black and pulled taut into a thinning ponytail to mid-back, paired with his wispy mustache like an old-fashioned China Man, became his physical trademarks. These, and all of the jewelry shimmering on his long fingers…

He stood 6’2, and spoke in a way that would cause pause, as if he was of noble blood. Much to Brent’s surprise, the highly respected, retired pimp, an O.G., stepped to him at a party late on a Saturday evening.

“You’re Brent’s son.” The slender man stood there wearing a smirk and a black fur coat in the middle of the goddamn summer. He was seventy-eight years old, but didn’t look a day over fifty-two. “May I sit right here?” He pointed to an empty chair by Brent, one that his bottom whore had just vacated to get him a drink.

“You’re asking me if you can sit next to me?” Brent turned away and blew out a gust of smoke tied to the end of an incredulous smile. “You gotta be kidding me.” He placed his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, jumped to his feet, and shook the man’s hand. “It’s an honor, Emperor. I’ve heard so much about you. They said you were here tonight; I couldn’t wait to introduce myself but you beat me to the punch.”

The man nodded and they both sat down while Emperor wrapped his arm around Brent’s chair in a friendly fashion.

“I knew yo’ Daddy…he was a good man.”

Brent bowed his head for a moment, shook it, then looked back up into the man’s charcoal gray eyes.

“Now, I’ve heard about you, and your women,” He slicked his tongue over his teeth real slow and his eyes turned to slits before he let loose on an obnoxious fit of laughter. Brent smiled back, waiting, wondering. “You got some fine hos, man…fine.”

“Thank you…”

“But some of ’em are going to cause you a bit of trouble. Can I give you some advice?”

“Of course.” Brent turned to face the man, all ears.

“You got one bitch that has been back in the restroom on her fucking phone, talkin’ shit.” The man paused and sucked his tooth as if trying to work out a piece of meat. “You got another one out in the parking lot, trying to wave down johns to meet her quota—and the block is hot. The police out here are gonna bust her ass the fuck down. You have got to get a hold of your stable, son.” Emperor looked at him closely; the seriousness in his face and tone almost sent chills up Brent’s spine.

Brent hurt to hide his anger as he craned his neck in the direction of the ladies’ room and out the damn front doors. He’d been fucking humiliated in front of a legend, and he’d deal with these women accordingly, behind closed doors.

“Thank you,” he offered, swallowing his pride. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I know that you will soon.” Emperor offered a toothy grin. “I know that you will. Because it’s in you.” He pointed at him. “I can see it, a lot of potential, magic, baby. Let me tell you somethin’, man. You got star power. You have a presence about you. You got what it takes. You low key, you’re tall as hell, got those ghostly eyes, so damn light blue, they look almost silver, just like yo’ daddy. Chicks go for that, a sexy strangeness, shit that makes them think, ‘This mothafucka kinda scary, but he could protect me…’ You’re good lookin’, even got these damn black supremacist hos double takin’ at you, thinkin’ about choosing a white mothafucka such as yourself.”

Brent lowered his head, trying to contain his elation, then looked back up at the man.

“You too nice, though. What you need to do is find your rhythm. You’re almost there. You don’t need to beat a bitch down all the time. I get where you’re comin’ from, but use your mind more on them, young man.” He pointed to his temple. “These bitches fall in love with you because of how you sound, how you look, how you smell, how you carry your goddamn self…play up to that, my man. Play it the fuck up!” The old man’s eyes glistened as if he were reliving his hay-day, right then and there.

“I hear you, Emperor. I’m taking your words in like a sponge.”

“You got some shit, and these other mothafuckas out here know it! That’s why some of ’em give you such a hard time, not just ’cause you white, but because they know when you tap into it, you are gonna steal the damn show. You will do better than your father, Brent.” Emperor’s voice dropped low as he leaned in close to him. “You’ll do better, because you got this ‘somethin’ extra’. He had to work hard to get his, but you…” He pointed his finger in his face. “You got that shit naturally.”

Brent couldn’t believe his damn ears. Not only had Emperor taken the time to attend a local party, but he’d sat next to him and pulled his damn coat! Emperor barely came out of his damn house anymore, and sure as hell wasn’t doling out any precious advice! This was like a golden ticket, the opportunity for the knowledge of a lifetime. Brent cleared his throat and sat a bit straighter.

“May I ask you something, Emperor?”

“By all means, young blood…”

“What is your bible of laws, like, what are the things if you knew nothing else in this game, you’d need to know without a shadow of a doubt? The basic principles, according to you?”

Emperor grinned real wide and rattled off a list while counting off his long fingers:

“Number one. Never catch feelings for a whore. You’ll lose your reputation and possibly your entire damn stable.

“Number two. Follow the pyramid of life: Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. That is, cater to that bitch’s needs and exploit that shit to the fullest. She has a pursuit of self-actualization. You tell that bitch who the fuck she is, what she wants, and what she needs. Define her! Self-esteem, make her feel like she the one you care about the most, like she got the most damn potential and she the one you just knew was going to be a damn game changer. A sense of belonging—these bitches more times than not ain’t got no family. Be that bitch’s daddy, brother, uncle, husband, boyfriend, fuck, even post delivery man! Make her see the other whores as sisters, it helps keeps the jealousy down and less tension in your damn stable. Safety—if you can’t protect a bitch, she ain’t got no use for you. From what I hear, Brent, you already got that on lock and then some. Lastly, meet her basic needs—put a roof over her head, clothes on her back, and food in her damn mouth. She needs to depend on you for every goddamn thing, like a damn dog. Make that bitch come, stay, sit, eat her own pussy if you asked her to. In other words, keep that bitch loyal.

“Three. Don’t forget who you are and what your goals are. Always keep that dollar bill in mind. It will keep your head from cloggin’ up.

“Four. Treat each bitch differently, according to what she desires, her weaknesses and triggers. If one of ’em sees you doing the same for all of ’em, they won’t feel special. Even if you are, act like you’re not.

“Five. Never let a bitch test you and get away with it. Make an example out of her ass or make the punishment so damn bad, none of them will try that shit again. Now, put that in ya peace pipe and make it glow!”

“I got it!” Brent smiled widely and shook the man’s hand once again. “You have slicked me down with some mouthwatering, golden knowledge and I feel richer for having this moment with you. I can’t thank you enough!”

Emperor leaned in a bit closer and gave him a light hug, as a grandfather would do… This old man, this legend, no doubt already knew what Brent had done out in the streets. It was no secret, and it set off a whole lot of haters. After he turned his meager beginnings into hand over fist profit—using his father’s small inheritance to lease a nice apartment in Beverly Hills, then strategically map out his pimping destiny—he was given an appropriate nickname by Emperor that evening, based on that and so much more. He was officially coined, ‘Smoke.’

“Brent was your father, but you’re someone else. Don’t call yourself Brent anymore. You’re Smoke.” He pointed to him and laughed. “You know why?”

Brent grinned and lit a fresh cigarette.

“No, tell me…”

“Not because you smoke expensive cigarettes like the one you just lit up, nah, that’s a lame reason. It’s because as I’ve been sitting here talking to you, watching you, observing you, I see that you are hungry to make this shit flow. You’re worthy and willing to put in the work to make this shit do what it do. You’re somewhat hard to read, man…and that’s a good thing. You know how to hide your true feelings, like a haze, clouded in smoke. You’re not emotional, but you move, and you sway, I just can’t see where you came from, where you went, and where you’re going. You no doubt are pissed as fuck at what I told you about your whores, but I couldn’t tell you were phased, not one little bit. You’re tall as shit, and smoke rises to tha mothafuckin’ top. You rise, too, high up to the damn heavens. You’re a rising star… You got a quiet disposition, but a fire simmers underneath and you are one of the few white pimps in the game… Last but not least, your damn eyes look like Hell’s smoke after the fire. Like the leftover smolder in the air after something monumental, something large as life, has burnt the fuck down… Smoke is your name. Smoke fits.”

…And Brent liked it. He took the name, placed it on his chest, and rolled with it from that evening forward…

He immediately took Emperor’s advice to heart. Most of it he knew, but a bit of it was brand new, eye opening. He still made sure he never swung on one of his women. He promised himself that his fist would never hit their flesh. It simply wasn’t in him to do such, and he refused to budge from this principle. He fine-tuned his vetting skills to the point that other damn newborn pimps were asking him about his secret to finding a ‘do right’ bitch. Smoke had perfected the art of seduction and had a knack for picking quality women, time and again. His internal radar was fine-tuned to the hilt.

Just then, his cellphone rang, startling him out of his thoughts.

“Hey big man!” Smoke answered, happy to hear from Frank, the body guard of his brothel and long time family friend.

“It’s my favorite man, Mr. Smoke!” Frank’s raspy, deep voice echoed in the phone. “Guess who I ran into?”

“Who?”

Smoke walked into the den area and had a seat.

“Panther!”

Smoke burst out laughing. He hadn’t heard from Panther in over five years. Panther was a tall, skinny guy with skin the color of a black leopard. He was smooth, debonair, and cocky to a hilt. Regardless, Smoke regarded him highly, but then Panther had left the game and became a preacher, or at least that was the rumor on the street.

“We got to talking about everything, the good old days.” Frank rasped, no doubt puffing on a cigarette as he spoke.

“Yeah, the good old days…they were good for you and Panther, not for me.” Smoke chuckled.