Smoke and Mirrors (53 page)

“That’s for Smoke and Frank, you fucking cunt!” she screamed out. “You deserve a seat in the ground by Royal’s worm eaten corpse, but I just don’t have the goddamn time! Rot in hell, bitch!”

And so the saying must be true. You can take the ho out of the ho house, but the ho house rules will always apply for a lifetime, especially for a bad ass bottom bitch named Felicia…

*

Paris sat in
her study, wearing her fuzzy robe and nothing underneath. It had grown unseasonably cold that evening. She opened her computer and began to type after taking a thoughtful sip of her coffee.

My love,

It’s me. Of course you know that from the way the letter smells. I want to tell you that I am so happy things are moving along and in your favor. Two witnesses have agreed to testify, and that is great news, especially since as we both suspected, they’d been threatened. I also offered a monetary award for anyone to come forward. Word travels fast. Onto other news…

I got your houses sold, the one in Vegas, too, and got pretty close to the asking price. That money will go towards your expenses that I’ve been taking care of. You said the pizzeria wasn’t doing that well anyway, so we broke about even on that. I still have your last rental property, though, and as you requested, when the tenants’ lease is up, we will discuss what to do with the home in six months or when you are released, whichever comes first. I didn’t sell your red Lexus, either. It was paid off anyway, so I just keep it in a rented garage space just for you, along with the rest of your things. In your last letter to me, you said that you love me so much, it was the only thing helping you make it through. Well, same for me, Brent. Knowing how much we love one another is giving me the strength I need to endure this.

I know you’ve been avoiding trouble, trying to keep your nose clean. Some of the guys in there are trying you though. I heard about the fight you had with one of the inmates who tried to punk you. It happens baby; don’t beat yourself up too bad about it. Anyway, your new court date is due in less than two weeks. I wanted to send you some nice photos of me, but then I read the rules again, just to be safe. They said we can’t send you photos of us in lingerie or naked. I’m sorry baby; I had no idea so my promise to do so has to be reneged. I was going to send you an entire collection!

Anyway, I know in my heart you’ll be home soon, and we can be together, so then you can see as much of me as you wish. I paid my mortgage six months in advance just as you asked me to. I hope I can stay here, baby. I know you said to sell your stuff if I ran into money problems, but I refuse to do that. Your model airplanes are in my home, safe under lock and key. I wouldn’t dare sell any of them, especially those you got from your father… that’s just not the right thing to do. And anyway, I’m self-sufficient. I’ll find a way. Right now, things are fine, but if I don’t start bringing in some more cash, I will be in trouble… and here is where the good news comes.

You know I got my florist license, passed the exams with flying colors last week? I surprised even myself, actually. Well, there is this little shop run by a retired couple, and I asked them if I could buy it from them. Yes, I had the balls, as you say, to walk in there and do that! I want to use the rest of my savings to move forward with my dream, Brent, just like you encouraged me to. I was sure they would turn me down, but they accepted my offer! They even offered to teach me some things and let me keep all of their current supplies and inventory. Do you know how much money I will save that way? I’m going to decorate the place just how I want it, and rename it and everything. It needs a good, thorough cleaning, too. Oh, my brain is all over the place. I forgot to tell you what I was actually planning to name the floral shop. It will be called, ‘A Day in Paris’ and the logo is a black and white rose that looks like it is made of smoke—that part is dedicated to you.

I love you, Brent. Keep your head up. We’re almost there; don’t give up, baby! You were very depressed last time I saw you and it killed me seeing you that way. You don’t deserve to be in prison, and I am working every day to help get you out of there. Enclosed I have a photo of me, fully clothed unfortunately, but hopefully it will bring a smile to your face. And yes, I’m sending those chocolates I promised you, too! I’m praying for you.

Love you forever,

Paris

She hit print, then opened a small drawer in her desk and removed a glossy 4x6 photo of herself. There she was, smiling, her hair pulled up in her signature bun and with a very special piece of jewelry around her neck. Her collar.

When he took notice of that, it would bring back memories of a happier time, a mere moment in their history seized and savored, a page of life, detailing just another day while they fell in love…

*

Smoke couldn’t believe
this shit. The grittiness of the chicken, the skin practically glued to the over-fried, dried out flesh, continued to repeat itself in his mouth. He gulped down another hard swallow of milk, hoping it wasn’t expired, but a beverage sure to put his stomach into a frenzied state. His cellmate was a true live piece of shit. The little bastard had mugged someone, then when they fought back, he bit them and stomped the shit out of them, killing the little old man without a second thought. Smoke would look at the fucker, and daydream of beating him, too. However, he’d come too far to risk his freedom over such a matter. Being in prison was a horrible experience, but it paled in comparison to not touching his Pussycat. His thoughts swarmed around her, obsessing him to the point of madness.

He longed for her touch, her caress, the sweet scent of her. In prison, the nauseating odors were covered with bleach and hot water, stinging his sensitive nostrils. Puke, piss and feces—overwhelming smells he inhaled all day long in his cramped cell he shared with a man he despised. His height proved to be a problem as the furniture was not made for a man of his stature. However, his appearance proved a saving grace for his protection. He rarely had someone run up on him and try to make him into a bitch, but a few crazy sons of bitches still saw him as a ‘white boy’ that could be chopped down like a tree. One incident couldn’t be ignored—five seconds after the fucker smacked the shit out of him with a lunch tray, he got to his feet, picked him up by his goddamn neck and slammed his body all over the floor as if he were a sack of damn flour. That earned the guy a trip to the infirmary and him a disciplinary action that he had to swallow down and choke the hell off of, possibly interfering with his release.

His new lawyer was on top of her game, and now that two witnesses agreed to testify, he had a glimmer of hope. He wanted to get back to his cell though, and re-read Paris’ letter for the one-hundredth time. It smelled like expensive perfume and jasmine incense, and the photo she enclosed made him smile and laugh to the point of tears. He kept everything she wrote and sent in a small cardboard box. His makeshift treasure chest. He was so damn proud of her. He always knew that if she trusted herself, she could accomplish whatever she put her mind to. The more education and freedom she got, her chances of leaving him increased as well…but he didn’t care. He loved her
just
that much. He wanted to tell her to not worry about her finances, that he had some things cooking and other shit she didn’t know about, but he couldn’t, for he knew the letters were being read and the rare chances he got to speak to her on the phone were being recorded. The crooked bastards in that joint would love to get their hands on secret stashes—he simply couldn’t chance it.

No, if she could just hold out, he’d make sure that even if she only made enough to get by at her shop, she’d never have to worry. He wasn’t a fool. Smoke knew from the first day he officially started pimping, he could end up in the slammer for something rather serious. He never wanted to lose his money, all that he’d risked so much for. So, he made sure he stayed away from drugs and trouble as much as one could reasonably expect, as well as refrained from surrounding himself with people who couldn’t be trusted.

He’d saved up several nest eggs, invested and dispersed them. Much of that money was now gone in legal fees or given away to the women who’d worked for him and Paris—but not all of it. He may never be ‘pimp’ rich again, but he damn sure wouldn’t be destitute. He heard the bell ring, and was filled with instant relief. He was going back to his cell. Visiting time was approaching, but no one was coming for him. In his last letter to his baby, he’d asked her not to come visit for a while and though that request killed him, he had to do it. He was tired of her seeing him in his orange jumpsuit, wearing handcuffs, and looking gaunt. She protested, then conceded after he explained he just needed some time. He promised her it wasn’t forever, but looking into her eyes was tearing him the fuck apart. If he couldn’t see her and wear a badge of freedom, then he just couldn’t muster the courage to look her in the eye at all. He was sure his sorrowful spell would pass, but right then, he was experiencing emotions he’d not felt since he was a little boy.

He got to his feet and waited for the guard, then moved into the line, just as he’d done countless times before. Then, as he proceeded along his route, one of the guards declared, “Inmate Patterson, you have a visitor…”

*

Airplanes fly past, in the night sky. I look up and think, well, why can’t I?

I stretch out my arms, and jump up and down, but no matter what,

I stay on the ground.

So I look to God, and ask him right then,

“Why can’t I soar, and glide like the wind?”

And God looks at me, and says right back,

“You are the highest, there’s nothing you lack.

You look to the clouds, and jump, and run.

But I need you down there, my soldier, my son”…

S
moke looked at
his mother sitting across from him. He used to think if he
ever
saw the woman again, he’d feel nothing at all. He was wrong. There she was, a prisoner in her own skin. She’d lost quite a bit of weight, and all that remained was loose flesh, dangling like drapes from a rod. The once beautiful woman had been turned inside out. Her dastardly behavior, views and opinions had seeped to the surface, exposing her for who and what she truly was. Her days of playing ‘dress-up’ were over. He found himself rather perplexed, for he didn’t delight in the way karma had delivered her an epic blow. The checks had stopped since he’d been incarcerated and he refused to tell Paris to write any. No, it was time for Mama to be cut off and suffer the way he in fact was, as well. He never told her he was in prison; she must’ve found out from someone else.