The Glamorous Life 2 (13 page)

“What the fuck?” were the words that ran through her mind but verbally the same words that came out of Jean’s mouth when he seen her half-naked coming out of the VIP room. Her seductive smile that she wore quickly turned to fear. She felt like she had been caught doing something she had no business doing, and in Jean’s eyes she had. She didn’t know how to react or what to say. “What the hell you doing here?” she asked Jean.

“I could ask the same thing.” He shot back almost speechless.

“I’m working. When did you get out?”

He looked her up and down in total disgust and then smacked the shit out of her, making her stumble down the three steps that led up to the VIP room. He then leaned down and said, “Since you want to act like a whore, fuck and shit. I’m going to treat you as such.”

“What?” she said, trying to gather herself, her pride, and her heart off of the floor. “A whore?” she questioned.

“Yeah, you in VIP fucking and shit,” he said putting his hands around her neck.

“I swear on everything I love, that’s the farthest from the truth.”

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear it.” He silenced her with his fingers and broke her feelings. The truth of the matter was she did dance for money, but that’s it. Danced. No sex, no prostitution. Now did a lot of girls in the club exchange sex for money? Absolutely, but not her. She learned a long time ago that as long as she danced and didn’t make sex an option, the patrons would always come back and spend money, in hopes that one day, someday, they would get lucky. And they never did, not the funniest, not the cutest, not the wealthiest. No matter what he thought or said, the fact still remained that he was still the only man she had had sex with.

“I got out today, on some good behavior shit. I had to meet somebody here to get some money that belongs to me and was on my way to come surprise you, but I guess since you been giving the pussy away acting like a whore, I guess I will go give this good dick away!” he said to her. “I should’ve known better. I met you whoring. And I was taught that you can never turn a whore into a housewife!”

By now she was in tears, and Mocha had come over to comfort her. She tried to fight the tears back but by the time she got to the dressing room, she was crying a waterfall. She hated that the other dancers saw her crying, but, shit, she was only human. She couldn’t figure out what hurt her the most, that Jean hit her or that he called her a whore.

17

In the Heart of Downtown Richmond, Virginia

A light rain drizzled
from an uptight, overcast sky, as urban dwellers, many just getting off of the daily grind, scurried about Broad Street trying to keep from getting too wet. A couple blocks west of the newly built federal court building—inside a barbershop called The Chop Shop—cats were not only staying dry but also holding court amongst friends.

Lynx, a once big-time hustler who was still respected in the city, owned the shop. It was equipped with a dozen skilled barbers—with clientele consisting of a lot of Richmond’s underworld and reformed drug dealers turned working men—four fifty-inch flat screens, an ambient surround sound system, and a wet bar. The Chop Shop was the coldest spot in the city to get not only a fresh cut but the latest news in the streets or in the penitentiary, tight gear, new electronics, and Vegas-style odds on major sporting events. Or just chop it up about who is making bread and who’s only trimming the crust. As customary, The Chop Shop was packed, believe it or not the damp weather had no impact on business or the old-school social networking.

Pope, one of the regulars, took a shot at Lynx. He said, “Been meaning to ask you something. Why da fuck you cop a barbershop and you don’t know shit about cutting hair?”

A few cats laughed.

Pope was a rare dude, a well respected OG, who’d earned his stripes in the game and survived to reap a lot of the rewards and benefits. Pope had never seen the inside of a prison, and he never dropped two nickels on anyone. These things—for the streets—were as atypical as a Catholic
not
being fond of young boys. “In my day,” Pope added, “cats didn’t start a business that they couldn’t finish, if need be.”

Another one of the regulars, excitedly said, “He got ya right there, Lynx,” and nodded his head.

Pope made a solid point, Lynx thought: an owner that couldn’t perform the job (regardless of what the job entailed) was at the mercy of his employees. Kind of like a pimp with his whores.

Normally, Lynx held the role of adjudicator in the shop’s debate, but every now and again, he had to defend himself. Half the eyes in the shop, and two-thirds the ears honed in on Lynx. A man’s ability to hustle said a lot about him and Lynx’s hustle had been put on trial. He had no choice but to defend himself and his actions.

Cucumber cool, with none of the greenness, Lynx brushed away a speck of imaginary dusk from his Versace button-up. The fifteen-hundred-dollar shirt was a present from his wife. With eyes on him, as thorough as high-tech surveillance cameras, he took a sip of tequila, one of the perks of being the boss and not having to shave or cut heads: he could drink on the job. Then he smiled a little and agreed. “I see the logic in what you are saying Pope. And it’s legit … in theory. But in practice, your view lacks imagination.”

While cats were stirring the pot between Lynx and Pope, the wind blew a peddler into the shop. “I got all flavor roses for the low-low,” the flower hustler made the grand announcement to the shop, with a few samples of his product in hand and the rest of them were outside in the van, double-parked in front of the shop.

Always wanting to patronize another man’s grind, Lynx bought four dozen. Red. Thirty-six for his wife, Bambi, and twelve for their daughter Nya. “’Preciate that my man.”

The flower hustler put the money in his pocket and gave Lynx a warm smile. “No doubt. Anybody else?”

A few other cats copped buds for their boos while Lynx continued to impart wisdom on Pope. “The way I see it. The strongest, the smartest, nor the man with a certain skill set is the one that rises to the top.” Lynx had it mouse quiet in that place, every ear was open as he pleaded his case. “That top spot is going to always be reserved for the man with the best ideas. Because it’s the ideas that make the bread,” Lynx said.

“Preach!” Somebody shouted, cheering him on.

A mock applause from Pope, Lynx nodded: game acknowledging game.

Patrons of The Chop Shop continued to debate while Lynx made his way to his private office for a quick meeting.

The meeting was with a local bookie named Popcorn. Lynx said, “Put two grand on the Lakers to cover against San Antonio. And another two on Dallas to cover over the Clippers.”

Gambling was the only vice that Lynx had. He had always dabbled a little with dice, lottery tickets, and made a few wagers on a game here and there when he was in the streets heavy. But then he had plenty of money coming in to cover his bets—so if he lost it was no sweat off of his back. Then money was no obstacle. His wife had a lucrative party planning business that catered to the upper echelon, and he was knee-deep in dealing some of the best dope the city had ever saw. Nowadays he wasn’t starving, but since he went legit, the money didn’t come as fast as it once did and when he took a hit with the bets, it stung harder.

“Roger that. But I’m going to need that 30k you already bleeding,” Popcorn informed him.

“You know I’m good for it Corn.” Lynx had been on a losing streak, but that’s why they called it gambling. Win some, lose some. The game was to do more winning than the latter.

“I fucks wit you, Lynx. You know I do.” Popcorn looked like it hurt him to deliver the message. He took a deep breath and then tried to speak with sincerity. “But I’m just the middleman here. My boss only believes what he sees, and right now he ain’t seeing the money.”

Thirty k.

“I’ll have all that little bread in two weeks, maybe sooner. But I’m going to need my line of credit to stay open until then. Okay?”

He and Popcorn had known each other for a real long time. They both went to John F. Kennedy High School together and played on the football team.

Popcorn looked him in the eyes and firmly said, “It’s not Okay. That two weeks shit is dead—you got one, and no more credit until the books are clean. We clear?”

I guess business trumps friendship,
Lynx thought but said, “Crystal.”

“One more thing,” said Popcorn, “and this isn’t on me…”

“Just spit it out, Popcorn,”

Popcorn had a lump in his throat,
“
My boss says, to let you know, that the late penalty—that’s if one has to be applied—will involve blood.”

“You threatening me, Popcorn?” Lynx kept a Smith and Wesson .45 in his desk drawer and he wasn’t feeling the words spilling from his “supposed” friend’s mouth.

Popcorn, far from slow, felt a rise in temperature. “Never that,” he quickly corrected. “I’m only the messenger. I will never personally push anything at you. But Lynx … As a friend, I do want you to know that these dudes are serious about what they say. I have seen them really do some horrific shit. And they’re even more serious about their money. So get these people their bread—’cause man oh man! It could get bad—real bad.”

*   *   *

Later that night …

“Okay, Lynx, what’s wrong?” Bambi asked while they were lying in bed with the television on. Bambi was wearing a provocative Asian see-everything nightie, looking hella-sexy. Lynx barely noticed. Bambi playfully shoved him, almost knocking Lynx out of the king-size four-poster bed. “I’m talking to you,” she said, when he shot her that puzzled look of his. “You have been preoccupied with something all night. I might as well have went out tonight and ate alone, because you were there in body only. I’m still trying to figure out what planet your mind was on.”

Bambi was absolutely right. Lynx couldn’t get the seriousness of the conversation with Popcorn out of his mind. Now that shit had bled into his bedroom. “I’m sorry baby. You are absolutely right.” He kissed her on the mouth, but she didn’t reciprocate.

Bambi said, “You’re not getting off that easy.” Their daughter was fast asleep in the room next to theirs, so she kept her voice down. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to resort to violence?”

His wife wasn’t smiling. The fact of the matter was that Bambi was even more beautiful when she got mad, and that was no easy task. “No violence unless it involves handcuffs,” Lynx said playfully.

“I’m serious, Lynx. What is it?”

It wasn’t easy, but Lynx had no real choice. He couldn’t handle the stress alone, and he knew that his wife would have the answers. He told her about the money he owed from his gambling endeavors. After he had shared everything with her, he felt like a real chump. When he and Bambi first met, $20,000.00 was lunch money for him. That was before he’d done those three years in Club Fed. Now, although The Chop Shop was making its fair share of cheddar, in addition to the money his other businesses were bringing in, truth be told, Bambi’s party planning company, Events R Us, had turned Bambi into the primary breadwinner.

“I don’t want to sound like I’m preaching,” Bambi said. The first infamous words before a person started preaching, “but you really need to slow down with the gambling.” Lynx was about to debate his vice, when she said, “Normally, I wouldn’t care if you bet us out of house and home, I would still love you. But it’s not just us that we have to look out for. We have a three-year old child. We have to think about Nya. You know this,” she said with passion and conviction.

How could a man argue with a woman who will sacrifice everything because she believes in her man, right or wrong? If there was a way to win the argument, Lynx didn’t have it.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said.

Bambi told him that he could take the $20,000 from their savings account. “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “We deserve each other.”

Lynx kissed her, and this time she kissed him back and then pulled away. “You forget something.”

“What?”

Lynx had a massive hard-on poking from his boxers. Bambi just looked at him; the look was enough. He said, “I promise.”

18

From out of the
gate, Calliope and the manager of the club had never really seen eye to eye anyway, which didn’t make it too difficult for him to fire her on the spot. No dancer with a steady clientele wanted to deal with the headache of moving clubs and possibly losing loyal clients and having to learn the personalities of the other dancers, not to mention adjust to not only the politics but also the poli-tricks of a new club.

In some kind of weird way, she was totally fine with losing her job at the club. After all, she knew too much of the same thing sometimes wasn’t good. On the drive home she began to think how the long nights trickling to the early mornings, sleeping most of the days away, were getting the best of her. She felt she needed to spend some time at home anyway.… She just didn’t really know how much of her home life had fallen by the wayside.

When she walked into the house, an hour earlier than normal, she was greeted with Compton coming down the hall heading into her bedroom with the Dr. Scholl’s foot bath massager in his hand filled with water. Though he despised the kind of work she did, on the nights that she worked, when she got home, just like clockwork, Compton always had the foot bath set up for her to soak her feet. She greatly appreciated it because the heels that she wore at work were not kind to her feet, that was for sure.

While he hopped in the shower, she made breakfast for the two of them so they could chat before he left to go to school. He loved his sister’s cooking more than anything. After he made his way out of the door something hit her. It was like a lightbulb went off in her head when she realized just how that vampire life had taken over her life so much and how the reality of it was that Compton was knee-deep in the streets by now.

All day he was on her mind. She had no idea what to do about it, knowing good and well that trying to manhandle him was damn near impossible. He stood well over six feet tall and had been working out and his body was cut; though not yet legal in age, he looked like a grown man.