The Glamorous Life 2 (17 page)

One night, she and Mocha were out on a night on the town, hanging out. She had spoken to Jiggilo on the phone earlier that day and he was trying to convince her to come over to his house and spend some “quality time” with him. Like always she’d declined him, but since her and Mocha were lollygagging around town, with a little time to kill, they decided to go around to Jiggilo’s house. While Mocha sat in the car talking on the phone Cinnamon found the shock of her life. Some pretty-looking guy much like Peter had about a dozen inches of meat packed up Jiggilo’s butt. If there could really be any ass left after being reamed with a thing the size of a small baseball bat, she thought.

“I’m freaky,” Cinnamon said. “But not that freaky. You know I don’t rock with that.…” Her voice trailed off. She wanted to say what she really felt: that he was a disgusting motherfucker, well father-fucka, but chose to stay civil. “… Stuff,” she finished instead.

Jiggilo hovered over a line of coke from the desktop. “What type of
stuff
is that,” he asked, attitude unchecked.

Ignoring the question, Cinnamon said, still remaining calm, “How about I go get Shimmer or Toxic for you? Not only will she be happy to please … she’s a lot freakier than me, so you two should have bunches of fun together.”

Jiggilo snapped, “Bitch, you don’t tell me who the fuck
you
gonna send in
my
office. I do the telling around this here bitch.”

Since she had caught him in the act, the two of them pretty much stayed out of each other’s way, and respected each other’s boundaries and were always cordial friends. But recently, since she’d been working at Imagination, she had noticed that he seemed a little reckless, drinking in excess and now the coke.

He got up in her face. “You feel me?”

This nigga bold, huh?
Cinnamon wasn’t sure if it was the coke making him act a fool, or if he was showing off for his undercover lover. Either way, she didn’t flinch an inch.

“Nigga…” Cinnamon stared Jiggilo straight in his dilated, coked-up eyes. “I said I don’t do that shit. Never have and never will,” she spat, and rolled her neck around.

Another sniff of the coke, Jiggilo was flying high.

“Oh—you will,” he snared. “Shit is about to change around here anyway. Tired of you walking around here, like
you
own the place and your shit don’t stink.”

Cinnamon had never prostituted her body to a man nor woman and wouldn’t start now. This is what made her so exotic and in demand even after years of dancing. Men always wanted and chased what they couldn’t have. If and when she fucked, it was because she wanted to, not for money, and damn sure not because a nigga threatened her.

She pointed to her lips. “Read my mother-fucking lips: I will … not!”

Acting like a bully he stood up and in her face. Then Jiggilo offered and ultimatum. “Do what I tell you, or get the fuck out of my club.”

“Cool.” Her nonchalant response threw him for a loop, temporarily.

“Neko been checking for me to come work at his club anyhow,” she added.

That remark pissed Jiggilo off, prompting him to run off a slew of threats. “I’ll throw you out the club, I’ll see to it you don’t work in another spot in Miami.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” she said over top of his words, not even caring if she pissed him off.

“I’ll blackball you,” he spit out like he was shooting bullets—as if those words could kill her, and they could definitely murder her career as a dancer.

Strip club owners in Miami were predominately male and a close-knit society for the most part. Blackballing a chick, for any reason, wasn’t uncommon since dancers seemed to come a dime a dozen, but usually it was for constantly fighting or forcing the owner to pay fines, but in this case it was just because of personal reasons.

“You would try to do some shiesty-ass trick shit like that, wouldn’t ya?” But Cinnamon had her own ace-in-the-hole, Neko. He had another club in the city, not as big as Imagination but the clientele was still star-studded as well, and Neko despised Jiggilo’s bitch ass. For that reason alone, he would hire her and welcome her into his establishment with open arms. And the best part about it was Jiggilo knew that she knew.

But he wasn’t dropping his bluff. “Try me,” he said, “as good as blackballed. You can sell hamburgers, standing up; or fur burgers, on your back, bitch. Make me no never mind. Me being the gentleman that I am, I may even turn you on to a few good johns.”

Done with his bullshit, fearless Cinnamon shot back. “Being that you and your sissy over there are the only two people in this room that probably enjoy slurping cum, how about I turn your bitch-ass on to a trim.”

Jiggilo pimp-smacked her so hard she heard ringing in her ears.

Tasted blood in her mouth.

As much as they used to argue and go back and forth, he had never hit her before. So she was shocked. From the mirror on the wall behind Jiggilo’s desk she saw a small trickle of blood from a busted lip crawl down her chin. She couldn’t help but stare at it.

“What the fuck you looking at, you disrespectful bitch?” Jiggilo wasn’t finished. “One more chance,” he taunted. “You gonna service my
man
or get the fuck out of my club?”

Cinnamon, feigning like she was considering the ultimatum, took a deep breath, coughed up a thick ball of phlegm in the process, and spit a loogie in Jiggilo’s face. Bull’s-eye.

“Is that a good enough answer for you?” she asked, and before he could shake the shock from the hog spit, she picked up a chair and tossed it into the antique mirror to make her point. “Now suck on that!” Before storming out of his office and heading to the ladies’ dressing room, she screamed at the top of her lungs, “Cock sucker!”

*   *   *

Back in the ladies’ dressing room, bouncer goon stood over her while Cinnamon emptied her locker. “Look, I don’t need no babysitter to get my shit outta this raggedy-ass motherfucker.”

“I feel ya, but just doing my job.”

“Yeah, doing your job caused this shit,” she said, trying to shift the blame to him. She was minding her own business dancing for Papi Chulo and out of the blue he comes disturbing her and taking her down to the office of the bullshit. Now she was out of a job.

He did feel a little bad that it had gotten to this point.

“And where the hell were you when this nigga hit her?” Toxic came to her defense. “Talking about you here to protect us.”

Toxic hugged her. “Call me later, but gotta go because now my regular looking for me.”

“Girl, what happened?” A few nosey chicks tried to get in her Kool-Aid, but she tuned them out. Put on her Chanel “hater shades” aka “Bitch Blockers” and bounced. The little temporary phone rung and it was Lou, Big Spender, now back in Texas, and she took the call. She told him she’d fill him in and would call him back as soon as she got in the car.

On her way to the door, she bumped into her brother. When he grabbed her hand and asked, “What’d it do sis?” she sucked her teeth under her breath, wishing he hadn’t seen her. “How come you leaving so early with all this money in here?”

“What I tell you about coming in here to party anyway?” she snapped back at her brother, like she was his mother, but knowing good and well he’d been hanging out at the strip clubs against her wishes for many years. Besides, he was practically raised in the clubs and was no stranger to that whole strip club life.

“Bam just got out of jail and we celebrating.” Then he focused in a little closer, “But what’s up wit yo lip?” He looked closer still. “Blood? A busted lip?”

She wiped her face in the dressing room but obviously hadn’t done a good job.

Unconsciously, her tongue dotted out, removing the speck of dry blood from the corner of her mouth.

“Don’t lie to me, Calliope.” Compton never called her Cinnamon ever. It was only her stage name and alter-ego. He would never acknowledge it. To Compton she was and always would be Calliope, his big sister, the woman not only who raised him but to whom he owed everything.

Toxic was walking by and said in Compton’s ear, “Jiggilo hit her,” and made eye contact with Calliope and kept going.

He couldn’t believe his ears, and then he needed confirmation. “Did this fuck boy nigga Jiggilo hit you?”

She couldn’t lie to him. Never had and though she knew this would probably be a good day to start, she couldn’t do that to her brother. “Yes. Jiggilo hit me,” she confided.

A cloud of anger washed over Compton’s face. Eyes got dark, darker than she’d ever noticed.

“I’m gonna kill that nigga,” Compton said calmly.

She’d expected him to make a scene, hooping and hollering. But the way he’d said what he’d said, Calliope knew her little brother, who wasn’t even of age, was dead-ass serious.

“I can’t let you do that,” she said. “Not tonight. Not like this.”

Compton wasn’t trying to hear her passivity, even if it was for his own good. “Promise me,” she said.

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“I promise, sis.”

“Thank you.” She let out a sigh. “I’ll see ya later then?”

“Sure,” Compton said, “I’ll call if I don’t come home. Might check on one of my lil’ chicks.”

Calliope walked away knowing that this chapter of her life was officially over but not knowing that Compton had made his promise to her with his fingers crossed.

22

“Fuck that!” Compton said
out loud once his sister walked away and was out of earshot.

His blood was boiling so hot he could’ve lit a spliff off his forehead. Compton took a long swig from the green bottle he was holding. The imported, amber-colored beer, although cold going down, did nothing to extinguish the inferno of anger burning in his belly. All he could seem to hear in his head was Big Jack’s words about him protecting his sister and how she was all he really had. It was true and there was no questioning or second-guessing what he had to do or the lesson he had to teach or the point he had to make.

The Glock, concealed on the small of his back, felt like it weighed a ton, reminding him of its presence. “What you gonna do?” it seemed to ask. “Barbecue? Or mildew?”

For as far back as Compton could remember Calliope had had his back. When Shelly—the bitch that hadn’t earned the right to be called Mom—used to go to town on his hide, simply for looking too much like his deadbeat sperm donor, it was Calliope who came to his rescue time and time again. Even if it meant getting her butt waxed too.

His sister never bothered a soul or took advantage of anyone at times when opportunities presented themselves to her. As many drunk dudes that went in and out of that club, and were so wasted when she had them in the VIP room, she could’ve gotten them for all the money in their pocket but she never did. She didn’t deserve anybody putting his or her hands on her and Compton wasn’t going to tolerate it. If Jiggilo didn’t know, he was going to learn tonight.

In front of the metal door that was put in place to fortify Jiggilo’s office, Compton stood with his gat in hand. He’d wait all night if he had to for the coward to come out. For some reason, not sure why, he put his hand on the brass knob. And to Compton’s surprise and Jiggilo’s the knob turned.

“What the fuck you doing?” Jiggilo shouted when the door to his office flew open. Tried to sound like he was in control, but his eyes—especially when he seen the gat—conveyed shock and fear. In the corner, some gay-looking dude wearing a pair of super shiny, white slacks pissed on himself. Seeing the chrome, he knew it was going to be trouble.

Compton told Jiggilo, “You and I have a piece of business to settle.” Then he looked to the pink shirt. “Mind your business,” he firmly said. “Now sit the fuck down before I lay you down.”

Peter plopped his ass down. Jiggilo sucked air into his chest. Compton figured that it was a fusion of drugs Jiggilo had sniffed and the fact that the man had known him for quite some time from afar that brought on the air of arrogance.

Did Jiggilo see a weakness? Compton wondered.

Stepping from around the desk, Jiggilo said, “Put the gun away Compton. We can talk like men if you got a problem, huh? You know you like a son to me.”

“You ain’t no father to me, nigga. Not even a brother, so don’t even come with that.”

“Well, I always looked at you as one. Like me, you were raised in these clubs. We can talk like brothers.”

“Let’s talk then,” Compton offered.

Maybe what went down between Jiggilo and Calliope was just a misunderstanding. Calliope could go hard when she wanted to but it didn’t matter; the thought of anybody wanting to put his or her hands on his sister to hurt her didn’t make any kind of sense to him. His sister’s face with the blood popped in his head, prompting him to talk. The heel of the Glock slammed against Jiggilo’s temple, splitting it to the white meat. “Do you hear me now, Jiggilo?” Two more cracks upside the dome. “How ’bout now? This is the way
men
talk, Jiggilo. Bitches put their hands on women.”

Crack! Crack!

Blood spurted from Jiggilo’s face like a faucet. The last blow broke his nose. Jiggilo dropped to his knees and put his hands up to his face. “Okay! Okay! Okay!”

By the way he strained to get the words out Compton figured he’d broken Jiggilo’s jaw as well. “You took care of your business, young blood. Let it go.” It came out:
ooh ook air uv oar izness, ung bud. Et it ’O.

The jaw was definitely broke, but Compton wasn’t finished.

Click! Clack!

Compton ratcheted the gat, a fresh .40 caliber slug jumped in place.

“You ’fraid to die, Jigg?” he asked him with the tip of the gat in his ear.

Promise me, Compton.

Sometimes … promises are made to be broken. Nothing was promised in the streets, that’s what made it fair … the equality of the unfairness.

Compton wrapped his index finger around the trigger. Like the coward he was, Jiggilo begged for his life. It took eight pounds of pressure on the trigger and he was currently at five pounds.

A little more pressure: six pounds.