Price of Fame Page 4

“Wassup, ma?” Jordan said into the phone when the line picked up. “Can I see you tonight?” he asked. “A’ight, I’ll pick you up right where I met you. Be as sexy as you were that day,” Jordan said, laying his game down. Jordan hadn’t had a stable of working girls in a minute, but he knew that his skills were there, even if they’d been lying dormant for some time. Shit, if he could do it then, he damn sure could do it now.

  Chapter Four

  Innocence Lost

  Brooklyn, New York

  Awilda pulled back the comforter and slapped Dominique’s bare legs.

  “Mmmm,” Dominique moaned, snatching a corner of the blanket to pull over her head.

  “You know the deal, so get ya ass up,” Awilda said, yanking the entire comforter off Dominique’s body and flinging it across the room.

  “Whatchu doin’?” Dominique hollered, her mind still fuzzy with sleep. It had been a long night for Dominique. The throbbing between her legs was proof. What the fuck does this bitch want from me? Throwing her shapely legs over the side of the bed, Dominique stumbled out of bed.

  “Get the fuck up and wash ya stank ass fish box and let’s go. Time is money,” Awilda spat, marching out of the living room, which also doubled as Dominique’s bedroom. Dominique padded into the bathroom and slammed the door so hard the roaches began to scatter.

  “I hate this bitch. I gotta get the fuck up outta here,” Dominique cursed as she began washing up with the little chips of soap that were left. “All this fuckin’ for money and this bitch don’t even buy fuckin’ soap,” Dominique cursed. She had developed a potty mouth and an attitude to match. She was not the same little girl Awilda had taken home from the hospital when her mother had died. Dominique had been in Awilda’s house for three years and shit just got worse and worse each year. When she first arrived, the worst thing Awilda made her do was clean up all of the time. Then she graduated to making Dominique serve her men friends drinks and food when they came over. Awilda was never satisfied with anything Dominique did for her. Then, in Dominique’s assessment, Awilda lost her fucking mind, when her greed for money made her stoop to a new low.

  The first time Awilda made Dominique attend one of her “meetings,” Dominique had just turned fourteen. They’d gotten into a black Cadillac with two older men. The thick marijuana smoke assailed her nose and cast a thick, grey haze inside the car. The man in the passenger seat looked back at Dominique and smiled.

  “I like ’em young and fresh just like that,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t like them old and nasty,” Dominique responded with sass.

  Awilda let out a nervous laugh, then leaned in to Dominique’s side. “Shut the fuck up or your ass will be on the streets.” Awilda gritted her teeth, her breath hot on Dominique’s ear.

  When they arrived at the Galaxy Motel on Pennsylvania Avenue, Awilda pulled Dominique aside and handed her a silver-wrapped Trojan condom. “What’s this for?” Dominique asked, her eyes wide with surprise. She was fourteen and had never seen a condom, although she’d heard about them from the sexually active kids in her school.

  “Make sure that muthafucka puts it on. I will be right next door so knock on the wall if he doesn’t,” Awilda whispered, like she was giving Dominique some good motherly advice.

  “What are you talking about? I ain’t about to have sex with that old man. I’m a virgin,” Dominique replied, furrowing her eyebrows as her voice began to quiver. This bitch has finally lost her mind!

  “Oh, you will do whatever he asks you to do. And if he asks you to fuck him . . . you will. That’s the name of the game, little girl. I been taking care of you for a year and your ass ain’t cheap to feed and clothe,” Awilda retorted, lighting the tip of her cigarette, her hands trembling. “Now, be fucking quiet before somebody in here thinks something funny,” Awilda instructed, looking around the lobby nervously. Awilda’s demeanor told Dominique that her aunt knew better. She knew damn well a little girl shouldn’t be in a nasty-ass, shortstay motel being forced to sell herself.

  Dominique looked around the lobby. There wasn’t a damn soul in the filthy-ass lobby who looked as if they had one piece of moral fiber. The front desk manager looked like a straight crackhead and there were several people hanging out. A man leaned near the elevator doors in a steady nod. He’d nod so far over he looked like he’d hit the floor. When he was seconds from hitting the floor, he’d pop back up, scratch his nose, look around and start his nod process again. None of these degenerates looked willing or capable of coming to her rescue.

  Dominique spotted two girls who looked to be about her age, huddled together looking out of the glass lobby doors like they were expecting someone. They were dressed just like Dominique had seen Awilda dress on many occasions. One wore a pink corset top and black lace panties to cover her bottom; the other wore a red lace negligee, fishnet stockings and stilettos. Both had on bright-colored wigs, which gave the illusion that they were older. But Dominique knew they couldn’t have been much older than herself. Looking down at her jeans and hoodie outfit, Dominique felt sorry for the other girls. She didn’t even realize she wasn’t much better off than they were.

  “A’ight ladies,” the Cadillac driver said, cracking a yellow-toothed grin as he held up the battered key ring for the room. Dominique tried to be strong, but a choked sob escaped anyway.

  “Awww, what the fuck is this shit? I ain’t about to deal with no baby cry bullshit,” the paying customer grumbled.

  “Look, she is just a little nervous. You said you wanted fresh meat, right? So just bear with her,” Awilda placated, gripping Dominique’s arm tightly so she wouldn’t run. Awilda had already been promised extra cash for her young niece. “I’ll come in the room for a minute to help her get comfortable,” Awilda continued, trying to console the old pervert.

  “Whatchu talkin , gal?” the driver interjected. He wanted Awilda to himself.

  “I’ll make it up to you, baby. You can watch and then we will get our groove on,” Awilda said to the driver, who was clearly going to be her john for the night.

  Once inside the room, Awilda pulled Dominique in to the bathroom. She was crying so hard she could barely see where she was walking.

  “Shut the fuck up! You wanna have some place to live, right? This is what you need to do to survive. Forget about the fucking life you used to live. Your mother wanted you to think you was too good to live like this . . . well, you ain’t! Now shut the fuck up and take off your fuckin’ clothes. You ain’t got no choice. I’m all you got!” Awilda hissed, a scowl on her face. Dominique could’ve sworn she saw red fire in Awilda’s eyes.

  Awilda opened the bathroom door as Dominique slowly removed her clothes, her body trembling. “Here she come, baby,” Awilda sang, like she was introducing Dominique at a grade school pageant.

  Dominique used the tops of her arms to cover her small breasts and crossed her hands in front of her pubic area. She walked slowly over to the bed, barely able to breathe between sobs. The fat, hairy, old man was fondling his little shriveled dick, while he waited patiently for his prize. Dominique looked down at all of the hair that covered his chest, stomach and legs and she wanted to vomit.

  “Put that condom on, baby,” Awilda said to the man, as she prevented Dominique from going any further until the man did as he was told. For a minute Awilda tried to seem responsible.

  “Lay on the bed,” Awilda then instructed Dominique.

  Dominique closed her eyes and did as she was told. The man immediately attempted to mount her, forcing himself between her partially opened legs.

  “This girl gotta open her legs wider! Shit, I’m a man, not a boy!” he screamed to Awilda, the smell of Blackberry Brandy escaped from his chapped bubble lips and shot up Dominique’s nostrils so fast she could taste the sweet liquor in the back of her throat.

  “Okay . . . okay, let me just help her relax,” Awilda placated, rubbing his nasty, hairy stomach. The other man stood in a corner and rubbed himself, aroused from watching.

/>   “C’mon, Dominique, he ain’t got all day and neither do I,” Awilda said with clenched teeth, digging her inch-long, round-tip nails into Dominique’s thighs.

  “Owww!” Dominique shrieked as Awilda released her dented flesh and propped her legs open. The man let out a pleased snort as he forced his slimy tool into Dominique’s virginal opening. Dominique let out a grating cry, something halfhuman, half-animal.

  “Yeah, this some good shit here,” the man grunted as he picked up speed. Dominique felt like she would pass out. “It burns!!” she yelled in agony. It felt like someone had lit a torch between her legs; the burning was unbearable. Dominique’s legs trembled from the pain.

  “Yeah, oh yeah,” the man grunted, grinding into her body as far as he could go. Awilda stood up, watching, taking a long drag on her cigarette until her work was done.

  Awilda pounded on the bathroom door. “Come the fuck on, Dominique! Don’t let me have to call you again.”

  The memories always fucked with Dominique. At sixteen, Dominique realized that the innocent little girl was gone. Her reflection in the mirror showed tears streaking down her cheeks. She barely recognized herself anymore.

  Hildale, Utah

  Casey screamed at the top of her lungs as another thunderbolt of pain shot through her abdomen and radiated to her back. “I think something is wrong,” the midwife said with a look of terror on her face.

  “What could it be?” Casey’s husband, Samson, asked, his eyes as wide as marbles.

  “I think the baby is upside down . . . breach,” the midwife answered, wiping sweat from her brow.

  “Help me!” Casey screamed out again, her face turning the color of a beet. Her body dripped with sweat.

  “What do we do?” Samson asked, nervously pacing the room. If this baby didn’t make it, this would be the third child Casey had lost since they’d been married three years ago. Samson thought it was a curse from God. After the second baby, he had started to regret marrying Casey. When she’d locked herself in the bathroom of the temple for three hours on the day of their wedding, he should have taken that as an ill omen. The prophet had ordered the door taken down and Casey had to be physically taken to the altar for the ceremony.

  “We will have to take her to the hospital or the baby will die. She needs a caesarean section,” the midwife said gravely, her wrinkled hands shaking fiercely.

  Casey screamed again, arching her body on the bed, the pain stabbing through her back and around her middle. The midwife rushed to Casey’s side and dabbed her head with a wet towel. Everything in the room had been prepared for the delivery. Hot water sat on a small homemade wooden table, towels lay in wait on the end of the bed and a small handmade straw basket sat prepared for its new occupant. None of the supplies had been touched. It had been ten hours and no change. The midwife had tried to palpate the abdomen and turn the baby around, but she’d failed. The only thing she had accomplished was causing huge bruises to form on Casey’s swollen stomach.

  “You have to make a decision. I don’t think she has much time,” the midwife announced. Her long grey braid was soaked with sweat. She had delivered almost all of the babies on the compound in the last twenty years, Casey included. She knew from experience that the situation was grave.

  “I will have to consult the prophet,” Samson said, continuing to pace.

  “Well, hurry then. There isn’t anything else we can do here,” the midwife replied as she tried in vain to comfort Casey. Samson ran out of the room. A few minutes later he returned with the prophet, Casey’s father, and two elders. They all began praying in unison. The air in the room was thick and stifling. It was almost as if death was surrounding it, not willing to leave without its prize.

  “Argggh.” From deep down in her throat, Casey emitted a scream that was nothing less than primordial. All of the prayers ceased when the sheet covering Casey to the waist became drenched in dark red blood. The midwife pulled back the sheet and her eyes grew wide. A pair of tiny blue feet dangled from Casey’s vaginal opening. Casey screamed again, feeling the uncontrollable urge to push. Her body bucked violently as the torso of the baby appeared, its head stuck in the lion jaw trap that was its mother. The midwife was shaking all over. She could hardly bear to look at the small, blue, lifeless form that emerged from her body. Casey bent to the side of the bed and vomited. Casey emitted a loud growl as she continued to push, letting nature take its course. The midwife closed her eyes and tugged roughly on the baby, twisting and turning the small body.

  “Please, make it stop!” Casey screamed, rattling the walls of the small room. Finally, the baby was free. There were no cries. Time seemed to stand still. Casey collapsed on the bed like a lifeless rag doll. Samson ran to her side, refusing to look at his dead son. After having eight girls by his other wives, he was heartbroken to have lost his son. The rest of the men filed out of the room, flanking the prophet who had instructed Samson not to take his wife to the hospital.

  “I want to see it,” Casey whispered, barely able to speak, so weak from the amount of blood she’d lost. The midwife nodded, sorrow written into her face just as naturally as the wrinkles. She gently swaddled the baby in blankets that Casey’s sister wives had knitted by hand. The baby had been cleaned up, his small arms folded across his tiny chest.

  The midwife moved slowly, holding the small bundle. When she was at Casey’s bedside, she placed the baby up against Casey’s chest, where he would’ve gone to suckle if he were alive. Casey took a weak hand and touched the little angelic face. “Christopher,” she whispered. The midwife looked at her confused. “That is his name . . . Christopher,” Casey said, tears cascading down her face, landing in rivulets on her son’s lifeless form. The midwife nodded her understanding. Casey held the baby for three more hours. Weak and fading, she rocked him until her body and mind finally gave out and sleep overcame her. Casey slept for two days after that.

  Harlem, New York

  Jordan sat in his room, counting his money. He smiled when he got to $10,000. “Almost enough,” he mumbled. He had been stashing to get his own place. He’d already gotten a new whip and his mother hadn’t been on his ass so much lately. C-Lo had been right: scared niggahs don’t make money, real niggahs take money. Jordan had been under C-Lo’s tutelage for three years and he had made more money than he’d ever seen in his entire life.

  C-Lo had decided it would be a waste to put Jordan on to slanging rocks; instead, he had told Jordan that his education and schoolboy charm would come in handy in a different way. It was Jordan’s job to recruit “young bitches” for C-Lo’s stable. With his Morris Chestnut likeness, it wasn’t that hard a job for Jordan. All the years his mother had called him a black bastard, black cockroach, ugly black gorilla, dark curse, etc. had made Jordan think his complexion, which resembled smooth, dark coal, was ugly and unattractive to the females. But the girls he was able to catch oftentimes told him he was “fine” and “sexy as hell.” C-Lo paid Jordan a handsome fee for each girl he brought into the stable. Jordan thought it was the easiest job on earth. He’d seen C-Lo make other dudes on his payroll work much harder for way less cake. Jordan just took it to mean that C-Lo liked him more than the other chump-ass dudes.

  Jordan’s cell phone rang, interrupting his money counting. “Hello,” Jordan answered, placing his money back in his safe.

  “I got a job for you,” C-Lo said, without greeting Jordan with hello or any pleasantries. “Meet me at the uptown spot,” C-Lo instructed.

  “A’ight,” Jordan agreed, grabbing his new car keys off the dresser. He smiled, immediately excited.

  Any other time C-Lo had said he had a job for him, Jordan found himself doing something easy like stepping to a little girl C-Lo had identified as one who “needed a daddy.” Jordan would stake the little girl out, and follow her for a couple of days to find out information about her. Like, if her mother was a crackhead and she wore dirty or raggedy clothes, Jordan would step to her and tell her that if she let him get her a daddy,
he would feed her and give her the finer things in life. Of course, he would use C-Lo’s money to take the little girl out, feed her someplace nice and buy her a few new outfits. Then Jordan would bring her to C-Lo and shortly after that she would be on one of C-Lo’s tracks.

  Jordan pulled his Tahoe up to the building on 116th and St. Nicholas where C-Lo kept his uptown stable. On his way in, he bumped into Shanice and Dana, two girls Jordan had recruited. “Wassup, ladies?” Jordan asked. Both of the girls seemed to freeze when he spoke. It struck Jordan as strange that they seemed eager to hit the street. Most of the girls preferred to remain indoors. Jordan shrugged it off and continued into the building.

  When he stepped off the elevator on the third floor, he heard loud music coming from C-Lo’s apartment. “Damn, they partying up in this piece or what?” Jordan banged on the door. No one answered. Jordan banged again, harder this time. “Ay yo!” Jordan called out, cupping his hand around his mouth.

  Suddenly the door to the apartment creaked open. The music got even louder as he stepped inside; it was like being in a club. There were two girls standing up against the long hallway wall, crying and shaking. Jordan furrowed his eyebrows and kept ambling forward toward the back of the apartment. The closer he got, the louder the music seemed. His ears hurt in the middle from the heaving thumping bass. Jordan pulled back the ’70s style beads that separated one of the rooms from a small kitchen. He stopped in his tracks when he crossed the threshold.

  “Close ya mouth, young blood. It’s time to put in real work now, prove you worthy of making all that cake you showing off ’round this hood,” C-Lo said, twisting his customary toothpick between his teeth.

  “Yeah, I’m down, wa . . . wassup?” Jordan stammered as he took in the scene, his heart racing like fifty horses at the Yonkers Raceway.

  “You see this here. This a bitch ain’t got no class and can’t be taught none,” C-Lo hissed, walking over and using his foot to nudge the heap of flesh that Jordan couldn’t recognize through all of the bruises, blood, feces, and vomit she was lying in.