Most Wanted (8 page)

Nikki Turner

B
eauty Boutique smelled like hairspray, oil sheen, relaxers, and pressed hair. The shop was supposed to close at 9:00 p.m. on Friday nights. However, the staff—a half-dozen dedicated beauticians, barbers, massage therapist, and stylists, including the owner—didn’t normally make it out of the building until after eleven, even if they were lucky. Like most urban salons doing relaxers, coloring, and extensions, the later part of the week was when they made the majority of their paper.

And there was no denying Peaches Brown, the sole proprietor, was definitely about her money. Being a highly sought-after makeup artist and esthetician didn’t begin to describe Peaches’s skills with makeup and hair. Her techniques were so good, clients swore that having Peaches do your makeup was like using special effects, and she could outdo any transformation you’ve seen on a TV show. But as good as Peaches was with her makeup and hair brushes, she also used her talented hands to hold her own at poker tables.

Her father, Mickey, had taught her the game of skill and nerve when she was just seven years old. He used to tell her that a good poker player can read the cards and calculate the correct percentage bet in less time than it took a square to glance at a pretty girl. “But the great ones,” he made a point to let Peaches know, “read the opponent first.” He would tell her, “The card isn’t anywhere near as important to you if you’ve already read the person playing ’em.” And over the years she learned to do this well.

By the time Peaches turned twelve, she was deeply in love with the game of poker. By her fifteenth birthday, she could pull up a seat next to the best underground players in the city . . . reason being she was simply one of the best herself.

A friend of her father’s had called only minutes ago to tell her about an exclusive gathering that was by invite only. The only way she could attend was if she canceled all of her late-evening appointments. She prided herself in valuing her customers’ time and felt bad that she had to leave early. As she put the finishing touches on her client currently in her chair, she kept thinking how she was going to explain to her clients that someone else would be serving them. She turned her customer Malika around and handed her a mirror.

“How do you like it? I filled your eyebrows in some. Stop trying to arch them in yourself, okay, because it is a mess for me to try to clean up.”

Malika looked over the beautiful makeup job in the mirror. “I like this, Ms. Peaches. You have me looking like a supermodel. I’m going to have all eyes on me tonight.”

“And that you will.”

She rose up from the chair, admiring herself in the big wall mirror. “Come on, Ms. Peaches.” Malika whipped her phone out and snapped a picture of herself. She pursed her lips. “I have to Instagram this for sure so the people can know who the lady with the baddest makeup brush in the land is.”

“That’s so sweet of you,” Peaches said as she leaned in for the snapshot.

“You know I’m gonna tag you on the post,” she said, digging in her Tory Burch purse to pay Peaches.

“Thank you,” she said as she took the cash from Malika. “Just remember what I said, stop with the at-home eyebrow shaving, please,” Peaches said, hoping Malika would do as she requested.

“I hear you, Ms. Peaches.” She smiled. “And make sure you like our flick on Instagram,” she said as she exited the shop.

Peaches looked at her iPhone and read the time. She needed to get out of there if she was going to be on time.

“Oh, my sweet Janika, I need a favor,” Peaches said, pulling the voluptuous woman away from her client that she was about to put under the dryer. Janika had worked for Peaches since the shop opened two years ago. She didn’t have a quarter of the clients Peaches had, but she was at that shop from sunup to sundown, helping out and soaking up all the knowledge she could from the other stylist in the shop.

“What’s up, Peaches? I know that voice. What exactly do you need me to do?”

“I have to go somewhere and I need you to take care of two of my clients coming in. You know I’ma hook you up tomorrow. Okay?” Peaches pleaded.

“Okay, I’ll do it, but don’t be mad at me if I really put it down and hook them up”—she rolled her neck around—“and then your clients want to be my clients.”

“Aww, girl, shut your mouth. And if you could steal them, then they were never mine,” Peaches joked. “Make sure to lock up and I will see you early tomorrow,” she said, kissing Janika on the cheek. “Thank you, Janika.”

Peaches grabbed her jacket and almost flew out of her beauty shop. Her clients won’t necessarily be pleased about her last-minute cancellations, but she knew that Janika would take care of them. Plus, she would rather hear a little fussing than miss out on a big come up.

Peaches arrived at the poker game ready to win. She was instructed to park in the back alley of a bail bonds business. She pulled behind the Porsche Panamera with dealer tags, took a look at her feminine features and long auburn tresses. She perfected her makeup and applied a coat of Mac lip gloss, then began to walk over to the back door of the building Tony, the guy hosting the game, used for his bondsman business. The spot was located in the 1200 block of Hull Street. Being a Church Hill girl, Peaches really didn’t care too much for the south side of town, but she planned to get in, kick some ass, and get out.

She took the elevator to the ninth floor, walked down a narrow hall, and knocked on the brown door of what appeared to be an office. The door was opened by a petite man, who asked her the password for entry. Peaches obliged and walked into the dimly lit, smoked-filled room.

She arrived to see a group of men already sitting at the table. She pulled up a chair and sat among four other players at the table: a lawyer, the owner of a Porsche dealership, a bail bondsman, and the son of a well-known judge. The game was no-limit Texas Hold ’em and she decided to watch a few hands before she would ask to be dealt in.

Just as she joined the game, it was Tony’s turn to deal. He was one of the city’s most respected bail bondsman, among the thugs, dealers, and murderers, and it was a known fact that if someone committed a crime, Tony was the man to keep them from doing time while awaiting trial. At twenty-seven, the youngest of the four men, his parents had built the business and passed it over to him at the ripe age of twenty-five. In the past two years since Tony took over, business had tripled.

His mannerism and swagger were undeniable. Peaches could tell he had tons of women vying for his attention. His obnoxiousness seemed to come natural, not forced or contrived. Peaches could tell right away that, besides maybe his mother, Tony didn’t respect women. He had no idea that his chauvinistic traits gave her an advantage from the moment she sat down.

Before dealing, Tony reached into the right pocket of his baggy jeans for a plastic sandwich bag, half-filled with white powder.

“Compliments of one trusty drug-dealing kingpin. This was my tip for not letting his ass make it to the bullpen,” he bragged on how quick he got to the lockup to bail a client out.

He scooped a small amount of powder out with a card and dumped it on a black dinner plate. After taking a sniff up each nostril, he passed the plate around the table.

It wasn’t hard for Peaches to figure out that the powder was cocaine, because the guys had been cramming it up their noses all night. If it were an opiate, they would be nodding by now, not wide-eyed and fidgety.

Peaches lost count of how many times she had to kindly say, “No, thank you,” when the plate of narcotic was pushed toward her. Besides staying focused, she had another reason for not sampling. Peaches didn’t use drugs of any kind, for any reason. Her mother had been a dope head and overdosed at twenty-nine. A tragic thing like that either drove a kid to drugs or far away from them. For Peaches, it was the latter.

Mark sat to Tony’s left, which made it his turn to bet first after Tony finally got the cards dealt. Mark was a genius when it came to convincing a jury that his client was innocent of a crime beyond a reasonable doubt, but was no more than average at hustling the cards. His trendy Ray-Ban sunglasses didn’t throw Peaches off, because she had peeped his pattern. All night he predictably pretended to be weak when his hand was really strong, and strong when his hand was really weak.

After peeking at his cards for a full forty-five seconds, Mark bet seven hundred from the dwindling stack of C-notes and fifties in front into the center of the table.

Eric, fast and flashy like the cars he sold, said, “I call.”

Peaches struggled to contain her smile. Eric was all flash and no substance. A behavior that Peaches had predicted might cost Eric a car title or two. And there were a couple of rides on his lot that she wouldn’t mind having in her driveway.

Like the other three men at the table, Charles had been losing all night as well. He took a quick look at his rags and quickly dumped them into a deadwood.

“I fold,” he said, removing his Aviator sunglasses and placing them on the table, shaking his head, annoyed at the way the cards were flowing.

When the bet got to Peaches, without looking at her cards, she said, “I call the two . . . and bump it up another five grand.” Then she tossed the money to the center of the table, to the rest of the players’ chagrin.

Peaches may not have been able to physically read their minds, but their body language accurately conveyed it all to her; they were thinking: “The bitch can’t be that good, can she?”

“Yup,” she said out loud, smiling at her opponents. “I’m that good,” she said, glad that they couldn’t see her eyes dancing from behind her huge oversized Roberto Cavalli frames. “But there’s only one way to find out,” she taunted.

As testosterone overrode what little intellect they had, coke and the booze was left to make their decisions. It came as no surprise to her when all three vics still in the game called the raise. The pot was over eighteen thousand when Tony turned over the three-card flop. A deuce of hearts, three of diamonds, and ten of clubs, all mixed suited. She almost laughed out loud when each of their faces involuntarily clinched as if they’d just won a free colon exam. The shit was priceless.

Peaches wanted to get up and dance the Roger Rabbit dance, but she didn’t. Instead, she kept her cool and displayed only a huge smile followed by a chuckle.

Beating these dudes was as easy as taking a four-inch filet mignon from a vegetarian; they were practically giving the money away. She almost felt bad for them, almost but not quite.

Nothing much changed as the night merged into morning. The only hands that she didn’t win were the ones that she chose not to be in. Along with a couple of IOUs, she had won at least $75,000 worth of dead presidents that sat there in front of her staring at her, saying, “Peaches, Peaches, take me away.” She decided that she would fulfill Jackson’s, Grant’s, and Franklin’s wishes when she began filling her Louis tote with her winnings.

“I think I’m going to have to call it a night, fellas. I have to get up early for work in the morning.”

The stares she got in return made her feel uneasy. “It’s only one o’clock.” Tony was the first to protest. He felt it was his obligation since he was hosting the game. He continued, “Don’t tell me you’re afraid that Lady Luck may leave before you do? Come on, let’s play a few more hands,” he practically begged.

Eric put the tip of a card into the dwindling mountain of coke on the plate and powered his nose. “Yeah, play a few more. Come on, Peaches,” he said quickly as he went into his pocket and pulled out a stack of fifties and placed them on the table. “If you so sure that luck won’t run away from you, then try your hand again,” he said, licking his lips at her.

For a split second she wondered if that was his way of trying to convince her in a sexy way. She pretended like she didn’t see the gesture, but then he did it again. This time he added an eyewink in with it.

The energy in the air was so awkward. It was at that very moment that Peaches regretted not bringing somebody with her. Being that they were all respected professionals, in a high-stakes game, she didn’t think it was necessary. However, she quickly discovered that Tony was the type who didn’t like it when things weren’t going in his favor. He was the kid that when he lost, he took the ball and went home.
Too bad for him.

“Luck is for suckers,” she said with confidence and a smile as she continued to cram the money into her purse. “But if
she’s
leaving, I don’t mind giving her a ride,” Peaches said with a slight chuckle, referring to Lady Luck.

Charles stole a glance at his watch. “I probably should be making my way to the crib, too, before my old lady changes the locks.”

Eric downed a shot of Remy. “Stop being a pussy, Charles. How the fuck is a bitch that don’t pay no bills or work in a pie shop going to lock a man out of his own house?”

“That’s why I’m never getting tied down,” Tony chimed in. “Too many badass bitches out here who can pay their own bills, live in and drive their own shit, ready and willing to jump through hoops for me, so why am I going to settle for just one of them. Ain’t that right, Peaches?”

Besides the fact that the
bitch
word was being popped off a little too freely, Peaches didn’t like the look behind Tony’s red, glassy eyes after he removed his Gucci shades. She stood up, ready to break out of there. “I’ll let you fellas work this one out on your own if you don’t mind?”

Peaches couldn’t get out of there and back across the water to her own stomping grounds on her side of town quick enough. “Will you get the door for me?”

“Depends,” Tony said. He stared at her plump, heart-shaped behind like she wasn’t wearing any clothes. “What you got for me?” he asked, then rephrased it. “I meant, what you going to do for me?”

Mark, Charles, and Eric started laughing. Then Tony must have lost his mind when he palmed her butt. With all her might, Peaches smacked his hand away and firmly said, “Don’t do that.”