Politics. Escorts. Blackmail. (6 page)

Sunday—June 19, 2011

M
oney sat on her terrace under the covered gazebo behind her elegant home. She leaned back against the forest green wrought-iron patio chair and admired the fabulous garden setting.

Her backyard was framed by blooming violet crabapple and white dogwood trees, along with an emerald lawn, and yellow and lavender tulips that lined the S-shaped brick walkway. A pair of gray European Starling birds flew from tree to tree and then flew away, chirping with carefree splendor. Melodic.

The summer air was warm and still, and the sky was azure. Cloudless.

Her Pinot Grigio was chilled and she was in momentary heaven, just like a regular person. Just as it should’ve been before necessity became the motherhood of her wealth.

She was a madam, she reminded herself constantly.

She was taking money from financially privileged people and setting them up to have undercover sex with her employees, promising to never tell on them. And one of her employees was her very own sister.
Shit.

She hadn’t yet spoken to Midori since their conversation at the Algonquin. She knew her to be a pouter, and she expected Midori not to be the one to call first. But she’d need to check up on her before too long, just to let her know she was watching her. Even though her sister claimed to be willing and able to keep her boyfriend, Virgil Daye, in line, Money doubted it. He was a problem, but a small-time problem, much like Bailey Brenner, who’d been quiet. Money’s big-time concern was the one person she really didn’t want around her sister, and that was Romeo.

Romeo had been a sticky thorn in Money’s side ever since she moved to New York.

Midori had a major argument with her parents and left home after their mom and dad moved to Atlanta. New York City was where she landed. At eighteen years old, with no connections and no money, Midori was quickly recruited onto the streets by Romeo. He kept her there for about a year, until Money’s divorce and the creation of Lip Service. That was when Money began looking for her. After a text message from Midori to Money from a pay-as-you-go number in the 212 area code, Money tracked her down by enlisting a favor from one of her clients. Cell phone tower records led to the address of a seedy motel on the Lower East Side.

One hot summer evening, Money went looking for her sister and spotted her not far away from the motel. Money recognized her from behind. Midori was sturdy and bowlegged, and had a plump backside just like their mother’s. Midori stood next to a lamppost on the corner of Forsyth and Houston Streets, at the side of a hotel called the Gem.

She stood next to a short women with pink hair that was teased up into a beehive. Both were dressed in miniskirts and corsets, looking very obvious.

Money approached her sister and the woman. “Midori.”

The other woman spoke first. “Who’s asking?”

Money gave her no eye contact whatsoever. “Will you excuse us, please?”

The woman said with a high-pitched edge, “Excuse me dot com.”

“No. Excuse you right on away from me. I was not talking to you.”

The woman’s voice dropped to baritone. “Well, I’m talking to you, okay?” She stepped closer and put her hand up, rolled her neck, popped her lip and her tongue. “What?” She gave two snaps up.

Money realized it was a man in drag. “Look, Shenaynay. Back off. This is none of your damn concern, so go ahead and make your money. But back the fuck off. Now”

She aimed her finger between Money’s eyes like she was pulling the trigger. “Bang.”

Money took a step back and looked her up and down.

Midori looked at her friend, “It’s cool. I’m good.”

The man in drag cut his eyes at them both. “Okay. Whatever’s clever. But this chick better watch herself. Bitch-ass, high-society, no-lip-having, bug-eyed, corny-ass-earring-wearing, bucktooth, stanky-ass ho better recognize. Bang.” He used a nod of his head for an exclamation point.

Money asked, “What the hell?”

Midori looked only at Money. “What do you want?”

The man-woman slowly headed to the front of the hotel, turned around and again pointed his finger as though pulling the trigger, then disappeared around the corner.

Money looked at her sister and immediately asked, “Where’ve you been?”

Her reply was snappy. “In my skin. Why?”

“Well, we’ve missed you.”

Midori gave a chuckle. She wore red lipstick and long lashes. Her short blonde hair needed to be dyed as her brown roots were taking over. She was showing cleavage for days. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Money put her hand on her sister’s upper arm. “Come with me. I’m here to take you home.”

Midori snatched it back. “No.”

“Midori, you really don’t need to do this.”

“I don’t need to do what? Make money like this? Well, I’ll be damned. Look who the hell’s talking.”

Money asked, “What do you mean?” confirming that her sister had heard about her new line of work.

“I know what you do. Don’t come around here like you’re gonna save the day, when your ass needs to be saved, too. You’re no better than me. Maybe you’ve got some fancy setup and I’m on the streets, but there’s no difference, Money. None.”

“You’re right. I’m sure you’ve heard about my life.”

“I have. Big city, small circles.”

“Okay. Fair. But you can do better than this.”

“This is just fine.”

Money nodded. “Okay. So, tell me why you didn’t return my text messages. You sent a message from a number that doesn’t even have voice mail setup. ”

“That’s just the way I like it.”

Money took half a step and said, “Come on. Come with me.”

Midori stayed in place. “No.”

Money faced her sister and folded her arms. “Look. Okay. I’m sorry for what happened.”

“What are you talking about?”

“For Mom. For Dad. What Dad did. What Mom did. What Jimmy did.”

Midori looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Money got closer. “Oh, you know. But that’s not what matters. What matters right now is that you come with me.”

A male voice suddenly asked, “Can I help you?”

Money replied before she even turned around. “No.” And then she faced him.

A bald-headed man with a tinge of Puerto Rico in his face stood before her and said firmly, “Back off. As a matter of fact, get lost.” He wore a black dress shirt and black jeans. Very non-pimpish.

“It’s a free country.”

“No. It’s not. It’ll cost you.”

Midori made her way over to stand behind him.

His look let Money know her sister feared him.

Money asked, “Romeo, right?”

“Queens, right? Oh, my bad. Midori here says it’s Money Watts.”

“Very good. And as far as what it’ll cost me. You tell me.”

“Oh, you want her for an hour. You want some pussy from your own sister?” He grinned big, as if he amused himself.

“Very funny. You know good and damn well what I’m talking about.”

“I’m not hearing it. We’ve got to get back to work. Leave.”

Money gave Midori a smile, then looked at him and frowned. “Listen, I’ll be in this hotel. This one right here.” She pointed to the building. “I’ll be here for two days and you can call and ask for me. When you do, just let me know how much. I’ll get it to you. I promise.”

He laughed. “Oh? You must not know this is my family.” He looked back at Midori and then at Money. “Midori is mine.”

“Everything has its price.” Money again smiled at her sister. “Midori, I love you,” she said, walking away toward the front door of the hotel. The hooker in drag was half a block down, giving Money the finger, and Money returned the gesture.

Turned out the next morning, twenty thousand in hundreds was all it took to get Romeo off their backs. Midori and Money caught a cab to Money’s place in Queens. By the next week, Midori was making her own money. Three months later she had moved into her own place on the Upper East Side, where she met Senator Ellington’s son, Virgil Daye, at a function she attended where she was supposed to escort an IT executive who was a no-show. Midori was off the streets, had met a man, but couldn’t come clean to him about how she was making ends meet.

Since then, Midori knew Romeo had been keeping his eye on her. He made it known when he left the hotel with his cash that he would one day get her back.

And upon that reflection, Money’s cell phone rang, shifting her mind to the present. “Yes,” she answered, now having moved from her backyard to the exercise room in her home. She was beginning a three-mile walk on her elliptical machine, a towel around her neck.

“Hi,” her booker said.

“What’s up?”

“You just had a call come in on the booking line. Romeo wants you to call him. He said you changed your number. Said it’s very important.”

Money slowed her pace. “Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

“The nerve.”

“He said he needs to hear from you today.”

“What’s the number?”

“212-555-5212.”

Money filed it away in her head. “Lord. Thanks. Text me the rundown for today.”

“I just did.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks.” Money hung up. “Speaking of the devil.” She gave a deep sigh and kept at her workout, focusing on her phone while she dialed the number, making sure to block her number.

“Talk to me.” He answered fast, halfway through the first ring, sounding like a DJ.

“What?”

“What, what?”

“This is Money. What do you want?” She wiped her sweaty brow with her towel.

“Oh. There ya go. Okay. Good, girl.”

“Romeo. Cut it. This is not good and you know it. Phone calls between us are stupid and very unnecessary. Please don’t call my booker again.”

He got straight to the point. “What’s it gonna take to get Kemba over here?”

“Kemba?” She downshifted her pace even more.

“Yeah. Your boy. Oh, excuse me, Harlem.”

She gave a sigh and a laugh. “Not up for discussion. Besides, why would he wanna go from me to you, with your ghetto-ass dime-store operation when he can live the Bergdorf Goodman lifestyle? That’s just plain crazy.”

“Call it what you want. I want you to know we’re getting upscale over here. Riding up on your ass.”

“Well, at least you know you’re behind me.”

“Ha. I could ride your ass from the front, too.”

“I doubt that. The answer is no.”

“How much? Your twenty thousand back. Or maybe thirty. I know he’s pulling it in, making you a very rich bitch.”

“I’m not your bitch, nigga. And Kemba is not a damn car. No trading, no discussing value, nothing. None of your damn business.”

“Okay, but, honestly, I gave you one, now it’s time for you to give me one. Or, I can just take him.”

“If you believe that, then why in the hell are you calling me?” She sped up her pace again.

“To let you know I’ve got my eyes on him. And honestly, I really haven’t taken my eyes off your little sister either. But, I would if—”

“Stop. You’re telling me you’ll give up on Midori if you get Kemba. They are people, dumbass, not trading cards. Neither one is up for any negotiating so just fuck off.”

“You don’t want me to—” The line disconnected after Money slid her finger over the screen.

“That is one stupid thug if he thinks he can come in on Lip Service and start stealing away my employees. He cannot play that recruiting game on Kemba like this is the NCAA. Kemba has proven himself,” she said aloud.

She thought back to when Kemba was involved in an altercation with a love-starved woman whose husband was left impotent due to diabetes. The man had noticed a new pep in his wife’s step and read the messages in her BlackBerry. He found out about a hotel location she had scheduled in her calendar for the following night, so he showed up and waited. When his wife pulled up, he checked into the room next door and listened to his woman get run through. After he couldn’t take it any longer, he banged on the adjoining door, shaking the knob and fighting to unlatch it. “Bitch, get your slutty ass up and open this door, now.”

He damn near knocked down the wall, stormed from his room to their room door, and banged, cursed, kicked, and screamed. “Open this motherfucking door, now. I will kill you and that fool you’re fuckin’. Open this goddamn door. Now!”

A hotel guest called the police, but hotel security showed up first. The woman never admitted to paying Kemba, never said anything about calling a booker first. And Kemba said nothing, either, only that he’d met her at the store, they’d talked on the phone, and, after having a drink, ended up in the hotel room.
To this day, I still book her and Kemba. And the woman is still married to the same impotent man.

Money came back to the present and spoke to herself again. “Romeo’s ass is the thorn in my side. Offering thirty thousand for Kemba. Please. I’m a millionaire.”

Monday—July 11, 2011

M
oney was dressed and ready for her expected guest. She sat on the sofa in the living room when her doorbell rang. Stepping toward the door, she yelled, “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” her man, Jamie, yelled back.

Jamie Bitters, a bigwig with the sheriff’s department before he got sticky fingers, would come by maybe once a week and hang out with Money. He was the only person she really chilled with who wasn’t shocked by what she did. They could talk about miscellaneous bullshit, like stock market rates or sports, or watch the latest episode of
Love & Hip-Hop
together. It was less than a love affair but more than a friendship.

“What’s up?” she asked after letting him in.

“Not much. You?”

“Oh, nothing much either.”

He placed a plastic bag on dining room table.

“Chinese?”

“You know it.”

She nodded. “That’s what’s up.”

They enjoyed their meal, sipped on wine, and sat in her living room watching TV. She didn’t bring up Romeo. She just lived like an everyday woman who had a man that came by. Average stuff.

After a few hours went by, his attention went from the television to her body. He began kissing her neck, rubbing her bare legs, and playing with her breasts. Before long, they got up from the couch and headed to her bedroom. For her, it was private dick time because she wanted to fuck, not because she had to.

He stood at attention next to her canopy bed, which had ivory sheers draped from the top to the floor. She lay on her back with her legs over the edge, a pillow under her hips.

The room was dimly lit. The iPod speakers shared the smooth sounds of the tail end of D’Angelo’s “Brown Sugar.”

Jamie hummed along as he worked at choreographing their sex session.

Money followed his lead, just enjoying the escape from reality.

Upon the side of her bed, he lifted her brown legs and held them straight up in front of him, moving himself so that his dickhead was lined up with her pussy. He gave a deep thrust with a jerk of his hips to plunge his entire penis inside of her. Her legs rested along his chest. He stroked them and licked the heels of her bare feet, sucking on her toes while fucking her pussy.

Then they got up and he arranged their bodies so that they were on the settee at the foot of the bed, him on his back with his legs on each side. She sat on top of him, facing his feet. She looked down and rubbed his balls, squeezing them together. He massaged her firm ass cheeks while she rubbed her clit. She released her creamy white femininity on his dick, masturbating while fucking him at the same time.

The song was now “How Does It Feel?”

“Fucking good,” she said from out of nowhere, as if replying to D’Angelo directly and not speaking to Jamie.

They ended up standing, with her leaning over the bed, him spreading her legs as far apart as he could, guiding his penis to penetrate her again. She pushed her hips backward toward him in reply to the sensation his entry brought. He was deep and he pulled out, yanking off his condom as he spewed cum on her ass cheeks.

“You’re the best,” she told him.

His reply was “No, you are.”

And as much as they were in sync in the bedroom, their after-sex time in the bedroom never came. As usual, he left right after they finished. They never did the cuddle, spooning, and pillow talk bonding. It was understood and it was all good. She knew he just wasn’t that into her. And she just wasn’t that into him, either.

Besides, she had anticipated it and had made an appointment for Mr. 11 to call at three in the morning from Manchester, New Hampshire.

Jamie had left at 3:02.

“Hi.” Mr. 11 whispered as usual, careful not to wake up his wife.

“You ready?”

“I am.”

“You got that pretty dick in your hand?” Money asked, sounding phone-sex-operator erotic.

“I do.”

“Good boy. You know I wish I was there with you, licking your balls with a tongue scrub while you stroke that pretty dick. Watching you watch me suck your ball sac and teabag you, bringing my tongue down to the part where your balls end and your asshole begins. Inserting my finger in your ass and finding your spot while you feel your blood racing and your dick filling up faster and faster, looking at me like I’m a dream. Like it can’t be real that you could feel so damn good.”

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” He sounded anxious and horny.

“Don’t say anything. I know you can’t talk. Just listen to me get you off like you like it. I don’t get to do this much anymore now that things have changed for you. But baby, you are my favorite and if I was your woman, I’d put you to bed by swallowing you every night, and you’d wake up with me between your legs, sucking you off with a good-morning hello, giving you my wet, warm mouth to swallow you down. I’d leave the covers over my head so you wouldn’t even see me, you’d just look down and see someone going to work to please you, then you could lay back and fantasize about who it is in your mind. I want you to grip that cock in your hand and imagine me sitting my juicy pussy on that cock bareback, grinding on your dick while you squeeze my ass tight and shove yourself as far up into me as you can. Imagine someone else in the room, maybe even a man, sucking your nipple and then kissing you while I ride you. I know you’d like that. I know you brought that shit up before. I know you’d like a dick in your mouth while I ride you. He’d straddle your face and he’d watch your lips stretch along his dick while you’d feel me behind him, jumping off of your dick and then taking it into my mouth, tasting my own juices. I’d hear you moan and I’d hear him moan and just as he would say he was about to come, your cum would ooze into my mouth.”

Mr. 11 moaned and grunted, then moaned again. His next grunts were three small ones in a row, deep and fast. “Ugh, ugh, ugh.”

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s how you like it. That’s how we do it.”

“Ahhh.” He panted and gave a sigh. Then, as if he recovered that quickly, he simply said, keeping his low tone, “Nice. Gotta go.”

“Ciao, baby. Be good.”

He hung up.

Money sent a text to her booker.
Done
.

She said aloud, “Hell, I might just switch to phone sex. At fifteen hundred a pop, that’s the quickest, easiest job around.”

Two minutes later, the booker called Money.

“Yes.”

“Mr. 11 just called. He’ll be in town soon. He asked for an out-call, but with a guy this time.”

“Okay.” Money was not surprised.

“And he’s asked for a black one. You think Kemba?”

Money replied right away, “Oh no.”

“Not even gay for pay?”

“No.” She paused. “I’ll work on it. I might even bring in a bi guy. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this request. I’ll let you know. Bye.”

Money had gotten her own tune-up, made some money, and had added a new item to her to-do list: Getting Mr. 11, Kalin Graves, the mayor of Philly who was running for president, a bi guy.

But she hadn’t forgotten about Romeo. Keeping him away from her employees, mainly Kemba, was now at the top of her list.