Smoke and Mirrors (33 page)

He was in
deep
, and instead of him being appalled that people were talking behind his back, he seemed to relish in it as he flaunted his high class, fake whore around town for all to see. His indifference to her role in his life was also loud and clear, and it tore her heart in two. He made it no secret but gallivanted about, unaware or uncaring of how he was hurting her so. She’d contemplated calling the police on him, ratting his ass out, but if he ever found out it was her, she knew she’d be in danger. Smoke wasn’t the type of man to send out a hit man or beat a broad up, but what he
would
do was make her life a living hell and she’d be permanently blackballed, unable to make a living anywhere in the entire damn state, maybe even country. No one wanted to deal with her until he found her, dusted her off and made her into a trophy. Now at least she had a brand new line of credit. Being Smoke’s bottom bitch looked good on her damn resume. Besides…she still loved him, and when you loved someone, there were some things you just refused to do…

She could see out her bedroom window that the large bright yellow and black moving truck had just pulled up, backing into the vast apartment driveway, so she made her way towards her door to tarry down the steps and let them inside. She opened it only to find Smoke standing there. Her damn heart wanted to break out in tears and her body instantaneously flushed with heat as she gleamed into his sparkling blue eyes. She took him all in, from his tousled dark brown hair to his thick brows, back to his heavily hooded eyes, down the long bridge of his nose and sexy curve of his lips that always seemed to be smirking. She found it a bit unnerving at that moment. Their eyes remained locked until he broke the silent trance by clearing his throat.

“This is for the best. The ladies are a bit upset, but they understand, too…even though at times you were hard on them, for the greater good.” He chuckled, causing her to smile a bit.

“Yeah,” she said, looked down shyly, then back up at him. “Nothing lasts forever.” She swallowed. “So, I guess this is it.”

He nodded as they walked down the steps together until they reached the front door. He opened it.

“Hey!” he called out, inserted two fingers inside his mouth and whistled. No one seemed to notice, so he yelled louder over the running engine of the truck. “You guys can come in now!” He waved his hand in their direction, then turned back towards her, bent low, and kissed her cheek. Her jaw tightened as he withdrew from her personal space.

“So, who’s going to take my place?” She placed her hand on her hip, trying to swallow her annoyance. It would do no good at this point to even exert the energy.

“Well, I have a couple ladies in mind. They are not from here though. They’re are from Paris’—”

“Please!” She put her hand up and shook her head. “Don’t say her name to me…” she started, her voice trembling.

The work crew grabbed mats from the back of the vehicle, talking amongst themselves and making a big ruckus. Meanwhile, she was coming undone all over again. It took all of her strength to leave this man, to pull herself together and appear strong, but now, she was unraveling right before his eyes.

“Alright, Felicia,” he said softly as he patted her back, seeming to give a damn about her feelings.

“Let me help you with your things. I know that these guys are here, but they can be a bit careless sometimes.” He turned to go back up the steps, but she pulled his arm to stop him.

“No. That’s okay. Just…just go back to whatever it was you were doing.”

They were quiet, just looked at each other for a while. Suddenly, he grabbed her and gave her an enormous hug. His large, warm hands ran up and down her back, and his oh so familiar scent, the cedar cologne that always made her legs go weak, swirled into her nostrils, making her feel nostalgic about all the times he’d calmed her nerves, fucked her good ’nd hard, but oh so sensually…and made her laugh. She was going to miss this son of a bitch, but she’d been replaced. There was no room for her anymore. He’d found another bottom, and this bitch didn’t even have to get her hands dirty; she didn’t have to lift one damn perfectly manicured finger. That truth seemed so cruel, so unbelievably wrong. But the world wasn’t fair. He’d made his decision and she’d never known him to be a wishy washy type of person. Once Smoke said he was done, he was done.

The men moved past them as Felicia pointed the direction.

“Alright, Felicia.” He huffed. “You take care of yourself, okay?” He gave his customary wink and turned on his heels, his shoulders straight, his stride proud. She watched the tall man saunter away—even wearing just a black tank top, he looked sexy. His damn scent lingered behind, and she stood there with it, hating that she’d miss him, hating that she knew she’d cry again, hating most of all that she’d met her match. She wasn’t even exactly sure what she was going to do with herself; all she knew was that she had to get the hell out of there. She’d already got her apartment leased and managed to save up a decent nest egg working under him. He’d even offered to get her a new place, pay the first months rent, but she refused it. It would have only made things all the worse. She knew a part of him was happy to see her go, and that stung more than anything else. Regardless, no other pimp would have treated her like Smoke. No other pimp would let her keep that much money. For a brief moment, she thought about squaring up, going straight, getting out of the life.

But this was all she knew. Lying on her back was what she did, and being knocked out by unreturned love was what she now experienced. And it hurt like hell…

*

Smoke hung up
the phone after speaking to Frank for a short duration, during which they’d discussed the ‘good ol’ days’, Frank’s favorite topic. He was redoing the man’s verbal contract, as well as working out scheduling at his computer, and filling in the spreadsheet that would soon be removed from his files, and placed on a private passcode-protected thumb drive. He sighed as he thought about a comment that Frank made during their conversation:
‘The way a person thinks about pimping early on, tends to remain the same until something happens to change their mind…’

For the most part, he agreed with the man. He grew up with a man who was a king in his profession, but he hadn’t truly thought about what his father was doing, the meat of the issue, until he got a little bit older. He recalled his first job in California, and an interesting conversation he’d had with a co-worker that summed up perfectly his base belief in the art of pimping and the world of tricks…

Flashes of his childhood home drove into his skull like a screw as he sunk his hands and arms into the hot sink water of the Langer’s Deli in downtown L.A. The dishwasher in the kitchen was state of the art, but sixteen-year-old Brent was more hands on, wanting to run his fingers over the dishes, in part so that he’d get better tips from the customers when he worked the floor. That actually was just a small portion of the truth. The full story was, it gave him time alone, time to think, time to make money and most importantly, time to daydream. Nevertheless, his uptight boss with the shiny bald head and scruffy mustache never stopped him once he saw how the glasses sparkled. He figured it was the little things that counted, the small attention to detail.

The place was bustling, as always. He loved the short summer hours from 8am – 4pm, which put money in his pocket that he earned himself, along with time to go to LAX airport, and sit there and watch the planes take off. It was an odd hobby he surmised, but one he cherished nonetheless. He’d sit in his new black Honda his father had gifted him, the fresh car smell rather intoxicating, and tap the steering wheel, daydreaming as his head bobbed to Incubus’ ‘Drive.’ He’d ask himself, “I wonder where that plane is going?”

And then, he’d make up a destination, pretend to be steering the thing himself. One little secret he hadn’t told anyone, barely himself—not only did he enjoy the look, feel and smell of the aircraft, he wanted to navigate one, too. He wanted to be the damn pilot, the one in control, the bastard in the front seat with all of those people depending on him to take them away…somewhere they could just forget, leave it all behind. How amazing it was that one could get on an airplane and go some place where absolutely no one knew them, and start fresh. How liberating to know that, at any given moment, if he so chose, life could begin, again and again. He surmised it was kind of like when he’d been baptized in a lake by his now deceased maternal grandfather at the age of seven, by a small church off an unmarked road.

“Breeeent!” his boss called, forcing him out of his daydream. “We need help out here.”

“I’m on it.” He smiled as he removed his hands from the soapy water, grabbed a towel, dried off, and made his way out to the awaiting crowd.

“…Two pastramis on rye, two coleslaws and a coke…got it!” He rang up the order and navigated the bustling crowd, going back to the kitchen and slamming five more orders on the counter. A half hour later, he was on a short break, standing outside with a co-worker, Dale, a portly little fella covered in freckles, mousy brown hair, and a contagious laugh. The squatty young man tilted his head to the side and lit up his cigarette, telling a story of joy riding the previous evening. Brent half listened, nodding and smiling at all the right moments. What captivated his attention most were two women across the way, their bodies prime and their intentions clear. They moved about, eyeballing cars, their short skirts hiked up their asses and their tits practically falling out of their tight tops. He ran his hand along his white smock, stained with mustard.

“Hos.” Dale shook his head and puffed out another ball of smoke from his tiny, pink lips. “They’re all over the fuckin’ place out here.”

“Why doesn’t anyone do anything about it then?” Brent questioned, really not caring about the answer. He was simply engaging in conversation, wanting to know what someone living on the outside may have thought and besides, maybe the conversation would be entertaining nevertheless.

“’Cause they pay the cops off, too. Their pimps do anyway, and some of the cops are fucking them.” He took another inhale of his cigarette and nonchalantly tapped his ashes onto the sidewalk.

“Hmmmm, sounds interesting.” Brent smirked, thinking it was rather intelligent for one to do. Life was about transactions. Dad paid Mama to be able to have him. He had a monetary settlement and didn’t even know it. The girls in Monroe paid him for his time, hoping for something more though back then he’d been too simple minded to figure the shit out. And now, cops got paid to not bust a whore’s ass and haul her into jail. It made perfect sense.

“How does that sound interesting?” Dale laughed grimly. “I mean really…their messing up the neighborhood.” A crimson jalopy with white wall tires drove past, then sat in the middle of the street as the driver stretched his long neck, speaking to someone walking by. The bastard was holding up traffic. Breaking Benjamin’s “Sooner or Later” blasted from the man’s speakers, making Brent feel at ease, at peace. The trees were blowing, and the day seemed kissed by all things beautiful. He slipped out of his daydream, and addressed Dale’s question as diplomatically as he could.

“Well, money is what makes the world go ’round. You have to work to get what you want…they’re just working.” Brent shrugged. “Why make a big deal about it?”

“It’s illegal, that’s why!”

“And who made these laws? The same dipshits that buy hookers, that’s who. They pretend they aren’t procuring sex, are faithful to their wives and law abiding citizens. They tell their mistresses to get abortions, then vote down women’s rights bills. They go to church every Sunday morning, snort cocaine in the afternoon, then makes these laws regarding drug trafficking, absolving themselves of all guilt. They want to punish their temptations for being so, well, tempting.” He smirked. “…Fucking ridiculous.”

“But that’s different. If there is no supply there is no demand!”

“Not true. If all the water in the entire world were to dry up this very second, would we, the animals, insects and plant life no longer be thirsty?”

Dale looked at him for a moment, apparently contemplating the notion.

“Look Dale, why is it okay to sell pastrami sandwiches, but not your own ass? You own it, it’s yours. You should be able to give it away or sell it to whoever you want.”

“’Cause man, food and water is needed! No one needs to fuck a prostitute!” The guy cackled. “When was the last time you heard of a guy dyin’ because he couldn’t get laid?”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right, Dale, but how I see it is…it’s not about needing to fuck a prostitute. It’s about needing to get off, to feel good for a second or two. People use money to pay for feelings, really. People just wanna feel okay, to feel right, feel nice.” He shrugged.

“Are you high? What are you talking about?” Dale put his beefy hand on his hip, flicked more ashes, then placed the cigarette back up to his mouth.