The Coldest Winter Ever (21 page)

I found out which girls had jobs and which didn’t. Who had extra money and what kind of taste they had. All the while I was talking, my mind was organizing what kind of stuff I could sell, what type of services I could perform, what type of prices I could charge, and how much I could expect to accumulate over the first couple of weeks. Friday, when Lashay was leaving on a weekend pass, I told her to meet Simone in the local pizza shop to pick up the box she was delivering to me.

First thing I did was pull out my lock and chain for my suitcase that I had been guarding with my life since my arrival. I put all of my new stuff inside and locked and chained it up. I organized the magazines I had asked for on my desk and I officially opened up shop. My first customer, the person I volunteered to be my best customer, was Claudette. I figured if I could fix her up, make her pay for it, she’d be a good example of what my work was worth. I also found out that
Claudette never spent her money. She was seventeen years old, worked on weekdays, and sent a hundred and fifty dollars a month to that whacky preacher she listened to. She stashed the rest.

“Claudette, you gotta boyfriend?”

“No,” she said shyly.

“Oh, I guess you can’t have a boyfriend because you’re a Christian.”

“No, I
can
have a boyfriend. There are just some things we can do, some things we can’t.”

“So what happens,” I asked her. “You meet a nice guy and he finds out you aren’t gonna give him none so he breaks out.”

“No, we don’t even get that far. I like a guy. He doesn’t like me, that’s it.”

“I know what you need.”

“What do I need, Winter? I am sure that you know. You seem to know so much.”

“If I show you what you need, and give you what you need, it’s gonna cost you.”

“Oh no,” she said. “I don’t want to spend any money.”

“But after I hook you up you will meet any man you want to meet. Your whole life will change. You give money to your preacher right?”

“Oh yes, this is different.”

“But he doesn’t do anything for you.”

“You don’t know that. He makes me feel good, better everyday.”

“But I can make you feel better than he can and once I show you, you can do it for yourself. Alright let’s make a deal. I’ll fix you up. If you like what you see, you pay me. If you don’t, you don’t owe me nothing.”

I handed her a stack of magazines, told her to flip through and tell me who she wanted to look like. I talked Claudette’s ear off, got her hyped up on change. When I had her settling in the chair ready for a new cut, I could’ve cried with laughter. The only thing I knew about cutting hair was what a good haircut was supposed to look like when it was done and whatever I had peeped from Earline’s. What made me calm though was there was no way for me to fuck up Claudette’s hair any more than it already was. So I started cutting until she was damn near bald.

The way I figured it she needed to start all over again. I gave her
finger waves. If I say so myself, it looked fly. I gave her a facial, unclogged all the Vaseline and that cheap one-dollar drugstore makeup she wore. I busted out my nail kit, gave her tips, a French manicure and pedicure. I made her take off that red skirt with tube socks and sandals and told her that, because I liked her, I would let her take a quick look in my suitcase. I unlocked and unchained it carefully to make her fully understand that she was about to enjoy a special privilege. From now on, I told her, she could order her clothes from me. “Let’s just take it slow,” I told her.

She selected one of my designer dresses. When she glanced in the mirror, saw the French manicure, fingerwaves, natural face with quality MAC lipstick, and the Donna Karan dress, she smiled at herself, turned to the left side, right side, front and back.

From what I could tell she was stuck in a state of shock.

“Now try these on,” I said. I took my shoes out of the shoe box I kept them packed in. They were one size too small for her but she got the concept.

“Now Claudette,” I said, holding her face between my hands, making her look me dead in the eye, “I have to take my dress and shoes back, but look at yourself and know that you can look like this if you let me help you. Your life will change.”

“How much?” Claudette asked.

“For the face, hair, nails, and feet?”

“Yeah, and the dress.”

“Oh, you can’t afford this dress, it’s mine. But I can show you something just as nice. I’ll show you my catalog later tonight. You pick ’n pay and we’ll be in business.”

“How do you know I can’t afford the dress?” Claudette asked with a funny accent.

“Even if you could, which I doubt, you can’t have it. It’s a designer exclusive,” I lied just to gas her up. “They only made a few of these, but you can get something almost as nice. Let me work on finding the right thing for you.” I charged her sixty dollars. She paid me. I watched as she got an extra switch in her walk. For another sixty, I convinced her to buy a pair of my jeans and a blouse, shit I got from the Banana Republic. I talked to her about toning down her colors. All in all I made a permanent customer. That was week two in the House of Success and I already had a hundred and twenty dollars plus my sixty-dollar stipend. Once Claudette spread the word—not
through talking because she was kind of shy, but just by being different from the fresh-off-the-boat girl she used to be—I was gonna rake in the dough.

Things took off quickly. I had what everybody needed
at better prices than they could get it themselves.
Everybody was happy. I organized all the fashions from the magazines into a catalog, put numbers on the items and the whole shit. I let the people in the house order their clothes from me. I let Simone boost them and sell them to me for a small price. I resold them to the girls at less than half of what the store would charge. Lashay was my unsuspecting runner, which put money in her pocket. She got to meet Simone, pick the stuff up for me, deliver it to me, and drop off whatever I wanted. I had cut-rate cartons of cigarettes for Noni, wholesale candy for Lashay, clothes, hairdos, fingernails, pedicures, and fashion tips for whoever needed it. I had beer and joints at the right time on the down down low. Depending on what was going on with Simone, I had things as big as cellular phones and CD players available. At the end of twenty-one days, I had two thousand five hundred dollars in my pocket and I had never left my room.

Kathy Johnson, my social worker, recommended I finish school. I disagreed and told her to make arrangements for me to drop out. To keep things cool, I agreed to take my GED exam so I could get that bullshit equivalency. I even agreed to look for a job, which I wasn’t really gonna do. The other girls in the house put me up on the scam. All I had to do was fill out a form weekly saying I looked for a job and where I looked for the job. I could get real company names and addresses from the want ads, complete the form, turn it in, and qualify as having looked for work. Work that as far as I was concerned I would never find because I already had a more profitable hustle going. Ms. Johnson threatened to sign me up for all kinds of technical and business schools like I would want to be some kind of refrigerator repairman or some crazy shit like that.

The psychiatrist recommended me to attend weekly psychiatric sessions, labeled me some kind of sociopath or something like that because I told her all those kooky stories that she was “educated” enough or should I say dumb enough to believe. She recommended that once I got my privileges, I should go visit my little sisters and that the whole family go to counseling. I had a better plan. I believe you
see people when you have something to say and something to offer and I was still working on it. What was the sense in seeing my sisters when I couldn’t do shit for them. They’d start talking about they wanna come with me. What would I do then, move them from one shelter to another shelter for teenage girls! People always seemed to have stupid suggestions.

On my first free day, I hooked up with Simone. We had talked regularly on the phone, but only about business because time was limited. There was only one phone on my floor and everyone wanted to use it. No sense in hogging the phone and pissing off my customers. Simone seemed real happy to actually see me. We met at a pizza spot. She updated me on Brooklyn, said Natalie and Will were still together. Natalie hated me and had told all my personal business to everyone. My moms had sunk to an all-time low, had been seen wearing a full-body catsuit, you know the tight two-dollar legging with the bodysuit attached with no panties underneath. Her head was still bald, face still twisted, and body still on crack. Of course Simone didn’t word it that way, but let’s cut through the bullshit. I’m smart. Word on the street was Santiaga ain’t never getting out. Aunt B was screwing for money. My whole family had individual hustles going on and in general shit was tight. On the side Simone added that she had fixed up the room in her apartment for the baby. She had a new crib, blankets, toys, the works. Everything was pink. I told her it was dumb ’cause what if the baby was a boy? She had a sonogram, she said, and was sure it was a girl, so everything was in perfect order. She said she was seven months pregnant now, and getting tired all the time. She wanted me to know that she had put some money aside for the baby and she would need to slow down for the eighth and ninth month. Now I was no dummy so I caught the signal. My plans had to kick in as soon as possible. If she was gonna slow down that would affect the chain of cash flow we had going. Let’s face it. She was a booster. I wasn’t. She had the know-how and the connect. I didn’t. To tell the truth I wasn’t even interested in being a booster as long as I could make what Simone was already deep into work for me.

“Simone, I want to make an investment.”

“What kind of investment?”

“Crack.”

“That ain’t my area Winter, you know that. You know I have a weed connect but it’s out in Brooklyn back around the way.”

“No, fuck that. I need a closer connect up here. Weed is cool, but crack is better money. Once them baseheads get going they completely loyal customers. I need to at least triple my money so I can make moves.”

“I got a guy I can talk to, a cousin uptown. He’s real tight with his shit though, he might not even have a conversation with me. He be acting like he don’t be doing what he doing when everybody know what he be doing. Winter, I don’t know about getting into that shit. When you get caught you do time, hard time.” She hesitated, lowered her eyes, “Look what happened to your father.”

Right, I thought, that’s who I should be talking to, my father. And no matter what Simone said, my father got at least
twenty years of good high living
out of the business. Nobody could argue with that. That’s power. To be able to set up your own empire in your neighborhood, or even somebody else’s neighborhood for that matter. To buy cars, Jeeps, trucks. To sport the flyest shit made by top designers everyday. To be able to buy property, mansions, and still have apartments on the side. To be able to shit on people before they get a chance to shit on you. That’s power. Who could argue with that? A regular nigga worked all week for change to get to work plus a beer to forget about how hard he worked. My pops was a major player for a long time. With the bene fit of his knowledge I could make the world kiss my ass, but better than he did ’cause he could now teach me about the mistakes. Let’s compare it, ten years of good living and twenty years of high living versus sixty years of scraping to get by. Enough said.

I told Simone, “Listen, work on that connect for me. Try’n set me up a meeting. Here’s a list of what I need for the house. Let’s meet here Friday night at nine. I’ll pick it up.”

“What about Lashay?” Simone asked.

“Who?” I responded, my mind drifting to Santiaga. “Oh, I don’t need her anymore. I can get my evening passes now. I can be out till 11 P.M.”

“So what’s she gonna do?”

“Whatever she was doing before I got there.” I gave Simone a hug and broke out.

On the bus ride to the jail I organized a clever way to key Santiaga into what I was saying without exposing my hand to guards or phone surveillance. As Santiaga had taught me, hold your cards close to your
chest. Also, I wouldn’t bring up the Dulce issue because that might cause him or even me to get mad and then I might end up leaving the jail without the information I needed. I would say yes, I saw Porsche, Mercedes, and Lexy. How were they doing? Fine. Getting big growing up, and going to school. What could I say about Mama? Well, it was unusual but I didn’t have an answer up until the time I arrived at Riker’s, went through checks and searches and the whole process. I still had no answer. Up until the time for me to sign in the book I sat nervously biting my lip about Momma, a woman who, despite everything, I know Daddy loved so much.

The guard said have a seat. I preferred to stand. Somehow I thought I could think better standing up so I went to the corner of the room and paced back and forth, back and forth.

When the guard returned he said, “Sorry Ms. Santiaga, Ricky Santiaga does not want to see anyone today.”

“What? Did you tell him it was me? Did you tell him it was his daughter, Winter Santiaga?”

“Yes, I did. I gave him the same name you gave me.”

“What do you mean he doesn’t want to see me? What did he say? How did he say it?”

“He didn’t say anything. I told him you were here. He shook his head no. He doesn’t have to come out. A prisoner has the right to refuse a visit.”

Tears welled up and splashed out my eyes. The guard said, “Listen, if you write your name and address on a piece of paper I can give it to him. Maybe he’ll write.” As I jotted down my name, address, and phone number, I put on the bottom of the ripped piece of paper, Daddy please call me right away. I need you badly. Winter.

At the House of Success everyone asked me what’s wrong. I looked at their faces and thought to myself,
You’re not in my damn family. Don’t try to act like you are.
I shut them out and didn’t respond. I went to my bed, took off my shoes, and balled up under the cover in my clothes and slept. I slept through the rest of the afternoon, evening, and the night. I slept through the next morning, the next afternoon, and next evening again. Girls came and went. Can I buy a stogie? Do you have any more perm cream? What time can I get my hair done? Where did you put the catalog? My response was nothing.