The Corner III (No Way Out) (9 page)

LaTanza smiled and said, “I love you like a brother.”

As she exited the car he said, “And you are my sister.”

Rafael got back in the driver’s seat. “Where to, Chavez?” he asked.

Chavez watched as LaTanza entered her lavish home. Once she was safe inside, he said, “To see my kids in Humbolt Park. Their grandmother’s house.”

Rafael, a twenty-two year old soldier, put the car in gear and they were on their way to the predominantly Hispanic neighborhood.

Chavez lit his cigar and took a few long pulls on it and enjoyed the robust flavor. The bluish smoke filled the car. “Little homey, let the moon roof back.”

Rafael did as told, and Chavez cracked his window. “Play some music,” Chavez commanded. He puffed his cigar and blew rings of smoke upward. “And Rafael.”

“What’s up, Chavez?” he asked energetically. He was happy to be one of Chavez’s right hand men.

“You repeat to anyone or so much as talk it in your sleep any of what you heard in this car,” he took a hit of his cigar. “I’ll do you like I did that nigger Jimmie, only worse.”

*     *     *

Slim was sitting at the counter sipping a cup of coffee. He glanced at his Movado. It was five seventeen in the morning; the same time it was when Trish came into Ray’s the other morning. He sipped his coffee and saw that Ray was grinning as he did his thing on the grill.

Slim smiled, “You told Trish my real name, didn’t you?”

Ray shrugged. “The woman asked, so I told her.”

“I know you better than that. You wouldn’t tell anyone my name, so why tell her?”

“Like I said, she asked. I could tell she was interested in you. And your ass is sitting in the same seat at the same time as two mornings ago. Damn Slim, you need to let that shit that happened with Lisa go. She was actually a good girl who got caught up in the lifestyle that
you lead.
”

“Ray, how I handle things with women doesn’t have a thing to do with what went down with Lisa,” Slim lied.

Ray slapped three eggs onto the cream-colored plate with his spatula. “Three eggs, bacon and toast,” he told his only waitress as he handed her the dish.

He continued, “Slim, you deal with couch women.”

“What?” Slim asked confused.

Ray nodded and motioned with his hand, “You got couch women. They get bent over the arm of the couch and get hit from behind. You got bedroom women. The ones you make love to, fall asleep with and wake up and…” he grabbed his spatula and flipped the meat he had on the grill. “Cook breakfast for ’cause you like having them around.”

 Slim laughed, “Ray, you’re crazy! And your theory is wrong. I’ve had some hoes in my bed, not only on the couch.”

“Boy, don’t get cute, you get the point.”

The bell on the door rang. Naturally, Slim, who was always on alert, turned to see who had entered. Ray said to him, “Bedroom woman.”

Trish headed to the pastries.

“Gonna go to ya hips, woman,” Ray said.

“And good morning to you, too. Besides, a man should love you for you!” she smiled as she grabbed a chocolate doughnut with sprinkles and bit into it. Ray slid a glass of milk to her, and it stopped in front of her. She giggled, “That was perfect!”

“Years of practice.”

Trish smiled, “Good morning, Marcellus, you’re up early.”

Slim replied, “Someone told me that if I was serious about seeing her that I’d know where to find her.”

“Is that right?” She spun a three-sixty on the stool then asked, “Is that person here?”

Slim stood then shortened the distance between them. He sat on the stool next to her and said, “I’m looking at her.”

Trish giggled, and without taking her eyes off Slim, she picked up her doughnut and bit it.

*     *     *

It was eight in the morning. Trish had been up nearly twenty hours and should have been asleep, but she and Slim sat in a booth at Ray’s and ate breakfast. She stepped out of her beat up Hyundai and was all smiles. Cloud nine was where her head was. She couldn’t remember the last time she was so intrigued by a man’s conversation. Smart, funny and a good listener. That was the main thing—he was a listener. And that was good because sometimes Trish could ramble on. Especially, when she liked someone, and while talking over eggs, grits, sausage and pancakes, she felt that Slim could be someone special.

Trish swung her imitation Louis Vuitton bag with every step she made as she thought about the movie night she and Slim had planned for tomorrow. She was broken out of her state of giddiness when the black Dodge Charger came to a halt in front of the apartment. Styles stepped out, and he looked as if he hadn’t had any sleep and immediately put on a front.

“Hey, baby, where have you been? I came by when you got off, but you weren’t here. Where you been?” Styles asked knowing full well of her whereabouts, especially since he’d followed her to Ray’s.

Trish’s demeanor changed, she was no longer on cloud nine. She had been brought back to earth by a man she simply tolerated. “I stopped to get something to eat. You know I don’t like the food at the club so I’m always starving when I leave,” she said as she kept walking up the walkway to the house.

Styles caught up with her and matched her stride. “Damn, you were smiling ear to ear when you stepped out of your car. Now you’re frowning. What’s up with that?” he asked as they walked through the gangway.

“I don’t know, I guess it’s because it’s like you are always tripping on me when I’m not right where you think I should be. Like you own me or something,” Trish said in a tone that showed that she was obviously pissed.

They were at the back of the building, Trish’s entrance. She took out her keys, unlocked the door and the two entered. Once inside the small apartment and the door closed, Styles grabbed Trish by the arm. His voice was stern when he said, “I saw you with that Slim mothafucka at the club and now having breakfast! What’s up with that?”

“It’s nothing. He was in the place where I stop and eat. We talked and that’s all,” she said as she snatched her arm away from Styles.

He thought about his aggressiveness and decided to tone it down a notch. He brushed her arm and then her cheek. “I’m sorry, baby, but I have to be careful. You do know who that man is, right?”

She sobbed, “I told you I just met him. He’s a friend of the owner. Why do you have to grab me like that?” Her Spanish accent became prevalent.

Styles kissed her cheek then said, “I’m sorry. I just have to be sure you’re really down with me. You know Slim is a known drug dealer. Yeah, he’s big time, but his time is about to run out. You and I are cool, and I wouldn’t want you to get caught up in his swagger.”

He snaked his arm around the small of her back. She wanted to pull away, but simply went with the flow. Styles kissed her deeply, and she kissed him back. Passion was not thrown Style’s way even though he moaned as their tongues danced. His powerful hand cupped her breast as the other gripped her ass. Trish slowly ran her hand up his back until she reached the back of his bald head. He undressed her, then himself as they continued to kiss and fondle. He led her to the blue microfiber couch in the tiny living room. He parted her smooth legs and admired what she had to offer.

“Damn you got a pretty pussy,” he said as he guided himself to her opening.

“You’re not wearing a condom,” Trish said as she made a half-hearted attempt to close her legs.

“I want to feel it,” Styles said as he slid his thickness inside her with one hard thrust that hurt Trish since she was dry from not being aroused. He commenced to stroke her hard and deep.

When Trish first started sleeping with Styles, she didn’t mind. She was slightly attracted to his position as a detective. She liked how he promised to keep her out of jail, but then soon realized that he treated her as his property and that she’d become her mother. A whore to him, the difference—she wasn’t getting paid. She remembered her mother telling one of her friends how she thought of happy thoughts when she was with her johns. That she was in another world when conducting her
business
. So Trish did the same—thought about a happy thought. Imagined that it was Slim inside of her instead of the crooked cop, Styles.

*     *     *

Slim walked inside his downtown loft and closed the door. After deactivating the alarm system, he walked over to his one hundred and fifty gallon aquarium and raised the lid. Most of the cichlids swam to the top awaiting a feed. Slim opened the doors to the cabinet stand. Inside was a thirty gallon tank filled with feeder Guppies. Slim used the small green net to scoop a bunch of the small fish, then dumped them into the tank. The fish scattered as quickly as they could to find a refuge in the dangerous water. The cichlids seemed happy to have live food to hunt rather than the flake food they often received.

“Ahh, I know you all are happy now. Steak instead of Ramen noodles,” Slim joked as he closed the lid and watched for a moment as the circle of life took place. He liked watching the way things went on in the food chain. Only the strong survive. It was nature, the way of life and the way animals treated life was sort of the way Slim looked at it and were some of the rules he lived by. They were rules that were around long before man, so he knew them to be rules that worked.

It was morning, and he’d been up all night. He had had a good breakfast and conversation with Trish. She was witty, smart, funny and not to mention, beautiful. They talked and laughed over pancakes, eggs and sausage as they got to know each other. Once the breakfast was over and Trish decided to leave, Butchie admitted when Trish asked who Slim was when she first saw him, he had put in a good word to her about his younger friend, and the rest was up to Slim.

Slim opened the refrigerator and grabbed a carton of orange juice. He poured himself a glass, sat on his Italian leather couch and clicked the remote to the Sony forty-six inch and watched CNBC and Good Morning America. Slim sipped as he bounced from channel to channel catching up on news. He tried to concentrate on what was going on in America, but his thoughts were still in the diner and on Trish. He reached into the right front pocket of his Perry Ellis jeans and retrieved the napkin. The one Trish wrote her number on. He looked the number over then picked his cell up off the coffee table. He was about to dial then smiled before mumbling to himself, “Don’t sweat her.”

He set the phone down then picked up the remote. He changed the channel to Sports Center to watch what was going on with his White Sox. Stuart Scott was hosting ESPN, and Slim tried to get into the sports talk, but couldn’t help thinking of Trish.

*     *     *

Styles was standing in the doorway of Trish’s bedroom. He’d just showered and was drying off as she sat on the bed with her knees pulled to her chest and the blanket over her.

Trish asked, “How long are you going to hold those charges over my head? I mean, if you love me like you say, you would’ve made it go away by now.”

Without saying a word, Styles slid on his boxers and then his jeans. He grabbed his cigarettes off the nightstand. He was standing next to Trish as he lit up. He puffed, blew smoke in the air then said, “You were in a car that had a dope in it.”

“You know I didn’t know anything about that. I had just met him—”

“Just like how you were chomping down on breakfast this morning with a known drug dealer.” He shook his head as he grabbed his shirt. “You sure know how to pick ’em.”

“You know you treat me like shit,” she said as her phone rang. She picked it up and looked at the number. She didn’t recognize it so she didn’t answer.

Styles said, “Probably his ass right there.”

Styles’ cell rang. He checked the number, and it was Rivera so he answered. “Rivera, what’s up, homey?”

“Can you talk?” the detective asked.