Black Market Baby (3 page)

“Mrs.
Fairchild. This is Nicky Russo. It’s been a while since we’ve talked, but I
think I have something yous might be interested in knowing.”

“What
is it?”

“Not,
on the phone. Meet me at Gertie’s.”

“Gertie’s?”
Jillian frowned. “I’ve never heard of Gertie’s.”

“Get
in a cab. Gertie’s is in the South part of town.”

“Okay.
But, aren’t there thugs and drug dealers there?”

“Yep.
But, you’ll be with me. We’ll be safe. I’ll give yous two hours to get here. I
have something you’ll want to see. I’ll be waiting.”

Jillian
hung up the phone and rushed up stairs to change clothes. If she was going to a
ruthless part of town, she wanted to wear jeans, and not her nice dress slacks.
One never knows. She might need to run for her life. Nausea rolled inside her
stomach. As she pulled the black knit top over her face, her head pounded. This
could be more than she’d bargained for.

As
expected, the taxi ride was long. Though she hated cabs, she’d bite the bullet
and bear it. Yes, she had grown accustomed to having a faithful limo driver—one
trained in self-defense. The windows on the limo were bulletproof, and there
was a gun hidden inside a special compartment on the door. Going across town
gave her the jitters. Jillian felt vulnerable without her trusty guard; in
response to her fear, she zipped her suede jacket. This was the only life she
knew. Always protected. Always pampered. Was she just as spoiled as her sister?

* * * * *

When
the taxi reached Gertie’s, Jillian took in her surroundings. Gertie’s was a
greasy spoon on the lower part of Jefferson Street. She paid the driver, got
out of the cab, and plunged forward.

A
male was standing in the doorway of the small establishment. His Italian
features defined who he was. The manila envelope tucked beneath his arm drew
her attention.

“Jillian
Fairchild. I’m Nicky Russo. It’s good to finally meet yous face to face.” He
extended his hand and Jillian shook it. “Yous come inside. Have a seat.”

As
restaurants go, Jillian had only seen places like this one on television. If
the health department got wind of it, surely it would be history. “Of course.”

“Hey.
I know you’re a high class gal and all, but yous need to see something.”

She
looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching, then she gazed inside the
dank and, tumbled diner. “If you say so.” Jillian noticed Nicky’s leather
jacket, and striped gray shirt. Because his temples were graying, he appeared
to be in his mid-forties. His stomach was rather plump, an indication that he
loved to eat. She sighed. “So you have something for me?”

“More
than you know, Sista.” Nicky pointed to an unoccupied booth. “This is the best
seat in the house. I’ll sit on this side. The springs in the seat might rip
your nice jeans.” 

Jillian
smiled brightly, and then she sat down. “What do you have?”

“Yeah.”
He snickered. “I got a little something. The internet is good, but sometimes
you need to put your finger in the middle of the pie. Know what I mean?”

“I
think so.” Jillian shrank under his sardonic tone.

“Hey.
Yous want something to eat. I’m starvin’ myself. They got good food here.”

“No.
I’m fine. Help yourself.”

Nicky
turned toward the counter. “Hey. Trizia! Get your lazy butt over here. I’m
hungry. Know what I mean?”

Behind
the counter, Trizia was pouring a cup of coffee. “Yous been warmin’ that seat
for an hour, Nicky. Now you wanna put the rush on me. Shad-up!”

“Nice
kid.” He winked. “She loves me.”

Jillian
cringed. “Okay,” she managed, drumming her fingers on the worn table. There was
no doubt she was nervous. “I’ll have a cup of coffee.”

Nicky
made small talk while Jillian became frantic. Finally, she spat it out. “Mr.
Russo. I’m ready to pay you for any information you might have. Please get to
the point.”

“Oh.
I’m sorry. I shoulda known you was a busy lady. I’m just trying to getta rise
outta Trizia.” He picked up the envelope. “Now. I don’t do things on the up-and-up,
so don’t ask me nuttin’, okay. Just look at what I brung ya.” Nicky reached
inside the envelope. He pulled out Jillian’s birth certificate and slid it
across the table. “First of all. This ain’t real. It’s been doctored-up.”

“I’ve
seen this certificate for as long as I can remember. It says Ester and Leonard
Tapia are my parents. I was born on July 4
^th
1985 and weighed 7
pounds.”

“That’s
what it says, alright.” Nicky turned his head, and addressed the server. “Hey!
I’m starvin’ here. How long does it take to make a meatball sandwich?”

From
the serving window Trizia yelled, “Shad-up, you disturbing my customers.”

“Mr.
Russo.” Jillian touched his hand. “What else do you have?”

“Oh.”
He reached inside the envelope again, and pulled out another clipping. “This.”

Jullian
picked up the yellow paper. I was an article from the society column. She looked
at the picture. “That’s my mom and dad when they were younger. Couple returns
from Paris,” she read.

“Yeah.”
He nodded. “Look closer.”

Beside
her parents, there was a baby stroller. “That’s me.”

“Yah.
It’s you. But you didn’t get off of that ship.” The server placed the sandwich
in front of Nicky. He grinned and immediately reached for it.

“What?”

“It’s
all for show, doll face. When you ask about your baby pictures, what do your
parents tell you.”

“They
said, there was a robbery. We lost a lot of family heirlooms.”

“Yeah.
Right.” He bit into his large sandwich and chewed. “Excuse me. Have some.”

“No
thank you.” She leaned back against the booth.

“Well.
It looks as if your family made up the whole thing. Just for show. Look at the
date on the paper.”

“It’s
dated October 30
^th
.  1985. So what?”

“You
ain’t no infant. That’s what. You’re at least two years old.”

“You’re
right! What? How?”

“Hold
on to that pretty little head of yours. I got more stuff for ya.” Nicky put
down his sandwich and unfolded another clipping. The headlines read. “Toddler
Still Missing.” There was a small picture of a baby girl on the front page. An article
followed.

“Are
you saying that—that is my picture? It’s so small and distorted. Why, it’
hardly looks anything like me.”

“Not
only do I believe it’s you. I think I can prove it. I ran down the mother’s
name. Fran Dryfus. Fanny Franny. A known prostitute and crack head.”

“What
are you saying?” Jillian grimaced and pushed the article away. “Are you saying
that this woman is my mother?” She shook her head. “Well. We have to find her.
We have to prove you’re wrong!”

“Already
done that. I found ‘er. Live down on Industrial Blvd.”

“Industrial
Boulevard. They’re on the news all the time. Cuttings, shootings, drugs…”

“Hey.
You wanted to know, right? I don’t care where she lives, I just wanna make sure
you don’t try to stiff me on my money.”

“That’s
no problem, Nicky. I’ll pay you. Will you take me there?”

“Sweetheart.”
Nicky took a large bite of his sandwich and munched. “That will cost you two
grand.”

“You’re
kidding? I can go there by myself.”

“Yeah.
You can.” He swallowed. “But I doubt yous can walk inside the building, once
you get there.”

“I’m
not scared.”

“Well.
You need to be scared. Being scared is good in this part of town.”

“Okay.
I’ll pay you the two grand. Let’s go.”

“Can
I finish this delicious sandwich first? You’ve waited almost thirty years. You
can wait another five minutes, huh?”

“I’m
sorry, Nicky. I’m just anxious to meet my real mother. I’ve got to make sense
of my life.”

Jillian
pounded the table. “How dare they lie to me like this.”

“Babe.
I assure you. They did you a favor. See. Right now. You ain’t thinking with a
clear head.”

“Of
course I am! I want to know who I am.”

CHAPTER SIX

Jillian
got into Nicky’s rickety old car. She pulled the twisted and frayed seatbelt
across her shoulder. Nicky had a toothpick between his lips. He slammed the car
in gear and looked at Jillian. “Now. This ain’t gonna be a pretty sight.”

“I’m
ready,” she snapped. “Just drive.”

As
it was, many of the buildings were substandard, decaying, and crumbling.
However, Jillian’s view of the city got even worse. There was no doubt, this
was the slums. The neighborhood housed mixed cultures. Young men walked along
the street wearing tee shirts and displaying their boxer underwear. Pregnant
teens walked about or sat on the front steps of their apartment buildings.
Though this was a school day, young children ran rampant in the streets. On the
sidewalks, vagrants slept inside old boxes while holding onto crumpled paper
bags. Trash littered the streets. Hopefully, this was not where her real mother
lived. Her stomach heaved at the sight.

Disturbed
by the spectacle, she asked, “Are we almost there?”

Nicky
pulled the car over. “We are now.”

“Oh.
My God. Please tell me my mother doesn’t live here.” She cast her gaze up the
side of the two-story brick apartment building. Windows were broken or missing.
Tattered curtains waved through open screenless windows. The scent of frying
food floated in the air, it sickened her. Surely, this was not where she was
born.

Suddenly,
there was a commotion outside. A woman wielding a knife chased an elderly man
down the steps of an apartment. “And don’t come back here!” she yelled, “I’ll
cut you wide open if you do!”

Jillian
looked at Nicky. He shrugged. “I told you. It ain’t a pretty sight. Let’s go.”

With
trembling fingers, Jillian opened the car’s door. “Mama,” she whispered. “I’ve
gotta see her for myself.”

“Oh,
yeah. You’ll see her.” He cast his gaze upwards. From where she was standing
Jillian could tell he was looking at a particular window.

“Hey
Fanny!” he bellowed. “It’s me. Open the door.”

A
Black woman who wore a bandanna, came to the window. She peered down at the
street. “Nicky. Get your buns on up those stairs.”

“You
still gots the dog?” he called.

“Yeah,”
she sassed. “Cutie ain’t gonna hurt you.”

“He’d
better not. I’ll put a bullet in that nasty flea bag.”

Jillian
cocked her head to the side. “Cutie?”

“Yeah.
A Rottweiler. He’s a guard dog. She keeps him in the stairway. Can’t be too
careful around here.”

Fearful
for her life, Jillian grabbed Nicky’s arm and looked behind her. “Let’s hurry
along, please.”

Once
they made their way past Cutie, Jillian found herself standing in front of a
door. It was dripping with filth and hadn’t been painted in many years. “Yous
ready?” Jillian nodded.

She
inhaled, and groomed her hair. “Yes.”

Nicky
knocked.

The
woman opened the door, and Jillian frowned. Somehow, this woman was not what
she pictures. “Are you Fran Dryfus?”

“I
used to be.” She rolled her brown eyes, then swept her gaze over Jillian’s
petite frame. “You supposed to be my missing daughter, huh?”

Jillian
sighed. “That’s what I want to know.”

“Got
any money.” She extended her hand. “I can tell you anything you wanna know.”

“Are
you my mother?” Jillian pushed her way inside the dingy apartment, following
the woman.

“Maybe.
Maybe not.” The woman turned her back, shifted her weight, and walked away.

Jillian
softened her voice. “Please don’t play with me. I must know.”

Fran
turned. She gazed deep into Jillian’s eyes. “Tell you what. You put up the
dough, and I’ll sing.”

“Of
course.” Jillian reached into her purse. “Is a thousand dollars enough?”

“You’re
kidding me, right?” She reached for a crushed pack of cigarettes resting on the
kitchen table. Then she took a noisy slurp from a beer. “I know you’re worth
more than that. I’ve seen you, and your handsome Caucasian husband splattered
all over the papers. You’re worth millions.”

“Yes.”
Jillian drew back. “That is true. But, I will not be pressured into paying you
for information. How do I know you’re even my mother?”

Fanny
looked at Nicky and nodded. “Smart kid.”

“Look.
Give me five thousand and I’ll tell you ‘bout yourself. It don’t matter to me
anymore, anyways. Sit down.”

Jillian
made her way to the soiled sofa. It smelled of urine, and dog—she was sure
fleas scurried past her view. Sitting on the sofa, she opened her purse once
more. This time, she pulled out five thousand dollars, and placed them on the
coffee table. She shoved a few bills forward. “Are you my mother?”