Black Widow (19 page)

Chapter 23

The Black Angel

The following day, Isis caught the first flight bound for the sunshine state. Sly picked her up from the airport with all of Isis’s dry cleaning in the car. She also had a list of questions that she wanted to ask to make Isis’s life as easy as possible so that she could meet the deadline for Smooth Breeze.

As Sly was running off the questions, she suddenly stopped. “Why are you smiling?” Sly asked. “Did I say something funny?”

“No,” Isis said. It’s just that you remind me of my sister.” Then the thought of Phoebe possibly being in trouble upset her.

“I can’t wait to meet her. She sounds like a real cool girl.”

“She is,” Isis said, wondering what was really going on with Phoebe. Why was she shutting her out?

“Ice, you okay?”

“Yeah, just thinking about my sister, that’s all.”

Sly took Isis home to change clothes and get ready to go visit Logic. When Logic walked out and sat in the chair behind the glass, Isis lit up. His muscular body was even more toned than before he’d gone in, and he looked genuinely happy to see her. He picked up the telephone that was used to talk through the glass. She picked up hers.

“So how are you?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Things are moving along pretty much like you said they would.”

“Have you spoken to Breeze since they hit him with the charges?” he asked her.

“He didn’t do it, Logic.”

“How do
you
know he didn’t?”

Isis told him about how she had met the girl who was pressing the charges—in Breeze’s dressing room the night she’d gone to talk business with him at the arena. “They were in there talking about how they planned to suck and fuck the man all the way to the altar,” she went on to say. “I got the whole conversation on my digital recorder.”

“Digital recorder?” he asked. “When you started playing PI?”

“After meeting your friend Fonz, actually.” Isis then told him about how she had had to knee the man for acting like a complete asshole and how she was afraid that he wouldn’t believe her version of what happened, so she’d made the decision to record everyone she spoke to from then on. “I sent the recording to Smooth Breeze’s people, so he should be all right. He’s supposed to have a press conference on Friday, and he wants to wear one of my pieces.”

“That’s what’s up, Princess,” Logic said, congratulating her. “The other thing was my fault. I should’ve warned you about Fonz…he can be a piece of work. I thought he would know better than to try that shit on someone I sent, but maybe I forgot to mention that you were my wife. Don’t worry, though; I’ll get someone to handle that.” He changed the subject. “What about my car? Is it somewhere safe?”

“I had it transported to Richmond like you asked, and my Aunt Samantha is going to put it in storage and send me all the paperwork.”

Logic smiled. “Nothing rattles you, huh?”

Isis thought about the first day Logic had called her when she had just found out that Bam had taken everything that she owned aside from the clothes on her back, the suitcase she took with her to Las Vegas, and the twenty thousand dollars that was left over from the trip. She had thought it was the end of the world. “Yes, I rattle,” she said. “But I try not to let it shake me apart.”

They talked about a few other things before one of the guards walked up behind Logic and said, “Time’s up.” The hour had flown by, and it was time for Isis to leave.

It was 10:52 Friday morning, the day of Smooth Breeze’s press conference. Isis had been on the phone and e-mailing back and forth with Ricco the previous night to get the piece of jewelry ready for her client. She wished that she would’ve had a little more time to do the thing herself, but that was not the case. Her heart was beating pretty fast as she knocked on Smooth Breeze’s hotel room door.

Tony answered the door with a smile and a big hug, then he invited her inside. “Thank you, Ms. Ice, for everything.”

Isis checked out her surroundings. Smooth Breeze and his crew were staying in a three-room suite that contained two bedrooms and a large conference room. The ever-present weed smoke was thick in the air, and the same guy who’d been doing the rolling the night she’d met them at the arena was still taking care of his business. She wondered if he ever stopped rolling blunts, or was it a never-ending job?

It was apparent that they had been staying there for a while because tags from new clothes, liquor bottles, and food containers were all over the place—the floor, the coffee tables, and all points in between. The maid would definitely have her work cut out for her—
if
they ever let the poor lady in to do her job.

“I thank y’all for allowing me to show the world my talent,” she said. “You are welcome. I don’t know if I told you or not, but my business’s name is Black Widow Jewels. Smooth Breeze will be the first to wear a piece from the Black Widow collection.”

Smooth Breeze walked in from the main bedroom, and his face took on a humongous grin. “Is this my favorite jewelry designer or my lead defense attorney? I’m going to have to write you two checks.”

“It’s me,” she said, “the Black Widow, in the flesh.”

“Well, I just want to tell you thanks again and to suggest that maybe you should change your name from the Black Widow to the Black Angel.” Breeze talked more freely to her today than he had the first couple of times they had met. “I don’t think you fully understand how you went on some Janice Cochran shit and saved the goddamn day.”

“For real, I’m just glad I had what you needed to clear your name. Hos like that give real women a bad name,” she admitted. “Then people want to know why you make a record calling a bitch a bitch. It’s self-evident.”

“You know what’s crazy, though?” Breeze asked.

Isis was almost afraid to ask. “What?”

“I don’t normally even fuck with them groupie chicks like that.” Isis gave him a “Nigga, please!” look, so Breeze looked toward Tony, and Tony shook his head, acknowledging that he was telling the truth. Breeze continued, “I break my rule and give it to this chick like she wants it. Excuse my lack of modesty, but it is what it is, and this is what I get in return. And you want to know why she told Tony she was gon’ send my red ass to prison?” He looked toward Tony. “Tell her, T.”

Tony looked Isis directly in the eye. “She said that she almost choked sucking and drinking all the cum from that skinny red nigga’s big-ass dick, and he didn’t even ask for her phone number when she was done.”

“Yeah, she came at me like a ho, so I treated her like one,” Breeze confirmed. “Then the bitch tried to Tupac me. And you see how fast the media jumped on it: like an alcoholic to a fifth of Seagram’s Gin. Innocent until proven guilty, my ass. Before the ink was even dry on the allegations, the whities started pulling the plug on my endorsements.” He poured himself a drink. “It was only one thing that bitch said that wasn’t a lie.”

Isis was curious. “What was that?”

Smooth Breeze smiled. “She said that she was going to give me the best mother fucking brains I ever had in my life.”

“If you wouldn’t have come forth with that tape, he would’ve been fucked up in the game for sure,” Tony added.

“I am glad I could be of help. Just do me one favor?” Isis said.

“Anything,” Tony said.

“Don’t let it leak that you got the evidence from me. People might not want to talk to me if they think they might be recorded.”

“Fair enough.”

“Well, let’s lighten the conversation some,” she said. “Let me show you what I have for you.” She pulled out a medallion laced with black and yellow diamonds. It had the word
Bitches
with a slanted bar going through it. The word was spelled out in yellow diamonds, and the bar that ran across it was in black diamonds. The necklace itself was constructed of the same color diamonds. And of course there was a twenty-two-carat diamond ring to match.

No one spoke as Tony and Breeze looked over the pieces. Isis was afraid that they didn’t like them. Then Breeze broke the silence. “Daaamn! You ain’t playing with this shit, are you?”

“And neither should you.” Isis smiled.

“You are my exclusive jeweler for now on,” he said.

“Good. Then I can give you this as my gift.” She pulled a fifteen-carat bracelet of black and yellow diamonds from her pocketbook and handed it to him.

“Ice. I mean, Black Widow…you outdone yourself. It’s a good look. The glare from these bad boys might crack the damn TV camera lenses at the news conference.”

“That’s the idea.”

“When can you have something for my boys?”

“I thought you would never ask. I’m going to leave these pictures.” Isis laid down a rhinestone photo album containing photos of jewelry designs. “Just have someone give me a call and let me know what they like,” she said. “And good luck at the news conference. Now I have to be leaving.”

Breeze went to his press conference, which turned out quite successfully. He was later cleared of all allegations concerning the incident with the alleged victim, but a new controversy arose over why he would wear a necklace that described women in such a degrading manner. Breeze told the press that the necklace didn’t have anything to do with women. Women never did anything but show him love. He said his beef was strictly with bitches, and he would appreciate it if the bitches would stop putting real women in their fight. “And for the women,” he said, “you know who you are. Shout-out to my jewelry designer, Ms. Ice, icing me out with an exclusive Black Widow original. If it ain’t got the spider stamp, it ain’t original—ya heard!”

That was the jump start that Black Widow Jewels needed. Isis got a lot of calls about her jewelry, and the media went bananas wanting to know why she’d named herself and her work after a deadly spider. The press wanted to talk. But as it always does, the fame came before the fortune.

Chapter 24

A Sister’s Cry

Phoebe and Randy Vanz had met while she was trying out for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. They had gone out a couple of times, but it was nothing serious. Cheerleaders weren’t supposed to date the players anyway. But after Phoebe got cut from the team, it was a different story altogether. Her self-esteem was bruised, and she needed a man’s attention to soothe the pain.

Randy was supposed to have been the number-one pick when he came out of the draft, but he broke his leg during the last game of his college career. He ended up being picked in the fourth round and was the third-string running back. What should have been a multimillion-dollar contract ended up being a $600,000 a year blow to his ego. He was mad. And he took his frustrations out on his new girlfriend.

Phoebe and Randy had had dinner earlier that evening. They were back at home, and Randy watched as Phoebe undressed in front of the mirror. He was always watching. Phoebe noticed that she had put on a few pounds over the past few months. How could she not? Randy’s controlling behavior kept her cooped up in a four-million-dollar house that he couldn’t afford but had to have. There was nothing for her to do all day except watch movies and eat. Her only opportunity to get out alone was during the day while he was at practice. Even then, she knew he had people watching her. Whenever she did something outside of the perimeters he had set for her, he corrected her in that good old Ike Turner way. And recently the beatings had gotten so bad that she didn’t want to go out anyway, because she could barely hide the bruises that she was constantly nursing.

“Why did you order that cake tonight at dinner for dessert?” Randy asked.

She knew that he was looking for a reason to hit her, as if the verbal abuse wasn’t enough. She chose her words carefully. “I only did what you asked me to do. You insisted that I have something.”

Before she knew it, her face met his hand, and once again he was using her as his personal punching bag. She tried to fight back. She always tried to fight back, but that seemed only to make him more hyped. Somehow in his twisted rationalization, it justified his fucked-up actions.

“Oh. You want to fight, huh?” he taunted, hitting her so hard with one blow that she stumbled and fell on her back on the cold, hardwood floor. He got on top of her and continued to hit her as if she was some practice toy. She reached for the ceramic cat that sat by the fireplace in the bedroom and managed to get hold of it. She cracked him upside of the head as hard as she could. It did the trick. He let her go and grabbed his head. But the effect lasted about as long as a two-dollar watered-down drink in an after-hours spot.

“Bitch,” he screamed, and before she could escape, he had grabbed her by the leg. She kicked him in the face, which bought her just enough time to slip her foot out of his grip and run for the bathroom. She would lock herself in until he cooled off. But before she could get the latch on the door, he came charging toward her. He was still a little drunk from the liquor he had at dinner and disoriented from the blow upside of his head, so she managed to make him trip over her vanity table, and she slipped out of his grasp. While running out of the bedroom, she picked up the chair to the dressing-room table and then scooped up the remote that worked every lock and appliance in the house.

She closed the bedroom door and slid the back of the chair underneath the doorknob, and then ran down the hall, hitting buttons on the controller. One was to get into the laundry room to grab some sweats and sneakers. Luckily for her, she kept her pocketbook downstairs. She grabbed it, got the keys to the Lexus LS 400 that Randy usually let her drive, and burned rubber.

She pulled the car into a gas station down the street from the house. She went to use the restroom to clean herself up a little. When she looked into the mirror at herself, she started to cry. She had had enough. She looked a mess. She no longer had that soft, beautiful glow; she was beginning to look hard from all the beatings. She knew she had to get out. This time she wasn’t going back.

She called Isis. “Sister, I need help.”

“Phoebe? Where are you?” Isis said, relieved to finally hear from her sister.

“I’m at a gas station around the block from my house. I can’t take it anymore; that nigga been puttin’ his hands on me. I got to get outta here before somebody ends up dead.”

Isis was furious. “Just tell me what you want me to do right now, sister. You need money? You need me to book you a flight? Do you have your ID on you? You want me to come get you? Just let me know.”

“I have ID. Just get me a flight, but I don’t want to go home to Momma. I want to come with you,” she said, crying.

“No problem. Will you be okay while I make the arrangements? I promise I’ll call you right back as soon as I get off the phone with the airline. If there’s nothing leaving out tonight, I’ll get you a hotel until morning.” Isis heard a banging sound coming through the phone, followed by a male voice yelling her sister’s name.

Phoebe panicked. “Sister, it’s him. He’s at the door.”

“Don’t let him in,” Isis warned her sister. “I’m going to call the police.”

“No—no police. I don’t want his business to be in the media like that. He already got enough issues as it is.”

“Fuck him! I’m only worried about you.”

Isis could hear Randy’s screaming through the phone. “Fee, open up the door. I don’t want to have to kick this motherfucker in,” he threatened.

“Randy, go away. Just leave me alone,” Phoebe pleaded.

As Isis listened, she couldn’t believe that this was the type of thing her sister had been dealing with. How had she hidden it so well?

“I’m not leaving without you, baby.” This time he sounded calm and sweet like a pussycat.

“Don’t fall for his bullshit,” Isis yelled into the phone. “Don’t open the door.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not.” Phoebe wasn’t crying as much as she was before.

A man walked up to Randy and tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Vanz?” the man ventured to ask. “Is that you?” The man had a strong Texas accent. “You’re my son’s hero. He’s over there in the car and wants your autograph. Please, let’s not disappoint him by letting him see you out here banging on the ladies’ room door.”

Knowing that he was drawing attention to himself, Randy got a grip. “Where’s the kid at?”

“Right there in that there truck,” the stranger said. “Won’t you slide on over and say howdy to him? It’ll mean the world to ’im.”

Once Phoebe heard Randy leave to speak to his little fan, she slowly opened up the bathroom door and made a dash for her car, making her second escape from him in that night.

Isis screamed in the phone, “Sister, you there?” She was frantic. “What’s happening?”

“I’m in my car, heading toward the airport,” Phoebe said. “There’s a Western Union there, but I want to go back and get my clothes. I look a mess. They’ll think I’m some crazy maniac trying to board the plane, looking like this and with no luggage. I look like a suicide bomber with nothing to lose.”

“Fuck your clothes! We’ll get you more when you get here,” she told her. “And fuck what other people think. You need to get out of there.”

“Okay. I’m going to call you once I’m pulling into the airport parking lot.”

Isis hopped online to send her sister money through Western Union and an airline ticket. About twenty minutes had passed since Isis had last spoken to her sister. Then the phone rang.

It was Phoebe. “Sister, a nice police officer was kind enough to let me call you before he took me in. He’s taking me to jail for grand theft auto and a few other charges. Randy reported the car stolen. Please come out here and get me. I got to go.”

“I’m on my way” was all Isis said as she prepared to make it happen.

Isis needed to get her sister a lawyer, a bond hearing, and a bond to get her out of jail, but she didn’t have those types of resources in Texas. She wished she could talk to Logic, but she had to move now. She didn’t want her sister to stay in jail one minute longer than she had to. Whom could she call?

Then she ran to the front room of the condo to get her pocketbook. She held it upside down, emptying it, looking for a piece of paper. If he was anything remotely close to what he claimed to be, surely he would be able to help her. There it was. She found it: It was a small piece of paper randomly torn in the shape of a trapezoid, and above the number, it read: The King of Texas.

She didn’t waste any time before dialing his number. Someone answered on the second ring. “Talk to me.”

“Is this how the king of Texas answers the telephone?” Isis asked.

“Who is this?” the same voice asked.

“It’s the lady you met at the Gucci store,” Isis said. “I never got your name.”

“Larry Love,” he joked. “And yours?”

“Isis.”

“Pardon me, Ms. Isis. I didn’t mean to answer the phone so rudely, but I know a few people from the 804 area code.”

“Oh. Who might that be?”

“Just some folks,” he said. “Where do
you
live—St. Petersburg or Richmond?”

“I’m actually from Richmond, but I live in Miami.”

“MIA, huh?”

“Yup.”

“So when are you coming back to my kingdom?”

“Well, actually that’s why I was calling you. My sister lives down there, and her man beat her up. When she tried to leave him, he reported the car stolen, so now she’s locked up. I’m going down there tomorrow to get her a lawyer and hopefully get her out, but I know nothing about Texas. So I’m going to need some advice. I figured who better to call than the Emperor of the South.”

“No doubt, darling, I got you covered. When does your flight land?”

“Tomorrow,” she said, “at eight in the morning.”

“Then I’ll pick you up from the airport.”

She graciously thanked him and then added, “While I’m there, I also want to talk to you about possibly doing business together.”

“What type of business?” he asked. “What do you do?”

“I design the hottest jewelry that money can buy.”

“What a coincidence.”