Life Without Hope (50 page)

one leg to the other.

“
I just came to check on you and the kid,” he said uncom-

fortably.

“
Yeah, I bet you did,” I said sarcastically.

“
Mommy, let him in.”

“
Hi, little man!” Officer Coffee started to reach down and pat

Marcus on the head but thought better of it since Marcus was

between my legs. Instead, from behind his back, he produced a

pizza and smiled for the first time.

“
Bribery will get you nowhere,” I gibed.

“
It’s only bribery if you accept.” He smiled, knowing he got

me on that one.

“
Mommy he got pizza! He got pizza!”

It felt like my son was going to plow my legs right from under

me. All I could do was shake my head. “See what you did?” I

scuffed as I relented and opened the door letting him in. He

walked in, a mountain of a man. His cologne would forever be a

signature on my feminine loins. He smelled like something good

enough to eat.

“
I apologize,” he said, his thick baritone voice dripping with

seduction.

He bent down and pecked me on my forehead. We were

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standing too close. The man was too damn fine, and he knew it.

The moment lingered like fog evaporating, lust titillating. In the

background my son danced to a song he created about pizza.

I pulled my eyes away from Mr. Coffee shamefully, like maybe

he could read my thoughts. “Have a seat, I’ll get some plates.”

Before I knew it, Marcus was swinging on the man’s arm.

“
Marcus! Stop that.” Mr. Coffee tossed him so high in the air I

thought he was going to bump his head on the ceiling. Marcus

shrilled with joyful glee.

“
It’s OK, I love to play with children, wouldn’t mind making

a few myself,” he said and winked at me flirtatiously and tossed

Marcus up in the air again. The two of them were having a ball

and I realized just how much my son missed the companionship

of a man.

While we were munching on pizza and drinking Cokes, the

phone rang. I picked it up, it was a collect call from a federal insti-

tution, Life Thugstin. I sighed deeply over the phone. In my heart

I wanted him to call, didn’t I?

“
Ma’am will you accept the phone call?”

“
Yes,” I finally said and braced myself like a boxer preparing

for a body blow.

“
Hope? Hope! You there?” He called my name like it was the

day we first met.

“
What do you want?” I said acidly.

“
Hope, I called to tell you that I’m sorry. I heard that you quit

your job wit them crackas. I guess you were serious, huh?”

“
What do you want?” I repeatedly, coldly.

“
Hope, I’m under a lot of stress. Can’t trust nobody, this shit

big, ya know.”

As Life talked, in the background it sounded like he was call-

ing from an insane asylum. I could barely hear him “Hope, I need

your help. Please?” All I could do was roll my eyes up at the ceil-

ing.

Black men,

I thought. I noticed Mr. Coffee watching me

closely.

“
Evidently there’s nothing I can do for you,” I said curtly. I

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was talking about the stunt he pulled back at the SHU where he

spit in my face.

“
Hope, I said I was sorry.”

“
Uh huh,” I grumbled.

“
Tomorrow visiting hours start at 8 o’clock in the morning.

I’ll make it worth your while if you –”

“
I don’t need your money!” I screeched.

“
Please, let me –”

“
I don’t have time.” I hung the phone up and walked over to

the couch and sat down.

“
You OK?” Mr. Coffee asked.

I tried to smile, but it felt like my face hurt, actually it was my

heart. I gave the man my phone number and then hung up in his

face. A sista can be vindictive.

I lost my appetite along with my mood for any male compa-

ny.

“
I’m just tired, overworked and underpaid,” I said, forcing my

cheeks to form a smile. He just looked at me. I could tell he want-

ed to ask about the phone call. A portion of cold pizza sat on the

table. I looked at Marcus, he sat nodding his head like a yo-yo,

fighting sleep. I faked a long drawn out yawn like I was sleepy, too.

Mr. Coffee smirked at me as if to say,

I can take a hint

.

I walked him to the door. He turned and tried to kiss me and

at the same time, cop a feel. Mr. Man was smooth, but a little to

slow. I ducked my lips giving him a hug. He caressed my backside

and for a fleeting moment, I thought about letting him take me

upstairs and rock my world. In the end, I ended up shoving him

out the door. From the look in his pants he was going to have to

take a cold shower when he got home, if that’s where he was going.

Early the next morning, I awakened my son. He was not an

early person. If this was any indication of his disposition as an

adult, some woman was going to be in trouble.

I smothered his tiny face with kisses. “Wake up Pookie,” I

cooed in his ear. Both his mouth and his nose crinkled into a

sleepy grimace. My child’s rebuff with his eyes still closed, I

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smothered him with more kisses against his weak resistance until

finally I was rewarded with a protracted yawn and a whimper with

petulant lips. The sound that he made is what I imagined what

doves sound like when they cry.

“
Noooo Mommy,” he crooned as his beautiful long eyelashes

fluttered like butter flies. Afterward we took a bubble bath togeth-

er, my son and I. We were both unemployed. I was out of work

and he was out of school. For that day I decided that we would

just have to be inseparable.

*****

I drove to the 7-Eleven and bought some breakfast. While I

was in line with the rest of the early morning commuters, I could-

n’t help but notice the magazine rack,

Newsweek

,

People

,

Ebony

,

The National Enquirer

. Holy cow! On the front page of

Times

, was

a picture of Bill Clinton with a background silhouette of the

White House. The title of the article was, “

WAR ON DRUGS, Is

it working?”

and in the left hand corner was a picture of Life

Thugstin and Willie Falcon. I scooped up the magazine and start-

ed reading it right there in line.

Back in the car I pulled over to the side of the gas station, for-

getting to pump my gas. In the magazine were pictures of Life’s

estate, along with pictures of Trina Vasquez, Tomica Edwards,

Evette Keys and a young beautiful Black girl by the name of Annie

Bell. She miraculously sur vived after being riddled with bullets in

a botched assassination attempt on Life Thustin. Unfortunately

her 3-year-old son died. I was already familiar with the case and

all its gory details. Still I was fascinated. The authorities were still

searching for the lieutenants. They were known only as the Miami

Boys. They seemed to have disappeared as quickly as they

appeared.

It was alleged that Life and his crew of hoodlums were respon-

sible for hundreds of brutal assaults and murders. In some

instances, body parts were found missing, such as heads and arms.

One of Life’s lieutenants had been murdered, a man by the name

of Johnny Davis, better known as Dir ty. I knew him from my

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neighborhood in Miami, the Pork and Beans Projects.

*****

I finally found the appropriate office space. It wasn’t much

bigger than my walk-in closet at home, but it was mine, and this

was where I was going to make my start. I signed a lease. They

wanted a thousand dollars a month for rent. I planned to buy used

office furniture, start from scratch and work my way up. I will

never be able to explain why I made my next move. Maybe it was

just an overwhelming impulse. On the same day that I rented the

office I still had Marcus with me since it was our day together. In

a semi-trance, I drove straight to the Federal Detention Center. I

couldn’t walk away from that man if I wanted to. Believe me, I

wanted to.

On the drive there, Marcus was starting to get cranky and rest-

less. He had so much pent up energy, but not enough to want to

place him on dr ugs. I was thinking about the nuns back at the

school.

As I drove up to the FDC building there were still a few media

vans and trucks still scattered around the place. I knew that if it

weren’t for Life’s association with Willie Falcon he would not be

receiving all this publicity.

With suitcase in one hand and Marcus in tow, I entered the

building as my mind wrestled with what I was doing,

“
Mommy, where we going?”

“
To see a man about a dog.”

Instantly a few of the correctional officers recognized me with

a few raised brows.

Finally, after I went through all the procedures that are

designed to make people not want to visit their loved ones, like

waiting well over an hour and the search of my person, I was final-

ly accepted into the visiting area. I sat in one of these terribly

uncomfortable chairs. The building was cold, the air conditioner

was turned up high. A few rows down from us, an obese Black

woman with orange hair weave in her head sat eating chicken

wings that came from the vending machine. In the distance I

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heard the PA system call a name. My mind was in a blur.

“
What am I doing here?” Marcus sat next to me his legs swing-

ing from the chair. He spotted the vending machine with the

candy and pointed.

“
Candy, Mommy.”

“
Not right now sweetheart.”

I exhaled and re-crossed my legs. Already the chair was start-

ing to hurt my behind. I looked up to see the large woman walk

over to the vending machine again just as three visitors entered,

two young girls in their early teens and an elderly woman who

must have been the Grandmother. In my peripheral vision, I saw

Life enter the room. My breath got caught in my throat. For the

first time I noticed his limp and the way he carried his arm. I

thought about the attempted murder on his life. He came and

stood in front of me. I could smell soap and something else, cocoa

butter? I got the impression he wanted me to stand and hug him.

“
Sit down,” I said r udely, giving him a once over and then

glancing at my watch. He sat across from me. It felt like I was