Bronx Requiem(10)

“So how you feelin’, Princess? You still feelin’ special?”

Amelia didn’t look at Derrick. That was one of Derrick’s most important rules. For now, Amelia didn’t care because she didn’t want to see his face.

“No.”

“Good, cuz you ain’t. Too bad you got to learn that the hard way.”

Amelia didn’t comment.

Derrick wiped his mouth with a greasy paper napkin and sat back in his chair. He looked at Amelia.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, unless I missed somethin’, you ain’t like no doctor or lawyer are you?”

“No.”

“Actually, you ain’t even made it through high school. Did you?”

“No.”

“That’s right. You didn’t. Oh, wait, you got some rich daddy out there give you a big trust fund?”

“No.”

“No. You don’t. You ain’t got shit, girl. All you got is what I give you. The food on my table, the roof over your head, and the clothes on your back, bitch.”

Derrick leaned forward, moved his gun nearer to his right hand.

“Look at me, bitch.”

Amelia raised her eyes, making sure to keep her expression neutral.

“You understand how this works, right? I know you ain’t stupid. I wouldn’t have you in this family if you was stupid. It’s just economics, girl. You got to earn your way. And as far as I can tell, you ain’t got any way to do that other than selling that ass of yours.” He leaned back, sucked at a piece of chicken between his teeth, and frowned. Speaking to himself he said, “Hm. Well, we’ll see about that. Don’t even know that for sure.”

He slid his gun back to where it had been and scooped more food into his mouth.

Finally, at 9:45 P.M., while the others remained seated, Derrick told Amelia, “Okay, Princess, you’ve had enough of my food and shelter. Time to go out and prove to me you worth keepin’ in this family.”

Amelia knew the others were watching her closely, especially Tyrell. If she said the wrong thing or displayed anything less than the proper demeanor, a sudden burst of violence could erupt, accompanied by curses, slaps, and food overturned.

“You get your ass down to the Point, girl, and get me my money. I come by there, I’d better see you working it. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Derrick frowned, nodded, looked at Amelia like she would never stop disappointing him. “Go on. Get the hell outta here.”

Amelia, head down, walked to front door of the apartment, half expecting something to be thrown at her before she stepped out and shut the door behind her.

She walked out of Bronx River Houses, still sore and stiff from Derrick’s assault and the hours of confinement in the closet. She headed south on 174th Street, wondering if maybe she should continue to Bronx River Avenue and hustle a livery-car driver for a ride to Hunts Point, or maybe to a lounge on Southern Boulevard, where she might pick up a trick, or run into someone she knew who might help her. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

As she walked, Amelia attracted the attention of male pedestrians and drivers on the wide, two-way street. Her clothes, makeup, and red wig left little doubt about why she was walking the streets at night. She ignored the drivers who slowed down to look at her. She did not want a cop to pull her over and arrest her for soliciting. After surviving Monday night, she knew a night in the holding pen at Central Booking might break her completely.

Staring straight ahead and walking quickly, Amelia Johnson didn’t see the man wearing dark clothes heading in her direction on the other side of 174th Street. Nor did the man walking with intensity and purpose notice his daughter passing by. Even if Packy Johnson had seen Amelia, he would have never connected her with the delightful three-year-old he’d once seen on the other side of a plastic barrier in a prison visiting area fourteen years earlier.

As Amelia approached the corner of Bronx River Avenue, a blue Ford Taurus pulled over to the curb next to her. The driver lowered his passenger-side window and leaned over to ask, “Yo, what’s up?”

He sounded drunk, slurring his words so much Amelia was surprised he could drive. She looked around. No other cars in sight. If for no other reason than to get off the street, Amelia decided to take advantage of the opportunity. She walked over and leaned in the open window. The sickly smell of digesting alcohol filled the air. She checked the backseat to make sure it was empty before she slipped into the passenger seat.

“What you want?”

“Get my dick sucked.”

Amelia said fifty. He said twenty. She said forty. When he hesitated, Amelia opened the door and turned to leave.

The driver said, “Wait.”

She turned back. With the door open, the interior lights gave the mark a better view of Amelia.

“Okay,” he said.

Amelia smiled and closed the door. She held out her hand for the money, carefully watching where the man pulled it from. Unfortunately, he dug the bills out of his shirt pocket, handing them to her and slurring something Amelia couldn’t make out.

She quickly checked the bills. Two twenties. She stuffed them into her back pocket and asked, “What are you drinking?”

The man smiled and opened his eyes wide like he was going to tell her a big secret. He reached under the driver’s seat and pulled out a pint of Johnny Walker Red, unscrewed the cap, and handed the half-empty bottle to Amelia. She smiled back, tipped the bottle up, sipped a small amount, and handed it back. She didn’t have to encourage him. He took a healthy swallow.