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“When, where, and how?”
“In about forty-five minutes. I have the address of the pad where Sam is hosting a live sex party this very afternoon. We can roll right on over there and bust him.”
“I hope there’s no rough stuff.”
Sharpetta showed her a 9mm pistol and a Taser, then chuckled wickedly. “He won’t harm a hair on your head.”
“I’m not worried about my head,” LaTisha said.
“I heerd dat! We’ll take my car.”
A little later they pulled up in front of a one-story, white wooden house in a quiet part of town.
“Snug little fuck pad, ain’t it?” Sharpetta said.
“When I’m through with him, he’ll wish he was doing time in Guantánamo Bay!” LaTisha said. “I don’t see his car.”
“He’s a slick dawg. Parks his car across town and takes a cab here. Ready?”
They went to the door. LaTisha stood out of sight while Sharpetta knocked.
“Who is it?” a man asked.
“We’re the girls for the party,” Sharpetta said.
When the door opened, they bum-rushed the show.
“I’m a private investigator and this is LaTisha Jenkins, Sam Jenkins’s wife,” Sharpetta said, her hand on the gat in her shoulder bag. “Don’t start no static, won’t be none.”
They stepped into a living room thick with incense and chronic smoke. With gaudy purple wallpaper and crotch shots from Black Tail magazine on the walls, big, fat, green silk harem pillows on the floor, red bulbs in lamps turned down low, and Tupac’s “How Do U Want It” bumpin’ on the box—it looked like the waiting room of a Las Vegas whorehouse with furnishings by Snoop Dogg.
Two guys, as cut and buff as a couple of chocolate Chippendales, and clad only in cutoff jeans, were standing in the middle of the floor looking très busted.
LaTisha gazed at their rippling torsos, the bulges in the crotches of their tight jeans, and their buns of steel and wondered if maybe Sam was on the down-low. For a New York minute Sharpetta stared at them as if her eyes would buck out of her head. Then she was all business.
“Where the hell is Sam Jenkins!” she demanded.
“Never heard of him,” one of the hot studs said.
“Goin’ for bad, eh? I got something for your ass.” Sharpetta showed them her Glock. “In the back!” she shouted. “I’m gonna get to the bottom of this!”
Mumbling protests, they did as they were told.
LaTisha flopped down on a pillow. She felt drained.
How long had Sam been involved in some shit like you saw on Cheaters? How could he? How—
Suddenly LaTisha heard fearsome noise coming from the back. Bloodcurdling screams, cussing, calling on Jesus and unholy bumpin’ and jumpin’—it sounded like the Rock and Booker T wrasslin’ a wildcat in a one-stall shithouse!
They got the drop on Sharpetta! LaTisha thought. Call the police! No! Not enough time! She rushed out of the living room, down a short hall, and to the door of the room from whence the hellacious racket came—
And stopped. They’d got the drop all right—on Sharpetta’s drawers! All of them were buck nekkid on a bed (Sharpetta still sportin’ her gangsta lid). She was whacking the dudes off, and when she got them good and hard, she started blowing them: first one, then the other, then both simultaneously!
The men’s eyes rolled up so only the whites showed; they groaned and grimaced in ecstasy! Then, slick as an acrobat from the UniverSoul Circus, Sharpetta switched positions so one of the dudes could fuck her doggie-style while she sucked the other one’s cock until they all came and collapsed in a sweaty, satiated heap!
LaTisha was a married woman and no prude, but she had never seen such mad, scandalous fucking! When she was satisfied that they were still breathing, she wobbled back to the front room.
A little later Sharpetta joined her. Her clothes were disheveled, her hat was cocked ace deuce, and her hair was sticking every which way from under it. She had to lean against the wall for support.
