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“Nah, why you asking?” But his eyes are pinned on the stack of bills in front of him. He should be counting it out, making small piles that’ll get tucked into envelopes and passed out.
“How much are you behind?”
“I’m not behind,” he proclaims. “I’m worried about you, is all.”
I swallow a sigh. If Beefer’s not making his monthly tithe to Cesaro, we’re going to get a visit. I don’t want Cesaro around here. It’s not good for morale. He terrifies the troops, constantly questioning someone’s loyalty, pitting one person against another. I finally figured out that the reason he likes them “fresh,” as he says, is because he gets off on fear. The more fearful the girl or boy is, the more he likes it. I’ll chop off my left nut before he ever gets close to Bitsy.
I can’t convince Beefer to break away from Cesaro, so the next best thing is to make sure he doesn’t come around. The way to do that is to make as little noise as possible and not give him a reason to take notice.
“How much?” I’ve got some money to cover whatever shortage Beefer is suffering at this moment.
“It’s nothing.” He eyes the thick stack of bills with so much lust that it verges on pornographic. “Why don’t you go upstairs and make sure the girls haven’t killed each other. Shit. I don’t know why those two hate each other so much. They’re like two chickens in a coop that’s made for one. Tell the girls I’m hungry. I don’t care who cooks me a piece of meat, but I want something on the table by the time I’m done here.”
I leave so Beefer can skim off the top of the wages he’s supposed to pay. Upstairs, Mary and Beefer’s oldest, Camella, are glaring at each other from opposite corners of the room. I know why they don’t like each other. Mary’s jealous of Camella’s youth, and Camella fears that her future is the life Mary’s leading—an aging sex worker who’s reduced to sucking the cock of an obese small-time gang leader. They both have one thing in common, though—they’re the happiest when everyone around them is miserable.
I give Mary a short nod before turning to Camella. “Beefer’s hungry. Can you throw a steak on the griddle?”
“I’m not his fucking cook,” she sneers, adjusting the strap of her black, sheer, body-con dress. When her father sees it, he’s going to hit the roof. It’s five and Camella’s dressed for the nightclub already.
“Make your dad some food,” Mary snaps.
I rub my forehead wearily.
Predictably, Camella’s short fuse lights up. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, you old whore,” she yells.
“Whore? I’m not the one crawling around the financial district selling her pussy to the first guy who dangles a bag of coke in her face.”
“At least I don’t spend all my time on my knees in the hope for a few pennies.”
“Pennies? My underwear, which, by the way, your daddy peels off with his teeth, costs more than your whole fucking outfit. If there’s anyone on their knees, it’s your old man, not me.”
Camella flies across the room at Mary. I grab the younger woman and move her to one side. Whenever I get down about not having Bitsy around, all I need to do is look at these two women. This could easily be Bitsy’s life. I need to remind myself anytime I have the hankering to bring her back to me.
Holding Camella back, I point a finger to Mary. “Beefer’s downstairs, so I’d be careful what you say about his daughter.” To Camella, I say, “Mary’s higher up the ladder, so you got to give her some respect.”
“Bullshit. I don’t have to give her anything. She can eat my ass.” Camella turns around and flips up her skirt, waggling her thong-wearing ass in Mary’s direction.
This time it’s Mary who launches herself at Camella. I’m holding the two of them off when Beefer appears in the doorway.
“What in the fresh hell is going on here?”
Camella immediately sidles over to her dad. “Mary’s being mean to me.”
Mary calculates whether to defend herself or to try to flirt her way out of this mess. When Beefer’s arm goes up to wrap around his daughter’s shoulder, Mary makes the decision to play for something south of Beefer’s heart.
She cocks out her hip and slams a hand on her waist. Tits forward, she winks. “We both know my skills aren’t in the kitchen, babe.”
Beefer eyes Mary hungrily and his arm starts to slide away.
Camella senses her father’s withdrawal and tries her own play, but she can’t read the room like Mary does.
“I’m not cooking,” Camella declares. “I just got my nails done and I don’t want to mess them up. What do you think of them, Leka?” She lays them on her chest, so the tips are pointing at her barely concealed tit. I shift my gaze over her shoulder.
