No Love for the Wicked Read online

  Angelo couldn’t deny Andrea upset him by her mere presence. Worse, he isn’t certain what to do with his new fascination for a woman who intrigues him. Against his better judgement, he pursues her, needing more and more of her, like a heroin shot within a vein. The two become inseparable, but the truth just may split them apart. Angelo is virtually unlovable, the spawn of a bloodline tainted with decades of horrid deeds. He struggles to be who the woman who’s captured his heart needs him to be, while keeping true to himself, in order for them both to thrive.

  Can one convince a demon to be nice? Maybe. Maybe not. Or perhaps, Angelo is willing to bow down to one person, and one person only: his new found love. The bizarre black magic woman with the soft brown skin, full juicy lips, and dark, alluring eyes that have seen heaven and Hell. Andrea is playing with fire by tossing the ball in his court… but Angelo never loses a game of chance.

  Will this black soul and this shining light unite?

  Is there any love for the wicked?

  Grab yourself a beverage and a snack, kick off your shoes and get comfortable. Get ready to go on an emotional ride of blood, sweat, and tears. Light your incense and candles, and let Chaka Khan and Rod Stewart take you back in time for an adventure of a lifetime. There will be pleasure. There will be pain.

  Angelo and Andrea are entering the room…

  Ready.

  Set.

  Go.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Blood in Harlem

  Rule 1: Know your surroundings.

  From his Lower East Side apartment in New York, Angelo watched television reporter Rodger Grimsby broadcasting the details of the latest crime spree to hit the capital on the WABC-TV’s evening bulletin. It was always something. Same shit. Different day.

  Smoke eddied from his lips as he stood by the sink in his small kitchenette. A sheen of sweat coated his skin, his white wifebeater sticking to his flesh like glue. The sweltering heat inside his place appeared to be cooking the stagnant air, stamping the odors of cigarettes and bleach into the air and baking them like invisible toxic bread all around him.

  Angelo turned away from the tube and grunted as he dumped out the strong, clear bleach into the sink. Splashes of the liquid beat against the kitchen basin, mixing in with the warm water he’d just ran.

  He scrubbed the rough white surface with a tattered scouring pad, then studied the stinging cuts on his skin. This louse he’d snuffed had a razor blade. He’d made the son of a bitch swallow it before placing his 9mm Winchester Magnum to the center of the bastard’s head and blowing his miserable brains out.

  His fingernails were caked with blood, far more than usual. He’d had a hell of a time digging the bullet out of the guy’s skull. Percy always wanted the damn bullets. Said it would fuck up the police’s investigations. He glanced at the thing, lying on the counter with bits of brain matter and red sludge still stuck to it. In the sink, blood mixed with the bleach and swirled down the drain.

  He always preferred to clean his hands at the kitchen sink. It had become a ritual of sorts. He glanced at his warped reflection in the faucet, then caught the glint of the gold crucifix that hung slightly lopsided above the sink from a crooked, rusty nail. Jesus on the cross. Memories of him praying as a little boy with his brothers and sisters, right next to his nonna in the chapel, popped into his mind. Perspiration trickled along his scalp, then ran down his temples and cheeks, baptizing him in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. He kept staring at that crucifix, stuck in a daydream. The heat jerked him out of the woeful golden expression of the man on the cross, head bowed, adorned with a crown of thorns. Sweating profusely now, he imagined this was what hell felt like. Never-ending aggravation. He ran his forearm across his drenched face, then glanced at the air conditioner that was on the fritz. What a day for it not to work.

  The landlord was an old Jewish guy who had a million dollars and a million excuses as to why he couldn’t take care of it. Levi was all right, just a bit of a tightwad. A fuckin’ cheapskate. Angelo had fixed the unit himself a few times, purchasing the materials from the Two Guys department store in exchange for reduced rent, but this time they didn’t have the right parts. It was a pain in the ass to tinker with, but something he’d gotten used to.

  He glanced lazily back at the television as he scrubbed his fingers in a fresh mixture of bleach and laundry detergent, then went over them yet again with a hair brush he’d picked up at Woolworth’s. He always used a new one after each kill. There were protocols, rituals he wanted to follow, the whole nine. He’d learned this from his father, and had kept up the tradition for years.

  Tales of bank robberies were broadcast from the box and now the odor of boiling hotdogs permeated the air, making a nauseous concoction with the bleach. The food was almost finished. He took a deep inhale. He could still smell the iron of blood in his nasal passages, though he knew it was long gone and his mind was simply playing tricks on him. The odor of fresh death clung to his brain, too, and made him feel good all over, like a natural high. When he completed the task, he felt a sense of relief and honor. Angelo reached for his crinkled cigarette resting in the gray ashtray, took a long drag, then placed it back down. His stomach growled. Are these hotdogs done? They should be finished boiling now. He couldn’t recall the last time he ate. Was it the previous night or afternoon? Who knew?

  He took a few steps towards the stove to turn off the eye, but then, his phone rang. Grabbing a blue dish towel, he patted his hands dry and snatched the black phone receiver off the wall, untangling the knotted mess of a cord.

  “What?” he said, placing the phone to his ear. Both a question and a statement.

  “Are you finished?”

  “I’m answerin’ the fuckin’ phone, aren’t I?”

  He was met with stilted silence.

  “Your final payment will be dropped off tonight at nine.”

  The call went dead.

  He went back to the sink, this time using a paring knife to clean under his fingernails. Then, he washed the bullet with vinegar and dish detergent—gently… almost lovingly. Bullets were so beautiful in his eyes. So small, yet deadly. They only killed with extreme force and propulsion. They had to be angered, pitched hard and fast to end a life. Otherwise, they were cold, still, and peaceful. Lying there in wait. Smooth, like the curve of a woman’s hip. Moments later he removed the hotdogs from the boiling water, placed three of them in plump soft buns, then covered them in spicy mustard, relish and chopped onions. Snatching a cold beer from the ice box, he headed a few feet to his living area and plopped down in front of the television.

  His dark green couch was sunken in the middle, and little wire barbs stuck up, jabbing him every now and again if he didn’t sit just right. He’d considered buying a new one, but had never gotten around to it. Money was not the problem, it was time, and priorities. He religiously lived way beneath his means. He pushed a couple burn marked and stained Playboy magazines out of the way, and crossed his ankles along the coffee table, then brought his Miller Lite beer to his lips, gulping the alcohol in hard, needy swallows. He bit into one of the warm, soft hotdogs, consuming the spongy bread wrapped around the tender meat, drowned in the sweetness kick and the peppery spices from the mustard, onion and relish. The news went on detailing cases of arson, but no word on the dead body he’d left under some brush on 17th Street. Mitch Harris. A real piece of shit.

  The guy was a petty crook, a stick-up kid waving a filthy knife at unsuspecting people on their way to work. Word on the street was he’d been involved in some pretty shady shit a few months prior that got a pregnant chick killed, but he’d met his own demise when he’d bit off more than he could chew. The dumb bastard had borrowed a large sum of money from the Gambino family, of all the people in the world, and hadn’t paid it back despite a warning and a beating that had left him almost blind in one eye. Honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered if the guy was a saint. He would’ve met the same fate. What kinda guy walks around with a razor blad
e under their hat? Fucking pussy. Angelo looked at the cuts along his fingers once again and grinned. Apparently, Mitch Harris did.

  He’d dealt with all sorts. Some had guns, others a regular kitchen knife, and one guy even had a machete. Regardless, he made sure to stay on top and never let his prey get the upper hand. He had to move faster, think quicker, stab harder, punch longer, and shoot to kill. He listened half-heartedly to the news and then a commercial with some broad skipping in slow motion through a fucking meadow and talking about some pussy shampoo, a douche for her golden donut.

  The stress of the day was dripping off him and at last, he began to feel halfway human again. Rattle. Just like that, his peace was squashed. The slight noise sounded much like crumpling plastic. He quickly moved his plate and beer aside, and with lightning speed, grabbed one of his guns wedged in the crease of the couch. Barefooted, he searched in the semi-darkness, ready to blast anything that moved. But then, he looked up at the ceiling, realizing it was the neighbor upstairs messing with trash bags. Relaxing, he stuffed the gun back in one of his many hiding spots and made his way over to the small kitchenette area with his now empty plate to place in the sink. As soon as he did, his phone rang once more. He stared at it, in a trance. It stopped then range again. And again.

  “What?” he answered.

  “Angel.” Nonna’s weak voice came through. She always called him Angel instead of Angelo. He didn’t particularly care for it. In fact, he hated that shit with every fiber of his being, even as a kid, but it was his grandma. What could he say?

  “Grandma, it’s late. Well, late for you. You okay, Nonna?” Typically, the old woman was in her nightgown and in the bed by seven. She’d watch some television, or read one of her paperback romance books with a brawny guy on the cover, holding tight to some broad, and fall fast asleep. That was how he wanted his nonna’s life to be. Pleasant. Uneventful. Safe from motherfuckers like him. He kept tabs on her, made sure she had everything she needed and no one was messing with her, giving her a hard time.

  “I need to run an errand. Can you take me, Angel?”

  His eyes traveled to the cheap clock on the wall. It ticked. Then tocked. How fast life went by. This was the only person in the whole world he simply couldn’t say no to.

  “Sure, Grandma.” He ran his hand through his hair, brushing it out of his face. “I gotta be back by nine, so uh, do you want to go before or after that?”

  “I need to go now, Angel. I need you to take me to Harlem. I won’t be there too long.”

  Harlem? What the hell for?

  He glanced at the clock again.

  “All right. I’ll be over soon.”

  “Thank you.” She ended the call.

  Picking up his bottle of beer resting on the coffee table, he drank the rest of it in a few, hearty gulps. It burned so good as it slid down his throat. He moved fast, removing his clothing and placing the blood splattered tank top in a plastic sack to be burned, along with the pair of black pants he’d worn. The cheap shoes he’d purchased for the kill went in the bag, too. Police were getting savvy in their search for evidence.

  He turned on the radio then jumped in his shower. Fleetwood Mac’s, ‘Tusk’ played loud through the scratchy speakers. The ice-cold water beat him about the face, bruising him with bursts of chilled redemption as it saturated his hair. He danced to the beat of the music, played drums against the white tiled bathtub walls, the texture rough from hard water and scum, and sang the lyrics. Every single word. He’d not been a big Fleetwood Mac fan until recently. The music was catchy.

  After rinsing his hair off, he stepped out, dried himself with a towel, and used a razor to trim his short black beard and mustache. Typically, he went to the barbershop, but when in need of a touchup here and there, he’d handle it himself. He ran his fingers along the scar on his ear, then reached for his large onyx and silver ring on the bathroom vanity and slid it down his right ring finger. He put on his Chopard Happy Diamond watch, too, then clasped his gold chain around his throat before vigorously brushing his teeth. When he was done, he stared at his reflection.

  At the rigid jawbones, the pronounced cheekbones, and prominent Adam’s apple. Snapping out of his deliberations, he raked a comb through his black hair, styling it just so. Not happy with it, he reached for the hair grease from Woolworths and applied it evenly to his hair. Yeah, that’s more like it.

  He stepped into his bedroom. The only furniture was a bed which was far too big for the size of the room and a dresser that belonged to a previous tenant who’d been dead for twelve days before anyone had discovered him. In one corner was an unfortunate lamp with a shade that never looked centered.

  Turning on the light, he fished a pair of white underwear and wifebeater from a drawer and put them on. A spray of Ralph Lauren Polo, then his blue and yellow Adidas sweatpants with matching jacket and white Adidas sneakers with the blue stripes. Grabbing his car keys and a cold best friend—his special hardware—he headed out the door to Nonna’s apartment.

  He parked his black T-top Pontiac Firebird with the gleaming gold bird on the hood in front of her residence, then turned off his Pink Floyd cassette tape, ‘Shine on You Crazy Diamond.’ The music always helped to drown out the noise in his head. This was what he poured his money into: his threads, his jewelry, his ride, and the music. He didn’t give a shit about his crib. It was just a place to take a piss, fuck, and lie down to die. But this car? It meant the world to him. He got out the vehicle and waved to a couple of her neighbors who were sitting out on the stoop.

  “Angelo!” Ricardo, an old Puerto Rican, greeted him, his voice raspy with age and decades of heavy smoking. He fell into a fit of coughs as he clutched a peeled orange.

  “Hey, Pops. Gotta stop all that professional opera singin’. It’s wearing out your vocal chords. Broadway can wait,” Angelo teased, eliciting a toothy grin from the old timer.

  “Before I die, I would love to drive off in that sweet ride of yours, man.” He and the older German man he was sitting next to ogled his car, stars in their vintage eyes. The German was flicking a lighter, the flame jumping in shades of sapphire and gold.

  “Yeah? Maybe one day I’ll let cha, Mac.” He tapped the old man’s shoulder, handed him a fresh cigarette, then waited for his nonna to buzz him in. She did so quickly, and he stepped inside her foyer, expecting to drink a little something, hear about how her mail keeps arriving late and all of that jazz, but they didn’t stay but for a second. The old woman was already in her light periwinkle jacket, despite it being so hot outside, and her matching purse was slung over her shoulder.

  Andy Gibb’s, ‘Shadow Dancing’ blasted from some car driving right outside her residence. He twitched when he heard the beat, his leg involuntarily jolting as if he wanted to boogie, he’d have appreciated it more. Memories poured in his mind of him and several of his acquaintances enjoying themselves at a disco. It had been so long since he’d been to a good party.

  “Let’s go, Angel.” She seemed perturbed, in a hurry.

  He asked no questions as he took her frail arm and led her back past Ricardo and the other man, who were now sharing the cigarette he’d offered. He took out another one, tossed it to the German, who nodded in appreciation, and made his way towards his car. Opening the passenger’s side door, he helped his nonna inside, when suddenly a few Black children came up to him on their bikes like they knew him from around the way. He looked them up and down, checking them out, always aware of his surroundings. Always prepared.

  He’d never seen this youthful crew a day in his life, and he never forgot a face. More and more colored people were moving in the neighborhood, some even coming from down South. It didn’t take long for them to realize their new home was nothing like Mississippi or Arkansas. Hell, even the Midwest such as Wisconsin and Ohio, and if they cared about surviving for more than one night, they’d better catch on fast, or die trying.

  He scanned the street to see if anyone was watching from a distance, perhaps a suspi
cious car parked in a spot that was out of place. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, with the exception of the children who gaped at him like he was some star. Maybe they knew who he was, and if they didn’t, word would spread fast. The neighborhood respected him, race aside. It wasn’t always easy to be White and earn the reverence of people who looked nothing like you. But, he’d managed. Blacks and Puerto Ricans were now everywhere.

  The Lower East Side had always been a hub for immigrants, initially a Jewish ghetto. Many of the Puerto Ricans who owned shops and some of the Whites were now leaving in droves, which was always a bad sign. It meant the city would go to shit, and it was already in the fucking toilet. It had never been in great shape to begin with. The sound of a weak bike horn brought him back to the present. One of the boy’s bikes was broken down, the poor kid dragging it about like a dead weight. Tires flat like a tomboy’s tits. He jangled his keys and made a motion to step away. The freak show was over.

  “Yo, hold up. Look at this cat’s car, man! It’s outta sight!” One of them pointed, his dark brown eyes glossy with wonder. His friends nodded in agreement, all of them mirroring each other. It almost looked rehearsed. The boy in the front he imagined was the ring leader. He was the one speaking with authority, standing there wearing a silver and black satin jacket. His skin was dark as midnight, his lips the color of split strawberries. His hair was a sandy brown color, the curls soft and bouncy in appearance, moving each time he cocked his head to the left or right – an interesting contrast to his complexion.

  “That car baaaaad!” another said. “If I had a ride like dat, it’ll mean I’m rich. You rich, man?” a caramel colored one asked, his hair jet black and kinky. The curls were so short and tight that he could see his scalp in between each little dot, as if it were a grid of sorts. Pieces of lint clung to his locks here and there, and his lips were mere slits, stretched across a wide, smooth face. He looked a bit like a fish. Perhaps he’d eventually grow into his looks.