HUNTER (The Corbin Brothers Book 1) (113 page)

“Wanda, that was amazing,” Marlee said, grabbing my hand as I walked toward the back of the room, in a daze.

“Amazing?” I asked. “I don’t know if I would use that word to describe it.”

“Don’t be silly,” Marlee said, hooking an arm with mine and marching us off to the cafeteria. “It was amazing that you shared all of that with us. When you can pinpoint a reason for your drinking and take stock of yourself, never being anything less than honest with yourself and the people around you, that’s amazing.”

“I just wish that I could talk to my son again,” I said. “I’d have a lot to say to him. I don’t know if he’d listen, but I’d have a lot to say. I have his number. I just don’t have the courage.”

“Let’s go after dinner,” Marlee said. “Wait for me to get everything squared away for cleanup and I’ll go with you.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I called him once before, when his wife figured out I existed and sent me a wedding invitation, but it didn’t go well at all.”

“How long ago was it?” my cellmate asked.

“Five years, maybe,” I said. “It’s hard to tell.”

Marlee nodded. “Alcohol’s hell on memory,” she said. “Memory and time. Those leave us so easily.”

I ate dinner feeling strangely light. It helped that Marlee had planned some sort of delicious pasta with real sauce made from scratch. She confided that it was a family recipe, except that she had to double the recipe practically a hundred times.

I helped the kitchen crew clean up even if it wasn’t my responsibility. I just needed something to keep my mind occupied, to keep it from dwelling on the possibilities of calling my son now. I couldn’t even consider the idea of rejection. It would ruin me. Instead, I focused on wiping down tables.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Marlee said, snagging the rag from my hand as I polished the metal at the buffet line.

“I just wanted to keep busy,” I said.

“Are you ready to make the call?”

“I don’t think I ever will be,” I said. “I can’t—he hates me, sugar. It’s plain and simple there. He has every right to and I just have to accept that.”

“Wanda, you did a hell of a job tonight at the meeting,” Marlee said. “You admitted that you were powerless when it came to alcohol, and it takes a lot to even realize that about yourself. You’re making a fucking fearless personal inventory. I can’t wait for next week.”

“I might not get to share again next week,” I said. “I felt bad because I took all the sharing time today. I can’t believe Karla let me do that.”

“You’re the first new attendee in almost a year,” Marlee said. “Believe me. Karla will let you share until we’ve heard your story five times, at least. Everyone else has heard everyone else’s story probably fifty or a hundred times. It doesn’t make them any less compelling—don’t get me wrong. We’re gleaning new insights every day. But a fresh story leads us to fresh insights, to places we’d forgotten about. It challenges us to think of new possibilities and encourages us to support a new person in our midst. You’re doing us a favor, Wanda, by sharing your story.”

“I’m glad someone’s getting something out of it,” I said, smiling wanly as we walked to the bank of pay phones.

“All I’m saying is that you don’t have to rush through the steps,” Marlee said. “You’ve made great progress. When you call your son, it doesn’t have to be anything other than checking in, seeing how he’s doing, telling him how you’re doing. You don’t have to talk about anything serious right now. That part comes later. Just touch base.”

“Okay,” I said. We reached the phones and I realized that I was more nervous than I’d ever been in my life. I’d never really had any anxiety over the trial. My lawyer had told me more or less what I could expect—despite his legal abilities and support. But this was different. This was my son, whom I hadn’t talked to in years. He’d been pretty unpleasant the last time I’d talked to him, but I could hope, couldn’t I? Maybe he was ready to have his mother in his life again. I could be that for him. I really thought I could.

“The phone doesn’t dial itself,” Marlee said, smiling.

I slipped my change in and dialed the number that Pitt had given me. The slip of paper was already worn from the sweat of my hand, but I resolved to write it down in a notebook I kept for GED class. No—I’d memorize it. That was the best thing I could do.

The phone rang and rang, but someone finally picked up.

“Hello?” It was a female voice—Jules, my daughter-in-law.

“Hi, Jules,” I said. “It’s Mama.”

There was a very minute pause before a gasp of recognition. “Oh my God,” she said. “Mama. It’s been way too long. How are you doing?”

“Well….” I tried to take stock of myself. I’d been sober for longer than I ever had. I wasn’t doing anything illegal. I was ready to do right in my life.

“I’m doing pretty well, sugar,” I said. “How about you?”

“I’m great, Mama,” she said. “Thanks for asking. We, um, we saw you on the news and stuff.”

My heart sank a little bit. “I was kind of wondering if you had. I’m calling from prison, you know.”

“Yes, I figured,” she said. “There was a little message telling me when I answered the phone. I guess they do that to warn you before you commit to talking to a prisoner.” She laughed lightly. “Are you doing okay there? Is there anything you need?”

“They’ve got about all I need in here,” I said. “I didn’t need anything specific. I just wanted to hear some friendly voices. Is Marshall there? I’d like to talk to him. Just—just, check in.”

Beside me, Marlee gave me a nod of encouragement.

Jules paused. “He’s here,” she said after a beat, “but I don’t know if it’s such a good idea that you talk to him. He pretended not to follow the trial, but I know that he did. It hurt him, Mama. He’s just been through a lot.”

“I understand that,” I said. “I certainly do, sugar. Would you give him a message for me, if you think he won’t talk to me?”

“Of course, Mama.”

“Would you tell him that I’m thinking about him?” I asked. “That I love him? That I’m sorry?”

“I’ll tell him that,” Jules said.

There was a brief rustling sound before a male voice spoke.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Marshall,” I said, smiling. Marlee gave me thumbs up. “It’s Mama. How you doing, sugar?”

“Don’t call here again.”

The dial tone sounded, and I listened to it for a full minute. When Marlee realized that the call was over, she took the phone from me and hung it back up in its cradle.

“You’ve made initial contact, Wanda,” she said. “That’s good. That’s all that matters. Now, just be persistent. You being in his life—that’s a new thing for your son. You just have to keep trying —”

“Marlee.”

“Yes?”

“I just want to be alone.”

“I’ll take you back to the cell,” she said. “I’ll give you the time you need, but I’ll be close by.”

We walked away from the phones, and it felt like my world was ending. How many times had I felt like that? I knew that it was only fair, that I was being punished for everything wrong I’d committed. I deserved all this. My son had every right to reject me, just as I’d rejected him when he was young. Nobody wanted a relative in prison, clinging to the outside world. I’d just remind him of my failings.

I was only vaguely aware that I was lying down on my bed in the cell. Maybe I shouldn’t call anymore. If I only caused pain to Marshall, I didn’t want to call anymore. Jules had been nice enough, though. I wondered how long she’d tolerate me for before she told me to stop calling.

Maybe I just needed to slip away, become forgotten. I was a problem for so many people that it seemed like the right thing to do. Johnny French wanted me forgotten, that was evident. And I’m sure Don Costa was feeling a little twitchy, wondering if I might be mulling the idea of giving the authorities a little information on him and the Costa mob in order to try to lighten my sentence.

And then there was my son, who wanted nothing to do with me. That was all right. I understood. He was ashamed of me. He hated me. He hated that I existed. It would be easier if I just slipped away. It would be easier if he didn’t have a mother. He’d gone without one for so long that maybe it’d make him happier if I didn’t exist. Then, there would be no sting of rejection, no knowledge that I’d given him up for booze and money and a dream.

The edge of my bed sank and Marlee laid her hand on my back.

“Marlee, I don’t think I’m—”

“It’s Tama, sexy.”

I jerked up with a speed I hadn’t known I’d had and scowled. It had been half a goddamn year. Had Tama really been willing to bide her time that long, waiting for the opportunity to present itself? More impressive still, had I really managed to keep a security detail around me at all times for the last six months?

“Get out of here,” I said. “It’s going to be lights out soon and my cellmate will be back.”

“There was something in the kitchen that needed seeing to,” Tama said coolly. “Your cellmate will be back late. It’s just us, baby.”

She slipped her hand up my thigh, squeezing gently. Even though it’d been months and months since I’d had any other human physical contact like this, I was repulsed. I didn’t want her. I was sick of the specter of her haunting me at my every turn. I wanted to just move on and not have to worry about this anymore.

“I’ve heard I’m your type,” I said, scooting away from her.

“Hell, yeah.”

“You’re not mine,” I said. “I like my lovers with cocks.”

Tama laughed. “You’re going to think I have a cock once I’m through with you,” she said. “What’s the matter? You never have a woman before?”

“I’ve had women before,” I said. “And you’re not one. You’re subhuman. You don’t take no for an answer.”

Tama’s face darkened. “You’re gonna make me mad and I’m not going to be as nice to you,” she warned.

“I don’t want you to be anything to me,” I said. “And I don’t want to be anything to anybody. Tell me. Do you have a child? Anyone on the outside?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No. This your idea of foreplay?”

“This is me telling you that you have no idea what real rejection is like,” I said. “I think you could use the lesson. See, if you got used to being rejected, maybe you wouldn’t pursue people who didn’t want to be pursued. Maybe you’d lay off instead of hounding girls who don’t want to spread their legs for you. Let this be your first lesson in the word ‘no,’ Tama. You’re a problem in here. Nobody likes you. You scare girls into sleeping with you. If that’s your way of looking for affection, you’re doing it all wrong.”

“I’m just looking to fuck,” Tama said. “That’s all.”

“Then look for a willing partner,” I said. “I’m not her. Have you ever had a willing partner in here?”

“There are plenty of girls willing to take me into their beds,” she said. “I’m not interested in them. I’m interested in you.”

“I’m interested in you getting the fuck up out of my life,” I said, standing as my voice grew louder. “I’m interested in you stopping your pursuit of me. I’m interested in you getting the hell out of my cell.”

“I’ve got hooch,” Tama said, standing up, too. “And I know you want that. You can’t lie to me, now. I saw how much you wanted it that day in the commissary.”

“That day was half a year ago,” I said. “I don’t want it. I don’t want it at all. I’m in AA, now. I’m in the middle of turning my life around and I don’t want some moldy-ass prison-brewed bag of shit ruining that for me. You don’t have a goddamn thing that I’m interested in. Get out of here. Find someone else.”

I braced myself for a fight, but Tama just gave me a look that fell somewhere on the spectrum between hurt and bewildered and left.

Well. Hopefully, that solved that. Maybe now I could actually walk by myself to and from places in the prison. With a start, I realized how much I’d come to enjoy my little security detail. It was like being surrounded by friends at all times.

Like it or not, Tama had left me with a blessing in disguise. I’d built up a support system in prison. I could actually call some of these women friends. And with friends, I could become a better person. A better person. Someone my son could love and accept.

I was sitting at my usual table at lunch with Willow’s friends—though they were my friends, now, too—when Marlee sidled over from the kitchen, still wearing her food-spattered apron.

“You coming over here to get your compliments for this excellent lunch?” I asked, looking up at her. She was beaming and carrying a small cake.

“What’s this?” I asked, staring that the beautiful little confection. “It’s not my birthday.”

“It’s your one-year anniversary,” she said. “One whole year of being sober.”

“Not like she has a choice,” an inmate from down the table mused. “I’m two years sober, and that’s just because they don’t serve beer in prison.”

“There’s always a choice,” Marlee said sweetly, setting the cake down in front of me. “For alcoholics, it’s not to pick up that glass, not to seek out what we know is hiding here in the prison. It’s a choice to remain sober. Wanda’s done that for a whole year.”

The rest of the girls at the table clapped, and I divvied up the cake among them. That was one of the things I was learning here. If you had a bit of good luck, you shared it with everyone around you. It would always come back to you in other forms later on. Favors were always remembered here.

A whole year sober, and a whole year in prison. It was just a notch in the belt for me, really. I knew that I had a lot longer to go, the majority of my sentence still having to be completed, but I was kind of at a milestone. I’d been so sure that my life was over when I first entered prison. In a way, it was. My old life was over—the one where I’d drank with abandon and led a brothel and all that. I’d never go back to that. Now, here in prison, I was getting opportunities I’d never been afforded before.

I finished my GED and started taking business classes. In time, I earned an associate degree in business management. I checked out a new book from the library every week, even thought
A Message to Jasmine
was still my favorite. About every month, I’d check it out again and reread it. There were plenty of parts I knew by heart.

One day, I got a letter.

“Mail for you,” Pitt said, slipping me the envelope and smiling. I realized why when I saw the name listed on the return address—Jules and Marshall Dupree.

“It’s from my daughter-in-law and my son,” I said, clutching the letter to my chest as if it were a precious treasure.

“Good for you,” he said, going back to his business.

I opened it as soon as I got back to my cell and devoured the words. It seemed silly that there had ever been a time that I hated reading. I craved it now.

“Dear Mama,” the letter read. “I’m sorry that our phone call ended so abruptly all that time ago. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, in fact, and should have tried to get a hold of you earlier than I am now. I wasn’t sure how to get in contact with you until I found the prison website and read that you could send letters to inmates. Anyways, please forgive Marshall for hanging up on you. The trial upset him terribly and he’s been harboring a lot of anger and resentment.”

I’d forgive my son anything. I understood why I made him angry. She didn’t have to apologize for him.

“I would like it if you called again,” the letter continued. “I’ve been a little under the weather and have had to miss some work. If you don’t mind talking to me, I’d love to chat with you whenever you got a moment. I can’t really imagine what life must be like in prison. There must be lots of people around at all times, but I can’t help feeling that it still must be lonely, in a way. All those people and the ones you want to be around the most, you can’t. I don’t want you to feel alone, Mama. You have me, and you have Marshall, whether he’s ready to admit it or not. Maybe he’ll come around, with time and some gentle prodding.”

I smiled at that and felt a rush of affection for a girl I barely knew. It was clear to me that my son had married a kind soul and a good woman. Nothing like his Mama.

“You can also feel free to write letters anytime,” the letter added. “I had pen pals when I was a little girl and kind of fell out of the practice. But I’m a damn fine pen pal, if I do say so myself. You won’t be disappointed. You can tell me anything. I’m very interested in knowing about you and your life, Mama. I’ve told you before that I want you in our lives, and that still holds true. Everyone makes mistakes, and everyone deserves the chance to make amends for them.

“I hope to hear from you soon. Love, Jules.”

I read and reread the letter, touching the stationary, examining the neat penmanship, and trying to glean all the knowledge I could about my daughter-in-law. I wanted to rush to the bank of phones and call her right away, but there was a schedule to follow and things to do.

“Ready?” Marlee asked brightly, popping her head in the door of our cell.

“Let’s go,” I said, stowing the letter safely into my cabinet before walking down the hall to the common room.

“I’m Karla, an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Karla.”

Admit. Believe. Decide. Search. Admit. Be ready. Ask. List. Amend. Take. Seek. Awake. It was a never-ending cycle of tasks, of constant reminders that we needed to continue improving ourselves even after our initial successes. It was comforting, in a way: a complex ritual that, if followed, will help me improve my life. I was doing my best to follow it. I hadn’t missed a meeting since Marlee had first prodded me to go.

“Now is the time for sharing,” Karla said. My hand shot up with all the rest, and I was selected to go to the front of the crowd.

“I got a letter from my daughter-in-law today,” I said. “It apologized about my son hanging up on me the time I tried to call them, tried to make contact. Jules is a sweet girl. She told me in the letter that she wanted to know about my life, but I don’t know how comfortable I am with that. If she meant about my prison life, that’s one thing. I can tell her all about cell checks and outdoor recreation in the dead of winter.”

There was some laughter, and I waited for it to die down before I continued.

“But if she wants to know about my other life, the one I had before I was locked up, I’m less comfortable,” I continued. “She said that my son followed my trial, and it was a big media thing. I’m sure they said nasty things on all the shows about me. I’m sure it didn’t help my case with him. And I’m not sure what rehashing everything will do for me now. I knew from the beginning that what I was doing was wrong. Toward the end, though, I somehow convinced myself that I was actually doing a social service. I’m sure alcohol had a lot to do with that reasoning.”

There came a point at the nightclub when everything was perfect. I’d minimized my debts to the mob and made regular customers out of them besides. Costa introduced me to Johnny French, and I’d thought he was insane for doing so.

“Would you relax?” the Don asked as I huffed at him and glared at the man I knew from seeing his picture on TV and in the newspapers—Johnny French, the rising star of the New York Police Department. Scourge to the criminal world.

“Nothing good can come of you bringing a cop in here,” I said, eyeing Johnny French as he wandered around the nightclub. I didn’t want him going upstairs. In fact, I didn’t want him there at all.

“Plenty good can come of it,” Costa said. “Just give him a chance. Make friends with him now, and who knows where he’ll be five, ten years from now.”

“He’s responsible for sinking operations like this,” I said. “All around the city. What’s to say that my nightclub isn’t going to be next?”

“Because he’s my friend,” the Don soothed. “Because he knows that I helped get this place off the ground. Because you’re my friend. This is a favor here, Mama. Get in good with Johnny French and you won’t have to worry about anything. You can practically advertise.”

“And what’s going to happen when Johnny French is leading the raid against this place?” I asked. “You going to bail me out of jail? Hire me a lawyer? Smuggle me out of the country?”

“There won’t be a raid if you impress this guy enough,” Costa said. “Believe me. Buddy up to this guy and he’s your buddy for life. Show him a taste of the goods, Mama.”

I could appreciate the wisdom in getting a cop on my side and having the force as a friend to the nightclub, but that didn’t help me trust the man. I’d had a lifelong suspicion for cops—most likely because I’d had a lifetime of doing wrong. Cops busted bad guys and I was a bad guy. It was as simple as the sun rising and setting in the sky every day.

But as I shook Johnny French’s hand at Costa’s urging, I realized that this cop was different. This cop wanted connections in different realms as he navigated his upward climb, and Costa had picked me to be his connection at this level.

“I’m Johnny French,” he said, lifting my hand to his lips and planting a quick kiss on my knuckles.

“I know who you are,” I said.

“And I know who you are,” he said. “Mama, you have the best gig in town, I’ve heard.”

I hoped he’d heard it from Costa and not from an open police investigation into my business.

“Can I offer you a taste of it?” I asked. “Any of these girls are ripe for the taking. I can vouch for them all.”

“I’m only interested in one girl,” he said, looking at me with those eyes of his. Those eyes could cut me in two.

I laughed. “I haven’t worked like that in a while,” I said. “Been too busy being boss, I guess. I think you’d find another girl to be a little more professional.”

“I don’t want another girl,” Johnny said. “I want you.”

And that’s how I took New York City’s rising star cop upstairs to where my brothel was really booming. He was a generous lover, and I genuinely had a good time showing him the many perks my friendship could offer.

But time passed. My son rejected me after I tried to arrange to go to his wedding, and I had trusted girls leave the nightclub in search for legitimate work or something better. I was convinced that my nightclub was as good as it got. I had as many people coming for the food, drinks, entertainment, and atmosphere as I did people coming for the sex. I’d hired world-class chefs, was booking popular entertainment acts, and thought that everything was going so well.

The drinking was always heavy, but it got worse after talking with Marshall. It was around that time that I developed the idea that I was doing society a service by having the nightclub open. First of all, I was giving lonely people a place to forget about their loneliness. Second of all, I was giving girls a chance to get off the street and into a real place of business. They didn’t have to worry about violent pimps or getting busted by undercover cops. They could relax here and form a sisterhood.

But as time wore on and I sank deeper into alcoholism, I was able to easily ignore the fact that the girls were kept as virtual slaves. I told them that they were in charge of how much money they made, and that made all of them work every night. I made them leave their profits with me, which I promptly spent on myself. I exacted higher and higher percentages of tips almost every week. And I ostracized girls who didn’t do what I asked—as in refusing to sleep with a customer.

I always maintained the guise that the girls were free to do what they wanted. If they didn’t want any upstairs business—the type where they slept with customers and earned the real money—they didn’t have to. But if I customer wanted a girl badly enough, he had only to name a price that I salivated after for me to bully a girl into doing what she didn’t want. How could they go against me? I was feeding and clothing them, giving them a job and a place to stay and, occasionally, some spending cash.

But now, with a clear head and me in prison, I could honestly say that I wasn’t doing anybody any good except for myself.

“I did use those girls for money,” I said, staring at the faces of the inmates in the crowd. “I did everything the prosecutors in my trial said I did. I knew I was doing wrong, but alcohol helped me ignore it. It convinced me that there were merits to my madness, and I listened. The bottle was all I would listen to. I’m trying so hard to move through the twelve steps, but there’s one that scares me so badly that I don’t think I can do it. I’ve wronged so many people that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make amends to all of them. I don’t know their names. I don’t know their numbers. And I don’t know how many there could have been. Over the years? Hundreds, probably.”

Karla raised her hand, standing off to the side, and I nodded at her.

“It’s always important to make an effort at making amends,” she said. “Whether the people we speak to forgive or accept us or not, it helps us to forgive and accept ourselves.”

I took that knowledge to heart. I started writing down names of those I could remember, writing down descriptions and possible ages when I couldn’t. Maybe I could get a hold of my lawyer and see if he could help put me in contact with some of them. There had to be a list somewhere, especially since the court had paid out the nightclub’s profits to those girls.

I had feasible goals in mind, and that helped fill my time in prison. I racked my brain thinking of those girls, knowing that once I contacted all of them, I’d be able to rest a little bit easier as well as start the healing process. It was good to have an end game, to have missions like this occupy my mind. It gave me more purpose than even the commissary. I’d started even thinking about getting a second associate degree. All I had was time—I might as well push my education to the next level.