22
CALIFORNIA INSTITUTION FOR WOMEN, CHINO
911#, FOLLOWED BY a phone number, has a whole other meaning in a state prison. So, when a guard slipped the note to Brenda Paris, she knew she had to act and act fast. Payment for the special delivery was a Model Muse sweatshirt with Keisha’s authentic signature on it.
“For my niece,” the guard mumbled.
“Yeah, right.”
Brenda had been selling Model Muse swag to inmates and guards ever since the show had gone viral. It had become every felon’s favorite reality show, after Judge Judy. It was a good business that kept her in Juul Vapes and raised her profile among the more hardened criminals, especially the Mama of them all—Aunt Peggy, the only inmate with the a cell phone.
A jewel thief is one thing. A murderer is something else. Aunt Peggy kept her rap sheet fairly quiet, but the huge garish scar on her face and the torn earlobe inspired gossip and respect, if not outright fear. Holding court in her private cell, Aunt Peggy had her own TV, a desk neatly piled with the latest Michael Connelly and James Patterson novels, and two bookcases of beauty supplies that rivaled the inventory of any black hair salon on the Southside. It cost a hefty price to make an un-monitored call, but if Aunt Peggy liked you, there was a cell to be had at a price. Brenda’s price was Keisha.
“If it ain’t Madison Avenue.” Aunt Peggy’s face clouded over at the sight of Brenda. “You got nerve showin’ your face in here after that shit swag you passed last month.”
“I didn’t know it was subpar quality. I told Keisha never to send me that crap again.”
“Not so tight.” Aunt Peggy swatted at the girls adding cornrows to her scalp. “Stop watchin’ Judge Judy and pay attention to my head.”
“Sorry, Aunt Peggy,” the young inmate groveled as Judge Judy passed sentence. “If it weren’t for morons like you in the world, I wouldn’t have a job.”
“That stuck up Supermodel,” she patted the hairstylist’s hand, “thinks her shit don’t stink.”
Brenda nodded in agreement. Like Keisha, you had to agree with everything that came out of Aunt Peggy’s mouth or she wouldn’t grant any favors.
“Aunt Peggy couldn’t stop laughing when she went cray-cray on that bald, white chick the other day.” The old murderess showed her hair crew the animated meme of Keisha’s rant on Facebook. Through the cracked screen of the old iPhone 6, the tagline read: When Monday’s gotcha looking like…
The three laughed hysterically.
“I have a 911,” Brenda said.
Peggy spit out a wad of chewing tobacco into her wastebasket. “Yo, Keisha Kash is one stuck up bitch who don’t love her mama. You don’t need to run and fix her 911 crisis call.”
“It’s not from her.” Brenda didn’t know who it was from, in actual fact. The number wasn’t familiar to her. She stooped over and wiped up the tobacco juice that Aunt Peggy had spat across the floor with the cuff of her sweatshirt. She would’ve kissed her feet if it helped.
“Miss Madison Avenue, Aunt Peggy feels for you. Your kids don’t deserve a mother like you. Do they?” She turned to her yes-girls.
“Dat’s right, Aunt Peggy. That Superbitch don’t love her mama.”
“Kind of money she makes. What you still doin’ in the joint? She could’ve gotten you the best lawyer in America. Hell, she could fuck him and not have to pay his fee. Instead, she leaves you here to rot with her leftover swag scraps.”
“I’m gonna get out,” Brenda said. “And when I do, I’ll be sending you a big fat care package of everything you like.”
“Honey, you can’t fit what I like in a box.” Aunt Peggy slapped the ass of one of her girls. “Forty. Cash, for one minute. And you call from here where I can listen. Make sure this ain’t no fix-up with the guards.”
Brenda handed over the cash and a signed T-shirt.
“Keep that cheap shit swag.” Aunt Peggy swiftly chucked her iPhone at Brenda’s head. Brenda caught it midair.
“Nice catch.”
Brenda pulled the scrap of paper from her pocket and dialed the unfamiliar New York 917 number.
“This is Brenda Paris.” She listened for a brief second. “Wait, your voice, is this Pablo Michaels?”
“You talkin’ to Pablo?” one of the girls squealed. “I love me some of that silver fox.”
Brenda held her finger over her mouth for quiet. “I literally have less than a minute to talk on this secure line.”
All three inmates were tuned into what Brenda was saying. Tension tightened the room.
“Wait. What? How could you possibly know about that?” There was a long pause. “She got the message then…”
Aunt Peggy sat up a bit taller now. She rubbed her fingers together and tapped her finger on the faux Rolex wrapped around her wrist. “Time’s a wastin’. Got another forty?”
Brenda, intently listening, nodded her head then blurted, “She what?”
“Show me, Madison Avenue, or the price goes up.”
Brenda rummaged around in her pocket and turned up several singles and a five-dollar bill. She tossed the money into Aunt Peggy’s fat hands.
“That’s 19 bucks.” Peggy counted through the bills. Her scowl then turned into a grin. “I’ll be nice and give you a discount. Another 30 seconds, with a few on the house.”
Brenda gave a nervous quick smile, but focused more on the call. “I don’t understand? She was wearing a red wig and doing what with the blood vial?”
“I knew it. Weave, my ass.” Aunt Peggy snapped her fingers.
“Sorry, I can hardly hear you—you’re breaking up.” Brenda was frustrated. “She destroyed it? That was evidence.”
“She destroys lives for a living,” Peggy roared. Her minions joined in and cackled along with her.
“Say what?” Brenda sounded like she was being blindsided by a semi-truck. “You gotta get me outta here,” she pleaded. “I can help you get her in line, but I can’t do anything from jail.” Looking at the duration of the call—1 minute, 28 seconds—she abruptly tapped the red icon, ending the conversation, and tossed the phone back to Aunt Peggy.
Befuddled, Brenda stood with her jaw clenched, and the normally congenial woman’s face began to morph like Bruce Banner into The Hulk. “That FUCKING bitch better ditch her wig, and learn how to basket weave in Tibet, because when I get outta here, she’s a fucking wrap.”
“Ooooo, don’t fuck with your mama.” Aunt Peggy clapped her hands and screeched with delight.
Pablo sat back with a certain satisfaction. Fight fire with fire.