9

Tarsha sat on the couch in the dark feeling antsy. The cigarette she smoked was almost down to its filter. It was her umpteenth of the day. With no more money to spend and none coming in, there were a lot more stressful days. Once again, the bills were piling up, the shopping sprees had ended, and they could barely afford to put gas in the Lexus.

Wacka was asleep with their son in the bedroom, and Tarsha wondered how he could rest so easily when they were broke again. It frustrated her. He was supposed to be the man of the house, but he did nothing but sleep, linger around her, and do a half-assed job in extorting Maxine. Yet, he still wanted sex from her. Tarsha wasn’t in the mood to fuck him. Money got her pussy wet and made her want to fuck. She was materialistic. Nice things always excited her.

She tapped the ashes onto the floor, not caring about the mess. The thrill was over, but there was no way she was going to allow the good life to slip from her hands—not that easily. It wasn’t going to stop, not if she had anything to do with it. She finished off the cigarette and removed herself from the couch. She peered in on Wacka sleeping like a baby with their son. She frowned. She wanted to throw some cold water on him and startle him awake. How dare he take it easy when they were in a serious crisis? If their son wasn’t lying next to him, she would have done it.

Tarsha missed that vicious and murderous man he used to be. Before the accident with his fingers, Wacka always turned her on, and she always ate and lived a good life. And he didn’t take no for an answer. He took what he wanted when he wanted. The old Wacka would have carried out his threats by now, and Maxine would’ve felt his wrath. He would have fucked her up really good.

But things done changed.

Tarsha was like a bloodhound with a scent. She was tired of waiting around and being ignored by the bitch when they had the advantage over her. If Maxine wouldn’t pick up her phone and reply to their threat, then they needed to go see her in person. But there was one fundamental issue; they had no idea of her whereabouts. The house that Wacka had kidnapped her from had been sold.

But where there was a will, there was a way.

It was the Internet age, and access to any information was only a few clicks away. Tarsha sat down at her laptop and signed on. In the dim room her fingers started rapping the laptop keys and she typed Maxine’s name into Google. Nothing came up but some obituary pictures of old ladies who weren’t the right Maxine Henderson. She was a ghost online. That bitch didn’t even have a Facebook page.

Tarsha sighed. There had to be another way around the dilemma. Then she thought, Maxine might be a ghost online, but most likely her notorious and wealthy boyfriend wasn’t. There was probably all kinds of information on him. So she quickly typed “Scott West” into Google, and Bingo!

The results on Scott West seemed to be endless. There were several articles about the businessman, and his pictures flooded the Internet. But what immediately captured Tarsha’s attention were the recent articles about his arrest and shooting at his Midtown Manhattan address.

The story was headline news. Tarsha read and read and collected everything there was about him. There was a photograph of his multi-million-dollar penthouse suite where the chaos unfolded—and there was another shot of the opulent entrance to the lavish building. There were several pictures of Scott being carried out on a gurney from the building, FBI in tow behind the EMS. Then there was the money shot—a photographer happened to capture a picture of a grief-stricken Maxine in the backdrop. Her head was dropped from the flash and she was captured outside of the building, rushing away from something. Tarsha smiled at the image.

There were other pictures, several of the FBI with their high-powered rifles and their vehicles, and of the area. One of the articles went on to say that Scott was shot by agents during a raid of his place, and he had been rushed to the hospital, where he was recovering from his wounds—NewYork-Presbyterian to be exact. The article was less than a week old.

Is he still there? She wondered. If he was, then Maxine was too.

Tarsha felt great. She had hit pay dirt. She looked around for her cell phone and found it misplaced between the couch cushions. Then she searched for Presbyterian’s information, made the call, and waited. A female answered.

“NewYork-Presbyterian.”

“Yes, I need a favor. A friend of mine was admitted there a few days ago. His name is Scott West.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re not allowed to disclose any information,” the woman replied.

“Okay, thank you.” She ended the call.

There was no way she was going to get through the hospital’s strict protocol and with Scott being detained by the feds, it was impossible to know his situation. She would have to find out the old fashioned way, and that was going in person. That meant they would have to take a road trip to New York City. It was about getting this money.

Tarsha sat back in the chair and lit another cigarette. It was inexplicable the hate and rage she now felt toward Maxine. Sure, there was acrimony over how Wacka got played and now had nubs where he used to have fingers. To Tarsha, that was all Maxine’s fault. But this deep, dark feeling that had just come over her was in addition to her previous appetite for revenge.

With Wacka’s situation there was anger, but reading the news articles brought forth jealousy, and Tarsha became a whole other beast. They both fucked hustlers, yet Maxine’s man was important enough to have the feds kick open his door while Wacka was a state level criminal. Tarsha felt that she was younger and prettier than Maxine. She stood up and looked at her shape in the long, vertical mirror. Tarsha sucked in her fat gut and grabbed a chunk of her wobbly phat ass. Niggas love this ass, she thought. I can get any nigga I want. I could have Scott West if I wanted him.

Tarsha was salty and delusional, but her mind was made up. Once they drained Maxine for every dime she and Scott had, she was taking the largest cut and leaving Wacka to find a nigga just as rich and powerful as Scott West. It was time for an upgrade.