Alea Iacta Est

Alea Iacta Est.

(Author's Note: This is the sequel to Quid Pro Quo; to skip to the sex, go to chapter VIII, below (the chapters are numbered in succession, starting from chapter I in Quid Pro Quo))

V

Saturday, 0200.

Jack lay in bed on his back, holding Veronica in his arms. Her head (right side down) rested upon his chest and her left arm draped across his stomach and ribs. He listened to and felt against the skin of his chest, her steady, soft breaths as she drifted deeper into sleep after a long evening of the most intense and pleasing sex she'd ever had. For Jack, the evening was at least equal to his most vigorous experience in Bangkok (his preferred respite of Vice, from whence he would decompress and 'release the Evil' following a deployment, particularly the rougher ones). The atmosphere in his bedroom was still alive with the crackle of sexual energy and the lingering smell of sweat, sperm and vaginal secretions, as often as not mixed together into a potent "stank," further testifying to the passion with which they had consummated their new association. In just five hours a myriad of new opportunities had opened up before Jack, ready for him to seize the initiative and drive forward some (all?) of the gambits he'd quietly contemplated.

Veronica shifted her head slightly and stirred where she lay, on her right side, facing him, her left arm moving a bit before once again laying across his flat stomach and her cheek, hair and ear laying in contact with his firm pecs and abutting his jaw. He absently rubbed and then squeezed her shoulder with his left hand and with his right hand, gently pushed two of her stray braids behind her left ear, from where they had fallen in front of her face. He kissed her head, inhaling her scent, closed his eyes and reviewed in his mind again what she'd told him about the 'Ass-Clown' drug dealer whom she feared so much to have thrown her fate to chance and ended up with him now.

Earlier that evening...

"So, Ronnie, tell me about this asshole who threatened to kill you."

Veronica was still enjoying the afterglow of her third orgasm that night, her face was warm and damp with sweat, but she turned her head to the right and, with her eyes still closed, started to speak. Her voice was difficult for Jack to make out, even as he lay upon her back, and he decided that it was ridiculous to try and have a conversation with her as he remained inside her, clutching her back with her body folded up beneath her and her face pushed against his pillow. Reluctantly, he pushed himself back and left her, enjoying the feeling of his semi-hard cock rubbing against her swollen vaginal walls. He lay down on his bed next to her, his face now aligned with hers and only inches away.

"Hey, there you are." She said quietly and playfully, but he could see that she was, at least for the moment, exhausted.

Jack smiled at her and gently pushed one of her braids away from her face so he could more easily see her eyes. She slowly shifted her body, stretching her legs out for a moment before bringing her right leg up and bent at the knee, allowing her to push herself off of her stomach and lay on her side. She was becoming more alert and started over.

"His name is Dante, and he's dumb as shit, but he's big and loves to fight. He wants to kill me because I stole $1,200 from him."

"Ok. Where does he work, what's his territory, Ronnie?"

Veronica paused, shifting her gaze upward as she thought. "Last I heard, he has four clubs he deals out of, all on the northeast side."

"Only clubs? No street corners?"

"No, only clubs. He and his crew got busted twice for dealing on corners and decided the police were significantly less likely to be trying to take him down if he ran a business and was selling off the streets." She told him, pronouncing "trying" as "try-na," and "selling" as "sellin." But something else stood out to Jack. "Did she really use 'significantly less likely,' and 'try-na' in the same sentence?" He wondered.

He was looking at her with a more intense focus now, and noticed on her right shoulder, which was now facing him, a distinctive scar. It was the kind of scar which one rarely sees in the 21st century Western world on someone under 50 years old, and Veronica was most certainly that.

"What happened here?" He asked, pointing to the vaguely rhomboid scar, perhaps half an inch across and of uneven texture. It was a texture that was unique, as only one kind of activity left that kind of very distinctive scar.

"What?" She asked, looking at her shoulder, then back at him. She knew something had changed in his focus and in his train of thought, but she wasn't sure what it was. She became nervous and pushed herself further onto her side, so that her shoulder no longer faced him. "Oh, I don't know, just a scar. Why's that matter?" She asked the last question with an overly-emphasized accent and the forced and cocky voice of an urban teenage girl, and he knew then that she was putting on the accent, and at least by implication, trying to hide something significant about herself from him.

"Not quite. That's a small pox inoculation scar, and no one in the US, or Western Europe has gotten one of those since the early seventies, but in the rest of the world, it took until the eighties to stop vaccinating. So let's start over, Ronnie; Where are you from? And drop the street talk, I know it's not your real accent."

She froze and was quiet, blinking several times and now was completely out of the afterglow of her last orgasm. Suddenly she was scared and in a stranger's home again, not sure what kind of situation, threat or refuge, lay in front of her. She looked at him intently, felt the sweat begin to bead on her forehead and her heart rate become fast and strong. But as she watched Jack, he remained calm and still, seeming to Veronica like a cat studying a mouse. His face was impassive and neutral, his bright green eyes were studying her wide brown eyes. Veronica breathed deeply once, licked her lips and finally responded.

"Okay," she began quietly, in a neutral American accent. "I'm from Nigeria, but I'm an American citizen." She said, emphasizing her legal status, though neither Veronica nor Jack was sure why. "My family and I came here as refugees when I was seven years old. My father had been in the army but fell out with the dictator we had then, Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida. When we arrived in the US, the government resettled us in public housing in a poor, crime-ridden neighborhood in East Baltimore, and I learned that being an immigrant was worse than just being 'black,' like everyone else around us. So, I learned to use the English that the kids around me spoke, and by the way, it's not 'street talk;' it's a 'DMV,' D.C.-Maryland-Virginia, accent. But at home, my mum always insisted my two sisters and I use proper American English, since that's where we lived now."


Jack smiled crookedly and nodded, noting her use of the British/Commonwealth variant of the American 'mom.' "Okay, fair enough, DMV accent then. So why bring out the East Baltimore, DMV accent with me?"

"You're white." she said simply, and exhaled with a resigned, sad expression. "I learned in this country that white people usually find blacks who speak like that, with a distinct accent and mannerism, less intellectually threatening; you were holding me at gunpoint, and I panicked and just went back to using the same slang and accent I used with the police." She said this with some heat into her words, but seemed to think better of it, still a bit unsure of where she stood with Jack after his discovery of her artifice. She forced herself to appear settled and calm. "White guy with a gun, who just found out I lied to him, after he found out I broke into his home." She observed to herself. "Would even that good sex keep him from seeing me as a threat if I lose my cool?"

"Okay, I think I understand." Jack said. "But that's enough stereotypes for now. Just be honest with me and tell me about this dirtbag who got you into this mess."

"Can I still stay here?" She asked meekly, reaching out to touch and gently squeeze his left shoulder, letting her fingers trail down his side and rest on his ribs. Her touch was an attempt at affection, but he didn't think she was trying to be flirty, rather that she was scared and was back to feeling desperate, worried she'd upset him enough for him to throw her out of his condo and putting her back into the fearful frame of mind that drove her to this gambit in the first place.

"Of course you can stay." He said extending his left hand with his palm up, in what instinctively he felt was a reassuring gesture, as though he was signaling her not to leave. He saw her eyes briefly tear-up before she quickly wiped them dry, took a shaky breath and began to relax.

"Here." He said, smiling gently and pulling back his comforter and sheets so she could slide into his bed. He pulled the comforter over her body and just below her chin, and it seemed to further calm her, covering her nudity and keeping her warm.

She liked his smile, the way the edges of his eyes crinkled as the corners of his mouth moved up in a mischievous smile. He changed the subject, as based on the new information she'd shared with him, he was curious about her background. "So what tribe are you? Yoruba?"

She involuntarily raised her eyebrows, opened her eyes wide and smiled in surprise that he even thought to ask about this, let alone that he, unlike virtually every other native-born American she'd met, might have been familiar enough with Nigeria to even know about the Yoruba tribe. "Wow! I can't believe you know about any tribes in Nigeria! Um, no, I'm not Yoruba," she said, "I'm Igbo. Do you know much about Nigeria?"

He shook his head. "Not much, no. I know it's a big country, has at least one large tribe, the Yoruba, but that's about it. During my deployments I've met a few electricians, library workers and cooks who were from Nigeria. Do the Igbo have their own language? Do you speak it?"

"Ńezie, Oluku à! Of course we have our own language, and yes, I speak it." She said, smiling. "But the national language in Nigeria is English, British English, so I learned to speak English in Nigeria, but our accent is different from American accents."

He raised his eyebrows and smiled again, she assumed indicating he was impressed. "Okay, so that's out of the way. How did you get here?" He asked.

"I told you, I pretended to be a mover, and-" She began to explain, but he stopped her off with a slowly raised hand.

"No, I mean how did you get to this building? Start with Fucktard finding out you stole from him and tell me how that chain of events brought you here."

VI

Veronica inhaled and breathed out slowly. "About ten months ago, I worked as a dancer in one of Dante's clubs at night while going to classes during the day. I... had some distractions after high school, and after too many years dealing with them, I was trying to finally get my Associate's Degree in English, and then I planned to eventually move to the university and get my bachelor's degree; I want to work as an elementary school teacher someday, though after everything that I did I'm not sure that's possible anymore... Anyway, Dante's the dealer I told you about, the guy you call 'Ass-Clown,' 'Fucktard,' 'Dirtbag,' and just 'asshole.' You're not wrong with any of those, either..."

"Okay, so you were supporting yourself through college as an exotic dancer, a stripper, right?" He clarified.

"Yes."

He held out his hand again, indicating she should proceed.

"So one night, Dante called me up to his office after closing time, as I was changing and trying to get my share of the tips. He told me to get down on my knees and give him a blowjob, right there in his office with two of his flunkies watching. I told him I wasn't his girlfriend and wouldn't do it, but he laughed and then asked me how much money I wanted to suck his dick. I told him I wasn't a whore, tried to leave his office, but one of his thugs, a fat man with a shaved head and fat rolls on his neck, blocked the door. Dante laughed at me again. He reminded me that I had, in fact, worked as an escort for a month before going to work in the club, when I was trying to work off a debt my youngest sister owed Dante. Because he thought I was good looking and exotically dark, Lamar, my pimp, decided I would only service white clients who would pay extra for a thin woman like me with big breasts and very dark skin; maybe he was right, I had several repeat customers, all middle-aged white guys, who would pay Lamar over $1,500 for a night of my time. And it was strange, most of the time we'd only have sex once or twice, and always with condoms, and the rest of the time it was like they wanted a rent-a-wife, someone to listen to them bitch about work, drink champagne with them, sleep in their beds with them, things like that. I hated it, but there was no other way I knew to help my sister earn the $5,000 in 30 days that she owed Dante for her fucking-dumbass boyfriend's bail bond." Veronica didn't know why she was gushing so much about her background, but it had been a long time since she felt like she could or should let the events of the last year out. Also, Jack was a good listener, and his squinty cat's eyes, crooked smile on his strong jaw and handsome face made her feel relaxed. She saw he was genuinely interested in knowing her, and she was starting to really enjoy feeling his attention...

"Hold on," Jack interjected as Veronica paused to take a breath. "I'm no math major, but if you were getting $1,500 a night to sleep with those guys, why did you have to work as an escort for a month to work off $5,000?" Jack asked. "That's only, what, three nights of work?"

"Because I never touched the money; Lamar setup the appointments and received the cash. I just showed up at the trick's house at the right time, texted Lamar when I was there, and then texted him again before I left. Neither Lamar nor any of my clients paid me very much during that time, and it wasn't as though I was actually working to earn against a target of $5,000; my sister borrowed $5,000 from Dante, and then didn't pay him, so the only way I could protect her from Dante was to work for that full month as an escort, no matter how much money I brought in." Veronica explained.

"Why didn't your sister work off that money instead of you? It wasn't your boyfriend's debt..." Jack observed.

"Because, in Igbo culture, especially after my dad died and my mom moved back to Africa, since we had no male relatives here, I was the only one who could help her. And as the oldest daughter, too old in Igbo culture to still get married to a man from a good family, I had a duty to try and help my younger sister fix her life. In our culture, and after the consequences of some of those distractions in my own life, it was more pragmatic for me to take on even an odious burden like that, if it would help my sister and in doing so, help our family." Veronica told him, the sadness and shame she still felt was palpable to Jack as he listened.

"Anyway," she said, collecting her feelings and moving back into answering Jack's earlier question. "Dante was Lamar's boss, and when Dante actually saw me in person, he told Lamar that I was too good looking to turn tricks, that he wanted me to work at his club so he could bring in more white guys looking for black dancers, so I started working at 'Baby Dolls,' one of Dante's clubs."

"That night when he wanted me to blow him and I didn't want to, after he asked me how much it would cost, someone fired a gun on the main level, which is strange because we'd already closed. Only Dante's loser friends should have been in the club with guns at that time of night. Dante heard the shot, got out his own gun, pushed past me and knocked me on my ass, and then ran out of the office toward the stairs down to the main level. One of his boys, Laquan, the fat and bald guy, yelled at me to get out of the office, kicking me every time I tried to stand up until I gave up on that and just crawled on my hands and knees out the door. Then he pulled the door shut behind him and ran down the stairs. But the door didn't stay shut, it popped back open. When I waited a minute and none of them came back to the office, I went in and in order to get revenge and be done with that part of my life, I took all the cash I could get from Dante's desk. I stuffed it into the garbage can next to his desk, took the bag out of the can, threw on my clothes as fast as I could, and took the garbage and the money and left. The next day I found out he was looking for me, that he knew I took his money. I used about $400 of that money just trying to lay low for about a week or so, trying to get out of the city, but I didn't know anyone who wasn't connected to Dante."

"What about your family?" Jack asked.

"My father died when I was sixteen, and after that, we moved away from East Baltimore, and came here. My mother went back to Nigeria four years ago; she applied for and received a microcredit loan from an NGO looking to attract Western businesswomen to partner with local women and open up a business in developing countries like Nigeria. My mom took advantage of the loosened definitions for what the NGOs defined as "Western businesswomen," and as a former Nigerian citizen coming back with money, easily qualified for a longterm visa. My youngest sister left the city after I agreed to pay off her debt, and I think she's in Las Vegas or Reno now. My middle sister joined a cult ten years ago and is who-knows-where. I figured Dante would find me eventually and probably kill me, and I didn't want him to get back any of that money. So, I sent my mother about $700 of what I had left, but then I had no other way to get money and get out of town, so I started trying to turn tricks on my own to earn some more money..." Jack could tell she was ashamed of what became of her, but he could understand that she had been desperate and saw that was her only way to flee.

"That first night I was out on the street, the first guy who picked me up turned out to be a cop. He showed me his badge right after I got in his car, then he drove to a deserted block of houses, took out his gun and made me suck his dick."

"Mother fucker." Jack said angrily, shaking his head. Veronica smiled sadly and squeezed his hand, acknowledging his empathy for the dirty cop's treatment of her.

"After he came in my mouth, he let me spit it out before he arrested me. When they booked me, a fat detective and a city attorney with a bad suit made me an offer, I could plead guilty and get no jail time, but I would have to agree to give up my citizenship and leave the country."

"Damn. Was this a federal charge?"

"No, but there was some kind of federal grant in this state, your 'Stand-your-ground-state,' to identify immigrants who are arrested, legal or illegal, and offer them no jail time to self-deport and renounce their immigration status or citizenship, for naturalized citizens like me. I told them I wouldn't do it, so they charged me with solicitation, loitering, public nuisance and some kind of vagrancy crime. I waited in the county jail for five months for my trial. At trial, I didn't really have any defense, any way to prove what the cop did, and honestly, I was dejected and depressed. The judge sentenced me to time served, plus ninety days. When they finally released me, I wasn't on parole, but the state was part of another federal grant that meant they had a program to bring female ex-cons to women's shelters instead of just dumping them on the street, if the women didn't have a home to go back to. I agreed to take part in the program, and asked them to bring me to the shelter that's about six blocks from here, because it was the farthest place I could get to, from the Northeast side, where Dante operates."