One Last Kiss. Mary Wilbon
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is her. It’s Paradise.”
Paradise had set herself apart long ago from the other prostitutes on Halsey Street. It wasn’t about the money for her. She really enjoyed the sex. She hadn’t run to the streets because her momma didn’t understand her or because her daddy didn’t love her enough.
She wanted the opportunity to explore her sexuality. She loved the feel of sex, the soreness of it, the sweet delightful invasion of the body that lasts for days. Paradise brought her love of sex to all her clientele. She had politicians, doctors, lawyers, and a few celebrities begging for her.
Sheleeta watched Paradise in awe.
“I heard that girl is a one-woman whore extravaganza,” she said respectfully.
“Oh yes, honey. Paradise is an artiste in the art of whore. People pay some crazy cash to get with her,” Lady confirmed. Then she looked around the KFC to make sure no one was listening. She leaned in confidentially close to Sheleeta and asked in a hushed reverential tone, “Did you ever hear the story about the Smilin’ Man?”
“The Smilin’ Man? No!”
“Well, the word is that Paradise’s honey pot tastes so good, that first this john went down on her and it was so sweet he didn’t want to go any further. He thought that after such good-tasting pussy, intercourse would be a letdown. So Paradise dared him to fuck her but warned him it would be more than he could stand. So now, of course, the john HAD to do her, so he stuck his dick in her, and her squeeze box was so tight, it felt like a Vulcan death grip. When it was over, the john died on top of her. Very happy. Even the undertaker couldn’t get the blissful smile off that man’s face.”
“Shut up!”
“I am serious, honey. That poor undertaker lost his business because of it.”
“No!”
“Hell, yes! The Smilin’ Man’s wife sued his ass for pain and suffering and won; then she closed that motherfucker down.”
“What!”
“The funeral was real embarrassing for her. She was humiliated. Just imagine. Their family and friends coming to pay their respects at the funeral parlor. People they both knew and socialized with. And there was her husband, lying all up in the coffin, smiling in death, looking happier than he had ever been in his whole entire life.”
“No shit!” Sheleeta said in wonder.
“I shit you not, little sisterman!”
Lady and Sheleeta watched Paradise as she approached the corner. Then she turned and began talking with someone who was standing in shadows. Lady and Sheleeta tried to see who it was but couldn’t.
“Who’s that she’s talking to? Is it that cop that used to hang around her?” Sheleeta asked, struggling to see what was going on.
“I don’t know, Sheleeta. It could be Hugh Grant or Eddie Murphy for all I know. I can’t tell from here. But it better not be that no-good Jimmy Swaggart again. The sex stuff he wanted from some of the workers was so freaky, it would scare the heebie-jeebies out of Charles Fuckin’ Manson.”
Lady watched closely. She was concerned. She was very protective of the sex providers.
Lady and Sheleeta watched as Paradise started to walk away from whoever she was talking to but was pulled into the shadows, completely out of their sight.
Seconds later, Paradise tried to walk away again, and again she was pulled back, this time more forcefully.
“I don’t like the looks of this,” Lady said, and headed out the door. Sheleeta was right behind her.
By the time they were able to elbow and shove their way through the moving throng, as only large determined men in wigs and high heels can do, and reach the spot where Paradise had been standing, she was gone, almost as if she’d never been there.
Lady and Sheleeta looked everywhere on the crowded street. They frantically questioned everyone in the area. Paradise had been noticed, of course, but no one had seen her leave. Lady and Sheleeta split up and stood at opposite ends of the street, searching the crowd for hours. But there was no sign of Paradise anywhere.
She had simply vanished into the Friday night din of Halsey Street.
3
As always, the night beckoned to Hamilton Baker. He loved his late-night jogs. He jogged every night, barring inclement weather, year-round. He wasn’t ready for summer to end, but despite his wishes, the days were growing shorter.
The mix of streetlight spilling onto the ground and the moon above had a tranquilizing effect on him. He savored the quiet time. He looked up at the silver sickle of moon against a dark sky that seemed to envelop him.
This Friday had been particularly stressful. He had to prepare for his closing argument before a jury. He had rehearsed it in his head, over and over. Being a workaholic, he had worked obsessively for more than a year in preparation. He arrived at the office at 7:00 A.M., and he worked weekends. The hard work paid off, because now Hamilton was a rising star in the DA’s office.
He knew exactly what to expect on Monday morning. The courtroom would be in total silence, waiting for him to begin. He would push his chair away dramatically from the prosecution table, slowly approach the jury box, and give his stunning summation.
The mixed-race jury of nine men and three women would adjourn to the jury room, then deliver a guilty verdict for the murdering bitch. Kimberly Shaw murdered her husband, New Jersey real estate tycoon Michael Shaw, by shattering his skull with a heavy bronze sculpture. There was no evidence of a break-in, and Mr. Shaw had not been entertaining or expecting a visitor that evening.
Hamilton was certain he had convinced them of the woman’s guilt. And, more important, the jury liked Hamilton. He could feel it. But you never really knew for sure. Juries could be unpredictable.
His office needed to win this case. The homicide rate was on the rise. His bosses at the prosecutor’s office let him know that every chance they got, and they had been in his office practically every ten minutes this Friday before his Monday summation to remind him.
In particular, his boss, DA Jeffrey Barnes, was always leaving messages for how Hamilton should behave in front of the cameras and microphones that were always waiting for him outside the courtroom. And that’s why Hamilton was stressed out and in need of this quiet time.
He checked his cell phone for messages. He kept his office informed of his every move during a case. There were no messages. No one was looking for him.
He inhaled deeply, feeling the pressure of the workday falling away, and started to relax. Starting slowly, he picked up a comfortable speed, letting the autumn wind blow through his hair, and enjoyed the freedom of the night. He felt completely alive. Orson, his black Lab, trotted at his side. Dry leaves cartwheeled and crackled as they moved.
He headed toward his favorite spot in Mountainside, Echo Lake Park. Once he entered the park, there was only the sound of his own breathing, his footfalls, the crickets, and the rest of the insect chorus. An owl stirred in the trees and asked his name as he went by.
A deer raised her head, trembling and listening as she picked up the sound of a twig snapping. She turned her head. Usually the park animals didn’t trouble themselves to avoid the late joggers, almost as if they sensed the runners meant them no harm. If they were nibbling on some leaves, they’d continue doing so.
Something else was approaching. It was a car, far up the path. It sped past Hamilton, then swerved left, angling down the park’s central road, and was swallowed by the shadows.
Hamilton’s cell phone started to vibrate. He stumbled off the running trail and checked the readout. He smiled and decided to take the call.
Orson continued to trot ahead, picking up a scent.
“Hello, Sarah,” he said. Sarah Donner was his fiancée.
“Am