Fall 2005 Book Excerpt
The Harlot
by Jermaine Watkins
Publisher: Sadorian Publications
Cover Price: $19.95
ISBN 0-97-41714-5-X (pbk)
LCCN: 2005900436
PART I
The Time of Armageddon:
2004
Chapter 1
The strangers in the navy blue Crown Victoria had been following her car for quite some time.
Twenty-seven-year-old Silvia was certain of that. She inhaled deeply and exhaled. And then she repeated this breathing exercise until the spasmodic beating of her heart slowed to normal.
Her knuckles cracked as her bony hands loosened around the steering wheel of her black ’04 Cadillac DeVille. There was a near-lifeless appearance to her light-skinned face: leathery skin, deeply sallow cheeks, and eyes that loomed like two Os. She was as tall as 5 feet, 2 inches but weighed only 80 pounds, so that her once favorite outfit—a two-piece scarlet dress—fit too loosely, as if it belonged to another, larger woman. Her matching wide-brimmed hat hid the many strands of hair that she had lost since Dr. Simeon’s diagnosis of her terminal disease.
Silvia was from Connecticut, one of the wealthiest states in America, thanks to the prestigious companies that had pioneered the insurance industry—Aetna, The Travelers, and Cigna, to name just a few. Among many popular tourist attractions, there were the former Greenwich estate of ex-President George Bush, and his wife, Barbara; Miss Porters School, located in Farmington, where young Jacqueline Kennedy had been educated; and the homes of legendary authors Mark Twain and Harriet Beecher Stowe, which were now public museums. More contemporary, Jagged Edge’s Brandon and Brian Casey, ER’s Eriq La Salle, and the NBA’s Marcus Camby—all born-and-raised residents of Hartford—had struggled against considerable odds to attain rags-to-riches success and fame.
Hartford had a population of about 132,000 urban citizens, and was so monotonous that one from livelier northeastern cities—such as New York and Boston—might pass through on the highway without taking the slightest notice of it. At the center of this state’s capital—locally touted “the heartbeat of Connecticut”—the downtown streets were void of once happy crowds, since the government spent its money in other unseen areas than in the restoration of Hartford. Many of the classier department stores and restaurants—namely G. Fox, Sage Allen, and Brown Thompson—had long since closed their doors on business for good. Not to mention the depressing sight of countless office spaces with their dusty, dark windows, as bare as when the larger corporations had packed up and moved on, as if Hartford was a land plagued with famine and terminal diseases. For the past few decades, there were consistent public demands for better opportunities in employment and education; the lack of such had brought forth the kinds of perils—violence and petty crimes—found in most inner cities.
And Silvia was no less a victim of this era and environment.
Jumping at the sound of blaring automobile horns, Silvia glanced out of the back window at the mob of motionless morning drivers. There they go, she thought, referring to the strangers in the Crown Victoria: two men—they wore black sunglasses and suits—who maintained a steady traveling distance of two cars behind her. They noticed her staring and simultaneously turned sideways, as if spotting something more interesting outside their windows than keeping up with her.
The ferocious horns from the other automobiles forced Silvia’s attention ahead again; she was clogging traffic at a green signal light. When it finally turned yellow, she slammed her foot on the accelerator pedal, sending the tires of her DeVille into screechy skids, as the car sped forward through the four-way intersection. Staring in the rearview mirror, she saw that she had left the traffic—including the two men —on the other side of the signal light.
Proceeding down Main Street, Silvia steered her car slightly left to connect with Albany Avenue. She smiled weakly at her small victory but struggled to maintain her focus when all she really wanted was to have a long rest. “No,” she commanded herself in a whisper, “you much needed now.” She vaguely recalled her mission—there was something all-important to do, which the beautiful Puerto Rican lady had beckoned of her—although she did not know how much longer she could continue playing the game of cat-and-mouse with the men, or if she had much life left to endure. However, she had her own suspicion of who they were, and there would definitely need to be time and space away from them to plot her next move.
Guardia was angelic: Her face glowed as moonlight, and the color of her eyes was as black as a crisp winter’s night. Her pale pink mouth complimented the whiteness of her teeth, which lit up from the glow of her face. Her hair was long, straight, and earthen brown. And the uniform that she wore was consistent even at wintertime: a sleeveless silver dress with thin shoulder straps and short skirt, and matching ankle boots with stiletto heels.
In the morning sky, a flying dove cried with a voice that sounded shrilly, distant, and foreboding—all at once. Translating the bird’s shrieks as a message of warning to humankind, Guardia exclaimed, “Hurry, Silvia, get away from here!” Her ’70s-model Pinto station wagon was next to stop at the red traffic light, after Silvia’s car. And now, she watched the black DeVille clear the intersection with such speed that it went into uncontrollable skids down Main Street. It had traveled out of distance when she finally tuned in to the harsh knocking at her window.
Guardia rolled down the window to receive two men—each wearing black sunglasses and suits —whose navy blue Crown Victoria was parked behind her car.
“You have to run the red light now,” said one of the men, a brunette, standing as tall as 6 feet, 4 inches. He had fleshy jowls and a potbelly. His partner was slightly shorter, thinner, and blond.
Guardia gave a second glance ahead at downtown’s Main Street. Yes, the DeVille was out of sight. Then she turned to look back at the men with a smile. “No speak espa ñol?” she replied.
Silvia checked up in the rearview mirror. Albany Avenue was clear behind her. She made a sharp right turn onto a short street crowded with gawking black people; another right turn brought her back to Main Street, headed in the direction that she had driven from. Instinct told her that the two men would follow her down Albany’s seemingly endless avenue, but they would never guess that she had turned around, letting them continue forward on a vain trail. After another series of turns, she drove onto highway 84 East, choosing the nearby Connecticut Boulevard exit into East Hartford.
Where you goin’? Silvia said to herself. Her squinty eyes struggled to concentrate on the sparse traffic, as if the answer to her question lay hidden amongst the moving automobiles. It seemed like every day she was losing important pieces of memory, which was how her terminal disease had most horribly affected her life. There were days that she would walk in the kitchen, when she had actually intended on going to the bathroom. She might arrive home from church, noticing the outfit that she had chosen to wear only after she’d undressed. And it became increasingly harder to remember things far in the past: who her parents were, what her favorite nursery rhymes had been as a young girl, and the kinds of grades that she’d achieved as a school student. Silvia shook her head. No matter how hard she tried, she could not recall her reason for coming to East Hartford.
Driving up Burnside Avenue, toward the suburban town of Manchester, she spotted a bright yellow McDonald’s sign standing in the air and turned into its asphalt lot to park in the back, away from the main avenue. She rose out of the car, her hands grabbing for her purse and full-length white sable coat to put on—and walked to the entrance of the restaurant.
Inside, Silvia stepped behind a long waiting line of customers and closed her eyes, taking in the delightful aroma of brewing coffee. “The Federal Bureau of Investigation,” she said, as if the very scent of the coffee possessed magical powers. “That’s who those men represent.” She had traveled to East Hartford for spare time to plot her next move against them, which would be impossible to do without remembering her past conversations with the unearthly beautiful Puerto Rican lady.
From the nozzle of a .380 Cheetah BERETTA handgun, smoke rose in the air, following a single crack of fire that faded into echoes. The crying dove that had not been visible before —landed with a thump on snow piled up on a nearby curb.
“Damn bird made too much noise,” the man said, securing his handgun to the holster inside his black suit coat. Then he, the taller of the two men, turned back to the Puerto Rican lady, who still sat in her station wagon while staring at where the dead bird lay. Its white feathers and the surrounding snow were soaked with its blood.
“Lady, you got beef with me for popping the bird? Well, that’s what’ll happen to you next, if you don’t start understanding what I’m saying. I ’ll even translate in Spanish. Move your fucking car now.”
Guardia’s mouth trembled miserably. “He was singing an important message. ”
“She’s been lying to us. She speaks more than just Spanish,” said the blond, checking their surrounding. The other drivers had grown impatient to get to their destinations. Some were opening up their automobile doors to investigate the traffic jam. “We got to move her ourselves, without drawing further attention. ”
Rumbles of thunder started in the sky, causing vibrations in the earth. And what had been a bright, clear morning turned slate, then unseasonably darker. Flashes of heavenly light pierced through the darkness, and soon it appeared as if a twister would fall from the sky. Those drivers that had left their automobiles ran back for shelter; other drivers flashed headlights and blared horns more so than before, suddenly frantic to get moving.
“You’re doing this,” said the blond, whose attention never left the Puerto Rican lady.
Guardia’s slow-forming smile grew radiant. Her hair rose with ease, as if floating in water, and her silver uniform lit up in synchronization with the bright flashes of heavenly light. Vibrant energy from another rumbling of thunder broke the driver’s door apart from her Pinto, and it flew toward the men, knocking them down to the street.
Guardia stepped out of the car and began levitating up in the air. “Servants of Belial, ” she said, “your hunt for Silvia ends here.”
The two men growled, reaching their hands up to snatch the black sunglasses away from their ruby eyes.