prison to come to the Palace. Then he thought if he stayed in the rat-hole prison, he and the fellas would’ve gotten a three-to-five-year sentence. Plus, Swag considered himself to be too fine to be in anyone’s prison. His freedom was way too valuable to him.
As he opened the door to the medicine cabinet, he saw it was like a mini pharmacy. It had everything you might need from condoms, medicines, to Xanax, and painkillers. Swag also saw something he hadn’t seen since he was a kid. Iodine. He grabbed the bottle of alcohol, cotton balls, iodine, and a few painkillers. Then he doctored his hand with the alcohol. “Aah . . .” he shouted in agony from the burning feeling. “Shit!”
Once the alcohol finished working its magic, Swag put some iodine on his hand. It burned a little, but not as bad as the alcohol. When the iodine dried, he wrapped his hand with the bandage. After it was tightly wrapped, he looked at himself in the mirror. He no longer saw that hardcore pretty boy who was running the streets of the Lou that everyone feared and loved. All he saw now was a scared little boy who didn’t know if he was going to live or die. He lowered his head, trying to hold back his tears. One thing all the hustlers taught him was not to show any fear. If you did, you were considered weak. Swag took deep breaths. He was determined to win this battle and get himself out of the shit he’d gotten him into, along with his boys.
He then thought about his cousin, Brad. He wondered if Brad was still alive, if he ever got out of Brazil in one piece . . . even if he got his lady, Diamond, and that if he would ever see his cousin again. Swag lifted his head, shaking it for a moment, not knowing the answers to his own questions. He turned on the water and splashed it in his face. He also took a sip to wet his dry throat. While gazing at the mirror again, he made promises to himself that he wasn’t sure he could keep. Those promises, along with prayers, revolved around his boys, keeping them safe, and finding Brad. Swag crossed his fingers, pounded his chest, kissed his balled-up hand, and pointed his index finger to the most high. “Amen.”
He left the bathroom and paused when he heard music coming from down the long hall. At first, he thought about heading back down to where King was, but then he thought of Ivy’s horny ass. He decided to be like a nosy white person from a horror film and investigate the noise.
Swag moved closer to the classical music, which, in his mind, was very weird to him to hear coming from King’s place. When he got close to the door, he tried to remember where he’d heard that music before. A lightbulb came on in his head. Swag remembered the music to Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s famous ballet, Swan Lake. His little sister, Tamara, was the lead as Odette for one of her many boring dance recitals his nana used to drag him to along with his siblings.
Tamara was a talented dancer who danced hip-hop, tap, but her love was ballet. She was a mixture of the late, great Janet Collins and Janet Jackson. Swag remembered his baby sister being beautiful as a child, even though he would make fun of her. And he remembered her telling him and Nana, “When I grow up. I’m going to New York to attend Julliard to study how to be a famous prima ballerina, travel the world, be an actress and singer, live in Rome or England, marry a Russian billionaire, and have thirteen children when I retire from dancing at 55.” Swag remembered Nana just laughing, especially about the parts of marrying a Russian billionaire and once she retired at 55 to have thirteen children. But the part that made Nana melt was when Tamara told her she was going to take care of her, and Nana was going to live with her in a mansion in either Rome or England.
Swag smiled at the memory, but then his face fell flat as he looked at the floor, and evil memories came into play . . . memories that related to Juanita and Mitch. They’d said negative things to Tamara like, “You too black,” “You too ugly,” “You can’t dance,” “You a ho bitch.” Swag tried to do his best to encourage her, but he was too busy in the streets saving up to get the hell as far away from his mother and Mitch as possible. Years later, Swag was glad to find out Mitch was gunned down and killed from a drug deal gone bad.
Unfortunately, the last update he’d heard about Tamara was that she was nothing but a petty-ass thot with a coke problem. Also, before the age of 18, she’d had three kids: two boys and a girl who were all taken from her and put into the system.
The music behind the closed door began to get even more intense. He was curious to know what was behind that door. He turned the knob and poked his head inside.
On the other side of the door was the ultimate shock surpassing all that he’d seen the last few days. It was as if he’d seen an angel that God brought to him. It was like a breath of fresh air, and he opened the door wider, realizing the room was a huge dance studio. The floor was so shiny that he could see his reflection. The walls were painted white and Tiffany green, and all the furniture pieces were from Tiffany’s. What really caught Swag’s eyes were the numerous photographs on the walls of the legendary dancer/singer, and St. Louis’s own, Ms. Josephine Baker.
Swag took his eyes off the late Josephine Baker’s photos and saw a vision of loveliness. There she was . . . a sexy, flawless, cinnamon-colored bombshell dancer in the center of the room in her own world. She was gorgeous, and she made Zaria look like a common stripper, and Milena, who he’d met back in Brazil, the ultimate gold digger she was. Swag smiled and decided to nickname the dancer “Twinkle Toes.” She was petite, had soft, almond-shaped brown eyes, a cute bunny nose, kissable full lips, and her face was adorable like an expensive china doll.
Even though baby girl was petite, her body looked good in the light blue, sequin tutu with matching ballet slippers. She also had a blue headwrap on, making her even more mysterious looking. Twinkle Toes looked like she had been dancing all her life. She was making every move from a croisé, pirouette, and a plié.
Swag remembered some of the terminology Tamara had to use when she was in ballet school. He couldn’t stop thinking about her as he kept watching the dancer with fascination and amazement. As the Swan Lake music started to die down, Twinkle Toes went behind a four-panel divider. Within seconds, African tribal music started playing. Twinkle Toes came back, but this time in a whole different outfit. She was now wearing a vintage cocktail retro with an African print Ankara dashiki dress. She still wore her head wrap, but she didn’t have her ballet slippers on. She did an African traditional dance as she worked her hips and butt like she was working for tips. Swag was so impressed with this chick. He wondered how she could go from a beautiful swan to a gorgeous African goddess so quickly. He could tell she didn’t belong in this brothel, and once the music was over, she bowed and sat on the floor while lowering her head.
Swag clapped his hands. “Bravo! Bravo!”
Startled, Twinkle Toes snapped her head to the side. She looked Swag’s way and got off the floor. As she walked in his direction, he continued to clap.
“Hold up! What do you want? If it’s what I think you want,” Twinkle Toes hissed as she marched toward him with a dagger in her hand, “then you have another think coming, sir.”
Swag lifted his hands and laughed. “Hey, hey, ma, it’s okay. I was coming out of the bathroom when I heard your Swan Lake music down the hallway. I had to see what was up. I watched your routine, and I loved it. I liked how you took a classic and mixed it with African culture. It was beautiful.”
Twinkle Toes had a change of heart and put the dagger behind her. She smirked at him. “Thank you, sir. But what you thought was African is a Haitian dance.”
“Oh, my bad. I didn’t know you were Haitian.”
“Yes, sir, I’m Haitian Creole.”
Swag smiled. “Damn, that’s sexy. Say something in Creole for me.”
She playfully rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to admit it, but she knew Swag could most definitely get it. She couldn’t get over how fine he was, and to her, he resembled model Don Benjamin. So, she said in Creole, “What the hell you want from me?”
“Nothing, I think you kind of fly, especially the way you dance, baby girl,” he replied, remembering some of the Creole he learned while messing around with a chick in Miami.
Twinkle Toes was so impressed. “Damn, you speak Creole beautifully. Are you Haitian as well, sir?”