WHITHER THOU GOEST 9 - BILLIE-JO'S STORY PART 1

I’m sitting here at the bus station waiting for a bus (obviously).  I’ve been here about an hour already; not too good at co-ordinating times, especially on a long journey.  And my head’s a bit messed up – it’s been one hell of a hard week!

My name is Bobbie-Jo Ryan.  That ain’t the name on my Birth Certificate; but it’s the name I use; don’t like my real name much.  Bobbie-Jo Ryan – 20 years old, and not much to show for it.  Until now, that is!

I screwed up big-time at school and kept myself going with any crap jobs I could find – cleaning, then bar work, dancing with filthy old men leering at me; then turning a few tricks – okay, turning a lot of tricks!  Yep, my life’s been a piece of shit mostly. We lived with Grandma in this run-down apartment block in Miami. Mama was a hooker, just like her Mama; there’s no getting away from that fact; a cheap latino hooker my Dad called her when they were fighting; which is what they did most of the time when he called round, flashing wads of dollar bills.  Not that he visited much; I could probably count the number of times I saw him in my life if I had a mind to.  Which I don’t.

Daddy just came and went (in more ways than one if you catch my meaning); beat up on Mama if she had someone with her when he showed up unannounced.  ‘Baby’, she would whine, as he slapped her, ‘Baby, what else can I do for money? I gotta feed your sweet little daughter and you’re hardly ever here.’  Then they would go to her room, tears would turn to giggles and I would turn up the radio to blank out the sounds of the big old iron bedstead banging against the wall,

When they eventually came out. Mum in her bathrobe and Dad doing up his pants, she  would fix them a pot of coffee, and Dad would get a bottle of Bourbon out of his bag.  Sometimes he would stay the night; usually not; but when he left, he would ruffle my hair, call me his ‘sweet little Spanish princess’ and give me some gift or other, and a few dollars peeled off of the heap in his pocketbook. My favourite toy was a beautiful little dolly with long dark curls just like mine.  He told me her name was Ruthie, but I always called her Polly.  I loved that doll – still got her, right here in my bag.  Then he would give Mama the rest of the money in his pocketbook, and a long, long kiss.  She would hang round his neck crying pathetically: ‘Oh don’t leave me again baby’; but as soon as he was out of the door, she would count the notes out, put some in her purse and the rest in the top drawer of the dresser, before showering and going out all dressed up.

Sometimes it would be days before I saw her again.  She would come home wrecked, stinking of booze and men, her eyes as wide as the satellite dishes that now decorate our apartment block.  Then she would go into her room for hours or even days, then re-appear all clean and dressed as if nothing had happened.  I was only 7 or 8 when she was strangled by one of her clients, both of them completely off their heads on dope. She’d had me when she was 15; she was still real pretty when she died.

Grandma did her best; but I pretty quick learned to look after myself, buying food using Dad’s cash; all the local bars and cafes knew me – I hardly ever had a home-cooked meal while I was growing up.  When the money ran out, Grandma would bring some guy home and take him into her room for a while.  Then there would be money in the drawer again.

When I was fourteen or so, I would sometimes go out with her; she was only about sixteen herself when she had my Mama and was still quite good looking in a dark Hispanic kinda way; she would tell me not to call her Grandma when we were out together; I had to call her Rosita. We would sit at a bar on the Quayside, there were plenty of men on and off the boats looking for company, and some of them were looking at me in that way too, so I was pretty young still when Grandma got me my first job – a Brazilian drug dealer fresh off the boats who liked his women real young.  He seemed to like what I gave him and would look for me every time he came to Miami.  He paid real well. Dino his name was, and I saw him a lot for a couple of years, then he suddenly stopped calling.  I guess he got caught, or shot – there were shootings practically every day now, Miami was a pretty lawless place, full of dealers in all sort of filth, and the crime rate was getting scary, what with all these Cubans arriving and taking the place over.  Grandma did less ‘work’ herself as she got older and more hooked on drugs – like daughter like mother - , it was left to me to put money in the drawer and I did this any way I could.

With Dad’s occasional visits and the money he would sometimes send me at other times, I got on okay but I was getting restless.  By the time I was 17 I had already been in the state penitentiary a couple of times for dealing and prostitution, and really wanted to take charge of my life.

I was sick of being poor, and one day when Daddy visited I just said right out we needed more money.  Rosita spent more than she earned on drugs, and I told him straight if he didn’t want me going the same way as her and my Mama, he’d have to pay up, or I might have to tell a few folks what I knew about him.

I couldn’t tell if my new boldness made him pleased or nervous; but he gave me everything in his pocketbook, and promised to send more, though it could take a while as he had just moved house. Moved house?  My ears pricked up. So I had a quick look through his pockets while he was busy with my grandmother – I had gotten used to her sometimes taking over from where Mama had left off in Hank’s bed - let’s face it, she was much nearer his age than Mama had been. I found a couple of receipts and stuff which gave me a good idea at least of his new neighbourhood, so I could keep tabs on him. Just in case.

Before he left I told him I could also use a gun; Miami was getting more and more dangerous, what with these Cuban gangs running wild and the daily bust-ups between the dealers and their clients.  I promised to keep it locked well away from Rosita, and sure enough, a month or so later a package arrived by courier, together with a money order for five thousand dollars.  At least Daddy was good for something.

My life went on much the same; grandma bringing home men who sometimes tried to get away without paying; but they soon changed their minds when I showed them my little Beretta.  I worked in the bar, still turned the odd trick when I fancied it, and with a little bit of shoplifting just for fun, I got by just fine.

I started up my own business, a little dealing in drugs, a little dealing in stolen goods – I even ran a couple of girls, always plenty of business for that, and I still worked myself too when I fancied it.  Easy money.  I earned enough to be picky, and kept me and Grandma pretty good most of the time.

I’ve been back inside again recently for a short spell; it was nothing really serious; just a regular bar-room fight.  I came out the winner, but the other woman didn’t look too pretty afterwards.  When I was set free just a few days ago, I was surprised Rosita was still alive, to be truthful; hell, what a mess she looked; didn’t reckon my Dad would fancy her much now! She was getting real old and wrinkly.

There was this letter waiting for me – I don’t get much mail, and I must admit I was mighty scared when I saw it was from a lawyer – lawyers’ letters usually mean trouble.  So I let it lie awhile, until one evening I got fired up with a good few shots of tequila, took a deep breath and read it.

Dear Miss Garcia,

Kindly make an appointment to see myself or my colleague at the above address as soon as possible.

I have a communication from Mr Charles Kaufmann which I need to hand to you in person.

Yours

Ricardo Hernandez,  Attorney-at-law.

‘Jeeeez!  What the hell is this all about!’ I thought, and took another slug.  I guessed he had sent some money for me;  he must be in his 80s by now so maybe he just couldn’t make the journey any more.

I made that call, and kept the appointment.