heart of a man

Izrael Washington licked his thumb to help count the big wad of C-notes in his hand. He knew each lick represented a grand. Only a sneak peek of the cash made off the little wannabe ballers. Izrael stroked through the bills as if they were silky strands of a pretty woman's head. Money green, his true love, was his commitment. He could wife each and every one. Izrael continued to fiddle with money as his enjoyment crested thinking of the rest of his loot. A tenth grade education may be what the public school system gave him, but Izrael was a genius for how to generate and stack money. What his head miscalculated, which was rare, `big brother' corrected. Hidden cameras were throughout his club. The employees, cash drawer and patrons were kept under scrutiny. With his good business sense and the ability to stay focused, he quickly developed Club IZ into the social hot spot. It attracted everyone from corner boys to boardroom executives. With the pedigree of not having proper adult supervision as a youth, Izrael was a statistic like so many of his black brothers. He put in street time, which was short. He forewent the desires of the fancy cars, clothes or the “baddest” chick on his arm allowing him an early exit from the game. Being twenty-one and black and owning bank accounts totaling over three-quarters of a million dollars were not good attributes for him in retirement by certain groups' standards. Izrael could feel the bloodhounds on his trail. He didn't wait for the boys in blue to start breathing heavily down his neck. Averting scrutiny, Izrael sought out a legitimate venture. When Izrael decided to become a club owner, he researched the field. Men of all colors, creeds and stature took great pleasure in parading around the finest women and especially relished the opportunity to lavish money on them in public. What better place than a night club to quench their desire? The idea, along with dollar signs, dangled above his head like the sugarplums in the Christmas rhyme as he thought of running his own social establishment. With his savvy and wits, Izrael made it happen. Women and liquor he used as a business ammo. They rained out like bullets at Club IZ. Izrael kept his club fully stocked with the finest women and topnotch liquor to fulfill his only vice. Money was all his heart had room to hold other than his kid brother; Izrael would go to his grave for him. Otherwise, for anybody or anything else, it was nothing but business. Although life had honestly dealt him some real lemons, he made Country Time Lemonade instead of wearing a puckered face from its bitterness. Pockets once full of lint now overflowed with cash. He wanted for nothing. The distance he kept from women, whom he considered no different than drugs or liquor, allowed him the concentration he needed. He was hell-bent on limiting his involvement with women beyond physical connections. Nothing would interfere with his desire to be king of his world. He never touched alcohol or took a drug, not even Advil or Tylenol. His muscular, flawless body wasn't worth the risk. His blood stream remained a virgin to such substances. Money was his drug. It controlled him, to the point of ruling his sex life. “Rael, baby…” The sultry voice escaped from the companion lying beside him. She crept on Izrael's back and softly whispered, “…come on, lay back down.” Consumed with thoughts of money, Izrael had actually forgotten his favorite sweetness, Monique, was in his bed. He scratched the side of his head, shook it, and sighed. The dark chocolate beauty with a perfect 36-24-38 figure was the exception amongst other females. Although their relationship remained physical, he forbade other females to get what she got from him. Her plump breast grazed his back. It nearly seduced him to return to the soft harness between her legs. “Naw, baby, Daddy got some portent bizness to tend to, boo,” Izrael taunted before putting the wad of cash in the drawer next to his bed. Monique was grinning. The expression annoyed Izrael. He grabbed the short trench coat from the floor and dragged it slowly along her lovely lady humps. He whispered coldly in her ear, “Come on now, baby, the meter has expired.” He placed the coat on her shoulders and gently lifted Monique to her feet. “Are you serious, Rael? Can I at least get dressed?” Monique stood in front of Izrael in disbelief. Her hands clutched her hips. Ignoring her fury, Izrael turned his back to Monique and picked up his cell phone. “Hey main, Monique needs a ride,” he spoke before turning back to Monique and winking. “What was that? Five minutes, main? Awite then.” Izrael reached in the drawer, grabbed the wad of cash, counted three bills off of the stack and threw it on the bed along with his cell phone. “Awite, baye…call me later.” Izrael kissed Monique on the cheek before he sauntered, still naked, into the bathroom. Monique stuffed the three hundred dollar bills in her coat pocket and shook her head. It was best not to argue a moot point. At times, Monique would even wish for a black eye or busted lip instead of his coldness. Izrael's torture wasn't physical abuse ever. Yet it still felt like a hurtful body blow. Monique passed the bathroom and was unable to resist peering at him again through the slightly opened door. The reflection of his proud, golden frame in the floor length mirror mesmerized her. He was shaving his perfectly sculptured chin. His nude, six-foot-two-inch body seemed to move without effort. Although he was often mistaken for the rapper Common, Monique snubbed the comparison. Other than the similarity in complexion and strong facial structure, Monique saw no real resemblance. “You close to seconds now and Scooter will leave you, baby.” Izrael's eyes reflected seriousness in the mirror. Monique jumped back in shock. “Bye, Izrael!” She slipped her feet in the four-inch stilettos and staggered out the door. Scooter would leave her just for spite.