“Yeah, I was guilty,” Flex said to his buddies hanging out on the corner.  “I was guilty as a motherfuck.  But that fool didn’t know it!”

They all laughed.

Then an old Chevy pulled up against the curb.  It had heavily tinted windows and rims that cost more than the car.   But typical for that neighborhood.  When Flex saw the car, he broke away from the crowd and made his way toward the car.  The door unlocked, and he got in the backseat.  “About time your ass made it,” he said as he was getting in.  “I was about to bounce if you didn’t bring your ass on -whoa!”  When he turned, and realized that Hammer Reese, not one of his goons, was sitting in that backseat, he was stunned.  “You?” he asked.  “You came?”

But Hammer didn’t react or explain his actions.  It was obvious that he had come.  He sat there, in his tailored suit and dark sunglasses, and continued to stare forward.  “Which one?” he asked.

“Minnesota Boulevard,” Flex said.  “Building 16.  Third floor.  Number 38.”

Hammer continued to stare forward, waiting for more.

“Two knocks, and then a pause,” he told Hammer.  “Make sure you pause.  And then a third knock.  That’s the code to get in.”

But Flex was still baffled.   He was still staring at Hammer.  “She must be something mighty special,” he said, “to get you in the field.”

Ozzie Jones, who was seated on the front seat, turned around.  “That’s none of your gotdamn business on any gotdamn day.  Get out,” he said to Flex.

Flex frowned.  Wanted to tell Ozzie to kiss his ass.  But was too afraid he’d kick it instead.  He got out of the car.

The car sped off.  Flex, brushing off his clothes as if he was brushing off dirt, went back over to his hangout partners.

“What up, nigga?” one of them asked.  “Look like you seen a ghost.”

Flex continued to watch the fleeing vehicle.  Ghost his ass.  “Worse,” he said.

 

As they drove to the Minnesota Boulevard housing projects, Hammer sat quietly in the backseat.  But Oz could tell he was in deep contemplation.  He’d known the Hammer for many years.  Admired him above any man alive.  But whenever Amelia Sinatra or Reggie Dell were involved in any kind of risky activity, he went into a quiet funk.  It was something about those two ladies that changed Hammer from the heartless hard-ass he was, to a man with heart.  And even Oz, who was closer to Hammer than anyone, didn’t know which one of the two ladies had the upper hand.

But if Oz had to put money on it, he’d place his bet with Amelia.  Because whenever it was Amelia who was in danger, Hammer’s funk took on a sadness too, as if he had so many regrets about their relationship (or lack thereof), but never figured out how to resolve those regrets.  He was in that kind of mood as they drove.

But as they drove, Hammer didn’t realize he was in a funk.  All he could think about was Amelia.  All he could think about was getting her back to him and to their son without a hair on her head breached.  He knew she was into shit.  She was Amelia.  She was going to be into shit and there was nothing he nor anybody else could do about it.  He had a security detail follow her around because of that very fact.

But she reminded him constantly that Bulldog Valtone used to have men following her around, and she hated it.  “Don’t have people following me,” she warned with that sincere, unrelenting look in her eyes.  “Nobody owns me like that anymore.”

He saw how deeply she felt about it, as if it was a violation of everything she held dear, and he thought about cutting it out.  She was her own woman and was going to do it her own way.  He had to accept that.

But he worried sick about her.  And although he ended the security detail for a minute, he reinstated it months ago.  Although, after what happened earlier that morning, it had done him little good.

But why he was even bothering with a woman like Amelia was a mystery to him.  He didn’t give any other woman the kind of respect he gave to her.  They chased him.  They conformed to his image.  They did everything in their power to stay in his good graces.  He knew she had feelings for him, but like his feelings for her, it was complicated and not so easy to define.

Like the first time he held her in his arms.  It had been some eight years after she fancied herself a getaway driver and nearly got her ass caught.  He had her in his grasp then, but allowed her to slip away.  Then they met again, eight years later, at her husband’s dinner party.

 

Bulldog Valtone was a real estate mogul and a high-dollar donor by then, and was a citizen that politicians loved.  Not because he was a man of convictions, too, but because he was willing to put his millions to work for convictions they believed in.  Every year Bulldog held a dinner party at his massive estate in honor of many of those politicians, and he never failed, by night’s end, to write a few chosen ones a hefty check.

He also was somebody the government considered an asset.  He provided them intel on South American gangs in exchange for their blind eye on his various illegalities that they knew of.  If he ever overdid it, they were supposed to reign him in.  But as far as Amelia knew, that reign-in never happened.

She also knew, like all of his previous dinner parties, that she would be required to do as she was taught: work the crowd of politicians who bowed and scraped to be one of the ones to get one of those checks, and to work it as if she was a politician herself.  Not because she was going to convince her husband to support this candidate or that one.  He’d already made up his mind before the soiree even began.  But because he wanted her on display.  He wanted those big-bellied, pink-faced men to see what a refined woman he married.  He wanted them to want her.  And those who wanted her so badly they were willing to ask, he was always willing to give.  She wasn’t a prostitute.  She wasn’t even a high-class whore.  Because he gave her to them for free.  He was crazy.  She didn’t care how many man-of-the-year awards he won.

Bulldog had hoped that at least the Vice President would attend the big bash, given the amount of money he had given to their last campaign, but it didn’t happen.  The highest member of the president’s administration to attend was the assistant director of the CIA.  When Bulldog found out, he and Amelia were still upstairs, ready to head downstairs.  And Bulldog was pissed.

“Not the director,” he said to Amelia as he pulled up the surveillance cameras on the partygoers downstairs.  “But the assistant director!  Some clown I’ve never even heard of or met before or wouldn’t know if he bit me in the face!  That’s how little they think of me.  I give and I give and I give.  But that’s how little they think of me.  See if they get a dime next time.  They won’t get a dime next time!”

It didn’t matter to Amelia either way, and she knew to stay out of it.  She turned her attention to the surveillance monitor.  “Which one is our mark?” she asked.

Bulldog exhaled.  He wanted to complain more; it was his nature to complain about everything.  But he knew when to move on, too.  He looked at the monitor and searched the crowd until he spotted the guy.  “That one over by the fireplace.  The big guy in the tan suit.”

“What’s his drug of choice?” Amelia asked.

“Smack,” Bulldog said.  “And he moves plenty of it.  He’s got dealers to supply, and customers to satisfy.  Gets most of his stash from El Salvador, but those guys are getting expensive.  That’s where I come in at.  That’s why tonight we make our move.  I’m going to be his supplier, and you’re going to make it happen.”

Amelia knew what that meant: charm and sex.

“But don’t come on too strong,” Bulldog warned her.  “Keep your distance until he’s gotten a few drinks in him.  I’ll let you know when to move.  Then you go to him, plaster on that gorgeous smile, and escort him to the room.  Just like I taught your ass.  By the time he comes out, we’d better have ourselves a deal.”

Or else, Bulldog could have added, but both of them knew he didn’t have to.  Amelia had been with him long enough to already know what else.

When they finished dressing and made it downstairs, the sadistic man she knew disappeared, and the man the public knew and loved emerged.  And he was smiling and backslapping and mingling like the beloved businessman, and high-dollar donor, they knew him to be.

“Fred!  Mike!” he declared as soon as they made it downstairs.  “Glad you could come!”

And Amelia mingled, too, like the dutiful wife she was known, publicly, to be.

But the hot topic of conversation wasn’t her husband, nor the other minor celebrity politicians in the room, nor the man who was her mark, but the very assistant director her husband had earlier disparaged.

“Did you see the size of that bundle between those thick thighs?” one of the ladies asked as Amelia joined their group.

“Not really, no,” Amelia said with a polite smile as a waiter handed her a drink.

“That’s why they call him Hammer, you know,” said another lady in their circle.

“Why’s that?” asked a third one.  “Why do they call him Hammer?”

“You don’t know?”

“No, Hyacinth, or I would not have asked.”

“Because his Johnson is as big as one.”

Hyacinth smiled.  The other lady was astonished.  “No way!” she said.

“Yes, way,” Hyacinth said.  “And I still have the scars to prove it!”

The ladies laughed.  It was an old joke.  Amelia smiled, but inwardly dismissed them as cackling biddies looking for something to hang their delusions on.  Until she saw who this Hammer person was.

At first, she was impressed too.  Although she preferred black men after being with a white creep like Bulldog, she couldn’t pretend that the man in question, the Hammer as they called him, wasn’t a sexy sight to behold.  He was tall and very well-built, with a thick head of brownish hair and the look of a very elegant, cultured person in Armani head-to-toe.  Unlike Bulldog, who was chunky and red-faced half the time, this man was tanned, refined, and seemingly everything her husband was not.  And he was no politician: she didn’t see that slime in him.  But there was something dangerous about him too.

And that was when it hit her.  And her facial expression gave her away.  Her big eyes didn’t become even larger because of that bundle between his legs that was obviously big even from across the room, as Hyacinth and the other ladies thought was why her expression changed.  But Amelia’s heart began to hammer.  It was him!  She recognized him!  It was the cop who had cornered her eight years before.  She’d never forget those piercing blue eyes!  And that thick head of hair.  And the way his big body seemed to do things to her own body even after all these years and after that one, brief encounter.  Eight years later, he was in her living room.  And he wasn’t just some no-name cop anymore, if he ever was a cop, but he was now the assistant director of the CIA.  The CIA!  She nearly dropped her champagne.

And when Hammer, who had been in a quiet conversation with two other gentlemen, casually looked her way, she knew she was doomed.  She knew it was over!  But then, he looked away.  As if he didn’t recognize her at all.  Nor was interested in her at all.  And she sighed some relief.

But as his eyes settled on another target: a beautiful black woman nearby, she could see something change in his expression.  Because, as if he had thought about what he had just seen, he stopped looking at the other lady and moved his attention back over to Amelia.  And the little relief she thought she had was gone.  Because he recognized her.  She could tell by the way his eyes settled on her as if he was settling on a very familiar face, and stayed there.

She quickly and nervously excused herself from the other ladies and headed out of the room.  She wanted to find Bulldog and tell him what was going on, but she didn’t see him anywhere, and didn’t have time to initiate a search.  She made a beeline for the far back part of the house, away from the crowd; away from that man she once, strangely, didn’t think was her enemy.

When Hammer realized she was, once again, making a run for it, he casually sat his drink on a side table and headed toward the back side of the house, too.  Only he headed there from his side of the room, which was on the opposite side as Amelia.

Amelia felt as if he would not have the nerve to follow her.  Not in her own house!  Besides, somebody from her husband’s orbit would undoubtedly pick up on the fact that he was following her, and would put an end to if fast: assistant director be damned!  It wouldn’t matter to them.  They were paid to keep an eye on her.

 But if Amelia thought shaking Hammer would be as easy as turning corner after corner until she was all the way in the back of the house, she didn’t know Ham.  He knew how to evade detection from her husband’s goons, and he knew how to evade detection from her.  As she rounded what she thought was going to be her final corner that would lead to the back stairs, the door to the back cloakroom opened, a hand reached out and grabbed her, and pulled her inside.

She was stunned when she saw him.  But there was no doubt now: Hammer was indeed the man she had run afoul of in that alley all those years ago.

They were face to face again.  Within inches again.  But this time, they were upright, and Hammer kept his hand on her wrist.  She wasn’t getting away so easily this time.

Amelia was stunned for an additional reason.  “How did you beat me back here?” she asked.  “How did you know about this cloakroom?  We don’t invite guests back here.”

“I’m CIA,” Hammer said.  “We don’t come to an event unless we know the layout.”  He thought he was smiling, and being his usually casual self.  But he wasn’t smiling.  Just looking in her eyes, and seeing that undeniable pain in them still, kept him from levity.

And Amelia was struck by his eyes again, too.  She remembered how soft and tender they were then, and still were now.  But his face was harder now.  And sterner.  As if those eight years might have moved him up the ladder, but the climb had changed him.

Hammer remembered her, too.  He remembered her beauty.  He remembered thinking of her as an African princess.  But he mostly remembered her pain.  It was all over her still, even thought she had a very strong, self-assured look about her.  But he still saw that anguish deep within her big, bright, gorgeous eyes.  He looked down at her mouth.  It was alluring too.  “What’s your name?” he asked her.

She stared at him.  “Amelia.”

“Amelia.  That’s not a name people usually pull out of their asses,” he said, and she smiled.  “Who are you named after?  An aunt?  A cousin?”

“Amelia Earhart,” Amelia said.  “The female pilot who went missing and was never found?  According to my mother, or at least my aunt who raised me and called herself my mother, she named me because, according to her, I, like Amelia Earhart, was going to be lost in this world too.”

Hammer’s heart dropped when she said those words.  He didn’t know why his heart dropped, but it did.  “That’s a hell of a burden to place on a child,” he said.

“Welcome to my world,” Amelia said with a smile.

“What’s your last name?”

“But you’re CIA.  Shouldn’t you know already?”

Hammer laughed.  “, my dear, !”

Amelia liked this man.  There was a hardness to him, but a kindness too.  She wasn’t used to that.  “Valtone,” she said.  “My last name is Valtone.  And yes, I’m married to the host.”

That should have changed Hammer’s interest in her full stop.  But for some strange reason, it didn’t.  “Robbing any more banks?” he asked her.

“I didn’t rob that one,” she said.  “You had the wrong person.”

She smelled wonderful.  Like a garden of roses after a summer rain.  And when she spoke her breath was cool and refreshing against his prickled skin.  But he knew she was lying.  Her eyes told him so.  “Were you married to the rich and powerful Angus Valtone when you ran afoul of the law?  Or is that your dirty little secret and your husband has no clue?”

Amelia wasn’t about to break down and admit shit.  She wasn’t about to let good looks and that supposedly hammer-sized dick make her jump stupid.  Although that closeness to him, and they were super-close in that cloakroom, and the smell of his own cologne scent and unrestrained masculinity, made for a mighty Aphrodite.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.  “You had the wrong person then.  I told you so.”

She was worried that he’d expose her.  He could see that in her eyes, too.  And he felt a sudden need to disabuse her of her concern.  “I didn’t thank you properly for saving my life,” he said.  “If you would not have warned me about that gunman, I would have been dead.”

Amelia would have told him that a thank you was not necessary, but she was nobody’s fool.  Saving his life was probably the only reason that saved her ass from going to jail that day.  She wasn’t about to minimize it.  “You’re welcome,” she said.

And then they just stood there, in that narrow space, staring into each other’s eyes.  Again.  But it was Hammer who broke the spell.  He’d been staring at her lips too long.  He had to have a taste.  And he did it.  He leaned down and kissed her on her lips.  It was meant to be a gentle kiss, and it was.  He just wanted a taste.  But she tasted so good, he moved in again.

Amelia wanted it too.  His kiss lived up to his reputation.  But what were they doing?  He didn’t want her!  He wanted her body just like all those other bozos Bulldog made her engage with.  She pushed him back.  “No,” she said.

Hammer looked at her hair, and then down into her eyes.  “Because you’re married?” he asked.

“I don’t give a fuck about that,” she said bluntly. 

Hammer’s instinct was dead on.  He began to rub the side of her soft, brown skin.  “Then why?” he asked.

“You don’t want to get involved with me.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off of her.  His erection was beginning to tent his pants.  “Who are you to tell me what I don’t want?”

She didn’t respond.  He stared at her.  Not because she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met.  She wasn’t.  Reggie Dell’s mother, among many others, won that prize hands down.  But there was something about Amelia!  “I keep feeling as if we’ve met before,” he said.

Amelia smiled.  “We have.”

“Not just that night in the alley.  But before that.  There’s something very familiar about you, Amelia.”

Amelia knew what he meant.  It was that feeling of a bond when none should exist, so you have to justify those feelings with logic.  “I don’t think we’ve met before,” she said.

“Who’s your mother?  Your father?”

“Don’t know,” Amelia said.  “And don’t care.  My aunt raised me, but she didn’t give me many clues.”

“Any siblings?”

“Don’t know.  Don’t care.”

“So you’re tough like that, hun?” Hammer asked.  “Don’t need anybody?”

Amelia didn’t respond to that.  She needed somebody desperately.  But she’d been needing somebody all her life, and that somebody never materialized.  She was convinced they never would.

Hammer stared at her.  He didn’t like the feelings he felt.  So he smiled them away.  “You can trust me, Amelia Earhart,” he said with a half-cocked smile as if it was a joke, although he meant every word.  “You won’t be lost in this world with me.  I can protect you.”

She trusted another lawman once.  He said he was going to protect her too.  So she plotted and schemed for days on end until she managed to run away from Bulldog‘s goons.  She ran straight into that lawman’s arms.  And he protected her, alright.  He protected her long enough for Bulldog to pay him a handsome ransom and then come and get her.  That beating she endured afterwards took her what seemed like a year to recover from.  She trusted no one.

“Have a nice life, cop,” she said, and left the cloakroom.

 

Hammer opened his eyes, and came back to the real.  The Chevy continued to drive toward Minnesota Boulevard as night descended, where, he hoped, his Amelia Earhart would not be lost a moment longer.