Chapter 1: To Trap a Cat

At night, in the worst part of the city, she can be seen. A woman, a creature of darkness, stalking the criminal element in their natural habitat. Wearing a cat costume, she moves through the slum, this cat of the night, preventing the abuse of the women forced to make their living on the grimy streets. She stops drug dealers, prevents home intrusions, captures those individuals that would do others harm. They call her the Black Puma.

This is The City, the second largest city in the United States and entertainment capital of the world. Two professional basketballs teams call the City of Flowers home, as well as two major league baseball, and an old favorite professional football franchise recently returned to the sprawling metropolis. There are museums, planetariums, universities, thousands of restaurants, bars, movie theaters, parks, amusement parks, concert halls, and a host of other entertainment options for the population to enjoy.

Every legal business imaginable, as well as a thriving illicit black market, calls The City home. Then there are darker trades. Porn is produced here. Thousands of hours of men humping men, women copulating together, and men fucking women. All this in the confines of the legal system, and while it might not be considered acceptable by many, nonetheless, it’s lawful. From streaming cam shows to full-length fuck flicks all available on your computer, TV, or even your cellphone. Drop a few bucks from your PayPal account, lean back, and jerk off to the sundry, voyeuristic delights. It’s a thriving business, highly lucrative, and a prominent employer of ‘talent’ in La La Land.

Then there is the less legal trade of flesh for sale, or at least for rent. High-end escorts provided starting at $1,000 an hour, to be seen gracing your arm at important functions. This is legal; however, afterward, something extra is expected by the escort and the client—cost negotiable and quite high. Below this is the $500 an hour call girl, sent out to fulfill your wildest fantasies in the privacy of your own home, hotel suite, or shady motel. Some acts require an extra dividend—all funds are required in advance of coitus. Services available night or day in The Big Orange, it’s almost out in the open. Still, there lies an even darker place. The place where Jason Griggs reigns supreme.

The City has been called the City of Angels and there may well be angels here. Any honest assessment of these angels tells you a great number of them have fallen. Sprinkled throughout the population, they work their dark arts in criminal endeavors, congregating in the largest number in an area of our fair city where despair has been a permanent resident for years. A dark place where the worst of the worst, live, work and die. Nestled between two upscale communities in a large ghetto, the area is known by the locals as Shabby Heights. For decades, the region was a no-go zone for police.

Until the day that Puma came to town.

Doctor Lucinda Hildegard sat across from Councilman Drake Urban. Dressed in a striking business suit she presented an impassioned plea to The City Council, demanding the police put a stop to the vigilante called Black Puma.

“In conclusion, leaving Shabby Heights as it has been for decades is best for The City, best for the council, and in particular, best for you and your families health,” she insisted. Urban couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the woman. She looked somehow older than she should. He hadn’t seen her in just over three years, after seemingly vanishing right after her husband left town.

“Where have you been, Lucinda?” he asked.

“That isn’t important,” she told him.

“Lucinda,” Drake said, speaking to her candidly, “the last time we spoke you had hatched a plan which would destroy the mob from the inside. That didn’t work out so well, did it? Oh, I know you brought down the old leader. And when the former boss of bosses fled town, or should I say, your husband, I thought for a day or two that you had actually succeeded. Until the scum who took his place took over ... Hell, he’s worse than Bryson ever considered being.”

“What I planned ... it isn’t important ... this message ... I’m delivering this message for you,” Lucinda Hildegard said, then leaned forward, her expression stern. “I’m here representing the person you fear the most. I’m telling you in no uncertain terms that the police must stop this woman, or the repercussions will be monumental.”

“I swear, I don’t know what Griggs has done to you. You look much older than your years, Lucinda. I’m telling you, and you can take this to your boss, Griggs—we will not order the police to pursue this Puma. The district attorney’s office will not press charges against her. To be honest, we like what she’s doing. Her presence has a positive effect on the community, and not just Shabby Heights but the entire city. So, there is no deal, no matter how much money he offers, the City Council, the Mayor’s office, nor the Police Department—we will not accept any offer. We are united in this. We welcome her assistance in bringing down the organization.”

Rising, Lucinda Hildegard turned away from Urban, strode to the door, then twisted back. “This is an unfortunate decision on your part,” she told him. “I would have rewarded you. They would have rewarded you. But instead...” she didn’t finish her statement but yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind her.

“Lucinda,” Jason Griggs sighed, kneeling in front of the distraught woman and rubbing his forehead as if he had a massive headache. Standing, he took two steps and stopped. He wasn’t angry, more disappointed, and even saddened. “Oh, my dear Lucinda, once again you disappoint me. Three times you have failed me. On the two previous occasions, I turned you out on the street to earn your living as a common whore. It seems to me this form of encouragement just isn’t working. This failure must be your last.”

He moved away from the woman as she begged for another chance. Ignoring her, Jason Griggs picked up the phone, dialed a number and waited.

“Hector, ole buddy, your men did an excellent job,” he told the man. “As both a reward to them, and a favor to me, I have another job for them. I have a woman who needs to be taught a lesson and be put in her place.” He listened as the man spoke, then replied, “As rough as they want,” and again he listened. “Yes, all twenty of them. As callous as they desire. She’ll be at the usual place.”

Doctor Lucinda Hildegard gasped. She knew Griggs, and if he was allowing 20 men to be as callous as they desired, she was in serious trouble. Paling at the thought, she begged Griggs once more to reconsider. Despite her resolve, tears broke through, beginning as a trickle before the floodgates opened as the reality hit home. There was a real possibility she might not survive the night. On impulse, she rose, stumbling toward the door.

Janice Griggs watched her brothers face, knowing he was contemplating how badly the Mexicans would treat Lucinda, and how much sick pleasure it brought him. Janice needed to say something.

“Where are you going Lucinda?” Janice asked her.

“Please not that,” she begged.

“You can analyze the experience,” Janice told the sobbing woman. “Isn’t that what psychologist do? Analyze shit?” Being so hateful to the woman wasn’t sitting well with her, but there was no way she could let her brother know his decision bothered her. She couldn’t let on that his cruelty upset her.

“Yeah, that’s what they do,” Jason said. “Doctor ... you best learn from this,” he told her, then turned to his man. “Max, take this bitch to Miss Stone’s brothel. You wait and see that these men use her, good and hard. You get me the tapes of it for me to watch later. After they are done with the good Doctor get every last stich of her clothing and all her personal shit and dump her in the middle of the Heights,” he ordered. Max dutifully picked Lucinda up before she reached the door, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

She blubbered and begged as he took her from the room. Her cries grew softer as the door closed and soon the pair could no longer hear her. Jason paced for a few moments, debating his next step before looking at his sister and smiling.

“Back to business. I really don’t want to do this,” he said, moving to the phone. “But we can’t let this politician defy us.” He dialed the number.

“Dear brother, why do you lie to me?” Janice said. “We’re twins. I can almost hear your thoughts and I think you’re going to execute him.”

Jason sat at his desk, smiled at her, but said nothing. He waited for some time as the phone rang until at last someone answered.

“Terrence, I need you and two of your men to pay Councilman Urban a visit tonight,” he told him.

“No, I don’t want you to kill anyone. He has an eighteen-year-old daughter—abuse her in front of the man and his wife. Don’t kill anyone, understand?” Standing Janice walked to the door and paused, smiling at her brother.

“That’ll bring him down a peg or two,” she said. Leaving the room, she pulled her cellphone out and placed a call. Janice Griggs had a decision to make, after all no one can be two places at once.

“Steven, can you get word to her?” Janice Griggs asked.

The sunset cast an orange hue over the sea, as the first fingers of darkness crept over The City. A few miles inland, Terrence Spencer followed his instructions, watching the house of the Councilman while waiting for the lights to darken. Looking to his right, he frowned at the man playing with his sidearm. Twisting around he gazed at the man in the back seat, also fidgeting with his gun.

“Put those away. They’re just for show tonight,” Terrence snapped. The last light in the house went out, and the trio exited the car. Treading over the lawn with a practiced precision, they made their way to the front door. Spencer shoved a little tool inside the lock and pulled a trigger a few times, until the sound of click told him the door was unlocked.

In silence the trio filed inside, quietly closing the front door behind them. Two stair cases on either side of the room curved upward to a landing. As they began their journey to the stairs, their attention was suddenly drawn to a lone figure standing in the middle of the landing. Instinctively, despite being told no gunfire, one man raised his gun, but was too late. The dark figure dropped something and moved back stealthily.

The explosive flash blinded the men while its loud report deafened them. The first blast was immediately followed by the second detonation causing thick smoke to fill the air. Their unknown assailant jumped over the banister of the second floor, dropping to the tiled floor. Rising quickly, the assailant rushed forward, slamming a fist into one man’s jaw, and dropping him to the floor, out cold. Spinning again, the black clad person’s foot found the second man’s jaw, he tumbled to the floor just as unconscious as his cohort. Just as Terrence Spencer regained something of his sight, he felt a hard-as-a-brick fist strike his solar plexus. Falling backward, his head struck the bottom step as he tumbled to the floor.

Standing amid the chaos of smoke and downed men, Black Puma stood and admired her handiwork, or, footwork ... as the case may be. The room lit up as lights were turned on from above her, illuminating the framed photo of two men on the wall before her. Turning back, she saw Urban at the top of stairs and gave him a nod. Puma pulled some zip restraints from her belt, smiled at the man and quickly restrained the unconscious burglars.

“Hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“Not at all,” he answered her. “I’ll call the cops.”

When he returned, Puma was gone. Disappearing into the night long before the zip-tied trio woke to the police taking them into custody.

Puma could still picture the photo on the wall of Urban’s home. The same photograph hung in her father’s office. That of her father and Urban holding up champagne glasses. A picture from thirty years before, of the two friends celebrating the birth of Jackson Jones daughter, Shawanda. The very same Shawanda Jones who now roamed the streets of the ghetto at night as the masked vigilante known as Black Puma.

“Steven Denton,” the man said into his cell.

“I’m taking the rest of the night off,” Puma told him. “Unless you have new information on something?”

“Nothing new,” he told her. “Only that I have your new suit about ready.”

“Will it be lighter than this current suit and vest?” Puma asked as she wriggled out of the suit, “because I hate this damn vest.”

“Much lighter, and no more need for the vest,” he replied, almost seeing the smile of relief from her on the other end of the phone.

As quickly as she could, Shawanda Jones, aka Black Puma, changed and rushed to her appointment. Walking in the bar she wondered if the young woman had waited for her. She had. The shy, younger woman held her hand up to get Shawanda’s attention. Thankful that the girl had waited, Shawanda Jones made her way to the table.

The younger girl stood, stepped out to meet the older woman with a grin on her face. “You’re glowing.”

“It might be perspiration,” Shawanda admitted. “I didn’t have time for a shower. Sorry I’m so late.” Shawanda gave the girl a light hug, then sat at the table. The younger girl did likewise, gazing at the older woman.

Removing pad and pen from her purse, the girl kept up her pretext, that there meeting was an interview. The young journalist wrote a question, then looked at Shawanda with a slight smile.

Late the following day Max delivered Lucinda to her new home. A scruffy apartment in one of the tenements of Shabby Heights. She curled up on the grody shag carpet, curled into a ball, softly crying. Max put her clothing in the door less closet, then placed clean sheets on the nasty mattress that sat on the floor of the one room apartment. He considered the condition of the bathroom and frowned.

Lucinda lay in her fetal position whimpering. The aches and pains in her body reminding her with every breath of how the filthy, clawing men stripping her naked, reducing her to nothing but flesh. The way they shoved their pricks into every opening with forceful, hard thrusts. Their nasty mouths, kissing and biting her breasts, face, butt cheeks, every inch of skin. Some were angry; all were uncivilized. The spit running from their mouths, grunts, and groans like so many pigs at a trough feeding. Consuming her. Ripping her apart. Her body could never again be free of their filth. Her insides would never again be clear of their grotesque secretions.

“I’ll come by tomorrow and help you clean this sty,” he said. The hulking man turned to her. He had always liked the woman, her being one of the few who had always been kind to him. Few women were ever kind to Max, and in return he was seldom kind to women. But Max was kind to Lucinda. “I got a few more things to bring up, then I have to go, ma’am.”

“They fucked me up, Max,” she said, barely hearing what he had said as she spoke in a dull, emotionless quality.

“Yeah, I know, ma’am. Just, just ... try and get over it,” Max told her, fumbling with trying to find something right to say. Though he had kind feelings toward her, if the boss said he could have any other woman, he’d beat them up and rape them in a heartbeat. He gained such pleasure from hurting, especially when it involved women. Sadistic souls are so twisted and Max, well, his sadistic streak ran deep. Except with this woman.

“Sure, I’ll just wash it all away and be all new,” she replied, as a fresh round of tears fell.

“That’s my girl,” he said.

“Could you lend me your cellphone for a minute?” she asked, raising to her knees, pressing her hands together as if she prayed. “Please?” she asked quietly. Pulling the phone from his shirt pocket, Max handed it to the woman.

“Thanks,” she said as Max left the room. She pressed the numbers, attempting to compose herself, slamming her eyes shut at the images refusing to leave her mind. The phone was answered with a brisk hello on the other end. She hesitated a moment, then plunged in. “Tatyana. It’s uh ... it’s Lucinda.” She paused, and when the woman on the other end said nothing, continued. “I need to get a message to Bryson.”

“Why would he want to hear from you?” Tatyana asked, her harsh voice and thick Russian accent giving a cold edge to the question.

“I want to come back,” Lucinda said, attempting to stop the quiver in her voice. “Please.”

“To him, or to serve me?” Tatyana asked.

“Him,” she said. Realizing in her fuzzy mind that was the wrong thing to say she added. “But I’ll serve you. You’re the most wonderful mistress in the world.” Her words came in a rush now.

“I am. But why do you want to come back when you know I will take great pleasure in hurting you.” Tatyana said.

“I miss your beautiful, cruel touch,” she told her, hoping the quiver in her voice would not betray the lie.

“Really.” Tatyana replied, and it was a statement, not a question.

Exhaling heavily, Lucinda gave the truth. “Because uh, I think serving you at your meanest,” she cleared her throat, “is better than this ... life. This living death, I have fallen into,” Lucinda admitted.

“We will see. Now what do you say to your Mistress?” Tatyana asked.

“Thank you, Mistress Tatyana,” Lucinda told her, relief pouring over her. Closing the phone, she clutched it her breast, then forced herself to her feet and stumbled on shaking legs across the room.

Two-thousand-and-fifty miles away from Lucinda, Tatyana looked out her window, surveying her own sprawling city. A sneer on her lips, she watched the people scurrying from one place to another. Turning, she raised an eyebrow and walked to the man sitting on the edge of her bed. When she touched his shoulder, he flinched, letting out a whimper as the pain exploded from the fresh bruises.

“Oh, poor baby. Did Tatyana hurt him in our play?” she asked.

“Yes, Mistress. But the pain is good,” he told her.

“She wants to come back. To you, and to me,” Tatyana told him.

“I don’t see how I can manage that,” he said.

“Fate will lend a hand,” Tatyana told him.

Puma studied the file, leafing through page after page of the rap sheet on Griggs, listing his numerous crimes. Suspected by the police in twenty-two murders, fourteen home invasions, and forty-seven rapes. And of course, all the drug trade was controlled by him from his hidden, fortified lair buried deep inside the ghetto waste of Shabby Heights. Yet the crimes listed in the file only scratched the surface of his criminal involvement.

Jason Griggs occupied her time and thoughts in an all-consuming desire to destroy him. She wanted—needed—to break his organization. Jason Griggs was her obsession. Puma would bring him down and end his grip on The City.

Griggs had the illusion of safety, but Black Puma aka Shawanda Jones, knew otherwise. Sipping her coffee, she studied the purloined computer files, his record, his past, and the stolen plans of his granite and stone sanctuary.

“Oh, Jason, my love,” she said, speaking to no one, “your days are numbered. And that number is thirty, for next month you die. It won’t be quick or easy. There must be a reckoning. You will pay for your sins.” Picking up her cell, Shawanda selected her contact.

“Hey,” Steven said, “been expecting your call. They’re finished. I based the design on Beretta’s PX4 Storm, .45’ caliber the one for your right hands pretty normal, standard right side ejection. But for your left hand, oh my lovely feline, I have a treat for your left-hand firearm. It’s left side ejection, thought you might like that. Double sized clip capacity so 20 rounds each. The big clips make them, somewhat, bulky but you’ll have no trouble. Oh, and they are compensated so hardly any recoil.”

“And my new protective suit?” Shawanda asked, looking at the outfit as she asked the question. She ran her fingers over the rounded ears of the hood. Nice touch, she thought.

“Ms. Puma,” Steven answered with a chuckle, “it’s blacker than your skin, more durable and much more bullet resistant than a Kevlar vest, and no heavier than the leather you currently wear. In fact, it looks and feels like leather; however, it’s more elastic, I think is how you would say it, the material will allow you to move freely. Now you can lose your vest, and the protection stretches from head to toe. Or is it ears to claws?”

“Mr. Denton, is that an attempt at a pun? I didn’t realize that you had developed a sense of humor,” Puma told him.

“Always had one,” he said. “I was fearful the first few months. You’re a formidable woman, a dangerous client. I didn’t relish the thought of upsetting you.”

“Payment will be in your account within the hour,” Black Puma said, a total lack of emotion in her voice. “You’re quite clever and witty.”

“Delivery is accomplished, only awaiting you or an agent of yours to retrieve it.”

“Yes, I’m looking at my new attire and toys as we speak.”

Jason Griggs leaned down to the man, stepping on his already shattered hand. The man squirmed under him, his ribs ached, blood gushed from a cut on his forehead, one eye was swollen so badly he couldn’t open it. Grabbing a handful of the man’s hair, Griggs yanked his head up to look him in the eye.

“Next time you’re late with a payment I’ll break that other fucking hand. What good will you be as an artist then?” Griggs said. Releasing the man’s hair, he stood, turned to his associate, and walked away from the injured person. “No more book from this bastard, not one wager until every dime is paid ... with interest.”

“Boss, he was only two days late,” a man said, standing near the car a safe distance from the action. Griggs turned to him, glaring.

“On time means on time ... he was warned. Let one weasel get away with it, they’ll all give it a try,” Griggs barked out, unhappy his subordinate defended a deadbeat. Jason Griggs is what you call a bad man, drug dealer, pimp, murderer, rapist, and kingpin of the Lost Souls gang. At thirty-eight, Jason had risen to the top of his field, operating in that part of The City known to everyone as Shabby Heights. That area abandoned by everyone who can get away from it, ignored by police, a place where vice rules and the king is Griggs.

The prostitutes wander on the fringe of Shabby Heights selling their wares in the more respectful neighborhoods for those afraid to venture inside the borders of the forbidden inner city. The entire area held an atmosphere of despair. This gloom extended beyond Shabby Heights by several blocks in every direction. The avenues and boulevards surrounding the area had a nightly ritual. Cars prowled this street with men who were better off, even if only a little, than those denizens subjugated in that horrid area. Sharks with the scent of blood, they circled looking for just the right piece of meat.

Other whore seekers went inside the zone, a braver, or dumber batch of ingrate. Finding street meat or going to the red-light houses. There were over hundred houses with women, booze, dope, and gambling for the lower classes.

Then there were those wealthy clients, looking for women, gambling, or drugs. These men usually knew where they were going, went straight to the place, and cautiously entered this den of inequity, that casino, or found their dealer. The special places, everything cost more, the furnishings were nicer, but the danger still abounded for the client.

In the middle of it all was Griggs. A hard, vengeful, greedy man, his brutal nature served him well as the Boss of Bosses. Recently problems filled his time, one particular problem bothered him the most. A vigilante stalked his men and the men of the other bosses, killing some, while others were delivered to the police tied in bows with all the evidence necessary to arrest, try and convict them.

The mobs pain had a name, and the name of their pain was Black Puma. Why she called herself that was anyone’s guess. Her name or handle didn’t matter. What mattered and mattered a lot, was simple as blood—she hurt them. The Black Puma damaged their business and endangered the cash flow. Griggs had to end this bitch ... he wanted her dead. With that goal in mind he put a $20,000 bounty on the woman known as Puma.

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Black Puma — Cat’s Claw

Millie Dynamite

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