“I tink you should tink ’bout it, honey.”

“There’s nothing to tink about, Dannyboy. I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t tink so.”

On the Sunday Retta Mae and Rasheed were scheduled to leave New York for Miami, Marley’s friend and partner, Fat Herbie Cheskis, told Dannyboy to stop Retta Mae from going. Fat Herbie Cheskis had partnerships with several pimps on the Upper East Side along with owning a chain of pawnshops and strip joints.

Fat Herbie said, “I’m upset about the potential loss of income.”

“Dere ain’t no potential ’bout it, Fat Herbie.”

“So do something.”

“Do what zactly, Fat Herbie? Cross de imam? No fuckin’ way.”

So off to sunny Miami Beach went Retta Mae Wagons and her imam on his private jetliner, a slick battleship gray affair that was so plush inside it made you want to live there. On the way down to Miami Beach, when the imam wasn’t skimming through his religious and business magazines or flirting and grab-assing one or the other of the two cute stewardesses who worked for him (which Retta Mae did not like) and Retta Mae wasn’t reading L’Assommoir by Balzac, they would make love. The imam told Retta Mae he felt like a damn high school kid with a crush. Retta Mae said she was the happiest she’d ever been in her entire life.

Retta Mae was amazed at the size of the imam’s Muslim empire, which the imam showed her in his Rolls-Royce on the way to his home. The mosque was huge. It took up an entire city block. It had a tall minaret that seemed to go up forever beside the golden-domed masjid and an ornate iron fence ten feet high that went from corner to corner around the block.

Jamal’s house was even bigger.

The large and imposing mansion, a four-story Mediterranean villa, was eighteen thousand square feet. The home featured a large circular tower and Romanesque arches. It was situated on ten acres in between the inland waterway and the Atlantic Ocean. Jamal’s palatial estate had an Olympic-size indoor-outdoor heated swimming pool under an arched pavilion. The home had eleven-foot ceilings, stone and marble floors, and seven fireplaces. There was a separate bungalow for watching movies and extrawide-screen television, a Jacuzzi large enough for ten people, a fully stocked wine cellar, a steam room and spa area, and a magnificent airy kitchen. On the palm-tree-studded grounds was a small one-story building that housed Rasheed Jamal’s office, complete with liquor, beer, and coffee bar, a bathroom with matching marble bathtubs, and a luxury billiards room. There was a guesthouse with two guest suites that most people would give their right arm to call home.

Shortly after the blissful couple arrived at the mansion, Retta Mae said, “Rasheed, tell me something. Where the hell did you get the bread to put together—”

WHACK! WHACK!

Jamal bitch-slapped Retta Mae across her face, hard—one side, then the other—with his open hand. The whacks knocked Retta Mae down to the floor. When she looked up, Jamal seemed to tower over her. He just went up and up forever.