B-More Careful

by Shannon Holmes

  In the passenger seat, Mann sat fuming, unamused at his cousin’s handling of Stew. He felt Stew was taking advantage of them. Fed up, Mann decided to say something about it.

  “Yo, Tone, you can’t be letting these Baltimore cats just walk over you like that. You givin’ New York niggas a bad name, word up!” Mann said, sounding real serious to his cousin.

  “Son, what you want me to do? Kill him? That’s my fuckin’ girl’s cousin. Me and that kid been through mad shit together. He helped me get on my feet when I was down here by myself. Yo, son held me down. I must be doing something right. I’m getting money ain’t I?” Tone replied, trying to check his cousin back in his place.

  “That’s all fine and dandy motherfucker, but I ain’t just talking about that kid and I ain’t just talking about money. It’s the principle of this shit. What about all them other niggas you let slide. Yo, Tone, you gotta start bustin’ ya gun, son. These lame ass niggas is starting to take you for a joke,” Mann said, blowing the situation way out of proportion. “These cats is too slow to be getting over on you like that.”

  Compared to New York City, every other city and its residents seemed slow to Mann. To him, New York was the capital of the entire world. The center of his universe; it was all he knew.

  Tone shot a dirty look at Mann. He saw this day coming a long time ago, the day when Mann would try to tell him how to carry himself. The day Mann would try to tell him how to handle his business. Mann was as geographical as they come. He represented New York and the Bronx twenty-four hours a day. He thought he was better than everybody in Baltimore just because he was from the city. Tone had hoped in time he’d grow out of his pro New York attitude. But, Mann never did. So, now it was time to check him.

  “Yo, don’t get it fucked up! There’s real niggas and fake niggas everywhere. Don’t judge a cat by where he’s from. ‘Cause it ain’t where you from, it’s how you come! There are cats out here from New York I don’t give a fuck about and there are cats from B-More I got crazy love for and they got love for me,” Tone said. “You got thorough niggas out here like anywhere else. You better recognize, everybody out here ain’t lames or slow. I’m out here to get money, bottom line. I ain’t out here on no rah-rah shit or New York versus B-More shit. Let them other niggas go to war over that geographical shit. I’m tryin’ to get money, son, word to the mother.”

  Tone put Mann in his place and said what needed to be said. He was trying to get him to recognize the game before it was too late. There was a time he thought like his cousin, but over the years, he wised up. He saw too many New Yorkers get killed sleeping on cats from B-More.

  No matter what Tone did though, he couldn’t escape the stigma of his birthplace. On the streets of B-More, he was called New York Tone. Though he didn’t like it, he got used to it. It was better than being called by his real name, Anthony.

  Next to money, what Tone liked so much about B-More was it reminded him so much of home. It’s people, crowded streets and live night life. It was just a smaller version of New York. A couple sections of Baltimore were referred to as “little New York” or “baby New York,” in reference to all the gunplay action and drama that existed there.

  Another thing about Baltimore was its women. They were a fringe benefit, something that came along with the game. He loved them, and they loved him. The only problem was he had a girlfriend. Sonya was short, dark-skinned, shapely and fine. Half American, half Jamaican, her and Tone were high school sweethearts. Shortly, after graduating from Evander Childs High School in the Bronx, she decided to attend Morgan State University in Baltimore. Upon arriving at school, her cousin Stew pulled her coat to all the money to be made out there. In turn, she told Tone who hopped on the next thing smokin’ down there. Had Tone not come to B-More to sell drugs, it’s highly unlikely that their relationship would have survived. Actually, it was amazing they were still together given the way he cheated. Even though he loved Sonya, he was having sex with so many females, he thought he was Hercules. He wanted to knock all of ‘em off. He was like a kid in a candy store with a pocket full of dough. He wanted to sample whatever caught his eye. On the strength of where he was from and all the money he was making, Tone found no shortage of sex partners. He certainly wasn’t a bad-looking guy either. He was brown-skinned, tall, curly hair and had a chipped front tooth that many found endearing. Not to mention, his heavy New York accent was like an aphrodisiac to the ladies.

  Tone loved to frequent strip joints. His favorite was Eldorado’s in downtown Baltimore. He had every stripper that worked there at least twice. After the club closed, he’d come back and pick one of them. Then it was off to the nearest hotel. All for a small fee, of course. The rates varied according to who you were. Tone, being the regular he was, got a discount. Most hustlers called this trickin’, but not him. To him, this was an investment in a sure-shot thing. The way he saw it, if you bought a broad a happy meal, then you was trickin’ too. A dumb one at that, you still might not get none. He, on the other hand, could expect the works since he paid for it. The best part was, when he was finished, he could get up and walk out the door and not say one word.

  In his mind, Tone tried to justify his cheating way. He reasoned, if I could get what I needed at home, I wouldn’t have to creep around. Sonya refused to perform oral sex on him. This was some mandatory shit for Tone.

  “Are you crazy? I’m not doing that. I don’t want to,” she’d say.

  Tone tried every trick in the book, but nothing worked. They’d been together for four years and it was still the same ol’ shit in the bedroom. Tone figured if she wasn’t ready now, then she’d never be ready.

  In the middle of the night, Tina awoke to the sounds of muffled noises that escaped from under the bathroom door and down the hall. A light sleeper, she laid in bed wondering what the sounds could be. Silently creeping, she walked down the pitch-black hallway towards the bathroom. The bright light escaping from beneath the door was her guide.

  This must be Mimi, Tina thought as she inched closer, careful not to make any noise. She hadn’t seen Mimi in weeks. Tina wanted to have a talk with her about her disappearing acts. Reaching the bathroom door the noises grew louder.

  Sniff! Sniff! Sniff!

  Tina stood at the door, listening and unsure of what to do next. This isn’t what I think. Please Lord, don’t let it be. Her baby girl was getting high. On the other side of the door, Mimi was snorting heroin. Scoop after scoop, she shoveled it into her nostrils. Empty glassine bags of dope littered the floor. Mimi sat on the edge of the tub too absorbed in her activities. She never heard her mother’s sobs from the other side of the door.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Tina beat on the door so loud and hard that it shook violently.

  “Mimi, open this door right now!” she screamed.

  “Wait a minute,” Mimi yelled, trying to stall. Startled, she almost dropped her dope. “I’m using the bathroom.”

  “You open this door right now before I break it down! You ain’t foolin’ nobody, Mimi. I know what you’re doing in there.”

  Ignoring her mother, Mimi stuffed the rest of the dope in her bra. Then, she grabbed all the loose baggies that laid around and flushed them down the toilet. Straightening up, she finally unlocked and opened the door, which her mother was pushing on to get in.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Tina asked as she got all up in Mimi’s face examining it closely.

  Grabbing her daughter, Tina forcefully held Mimi’s face inches from the bathroom mirror.

  “What’s that?” Tina asked, demanding her daughter to answer.

  Looking closely at herself in the mirror, Mimi saw tiny traces of white powder around the rim of her nose.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Mimi answered.

  “Nothin’ huh? You putting that junk up your nose? I guess that’s baby powder, huh? I don’t know what the devil has gotten into you? Why you foolin’ with that stuff? You look like death in the face.”

>   For the first time in a long time, Mimi was forced to examine herself. The person she saw staring back at her was one who carried many titles from whore to gold digger and now, junkie. The person in the mirror wasn’t her, it was a tired-looking imposter.

  “Ma, I need help! I can’t stop getting high,” she said as a tear rolled down her face.

  Tina released the hold she had on her daughter’s face and embraced her. Tina couldn’t have anything come in her house and hurt her more than to see her daughter getting high. When would it end? For Tina, she had lived the life of a hustler’s wife all her life. It was a life she couldn’t convince herself had been a waste. Now, her hustlin’ husband was nowhere to be found, unless she went looking, which she didn’t. Not to mention, her son Timmy shot dead, senseless over money. His life was worth more than that money. Her other son, Tommy, in jail for the rest of his life. Oh, there was nothing sadder than this moment for Tina. The tears that rolled down her daughter’s cheek, sparked tears in her still left from her marriage, still left from her sons, and tears she didn’t even know she had for her daughter. If she could wipe out every drug on the market, she would.

  Admitting her drug problem to her mother was the first step for Mimi on the long road to recovery. Secretly, she entered a 90-day in-patient program in Bethesda, Maryland, called Second Genesis. Her mother’s Pastor arranged this from the church.

  “May I speak to Mimi,” the long-lost voice could be heard through the handset.

  “Netta?” Tina asked, excitedly knowing the voice sounded familiar.

  “Hi, Ms. Johnson. How’s everything going?” Netta said cheerfully.

  “Netta, I been thinking about you. Where you been? You could’ve called, you know. I been worried sick about you?” she said.

  It was true, Netta hadn’t been in contact with anybody in quite some time. She had been too preoccupied with Black. Now that he was in prison, though, she was starting to reestablish her old ties.

  “I’m sorry Ms. Johnson, but I been working. I did mean to call but I’ve been busy. Most of the time, it’s too late to call when I get off work. It’s no excuse, I’m sorry. You know how time flies,” Netta said apologetically.

  “It’s okay, I know how it is. I’m just glad to hear from you, baby. Where you working at?” she asked.

  “Maryland University Hospital. I do clerical work. How’s little Timmy?” Netta asked.

  “He’s doing good. He’s getting so big. That boy is eating me out of house and home. He’s sleep now, taking his nap. You know he loves you, always points to your graduation picture,” Tina said.

  “Ms. Johnson, is Mimi home?” Netta asked.

  “No, baby, she’s down south taking care of my sick mother. She’ll be back soon,” she said, lying.

  Tina was a churchgoer and she didn’t like lies. It was against her religion, but for her daughter, Tina went against her God. Mimi begged for secrecy. So, even though Tina didn’t want to lie, she did it for Mimi’s sake.

  “She is?” Netta asked, surprised to hear that Mimi went down south. She wasn’t the traveling type. She was one of those people who would never leave Baltimore. Born there, die there. Netta thought it must be serious for her to leave.

  “I hope your mom has a speedy recovery,” Netta said.

  “Yeah, baby, she’s doing better. Mimi should be home soon.”

  “Well, will you tell her to call me?” Netta asked.

  “Oh, baby, you know I will. She’ll be so glad to hear from you.”

  The conversation ended like that. Netta didn’t give it a second thought. She’s see Mimi when she got back.

  Mimi was the prettiest fiend in the rehab center, bar none. Surprisingly, there were just as many white people in rehab, if not more. But, from the start of her rehabilitation efforts, she was doomed. She felt uncomfortable and out of place. She was surrounded by hardcore addicts and couldn’t identify with those people at all. The dope fiends and crack heads in her group class told horror stories about how they went about getting their daily fix or hit. Mimi wasn’t feeling the group or the class, none of it. In her mind, it never got that bad for her. The hardest thing for her to do was stand before the group and say, “Hi, my name is Mimi and I’m a recovering heroin addict.” She could barely get it out and even when she did, it didn’t sound right.

  Her drug counselor accused her of being in denial. In all actuality, she was in rehab for all the wrong reasons. Mimi wasn’t there to rid herself of her dope habit. She was there because she got caught getting high, not because she wanted to stop. Mimi was there because she didn’t want anyone else to find out just how badly she’d fallen off, as if she could undo the damage done to her reputation. Mimi was only there to salvage her image, what little of it was left. Her heart wasn’t into recovery. The whole time she was there, she thought about getting high.

  By the time her 90-day rehabilitation period was over, nobody even knew she was gone. That was just the way she wanted it. Mimi had gained her weight back in all the right places and was looking better than ever. After her release, she hooked right back up with Netta and the Pound. With Black locked up in City Jail, her and Netta were thick as thieves again.

  It was just like old times. As the years passed, Netta led and Mimi followed. The Pussy Pound was still in demand and everybody was prospering. Running their game, they ran through and discarded hustlers like old clothes. Netta was in the forefront and Mimi always trailed a split-second behind.

  Little did Netta and Mimi know, their past sins were just about to catch up with them.

  Chapter 19

  On Monroe and Fayette Street, Tone sat inside Mann’s new gold Lexus coupe, blasting his system as he waited for Mann to finish handling his business. The years had been good to both of them. They had a successful run in Baltimore, dealing drugs for four years without getting locked up. Their longevity was matched by few. During that time span, they’d seen a lot of New Yorkers come and go. Most of their friends and people they knew were either dead or indicted. Yet, more and more kept coming down to Baltimore, wave after wave. No one seemed to get the message that things weren’t as sweet as they used to be. Cats were coming home from jail with an anti-New York attitude and the murder rate was steadily rising. Things were hectic in the streets.

  Zoning out listening to rap music, Tone spotted a yellow Range Rover pull up. The bright color of the truck caught his eye. He watched as the truck parked a few cars in front of him. The driver’s door opened, and a beautiful dark-skinned female stepped out the truck and began unloading groceries. Snatching the keys out the ignition, Tone walked over to assist her and to run some game.

  “Excuse me, Miss, with the slim waist and the pretty face, you need a hand with that, ma?” Tone politely asked as he undressed her with his eyes.

  “Damn, you scared me. It’s not polite to creep up on people like that,” Netta said, caught off guard.

  “My bad, ma. I didn’t mean to scare you. I seen you struggling with the bags and being the gentlemen I am, I figured I’d help you,” Tone said, flashing her his megawatt smile that brought a grin to Netta’s face.

  “I could use a hand, New York,” Netta replied, picking up his accent. “Thanks.”

  She handed him the last two grocery bags before closing her trunk.

  Tone waited for Netta to secure her car, and together, they walked toward her house where the other bags sat on the steps.

  “Damn, ma, what you got in here? These shits is heavy, word,” Tone said, not realizing Netta had deliberately given him all the heavy bags to carry while she toted the light ones.

  “A strong nigga like you shouldn’t have no problem carrying them bags,” Netta said playfully.

  “Oh, I don’t got no problems. I’m just trying to figure out where your man is at?” he asked, trying to get some information on her status. Was she single or seeing somebody? Either way, it didn’t matter. Tone just wanted to know so he’d know how to come at her.

  “I don’t got no man,
” Netta stated, thinking about four years ago when the last man she had was Black. “I’m high maintenance and these niggas is low budget. They got champagne taste and beer money. You gots to spend money on this. As you can see, I’m used to nice things.”

  “Damn, ma. What part of the game is that? You on some real extra shit,” Tone said, knowing her kind. This broad is nothing but a gold digger. But he felt he could handle her. After all, he was from the big city and there wasn’t any gold digger worse than one from New York.

  “The part of the game you wouldn’t understand if ya money ain’t long, New York!”

  Netta shot back, with a sexy attitude putting her hand on her hip.

  “Say word,” laughed Tone.

  “Word, New York.”

  “Ma, look my mom’s ain’t name me New York, neither. Yo, every New York nigga out this piece is called New York. That’s just where I’m from. My name is Tone, what’s yours?” he asked, making the introduction. He liked her style.

  So, this must be the New York Tone I been hearing about.

  “I’m Netta,” she answered with a smile.

  “Check this out Netta, what’s up with me and you? Can a nigga take you out to get something to eat or what? Get to know you a little better?” he asked, hoping she said yes.

  “No doubt, we can do something tonight. I ain’t got nothing planned.”

  As they conversed, Mimi showed up, followed by Mann. They were both introduced and talked amongst themselves as the other members of the Pussy Pound started pulling up in their various cars. Tone and Mann couldn’t believe their eyes. All these chicks were drop dead gorgeous. After watching the town parade of ghetto superstar starlets go by, Tone and Mann were ready to follow the pack on up in the crib.

  “Yo, can we chill wit’ y’all,” Mann asked.

  “Na, it’s a private club, ladies only. We ‘bout to get blunted and kick it. You know, girlie shit, yo.”