The Coldest Winter Ever

by Sister Souljah

“She caught a bad one. But the niggas who did that is dead. They said that was one trigger Santiaga pulled himself.”

  “So what’s up now?”

  “The same fucking cops get a bigger cut of the business now than they did when Santiaga ran shit. They got the Young Heads working on a seventy-thirty split, their favor. That shit is crazy. Plus they got their hands in even more areas than they had before. So the top dudes in the Young Heads is now tryna squeeze out the small niggas in the Young Heads, the ones who did the bloody work, the dicing, the slicing, the soldiers. So niggas is breaking off tryna do their own thing. Little businesses springing up here and there. You know.”

  “And what about you? Where do you fit in the story? The Young Heads, that’s not the name of your crew is it? Captain Chulla, that’s not his real name either, is it?”

  Bullet smiled, “Damn you smart.”

  “It was easy to figure. Why would you tell me all this? I am Santiaga’s daughter. I could tell him everything you said.”

  Bullet hung his head between his legs and mumbled, “It wouldn’t matter. Santiaga’s finished. He’s a legend, but he’s out of business. He’s charged with everything. He even killed two niggas in the pen. He’ll get life four times over.”

  “He hasn’t been convicted of nothing yet.” I defended him. “So what do you want from me?” I asked Bullet, with tears for Daddy in my eyes.

  “I just want to put you back where you belong, on top. I just wanna be your man, from when I was broke on the bench.” He smiled a seductive smile, almost as if he was popping the question.

  “One more thing, the Young Heads, that’s the fake name for you, Slick Kid and them, ain’t it?”

  “Who me?” he smiled. “I’m just a lookout. Seriously, I got me a little side hustle that turned mad big for me. I hook up all the hip-hop stars with what they need. Like a private doctor who’s on call. I got a couple of other businesses brewing. I’m ’bout to close out business with the Young Heads. Niggas is too shady. They always talking about “we.’ They call us “the family.’ But the dividends don’t spread around the family like they should. They don’t want to bless the real soldiers. So I’m about to relocate.”

  “Oh, and bounce on me.” My attitude reignited.

  “Never that. When we get home you just let me know where you want to rest at. We’ll get an apartment. However you want it. But I got to be able to trust you, that’s the main thing. I almost killed that bitch Saria. I could’ve lost everything I have now killing some lunatic bitch who lied about being pregnant with my kid. I don’t want to chase behind no chick playing detective. You understand me?”

  “I check for that,” I reassured him.

  The next two days or so in Key West, Florida, was more than cool. Bullet concentrated on learning me, my likes and dislikes. He said he wasn’t gonna ask me about my past ’cause he expects every woman to lie about what she done no matter how small it is. He made it clear over and over that everything between us starts now, today, and “you belong to me from here on in.” The penalty for betrayal is death, he said, with the seriousness of the cancer disease. “If I catch you lying to me about anything, no matter how small, the penalty is pain.”

  I don’t know what he was so uptight about. His dick was good and his dollars were long. I had no reason to complain, leave, or cheat. There was only one thing that wasn’t open and straight with him. I told him I needed to find out where my father was locked up at. He got quiet for awhile as if he knew the spot, then promised with as few words as possible to help me locate him.

  “It can’t be that hard, he’s locked down.” Now I thought about it a minute and decided maybe Bullet thought my father would be against us being together. I wasn’t planning to tell Pops about me and Bullet. I just needed to see Pops to make sure he was straight, stack up his commissary, and let him know I’m still his number one and he’s still mine.

  I didn’t push it with Bullet. As far as me finding my father goes, it was nonnegotiable. Hell, Pops had put 17 years of loving and taking care of Winter. That’s 16 years and 361 days more than Bullet put in.

  As we lay on the bed in our undies, kicking our feet up, munching popcorn, and watching old movies on the rented VCR, Cooley High brought back memories of our kiddiehood in Brooklyn. It was odd that me and Bullet grew up in the same place yet had different childhoods. He was telling me grungy survival stories. My stories was mostly funny.

  An icy cold fell over me in the villa on our last night when our reminiscing revealed what was happening now in the place I used to love, Brooklyn, but wouldn’t be caught alive in anymore.

  It was Bullet who brought Simone’s name up. “Yeah, that crazy bitch got pregnant. She got big as a house. She went into the hospital to have her baby and came back home empty-handed. Nobody wanted to ask her mean ass what happened.” As Bullet continued talking I didn’t ask him no follow-up questions on the Simone issue. It was clear that he had no idea that me and her had beef.

  “I don’t want to get an apartment in Brooklyn,” I told Bullet calmly.

  “Oh, you too big up for Brooklyn now?”

  “Nah, nothing like that. I just ain’t cool with a lot of them chicks and I don’t need no static.”

  “You ain’t gonna have no problems, I’m holding you down now.”

  “I was thinking lower Manhattan by the water,” I told him.

  “That dirty-ass water,” he said. I cut my eyes at him. “It’s cool if that’s what you want. I could use a little hideaway with an exclusive parking space with my name on it. Yeah, and a doorman. Maybe a butler, some shit like that,” he said, and we both laughed.

  Driving in from the airport Bullet headed straight to Brooklyn. As the wheels turned silently, because I couldn’t feel no bumps, I became angry and nervous. I told his ass I didn’t want to stay in Brooklyn. When we got so close to my old spot that it was indisputable where we were going, I asked softly, suppressing my emotion, “What are we doing here?”

  “I want you to see where I rest at.”

  Getting loud, I said anxiously, “I already know where you rest at.”

  Bullet smiled and said, “Look, Sexy, it’s been a long time. I’m not in the same spot. I’m one flight up from Granny. I couldn’t have her making bets with my money.” He peeped my reluctance. “Look, tomorrow after I handle my business we can bounce to find the crib you wanted. Ain’t nothing open tonight no-how.” I didn’t move out of the car. “Oh,” he laughed. “Them bitches got you shook. Couldn’t be, not Winter Santiaga.”

  “Nah, I ain’t shook. I just don’t like being caught off guard.” Bullet pushed a button in between the driver’s seat and the emergency brake. The brown, hard covering on the island separating the driver’s chair from the passenger chair opened.

  “You tell me what you need. Whatever it is, I got it.” As I peered down into the hidden well I saw a Glock, a 9 millimeter, a.22 and a 4-pound staring me dead in my eye. Bullet said, “Now, if this nigga can’t make you feel safe, you choose what you need. I told you, times change.”

  Stepping out of his Lexus coupe I figured if I ever wanted to come back to Brooklyn, this is the way it should be, in style. It was evening time. For some reason everything in the neighborhood looked smaller than I remembered it being, and maybe even a little dirtier. I saw some familiar faces. Or maybe I should say, they saw me. But I didn’t see Natalie, Simone, none of my girls or my aunts. I wasn’t surprised not to see them. People have the tendency to stay inside during the winter. Now, if it was summertime there would be more people than roaches. Crackheads were running up begging to wash Bullet’s whip that had collected dust in the airport lot. Bullet’s man popped up like he was fucking valet parking. Bullet dropped the keys in his hands and he jetted off around back.

  His apartment was definitely a man’s place. It had the necessities, a big-screen TV, PlayStation, CD player, sneakers, magazines, beer cans, weed, reefer roaches in the ashtrays, a dirty bathroom, no toilet paper, and nothing in the ref
rigerator. But, it was secure. Like Santiaga, Bullet had a double security door, with a crack slot in the outside door about two inches wide and four inches long. A thick metal sheet could lock the slot or it could be slid open from the inside. On the table where dinner should be eaten there was Bullet’s little chemistry laboratory. I made a note of that ’cause Santiaga would’ve never had it there in the open like that, even with the two metal security doors. But Bullet was a bachelor.

  We wasn’t in the crib thirty minutes before Bullet had to step out. All hyper-like, he said he couldn’t wait until tomorrow to collect his shit. It was the time of the month where dumb niggas was about to be low on dough. He had to round up his boys. He tossed me the .22 and said, “Here. Hold this. I’ll be right back. Don’t answer the door no matter what. Don’t even fuck with the phone.” When I twisted my lips at him he responded, “It’s business. They can all wait till I come back, till then nobody’s home.”

  Within minutes I heard knocking at the door. They would come. Then they would go away. To drown out the sound of the knocking I flipped on the radio, then the TV. When I remembered nobody was supposed to be home I turned them both off. I started checking everything Bullet had. Don’t ask me why. I just figured I had a right to. I was looking under the beds, in the closets, in drawers. Any pieces of paper I found laying around I read. In a matter of minutes I found five Timberland boxes filled with cash. One was filled with one-dollar bills, one with tens, one with twenties, one with fifties, one with hundreds. I put everything back the exact way I remembered finding it. I didn’t lift one bill.

  Tapping my nails on the table, I had only been in here one hour and I was being tortured by boredom.

  Another knock at the door. The knock soon turned into a scratch. The scratch turned into a screech. Disobeying orders, ’cause I was never one to follow, I opened the first door and stood in the darkness between the two. Placing my ear on the cold metal door I listened for a voice. I heard what sounded like moaning. “Come on, come on, I’m sorry. Where you been. I need something now.” The words were coming out like a whining child. The screeching was louder now, too. I slid the heavy metal slot back an inch to see where the screeching was coming from.

  The thin lady was hunched over scratching the door with two keys. Hearing the slot open slightly, the lady raised on her tiptoes and stuck her face to the slot. She was so close up I could only see her one bloodshot, tired eye. I don’t know if she was rocking on her toes or what, but small sections of her face, the left eye, the right eye, her nose, a piece of her hairline would fall into my one-inch view and out again. When she stuck her two-tooth mouth in the slot, I saw the scar, the twisted position. The ninety-pound crackhead at the door was my mother.

  “Give me something. Give me something. I got this.” She tried to stick a fake gold chain into the slot. With my finger I pushed it out and slammed the metal slide. With my back now against the door I slid down to my knees, then doubled over.

  “What you doing up here? What the fuck you doing up here? I told you to stop coming to my crib,” I heard Bullet yelling in the hallway.

  “Where you been? I been looking for you,” her voice said.

  “You got no more credit with me,” he said in a lowered voice. “Now get out of here.” Quickly I opened the next door, closed it gently then turned the lock. I heard her begging, but it turned into silence when I closed the last door.

  Bullet stuck the key in the first door, then the second. He looked at me sitting coolly in the chair. I erased all traces from my facial expression of what I had seen. “You didn’t open the door did you?”

  “Nah,” I said, with no emotion at all. He went in the kitchen, opened a cabinet, pulled out the cookie jar, and took out a vial of crack.

  “You with me?” he asked, testing my loyalty for the umpteenth time. I nodded yes. “Here, slide this out and pass it off so I can get this crackhead off my dick.” So I did.

  18

  The next day I was perched in the window at Bullet’s sixth-floor apartment. It was as though I was sitting on top of the ’hood. I could see everyone as I peeked through the blanket he used for curtains. But no one could see me. Bullet got out early that morning. He left me the keys for the house but I don’t know why he bothered, I wasn’t going anywhere until he got back.

  Bullet shot through the door when darkness fell. I was so vexed there was no reason to speak. Not to mention that with nothing in his refrigerator, I was starving. Ignoring my attitude, he glided across the floor, slapped me on my ass, and said, “Hey, I got something for you.” When I didn’t respond he threw the money on the bed. Wrapped in rubber bands there were three stacks of bills. Two of the thickest stacks were all hundreds. One of the stacks was all fifties. Picking up each stack individually, and flicking them from the top bill down to the bottom bill, I arrived at an estimate the way Daddy taught me to do. I figured there was about twenty thousand dollars here.

  “Where the fuck did you get this?” I asked, knowing full well that no crackheads were walking around with large bills.

  “I’m a businessman, baby! I told you I make moves. Leather sofas and color TVs cost money.” He smiled so sweet I forgave him instantly. Sensing he broke through my wall of anger, he jumped on top of me and started kissing me all over my face. “Yeah, I know how to make it hot for you,” his rough conceited ass said. And I loved it. After I got all excited about the loot, I noticed he packed it all away as if he had never thrown it at me.

  First thing the next morning his man pulled Bullet’s Lex around the corner. Handing Bullet his keys, he was so busy staring at me, in my fine winter wool Benetton minidress and matching jacket, that he missed Bullet’s hand and dropped his keys in the street. As he bent down to get the keys, Bullet slapped him in the head on the way up. The next man, Bones, who was in the passenger seat, laughed that he got chumped. But Bones was staring at me, too. I peeped that.

  We rode into the city in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I convinced Bullet that it would be easier for him to let me get the newspapers from the stand, and travel to the apartments for rent by train. He paused before he agreed, and looked into my eyes like he expected to find something. He handed me a stack of dough, then snatched it back before my fingers closed. “Just beep me when you find something. I’ll meet you with the money.”

  “Yeah,” I said dryly. This nigga just can’t relax.

  It was almost 6 P.M., when I found a place. Instead of overlooking the river, it overlooked the FDR highway that was beside the river. It was located on the East Side, in the thirties block. There was a doorman, but no butler. The place was spacious, with large windows. I knew I could freak the layout with all kinds of designs. The important factor was that the greedy man renting the apartment was easy to work with. He was the first landlord I met who understood to mind his business. He wanted cash. I wanted the keys. I figured he needed the loot to feed a nasty cocaine habit. He sniffed all the way through the twelve-minute interview. Besides, the tip of his nostril was eaten away from the drug. I had seen that effect before. Now, when he started babbling about how I could pick up the keys next week, he had to have the apartment cleaned, I threw him another three hundred dollars to get the keys on the spot. He grimaced when I told him I needed one hour for my boyfriend to bring me all the dough. I don’t know if he was mad that he had to wait sixty minutes or mad that I had a man.

  Magazines were spread out all over the living room floor in the big empty apartment. I took my time reviewing each magazine design ad. Selecting an item from each ad I admired, I pieced together a collage of a one-bedroom apartment that was perfect for me. Bullet, who was out concentrating on what he described as the biggest move of his lifetime, had agreed that whatever I wanted was good for him. His only request was for me to leave the huge walk-in closet for his private use.

  Initially, I was cool with the amount of time he spent away from home. Decorating was taking up all of my energy anyhow. But, Bullet was slowing down my decorating with his lack of
trust. Every time I wanted to purchase something I had to wait for him to have free time to go with me to each store so he could pay the cashier directly. It was clear to me that he wasn’t gonna let my hands feel no dough. Half the time I had to go to each individual store to locate whatever item I wanted. I’d keep the items on a shopping list. At the miraculous moment when Bullet had a few hours available, we’d pick up each thing I wanted one by one. I tried having pieces of furniture delivered. I even had to schedule that around Bullet, who didn’t want “no delivery man sliding around my crib while I’m not home.” He even conveniently struck up a relationship with the doorman, passing him twenties and fifties for whatever favor he needed. After a while, I started to think one of the doorman’s assignments was to watch me come and go. I figured it would only be a matter of time before Bullet would see that I was down for whatever. Not only could I decorate the joint and order up delicious dinners for two, but I’m a businesswoman who should easily be at least half of the team.

  But I was swift. Daddy taught me how to think my way through and work around certain people to achieve the same results. The first thing I did was lease the apartment in my name. He handed the money to the designated person in each transaction, but I signed off every time. As soon as we moved in, I filled out all my credit card applications and mailed them away. One day soon I’d get one or two cards in the mail and use them to walk out the store with whatever I selected. If Bullet took too long to include me in his business plans or left me at home with too much time to think, I could easily see myself cooking up my own little hustle.

  He must have been reading my mind. More than a month had passed. I completed my decorating project and had the place looking picture perfect. No one could front. Our spot was phatter than the designs in the magazine ads. Not only was everything top quality, it was elegant, a smart use of the space, and had flavor and attitude. I was just sitting on the white leather sofa listening to a little Mary J. Blige when his key slid in the front door earlier than usual. Busting in with speed and urgency he picked me up and spun me around.