Dirty Money Honey

by Nisa Santiago

  “Yo, who the fuck is this?” Stephon asked.

  Detective Hernandez ran up to Brian’s widow and held her back, telling her to calm down.

  “No, fuck that! That bitch is the reason my husband is dead, and she just gets to up and leave? This shit ain’t right!”

  Chip looked perplexed as he ushered Stephon and Honey outside. Honey kept her cool and gave Hernandez an amused look. Not a complete smile, her lips curled just enough so he could see that she knew what he was up to. In return, Hernandez gave her a slight head nod.“You home-wreckin’ whore!” the bleach-blonde yelled after them.

  Honey so desperately wanted to confront that bitch and beat her ass again but she knew that she had to maintain her cool.

  “Yeah, keep ignoring me, but you know what the fuck you did! And you know the guilt is killing you!” she shouted.

  Outside Stephon asked again, “Who was that? What’s going on? You seeing somebody else?”

  Honey shook her head. “Last year when I first got to Vegas, I met someone. He said he was single but was really married. When I found out, I broke it off. That’s it. His name was Brian, and he was one of the guards that got murdered at the Bellagio. Simple, end of the story.”

  “And his grieving wife has implicated you?” Chip knew there had to be more to the story.

  “She needs to blame someone, and in her eyes I’m the dirty mistress. I know the feeling. I’ve been there.”

  Both Stephon and Chip tried to read Honey, but her answers were short, and her body language relaxed.

  “Well, Stephon has my number. If these detectives continue to harass either one of you, just give me a call, and we’ll go to the Civilian Complaint Review Board and file a claim.”

  “Thanks, Chip.”

  “Anytime, Stephon.”

  Honey ended up going to Stephon’s house, where she spent the night. She was definitely not in the mood for sex because her nerves were shot. And thank God, for her sake, that Stephon didn’t push up on her for any, because she didn’t want to turn him down.

  But as Honey lay in Stephon’s bed unable to fall asleep, she had to admit to herself that the bleach-blonde chick was right about something; the guilt killing her. All Honey could think about as she lay there was the picture of Brian and his family that Detective Lynch had shown to her. She knew that, because of her, Brian’s family wasn’t a family anymore.

  Honey was resilient though, and she wasn’t about to crack. She knew that dirty money usually came at a high price. And although she was emotionally bleeding, she reasoned that she literally had millions of reasons that would help to ease her guilt. She couldn’t wait until the day came when she could start spending those millions.

  The Patsy

  Introducing Kim K.

  pat·sy (pts)

  n. pl. pat·sies Slang

  1. A person easily taken advantage of, cheated, blamed, or ridiculed.

  2. a scapegoat

  Chapter 17

  Olivia drove down 145th Street in her brand-new Maserati, compliments of her new husband, André. She had been fucking him since she was thirteen years old, and after his first marriage she never thought he’d actually marry her. When she found out that he had married Honey, she herself was nine weeks pregnant. She ran and got an abortion. The humiliation was too much to take.

  But only a few weeks after he’d tied the knot, he came back around begging and pleading for forgiveness. He swore that he never loved Honey and had made a mistake when he proposed to her.

  At first, Olivia played hard-to-get back. There wasn’t any way she’d forgive him so easily. Not when his bitch was sporting an 8-carat diamond and platinum ring, not to mention she also had his last name. No, Olivia fancied herself smarter than the average chick. She knew that men liked a challenge and she had been too available for André. This time around, things would be different. When he called, she pressed Ignore on her cell phone. When he dropped by asking her mother where was she, she instructed her mother to not give up any details.

  Meanwhile she was busy giving herself a makeover. She went to the Dominican hairstylist and dyed her dark brown hair red and had it cut into layers. The reddish color highlighted her light skin nicely. And although she’d never admit her next move, she went to the garment district in lower Manhattan in the wee hours of the morning and loaded up on imitation gear. From Seven Jeans to Prada bags, she bought it. She had a good eye for what looked the most authentic, and that’s what she focused on. Olivia knew that the trick to pulling off her new merchandise was to mix it with the real McCoy. So when André spotted her in Club Déjà Vu with skintight Seven Jeans, authentic Manolo Blahnik stilettos, and her fake Prada bag, he did a double take. It didn’t hurt that a rival drug dealer was all up in her face and they were popping Cristal and Moët.

  That night André begged her to leave with him.

  “And go where? To a fuckin’ hotel?” she yelled. “Get the fuck outta my face!”

  “Why you actin’ like that?”

  “Go home to your wife!” Olivia wanted to scratch his eyes out.

  “It ain’t even like that.”

  ***

  Two days later she was home when a florist rang her bell with a dozen red roses and a card from André. She was delighted but still refused to call him. She wanted more.

  When André spotted her riding shotgun with Hedge, a baller from Brooklyn, she got it. The next delivery was a full-length mink coat. The card read:

  If you won’t let me keep you warm, only let this coat take my place!

  The coat was cute, but she wanted diamonds. She knew that would take a little more than ignoring him. She’d have to start taking his calls.

  They met like two thieves in a restaurant in the Bronx. Olivia told André of the humiliation she’d suffered, how she was starting over, and how she wanted to seriously give Hedge a shot.

  “Don’t do that to me, Olivia. Don’t give my pussy away! I swear, I don’t love that bitch!”

  “But you married her!”

  That night at the Marriot Hotel Olivia fucked André like she’d never fucked a nigga before. She rode him until he screamed her name, and when he woke up in the morning she wasn’t there.

  If he wants to play mind games, then that’s exactly what he would get, she thought.

  Soon she had André in the palm of her hands. And when she suggested that she no longer wanted to sneak around in hotels, he didn’t hesitate to invite her over to his apartment that he shared with his wife, Honey, and even make love to her on the bed he shared with her.

  Olivia wanted to fuck on Honey’s sheets. She felt more anger toward Honey for causing her pain than she did toward André for inflicting it.

  For years, they continued their affair unbeknownst to anyone. And for playing the secondary position, Olivia was rewarded all the gifts his drug money could afford. He lavished her with impromptu shopping sprees, weekend getaways, and diamond trinkets that cost him a few stacks per purchase. But what she wanted most, he was unable to give her, until one fateful night when Honey arrived home earlier than scheduled and caught them making passionate love.

  Her and André were so into their lovemaking, neither one of them heard her come in. They fucked from the bedroom, throughout the kitchen, and had made their way to the living room, where they were ultimately busted. They didn’t stand a chance against the Glock-carrying Honey.

  If Olivia felt humiliated when she’d heard the news of André’s first wedding, getting put outside, naked, in below-zero weather was a vision too hard to repress. She still woke up some nights in a cold sweat.

  In Olivia’s opinion, André, hell-bent on revenge, played himself by going down to the precinct and filing fake charges on his wife. He knew that Honey’s job was all she had, and he wanted to take that away from her. It took a year of court appea
rances before the charges were eventually dropped. From there Honey disappeared, and no one had heard or seen her since.

  ***

  Olivia only had a few errands to run before she met with her best friend April for lunch. She was the new owner of a Dominican beauty parlor—Olivia’s—two doors down from the famous Willie Burger on 145th. The shop made a minimum of thirty thousand a month, after expenses. André was so happy that he’d listened to her when she kept begging him to open up a shop for her. She didn’t work in the shop because she didn’t have her cosmetology license, but she did manage it and was there six out of the seven days they were open weekly. She’d hired a slew of bi-lingual Dominican women as beauticians, and her aunt was the manager. It helped that Olivia was half Puerto Rican because Latino women stuck together. They would have never worked for her if she were all African American.

  “Hola, Evelyn,” Olivia said to her aunt and gave her a peck on the cheek. Evelyn was in her fifties with saggy titties, bleach-blonde hair and always wore what most considered “Spanish colors”—hot pink, dark purple, and bright yellow. Her clothes were too tight, too young, and too colorful, but everyone loved her.

  She greeted Olivia warmly, and they both walked to the back for Olivia to collect the money to make the deposit. Olivia made sure that, with the kind of money they collected throughout the day, two deposits were done so as to not have money pile up. Although Harlem was known for making money and not taking money, with the looming recession, you could just never be too careful.

  “We made four thousand this morning.” Evelyn handed Olivia a Chase money sack.

  “That’s a good look.”

  “It’s super busy today because everyone is getting ready for the Ruckers basketball game this afternoon. Are you going?”

  “Yeah, April and I are going to grab something to eat and then head over.”

  “Is André going to be there?”

  “No doubt. One of the teams playing is his. He has forty thousand ridin’ on this game.”

  “His team will win.”

  “I should hope so, but they say Fat Joe’s team is the one to beat.”

  Evelyn shrugged. “For Fat Joe’s sake, his team better lose. I’d hate to see a rapper gunned down over basketball.”

  Olivia smirked. “André ain’t that stupid.” What she wanted to say was, “André ain’t that smart,” after witnessing the dumb shit he’d done throughout the years.

  Olivia liked to stand in line at the teller when depositing cash, but today was extremely busy. The bank only had two tellers working, so she decided to go to the drop box. She filled out the slip, inserted her card, and dropped in the envelope. What she didn’t expect was the receipt to read: $960,000 as her checking balance, which was $950,000 more than she had in her checking account.

  “This can’t be right,” she said out loud. She needed a second look. While Olivia stood in line, a million things went through it, until finally she went with her gut and walked off.

  Seconds later she turned back around and stood in line. She was completely freaked out. Did André deposit almost a million dollars of drug money into their account to launder? Was he that stupid? There wasn’t any way that her business could justify that kind of income.

  Like clockwork André would deposit nine to fifteen thousand a week, which they would pay taxes on. That was reasonable. But almost a million dollars was ridiculous.

  “Welcome to Chase. How may I help you?”

  “Could I have a withdrawal slip, please?” Olivia pulled out her bank card and slid it through the card reader. After punching in her security code, she quickly filled out a withdrawal slip for one hundred dollars.

  “How would you like the bills?”

  “In twenties, please.”

  Olivia watched the teller’s eyes stretch open in shock, and then she readjusted them. “Do you want to take it from your savings or checking?”

  “Checking, please.”

  The teller processed the withdrawal, and Olivia was on her way. Once again she looked down at the receipt and saw nearly a million dollars. She needed to speak with her husband.

  ***

  After April and Olivia ate brunch at Amy Ruth’s restaurant, Olivia sped over to 155th Street and Frederick Douglass Boulevard to Ruckers Park for the Ruckers championship basketball game. André was pissing her off because he refused to pick up for any of her calls. She found him on the court fully engrossed in a pep talk with his team. When Olivia came strutting down the court in the hot summer heat, booty shorts, tank, and stilettos, she could feel each player’s gaze. She loved the attention.

  André turned to face her, slightly irritated that he was interrupted, yet pleased with her appearance. She definitely was a head-turner.

  “You don’t know how to pick up your phone?”

  He loved her sassiness. “You see I’m out here handling business. I was gonna get right back.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “We need to talk.”

  “A’ight, hold up.” He turned his back on her and faced his team.

  “Now.” Olivia aggressively pulled him by his arm. “Excuse me, fellas, this will only take a few minutes.”

  André allowed himself to be led away. “What is it that’s so important that it’s coming in between me and my forty stacks?”

  “Yo, did you put any money into our account?”

  André nodded.

  “Where the fuck did you get all that paper? And when was you gonna tell a bitch?”

  André frowned. “You know I put a few stakes into the business account every few days to clean my drug money. Why the fuck I gotta kept reporting that shit to you?”

  “A few stacks as in how much?”

  “Nine.”

  “Nine stacks?” Olivia wasn’t sure what was going on. When did nine stacks equate to nine hundred thousand? Nine stacks was nine thousand every day all day in the hood.

  “Yo, you buggin’ right now.”

  Olivia fumbled in her purse for the bank receipt and handed it to André. “When you say nine stacks, you mean almost a million dollars?”

  André looked down at the receipt. “What the fuck is this?”

  “You tell me.”

  “This ain’t me!”

  Olivia began to panic. “Then where did it come from?”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It was on the receipt after I deposited the money from the shop. I thought you put it there.”

  “Where the fuck would I get a million dollars in cash? The tooth fairy?”

  Olivia shrugged her shoulders. “I guess the bank made a mistake.” Olivia sulked.

  “When you say mistake, you mean that the printed balance on the receipt is the mistake, or the mistake is the actual funds are in our account?”

  Olivia didn’t know the difference. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. “All I know is that it’s wrong.”

  André’s mind was racing. “Did you see if the funds were actually in our account?” he asked, his voice rushed and impatient.

  “Well, I went to the teller and made a withdrawal and the receipt read the same as the first time. It read almost a million dollars.”

  “Did you ask her, were all those funds really in the account?”

  “No, I just left to find you.”

  “Why the fuck didn’t you handle your business before you come running over here?” he barked. “Why I always gotta be a fuckin’ problem-solver? You got a nigga out here in this heat pondering over a piece of paper, when all your ass had to do while you were in the bank was find out if the money was there or muthafuckin’ not! Now we’re sitting here with this speculative shit! And for what reason?”

  Onlookers began to stop and stare at the couple’s heated argument.

  “First of
f, muthafucka, you need to take it down!”

  “Or else what?” André inched closer toward the petite Olivia.

  “Don’t push me, André!” Olivia put her hands on her hips, the independent woman’s stance.

  “Or else what?” André asked again. “Yo, just say the word, and you could be out. Just give me back the keys to your Maserati and leave with only what you came with.”

  “You know what?” She spun on her heels. “Fuck you!” she yelled, and stormed off.

  “Olivia!” André screamed.

  But Olivia never looked back.

  André’s mind was thinking a mile a minute. It was already past three o’clock on a Saturday. Banks were closed, so he had to wait out the weekend to find out what was up with all that dough being deposited into their account. He wanted to stomp a mudhole into Olivia’s back. Instead, he let her walk away. For her always claiming how street-smart she was, she was looking like a real dumb ass to André.

  Chapter 18

  Monday morning couldn’t come fast enough. Olivia and André walked into Chase Bank before making a small deposit.

  This time Olivia spoke. “Could you give me my checking balance?”

  The teller took out a piece of paper and wrote it down. When they read it, once again, over nine hundred thousand dollars—the couple was overjoyed.

  Together they left Chase bank on 141st Street and began driving to midtown.

  “What’s the plan?” Olivia asked.

  “Our plan is to get that money.”

  “But how?”

  “What kind of stupid question is that?” André wanted his hands on that money so badly, he could smell it. “It’s in our account, right?”

  “But we didn’t put it there.”

  He wanted to snap on Olivia but realized that he needed her to do all the transactions, so he adjusted his voice. “Look, I saw shit like this on television. You ever pay attention to those checks they send in the mail where they say you’ve won a million dollars and all you have to do is open up a subscription to a bunch of magazines and you could be entered to win money and prizes? But on the check they always print do not cash or void.”