by J-Blunt
***
Roxy’s was a low-budget strip club in a seedy area of Jacksonville. There were about twenty cars in the parking lot, most of them at least ten years old. Sprinkled in the mix was a couple of donks, but nothing as expensive as the Lambo. The sports car stuck out like the groom wearing a black suit at an all-white wedding.
The first thing Pop noticed when they walked in Roxy’s was the smell. Vomit, piss, sweat, weed, and liquor. Some of the lights didn’t work, so the club was dim. Niki Minaj and Beyonce’s “Flawless” played through a stereo system that sounded like it belonged in a ‘90s basement party. There were no bottle girls, no VIP section, and nobody making it rain. The dancers were average-looking chubby women with stretch marks and scarred bodies that had no business in a thong, let alone a strip club.
“This look like some shit outta one of them old-ass Blaxploitation movies,” Pop commented.
“I don’t even know what that is, but it sounds bad. We ain’t gotta be here long. This a nasty-ass club, and these some nasty-ass bitches,” Princess said as she sat at an empty table.
They didn’t have to wait long for the entertainment to arrive. A brown-skinned woman who looked every bit of forty-five years old sashayed over. She wore a cheap, lace-front wig, had a wide nose, big lips, and a gap between her front teeth big enough to stick a drum stick through. Her sagging breasts were supported by a bra that was a size too big, and her stomach hung over the front of the purple thong.
She smiled at Pop, reaching out to touch his dreads. “Hey, baby. I’m–”
“Don’t touch me!” Pop growled, grabbing her arm.
His aggressive gesture and serious look made the woman shrink back. “O-okay, man. I was just trynna dance for you.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout him,” Princess spoke up. “We not lookin’ for entertainment. We just wanna get in and out. I need some beans. Any of these niggas in here holdin’?”
The veteran stripper eyed Princess suspiciously. “I don’t know what you talkin’ ‘bout, love. Ain’t no drugs in here. We all say no to drugs. I got grand–”
“I got a hunnit dollars if you show me who holdin’,” Princess cut her off, holding out a c-note.
The money disappeared into the woman’s bra quicker than a magician doing a card trick. “Red Dot over there.” She pointed. “I’ma send him over.”
Princess looked toward the table the woman pointed at and seen two men and a woman seated. The stripper walked over and said something to a tall, skinny, dark-skinned man who wore tight-fitting designer clothes. He eyed Pop Somethin’ as he walked over.
“What hangin’, mane? Shawty said y’all trynna power up.”
“Yeah,” Princess spoke up. “Percs, Xans, or Oxy.”
“I got Perc 30s and a couple Xans.”
“Gimme those 30s. How many you got?”
“’Bout ten. How many you want?”
“All of ‘em. You got a number?”
“She don’t need no number,” Pop spoke up. “This a one-time.”
“C’mon, brah. My shit valid. Straight from the pharmacy. No fuck-shit ova here. Shawty can get my number. I ain’t gon’ take her from you. This bidness,” he laughed, reaching out and touching Pop on the shoulder.
Pop mugged him. “Don’t touch me no more. And stop playin’ wit’ me. You don’t know me. Niggas get killed for playin’ too much.”
Red Dot’s face twisted into a snarl, and he spoke out of his thin chest. “Fuck you thank you is, dawg? You in my neck of da woods, boi. We play for keeps ‘round here!”
Pop’s look changed from serious to seriously irritated. The muscles in his jaw flexed as he tried to keep himself from breaking the young punk in half. “Give up dem pills and move, fuck-boy. I ain’t givin’ out no more passes.”
Instead of using wisdom, Red Dot displayed foolish bravado and reached for his waist. The movement was slow and telegraphed. Pop was less than two feet away. The big man’s right hand lashed out like a deadly snake, wrapping around the pill slinger’s throat. In the same moment, Pop stood, lifting Red Dot high in the air and choke-slamming him through the table. The 40-caliber pistol he attempted to grab fell on the floor. Pop grabbed it, pressing the barrel to Red Dot’s throat.
“Hold on, brah! Hold on!” someone yelled.
Pop looked around and seen a short, brown-skinned man holding his hands up. It was the other man from the table. He had a burn mark on the side of his face and a glass eye in his right eye socket. In his good eye was the fear of God.
“Don’t kill ‘im, mane. Whatever he said, he ain’t mean. That’s my li’l cousin. Don’t kill ‘im.”
Pop looked around and seen everyone in the club watching him. Witnesses. If he killed Red Dot, he would have to kill everybody, and he didn’t have enough bullets.
Instead of blowing the punk’s brains out, Pop dug in his pockets and took the bag of pills. “I should take yo’ shit and burn yo’ ass, nigga, but I’, trynna duck off. I’ma give you five hunnit dollas, and you gon’ act like you neva seen us. Respect my gangsta, nigga. And recognize a goon when you see one.”
After standing and counting out five hundred dollars, Pop dropped the money on the floor, tucked his new pistol, and headed for the exit. He and Princess were about to hop into the Batmobile when the club door opened. The goon and goonette went for their heats.
“I just wanna talk!” a woman called, holding her hands in the air.
Princess recognized her as the female sitting at the table with Red Dot. She was average height, dark-skinned with a curvy frame. “What you want?”
“I just wanna talk. I think I know you.”
Pop gave Princess a look. “Fuck goin’ on?”
“I don’t know her,” Princess said before turning to the woman. “Who is you? How you know me?”
“I got a uncle name Larry. He my daddy, Bruce, brother. Ain’t yo’ momma name Patricia?”
Princess couldn’t hide her surprise. “I remember uncle Bruce Damn, is you April?”
“Nah, that’s my sister. I’m Tanya. You one of the twins, right?”
“I hate to break up y’all family reunion,” Pop interrupted, “but what up witcho people in there? They ain’t strappin’ up or callin’ twelve, is they?”
Tanya laughed. “Nah, they in there clownin’ Red Dot ass. He think he tough, and they was happy to see him get fucked up. Y’all good.”
Pop was satisfied with the response, so he nodded to Princess before ducking into the Lambo.
“That nigga betta stop playin’, girl. We don’t fuck around,” Princess said.
“I see. What you doin’ in Florida?”
“It’s a long story. We might just be passin’ through. We don’t know yet. You live here?”
“Yeah, not too far from here. I just came here wit’ my nigga so he could holla at Red Dot. They cousins.”
“Gimme yo’ number so we can catch up later. We been on this highway for house, and I need some rest. But I’ma call you when I wake up.”
Chapter 2
Pop awoke the next day and found Princess in bed, staring at her phone. “What up? You good?”
“We gotta go back to Atlanta.”
Pop looked at her like she was crazy. “What?”
“I just got off the phone with the hospital. Queenie might still be alive. They found two females. One was dead and the other one recovering from surgery. They won’t tell me who over the phone. They want me to come identify her.”
Pop shook his head. “I’m not goin’ back to Atlanta. That’s out. And I don’t think you should go, either. What driver’s license you gon’ use? All I got is the Quinten one ‘cause I left it in the Lambo. Everything else was in our bags at the old house.”
“I left all mine in the house, too. But we gotta see if it’s her, Pop. I need to know if my sister still alive.”
“I hear you, but you can’t go. What if they lookin’ for us? You gotta send somebody. What about yo’ cousin? We can buy her a plane ticket.�
�
Princess’ face lit up as she searched her phone for Tanya’s number. “Hey, cousin. This Princess.”
“I know. You finally woke up?”
“Yeah. I need to talk to you, and it’s important.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“Not on the phone. Face to face.”
“Um. Ricco at work and I don’t got no babysitter. Do you know yo’ way around? Don’t that fancy car y’all was in got GPS?”
***
All eyes were on the Lamborghini as it pulled to the curb in front of the six-unit apartment complex. The locals called the neighborhood ‘The Jungle’, and it was no different than every hood in America. Neglected houses, wild shrubbery, balding lawns, and a bunch of outdated cars lined the block. Th. residents in The Jungle didn’t see six figure sport cars in their neck of the woods, so the Lambo got everyone’s attention.
Pop stepped from the car wearing a tight-fitting, black Ferragamo t-shirt, black Ferragamo jeans, and shoes. His dreads hung loosely past his shoulders, the fluffy, trimmed beard covering most of his face.
Princess climbed from the passenger seat looking tall and skinny-thick, her red dreadlocks swaying with the switch of her hips. Dressed simply in a corset jumpsuit and Giuseppe heels, she was stunning.
After finding apartment 4, they knocked on the door. “Hey, girl,” Tanya answered, carrying a toddler on her hip. The long-lost cousin had Hershey-dark skin, high cheek bones, perfectly-shaped lips, and dangerously seductive brown eyes. She wore a t-shirt and leggings, the stretch pants showing off a body made to lust after. Tanya knew she looked good, but didn’t use it to chase a check. She was a simple woman who lived in the hood and struggled with her man like everybody else she knew.
“Hey, cousin!” Princess beamed. “She is so cute. Look just like yo’ ass.”
“Er’body say that. Y’all come in.”
After they had seats on the couch, Princess got right down to business. “I need you to fly to Atlanta to check on my sister. She in the hospital. She got shot. We can’t go back ‘cause the police might be looking for us.”
Surprise showed on Tanya’s face. “She got shot? When?”
“Yesterday. The hospital said they got two women victims, but they won’t say who is who over the phone. I’ll buy you a plane ticket and give you a thousand dollars.”
Tanya was lost for words.
The front door opened and Ricco walked into the apartment. He wore a white button-up shirt, black slacks, and Air Force Ones. The wound on the side of his head was fully visible, a burn-like welt going from his eye to the back of his ear. His right eye was also missing, replaced by a prosthetic. When he seen Pop sitting on the couch, his eyes grew wide with surprise. The glass eye threatened to pop out of his face.
“Baby, this my cousin, Princess, and her nigga, Pop Somethin,” Tanya introduced.
“What up?” Ricco nodded, keeping it cool.
Pop nodded.
“Hey, Ricco,” Princess waved.
“Princess want me to go to Atlanta to check on her sister. She got shot.”
Ricco looked from his girl to Princess. “Y’all in some shit? Why you need her to go to Atlanta?”
“We gon’ give y’all a thousand dollars and a plane ticket. I don’t got ID, and the police might be lookin’ for me. I need to know if my sister still alive. I called the hospital, but they won’t say over the phone.”
Ricco looked unsure “I don’t know. Shit don’t sound right, and I don’t want my girl in no bullshit.”
“She gon be good,” Princess assured. “We don’t got no enemies. I would go, but I ain’t trynna fall into no police traps.”
“I’ma do it,” Tanya said.
“Hold on, baby!” Ricco protested. “You can’t make that decision by yo’self. We family.”
Tanya turned to her man. “She is family, too. And we need the money. I’m tired of this roachy-ass apartment. We can use the money to move.”
“I’ma give y’all twenty-five hunnit,” Pop spoke up, going into his pocket and counting out the money. “We want you on the first thing smokin’ to Atlanta. Right there and right back.”
The couple looked from the money to one another, then Ricco spoke. “When y’all think the next plane leave?”
Pop and Princess laughed at his instant change.
“I ain’t go to college or nothin’, mane. I ain’t even got no GED. I’m a janitor at a car dealership. I can’t turn down twenty-five hunnit.”
Pop Somethin’ appreciated Ricco’s realness. Everyone he’d been around as of late was having it, trying to get it, or lying about what they had. “I ain’t been around a nigga like you in a long time, brah. Hearin’ a nigga trynna get it the right way is rare nowadays.”
“The more you got, the more niggas hate. ‘More money, more problems’ is prolly the realest lyrics I ever heard.”
Pop gave the one-eyed mad a long look. The wound told him Ricco had been through something. And quoting the rap lyrics spoke volumes. “What happened to yo’ face?”
Ricco looked away, rubbing his facial wound. “A lesson learned the hard way.”
Silence engulfed the living room as the words hung in the air. A cry from the baby brought everybody back to the moment.
“What is her name?” Princess asked.
“Yanna. She our li’l angel,” Tanya said, kissing the baby atop the head.
“How long y’all gon’ be in Florida?” Ricco asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Pop answered. “We lookin’ got a new place to call home. Tell me ‘bout Jacksonville. Only thing I know is y’all got a football team.”
“First thing I’ma tell you is if you tryna lay low, that Lambo gon’ draw more attention than you want. And Jacksonville ain’t no different than nowhere else in Florida. Got niggas gettin’ a bag and jack-boys trynna take it. The culture is fast. Florida is a tourist state, so you get a lotta people from all over.”
“I seen the way er’body was watchin’ when I pulled up. These the only wheels I got for now. I don’t know my way around. We don’ need y’all to show us. Where can I get a rental?”
***
“When you get to the next light, make a right. This the strip. The part of Jacksonville you see in travel brochures. Hotels, beaches, all that kinda shit.”
Pop guided the Batmobile through traffic, impressed by the city and the sights. Palm trees, beautiful beaches, and big-ass hotels were all around. “This don’t look like a bad spot. What the night life like?”
“I haven’t been out in a while. I don’t really do much ‘cause I’m trynna stay out the way. I’m all about the fam. But you can do anything out here. Strip clubs, concerts, gambling. All that shit.”
Pop gave his passenger a look. Why you layin’ so low?”
“You ask a lotta questions, mane,” Ricco chuckled.
“If you don’t know, you gotta ask, right?”
“That’s right,” he smiled. “Nah, I ain’t layin’ low. What about you? What happened in Atlanta?”
Pop thought for a moment. “Our season was up.”
“What that mean?”
“It’s a season for everything. Like a farmer. Sowing and reaping. We sowed and reaped. Now we movin’ on.”
Ricco gave him a sideways look. “I ain’t always been a janitor, my nigga. Quit wit’ the riddles. You got my girl getting’ in some shit we don’t know nothin’ about. I ain’t no bitch or snitch. We puttin’ a lotta trust in y’all. Even though our girls share the same blood, we all still strangers. I appreciate the money, but what’s good? Is y’all on the run? Is my girl gon’ get in y’all shit if she go to Atlanta?”
Pop looked into Ricco’s good eye and seen a street nigga staring back at him, so he told the truth. “Yeah, we on the run from the police. We went to Atlanta to get a bag and shit got ugly on the way out. Queenie got hit up in the process. Y’all don’t gotta worry ‘bout no niggas gettin’ at Tanya in Atlanta ‘cause I deaded all that shit. We worried ‘bo
ut the police. We don’t know what they know. A shootout happened at our house, and we left everything. We had a bunch of fake identities. If Tanya can go check on Queenie and ask a few questions, it would help us out a lot.”
“I’ma be real, brah. I don’t like the way none of that shit sound. Tanya and my daughter all I got. I can’t let nothin’ happen to my family.”
Pop seen the concern and determination etched across Ricco’s face and knew he would do anything to protect his family. “I ain’t gon’ put yo’ family in harm’s way. We just need to know if Queenie still alive.”
After an intense stare-down, some of the tension left Ricco’s body. “The car rental is on the next block. And the storage ain’t too far away.” After a brief pause, he spoke again. “You should let me drive the Lambo to the storage. I never drove one that was automatic.”
Pop gave him a look. “You drove a Lamborghini before?”
“Yeah. A long time ago. But it was a stick.”
“I thought you was a workin’ nigga that was all about family an’ shit. How you drivin’ Lambos?”
Ricco gave a sly smile, a gleam showing in his good eye. “It’s a lot you don’t know about me. I ain’t always been no janitor, my nigga.”
***
When the plane landed, Tanya could feel the panic rising within. Not only was this her first time on a plane, but it was the first time she’d left the state of Florida in ten years. The potential for unknown danger made her body shiver as she walked off the plane and through the airport. Following the directions from Princess, she hopped a to the hospital.
Sitting behind the information desk was a middle-aged black lady with close-cropped hair wearing pink glasses. Her nametag said Susan.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for my cousin, Taymar Mitchell. She got shot two days ago.”
The woman began typing on the keyboard. “Could you spell the name for me?”
