***
She hurried out of the cab and rushed toward the emergency room. She bypassed security and went into the triage, her eyes zigzagging everywhere, searching for her man.
“Ma’am, can I help you?” the triage nurse asked her.
“I’m looking for my boyfriend. His name is Cash. He was recently brought here because of a gunshot wound,” she said in one breath.
“Okay, you need to calm down.”
The triage nurse was very understanding and instead of having security escort Pearla out, she helped her with locating Cash.
The doctor was stitching up Cash’s wound as he sat upright on the bed. It was a small graze; nothing serious. Luckily the bullet didn’t hit an artery.
Seeing Pearla enter the room, Cash smiled and said with delight, “There go my baby.”
Pearla went over to him and hugged him tight, almost breaking out into tears as she held him in her arms.
“Oh my God!” she said. “What happened?”
Cash replied, “Some clown-ass niggas tried to stall on my pops, and I had to jump in.”
“What! Why?”
“Don’t know the why, but I took care of it.”
“Is your father okay?”
“He’s in surgery now. They shot him in the ass.”
Pearla couldn’t make any sense of it. Cash was nonchalant about being shot, but she couldn’t help but think that he could have lost his life.
The doctor quickly treated Cash’s injury, and he was cleared to go home that same night. With a cane to walk with, Cash signed himself out of the hospital and went home with Pearla. His pops had to stay a few nights, but his injuries weren’t serious either.
More than anything, Cash’s pride was hurt. He wanted to let it go, but thinking about the way they disrespected him and his father made him irate. He vowed revenge.
Thirteen
Cash didn’t have to lift a finger for anything. In the comforts of Pearla’s bedroom, he relaxed and was treated like royalty. She waited on him hand and foot, while still running a business. When he felt dirty, she bathed him with a side hand-job. When they were alone, they talked. Being around her twenty-four/seven, he was learning a lot.
During the day, countless young women came in and out of her apartment, each involved in one get-money scheme or another—stolen merchandise, illegal weddings, credit card fraud. One way or another, Pearla was getting it in, and all the girls looked up to her like she was a big sister. Cash began to fully respect her. She was a boss.
A week after the shooting, Cash grew restless. He constantly thought about the thugs that did his father dirty. His father was harmless. They beat him down and then shot him. Why would they beat up an old man and then shoot him? he thought over and over again.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. He refused to let it go. Everyone involved needed to die, and by his hands. He had never been a violent man, but when forced, the monster came out of him. He was ready to get a gun and administer his own street justice.
When the girls were gone and they were alone, Pearla shut her bedroom door and looked at Cash. He was quiet, his gaze turned toward the open window.
She walked to the foot of her bed and took a seat. “What’s wrong, baby? What are you thinking about?”
He turned and locked eyes with her. “I can’t get these niggas out of my head, Pearla, how they fucked up my pops and shot me. They disrespected me and my family.”
“What are you gonna do about it?”
“I’m gonna do somethin’ about it. I ain’t about to let this shit go. You feel me?”
Pearla nodded. “I feel you, baby.” She moved closer to him and took his hand into hers. Looking at him with care, she advised, “Cash, if you do this, just don’t get caught.”
Cash wasn’t trying to get caught. His father had always drilled into his head growing up to do dirt by his lonesome. He knew he could count on Manny and Petey Jay to have his back; they were like brothers to him. But if a nigga got jammed up, it was possible he could snitch. He was going to do it alone. Only Pearla was aware of his plan.
“I just need a gun,” he said. Cash was aching to get his hands on a pistol and go hunting, transitioning from car thief to vigilante.
“My mother has a gun,” Pearla said. “It’s her backup service revolver.”
For now, it was perfect.
The minute her mother was gone from the apartment, Pearla picked the lock to her mother’s bedroom door and sneaked inside. She had to be careful. Poochie hated when anyone went in her room, especially when she wasn’t home. Pearla went through Poochie’s closet and found the lock box the gun was stashed in. She punched in the code and grabbed the gun. The plan was to give it to Cash and have him put it to use and then place it back before Poochie even knew it was missing.
“Here,” Pearla said, handing Cash the revolver.
Cash took it into his hand, nodded, and smiled. It was all he needed.
Pearla kissed him on the lips and uttered the words, “Be careful.”
***
The stolen Pontiac came to a stop at a red light on Myrtle and Throop Avenues. Marcy Projects was right down the street. It was after midnight, and the warm spring weather had the entire neighborhood outside.
Dressed in all black, with a black hoodie in warm weather, Cash stuck out like a sore thumb. He tried to go covert. His plan—kill these niggas and be out. He took a pull from the Newport between his lips and drove closer to the projects. He had gotten word on the crew that had attacked him and his father. The stupid muthafuckas had bragged to their friends about the incident, talking about it in the streets like they had gotten a new toy. Word traveled fast. The streets talked, and he listened.
Cash made the turn leading him into Marcy Projects. It was an active place, wrought with crime and drugs, and well known as being the home of Jay-Z.
With Cash’s street connect, it was easy for him to locate the three low-life thugs. It was known that the three men he was looking for constantly lingered in the stairway of a certain building getting high. He parked in the shadows and sprung from the car with the revolver in his hand.
Cash moved stealthily into the seven-story project building on Park Avenue. The area was sparse with people and traffic. He had the heads-up from a source from earlier, so he hid and waited, knowing which apartment one of the perpetrators lived in.
Half-hour later, Cash had his sights on all three men. They disappeared into the third floor stairway as predicted, planning to get high.
Cash took the elevator to the floor below the one they were on. When he got to the second floor, he could hear them laughing and talking. Their voices echoed through the concrete walls, and it sounded like they were close. The thugs sat nestled in the middle of the stairs, one rolling up the haze, while the other two shared stories about bitches.
His latex gloves griped the gun as Cash slowly crept up the stairway. So far, he was out of sight and undetected. There was a short corner leading to the next floor. His heart started to beat rapidly. He was extremely nervous. This was his first time—murder wasn’t his forte. But he talked himself into it, thinking about his father being disrespected and lying in the hospital. Neither of them had any health insurance, but it was the principle that mattered the most. The more he thought about his pops, the angrier he became, until his seething hatred reached the point of no return.
“Yo, Sharp, you ain’t finish rollin’ up that blunt yet?” Cash heard one of them say.
“Nigga, wait the fuck up,” Sharp told him. “You know this shit takes time. Rollin’ up is an art form.”
“Nigga, I’m ready to get high and then see this bitch tonight.”
“Nigga, your no-pussy-gettin’ ass ain’t got no bitch to see. Stop lyin’ on your dick.”
“Nigga, I’m ’bout to see your bitch tonight, ’cuz
she be lovin’ the dick.”
“Fuck you, nigga!”
It was time. They were distracted; focused on each other and the blunt. Cash took a deep breath and instantly sprung from the short corner with his arm outstretched and the revolver at the end of it pointed at one of the three seated in the stairway. He had the element of surprise, catching them off guard. Their eyes widened with panic.
“Oh shit!” one screamed out.
They scrambled to flee, fumbling over each other.
Cash fired.
Pop!
Instantly, one caught a bullet into his back. He collapsed, sliding down the stairs.
Pop! Pop!
The second man dropped, catching two slugs in his side. He dropped before he could reach the top of the stairs.
The third was trying desperately to get through out of harm’s way. He was in full-blown panic. Cash sprinted up the stairs, leaping over the bodies and fired two more shots.
Pop! Pop!
He caught the third just in time before he could escape, both shots ripping through his skull. He was dead before he hit the floor. Cash stood over and emptied the clip into squirming bodies until all movement ceased.
It was carnage in the stairway—three dead.
Cash didn’t stick around. He went barreling down the steps, hurriedly went for the exit, and retreated from the building. He jumped into his car and sped away.
Several blocks away from the bloodshed, he had to pull to the side and thrust open his door. He threw up into the street. It was a rush. Within the blink of an eye, he took three lives. Cash couldn’t believe he’d done it, but he had. He could now add murderer to his rap sheet.
First thing he had to do was ditch the car and burn it. Pearla would be his alibi in case detectives came his way with questions. When he reached her apartment, he was sweaty and hyped.
Pearla took her man into her arms, and by the look in his eyes, she knew he’d gone through with the deed.
“I did it, baby. I bodied these niggas.”
Pearla stripped him of his clothing, placed them into a plastic bag, and immediately threw them into the incinerator. Next, she ran her man a nice bath and allowed him to relax and cool his head. “Don’t think about it, baby,” she said. “Free your head from it. It never happened.”
Cash nodded. She was right. He had to erase everything from his head, clear his conscience. It was easier to do when she was around helping him.
Pearla peeled away her clothes and joined her man in the soothing bath, where she straddled him. They made passionate love that night, and it felt like they both were about to give birth to something bigger.
Fourteen
Two days after the murders, it seemed everything was back to normal. It was early morning, and the bright morning sun was percolating through the bedroom window. Everything was quiet. Pearla lay nestled in Cash’s arms, sound asleep against his chest. They both were butt-naked and still recuperating from the previous night’s intense sexing. For weeks, they’d been fucking like rabbits, sucking and fondling each other in special places, exploring every inch of their sexuality.
Then, suddenly, Pearla’s door burst open like it had been hit with hurricane wind, and Poochie came charging into the bedroom like a raging bull. “You fuckin’ bitch!” she screamed. “How dare you fuck wit’ my shit!”
She snatched Pearla off Cash and gave her a rude awakening. Dragging Pearla out of bed, Poochie slapped the shit out of her daughter. She shouted, “You touched my fuckin’ gun!”
She didn’t give Pearla any time to explain. Poochie was on her daughter, slapping and hitting her insanely.
Cash jumped out of bed butt-naked, dick swinging, and tried to defend his girlfriend. He attempted to pull Poochie off Pearla, but Poochie wasn’t having it. She was a healthy-size woman, and she outweighed him by a few pounds.
With the forceful movement of her right arm into his chest, she sent him wobbling backwards. “Get the fuck off me, nigga!” she hollered.
She continued going berserk on Pearla.
Cash fought Poochie, and she fought back with a vengeance. She was strong and nice with her hands, giving him a run for his money. They toppled over things in the bedroom.
Poochie sent Pearla flying over the bed. It was WWF in the bedroom. Blow for blow, Poochie became Mike Tyson on her own daughter.
“Poochie, stop!” Pearla screamed out.
Poochie went crazier. Nothing Pearla or Cash said could stop her from going ham. She felt her daughter disrespected her on so many levels, going into her bedroom and taking her spare service revolver.
She was getting ready to go to work when she somehow figured that her gun was fired. There were no bullets. She flipped. There was only one culprit responsible, and she had to be punished.
Poochie stopped short of retrieving her pistol and shooting them both. Her blood was boiling, her eyes red with madness. She seriously wanted to hurt them bad.
Cash had a bruised cheek, and Pearla’s hair was in disarray, her belongings tossed around.
“Get the fuck out my house before I fuckin’ shoot the both of y’all!” she growled at them.
Poochie started to grab a handful of Pearla’s clothes and hurried to the door and tossed everything out.
An argument ensued, but Poochie wasn’t hearing it. She grabbed more of Pearla’s things and tossed them out into the street. When Pearla tried to stop her mother, she was met with a closed fist against her right eye. Pearla dropped back, wincing from the pain.
Cash frowned. He and Poochie locked eyes heatedly.
“Oh, you ready to leap again, muthafucka?” she said to Cash. “Go ahead, muthafucka. Try me. Fuckin’ try me!”
Cash was ready to go.
Poochie left the room suddenly, and then seconds later, she came storming back into her daughter’s bedroom, this time brandishing a loaded 9mm.
Cash stood still.
Poochie pointed the gun at him and snarled, “You think you better than this fuckin’ pistol, nigga? Huh, muthafucka? You ready to fuckin’ leap now, nigga?”
He scowled, his fists clenched. There was nothing he could do now. “No disrespect, you got it,” he said, defeated.
“I thought so, muthafucka! Now get ya big dick out of my fuckin’ house. I’m tired of y’all fuckin’ bitches.”
Poochie hurriedly threw them out, tossing out all of Pearla’s clothes, shoes, jewels, and more onto the porch, leaving her out on the street. Poochie was so loud and volatile, the neighbors emerged from their homes to witness the eviction.
With all that was going on, her clothes and belongings scattered everywhere on the porch, Pearla had one thing on her mind—her life savings. It was hidden in a plastic bag in the bathroom toilet. It was the only logical place she could hide anything from her mother in the apartment. In the plastic bag contained twenty thousand dollars. She had to get her hands on it. Without that, her life would definitely be ruined. She’d worked hard to attain that money.
Looking dejected and lost, the couple dressed quickly. Cash and Pearla looked horrid wearing clothes they had to throw together in a heartbeat. Pearla was in tears. Her mother stood in the doorway, smirking. Cash was ready to murder that bitch. She thought she would be able to get her money back later, but for now, she had to throw everything she owned into several black garbage bags that Cash purchased from the corner bodega. It was embarrassing. Everyone on the block was watching. Pearla wanted to disappear.
“I’ll be back for the rest of my things,” Pearla said dismally.
“Oh, bitch, that’s fuckin’ everything you have,” Poochie hollered.
“No, it’s not.”
Poochie pivoted on her bare feet and went back into the house, slamming the door behind her.
Pearla was determined to get her money from out of the toilet.
The fron
t door opened again, and Poochie was grinning from ear to ear.
Pearla was in utter shock at what her mother had in her possession—her twenty thousand dollars dangling in her right hand, and her pistol in her left. Pearla’s heart sank into her stomach. How did she know?
Poochie screamed hysterically, “You come to my fuckin’ door again, for this money or anything else, and I’ll shoot first and call the morgue second.”
Pearla was devastated. She had to leave completely broke and disheartened. No car, no home, and now no cash. The two lovers were completely broke and desperate.
***
It was embarrassing, wandering the streets of Brooklyn with trash bags and desolation on their faces. How did it come to this? Pearla felt angry, disheartened and raging all in one. Poochie had twenty thousand of her hard-earned cash, and she wanted it back, but her mother was crazy enough to shoot them both if they attempted to retrieve it. So it felt hopeless.
It was a hot day, and the two lingered by the bus stop on the Avenue. They tried to come up with a plan. Being in a desperate situation, they were willing to try anything. But the first thing they needed to do was find a place to stay.
“I can call up my nigga, Petey Jay. I’m sure he won’t have a problem wit’ us crashing there for a minute.”
Pearla felt reluctant at first, but she didn’t have a choice. She’d been down this road before, and she planned on bouncing back on her feet immediately. She still had her hustles going forward, her ambition, and then there was the insurance check that was supposed to come soon. She figured that money would be enough to get them back on their feet.
Agreeing to go with Cash to Petey Jay’s place, they jumped on public transportation to go to the heart of the hood.
While riding the bus, seated next to Cash and looking like she didn’t have a pot to piss in, Pearla’s eyes started to water up. She looked a mess, and she felt even messier.
She placed her head against his shoulder, and Cash placed his arm around her for comfort. He wanted to utter the words, “It’s going to be okay,” but he kept silent, holding Pearla close to him, thinking of his own moves to make.
The House that Hustle Built, Part 1 Page 12
