Bacon was a die-hard, thugged-out, murderous hustler. He got the name Bacon from having so much bread that he used the old slogan, “I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan,” as his personal motto. His rep preceded him everywhere he went. From city to city, from jail to jail, Bacon had a name that carried him. And he always paid like he weighed. Bacon was big and stocky; at six feet, six inches, he towered over everyone. There was no doubt that Red wasn’t the only one holding him down during his bid, but it was important that Red treat him right.
However, after the sentencing, it seemed like Red just didn’t give a fuck. It was hard for her to even pretend to be concerned. During their previous talks, Bacon told Red that what was in the stash she’d have to make last. What in the world did he tell her that for? It wasn’t enough for her to remain true-blue. In fact, no amount of money really was enough for her to stay committed. When the judge lowered the gavel after announcing: “You are sentenced to twenty years,” while everyone else sobbed, Red silently cheered as she sat on the cold mahogany bench.
• • •
Red knew that Terry didn’t really give a fuck about any letter hurtin’ Bacon’s feelings. Terry just didn’t want to see Red cut off the coattail on which Terry’d been able to ride. Red had been quite friendly with the stash Bacon had left behind.
Red and Terry went as far back as way back could go, in the schoolyard of Chrysler Elementary School. They both were in second grade and damn near toothless. Terry was teased by all the kids because she peed on herself from time to time. Everyone called her “Pissy.” Terry was used to not having anyone to play with, but when Red befriended her, her entire world changed. Terry was a dark-skinned, knobby-kneed girl. Her greatest asset was her hair. She was one of a few black girls to have naturally long hair that fell to the bottom of her shoulder blades. Terry made it a point to doll herself up, but it was really no use due to her pissy smell.
Terry and Red met on the playground and right away became cool. Red would defend “Pissy” when the other kids wanted to break on her. Red even hipped Terry to Depend, which she stole from her own grandmother. Even at that young age, Red also had the common sense to put Terry on a schedule. Every time Red would go to the bathroom, she would take Terry with her.
“See how this works, T?” Red would ask. “You drink something. A little while later, it comes out.”
Even so, Terry was so lazy that she wouldn’t even want to go to the bathroom. She would just sit on the ground somewhere and piss on herself. Over time, though, Red was able to help Terry control her weak bladder. As they grew older, her enuresis only got out of control when she drank too much liquor and either passed out or couldn’t walk to the bathroom.
During middle school, Terry moved to the other side of town. Although this separated the girls for several years, in their senior year of high school they saw each other again. When Red met up with Terry the second time, Terry was driving a beat-the-fuck-up Toyota Corolla. The car looked so bad you would have sworn that Mike Tyson had gone twelve rounds with it. They had developed into young women with breasts and asses. Still, Terry was nothing more than a project for Red, who was at it again, trying to clean up the mess she had found in her friend.
Terry had spit out three bastard kids from one nigga to the next by the time she and Red finished high school. She couldn’t spit too much game ’cause she was too busy spitting out kids. She was living in a shack across town and her petty hustles were elementary to Red.
Terry did have some redeeming qualities, though, and was not above a scheme or two. Besides being in Red’s pocket, she was reliable as ever. Red cleaned Terry up and kept her close. One thing for certain, two things for sure: Red kept all of her enemies close. Any and everything Red did for Terry was something that Terry could not do for herself. Red always profited from someone, one way or another. She inspired envy and imitation and her friends not only wanted to look like her, they wanted to be her. Like many great conquerers before her, Red recognized the power of the ignorant, loyal follower.
Terry lusted for money, power and respect. She didn’t want to see her extravagant shopping sprees, trips to the spa and designer bags paid for by somebody else’s dime come to an end. She had just gotten a new Cadillac Escalade, thanks to Red’s auction hustle, and was in the process of buying a new home. Who could blame Terry for wanting to leave a matchbox with filthy carpets? Terry was playing everything—from whores to horseshoes—to get her house money. What did she care how Red handled her business?
CHAPTER 3
With Friends Like These
Even Oprah said it so it had to be true: Detroit was the poorest big city in the country. Littered with abandoned buildings, trashy casinos and with a sky-high unemployment rate, you’d never believe it was once called the “Paris of the Midwest.” After the closing of the many automobile factories that gave Detroit its livelihood and the subsequent rise of drug and gang activity, the gap between the “haves” of the suburbs and the “have-nots” of the city was gaping.
Red despised Detroit and everything in it. In Red’s crazy-ass mind, she planned to make the city her bitch and strike it rich by exploiting as many of its residents as she could reach. She figured, hell, Detroit should be used to it by now.
• • •
Red had been exploiting Q for three weeks already with the pregnancy scheme, but still couldn’t come up with a plausible way to make her belly protrude. How could she make herself appear to be showing?
Pondering her scheme for another moment, Red quickly turned her attention back to her closet. She rummaged through racks and racks of designer clothes, reminiscing over the thousands of dollars’ worth of the trendy threads she no longer wore. To be out of fashion was like trying to run out of breath. It just couldn’t happen.
Summer was right around the corner, so Red decided that she would fake a miscarriage just as it started to get hot. That way, she could still look fly and buy herself a new wardrobe to jump things off.
Terry finally woke up and stumbled down the hall from the guest bedroom into Red’s room.
“You awfully chipper this morning, Red.” You could smell the morning liquor breath. She looked like something awful.
“Hell, yeah.” Red caught a whiff of Terry’s breath. “Ho, you look fucking terrible. Go brush yo’ funky mouth before stepping to me in the morning.”
When Terry returned, Red was excited to tell her what had been going on in her mind.
“Terry, shit, a girl been thinking about all we talked about regarding Bacon. I’m gon’ let that sleepin’ dog lie. I’m not gonna seek revenge. I’m just gon’ do me and focus on myself.”
“A bitch gotta do what a bitch gotta do,” Terry said with a grin, hoping she would benefit from the next scheme up Red’s sleeve.
“I’m in my closet cleaning this shit out. You wanna look through these clothes?”
“Hell, yeah,” Terry said as she sorted through the pile Red placed in the center of the floor.
After a couple of hours, Terry had showered, dressed and left with a Hefty bag full of hand-me-downs. It was almost one o’clock and Red continued to clean out the rest of her closet.
Having cleared out a considerable amount of space, Red planned to head straight to Fairlane Town Center and buy more for her already exclusive closet. She went through her garbage pile, one item at a time, holding dresses and shirts up to her body, double-checking her selections.
She confirmed what was official and discarded the dated apparel into a pile that would be donated to the local women’s shelter. If she had to look at the homeless, she figured they could at least look good. The chimes from her doorbell startled her. Who could it be? She hadn’t invited anyone over.
Red exited her bedroom and turned left at the banister that overlooked the foyer of her grand entrance. The marble floors that flowed through the house sparkled when the morning sun, which beamed through the skylights, hit it just right. Suddenly she could see her friend Kera as she pe
ered through the smoked glass doors and waved at Red.
“Just a minute,” Red yelled over the customized wrought-iron banisters of her winding staircase. “Wad up, ho?” Red said after answering the door. Kera stood in the doorway, her five-months’-pregnant stomach protruding before her. She was dressed in a straight, knee-length denim skirt with a short-sleeved shirt.
“You got it, beyotch!” Kera replied. She hugged Red and stepped into the marble foyer. “Girl, no wonder you don’t let muthafuckas come over. This place is off the chain! Every time I’m here it’s spotless.” Kera gave herself a tour as she waddled from room to room, appraising the furniture and admiring the décor of the English Tudor.
“Wait, wait! Before I forget, good looking the fuck out,” Red said as they walked back up the stairs to her bedroom.
“What’s up?” Puzzled, Kera stared at Red quizzically.
“For the piss.” Red tilted her head to the side and gave Kera a “don’t you remember?” look.
“Oh, my bad. Did it work?” Kera asked.
“You pregnant, ain’t you? Or is that a pillow underneath there?” Red caressed Kera’s bulging belly.
“I wish it was. But at five months what can I do?”
“We ain’t going there,” Red replied. “You decided to fuck for free, and bareback. Guess you was in love.” Red playfully rubbed Kera’s shoulders.
Kera switched from the sensitive subject of her pregnancy. “So who did you use the pee trick on?” She was dying to know.
Red knew better than to tell all of her dirt. The minute a bitch got mad, she would be up in Q’s face, crossing her, so she replied, “Carlos.”
“No way!” Kera said in disbelief. “You fucked Carlos?”
Red picked the clothes up from the floor and placed them on the bed.
“Sure did . . . only once, though.”
Red knew what Kera was thinking but didn’t want to say: How in the hell, or why in the hell, would you fuck Carlos? That was exactly what Red wanted her to think so that no one would care who her “supposed” baby daddy was. That way they couldn’t fuck up her scheme.
“But Red, he’s in a wheelchair.” Kera perched on Red’s four-poster, down-covered bed.
“True dat, but his dick works betta than the niggas who ain’t in a wheelchair and his tongue definitely ain’t broke.” Red gave Kera a high five.
“Girl, you nasty.” Kera searched through the pile of clothes and held them up to her body for size.
“Whateva . . . he gets a twelve-hundred-dollar-a-month disability check.” Red snatched the clothes out of Kera’s hand and smashed them into garbage bags.
“Word?” Kera confirmed.
“Word.” Red gave her the “don’t act like you don’t know” look. “And he gave me a grand to eat my pussy and sit on his dick.” Red tied a knot in the bag and opened the left side of her oversized shoe closet. Once inside, Red opened the cherry-wood hamper she kept there, which revealed a bag of dirty clothes for the laundry. “The head was so good, I should have paid him.”
“You sick, girl. Hold on, wait a minute. Don’t even think about giving your shoes away. Wait until my feet go back to normal size and I’ll help you go through them.” Kera walked over to the shoe closet and admired the contents. It was packed. All the boxes had a photo on the outside of what was inside.
“Girl, you got that. I’ll save them for you, but you know I wear an eight.”
“I know I can wear an eight. Not a problem, baby.” Kera blew Red a kiss.
The girls headed back to the living room and Red filled Kera in about the letter from Bacon and how she and Terry had just missed each other.
“You know I don’t like Terry’s ass,” Kera explained. “Glad I missed that ho. I mighta had to swing on that bitch.”
“Girl, y’all still beefing over that nigga?” Red asked, knowing damn well that Kera wasn’t pleased with the fact that her soon-to-be baby daddy was Terry’s man.
“And if—” Kera was just about to get started when Red cut her off, lifting her hand.
“Don’t even try that ‘and if I was your friend’ shit. You already know we don’t beef over no niggas, and he was with her when your ass tried to steal him. Didn’t nobody tell you to fuck him bareback and end up with the consequences of bun-in-the-oven-and-nigga-back-with-his-bitch syndrome.”
Although Kera felt wounded, there was nothing she could say or do in her own defense. Red was absolutely right. She drew first blood on Terry, and it turned out that Terry got the man and had the last laugh.
“I gotta put these clothes in the washer. Make yaself at home. I’ll be back in a sec.” Red headed down to the lower level, where the laundry room was located.
• • •
At first, Kera was too speechless and stunned to move from her seat in the great room. One thing for sure, Red could never be accused of sugarcoating the truth. Red was a connoisseur of the comeback—always ready with a hurtful, yet truthful, comment to stop the madness before it even got started.
Kera wanted to get even with Red for being so cold-blooded. Couldn’t she show some sympathy for her situation? Didn’t she know pregnant women were sensitive and could cry at the drop of a hat?
To kill time, Kera walked around the great room, admiring Red’s exquisite taste. She walked over to the sound system and pressed Play on the CD changer; Mariah Carey’s “We Belong Together” floated through the house. Walking past the center table, she noticed a notepad and a letter addressed to Bacon next to it. Kera listened diligently to make sure she heard no signs of Red returning. Next to the letter was an envelope. Kera ripped half a sheet from the pad and quickly copied the address onto it. Again, she listened for any sounds of Red returning and placed the piece of paper in her bra. Kera’s heart pounded loudly, her adrenaline pumping. She wanted to cut Red deep. She wanted so badly to read the letter. Before she knew it, she was sitting on the edge of the couch with the notepad in hand; her eyes bulged. As she took in every word, Kera couldn’t believe what she read.
Dear Bacon,
Or, in your case, should I call you John? This is the letter you been beggin’ for.
Well, let’s see. It would be virtually impossible for you to kick my ass, seeing as how you will be an old and gray bastard when you come home. Your dick is so little that I can’t believe you even wear a size 12 shoe. There goes that myth. When I first met you I sized you up real good and I knew the dick was going to be swinging. Boy, was I wrong. I guess that teaches me not to judge a book by its cover, or a dick by its shoe size.
I hope with all the free time on your hands you now realize that I never loved you. As quiet as it was kept, I didn’t even like you. Before you got locked up I couldn’t even stand the sight of your face, and let’s not discuss the sound of your voice. Why do you think I haven’t been accepting your calls lately? Yeah, your boys saw me flossing in your shit. I was flossing their shit too.
Your dude Chris eats pussy better than you ever could, and your partner Stan’s cum tastes like ice cream in my mouth. You hear my voice when you call your phone? After today, you’ll hear “I got a block” on all my phones. Don’t try that three-way shit either, ’cause I got Call Intercept. Fucker, just turn homo and die. I got your loot, you took the case, now press that bunk and do that muthafuckin’ time.
You the man, remember? You that nigga, right? This pussy is yours, right? Wrong! You a has-been and I ain’t got time for no shoulda, woulda, coulda stories. You should have stayed free. Certainly, nobody told you to fall in love with me.
You snooze, you lose. You did all the work, but now my new man and I reap all the benefits. The best thing you could have ever done for me was to get locked up. The pimp game got flipped on your ass. Now do the best thing for yourself, get you a boyfriend, let him suck your dick and leave me the fuck alone.
Wake up! You played yourself. Charge it to da game.
Red
Kera quickly placed the notepad back in what she hoped was the same exact
spot it had been in. She slid the pen next to the pad, hoping to make it look legit.
Without warning, Red came back into the room and startled Kera. Trying to look calm, Kera acted like her heavy breathing from being surprised was due to a contraction. She played it up too, rubbing her stomach and panting.
As soon as she came into the great room, Red’s antennae went up. It wasn’t like Kera to be found in the same spot Red left her. The television wasn’t turned to BET for videos. She wasn’t on the phone paging someone or trying to making long-distance calls to her family in Virginia. She wasn’t in the kitchen raiding the fridge. Although music was playing, the bitch was up to something.
Not letting on that she knew something was up, Red sauntered over and joined her friend on the couch. “I know you hungry. There’s some snacks in the kitchen.”
“Now, that’s what I’m talking ’bout.” Kera got up to raid the kitchen.
“Get us some drinks while you’re in there, girl. Those stairs are about to kill me.” She wanted her to walk away so she could figure out what was going on.
When Kera exited the great room, Red noticed the pad and remembered that she’d left the letter to Bacon on the table. Red looked at the notepad and didn’t notice anything suspicious. She looked at the letter; it was right next to the envelope, just as she had left it. Still, something didn’t feel quite right.
Red picked up the notepad and flipped past the two pages on which she had written. She then noticed the top half of a torn sheet of paper still attached to the pad. She didn’t remember ripping it off, and she didn’t see any paper lying around.
Did Terry tear off a piece of paper for a wad of gum? she wondered.
As Kera returned to the room, she began to make small talk, but Red wasn’t fooled. She knew this was an attempt to ease the tension in the air.
“Kera, what brought you over, girl?” Red asked.
The Dirty Red Series Page 3
