Life Without Hope

by Leo Sullivan

  could sense that I was up to something. I was trying to shake fear

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  like tiny raindrops off of my Black skin. This was some gangsta

  shit with an adrenaline rush so high I could feel the blood r unning

  through my veins like ice cold water.

  Nina and the Regulator were still posted up like watch dogs as

  I approached.

  “Dude in the BMW been back yet?” I asked.

  “No but Stevey D and his boys back. They driving around like

  they looking for somebody. I think they’re looking for the BMW,”

  Nina said fidgeting. I did not know if she was ner vous or needed

  a hit. Probably both.

  I looked to see the black BMW easing up the street, Tupac’s

  song was blaring from the system, “I Get Around.” I felt the six

  ounces of Dreams in my underwear in a bag and the gun right

  next to it, in case I needed to get to it fast.

  The car came to a halt right in front of us.

  “Yo, my man, you straight?” the driver asked. I thought I

  detected some urgency in his voice, like when you drive from state

  to state looking for dope and can’t find none.

  I went right into my act.

  “My nigga, check this out!” I peeked into the car, like I was

  suspicious or something, at the same time I was flaunting the big

  chain on my neck with the iced out crucifix on it.

  “It’s too many niggas in this car. It’s been some cats from out

  of town going through here robbing muthafuckas,” I said, with

  my eyebrows knotted up like they was the niggas. I was making

  them look like the crooks trying to scheme me. I took a step back.

  “Nina go get my shit!” I was talking about a gun. Nina walked

  off with a purpose.

  “Noo, noo, it ain’t like that,” the driver said, throwing up his

  hands in frustration at seeing a sure deal suddenly go bad.

  “Get out!” I heard him demand to his passengers. He also said

  something about he’d meet them up the street at a gas station.

  I sat in the car, passed him the six ounces and tried to start up

  a conversation about the police busting cats from out of state. I

  talked fast and watched as he examined the dope. Six of the pret-

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  tiest ounces of Dreams you’ve ever seen. He took one out and

  looked at it closely, too close. Think fast! I had to rely on my

  mouth and cunning wits.

  “Give me $5,500 for all of it.”

  “Whaaaat!” He snorted, turned from looking at the dope and

  looked at me. “You said five G’s at first for all six of them.”

  “It’s a shortage of dope, I thought we had more,” I said and

  watched as he took the dope out the bag. I held my breath. A

  police car cruised by and we both saw it. It passed us. He contin-

  ued looking at it, wearing my patience thin.

  “Man, this shit ain’t right!” he screeched. I felt for my gun. “I’ll

  give you $5,300.”

  I sighed a sigh of relief and looked around and reminded him

  that the police was hot. I told him to give me the money; said it

  like he was taking advantage of me.

  He went underneath his shirt and I noticed he wore a money

  belt. I hadn’t seen one of those things in my life except in the

  movies. He counted the money and weighed one of the ounces. I

  peeped the chrome plated Beretta in his waist when he was taking

  money out of the belt.

  He passed me the money and I put it into my pocket. The

  only thing I was concerned with was getting out of that car as fast

  as possible.

  “You didn’t even count the money,” dude said, looking at me

  suspiciously like maybe a light was going on in his head.

  “I trust ya,” I said, about to get out of the car.

  “Hold up a minute,” he said and reached out and touched me

  on the shoulder. From then on everything moved in super slow

  surrealistic motion. Like the world slowed to a small pace. I

  watched as he went into the bag, broke off a big piece of what was

  supposed to be dope, bite off a big piece, spit candle wax and flour

  onto the windshield.

  “Gimme back my muthafuckin money nigga!” The scowl on

  his face was menacing like he wanted to inflict so much pain on

  me. I wish that I could have stopped him. I listened to that cow-

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  ard voice in my head that said,

  I told you not to do it

  . I shot him.

  Again … and again … and again. He was not trying to give up his

  grip. Finally, he stopped moving. There was a gray cloud of gun

  smoke in the car shimmering. I took his Rolex, money belt and

  gun. His blood was on my hands, it smoldered in my brain like

  the stale odor of death in my nostrils. God, I was moving on

  instincts. The silent rules that were handed down to me in the

  ghetto, kill or be killed, rang loud in my head. There was no

  halfway mark. I exited the car in a brisk pace, trying not to draw

  attention to myself. As I walked across the street, I was nearly hit

  by a car. I saw an old lady looking out of her window like she

  knew what I had done. Nina and the Regulator looked at me like

  I was the Devil himself, cut loose in Frenchtown. I ran across a

  vacant lot.

  The two dudes that were with the cat that I had just robbed

  were standing in front of the store. They watched me with dread

  on their faces. I had blood on my shir t and hands. “Yo, your

  homeboy said he’s ready to go. They took off running in his direc-

  tion. I jumped in the cab. That’s when I noticed the police car

  parked behind the dumpster, the same one that Nina Brown said

  was a crooked cop. I could have sworn he nodded his head and

  smiled.

  The cab drove through Frenchtown. It was eerie. The old lady

  that saw me was now standing outside her apartment watching as

  people tried to revive the body. Nina Brown was the only one who

  saw me as the cab passed. Our eyes locked. She mouthed silently,

  “You owe me.”

  On the way back to the hotel, I had the cab driver stop at a

  local Radio Shack. I bought a boom box with a cassette player. I

  got back to the hotel with a feeling of triumph that only a hustler

  can describe. I counted out my cash, including my stash. I had a

  little over nineteen grand. I was elated. I had to get mines from the

  muscle. Lived off the fat of the land, coming up from the dirt.

  Every day in the news, you hear about barons, rich white men

  stealing billions from corporate America, people’s life savings and

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  almost never went to prison. I took mines, but it only added up

  to thousands. I knew if I ever got caught, they would try to take

  my life. But still, I shared one thing in common with those white

  men, the elation of greed. To us, a crime wasn’t a crime until you

  got caught.

  With the money spread out on the bed, I smiled to myself and

  walked over and turned on the television. There was footage of a

  high-speed chase, a car driving recklessly with abandon. It was

  being
shown from a police helicopter. I watched, fascinated. It was

  me, driving like a madman. The newscaster was asking for any

  information that could help lead to my arrest. For me, that was

  good news. It meant so far they did not know who I was. Maybe

  Dre’ did keep his mouth shut and the bust was really meant for Lil

  Cal. My heart dropped in my chest as the camera showed a snowy

  picture of Hope and I exiting the mall. The picture had come

  from a surveillance camera captured from a bank that we passed.

  It wasn’t a good one, but I could see Hope’s face. Luckily I put on

  a hat. Shit! I turned off the television just as the station was talk-

  ing about a shooting in Frenchtown.

  I took a shower and fell asleep listing to the radio. I had not

  slept in the last twenty-four hours. I dreamed about Hope. She

  was right there in bed with me.

  Someone was knocking at the door. Soft raps like a bird peck-

  ing. I awoke with a start, my mind adjusting to my new environ-

  ment. I got up, staggered over to the dresser and got my gun. I

  peeked through the peephole, it was Hope. I flung open the door,

  half hoping she would jump into my arms. To my surprise, it was-

  n’t Hope, it was her friend Trina. I guess she could tell by the

  expression on my face that I was not expecting her. She wore a

  black minidress that clung to her voluptuous figure like the skin

  on a potato. She was stacked like a brick house and knew it.

  “May I come in?” she asked, smiling seductively, displaying

  perfectly even white teeth.

  I peeked my head out of the door, looking both ways. Bitches

  were notorious for setting niggas up from out of town. I touched

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  too many niggas that way on the jack tip like that, wasn’t about to

  let it happen to me.

  “I’m harmless, wanna frisk me?” she cajoled making a mock

  show of searching herself as her hands manipulated her flesh push-

  ing up her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her soft cotton dress

  with its thin lace shoulder straps and low cut neckline revealed just

  enough to capture any man’s imagination. Quarter-sized nipples

  pointed at me.

  “Come in,” I said reluctantly, grilling her with my eyes like she

  was in violation of something. She pranced in, her plump ass

  bouncing to a rhythm of its own, straining against the soft fabric

  of thin material. I could not remember seeing a woman as fine in

  my entire life. She sat in the chair next to the bed and crossed her

  long legs, one over the other. Her cur vaceous thighs spread for me

  like an hourglass, accentuated by a small waist. I tried not to stare

  but couldn’t help it. Her cat eyes dared me. If I had to guess, I

  would say she was wearing red panties. I saw the tattoo on her

  right breast. It read, “ Thug Misses” in purple and red letters.

  “Wuz up?” I said and walked over and peeked out of the win-

  dow into the darkness. If she saw the gun in my hand, she paid it

  no attention.

  Ice Cube once said, “Never trust a bitch with a fat ass and a

  sexy smile.” That was a song that now held meaning to my life.

  “I thought maybe I could be of some ser vice to you.” The tim-

  bre of her voice was melodious like a song.

  “Ser vice?” I quipped, thinking about how much I would pay

  her to let me cut. Sex that is. With sure sophistication, I watched

  as she went inside her purse and removed a Black & Mild and

  freaked it on the nightstand. I continued to occasionally look out

  the window and at her round thighs.

  “Papi, you pop up in town with that square-ass bitch, Hope. I

  saw the date on that car tag, I also saw how she looks at you. I got

  enough sense to recognize a playa. Hope is on some conscious,

  intellectual bullshit, besides, she got a man,” Trina said as she

  freaked the Black & Mild, talking to me like she trying to save my

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  life. She continued, “You came here r unning from something. You

  want to open up shop. Bleed this town for all you can get and then

  get the hell out.”

  She completely caught me off guard. I was now looking at her

  from a totally different perspective. Her voice was laced with some

  kind of accent, maybe Spanish. It dawned on me that it matched

  her hypnotizing cat eyes and enchanting beauty. After she finished

  with the Black & Mild she removed a blunt from her purse, bust-

  ed it open with a long manicured fingernail. She placed the weed

  in the blunt. Licked it while looking at me with a face that said,

  “this is how I would love to do it to you.”

  “You know that’s bad for your health,” I said for the sake of

  conversation.

  “So is this town to niggas that come in here shooting people

  up and selling fake dope,” she retorted, causing my mind to stag-

  ger on the red alert. She had me on my toes against the ropes. My

  mind racing,

  how in the fuck did she know that?

  She fired up the blunt with a gold lighter. I could sense that

  she was amused with our cat and mouse game. She inhaled deeply

  on the potent weed. It was hard to believe I was looking at a col-

  lege student. What the fuck were they teaching in school?

  “I’m that bitch, Papi. Ride or die bitch.” She uncrossed her

  legs and leaned back in the chair, like hot pussy on a platter. I

  looked out the window again, but this time I was checking for my

  own composure, trying to restrain myself. I placed the gun in my

  pocket, grabbed the Hennessy off the table and drank out of the

  bottle. It burned like the suspicion I had for her. I set my buttocks

  on the edge of the table, ogled her luscious body as smoke curled

  from pure lips making a halo around her head, giving her an

  angelic appearance or perhaps a devilish one. In the fog of smoke

  she said, “Nina Brown told me about your little caper.” She

  smirked knowingly. I almost choked on my drink, but I should

  have figured that. Talk about a small town. She had my attention.

  “You can get twenty for a brick and a grand for an ounce as

  you already know.” I took another swig from the bottle, nodded

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  for her to keep on talking, since she seemed to be enjoying herself.

  “My last lover is in the feds. He made over a million dollars,

  mostly due to my connections. I never got credit for it.” She

  stopped and took a long drag off the blunt. “I can get a brick for

  ten thousand, cook it, break it down to dime rocks and make over

  a hundred thousand dollars.” I whistled out loud at that. Either

  she was lying, or was a bad bitch for real. She was starting to look

  like a sexy dollar sign. All real hustlers recognize the potential for

  making money, and in a new town, a female is always the first real

  option.

  She kicked off her heels, wiggled her pedicured toes in the car-

  pet and yawned like a feline. I watched the swell of her breasts as

  her nipples pointed skyward and her thighs spread across the chair.

  Her perfect body alluring.
I was fighting this urge.

  She looked at the ashes on the blunt as if contemplating a

  thought. And then she spoke, her cat eyes narrowing as if she

  couldn’t put enough emphasis on what she was really trying to

  relate to me.

  “Papi, I want to do the Bonnie and Clyde thing … you and I.

  Stake some chips, get rich, leave this town. You know what I

  mean?” Her voice was sultry, eyes dreamy. That black dress eased

  up her thighs. I could see red lace panties, red like I imagined her

  venom was. If she was poison, I was about to OD on her. No real

  playa is really immune to the whims of a woman. You just go on

  guts and instincts. She padded over to the radio. I watched her ass

  bounce for me. She turned the radio to the college station and I

  heard Hope’s voice. I got the feeling she was doing this to read me.

  Just to see how much I cared for Hope. They debated, I listened,

  and Trina watched me the way a woman does when she is trying

  to read a man. Finally, music came on and Trina snapped out of

  her reverie.

  Slowly, sensuously, her body came to life. Her lower torso

  grinded back and forth in a dance as if she were making love with-

  out me. She eased right up close to me. Her perfume, mingled

  with the weed, was like an aphrodisiac to my loins. Trina was com-

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  ing on strong, strong like a woman that was sure of herself. A nim-

  ble finger walked down my thigh. I could feel the heat from her

  body. Trina was bold. I liked that in a woman, but under these cir-

  cumstances, I was not too sure of her motives. The only thing that

  I was certain of was that she set me on fire, and her passion stroked

  the flames that went on to the furnace of my body. I stuck my

  hand under her dress and palmed her plump ass. She was soft and

  firm. I used the other hand to squeeze and spread her cheeks. I was

  rewarded with a soft moan that could have passed for a purr.

  “Hey Shouty, I really ain’t into the bump and grind. Just put

  a price on the damn thang and lemme hit it.”

  She pulled away from me. “Why buy the cow when you can

  get the milk for free, Papi?”

  She then unzipped my pants, stuck her hand down my leg and