by Kiki Swinson
“That’s all right though,” she fired back. “I still like Miami to win it all. Yo weak-ass Pistons ain’t even gon’ make the playoffs.”
“Give us two more years to draft, we gon’ be back on top again!”
Changing the subject, she asked, “I saw Bree’s car out front but is the rest of ’em here?”
DelRay nodded. “Everybody but Tush. Jaye in the locker room skinnin’ them bitches on the poker. Bree and Doll in there with her.”
“Tush will be here in a minute, I already holla’ed at her. But go tell the rest of them bitches I’m in my office.”
“I got you, Boss Lady.”
Just as she turned to walk away: whack!
She whipped around trying to mug him, but DelRay’s fat face made one of those goofy looks that always melted her ice grill. “I’m sorry, Boss Lady, I couldn’t help it. You shouldn’t have wore that True Religion shit today. You in them muthafuckin’ jeans!”
She jerked her fist like she was going to punch him. “Now we at five!”
“You wanna bet back on Miami and Orlando?”
“You ain’t said shit, nigga, I ride or die with D. Wade! But if you win this time, goddammit, I’m just gon’ pay yo heavy-handed ass.”
DelRay lumbered off toward an entryway at the left of the stage and parted the beaded curtain that hung over it. That hall had three doors: one for a storage room where all the extra booze and miscellaneous supplies for the bar were kept; the second was the locker room where the dancers changed clothes and spent their downtime in between sets; the third, the door in which the hall terminated, was a fire exit that led to the alley behind the strip mall. DelRay went to the second door, knocked three times, then waited for permission to enter.
An identical hall ran along the opposite side of the stage, only this one did not terminate in a fire door. It was where the restrooms were located, and just beyond them was a door stenciled with the words: Boss Lady.
Her office was a modest but tidy space that was only fifteen by twenty feet long. It had a single window with only a view of a garbage-strewn alley. There was a cheap walnut-veneered desk holding a lamp and computer, a small two-drawer file cabinet, two plastic chairs that fronted the desk, and an imitation suede loveseat given to her by a friend. The most expensive thing in the office was her chair: a genuine leather high-back office chair ergonomically designed for perfect lumbar support, costing over fourteen hundred dollars; she had spent more on it than her computer. The office also came with a wall safe that Tuesday never kept any cash in. Other than the above mentioned items, there was nothing else in the way of furniture or decor. Tuesday didn’t have anything hanging on the walls and no framed photos were propped on her desk to give it a personal touch. She stepped into her Spartan little space and closed the door.
Tuesday had spent twenty-one years at The Bounce House—ten as a dancer, four as a manager, and seven more as owner—but whenever she came in the office her mind always flashed back to that first time she stepped into it. She was sixteen years old, expelled from all Detroit public schools, a runaway crashing at a different friend’s house every night and desperate for money. She had an older cousin named Shameeka who danced there but at the time the place was called Smokin’ Joe’s. Because Tuesday was light-skinned, pretty with green eyes and a banging body, Shameeka swore she could earn enough money for her own car and crib in no time. So led by her favorite cousin, a young and naive Tuesday was brought in and walked to the door of this office. Shameeka handed her a condom then pushed her inside like a human sacrifice to a sixty-two-year-old bony Polish guy, whose name, ironically, wasn’t Joe. There was an eight-minute pound session in which he bent her over the very same desk she still had, then fifteen minutes after that, Tuesday’s new name was X-Stacy and she was on the floor giving out lap dances for ten dollars a pop. The old man never asked her age, or anything else, for that matter.
She dropped her bag on the desk and sank into her favorite chair. She thought about what this place had given her, but mostly all that it had taken away.
She was snapped from her reverie when the door swung open. Jaye came in followed by Brianna, and Tuesday immediately cut into her: “Bitch, how many times I got to tell you to stay out my spot?”
Brianna responded with an impudent smirk. “It wasn’t like you was using it. Shit, we didn’t even know when you was gon’ get here.”
“The point of havin’ my own parking space is so that I’ll have a place to park whenever I pull up at the club. I don’t give a fuck if I’m gone three weeks, when I roll through here, that spot right in front of the door is me! Every bitch who work here know that shit, even the customers know it.”
Brianna took a drag off the Newport she was smoking, then flopped down on the loveseat. “Well, you need to put up a sign or somethin’.”
“I don’t need to put up shit!” Tuesday barked. “The next time I come through and you in my shit I’m a bust every muthafuckin’ window you got on that li’l weak-ass Camaro!”
Brianna shrugged nonchalantly and blew out a trail of gray smoke. “And it ain’t gon’ cost me shit if you do. ’Cause like a good neighbor State Farm will be there . . . with some brand-new windows.”
Tuesday pointed a finger at her. “Keep talkin’ shit and see if State Farm be there with a new set of teeth!”
Jaye quietly witnessed the exchange with a smile on her face. She took one of the plastic chairs that fronted the desk.
Just then Tushie came in rubbing her ass, with a sour look on her face.
Tuesday laughed. “DelRay got you too, huh? Was it that Miami game?”
She poured herself into the second chair. “Naw, you know fucks wit dat sexy ass Carmelo Anthony,” she said with her heavy southern drawl. “New York let da Celtics blow dem out by twenty.”
Tuesday asked, “How many he got left?”
Tushie thought back. “He done got me twice already, he only got three left.”
“You only gave that nigga five, he got me for ten! How my shit only worth ten dollars a smack and yours worth twenty?”
Laughing, Jaye said, “Maybe because she got twice as much ass!”
Tuesday shot back at her, “And I still got three times more than you!”
After sharing a laugh, she then said, “We can settle up soon as Doll bring her ass on.” Tuesday looked to Brianna. “I thought she was with y’all. Where the fuck she at?”
“How the fuck should I know!” Brianna snapped back at her. “Just because the bitch little don’t mean I keep her in my pocket!”
Baby Doll came in as if on cue and closed the door. She snatched the cigarette out of Brianna’s mouth, dropped onto the loveseat next to her and began to smoke it.
Brianna said, “Ughh, bitch. I could’ve just got finished suckin’ some dick!”
Baby Doll continued to drag the Newport unfazed. “Knowin’ yo stankin’ ass, you probably did. Besides, my lips done been in waay worse places than yours.”
Baby Doll took a few more puffs then tried to offer it back to Brianna, who rolled her eyes and looked away. “Bitch, I wish I would.”
Tuesday handed her an ashtray. “Well, now that everybody finally here, we can take care of this business.”
This was the crew: Tuesday, Brianna, Jaye, Tushie, and Baby Doll. Five hustling-ass dime pieces with top-notch game who was out for the bread. Individually they were good but together they were dangerous. These were the girls who played the players.
Tuesday looked at Baby Doll. “You get yo shit up outta there?”
She butted what was left of the Newport and blew the last of the smoke from her nostrils. “The little bit I had being moved today. I only brought what I needed for the lick—just enough to make it look like home. It ain’t like him and Simone spent a lot of time chillin’ at her crib anyway. We either went out or was chillin’ at his loft.”
Code name: Baby Doll. She was only four feet eleven inches tall with hips and ass that stood out more because of her short sta
ture. Her buttermilk skin always looked soft even without touching it. Delicate doll-like features had earned her name and made her age hard to place: if Doll told a nigga she was thirteen or thirty, he would believe either one. The type of men who typically went for Doll had low self-esteem and loved the ego boost she gave them; her small size and the helplessness they wrongly perceived in her made them feel bigger and stronger while that child-like naiveté she faked so well made them feel smarter. Baby Doll’s greatest assets were her bright hazel eyes because she could project an innocence in them that made men want to protect and possess her. It was because of this that, of the five, Baby Doll was second only to Tuesday in having the most niggas propose marriage to her.
Tuesday asked, “What about Tank?”
“He don’t think nothin’ up,” said Doll. “He done spent the last two days blowin’ up that phone and leaving texts for Simone. Of course he thinking that li’l situation done scared her off. Same shit every time.”
Tuesday nodded. “Good. Text his ass back and break it off. Tell him you thought you could deal with his lifestyle but after what happened you can’t see being with him—”
She cut her off. “T.K. I know the routine! I ain’t new to this shit.”
“Make sure you lose that phone too,” Tuesday reminded her. “How did he feel about that loss he took?”
Doll shrugged. “He wasn’t really trippin’ bout the money and he say he got insurance on the truck so he gon’ get back right off that. He was just so happy that ain’t nothin’ happen to me.”
“That’s cause you his Tiny Angel!” Jaye said, teasing her. “ ‘All right, I’ll open the safe. Just don’t hurt my Tiny Angel.’ ” She did a spot-on impression of Tank’s pathetic voice that made them all laugh.
Code name: Jaye. She was five foot nine with a medium build. She wasn’t that strapped but her face was pretty as hell; she had dark brown eyes, a cocoa complexion and big full juicy lips that promised pleasure. Jaye was not the stuck-up dime, she was the ultimate fuck buddy. She was that fine-ass homegirl you could hit and still be cool with. Staying laced in Gucci and Prada heels, Jaye was a girly girl but had some special tomboy quality about her that made a nigga want to blow a blunt or chill with her at a Lions game. She was cool, she was funny, and could easily make a mark feel at ease with her sense of humor. Her best asset was her personality but Jaye’s secret weapon was her amazing neck game. She sucked dick like a porn star and the same big lips that got her teased in school were now her sexiest feature. Not too many niggas could resist a bad bitch who kept them laughing all day then at night gave them the best head they ever had.
“I know the type of nigga Tank is,” said Tuesday. “He gon’ be suckerstroking real hard about you.” She looked at Baby Doll. “Lay low for a while and you might wanna do something different to yo hair. Trust me, this nigga gon’ be stalkin’ you for a minute.”
While they spoke, Brianna just quietly shook her head with a look of disgust on her face. “I know having to get next to some off-brand niggas is part of the game, but god damn, Doll, you a better bitch than me. That fat, black, greasy-ass nigga with them big bug eyes; I don’t think I could’ve pulled this one off.” She jerked forward pretending to dry-heave then put a hand over her mouth. “How could you look that nigga in the eye and say you love him with a straight face? Just thinkin’ about that nigga kissing and touching on me got me ready to throw up.”
Doll looked at her sideways. “Bitch, like you said, it’s part of the game, that’s what we do. I’m playin’ his muthafuckin’ ass the same way you done had to play niggas and every other bitch in this room. I don’t give a fuck what a mark look like, I’m about my paper!”
“Church, bitch!” Tushie leaned over so her and Doll could dap each other.
Brianna leaned back on the loveseat and inspected her freshly polished nails. “Well, I guess I just got higher standards than you bitches.”
Code name: Brianna. She was six foot one with the long slender build of a runway model except for her huge 36DD’s. Bree had that exotic look that came when you mixed black with some sort of Asian. Like the singer Amerie, she had our peanut butter complexion and thick lips but had inherited their distinctive eyes. Nobody really knew what Brianna was mixed with—Tuesday didn’t even think she knew—but whatever she was, the girl was gorgeous. The type of men who were attracted to her were typically looking for a trophy. They liked rare and beautiful things and had no problem with paying for them. Brianna played the high-maintenance girlfriend so well because acting snotty and spoiled wasn’t really a stretch.
Tuesday told the girls that they needed to work on their choreography. She felt that it didn’t look real enough the other night when Brianna pretended to hit Baby Doll with the gun. “Y’all timing was off. Bree, you looked like you was just tryin’ to give her a love tap. And Doll, you looked like you knew it was comin’, you was already going down before she could hit you.”
Brianna responded the way she typically did to criticism. “Why is you trippin’? The shit was good enough to fool him.”
“I’m trippin’, bitch, because we can’t afford to make mistakes like that. Small shit like that is what could get us knocked.”
“Watch this.” Tuesday stood up and came from behind her desk. Tushie rose from her seat, knowing that she had a role in the demonstration.
The girls squared off then pretended that they were two hoodrats in the middle of a heated argument: they rolled their necks, put fingers in each other’s faces and Tushie improvised some dialogue about Tuesday fucking her man. They pushed each other back and forth, then Tushie gave Tuesday a loud smack that whipped her head around. She held her cheek, looking stunned for a second, then came back with a hard right that dropped Tushie back into her chair.
She fell limp with her head dropped against her chest unconscious, but two seconds later she opened her eyes and smiled. “See, bitches, that’s how it’s done.”
Code name: Tushie. This Louisiana stallion was five foot seven, and while she only had mosquito bites for breasts, her tiny twenty-four-inch waist and fifty-six-inch hips meant she was thicker than Serena Williams on steroids. “Tushie” was the only name that had ever fit her because by thirteen the girl was already so donked up that all her pants had to be tailor-made; by fifteen she was causing so many car accidents from just walking down the street that the police in her small town actually labeled her a danger to the community. Her Hershey-bar skin and black Barbie doll features made her a dime even without being ridiculously strapped. Despite having an ass like two beach balls, Tushie’s best asset was really her mind. Many people had been fooled by her deep southern accent but she only talked slow. Tushie knew how to play on those who thought she was just a dumb country bammer and rocked them to sleep. Any nigga thinking she was all booty and no brains would find out the hard way that southerners ain’t slow.
Jaye was impressed by the girls’ little fight scene. The moves and timing were so perfect that it looked as if they had spent time training with actual Hollywood stuntmen. Jaye was only a foot away from the action, and even though she knew it was fake, she still thought that their blows had made contact. “Wait a minute,” she said, curious. “I know she ain’t really just slap you but I swear I heard that shit.”
“What you heard was this.” Tuesday clapped her hand against her meaty thigh. She explained: “Because I’m the one gettin’ hit, you lookin’ at my face and her hand. You ain’t watching my hands! Me and Tush just got this shit down because we been at it longer than y’all.”
“Well, I ain’t gon’ go through all that,” Brianna said, standing up to stretch. “Next time I’m just gon’ bust a bitch head for real!”
“And now can we wrap up this little meeting so I can get paid and get the fuck outta here. I got shit to do.”
Tuesday went into her Louie bag and pulled out a brick of cash. She carefully counted it out into five separate stacks then began to pass out the dividends. As the girls took their individual
shares, Tuesday could see the disappointment on their faces. They were expecting more and she was too.
She passed two stacks to Doll, who took one then handed the other to Brianna. Bree made a quick count of the cash then dropped the sixty-five hundred onto the loveseat as if it were nothing. “What the fuck is this?”
Tuesday sighed because she knew this was coming and knew it would be from her. “Look, I know it’s kinda short. Shit fucked up all the way around. I got twenty for the truck, seventeen for the work, and my mans said I was lucky to get that.”
After doing two months of surveillance on Tank, Tuesday had put Baby Doll on him. It took another seven weeks of Doll’s sweet manipulation to get everything they needed for the lick: personal information, alarm codes, copies of his house keys, the location of his stash, and a head so far gone that he wouldn’t risk Doll’s life to protect it. The girls had hoped for a big score but found out that Tank was not the hustler they thought he was. The scouting report said that he was heavy in the brick game and the team targeted him expecting at least a six-figure payoff, but when they opened fat boy’s safe, all he had was forty-two thousand in cash and twenty-four packaged-up ounces of hard. Disappointed, the girls took his Denali even though it wasn’t originally part of the plan. They split the cash that night but it was Tuesday’s job to slang the truck and dope; now the girls didn’t even get what they hoped for that. Minus what was due to their sixth silent partner, almost four months of work had only grossed them a little over thirteen racks apiece—if you factor in the expenses of renting a temporary place for Doll’s alter ego Simone and the Pontiac G6 she drove, they actually netted a lot less. The team typically went after bigger fish, and while they only did about five or six of these jobs a year (sometimes having a few going on at once), they were used to making twenty-five to thirty stacks each, so a lick that only pulled seventy-nine total was a bust.
