Hattie refused to get her feathers ruffled up about it, but Myra didn’t think the same. In a split second she was at the sliding door again with strong words for her nephew.
“Brandon, if I hear one more complaint about you, I will come out there with a belt and wear your little tail out. Don’t believe me? Try it!”
Brandon didn’t back down. “Go to hell. I ain’t afraid of you either!”
Myra’s eyes bugged as she gasped. “Oh, no, he didn’t just talk to me like that. Oh, hell no. Let me find a belt for his behind.”
“Myra, please.” Hattie stopped her. “He’s showing out for his cousins.” Granted, the boy had no business talking to his aunt that way, but the last thing Hattie needed was Myra beating on him. “Don’t worry ’bout it. I’ll deal with ’im later.” She didn’t want to have to hear Neema’s mouth about Myra disciplining her son.
“Mama, I don’t let my own kids talk to me like that.”
“I know, I know.” Hattie gave her a pleading look. “The boy is going through something right now. That’s why he’s acting out. Don’t worry; let me get to the bottom of it.”
“Oh, he’s gonna be going through somethin’ when I get finished with his behind. Talking to me like that. Humph.”
Hoping to quell Myra’s anger, Hattie stopped what she was doing and moved to the door. “Brandon! You come here. Now.”
The boy stood stubbornly rooted. “For what?”
Hattie gave him the look she used to use on her own kids when they were younger. Myra and Neema Jean were her only two, but not her first child. God was still punishing her for what had happened to her first child. Neema Jean was that punishment. Maybe even Brandon, too.
Raised in a rural part of Alabama, overly strict parents had prompted Hattie to run away from home at the age of fifteen, right into the arms of twenty-year-old Macon Winston. Things were lovey-dovey perfect until the baby was coming and Macon skipped out. Hattie still remembered how hard it was to crawl back home to her parents, all the while hiding her pregnancy. Sometimes babies come with or without doctors, and when her time came, Hattie found herself outside, in the barn at the rear of her parents’ house, alone and scared, giving birth to a baby boy that she quickly left on a nest of warm hay. Terrified of her parents finding out, she had hurried to the house to clean herself up and dispose of any evidence.
Once her parents were asleep for the night, Hattie tiptoed back down the stairs and out the back door to go check on the baby. Her son. But the child was no longer breathing. Panic filled her heart as she tried taking the infant up and gently shaking him to prompt breathing that wouldn’t start back. After hiding the stiff infant under the hay, Hattie had waited a day later to place the lifeless little body in a shoe box and dig a grave for him at the rear of the barn. She had the good sense to pile on heavy rocks to keep the dogs from digging her misfortune up.
It was her secret. Hers and God’s. A secret that dropped so deep into her soul that it made a sound as hard as a drop hitting water for the first time. She couldn’t tell one soul about her dead son, but God hadn’t forgotten. Surely He hadn’t. That’s why God was putting so many trials in front of her. Like that hardheaded Brandon.
“Brandon, I said bring yo’ behind here now! Boy, don’t make me come get you.”
The two women watched Brandon stomp toward the house. Hattie snatched the screen back and ordered him inside. “You apologize to your aunt.”
The boy was as stubborn as two mules on meds.
“Forget getting to the bottom; let’s paddle his bottom.”
“Myra, no. Brandon didn’t mean what he said. He’ll apologize. Right, Brandon?”
The twins and Raynita ran inside to watch the festivities.
“He need a whuppin’.” Raynita’s eyes lit up with the anticipation of her brother getting his behind tore up. “Mama don’t whup him enough. That’s why he be acting like he do.”
They all waited for Brandon’s apology.
“Apologize, Brandon.”
Brandon’s face was one big frown. “I ain’t saying shit!”
Myra wailed. “Oh, hell no! I need a belt, or a switch! Somebody go get me a belt!”
“I’ll get it.” Raynita sprinted to the bedroom, obviously happy to oblige.
Hattie had to stop the girl. “Nita, no! There will be no ass beating today. Not now.”
“Nanny,” one of the twins squealed and giggled. “You said a bad word, too.”
SIX
The first time he had seen a man popped, he had recently turned ten. Topps Jackson still remembered that night as if it had happened last week. The pop had been over money, and his father, Mack Jackson, had carried out the task like he had been shooting a BB gun at empty cans; cold, easy and heartless.
“Pay attention, TJ,” his father’s gruff voice had demanded. “This is what you have to do when niggas stomp on your loyalty. And when niggas try to take advantage of your generosity. Are you paying attention?”
“Yeah, Daddy.”
Topps’ ten-year-old legs had trembled so bad, he thought that he would collapse as he stood in the Long Beach warehouse where his father had run one of his business out of. The massive building was for automotive parts storage, but behind the scenes, it served double-duty as a lucrative marijuana and cocaine operation. The four “soldiers” who had brought the man to Mack had been sent away.
“A private lesson for my son,” Mack had told them. “Take a walk.”
“One thing you have to learn about this business, TJ, you have to check behind your soldiers. No matter how much you think you can trust them, you still have to check. You see, son, greed is like a cancer that can get to anyone.”
“Is he gonna scream like a bitch?” Topps had asked; mostly because he had felt like doing so himself. Screaming and running. But he knew better. His father couldn’t stand weakness in his only son.
Mack had chuckled at that. Like father, like son. “Probably so. But remember this tho’, real men die brave.”
“For real.” Topps didn’t see anything brave about the dark, thin man down on his knees, crying and begging for his life.
His father had the gun in his hand, trained on its target. “Take this nigga here. He’s what you call a skimmer. You pay him well. Treat ’im like he’s family and still he skims off the top of your money. Stealing like he deserves it. You give his ass a break. Give ’im time to return what he’s taken, but he don’t listen. Punks you in front of your soldiers. That ain’t good. See what I’m saying?”
Topps had bobbed his head. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Mack, please,” the man had tried to plead. His hands had taken a praying position. “Man, don’t do this, please. I’ma get your money. I promise.”
Mack had snorted back, “Man, that’s what you said last month, so shut the hell up!”
“C’mon, man. You know me. We like brothers. You know my woman just had a baby. It was borrowing; that’s all. You know, for milk and diapers.”
Mack had hauled his hand back but didn’t slap him. “Man, didn’t I tell you to shut the hell up? Ain’t nobody trying to hear that sorry shit. The game is over for you.”
Topps had felt sorry for the poor fool. He wanted to close his eyes until it was all over, but he couldn’t. His father would think that he was weak.
“Here, lil’ man. You wanna pull the trigger?”
His father had passed the heavy gun to him. The feel of cold power had been in his small hands, right at his face. He felt like he was in control. Like he held the power of life and death. But he couldn’t pull the trigger.
“Daddy, I can’t.” Topps had tried passing the gun back.
“Pull the trigger, TJ. Don’t think about it. Pull the damn trigger!”
Tears had sprung to his eyes. “Daddy, I don’t want to.”
“Nigga, what the hell!” Mack had angrily yanked the .38 from his young hands. The gun popped off twice and the begging man fell over with bright red seeping from the center of hi
s head. A few splatters of blood and brain went everywhere, even some on Topps’ hands.
“Now you listen to me.” His father got in his face. “One day this whole damn operation will be yours. You understand me? Yours! And you can’t be giving chances and slipping when it comes to your damn money. Ain’t no forgive and forget in this game. Niggas get popped every damn day. You get they ass before they get you. That’s the goal. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” Tears had rolled down Topps’ ten-year-old face.
“Next time I tell yo’ weepy ass to pull the fucking trigger, you pull it. You understand me?!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Standing here crying like some sissy. Go wash yo’ damn face!” Mack walked away to get his soldiers to come clean up his mess.
Topps had hurried into his father’s private bathroom to wash his hands and face. He had never felt so dirty in his life. Blood felt like it was burning on his skin. He had scrubbed with a frenzy, but the more soap he had used, the dirtier he had felt. Never the less, his father’s words had remained with him. “Get their ass before they get you. Pull the damn trigger!”
The next time came two weeks later. Another soldier was caught stealing. Mack gave the order. Fearful that it was either his life or the perpetrator’s, Topps popped him. He became a ten-year-old murderer, ruthless and cunning. He never dwelled on it. Shit happened. People did what they had to do in life.
That was twenty-five years ago. Eight years later Mack was dead. Set up and murdered by a jealous woman. Money had to be watched and women couldn’t be trusted. That’s what it taught Topps Jackson in his thirty-five years of life.
Now, not a month went by when he didn’t have to pop a nigga behind his money, his drugs, or his privately owned pussy. Popping niggas left and right was no big deal. It was almost like popping popcorn. Quick. Easy. Dirty business, but very lucrative. Still, he’d been trying to wash the germs of sin and murder off ever since.
“Here’s to money and pussy,” Topps said, holding up a flute filled with Cristal. “The two best things in life.”
“Got that right.” Slick grinned.
“The two things that will get you killed quick.” Topps toasted Slick, who sat across from him in his private office. “If only we could bottle those two things and sell it together, we’d make a killing. Money and pussy. Give it a catchy name like ‘Monussy.’”
“Monussy? Man, you whacking out. Pussy already on the market. Nothing new there.”
“Nigga, I’m talking bout the essence of money and pussy combined, like an energy drink or somethin’. You feeling me?”
“Hell, nah!” Slick laughed. “You been smoking too much bud.”
“Yo, see if you be saying that when my new energy drink hits the market legit.”
Slick had been running one of Topps’ two distribution operations for over seven years. The two had met in grade school. Their first meeting had been a fight over a cute girl who had gotten them both suspended from school. The girl had hooked up with another fifth-grade boy less than a week later, leaving Slick and Topps feeling so stupid that they both had to laugh about it later. They had apologized for their knuckle-dancing and became good friends.
Slick wasn’t much in the looks department, not with his dark face being pockmarked from old acne. Some even called him ugly behind his back. Still, Slick had a good head for business. His bugged-out eyes gave him a froggish look that Topps felt would keep most gold-digging women away. That way, the man could concentrate more on running a business and making that paper instead of chasing tail.
Of all his soldiers, Topps thought of Slick more like a brother that would do anything for him. At least that’s how it was in the beginning. Just like Topps, Slick ran a tight ship. Any problems with a sergeant working under him was dutifully reported and handled.
On the desk in front of them sat a small pile of coke. “Man, this shit is the best we’ve copped.” Slick took up a razor to chop and scraped out some lines. “Check this out, bro.” He used a rolled hundred-dollar bill to fly some coke up each nostril before passing it to Topps, who refused.
“Nah, man, I’m straight.” Another thing his father had taught him about the business was not to use or abuse his own product. Occasionally he flew a few lines up his nose. But that was only if he was tired and needed a quick pick-me-up. Flying lines for recreation was rare, and he made it a point not to rock, smoke, or drink too much alcohol. Even smoking a blunt was on rare occasions. Smoking crack was a no-no. He’d seen too many niggas lose their footing with smoking crack. Not him. He wasn’t going out that way. Not when there was money to be made.
“Wonder what’s taking Neema so damn long. She should be back by now.” Topps stood and gazed out of his office window at his operation, in full swing. The place was as tight as Fort Knox. Soldiers paraded up and down the assembly lines watching every move of the scantily dressed female workers. The job was easy and fast-paced. Measuring and bagging rocks and white powder for street sale. Larger packages were handled by well-trusted runners. Not only did it pay well, but it was a lifetime job. Once a person was recruited to work the business, there was no such thing as quitting or retirement. Workers who tried to quit came up missing. End of story.
“Yo’, man, speaking of Neema, you still thinking about playing wifey with her?”
“She the mother of my children, ain’t she?”
“Yeah, true that but what of it? You gotta kid by that skank, Tia, too.”
Topps gave him a side look that should have been enough to say ‘stay the hell out of my business.’ “Thought I told you not to bring her name up again?”
“Oh yeah,” said Slick, turning on the flat-screen computer on the desk. “I keep forgetting.”
The subject of Topps’ ex-girl, Tia, had turned sour after Topps discovered the woman had stolen a quarter of a million dollars from him. Tia had been his number one woman before Neema came on the scene. Tia had been more sophisticated, but Neema was more fly in dress and looks. Neither women knew about each other, and Topps planned to keep it that way. Besides, he couldn’t even see his daughter by Tia because her scandalous mama was still hiding out from him. Topps knew it was only a matter of time before he found out where the woman was and dealt with her. Daughter or no daughter, he took stealing personally. No one got away with stealing from him. No one.
“What, you got something against Neema?” Topps kept his back to him. His eyes zoomed in on soldiers, watching for workers who might try to sneak a small rock into their mouth or the rim of their panties. Skanks were sneaky like that. It was in their blood.
“She alright,” said Slick half-heartedly. “Better than some I’ve seen you kick it with. But once she becomes wifey, she’ll be knowing more about yo’ business. That’s all I’m saying. You think she can be trusted like that?” Slick had his back, but he didn’t know how to tell him that his woman was a b-hopper. Meaning that the girl would hop in any man’s bed. Half of Topps’ army knew that girl was a bona fide freak because they had sampled her juice. Hell, he thought with a smile on his face, I was all up in that pussy two nights ago myself.
“Slick, you bugging, man. Of course I trust her ass. I wouldn’t have her transporting my big-money packages all over the place if I didn’t trust her. Know what I’m saying? Why? What’s up? You have something to drop on Neema?”
“Nah, man. I was just saying, I mean, you know how it is with skanks sometimes. They be trippin’ like they all into you, and they love you deep, but they be skimming big time.” Slick watched him go to the sink to wash his hands. The sixth time so far. At least a brother was getting better. Times in the past, Topps washed his hands ten to twelve times in the span of an hour. The cleanest nigga he knew. “I’m just saying we have to be sure. A woman as fine as Neema brings a lot of competition. Niggas be sniffing behind her, and that’s a lot of temptation for any woman. Any nigga try’n to get to you would step quick to her. That’s all I’m try’n to say.”
He coul
dn’t mention the fact that he’d caught some feelings for Neema. Throwing out negative thoughts about the woman was his ploy to keep Topps from catching on. Actually, Neema deserved better. She deserved a man like him, but only if she stopped b-hopping.
Topps snatched a paper towel off to dry his hands. “Yo, bro, like I said, if you know something you need to tell me, drop it now.” He turned around, adjusting his blue-and-black Sean John sweatshirt, waiting for Slick to say something else, but the man was quiet. “Other than that, I’m handling mine.”
“Yeah, you right.” Slick went back to looking at the computer screen.
The four solid gold chains around Topps’ neck were enough to finance a small car. A smirk found its way onto his handsome face. It irked him when niggas made sly comments about his woman, but weren’t man enough to drop the truth. On the real, Slick was probably jealous because he didn’t have the skills or looks to pull a classy-looking number like his Neema. He could dig that. What normal man wouldn’t be jealous? Still, Slick was his closest confidant. Damn near like a brother. Any other nigga talking like that about his woman and he would have taken his pistol out and went upside his head. But Slick was his boy from back in the day. He was the only one he’d take that mess from.
“Matter of fact,” Topps tossed the paper towel in the trash, “get Neema’s ass on radar now. See where the hell she is with my money.”
Slick was happy to oblige. “I’m on it.” He punched in the code for the computer’s software that linked GPS tracking to the cell phone that Neema carried. Topps had convinced Neema that the reason he was supplying three new cell phones was for their top-of-the-line features: camera and MP3 player. In truth the three units he’d given Neema and their two kids were sophisticated tracking devices.
It took a couple of minutes for her location to flash on the screen’s digital map. “She’s nowhere near Hollywood; that’s for damn sure.”
Love Trumps Game Page 4
