Street Divas

by De'nesha Diamond

  Essence shakes her head.

  “If I had a friend like you, I’d slice my own damn throat.”

  “It could’ve been anybody,” the girl says. “The whole damn school didn’t like them flaunting their shit in front of them like they did at the prom. GD and Vice don’t mix. I told Ta’Shara to leave Profit’s ass alone. A lot of people told both of them. Now I gotta put my neck on the line and become a snitch? How the fuck is that fair?”

  My jaw twitches. “Bitch, my name ain’t Oprah. I don’t want to hear your silly-ass problems.”

  Essence whimpers.

  “Now, this is the last time I’m going to tell you: give me a fuckin’ name.”

  15

  LeShelle

  Shit. It’s the police!

  I whip my head around to see if Python heard this shit as well. Sure enough, his ass is already reaching for one of his spare gats stashed in one of the end tables by the sofa.

  Momma Peaches jumps into the action and smacks his hand away from the drawer. “What the fuck? You think you’re going to blast your way up out of here?”

  Me and Python give her a Hell-the-fuck-yeah look.

  “Just play the shit cool,” she snaps. “Y’all don’t even know what the fuck they want yet. If it was what you two think it is, they would’ve came at the door with a battering ram. See what the fuck they want first.” She nods her head toward me. “Open the damn door.”

  This bossy old bitch is getting on my nerves. I shift my gaze to Python, and he gives me the okay nod. Frankly, I’m still with the notion of shooting first and asking questions later, but my ass is outnumbered, so I turn back toward the door. Ain’t no use in praying because God has long stopped answering my calls. I open the door.

  On the other side, two police officers in crisp blue uniforms stand erect with blank faces.

  “LeShelle Murphy?”

  I swallow and stiffen my spine. “Why you want to know?”

  The short white one pokes out his thick barrel chest. “Answer the damn question. Are you LeShelle Murphy?”

  Folding my arms, I thrust out my left hip. “Yeah. Now what you want?”

  Officer Asshole looks over his shoulder at his partner before turning back toward me with a serious attitude. “We’re here to talk to you about an incident involving your younger sister, Ta’Shara.”

  That fuckin’ snitch! “What about her?”

  “Ma’am, do you mind if we come in?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” I say boldly. “Me and my nigga were in the middle of fucking, so we ain’t exactly decent.”

  The cops exchange looks again.

  “Now what is this shit about my sister?” I ask, hoping by shocking the shit out of them that I can throw them off my nervousness. From the looks on their faces, it works.

  “There was an incident—”

  “Yeah. You said that part already.”

  White Cop reaches for a small pad and pen from his chest pocket. “Your sister Ta’Shara and her boyfriend Raymond Lewis were carjacked leaving their high school prom last night. The driver of their limousine was killed at the scene.”

  They stare at me, and I try to show the required concern. “Well . . . is she okay?”

  “No,” the older black cop says. His penetrating black gaze sweeps my face. “I’m sorry to inform you that your sister was brutally beaten and raped.”

  I gasp and cover my mouth with my hands. Too much?

  The black cop nods. “She’s alive,” he assures me, and then pauses. “Her foster parents have taken her to the hospital. Things are a little shakier for the young gentleman who took her to the prom, though. He took seventeen bullets.”

  “Shakier?” My brows dip. “So . . . he’s alive?”

  They both nod.

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  My hands ball at my sides while I damn near grind my back teeth down to powder. I think about the number of bullets I pumped into that nigga, and I can’t figure how in the hell that muthafucka is still breathing. My world just got considerably more fucked up. Ta’Shara I’m sure I can handle, but if that grimy Vice Lord starts talking, my ass is a dead bitch. Period.

  “I’m sorry,” the black cop says. “I know that all of this may be coming as a shock to you.”

  “You have no fucking idea.” I exhale a shaky breath while my brain scrambles for a new plan.

  White Cop continues. “Your sister is currently unresponsive. We haven’t been able to get her side of what happened last night.”

  At least there’s some good news.

  “We’re not even sure if she’s aware of her surroundings.”

  “Well . . . I appreciate you coming by to tell me.” I nod, anxious to get these pigs the hell off my porch. Yet, when I try to close the door, Officer Whitey shoves his foot inside and blocks it. I glance down at his foot and then arch a single brow up at him. “Is there something else?”

  “Your sister sustained some interesting markings on her body. In particular are the initials ‘GD’ carved into her butt cheek.” His blue eyes level on me. “Those mean anything to you?”

  I stare at him like his ass is stupid. “Should it?”

  Only one side of his lips hook into a smile. “We have strong reason to believe that those initials stand for ‘Gangster Disciples.’ ”

  Silence.

  “This area here is a stronghold of the Gangster Disciples, isn’t it?”

  I keep my expression blank. “You tell me. You’re the one with all the information this morning.”

  Their expressions return to being blank canvases.

  “Any reason why Tracee Douglas believes that you may have something to do with what happened to your younger sister last night?”

  “Is she the one that sent you over here?”

  “She gave us your name and we looked you up in the system.”

  I laugh in his face. “Let me get this right. That silly bitch told you that I actually had something to do with having my flesh and blood beaten and raped?”

  Silence.

  “Uh-huh. Well, did she also tell you that she’s had a grudge against me ever since she caught her man coming on to me when I lived with them? And instead of getting rid of his pedophile ass, she kicked me out on the streets?” It was a huge lie, but fuck it.

  The cops look at each other.

  “No. I didn’t think so. Maybe you should be looking at his sick ass. Where was he last night?” I give them a nasty sneer. “Look. Me and my sister might have our differences, but I love her. We might not live together, but our bond is deep. I’m sure when she snaps out of whatever daze she’s in that she’ll tell you the same thing.” I got these cops so fucking twisted it’s clear that they don’t know what the fuck to think.

  The black cop breaks their silence first. “Ma’am, we came over here to talk to you. We’re not making any accusations.”

  “Really? That’s not the way it sounded to me. I know the game. You came over here to accuse me of some bullshit. Well, you can carry your ass back on over to Ms. Tracee’s Fantasyland and tell her to stop spitting my name out her neck. I’ll roll my ass over to the hospital later and see what time it is for myself. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m about to close this door and go back to fucking my man. Either one of you got a problem with that?”

  These muthafuckas blink like a couple of deer caught in headlights.

  “Good. Now move your foot,” I tell Whitey.

  Slowly, he drags his shit back. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he wishes he can haul my ass in on something—anything. I smile and then slam the fucking door in his face. I wait and listen to them walk off the porch. When I turn, Python looks impressed while Momma Peaches is shaking her head.

  “Lawd. Lawd.” She tosses up her hand. “I don’t even want to fuckin’ know what the hell that shit is about.”

  Good. Because I ain’t about to tell you shit nohow.

  Momma Peaches faces Python again. “Take care of that damn baby before the next
time those pigs roll over here looking for him.” She continues shaking her head as she moves past him and heads toward me and the front door. “I gotta get the fuck up out of here before the po-po slaps the handcuffs on me for being caught up in y’all bullshit.” She snatches open the door and cuts another look over at me.

  I’m not blind or stupid. I recognize the look of disgust when I see it. As Momma Peaches marches out the door, I swear I hear her mumble, “Your own fuckin’ sister.”

  Once the door slams shut behind her, my head whips in Python’s direction. “What the hell is her problem?”

  “You didn’t make sure that he was dead?” he asks, ignoring my question.

  “I dumped an entire clip into his ass.”

  He shakes his head. “Pack your shit. We’re rolling up out of here.”

  16

  Yolanda

  Somehow I got to get my shit together. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself since Baby Thug’s funeral. There hasn’t been a day that I haven’t heard her voice inside my head, telling me about how much I’m fucking up by hanging all my hopes and dreams on Python’s ass. But for as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to lock down one of the big players in my set. A governor, a lieutenant, an enforcer—some goddamn body. Maybe then bitches will start looking at me with respect and not like I’m some slow retarded bitch who used to suck boys’ dicks for Lemon-heads back in junior high.

  Growing up, I never really had any friends. It could’ve been because I was a Ritalin-popping, short-yellow-bus-riding, desperate bitch with a crazy-ass momma. I didn’t blink twice about sexing my way into the Black Gangster Disciple set and then hoing my pussy out to mule drugs into the prison system. The only niggas I pulled were four-corner street soldiers who had their hands in my pockets more than I had mine in theirs. Weak niggas who only lived for the next fly-ass sneaks to hit the shelves while dabbling in their own product to get high. Fucking niggas like those just kept me looking like a joke to the other Queen Gs.

  Keeping it real. I know my ass ain’t smart, but I’m fine as fuck and I can handle any dick tossed my way. Surely that’s the foundation of a boss bitch. Shit, that’s all Python’s wifey, LeShelle, is working with. Hell. Without him, she ain’t nobody, and she certainly ain’t better than me. If she was, then her nigga wouldn’t have plucked me out of the Pink Monkey, set me up nicely in my own place, and dropped out his next seed in my belly. Fuck, she’s been with his ass for damn near four years, and she ain’t spit out nothing but piss and blood clots. She ain’t no real woman, and she’s kidding herself if she thinks she can ever keep her nigga out of my bed.

  Don’t get me wrong. She spooked my ass pretty good at Baby’s funeral with all that ticktock bullshit. But she’s going to have to come harder than that if she’s hoping to get rid of me. Now, did she have something to do with the police finding Baby’s pussy pumped full of bullets? Maybe. But Baby was a part of the streets. She could’ve run up on any kind of trouble. Most likely she got caught fucking some other nigga’s girl. Not everybody gets off on the idea of two carpet munchers together.

  I ain’t worried about LeShelle. I got her man, and I don’t have to live off shitty Shotgun Row in order to keep him. As long as I keep serving up this good pussy and ass and then turn around and fix him a hot plate, it’s all good. Every time he leaves my place, there’s a fat-ass knot of cash on the nightstand. So far, I got three Gucci shoe boxes filled to the brim with loot. That’s gotta be more than enough for me to try and get my kids back from the Department of Children’s Services.

  At least that’s why my ass is up here at the booty crack of dawn, trying to see this social worker. I told Baby that I would stack this paper and get my kids, and that’s what the fuck I’m going to do. If she is looking down from heaven, this shit is gonna make her proud. But these muthafuckas need to hurry the fuck on. It’s already ten past nine and there’s gotta be like twenty other bitches waiting in line for them to unlock the doors.

  We know their asses ain’t doing shit, because we can see them walking around laughing and bumping their gums through the glass doors. This type of shit is so typical. They let everybody know that we’re on their muthafuckin’ time.

  Ten more minutes pass and another twenty people line up. Everyone is grumbling and asking what time they open. I’m tempted to take my ass home and try this shit tomorrow because my feet is starting to hurt in these five-hundred-dollar designer shoes.

  At exactly 9:32, this wide-hipped heifer unlocks the doors and we all rush inside like a herd of buffalo. After signing in, I plop into a chair and wait another hour and a half before that same heifer calls my name. When I follow her double-wide hips back to her cubicle, I have a serious attitude.

  “Yolanda Turner,” she says, flipping open a fat manila folder that’s falling apart at the seams. “Long time no see.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s been a while.” I plop down into the chair next to her desk and try my best to force on a smile. These bitches start tripping the moment they sense you coming at them sideways.

  “It’s been more than a while.” She flips through a few more papers and then reaches for the pair of black-rimmed reading glasses on her desk. “Ten months.” Pause. She riffles some more papers. At long last, she turns toward the computer.

  I don’t know what to do while she’s doing all of that, so I start nervously crossing and uncrossing my legs. Five minutes later, when her gaze slides over to me, she simply asks, “So where have you been?”

  “Oh . . . well . . . around.” I should’ve had a better answer than that. I mean, fuck, how long have I been waiting?

  “Around?” she echoes, staring over the top of her glasses.

  I swallow hard like a dummy and nod.

  “I see.” She tugs in a deep breath and then closes the folder. “So what can I do for you, Ms. Turner, while you’re just . . . hanging around?”

  My hand starts itching because I’d like nothing better than to slap the holy shit out of her. “I came to see about getting my kids back.”

  Silence.

  I clear my throat. “I mean . . . I’m doing better now. I can take care of them.”

  Slowly, this bitch pulls off her glasses and then leans back in her chair to study me.

  “I have money,” I blurt out, and then grab my purse. Before I can pull out a knot of cash, she reaches over and places her hand over mine.

  “Don’t.” She shakes her head at me.

  “What? I was about to show that I can afford to take care of them now.”

  She leans back again. “So . . . what? You’re going to toss me a wad of money like this is where you come to buy kids off the rack?”

  What the fuck is she talking about? “They’re my kids,” I remind her.

  “Technically, yes.”

  “Technically?” I glance around to see who the fuck she’s talking to. It sure in the hell can’t be me. “Look. No disrespect, but, duh, I was the only bitch on that hospital table shitting and pushing those babies out. They’re mine—and I want them back.”

  “Then maybe you should’ve brought your butt back up in here before they were eligible for adoption.”

  “Wait. What?” I know damn well I didn’t hear this bitch correctly. “Who’s up for adoption? Y’all can’t give my babies away!” I jump up and start looking around. “Who the fuck is your supervisor? You done lost your damn mind.”

  This bitch pops up, too, and I reflexively yank my earrings out of my ears. Pregnant or not, I know I can take this heifer out.

  “Oh. What are you going to do? Fight me?” She laughs. “Clearly you don’t want to see your kids again.”

  “I’m trying to, but you’re telling me you’re giving them away.”

  “Clean out your ears. I said that they are eligible for adoption. And you don’t have anybody to blame but yourself. We’ve been calling you for months. You’re never home and you never return our calls.”

  “Ain’t nobody called me.”

 
She glances down at the folder again. “Are you still living at 1315 Utah Avenue with your mother, Betty?”

  My eyes roll to the back of my head. “No. And of course my momma didn’t tell me y’all called. She’s probably pissed that I’m not there no more for her to leach off of.”

  “I see.” Her eyes rake over me. “You want to take a seat, or are you getting ready to leave?”

  I chug in an impatient breath and then sit my ass back down and wait for more bullshit to be shoveled my way.

  “Ms. Turner, I’m sorry that you haven’t received our numerous calls; however, it is your responsibility to make sure that we have an updated contact number. What if something had happened to one of the children? There would’ve been no way for us to contact you.”

  I shift in my chair but promise myself that I’d get ghost if I have to sit here while she lectures me about how bad of a mother I am. “Tell me what I have to do to get my kids back. Ain’t nobody adopting them nowhere.” I blink back tears.

  Her eyes fall back to that damn folder. “It says here that the last time you were in, that you were told to enroll into parenting classes. Have you completed that?”

  “Classes.” I roll my eyes.

  “Yes. Classes,” the woman instructs. “You want your kids, you’re going to have to prove to us that you can take care of them.”

  I reach for my purse again. “What? I said that I have money. That means I can cook and buy them new clothes now.” The thought of having to sit up in some damn class touches off some old childhood memories. I ain’t good with all that school crap. Reading and writing—that shit gives me a headache.

  “Look, Ms. Turner. If you’re serious about getting your kids back, then you’ll take your butt to parenting classes. No one here is going to beg you to do the right thing. You need classes. You need counseling. We need to see how you’re going to provide for them, and we need to inspect your home to make sure that the children will be living in a safe environment.”

  The more she talks, the more my face twists. “Damn. You want some blood, too?”