My hands ball at my sides.
“If you’re out breathing fresh air, that can only mean that you’re on parole. Play ball and maybe I won’t have to call your parole officer.”
Behind me a throat clears.
Melvin lifts his head and shifts his attention to the front door where Cedric stands with his arms crossed. “Now who do we have here?”
“Cedric Robinson,” he answers for himself. “Maybelline Carver’s parole officer.”
Melvin’s gaze shifts down to Cedric’s bare chest and open jeans and then back to me before an evil smile curves his lips. “Guess it’s true what they say: you can’t teach an old bitch new tricks.”
It takes everything I have not to punch this nigga in his throat.
Melvin places his captain’s hat back onto his head. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.” He takes one step off the porch but then stops and turns back. “Make sure you tell Python that there’s not a rock in Memphis his ass can slither under that I can’t find.”
“Seeing how that’s where you live, I don’t doubt it,” I shoot back.
A thin smile cracks his lips before he struts his ass off my property.
“Bastard.”
19
Yolanda
I know that my ass is taking a chance rolling over to Shotgun Row. It ain’t too far-fetched to believe that LeShelle’s most faithful Queen Gs won’t jump my ass the minute I step out of my SUV. And it’s not like Baby Thug is around to act like my personal bodyguard anymore. If shit pops off, I’m on my own. But for now I’m relying on the fact that I have Python’s baby baking in my oven to shield me. Still, that doesn’t stop my heart from jumping into the center of my throat the minute I turn onto Shotgun Row. First off, there’s an awful lot of niggas roaming around—more than normal for a Monday afternoon. Then I see why. The po-po got the whole damn street lit up with blue lights.
“What the fuck?” I roll to a stop outside my momma’s crib. When I hop out of my vehicle, my eyes zoom in on Captain Melvin Johnson leaning all up in Momma Peaches’s face. He’s so close I can’t tell whether he’s about to kiss her or spit on her.
My momma is on the porch with a smile as big as the whole state of Tennessee.
“What’s going on?” I ask, creeping up the stairs while trying to make sure that I don’t miss shit.
“Who gives a fuck—as long as they lock that old bitch’s ass up, I’ll be happy.”
I cut my eyes over at her and shake my head. The beef between these two goes way back to the time when Momma Peaches lopped off an ear on one of my momma’s ex-boyfriends. Since she had done it to protect me, it made the old lady gangsta a hero in my eyes, but I’m not so dumb not to know that she has plenty of enemies and that going back to jail ain’t nothing but a thang. Hell, she done floated in and out of that muthafucka so many times, I wouldn’t be surprised if there is already a cell block named after her.
When Captain Johnson turns and marches back down the porch steps, my momma emits a disappointed moan before heading back into the house. The front door slams behind her with a loud bam!
I don’t budge. I watch Memphis’s much-bragged-about supercop with my own disgust curdling in my blood. Every soldier around here who has ever had handcuffs on their asses knows that Melvin Johnson is not the nigga to fuck with. The muthafucka is as dirty as they come.
Trust and believe that back when I was trafficking, I had to slob on that old man’s dick more than my fair share or cut his ass in on the action to get a few charges dropped. The only difference between him and the other hustlers out here is that he carries a badge. I have to hand it to him—the couple of times I’ve seen his ass on the news, the old man was slicker than a can of fucking oil. With all that cheesing and grinning, the only thing that was missing was a pair of tap shoes. But his little show must work ’cause he got white folks believing they got the right nigga in charge for the job.
Judging by his and Momma Peaches’s faces, there is still no love lost between them two. Even I’ve been around long enough to remember how hard the relentless cop came down on Momma Peaches’s man, Isaac. Hell, he made most of his high-profile busts off the backs of the Gangster Disciples, which in turn gave that crooked nigga most of his stripes. You’d think he’d at least send us a Christmas card every now and then.
But something else is going on. I can tell by the way the lines in his face are deepening. Before I can think too hard about it, a white truck turns down onto Shotgun Row, and I’m barely able to make out the words ANIMAL CONTROL on its side before it screeches to a stop in front of Python and LeShelle’s crib.
That catches my attention as I realize that the other police cars aren’t around Momma Peaches’s place but around my man’s crib. “What the fuck?”
All thoughts of cussing my momma out for not relaying the messages from Children’s Services fly out of my head. My nosy ass drifts toward the action like the rest of these muthafuckas out here. Shit. My whole upgrade situation is totally dependent on Python’s ass being able to draw breath. Until this moment, I really haven’t given much thought to anything actually happening to that nigga. The muthafucka is a legend in these streets. Superman with two Glocks in his hands. Ain’t nobody been able to take his ass out, and many have tried.
But what if he gets locked up?
Fuck. Niggas get locked up every day all day. What will happen to my ass then?
No man.
No money.
No apartment.
No job.
Fuck. That taste of money I got saved up ain’t gonna last that fuckin’ long. My mind zooms so fast, I have a migraine in two seconds flat and my stomach starts to churn violently. I try to hold it together, but then I see these Animal Control muthafuckas scrambling around with long poles and rounding up snakes. Niggas are pointing and laughing until a few of Python’s babies get loose and start slithering out into the yard and into the streets. Suddenly niggas scream and run in every direction.
I lose it and slap a hand over my mouth. There’s not enough time for me to turn around and race to my momma’s place to throw up, so I drift off the cracked sidewalk and hurl onto Momma Peaches’s front lawn.
“What in the hell?” Momma Peaches’s sharp voice cracks like a whip from her front porch. “Child, are you all right?”
Before I can even attempt to answer, I’m hit with another wave of nausea and I lose the last bit of that bean burrito I had on the way over here. Before long, my stomach muscles lock up and I clutch my big belly like I’m about to go into premature labor.
“Lawd. Lawd.” Momma Peaches shuffles off her porch. “If it ain’t one damn thing, it’s another.”
In the next second, she’s there brushing my blond braids back from my face and rubbing my lower back.
“Now don’t you get yourself all upset,” she consoles. “Everything is going to be all right.” She turns and hollers up at her porch. “Cedric, help me get this child into the house.”
I pull in several deep breaths, but when I manage to push myself upright, I lock gazes with Kookie and Pit Bull across the street. These bitches are staring at me so damn hard that I’m surprised my ass hasn’t just dropped dead on the spot. When Kookie lifts a phone to her ear, there’s no doubt in my mind that the snitching bitch is on the phone with LeShelle.
“You look pale,” Momma Peaches says, checking me over. “C’mon into the house and let me get some food and fluids in you.”
This tall dude comes up behind me and asks in this sexy-as-hell voice, “Can you walk, or do you need me to carry you?”
Fuck. Where in the hell did Momma Peaches find this fine nigga at? “I . . . I can walk.”
“Lean on my arm, sweetheart.”
Hell. I’ll lean on whatever this muthafucka wants. He may be old but . . . fuck! “Thanks,” I say, and then allow him to direct me toward the house. On the way, I flash Kookie and Pit Bull the bird and then smack my fat ass. Let them run and tell that shit.
Once we
’re up the porch stairs, Mr. Fine tells Momma Peaches, “We need to talk.”
“Later,” she says dismissively. “I gotta help settle this child’s stomach. She’s carrying my nephew’s seed.”
Judging by the look on his face, her answer annoys him, but it sure as hell shuts down any conversation he thought he was about to have. Now that’s the kind of power I wish I had over niggas. Momma Peaches knows how to work her gangsta shit. Absently, I wonder what the hell happened with Arzell, but I know better than to ask Momma Peaches about her personal business. I certainly don’t want her cussing and checking my ass in front of everybody.
“It’s been a minute since you’ve been around here,” Momma Peaches says when we enter the kitchen. “I was beginning to think that Python stashed you in another country.”
I frown, disappointed that Python hasn’t kept her up to date about what’s been going on with me and the baby. My thoughts must be written on my face because Momma Peaches adds, “Of course, I don’t ask Python too many questions about his personal business. The less I know the better—especially nowadays.”
I nod and try to see what’s going on outside the kitchen window. “Is Python around?”
“You want some flapjacks? I’m in the mood for some flapjacks,” she says, ignoring my question. Still it puts a smile on my face because everyone knows the 411 on Momma Peaches and her flapjacks. My eyes dart to her new man, and I can’t help but wonder why she ain’t in bed and riding this muthafucka until she got saddle sores. I know I would. He’s fine. “Nah. I’m cool, but if you got a Sprite and some crackers, that would be great.”
She smiles and winks. “Coming right up.”
I laugh and inwardly reaffirm how much I love this old woman. Growing up, I lost count how many times I wished that she was my real momma instead of the one I got. Peaches is tough and she always stands up for her own, which gets me thinking about Captain Johnson again. “I saw Supercop leaving. Now, that’s someone who really hasn’t been around for a minute.”
“Humph!” Momma Peaches plops down a sleeve of crackers and a canned Sprite in front of me. It’s no surprise she doesn’t cough up information. She doesn’t roll like that. If I want to know something, I need to come direct.
“What’s going on down at Python’s? I mean . . . is it something I should be concerned about?”
Momma Peaches shrugs as she lowers herself into the chair across from me. “That shit ain’t for me to say. If you need to know something, you’re going to have to ask him yourself.”
I discreetly settle a hand on my belly as a sly way of playing the pregnant card, but Momma Peaches shakes her head. “Please, child. Don’t embarrass yourself. Dick Cheney couldn’t waterboard information out my ass if he tried, so you giving me those big puppy-dog eyes ain’t doing shit. Believe that.”
“Can’t blame a bitch for trying,” I say, smiling and scooping my cell phone out. I hit Python up on my speed dial. No surprise, my ass goes straight to his voice mail. “Hey, Python, baby. It’s me, Yo-Yo,” I say. “I’m checking in. I haven’t heard from you, and I’m down here on Shotgun Row and, like, the whole damn Memphis Police Department is down here, breaking your shit in. So, um, give me a call and let me know what’s going on or if you need me for anything. All right. Bye.” I disconnect the call and smile at Momma Peaches.
“See. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“No. I guess not.” I pull a cracker out of the sleeve and pop the top on my soda.
Two seconds later, Ms. Josie busts through the door. “Maybelline,” she yells, racing into the kitchen all wide-eyed with a busted lip and bruised neck.
“Damn, bitch.” Momma Peaches jumps out of her chair. “What the fuck I gotta do to stop your ass from rolling up in here like you paying the muthafuckin’ bills around here?”
“You don’t think Python had anything to do with Captain Johnson’s daughter’s murder, do you?” Ms. Josie asks, ignoring Momma Peaches’s question.
I spew out my drink.
Momma Peaches jumps back and nearly topples over the chair behind her. “Goddamn, girl.” Irritated, she turns around and grabs a roll of paper towels.
“Sorry,” I say, but then turn toward Ms. Josie and her crooked wig. Damn. Has someone been beating her ass? “Captain Johnson’s daughter has been murked?”
Josie is eager to keep bumping her gums. “It’s been all over the news for the last couple of days. They found that girl in her bedroom shot the hell up. Blood everywhere. And there’s a city-wide hunt for her missing son.”
Momma Peaches jabs her fists onto her hips. “Anything else you feel like broadcasting, Ms. Reporter?”
Josie blinked. “What? The shit is all over the television. What did I do?”
I hop up and race into the living room to turn on Momma Peaches’s TV. Sure enough, Officer Melanie Johnson’s picture is the first thing I see on Channel 5. It’s a face I remember very well, mainly because she’d walked in on Python busting a nut all over my ass in his office at the Pink Monkey sometime back.
As I stare at her picture on the news, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck start standing up. She’s dead?
LeShelle’s last words to me at Baby Thug’s funeral echo in my head. You ain’t me. You ain’t never gonna be me. And you’re not always gonna be pregnant. Ticktock.
I feel sick again. Turning, I race away from the television to find the small bathroom down the hallway. I barely make it in time to throw up that one cracker, and then I dry-heave until I get another stomach cramp.
“Damn, child. What’s wrong with you?”
By the time I lift my head, I’m trembling like a leaf.
“Child, do you need me to take you to a doctor or something?” Momma Peaches asks, handing me a cool towel to press against my forehead.
I shake my head, though I ain’t too sure that I don’t need a doctor. Or a mortician once LeShelle gets finished with me. “I better get home,” I mutter under my breath.
“You’re more than welcome to lie down here,” Momma Peaches says. “I’m worried about your color.”
Struggling to get off the floor, I shake my head and use the towel to wipe the drool from my mouth. “I’m all right,” I lie. “It’s just one of those days.”
“Well, at least stay over at your crazy momma’s house until your nerves settle,” she insists. “I’m sure she’ll let you do that much.”
The way her dark brown eyes roam over me, I can tell that she really cares and is concerned. That kind of shit makes me smile. Momma Peaches is tough on the outside but soft where it counts. “I’m fine. Really.” I flash a smile and ease past her to exit the bathroom.
As I shuffle back through the living room, the news still has Officer Johnson’s picture up as they go on about the horrific, bloody crime scene. How can I not think about Baby Thug’s murder scene? She had been discovered in a bloody bedroom as well. The only difference I can tell is that this cop was allowed to meet her maker with her pussy bullet-free.
Tears blur my vision, but when I rush outside, the late spring air does wonders against my clammy skin. That relief is short-lived because the heavy weight of Kookie’s and Pit Bull’s gazes lands back on me. This time, when our eyes connect, fear skips down my spine. Suddenly, I don’t feel Python’s blanket of protection at all. In fact, I feel like a crumbled up Flower who has wandered over onto the wrong side of town. Baby Thug’s voice fills my head. You’re in over your head, and you don’t even know it.
As I rush down Momma Peaches’s porch steps and then hightail it back toward my SUV, police cars start rolling out. Shit. I want to be right behind them so they don’t have to come right back and white-chalk my ass.
Tap. Tap.
I whip my head back around to my rolled-up window, and these two ugly, jacked-up bitches are sneering at me through the glass.
“TICKTOCK, TRICK,” Pit Bull shouts.
My hand trembles as I turn over the car. Still I got a little bit of pride left and I can’t le
t them know that I’m seconds away from crapping in my panties. I flip them a bird and yell, “Sit and rotate, bitches!” I shift the car into drive and whip away from the curb.
Behind me, those evil hoes shout, “TICKTOCK!”
20
LeShelle
“That bitch is over there right now?” I ask, and then curse under my breath. What I wouldn’t give for five minutes alone with that retarded muthafucka who thinks she’s going to take my spot. My taste for blood these last couple of days has only gotten stronger, and I know that Yo-Yo is just the bitch I can feast on to give me the little satisfaction I need.
“She’s walking into Momma Peaches’s place right now,” Kookie tattles.
My eyes cut over toward the bedroom door. Python is busy talking to McGriff in the living room. Hell, my ass is even doing a mental calculation on the odds of being able to sneak out of this West Memphis crib, float out to Shotgun Row, murk that pregnant monkey, and make it back here before Python suspects a muthafuckin’ thing.
“Fuck. Watch her ass and let me know what happens.”
“Cool, girl. You know we got your back.”
I roll my eyes at that shit. Anybody who boasts that kind of shit usually is looking for a soft spot to plant a knife. “Don’t talk about it—be about it” is my motto. “A’ight. Get back at me.” I disconnect the call when Kookie shouts. “What now?” I ask, irritated. I want to get in Python’s face about all these loose jump-offs he still got floating around here. This foul shit has got to stop.
“Giiirrrl, I hope y’all plan to stay away from down here for a while because Supercop got the whole damn police force down here. They done busted down y’all’s door and everything.”
Street Divas Page 13
