by Cash
Q contemplated taking the shit over to his side chick Corlette’s crib, but quickly thought better of it. Corlette lived in the Thomasville Heights apartments by the federal penitentiary Po-po was real quick to pull a nigga over and search his whip over that way. Then, too, Corlette might bug out if he showed up at her crib with all that money and work. She was a down-ass chick, but like most hood rats, she ran her mouth too damn much. If word got out that Q had stashed that much shit at her crib, half the hood would be scheming to jack Corlette.
Unable to think of a safer place to go, Q got off the expressway and rented a room at one of the motels out by Hartsfield/Maynard Jackson Airport. After getting the room key from the night receptionist, he went back to his whip and drove around to the back of the motel where the requested room was located. The parking lot of the motel was less than half full with cars, and at this late hour all was quiet.
Q climbed into the back of the SUV, untied one of the sheets and counted the kilos. There were 79 of them thangs—whew! He retied the sheet and left the kilos in the vehicle, like a bundle of dirty laundry. The dark limo tint on the Explorer’s windows would prevent anyone from being able to see inside. He locked the doors and carried the knapsack of money with him into the room.
Inside the room, when Q began counting the guap, it wasn’t all wrapped in thousand dollar stacks like most drug dealers kept their money. So he counted it bill by bill. When he was finished tallying it all up, it came up to a little more than $250,000!
The sun hadn’t peeked through the sky, yet, but Q was too amped up to sleep. Being around Fazio, he had seen way more money than 250 stacks, but never was it his. This was a big come-up.
Usually Fazio hit him off with between 5-10 bricks, at 16 Gs apiece, on consignment, and Q would flip those for whatever profit he could. In addition, Fazio would toss him a few stacks off of each deal Q put together.
Q sat on the bed in the motel room trying to figure out a safe place to stash the stolen money and drugs. Damn! I wish Khalil was here, he said to himself. At the moment Khalil was in prison, a few months short of finishing up a five-year bid. A prison bid Q would’ve been serving had his brother not taken the fall for him.
Q knew that if Khalil was home, his big bruh would come up with a plan at the snap of a finger. Khalil was built like that. Khalil wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the situation. Then, too, Q figured that his big bruh probably would’ve handled things differently from the start. More than likely, Khalil wouldn’t have left Fazio breathing. For sho, had it been B-Man, Fazio would be flat-lined.
Now that Q had a minute to ponder what he had done, he understood that there would be hell to pay once Fazio sobered up and discovered the theft. Fazio’s wrath would be hotter than an inferno. I’ll just have to play my hand right, so that he won’t suspect me.
Just for a passing moment he considered calling B-Man and letting him know the business. But just as quickly he closed his Nokia and discarded the thought. B-Man was his blood, but the butt-naked truth was that B-Man had a lot of hater shit in him. He was shady like few others, and quiet as it was kept, Q sensed that B-Man was still a little salty at him because Q wouldn’t plug him in with his connect. Fuck that, Q said to himself, shit was too serious to chance telling B-Man the business. He laid back on the bed, trying to think of a master plan. It would be best to be at his crib acting as if everything was normal when Fazio discovered that he’d been jacked, and began making his rounds to interrogate those whom he believed could’ve been involved. Q figured he needed to be at the crib chillin’ with Persia.
But first he needed to stash the money and cocaine in a safe place.
Chapter Three
Fazio leaned over the gold-plated commode in the futuristic master bath that connected to the mansion’s master bedroom suite. For the third time he stuck a finger down his throat, inducing vomit. His stomach contracted violently as a stream of bile spewed from his mouth. The rumbling in his belly continued for a full minute after there was nothing left to throw up.
Finally, his stomach settled. Fazio brushed his pearly whites, washed his face, then examined his reflection in the mirror. It was said by many that Fazio resembled Baby Face, but this morning his usually handsome face was distorted by the fury he was feeling inside.
“Fuck!” Fazio ranted.
Then betraying his usual cool, he smashed a fist into the mirror over the sink. Glass shattered to the floor, and a stream of hot blood poured from his knuckles and cascaded down his bare arm.
“You punk bitches wanna play games with me? I’ll kill you nasty hos!”
What the fuck made them think that he was someone to be trifled with? Those bitches had stolen a kilo of powder from him, and his jewelry—played him like a lame. Okay…okay…y’all wanna test my gangsta? Okay! Laugh now, cry later!
It was another twenty minutes before Fazio discovered that he was missing much more than the single kilo of cocaine and the jewelry he’d been wearing. His infuriated scream of profanities could be heard a country block away.
When he calmed down enough to analyze the robbery, what puzzled Fazio most was: why hadn’t those bitches wiped out his entire stash? And how had they found out about the stash spot? Surely they should’ve realized that the punishment for their treachery wouldn’t be lighter simply because they hadn’t stolen it all? As far as Fazio was concerned, the strippers’ fates were sealed. A torturous death at the hands of his Mexican goons awaited Diamond and Vee Vee.
Fazio wrapped a bandage around his bloody knuckles and tried to calm his down. Unbridled fury led to missteps. The game had taught him that through the mistakes of others. Calmer now, he tried to recall who all knew of his hidden stash spot. Who amongst the few also knew Diamond and could’ve told her where to find his stash? He contemplated. Maldanado was the only one of his crew whom Fazio could answer yes to for both questions. He remembered that in a moment of uncustomary carelessness, he had allowed Q to peep his stash spot. But Q hadn’t been rolling with Fazio’s team the night Fazio had met Diamond at the Blue Flame. As far as Fazio knew, Q didn’t even know the bitch.
Again Fazio’s mind settled on Maldanado, his most trusted lieutenant. It had to be him, reasoned Fazio. No one else made sense. But Maldanado had never shown the slightest sign of disloyalty. The Mexican knew that any betrayal he committed against Fazio would, in essence, be a betrayal against, Francisco—El Jefe. Francisco would have Maldanado’s entire family in Mexico murdered.
Fazio knew that if he could track down Diamond and Vee Vee, he would learn who had helped them betray him. A gun to the head of both strippers would be powerful truth serum.
The now calm kingpin took a cold shower to clear his head and revive his energy. When he was showered and dressed, Fazio checked his cell phone for voice messages and saw that there were several messages from Q. The calls from Q coincided with the hours Fazio knew he was passed out. He remembered that he was supposed to have had someone drop off some kilos to Q yesterday.
Fazio, speed-dialed Q, holding the cell phone with his uninjured hand.
“What it do?” answered Q, recognizing Fazio’s personal ringtone.
“What’s poppin’?”
“I need you to fuck wit’ me,” Q replied. “I’ve been tryna get at you since yesterday. I got my peoples on hold; I told you they wanna get ten of them raffle tickets.”
To Fazio’s ears Q sounded the same as always, no stress or guilt was apparent in his tone.
“I got a little problem over here so I’ll have to get back to you later,” Fazio told him.
“Okay, big pimpin’. But I done had these cats on hold for two days already. Plus I need some tickets myself.”
“Tell your people you’ll hit ‘em off tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Q clarified. “Man, these dudes tryna spend a hundred-fifty stacks! They gon’ shop somewhere else if I put ‘em on hold again.” Then he added, “I know that’s lunch money to you, but a po’ nigga like myself need to get that lil’ bit.
”
“Okay,” Fazio acquiesced. “Tell them you’ll handle it later this evening. Let me get things in order on my end. I’ll call you when I’m ready to see you.”
“Sound like a plan,” Q said before hanging up.
Fazio hadn’t heard anything in Q’s voice that made him suspect that he had betrayed his trust. Still he reminded himself that no one is above suspicion where there’s riches to be gained from betrayal. Those whom you least suspected were usually the most likely culprit.
“How in the fuck did I slip like that?” Fazio admonished himself.
It had cost him considerably, but he swore that the streets would overflow with blood until he had found and executed each and every person involved with the lick. Nothing sent a louder message than bullet-riddled bodies dumped in gutters.
Chapter Four
The house phone rang persistently, as if the caller was intent on busting up their groove. Q stopped in mid-stroke, drawing an instant complaint from Persia, who had draped her legs over his shoulders, her ass in the air. He glanced at the caller ID box and saw that it was B-Man. That nigga’s call can wait, he said to himself. Then he got back in rhythm with Persia’s rotating hips and proceeded to blow her back out.
“Ahhh! Faster, boo! Knock the bottom out, baby!” urged Persia. She was throwing that pussy up at him like she was a certified porn star.
“You love this shit, don’tcha?” Q teased.
Persia had been his girl for two years now, and he still couldn’t get enough of her wet-wet. It was like shawdy’s sex had him addicted. Outside the bedroom their relationship wasn’t all peaches and cream because Persia was on some real materialistic shit. But Q knew how to deal with that side of his girl. He just spoiled her.
At twenty-five years old, Persia was older than Q by four years. She was a caramel brown dime piece with mad booty. What Persia looked like in a thong deserved is own reality show! The first time Q had seen that phat ass in a thong, all he could say was . . . Dayum!
Closely resembling a young Jay-Z, but a shade darker, Q wasn’t the most handsome of the Jones brothers—that distinction belonged to Khalil—but he wasn’t tore up. If a shawdy took points away from him because he didn’t look like Usher, she had to give him points for the T.I. in him. Q was a grand hustla.
A few years back, when Q was still a trap star, Persia had been a baller named Travis’s girl. Q used to take a glance at Persia riding through Thomasville Heights in the passenger seat of Travis’s tricked-out whips, and he swore to himself that one day Persia would be his girl. Back then Q knew that his money wasn’t grown up enough to try to holla at Persia. It was no secret how she got down for hers. A nigga had to be really gettin’ to it to lock her down. But Q could dream.
When Persia’s man caught two hot ones in the back of his fitted cap, Q knew it was time to step up his hustle and holla at Persia. The first time he tried to get at her she listened to his mack, but she wouldn’t come off with the digits when he asked for her cell phone number. She accepted his, but never called. Then Q plugged into Fazio and began gaining more status in the hood. Fazio started hittin’ him off with weight and before long Q’s money grew up. His jewels got heavier; he copped a new candy-painted Chrysler 300 sitting on big rims, and with that, his stature in the streets elevated.
Persia noticed that he had stepped up his hustle and before you knew it she was giving him much more than just some holla.
“You wanna shower together?” Persia asked as she headed for the bathroom, ass jiggling and Q’s semen running down her luscious thighs.
“Nah, shawdy,” Q declined. “If we do that, you gon’ try to seduce a playa again.”
“You complaining?”
“Never dat.”
“Well?” Persia cooed, showing him her tongue ring.
“Damn, shawdy,” Q replied with a smirk. “You done already fucked a nigga’s back out this morning. Let me get ready and go handle some business.”
“I thought you said you had to wait around for Fazio to get back at you?” Persia reminded him.
“He can hit me on my cell. I need to go and try to catch up with this lil’ bitch ass nigga who owes me for a half of brick.”
“Since you about to get in the streets, I guess I can go to the mall and do some shopping.” Persia said.
Q knew what was next, and Persia was sure that he knew. So, why he gon’ make me ask? She was thinking as Q stood there playing dumb.
“Q, you gon’ gimme some money to go shopping wit?”
“What happened to your check?” Persia worked part-time at her uncle’s bails bond company across from the Pre-Trial Center downtown.
“That ain’t enough to shop with!” Persia complained.
“Well, maybe you need to find a better paying job. Or maybe ya taste is too expensive.”
“Or maybe I need to find a better hustlin’ nigga!” Persia shot back.
“He ain’t gon’ fuck you like I do,” Q laughed as he stepped into the shower and pulled the shower curtain closed. He wasn’t trippin’.
Persia snatched the curtain back, almost ripping it off its track. Her hands were on her hips, neck rolling, the corner of her top lip turned up.
“Nigga, you gon’ give me some money or not?”
“Nah, shawdy. My bank is a little funny this week. I’ll hook you up next weekend.” He pulled the shower curtain closed. Persia damn near ripped that bitch down!
“Oh, muthafucka, you just gon’ clown me like dat?”
“Clown you like what?” Q asked, soaping his body, trying to keep his dreadlocks from getting wet.
“Think about it, ol’ cheap-ass nigga, when you come home one day and find me and all my shit gone!”
The phone rang just as Persia returned to the bedroom in a huff.
“Hello?”
“What’s poppin’, lil’ mama? Where ya boy at?”
“Hey, B-Man. Q’s in the shower,” related Persia recognizing Q’s brother’s deep voice.
“Good, ‘cause I like talking to you much more than I like talking to him, anyway.”
“I bet you wouldn’t tell him that.” There was a detectable playfulness in her tone.
“Girl, stop,” chuckled B-Man. “My brother don’t put no fear in nobody. I’m that nigga the streets fear. You ain’t heard?” he boasted. “Q too scared to lose you to bust his gun and risk catching a bid.”
“Well, hold on. Lemme take him the phone so you can tell him that.”
“Don’t play yaself, lil’ mama. Anyway, fuck Q. When you and me gon’ hook up? I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Why niggas always want what they ain’t got no business having?” Persia sat down on the edge of the bed, holding the cordless to her ear with a shoulder, as she studied her raspberry-painted toenails and half listened to B-Man spit game.
“On the real, shawdy. When you gon’ start taking a nigga seriously? I be shootin’ the shit at you, but at the same time, a nigga tryna fuck wit’ you for real. If I was your man, I’d keep you icy, take you on vacations to Aruba and shit—“
“Nigga, you can’t spell Aruba,” Persia interrupted him, laughing at his game.
“Real talk, shawdy, Q don’t know how to treat a star like you.”
“And I suppose you do?”
“Damn right. I’m serious, baby doll—you and me make a winning team. All you gotta do is say the word.”
“Say the word about what, dawg?” asked Q. Persia had just handed him the phone.
“Naw . . . naw,” stuttered B-Man, quickly recovering. “I was talking to lil’ mama over here,” he smoothly lied. Silently he was cussing Persia for that fuck shit she had just pulled. It made him even more determined to get those drawz.
“Yo, bruh, gimme a half hour, then hit me on my cell phone,” Q told him. He figured B-Man was calling to ask if he was ready to handle a three brick deal that he had set up.
By the time B-Man hit him on his cell phone, Q had bounced from the crib and was headed to the
Bluff to try to run down Lamar, the lil’ nigga who owed him twelve stacks for a half of brick Q had fronted to him more than three weeks ago.
“I’ma get back witcha as soon as my people get back wit me,” Q was telling B-Man. Q wanted to tell B-Man to quit pressing him; that you only press clothes and hos.
“Damn, shawdy. I done had partna and ‘em on hold for three days. What da fuck, Fazio ain’t got no work?”
B-Man stood to make $6,500 profit if the deal went through, so it twisted his face for Q to keep setting it off. B-Man felt that lately Q had been handling him fucked up, and was beginning to get the big head.
“Check it, shawdy. Tell them niggaz to shop somewhere else if they can’t wait,” said Q.
“Whateva, nigga,” replied B-Man, salty. Then he hit Q in the ear with a dial tone.
Q had too much other shit on his mind to let B-Man rankle him. He knew that his brother remained salty with him because he hadn’t vouched for B-Man’s credibility when Fazio was considering fronting B-Man some weight. Even when Fazio said he’d be willing to drop them some weight as a team, Q had declined. He knew his brother well enough not to team up with B-Man. Not only was B-Man lazy when it came to getting his grind on, he was quick to play games with a nigga’s work and Fazio would’ve been just as quick to send some loco Mexicano to wet ‘em up. Q hadn’t wanted to end up getting murked over a debt B-Man owed. Even when Q fronted his brother some work, B-Man would come short on the debt.
Q cruised through the Bluff hoping to spot Lamar, he was still amped from last night’s come up, but was trying to move as normally as possible. He decided that the key to getting away with the theft was for him to keep a normal routine and not start dropping weight around the city.
