Bonded by Blood

by Cash

  “Yeah, baby girl, you did hella good,” Khalil pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  Rayne fought back the urge to snatch Cha Cha’s expensive weave out! Kissing, she thought, was supposed to be sacred between her and Khalil. If her eyes had been knives, two blades would’ve been sticking out of Cha Cha’s fuckin’ back! The bitch hadn’t been there a hot twenty minutes and Rayne already wanted her gone.

  Cha Cha wasn’t being catty when she asked Khalil in an impish tone, “Since I did so good, daddy will you make love to me?” Cha Cha asked Khalil.

  Rayne wanted to slit her throat.

  “Pleeeze, daddy? After two days of strictly tongue, I need some dick, and not no trick dick,” Cha Cha added with a laugh.

  “I might hook you up a little somethin’ somethin’,” Khalil said. “Rayne, baby, go tidy up the bedroom while I give Cha Cha a bath.”

  Releasing Cha Cha from his embrace Khalil peeped the intensity of Rayne’s gaze and noted it as something he’d have to keep an eye on. She’ll get used to it, though, he was convinced.

  The following day Khalil dipped by his pop’s crib. Rapheal was just chillin’ at the crib with Elisse.

  “What it do, pop?” Khalil spoke as Rapheal let him in. “Hi, Elisse, Rapheal treating you okay?”

  Elisse replied, “He’s treating me superfantastic!” she beamed, looking like Fantasia, thick, juicy lips and all. Elisse loved her some Rapheal, and now that he hadn’t smoked crack in more than a month Rapheal was regaining his swag. Q had begun fronting Rapheal, a brick at a time, and so far Rapheal was keeping his business square.

  Khalil had worried that their pops might have a “slip up”, selling the same drug that had been his downfall before. “Why not dust off ya pimp game and get back that way?” Khalil had suggested.

  “Nah, that’s over with for me. You gotta love it to live it; I pass you the torch.”

  Khalil was taking the torch and running with it, tryna reach the pimp’s Hall of Fame.

  As for Rapheal, he was doing alright. He didn’t sell crack, he only sold powder. Mostly to old heads that he knew from back in his heyday. He didn’t fuck with young jitterbugs, they had no respect for the game.

  Khalil surprised Rapheal with the iced-out Rolex he’d gotten from Cha Cha yesterday.

  “You’re blingin’,” Elisse teased Rapheal.

  “Go on, girl!” Rapheal busted a smile.

  “Yo, pop, I gotta bounce, man. I gotta check on Emily, my lil’ snowbird. I just stopped by to drop that Rolex on you, nigga. You straight on everything else?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. I hooked up with Quantavious earlier. You good?” inquired Rapheal.

  “Pimpin’ hard pop, pimpin’ hard.”

  “Remember if you ain’t gon’ play to win, don’t play at all,” Rapheal reminded him. “The world is yours, make them hos bow down to dat.”

  “Nothing less, pops.”

  They gave each other fist.

  Emily was a tall, blonde haired, blue-eyed white girl Khalil had picked up one day at Lennox Mall—picked the ho up and added to his stable just like he’d pick up new gear for his wardrobe.

  Khalil had taken Sinnamon and Rayne to Lennox Mall, rewarding them with a shopping spree to break the dull monotony of work, work, and work.

  Emily saw the handsome black dude with two dimes on his arm, in the Gucci store, and figured he had to be an entertainer or a ball player; she had seen dozens as a flight attendant for Delta Airlines. Through eye contact she made it known that she was interested in him. Khalil flashed her a smile that said, I don’t discriminate.

  Emily didn’t snag herself a rich entertainer or star athlete, instead she got snagged by a nigga that was out to pimp or die. In a matter of weeks Emily belonged to Khalil’s stable. However, he made a concession for her; she would not have to become a stripper. Emily’s job as a flight attendant served up plenty enough tricks for her to fulfill her weekly quota. The Maria Sharapova look alike, with the Angelina Jolie sex appeal, was already tricking with airline pilots and wealthy businessmen who frequently flew Delta.

  “Hi, daddy!” Emily beamed pearly whites. “I missed you so much.” She cooed, letting Khalil in her crib.

  “I missed you, too, baby,” said Khalil, “You got my trap proper?”

  “Yes, daddy, always. I'm a good ho,” she replied.

  “Indeed you are” he agreed. And later when he counted the trap money and saw that it

  was a stack more than quota, he promised, “Daddy is gonna give you a little treat.” He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom where he put an exclamation point on his mack game.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Summer swung into fall, but the temperature in the “A” remained sweltering. Though it was deep into September it was almost ninety-five degrees outside. In the hoods, people were hanging out, doing what they do in the Dirty South, damn the heat.

  Q and Khalil were steadily tryna master their respective hustles, while B-Man, was tryna hide his increasing drug habit from his brothers. The woo-woos, along with his envious heart, laziness, and foolishness with his chips was beginning to bring B-Man down.

  Khalil’s stable was still at four. But Sinnamon, Rayne, Cha Cha and Emily were official moneymakers, more guaranteed than government insured bonds. Had Khalil been a thirsty or impatient nigga he could’ve been added more hoes to his stable. Khalil was careful and particular about the additions to his family. One bad apple could spoil the whole bunch. Life was too sweet to fuck up with a false move.

  Khalil had already got off of the ten bricks Q had blessed him with, and then stepped away from dealing drugs. If a nigga had to push dope to supplement his pimp money, that meant he wasn’t pimpin’ hard enough. I’ma leave the dope game to baby bruh, he wisely decided.

  As for Q, he was doing it large now. He had locked down the Thomasville Heights and Moreland Avenue areas. And he hadn’t had to beef with these niggaz to accomplish it. He had simply served weight to niggaz at a sweet price, sacrificing some profit to win their business from other dealers. He’d earned a rep for being reliable and trustworthy—his product was always on time and on point.

  Life is Lovely, Q was thinking as he whipped through Thomasville Heights bumpin’ Young Jeezy in his Explorer. Niggaz were outside, in the projects, on every block. They tried to flag Q down when they spotted his gleaming whip pass by, but he just honked his horn, threw up the deuce from behind tinted bubble-windows, and mashed on. He had love for his homies, but too many of ‘em had shitted on him when he’d gave ‘em a chance. Fuck tryna help a man that won’t help himself. Q was taking prison chances er’day; his homies needed to get their own hustles and quit tryna eat off of him.

  When Q pulled up in front of Corlette’s crib, lil’ kids bum-rushed his whip as if he was Santa Claus. They all knew they could hit Q up for ice cream and candy money; the bigger kids might even walk away with a dub.

  “Calm down,” Q said, smiling down at the little hardheads. “Get in line, I’ma give all y’all some money.”

  The dozen or so kids jumped up and down with excitement.

  “Vashon, why you cutting line? Go to the back or I ain’t giving you nothing,” Q lightly scolded a twelve year old.

  “Gimme some sugah, Dayja,” he said to a cute six year old girl who lived two doors down.

  Dayja kissed Q’s cheek, then she skipped off clutching the ten-dollar bill he gave her.

  Q passed out ten-dollar bills to eight other children, and then gave five older kids a twenty a piece. When Vashon was the only one left in line Q slid him a hundred dollars.

  “Make sure you buy some groceries for you and your little sister,” he said.

  Q knew that Vashon’s Ma Dukes was strung out on crack and neglected her children; it was a wonder nobody had called DFACS on her.

  “Y’all got school clothes?”

  “Nope,” Vashon answered honestly, “Fuck school anyway.”

  Q rubbed the top of the boy’s
head and laughed. “ I’ma have Corlette take you and your sister shopping for school clothes,” he promised.

  Q went inside Corlette’s apartment and found her feeding their month and a half old daughter, Alize, milk from a bottle.

  When Q had suggested “Alize” as the name for their baby, at first Corlette wasn’t having it.

  “You ain’t naming our daughter no ghetto name like dat!” she had scoffed.

  “Why not, shawdy?”

  “Cause it’s tacky.”

  “No, it ain’t. I was on dat Alize the night I pumped you up,” Q had revealed. So Corlette had conceived.

  Q bent over Corlette and kissed Alize’s little cheeks. “Oh, before I forget,” Q said, “I want you to take Vashon and little Val shopping for school clothes.”

  “Huh?” Vashon’s little bad ass ain’t gonna go to school”

  “It don’t matter just take them shopping, those kids ain’t got shit. You know their mama is a clucker,” said Q.

  “Okay when you want me to take ‘em?” asked Corlette.

  “ASAP.”

  Q gave her a stack and a half. “Buy ‘em name brand shit. And tear the tags off the clothes before you let ‘em take ‘em home—Gloria might try to take the clothes back to the store and exchange them for money.”

  Corlette wiped away a tear that she hadn’t felt coming until it was already wet on her butter-colored skin. Motherhood was softening her emotions. It touched her to see Q do things for others, just from the heart. It proved to Corlette that her baby’s daddy was worth the infinite love that she had for him.

  “They was shooting over here last night,” said Corlette.

  “Who was shootin’?”

  “I don’t know; I didn’t look outside, but I heard ‘em.”

  “I’ma move you away from here,” he said.

  “When?” asked Corlette, hoping that she didn’t sound conniving.

  Q promised her that it wouldn’t be long.

  A few minutes later Q’s cell phone rang. “S’up?”

  “I’m ready,” Fazio informed him.

  “Gimme about an hour,” Q said.

  Q kissed Corlette and the baby good-bye, and headed outside to his whip. When he got to the crib Persia wasn’t there. Q knew that she didn’t have to work today, so he wondered where the fuck she was at. She betta not be nowhere creepin’! He thought to himself. Lately, she stayed gone some muthafuckin’ place or the other. He was gonna have to lock that ass down, ‘cause she was indeed a slick bitch.

  Right now, he didn’t have time to call around and hunt Persia down. He’d called her on her cell phone, but apparently it was off, or she was ignoring his call. Fuck it! I’ll check her ass when I get back tonight, he told himself.

  Q heard the car horn. He looked out the window and saw that it was one of Fazio’s people. Q grabbed a backpack from the bedroom closet and carried it with him outside.

  “Sup,” Q spoke, sliding into the backseat of the non-descript four door Buick. Up front was Jimmy, Fazio’s nephew and Hector, one of Fazio’s boys. Hector was behind the wheel.

  “You got the money?” asked Jimmy.

  “Yeah, it’s all here,” Q said, holding the backpack up.

  When Hector pulled off Q asked, “Sup, amigo?”

  Usually Fazio’s people made the exchange right there in the parking lot. Obviously, something had changed.

  “Sup, amigo?” Q asked a little louder while trying not to act alarmed.

  Hector pretended like he didn’t understand English all of a sudden.

  Jimmy explained, “My uncle told us to pick you up and bring you to him.”

  His tone sounded ominous.

  “Bring me to him? What da fuck going on?”

  “I don’t know, folks,” replied Jimmy.

  Hector said nothing.

  The ride out to Fazio’s mansion was heavy with silence. Q had no idea what Jimmy and Hector were thinking. Damn, I ain’t got my strap with me, and these muthafuckas acting all funny style and shit. Like I’m in a world of trouble with Fazio. Which can only mean one thing!

  I oughta jump out this muthafucka.

  But they were already on the interstate; if he jumped out of the car now he was sure to be ran over and killed by trailing motorists.

  Fuck it, I’ma let the situation play itself out. If Fazio has found out I clipped his stash I’d already be stomped. Then, too, if he was sending the Grim Reaper at me, that fool-ass Mexican, Maldanado, would be in the front seat, I’m sure. Q was thinking all the way out to Fazio’s crib.

  “Have a seat,” Fazio said.

  Q had just been escorted into the large den. He sat with the backpack of money between his feet.

  Fazio sat next to Q on the half-oval sofa made of soft butter leather. Maldenado sat on one of the long sofas; Hector took a seat at the other end, while Jimmy sat down in an end chair. Four other `eses and two other Blacks stood around the room.

  Nobody’s visage was friendly.

  I’m going to die! Q was thinking.

  “Several months ago I was robbed,” began Fazio. “The details don’t matter. I know that the snake who set the robbery up is here in this room tonight.”

  He looked at Maldenado, then to Q, his eyes fierce and piercing.

  Q felt a sudden urge to swallow and avert his eyes away from Fazio’s penetrating stare, but he didn’t dare. He just maintained his game face.

  “I believe I know who the guilty one is,” Fazio continued. The even keel of his voice was more intimidating than had he been shouting. He stood up from the couch and nodded imperceptibly to Jimmy.

  Jimmy left the den.

  Minutes later Jimmy returned holding a sawed-off shotgun, which he promptly handed to Fazio.

  Fazio cocked open the shotgun and loaded both barrel with double-aught shells. When he snapped the weapon closed, the sound itself would’ve caused Q to jump had he not been willing himself to remain still and expressionless.

  As Fazio paced back and forth, from one end of the long sofa to the other, saying nothing, Q was feeling his underarms begin to perspire. Suddenly Fazio stopped at one end of the half-oval sofa, where Hector sat, leveled the shotgun at the Mexican and pulled the trigger.

  Kaboom!

  The unexpected blast caught Hector square in the chest, lifting him up and nearly flipping him over the back of the sofa. Blood sprayed all over the place.

  Kaboom!

  The second blast decapitated Hector.

  Fazio said, “I never really trusted that muthafucka.”

  He handed the shotgun back to Jimmy.

  “We just found out Hector stole from my associates in Mexico a few years ago when he worked for them.”

  The den was as quiet as a library after business hours.

  “It took a few years for Hector’s thievery to be discovered, but as you all can see,” Fazio waved his hand over Hector’s mutilated body. “Once his guilt was established, punishment was swift and merciless. The same fate awaits whichever of you stole my shit.”

  Fazio looked from one face to the other. “Return all the stolen cocaine and money to me. I don’t care how you get it to me, or who you get to deliver it—I won’t harm them. But as soon as you return my shit, you better get out of town, and never come back. If you do it that way, I give you my word I won’t come looking for you. But if you make me have to sniff out which one of you robbed me, you get what Hector got.”

  Q might’ve been a fool, but he wasn’t a damn fool. There was no way he was buying that bullshit Fazio was tryna sell. He concluded that Fazio didn’t really know which one of them had robbed him; tonight’s brutal display was an attempt to scare whomever had robbed him into returning the stolen loot.

  Jimmy drove Q back to his condo. During the drive he informed Q that Fazio planned to have them all polygraphed, but Jimmy did not say when the tests would be administered. Jimmy liked Q, and he didn’t believe that Q was the culprit.

  “Be easy, dawg,” said Jimmy as he let Q
out at his front door.

  Q had smoked five Newport’s to calm his nerves. When his heart rate returned to normal he realized that wifey still hadn’t come home. Where the fuck she at? He wondered. He didn’t need Persia stressing him out, not with the stress he was already under.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Persia and B-Man were at the hotel. Yesterday he had called her up and dropped dime on Q about Corlette and the new baby.

  “The nigga over there right now if you don't believe me?” he snitched.

  Persia had gotten out of bed to go see for herself. When she drove past the apartments where B-Man said Q would be and saw his car parked outside, that was all the confirmation

  she needed. He had told her that him and Khalil was going out of town on business. PAYBACK IS HOW I GET DOWN, she'd said to herself as she drove away steaming. And today she was paying him back in the worst way! She smiled with no regret as she felt B-Man slide out of bed.

  He went in the bathroom, locked the door, and lit a woo-woo. The sensation was unbelievable. He closed his eyes and thought about how good sex was with Persia. She had that wet wet. A soft rap on the bathroom door interrupted his pleasurable thoughts.

  “Hurry up, B-Man. I gotta pee!” Yelled out Persia.

  He put out the woo and let her in. She nudged him out of the bathroom and closed the door. She wrinkled up her nose as the lingering scent from the woo-woo assaulted her nostrils when she sat down on the commode.

  “Damn, nigga, what were you smoking in there?” Persia asked B-Man when she came back into the room.

  “Some new weed, from the Bahamas,” lied B-Man.

  “It smells like crack.”

  B-Man didn’t respond. He was admiring Persia’s body; she was so damn fine. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled Persia to him. He took her by the hips, pulled her closer, and ran his tongue up the length of her slit. Persia's knees wobbled but her pleasure was interrupted by Q's ringtone.

  “Damn, yo pussy taste good,” he mumbled.

  Persia’s knees had just stopped wobbling when her cell phone rang. She retrieved the phone from inside her purse and sat down on the bed, pulling the bed sheet over her nakedness.