“Damn, shorty, you ain’t gonna leave a nigga with nothing?” he pleaded.
“Mutha fucka you need to be thankful that I ain’t taking your life,” she reminded him.
Pete went about the task of unhooking his two day old Blue-Ray before going to the freezer and getting the work. When it was all said and done she could barely carry both of the pillow cases and her gun at the same time. She walked Pete into the living room and for a minute he thought his humiliation was at an end, but it was just starting.
“We almost done,” she removed a roll of duct tape from her purse, “but I gotta tie up the loose ends,” she proceeded to bind Pete’s hands and feet. Once they were secure she used the remainder of the duct tape to tie him to the radiator.
“What you bout to do to me?” he asked fearfully as she approached him, digging around in her bag.
“Don’t worry, big daddy, I ain’t gonna hurt nothing else but your pride,” she grinned wickedly, pulling her hand out of the bag, holding a small case.
Sha-Born couldn’t believe his eyes. The sight was so crazy that he had to call his peoples little Dave and Mack, so they could vouch for the authenticity when he put the word on the streets. The three of them laughed so hard that tears ran down their eyes when they stumbled on Pete three hours later.
He was ass naked and tied to the radiator, but that wasn’t the funny part. Before the mystery woman had left she had applied lipstick and eye shadow to Pete’s face. He looked like a broken up drag queen, squirming around on the floor. The trio of young boys laughed at him for almost ten minutes before finally cutting him loose.
TWO
Arthur Kill Correctional Facility was located deep in Staten Island, New York. It was a small compound, in contrast to other New York State prisons, but served the same purpose; to house and supposedly reform criminals. On the one hand, it was a blessing to be housed there because it spared family and friends the trouble of riding all the way upstate to visit their loved ones, but on the other hand… what the fuck could be blessed about a prison?
A guard sat behind the booth near the visitor’s entrance/exit reading a Don Diva Magazine. She clicked her gum and thumbed through the pages, looking as if she could think of a million and one things she’d rather be doing than her job. At the sound of the automatic door that led to the bowels of the prison, she lifted her head and tried to seem alert.
Two guards came through escorting a young man who appeared to be in his early to mid-twenties. He had grown his hair while he was away, and now sported it in a messy pony tail, that showed his handsome face. His skin was ashy, but still smooth and youthful considering what he had just gone through. It had been five long years since the powers that be of the justice system informed him that he would more than likely be spending the rest of his natural life in a cage. Five years since he had felt the touch of a woman who didn’t have an ulterior motive, the one woman he had ever loved other than his mother. Five years since the only family he had left in the world had been gunned down by some jealous niggaz for trying to feed his people. But at long last, he was free.
The female guard watched intently as the two escorts exchanged words with the young man before disappearing back through the automatic doors, leaving him alone. She waited until she was sure they were out of earshot before addressing the young man.
“Well, well, looks like somebody is going home,” she said, beaming at him.
The young man returned her smile. “Thank God. After five years of fighting I’ve finally gotten my freedom back.”
“I wish I could say I was sorry to see you go, Bernard,” she addressed him by his government name. It was a rude statement to make to someone who was being released from prison, but there was no malice in her tone. She came from around the booth to stand in front of him. Reynolds was short with ass for days and big enough breasts to feed triplets. She didn’t have the most attractive face, but what she lacked in looks she more than made up for in physique.
“Now, is that a nice thing to say to a man whose been wrongfully accused, Reynolds?” he asked playfully.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that, but I’m gonna miss our little midnight shakedowns,” she clarified.
For the last six months or so Derrick and Officer Reynolds had developed a special relationship. She was a bored housewife whose husband wasn’t showing her enough affection. As with a lot of the female, and the occasional male, guards who worked the correctional system, she had sought comfort in one of the inmates she guarded. During the wee hours of the night, and sometimes morning, Reynolds would sneak him out of his cell and up to the laundry room. They would have fall down, drag out sex until neither of them could stand. There was no emotional attachment between them, so things worked beautifully. Reynolds got the gangster ass pounding that her husband was too stiff to perform and Derrick got to get some real pussy during his bid.
“Me too,” he reminisced on their late night escapades. “But as with all good things, this too must come to an end.”
“Not necessarily so,” she removed a business card from her uniform pocket and placed it in his hand. “Give me a call when you get settled.”
“I’ll do that,” he said, purposely brushing against her as he passed. He had almost made it to the door when she called after him.
“You know it still amazes me how you were able to pull this one off. A black man gets caught in a house with two bodies and five years later he’s a free man? Who says the system doesn’t work for us. One day you’re gonna have to tell me how you were able to get that verdict overturned.”
He paused, giving her his heart melting smile. “I’ll think about it.”
She could barely fight the urge to kiss those full lips one last time, but it would’ve been a fool’s move with the cameras watching them. As mean as his cock game was, the departing inmate wasn’t worth her job or her marriage. With a sigh, she watched him pass through the double doors and into freedom.
There was a small cluster of people standing outside the facility waiting for the bus. A woman clutched the hand of her unruly child as he screamed that he didn’t want to leave his daddy. Derrick thanked his lucky stars that he didn’t have children. There was no way he would’ve wanted his child to see him in prison. The moment his charges were rattled off and the iron door to his cell slammed shut he’d decided that any and all things associated with the outside world were as dead to him as he was to them. He even refused visits from those dearest to him. It was a hard pill to swallow, but it would’ve been even harder to do his bid with them on his mind. No, to suffer alone was better than to drag others into misery.
It would be a few minutes before the next bus to the Staten Island ferry came chugging along to pick up the passengers at the end of the line so the freed prisoner decided to do something constructive with his time. Pulling a piece of paper from the pocket of his faded jeans he dropped a quarter in the phone and punched in the number scribbled on it. By the fourth ring he was beginning to get discouraged, but on the fifth someone answered the phone.
“Yeah,” the voice said, as if the caller was disturbing him.
“Inmate Brown, what it be like?”
“Young blood, is that you?” Brown’s voice had lost its edge and was now pleasant.
“Yeah, man. I’m on the streets.”
“Damn, they really overturned your shit?” Brown asked jovially.
“I got the paperwork to prove it, baby boy. Besides, you know the word of a snitch can’t keep a stand up nigga down,” the young man boasted.
“At least in your case, Duce,” Brown joked. “How long you been on the streets?”
“About five minutes, but I’m ready to rock and roll.” Duce assured him.
“You don’t waste any time do you?”
“Dawg, they just stole five years of my life. I can’t afford to waste time when I’m still playing catch up.”
“I hear you, soldier. Tell you what, get yourself settled and give me a call. I got someth
ing lined up that you might be interested in, that’s if you’re ready to stomp with the big dawgz?”
“Nigga, you know my heart don’t pump nothing but ice water. Once I get in the town I’ll hit you back so we can set something up.”
“Say no more,” Brown said and hung up.
“One down,” Duce said to no one in particular as he fished around in his pocket for another quarter. He dropped the coin into the slot and punched in another number on the payphone. This time the phone had barely rung twice before someone picked up.
“Yeah?” a voice answered.
“Cousin Reggie, what’s good?” Duce said jovially.
“Who the fuck is this?” Reggie shot back.
“It’s me, Duce.”
“Oh, shit the notorious D-Murder,” Reggie said.
“Come on cuzo that D-Murder shit is for niggaz that ain’t fam, and that cat is laying in the cut until I call him out. You know I’ve always been Duce to you and auntie.”
“Duce, I ain’t heard from you in ages. How’s life on the inside?”
“Shit, I wouldn’t know. I’m on the streets.”
“The streets? I thought they gave you like a hundred years?” Reggie asked suspiciously. Duce was his family, but he’d been there when they handed him the long walk at the sentencing.
“It’s a long story, my nigga, but before you even run the risk of offending me with the question, let me give you the answer. I ain’t snitched on nobody,” Duce told him.
“Cousin, I didn’t mean it like…”
“It’s all good, Reg, but check it out, I need a favor from you, son.”
Reggie sucked his teeth. “Duce, I ain’t spoke to you in five years and the first thing you crack on me for is a favor? Damn, just like a nigga fresh out the pen. Look, I ain’t got no bread so…”
“Reggie, you should know better than anybody else that I ain’t ever been strapped for no cash. I had more than enough bread tucked away before I got knocked and my paper game is still up. I need you to get me a pair of them knockoff Timbs in a size nine, can you do that for me?”
By ‘Timbs’, Duce meant guns.
“I don’t know, D. You fresh out the joint so I know you’re hot as a fire cracker,” Reggie said.
“Cousin, you know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t absolutely need it,” Duce said.
“Everything alright, or do I gotta come down and see something for you, cuz?” Reggie asked seriously. He was known to be an asshole, but you could always count on Reggie to step up where family was concerned. They were about the same age and tended to get paired at family gatherings. When Duce and his brother got caught in the double cross, Reggie took it the hardest. Quiet as kept, he played a big part in the increase of bodies in Harlem in the months after Duce’s arrest.
“Yes and no. Listen, it’s a little hard to explain so I ain’t even gonna try. All I’ll say is that I’m putting my brother’s affairs in order, smell me?”
The line momentarily went silent. Reggie had been a running partner of Duce’s brother years ago so he knew the tragic tail without Duce having to rehash it. “A’ight, come uptown and see me tonight and I got what you need, yo.”
“Bet,” Duce said with a smile. “I’ll come through the projects on the later side. Good looking, cuzo,” Duce placed the receiver back on the cradle and exhaled. He had been a free man for less than ten minutes and he was already back up to his old tricks. A smart man would’ve fell back and tried to feel the world out, but not him. There were scores to be settled and the sooner he did, the sooner he could reclaim his life.
THREE
“Oh, now this one is hot!” Mo declared, holding up a cream colored Chanel clutch bag that boasted a gold clamp.
“It’s okay, but a little small for my taste,” Frankie told her, while eyeing a slightly larger bag equipped with a detachable shoulder sling. “This is more my speed.”
Mo placed the bag back on the rack and turned to Frankie. “Girl, you kill me with them big ass grandma bags. How you gonna step out in a mean dress with that big ass strap blowing the whole fit? A good clutch will always make a statement; you better get up on it, Frankie.”
“Well, a tiny bag works for those of us who ain’t got much to put in it,” Frankie shot back.
“Yeah, I forgot you got a fetish for chrome, Frankie Five Fingers,” Mo teased. She had acquired the nickname from her knack for making off with things that didn’t belong to her. Ever since they were young girls Frankie had been a skilled thief, a skill that she sharpened in adulthood.
“Don’t go there, bitch,” Frankie warned her playfully. The two childhood friends went back and forth like that all the time. Frankie and Mo had been friends since the eighth grade. Even back then Frankie had a very low key style about her, dressing tomboyish but maintaining a natural sex appeal. Her mind spent more time on money than guys, but Mo was the opposite. She was a high-yellow girl with pretty hair who carried herself as if the world owed her a debt. The way men fawned over her and females hated on her gave Mo a sense of power which she exercised quite a bit. Back in school, Frankie would find herself fighting just about every Friday because of something Mo had gotten them into.
As they matured and their personalities surfaced, the two girls remained thick as thieves but their lives went in two different directions. While Mo went off to school, Frankie found herself knee deep in the game. There was something about the allure and dangers of the underworld that attracted Frankie like a moth to a flame. There was something about fast money that appealed to her more than the life of a square. Frankie couldn’t see herself slaving at a job or being codependent on a man for her survival. Back then, her mind set was that nobody could do for her what she did for herself, but ironically enough it was a man who changed all that.
Their love for each other could’ve only been described as a blessing from God. Two tortured souls, seeking understanding in a world that had cast them aside as little more than statistics. She was the anvil and he the hammer that had formed an unbreakable bond, but foolish pride had done the seemingly impossible. For being his rider, his gangsta bitch, she was left holding the bag in one hand and a bleeding heart in the other. Frankie tried to forgive him and not curse his memory every day, but his mark was etched into her soul. The bitterness within her constantly fought with the love, but through it Frankie managed to keep her sanity, further showing that she was a stand up chick.
Frankie’s cell phone ringing interrupted the girls’ little debate over handbags, and her painful trip down memory lane. Placing her purse on one of the wooden benches, she began the task of retrieving her cell phone. Like most women Frankie kept a mess of things in her purse from lipstick to band aids, but unlike most women there was a nickel-plated .22 holstered in the zippered section of her bag that was reserved for wallets. By the fourth ring she had managed to snatch the phone from the bottom of the bag and answer it.
“Fuck took you so long to answer ya phone?” the caller barked.
“Well, hello to you too, big daddy,” Frankie said sarcastically.
“Frankie, don’t get cute. Where are you?”
“Me and Mo are on Madison Avenue.”
“Y’all broads love to spend cake, especially when it’s the next nigga’s,” the caller remarked.
“Boo, don’t even come at me sideways. You know Frankie makes her own way,” she said defensively.
“Damn, I’m only playing,” he said, softening his tone. “Did you take care of that thing?”
“Yeah, old boy was looking like Rupaul when I breezed up outta there,” Frankie went on to give him the short version of what had gone down with Pete.
“Damn that’s some cold shit, Frankie!” Cowboy doubled over with laughter on the other end.
“Yeah, well I should’ve killed him and your ass for me having to kiss that rank breath mutha fucka.”
“You gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet. But fuck all that, how much did you skin that nigga for?”
“Sh
orts,” she snorted. “You said that mutha fucka was holding, Cowboy, but his lame ass only had about ten thousand in the safe. You couple that with the few ounces of coke and it was barely worth the trouble.”
“Paper is paper, ma.”
“Money isn’t everything, Cowboy.”
“Shit, I can’t tell. You show me a broke nigga and I’ll show you a potential suicide that just ain’t happened yet. I can remember a time when ten stacks felt like a fortune.”
“That was a long time ago,” she replied.
“Wasn’t that long ago, ma. When we first hooked up didn’t neither one of us have much to call our own, but now we’re getting it!”
“If you say so,” Frankie said, thinking on the few hundred thousand she had stashed. It was a respectable nest egg, but hardly enough to pursue the kind of life she wanted. Cowboy was a product of his environment and as long as he had a few dollars coming in, he was content to stay in that environment, but Frankie saw the bigger picture. She knew there was life outside the hood and by hook or crook she was determined to make it.
“Say, before you come back uptown stop by One-Fish and snatch me some crab legs,” Cowboy said.
“And who said I was coming back uptown?” she teased him.
“Where else would you be going? Girl, don’t play wit me. You know I’d kill something over that.”
“I know all too well,” she said, thinking on some of his violent outbursts. “Anyway, we’re gonna be down here for a while so I hope you’re not starving?”
“Only for you, baby,” he said as if he was the coolest cat in the world. “Oh, before I forget, there’s been a change of plans for our date at that spot we were checking out.”
“Here you go with this shit,” she huffed.
“Why don’t you shut your mouth and listen for a minute,” he snapped. “Know-it-all ass female,” he mumbled before continuing. “Yo, we’re breaking Cos’ man in on the caper.”
Gangsta Bitch Page 2
