Gangsta Bitch

by Sonny F. Black

  Not knowing what else to do, Tic helped Marsha to her feet and back into the chair. Though her eyes pleaded for him to believe that she had nothing to do with what was going down, he didn’t believe her. If he was lucky enough to live through the ordeal he would settle up with her real ugly.

  “Why, Marsha?” Duce began. “My brother loved you and you fed him to the dogs, help me to understand this shit?”

  “D, I know what you think went down, but it wasn’t like that,” Marsha sobbed. “Knowledge was out here fucking everything on two legs, so it was only natural that I did my thing. Scott was just a young nigga with some good dick; my heart always belonged to Knowledge.”

  “So much so that you started playing house with one of his killers? Marsha, you know better than to bullshit me,” he stepped into the space between Marsha and Tic. “My brother was one of the kindest niggaz to ever play the game, and he’s gone because a hating ass nigga wanted his spot.”

  “D, I didn’t know they were gonna kill Knowledge, you gotta believe me.”

  “The only thing I believe is that my brother is dead, and he’s gonna need some company in hell,” Duce spat. “Where’s that sneaky ass nigga Scott?”

  “I don’t know. He comes and goes as he pleases,” she said.

  Duce placed his gun to the back of her head. “Bitch you better tell me something that’s gonna keep your brains from fucking up this nice ass living room set.”

  “I don’t know!”

  Duce sighed. “Somehow I don’t believe you.”

  BANG!

  Cowboy and Rico were headed north up Broadway while the police were flying south. They had beat the heat by less that three minutes and Cowboy thanked the Thief Gods above that he had made it out on time. Rico hadn’t shut his mouth since they had left the bodega. He was so busy talking that he hadn’t even known they’d left the city until they were passing the sign for Patterson, N.J.

  “Yo, kid, fuck we doing in Jersey?” Rico asked, looking at the unfamiliar surroundings.

  “What, we gonna hang out in Harlem after ripping El Pogo off?” Cowboy asked. “We gotta get low for a minute. I got a bitch that stay out in Elizabeth, so we can crash at her pad until the morning.”

  “Cowboy you always got shit figured out, son!” Rico said.

  “For sho, my nigga,” Cowboy coasted the car to the side of the road and pulled over. When they had come to a full stop, he killed the head lights. “I gotta take a leak,” he said, stepping out of the car.

  “Yeah, I gotta squeeze the melons too.” Rico got out on the passenger side and went to stand beside Cowboy, who was relieving himself on the side of the road. “Yo Cowboy, good looking out on saving my life back there, kid. Yo, shorty was gonna try to air me out. If I hadn’t fucked around and…” Rico didn’t even get to finish his sentence before Cowboy shot him in the side and again in the chest.

  “You talk too fucking much,” Cowboy said to the corpse, tucking his gun back into his pocket. After giving a quick look around, he hopped back into the vehicle and sped off.

  Marsha pissed her pajama pants at the sound of the gunshot. It took almost a full minute for reality to set in and she realized that she was still alive. Looking over at Tic she couldn’t say the same. Feathers from his bubble coat were falling softly from the apple sized hole in his chest. Tic’s head was cocked at a funny angle in the chair, and his eyes held a far off look in them. Not being able to hold it down, Marsha threw Chinese food up all over the floor.

  “Marsha, you gonna tell me something, or the next one is yours.” Duce told her.

  Marsha thought on it for a minute. Scott had his uses, but she hardly saw him as being worth her life. “Willie’s Lounge!” she blurted out. “Scott goes through there a few times a week to get his drink on.”

  “You bullshitting me?” he tapped the barrel of the gun against her nose.

  “That’s my word, D. You can catch him in there most nights, I swear on everything, just please don’t shoot me,” she pleaded.

  “Calm down, baby, that’s not for you,” he touched his cheek gently to hers. “For as fucked up as you are, you still brought my brother a little happiness while he was here,” he whispered into her ear. His hand slid to the dining room table and retrieved a steak knife that had been left on a dirty plate, “but you still have to answer for what you’ve done.”

  “Derrick,” she called him by his first name, praying that it would stir some type of their lost love of long ago. “Please, ain’t no body gonna be here for my son. Ain’t you got no heart?”

  He nuzzled her neck as a lover might’ve and replied, “My heart died with my brother,” before dragging the knife from one side of her throat to the other.

  Tito sat on the plush suede recliner, smoking a cigarette like it was the last one on earth. He tried to appear as calm as possible, but the sweat in his palms gave him away. He hated to deliver bad news, especially when the recipient was known to fly off the handle and kill indiscriminately.

  Across from him a young woman lounged on the loveseat, taking petite pulls of a blunt of what smelled like pure chronic. One leg was thrown over the arm of the chair revealing just enough thigh to send his mind wondering. He did everything in his power to keep from gazing at the cinnamon thigh, but even had he not been about to break terrible news to his boss, he would’ve never been foolish enough to covet anything El Pogo owned.

  The man of the house appeared beneath the arc of the living room entrance, wearing nothing but a silk robe and flip-flops. El Pogo was thin, with wavy black hair that he usually wore in a ponytail, but that night it hung freely around his angular face. His smoke gray eyes seemed to bore into Tito’s very soul, making it hard for him to meet the man’s gaze.

  “Tito, I know you didn’t wake me up in the middle of the night just to sit there with a stupid look on your face,” El Pogo said, in a raspy tone.

  “No,” Tito began, but couldn’t seem to find the words to continue.

  “Then tell me, why are you here?”

  “El Pogo, I know you hate to hear bad news over the phone so I came to deliver my report personally,” he cast a glance at the woman, silently asking if it was okay to talk in front of her.

  “Madelina, wait for me in the bedroom. I won’t be long,” he said to the woman. She gave him an obedient smile and slithered off the couch. On her way to the bedroom, she gave Tito a look that he was hardly foolish enough to acknowledge.

  “So,” El Pogo took the seat the woman had vacated. “Tell me what troubles you, Tito?”

  Tito thought about a diplomatic way to phrase it, but diplomacy wouldn’t have done him much good with El Pogo. If he was going to flip, pretty words wouldn’t cushion the blow so it was better to just spit it out. “Our store on 147th got robbed.”

  “Robbed?” though El Pogo’s voice remained neutral, the temperature in the room seemed to go up a few degrees. “How the fuck did this happen?”

  Taking a breath, Tito went on to explain the situation to El Pogo as it had been explained to him by the crew at the spot. Needless to say, El Pogo was not pleased.

  In a flash, El Pogo had a razor in his hand and was pinning Tito by the neck to the recliner. “You mean to say that some little monkey mutha fuckas were able to run up in my spot, make off with twelve and a half kilos of my coke and 65 grand of my money?” El Pogo leaned in so close that spittle hit Tito in the face.

  “El Pogo, I had nothing to do with it. I wasn’t even in the spot when it happened,” Tito gasped.

  “I don’t give a fuck who was in the spot, it happened on your watch so it’s your mess to clean up,” El Pogo pressed the razor to Tito’s cheek, but didn’t cut him. “Tito, you better tell me you’ve got a lead on these cock suckers or it’s your ass in the fire!”

  Tito swallowed. “From what Rosa says, there were two of them who took the coke, but one of my look outs says that three men left. He says that two of them he’s never seen, but the third one comes in the store from time to time to
buy beer and shit so he’s probably local.”

  “I want them, Tito. I want my money, my coke and the sons of bitches that had the balls enough to rob me for it.” El Pogo demanded.

  “On everything I love, I’ll take care of it!” Tito almost shrieked.

  “I’m sure you will,” El Pogo slacked his grip a bit. “And just to make sure you’re properly motivated,” El Pogo flicked his wrist and cut Tito’s face, not enough to scar him, but enough to draw blood. “Get my shit, Tito, or I’m gonna cut more than your pretty little face,” El Pogo patted him on the bloody cheek before leaving Tito to show himself out.

  EIGHT

  Frankie was awakened by the sounds of Jane’s Addiction’s Been Caught Stealing. Without even looking at her cell she knew who it was so she didn’t bother to answer. Just as she was about to drop back off to sleep, her house phone started ringing. She tried to ignore it as she had done her cell, but unlike her cell the house phone’s ringer was much louder. The caller obviously wasn’t getting the hint so she picked up.

  “Hello?” she rasped into the phone.

  “Nigga, why you ain’t pick up ya cell?” Cowboy barked.

  “Good morning to you too,” Frankie yawned.

  “Frankie, I know you ain’t trying to be funny?”

  Frankie cast her sleepy eyes to the digital clock, which read 9:30am. “Cowboy, it’s too early for this shit.”

  “Oh, you leave me stranded last night and you got the nerve to have a fucking attitude? What the hell happened to you?”

  “Ask ya bitch what happened to me!” Frankie snapped.

  “Come on, Frankie, I told you that shit wasn’t bout nothing so stop acting like that.”

  “Wasn’t about nothing,” she snaked her neck as if he could see her. “Cowboy, how long do you think I’m gonna put up with this shit? You can’t keep sticking your dick in these young girls you love so much and running up in me. I respect my body too much to let you keep playing craps with our lives. If you can’t be true to me, don’t be shit to me.”

  Cowboy sighed. “Frankie, you know I love you, mommy. Mutha fuckas talk out of jealousy and your overactive imagination always tries to convince you that it’s true. On my kids, my heart only beats for Frankie Five-Fingers.”

  “Cowboy, you can’t keep hurting me,” she said, half burying her face in the pillow so he couldn’t hear the sobs. “One day I’m gonna get fed up and bounce, I swear I am,” she tried to force the power of truth into the words, but it wouldn’t come. “I’m better than this.”

  “Hush with that foolishness, baby,” he cooed. “I’d rather die a thousand deaths than force one day of misery on you. You’re my better half, Frankie Five Fingers and I couldn’t go on without your strength,” the lies rolled off his tongue so easily that he actually believed them. “I went through with that thing last night.”

  Frankie’s mind immediately switched to money mode. “You tried to pull a two man job alone? You fool son of a bitch, you’re lucky you didn’t get killed!”

  “I’m a’ight, but I can’t say the same about young Pablo.” Pablo was the coded nickname he and Frankie used when talking about Rico.

  “How bad was it?” Frankie asked, thinking about the bumbling young boy. She’s always liked Rico, but couldn’t tolerate his presence.

  Cowboy sighed. “No tears in the end, baby,” he said, letting her know that there had been bloodshed. “Some niggaz just ain’t ready to play at this level. Now, what the hell are you doing?”

  “I was sleeping until somebody’s ass woke me up.” she said, sarcastically. “Fuck are you doing up so early anyway?”

  “Got my ear to the ground to see what I hear.”

  “You think homeboy is gonna figure the riddle out?” she asked, sounding concerned. Frankie knew the cat that Cowboy had ripped off was far from a slouch and the greatest of care needed to be taken.

  “Like I give a shit,” he said, arrogantly. “But check it, I need you to get your pretty ass up and get over here.”

  “Cowboy, I know you don’t think I’m gonna get up outta my bed to come over there and give you some pussy, especially before you get your nasty ass tested?”

  He ignored her comment and gave a light chuckle. “I got some things I need to drop off with the fat man and I need a reliable set of eyes in the back of my head.”

  Frankie knew who the fat man was and didn’t look forward to being in his presence. “Damn, can’t you take Thor or one of them?”

  “They are coming, but they’re just muscle. I need my ill na-na on my arm,” he thought on it for a minute. “Hold on, why am I even explaining this shit to you? I know this ain’t my ride or die bitch talking like some square ass broad? Frankie what the fuck has gotten into you?”

  “Nothing,” she lied. In all truthfulness Frankie had been rattled by what she saw, or what she thought she saw. For as much as she hated to admit it, Cowboy had a point. She wasn’t some square as broad, she was a rider on a down ass team. If she didn’t work, she didn’t eat, and she was allergic to poverty. “What time we rolling?”

  “As soon as you get here, so get the lead out, ma.”

  “A’ight, I’ll be there in an hour or so.” She was about to end the call, but Cowboy’s voice halted her.

  “And wear something sexy.”

  Duce felt the presence before he even heard the key jiggle in the lock. Though his brain still felt hazy with sleep, survival instinct willed his body to move. As silent as a cat, he rolled off the couch, grabbing his pistol off the floor where it rested. As the door creaked inward, Duce fought back the urge to act off impulse, and held his position, directly behind it. Only when he could see the intruder’s silhouette cast framed in the dim morning light did he take action.

  As soon as enough of the intruder’s arm was visible, Duce took hold of it about the wrist and pulled inward with all his might. Normally, this move would’ve thrown an opponent off balance, leaving them at Duce’s mercy, but it didn’t go down like that. The intruder pushed off the door, throwing himself backward and slamming Duce into the back of the door. Before Duce could compose himself the stranger kicked the door inward, whacking Duce in the forehead. This woke Duce up completely.

  Duce heard he familiar sound of steel sliding against leather and managed to move out of the way just before the intruder stuck his arm inside the apartment and popped two shots. Before the intruder could remove his arm Duce kicked the door with all his might, drawing a yell from the intruder, but he still held his gun. Duce locked the intruder’s shooting arm between his hip and elbow, twisting the intruder’s injured wrist up and out. Instead of the intruder releasing his grip on the gun, as Duce had hoped, he pushed his weight forward sending himself and Duce spilling to the floor. When they landed, Duce was on the bottom with the intruder’s pistol pointed at his head.

  “Smitty?” Duce looked up in surprise.

  “Who the fuck did you think it was?” the older man asked, still pointing his pistol at Duce’s head. “I could’ve killed your stupid ass!”

  “I wouldn’t have been going alone,” Duce looked down. Smitty followed his eyes and saw that Duce had his own gun trained on Smitty’s crotch.

  “Still as arrogant as ever,” Smitty eased off Duce and helped him to his feet.

  “Nigga, stop fronting,” Duce said, accepting the hand up. “Fuck are you doing creeping in my spot in the first place?”

  “You forget you told me to watch it while you were away?” Smitty dangled the keys Duce had given him before he blew trial.

  “My fault, dawg, you know old habits die hard,” Duce raised his pistol.

  “For as long as your ass is black, don’t you ever draw steel on me!” Smitty tossed him the keys, which Duce caught with his free hand. “Now give me a hug, you black mutha fucka!”

  Duce smiled and embraced his homey. Smitty was one of the few cats left in the world that Duce could call friend. Back when Duce was still trying to get out from under his brother’s shadow, Smitty wa
s laying his gangsta down on the streets of New York. He was only a few years older than Duce, but had a reputation for being one of the hardest cats on the streets. Knowledge had taught Duce everything he knew about the game, but it was Smitty who had turned him on to killing.

  When Smitty was on his game, he and Duce loomed over Knowledge like two avenging angels. With Butch as his advisor and the two killers shadowing him, Knowledge’s rule over the block was undisputed, but tragedy had broken up the quartet even before Duce had gone away. One summer night a crew of young bucks who had been sent by a rival came to kill Smitty. They caught him coming out of the supermarket with his wife and aired his car out. Smitty took six, which landed him in a coma for weeks, but he was luckier than his wife had been. One shot had sent her to her final reward. Duce had personally tracked the killers and executed them in a horrible fashion, but Smitty never recovered from the loss. When he was well enough, he moved his daughter to a small house in Long Island and turned his back on the game for good.

  “Man, I almost killed the last friend I got in the world,” Duce tucked the burner into the waistband of his jeans. “Why didn’t you call before you popped up over here?”

  “I did, but you didn’t answer your phone,” Smitty nodded to the Nextel, which was sitting on the coffee table, dead as Jimmy Hoffa.

  “Shit, I forgot to charge it,” Duce remembered. “Come on in and have a seat,” Duce motioned toward the couch. “Want me to fix you a drink?” Duce asked, heading towards the mini bar in the corner.

  “You know my poison,” Smitty said, rubbing his sore wrist. “I should kill your simple-minded ass for what you did to my wrist.”

  “Old man, you ain’t killing nothing and you ain’t letting nothing die,” Duce teased him, while pouring two shots of Jack Daniels.

  “I got your old man,” Smitty said, brandishing his .44. It was one of the few kinds of guns that he would use. “Man, I didn’t even expect you to be here. Ain’t you on work release or something?”