by L. E. Newell
Sparkle wanted to blast the bitch with a roll of expletives but he held them in and said irritably, “Is this Joyce?” He wished he could reach through the line to wring her scrawny neck.
“Yeah, it’s me, who the fuck do it sound like, fool?” she spat sarcastically.
He wanted to slam the phone down as hard as he could, but held on to his composure. “Sorry, bitch, it’s that you woke me up at three in the muthafucking morning and it’s been one of those hard-ass days, so what’s up?”
He could feel the tension ease out her voice as she replied sweetly, “Whatcha doing, Sparkle? I was sorta hoping that Auntie could come pick me up.”
Her sudden change of attitude raised his antennae, because he’d never heard her sound so sweet. Despite his leeriness, he still put some concern in his voice anyway. “Violet’s snoring like a bear. Where you at?” He wondered why she was calling so late.
Her voice got even sweeter. “At the Marriott.”
“Taint no biggie, I’m up now. Give me a minute to get myself together. I’ll be there in about ten, fifteen minutes or so. What room you in?” he said as he sat up in the bed and tried to stretch the tightness out of his neck.
He was totally taken by surprise when she answered in her normally sassy manner, “Not unless you got a rocket strapped to your narrow ass.”
Boy, oh boy, did that bitch know how to dig into his last nerve. “Unless I got a rocket,” he repeated with a snort.
“Yeah, nigga, strapped to your narrow ass, because I’m out here in Marietta.”
Fighting the urge to slam the phone again, he grunted and then nearly shouted, “Godayum, woman, what the fuck you doing way out there this time of night?” He knew he’d struck a nerve right back at her sassy ass with that one. He felt her anger and held the phone away from his ear waiting for a loud verbal lashing.
He’d done right as she screamed, “Muthafucka, what damn difference does it make; you coming or what?”
He could almost feel his fingers squeezing tightly around her scrawny little neck and felt the urge to tell her so but he pushed that impulse to the back of his mind. He smiled at the thought of saying stuff that would make the big vein in her neck to pulse in anger. He wasn’t about to leave her stranded all the way in Marietta, so he sighed heavily. “Okay, okay, you can stop pissing your thong. Give me fifteen minutes to get on the road and start counting, damn crazy-ass ho,” he mumbled.
“Whaddafuck you mumbling for? I thought you said ten minutes?” she continued with her usual sassiness.
“Nothing, see ya in a few,” he said and hung up while she was still smart-mouthing. As he was easing out of the bed, trying not to disturb Violet, who was still calling the hogs with her mouth wide open, he cursed himself for neglecting his body chasing that damned coke high. He grunted through the aches and pains in his back and knees as he struggled to a standing position. After stretching some of the kinks out, he put his clothes on and tiptoed out of the house.
Some ten blocks from the apartment he spotted an all-night BP station and remembered that he’d left his cigarettes on the nightstand. So he pulled over to pick up a pack and a six-pack of Heineken. When he walked in, the first person he saw was JJ, his baby sister’s ex-boyfriend. He wondered why homeboy was way out in this part of the city this time of night; especially since he knew he now stayed in Lithonia with a geek monster, way on the other side of the county. Buddy looked like he’d been on a month- long coke binge. Damn, he was raggedy as all out, hair uncombed, big bags under his eyes, and clothes looking stank for a mug.
It didn’t surprise Sparkle when he pocketed a pack of generic cigarettes off the counter when the teller turned his head. Damn, buddy must be scraping the bottom for sure, Sparkle thought as he watched him scoop up a couple of more packs and stuff them in- side his raggedy coat. He looked up and saw him approaching the counter.
Sparkle recognized a look of fear and shock on his face when they made eye contact. But he shrugged it off as him being just as surprised to see him. He swallowed hard and greeted him in a croaky voice. “Hey, hey, Sparkle, what’s going on, my nigga?”
Sparkle couldn’t help thinking of how this down-and-out hustler used to be at the top of the drug game only a short while ago. Slick suits, Gucci loafers and designer outfits were his standard attire. It was the same dude that gave him his start when he’d gotten out of the joint. Looking at him now, made him think about what Googie had told him a long time ago: Never outplay yourself where you become a product of your own product.
“Ain’t nothing better than clocking paper from your own paper,” he replied, trying to keep the pity out of his voice. He playfully punched him on the shoulder.
JJ pinched his nose and shifted his eyes from side to side nervously, like he was expecting an unwelcome guest or something. Finally, he started to say something but suddenly jerked back toward the counter. Sparkle leaned back puzzled. He was about to ask him what was wrong when he felt someone brush against his back. Once a pickpocket himself, he instinctively spun around to his right with his elbow sticking out, prepared to strike a blow if necessary, and bumped into a tall, dark-skinned brother in a dingy trench coat. The brother grunted in pain and grabbed his left arm through his coat.
Sparkle turned around to face him, but he’d brushed by him and continued to the other end of the counter before he shot a quick peek backward and edged down the aisle.
Feeling both violated and disrespected, Sparkle started to say something to him when he noticed his coat bulging in the back. He automatically honored the boosting code and reluctantly allowed the moment to pass. Spinning back toward the counter, he pointed toward a pack of Kools before heading for the beer cooler. He was ready to exit the store and remembered he was about to ask JJ something. Popping his finger, he turned around to go back and talk to him when he saw him and the tall fella easing out of the other door. They quickly dissolved into early morning darkness.
He shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “Ah, what the fuck, that nigga’s probably too busy bugging about where they’re going to get rid of that stuff him and his buddy just stole, so they can get a early morning hit.” He paid for his smokes and headed out of the door. When he pulled into the street, he saw them ducking into an alley. As he drove by, JJ was helping dude pull their haul out of his coat. If he hadn’t been at a street light, he probably wouldn’t have paid them that much attention. But it was evident that they were having a problem getting the stuff out. Dude let out a loud yelp. The light had turned green but for some reason Sparkle was stuck watching them as the guy started rubbing his wrist vigorously; the same arm he had bumped into earlier.
He shook his head at the pitiful sight of the fallen warrior. That’s the way life goes. He realized that the light had turned. Luckily, he was the only one on the street at the time and not having to bear with the protesting horns of other drivers. Turning his attention back on the street, he continued on down Memorial Drive admiring the bright lights of the Atlanta skyline in the early morning dusk.
He made a left toward Buttermilk Bottom hoping to see Rainbow or some of the crew to get an update on their problems. After cruising past the ho strip and the MLK Memorial without seeing anyone, he made a left on Peachtree Street and headed for the ramp off Lucky to get on I-20 on the way to Marietta. That’s when it dawned on him that the slim dude with JJ was favoring the same wrist that he thought Rainbow had hit on the ambush. He thought of hitting the next exit and going back to look for them. But knowing crack fiends the way that he did, they’d probably already found a crackhouse to get off in by the time it would’ve taken him to get back. Aw, what the hell; maybe he’d run up on them again; then again maybe not.
The pin-striper’s Stacy Adams boots echoed loudly off the tiled floor, pacing back and forth before the three well-dressed hoodlums seated around the dimly lit office. The menacing frown and snarl, which would’ve rivaled that of a starving panther, had brought all conversation to a halt. The smacking sound of three w
ads of money onto the sweaty left palm, fell into rhythm with the exotic music that boomed throughout the plastered walls. Visions of shapely strippers doing their nasty thang for the crowded room of horny patrons, added a sense of pain and pleasure through the minds of the young guns.
With that menacing snarl and eyes blazing venom, the prowler paused in front of each of them and blew a heavy fog of acrid smoke in each of their faces. The expression practically dared either of them to so much as blink; like troopers of the night, none of them did.
The prowler, tired of pacing, stopped in a wide-legged stance in front of the man in the leather chair nearest to the door. The young stud, attired in a shiny black suit, crossed and recrossed his legs, removed his white Kangol cap from his head, and ran his damp right hand over his neatly plaited corn rolls. Now with the uncomfortable gaze riveted directly on him, he blinked a lot more than he wanted to. It was embarrassing enough to show fear regard- less of the situation and even more so in front of his gangsta running mates. His effort to maintain his version of a poker face failed miserably under the harsh glare. Without any warning the prowler suddenly slapped one of the wads of money into his lap. He automatically flinched thinking of what might follow; well aware of the prowler’s violent tendencies, that at times seemed to be snatched right out of the blue for no apparent reason, other than being a nasty muthafucka for the hell of it.
He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t get past the lump in his throat, when the prowler growled, “Stackadime, Stacka muthafuckingdime. Stack a muthafucking penny is more like it. Of all the people to let me down, you was the last I figured would go punk on me.”
Stack uncrossed his legs and made a motion to get up, when the tip of a ivory cane jammed him in the chest and caused him to abruptly sit back down with his chest swelling sporadically. He started to clench his fist rapidly, fighting the urge to spring up, until he was frozen by the death mask that flashed before his eyes. For the first time in a while his heart skipped a bit when the prowler leaned so close to his face that he could actually feel the foul spittle sprinkling his forehead. His eyes glazed over when the prowler spat in a chilling death tone, “Go ’head, bitch nigga, go head, muthafucka. Get your pussy ass up so you can die.”
Stack’s shoulders flinched in anger, but as quickly deflated when he heard an almost muted click. He looked down at the stiletto blade that suddenly extended from the tip of the cane pressing a deadly dent into his chest.
The prowler leaned in even closer, so close he not only felt the heat of his breath but the spittle raining on his face and neck, mixing with the stinky sweat rolling into the vee of his open shirt.
“Young nigga, you ready to be a real killa or die; yo choice.”
Doing his best to disregard the sweat and discomfort, Stack, refusing to be totally punked in front of his boys, braced his hands on his thighs, hunched his shoulders to try to draw up some of his steadily dwindling courage and said tersely, “I am a killa.”
That drew a thundering thump to his chest again, as the prowler retorted, “Yeah, you are stud, but are you as ready to kill me as I am you?”
The deadly menace in those eyes caused the youngun to blink several times before he gave in and lowered his eyes to the floor.
Satisfied that the battle of wills was won, the prowler straightened up. “Uh-uh, that’s what I thought.”
Turning the anger toward the other two who were fidgeting nervously on the matching leather couch that was pressed against the desk followed quickly. With shoulders coiled like a cobra ready to strike, the words came out full of venom. “And you, Chopper and Percy, I thought I told y’all stupid muthafuckas to snatch up those two hoes at Rainbow’s and bring them to me, but naw, y’all got to play it slick and try to get two crackheads to do your dirty work.”
Chopper, who was dressed in a oversized black and brown checkered shirt, brown calf-length baggy shorts and tan Timberland boots, started scratching his nappy fro as he blinked nervously a couple of times and cleared his throat. “Damn, man, how the hell was we to know them niggas was gonna be there, playing rescue ranger and shit.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when the prowler kicked him full force in the chest, stunning him so badly that all the air gushed out of his body. The punishment didn’t stop there though as blow after deadly blow was pummeled into his ribcage. Balling into a knot, Chopper grunted in anguish with each crushing blow; ceasing only when full submission was evident from the youngster.
Rising menacingly the prowler turned his attention to the last of the trio, jamming the cane, that was still trembling with more pent-up energy, into his neck. Percy hadn’t even bothered to budge during the onslaught on Chopper. But now with all that angry attention pointed at him, he sat up and twisted his neck, trying to ease some of the scary tension, anxiety and straight-up fear of the moment.
The prowler stood glaring at him for what seemed like an eternity, chest heaving in rage. With eyes blazing he stepped toward Percy as a voice whispered from the shadows, “Yo, how you expect them to do what you want if they all broke up from your one track-thinking ass?” The prowler watched the intruder emerge out of the shadows in their peripheral vision and spat.
“Joker, I know that you’ve been knowing these fools for a long time.” He paused to slap the two remaining wads of money from palm to palm and then on a trembling thigh. “But something’s got to be done for all these duckets I’m shelling out. I’ll kill each and every one of these muthafuckas before I let them bitch me out.”
Clearing his throat with a raspy cough, Joker looked the prowler directly in those evil eyes and sat on the corner of the desk. “Check this here out. I’m gonna go with these niggas this time to make sure it get done right.”
He walked to the middle of the room rotating his gaze from one to the other. “We...” He pointed at each of them before slamming his fist into his own chest. “Are you gonna handle this, and handle it my muthafucking way, or one of us or all of y’all ain’t gonna come back to remorse or celebrate.” His eyes glazed over with deadly intent. “The after-party.” He finished with a smile that would chill the dead. Hell, even the prowler raised an eyebrow and felt the chill coarse through his body.
Feeling a little more confident now that the job would be taken care of, the prowler strolled with exuberance to the desk and calmly set the last two wads on it. Not a word was said when Joker snatched both stacks up and put them in his pocket before waving at the trio. “Let’s roll, niggas, time for y’all to earn this big boy cash now.”
Percy was the first to react, thankful that he had been spared some of the wrath that had been dished out. He didn’t hesitate and headed for the door.
Stackadime yelled at Chopper as he approached the couch to give him a hand. But the nigga was still balled up wagging back and forth to try to ease some of the pain in his ribs. Stack lifted him by the armpits. “Come on, dude, let’s...”
But the prowler quickly cut him off with a stony stare and ice dripping from his tongue. “Leave that nigga to get up on his own like a real man.”
Stack looked down at Chopper and shook his head, hunched his shoulders and turned away to follow Joker out the door.
The prowler leaned back in the chair with arms folded stiffly across their chest. “Bitch, you either struggle your sorry ass on up and walk up outta here on your own or get carried out and left wherever and whoever I get to dump your ass, permanently.”
Knowing this fool meant every word, Chopper groaned and struggled to his feet on shaky legs, crouched over in pain, and stumbled his way out of the door.
The phone was picked up as soon as the door was closed. “Yeah, you ready to do that. Good, so meet me at the spot.” He hung up smiling evilly.
There was a eerie fog developing and it had Sparkle straining to see the road signs as he sped down I-20. The light drizzle that had started misting the windshield was certainly not a welcomed sight. Damn, this must be some kind of an omen about me fucking with this ja
nky-ass Joyce, he thought as the exit sign came into view. As he sped down the ramp, he had to curse himself for not remembering the direction of the hotel. He knew that from that point the Marriott was only about a mile away, but because of the fog and rain, he could hardly see the Citgo sign across the street, much less being able to see that far. After a few anxious moments of contemplation as he waited for the light to turn green, he decided to take a chance and turn right.
After ten minutes or so and much more than several miles, he knew that he had made the wrong choice. Cursing to himself for taking that long to figure that out, he sighed heavily and checked his phone for the address. Once he located it, realizing he had made a mistake, he made tracks back in the other direction. His cheeks rose in a big smile when he was finally able to spot the Marriott sign, but faded quickly when it dawned on him that Joyce had forgotten to give him the room number. No sooner had he started cursing his luck and her, his phone began vibrating on his hip. He sighed a breath of relief when he pulled up the tail of his shirt and saw her code blinking brightly.
He smiled the prankster’s smile and decided to let her stupid ass wait and sweat bullets for a while; at least until he got parked in the hotel’s lot.
Ten minutes later, he shorted the blunt he had lit up after parking and headed for the lobby. The rain had picked up a touch, so he pulled the jacket’s hood over his head and broke into a sprint. As soon as he stepped over the threshold, he figured that he was looking too suspicious because of the way the registrar was eyeing him. He removed the hood as he walked to the counter.
Breaking out into what he thought was a warm smile, he told the man behind the glassed-in desk that his wife had called him earlier that night but had forgotten to tell him her room number. After a short direct description of her, the guy let him know it was Room 22 on the upper tier. As a precautionary measure, he registered in Room 23. There was no telling what she may have gotten into, so he might as well play it safe.
