by Nikki Turner
“So, baby, what happened to your neck?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, getting back to what he was about to tell me before the road rage incident. “The other night we were in this club called Club Zipendale's at the picture booth. We got it on lock, right? Me and my boys had it on lock for about an hour, just snap-pin’ and shit. Posing and shit. My man, Chicago, had just came home.”
“Came home from where?” I asked. I guess the squareness in me came out for a minute because I thought he was going to say the military or something.
“From the penitentiary. He was down ten years.”
“For what?” I asked.
“What you think?” He looked at me like, Damn, Ma, it don't take a rocket scientist to figure the shit out, and then he said,
“Drugs.”
“I didn't know. In all the cases I've read, most hood dudes go for one of four reasons: drugs, gun charges, murder, or parole violation. So as you can see, I had several choices.”
He smiled. “My baby sharp, ain't you? Got them statistics and shit down packed, huh?”
“I try to stay on my toes,” I said. “But anyway, what happened?”
He relit his blunt and continued on with the story. “So we's in the club doing it up real big. It's like bout fifty-leven niggas with us from around the way, trying to show Chicago a nice time.” He used his hand to motion to me to turn left.
“So, these dudes from across the water get tired of waiting to take pictures and go over and address the photographer. The photographer ain't no gangsta. He's what he is, the picture man, and don't want no problems.”
“And I understand that,” I said, listening closely, waiting for the foreseeable drama.
“Me, too,” Dee agreed. “I admit, we was hogging up shit, but still. So the picture man sent the dudes over themselves to holla at us. I guess the picture man figure he making money, he don't care who in front of the camera. So, they came and threw a wad of money in our face, telling us to let up off the picture booth.”
“Did you?” I didn't have to ask. I should have known better.
“Baby, I ain't no ho! A nigga can't just throw no money in my face and 'spect me to move.” Dee took a pull on his blunt and exhaled. “I told that nigga to get the fuck out my face. He walked away but the next thing I know, this nigga, Shank, ol’ dude from the carnival today, snuck me from behind with a Moët bottle. That's how I got this cut. A bitch-ass nigga. We got ta rumbling in that mutherfucker and they had to shut it down.”
“Is that the brawl they were talking about on the news?”
“Yup,” he said, confirming it with a devilish grin on his face. This was all too damn much for a virgin to the streets like myself. This nigga could rumble. He slung drugs, and he had the gunplay action on lock. At that moment and for the first time tonight, it finally sunk in that I, square-ass Angel Delaney, was rolling with the big dawg, a real live muthafuckin’ ruffneck in every aspect of the word. And I was loving every minute of it. When the thought sunk in, my corny ass wanted to pull the car over on the side of the road and get out and do the cabbage patch. I know it might sound crazy, but that's the kind of effect this dude had over me. He was my aphrodisiac. He took my shyness and squareness away and breathed bravery and boldness into my body like a life-support system, making me wonder how did I ever live without him in my life.
Then it didn't help when Ashanti's song came on the radio,
“Baby Baby.” Now, I had never been a big Ashanti fan before, but after really listening to how deep she took it in that song, I'm about to be the president of her Richmond-based fan club. Then, as I had the bass pumping in the song, feeling like I had smoked some hydro, high off my ruffneck, suddenly my high was blown.
For the first time all night, my heart finally dropped as I checked my rearview mirror and saw the police behind me. I didn't want to say nothing yet because I didn't want Dee to think he was rolling with a punk. My heart was in my panties as I checked the speedometer. The speed limit was fifty-five and I was doing fifty-eight; I always gave myself five miles over the speed limit. Before I could blink, you guessed it. The blue lights were on.
Dee turned around to look out of the back window, and my gangsta nigga straight panicked.
“Shit! Ain't this a bitch? Boss Hogg is on a nigga's ass,” he said, putting out his blunt, chewing it up, and then swallowing it like it was a piece of filet minion. “Guyddamn!” he shouted as something must have come to mind. The next thing I know he reached into his ashtray and pulled out a baggie. This nigga had to have bumped his head somewhere along the way when he turned and said to me,
“Yo, put this in your pussy for me right quick.” He handed me a bag of heroin, cocaine, or whatever it was that the guy earlier didn't buy from him.
Now, make no mistake about it. I was born at night but not on this night. I may have been mesmerized by the Billy the Kid lifestyle, but for the first time since being a part of his what seemed to be everyday drama, my common sense kicked in. Before I could even think twice, or knew what I was saying, I blurted out, “Hell no! You put that shit up your ass or something. Don't give it to me!”
“Look,” he pleaded in the little bit of time he had before I was fixing to pull over. “They ain't going to search you.” He looked behind us at the squad car. “It ain't no woman police with them, and once you stuff it in yo pussy they can't detect it up there. It's bad enough I got the gun on me. Shit, I don't need no more charges on me.”
I know you're going to think I am lying just to try to justify why I eventually pulled my panties to the side and shoved that shit up in my pussy, but this is the truth, so help me God. As soon as he said that, a city bus rode past wrapped with the project exile ad, promising a nigga a five-year mandatory in a federal prison if caught with a gun. Project Exile wasn't no joke when it came to drugs either. Trust me. I know. I studied this shit day in and day out. I began to think about the Michael Simmons case and how he got ten years for one rock of crack cocaine. I didn't want Dee to get five years for the gun plus whatever else they would give him for the drugs. So, that's right. I let my pussy be the stash box.
I slipped the drugs into my wet canal and slowly pulled over. As the police sat in his car a moment before getting out, Dee was starting to talk crazy.
“I should just shoot this mutherfucker when he come up to the car, huh?”
He was dead serious. And all I could do was look at him like he had lost his mind.
“No, you shouldn't,” I said, trying to be the sensible one in this matter. “Where's your registration?” I asked, knowing that was the first thing the police was going to ask me.
Ignoring me, Dee said, “Look, as soon as Boss Hogg get to the window, pull the fuck off.”
“Are you crazy?” I asked as serious as a heart attack. “Now where's the registration?”
“In the glove box,” he replied. “The car ain't in my name, though. It's in my momma's name.”
It's just like a nigga, a grown ass man, to have his $80,000 vehicle in his momma's name.
My brain started churning. “Where does she live?” I asked.
“What's the address?” He told me the address and I repeated it over and over in my head. “Let me do the talking,” I added, taking authority for the first time that night. He tried to say something else but I just put my hand up and said, “I got this. Let me do this, a'ight?”
I was scared to roll down the window because I knew the weed smell was strong. I told him to reach in my Chanel bag and grab that small bottle of Gucci perfume out of it. “Hand me my wallet, too.” He did exactly as I said. Once he had it in hand, he let out a couple of squirts. At the same time he was taking the Gucci perfume out of my purse, he was putting the gun in it. I couldn't believe my eyes, but I couldn't say shit because by now the police officer was on his way to the car.
The police approached the car, and I proceeded to roll down the window.
“Hello, officer,” I said in a coy manner. “What seems to
be the problem?”
I handed him the registration card and began going through my wallet to get my license out. I made sure the officer saw the card that showed that I was a contributor to the Police Charity Association. You know when those telemarketers call you asking for money to go to their charity? They call you until you say yes or until you cuss them out. Well, my daddy was actually the one who contributed, but he gave me the card. Who knew the shit would ever come in handy? When the officer saw it, he lightened up a little. I located my license, then handed it to the officer.
“Ms. Delaney,” the officer said. “Are you the Ms. Angel Delaney?”
Under Dee's breath I faintly heard him mumble what sounded like “Don't tell me this bitch is the police or something.”
My heart began to beat faster than ever. Where in the hell did this officer know me from? Was there an APB out on me or something?
“The reporter Ms. Angel Delaney?” the officer asked.
I let out a sigh of relief. “Yes, that's me,” I said.
The officer eagerly began shaking my hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Delaney. Just think, I pull over a car to let them know the safety belt was hanging out of the door. It was swinging and I didn't want you messing up this nice automobile. And looky here. I meet the one and only Ms. Angel Delaney. This is the highlight of my day.”
Humbly I said, “Thank you, officer.”
“No problem, Ms. Delaney,” he said, tilting his hat. Everything was going smooth. But then I noticed the officer noticing Dee. That's when I started to sweat. Ordinarily, I wouldn't want to be caught dead with a thugged out stereotypical criminal-looking dude like Dee. At this particular moment, when life depended on it, this time wasn't any different than any other time.
Small talk with the officer had taken me back to who the real Angel Delaney was, the infamous journalist, that ruthless bitch with a pen. I myself had even forgotten all about Dee sitting over there. I closed my eyes and wished that he was some clean-cut honest-looking fella. You know, the Denzel type. I opened my eyes, hoping that my wish had come true. I looked over at Dee. Nope, no Denzel type. He was still the DMX type all day long.
Fortunately enough, the officer merely nodded at Dee and then directed his attention back to me.
“Ms. Delaney, I hope you don't mind me asking,” the officer said as my heart sank into my stomach. “But could you give me your autograph please?”
“Certainly,” I said, with yet another sigh of relief. This officer was trippin'. I had written several excellent pieces if I say so myself. But not many folks had ever asked me for my autograph. Nonetheless, I signed my name for him.
“Thank you so much,” he said gratefully. “Y'all be safe and y'all have a nice evening,” the officer said with a southern twang.
“You, too, officer,” I said, watching him walk away.
Dee and I sat in the car silently, not saying a word, until the officer had driven off. Once he was out of sight I quickly opened up the car door and puked my guts out.
I could never make you understand just how much I thanked God for that blessing because I knew that was truly a close call. As I hung out of the door, sick to my stomach, I could only wonder just how much closer shit was going to get.
THREE
Thug Passion
I WAS TIRED and worn out from the evening's events, but I was in no shape to go home. I knew Brandon would probably be there and I wasn't in any condition to be put through the third degree by him about my day. Dee said that he would get me a hotel for the night. I guess that was his way of rewarding me.
The ride to the Jefferson Hotel was silent except for him calling a couple of his homeboys on my cell. My phone rang a few times, but I didn't recognize any of the numbers.
“I don't know anybody from this number,” I said to Dee, reciting it.
“Oh, that might be my boy,” he said, taking the phone from me. “He's probably hitting me back off of his caller ID. Yo,” he said, pausing. “Oh, okay, dukes,” he said. “It was the wrong number. They wanted to speak to Marie.”
Just then my heart dropped. I don't know how much more of this my poor heart could take. It never dawned on me until that moment that Brandon could have been calling me from anywhere. But when Dee said that someone asked for Marie, I knew it was Brandon calling. He's the only one who calls me by my middle name.
The phone rang again. Dee went to answer it again but I stopped him.
“No!” I shouted quickly, snatching the phone from him. “Don't answer it. Somebody is just playing on my phone. Probably someone pissed off about an article I wrote about them or something.”
I knew it was Brandon calling back and I didn't know what to say to him. I would have plenty of time to think up some lie while I rested up at the hotel and gathered my thoughts. Little did I know, rest was the last thing I was going to be getting.
When we arrived at the hotel, the valet parked the truck, and we went in to get a room. I sat down on a sofa in the hotel lobby while Dee got the room. The desk clerk asked for a picture ID, and he must have handed her one that had the name Shawn Michelob on it because she referred to him as Mr. Shawn Michelob.
Had this motherfucker lied about his name when he first called me or what? I thought when I heard the clerk address him. Or maybe it was just a fake ID. Who cared at this point? I just wanted to get to a nice comfy bed to lay it down and get my mind right.
Once we got to the room, we ordered a pizza from my cell phone. I wasn't even able to agree to the total because my cell phone battery died and my cell phone went dead. We tried calling them back on the hotel phone, but it had not been connected yet. Dee was consumed with getting the phone on so he could finish making his calls, handling all that B-I stuff he said he had to take care of before he could give me all of his undivided attention. I was cool with that because while he did his thing, I hopped in the shower. I damn near turned on all hot water and let it beat down on my body as I replayed in my head all of the crazy shit that had happened in the past few hours. I allowed my hands to massage my body, my shoulders, my breasts, and my inner thighs. Then all of a sudden something plopped out of my pussy and hit the shower floor. I almost shitted on myself. My scream rang through my ears. I had forgotten all about the baggie I had stuffed up inside of me.
“You all right up in there?” Dee asked, entering the bathroom.
“Yeah,” I replied, turning the water off. “I'm cool.” I started laughing to myself.
“Well, I'm bout to head downstairs and see why they ain't cut the phone on yet. I be back. I left da money on the dresser for da pizza.”
“Oh, okay,” I replied softly. I picked up the baggie, pulled the shower curtain back, and reached for my towel.
As I reached for the towel, I realized that I should have told him to bring us back some drinks out of the soda machine. I sat the baggie on the sink, wrapped the towel around me, ran to the door, and tried to catch Dee. I didn't see him when I peeped out the door, so I just slipped on my clothes, got some change out of my purse, and went to the soda machine myself to get us some drinks.
The closest vending machine was on the first floor, so I took the stairs down a flight. As soon as I got close to the soda machine, I could hear Dee at the front desk laying the front desk clerk's ass out!
“Why you ain't cut on the phone yet? Shit, I paid extra to get it on and it's been over a half hour and that shit ain't on yet.”
“Sir, I'm going to take care of that for you in a few minutes,” the clerk said apologetically. “I'm sorry. I got busy and couldn't get around to it. But give me a couple of minutes and I'll have it on then.”
“Why I gotta wait mo’ minutes?” Dee said sharply. “I done already waited thirty minutes as it is.”
“Sir,” the clerk said, becoming agitated by Dee. “In all actuality, I've been off the clock for fifteen minutes. I had another fire to put out and some paperwork to do. I'm trying to get out of here. I have been here for twelve hours and I am ready to
go home.”
“So, what the fuck that got to do with me? I'm ready to make my calls and go to sleep. I'm tired, too.”
“Well, we're even then,” she said sarcastically.
I stood watching, but Dee didn't see me. He picked up the sign, which read customer service is our first priority and started at the clerk again.
“What da fuck does this mean?” he demanded to know.
“Sir, I'm not going to get into this with you right now,” the clerk said. “You are just going to have to understand that I said your phone will be turned on soon. The longer I stand here and go back and forth with you, the longer it will take me to get the phone on.”
“That ain't putting me first, the customer. The paying customer at that,” Dee said, throwing the sign across the counter.
“Look, Mr. Michelob. I am going to have to ask you to leave,” the clerk said sternly.
“Not until my phone is on!” Dee replied, getting in her face so closely that spit accidentally came out of his mouth and got on her face.
The clerk turned red. “Look, Mr. Michelob. I'm going to refund your money and you need to leave the premises.”
“I'm not going anywhere. I just ordered a pizza and I am tired. All I want you to do is what you neglected to do, your fucking job. Turn my goddamn phone on, ya hear?”
“As I said, Mr. Michelob, you're going to have to leave,” the clerk said.
“Why? Because you's a lazy bitch and don't want to do yo fucking job?”
He was loud and irate. The only thing that stopped him from tearing into the clerk even more was the pizza man walking through the hotel lobby door. He redirected his attention to the pizza man.
“Yo, dude,” Dee said to the pizza man. “That's me, right here.”
I proceeded to get a couple cans of soda while Dee finished up his transaction with the pizza man. When he turned and saw me, I just shook my head at him. He smiled and threw his head up, acknowledging that he saw me.
We went back to the room and ate every last slice of the pizza. It was safe to say that we had worked up one hell of an appetite. While we ate our pizza, we both were comfortable. Dee was sitting in the chair beside the bed in his boxers and no shirt. Me, I had nothing on except for my panties and my camisole that I had on under my clothes from earlier. I was lying across the bed. We talked and laughed.
