The Day the Streets Stood Still

by JaQuavis Coleman

“Yeah. Ain’t nothin’,” Sean replied, his tone flat and uninterested. He immediately poured himself a snifter of Ace of Spades and threw it back.

  “Who’s the girl?” BG pried further. “Your ex?”

  “That’s nobody. We here to bring this New Year and my bornday in like kings,” Sean brushed BG’s question off. He raised his glass and called his crew over. Just then Beans, Ty, Ak and Freddie moved aside and a gorgeous Korean model dressed in a fire engine red leotard walked over holding a beautiful, custom-made cake that was shaped like a throne.

  “Happy Birthday, King Sean,” the exotic Asian girl sang. “Happy Birthday, dear King Sean,” she went on.

  “Didn’t I tell y’all niggas birthday cakes was for lame-ass niggas?” Sean joked. His mind was already starting to put Sunny aside.

  “You ain’t gotta blow out the candles, nigga . . . we got some bitches that’s gon’ blow you instead,” Ak yelled out. Everyone erupted in laughter.

  “Money is all we need, niggas! Fuck all the rest!” Sean cheered, raising his glass out in front of him. His entire crew screamed their agreement. “To money!” “Money over bitches!” “Money!” they all yelled out. Sean stood up and blew out the candles on his gold crown cake, but one candle was left.

  “You blow it out,” Sean said to BG. “It’s the candle for good luck and shit,” he told her. BG came to his side and blew out the candle.

  “That’s what’s up! To us!” Sean started laughing, but BG wasn’t buying it. She had seen the hurt etched on his face when he had returned from the dustup with Sunny. BG found Sean’s concern for Sunny attractive. BG couldn’t help the deep feelings that were starting creeping up on her.

  Chapter Ten

  Spring 2003

  Sean and BG sat at the long, shiny, wood table inside the small conference room in a beautiful, picturesque $10,000-a-night penthouse suite at the Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas. It was a few hours before the Oscar De La Hoya and Luis Campas fight, which Sean had purchased premium ringside seats to for the both of them.

  “Yo, we ain’t come to Vegas to discuss business,” Sean said exasperated after listening to BG go on and on about a new connect she had in mind. Most of the time Sean appreciated her work ethic, but when he was trying to have downtime, BG never stopped thinking about business and business moves.

  “I’m telling you, King, God is marking shit up too much now. After all the money you made him, he wanna go up now all of a sudden? Niggas recognizing that his shit is more like eighty percent rather than that one hundred he was supplying when you first got with him,” BG told Sean, her tone serious. Sean reared back in his chair, stretched his arms over his head and shook his head left to right at her. He hadn’t met another woman so driven since his mother. Sean couldn’t front, there was something he found sexy about BG’s constant tabs on the business side of things; however, he sometimes wished she had a chill button he could push.

  “Nah, we good money with God. C’mon, B . . . God don’t bother us, we don’t bother him and shit is good,” Sean replied with finality. He swiveled his chair around. “Look around. We living like royalty and that’s off of God. I can’t fault that man in no way,” Sean said, opening his arms wide to bring his point home. He wasn’t going to get into particulars with BG about his early promises to God and Adina, so he wanted to drop the subject.

  “Side deals ain’t my style,” Sean said.

  “Look.” BG stood up and walked over to where Sean sat. She laid down a typewritten sheet of paper and slapped her hand on top of it so he would look at it. “This is just something for you to think about . . . something I worked up just in case you gave me pushback on this move,” she said, pointing to the information contained on the paper. “This is a comparison of suppliers with no names written here. God and his prices and his quality on the left . . . a new prospective supplier out of Miami and his prices and his quality on the right . . . You think about it and you do the math,” BG said pushing the paper toward Sean some more. She didn’t wait for his answer or to hear what he had to say once he reviewed the sheet; instead, BG sauntered toward the suite door.

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby and we’ll walk over to the main event together tonight. If that’s all right with you . . . partner,” she said flatly. Sean chuckled at her tone. BG was a hard ass and she wasn’t always easy to deal with, but she was starting to grow on him.

  “And if you’re betting tonight and in business . . . I hope you’re betting on the right dude,” she said figuratively, letting the door slam behind her.

  When BG finally showed up in the Mandalay Bay lobby, she was glowing . . . literally. Her gleaming ebony skin played up against the shocking white, close fitting, Nicole Miller wrap dress she wore. The dress looked as if it had been painted onto BG’s body because it clung to her so closely and accentuated her slim, yet curvy frame. BG seemed to glide across the expansive hotel lobby; her white feathered Manolo Blahnik pumps giving her slender legs the right amount of lift to bring out her thick muscular calf. The diamond chandelier earrings that dangled from her ears were blinding as she walked toward Sean with the grace of a goddess. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of his sexy business partner. In fact, he had to shake his head a few times to shake away lustful thoughts about her.

  “Damn. I don’t even wanna walk next to you, super star,” Sean joked when BG was close enough. Sean was joking because he looked just as dapper as BG in his custom-tailored Armani suit, monogrammed Gucci belt and Gucci loafers.

  “You don’t look so shabby yourself.” She smiled, putting her arm through his playfully. BG thought Sean was gorgeous with his smooth caramel skin and dark intriguing eyes. Even the small gap between his pearly white teeth was sexy to her and she was simply infatuated with the new neatly trimmed goatee and slim mustache he had been rocking lately. They walked through the casino together and definitely turned a lot of heads as onlookers tried to figure out what celebrity couple Sean and BG was.

  “Stop right there and make a bet,” BG said, halting Sean’s step while pointing to the roulette table. “I’m feeling lucky.” She winked.

  “Nah, ma, I don’t play roulette. I gamble on sure bets only,” Sean protested half joking, but mostly serious. BG pulled Sean by the arm over to the side of the roulette table that she had been pointing to. She unclasped the latch on her small white Christian Dior clutch and took out a handful of chips.

  “Here, pick a number and bet. If you lose we go with my connect. If you win, we stay with God,” BG said, dropping the $10,000 worth of coins into Sean’s right hand. Sean looked at her strangely and shook his head.

  “You just not gon’ let this go,” Sean said, reluctantly stepping up to the table. “You about to lose and then I don’t want to hear no more talk about it,” Sean said sternly.

  “A’ight. No more about it if I lose, but if I win . . . give me your word.” BG stopped him and looked him straight in the eye.

  “A’ight, you got my word and my word is bond,” Sean said with sincerity. He was sure he wouldn’t lose. Sean counted himself as lucky in life thus far, after all, he had scarcely missed the murder of his mother and his mentor, and both times he’d crossed paths with their killers right before he found them dead.

  With that, Sean chunked all of the chips down on the red 16 in the middle of the roulette table. It was his grandmother’s birthday number. Sean caught a few sideway glances from other betters at the table who shot him looks as if to say he must be crazy to bet all on one number with such a slim probability of winning.

  “Feeling lucky,” he said with a smile, although his heart was jack hammering in his chest.

  “No more bets!” the table matron called out, waving her hand over the table as if she was about to show everybody a magic trick. BG and Sean both watched the small white ball jump around the round number plate. BG had her ass cheeks clenched together tightly and Sean secretly had his toes balled up in his shoes as the ring finally started to slow and the ball fell, popping around to find its
place in a number slot.

  “Eight! Lucky number eight!” the table matron shouted.

  “Yes!” BG blurted out, almost jumping out of her expensive pumps. Now, the other betters shifted their gazes from Sean to her; eyeing her strangely, as if to say why would she be happy her friend lost all of his money.

  “Your word right?” BG clarified, a big smile flashing across her face.

  “My word,” Sean said somberly, his hands shoved into his suit pockets and his jaw flexing feverishly.

  “In the future . . . always bet on black,” BG said snidely, winking at him.

  Sean kept his word and agreed to meet BG’s new connect—a dude she called Reemo out of Miami. Sean didn’t expect to cut a deal with Reemo because Sean didn’t think anyone could do better than God’s prices. No matter how many times BG had told Sean that Reemo was willing to front the heroin and premium lab made meth at half of God’s price, Sean thought that was impossible. “How the fuck he gon’ make his profit?” Sean had asked her sharply the third time she told him.

  At the airport in Miami, Sean bent his lanky body into the passenger seat of a gorgeous, silver drop-top Bentley Continental. BG slid behind the steering wheel and looked over at him. She had felt him staring at her.

  “What?” she asked, her left eyebrow raised.

  “It’s sexy as hell to have a woman driving me around in a whip that many niggas ain’t even up on yet in 2003,” Sean said, flashing a huge grin. BG relaxed a little bit and chuckled too.

  “It’s boss as hell for me to drive a king around in my 2003 Bentley, so I feel the same way,” BG quipped right back, winking at him.

  “Nah . . . say word. This shit ain’t yours. This a rental, stop frontin’. Tell the truth,” Sean teased, knowing just how to annoy her.

  “Nigga, you crazy as hell you think I would be caught dead driving a rental. I have a whip in every state I frequent . . . believe that,” BG clarified, a hint of defensiveness underlying her words.

  “I hear that hot shit.” Sean shook his head in admiration. “Remind me to get like you when I grow up,” he said sarcastically. BG cut her eye at him, then busted out laughing. She knew he was trying hard to get under her skin like an annoying younger brother.

  “Nah, nigga . . . we both about to grow up after this deal changes the game for us,” she replied.

  As they drove down Collins Avenue with the thick, hot Miami air blowing on their faces, BG schooled Sean on the hot spots that celebrities frequented, the best places to shop and most importantly, the best places to party.

  “We gon’ celebrate tonight. Trust, my nigga, there will be a lot to celebrate for sure,” BG said as she whipped the Bentley past the glitzy part of the strip and into a mini mall parking lot toward the end of the strip. The mini mall had a few stores but BG pulled up in front of a nondescript, pale brick building with blacked-out glass windows in the front and no sign describing what type of establishment it was.

  Sean craned his neck so he could get a good look at the building. It looked abandoned to him.

  “What’s up?” he asked BG, his crumpled facial expression telling the story of what was going on in his mind.

  “Be easy. This is Reemo’s hot spot . . . you know . . . strip club,” BG said jokingly as she grabbed for her door handle. Sean grabbed her arm halting her motion for a minute.

  “Look. I don’t know this nigga so don’t get in there and act brand new,” Sean warned in a serious tone. “I don’t have my people with me, but I can handle mines.”

  “C’mon. You’re my partner. This is business and that’s it. You’ll see,” BG assured.

  With that, Sean exited the Bentley and straightened his jeans out, swiped his hands down the front of his Lacoste polo shirt and adjusted his Rolex on his wrist. He didn’t take too kindly to having a business meeting in jeans, but given that the meeting was being held at a storefront strip club, Sean relaxed a little bit. He followed BG to the front door of the weird looking club.

  “I’m warning you ahead of time, Reemo is interesting . . . to say the least,” BG said. “But that don’t mean nothing when it comes to his prices and quality.”

  Sean would quickly find out what BG meant. Inside the club, Sean looked around with wide eyes. The strip club’s drab outside was nothing like chic inside which boasted shiny black and purple lacquer floors, sparkly silver walls and expansive, beveled glass mirrors throughout. There were four stages with shiny silver poles at the centers and a glitter covered DJ’s stand at the back. The bar was beautifully decorated with colorful glass shelves behind it and nothing but premium liquors stacked up. Sean and BG walked slowly, he was taking it all in, imagining what kind of money an establishment like that could bring in.

  “BG! What’s up, girl?” a tall, slender girl wearing a lavender wig, clear plastic five-inch heels and a purple bathrobe shouted when she saw them. Sean gazed at the beautiful woman up and down.

  “Dream! Hey, chica!” BG hollered in response, rushing toward the girl. They hugged and rocked back and forth like long-lost sisters being reunited.

  “Girl, you look damn good! Leaving all this has served you damned good,” Dream sang, stepping back to take in an eyeful of BG’s luxurious jewels, her oversized Chanel tote and her spiked Louboutin pumps. BG seemed a little uncomfortable, but she smiled through it. But, she could feel the heat of Sean’s gaze on her face. BG could only wonder if Sean had caught on to what Dream had said.

  “Um . . . Dream, this is King Sean . . . King, this is my girl Dream,” BG introduced. “We go way back and she’s the sweetest female you’ll ever meet.”

  “Damn ain’t he a tall drank of chocolate milk,” Dream licked her lips and said sexily. Sean’s cheeks flamed over, but he kept his face stoic.

  “He’s off-limits!” BG snapped playfully. “C’mon before she rings the feed bell and you get surrounded by a roomful of hungry stripper bitches,” BG told Sean, pulling him along toward the back of the club.

  “How you know I ain’t wanna be surrounded by a roomful of hungry stripper bitches?” Sean whispered to BG. She shot him a look and punched him in the arm.

  “Because we are here on business that’s how,” she replied, a red flush of jealousy cropping up on her cheeks.

  At the back of the club, BG pushed aside a bunch of silver and crystal hanging beads that were covering a doorway. She held the beads aside and let Sean pass through the doorway.

  “Now that’s some old school shit right there,” Sean laughed. “I ain’t seen beads since the eighties.”

  “Yeah, the girls been trying to get Reemo to take them shits down for years.”

  Once BG and Sean passed through the beaded doorway, BG made a sharp left into a long, dimly lit hallway. Sean followed her, looking around a bit leery.

  “Sure is a lot of m’fuckin’ doors in this bitch,” he grumped. Sean hated closed doors.

  “What’s strip club without champagne rooms?” BG answered, as if to say “duh.” Just then, Sean passed one of the doors and it was slightly opened. He peeked through the crack as he passed, only to see a beautiful Latina with her lips sealed around a dick.

  “Ah . . . champagne rooms. Forgot about them,” Sean said amused.

  Finally Sean and BG arrived at a black doorway in the back of the club. Sean could already smell the cigarette smoke coming from under the door. BG tapped on the door a few times and placed her ear close to listen.

  “Who it is?” a man’s voice with a distinct Southern drawl screamed from the other side.

  “Black Girl!” BG yelled back. Within a few seconds Sean could hear the locks clicking on the door. There had to be at least twenty locks that clicked before the door finally opened a crack.

  “Jumbo, move out the way. It’s me BG,” she demanded, pushing the door open wider causing a short, portly man to stumble back a few steps. Sean followed her inside. Immediately the smoke and odor in the room assailed his nose and he coughed. It was taking everything inside of him to not throw his arm o
r hand up over his nose.

  “Black Gal! Goddamn, gal! Where the hell you been at? You told me you was coming weeks ago,” Reemo huffed, his fast Southern drawl reminding Sean of a cast member from an old slave movie. Sean did a double take at the man thinking his eyes were deceiving him.

  “What’s good, Reemo? I told you I would get here when I got here,” BG sassed walking closer to where Reemo sat on a black leather couch.

  “Who you got there?” Reemo asked, tilting his head in Sean’s direction. Sean stepped closer and he couldn’t take his eyes off of the man in front of him.

  Reemo had to be at least 400 pounds of pure fat. His body spilled from side to side and although he was sitting on a full-length couch, it still seemed too small for him. Reemo’s legs looked like the trunks of one-hundred-year-old trees and his arms where so short they seemed almost nonexistent. Reemo was dark as night and had at least three chins. He had a thick afro of hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed, cut or combed in years. This couldn’t be the man BG had described as a multimillionaire looking like this, Sean was thinking.

  “Reemo, this is King Sean. Remember, we talked about my partner up North?” BG introduced, moving aside so Reemo could get a better look at Sean through the haze of smoke in the dimly lit room. Sean reluctantly stepped closer as the Jabba the Hutt lookalike in front of him extended his fat, greasy, sausage hand toward him for a shake.

  “What up?” Sean said, balling his fist and bumping it lightly into Reemo’s hand. There was no way Sean was going to touch Reemo’s filthy hands for a handshake. Sean was already regretting that he’d agreed to make a deal with the sloppy pig in front of him. Reemo was a far cry from God in terms of appearance and even place of business. Sean had to wonder if everything else about the overweight man was going to be as sloppy; including his deals.

  “All right. All right,” Reemo said, sounding a bit out of breath as he spoke.