by Anna J.
“Did you do something with Mona, Ruby?”
“Tashy, please with the bullshit. The girl is obsessed, and I don’t know why. I got a lot of shit going on in Brooklyn. I got no time for no little girl. Tell Simone to get rid of the crazy little bitch.”
“Mona says y’all did something and she’s in love,” Tashy said flatly.
“Fuck, Mona.” Ruby grimaced. “I need to get some stuff. Brooklyn is shut down. I’m moving uptown. I’ll be there in an hour.”
Ruby ended the call. When the waitress brought Ruby her food, she suddenly no longer had an appetite. She pulled out a wad of cash from her coat and counted out two hundred-dollar bills, throwing them on the table.
“I’m not eating. Here’s two bills for your trouble.” Ruby snatched her coat, put it on, and jogged to the Range Rover. She drove uptown in a rage. Things had to be put back in order. She had to find Daphne. When she turned the car on, Anthony Hamilton sang, “Sometimes I get lonely coming from where I’m from... .” That was exactly how Ruby felt.
Chapter Fifteen
So it is said that victory can be made.
—Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Detective Levy’s eight-hour shift had turned into a twenty-hour one by the time the last body was taken out of the apartment. The crowd and media representatives, with their vans and equipment, dispersed, leaving the rainy East New York block eerily silent, with the exception of the sound of passing cars.
With a faintly stubbled chin and bags under his eyes, Levy came alive sitting in his unmarked car as Breeze’s cell phone rang. It was like he’d just won the lottery.
“That was definitely Davidson’s voice,” he announced when the call ended.
“Sure of it? I haven’t heard it in years,” replied FBI agent Phillip Doyle from the backseat. Agent Doyle had agreed to drive from his Long Island home to Brooklyn after hearing about the open investigation on a woman he’d helped put away, supposedly for the rest of her life. That was until her conviction was overturned.
Doyle was a twenty-eight-year vet of the FBI’s New York office. A native himself, he had seen it all. He’d been part of some of the city’s biggest investigations, from the La Cosa Nostra indictments of the five biggest families to the Russian mafia, Colombian cartels, Black, Jamaican, West Indian, and Latin drug gangs, and even the little hoods that suddenly got some big score.
He became part of the investigation into the “Davidson Organization” when she shot and killed a Dominican drug dealer the FBI had targeted. He’d learned from other agents’ investigations about a drug ring in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn of which Davidson was the boss. The word was, she was one bad bitch.
Doyle was a year away from retiring from law enforcement. He looked every bit of his fifty-five years. A head full of gray hair, which he wore like a politician, weathered olive-tone skin, sagging blue eyes, a tough Irish scowl, which became his natural expression, highlighted the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes. Though he was five foot eleven, with stooped shoulders, his potbelly made him seem stockier than he was. With his outward appearance, coupled with. A deep smoker’s voice from cheap cigars, he gave off the stereotypical image of a drunken Irishman. Which, in fact, he was. Yet, throughout it all, he was known as a cop’s cop.
He was far from a shallow bureaucrat who looked down on the locals. Doyle had no problem sharing intel with city or state cops that stumbled upon a federal investigation or vice versa. He was the agent, or G-man, the NYPD top brass reached out to before trying to convince the director or city officials to coordinate an investigation. That was why it was no surprise that he rushed to Brooklyn at four in the morning on a miserable, rainy day to meet with Levy.
“I just finished talking to this broad right before the corpses pop up,” Levy said.
“So, you’re saying she has an alibi?” Doyle asked, reaching in his tan camel-hair trench for a lighter. When he spoke, his double chin shook.
“She was definitely at the scene, but when she left, the headless guy was alive.”
Levy’s young partner, who favored Johnny Depp, interjected, “I assume the guy’s family was alive also. Most likely got it right before he was caught on the staircase.”
“Police work doesn’t call for assumptions, young man. We need facts,” Doyle sermonized. He did everything by the book.
“So what do you think?” Levy cut in before Doyle gave one of his “how to be a good cop” speeches.
“It’s definitely not her style. Did you contact the cop investigating the triple over in Bedford-Stuyvesant?” Doyle asked.
Levy sighed. “Yeah, I did. They guy is hard pressed for more details than I have. He said her owning the store where the murders took place ain’t enough to go chasing her around.”
“And he’s right,” Doyle barked, lighting up the cigar. “You mind?” He cut an eye at Levy.
“No. Go ahead,” Levy said, immediately regretting his decision once Doyle lit up the foul-smelling cigar. Doyle spoke while smoke came out of his mouth.
“No sense in chasing ghosts. I think maybe Davidson has aligned herself with some real cowboys. Probably met some connections in prison and planned a takeover, once they got out. Looks like the work of some Middle Eastern syndicate, which I doubt would go into business with an American black girl from the ghetto. Has to do with trust issues, or the work of the Jamaican posses or other islanders, like Haitians, Trinidadians, that sort.”
Levy rolled his window down, then looked at Doyle through the rearview. “So where do we start?”
“We can start by grabbing some breakfast,” Doyle murmured, rubbing his rounded gut. “Then we go to the prison Davidson was housed at for thirteen years and find out who she was affiliated with. Plenty of rats in the federal joints that will gladly share information with us.”
Levy nodded his head as he began to start the car. Doyle opened the back door to get out and get in his black eighties-model Lincoln Town Car. He pulled the collar of his trench coat around his neck, ducked his head back in the car, and growled, “Where do you Jewish guys grab a bite at this time of the morning?”
“I forgot Brooklyn has never been a place for the micks,” Levy joked. “Just follow me, pal.”
Doyle chuckled. “Brooklyn humor. Brutal as the streets.”
The cool air that blew in from the Miami River was a welcomed act of nature for Daphne after temperatures reached ninety degrees in the shade during the day. Daphne, wearing a peach tank top, white capri pants, and white open-toe sandals, removed her Chloé shades while sitting on the porch of her beach home to read an article in Don Diva magazine her sister had referred her to.
Miami was Daphne’s second best getaway spot, after Jamaica. To Daphne, Miami had the pace of New York, with its trendy boutiques and “party till the sun burns out” nightlife, and the tropical feel of Jamaica, with its lovely beaches and resorts and kind, courteous natives, while a mean, ruthless, murderous drug-culture underworld was in its belly.
When Daphne was relaxing at her white stucco, wood-framed, one-story beach home with two bedrooms, she felt at home. The master suite had glass sliding doors with an ocean view, while the whole place was decorated in an African motif, with carved wooden stakes imported from the Ivory Coast, bamboo woven chairs, African pottery, and portraits of the African grasslands. Miami was definitely one of Daphne’s favorite places because it so often reminded her of Donovan. It was he who had shown her the city, which, he’d once said, “America didn’t deserve.”
When her sister brought the Don Diva magazine to her, she’d opened it up to the article and handed it to her. “Your homegirl done got herself famous.”
Daphne stared at a picture, obviously taken in the eighties, of a younger Ruby sitting on a large straw-cushioned chair with a background picture of New York City. She was dressed in a brown and gold Dapper Dan leather Louis Vuitton coat, a white silk shirt, a large rope chain connected to a Nefertiti medallion, Vidal Sassoon blue jeans, and black snakeskin boot
s. On each of her hands she wore a two- and four-finger ring that spelled out Ruby in diamonds.
The title of the article caught Daphne’s attention. In big, bold black and gold letters it read, “Brooklyn’s Bosstress.”
She stared at Ruby’s picture for a few seconds, looking into her eyes. She could see the sadness there and realized that she was the type of person that made it appear as if everything was cool on the outside, but on the inside were confusion, pain, sadness, and a desire to cry out for help. She was one of those people on a search for answers to their problems, knowing that no one had the answers but themselves. Daphne continued on.
“For those who thought that New York City’s eighties crack era was ruled by ruthless, violent drug gangs led by black or Hispanic men, think again. The tough streets of Brownsville, Brooklyn, have a secret. A true story of a Don Diva who was just as ruthless as, if not more ruthless than, some of her male counterparts.
After serving thirteen years of a federal life sentence, it was overturned in 2001. The government alleged that Ruby Davidson of Brownsville, Brooklyn, murdered a Dominican drug dealer in broad daylight on a busy Manhattan street. She is believed to have ran a criminal enterprise out of several Brownsville housing projects, grossing two hundred thousand a day in crack sales. Ruby Davidson is now a free woman, giving Don Diva an exclusive first-time interview from Club Opium in Las Vegas, where she and others are celebrating the release of one of Ruby’s prison homies, Tashera “Tashy” Williams of Harlem infamy.”
Daphne looked at a few pictures of Ruby posing with Tashy and what appeared to be Tashy’s family. The words under the pictures confirmed who the people were. Daphne looked at Simone and saw the unmistakable resemblance between mother and daughter. Daphne had heard about Scooter Williams, Tashy’s father, from the streets, prison, and the Don Diva story, but now everything seemed to fall in place.
She turned the page and saw small pictures of Ruby in eighties fashion standing next to a black 300 Benz. Another picture was of her standing next to a Sterling and some chick named Kima in beige prison clothes. Kima was one of Ruby’s cell mates and lesbian lovers from the South Side of Chicago. There was even a map and pictures of the dilapidated Brownsville streets. The article continued.
“Ruby was sometimes called “the Black Widow” due to the rumors around Brownsville that she was responsible for the murders of two men she was allegedly romantically involved with. The two men were members of the Five Percent Nation and went by the names of Darnell (a Brownsville hustler and stickup kid) and Wise (another Brownsville hustler, who served time for murder and was allegedly the man who introduced Ruby to the game).” Daphne swallowed hard before reading on.
“After allegedly ridding herself of these men, it is said, and was confirmed by Ruby, that she became a full-time lesbian. Word on the street was that Ruby’s lesbian lover, a girl named Monique, was gunned down on a Brownsville street as revenge for the murder of Darnell. There was no retaliation for Wise’s murder, and Ruby denied any involvement in both.”
When Daphne turned the page, she was shocked when she saw a picture of Ruby, Monique, and Mecca sitting on a couch in someone’s apartment. Mecca appeared to be around thirteen years old. She wore her hair in a bang and ponytail, had on a pair of large door-knocker earrings with Mecca encrusted in diamonds, and a white sweatshirt. Daphne could see the same pain in her eyes that she’d seen just recently. The article continued with questions.
“DD: Ruby, how does it feel to be free after thirteen years?
RD: I can’t even put the feelings into words, but it feels good.
DD: I bet. So you grew up in Brownsville?
RD: No doubt. Langston Hughes projects.
DD: What was it like growing up in Brownsville?
RD: Growing up in the Ville, you learn how to mind your business, to fight and never be scared to lose. Just fight ... and you learn to duck and stay low when the guns blast.
DD: The things you’ve heard, the rumors about things you did, which ones are false and true?
RD: I won’t answer that on the grounds that I won’t incriminate myself or others.
DD: Answered like a true G. People say that once you were locked down, your niece took over your dealings and that eventually got her shot and out of the game. That would make ya’ll some very unusual women. Y’all would be like the Candaces of Brooklyn. (Reporter’s note: Ruby’s face turns serious.)
RD: None of that is true. My niece had nothing to do with the game.
Daphne could imagine the look on her face. Mecca was still a sensitive issue with Ruby. Daphne looked up when Andrea walked onto the porch, wearing a long, flowing, one-piece cream cotton dress with a plunging neckline. Her thong-toed flat slippers clapped against the back of her heels as her dreads swung freely by her lower back. Donovan’s father had strong genes, because all his children looked alike. Andrea just didn’t have hazel eyes like him. Her eyes were black and mysterious. She always stared off into the distance, in deep thought. Andrea laughed when Daphne told her that she always reminded Daphne of Lauryn Hill. A deep soul.
Andrea carried two glasses of sweet carrot juice in her hands and placed them on the small, white, round table Daphne sat next to. She was a strict vegetarian.
“Why not bring this thing between you and her straight to her? Why prolong it?” Andrea asked, sitting across from Daphne and looking her in the eyes. To her, Daphne was a unique object, because the sun always made her eyes appear to be different hues.
“She isn’t even aware that I’m after her,” Daphne said as she broke eye contact and looked away at the distant river. “I want her to suffer the loss of close friends like I suffered the loss of my best friend and heart.”
“You said she is a selfish woman who only thinks of herself. I assume it is unlikely she will be affected by the loss of a business partner and his family.”
Daphne turned back to Andrea. “She loves money. If she can’t make money, she becomes miserable. This is why I made sure she had money when she came home. I wanted her to get comfortable and then snatch it all away. Then I’ll kill her.”
It was Andrea’s turn to look out over the blue water. “Are you having doubts that she is responsible for your brother’s death? You know it’s just rumors, she never spoke about it to you, and you said she was pretty open with you about her business in the streets.”
“Yes, she is pretty open about street stuff, but not personal business. From what I hear, her and my brother had something personal going on.”
“What about her niece? Isn’t she close to her? Wouldn’t losing her deeply affect Ruby?”
Daphne sighed. Explaining Mecca and Ruby’s relationship was complicated. She wouldn’t know where to begin. The fact that she liked Mecca also played a part in leaving her out of the war. Mecca had suffered enough.
Andrea read her expression. “You’re fond of her niece, aren’t you?”
Daphne avoided Andrea’s gaze, causing her to smile.
“That’s a good sign that you have not lost the ability to feel compassion. I almost thought you were becoming a monster.” Andrea got up and walked into the house but paused before disappearing from the door. “I read the Daily News. Two children were in that house. Don’t become what you want to destroy. You’ll wind up destroying yourself.”
As Ruby gripped the sheets and arched her back, a deep moan escaped from her lungs. It was a much-needed multi-orgasmic release from the stresses she had been experiencing lately. The tension just melted away with the flow of juices that creamed Tashy’s face.
When she drove to Tashy’s apartment, she went there expecting a verbal confrontation from her about Mona. However, when Tashy answered the door, wearing her silk kimono robe with nothing on under it, nipples harder than tire caps, and a seductive, “come fuck me” look on her face, Ruby grinned and gave Tashy what she wanted, and what Ruby needed her damned self.
Afterward, they lay naked on their backs, breathing laboriously, staring at the
ceiling. Tashy grabbed one of her overstuffed pillows and hit Ruby on the stomach with it.
Ruby flinched. “Tashy, what the fuck are you doing?”
Smiling, Tashy responded, “I can’t believe you tried to turn that young girl out. You got her obsessed.”
Ruby grinned. She knew there was no sense lying to Tashy. She knew her better than a lot of people. She knew from experience that Tashy wouldn’t be hurt by her habit of testing the playing field.
“You got to admit the chick got it going on,” Ruby said, amused. Then she straightened her face out and became serious. “I didn’t do it to hurt Simone, though. It was a one-time thing. The girl kept giving me googly eyes.”
Tashy nodded. “I will keep it real. She’s a cutie, but too young for me, and I won’t do that to my daughter. I have seen her giving you the eye.”
Ruby got up to go to the bathroom. Her once tight buns were now a bit jiggly. Tashy watched them with great interest as they bounced and realized that Ruby wasn’t working out like she used to in jail. Plus, she was getting older now, and time was starting to take its toll. Still, she had a body to die for.
“So, how is Simone doing? Did she get over it?” Ruby asked from the bathroom.
“I hope she did. She’s over my father’s. I spoke to her yesterday, and she sounded like she was okay.”
On her way out, Ruby grabbed a newspaper that sat on top of Tashy’s entertainment system. “What about Mona?”
Tashy sighed. “Still wondering if you will give her a chance. The girl is crazy. I saw her on the Ave., and she came to me, apologizing, while at the same time asking if me and her could share your love. Ain’t that—”
