The Banks Sisters

by Nikki Turner

  “Is that right?” Ginger began walking away. “Then we can fall back and go get lunch then. I’m starving,” she put her stomach on her hand.

  “But since we are already here,” Deidra said reaching out grabbing Ginger’s arm, before she could take another step. “You might as well . . . aha . . . go ahead and check the temperature.”

  “Wait here.” Ginger flipped her weave and went inside the store.

  In her mind, she swore that Deidra was the only person that Ginger ever cared about getting approval from. But it wasn’t true. Ginger aspired to be rich. To look rich and be respected as a rich woman, everywhere she went. This was the reason why she hustled and played with the credit cards the way she did. Not because she needed to, but because she liked the feeling of compliments and the attention she got when put on the clothes. Unlike Tallhya she didn’t need a man to validate herself. Her beautiful, extravagant “things” never failed her.

  The scent of the new Louie’s was intoxicating upon entrance to the store. The smell of richness was the aroma of the place. It reminded her of that new car smell, not that fake shit, the “car-scent” they try to pedal in the auto stores. This smell triggered something in Ginger’s head, that made her remember how bad she wanted that new convertible Lexus in her life.

  One day soon.

  “May I help you with something?” The saleslady was an anorexeric-looking chick with shockingly bright blond hair, which the roots let on, was so not her real color.

  Besides Ginger, there were two other customers in the store, a couple, who were, being stalked by the only other salesperson looking for a sure commission.

  Ginger instincts told her to fall back, and she’d planned to listen. So that she wouldn’t look too crazy, before leaving, she asked to see one of the purses from behind the counter.

  It was the same model as the one displayed in the store’s window. The one her mother almost broke a heel and her neck trying to stop to get a better look at.

  Olive Oil flipped her neon hair over her shoulder as if she had better things to do, than her job.

  This bitch is tripping, Ginger thought. Reluctantly, Olive Oil fetched the bag, but not before bluntly informing Ginger of a small detail, “It’s $4,100, and we don’t have layaway and we never have sales or markdowns.”

  Ginger exhaled and thought to herself. Girl, don’t even let this definitely in need of a French-fry heifer fade you. Thank the bitch for her help and keep it moving. But emotions got the better of her. “I’ll take the matching wallet also,” she firmly said. Then plucked two credit cards from her own Louie wallet. “I’m trying to earn frequent flyer miles so divide the total.”

  Ginger’s eyes were glued on Olive Oil as eyes were fixed on the two credit cards in her hand as she was trying hard not to shit a brick. I’m going to have to see some identification, “Mrs.,” another quick glance at the plastic then back to Ginger, “Rebecca Paige.”

  She smirked then added, “Not mines, but it’s the store’s policy.”

  I’m sure it is, Ginger thought. Since the surge of online shopping, stores rarely asked for ID anymore to confirm credit card purposes. All that was needed was the card number, which Ginger had memorized.

  Olive Oil was being a smart alek, and hating, either that, or was hipped to game. All in all, she better be happy that she’s getting this damn commission.

  Negative thoughts was a cancer, Ginger shook the negativity out of her space and into space. She dug into her wallet and found the ID that matched the fake card. The same dude that had hooked her up with the plastic, one of her friends with benefits, had supplied her with a complimentary ID. Doug told her, better to have it and not need it then to need it and not have it.

  She smiled, thinking of Doug’s words in her ears. That’s why she fucked with Doug; he was smart and great in bed. Ginger passed Olive Oil the fake driver’s license that Doug insisted that she take with her. Olive Oil checked the creds. After seeing the headshot of Ginger smiling for the camera above the name Rebecca Paige, she reluctantly swiped the Visa and American Express, splitting the price of the purchase, on the two the cards just as Ginger had asked.

  “Thank you Darling.” Bag in hand, Ginger showed the raggedy bitch her back and sashayed out of the store.

  Without breaking stride, she nodded a quote, “lets go,” to Deidra. It wasn’t until she was inside of Ginger’s six year-old Honda, with engine running, did Ginger start to relax. Even then, she still felt a little uneasy, which was odd for her. Usually it was an adrenaline rush, but not today.

  “Lets go to Ruth Chris,” oblivious to Ginger’s anxiety, I got a taste for one of their juicy tender steaks.”

  The mall was behind them. The Honda headed east on 64. On the radio August Alsina’s, “If I Make it Home,” played.

  Ginger turned up the volume. Being as if they were at the club, three strobes of light bounced off the dashboard. “What the fuc—”

  Woop! Woop!

  Police.

  9:00 p.m.

  “Ringggggg . . .” Spoe and Bunny’s house phone rung, which was a surprise because it almost never did.

  The two old friends sat on the couch looking at each other knowing damn well that it couldn’t possibly be the call that they were waiting for, but nevertheless Spoe got up to answer it. He looked at the caller ID and it read: UNKNOWN.

  “Hello,” he said into the receiver.

  The automated recording immediately, starting talking, “You have a prepaid call from,” there was a brief pause and then Ginger spoke her name, prompting Spoe to call out Bunny’s name, “Ayo Bunny! Babe!”

  Then the recording sprung back into action, “From the Henrico County Jail. Please hang up to decline, or press zero to accept ”

  Spoe couldn’t press the zero quick enough to accept the call.

  “Hello,” Ginger, said.

  “Yo,” Spoe said, “the fuck?”

  “They knocked me off coming out of the Louie store.” Ginger was about to give Spoe the details, when Spoe cut her off.

  “How much the bail?” Spoe asked as Bunny walked up and he said, “It’s Ginger, she down Henrico.”

  “The magistrate ain’t give me no bail,” Ginger informed Spoe.

  “Don’t worry, the judge gone give you one in the morning. Hold your head and Bunny gone be there to get you,” Spoe promised then handed Bunny the phone.

  Bunny took the phone out of Spoe’s hand, “Bitch, what the hell happened?”

  Spoe corrected Bunny quick, “Don’t ask her that on ’em phones. You know ‘em people listening right?”

  Bunny nodded to Spoe, agreeing and then he spoke into the phone to Ginger, “I’m going to be there in the a.m. to get you. Okay. So hang in there,” and in Me-Ma’s voice, “joy going to come in the morning.”

  Bunny could tell that her last comment marking their grandmother managed to put a slight smile on Ginger’s face.

  The rest of evening went by at a snail’s pace for Bunny thinking about Ginger as well as, Spoe and Tariq waiting for Tiffany to finally call.

  “Man this shit is whack, you know we not use this. Waiting around for a call to move,” Spoe was right. He was one of those people that he like ritual, he was organic and believed that’s how things should be. Not forced but should come when he felt it in his gut. With his balls and heart out of the equation, that was a lot of the reason he was so successful at what he did, he always trusted his instinct.

  “Man she going to call soon,” Tariq trying to assure his friend since third grade as he was a little concerned about the awkward silence between the two of them.

  Spoe began to think to himself, how he hated breaking his routine of doing things, but then he thought about his cut of the million dollars that could be in his safe tomorrow.

  Just then the phone rung, a smile covered a relieved Tariq’s face, as he answered quickly the second he saw the caller ID revealing Tiffany’s number.

  “Yeah, beautiful,” he said as he winked and smiled
at Spoe. There was no doubt that he was trying to convince his childhood friend that he really wasn’t sprung out on Tiffany as he was. Tariq put the call on speakerphone so Spoe could be privy to the info she had. She let out the address and that was the green light to proceed with their plan.

  Spoe went into the bedroom for a quick change into his work clothes, and went over to the bed where Bunny was stretched out watching television, and laid on top of her.

  He blessed her with a long passionate kiss, “We just got the call.”

  “You sure this Tiffany bitch is okay?” she questioned.

  “Yes, I guess, Tariq said he bet his life on it,” Spoe said.

  “He better and hers, too. Hope that bitch value hers cause if she ain’t on the up and up, I’m going to deal with her myself,” Bunny promised.

  Spoe knew that Bunny meant business. His wifey was extremely territorial. He knew that she didn’t like the fact that he had to depend on any other woman besides her, for anything. Spoe wasn’t going to even entertain the treacherous thoughts of what Bunny would do to Tiffany if the information she gave, wasn’t on the up and up.

  “Well, that the girl is all about her money, and she want her cut.”

  “Seems like it,” Bunny agreed.

  “Why you say that?” Spoe questioned Bunny as if she knew something that he didn’t.

  “I looked at her Instagram page and I saw her.”

  Spoe kissed his wifey-boo again. “You something else,” he said not even surprised that Bunny knew everything, including the girl last eye exam, there was to know about Tiffany.

  “Hand me that phone on the night table,” she said to him. He did and she started showing Spoe Tiffany’s pictures she had posted on her page.

  “You don’t be playing do you?”

  “Nope not when it comes to my man, I don’t. Nope not about mines.”

  He kissed her again, “I love you woman, and you know that!”

  “Yes! And know that I love you more,” she kissed him back and embraced him tight. Then asked, “I just wish you could stay here in my arms all night.”

  “Me too baby, but duty calls. Gotta go get the bacon.”

  Bunny sighed and for a couple beats there was silence between the two. Then she jumped into character, “What you need me to do to help you get ready.”

  “Nothing I’m good babe, I got it covered.”

  “You sure?” she questioned as Spoe got up and slipped into his all black gear. She tried to do any little thing to help him as if he was her son. He didn’t mind. He gave her a long hug.

  “Go and get that money baby and bring it back to Momma,” she kissed him and smiled at him.

  “You better believe it baby,” he said as he headed for the door. “Come lock the door, babe.”

  Bunny walked behind him and he turned back around and spoke to her.

  “And if Ginger call back, let ’em know, not to panic. We got ’em as soon as they give a bail.”

  Once she shut door and watched them get into their work van and pull off, she wondered exactly how Ginger was holding up.

  -15-

  “Bail denied!”

  The decision not to grant Ginger, a bond came from behind a bulletproof glass by an overworked magistrate. A deputy grabbed her arm and began to usher her away before a stunned Ginger could respond.

  Ginger jerked her arm away. “Hold the fuck up! I didn’t even get a chance to speak. Y’all acting like I done killed somebody or something. Damn, even the Briley Brothers got a damn bond.”

  Deputy Foster allowed Ginger to vent, as long as she didn’t get too out of pocket, she was cool. He’d been doing his job, escorting detainees through Henrico Jail for better than fifteen years. Some of them were innocent, but most were as guilty as charge. Their crimes were none of his business; he just did his job.

  “Are we in America or North-fucking Korea?” Ginger huffed. “Credit card fraud and grand larceny, that’s all I’m charged with and I can’t get no gotdamn bond? Fuck!”

  Actually Ginger had twelve counts of fraud, and eight counts of grand larceny and a list of other white-collar charges.

  Tightening his grip this time, Deputy Foster directed her back toward post processing, a room where they changed the detainees out of their street clothes and into prison beige stock jail uniforms.

  “I’m willing to bet the reason the Magistrate refused to give you bond,” he informed Ginger, “is because you don’t have a valid ID. You could be a serial killer for all we know. For all you know they could be a terrorist . . . you got four IDs and none of them are you. The Boston Bombers didn’t have IDs as intricate as yours. So you can’t really blame them for taking those precautions.” Deputy Foster got to a door and handed Ginger off to a female officer to get changed out.

  “Jane Doe, no bond,” he told his colleague and looked to Ginger, “Behave.”

  The female’s badge read Duncan. Deputy Duncan was short, with chocolate skin, and a military fit body. She sized Ginger up with a pair of hazel eyes. “Small,” she was referring to Ginger’s size, and it came more off like a statement then a question.

  What size smock she took was the least of Ginger’s concerned, she had much bigger fish to fry, which was a lot harder to do being that she was the one in the hot pan of grease. It turned out that Olive Oil, the anorexic white chick from the Louie store, had called five-oh, with the omnipresence of surveillance cameras, it had been easy to go back, to pick up Ginger’s movements after leaving Louie Vuitton, she and Deidra leaving the mall, putting the bags in the car and the license plates of her Honda as they rode off.

  “Take all your clothes off and put them in this.” Deputy Duncan handed her a small medal basket, “And hurry up. We don’t have all day honey.”

  Chile please. Bitch you much be crazy . . . like you really think I’m going to hurry up to get locked down? Think again, Ginger thought as she unbuttoned her blouse slowly.

  Two buttons . . . Deputy Duncan rolled her eyes. “Get a move on it,” she tried to rush Ginger, but Ginger wasn’t having it.

  She rolled them right back like, whatever. The blouse finally unbuttoned, Ginger took off the blouse, folded it up neatly and then placed it into the medal basket. Thanks to all the hormone pills she had taken since age eighteen, a killer pair of C-cup breasts filled the cup of the Victoria’s Secret royal blue lace bra.

  Deputy Duncan walked her eyes down to Ginger’s ironing board flat stomach and then slowly back up to her breasts with the healthy appetite and appreciation of an admiring lesbian.

  “Good,” said Deputy Duncan with no shame in her tone. “Jeans and shoes.”

  Ginger saw the lust written all across Duncan’s face, and she milked it, taking her time. Deputy Duncan deaded her fake hurry, enjoying the striptease that Ginger was putting on, while it lasted. Ginger wished she’d worn more clothes.

  And finally in nothing, but matching lace panties and bra, she struck a pose. Then gestured for the prison rags to replace the garments she’d disrobed.

  Ginger’s heart skipped when Deputy Duncan said, “. . . everything.”

  With a lot to conceal and nowhere to conceal it, Ginger sighed at the perplexity of her situation.

  “You sure about that,” Ginger said in her sexiest voice. This may be too much for you,” she licked her lips and batted her long mink eyelash extensions, in a seductive way.

  “Trust me, I can handle what . . . ever you got.” Duncan shot back. “Now strip.”

  “Okay, have it your way,” she moaned in a way that she knew turned on Duncan, as she unsnapped her bra, freeing a set of perfectly round of mounds soft flesh, sitting at attention like two puppies awaiting a treat. A nod at the panties from Deputy Duncan, trying to conceal a smile, but Ginger had other things that needed to be concealed.

  They were at ground zero when Deputy Duncan unleashed a wild scream. “Package!”

  Thinking that Deputy Duncan had discovered drugs on the Jane Doe’s person and by the sound of her shr
iek, was engaged in a physical confrontation. Deputy Foster to assist his colleague.

  Confused, Deputy Duncan stammered, “S-she’sss a dude,” pointing at the seven inches of proof, strapped between Gingers legs and ass cheeks.

  “What the fuckkkk?” Foster was shocked, too.

  -16-

  Under the pale light of a full moon, Spoe and Tariq stepped from the cover of a thick patch of wood, about half a football field from a white plantation style mansion.

  In what little time they did have to prepare, they’d done their homework. It was a Thursday, every Thursday around 11:00 p.m., the Bloody Lion Crew left the house together, usually for a couple of hours, but never more than three or less than one. So, Spoe and Tariq figured they had at least an hour to find the bread and get ghost, but had decided to only allot themselves thirty minutes to make it happen.

  The crib—7,200 square foot, on three acres of rural property belonged to a dread called Dino. Dino was the head of a crew from New York, called the Bloody Lions Posse, who was heavily into distribution of cocaine and Ecstasy. But even after doing their due diligence, Spoe still couldn’t help his feeling of uneasiness combined with a bad vibe.

  “That bitch Tiffany, is sure she seen a mil-ticket?” Spoe had to make sure.

  Tariq eyes still on the empty house, “She’s never steered me wrong before and I’m sure she’s not going to start now.” Tariq looked his man in his eyes, “She said it was at least a million dollars.”

  “In a suitcase with a gold lion head?” Spoe questioned, then added, “It sounds like some shit you’d see in a movie?”

  Tariq hunched his shoulders, he had to agree, “True dat. But you know like I know, real life can be crazier than fiction. Take this house for example. You wouldn’t think a black person would be living in it, unless they were the help. The shit looks exactly like Candy Land, the house Jamie Foxx blew up in the movie Django.”

  The sound of barking dogs rang out.