by Nikki Turner
“Cool,” Paula cooed. “I'll be waiting.”
C-Note hung up the phone and smiled. That's what he liked about having Paula on his team. There was never any useless small talk. If he said he was on his way, no questions were asked.
Thirty minutes later he was at Paula's, and while she had his coke brewing, he made phone calls to a few worker bees to get the show going. While talking on the phone, he couldn't help but notice how phat Paula still was as she moved about the kitchen in some old green sweatpants. He didn't want her to know he was watching her, because the minute she thought he was admiring her, she would be all over him.
It's too bad that she's a straight ex ol' ho, C-Note thought, shaking his head. Or else I would have her ass.
He thought about Paula's travels displayed in pictures on her octagon mirror stand: to heavyweight boxing matches, on cruises and to Cancún.
Paula was a washed-up, watered-down, burnt-out ho from way back in the day, when hustlers were really getting real money. Paula was still beautiful in her own right, but she could never be made into a housewife. Her reputation of chasing if not every baller but damn near every hustler that ever walked the streets in Richmond from 1986 to 1993 was too much to overlook. For a while she was the best gold digger for as long as anybody could remember. Known best for her lockjaw pussy, she was given the name “Sweet Pussy Paula.”
Sometimes mistaken for an Indian, Paula had long, black, wavy, thick hair that she wore in a neatly maintained ponytail. As thick as her hair was, it demanded a serious Revlon perm, but she wasn't trading in her naturally wavy hair for bone-straight hair. Besides, her fierce sex game just sealed the deal.
Sweet Pussy Paula had a good run. She ran through ballers' cash and stash like Marion Jones in a two-hundred-meter sprint. Everybody wanted a piece of Sweet Pussy Paula. If a hustler hadn't either sexed or turned down the opportunity to hit Paula, he hadn't arrived in the game yet. But before she knew it, her stock fell extremely low and she found herself being propositioned to do things that were way out of character.
Since she had a reputation, and not for doing good hair, Paula couldn't get a steady clientele in the beauty salon she owned. It wasn't that other chicks thought she was a moral disgrace. No, broads were funny like that. They were lightweight jealous of the rumors of just how good Paula's pussy was, making them second-guess what they were workin' with up under their own thongs. It didn't help her at all that her hair game was only okay, and when it came to doing hair in the VA, okay was just not good enough. The only stylists she had in her shop were either chicks with unsteady clientele or ones who had been kicked out of damn near every shop in Richmond. But together they somehow made it.
Besides stripping, Paula tried it all: nails, massage therapy, and selling drugs. However, when it came to dealing drugs, she could never keep the re-up money straight, spending it as quickly as she made it. While trying to stretch her product out so that she could make as much money as possible off her drugs, she learned that she had a hell of a “whip game,” something she acquired from watching some of the best ballers to ever do it cook their own stuff up because they didn't trust anyone to cook their shit, not even a naked bitch in pumps.
At first she became Lynx's best-kept secret, but he passed her on to his lil' brother because her loyalty had never been questioned. Because Lynx or C-Note never sexed Sweet Pussy Paula, somehow she was convinced that they really cared about her.
By the time Paula had finished up her entree, C-Note's phone started blowin up. The word was out that he was back in town and the shop was wide-open.
After Paula served him all of his coke on a platter, C-Note peeled off several bills from a stack of hundreds like he always did.
“Are you sure?” Paula asked, looking at the money. “I know you just got back in town. I can wait till you dump some of that work. I don't have anything that dire to be paid. My bills are on point from when you came through and gave me that money two weeks ago.”
“Naw, I'm good,” C-Note said, shaking his head from side to side. He was impressed by Paula's lack of greed. The way she was lookin' out for a brotha's pockets instead of her own was a bonus. But still in his eyes, once a ho always a ho. He replied, “I was going to go and get you something nice, for all the work you be puttin in for me, but I ain't have the time. So go ahead and hold on to that.”
“Thank you!” she said, pocketing the money. “You ain't gotta say it more than once. Is it anything you need me to do? Because you know today is Monday, and I'm off work from now to Wednesday.”
“I might need you to come by my house and take my clothes to the cleaners. And see if you can take my watch to the jeweler to get a link taken out for me.”
“A'ight, you know I got you.” She smiled.
C-Note's phone rang again. He looked down at the caller ID screen to see who was calling him. “Damn, I swear I don't feel like fucking with this larceny-hearted-ass nigga, let me go. I'ma hit you up later,” he said to Paula as he gave her a brotherly hug, then grabbed his duffel bag and answered the phone.
“Yo,” he said as he walked out the door.
“Nigga, where you at? Why I gotta call you a hundred times to get you to answer?”
“Stop tripping,” C-Note said, sucking his teeth.
“Look, man, I need to get some of that. I'm doing bad as a bitch,” he heard his brother's right-hand triggerman, Cook'em-up, say.
“You know this ain't even your MO.” C-Note knew that Cook'em-up wasn't a hustler. He would rather kill a nigga and take his instead of going out to get his own.
“When the chips is low, a nigga gotta do whatever. So help a nigga out,” Cook'em-up reasoned.
C-Note took a deep breath and said, “Look, holla at me on Friday and I'm going to look out for you real decent.”
“Friday? What you mean Friday when shit is fresh out the oven today? I need to have shit today!” Cook'em-up said in his attempt to try to strong-arm C-Note.
Damn, I know this nigga ain't going to fuckin' pay me. He never does, C-Note thought. Cook'em-up already owed him five g's from last month and was still asking for more work. Cook'em-up wasn't somebody that C-Note could just give a half ounce to in order to get him out of his face. He knew Cook'em-up would want at least a big eight or better. But it wasn't happening today.
“Look, man,” C-Note said with a sigh. “I can only throw an OZ yo' way, straight up.”
“An OZ?” Cook'em-up spat. “Man, come on. This me, baby. This is Cook'em-up.”
And that's why, C-note said to himself. Finally Cook'em-up saw that he wasn't going to do any better, so he and C-Note hooked up and Cook'em-up copped the ounce of coke. Just as C-Note called it, on Friday Cook'em-up called for more, and just like always, he had no money to pay for what he had gotten before. C-Note talked a little junk to Cook'em-up but always looked out, because he knew that if push ever came to shove, it would be Cook'em-up who would gladly, at the drop of a dime, be the muscle behind his organization. Cook'em-up had been working with the family a long time, even before C-Note's father was killed, so C-Note had to do right by him even if it was a losing proposition.
CHAPTER 3
Kiss My Grits
“Late again? Your ass is about to be hauled off to the group home,” Farrah said, with her voice full of contempt.
“Oh, for real,” Mercy challenged, hands on hips.
“Remember a few weeks ago when you signed this last warning?” Farrah said, slapping a copy of the write-up with Mercy's signature on it down on the desk. “Bam!” she said with a Kool-Aid smile. “You're outta here and on the road to the group home, boo.” Farrah got in Mercy's face and Mercy could smell the Chinese food she had eaten earlier for lunch on her breath. Mercy almost gagged.
“Get out of my face,” Mercy said with no emotion as she sat down in the chair while Farrah roared into laughter.
“Don't you know I liiivvvve for this?” Farrah stressed. “I live for these days when I can shut down you little grown-ass
girls who think you know everything. You ain't nothing, and you ain't going to be nothing. Now get out of here and carry your ass back to the group home.”
“Bitch, kiss my ass,” Mercy said with emotion and stood up. She scanned the room for something to throw at Farrah. Then for a split second she wanted to spit on Farrah. However, she knew she had to leave. She walked calmly to the door, then turned and said, “The next girl that comes through here might not be as nice as me, so you better watch who you fuck with. And I mean what I said: Kiss my ass, bitch!” And Mercy pulled down her elastic uniform pants, bent over, and smacked her butt. She quickly pulled her pants back up and said, “I am eighteen years old, and I don't have to deal with your bullshit ever again. So stay the fuck out of my way.”
A week later, Mercy still hadn't found work. She looked for jobs in the mornings, and in the afternoons she took Deonie out for her exercise, which was usually a ride on her tricycle. With Deonie being so hyper, activity was a must. In fact, this was the only way to tire her out and get her to take a nap. Deonie loved her bike, and she rode it at top speed without ever slowing down. To keep up with her, Mercy would have to speed-walk beside her. She didn't care, because it helped keep her voluptuous hourglass figure intact since she couldn't afford a gym membership. They usually did three laps around the whole neighborhood.
On this particular day during the first trip around the block, Mercy saw the same old hoodrats whose total ambition was to become hustlers' wives, doing what they do best, hanging on the corner or sitting on the bench at the bus stop, wasting their lives away. These broads were looking for any hustler, didn't matter what kind—part-time, full-time, nickel-and-dime, or big-time drug dealer—to come and move them out of the hood. The leader of the hoodrat coalition was none other than Brianna, who just happened to be Farrah's niece. Brianna had so much potential but wasted it, instead devoting her life to picking on other people and making fun of them instead of looking in the mirror at herself.
When Mercy and Deonie passed the group of girls, they had jokes big-time, and, of course, Brianna was the ringleader. Like good little flunkies, the others followed suit, as they always did.
“I bet her baby have to eat with all that safety equipment on!” Brianna teased, making fun of Deonie's safety helmet, knee, and elbow pads.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” the other girls laughed.
“Now we all know that she rides the short bus.” Brianna couldn't stop because she was on a roll. Mercy shot her a mean look.
How could these bitches be so fucking cruel? she wondered. To make those kinds of jokes, about a child? I swear I wish my niece wasn't with me. I would beat the brakes off of her and anyone in her crew who wants any part of me. I'm not going to stoop to their level, though, Mercy thought, trying to calm herself down. But fo' real this shit seems to escalate every time I walk around this motherfuckin' block. It's one thing for these chicks to hate on me, but what the fuck my niece gotta do with this?
Brianna kept going on with the jokes as if she was purposely trying to push Mercy's buttons, and on Mercy and Deonie's last lap around the block, Mercy gave Brianna a nasty look and Brianna laughed loudly. Mercy kept walking. She knew that she couldn't act a fool while her niece was with her. She knew her temper and that if she responded there would be a fight, and those girls would surely double-bank her.
Later that evening, Mercy was playing catch with Deonie and the two little kids that lived next door when Brianna and her crew came walking by. Brianna had more jokes when she saw Deonie without her safety equipment.
“Oh my God, look at her,” Brianna said, pointing to Deonie. “Poor thang. It ain't her fault. She's the one that's backwards,” she said, nodding toward Mercy. Brianna continued, “Don't that stupid girl know you suppose to wear safety equipment when you playing ball, not when you ride a bike. But that lil' girl don't have nowhere to get no sense from. I betcha if you put her brain in a bat, the bat would fly backwards.”
Brianna's followers roared into laughter as if they were watching the queens of comedy.
Mercy had had enough of Brianna and her crew.
“What? What did you say?” Mercy snapped.
Before Brianna could respond, Ms. Pat called out of her door, “Mercy, come here. I need you for a minute.”
Lucky bitch. She has no idea that Ms. Pat just saved her life.
“There's a job opening at the cookie factory,” Ms. Pat said as Mercy and Deonie entered her apartment. “Give this man a call. You can probably start right away.” Ms. Pat handed Mercy the number, and Mercy sighed with relief and called the man. It wasn't much, working in a cookie factory, but it would pay the bills and she and Deonie could move into their own apartment.
Ms. Pat pulled some strings and was able to get Mercy an apartment across the hall from her. Mercy wanted to move to a better neighborhood, but she felt her job at the cookie factory was unstable. Although it paid fifteen dollars an hour, they laid off on a regular basis. It was an unwritten rule that when work was available, they would call her back, but there was no telling how long it would be before that call came. Sometimes Mercy worked for four months straight; she'd get laid off for two months. But when she did work, she could rack up on the overtime. And she did. Sometimes she brought home over a grand a week. When she worked, she worked like a slave, on any shift they would give her. During her days of being laid off, she was eligible for unemployment checks, but that money wasn't half of what she raked in when she worked. During months when she didn't work a day and her unemployment had been exhausted, she would still somehow be able to scrape together enough to pay the low rent for her apartment in the hood.
When she did work, her rent would increase. She didn't want to report her income, but she had to or Brianna would be sure to tell someone and get her kicked out for sure.
One day when she hadn't been working for a couple of weeks, she went over to visit with Ms. Pat, who asked her to go to the store and pick up some Kool-Aid.
Although she didn't feel like it, she could never say no to Ms. Pat. Mercy left Deonie with Ms. Pat while she went off to the store.
Mercy noticed that dude C-Note that everybody had been talking about as he rode past her in his brand-new GS 400 Lexus. Although she knew of him, they had never been formally introduced. Mercy tried to stay clear of all the neighborhood boys, especially C-Note. She knew that all the girls wanted to ride his dick, including Brianna, and Mercy wasn't trying to be just another statistic.
The word on the street was that C-Note was a good dude, and she never really heard any dirt kicked on his name except that he was soft. He was known to get money, and he would go out of his way to duck the drama and the gunplay. He's what some would call a finesse hustler. She had heard that his older brother, Lynx, a renowned player, introduced him to the game. Lynx wouldn't let him accept anything less than a hundred dollars, so the fiends gave him the name C-note, a name that stuck with him. He was a nice guy, and on the strength of his brother, he could have any woman that he wanted. But he never entertained any from the hood. Not that anybody knew of, anyway. It was to no one's surprise that over a few months C-Note started coming up in a ghetto-fabulous way. He was pushing a new Lexus and slowly beginning to have three sets of projects on lock, which was making his name ring. Not only was he a stand-up dude, he was making major moves right in the footsteps of the brother, who was now in prison.
Mercy had never noticed how sexy he was until she saw him getting out of his car as she walked across the parking lot to the Chinese-owned store.
Damn, that nigga is sho wearing the fuck out of that wife beater, looking like a chocolate pop, Mercy thought, licking her lips. I'm always looking for a brother in a suit, but shit, I will take this wife beater any day.
Brianna was standing on the corner with her hoodrat crew. As soon as Brianna saw C-note pull into the parking lot, she rushed over so she could be heard and seen. Loudly, she screamed out, “Girl, you sooo funny, ahhh haaa-haaa.” Then she fell into laughter, tryi
ng to get C-note's attention. But he went into the store and never acknowledged her. Mercy laughed to herself and went to the back of the store to get Ms. Pat's Kool-Aid.
Brianna came in right behind her.
“Hey, C-note,” Brianna asked in a flirtatious manner. “How you doing?”
Mercy pretended not to be watching, but she saw that he never opened his mouth; he only threw his head up to indicate “What's up.”
Brianna bought a cherry blow pop while C-note went over to the grill side of the store and ordered food in a soft voice. “Yeah, let me get a, ummm, cheeseburger sub with no onions and a large fries cooked hard.” He leaned up against the counter to wait for his food. As soon as Brianna made eye contact with C-note, she began working the blow pop overtime, licking it as if it was a dick with a cherry on top. For a split second she had C-note's undivided attention. That is until Mercy came up to the counter with her packages of Kool-Aid and three cans of ravioli for Deonie.
Mercy never claimed to be anybody's beauty queen, but many people told her she was pretty. Although she was a bit on the thick side, she carried her weight well. She was one hot dog away from a size sixteen but often squeezed into a fourteen, always telling herself that she was going to lose weight. She had tried every diet known to man at least once. At five feet and eight and a half inches tall, she was voluptuous and curvy. Her white teeth complemented her dark brown skin. Never letting the gap between her two front teeth slow her down, she constantly reminded herself that it was only temporary. Since her job's health insurance plan didn't offer dental, she was saving her extra dividends to get braces. However, her well-maintained spiked short haircut was her trademark, and each piece was always intact.
Mercy's appearance snapped C-note out of the trance Brianna had him in. Brianna had mastered the art of how to get to the center of the blow pop, but now every ounce of C-note's attention was directed to Mercy. He was absolutely mesmerized by her in her pink stretch Twirk jeans and the Twirk baby tee to match. She was wearing her brand-new 5411 white-on-white high-top Reeboks.
