by Nikki Turner
Mercy paused. “It ain't nothing, just frustrated is all.”
“About what?”
“My script,” Mercy answered with a sigh. “I just want to be able to move forward and get it onto the screen. You have no idea how bad I want this. Before, it was just something I used to think about. But ever since I started talking about it to you and actually started to work on the script, I can taste it. I know you hear me talkin', but I'm sure those are just words to you. You can't imagine how strongly I feel about breaking into the film industry.”
“Yes, I do,” he said in such a sympathetic tone.
“I'm just feeling so overwhelmed right now, and I want this to happen more than anything.” Mercy couldn't believe she was pouring her heart out like this.
“Look, you need to get out of the house,” Herb said. “Why don't you come meet me somewhere? We can talk about it. You never know, we might be able to help each other out.”
Mercy accepted Herb's invitation, and they decided to meet at a restaurant midway from where they each lived. She got herself together and headed out to meet him. The whole drive over to meet with Herb, Mercy just couldn't get his words out of her head. “We might be able to help each other out.”
When Mercy arrived at the restaurant, Herb wasn't there yet.
She sat down anyway and waited eagerly to hear what Herb was going to say to ease her frustrations. Is he going to turn me on to the folks he said he knew? Mercy thought. Is he going to spot me the money and become an investor? He might want to get legit, and this would be the perfect opportunity for him to clean up all of his dirty drug money. Or does he want to produce a little paper for a sexual favor? You never know with these types.
“How long you been here?” Herb asked as he walked up to the table where Mercy was sitting.
“Oh, I just got here,” Mercy said, looking up, catching a kiss in her left eye that was supposed to be for her forehead.
“You ordered yet?”
“No, not yet,” Mercy answered.
“I'll send your waitress right over,” the hostess said with a smile as she walked away.
“You look so down,” Herb said, putting his hand on top of Mercy's. Mercy just sat there. “Look, baby, I understand how much you want this movie thing to happen, and I want it to happen for you. Remember that I'm that nigga that encourages you. I'm that nigga that held you afloat when you felt like you were sinking. Me, Herb.”
“I know and appreciate that, fo' real,” Mercy interrupted.
“Now remember when I told you in the beginning when you first started talking about your writing and stuff that I knew some people who could help you out?”
“Yup,” Mercy answered, glad that he was getting to the point.
“I wasn't lying,” Herb said sincerely.
“Fo' real?” Mercy replied, glad that Herb wasn't just selling her a dream.
He nodded in the affirmative. Mercy began to feel anxious. Just as she was getting ready to speak, the waitress came over to take their orders. Neither of them had even looked at their menus, so they asked her to come back in a few minutes. Just as soon as the waitress walked away, they went right back to the conversation at hand.
“Look, I'm finished with it. Now I just need it to be edited. My girl Chrissie was always the bomb in English class. She said she'll edit it for me. I want to throw her something. You know?” Mercy continued, not taking a breath. “I want to go to film school. It costs around forty-five hundred dollars, but with me paying for editing, buying these books to teach me how to write scripts, and whatnot, I ran through a lot of money, and now …,” Mercy paused. She took a deep breath. The last thing Mercy wanted to do, or any woman wanted to do with one of her male friends, was to let him know that she was broke. “I'm in a position to, and I want to, go to film school, but my money is all funny right now.”
“That's what I'm talking about,” Herb said, moving in closer to Mercy. “The people that I'm dealing with can put you in a good position.”
“Okay, well, introduce me to them then,” she said, but was wondering why he wouldn't just foot the bill himself. Forty-five hundred dollars shouldn't have been nothing but a drop in the bucket for a baller like him, balling out of control, flyest gear, tightest whip, and fat-ass bankroll. He knew her potential and had said it was good.
“Well, it's kinda tricky. That's why I wanted to meet with you face-to-face so that I could go into depth about everything.”
“I'm listening,” Mercy said eagerly.
Herb took a deep breath. “Well, first off, I have to confess something. I would like to come clean with you. My name isn't Herb.”
Mercy snickered. “I kinda figured that. I figured it was something like Herbert and that they just call you Herb for short. No baller ever gives out his government, anyway.”
“Not quite,” Herb said, putting his head down. “It's Robert Cummings, and I'm …,” He paused for a moment and then continued. “I'm an FBI agent.”
Those words went through Mercy like a sharp knife. She didn't know what to do. Her first instincts were to get up and run, but then she thought that perhaps the restaurant might be surrounded. She was in too much shock to even move.
He held out his hand to her. “Hold on to my hand. Take a few deep breaths and relax. Everything is going to be okay.”
“What?” she screamed, attracting the attention of the other people in the restaurant. “What do you mean, ‘Everything is going to be okay’?” Mercy then lowered her tone. “You're a fuckin' rat. You're a liar. What … what are you going to do, arrest me or something?” Mercy was starting to panic.
Once he saw that Mercy wasn't going to grab his hand, he withdrew it. “Let me finish,” he said, trying to calm her down. “I know you're confused.”
“Like a motherfucker. You got that right,” Mercy said, thinking about how Herb had appeared so much like he was a big baller, getting money.
“Listen, Mercy, I don't want to arrest you for anything. I swear. As a matter of fact, we have something in common.”
Mercy just sat there, listening to the agent. Looking at him now, he even looked like a fuckin' pig. “Oink, oink,” she wanted to say to this hog. Listening to him, she noticed he was no longer using slang or some fake ghetto-ass accent. Now all of a sudden the way he talked was different, more professional and educated.
“I don't know what that could be,” Mercy said, her thoughts running wild and stomach twisting in knots.
“A friend of yours,” Agent Cummings said.
“A friend of mine?” she asked, with confusion written all over her face.
Just then the waitress came back over to the table. Mercy didn't say a word and just gave her the evil eye until she walked away.
“Yeah,” Agent Cummings continued. “Your friend Raheem.”
“What? What are you talking about?” She felt like vomiting, because she knew she was doomed and would be hauled off to the women's jail. Her ride sat right in front of her.
“Raheem sent us to you. He told us everything, Mercy, but don't worry. Like I said, it's not you we want to arrest.”
Tears started to run down Mercy's face. She couldn't utter a word. Well, she knew better than to say anything, although Raheem had said it all.
Agent Cummings grabbed hold of Mercy's hand. He looked in her eyes and said, “Don't cry, Mercy.”
Mercy closed her eyes. For a minute the feeling of having her hand held was comforting. It reminded her of when she would sit on her father's lap and he would sometimes put his hand over hers. The betrayal and pain she felt at that moment wasn't the same hurt that she'd felt when her father was cremated in front of her eyes, but it was damn sure close to it.
“Don't worry. You're not in any trouble.”
Mercy opened her eyes and looked up at the deceitful man before her. She then looked down at her hand and snatched it away from Agent Cummings. “What do you mean by ‘everything’?”
“He told us that you were his girl, that he had
been down here living with you and that when he got knocked, he connected you with his friend Hyena.” Mercy's heart was in her panties. “He told us that once he went to jail, Hyena took care of his lawyer and everything … and you.”
“What do you mean by that?” Mercy snapped.
Agent Cummings continued as if Mercy hadn't even interrupted him. “He told us that Hyena is the man behind the organization. Now, as you know, we could arrest you for taking money—illegal money—and bring you in as a part of the whole conspiracy. And you could be faced with a good twenty years.” He paused and looked into Mercy's eyes. “You were just doing what you thought you needed to do to get by and to stand by your man. You're just a girl doing what a girl's gotta do. Yeah, you might seem a little rough around the edges, but you've got a good heart. We know about what you did for your sister's kid and your friend that's a prostitute, Chrissie, and all.”
She interrupted, taking up for Chrissie. “She ain't no prostitute.”
“Well, she might as well be the way she chases behind men with the largest money sac in their pocket, but I didn't mean any offense.” He shifted the conversation. “As I was saying, you have this natural ability to take care of others who you think need you. That's what you were doing for Raheem. We know you were just standing by him. We see young girls in your position every day.”
Mercy sat there listening to Agent Cummings talk as if he could sympathize with her. What does this six-figure-salary-making pig know about a young black girl surviving the streets? Mercy wondered. As far as Mercy was concerned, he was a liar, a joke. Just someone trying to blow smoke up her ass, hoping she'd get high off of it. Mercy looked around at the patrons of the restaurant and wondered who was FBI and where the surveillance instruments were set up.
“Mercy, do you know that Raheem would have taken any charge that we might have had for you?” Agent Cummings continued, now sounding sentimental.
Trust me, Mercy thought. That nigga ain't taking no charge for me. Shit, he done proved he can't do his own time.
She didn't speak as he continued to pour what she assumed was his well-rehearsed bullshit speech on her.
“Raheem loved you so much that he didn't even have the heart to tell you that he needs your help.”
“He needs my help?” Mercy asked.
“Yes, he needs your help. We need your help.” He paused. “Help us get Hyena, Mercy. Otherwise we just waste time and money locking up people like Raheem and their runners.”
Mercy shook her head at Agent Cummings's insinuation that if she didn't help, then she would perhaps find herself locked up, too.
“Getting Hyena would mean a sentence reduction for Raheem. He'd be able to get home to you a lot sooner.”
“What? I don't understand,” Mercy said.
“Yes, he's been working with us. Actually, he's been working with us for quite some time.”
Mercy started to experience hot flashes as her hands got sweaty. She was beginning to feel dehydrated.
“I don't believe you. Raheem hated the law. He'd never join up with the fuckin' Feds.”
“I know it's hard to believe, but believe it, Mercy.”
“Stop saying my fuckin' name like you know me like that,” Mercy snapped.
“I do know you, Mercy. I know your kind.”
“Look, let me get this straight. So, you are police? They got you set up looking like and acting like a drug dealer?”
“Unh-hunh,” he said.
“So, they got you balling big time. You got the car, the jewelry, and the lingo, and everything. Isn't that entrapment?”
“No, not really. Entrapment is only when a person does something that they normally wouldn't do. See, these hustlers, this is what they do: sell drugs.”
“I can't believe you. I don't even know what to say.” She shook her head.
“I know you are shocked right now. However, I want you to know that if you help us, not only would you be helping Raheem, you would be helping yourself also.”
“Helping myself? I don't see how any of this can help me.”
“See, the federal government is very powerful, and we know people everywhere in high and low places. We could get your script into the hands of the right people and guarantee your work would go on the big screen.” He snapped his finger and said, “Just like that.”
Mercy couldn't help but burst out laughing. “Just like that, huh? So the Feds and movie producers, y'all got it all on lock. Where's the hidden camera?”
“This is no joke, Mer—,” Agent Cummings said, cutting himself off, as if he didn't want to patronize Mercy.
She let out a small chuckle.
“Share the laugh,” he said.
“I'm just sitting here tripping off of how you waltz into my life pretending to be my friend and the whole time you had your own motives. Damn, do you police even have a conscience the way you play with people's emotions?”
“It's a very hard job; you have no idea. I really like you, Mercy, and wish that the circumstances were different.”
“Well, they're not. You want me to snitch. Well, to be a snitch bitch!”
“Don't look at it like that. You're just helping a friend, that's all,” he said soothingly.
“Look, my head is racing all over the place, as I'm sure you can imagine. I know this isn't the first time or the last time you have broken this kind of news. So let me get back to you,” Mercy said, with no intention of ever addressing the situation again.
Agent Cummings replied, “Don't wait too long.”
Mercy got up from the table and started to walk away.
“Yo, lil' mama,” Agent Cummings said in his Herb tone. “You sho' you don't want nothing to eat?”
Mercy stopped in her tracks, turned around, stared him dead in his eyes, rolled her eyes, and then walked away. She got in her car and sat there feeling like she was going to have a nervous breakdown. Anxiety, hyperventilation, loss of breath all came and went. She didn't know who to talk to or confide in because everyone was suspect at this moment. On the ride home she looked around, and every single person she glanced at she wondered if they were a mole, informant, or FBI agent.
CHAPTER 15
Real Chicks Do Real Things
Chrissie greeted her as soon as she walked in the door.
“Girl, I got this motherfucker you gots to meet,” she said as she gave Mercy a hug. She had just gotten back from a rendezvous in LA, and shopping bags from Rodeo Drive cluttered the living room.
“I ain't in the right state of mind to meet nobody,” Mercy said, brushing Chrissie off as she walked through the living room to her bedroom, almost tripping over one of the bags.
“Not meet him in person. Girl, he don't even live here. He live in Chicago. Just talk to this dude on the phone. He's cool with the dude I was just kickin' it with. Girl, he paid. He's a professional athlete. No, not the typical football or basketball player. He's a boxer. But he paid all the same. He gets about two fights a year and walks away with a check for four or five mill easy. And those fighters be fighting a good two times a year. You do the math, boo.”
Chrissie was as excited as a priest among Boy Scouts. She just kept babbling on and on. Mercy couldn't muster up an ounce of excitement. She was still bugging out about Raheem being a snitch.
“I told him all about you. He said he's ready to meet a down-to-earth chick. He's tired of messing with all the girls he meets out at parties who can smell his green. Girl, and he up for one of the biggest fights ever, which means you need to hook up with him now before he get his purse—that way you won't be suspect. You know what I'm saying?”
“Yeah, girl, yeah,” Mercy said, sighing and rubbing her forehead as she flopped her restless body down on her bed.
“Girl, what's wrong with you?” Chrissie said, sitting down on the chaise in Mercy's room. “I thought you'd be a little bit more excited than this. I mean, this dude ain't one of them thugs you usually fuckin' around with. Easy money come, easy money go. He got legit mo
ney, and lots of it, might I add, and by the time you add in the endorsement deals, that's more money.”
Mercy was just staring off, not hearing a word Chrissie had just said.
“Hello. Is anybody in there?” Chrissie said, softy knocking on the side of Mercy's head.
“Girl, yeah, I hear you,” Mercy lied, snapping out of her trance.
“So here it is.” Chrissie pulled a phone number out of her pocket and handed it to Mercy like she was giving her the winning sweepstakes ticket.
“Here's what?” Mercy said, taking the number and looking down at it.
“His phone number, stupid,” Chrissie said, getting up.
“I don't know what the boy even look like.”
“The only face you need to worry about is those big faces on those hundred-dollar bills. He could look like Kermit the frog, but all money looks and spends the same,” Chrissie put in her two cents.
“What's his name? Who is he?” Mercy asked with a puzzled look on her face.
“Were you not listening to a word I said? He's a world-ranked boxer, boo. Don't sleep on him. He went to the Olympics and everything. His name is Taymar. Call him, girl.” Chrissie headed into the living room.
“Then why ain't you hook up with him?” Mercy questioned.
“If I could have, I would have. He's the friend of the dude I was with. They too cool for me to try to fuck with both of 'em. I was gonna put his ass on reserve, but I thought it would be nice to share for once.” Chrissie winked at Mercy and then headed to the living room.
Mercy stared at the paper. For all she knew, this nigga was FBI, too. Everybody could be playing her, including Chrissie. She tossed the paper in a drawer and lay down to stare at her ceiling and try to figure out what to do.
Mercy lay in the bed tossing and turning. She was scheduled to make a run for Hyena in a couple of days. She needed the money, but she knew the Feds were watching him, and she couldn't subject herself to the brick wall that was sure to come crumbling down on him. If she did stop working for him suddenly, he would probably become suspicious of her, and any shit that did go down he would put on her. The last thing she wanted to do was to get caught in the cross fire, so she knew she would have to play dodgeball with Hyena, but she had no idea how in the hell she could get out of Dodge.
