Trust No Man 2

by Cash

  “I hope the punk enjoys his last meal. It cost me a thousand dollars!” said Murder Mike, not really angry. He’d lost the bet, but he’d win the bigger prize.

  LA Steve was alone when he walked inside the restaurant to feast on the All-You-Can-Eat Shrimp special. We figured it would take him his usual forty-five minutes to enjoy his meal, so we rode off on a Ninja 1100, not wanting to be noticed waiting around.

  Murder Mike and I were both wearing black leather racing suits. His was a little loose-fitting than mine, to allow room for the double-barrel sawed-off that was concealed down the front left side of it. We rode around aimlessly for the next thirty minutes, just passing away idle time until I felt our target would have eaten his last shrimp. Then I headed back towards The Seafood House, stopping momentarily, a few blocks away, so that Murder Mike could turn around and straddle the bike seat backwards, his back to mine. We strapped a wide car seat-like belt around the both of us, effectively locking us together, back to back. If one of us fell off the bike, the other would fall with him. But the wide belt around us was necessary to give Murder more stability and balance in case both his hands were still pre-occupied when we drove off after the hit.

  LA Steve had a cell phone to his ear as he exited the restaurant, strolling casually toward his vehicle. I waited for him to get out of the view of the restaurant’s side windows before I rode across the street. He turned around toward the loud sound of the Ninja, perhaps upset that the roar of the bikes engine was drowning out his phone conversation.

  I slowed the bike as we drew even to our target, and brought it to an almost complete stop three yards past him, so that Murder Mike was now facing LA Steve.

  I heard the loud report of the double barrel sawed-off: Boom! Boom! The kickback from the weapon jarred Murder’s back against mine. I hesitated just a few seconds before pulling off, to allow my accomplice time to put the sawed-off down the front of his racing suit, freeing his hands to hold onto the back of the bike’s seat for added balance.

  The Ninja zoomed down Fulton Industrial Highway like a blur. We merged onto I-285 and drove back to the stash house in Lithonia. There I guided the bike into the driveway and behind the house, where Murder Mike unlocked the belt that held us together.

  We sat at the kitchen table, helmets at our elbows, congratulating each other on the professional job we’d just done. My adrenalin was sky high, while Murder Mike appeared his normal self. I half-expected him to pull dope or money from the cabinet and go about business as usual. Instead he got up from the table and went into the back of the house. After a short while he returned in jeans and a sweat shirt.

  “I gotta run to the pay phone,” he said. “I’ll grab us something to eat while I’m out.”

  As soon as I heard his Navigator back out of the yard and drive off, I went back to the bathroom to take a leak and to make sure I was alone in the house. Just to satisfy my own curiosity I made a quick inspection of every room in the house, careful to put things back in the order they were. I looked everywhere: closets, under beds, under sinks, cabinets, everywhere. No dope or money anywhere. Not that I would’ve taken it had I found any, I was just curious to know if my main man already trusted me enough to leave me alone at the house with the amounts of coke and money that had been there the last time. It didn’t disappoint me not to find a stash there, I understood the rules of the streets, trust had to be earned.

  The thing that was hardest for me to understand was: why clap a nigga who’s sitting on major figures without robbin’ him also? The shit just didn’t make sense to me. We were taking him off the shelf; why not grab his loot in the process? Of course, it wasn’t always easy to find a nigga’s stash. The wiser dope boys didn’t keep their stash where they laid their heads. Common sense said it was kept somewhere close by, easy to get to in a hurry, yet close enough to keep a regular check on.

  Murder thought like the dope boy he was, not like a robber. His sole interest was in eliminating the competition, and then he’d clock his own riches. I had to respect it since he was the one calling the shots. It was their operation, their ball to bounce. Still, I felt it was stupid not to rob mafuckaz before we crossed ‘em off the hit list.

  One name we couldn’t cross off the hit list yet was Rich Kids. Yep, the nigga survived five shots, fired from close range. Though he hadn’t died, he was in no shape to mount revenge. Word was he had been flown by helicopter to a hospital in Maryland to undergo more surgery, and then, extensive therapy. He wasn’t an immediate threat to me, I would still have to monitor his progress, because I was absolutely sure he would seek revenge.

  With Rich Kid convalescing in Maryland, his remaining soldiers in Englewood had no supplier, no dope to push. Murder immediately expanded his Englewood crew to more than a dozen workers, even posting half of them up by the basketball court where Rich Kid’s crew used to regulate. It didn’t take a warfare expert to figure out that Murder Mike had been involved in the assault on Rich Kid and the hit on his crew, for he was the immediate and sole beneficiary of Rich Kid’s demise.

  A few of the young rollers who had slang dope for Rich Kid by the basketball court, and had survived the assault by Murder’s crew, tried to avenge the deaths of their two comrades who’d gone down in the Englewood shootout. They were unorganized and seriously outgunned, and were little more than a nuisance to our boys now regulating the trap by the ball court. Still they had to be dealt with before one of their ill-planned drive-bys were successful and we lost a soldier or two.

  The reckless lil’ niggaz weren’t hard to find; they were Englewood born, bred and raised, and any number of their family members and girlfriends still lived there. They’d creep back to visit late at night when the traps were closed. Our soldiers caught two of them doing just that. By the time the two reckless niggaz’ girlfriends came out to investigate the late-night gunshots, the only person who could do anything for their boyfriends was the undertaker.

  The hood caught heat from the cops for a week or two, but with no eye witnesses to the killings po-po eventually returned to their regular routine. Street niggaz were forced to respect Murder Mike’s ambition, and his crew’s willingness to let their heaters bark. Englewood was now established as Murder Mike’s turf. Bit by bit the plan was coming together, showing progress towards the ultimate goal of controlling the city’s drug flow. I had no way of knowing how the Dreads were coming along in their respective cities across the US, but Murder told me they were progressing at least as well as we were in Atlanta.

  CHAPTER 7

  Though there was still much “work” to be done, occasionally we made time for play, if for no other reason than to break the monotony of murder and drug dealing. The game could eventually drain a nigga’s energy and make him more susceptible to mistakes.

  To his credit Murder Mike understood that we all needed a break from the every day grind.

  Neither he nor I wanted to hang out at nightclubs and leave ourselves open to enemy attack, so I took Inez out to the house Murder and Cita stayed at in Austell, Georgia, by Six Flags amusement park.

  The house was nice but not so extravagant to warrant suspicion as to how such a young couple could afford it. The only vehicles I saw parked in the driveway were Cita’s E-Class and the Navigator Murder had driven to meet us. The inside of the house was sparsely furnished, giving me the impression that they’d moved into the house recently. The backyard, where we barbequed, was spacious and well-kept.

  Cita was dressed ghetto fabulous and hardly prepared to labor over a grill. Inez offered to help Murder Mike, and before long the ribs, steaks, and burgers were cooking over the hot charcoal.

  Inez, in her seventh month of pregnancy, labored over the barbeque pit while Cita pretended to be a diva, too beautiful and high maintenance to get her hands dirty with sauce or the like. The bitch was really just a glorified hood rat, along for the ride with a nigga who had his sights set on the top. If something was to befall Murder Mike, Cita’s ghetto ass would be right back down in
the hood happy to even smell barbeque.

  All evening long she was acting superior, dropping hints that translated into: “Now that you work for my man, I’m better than you and your girl!”

  Murder was trying to put her in check without making it obvious he had caught her innuendo. My nigga wasn’t on no high horse, just ‘cause he was the shot caller. He knew that we still put our pants on the same way and I wasn’t anybody’s do boy. Once, he even called Cita in the house, like he needed her to help him find the Cristal, but I know he was in there checking the bitch for her uppity attitude.

  Ain’t this the same bitch that was all on my dick a few months ago, every time Murder turned his head?

  Or was this payback for me stiff-arming the bitch and putting her on blast to my main man at the club that time?

  Inez wasn’t feelin’ the bitch either, in fact, she had whispered to me that she was gonna check her; she’d remind Cita that if she was truly a diva, her knees wouldn’t be ashy as hell.

  I laughed and told Inez to chill. We’d make it through the evening.

  When we got back to the new spot Inez had moved into just last week, she had me cracking the-fuck-up by mimicking Cita.

  “Some folks get a little money,” she said, finished with her impromptu performance of Cita, “and just don’t know how to act. Whew!” Shaking her head. “I wanted to slap that bitch!”

  “Murder Mike is cool, though,” I offered.

  “Yeah,” Inez agreed, “he was pretty nice.” She took off her shoes and showed me her beautiful, but pregnant swollen feet. “Rub them for me,” she purred.

  “I will if you promise me some of that good pussy.”

  “Aw nigga, you know you’re getting some of this good stuff tonight!”

  I massaged and rubbed her feet until she said it was time for her to deliver her end of the deal.

  The Navigator chewed up the highway but it could not distance itself from the drop top Benz. I could’ve whipped past Murder Mike anytime I chose to, but it would’ve been useless. I would’ve had to slow down and let him past me, for he knew the way to Louisiana, and I didn’t.

  The city of New Orleans is famous for its jazz music, Mardi Gras, black colleges, crawfish, jambalaya, gumbo, and, of course, witchcraft. None of which had enticed me to accompany Murder Mike to the city for a little fun, rest and relaxation. I’d been baited into going to New Orleans, by Murder’s description of the beautiful Creole girls I’d get my choice of. I’d heard about Creole women, their beauty and passion, but I’d never seen or met one.

  “You’re gonna meet my real family, dawg,” he said.

  “I thought your family was your Ma Duke and ‘em in Englewood?”

  “Yeah, those are my real peeps,” he confirmed. “But I’m talking about my own branch of the family tree, my wife and kids.”

  “Boy, stop!” I chuckled. “Yo’ ass ain’t married to nobody unless it’s Cita!”

  He said, with a straight face, “Naw, main man, Cita ain’t nothing but my link to business, my bitch on the side. You’ll meet my boo when we get to New Orleans.”

  According to Murder he’d met his wife, a Creole named Francisca, when she’d come to Atlanta to visit family a few years ago. Now they had a set of three-year-old twins and had been married for two years.

  I was anxious to get to New Orleans. The city Master P had put on the rap map and was being represented by The Cash Money Millionaires, Juvie and others.

  We reached Francisca’s house around noon, after a long drive. We hadn’t stopped for anything but gas. It was so hot in New Orleans, I had to put the top up on the drop and turn on the AC. As soon as Murder climbed out of the Navigator, his twins broke loose from their mother’s grasp on the porch and raced into his arms. He bent to accommodate them, hoisting one up in both arms. The twins rained kisses all over his cheeks and talked in excited utterances. From my car in the driveway, I could see that Francisca was as pretty as a portrait, in an understated way.

  “Boo, this is my partner Youngblood,” Murder introduced us as I carried my overnight bags inside. “Main man, this is my beautiful wife, Francisca.”

  “Hi. Pleased to meet you,” she daintily shook my hand. “I’d prefer you call me Fran,” she said.

  Up close, Fran was still as pretty as she’d appeared from the driveway. Her hair was reddish brown, down to her butt in one thick braid. Her skin was the color of French ice cream, maybe a shade darker. She was petite but sexy, without trying to be. She wore no makeup; a sundress and a platinum set of wedding rings on the proper finger. I knew from Murder Mike that Fran was twenty-four, but her voice sounded much younger, making her appear as delicate as a long stem rose. She called Murder Mike “Michael,” and he answered to his given name without complaint.

  I showered and changed into long baggy shorts and a long, loose fitting Mike Vick Jersey. It had #7 emblazoned across the front and back, a studded black bandana wrapped around my forehead and braids. My Cuban link medallion replica of a coffin hung from my neck, both my wrists was iced and ankle-cut Timbs rocked my feet.

  Fran’s younger sister, Lolita, came over to the house with two of her girlfriends, one Spanish, the other black. The three of them were sophomores at TulaneUniversity. Lolita and the Spanish broad were eyeing me. The black girl was trying not to eye Murder, but I peeped her lose the battle more than once.

  Lolita was a carbon copy of her sister, if you added a size to her titties, a few octaves to her voice, and a little “hot” to her ass. She was definitely making sure I noticed her, but it was energy she could have saved. Though she wasn’t the finest of the bunch, I had come to New Orleans to taste the gumbo, the crawfish and a Creole. She was the only Creole of the three.

  Fran served us shrimp and potato gumbo while we all sat around getting acquainted. Watching “Michael” interact with Fran and the twins reminded me of how I used to act with Eryka and Chanté, like a big kid. It only further proved to me that no man, but a foolish one, was a gangster around his kids. It was obvious that Murder Mike had way more love and respect for Fran than he did for Cita. He didn’t cuss around Fran or threaten to slap her lipstick crooked whenever her opinion differed from his. In fact, I wondered if Fran knew what her “Michael-poos” platinum fingernails represented? Or did he keep her blind to that part of his life? Regardless, she had to know that he wasn’t a traveling salesman, and that being married yet living in separate states was done for a reason. She didn’t strike me as dumb or gullible. She was a computer graphics designer for a major firm in New Orleans, so she wasn’t being “kept” by my main man.

  “We’re going to the softball game at the park,” Lolita announced, “Y’all want me to take the twins, so that y’all can have some time alone?” she asked Murder and Fran.

  Like all kids, the twins got excited in a hurry, ready for the next car ride or adventure.

  “Youngblood, you want to join us?” invited Lolita.

  By the time we returned from the park, the twins were dirty and tired, and there was no doubt as to whom I was interested in. We said goodbye to Lolita’s college pals, Carmen and Iris. I grabbed some fresh gear and took it with me to Lolita’s apartment where I was to shower, change and get ready to go with her to a club where Lil’ Wayne was to perform.

  Lolita’s apartment was near the University; it was a small efficiency, about what you’d expect a college girl to stay in.

  “We can shower together, to save time?” Lolita offered once we were inside and laying out the gear we’d rock.

  You know I wasn’t about to refuse.

  She let me get under the shower water first and lather up. Then I moved over to allow her to do the same. Lolita had known the shower stall was barely large enough for one person, let alone two. But she tried to be coy. I’m a million miles from being lame, so I wasn’t buying her act. If the bitch didn’t wanna get fucked, she would’ve never gotten into the shower with a nigga she’d known less than a day.

  Soap suds stood up on her titt
ies like snow on Twin Mountains. Water had already rinsed the suds from between her legs, revealing the neatest mass of reddish brown hair I’d ever seen covering a pussy. I could barely see her slit through the mass of silky red hair. She turned her back to me and I watched the water rinse suds down the crack of her tight ass. She turned around and saw my soap-sudded erection.

  “What’s this?” I felt her hand encircle me.

  “That’s Big Daddy!” I said.

  She laughed. “Does Big Daddy mind if I give him a kiss,” she purred in that southern Louisiana drawl.

  “You can kiss him ’till your jaws hurt.” I was all gangsta.

  After awhile she came up for air and kissed me, but not with her tongue. Just so that’s clear and understood. She whispered in my ear, “You wanna return the favor?”

  I picked her up and stepped out the shower, both of us dripping wet. I laid her gently on the floor then grabbed a towel, bunched it up, and placed it under her ass so that her pussy stood up.

  You know the rest.

  After I licked and sucked her into a frenzy, I mounted her and drove mad dick into her Creole pie. She panted like she was about to explode and I felt her warm juices flood. She calmed down long enough to whisper in my ear, “put it in the back door.”

  You know I wasn’t about to refuse that, either.

  When we stepped out to go to the club I was rockin’ blue khakis, a Braves jersey, Braves fitted baseball cap, mad ice, and my heater on my waist. Lolita had on a simple Tulane University sweat suit, a braided rope cross hung around her neck and lady Air Max 95’s on her feet.

  It was still hot outside, though it was close to ten at night. We whipped to the club with the top down on the Benz, T.I. blasting from the system. I’d put my heater in the secret compartment as soon as we’d left Lolita’s spot, just in case po-po pulled me over, hatin’ on a young nigga.