Trust No Man 2

by Cash

  Traffic was bumper to bumper three blocks away from the club, and moving at a snail’s pace. New Orleans’s hos were acting just like shawdies be acting in the ATL, yelling out of their cars at a nigga pushing a fly whip, damn the bitch with him! Whenever traffic crept to a standstill, one bitch or another would hop out of their car and shake her ass to the sounds booming out of niggas systems. Then the bitch would hop back in her ride and high-five her girlfriends. Lolita would laugh and comment that the girls were way bolder than her. I couldn’t tell. Not after she’d asked for it in the ass a short while ago, and took the dick like a champ.

  I knew we’d never find an empty parking space close to the club’s front door, so I just whipped up there to show off the drop. That way, once I got inside the club hos would know that I was ridin’ in style. Luckily I caught someone leaving a parking space not very far from the club’s entrance.

  Before getting out the whip, I retrieved my heat from the hidden compartment.

  “You can’t take that inside the club!” Lolita warned me, sounding alarmed.

  “Oh, they pat niggaz down?”

  “Of course!” Like it was state law.

  I put the gun back.

  “Check this, shawdy,” I said seriously, “I don’t wanna run into no trouble with one of your current or ex-boyfriends,’cause a nigga ain’t with that petty drama. If I do run into it, I damn sho’ don’t wanna get caught without my shit.”

  She swore I wouldn’t have to worry about that.

  “My ex died from AIDS last week,” she said.

  “What?” I screamed.

  She laughed. “I’m just kidding! My boyfriend is a professor at my school. He’s married, and he most definitely won’t be at a club like this.”

  Lil’ Wayne and the Big Tymers had the club jumpin’! New Orleans hustlers were representin’ their spots, cliqued up, and dimes on their jock. I played the bar, sippin on cognac, while Lolita got her party on. She wasn’t my bitch and I ain’t a jealous nigga, so I told her to enjoy herself. She knew where to find me when it was time to bounce.

  With her out of the way, I was free to choose other N’Awlins hos. I couldn’t help wondering, though, if Juanita wasn’t somewhere at college, fuckin’ her professor and taking it up the ass on the side. I doubted it, but still, I wondered where she was and what she was doing with her new life and all.

  Hos didn’t let me wonder for long, they interrupted my reverie within minutes of Lolita’s departure. A hundred of them must’ve asked if I was from Atlanter, trying not to sound country but making the shit worse. What they didn’t realize, obviously, is that I love country hos. I took a few phone numbers, but spent the majority of the night ‘versing with a slim goodie, named Audrey, who told me she was Creole.

  Lolita didn’t seem to mind, I guess she understood I wasn’t hers to claim. She was partying, having a good time. Not really hoing, just shaking what her mama gave her.

  We left the club and went back to Fran’s house to stay the night. I slept in the spare room where I’d put my overnight bags. Lolita slept in the front room, on the couch, pretending she wasn’t first night pussy. The next morning after a breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and turkey bacon, I took Lolita home to her efficiency and retrieved the gear I’d left there.

  Later, Murder and I went shopping at a big, fancy mall in a suburb of New Orleans. He copped several bags of gear, a platinum diamond, ruby bracelet and a thinner matching one for Cita. I copped a couple pair of Bugle Boy khakis, a jean jacket with a sewn-in picture of Louis Armstrong on the back, A New Orleans Saints sweatshirt for Lil’ T, a few souvenirs for Inez, a postcard for Juanita, some shades for Lonnie, and Apple Bottom jeans for Toi.

  “You feelin’ Lolita?” Murder asked while we were at the mall.

  “Done felt her.” I boasted.

  “What!” He was shocked.

  “Yep,” I reaffirmed, “It’s a done deal, main man!”

  He shook his head. “She’s wild! Nothing like Francisca or their older sister, Consuella.”

  I told him I wasn’t complaining, a nigga only lived once.

  That evening, Lolita called over to Fran’s house to tell me she might not get to see me again before I went back to Atlanta in a couple of days, but she hoped to see me the next time we came to N’Awlins. I wasn’t used to a bitch “hitting and running” on me, but I complimented her on the “Creole pie,” anyway.

  “We’ll do it again,” she promised.

  I called up Audrey, the Creole shawdy from the club last night. She was glad to hear from a nigga so soon, and after following her directions I was whippin’ up in front of her apartment. I went inside to meet her grandmother, then we were off. She took me sightseeing around the city, and later that night we went to a famous jazz bar. I’m usually 95 percent rap, 5 percent R&B, but the jazz was a’ight, the conch fritters were good, and Audrey’s company was even better. Though I didn’t fuck her that night, she promised me “all day” tomorrow.

  Tomorrow did come, most of it spent in a suite at The French Quarters hotel, frolicking in bed, as well as in and out of the hot tub. With Lolita’s joke still ringing in my ear, I definitely put on a condom before each of our frolics. Audrey kept tryna get me to raw dog the pussy, wanting to feel me bust all up inside of her, but like I said, Lolita’s joke had me too shook to roll the dice. If I was gonna die, it would be by the gun—the same way I lived—pussy wasn’t takin’ me out the game. Fuck dat.

  CHAPTER 8

  Once we were back in Atlanta, it was quickly back to business. Like all good businessmen, Murder Mike delegated authority so that business operated smoothly and productively even when he was away. The trap and weight money was proper when I picked it up from Corey, the young brave heart from Englewood who’d buried two of Rich Kid’s soldiers during the shootout, and was elevated to “crew chief.” The trap money from a spot we had on the Westside was proper also.

  I spent half a day with Inez and a few hours with Lil’ T. Lonnie went with me by Cheryl’s mother’s house to check her mail and to search her phone bill and her house for any evidence she’d been in touch with her daughter. She denied hearing anything else from Cheryl, and, of course, protested my search of her residence and personal papers. I wasn’t the law; I didn’t need a search warrant signed by a judge. She could sit quietly while I took my time searching her shit, or she could get two to the dome.

  After finding no evidence of her corresponding with Cheryl, I left her with the warning of what would be her fate if she got cute and put the po-po on my ass.

  As soon as I dropped Lonnie off I whipped over to Englewood to get Juanita’s address from Miss Pearl. She searched with alcohol-swollen hands until she found Juanita’s address in her purse. I copied down the Texas address and left Miss Pearl alone with her best friend, MD 20/20.

  Inside the car I wrote a short message on the post card: I enjoyed N’Awlins’ fine gumbo, jazz, and especially the Creole women. But I do remember…You!

  I signed my name, addressed it with no return address, went to buy a postage stamp, and dropped the post card in the mailbox by Englewood.

  Now it was back to business, marking names off the hit list.

  Our next target was Little Gotti. He’d been laying low since Lonnie and I had fire-bombed his sports bar. He was probably shaking in his shoes, scared to death of the worst enemy a nigga can ever have, the unknown enemy.

  Finding Little Gotti was proving harder than we’d anticipated. Partly because he didn’t operate drug traps, therefore we couldn’t follow the trap money back to him. Little Gotti’s MO was dropping weight to several niggaz around the city. Some he dealt with on consignment, others bought keys from him up front. Murder knew several niggaz Little Gotti dropped weight to, and he contemplated approaching one of them with the ruse that he was looking for a connection, hoping they would then introduce him to Little Gotti. Of course, from there it would’ve been lights out! But Crazy Nine vetoed that plan. Within hours, the Dread arrived in Atlan
ta to help us locate our prey.

  Crazy Nine greeted me with the same warmth he showed Murder Mike, as if the van incident had never taken place. Maybe Murder Mike had convinced him that I harbored no ill feelings. Which wasn’t exactly true; I just wasn’t in the position to straighten it.

  While Crazy Nine was out trying to locate the suddenly invisible Little Gotti, Murder Mike dropped weight around the city, and in other spots like La Grange, Moultrie, Columbus, and Savannah, Georgia. I watched his back with a keen eye for the slightest hint of trouble, ready to unleash the AK-47 at the first sign of po-po or a jack move, but nothing foul ever came into play.

  Crazy Nine was having no more luck finding Little Gotti than Murder Mike and I had. Two months later found me and Murder Mike in D.C., the ChocolateCity, with plans to leave at least one spot in the city blood red. Jamaican Rick had called us up there to help him “remove” his primary adversary, a New York kid by the name of Born Ruler, who moved down to D.C. and had the dope game on lock.

  Jamaican Rick didn’t want his workers in Washington, D.C. to do the hit because this dude, Born Ruler, was well-liked, and Jamaican Rick feared too many niggaz would come gunning for him and his crew if it leaked that they planted Born Ruler in the dirt. Murder Mike and me would be unknown faces.

  We caught Born Ruler and his two beefy bodyguards at a liquor store where we knew he went to purchase Lotto tickets twice a week. We’d scouted the area for weeks, at night and during the day, planning the best escape route to travel after we did the hit. I noticed that each time Born Ruler went to the liquor store, he was accompanied by the same two bodyguards. Both were obviously strapped; the unmistakable print of heaters bulging their shirts out at the waist. They’d pull the car up to the curb, just a few long strides from the liquor store’s front entrance, allowing only seconds when they’d be open for a jack. A pretty decent security plan but with two major flaws.

  The first flaw being the assumption that the only harm aimed at Born Ruler would be a robbery attempt. The second and most fatal flaw in their security was their failure to leave someone outside in the car to watch the streets while the others were inside the store. I couldn’t understand how they could overlook that important aspect of protecting their man. Shit, coming out of the liquor store was when they were most vulnerable. Although one of the bodyguards would always exit the store and look around before signaling to Born Ruler that it was safe to come out, it hardly was enough to cause any deviation in our plan.

  To anyone entering the liquor store, the two men in gray coverall uniforms and yellow hardhats on the side of the building were two city workers. Under our hardhats, our hair was covered with do-rags and a stocking cap over that, just to be sure no hair samples would be left inside the yellow hard hats that we assumed would fall off when we made our getaway. I had a street sweeper hidden in the weeds between the two buildings where we pretended to be removing bottles and trash. Murder’s AK-47 laid beside it, loaded with steel-jacketed hollow points to penetrate bulletproof vests. We each packed a nine inside our coverall pocket in case some fool tried to play Good Samaritan and tackle us after we dropped the heavy artillery and ran.

  With gloved hands, we methodically filled bags with empty wine bottles and trash, patiently awaiting the arrival of our target and his henchmen.

  They arrived at the curb shortly after 3:00 p.m.

  “Remember,” I said, already crunk, “you take out the two bodyguards. I’ll get Born Ruler, and don’t step in front of me! Stay to the side of me or you’ll get bodied too.”

  Murder said, “Relax, main man. I’m not new to this.”

  Five minutes later, I saw one of the bodyguards step out on the sidewalk and casually scan the block. He’d seen us two city workers on the way into the store, so he paid us no mind.

  A fatal mistake.

  As soon as the bodyguard nodded to his boss that the block was safe, Murder and I made our move. The shit happened real fast, but it moved in slow motion, damn near freeze framed, when you’re in the midst of it.

  I heard a bitch’s piercing scream immediately after our weapons came into view. Born Ruler took a step backwards, away from the street sweeper, and reached for the bulge at his waist, but his reaction was just that, a reaction. I was the quicker one, the offensive one. The street sweeper barked loud and angry! A whole side of Born Ruler’s face tore away from his head. The second blast hit him in the chest before his body could hit the sidewalk. Beside me, Murder was earning two more platinum fingernails. His AK-47 fired like when we were kids and we’d light a whole pack of firecrackers at once. Both bodyguards were down and lifeless, but Murder still pumped more steel-jacketed hollow points into them.

  “Let’s go!” I shouted above the screams and bedlam.

  We dipped between the two buildings, hopped over trash bags and dropped the cumbersome weapons in some tall weeds against the side of the liquor store. Taking the exact route we’d charted, we hopped over a chain-link fence and hurried to the bikes that we’d parked on the street that ran behind the two buildings. Murder Mike had lost his hard hat; mine had stayed on my head, but I tossed it to the ground. The key to the ninja was zipped inside the breast pocket of the coveralls. I quickly retrieved it, unlocked the handlebars, and pressed the automatic ignition switch. The bike roared to life. A second later I heard Murder’s bike stall, and then slowly came to life.

  I led and he followed, it was important that we travel a precise, pre-planned route, for Jamaican Rick was waiting for us at a certain destination to execute the final leg of our getaway. Though we’d made several practice rides, in the heat of the moment it wasn’t easy to recognize the proper streets and turns. I almost missed the green house on the corner where I was supposed to turn left. I recognized it at the last second and made the turn, my knee almost scraping the paved street. I checked over my shoulder to make sure Murder was still behind me. He was, but he’d lost control of the bike while executing the last-second turn, and went skidding down the middle of the street. The bike slammed into the curb and rolled over onto somebody’s front lawn.

  I turned around and went back for him.

  He was injured and limping, but not critically hurt.

  His bike had faired worse.

  “Hop on!” I barked.

  A few blocks and turns later I slowed the bike and rode it up a loading ramp, into the back of a furniture truck. Jamaican Rick didn’t ask what had happened to the other bike; he quickly raised the ramp by pressing the electronic button, closing the truck’s rear door, shutting us inside.

  Seconds later, I felt the furniture truck pull off.

  Murder Mike was a little banged up, with a swollen knee. A little first aid and an Ace bandage had him feeling better. I apologized for taking the turn at the last second, forcing him to do the same and lose control of his bike. He brushed off the minor mishap realizing that the important thing was that we completed the mission we’d traveled to D.C. to handle. We could return to the ATL under our own power, which beat returning in a box or as headliners in a news article. We laid low in the chocolate city for a few days, before catching separate flights back to Atlanta.

  When I got back to Atlanta, Inez was at home waiting to surprise me. As soon as I walked in the door, I noticed that she was no longer pregnant. She led me to the bedroom proudly presenting our baby girl. Asleep like a tiny angel inside a pink baby crib with cute pink and white ribbons decorating it.

  I picked my daughter up gently, causing her to wail at the top of her tiny lungs. She’d been born ahead of schedule and was smaller than any of my other children had been at birth, but she was completely healthy and as pretty as a lullaby. Tamia Shanice quieted down when her daddy snuggled her in the cradle of his arms and rocked her back to sleep.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, mad experienced with holding infants, newborns, whatever. “When did you have her?” I asked Inez, incredulous that already she seemed to have regained her normal figure.

  “A week ago yes
terday,” said Inez. “We tried to wait on you to get back in town but Tamia was too anxious to come into this world.” She leaned over and kissed our daughter’s chubby cheek.

  “Oh,” she remembered, “I had to give her my last name since you weren’t around to sign the birth certificate, and we aren’t married.”

  “What?”

  “Calm down,” laughed Inez, “we can go change her last name tomorrow.”

  And we did.

  I loved and claimed all mine.

  Still crunk from the D.C. episode, I got with Lonnie and we sat around his crib smoking ‘dro and sipping on yak. I got higher than the Eiffel Tower, so high that I couldn’t even recall all the bodies I had stacked when I tried to add ‘em up in my head.

  I knew I had more bodies than I had children, and at the rate I was deading niggaz it was possible I’d eventually get more bodies than pussy. I knew that when I hooked up with Murder Mike tomorrow, he’d have six platinum nails. He’d better bless me with some loot! I was down with the clique but I wasn’t murdering niggaz for free. Him and the Dreads saw their dividends from the sale of dope, mine manifested from my role as enforcer. Bodies paid extra.

  High as a mafucka, I started thinking about my two princesses, Eryka and Chanté. Yeah, I still had Lil’ T and a new baby girl, but none of a nigga’s seeds can take the place of the others. My angels were probably wondering why they didn’t see me anymore, too young to verbalize the absence in their lil’ hearts. They’d grow up calling a Haitian mafucka Daddy! That was the coldest part of what that bitch Cheryl had done. I didn’t wanna think about her fat, lazy ass laying back on some island like she was born rich, or like she’d hustled up the loot they were living off of. It probably would’ve been easier to swallow if she was somewhere, just her and my daughter. But for the bitch to switch wallets with me, and to run off with a nigga?

  That shit blew my high.

  I thought about my beef with Ma Dukes and that shit vexed me more. I would’ve given anything for us to have back the relationship we had before she met and married Raymond, and got all brand new on me.