by Meesha Mink
I laugh in her face.
“What—that’s funny to you?”
“Yeah. Since my mother doesn’t pay me a dime,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Look, growing up, me and my brother would take her trick money to make sure there was groceries in the apartment. But…that was a very long time ago.”
“But I heard you.”
“That’s just a routine we go through. A joke. I show up at Bentley Manor once a month to check in on her, make sure she’s taking her medicine and has food in her place. That’s all.”
She studies me as if trying to decide if she believes me.
I see a girl who is fifteen going on fifty.
“Look.” I lick my lips. “I know we haven’t exactly taken the time to get to know each other.”
“Save it,” she says, turning back toward the window. “You and my new mommy have made it perfectly clear that I’m not wanted. That’s why I gotta hustle up a few dollars of my own to get the hell out of there. I don’t want to make it habit to stay where I’m not wanted.”
“I never said that I didn’t want you.”
“Actions speak louder than words.”
I’m determined to make my point. “If I didn’t want you in my house, you wouldn’t be there. Believe that. It’s just…” I straighten my shoulders and I struggle for the right words. “Look. You gotta cut me some slack. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Being a father wasn’t supposed to be in the cards from me. I never knew you existed.”
“Well, I do. Now what?” She swivels her neck back toward me.
Hell, were Renee and I really twelve, three years younger than Corrine, when we hooked up? When I start thinking about the freaking things we did, it makes me wonder what right I had telling my daughter what to do or not do.
I look at her—a face so much like mine—and realize I don’t want her to travel down the same road I did. I grew up where food was scarce in a small, rat-and cockroach-infested apartment. I was hard because life had been hard on me. It doesn’t have to be that way for my daughter.
I take a good look at her outfit: short, short skirt, tight shirt, and a few more curves than she had just two months ago. “You dress like a hooker,” I say absently.
“I’m just showing my support for the family business.”
“I’m trying to talk to you,” I say on a more reasonable voice than I felt. “I know I haven’t been the best father figure toward you and I…apologize.”
No response.
“Corrine, look at me.”
Time seems to stretch for forever, but I wait and finally she turns her head and meets my gaze.
“Why don’t we just start over? I haven’t done right by you. There’s nothing we can do about the past, but we can work on the here and now.”
Distrust lingers in her eyes and I can’t blame her.
“In the morning I’m going to withdraw you from that school. You’re going to a private school where we can get a fresh start.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
“And what do you say we go shopping? Anything you want—long as the clothes are…tasteful.”
She doesn’t answer but the slight change in her body language lets me know I’ve just said the right thing. Maybe I can turn this around, but just how does a pimp raise a lady?
16
The Killer
“In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate. Say O Muhammad. He is God the One God, the Everlasting Refuge, who has not begotten, nor has been begotten, and equal to Him is not anyone,” I recite chapter 112 of my heavily worn copy of the Quran.
The small group of teenagers surrounding me chuckles and laughs.
I lift my head and level my gaze with the leader of this pathetic gang of hoodrats. “What’s so funny, my brotha?”
“You!” the boy snaps back and receives a round of laughter and a few dabs from his crew. “Man, you a muthafuckin’ joke out here preachin’ that shit. How you sound after servin’ a dime for some bullshit?” The kid rolls his eyes. “Nigga, please.”
“When one finds enlightenment, it’s his duty to share his knowledge.”
“Well, has your enlightenment,” another kid jumps in, complete with air quotes, “helped you find a job, nigga?”
The kids laugh and a couple of them stroll off.
I grind my teeth together, not sure why today their blatant disrespect was riding my last nerve. I put up with much worse during lockdown. As I watch them walk away, I feel nothing but pity stir in the pit of my stomach. “The reason I’m out here,” I tell the remaining few, “is to help you avoid the mistakes I’ve made.”
Miz Cleo and Miz Osceola cackle from their stoop.
“Then you’re gonna be out here all day,” Miz Cleo says, chuckling, and then returns her attention to her great-grandbaby, who was trying her hand at climbing up on a tricycle.
“Whatever.” One kid with perfectly lined cornrows and intense hazel-green eyes stares me down. “Ain’t nobody wanna hear all that Allah shit. Next thing you know, you’ll be out gettin’ jacked for sellin’ bean pies out in this muthafucka.”
His lone buddy snickered.
“Besides. I’ma Christian and shit. I ain’t down for blowin’ my ass up for no damn body.”
“You’re talking about Muslim extremist groups,” I tell them. “That’s not what I’m preachin’ to you.”
“Whatever, nigga,” my green-eyed monster says. “I heard your ass was a killah.”
I tense.
“Whocha kill?”
“I didn’t go to jail for killing anyone.”
“Nah. You tried to kill your old lady, but I ain’t talkin’ ’bout that. The streets have been saying your shit was pretty tight. Knocked off a coupla niggas when you used to run with the Disciples.”
I straighten my shoulders about as far back as I can. “Again. That’s why I’m out here tryna talk some sense into you boys. The streets ain’t got no love for you. It just uses you up and spits you back out. Drugs, money, violence. Been there, done that.”
The boys just laugh in my face. “Nigga, you done got soft,” the green-eyed boy laughs. “Aww, shit. There goes Sweet.”
I turn my head and watch as a slick-ass Bentley rolls through the wrought-iron gates.
“That nigga’s paid,” one of the boys exclaimed with open admiration. “When I grow up, I’m gonna be a big-time pimp just like my man Sweet.”
“I hear he has so many hos that his hos have hos.”
The kids crack up again, but I remained rooted to my spot on the concrete, watching, with nearly the same admiration as the hoodrats standing beside me.
The driver pops out the vehicle first and then opens that back door. When Tavon Johnson climbs out, our eyes meet from across the way and my heart nearly stops. I’m trying like hell not to be sucked back into an old memory, but the shit is nearly impossible. Before I know it, I’m back in the old, black Cutlass, trying to lift a gun that’s too heavy.
One shot.
Two shots.
I close my eyes. What would Tavon do if he knew that I was the one who’d killed his older brother?
“Damn, look at that suit,” someone says, still admiring their old neighborhood pimp. “How much somethin’ like that set a nigga back, you think?”
“Humph. Humph. Humph,” Miz Cleo grunts behind us. “Damn shame. That boy is the last one you young’uns need to be tryna be like. Goin’ down that road ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”
“Sure you right,” Miz Osceola cosigns. “What you boys need are daddies. Someone to guide you down the right path.”
“Shoot.” One of the kids folds his arms. “My momma says that she’s both my momma and daddy. She says she don’t need nobody help take care of me and my brothers.”
“Boys need men,” Miz Cleo retorts. “Good strong men to keep you in line.”
That comment causes another ripple of laughter as well.
“Please. Momma says I’m the man of the house now.”
I
look down at the kid. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen.
“I run shit in my crib. Hustlin’ for Kaseem puts food on the table. Nowahmean?”
Miz Osceola snorts. “Girl, you just wastin’ you breath. These hardheaded boys don’t want to learn nothin’. Just like Demarcus when he was their age.”
I blink out of the old memories and turn to face the old ladies.
“What? Don’t tell me you forgot how we used to try and talk some sense into you when you were their age?”
Shame creeps into my face. I lost track of how many times I used to tell them to mind their own damn business. Sometimes when I got too smart Miz Cleo would chase me with that same bat propped up against the door now.
“Jesus,” I swear under my breath. “Does nothing change around here?”
“’Fraid not,” Miz Cleo said solemnly. “’Fraid not.”
When I glance around again, the teenagers have strolled off, talking and laughing at their own private jokes.
“So, are you really out here trying to make a change?” Miz Cleo asks.
I’m stunned she actually engaging into a conversation with me. “Trying.”
The two old ladies stare me up and down but whether I pass their inspection or not remains to be seen.
“Well, I don’t know if I believe all that Muslim stuff you be preachin’, but these kids need some kind of guidance. Of course, I’m the last one to talk.” Her gaze drifts back over to her excited great-granddaughter. “I haven’t been back to church since her momma died.”
“But you pray and talk to God every day,” Miz Osceola reminds her.
Miz Cleo nods but sadness clings to the lines etched in her face.
“How long have you been living here, Miz Cleo?” I ask.
“So long sometimes I think I was born here,” she says.
I suddenly have an image of me sitting on that stoop forty years from now, a Louisville slugger by my side, watching time tick by. I don’t know how they do it.
Zoey steps out of our building, beaming a smile at me.
“Hey, Miss Zoey.”
The teenagers have returned to gawk at my girl. She may be thick but every red-blooded male recognizes the power of the booty. And my baby has plenty of it.
“Hey, guys.” Zoey waves to her fan club before walking over to me.
“What’s up?”
“Do you mind runnin’ to the store for some milk and eggs?”
“Sure. Not a problem,” I say.
She stretches out her hand to give me her car keys and a folded twenty.
I automatically clench my jaw; my temper is on instant simmer. The last thing I want is for these kids to see this shit. How would it look for me to be out here trying to teach boys to be men when it’s likely they have more money in their pockets than I do?
“I got it,” I tell her, even though I’m mentally calculating the chump change in my pocket.
“Well, don’t you want the car keys?” she asks.
“I’ll walk.”
She frowns. It’s just like a woman not to understand a man’s pride.
“I need the exercise,” I add before she starts arguing. I turn and head down the cracked sidewalk with my Quran tucked safely under my arm. As I approach Sweet’s smooth-ass ride, I can’t help but imagine what it would be like to have my ass sitting in the backseat. Jealousy pricks my soul while my eyes bug out the closer I get. This nigga rollin’ like this?
I stop next to his whip and catch the evil-eyed gaze from the chauffeur, tellin’ me to keep it movin’.
I ignore his fat ass and check out the rims.
“Like what you see, honey?”
My eyes finally land on the beautiful woman in the backseat. She looks familiar.
“Well, well, well.” Tavon’s smooth voice floats out to me.
My head jerks up as I watch a ghost walk toward me. “Demarcus Jones. I ain’t seen your ass around here in a hot minute.”
“Just got out the pen,” I tell him.
“Well, you sure are a big swollen mutherfucka. You been pumpin’ iron behind bars?”
“Got to pass the time some kind of way.”
He bobs his head as he continues to study me. “Well, I could use a big man like you down at the club. Bounce some of the undesirables to the curb, that sort of thing.” He reaches inside his jacket and withdraws a business card. “Give me a holler if you’re ever looking for work.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the card, but I have no intention of ever using it. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
17
The Dealer
Starting about a week ago, toward the end of August, a lot of my lower-level dealers started getting robbed for their money and drug stashes. At first the stickups seemed random, but soon it was hard to deny. Somebody was fucking with my business and fucking with my business meant they are fucking with my money.
I walked in the Trick Set earlier and found Usher and some nameless trick butt naked and tied to each other. Our entire stash gone—even down to the scales and the rest of the equipment we used to bag it all up. Wasn’t shit to do but chalk it up to a loss, since we couldn’t call the police.
Now everybody is back strong on that “protect ya neck” bullshit. From Usher all the way down, them fellas want to man up with guns around the clock like we a cartel or some shit. The more I tell them to chill, the hotter they get under their Polo collars.
They all speculating on this one and that one behind the robberies. Before you know it there will be some silly-ass war that is just what the politicians and the news media want. That makes black-on-black crime and the war on drugs always be at the top of the damn news. That shit brings the heat of the police into the hood and slows up business.
See, I always think of the bigger picture. I’m far from stupid.
A soft-ass play for my reign is the last thing I need right now. I have my people with their ears to the streets for anybody who knows what went down. I had to reroute two runs this week in case somebody was watching I95. Olive had already given notice on the rental, so for now that was the end of the Trick Set. On top of all that, Usher and me were running through the list of tits and dicks who knew how to get to the house. Somebody had to talk.
Now shit is getting mad complicated. I might be in the game and avoiding violence but that don’t mean the next up-and-comer wouldn’t do whatever whenever to get rid of me. Fuck that. I ain’t trying to die to be the drug kingpin of the South. I have choices to make.
My bedroom door opens and I turn around as Quilla walks in holding Dashon in her arms. She looks good as hell holding my son. I know it had to hurt her to hold another woman’s child for me—especially without kids of her own. This whole baby-out-the-blue situation hasn’t been easy for Quilla to swallow, but she’s taking it like a trouper. It helped that the baby was before her time and that Candy was long gone—no baby momma drama. Quilla wasn’t going for that bullshit.
Every day she got closer and closer to my son, and just like his daddy he won Quilla’s no-nonsense ass over. Ever since then she stepped right in and helped me. Every step of the way she was right there loving him and taking care of him just like me. His nursery. His clothes and supplies. Even being there when I first took him to my parents.
On the real? All of it makes me feel like I love her. I mean really love her.
After that bullshit that went down with Candy I really didn’t want to be caught up in another woman. The more I pulled away from the game and toward her and the baby, the more I feel myself falling.
“He looks just like you, Kas,” she tells me as she lays him down in the bassinet I keep in my bedroom. “I’m going to miss him while we in Puerto Rico.”
She has on a pale yellow sheer nightgown that does nothing to cover up the matching teddy that hugs the curves of her body. I feel my dick stirring in my silk pajama bottoms but I don’t want to fuck Quilla. It’s her mind I’m after. Her thoughts. Her opinions. Is she gone ride or what? Is the money and
the status of being my lady more important than me?
“I’m feeling like I want out lately.”
Quilla looks over her shoulder at me as she unbends her body. “Out of what?” she asks with some attitude all up and through her shit. “Out of us? I know you not breakin’ up—”
“Out of the game, Quilla.”
Her whole expression changes. “Oh. Oh…okay. Soooo…what’s up? What’s going on?”
My cordless rings and I pick it up from the base. It’s my moms. “Hey, Ma.”
“I’m just making sure y’all still bringing our grandson.”
I glance over at Quilla and I can tell her mind is filled up with my news. What is she thinking right now? “We’re getting dressed right now. We should be to the house in an hour.”
“Good.”
The line goes quiet and I know what is coming next.
“Have you heard from his mother?”
My left eye twitches in irritation. “No, Ma. I told you she signed over custody to me and she moved out of state.”
“What kind of mother doesn’t want to see her child?”
Ever since I got back the test results I told my parents about Dashon and most of the situation with Candy. Why the hell I got to go through this shit every time we talk about my son? Fuck Candy. For real. “Ma, let me finish getting dressed or we gone miss our plane.”
“See you in a bit.”
I gladly hang up but as soon as I set the phone back on the base my Mogul PDA starts to ring. I don’t miss Quilla throwing her hands up in the air before she walks into the bathroom.
“Whaddup, Ush?”
“I need to holler at you. You home?”
“Yeah, but I’m leaving in a few.”
“Hit me up when you get back.”
“That’s Monday.”
The line goes quiet.
“I’m taking Quilla to Puerto Rico for the week.”
The line stays quiet.
“Whaddup, Usher?”
“Yo, man, you trippin’ for sure. How you gone leave town when somebody tryna fuck with us? Damn, nigga, we need to be retaliatin’ and lettin’ these fools know we run this shit and to respect that.”
