Ghetto Girls

by Anthony Whyte

  The transition was smooth. Cory hugged the receiver in delight. He fumbled for the answer.

  “Nothing, really. Kicking back, thinking ‘bout some special boots.”

  “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. It’s only ten p.m. and I’m getting a booty call?”

  “Babe, the last time was a week, week and half ago. C’mon.”

  “Maybe after the dance finals. I’ve been rehearsing. Well, you know how that is. You play football.”

  “Yeah, but can’t we sneak a little snack prior to the big one?”

  “Snack? Cory, you don’t snack. You wanna have everything on the menu. So no snacking. Baby, chill. After the finals, I’m gonna need you to do me right. You know, hit a home-girl off proper-like.” Danielle smooched into the phone and the blood rushed to Cory’s crotch.

  “Ahight, I’ll chill. So how’s rehearsal? Still battling Coco?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s a day to day struggle, let me tell you...”

  Cory interrupted. “Babe, hold on a sec while I terminate this other call… Danielle, why don’t you get some rest and I’ll call you back, okay?”

  “Okay, cool. I’ll talk to you later, honey. Maybe we can get together tomorrow in the evening or—no! I’ve got rehearsal.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Chill. We’ll catch up with each other at some point, alright? Get some rest, babe.”

  “Love ya,” Danielle said as she cradled the phone in its charger. Why did Cory hang up so quickly and who was he speaking with on the end of the other line? She wondered. Danielle wanted to call back, but the urge left as quickly as she found the comfort of her mirror.

  Danielle stared at her reflection and contemplated the girls on the frenzied day. Coco, why doesn’t she get a phone? Coco was always telling her and Josephine things about guys. Coco always said: ‘Don’t sweat ‘em. Let ‘em sweat you’. Why doesn’t Coco ever have a boyfriend? Danielle wondered.

  She sauntered back over to the phone and dialed Cory’s number. No answer. Then she tried sending him a text message. She set the receiver down. Danielle returned to the comfort of her mirror.

  “Ah-h, it still was a great day,” she whispered.

  SIXTEEN

  “That’s it, nigga, I’m serious. Honey wuz looking kinda fly. Tits ‘n’ ass in place, nothing really jiggling. You know wha’ I mean?” Lil’ Long asked.

  “Yeah, true. No question, son, but she had mad trophies, sun!” Vulcha replied.

  “Them kids. She only had those two, one in da carriage and one beside her,” Lil’ Long said.

  “Nah, you bugging. Them three walking behind her were there for real too, sun.” Vulcha said and Lil’ Long scratched his fresh braids.

  “Se-e-rious nigga! She still had a big batty.”

  “I’m trying to tell you, muthafucka. Open your eyes and look.”

  “Ahight, listen. Why you gonna try ‘n dis me on da low?”

  Lil’ Long and Vulcha passed the stores as shutters came down at the end of the day. They had spent much of the day shopping for clothes. Both of them had two big bags in each hand. Lil’ Long shifted through the restless evening crowd. They took turns pinching and fondling women as they walked and shared a coolie, a marijuana joint laced with cocaine.

  “Where are we fucking parked kid?” Lil’ Long asked. He sat the bags on a parked vehicle, setting the alarm off. “Damn, this shit is loud,” he commented. He kicked a dent in the car door.

  “We parked over there, Lil’ Long,” Vulcha said. He led the way to the parked Navigator.

  “Yo that meter-maid got da mad big, apple-shaped ass,” Lil’ Long said.

  “Don’t sweat the ass, she’s fucking giving us a ticket.” Vulcha said walking faster. “Hey, baby doll. Yoo hoo mammy, wait-up.”

  They arrived as the traffic summons was placed on the windshield.

  “We in da car. Why you still ticketing us?” Vulcha asked feigning disbelief. The meter maid looked as if she was about to explain.

  “I’m telling you, baby-baby. Baby-baby got the nicest ass I’ve seen all day,” Lil’ Long said. The meter maid walked away with a smile. “Ain’t that the nicest ass you’ve seen all this day?” Lil’ Long asked raising his voice so she could hear.

  Vulcha was disgruntled. “We be seeing all flat, ironing-board ass, so no question that’s some ass. But that ass left us a fifty-dollar ticket.” Vulcha picked up the summons and examined it, skeptically.

  “Fuck her big ass,” he said and started the SUV.

  “Yeah, yeah. I sure would like to. Pull up close to her, Vulch. Let me kick some shit, right here.”

  “Man, that bitch is getting in a car. Whatcha want me to do? Follow her around?”

  “No, no. Ahight, I could see this ticket here is causing some problems. Lemme handle it. Give it here, kid.” Lil’ Long grabbed the ticket and ripped it to bits. “See how easy that was? Let’s go by the video store and re-up.”

  “Yeah, let’s go check out Carlos,” Vulcha said.

  A few minutes later they alighted from the Navigator and hustled through the crowd in a busy video store. They walked to the back of the store.

  “Carlos, Carlos. Where are ya, you Colombian bastard? Yo, Carlos,” shouted Lil’ Long, searching the back of the store. Then they saw a chubby-faced, light- skinned man, wearing a blue T-shirt, a size too small.

  “Hey, my friends,” he exclaimed, displaying a big toothless grin.

  “Carlos, aren’t you afraid of eating yourself to death?”

  “No, it’s how do ya eat so much?”

  “Ah, si. Have mucho, lots a space,” Carlos said, tapping his stomach gently with the palm of his right hand.

  “No, I mean, how?” Vulcha said pointing to his teeth.

  “Oh, oh. Ha, ha,” Carlos chuckled. He slipped the set of false teeth in his mouth and came closer.

  “Business, mi amigos?”

  “Got any new joints, Carlos?”

  “Always have new gifts for mi amigos.”

  He led them to a corner of the store for special customers. He lowered a shelf of videos and a row of new artillery emerged.

  “This joint come wit silencer? This some space age shit right here. Sigma Lasermax, hmm.”

  For the next half-hour, Lil’ Long and Vulcha feasted their eyes and marveled at the display of firearms. They decided on two Desert Eagles with ammo, four black Kalakos, four magazines and four hundred rounds of Gemstar ammunition.

  “Mix in some silicone tip and Teflon shit, ahight? Yo, Carlos you got any of those Rhino rounds, penetrate anything, huh Carlos?” Lil’ Long asked.

  “No fuss, no problem.” Carlos always gave his customers complete satisfaction. He brought out two magazines filled with blue-colored bullets. He set the magazines apart from the other goods. “I have veinte black rhino rounds, straight from Texas. I give you both one magazine a piece for free.”

  “Ahight, Carlos, my man. You all this and muthafuckin’ that,” Lil’ Long said.

  “Yeah, we’ll tell you how these joints work,” Vulcha added.

  After paying, Lil’ Long and Vulcha strolled to the front of the store.

  “Enjoy the viewing, mi amigos,” Carlos said with a toothed smile. They left with what appeared to be a case of videos and set it gently in the back seat.

  “Let’s drop the shits at my rest, son,” Vulcha said.

  “Sounds good, nigga. Then we can get some food. Seafood, you know wha’ I’m saying? With that, the vehicle jerked away and rolled forward into the traffic. In the back seat were a couple of Donna Karan leather jackets and accessories, as well as four new Kalakos nine-millimeter weapons, with all the trimmings.

  At Vulcha’s apartment, they changed into their new duds. The weapons fit perfectly. Lil’ Long snorted through a small straw and rubbed his nose reflectively. Vulcha, completely dressed down in a leather outfit, toyed with the guns.

  “Yo let’s go to da spot, sun,” Vulcha said closely examining the trigger mechanism.

  “Don’t tell m
e. No, your ass is pussy-whipped for a…”

  “Nah, bust it. It ain’t even like that. Just wanna cool out wid peeps like us,” Vulcha said.

  “Ain’t no one like us—at least, like me. I’m da one, da two and da three. That’s me. L-i-i-l’ Long,” Lil’ Long announced compounding his stutter as he beat his chest.

  “I’m just saying…” Vulcha began.

  “Listen up. I un’erstan’ ‘bout that shit.”

  “What shit are you referring to, sun?”

  “Being pussy-whipped, nigga,” Lil’ Long laughed.

  “How you figure that?”

  “Every time we got sump’n to do, your ass wanna go to da spot. When we don’t have shit to do, your ass still wanna be in da spot. Now you tell me, uh?”

  “I like that spot. Everyone know who’s who, know wha I’m saying? No fronting allowed,” Vulcha countered.

  “Ahight, you’re gonna tell me that da bitch don’t have your ass open?”

  “Nah, I’m saying I ain’t open yet. Bitch still got a man,” Vulcha said.

  “Ahight why da fuck don’t ya break da nigga off a piece an’ get rid of his ass?” Lil’ Long asked. “Huh? C’mon, let’s go pay that muthafucka a visit, nigga. We know where he at.”

  “Yeah, let’s drop in an’ see what kinda offer this muthafucka is gonna accept.”

  “Yo man, make him one of them mob offers, you feel me?” Lil’ Long smiled.

  They packed away the new guns and walked out. The smell of new leather camouflaged the atmosphere of death as the traveling companions set off to do business with Kamilla’s pimp.

  SEVENTEEN

  Hank Boller was a proud man. He dressed well and indulged in the best money could buy. He received regular payments from six girls. His favorite was Vulcha’s latest interest. Lil’ Long and Vulcha strode into the dimly lit bar and spotted Big Hank immediately. He was dressed in gray pinstripes, with a white collar and a diamond encrusted tie-pin with matching cuff links. He wore a yellow rose in his lapel and a huge canary yellow diamond on his pink ring.

  The pimp rose as Lil’ Long and Vulcha approached. He knew who they were. Since he didn’t know the nature of their business with him, three burly men stepped up to block the visitors. They quickly disarmed the pair. Lil’ Long and Vulcha realized their mistake; they had misjudged Big Hank Boller’s size and status.

  “Hank, how are you doing?” Lil’ Long asked.

  “What’s your business wid me, kid?” Boller had an eagle glare.

  “Ah, Mr. Big Hank, see me and my man here... Well, my man, Vulcha, he sorta dig your—know wha’ I’m saying—one of your girlies. So we figure we’ll make you an offer.”

  “An offer?” Big Hank repeated in disgust.

  He chuckled a bit. The men around him joined in. Then he burst out in a roar of laughter. Hank Boller stood six feet four and carried good body weight. The outburst began in his stomach and came splattering out in a deep-throated roar.

  “What kind of offer?”

  “We were thinking monetary measures. See, we got this Mercedes 600, fully equipped.” Lil’ Long was taken aback by the heaviness of Hank’s laughter. Both he and Vulcha seemed to shrink into their leather garments. Big Hank merely stared. The tension heightened as the hit-men realized how vulnerable they were without guns. Suddenly, their situation was grave.

  “I’ll tell you what. We’re gonna forget about this entertaining session an’ y’all are just gonna slide your little, new-jack asses outta here,” Big Hank said.

  “We don’t get our guns back?” Lil’ Long asked.

  “Unh-uh. Y’all may start acting wild. Shoot up da place, new-jack style. No way. Y’all look good together. Try comedy, rapping, whatever. Y’all got it going on like that.”

  Big Hank’s cronies erupted in laughter. Lil’ Long and Vulcha walked out, their expressions stinging with wounded pride. The night air smacked them with the reality of live and learn. They had been taught a lesson in street living, Never underestimate the next man.

  “Glad we could fucking entertain y’all!” Lil’ Long yelled.

  “Yo, they fucking enjoyed that lil’ show. Them muthafuckas couldn’t stop laughing,” Vulcha said angrily even though he was wearing a wry smile on his mug.

  “They fucking played us. Them fat, ugly muthafuckas fucking p-l-a-y-ed us like we was their bitches and shit,” Lil’ Long said. He was in Vulcha’s face, breathing heavily. Vulcha’s smile left in a hurry.

  “We gonna make that big nigga another offer. Let’s get da fuck up outta this muthafucking piece,” Lil’ Long growled.

  Vulcha drove to a take-out seafood restaurant. They ate in the SUV. “Them niggas kept our joints and that fat muthafucka almost died laughing. They just straight-up dissed us and all we represent, you know wha’ I’m saying?” Lil’ Long tore at the fish.

  “They weren’t trying to hear jack-shit. Them muthafuckas just kept laughing and laughing,” Vulcha said.

  “We were their joke for da evening. We were getting fucked for pleasures, like bitch-ass, pussy niggas. We ain’t no pussy muthafuckas, an’ we ain’t going out like that, neither.” Lil’ Long pounded Vulcha’s chest. Vulcha pounded back. It was a pact, renewed now in reaction to their encounter with Big Hank’s pimp world. Age and experience had brought Boller props, street fame. But he had permitted punkish tendencies to color this meeting with two up and coming killers. A line had been crossed. Now, they had been violated. Lil’ Long and Vulcha sat in the vehicle staring at the clouds of smoke being made by the burning coolie. They noticed the arms of the law as a patrol car drove up toward the fast food eatery.

  “Let’s go get da other joints, dogs. I need the Desert Eagles now.” Lil’ Long said.

  “Word up,” Vulcha agreed.

  They were waiting when Kamilla left the club. She got in a waiting limousine and it drove away. Lil’ Long and Vulcha followed. The limousine stopped in front of the huge apartment building and Kamilla got out. The limousine waited. Kamilla took the keys from her handbag to open the ornate doors. The doorman jumped up to greet her, then turned and watched the steady swing of her backside with admiration. She got into the glass-sided elevator and went to the twenty-third floor.

  Kamilla returned to the limousine a few minutes later. Now, the doorman gained proximity, holding the door for her and helping her into the limousine. Then the limousine drove off leaving the doorman whistling with pleasure.

  EIGHTEEN

  The sun shone through thick, dark clouds as the morning air brought the smell of a new day. The Navigator rolled into a parking spot outside the diner where Kamilla served food only. Lil’ Long and Vulcha found an empty table in her section. She smiled at the big-tippers, then brought their usual breakfast order. They chow down angrily. Vulcha kept his eyes on Kamilla as she undulated back and forth. He blew a smoke ring.

  “Is that bitch worthy of a war?”

  “Fuck da bitch. That big, fat muthafucka dissed first. We gonna dis him back,” Lil’ Long said.

  “Word,” Vulcha said. “He’s gotta pay.”

  Lil’ Long puffed on a cigarette while Vulcha sipped water, swirling the ice. He smelled Kamilla’s perfume. She deftly took his empty glass and replaced it in his waiting hand, filled. He took a swallow and gazed into her eyes.

  “How much are you worth?” Vulcha asked, gazing into Kamilla’s soft brown eyes.

  “Every bit of your gold, mister,” she replied and rapidly dodged his pawing.

  She moved to the next table. The hit-men arose and walked out, leaving heavy tips. They left the smell of new leather and cigarette smoke in their path to the Navigator.

  “That muthafucka should be getting ready to nod off just about now,” Lil’ Long said.

  He glanced at his watch as the sun’s rays reflected from its surface. Both Lil’ Long and Vulcha’s thoughts wandered. Lil’ Long rolled a coolie. Vulcha snorted the white powder with a straw. Kamilla watched them from the restaurant. Don’t they have anything else to
do? She wondered as she positioned the shades of the diner to block the assault of daylight.

  Vulcha pulled into a parking space a block away and walked to Hank’s apartment.

  “Let’s see if these joints can cause damage,” Lil’ Long said, screwing a silencer on the tip of his weapon.

  “These joints feel so new. Muthafuckas will be spitting up lead real soon,” Vulcha warned.

  “Let them count these muthafucking bodies, dogs,” Lil’ Long said.

  He eased the weapon between his leather coat and sweat-shirt. They entered the building, carrying empty boxes and got on the elevator. The duo pressed the number twenty-three. Using the boxes to cover their faces, the got off the elevator and searched for the stench of the underworld. Lil’ Long caught the familiar scent of breakfast. One of Hank’s burly body guards buzzed twice at an apartment door.

  They had found their quarry. Lil’ long hit the polished floor and slid between the guard’s legs, squeezing off bursts into the second bodyguard, while Vulcha shot the man carrying the food.

  “It’s breakfast?” Big Hank had asked through the door. But when he heard the gunfire, he ran out the back and down the fire escape, car keys in hand. He was sure no one had seen him. He had made a getaway, but he knew the shooters would be back. Big Hank began thinking of how to repay them.

  Lil’ Long and Vulcha lay on the floor and surveyed the interior of the huge apartment. Lil’ Long pointed. He rolled up behind the third guard, who was sneaking up on Vulcha. Lil’ Long took aim, and then fell.

  A fist from nowhere caught him flush on the face. Vulcha whirled around, and the room erupted with the explosion of his Tech Nine. The blast picked up the third guard and threw him back against a wall. He lay slumped over, blood flowing like the spray from a park statue.

  “Vulcha, yo, this bitch clocked me as I wuz about to…Chill, bitch!” Lil’ Long struggled to subdue his attacker, a woman.

  “Ain’t nobody else here ‘cept for these two other bitches. That muthafucka got away, sun,” Vulcha said to Lil’ Long, who was still struggling with the woman. Vulcha slapped her with force. She fell to the bloody carpet.