Let That Be the Reason

by Vickie M. Stringer

  I emerged from the limo sportin’ Versace white leather hip-hugging shorts and knee-high white Durango boots with three-inch heels. My matching white halter rested against my skin. The leather was so soft you had to get up close to determine if it was fabric or leather. Infa bounced from the limo wearing a black Armani suit, and Abdullah followed wearing the exact same suit, only in white. All eyes were on us as we strolled into the club giving shout-outs to people that we knew.

  The Pulse nightclub was on jam. Swinging my hair from side to side and pulling it behind one ear, I sipped on my drink, listening to the music. The club was sponsoring an open mic contest, and the contestants were going for the gold, rippin’ shit up on the mic. I ignored the stares from the jealous females wondering how I had it like that. I was enjoying the men’s eyes glued to my backside. We were having a good time. Abdullah motioned for two nearby chicken heads to join us. He pulled out a wad of cash, and I was sure I heard one of them cluck. I looked at his wad. I want my wad to be bigger, I thought. And better yet, I want it to be all mine.

  “How about some bubbly?” Abdullah motioned the bartender over.

  I didn’t get any play due to the fact that Infa stayed glued to my side with a mean look on his face. He called it his club look. Any interested suitor knew that to approach me was to approach Infa. He felt he didn’t have time to get played anywhere, especially up in a club with an audience, so we stayed up in the place for about two hours, then began making our way to the exit. Abdullah smacked a C-note on the photo booth counter, and we began a modeling session. We clowned and hammed it up for the cameras. I gave up some booty shots, and they broke out with some penitentiary poses. I got tired of being silly and just stood on the sideline as the chicken heads joined them, allowing total strangers to cup their booties and tah-tahs. Infa even stuck his tongue down one girl’s shirt. I stuffed the photos in my purse and headed for the exit.

  We returned to the limo and headed downtown for dinner at Morton’s. We ordered steak and lobster and drank bubbly all night. After the third bottle of Cristal, we started crackin’ on T-Love and his booty-call adventures.

  Abdullah got it started. “Why won’t T-Love use some of that money and buy his girl a new hair weave? Or at least get it the same texture as her own hair.”

  I elbowed him in the side and said, “When I first saw her, I wanted to reach over and feel T-Love’s forehead and take his temperature, ’cause his ass must have been near death and desperate when he picked that one out of the bunch. And you, you can’t talk. Don’t your girl got a weave, or do you not think that latch hook is fake?”

  Infa started on me. “You the only girl I know who wraps her hair up at night so damn tight that you got lines on your forehead and have to press your face in the morning. What the fuck is a wrap anyway?”

  I got an attitude and said, “Oh, please, if you dated black girls, you would know what a wrap was.”

  Infa responded, “It ain’t enough aspirins in a bottle of Tylenol for me to date a black girl.”

  Abdullah took another sip and continued, “Shit, I don’t see how T-Love dates LaShonn. Her damn voice is irritating.”

  “Playa, he ain’t dating her voice, and I don’t think her pussy talks back,” Infa told him.

  “Well, she getting paid,” I confirmed. “Don’t T know that they call it trickin’? How does it feel to have a brother out there trickin’?”

  Abdullah spat his bubbly on the table. Infa and I both screamed, “Damn, nigga!”

  He began to wipe his shirt and said, “Ms. Heidi Fleiss imitator talking about trickin’. You run an escort service. Come on, tell us, do you be doing them dates?”

  I replied with a raised eyebrow, “You really wanna know, don’t you?” I smiled at him. “You can’t afford this.” I pointed between my legs and traced his lips with butter from my little finger.

  The waitress approached the table with a monster-sized dessert that Infa had dreamed up.

  “What the hell is this?” I asked after she left it sitting in the middle of our table.

  “Look, Wrappy.” Infa chuckled. “Just eat it. You ain’t never turned down chocolate.”

  We grabbed our forks and dug into the plate and all started nodding. “This some good shit,” Abdullah said.

  We closed the restaurant, and when the bill arrived, we kept passing it around and around the table like no one wanted to pay for it. Abdullah was so drunk that I slid my hands into his pants, clipped him for $300 without him noticing, and paid the tab. Infa saw every move, and we just laughed at his drunk ass. We hoisted him into the limo and headed back to my place to crash. The following morning, they were back on the road, headed home to New York. It was a fast weekend.

  The next morning, I got my son dressed and ready for day care. I always hated saying good-bye to him, but I’d learned you had to do what you had to do, and that’s just how it is. Because I was seeking knowledge, I went to the place knowledge is found: the library. I didn’t want to ask anyone for anything. I got a book on weight, then read and copied all the things associated with a kilo. I learned that there are twenty-eight grams in an ounce, and I learned how many ounces are in a kilo. It wasn’t difficult to figure out a big eight’s amount. Then I went to a drug paraphernalia store named Cloud Nine on Cleveland Avenue and purchased a scale for about $100.

  I reminded myself to stick to the rule of keeping the scale in the kitchen. Rumor in the streets said that if the po-po found a scale in the kitchen, they’d think you were weighing food with it, not drugs. I also purchased some rubber gloves and plastic baggies. Shit, Chino used to count money in gloves, his ass was so cautious. I had everything I needed—I hoped.

  As I began cleaning my house to music, the pagers were buzzing off the hook. I ended up checking messages and answering phones, the usual hectic day. Hustling is very hard work. Most people don’t know this. They think it’s easier than working a real job, but it’s not. My nerves were a wreck. The only soothing balm is the money. So I hustled harder to get more of that soothing dough. But I would soon learn that even the money came with it’s own drama—muthafuckas makin’ my money short.

  Short money brought bullshit excuses. “See, see what I’m sayin’. I got stopped by the police, and the money was in the trunk of the car, and the police towed my car because I don’t have a valid license, and when I went to pick up my car the next day, the money was gone, so I’m short, but I’m gonna make it up.”

  Or “I was gonna pay you, but my mom had an operation,” while I knew good and well their mama died a year ago. Or a whore talkin’ about, “I can’t fuck ’cause I am on my period,” while I knew she had a hysterectomy. Or an escort talkin’ about, “I got a headache, so I can’t fuck.”

  Then come the friends who think since you gettin’ money it’s okay to borrow money, knowing full well they won’t repay. One time, a heroin-addicted booster stood on my front porch ringing my bell for hours in the rain until I let her in to sell her wares. There was the salesman at my favorite sound-system store, trying to upgrade my shit so his commission was higher. If you check out Pretty Toney at Mobile Electronics, his ass is the bearer of bad news: “I’m afraid to tell ya, because you own a BMW and are a drug dealer… oops… I mean, you have an expensive car, it will cost you triple to install your system.”

  Then there was the rival drug dealer worried about you tryin’ to get their block. I wasn’t interested in no blocks or territory. I wanted to sell weight and let them worry about where they sold it. I intended on being that girl. Do me, be loyal to myself and get paid.

  I was a madam, or more like a “pimpadam.” My criminal résumé was growing. I was a fence, and now a drug dealer. This was not how my life was supposed to be. I just sat on the floor and tried to suppress the tears as best I could. Things were going better for me financially, but I was sad inside. I missed my Chino. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Before many tears could fall, Carmen chimed in. Snap out of it and get over it. That voice and the ringing
of the phone snapped me out of it. I suppressed the pain.

  “Hello, may I help you?”

  “Yes. Do you have girls who speak Greek?”

  “Yes, I do.” I now knew that “speak Greek” means anal sex, or the Hershey Highway, as they say. Most men like to get down like that. Responding to the caller’s question, I chimed into the receiver, “They are fluent in it, and for three hundred dollars, you can be tutored.” I set the appointment and told myself China’s line: “Let that be the reason I get over my past.”

  The weekend was here before I knew it, and I was ready. T-Love arrived late Friday night, so I told G-Money I’d meet with him early Saturday at the hotel after I collected from the girls. T-Love was very anxious. He gave me my package and told me my ticket was $24,000. Twenty-four Gs. I couldn’t believe it, my own bird, my own brick. I had seventeen Gs in a shoe box upstairs, but I was thinking, Now what? I’m short, so I have to think fast. I’ve got to make some moves.

  I impressed T-Love with my confidence and shiny new triple-beam scale. I had practiced using it. All I knew was I had a sale for a big eight, and that four big eights equaled a half a kilo. So I could package four big eights. I weighed and measured as T watched me. I was very nervous but tried not to show it. This was my prerequisite for tomorrow’s performance with G-Money. Yes, I was ready, as ready as I could get. I immediately took the conversation to one of his booty-call adventures. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask for the money up front.

  “So, T, when are you leaving? Sunday night or Monday morning?”

  “I’m bouncing on Sunday night.” He continued to watch me.

  “You didn’t finish telling me about your hoochie LaShonn. Why she be tryin’ to pronounce her name ‘LaShone’ like it got an ‘e’ on the end? Like her shit is French or something. I call her LaShonn. Which is it? When she call, she be like, ‘Tell him LaShone called.’”

  T laughed. “Yeah, she be trippin’ about her name. I just call them all boo. You can’t never go wrong with ‘boo’ or ‘shorty’ because it’s easy to remember and you won’t be mixin’ their names up. Every girl I date is shorter than I am, and everyone is a boo, but they all chicken heads. But LaShonn got something special. She’s not as pretty as my wife, or as intelligent, but I kick it with her because of how I feel when I’m with her. LaShonn swallows, if you know what I mean, and wears some sexy-ass lingerie. Have you ever seen those bras that got the nipples exposed? She rocks those joints,” he announced, fidgeting with his jean outfit, smoothing the jacket as he laid it on the couch.

  T-Love wore jean outfits every day of the week with matching Timbs. He was the type of brother who sent his jean outfits to the cleaners after wearing them one time as if they were business suits.

  “Well, I’ll have everything together by Sunday.”

  “No problem. I’ve given you the very best flakes so your custies will be pleased. Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brings them back all the time. As China would say, ‘Let that be the reason.’” Our eyes met and we laughed together. The friendship was restored.

  “I need to use your Jeep. Every time we ride around in the rental car with those New York plates on it, we get pulled over.”

  “I understand, T, I got you. I know one slip is a prison bid waitin’ to happen.”

  “C, give China a call. I feel like eating some Chinese tonight.”

  “You are so nasty.” I laughed. “China will be glad to see you. She said you’re a good tipper. That’ll be two bills. I’ll take it off my twenty-four-grand ticket.”

  “No problem. I’m going upstairs to take a shower.”

  I called G and told him to have the boosters get me some fly men’s gear and that I’d take it off his ticket the following week.

  “G, one favor deserves another,” I pleaded into the phone.

  “Carmen, it better be worth it.”

  “And you know it will be, man. Hook me up. I need it tomorrow. You bring yours to the table and I’ll bring mine.”

  “Okay let—”

  I cut G off before he could continue and completed his line. “I know—let that be the reason. Bye.”

  I packaged everything and went to sleep. I said a prayer. “God, direct my paths and forgive me. Watch over my son and protect me.”

  The following morning I told the girls I needed to use the hotel that night. I had rented a town house suite at the Residence Inn. It had an upstairs and downstairs, two full baths, fireplace and kitchen, a bedroom upstairs and one downstairs, both with large TVs, VCRs and cable. Damn, this place was nice. Perfect for setting a comfortable atmosphere. After all, in the streets you never take people to the place you rest your head.

  I brought my clothes and I took a long bubble bath to kill time. I decided to wear a beautiful white linen Armani pantsuit. Chino had purchased it for me. It was another “just because” gift. He had it custom-tailored by his personal tailor, Stephano, who had a shop on High Street. There is something about a woman in a tailored pantsuit. The fabric rested against my cocoa brown skin, hugged my waistline and accentuated my hips.

  I was nervous. It was six o’clock, and T-Love wouldn’t miss me until later. G finally paged me. This meant he was ready for the sale. My first drug sale. I called him and told him to come on through. I had his package all prepared. The dope looked great. This really was some high-quality girl. I had two big eights with me and still hadn’t figured out what to do with the rest of the kilo I had talked myself into. Anyway, there was the bell, so out of the corner I went. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

  “Hey, G. Want a drink?” I said, smiling.

  “Sweetheart, you look fabulous. This spot is tight.” He looked around.

  “Yeah, yeah, let’s do this. I’m expecting others and my schedule is tight tonight.” I focused on being calm and not exposing myself as a novice drug dealer.

  “I thought all this was for me, for us.”

  “Well, it’s not, so come on.” I pulled out the package and his eyes widened at the sight of the chunks.

  “Damn, C, I always get shake, you know, powder. This is lovely.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” Next, he pulled out the money, and I began to count. I still didn’t know the price, but I counted $3,800 for four and a half ounces. I took the money and prayed this was the going rate. I was so relieved it was over, I rushed G out the door. He hesitated before exiting and asked, “Sweetheart, is there more of this?”

  “Yes.”

  Nodding his head in approval he said, “I may be back.”

  “Just page me.” With that, he turned to leave. I sat down and poured myself a glass of wine. I did it! I did it! If only my Chino could see me. A small tear fell from my eye. I quickly wiped it away, and I went for my pen and paper to do the math. Okay, I can get $15,200 for half a kilo, and for a kilo I can get $30,400. With me paying $24,000 for it, that’s a $6,000 profit. Great! I can do this.

  Forty-five minutes later I got a page. Beep… Beep… Beep. It was G paging me again. “What’s up, G?” I confidently whispered into the phone.

  “C, it’s great, baby. It’s nothing but ‘butter.’ I’ll see you in five minutes.”

  He came back and got some more. This was perfect.

  My client Terrance and his wife, Tasha, wanted a lil’ somethin’—an ounce. They were faithful customers of the escort service. They gave me $1,000 for an ounce—unbelievable. T had always said the prices in Ohio were sweet. I could see that. Later, I got a page from Tasha and Terrance. I returned their call, and Tasha answered on the first ring.

  “Yeah, C, there’s a lil’ problem. Let’s meet at Damon’s for a drink.”

  “Okay. In fifteen minutes,” I said. Hanging up the phone, I paced back and forth, feeling some of my nervousness leaving. I regretted not learning more of the drug game from Chino. Then I would know how to handle this and not just have gut feeling to rely on. Shit!

  What am I getting myself into? How do you know if the drugs are real? I know Chino
used a tester from time to time.

  A tester is someone who is an addict, and they sample the dealer’s purchases for them to test the quality. There were heroin testers whom one could hire for a sample; they would shoot up a sample to tell if it was good or not. They welcomed the thought of a near-lethal overdose of something strong, which had no cut on it. If a heroin addict read in the newspaper about a person being found dead from an overdose, the first question they’d ask was, “Where did he cop at?”

  There were also cocaine samplers who gave a firsthand count on the quality of the coca. I was winging it, and hopefully not so much that I’d gotten myself into trouble. Getting myself together, I took a sip of water and left the room, walking at a slow pace trying to keep calm.

  Damon’s Grill was directly behind the hotel. I decided to front G two more big eights since he had paid me for two. This way, half the kilo would be gone. I paged G and invited him to meet me at Damon’s ASAP. I went through the back parking lot leading to Damon’s. It was a beautiful summer night. Not too hot, not too cold, and I was enjoying the walk. Tasha arrived first.

  “Carmen, smooches,” she said, giving me play kisses on both cheeks.

  “What’s up?” I said, backing from her embrace and trying to read her expression.

  “What are you drinking?” She waved the bartender over.

  “Kahlúa and Cream. Is there something wrong?”

  “Well, yes and no.”

  Oh shit! Was it real dope? I didn’t test it.

  Climbing up on the bar stool, I replied, “Yeah, let’s talk. What’s up?”

  “Carmen, it’s too strong. It’s making our noses bleed. We didn’t want to try and cut it ourselves because we don’t know what to use. We’ve heard of using baking soda, but we don’t want to mess this up.”