Ghetto Girls Too

by Anthony Whyte

  “Okay,” Josephine said, still sobbing quietly.

  “Can I give you a ride?” Deedee asked as everyone filed from the hospital room.

  “Sure,” Mrs. Johnson replied.

  “Oh, Jo, you’ve gotta see this. She’s even got a chauffer,” Coco said with a wink.

  “That was my uncle’s idea,” Deedee said and the girls slapped high-five.

  The Range Rover splashed through the puddles in the streets. It had rained for most of the day and as the Range Rover pulled to stop outside the hotel where Josephine and her mother stayed, a zip of lightning struck and occasionally, thunder rumbling in the distance. The girls kissed and hugged as they said their goodbyes.

  “Stay sweet as you are, Dee, and you, Coco, I love you like a sister,” Josephine said and embraced each one more time before she and her mother stepped out of the vehicle. “See you in the summer,” Josephine yelled and her mother waved as they made their way into the hotel.

  “Bye, Jo, take care and I’ll see you in summer,” Deedee said as she threw kisses.

  “Stay strong, Jo, and call me. I’ll give your number to Dee, okay? Bye,” Coco yelled and waved.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  A sudden downpour of rain once again flooded the streets as the Range made its way uptown. “Dee, that was good that you were able to know about the intern stuff and all.”

  “Who said I did. My uncle hasn’t told me anything about his plans. I just made that up cuz it sounded like the right thing to say at the time.”

  “Whatever works and it did the job. Hopefully we’ll see Jo’s crazy as in da summer, yo. She’s off the hook.”

  “Yes, she is,” Deedee laughed. “She’s fun though. She and her mother need to make up quick fast. I’m sure they definitely love each other,” Deedee said as she continued to watch the raindrops outside the window. “It would be a nice Mother’s Day gift if I could find my mother, Coco,” Deedee said and Coco looked at her.

  “If you’re serious, I’ll do everything I can to help you, yo.”

  “Thanks, Coco. I know I can count on you. With the police harassing my uncle, I don’t know when he’s gonna be able to be a parent or have anytime for me. He’s too busy with his own situation.”

  “I hear that. You just gotta go find Madukes, that’s all.”

  “True, I wish it was that easy though.”

  “It could be. You won’t know until you’ve tried.”

  Coco and Deedee saw the yellow cab stop in front of them. They saw two girls getting out. It was easy to identify the hunky curvaceous Kim and the equally endowed Tina.

  “Coco, look, there goes the girls Josephine said attacked her,” Deedee exclaimed.

  “Yeah, I see ‘em bitches,” Coco said and watched the girls enter the building. The afternoon was still soggy even though the downpour had stopped. Coco got out the Range at her building. Kim and Tina were walking inside. “She’s probably gonna get her son from, Miss Katie. Trifling ho’s,” Coco said and walked inside. Deedee got out and ran behind her.

  “Coco, you left your wallet on the seat,” Deedee said but realized that Coco was caught in a stare down. Deedee slipped the wallet inside her pocket and waited next to the lethally silent Coco. She could feel the tension and decided to ride up with them just in case. All through the ride, the air was thick enough to knock any brave soul out. Deedee hung in there standing by her friend. Then, as the elevator door opened, all hell broke loose. It started with a shove in the back of Deedee. She turned to hear Tina already winding up.

  “Bitch, you gonna let me off or what?” Tina asked Deedee.

  “You could get by…” Deedee began but Coco intervened.

  “You gotta move completely, Dee. Can’t you see the bitch’s butt’s as big as her fucking head?” Coco opined and Kim immediately jumped in.

  “Yo, Tina, these bitches want some o’ what they diva wannabe friend got.”

  “Yes,” said Coco immediately, “you got some to spare, bitch?” Coco said and pushed Kim from the elevator. They were all getting out on the same floor. Kim and Tina were on their way to get Roshawn from Miss Katie. Kim returned Coco’s shove then Coco kicked her in the crotch and punched her on the lip. As blood trickled from Kim’s mouth, Tina took a swing at Coco but Deedee saw her first and blocked the blow. She then executed a perfectly timed roundhouse kick that dropped Tina. Coco saw that and belted a fist to the midsection of the slowly recovering Kim. She followed that by a swift kick and then another. Tina reached to pull Coco’s hair but again Deedee intercepted her by the arms and flipped her over with ease.

  The resulting noise from all the activity had tenants peeking out of half opened doors. Some were cheering as the girls threw down in the hallway and yelled, “Give her what she deserved, Coco.” “Rock her world, Coco.” The noise brought Miss Katie carrying Roshawn to her door. When she realized what was happening, she started shouting.

  “Stop it! Stop this damn fighting! Break it up! Coco, please stop,” the old lady cried. The whole the time, she had Roshawn in her arms. Just as she was about to put him down, Deedee who had been beating on Tina, suddenly screamed.

  “Look out, she’s gotta gun. She’s gotta gun…”

  It was too late for anyone to get out of the way. Tina held the tiny pistol in her hand and pointed it.

  “You fucking bitches! Wanna fuck wit me now, huh?” she screamed as she closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.

  Total chaos broke out. The explosion erupted in the hallway causing panic and the crowd that had gathered took off running madly and screaming everywhere. Noise and pandemonium spread like brushfire through the hallway as visitors ran down the stairs and residents closed their doors.

  An eerie silence followed. It covered the place the way dark clouds do prior to the rain. Asses and elbows were all that were seen as people scattered or took refuge in their apartments. All that was left were echoes of their fear. When the smoke had cleared, the ominous sound of a baby’s howl was the only clamoring left to this bizarre episode.

  To be continued...

  GHETTO GIRLS 3

  SOO HOOD

  GHETTO GIRLS 3

  SOO HOOD

  Trained eyes searched for any suspicious acts easily overlooked by the ordinary. P.O Ward had ended his day at the office several hours earlier. Now he sat in a department car and got ready to bite into his gyro.

  “Ahh shit!” he uttered aloud. Ward began picking at pieces of onion. “I told those people at that damn Greek deli no fucking onions.” Ward spoke looking out the car window. He could see activity over at the legendary Rucker but no one could hear him swear. He preferred it that way. Ward liked the peace and calm of his position but most of all he liked things his way. “How many times must I tell them the same damn thing over and over? No onions,” the veteran parole officer pondered aloud.

  Ward had ten years under his belt in the parole division. He was a hard driving and tough senior officer. He was particularly hard with his current parolee, Michael Long aka Lil’ Long. It was just his way of repaying society, Ward thought as he unraveled the soft-shell of his meal. He meticulously removed the onions from his sandwich and delicately rolled the sandwich together. This is the way decent people get rid of the riff-raff of society, Ward thought as he threw the onions from his parked car. He eyeballed the sandwich before taking a bite, chewed quickly then took another bite. He sipped cola as he continued his visual reconnaissance of the area. After finishing off the food, Ward reached into his pocket for an antacid. Quickly swallowing then letting out a burp, he lit a cigarette and watched the specks of sunlight that splashed onto the windshield of his navy Chevy Caprice. He slipped on his Ray Bans, easily shielding his eyes.

  P.O. Ward had arrived early and driven the entire perimeter before settling on a spot on the uptown side of West 155th street. By skillful utilization of his front and rearview mirrors, he was able to see in all directions. Ward knew he was dealing with a parolee. Not just any ordinary one but a dangerous per
son, one who killed at will. This fact sent his mind racing and made him even more cautious. Why did I agree to meet with him? I should bring his ass to the office and ship him upstate, Ward pondered as he second-guessed himself. He quickly checked his service weapon and replaced it in the holster then felt for the gun strapped to his ankle. He always carried two guns just in case. Ward felt ready to deal with any type of shadiness that Lil’ Long would exhibit. From the moment he had agreed to meet with the hardened criminal, Ward had steeled his mind to handle and put to an end any drama that jumped off. He was prepared to deal with this thug single-handedly, Ward thought.

  Parole Officer Ward was on a mission to root out criminals who hid behind the system. He was known for constantly violating his parolees and sending them back to prison until their time was completely served. The word was clear: Mess with Ward and you’ll be back upstate in a flash of his signature.

  Herb Cliff Ward was a former high school basketball star and the proud father of two boys. He had two years of junior college under his belt and served in the Marines. Married for ten years, he and his wife, a schoolteacher, were raising their two children to be law-abiding citizens in a middle class neighborhood. He was a man with a keen sense of devotion and not only did he want to succeed but he also wanted to be the very best example for his family.

  It was with this vigilante approach to his duties that the parole officer sat in his car parked just beyond the Holcombe Rucker Playground and waited for Lil’ Long’s arrival. Ward casually observed the basketball game while his vision steeled the perimeter. He believed that the street thug had backed himself into a deadly corner and now needed his help. Well, he’s got to give up some necessary info, Ward thought as he surveyed his perimeter then returned his attention to the game.

  The game was West Coast fast breaks with an East Coast man-to-man defense. The mere act of passing was done with so much pizzazz that offensive moves were poetry in motion at one end and a brawling hardcore defense at the next. Young basketball players were living with the hope of becoming street legends, sacrificing limbs and minds with acts of athleticism and machismo that defied gravity. Every dunk or spectacular lay-up etched that player into the collective conscience of the street-ball hall of fame.

  The crowd roared after each dramatic play. Fans bet their dollars on players with names like Shane the Dribbling Machine, Half-Man Half-Amazing, Hot Sauce and I B Right Back. On the court were street ballers blessed with immense skills, each player living up to their own billing. Another spectacular dunk and Half-Man Half-Amazing sent a buzz through the crowd. His legend grew with every utterance from the lips of elated fans. A pass zipped to an open man and after a tantalizing part dance, part dribble. Shane, the Dribbling Machine was born. The game went by but in the back of his mind, Ward kept track of the cars coming and going.

  Ward looked closer and saw young guys whipping Benz’s and Bentley’s into illegal parking spots. There were street people festive in baggy blue Enyce and RocaWear jeans with white tees and white sneaks. Thugs were throwing down hundred dollar bills in bets of wanton proportions on the outcome of the game. Music blasted from DJ Lodose as the crowd cheered in appreciation of the skills on display.

  “Goddamn hip-hoppers,” Ward uttered shaking his head. Probably ninety percent of the crowd was out enjoying the activity compliments of the parole board, thought Ward as he watched with disdain.

  He checked his cell phone. No calls. That Michael Long must be on colored people time. Ward shook the idea by watching the non-stop frenzy of the basketball game as it happened. He waited patiently and clicked stills of who’s who from his disposable camera. Before long the applause, shrieks, and loud screams that accompanied each sensational play captured the parole officer’s attention. Everyone was jubilant and participated in the experience of a breath taking, tomahawk dunk.

  The crowd was too joyous to notice Lil’ Long smiling as he crept to the side of the lawman’s car. He heaved a friendly wave at the suspicious parole officer. Across the street at the Rucker there was an outburst of cheer from the crowd as Hot Sauce brought the house down with another scintillating dunk. At that same moment, Lil’ Long pulled out his guns and began mouthing off. Ward flinched and reached for his gun sitting in his lap. He wasn’t fast enough and fumbled when he heard the litany coming from Lil’ Long.

  “In order for me to remain immortal, a-a-all w-we-weak m-m-mothafuckas must di-di-die,” he proclaimed stuttering loudly.

  From corner to corner on 155th street, the cheering basketball fans filled the summer night’s air drowning out any other sound in the immediate vicinity. The crowd was noisy, raucous and wild as Shane, the Dribbling Machine broke a few ankles. They held collective breaths as he wove his way through the porous defense of his opponent. Before any opposing player could recover from the mesmerizing crossover display, Shane pulled up, faked the jump shot, and then shot a clean pass to the Main Event. He rose, clearing the pack from beneath the basket and sent down a roaring slam. The orange ball bounced high above the rim.

  “Get da fuck up out here!” he yelled as the referee blew the whistle signaling the end of the first half. The ball continued to bounce and life returned to the air. Pandemonium broke loose. The sound of rap music resonated through the air as the crowd cheered the final bucket before half time.

  At the same time, about twenty feet away Lil’ Long squeezed both triggers. Fifteen rounds from his twin Desert Eagles went flying faster than the speed of sound. Shattered glass scattered all over from the explosion. Tumultuous noise echoed as the parole officer tried to recover his gun but all he saw were pieces of glass shrapnel coming at him. Ward attempted to duck but even getting low he could not avoid Lil’ Long’s deadly aim.

  READ MORE IN: GHETTO GIRLS 3: SOO HOOD by ANTHONY WHYTE

  WHERE

  HIP HOP

  LITERATURE

  BEGINS...

  This is a work of fiction. names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or organizations, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2004 by Anthony Whyte

  eISBN : 978-1-935-88304-3

  Art Direction/Design: Jason Claiborne

  Photogaphy: Sanyi Gomez

  Model: Vivian Perez

  Edited by Lisette Matos

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For further information contact Augustus Publishing

  First printing Augustus Publishing paperback October 2004

  AugustusPublishing.com

  33 Indian Road New York, New York 10034