Games Women Play

by Zaire Crown

  Brianna stared down at the grainy black-and-white photo for a long time in deep thought. As much as she wanted to, even she couldn’t argue with the logic in that, but as she continued to focus on the faceless dark stranger, doubt of one kind was replaced by doubt of another brand.

  “Whether he’s the real deal or not, this nigga gots to be a straight-up kingpin. How is one of us s’posed to get next to him?”

  Tuesday smiled to let Brianna and the others know that she was peeping the weakness in her. “What, Bree, you don’t think we can do it?”

  Brianna’s pride wouldn’t allow her to say no but she wasn’t confident enough for a yes. “I’m just sayin’ we ain’t ’bout to run into him at a car wash somewhere. We done knocked cats before but nobody this bossy.”

  This time it was Jaye who agreed with her. “She right. It’s gone take a long-ass time to get next to him. I’m tellin’ you, niggas with that much cake be naturally paranoid.”

  “That’s another problem right there,” Tuesday said, leaning back into her favorite chair. “I got it on good word that the feds ’bout to come at dude real soon. I know we like to scope out a mark for a few weeks before we make our move but we can’t do that this time. We gotta reel him in and get him super-fast.”

  Jaye suddenly needed a drink. She took one of their glasses and poured herself some of the leftover Cuervo. “You want us to go on the most dangerous mission we’ve ever had without being one hundred percent sure of who our target is and without time to put together a proper plan? I just think we shooting dice like a muthafucka on this one! The reason we done always got down in the past is because we organized.”

  Tushie agreed. “She right about dat. I don’t like dis goin’ in headfirst shit either!”

  Truthfully Tuesday didn’t like it herself and she was usually the main one preaching the need for caution; however, it was the latest shit that happened with Dresden at the hotel that had her desperate for a way out the game and she, somewhat selfishly, was willing to put all of them at risk for that chance.

  “Ladies, I feel everything y’all saying,” she said with genuine empathy. “But in life you can’t always play it safe, sometimes you gotta strap ’em on! Look, I know it’s dangerous for all the reasons y’all said and a few dozen more, but if we pull this off, we’ll be lookin at the biggest payday we done ever seen. The type of money that’s gone get a bitch life right!

  “I’ve been doin’ this longer and I got all y’all by a couple years so take my word, this ain’t shit you wanna make a long-term career out of. It’s hard to bait niggas when yo titties and ass don’t sit up like they used to—you see how older bitches get treated at the club. I’m thirty-seven and should’ve been done with this shit a long time ago, but now we all got a chance to leave this game with enough paper to do our own thang. Y’all can open y’all own clubs or even keep at it if you want, but as for me, I’m tryin’ to get the fuck out the way. I think we need to do this!”

  Tuesday tried her best to sell it, and for a while the girls just sat there searching themselves. It surprised her more than anybody else when Brianna was the first to jump on board. “If this nigga is Sebastian Caine, he got cake out this world. We ain’t gone get another chance at this type of money.”

  There was a little more discussion, but eventually the whole team agreed that this was an opportunity they just couldn’t pass up.

  “All right,” said Tushie. “Everybody down. But how do we get close to da nigga?”

  Tuesday explained to them what Dresden had told her. “This dude stay real low-key, don’t handle no business in person, and don’t do the club scene or no shit like that. The only time he show his face in public is to drop off and pick up his daughter from school. She six years old and go to one of them expensive private schools out in Romulus. He’s there at seven forty-five and two thirty every day like clockwork.”

  Jaye smiled. “At least he’s a devoted father. You gotta admire that.”

  “What about security?” asked Tushie. “Any goons rollin’ wit ’em?”

  Tuesday shook her head. “That’s the strange part. It just be him and the girl.”

  Doll nodded. “Okay, the school is our best shot, but which one of us is it gone be? We usually scope a nigga long enough to see what type of chick he go for. How do we know who to sic on ’em?”

  “I think it’s gotta be me!” announced Tuesday. She’d spent the whole day giving this matter a careful amount of thought. “Caine gotta be in his early forties, and like Jaye said, niggas with paper like that be real cautious. I’m closer to his age and got the most experience. I think that make me the best choice.”

  “What if his type ain’t hit up redbones with big foreheads?” Jaye asked, teasing her.

  Tuesday laughed. “Bitch, I’m a dime! Plus I’m everybody’s type.”

  Brianna couldn’t help but take a shot at Tuesday. “You sure you can still do this? I’m just sayin’, it’s been a while since you personally went at a nigga. You might’ve lost it.”

  Tuesday stared at her with a bitch, are you serious look. “My whole life I been making niggas want me without even tryin’. Slut, I ain’t worried ’bout losing it; my problem is that I can’t turn the shit off!”

  They all got a laugh out of that, except Brianna, who just rolled her eyes and folded her arms beneath her plump breasts.

  While the rest were still smiling, it was the usually silly Jaye who suddenly became serious. “Something else we gotta keep in mind: any nigga wit pockets that deep gotta have a bunch of shooters on the payroll. We gone need plenty of heat and be ready to get some serious gone after we do the deed.”

  Tuesday agreed. It was a part of the plan that even she had overlooked. She gave her a slight nod just to show that she appreciated Jaye being on her shit.

  Even though they were close to the same age, Tuesday had peeped a long time ago that Jaye was a lot sharper than Bree and Doll. She was funny, and used her humor to make people feel at ease—just like she did with her marks—but beyond those soft brown eyes Tuesday had gleaned a very analytical mind that was always calculating, just like hers.

  “First thing tomorrow I’m gone see what’s up wit some guns and everybody else might wanna put together a travel bag. Like she said, when it’s over, we all gone have to bust up from the D, at least for a while.”

  Nobody was thrilled about having to leave Detroit but everybody agreed that it might be necessary to disappear until the heat died down.

  For another half hour after that the team broke down the Caine game plan, but from there the conversation slowly shifted to what each of them would do with their cut of the money. They talked about Benzes, Bentley coupes, hundred-grand shopping sprees, vacations to Cabo, and even celebrities they planned to fuck. They got another bottle from the bar and smoked some more weed, and to Tuesday, there was a celebrating attitude that she thought was premature. She sat behind her desk watching the girls party up as if they just won the lottery.

  Tuesday didn’t want to disturb the mood but had to. She would prefer to have them overconfident and excited rather than doubtful and too afraid to go on the mission, but one last important detail had to be relayed to them.

  She calmed them down. “There’s somethin’ y’all need to know before goin’ in and it goes back to what Jaye said. Any nigga this helluva got mad goons and he gone know without a doubt that I set this shit up. He ain’t the type of nigga who just gone take that kind of loss lying down. He gone come after all of us!”

  Jaye looked at her, puzzled. “We already figured that we gone have to get out the city for a while.”

  “No, you don’t get it,” Tuesday said, turning to her. “What if this is the real Sebastian Caine? A nigga like that will find you no matter where you go. Ain’t no running from him. It ain’t a place on the map that he can’t reach out and touch you in.”

  With that, the mood was officially changed. The girls now all had concern on their faces. In the past they had left all th
eir marks as lovesick puppies who counted the loss of their money and dope as nothing when compared to losing them, but never had they considered the true repercussions that came with stealing from someone who was a true boss and certified gangster. Tuesday knew he wasn’t just going to sit at home like Tank and boohoo about having his heart broken. This type of nigga was definitely going to get at somebody’s ass about his.

  “Which brings me back to my original point,” she continued. “Once we get to his stash, ol’ boy gots to go. We gone have to murder this nigga! If not, he’ll be to see all of us: family, friends, the whole nine.”

  This was a nut-check moment for the team because up until now Tuesday always planned these missions so that a nigga’s feelings were the only thing that got hurt. Brianna swore she had the heart but as far as Tuesday knew, none of them had actually killed anybody. Not even her. They had always been able to avoid the uglier side of the jack game, but this time, it would have to be done.

  Boss Lady stared at the rest of her team from across the desk with eyes that were closer to gray than green. “If any of y’all wanna back out, you better speak up now. Shit ’bout to get thick on this one!”

  Chapter Six

  Tuesday was up early the next morning running errands—hangover and all. A whole lot went into creating a whole new person, which was exactly what each of the girls did whenever they went after a mark.

  By 6:30 a.m. she had already traveled out to Grosse Point to meet with Percy, a forger she met through Dresden. She gave him thirty-five hundred and posed for a picture; in a few hours he would give her a Michigan driver’s license with the name Tabitha Green, a Social Security card, a birth certificate, and a valid passport. For a few grand more she could’ve gotten a more elaborate package that included a phony credit history, medical records, and a degree from any college of her choosing. Percy’s documents were identical to the real thing and for the right price he could basically make you anyone that you wanted to be.

  By 7:30 a.m. she was out in Romulus parked across the street from the Bishop Burchram parochial school. From behind a dark pair of Yves St. Laurent sunglasses she watched as a convoy of parents dropped off their uniformed children.

  It was 7:46 by her dashboard clock when a metallic gray Audi A8 pulled up and let out a little black girl, maybe six, in pigtails and barrettes. She was strapped in a colorful Dora the Explorer backpack and gave the driver an energetic wave before scampering into the building. As the Audi raced past, Tuesday saw that the man behind the wheel was alone and fit the description of her mark. She didn’t bother to follow him because she knew exactly where he would be at 2:30.

  From out in Romulus she had to drive back to the west side of Detroit, and after stopping to pay a few bills and hitting a beauty supply for a bag of Malaysian number fifty-four black weave, she made it to the salon in time for her 9:30 appointment. Tuesday pissed off all the women who were waiting when she stepped in and was immediately called to a chair. It took two and a half hours to get her hair styled into a Chinese bob with a low bang clipped right above her eyes.

  While she was still under the dryer Percy texted that her package was ready, so from the hairdresser it was back out to Gross Pointe to pick it up and then a return trip to the west side to use the new ID. First she stopped at a cell shop to buy a phone, then drove out to Hertz, where she rented a green Honda Civic that she planned to pick up the following day.

  Next she went out to the Town Square apartment complex on 8 Mile and Greenfield where she rented a one-bedroom unit for seven hundred dollars a month. The place was small and not even close to being as exclusive as the Seymour building, where she lived downtown, which was why she chose it. When the manager showed her the apartment, Tuesday paid no attention to the amenities because it was only going to be used as a front. Since there was no extensive background check, she cashed out first and last month’s rent along with a security deposit, then was handed the key.

  Her alter ego Tabitha Green now had a phone, a car, and a place to live.

  After wrapping up her business at Town Square, she swung through a Checker’s for a quick burger then reached Face’s Auto Collision and Repair on Grand River at half past one. It was a small garage sitting on a two-acre salvage yard. She pulled up to the front gate and blew the horn three times. When the security camera craned in her direction, she gave it the finger and the electric gate rolled to the side, permitting her entry.

  She weaved through the stockpile of junk cars where the sparkling CTS-V looked like a rich cousin visiting family in the slums. She parked at the garage, which was basically a poorly constructed shed of corrugated sheet metal wide enough to accommodate three auto bays and a customer service area. Tuesday got out to catcalls from two greasy crackheads under the hood of an old tow truck.

  Tuesday hated coming here but it was necessary. The filth and disorganization of a junkyard was essentially the antithesis to everything she was. The cars were not lined up in an orderly way, just wedged in any way they would fit, with some stacked as many as three high. They were dirty, with crumpled bodies, shattered windshields, and scarred paint. They didn’t even bother to group them according to make, model, year, or color, and this drove Tuesday even more crazy than all the dust. Her OCD was flaring like a rash that couldn’t be scratched. She often thought that if only she had a forklift and four months to kill she’d have this place as tidy and organized as her kitchen cupboards.

  In the first stall there was a busted burnt-orange ’68 Chevelle with dented fenders, mismatched tires, and a raised hood. There was a mechanic lying beneath it on a creeper taking a ratchet to something under the engine. She stood next to the car and pounded on the roof with her fist.

  Face slid out on the rolling sled in oil-soaked coveralls. “Girl, don’t be banging on my shit. Respect my whip!”

  Tuesday laughed. “That pearl thing you see out there is a whip. This is a piece of shit!”

  “Yo problem is you seeing it as it is and not as it will be.” Face rose to his full six foot three inches. “A little body work, custom paint, and new interior; plus I already got a motor from a Corvette ZR-l that I’m ’bout to drop in here. After I slap some twenty-sixes on it, in two months I’m gone have the coldest Old School in the city.”

  She waved him off. “Whatever, nigga, I ain’t here to talk cars with you. We got business.”

  He led Tuesday through an adjoining room that had a cash register and a counter where Face did all his legitimate business, into a door behind the counter that led to a small office where he did all his real business.

  Cars were Face’s business and everybody knew this, but only a few knew that he dabbled in chopping up and retagging stolen ones as a lucrative side hustle; and of them, only an even smaller percentage knew that the garage and all the scrap cars were just a cover for how he made his real money: guns.

  Everything in Face’s office lent itself to function rather than fashion. All the furniture had either been found on the street or taken from junk cars that wound up in his scrap yard. Against the wall was a set of bench seats supported by milk crates that came from a church van. His desk was no desk at all but rather a dining table a neighbor had thrown out, and in front of it were two wicker chairs that came from someone’s old patio set. Behind the table was an old patched-up leather recliner that served as his office chair.

  He fell into it and wiped his hands on a greasy rag he pulled from his pocket. “Whatcha need, baby girl?”

  Face had been a longtime friend that she met through A.D. back when they were doing sticks together. He earned his name due to the terrible acne scars that marred his face and made him resemble the similarly afflicted singer named Seal. He was cool, he was reliable, and could get a nigga nearly anything they wanted in the way of guns. He could also take hot cars off their hands, which was why Tuesday had brought him Tank’s Denali. However, the gritty grease monkey persona was as much a front as the garage itself: Face owned a million-dollar house out in Allen Park,
a fleet of cars, and was married to a fine-ass Colombian bitch who pushed a triple-white Range Rover and worshipped the ground this ugly mechanic walked on.

  He offered her a seat but Tuesday looked at the set of raggedy wicker chairs and decided to stand. “We got another situation coming up and we need heat. A lot of it.”

  “Y’all must be expecting some trouble.” He ran a hand over his bald head and beamed a smile that revealed a set of perfect white teeth. Despite his face, there was a rugged sexiness about him that Tuesday and many other women saw; just as his counterpart had snagged the supermodel Heidi Klum, Tuesday could see how he had knocked someone as beautiful as Maria, his wife.

  Tuesday nodded in response to his statement. “We think things might get a little nasty on this one. We just wanna be ready.”

  Face rubbed his palms together in anticipation of a big sale. “Well, let’s go shopping then.”

  He got up, went to the rear corner of his office then threw back the carpet that wasn’t tacked down. Hidden under it was a trapdoor set within the wooden floorboards. He keyed a bolt lock and it swung outward to open on a set of stairs that led to a cellar. He descended first and Tuesday followed, taking the stair treads carefully in her high-heeled leather riding boots.

  At the bottom he flicked a switch and the fluorescent lighting overhead was reflected in all the polished black steel. The twenty-by-thirty-five-foot room beneath Face’s office was called The Gun Store. The walls had pegboard racks which displayed every type of rifle, shotgun, and handgun one could think of, and a few they never heard of. More of them were stored in crates and set out on the long metal tables. From tiny Derringers to hide up your sleeve to a big .50-caliber that could crack a tank, even to the extreme shit like grenades, RPG’s and C-4 plastic explosives; anything a nigga needed to bring war and death on his enemy, Face either had or could get for a special fee.