Trust in No Man

by Cash

  She didn’t have a phone but her neighbor did.

  I drove around for a while looking for apartment vacancies. I had no job, credit or rental history, so I was hoping to run into an apartment manager who would take a few C-notes under the table and rent to me without running a credit check and all that mumble-jumble.

  I struck out at all five apartment complexes I tried that day and ended up at a game room where a lot of hustlers hangout, shooting pool and profiling for the chickens and hood rats who came there trying to hook up with a baller.

  Normally, I wouldn’t grace that spot with my presence ‘cause it was where mad dope boys frequented. And I was a stickup kid. It was like the eternal beef between lions and hyenas.

  Dope boys and stickup kids were natural enemies. Put us in the same spot for too long and it was bound to be violence.

  It was a territorial thing. Dope boys got uncomfortable when a stickup kid was around. They just figured we were there to stalk, rob or kill them.

  Of course, their fears are well justified.

  CHAPTER 12

  I had neither beef nor caper in mind as I walked into the game room. My mission was to convince one of those high rollers that he needed me to watch his back. I spoke to a few niggaz I knew, grabbed a stool, sat down and checked out the happenings.

  Niggaz were draped in all sorts of platinum and ice, tatted-up and rockin’ Timbs and other fly gear. A dozen or so chickens were on the scene, hair bangin’ and clothes tight and skimpy. A few of the chickens stood between ballers knees as the niggaz sat on a stool grippin’ the chicken’s ass with one hand and holding a pool cue in the other.

  To someone from a different set it might have seemed crazy that bitches got all dressed up just to hang in a game room. But in the hood, chickens get dressed up just to sit out on the porch. They stayed ready to catch a major playa.

  The vibe inside the game room was peace. I didn’t feel like an outcast, I guess ‘cause I didn’t really yet have the label of a stickup kid. I wasn’t well-known outside of Englewood, which was a blessing at this point.

  I tried to holla at a thick, red bitch who was parading around begging for attention. But I had no rep and I didn’t look like big loot, maybe she had seen me roll up in the Maxima. So shawdy brushed me off like lint.

  I took it all in stride, I knew how the game went. Hos like Red ain’t got no rap for a nigga with no juice. I was like fuck it and called next on a game of pool.

  I held my own on the pool table, but got bored after a couple of hours and lost about $350 to a dude I should’ve easily beaten. I called it quits and found a stool. I was hoping Rich Kid would come through there.

  The game room was where he usually met up with his crew and checked their weekly agenda. I hadn’t seen Rich Kid in years, but he still had niggaz serving on the regular in Englewood.

  That was how I found out Rich Kid came through the game room every week. Rich Kid had always tried to give me a package to push for him or a spot in his crew back in the day. I’d always refuse, but I knew he wanted me to get down with his team.

  He was a Big Willie now so maybe he needed a full-time bodyguard.

  I didn’t run into Rich Kid that day in the game room, but Freddie and a few of his disorganized posse showed up. They pulled up in whips that turned heads. We could see the parking lot through the game rooms huge front windows. Rap music thumped loudly from Freddie and his posse’s whips announcing their arrival. They all wore mad shine and came into the game room like they owned the world.

  Freddie had a different chicken with him than the dime piece I’d seen in his Roadster a few months ago. Though she looked to be jail bait, this new girl was a dime piece, too. I had to give it to Freddie, though, the nigga had supreme taste. An artist couldn’t have drawn a badder bitch than the young honey that was with Freddie. Shawdy was so pretty and fine niggaz stopped shooting pool just to look at her. The bitches in the game room, their whole posture changed. They all knew they didn’t compare to shawdy.

  Freddie gave dap to the two or three major ballers on the scene and ignored the head nods offered by small time hustlers dressed like they were major. He spotted me sitting on a stool against the wall and came over to dap my hand. We exchanged whud ups and Freddie asked how I was doing.

  “I’m maintainin’, playboy,” I rapped. “But it’s your show, I’m just in the crowd.” Freddie’s new dime piece was all up under him. She seemed to smile when I gave her man props.

  Freddie countered with, “Naw, you da man, yo. I’ll switch hands with you any day.”

  Bullshit.

  I laughed. “If you switch hands with me you’d be sitting on this stool alone, and I’d have your dime on my arm.”

  “You like her? Her name is Pudding. Just say the word and I’ll give her to you.” Pudding looked scared to death, hoping Freddie wasn’t serious. “I ain’t frontin’, yo. She’s yours if you want her.” Freddie was talking loud, making sure the whole game room could hear him.

  “Give my folks a kiss,” Freddie told Pudding. She hesitated for a minute, making sure Freddie was serious. Then she leaned into my space, fixing her sexy red lips to kiss me.

  My hand went up and blocked Pudding’s approach like the basketball player, Dikembe Mutumbo, wagging my index finger and the whole nine.

  “No disrespect, Pudding, but you ain’t my type.”

  The whole game room got ill. Niggaz cracked-the-fuck-up! The bitches now felt equal to fine ass Pudding. She was just a prettier version of a chicken.

  Her contempt for me was written across her face but I didn’t let it bother me. Fuck you and every bitch like you, I thought.

  Twenty minutes later, she was still staring daggers at me. I flashed her a cocky smile, and then pushed her nothing ass out of mind.

  Later, Freddie pulled me off to the side and asked if I my pockets was straight.

  I told him I was neither rich nor poor. But I didn’t accept the loot he offered me. See, Freddie and I both knew what I had did for him, but I’d already been paid for that. Freddie didn’t owe me shit. It would’ve been foul for me to lean on Freddie for some more cheese. He had never brokered the deal with me in the first place. Freddie had done business with my dawg, Lonnie. Lonnie had put me down with the move. So to lean on Freddie would’ve been violating the trust he had in Lonnie. It would’ve been blackmail, and I don’t roll like that.

  I told Freddie, “I’m out.”

  When I bounced out of the game room, niggaz seemed to be looking at me with new respect. Maybe they respected how I had checked that lil’ shit with Pudding. Maybe they thought I had juice ‘cause I’d been kickin’ it with Freddie. Or maybe I was just imagining they looked at me differently.

  Before I could get into the Maxima, the chicken head, Red, I’d tried to holla at earlier came up to me and gave me her digits. Then she ran back inside the game room still hoping to get chosen by a bigger baller than me. I guess I was for a rainy day.

  A week more passed before my luck began to change for the better. I found an apartment manager willing to rent me a one-bedroom unit on a month-to-month basis. She didn’t even charge me not to run my application through the normal credit checks.

  I paid first and last month’s rent and a $250 security deposit, which wasn’t bad for a one-bedroom in Decatur, just outside Atlanta. Decatur, also known as The Dec’, it used to be a suburb of the ATL, but it was becoming rundown like the inner-city. Still it was a spot away from the projects where I’d be more comfortable laying my head.

  I went and bought a king-size mattress and linen and placed the mattress on the floor in the living room. I knew a dude who worked at Circuit City. He gave me a hookup on a big screen TV for $750.

  The apartment came with a refrigerator and stove, that was all the furniture a young G like me needed. My spot wasn’t no mansion, it wasn’t even a condo, but it was my own shit. A nigga couldn’t hate on that.

  Just as my loot was getting thin, Rich Kid paged me. I had left my pag
er number with one of Rich Kid’s workers in Englewood and told the worker to tell Rich Kid I needed to holla at him.

  I called Rich Kid back from a pay phone, and he agreed to meet me in front of Poochie’s apartment in an hour.

  Forty-five minutes later, I pulled up to Poochie’s apartment and three carloads of niggaz were waiting there. Rich Kid wasn’t one of them.

  I recognized the worker I had given my pager number to give to his boss man, Rich Kid.

  “Whud up, Youngblood?” another one of the dudes asked.

  “What you wanna talk to Rich Kid about?” A big black ass nigga joined in. These fools were acting like I was there to meet up with the president.

  I tried not to look at those fools like they were a comedy team. I said, “I know y’all down fo’ Rich Kid, but I don’t think it’s too wise for me to tell y’all my business or his.”

  “You strapped?” The big black ass nigga asked.

  “I stay strapped, dawg. But my gat is in the car.” He patted me down anyway, then he pulled out a cell phone and punched some numbers.

  Ten minutes later, Rich Kid pulled up in a silver and black Escalade, rimmed-out and sparkling. He stepped out of the fly whip, oozing confidence like a mafucka.

  “He clean?” Rich Kid asked the big, black nigga.

  “Yeah, I patted him myself, boss man,” Big Black Nigga said.

  I didn’t know if Poochie was home or not. I hadn’t seen her look out of the window or door.

  Rich Kid’s crew gave us some space to speak privately, but they covered his back from all directions and the big, black nigga eyed me like a hawk. Rich Kid had security like a mafia don.

  He had to be checking crazy flow to roll like this, I thought.

  I calmly told him what my interest was, but it was clear Rich Kid didn’t need another bodyguard.

  He said, “Youngblood, you’re down with Lonnie. I thought your game was jackin’? What would make you wanna change your stripes? Better yet, what would make me put an ex-stickup kid on my team? That’s like paying a wolf to watch the sheep.”

  I told Rich Kid that I’ve gotten loot through many different hustles, but never have I taken it from a friend.

  “I got principles that I live by,” I said honestly. “Unless you know I’m not the nigga I claim to be, I feel like you’re insulting my character.”

  Rich Kid laughed.

  “Youngblood, I ain’t worried about you doing harm to me. I’ve always liked you, young nigga. I just don’t wanna have to kill you. And I would if you crossed me. Nah mean?” He looked me dead in the eyes. Neither of us blinked. “I can guard my own body,” continued Rich Kid, “but I got plenty of niggaz to watch my back as it is. I got other work for you, though. Steady work that pays well. I’ll page you in a few days.”

  After Rich Kid and his crew bounced, I knocked on Poochie’s door. I got no answer. The lady next door told me Poochie was at work, she had gotten a job cleaning office buildings.

  Damn! I guess Poochie was serious about staying off the pipe.

  The apartment complex where I laid my head was quiet, mainly because no children were allowed to live there.

  The tenants were all mostly young couples just starting out or single people with moderate incomes. I noticed a few honeys checking me out as I came and went, but I wasn’t scouting for a bitch, I was still on the come up.

  When my nuts got hot, I invited Brenda over or I dipped over to Poochie’s crib and knocked her boots. I was also boning Poochie on the regular, but still on the low. She was thickenin’ up, getting fine since she had got off crack. We were real careful not to let Shan bust us. She would’ve kept Poochie and me from seeing Lil’ T.

  As it was, I only got to see my son ‘cause Poochie would page me when she had to babysit him. Shan had pooted out her newborn, and though I hated to give the ho props, she was right back fine again. I wasn’t sweating her, though. To me, Shan didn’t exist.

  I wasn’t trying to lock down no ho. Brenda had starting paging me on the regular, but I didn’t see her but once every other week or so. I don’t think Poochie or I would’ve classified our thing as this or that, we just did what we did, whenever.

  It was a Wednesday night. Two weeks had passed when Rich Kid paged me. I had begun to think I wouldn’t hear from him.

  “Meet me at the game room,” he said and hung up.

  Outside of the game room, Rich Kid ran down his spiel to me. I said I was down with it and accepted half of the money he agreed to pay me up front.

  Late that night, I drove over to Lonnie’s crib and filled him in on what Rich Kid had hired me to handle. I wasn’t putting Lonnie in Rich Kid’s business for no ill purpose. I just wasn’t sure if I could completely trust Rich Kid, so I wanted Lonnie to know the deal if I came up missing. I knew Lonnie would serve Rich Kid the same fate.

  The big, black nigga’s name was King, like he was meant to be a Rottweiler or some other big ass dog. I didn’t yet know his rank in Rich Kid’s crew, but he obviously had Rich Kid’s trust.

  I rode with King in a rental car down to Montgomery, Alabama. We stayed in different flop houses for ten dollars a night, for almost two weeks. That was how long it took us to find Richard.

  Apparently Richard was getting dope from Rich Kid on consignment and was delinquent on his payment. He owed Rich Kid eighty grand and had been ducking him for two months. I had been paid to go to Montgomery and collect the eighty grand and/or Richard’s hands.

  King came along to show me around Montgomery and to point out the target. Also, to watch my back and, I assumed, to watch Rich Kid’s money if I collected any.

  After locating Richard, we watched and followed him for three more days trying to put together a good plan to kidnap him and force him to take us to his money stash.

  Richard didn’t know it but he was a dead man walking. There was no way I was going back to ATL without the eighty grand or both of Richard’s hands.

  There was also no way I would let Richard live to testify about it either.

  While we were casing this fool out, I wondered what had pumped up his nuts to the size that he would stag on Rich Kid’s loot? Didn’t this idiot realize that if Rich Kid could afford to front him eighty grand worth of coke, Rich Kid could also afford to send a hit squad after his ass?

  Some mafuckaz sentence themselves to death.

  Richard had moved from Tallahassee, Florida, where Rich Kid knew where to find him, to Alabama trying to run from death. But a little money spreaded around had got Rich Kid the information he was able to use to track Richard to Montgomery.

  Richard didn’t know it, obviously, but Rich Kid and King had been to Montgomery, Alabama a half-dozen times over the past months. They’d watched Richard enough to know where he laid his head, and that he’d opened up a car wash in Montgomery. That was all explained to me by King on the ride down.

  As we cased him out, Richard appeared to be a nervous man. I couldn’t believe he had the nuts to sell coke, let alone runoff with eighty grand. Maybe he seemed nervous ‘cause he knew he was living on borrowed time?

  Richard had something else going on besides ducking Rich Kid. Even though King knew exactly where he lived and where he operated his car wash business, it took us a week to locate him.

  King suspected Richard traveled back and forth between Tallahassee and Montgomery still pushing weight, just too greedy to cough up the cheese he owed Rich Kid.

  It didn’t add up to me, but I wasn’t in town to solve math problems. I followed Rich Kid’s instructions to a T on how to grab Richard and get him to tell me where he hid his loot.

  King couldn’t have pulled this caper off because Richard knew him, making my hustle necessary.

  It was time to make my move. I bought a lawn mower and a weed-eater and went up and down the block where Richard lived asking to mow mafuckaz lawn for twenty dollars. I told ‘em I was trying to make money to pay for my last year college tuition.

  My young looks and preppy attire made it
easy for them to take the bait. For three whole days, I mowed big ass front and back yards for only twenty dollars a fuckin’ pop! And at the end of the day, I was tired as a mafucka.

  I made sure I stayed on the block cutting somebody’s grass until Richard came home each day. I wanted him to get used to seeing me in the neighborhood.

  I wasn’t worried about people being able to identify me, I was from Atlanta, and I didn’t know a soul in Montgomery.

  I’d give the lawn owners a fake name and I never removed my work gloves. Not even to drink a glass of soda they always offered. I knew that being an ex-con, my fingerprints were in the FBI fingerprint data-base, worldwide.

  As soon as Richard pulled into his driveway and got out his car, I stopped him and solicited my services.

  “Cut the front and backyard and then the hedges. I’ll pay you twenty-five dollars,” Richard bargained.

  The idiot had just negotiated his life away.

  CHAPTER 13

  It was already early evening when I sat the gym bag down I was carrying and started on Richard’s lawn. After a couple of hours of work, it started to get dark.

  I knocked on the back door.

  When Richard appeared I said, “I have to come back and finish in the morning. Can I use your phone to call my mother to pick me up?”

  Not giving it much thought, Richard said, “Sure, come on in. Sit your gym bag down, the phone is in here.” He then turned to lead the way.

  “Would it be okay if I left my lawn mower and tools inside your garage? I’ll be back bright and early in the morning to finish up.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  With his back to me, I smacked my .9mm across the back of his head. When he pitched forward and hit the floor head first, Richard rolled over on his side and looked up. The big chrome heater with a silencer attached was inches from his forehead.

  “One sound and you’re a dead mafucka!” I said without a trace of leniency.

  I made him duct tape his own mouth. Then I made him lie on his stomach and stretch his arms straight out above his head like po-po do a nigga. I managed to get his hands cuffed behind his back and then I took the heater from against the back of his head and rolled him over on his back.