Trust in No Man

by Cash

  “True dat,” Lonnie had to agree.

  “Anyway,” I said, “I’ma find that nigga if it’s the last mafuckin’ thing I do. It ain’t no way I can be at peace until I know who shot me and light a spark in his ass that the doctors can’t fix. Nah mean?”

  “I feel you, nigga.”

  Lonnie asked me if my bank would hold me until I was well enough to pull another caper. I let him know I was straight and I appreciated his concern. Shit was always real between Lonnie and me. He didn’t have to tell me that he’d ride with me when it was time to revenge the six shots I’d taken. I knew we was tight like that. Still, Lonnie told me he’d put his ear to the ground and see if the streets were talking, maybe the fool who shot me would brag to the wrong person.

  After that, I dipped to the crib and waited for Cheryl to come by after school.

  I’d let her push the Nissan ‘cause I wasn’t trying to be in the streets too much, not with a shit bag.

  Cheryl was sixteen and had gotten her driver’s license. Well, a permit, allowing her to drive with a licensed driver in the car with her. But neither of us was concerned with following the law.

  I went to the pay phone in the apartment complex to call Shan and see if she’d let Lil’ T stay with me for the weekend. Her attitude was foul ‘cause she hadn’t been allowed to visit me in the hospital.

  “I see yo’ bitch was allowed to visit but not me and your son, huh?” Shan spat.

  “Yo, it ain’t like I made the rules,” I said.

  “You’re a lie, nigga! The nurses told me you gave them the names of the only people you wanted to see!”

  “Like nurse’s tongues come notarized?”

  “Why they gon’ lie? Huh?”

  “Check it, Shan. I don’t know why they lied, and it don’t much matter now. You gon’ let me come get Lil’ T tomorrow or what?” I was tired of the verbal wrestling, but Shan obviously wasn’t.

  “Ain’t yo’ bitch ‘bout to have a baby?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “So, let the baby in her stomach spend the weekend with you. That’s so what, nigga!” The phone slammed down in my ear.

  Baby mama drama.

  I let it slide off my back. See, if a bitch found out she could get a nigga vexed with all that dumb shit, she’d do it on the regular.

  My pager vibrated and I dialed the number that appeared on the tiny screen. The woman who answered the phone identified herself as a nurse.

  Then she said, “Your wife is in labor. You better come to the hospital, you’re about to be a father.”

  Damn!

  I somehow remembered to verify which hospital and jetted off in that direction. Ironically, Cheryl was at the same hospital where I’d recently been a patient.

  I made it to the delivery room just in time to hold Cheryl’s hand as she screamed, cried, pushed, pushed and gave birth to a healthy seven-pound girl.

  The doctor asked if I wanted to cut the umbilical cord.

  “Nah, a nigga ain’t wit dat!”

  So, Doc’ did what he was paid to do. After the cord was cut and tied and my daughter had been washed off, the doctor handed her naked butt to Cheryl. The love in Cheryl’s eyes was instant. So was the love in mine.

  We kept our promise and let my sister Toi name the baby, with my input, of course.

  Though barely a day old, my newborn daughter, Eryka Unique Whitsmith, was already a dime. Toi had come to the hospital to name her a few hours after she came into the world. Cheryl’s mother was there by then, too. So were Lonnie and Delina.

  CHAPTER 22

  Little Eryka was born with a head full of pretty brown hair like her mother’s. She had the best features of Cheryl’s and mine.

  If there was ever been a prettier baby girl born, one could never convince me of it. Yeah, my lil’ girl was all that and a bag of chips.

  Cheryl’s bedroom at her mother’s spot had been decorated into part-nursery for Eryka Unique, since that’s where they’d be living.

  Children weren’t allowed to live in the complex where I lived. However, there were no rules preventing them from visiting and staying over a few nights at a time.

  I was feelin’ Cheryl and I had instant love for Eryka, but I wouldna wanted them to live with me no way. I rode dirty and lived too dangerously to do it like that. Cheryl and the baby were safer living at Cheryl’s mother’s crib. I’d go by there to see them and they could always come and stay a few nights at my crib.

  Cheryl was on maternity leave from school, the teachers mailed her assignments to her so she didn’t fall behind in class.

  Cheryl tried to be the perfect mother to our daughter, but she had no experience with babies and struggled with a lot of shit I’d seen most young mothers do naturally. Her Ma Duke wasn’t much help, either. She barely was home long enough to hold her first grandchild.

  Though she tried hard, I was better with Eryka than Cheryl. So, I usually fed Eryka and changed her diapers when I was with them. If the baby seemed agitated or sick, Cheryl would call my sister for advice. They’d always end up calling my Ma Dukes on a three-way, ‘cause Toi didn’t know shit ‘bout babies, either. Besides, Toi’s man kept her isolated from friends and family most of the time. Or at least that’s how I read it.

  In a pinch, I could call Poochie for advice or even Shan. Yeah, Shan. We were getting along fine for the time being, but I hadn’t dicked Shan down. However, I had led her to believe I would as soon as I completely healed from the gunshot wounds. Of course, that was just game to see my son. The only way I’d fuck Shan again was if my dick was a bomb. Then I’d just be doing it to watch the punk bitch explode into pieces when I bust a nut.

  By the time Eryka was a couple of months old, Cheryl was damn near going loco. Delina said it was some shit called postnatal depression, a chemical change in a woman’s body after she gave birth that caused some women to go through temporary but severe depression.

  Whatever it was called, Cheryl was buggin’. She was quick to cry or to get frustrated with Eryka. So much so that I was almost afraid to go home and leave Cheryl alone with our daughter. Some nights I’d take Eryka home with me and leave Cheryl at her Ma Duke’s. I tried to keep my cool and understand Cheryl’s mood swings, but she was really buggin’. Plus, I had other shit on my mental.

  For starters, I still hadn’t found out who had shot me and the streets weren’t saying nada, which had me off-balance ‘cause somebody usually knew something about whatever went down. Most niggaz couldn’t keep their mouths shut.

  I was vexed, not only ‘cause I wanted revenge, but also because it was hard to watch my back when I don’t know who was aiming at me. Then, I was always vexed when I was spending loot instead of stacking loot.

  On top of all that, I was getting bad vibes from my sister’s situation. I didn’t know what was up with her nigga, but I knew he was blocking our communication. But why? It was like he had Toi imprisoned in that condo. I wasn’t feelin’ that shit. But what could a nigga do?

  The first thing I had to do, before I dealt with any of the shit that was on my mental was check into the hospital to have the shit bag removed and the last of the staples in my stomach taken out. I was in and out of the hospital in two days, no more shit bag, no more feeling like a young convalescent. Time to take to the streets and get cheddar, revenge and respect.

  I still had the gun charge hanging over my head and my mouth piece was screaming for big dollars to keep my ass out of prison. I had emptied one of the chicken boxes in my freezer paying bail, the lawyer’s retainer and other shit over the past months. It was time to stack some more bank.

  After I came home from the hospital from having the shit bag removed, it felt damn good to be able to sit on the toilet and take a regular shit.

  I took a long, hot bath and tried to focus on my next move. As far as finding out who had shot me, I had no idea what would be the best move. I had fucked and dissed a handful of bitches, but not in a way worth murdering me over. That was why my mind
kept going back to those stripper hos I’d jacked. But there was no way they’d know my true identity.

  I’d talked to Rich Kid since getting out of the hospital. He said he hadn’t been back to The Passion Palace since that night we’d ran into each other, and I’d already pulled his coat not to ever reveal my info to those hos.

  I knew Rich Kid wouldn’t drop a dime on me, but I couldn’t say the same for his flunky, King. Though we’d done work together, it was no doubt in my mind King didn’t like me. Maybe he saw me as a threat to his position in Rich Kid’s crew? Had the nigga asked me, I would’ve told him that I had no aspirations to become Rich Kid’s puppet. So King didn’t need to fear losing his spot to me. But if I ever found out for sure that King had dropped my identity to those stripper hos, he would be wise to fear my brand of reprisal.

  For now, I had to let the nigga live, ‘cause I wasn’t sure he’d dropped my real name to those hos. I didn’t know when, or for what reason, but I knew I would eventually blast King. He was a hater supreme. No matter how much faith Rich Kid had in him, something didn’t feel right about that nigga.

  While Cheryl was at school, a neighbor of hers watched Eryka throughout the week until about three o’clock when Cheryl got home.

  I usually picked her up from school, stunting in my truck, but these days I scooped her up in a rental because the Lex’ was in the shop having the driver’s door and side panel repaired and a brand new paint job. If a mafucka was looking for a nigga pushing a silver Lexus truck, I would have him off-balanced when my whip came out of the shop painted money-green.

  After picking Cherry up today and dropping her off at the crib, I was rolling incognito in the Nissan rental, just checkin’ the blocks for the latest hum. Niggaz hadn’t really seen me since I caught six shots, so they were giving me smiles and dap like I was returning home a war hero, which wasn’t too far from the truth. The street is a war zone.

  I saw through those with false smiles, envy, and hate. Most hood niggaz were glad to see me still standing, but I knew a few had been squeezin’ their nuts, hoping a nigga was face-up in a box. I could easily recognize the haters, though. That shit was written all over their faces.

  I hung out in Englewood PJs for an hour or so, just kickin’ the bobo and lettin’ niggaz see I was hard to kill.

  It was a Friday so the ghetto was jumpin’: young hustlers gettin’ their grind on, fiends out in flocks. Po-po cruised in and out, but they would’ve had to arrest two out of three people they passed by if it was crime they were out to stop today. So po-po just cruised on past, knowing they couldn’t’ stop the drug dealing juggernaut that was the hood.

  Four morbid hos wanted to see my scars, so I lifted my shirt and let ‘em get their rocks off. The next day I planned to get a tattoo around the scars.

  “What your tattoo gon’ say?” Angel, one of the morbid hos, asked.

  “Hard 2 Kill,” I explained.

  “How it feel to get shot?”

  “Shit, shawdy. It feel like yo’ insides on fire.”

  “Did you almost die?” her friend wanted to know.

  “Who? Me? Hell naw!” I popped. “How a real nigga gon’ die? I could live with no head, shawdy! You don’t know?” I had them hos swingin’ on my dick.

  “Where yo’ whip at?” Cita asked. She seemed to be the ringleader of the crew. I knew her from the PJs.

  “I’m resting it fo’ a minute. Why? You wanna get fucked in the back seat while watching TV?”

  She laughed. “Nigga, I don’t fuck in no car! I got Peachtree Plaza pussy. You ain’t heard?” Her friends giggled and gave her some dap.

  I countered with, “Yo’ ass got some on the ground, behind a dumpster pussy. That’s what I heard.”

  “Oh, you wanna go there? I ain’t gon’ talk about yo’ lil’ bitty dick.” Cita and her friends started laughing.

  I had to pop back. “Ho, my shit bigger than your arm! You betta ask somebody.”

  “That ain’t what Fiona going around screamin’,” two of them said in unison.

  Fiona? Who the fuck is—

  “You mean stank pussy Fiona?” I laughed, remembering the bitch in question. I had pegged the rotten pussy bitch right. She had dropped salt on me in the streets.

  When hood rats wanted to slander a niggaz name, they spread one of these three rumors: He got a little dick. He ate their pussy or he can’t fuck.

  Fiona had probably screamed all three, lying like a mafucka. My wood wasn’t little! I wasn’t no porn stud, but I’d make a bitch sing the woo-woo song in bed, so they couldn’t say I couldn’t fuck. And I might have ate a little pussy, but I fo’ sho’ didn’t eat Fiona’s stank stuff.

  I didn’t know if she had dissed a nigga’s name like that or not, but a few playaz had walked up and was hearing the hype these hos were repeating.

  I was like, “Aw, shit. You know how ya’ll hos be lying and slandering a nigga’s rep ‘cause he put y’all on permanent timeout. Fiona just mad ‘cause I told her her pussy smelled like dead dogs and canceled her subscription to this dick.”

  The niggaz who’d gathered around started laughing and adding their jabs at Fiona’s foul rep.

  A young grinder named Murder Mike said, “Yo, dawg, I hate to admit I fucked that bitch, but you ain’t lyin’, her coochie do smell foul as a mafucka.”

  Two other niggaz co-signed our remarks. One busta-ass nigga was just lying to kick it. He was as busted as a high-top fade. Fiona was a slut, but she only fucked niggaz with mad rep or ghetto riches. The hos around tried to take up for Fiona, like her word was bond.

  I said to one of them, “I tell you what, shawdy. Come feel this dick. If it’s little, I’ll kiss yo’ ass in front of my niggaz.”

  “Boy, I ain’t feelin’ yo’ dick!”

  “Aw, ho, don’t front,” Murder Mike jumped in. “You done felt everybody in the hood dick, one more ain’t gonna kill you.”

  “I woulda felt yours when we was fuckin’ that time, but it’s so goddamn tiny,” Cita countered, trying to slander Murder Mike.

  I said, “See how y’all hos do it? Now, you doin’ the same shit Fiona did, dirtying a nigga’s name ‘cause you’re mad.”

  “I ain’t mad. Ain’t nobody studyin’ Murder Mike. I bet he be knockin’ on my door as soon as he come out the trap tonight,” boasted Cita.

  I stood around and kicked the bobo for a few more minutes, and then dipped. When I pulled up in front of her apartment, Fiona was sitting on the porch steps reading The Source magazine.

  “Yo, whud up?” I said as I walked up to where Fiona sat.

  “What you want?” Her tone matched her eyes—unfriendly.

  “Oh, it’s like that now?” I rubbed her thigh.

  “Don’t touch me! How you gon’ try to play me after all that shit you said”? Fiona snapped.

  I told her I was just trippin’ that night, and I had planned to come over her house and get with her later on, surprise her, but I’d gotten shot. I spat some more slick shit in her ear.

  I had dissed the fuck out of Fiona that night on the phone before some sucka opened fire on me, but I could see she was still feelin’ me, and all it would take to reel her in was persistence. The lil’ bitch swallowed my rap like she was thirsty for some slick shit. I was lying like a mofo, but Fiona ate it up.

  “You forgive me, or what?” I could tell my rap had worked.

  Fiona nodded.

  “Cool,” I said. “Now what’s all this yak your girls talkin’ ‘bout you said my dick was little and shit? Why you slander a nigga’s name?”

  “I ain’t tell nobody that!” Fiona lied, faking an attitude to make it more believable.

  “Why Cita and ‘em gon’ lie on you?” I pressed on.

  “Them hos just like to gossip and start shit,” Fiona swore.

  I told her to get in the car. We were about to go down the hill where her girls were at and straighten this shit out and see who was lying. Of course, the bitch tried to buck on that.

 
“Why you gotta prove something to them triflin’ hos?” she asked. “That’s lil’ kids shit.”

  Fuck that! It ain’t no lil’ kid shit when hos spreading false rumors that I got a lil’ kid’s dick

  I told Fiona if she didn’t come with me down the hill and check Cita and ‘em, I wasn’t fuckin with her again.

  “You trippin’.” she said. But she liked the dick and didn’t want me to cut her off completely, so she got her stank-pussy ass in the car.

  When we got down the hill, Cita was sitting between Murder Mike’s knees on a parked car. Her girls were standing around kickin’ it with other block hustlers as they slanged rocks. They knew some ill shit was up when they saw Fiona get out of the car with me.

  Now, Fiona was a known slut, but she was fine as hell. A nigga from another hood, who didn’t know her rep’ in Englewood, would think he had a star in Fiona. She looked like a younger version of Jennifer Lopez, phat ass and all. Cita and her crew could spend a year in a beauty parlor, and Fiona could just be waking up in the morning and she’d have ‘em all fucked up in the looks department. Plus, Fiona had fucked all the ghetto fabulous niggaz so she had hood props Cita and ‘em couldn’t claim. So around them, Fiona had mad attitude.

  She said, “Cita! You told Youngblood I said his dick was little?” She was trying to keep a straight face.

  Murder Mike cracked up. The shit was funny the way Fiona just spat it out, no prefacing it.

  “Ho, I know you don’t call yo’ self checkin’ me ‘bout that bullshit,” Cita responded.

  Fiona said, “I’m just saying, why y’all spreadin’ stupid shit like that? Y’all some silly hos.”

  “Aw, bitch, you the one who told us that shit,” Cita said, laughing.

  I made Fiona admit that she’d spreaded the lie because she was mad at me for dissin’ her.

  “I don’t know why you let that shit vex you no way,” Fiona said to me in front of everybody out there. “Nigga, you lay good pipe.”

  She was stroking my ego.

  Cita’s friend, Angel, said, “Shan already told us you was all dat in bed. Why you think Fiona was all on yo’ dick?” The hos started laughing, like they’d played me for a fool.