Trust in No Man

by Cash

  So, shit, I did.

  I pulled beside Juanita’s whip and parked when we reached her crib. She lived in a one-level house, on a cul-de-sac, in a new subdivision in the suburb of Union City. The inside of Juanita’s crib was immaculate and furnished in good taste. Gucci-print sofas and loveseats, smoked-glass cocktail tables with Gucci-printed base, porcelin oriented statues and other whatnots.

  She told me to have a seat and relax while she took a quick shower.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said on second thought. “Would you like a drink or something to snack on?”

  “Nah, I’m good.” Juanita turned on the stereo and then disappeared into another part of the house, leaving Maxwell crooning throughout the room.

  Now dude can blow with the best of singers, but I wasn’t be on no slow, romantic shit. So, by the time Juanita had showered and returned wearing a black leotard, I had replaced Maxwell with a Big Pun CD.

  I was bobbing my head to the beat, watching Juanita move around in the kitchen. Shawdy was all dat and some more. I mean, the ATL was home to some of the finest, prettiest females on earth, so beauty wasn’t new to me. But Juanita was flawless, above any other female I’d ever laid eyes on. She had to know she was most nigga’s dream. I wasn’t drooling at the mouth, though, ‘cause I already knew that despite Juanita’s perfect figure and looks, the bitch had to have some type of flaw. There was no such thing as a perfect bitch.

  She came back into the living room with a bottle of lime water and some fruit sticks and sat next to me on the couch, Indian-style.

  Her pussy print poked out of the leotards like a ripe cantaloupe.

  “Your crib is nice,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say. I couldn’t lie, shawdy had a nigga tonguetied. I’d have to watch my step or I’d fall hard for this close-to-perfect bitch.

  “Thanks.” She sipped her water through a straw.

  “You mind if I put on some less aggressive music?” she asked, rubbing my arm.

  “Hey, it’s your crib. Do what you feel,” I shot back.

  “Yeah, but you’re company.” She got up and turned the music off.

  “How about we just talk?”

  I asked her why women always wanted to talk? Didn’t they know how to just chill?

  Juanita laughed. Even her laugh was perfect.

  “How do we get to know one another if we don’t talk, ask each other questions?”

  I told her we couldn’t get to know each other by talking and asking questions, ‘cause both of us were gonna lie about the things we felt the other wouldn’t like.

  “Like, would you tell me the truth if I asked how many niggaz you done fucked? Or if you’ve ever fucked a cracker?”

  “Yeah, I’d be honest about it. Or else I wouldn’t answer the question,” Juanita admitted. That was why I wouldn’t ask it, I told her.

  Because either I wouldn’t believe her answer or I’d get mad at the truth, like if she were to admit she’d fucked a cracker.

  “And, really I’d be wrong. ‘Cause, number one, I ain’t your man. And if I was, it still would be ill for me to get mad about some shit you done before we hooked up.”

  “Are you the jealous type?” she asked calmly.

  “Not at all, shawdy,” I said truthfully. “I live and let live. I don’t own nobody but myself.”

  Juanita was feeling me on that, but she disagreed that talking, to get to know each other, was fruitless. She felt that what a person said gave you something to hold them to and when their actions contradicted their words, then it was time to move on. I could understand her point of view, I told her, but I preferred to just kick it and let things settle into its own rhythm.

  “When you’re just kickin’ it with a woman, does that involve sex?”

  “Usually.”

  “Well, baby, I’m afraid you’re going to find me unusual.”

  “Yeah, how’s that?” I pressed.

  Juanita claimed that she no longer had sex with any man that she wasn’t seriously involved with or one that wasn’t monogamously involved with her.

  “In other words, I don’t sleep with other women’s men,” she clarified. “I did that once upon a time, but not now.”

  “A nigga can always lie,” I reminded her.

  “Of course, but the truth will eventually reveal itself.”

  “By then you could be too deep in to turn around and let go.”

  “Ain’t no such thing,” she firmly stated.

  I liked Juanita’s mature, no nonsense reply. If true, it meant she had principles she lived by.

  We rapped way past midnight and then I told her I had to bounce before I got too sleepy to drive home.

  “You could stay overnight in the guest room,” she offerred. But I declined the invitation, telling her that when the time came for me to spend the night at her crib, I wouldn’t be sleeping in no guest room.

  “That time will come when you decide that I’m the one and only woman you need and want. Believe me, I’m enough woman for you, and I’ll be true to you in return. Think about that,” Juanita said, and gave me mad tongue at the door.

  On the way home, I tossed Juanita around in my head, comparing the things we had in common with the ways we were totally opposite from one another. Of course the things we had in common were of little worry, except that I sensed she had game, like I did. Of concern were those things we didn’t share. More so, it was difficult for me to reconcile Juanita’s spoken words with her profession.

  How many women of strong character stripped for a living?

  I was thinking the bitch had boss game. It wasn’t that she didn’t fuck niggaz who had other bitches, it was probably that she had been there and done that and already knew it was a dead-end street. So now, she was trying to make a nigga, like me, damn near wife her before she would come off the ass.

  Well, I was gonna test her resolve. And if that failed, I would lie to get the pussy. How a bitch gon’ lay boundaries on me? Shit, shawdy was from the hood, where pussy was cheaper than a blunt or a bottle of wine. She should’ve realized that if she put those type of stipulations on the pussy, a nigga would lie to get it. Hos be on some dumb shit when they try to regulate like dat.

  Why take a nigga through all of that drama when the shit gon’ still turn out the same? If it was meant to be, it was gon’ be. If it wasn’t meant to be, the shit wasn’t gonna last even if a nigga wifed ‘em. The way I saw it, they might as well give up the pussy the first night. Then they’d avoid all the bullshit a nigga had to tell them to get the booty.

  It didn’t matter, though, I’d win in the end. I fo’ sho wasn’t letting Inez go to get with Juanita.

  Yeah, Juanita was 100 percent eye-candy, but it wasn’t like Inez was hard on the eyes. Plus, Inez was adding to a nigga’z bank and proving that she was down.

  I let myself in with the key she’d been given me. It was damn near one o’clock in the morning, but Inez was still awake, reading a magazine, when I got up to her bedroom.

  “Hey,” I spoke.

  “Hey back,” she said, no hint of anger in her voice or expression.

  I asked if she felt like getting up and fixing me some tacos. She immediately put the magazine away and went down to the kitchen.

  She stood behind me, twenty minutes later, messaging my neck while I ate. I asked if she was mad at me.

  “For what?”

  “Look, shawdy,” I began, “don’t think a nigga don’t want you to carry his seed. It ain’t that. The shit just caught me off guard.”

  “I’m gonna have an abortion,” she reiterated.

  “What if I don’t want you to kill my seed?”

  She told me to eat my food and we could discuss it after we both had a few days to consider all the consequences.

  “You gon’ give me some loving tonight?” I was testing her, to see if she was mad, deep down.

  She said “You don’t have to ask for that, I’m still your lady, ain’t I?”

  CHAPTER 31

&nb
sp; I was expecting Cheryl to go home and stay with her Ma Dukes again when she was released from the hospital with the new baby. But obviously, her mother’s act of concern didn’t extend that far.

  So, once again, I found myself with the responsibility of having to provide a home for Cheryl and the kids. The situation was stressing me out. A young nigga shouldn’t have so much weight on his back.

  My life was fast becoming one big drama and most of the conflicts centered around bitches. I wasn’t tryin’ to roll like that, though. I guessed shit just happened.

  Still, my priority was building up my bank. Regardless to the drama, money still made the world go around. Yet, I was learning, firsthand, that more money didn’t only bring more bitches, it also brought more problems. And it wasn’t like I was sitting on riches.

  Compared to the major hustlers, like Rich Kid and Hannibal and ‘em, I was a minor figure. Yet, honeys were all on my dick, trying to carry my seeds and lay permanent claim in a nigga’z life. Even a choice shawdy, like Juanita, wanted to put a young G on lock.

  I couldn’t front, the shit had a nigga’s chest swole. But I was determined not to lose my focus. I still had to deal with King.

  Inez and I rapped about her situation and decided that she would give birth to my seed.

  I got with Rich Kid to assure him that moves were being formulated to eliminate his nemesis, King. I just needed him to understand that we’d both have to show some patience, ‘cause haste could be severe and catastrophic.

  Deading a nigga was as simple and easy as pulling a trigger, but it took either luck or meticulous planning to avoid being bagged for the murder. And I wasn’t placing my life and freedom in the hands of Lady Luck.

  A nigga’z plate was full. I would have to help Cheryl find a place for her and the kids to live, and soon. ‘Cause mafuckaz in my apartment complex were sure to start complaining loudly to management.

  Besides, Cheryl’s presence was cramping my style. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be responsible for supporting Cheryl. I had no qualms about taking care of my seeds, but I had no intentions of being Cheryl’s meal ticket.

  I guessed the bitch was trying to follow her stankass mother’s blue print: find a man to take care of her. But I wasn’t playing that part. The bitch would have to sign-up for welfare and apply for a Section 8 apartment. There were some decent Section 8 apartments around the city. And if push came to shove, my kids weren’t too good to live in the hood.

  Cheryl wasn’t feelin’ that shit, though. When I mentioned it to her, she responded like her fat ass was too good to live in the hood. Which was some ill shit, ‘cause when I had first started fucking Cheryl she was going out of her way, trying to be a down-the-way bitch. Now she was trying to act like that bitch, Hillary, on the Fresh Prince of Belair, like anything but a mansion was beneath her.

  Well, if the bitch expected to live in luxury, she would have to get off of her fat ass and find a job or get a hustle that paid like that! I spit it to her just like that, in the raw. Her ‘tude turned bitchy, as though what I was stressing was stupid.

  “Look, fat bitch!” I swore. “I ain’t no rest haven for your lazy ass! In the two years I’ve known you, you’ve gone from sugar to shit. I can’t even stand to look at you. I’m gonna take care of my kids but I’m not taking care of you no more! By the time Chante’ turns three months old you better have found a job and somewhere to live, ‘cause I’m puttin’ yo’ ass out of here!”

  I grabbed some gear and jetted, leaving Cheryl crying like a red Miss Piggy.

  Later, I got with Lonnie to discuss a home invasion he had planned for us. I didn’t know dude whose house we were to invade, but I trusted Lonnie wouldn’t put me down on a lick he hadn’t thoroughly cased-out.

  A couple nights later, a few hours after midnight, Lonnie parked around the corner from our intended victim’s crib and we both got out of the nondescript car. We were in the customary robber’s gear, all black. We’d wait ‘til we were at the vic’s back door before pulling on our ski masks.

  The one-block hike seemed much further to me. I had an AK-47 down the pants leg of the black over-all jumpsuit I was wearing, which made me walk like my whole leg was in a cast.

  Lonnie was packing two automatic handguns. Though we weren’t expecting a confrontation, we both wore vests underneath our clothes.

  We’d just stopped by a nightclub and Lonnie verified that the dopeboy whose house we were about to invade was indeed partying at the club.

  It only took two powerful kicks for the cheap wooden backdoor to give in. I was upstairs faster than a computer comic villian. The assault rifle warned the half-asleep, startled woman that this wasn’t any computer game. Still, she couldn’t help but to scream. It was reflexive. So was my reaction.

  I smashed her across the face with the end of the AK-47, and she crumbled across the bed. I ignored the brown ass hanging out the white panties. I put the tip of the AK-47 to her temple.

  “Scream again, you’ll die!”

  I hollered downstairs to Lonnie that everything was under control upstairs. Then, at gunpoint, I led the bitch to a bedroom window where I could watch the driveway while Lonnie searched the crib.

  Five minutes later, we were on our way back to Lonnie’s crib.

  The next day, I put fifteen G’s inside of a frozen chicken box and placed it in the freezer where I kept my stash. I gave Cheryl fifteen hundred to go shopping for Eryka and Chanté, and permission to use the Maxima. She wanted me to come along, but I wasn’t hearing that.

  I dipped by Poochie’s crib to see if Lil’ T was over there, he wasn’t. But Poochie seemed to be maintaining. Her appearance was up to par and her crib was clean and her sons were in their room playing video games.

  I told Poochie the truth, she was looking good, and asked her what she’d been up to.

  “Just going to work and to church, and trying to raise my sons right,” she said.

  “Do you miss me?” I flirted.

  Poochie flashed a smile, I guess she was reminiscing.

  “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But what we were doing wasn’t right.”

  “In whose eyes?”

  “In the eyes of the Lord.”

  How could I argue that?

  I gave her eight hundred for Lil’ T and five hundred for her and her sons, and told her to go shopping for Lil’ T.

  “Don’t give Shan the money.”

  “I won’t,” she promised.

  I hugged her goodbye and could’ve sworn I felt more than a little heat in her embrace. It had been awhile since I’d hit it. I wanted to fuck Poochie real bad, but not as bad as I wanted to see her prosper and maintain her self-respect. So I dipped without comment.

  I whipped over to the hood to see what I could get into, some hoodrat would end up in the motel with me.

  When I got to Englewood, it seemed like the whole projects were under siege. Police cruisers were everywhere! A helicopter came hovering over. News station vans, with sattelite dishes atop, lined the horseshoe where most of the drug activity in the projects took place.

  I swiftly parked the Lex, stuck my heater in the secret compartment and hopped out before po-po noticed a young nigga pushin’ a ghetto-fabulous whip and wanted to harass me.

  From all the activity, I knew that something major had gone down.

  But what?

  Immediately I thought of Murder Mike. He was beginning to make his presence felt. More money in his pockets meant less in someone else’s. The type of shit that fueled turf wars. And Englewood was predominantly Rich Kid’s turf. Though Rich kid was now a nigga pushing weight, Englewood traps were his steady, like a pimp’s bottom ho.

  For years Murder Mike had toiled, small time, in the project, clockin’ lil’ boy figgas, and not a threat to Rich Kid’s pockets. Now Murder Mike had a hookup. He had plugged in to somebody in power, and was fast on-the-rise. No doubt, his rise was subtracting dollars from Rich Kid. But Rich Kid was major paid, why would he trip trap money?
It wasn’t like Rich Kid’s and King’s beef. Murder Mike had never been down with Rich Kid, he owed him no loyalty.

  Maybe Rich Kid’s Englewood crew had rode on Murder Mike’s boys, but the beef wasn’t ordered by Rich Kid?

  Perhaps it had been spontaneous?

  I had love for Murder Mike and a certain degree of loyalty to Rich Kid. Where did that place me in their beef? Murder Mike was my dawg, closer to me than Freddie had been when Rich Kid took him off the shelf. Damn!

  I doubted Murder had the power to win a war against Rich Kid, few niggaz in the city did. Which put me in a fucked up position ‘cause I didn’t wanna see Murder Mike extinct. Yet, it wasn’t my biz.

  Mafuckaz were everywhere. On porches. Parked cars. In yards.

  Nappy headed, nosey bitches with babies cradled on their hips.

  Junkies still trying to buy a rock, on the down low, with po-po not even ten feet away. I saw Fiona and her crew posted up near the dumpster. Cita would’ve been around, too, except Murder Mike had moved her out of the hood, I’d heard.

  Had Cita’s man been killed? Or just some of his soldiers?

  I spotted him out the corner of my eye leaning against his black Navigator, tricked-out, parked on the front lawn of a basehead named Mildred. My nigga was ghetto fabulous. He was rockin’ black, baggy denim pants, sagging. A black, Falcons jersey, and a fitted black leather Falcons cap, brim turned to the left side, dreadlocks sticking out. Even from across the street, the platinum and ice around his neck was blinging. So were both his wrists. Up close I saw his new platinum grill. The top row of teeth spelled M-U-R-D-E-R in platinum, the bottom spelled, M-I-K-E. I saw that he had two platinum fingernails cut in the design of a .9mm. I knew that the platinum fingernails represented two bodies, indicating that Murder Mike had sent two people to their graves. He had a cell phone to his ear and one clipped to his waist.

  The newest ghetto king.

  I wasn’t hatin’ on my nigga, though. When a nigga rose from nothing, he couldn’t help but to floss.

  Cita was glued to Murder Mike’s side, like a third arm. She rocked a short, black mini and a black and red cashmere sweater that hugged her shoulders and breasts, but left her navel exposed. A diamond cross hung from her pierced navel. She wore mad bling, too neck, ears, wrists, and fingers. Hair bangin’, frosted blond at the tips. Red lipstick. No need for make-up, just a dab of eye shadow. Cell phone clipped to her waist, like the one clipped to Murder’s. Alligator purse and high heeled alligator stilettos.