by Cash
I left there determined not to rest until I had fulfilled that vow.
For the next few weeks, I laid low. I wasn’t trying to be seen in the streets with my mug swollen and my jaw wired shut. Haters would’ve loved to see a young nigga banged up and vulnerable. If I wasn’t out with Lonnie trying to ride on my enemies, I was either chillin’ with Inez or at Juanita’s crib laying low. But my mind was in constant motion and my mood was dark because that bitch, Cheryl, had ganked my entire bank.
I can’t even begin to describe the feeling of being rich one minute and then right back to having nothing! It felt like I had dreamt I was rich, only to wake up and realize I was still struggling. But the shit hadn’t been no goddamn dream. The shit was real! I had let a bitch rob me for my whole stash without having to draw a gat!
I realized I committed two cardinal sins: One, I took shit for granted, and two, I underestimated a woman’s scorn.
I had only eight G’s in my pocket, a tricked-out Lexus truck I could sell for a decent penny and a brand new Benz drop that would sell for even more than the Lexus. Plus, Inez had fifty grand. But when I added it all up, it came to, probably, less than 130 grand, 150 tops. No comparison to the mil’ and change Cheryl had ganked me for.
The only choice I had was to go back to robbing niggaz, but I knew I’d never hit another big lick like that again. How was I supposed to look forward to robbing for small money again? Doing hits for Rich Kid wasn’t steady enough, and wouldn’t garner the type of loot I had lost. Plus, I was seeing him through different eyes these days.
My other option was to get down with what Juanita was stressing. But how could I trust a bitch after what Shan and Cheryl had done? Squaring up and going legit wasn’t a young nigga’s style. I couldn’t walk away from the streets when I had the upper hand. How in hell could I walk away now when I had just gotten knocked on my ass?
Anyway, what was I supposed to do with Inez? Not only was she carrying my seed, she was carrying my secrets. The way I saw it, I had no choice but to stay in the streets.
Maybe I would have chosen the route Juanita proposed if it hadn’t required such a sudden and drastic change from what I’d been doing all of my life or if it wouldn’t have placed me in the unenviable position of being so dependent on her. After all, we may have grown up in the same projects, but I didn’t know her that well.
Where would it leave me if one day, after she became a doctor, the bitch woke up and decided I wasn’t the best thing since cell phones no more? And what type of nigga chose to be dependent on a female? Pimps maybe. But those clowns had played out along with Jheri curls.
The few that were trying to keep the mack game alive were witnessing crack driving the price of pussy so low it now cost less than a Happy Meal.
In retrospect, maybe I was just searching for convenient excuses not to leave the streets. Whatever! I do know that even while chillin’ at Juanita’s house and getting to know her better and watching her prepare to leave Atlanta and its unforgiving fast life, I never seriously thought of going away with her.
Juanita had placed an ad in the newspaper announcing a house for sale, so mafuckaz were occasionally calling and coming by to browse the furniture and whatnots. She was also selling all of her designer clothes, shoes, and exotic dancer costumes. She said that when she left the city, she’d take nothing with her but the clothes on her back, her bank book and the strength to pursue her dreams.
How could a nigga argue with that?
Fall was giving way to winter. It was chilly at night. Some of those nights Juanita would light the fireplace and we would sit watching the flames lick at the fake logs. We’d talk about all the people the hood had swallowed up. I’d mostly listen. My mind was there but in a million other places, too. We’d also listen to Maxwell, Eryka Badu and Juanita’s favorite, Jill Scott.
When I was tired of love songs, I’d turn the fireplace off and replace melancholy music with whatever rap CDs I could find in Juanita’s collection.
She’d get up and try to dance. I’d laugh so hard my ribs would hurt, and it would feel like my jaw had re-fractured. Juanita might’ve been one of the best strippers in the Dirty South, but she had white girl moves when it came to regular dancing.
I’d turn off the music before I laughed myself back into the hospital, and we’d drift off to our own private thoughts.
Sometimes I’d get up and go sleep in the guest room, and other times I’d fall asleep on the floor, with Juanita in my arms.
If my heart wasn’t made of concrete, I might’ve fallen in love with Juanita.
As it was, we just enjoyed the moment, knowing the day was coming fast when all her things would be sold and she’d drive away.
I called Inez daily so she would know our bond was still strong. I’d scoop her from by her mom’s crib, where she was at most of the time, or have her meet me at her spot. If I felt her trust in me beginning to wane a bit, I’d take her to a motel and show her that my interest in her was as strong as ever.
I couldn’t kiss or eat her, and even though it hurt my ribs to fuck too hard or too long, I needed Inez to know that Juanita hadn’t been draining me. I was sure she didn’t believe I wasn’t sexing Juanita, but to her credit, she never once fussed about it.
I reassured her every time I talked to her, or saw her, that things would be back to normal before long. She was anxious to go back to living at her own place because she wasn’t happy having to stay with someone else. She asked again if I wanted the money she had put up. Again, I told her to just hold on to it.
“I’m not having nightmares anymore,” she announced, sounding relieved that the demons that had entered her dreams after setting up King for me to jack and murk were no longer haunting her in her sleep.
“That’s good,” I said. “How’s my baby?” I asked patting her stomach.
She responded, “My doctor says everything is fine, but I have to stop smoking weed.”
I asked her how the doctor knew she smoked weed.
“I told her,” Inez smiled. “She’s cool.”
CHAPTER 3
Lonnie told me that he had seen Murder Mike and that Murder had given him a number and told him to tell me to get in touch with him. I took the number and put it in my back pocket. I’d get with Murder later.
“Oh, I seen Shan yesterday,” he said. “She told me to tell you Lil’ T has been acting up at school and you need to come by there and talk to him.”
“Yeah?” I mumbled, but all that would have to wait.
I wasn’t trying to let my son see me bruised and banged up. To him, I was Superman, indestructible! I couldn’t ruin his image of his pops.
Besides, ain’t no way I was letting Shan or her powder head nigga, Shotgun Pete, see me not shining and on point. Niggaz wouldn’t see me until I was well and had straightened my biz.
They’d hear about me, though, I thought to myself. Starting tonight!
I launched two fire bombs through the window of the sports bar, just seconds before Lonnie unleashed his. The four Molotov cocktails instantly erupted into small fires, igniting the bottles behind the bar. I wanted to watch the building explode; however, I knew better than to stick around.
Burning down Little Gotti’s sports bar was just the beginning, sort of like a jab before the big punch. I’d get his white bitch next, make her take me to him and his lovely stash.
Why kill ‘em without robbin’ them first? The bitch should’ve let things stay as they were. Now the ante had been upped!
“Let’s see if you and your man can play the high stakes game of murder!” I would’ve said to the bitch, had I been the type of nigga to give out warnings or idle threats, but I wasn’t that type of nigga.
When my enemy saw me, the rest had been already written. Didn’t these fools in the streets know better than to wake a sleeping beast?
My sister’s boyfriend, Glen, was gonna feel my rage, too. Him and any other mafucka I suspected of causing me harm. They all would feel the rage inside
of me, my thirst for blood.
***
As the weeks passed, the weather continued to change. Daylight Savings had demanded time be set back an hour, making the days shorter and the nights longer. Giving a night stalker, like myself, even more time to hunt and capture the prey.
So far, Little Gotti and his bleach blond, white bitch were outrunning their death warrants, but time was always on the side of the hunter. If my thirst for blood and revenge got too strong to wait, I could easily pay Glen a visit, first. He was always easy to find, basically a sitting duck.
Time had also taken the swelling out of my face and the soreness from my ribs. The gash in my head had healed, with hair beginning to grow in its place. My jaw was still wired closed; otherwise, I was almost as good as new.
Still, I hadn’t been seen in the streets, causing mad rumors to circulate and take flight: I was dead. In prison. Running scared. Blah. Blah. Blah.
I couldn’t say a few of the rumors didn’t vex me. A street nigga never liked mafuckaz to think he was running scared. Unless it’s by design, and he was just waiting to strike.
I heard all of the rumors from a distance. I was just biding my time.
Time. It went backwards, it went forward, but it never stood still or waited for anyone, which meant the time had come for me to make a choice.
Juanita and I watched the two men load the last of her bedroom furnishings onto the U-Haul trailer. One of the mover’s wives carried the bedside lamp and placed it inside of the car that the trailer was hitched up to, making sure the Egyptian figurine-based lamp would be safe and out of harm’s way.
The lady then waved goodbye and got inside of the car. Juanita was still waving goodbye long after the woman’s hand had dropped out of sight. I figured she was now waving bye-bye to the last of her furnishings, the last remnants of her past.
Sold and gone were all the material things she’d once valued as much as her pride and dreams. The Dolce & Cabana dresses and sexy evening wear. The Prada, Yves Saint Laurent to the Cardin and the Victoria’s Secrets. The old Tommy Girl casual but expensive outfits. The leather and suede minis. The minks and other furs. The gator shoes, boots, bags and accessories. The shine, the ice, necklaces, watches and rings. The flat screen television. The Gucci-printed sofa and loveseats. The china and gold silverware. Everything. Even the Viper was replaced by a used Toyota Cressida.
“Well,” she exhaled, “that’s the last of it.”
We walked back inside of the house and its emptiness made the house look huge. Only the refrigerator, stove and microwave remained in the kitchen.
Juanita tidied up as she went from room to room making sure the house wouldn’t be left a mess when she turned it over to the new owners tomorrow.
The sun had gone down when she finished cleaning the place. A little exhausted and a bit sad, she sat down on the floor pillow next to me. I held her in my arms, neither of us speaking for a very long while.
“You hungry?” she asked, breaking the silence.
I nodded.
I can’t even remember what she mixed up in the blender for me that night. I do recall that we were both tired and dozing off.
Not really saying much of anything. Our silence carried the moment. Juanita was still waiting on my decision. I hadn’t yet told her she’d be leaving ATL without me. She’d asked me for my decision several times in the past few days. Each time I’d said I wouldn’t make up my mind ‘till the last minute. Maybe, deep down I was seriously considering leaving with her.
She sat up and placed her hand on my chest, under my sweatshirt. Her fingers traced the scars left from the old gunshot wounds.
“You’re not leaving with me, are you?” Her voice was low, but strong. Knowing.
“I can’t,” I said. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”
She didn’t say anything. She just got up and went into another part of the empty house.
I assumed Juanita was mad, so I let her be. I lay alone on the pillow in the center of the den’s floor, wishing I was two people. One of me would stay in Atlanta and rule the streets. The other me would go with Juanita and try my hand at living legit.
Although she was gone, the smell of her Chanel perfume lingered on the pillow.
Damn! I’m trippin’.
Since when did a thug, robber and a killer get caught up in emotions? It tripped me out but then I started thinking about Shan and what caring about her had taught me: Never love them hos!
I never loved Cheryl. Inez, I liked a lot, but didn’t love. Couldn’t love her. Didn’t know how.
Juanita was now standing over me, wrapped in only a towel. She went over to the fireplace and turned up the flame. When she returned to me, she sat down on the pillow, and I caught a glimpse of her auburn bush.
She said, “I haven’t slept with anyone in months, and I’m not doing this to try to change your mind. I’m doing it because I’m scared I’ll never see you again once I leave. If I don’t, I’ll always remember this night. If there’s any such thing as fate, tonight will bring us back together.”
She kissed my closed lips and began undressing me.
I stood up, removing my jeans and boxers, tossing them on top of my shoes and shirt.
Juanita stood up and removed the towel.
“Be gentle with me,” she whispered. “I’m not that big.”
I’ve had my share of women and sexual escapades but nothing could ever equal up to the thug passion I shared with Juanita that night.
We didn’t make love over and over again, all night long. In fact, we only did it once, then fell asleep holding each other. But the shit was right, and it was something more than sex. There was silent crying coming from somewhere deep down inside of her as she held on to me, and I felt the wetness of her tears on my shoulder.
I wanted to tell her I’d leave with her, just up and say, “Fuck the streets!” But deep down I didn’t believe I could succeed at anything else. I didn’t know how to make it happen, unless it was with my heater.
Juanita was running away from the very thing that I loved and craved, the streets. We just weren’t meant to be, I convinced myself that night.
The morning brought its ugly ass around too goddamn soon.
I watched Juanita pack her few remaining personal belongings into a single suit case. A dozen, or so, pairs of matching plain panties and bras, socks and toiletries. A few sweaters and a pair of jeans. A battered photo album and a folder with the words Supreme Mathematics and Alphabets written across it. She closed and locked the suitcase, and I picked it up to carry it out to the car for her.
She was carrying the teddy bear I’d given her the first time she’d invited me to her house for lunch. She locked the front door and dropped the door key inside a locked box that sat on the porch.
She had on old faded jeans and a baggy sweater that was covered by a patched jean jacket. Her hair was in a simple ponytail and she wore no makeup or lipstick. Juanita was definitely leaving the past behind.
Still, she looked beautiful, sexy and divine.
She kissed me on the lips and I tasted her tears.
“I’m not good at saying goodbye,” she cried. Then she handed me a small gift bag.
“If you ever wish to find me, my mother will know how to contact me,” Juanita sniffled.
I watched her get in the used Cressida and drive away to a new life. I got inside my whip, started the engine and I opened the gift bag Juanita had just given me. Inside was five thousand in cash, with a Jill Scott CD, the single, Do You Remember Me?
CHAPTER 4
I was hunting for that white bitch, Blondie, and her nigga night and day. Casing out the burned down sports bar, in case Little Gotti had to meet there with insurance agents, and the strip club where I’d first saw the white tramp.
I also kept tabs on Cheryl’s mother. A few times a week I’d steal the mail out of her mailbox, thinking Cheryl might slip-up and write or send a postcard. But after three months of fruitless searches, I cut back to s
tealing her mail once a week.
Glen had been easy to find. Matter of fact, he would’ve already been dead but I was letting time pass so when I did him, my sister, Toi, wouldn’t automatically suspect me.
Lonnie was being the true nigga I knew him to be, riding shotgun on every turn. We had touched a nigga from the Westside for a little flow, but nothing a nigga could retire or live long on.
Inez was back staying at her crib, back pushing ‘dro. We were still tight like thieves, trying to stack cheddar in our separate hustles. My seed was beginning to push her stomach out, but she was still looking fly. I looked forward to our baby coming into the world but I wasn’t neglecting my seeds that were already here, especially my lil’ man.
I had gone by Poochie’s crib when she called to let me know Shan had dropped Lil’ T off over there. He’d asked me why I couldn’t open my mouth, and I’d told him the truth, “I got caught slippin’.”
Fuck it. I wasn’t gon’ lie to my lil’ man.
He said, “My mama’s boyfriend, Pete, said you got beat up.” Yeah, Pete would put it out there like that.
I had whipped through Englewood looking for Murder Mike a week ago and learned he was out of town, so I had no reason to hang around. I felt like niggaz were looking down on me. But, then again, maybe I was just trippin’. Mafuckaz knew I wasn’t a pussy!
I ran into an old head from the hood and he told me that the streets were saying a bitch had run off with two hundred grand of mine. I had to laugh at that. Shit! The streets didn’t know the half! I wish Cheryl had only dipped with two hundred grand. I’d still be sitting on eight and some change.
Murder Mike paged me and asked to meet him in Englewood, in the horseshoe. I told him I was tied up at the clinic, but I could get with him by seven o’clock. He said that was a bet.
When I pulled into the horseshoe and parked, it was past seven and dark outside. Not many niggaz were used to seeing the Nissan. The young dope slangers eyed the car with suspicion, trying to figure out whether I was Five-0, or somebody looking to buy crack or someone looking to do something more ominous, robbery perhaps.
