B-More Careful

by Shannon Holmes

  Standing a few feet away from Netta, Dollar chatted with some of his old partners. She was tempted to walk over and tap him on the shoulder and introduce herself.

  But what do I say? What would he do? Would he be angry or happy to meet me? Doubt crept back into her mind and she hesitated.

  Netta knew that a conversation with her father would only raise more questions than he could possible answer. It was obvious that he didn’t give a damn about her or Renee.

  How would a relationship with him benefit me now? she asked herself. Where was he when I really needed him? When I was messed up in the game, living in the projects and stealing food and clothes, where the hell was he?

  Netta watched her father for a few more minutes, then got up and made her way to the door. Before she left, she glanced back over at the man they all called Dollar. She took a long hard look at her father.

  “Goodbye motherfucker. Have a nice life,” she said under her breath before turning her back to leave. Now she could bring this chapter of her life to a close. She never wanted to see that stranger again.

  Anxious to put the past behind her, Netta moved out of her apartment. She was trying to escape all the death and drama she’d experienced while living in that house. First Major, then her mother. She decided to invest a little of her newfound wealth. She wanted to own her own home. This way she would have a permanent roof over her head. She purchased a newly renovated two-story row-home in West Baltimore on Monroe and Fayette Street. She purchased the house dirt cheap because the neighborhood was so bad.

  Before long, Netta and Mimi were hanging tough again, but things had changed now. Mimi was no longer the same naive person she had been. She got wiser and was playing more ballers than a Rutgers’ game. The Pussy Pound looked up to Mimi; she was their leader. To them, she was the shit. It didn’t take long though for Netta to wrestle away control. Mimi looked up to Netta, so naturally everyone else followed suit. At times their different personalities clashed, and they seemed to compete for dominance of the Pussy Pound. Mentally stronger Netta won out. She got them to see and do things her way. She organized the clique, teaching them as she taught Mimi how to work hustlers.

  As a group, they would go on to make the Pussy Pound famous. Before Netta took over, they were running around fucking corner hustlers. Cats that had champagne taste and beer money. Netta taught them how to get paid. Like a madam, she directed traffic, steering all the big boys with big names and big cars toward her clique. In a matter of months—instead of just Netta and Mimi having their own cars—Fila, Petey and Rasheeda all had new luxury cars too.

  Pretty soon, the Pussy Pound’s names were ringing in the streets of B-More, as loud as the hustlers. They were known for showing hustlers a real good time. Whatever was clever with them, behind closed doors anything goes.

  Everything was all good, but eventually jealously reared its ugly head. Mimi was quietly pissed that she was no longer the focal point of the clique. Upstaged by her friend, she felt Netta stole her shine. She put this thing together and yet it was Netta who got all the glory.

  It was Friday night and Volcano’s Nightclub was packed. Of course the Pussy Pound was in the house strutting their stuff in three-quarter length mink coats. There were a lot of fine and fly females in the club that night, but Netta and Mimi were stars among stars they were trying to catch. Tonight was business as usual. You got to pay to play.

  For Black, this was truly a rare night out for him. It was his twenty-fifth birthday. He was accompanied by his right-hand man, Ty. Here he was, the notorious Black, in the flesh at Volcano’s after being on the down low for months. He’d been the source of too much drama to be partying and he was too hot to get caught slippin’ at some club. Too many people wanted him dead. His name had been linked with too many murders and too many shootings. Now that the heat had died down somewhat, he was free to make a public appearance. It was like he hadn’t missed a beat. Everybody still recognized who he was, a ghetto superstar. One of the top money-making cats in all of B-More, bar none. His name struck fear in the hearts of his enemies, while women openly lusted after him.

  Dipped out in ice and platinum, both Black and Ty turned heads. They loved all the attention they received. The envious stares from other hustlers, and the flirtatious grins of the ladies, made his dick hard. Figuratively, Black owned the club. Even with the lights dimmed, his platinum link chain, diamond encrusted cross, platinum presidential Rolex with the diamond bezel, his two pinky five-carat diamond rings and the R. Kelly flashlights in his ears all illuminated from his body like fire flies. Black was giving it to them, and yes, he was hot walking around in that full-length black mink, but he didn’t dare take it off. He was strapped. Ty, his right-hand man, likewise was bejeweled and wearing a full-length white mink. As they walked through the club, people parted like the Red Sea to let them pass. While looking for a quiet spot to chill, Ty suddenly suggested that they head for the bar.

  “It’s ya birthday, Black. Let me buy you a drink, yo,” Ty said, excitedly.

  “Whatever, yo. That’s what’s up,” answered Black.

  “We goin’ do it up tonight. Everything is one me,” Ty said, like he was sayin’ something. The fact of the matter was that Black was the one with the long money. He was the boss and Ty was the help. He could buy anything, or anyone, in that club many times over. If true money talked, then Black’s paper was shoutin’.

  At the bar, Netta and Mimi were attracting plenty of attention of their own. Having shed their mink coats, they were showing off their tight-fitting Versace dresses. They brushed aside smaller hustlers in search of those that could put their weight up, hustlers with long money. They waited and watched, making idle chitchat while enjoying their drinks. In their own little world, they never saw Black and Ty slide up beside them at the bar.

  But when they glanced over and saw Black, instantly they both recognized him. This was a chance meeting. Rumors had been circulating some time now that Black was dead, but the rumors about his demise had been greatly exaggerated because there he was standing right there in the flesh. Netta made her move on some smart luck strategy, seizing the opportunity and throwing herself at him.

  “Ooh, that’s a nice cross. Can I see it?” she said, complementing him on his taste in jewels.

  Without answering, Black stepped around Mimi until he was within Netta’s reach. Gently, she reached out and picked up the cross off his chest as if it had been touched by God. Cradling it in her hand, she admired it. As he marveled at her physical beauty, they both had each other’s full attention. Black liked what he saw in Netta; Mimi was an afterthought. Netta had two attributes he loved in a woman: aggressiveness and pretty dark skin. Dark-skinned women turned him on. The ‘darker the berry, the sweeter the juice’ was his motto. In his mind, there was no question who he wanted. The decision was made, and Black chose Netta. Within minutes, Netta and Black were openly flirting, and Mimi had no choice but to play the cut.

  After she finished inspecting his medallion, Netta carefully placed it back on his chest.

  “Damn, if I had ya hand, I’d throw mines in,” she sighed, throwing game and giving him a devilish grin.

  “Girlfriend, ya hand the best hand. You looking like one in a million. By the way, I’m Black, Shorty. What’s your name?” he asked, looking her up and down.

  “Netta,” she said, without hesitating. Turning, she added, “This is my girl, Mimi.”

  At this point, Black introduced Ty to Mimi and the group split in two. Each was engrossed in their own conversations. While Netta had bagged the grand prize, Mimi had to settle for the consolation, Ty. He wasn’t chump change, but he wasn’t Black either. Netta had beaten her to the punch, and boy, was she heated.

  Part II

  Black

  Chapter 9

  Click, clack, click, clack. The sound of Black’s gators echoed loudly in the bullpen. He paced the holding cell back and forth, trying to burn up all his nervous energy. It won’t be long now, he though
t. For four years he had lived for this day. Now that it was here, he was nervous as hell, sweating profusely through his suit.

  His lawyer, a short balding Jewish man named Stanley Steinbeck, told him after he got convicted to sit tight. He’d beat it on appeal and he did. It took a little longer than Black expected, but he did what he said he’d do. He found a loophole, a technicality in the case, thus allowing Black to slip through the cracks of the system. Now Black was going home on an appeal bond.

  Stanley Steinbeck was always on the job, because Black was paying him a king’s ransom, a six-figure salary. He argued Black’s case in Maryland’s Supreme Court successfully introducing new evidence of police mishandling of evidence. After both sides argued the relevance, and objections were sustained and overruled, Black was granted a new trial. In a matter of minutes, he would be a free man physically. Mentally, Black was living with his crime and he knew he would live with it until the day he died. He’d had no choice but to live with the guilt, which, truthfully, was eating him up inside. If he could take back killing Ty, he would. It wasn’t even a second thought.

  Thick steel bars were all that separated Black from the outside world. His mother and little brother were waiting outside the courthouse for him in a rented stretch limousine. For him, it was comforting to know that somebody still had his back no matter what. Unlike his fake ass fiancé, who showed her true colors when she thought a nigga was down and out. That bitch just don’t know how wrong she was, Black thought. Netta had no idea Black was being released either.

  After all that time spent behind bars, he had so many things he wanted to do, like fuck up Netta, for starters. Then, he wanted to find all them niggas who owed him money and fuck them up, organize some square footage and put some shit together.

  Yeah, that’s the plan, but Netta first, he thought.

  She had crossed him. He swore when he ran into her, it would be nothing nice. From the time Black got arrested, she shitted on him. No visits, no mail, no nothing. She even put a block on her phone to stop him from calling.

  How could I be so stupid to trust her like that? Why did I try to turn a hoe into a housewife?

  From the beginning, she was a snake, but he couldn’t see it. His feelings for her had interfered with his judgment. But payback is a bitch, and Netta was about to see how quick sugar turns to shit.

  While Black was down, all he heard about through the prison grapevine was the damn Pussy Pound. They were the talk of the town, even in the joint. Famous for fucking hustlers, their reputation had proceeded itself. Whenever Black heard of them, or thought about how Netta played him, he became furious. Nobody plays Black and gets away with it, nobody.

  The sound of the jingling keys brought Black to reality, back to the bullpen. The Court Officer stopped in front of his holding cell and fiddled with the turnkeys. Inserting the right one, the large steel gate swung open.

  “Hey, Hollywood bag and baggage, you made bail!” the white Court Officer said. “You must be somebody real important out there in them streets. Somebody just posted a million-dollar cash bail for you.”

  “You don’t know?” Black asked him, with a big grin as he gathered his legal paperwork.

  Ready or not Baltimore, here I come, he thought as he walked down the corridor towards his freedom. Once every so often, in every neighborhood in the ghetto, fate, chance and circumstance combines to produce that once-in-a-lifetime hustler who is larger than life. So many come and go, but few truly leave their mark. Out of those chosen few, only a handful dare to be compared to big time hustlers from other cities. This infamy would be Deshaun “Black” Williams’ destiny.

  First impressions are most lasting. For Black, a day that will be forever etched in his mind was the day he witnessed his father’s murder. This was his introduction to the game.

  Derrick “Fats” Williams was a small-time drug dealer and a full-time gambler. In and out of prison on petty drug charges most of his young son’s life, he was still a good dad when he was home. The problem was he hardly ever was. Even when he was out on the streets, he was always up to something, always trying to get his hustle on. His entire world revolved around chasing a dollar and breaking the law, especially when it came to feeding his family. So, quite naturally, jail became his second home. To be specific, Maryland House of Corrections, a.k.a., The Cut.

  Fats was the kind of convict who knew everybody in the joint and vise-versa. He’d done his bids in almost every Correctional Institution in the state of Maryland. From Hagerstown to the Eastern Shore, he was a habitual offender who had been breaking the law as long as he himself could remember.

  Black wanted for nothing when his father was home. He was his father’s pride and joy and Fats spoiled Black rotten. Growing up, Black was a basketball prodigy. It was in his genes. His father was once a legend in his time, too. Black had hoop dreams of playing basketball for the national powerhouse, Dunbar High, just like other greats from East Baltimore like Sam Cassells, Mugsy Bogues, Keith Booths, David Wingate and Reggie Lewis. They were all able to escape the mean streets of East Baltimore by excelling on the court. His dreams weren’t far-fetched at all. Black had skills. He ate, slept and dreamt basketball. At a young age, his physical talents and athleticism were already apparent. He was like lightning up and down the court and could dunk a basketball at the age of twelve.

  The Dome, a popular playground in East Baltimore, was his house. He broke every scoring record there and tore up every major summer league in Baltimore. He was being touted as the best sixth-grader in the country by all the national sports publications. He was already receiving recruitment letters from division one universities. Neither the NCAA, nor the NBA, would ever see his talents because the day his father died was the day Black’s dreams and childhood ended. On this day, as fate would have it, Fats’ luck ran out.

  “Nigga, if you ain’t shootin’, pass them damn dice!” Fats yelled to some shabby dressed gambler from the Ave.

  “Don’t rush me, motherfucker. My name ain’t Mike, but I still do what I like. Now let me see some cash. Money on the wood makes the game go good and money outta sight causes fights!” said the other old-timer.

  “Aw, you petty ass motherfucker. You lames get a lil’ hot hand and now all of a sudden you the shit. You can tell, ya ass ain’t never had the bank. Ain’t nobody’s ass beating you!” another participant said.

  “Call me whatcha want, but call me, alright? Y’all hear what I said? Let me see some dough!” Fats said again to everybody in his circle.

  With that, they all began digging in their pockets, pulling out knots of money and placing it on the ground so Fats would stop stalling and bet. They were anxious to win their money back and just as soon as Fats pulled out his dough, wouldn’t you know it, a police car slowly cruised down the street. The two white officers stared hard at the group of gamblers who were looking around nonchalantly, as if they were just sitting on the stoop shooting the breeze on this warm summer night. The police must have believed that they weren’t committing any crime because they just kept passing through. Fats stood there hoping they kept it moving.

  Spooked and out of nowhere, one of the guys standing in the circle suddenly dropped the dice and ran through an alley. Nobody knew the guy was on the run and had a fugitive warrant for jumping bail. A few other disgruntled gamblers gave chase, but the majority stayed behind. During the commotion, Fats picked up the dice and switched them with his own loaded pair without anyone noticing, well almost anyone.

  Normally, the hand is quicker than the eye, but when you’re starving and down on your dumb luck like Squirrel was, you pay attention to everything.

  “Fuck that bitch ass nigga, let ‘em go. All the real gamblers is still here. Let them scramblers go. It’s my turn to roll now,” Fats shouted, as the bets were placed and the stakes were raised to eliminate the short money. The name of the game was C-Lo.

  “Bet $100 I don’t roll 4 or batter,” Fats said.

  “Bet,” a man responded.
>
  “Betcha $200, I don’t roll 4 or better?” Fats said to someone else.

  “Bet that!” a man responded, and on and on he went, placing side bets with everybody.

  Violently, Fats began to shake the crooked dice in his hand while talking plenty of shit. The whole while, a 12-year-old Black sat on his basketball a few feet away watching.

  “I need a square from Delaware, niggas think it ain’t there. Get ‘em girls, daddy needs new shoes!” Fats said, as he rolled the dice against the concrete stoop while the other gamblers stood around forming a Soul Train line on both sides of him.

  It seemed like an eternity from the time he threw the dice until the time they hit the stoop and stopped spinning. Everyone looked intently toward the ground as the dice slammed up against the stoop and stopped on 4, 5, 6, C-Lo. Fats won and collected on all his bets.

  “You’re a lucky bastard,” someone said.

  “Nigga it ain’t luck, it’s skill. This is my bread and meat. If I don’t win, then I don’t eat,” he said, rhyming his talk as he always did.

  Fats would be “lucky” all night long. He killed them, taking all bets and all their money. The only reason he stopped gambling was because he broke them. Fats stung them big time. He strolled off with close to five grand in his pockets. Not bad for somebody who started the day without a dollar to his name.

  Before Fats and Black could get off the block, they were approached from behind. It was Squirrel, the only sore loser who peeped the switch of the dice.

  “Let me holla at you for a second, yo,” Squirrel called from behind. Fats stopped in his tracks and turned. When he saw who it was, he looked puzzled. He didn’t know him like that to be rapping with him. They were casual acquaintances who happened to run in the same circles. Fats wondered what he could possibly want.

  “Dig, yo, I peeped that shit you pulled back there, and I didn’t say nothing. You know I lost a nice piece of change back there. So, umm…I guess that makes us partners. Break me off some of that dough.”