The Black Market

by Kiki Swinson

  “Hey, Sims,” I heard the voice of Agent Montclair say over their walkie-talkies.

  Agent Sims grabbed his radio from his hip and pressed the Talk button. “Whatcha got for me?” Agent Sims replied.

  “We got here too late,” Agent Montclair said.

  I had tuned out Agents Sims and Montclair’s conversation until Montclair uttered the words we got here too late. I lifted my head up and looked directly at Agent Sims. His facial expression changed drastically. And when he looked back at me, he knew that I knew what those words meant. Without hesitation, I said, “Is he talking about my grandmother?”

  Instead of answering my question, he told Agent Montclair to call him on his cell phone and that’s when I knew that I was right. I jumped up on my feet and rushed toward Agent Sims and started attacking him. I brought up my fists and started hitting him over and over, because this was all his fault. “I knew I shouldn’t a helped y’all. Now my grandmother is dead. She’s dead! My cousin is dead. And neither one of them are coming back! This all your fault!” I yelled with rage. I knew that whoever killed my grandmother wasn’t done with their killing spree.

  43

  HOPELESS

  Losing my nana was the last straw. How could I go on? I loved my mother, but I loved my grandmother more. She was my rock, and the only woman in our family that held everyone down. I’d never be able to forgive myself for this. And to know that it all started from me stealing drugs from my job for Jillian. I didn’t have to do that. I could’ve told her no every time she asked me to do it. But no. I was weak and did it anyway. And look where that got me. My hands were covered in blood. Sanjay was murdered first, Terrell was next. Then Jillian was gunned down. The guys that helped rob the pharmacy were all gone, and now my grandmother. Now I was worried about my mother. Thankfully, her boyfriend had enough sense to take her to his parents’ house out of town after I asked him to. But I had other family and friends in my life, good people who were living their lives and didn’t deserve to be gunned down over these drugs.

  It hurt thinking about losing Nana and Jillian. Every time I thought about them, my heart got heavier and I could hardly breathe. With my family destroyed, I couldn’t even think about the investigation. Or about the cops thinking I had something to do with Terrell’s disappearance. None of those things mattered when I faced waking up tomorrow without my family.

  Tears rolled down my cheeks as I looked around me at the drab, nearly empty room. The room’s colorless décor seemed to suck away the little energy I had left. I’d lost my way for good this time. My life was doomed, no matter how you looked at it.

  I grabbed a piece of paper and an ink pen from the hotel desk and started writing.

  Dear Mom,

  I know you raised me the best way you knew how. I also know that you’ve been having a hard time coping with the death of my dad. You’re a beautiful person inside and out, so you deserve to be happy. So that’s why I’ve decided to go. Me not being here should stop the reign of terror from the mafia family I got mixed up with. And you’ll be free to live a stress-free life without looking over your shoulder. Those men I got involved with are senseless murderers and they don’t care about anything other than greed and death. Please understand that this is the best way to end this. I love you so much, Mama!

  Your daughter always,

  Misty

  I put down the pen and folded the paper in half. With one last look around me, I went into the bathroom and turned on the tub faucet. I was about to take my last long, hot bath.

  DON’T MISS

  Head Games

  by Mary B. Morrison

  New York Times bestselling author Mary B. Morrison

  delivers a sizzling, twist-filled tale of four competitive

  friends, a dangerous bet—and high-stakes consequences

  no one can afford to win.

  Dead on Arrival

  by Kiki Swinson

  Kiki Swinson’s “tension-packed” (Library Journal) and

  “unrelenting” (Publishers Weekly), bestselling novels

  deliver startling twists, unforgettable characters—and a

  stark, unforgettable portrait of life in the South. Now she

  detonates an explosive tale about a couple who can’t get

  enough—and a risk that will exact a merciless price . . .

  Collusion

  by De’nesha Diamond

  Framed for a high-profile murder, Abrianna Parker

  finds herself hurtling down a conspiracy rabbit hole in a

  desperate attempt to clear her name. Her only way out is

  to go after the most powerful man in the country. But the

  powers that be play dirty . . .

  Turn the page for an excerpt from these thrilling novels . . .

  From Head Games

  PROLOGUE

  THE CREWE

  June 30

  “Black women are easy, homies. Especially . . . the married ones.” Trymm—pronounced “trim”—the most influential of the crewe, valet-parked his black Mercedes GLS at The Cheesecake Bistro. “Where y’all at?”

  Females stood in clusters outside waiting to dine at the bistro that had some of the best dishes and drinks. Some held flat, square pagers. A few guys sprinkled throughout the crowd stared back and forth at Trymm’s car, then at Trymm.

  “Right behind ya, my brother.” Blitz drove up in his midnight-blue BMW Alpina B7, responding to the group on their conference call. “I’m telling y’all, black professional women are easier.” Handing the attendant his key, Blitz joined Trymm on the grimy sidewalk.

  Standing on St. Charles Avenue, they watched two streetcars travel in opposite directions on the neutral ground paved with more dirt than patches of dried grass, more brown than green. Nawlins was a city that care forgot. True for local government and tourists in search of their wildest experience, but the crewe took pride in what they called home.

  “Nope, under twenty-five. They’re the easiest.” Dallas backed his platinum Lexus LX into a space upfront, secured his gun in his side pocket, set the car alarm, and kept the keyless remote.

  “Nah, D. The overweight ones. They give it up real quick.” Kohl opened the door to his bronze Bentley Ben-tayga, retrieved his ticket from the guy wearing a red vest.

  Valet parking at the bistro was for customers only. Kohl handed the guy his usual $100 tip, to keep his mouth shut.

  En route to their destination, the crew walked side by side. A group of four women smiled back and forth among the guys. One woman complimented, “Nice cars, fellas.”

  A simple acknowledgment from Trymm as he held his wedding ring high, wiggling his finger. “Thanks, love,” and the guys continued their stroll.

  “Hold up. Where’re y’all headed? Y’all not coming in here?” the woman inquired.

  No one replied. Q and A with a female none of them were interested in was a waste of time.

  “Women, women, and more women, my brothers.” Blitz rubbed his hands.

  “And all of ’em passing out free pussy.” Trymm led the way across St. Mary Street.

  A large oval sign, with THE TROLLEY STOP CAFÉ painted in bold green letters, was plastered under the flat roof, right above the door. OPEN 24/7 was displayed in caps on a white banner that stretched column-to-column, ten feet in front of the wooden green-painted wheelchair ramp. The red neon OPEN sign in the window was always lit. The twenty-two-year-old establishment, designed like a real city car—faded maroon framed windows gave the appearance diners were eating on the trolley—could easily be mistaken for being half a century old.

  A staple in the community, the restaurant commanded a hefty crowd all day during Essence Festival weekend. Too many badass females to count, the line snaked around the island centered in the parking lot, extending to the sidewalk. The all-too-familiar two-hours-plus wait wasn’t for the crewe.

  “Excuse us.” Trymm opened the door.

  The humidity welcomed the morning sunshine as four of New Orl
eans’s finest eligible bachelors entered the standing-room-only café. At a glance, it was clear that beautiful, scantily dressed women outnumbered the men three to one.

  “Glad you texted me, bro. Thanks for holding down the fort for us.” Trymm patted his eldest brother, Walter, on the back as Walter and his three friends stood. Trymm, Kohl, Blitz, and Dallas settled onto four of the six barstools at the counter.

  Walter placed his hand on Trymm’s shoulder. “No problem. You know I got you.”

  A gentleman in a crimson buttoned-down shirt had three top buttons undone. A gold cross lay flat on his furry patch of gray chest hairs. His matching colored shorts were meticulously creased. Standing erect, he confronted Walter. “Man, no disrespect, but we been waiting to be seated for over an hour.” He conspicuously clutched his Bible over his heart.

  “None taken, but y’all gon’ hafta wait a little longer. Ya heard me.” Walter, a six-three, 250-pound former professional wrestler, wasn’t asking.

  Trymm, Kohl, Blitz, and Dallas pushed their stool toward the counter. Stood facing the man. Dallas eased his hand into his pocket, gripped the handle of his gun. The crewe knew the dirty South could get filthy without notice. Dallas was always strapped.

  “Bay-bay, y’all sure looking extra fine today! Sit.” Dana, the crewe’s usual waitress, wiped away the food particles on the forest-green top, slapped menus in front of the fellas. “I got y’all in a sec, Trymm.” Mixing orange juice and champagne into a plastic container, Dana stacked four red acrylic tumblers on her tray, then headed toward the main dining room.

  The Trolley Stop Café had three areas—the bar was to the left upon entry; the street car section was to the right, up three stairs and another right; the interior was to the right up three steps, then left. Each square table was the same lacquer-coated cherrywood. Forty tables, 166 seats. Not one chair was empty.

  Walter redirected his attention to Trymm. “I’ll swing by and help Penny set up, but don’t be chillin’ all morning with these cats.” Walter scanned the eyes of Trymm’s friends. “Chasing pussy will leave you eating in the dark, gentlemen.” Walter positioned his wrist in front of Trymm’s face, pushed the start button on his stopwatch. “You’ve got two hours tops. See you at noon. Sharp. Not twelve-o-one.”

  Trymm clenched his teeth, braced himself. Being the youngest among ten children had benefits, and drawbacks. No need to respond. Walter wasn’t asking, nor was he joking.

  A wrestling competitor in high school and college, Walter, at the age of forty-five, had muscles solid as boulders. He bench-pressed three times his weight every morning before sunrise. “I have to make tracks to open my restaurant, and Penny can’t manage this incoming Essence Fest crowd by herself. Shit gon’ be busier tomorrow, so don’t even bring your black ass ova here.” He punched Trymm on the arm. Trymm leaned into Kohl, then sat up straight. “And don’t forget to give me your twenty-five hundred for Mom and Dad’s fiftieth anniversary party next month.”

  Trymm dug into his pants, peeled off twenty-five C-notes, slapped them in his brother’s hand.

  Walter stuffed the cash in his wallet. “Keep flashing. One of these fools gon’ bust you upside the head and empty all your pockets. Your ass gon’ get got too, Blitz. Let that Rolex rest. Y’all too old to say none of you have a wife. Trymm, what you holding out for? Disrespecting the family’s last name and shit. Francine ain’t going nowhere. Get the ring or I’ma get it for you. You’re proposing at Mom and Dad’s event. An hour and fifty-eight, Trymm.” Walter followed his buddies out the door.

  Trymm sat on the edge of his seat, planted one foot on the floor, the other on the bridge below, tightened his lips, looked at his crewe.

  Blitz stared back at him. The watch was a family heirloom (from his grandfather) gifted to him by his father when he’d graduated from college. “What? You sour, nigga? At least you have a tribe of siblings. Wish big Walt was my brother for real. Being an only child is the worst. I still get blamed for shit I didn’t do.”

  Sixteen years separated Trymm from Walter. Trymm was blessed to stand six inches taller than the brother who was like his second father. Disciplinarian was the role Walter assumed when they were kids. Mom, a housewife, and with their dad working sunrise to sunset each day of the week to make sure all of his kids had degrees and owned a business, Walter stepped up to help their mom, and he didn’t hesitate to beat an ass or two when he felt it was necessary.

  “Squash the monologue, Blitz. Man, I’ve been tripping all morning off of how weak black women are. They hawking us right now. Bet we could fuck a dozen each. That, and the fact that we’re all about to hit dat big three-o this year. When we gon’ slow our roll?”

  People heading to and from the restrooms walked sideways, squeezing their way between the back of the barstools and the customers lined along the wall. One more row of twelve diners and no one would have enough space to move.

  Unfolding the Times-Picayune newspaper Walter had left behind, Trymm Dupree adjusted the crotch of his gray, white, and black camouflage cargo shorts, giving his seven flaccid inches space to stretch out.

  He stroked his freshly shaved head, where three-carat-diamond studs lit up both of Trymm’s ears. Blackberry skin coated with coconut oil glistened on his flawlessly smooth face, thick lips, toned biceps, long athletic legs, all the way down to his pedicured feet, which rested in black leather open-toed sandals. Trymm scanned the front page of the metro section, slid the remainder one counter space over to Kohl.

  “We should do some unforgettable shit!” Kohl peeled off the sport pages. “Let’s take a thirty-day trip, dip to the DR, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, St. Martin, the Bahamas. Wherever it’s hot, the chicks are freaks, and they won’t hesitate to suck all of our dicks for the price”—nodding upward, he gave the crewe a tight smile that barely showed his teeth—“of a po’boy.”

  Blitz slapped Kohl on the nape of his neck. “The dime a dozen are in Brazil, nigga.”

  “Well, Rio de Janeiro, Ipanema, then,” Kohl snapped back. “You ain’t Walter. I’ll take you down. You know what I meant.”

  Standing at six-two, tipping the scale at 270 pounds, Kohl was an only child. Unlike the rest of his crewe, Kohl’s midsection was flabby and wide. From his hairline to his ankles, a stray bullet wouldn’t hit him in the ass. Kohl’s toasted-almond skin had red undertones from his Indian heritage. His jet-black hair was braided into a foot-long ponytail. Letting it down drew too much attention. Adopted son of a preacher man and a stay-at-home mom, Kohl wasn’t permitted to pierce or tattoo any parts of his temple. His gold polo, with a fleur-de-lis logo, black slacks, and lace-up, hard-sole shoes were the most casual he’d dress.

  “Fuck all that flight hopping, so it won’t get back to Rev. and the First Lady. When I was stationed in Afghanistan, Dubai was my one-stop shop for all the pussy I wanted.” Dallas smiled, lifted his left brow. “I had women from all the places you mentioned”—he pointed at Kohl, then touched each finger as he continued—“and add Africa, Asia, Australia, Russia. They were all within a few blocks’ radius, and that’s not half the list. And, hear me out, paying for pussy over there is legit.”

  Dallas didn’t have an incentive to return to the United States while he was enlisted in the military, so he vacationed abroad. With two half-brothers by his father, Hawk, they might as well all have been dead, Dallas’s combat buddies became his overseas family. The crewe was as close as he’d come to having brothers stateside. During deployment he’d gone eighteen months without seeing a woman he didn’t have to kill.

  Their section was packed. Squeezing had turned into pushing and shoving. A few verbal confrontations erupted. The newest owner, son of the original founder, yelled, “I need everyone to clear this aisle. Now. If you do not have a space to stand against the wall, if you’re not going to the restroom, wait outside.” Maroon dude with the cross secured his position in front of the window. None of the crewe inched their seats closer to the counter.

  Kohl, as usual, had to pro
ve he knew a lil more about the subject at hand. “And they let you have babes waiting in your bed when you check into your hotel room.”

  “Touché.” Dallas didn’t want to get into a pissing match with Kohl over the trivial when Dallas had more firsthand experiences than he could count. “It’s hypocritical. Kinda like how your folks know you own that strip club and hookah lounge, but they take your tithes under the table.”

  The smallest of the crewe, five-ten, 180 pounds, 80 percent of Dallas’s left side of his body, from his chin down, was covered in tattoos. There was nothing to fight for after his mother drowned in their house during Katrina. The military trained him to kill the enemy. Problem now was determining who the real enemy was. Being raised in a Baptist church didn’t save his soul. Dallas harbored animosity for God. Post-traumatic stress disorder was God’s fault.

  Blitz joined in. “All pussy taste different, but when I’m ready to bust a nut, smashing is the same. I don’t care where’s she’s from, long as she ain’t dumb. I’m gon’ get mine, if that bitch doesn’t get hers, that’s on her.” He snagged the front part of the paper leaving the classifieds for Dallas.

  “Y’all see all the fine sistahs jam-packed up in here?” Kohl pointed out. “I’m not driving to the West Bank for a ‘bj,’ and that’s five minutes away, ya heard me.”

  The ratio was now five females—high heels, hair flawless, makeup impeccable—to every guy as departing guests changed seats with new customers. Laughter and chatter drowned out the background music as men made new acquaintances with jovial women.