Baddest Apple

by Nisa Santiago

  At the end of one block, Touch came across Apple and some young associates of hers loitering around a few parked cars. Apple stood out in her gold dress; it wasn’t too sexy, but she had that certain je n’ais se quoi that made him pause. She was posted up on the hood of a car and sipping something from a red plastic cup, most likely liquor. Besides looking remarkable, she was also the center of attention. The way she stood out amongst the hundreds of strangers moving about was a testament to her beauty. He liked what he saw, and he made his way over. Seeing Touch moving closer to her, Apple admired the lean, nicely dressed, and physically-fit nigga looking like a snack.

  “Hood, whaddup?” said Touch as he walked over and gave him dap.

  “Yo, my man,” Hood blurted out, a little too loud. He was about one drink past drunk. “I’m glad you came through!”

  Touch was facing Hood but looking at Apple staring too. “Let me holler at you for a moment.” Both Touch and Hood walked to the side a couple feet away from the others.

  “So what’s up wit’ shorty?”

  Hood didn’t even have to ask who. He knew what type of women Touch liked; always five-star beauties. If it wasn’t some C-list celebrity like a K. Michelle or Keyshia Cole, then he was fucking some Love & Hip Hop reality T.V. chick.

  “That’s Apple.”

  Touch smiled. He hadn’t ever fucked an Apple. “That’s her man?”

  Hood smirked. “Who? IG? Nah, she just came through. We ain’t seen her in years.”

  “Shorty wifed up?”

  “Why you askin’ me? Go shoot ya shot, nigga.”

  Touch nodded.

  They both walked back over, and within seconds, Touch was offered Hennessy and weed. He declined both.

  Touch walked closer to Apple, invading her personal space. He gazed intently into her eyes without breaking his stare and asked, “You having a good time?”

  “At this five-star resort? The blue sea and soft, cottony sand are just what the doctor ordered,” she replied dryly.

  He chuckled. “Nah, I know this ain’t Cancun, but it’s live out here.”

  “It’s a fuckin’ block party.”

  “True.” Touch nodded. “What’s your name? What you about?”

  “What I’m about?” she repeated.

  “It’s not a hard question to answer. Hopefully, you’re more than just a pretty face.”

  Apple smirked. “Look, you blowin’ my high. If I wanted to be interviewed, I would apply for a job.”

  Touch’s head quickly swiveled to make sure no one had heard her. Usually, when he pushed up, women responded to his advances. Touch tried again. “I’m just tryin’ to get to know who you are.”

  “The feeling ain’t mutual,” she said. “Yo, Tokyo, any more brown juice?” Apple ignored Touch and had no issue bumping his shoulder as she pushed past him. There was cockiness about him she didn’t like, as if his name was ringing bells. He was a nobody. Besides, she was still in mourning over Nick.

  Touch took the disrespect. He figured those gladiator sandals had her thinking she had a royal title. And then he listened to the chitchat. Hood, IG, and Tokyo kept giving her props for handling her business in South Beach. Touch watched as the conceited female grinned, drinking in all the adulation one person could receive.

  Apparently, she did something great in Miami.

  The caravan of glamorous vehicles made it look like a celebrity had just arrived. The display was a showstopper. Everyone turned and gawked at the chauffeur-driven Maybach and four matching onyx-black Range Rovers that came to a stop on 7th Avenue, where Apple and her people were lingering. It seemed like Harlem had frozen momentarily as the onlookers watched in anticipation to see who would get out of the car. To everyone’s surprise, a slim male figure got out dressed in a black tailored suit. Hastily he made his way toward the rear door of the vehicle and opened it. Even Apple caught herself unable to turn away from the spectacle—her conversation with Tokyo came to an abrupt end.

  A female climbed out of the vehicle, and Apple instantly realized she was the same woman previously in the Tesla. She was wearing a garish blue ensemble; tight skirt, blouse, and stilettos. She was short and thick in the right places, dark-chocolate, jet black curly hair with blue and pink highlights, but what caught Apple’s attention was that she had heterochromia—one brown and one aqua blue eye. The blue eye had a tattooed teardrop that was supposed to represent murder in gang culture. Her face was small and pointy like a mouse, and some might say she had an exotic beauty.

  Apple instantly felt the shift. The attention was no longer on her and her adventures in South Beach. She suddenly became yesterday’s news as the crowd treated this woman like she was the mayor of the city—the head bitch of Harlem. Everything about this whore enraged Apple.

  Her goons had grabbed people’s attention too. They stood on the block wearing all black in the summer heat with blue handkerchiefs or bandanas dangling from their back pockets, which indicated that they were Crips.

  When her men opened each hatch to the Ranges and removed cases of Ace of Spades champagne, Apple wondered, Who is this bitch?

  Stranger after stranger was given a thousand-dollar bottle of bubbly like it was quarter water. It wasn’t enough for this woman to show up on the block at Harlem Week looking like a rich bitch; she brought gifts for everyone. They passed out at least two hundred bottles.

  “It ain’t a partay until I come thru, right?” she shouted, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Simultaneously the Range Rovers blasted Despacito featuring Daddy Yankee, and her tiny frame was then hoisted up by her men, and she stood on the hood of her Maybach in stilettos and pranced back and forth like she was on a disco dance floor. Her feet were stepping quickly as her hips and hands moved in opposite directions. Apple assumed she was a Latina, from her looks, most likely Dominican, doing some sort of salsa dancing. She cringed at the spectacle but couldn’t yank her eyes away.

  Apple glared at the episode, gritted her teeth, and thought, Why didn’t I think of that shit? When the song ended, the crowd erupted in cheers and claps, and the female was helped back down to eye level by her men. But that wasn’t the only blow to Apple’s ego; she turned around to see that Touch was gone too. She found him with this showy bitch all of sudden, in her face and downing champagne.

  “Snake muthafucka,” she uttered. “Our Henny and weed weren’t good enough for this nigga?”

  Finally, Apple caught her attention, most likely because she was glaring so forcefully. The two women exchanged hard, dirty looks. Apple wanted to drag her out her tacky outfit. She turned to Hood and asked, “Yo, who is that bitch?”

  “You don’t know Queenie? They call her the Queen of New York.”

  “Queen of New York?” Apple laughed.

  “Yeah, it’s a spinoff of her name,” Hood added. “She’s no joke.”

  Apple frowned heavily. Her jealousy was palpable. Right away, Apple felt resentment like she’d never felt before. Harlem was her turf—her playground, her territory. So who was this bitch infringing upon her legacy?

  Feeling the heat emanating from Apple, Queenie made it her business to approach the girl with the attitude. She strutted toward Apple with purpose. Apple removed herself from the hood of the car and braced herself for a fight—if it came to that. She kept her eyes on Queenie. Let this bitch try sumthin’, she said to herself.

  She entered Apple’s arena and said, “IG, introduce me to your friend.”

  “Queenie, this Apple. I know you heard of her.”

  Queenie shadily cut her eyes at Apple. “Not at all.”

  IG and Hood looked taken aback by her reply. “Word! Her name has been ringing bells since she was in high school. She put in work. You never heard of Apple?”

  “Not even a whisper.” Queenie shrugged. “Apple . . . nah, nothing.”

  “You better put some respect on my na
me when you speak it, bitch!”

  Queenie gave a mocking chuckle, and then she walked away.

  Apple intensely stared at the girl in silence. The mockery she was trying to make of her—of her name and reputation—it was uncalled for. Apple knew she was petty. She was ready to speak with her fists and not words. Apple clenched her fingers into tight weapons and was prepared to snatch Queenie out her fuckin’ heels—show this bitch how a true Harlem bitch got down. But Hood stopped her. He grabbed her forearm, startling her for a moment, and he quickly and quietly said to her, “Another time, Apple. Not here.”

  Apple glared at Hood and then acquiesced. She knew he was right; it wasn’t the place or the time to act ignorant.

  Queenie and her crew of goons hopped back into their vehicles, and they sped out with her leaving just as extravagantly as they came.

  One thing was certain, though. Queenie was now on Apple’s radar.

  5

  The unassuming church on Castle Hill Avenue in the South Bronx, nestled between the fading mom and pop businesses on the commercial street, had become a steeple of faith, hope, and pride in the urban district. The church had been around for nearly a decade, and it had a growing congregation of almost a hundred members. Pastor Kenneth Foster, a local and esteemed clergyman, and his staff had founded influential programs such as At Youth Kids in the Bronx community that involved schooling, mentorships, and guidance. Their efforts included assistance for pregnant teen mothers, helping troubled kids defect from gangs, and guiding kids from abusive homes into becoming flourishing men and women. They were trying to turn their impoverished neighborhood into a positive image. The First Baptist Ministry and Pastor Foster had become pillars in the community plagued with gangs, poverty, drugs, police brutality, and racial discrimination. The South Bronx was reverting to a forgotten area—a haven for the undesirables and drug users, where the gangs felt they had control over the residences, the streets, and even the local authorities. And many individuals were finding the church an asylum from the burdens they faced out there.

  Pastor Foster was well liked, educated, and admired, even by some gang members. He was one man that preached the hard truth and was unapologetic for his actions. Foster was an up-in-your-face kind of man—a black brother with a plan for his people. Foster stood a tall and proud guy; lean with a grayish goatee, low salt-and-pepper hair, and deep, dark, smoldering eyes. He was a handsome man who dressed handsomely too. He was unmarried but had a following of ladies that yearned to develop into his first lady of the church.

  The night was growing late in the summer month. The traffic outside the church had grown sparse, and the church was finally empty. He was the last man standing. Earlier, it was a packed place with worshipers singing energetically and praising the Lord wholeheartedly. Pastor Foster had preached about answered prayers, how you must leave your troubles at God’s feet and then have faith as small as a mustard seed to overcome adversity. He spoke on how people, especially young men and women, do not pray. “Prayer is the answer!” he announced unequivocally and passionately. “God is your provider!”

  It was a powerful sermon, and it had many of the congregation lifting to their feet in agreement and clapping their hands. Pastor Foster was the truth. He was a man of the cloth and a man that the neighborhood needed. Foster cared for everyone, from the youth to the elderly. He was their pillar—their rock that was unmoving and unshakeable. He was the church’s anchor.

  Pastor Foster strolled through the sanctuary aisles, inspecting the pews and picking up trash left behind, trying to keep his church clean. He was a proud, content man and wealthy for a local Bronx preacher. The gold Patek Philippe watch peeking from under his shirt sleeve showed that.

  The dimmed church and the quietness were welcoming for him. He needed the solitude. Finishing in the sanctuary, he moved to the hallway and made his way down into the basement. Though the church was mid-size, the basement was like a giant labyrinth—a place that more than a few have gotten lost in.

  The pastor went to an iron door secured by a massive bolt lock. He opened it and stepped into a modest-sized dark room. Closing the door behind him, he turned on the lights and stared at what was being kept inside—chattel. Two young women, ages eighteen and nineteen, were gagged with thick cloths shoved into their mouths and flex cuffs around their wrists and ankles, restricting their movement. They were beaten and afraid. Pastor Foster approached them with a remorselessness that years of being marginalized and emasculated in his youth had formed. He crouched near the captives and said, “Soon, they will come for you.”

  Unbeknownst to everyone, Pastor Foster had been trafficking young women for profit. The church would be the last place anyone would come looking for them. He worked with a gang called the Lower Eastside Crips, and for nearly two years they had been moving women like cargo via pipeline routes from New York, passing through Toronto, and ultimately ending in Ontario, Canada. Human trafficking had high profit margins and risks lower than moving illegal firearms or drug distribution. Young girls and women were disappearing like magic acts, and no one gave a fuck. Sometimes an article or exposé would make the rounds through national media focusing on sex-trafficked women—which was an affront to all those who were trafficked for cheap labor. To publish an article of the voices of these women would open an old wound that right-wing conservative Americans like to gloss over: slavery. Free labor was what America was built on. Free labor was what they would sell these two migrant women for. And the profits that came from this helped finance Pastor Foster’s lavish lifestyle.

  Staring at the young and scared women, he felt no remorse for his dubious actions. It was business. The teary-eyed and afraid merchandise didn’t speak one word of English. They were Asian, smuggled in by the Yakuza Japanese crime syndicate, who placed a large tab on each head in return for getting the women into the United States. If the tab wasn’t paid off, then death would be imminent. The Yakuza was easy prey because their numbers were dwindling each year. The L.E.S. Crips sat back and allowed the Yakuza to do all the heavy lifting, which was getting the women to America, and then subtly snatched them up whenever the opportunity presented itself. They wouldn’t be missed. They wouldn’t be reported missing.

  “Do not be afraid. Go with God, and He will make the way. He will give you courage during this time of darkness,” he said to the girls, who did not understand his words. “God smiles down upon those who serve.”

  The girls cowered against the wall. Pastor Foster touched the frightened eighteen-year-old, but she cringed from him and whimpered. He wanted to lay hands on them and pray.

  “Father God, surround your humble servants with a spiritual hedge of protection to get them safely to Canada with no outside forces stopping their journey, Lord. I know you’re a God of miracles. You’re a just God, the God who raised His son from dead . . . Hallelujah . . . Yes, Lord, sanctify His holy name. In Jesus’s name, I say Amen.”

  He stood suddenly, pivoted, and exited the room. Once he locked the door, he heard an abrupt thud in the dark. It came from down the hallway—maybe it was something, perhaps it wasn’t. The church always made strange and unwanted noises at night. Still, something or nothing, Pastor Foster inspected where the noise came from. He walked toward the sound, turning the corner, and saw that a wooden cross had fallen from the wall. The anchor holding the cross came loose somehow. He shrugged it off. It was an old building and an ancient cross. He picked it up and placed it nearby, somewhere to be found by a member in the morning and let them hang it back up.

  “It’s always something in this old building,” he remarked.

  He ascended from the basement and into the sanctuary. The pastor glanced at his watch; it was going on midnight, and they scheduled the men for a midnight pickup. Once their merchandise was handed over, he would lock up and leave the building with his payment in hand. To kill some time, he crouched next to the podium on the platform, reached inside the hollo
w area, and removed a silver flask hidden underneath the podium behind a few Bibles. He unscrewed the top and took a swig of brown liquor—something needed. He stood on the platform for a moment, looking out at the empty pews that were filled with his congregation hours earlier. They were engrossed in his sermon and hanging on every word he preached. Pastor Foster always had the gift of gab.

  He chuckled at himself, knowing he had everyone fooled—the hypocrite he was. Earlier, he’d preached about the power of prayer, but he didn’t believe that doctrine. He was agnostic. Sure, he prayed. It was his shtick. It paid the bills, and he was good at it. He loved hearing his voice, and his narcissism kicked in each time he saw how people responded to his sermons. The women throughout the years would pray out loud to be rescued to a God they couldn’t prove existed. It was pitiful. He wondered how religion could last for as long as it had—how it could supersede logic and transcend all rational understanding. He sighed because he knew why. It was a hustle. And like all great hustles, it wasn’t going anywhere. He took his 10% off the top of everyone’s salary who parked their fat and skinny asses in his pews each week, and he had to do only what he loved most: talk and receive attention. He didn’t even have to rack his brain coming up with the sermons. Thanks to YouTube and podcasts, he would listen to mega-church pastors like Jakes and Osteen and take a little here, combine a little there, and then perform. And the best part of this scenario was that the government—the most significant organized crime faction of them all—couldn’t take one nickel of his earnings. Pastor Foster was living his best life.

  He took another mouthful from the flask, and the moment he removed the bottle from his lips, there was another echoing sound. It didn’t come from the basement, but nearby. Something was wrong, and Foster knew he wasn’t alone; he had unwanted company inside the church. He placed the flask back where he’d removed it, and he went toward the noise. Foster took several steps into the stillness of the church with slight apprehension. He looked around, but it was hard to see in the dimness. The moment he stepped off the platform, it suddenly felt like he was being surrounded by darkness—a robust shadow that seemed to come from out of nowhere—a grave threat. Abruptly, a forceful arm violently wrapped around his neck and squeezed. Immediately his breathing became shallow, and a struggle ensued between the pastor and his attacker. The battle was brief, as the sharp knife violently plunged into his spine and twisted, profoundly penetrating through his flesh. He jerked riotously from the feel of the knife sinking into his skin—and then the blade paralyzed him. His attacker repeatedly thrust the knife into his back, and the pastor fell to his knees, quickly succumbing to his injuries.