Baddest Apple

by Nisa Santiago

  Corey continued. “A fool and her money are easily parted, and before you ask for clarification, that means that you should take everything she has before you kill her. That way, you don’t have to keep going in search of satisfaction. You’ll get what you want. The streets will call out your name because you’ll have put in the work. You want the crown? Take it, but if you take it, everyone will know you didn’t earn it.”

  This wasn’t exactly the advice she thought she would get, especially after a lingering beef had resulted in his son getting murdered. “The game says that I kill her. She’s a liability, and those are the rules.”

  “Make her pay a toll before she passes through to the other side. Listen to me, young blood, or else you won’t be able to retire your name from the game anytime soon. Get your numbers up, make noise, and make them take notice. If you murder Queenie now, you’ll just be the nobody who took out a somebody. Force the culture to remember that you’re a formidable adversary.”

  “I’ll need some triggermen.”

  “Buy them.”

  Apple’s thirst to be the baddest was clouding her judgment, and her promise to Kola to take the children while she worked on her sanity quickly took a backseat. Before Apple left the visit, she gave Corey a tight hug, and although unplanned but still satisfying, she gave him a quick kiss on the side of his cheek. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed by them both. Corey smiled sheepishly. A row of bright white teeth showed his gratitude.

  “See you soon, Pops.”

  “Be safe, Apple.”

  Corey went back to his cell and had to stuff his feelings back down the dark hole they crept out of. It was too easy manipulating Apple to go against the L.E.S. Crips. As much as she had chipped away at his tough exterior, he swore an act of vengeance to his only son at his funeral. Corey tried to counsel Nick that women destroyed men, but he wouldn’t listen. He was pussy whipped. Corey Davis was an old head. He had seen what had happened to his son happen to countless men.

  It was time for Apple Evans to go to her grave. How that would transpire was out of his hands, but he took comfort in knowing he was the catalyst that would cause her demise.

  12

  If Apple wanted a strong, loyal team on her side, she knew exactly where to start. She drove to Lincoln projects looking for Hood and IG. It was a chilly, autumn day when she parked across the street from the corner bodega. There was a confrontation ensuing, and Apple noticed that Tokyo was in it. She was arguing with a few other girls. Three girls against one, and that one was Tokyo. But Tokyo was undaunted by them and their threats. She heatedly stepped toward the three girls with a fierce attitude. She yelled, “I wish y’all would try me!”

  “Ain’t nobody scared of you!” one girl screamed.

  “What you gonna do, bitch?” Tokyo taunted.

  It didn’t take long for the heated argument to transition into a violent confrontation. Tokyo threw the first punch, and that set it off. The three girls returned blows; angry fists and strong kicks stomped Tokyo to the ground, but she kept getting back up. The fighting was intense with punches being thrown so forcefully, Apple could hear each fist connect to the skin from across the street. One opponent was built like a linebacker, a husky broad with a wide back and thick waist, and she had the most energy. She wanted to make a statement. The female had wrapped her strong hands around a chunk of Tokyo’s hair and repeatedly smashed her in her face. A crowd gathered, watching and egging on the violence. Tokyo was face-up in the melee going at every last one of her enemies with all she had. Tokyo was fighting like she belonged in the UFC. But it was still three against one. She tussled with these bitches taking hits and kicks to her face and side. So, to even the numbers, Tokyo quickly pulled out a razor, and the linebacker-looking bitch didn’t see it coming. The slash against the girl’s face was subtle and swift. It wasn’t until the girl felt a coat of blood trickling down her face that she flew into sheer panic.

  “Yo, that bitch cut me!” the girl shouted frantically.

  The side of her face had opened like a zipper. Things went from a fight to a vicious assault, and her friends quickly paused to see if they were cut too. Tokyo gripped the box cutter tightly and continued to swing, hoping to do additional damage.

  “Back the fuck up, bitch! You bitches thought y’all were goin’ to just fuckin’ jump me? Fuckin’ jump me!” she shouted.

  It was time for Apple to intervene. She removed herself from her vehicle and did a slow jog across the street. She approached the confrontation with authority in her stride—with determination and purpose. The bystanders thought that the trouble was about to escalate with Apple’s sudden presence, but it didn’t. She was there to defuse the conflict.

  Apple looked at Tokyo, whose face was lumped up. Her chest was heaving up and down, and Apple could see that at any second she was about to burst into tears. She whispered, “Don’t let them see you shed one fuckin’ tear. Swallow those emotions.”

  Tokyo nodded, gritted her teeth, and fought to hold back her tears. She continued to seethe, though. She wanted to do more damage with her blade, making them all feel as fucked up as she did.

  The young girl with the ghastly slash across her face was howling and crying, clutching the side of her face and vowing revenge.

  “That fuckin’ bitch cut me,” she continued to rant.

  It was serious. It would require stitches and maybe surgery.

  Apple reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. She gave the cut girl nearly three thousand dollars for her pain and suffering.

  “Keep this quiet, you understand?” she ordered. “Take care of your bills, and I’ll bless you later.”

  The girls were stumped. But they knew the code of the streets: keep y’all mouths shut, no snitching.

  Tokyo was still fuming. The box cutter was still clutched in her tight fist, and it looked like she wanted to keep swinging away and cutting.

  Apple said, “Let’s go.”

  Apple made Tokyo toss the weapon down a sewer drain, and she handed the girl a napkin to wipe the blood from her hands. Tokyo followed Apple to the eighth floor where Hood lived. She banged on his door like she was five-oh.

  “Yo, Hood, open up!” She banged again. Apple was impatient. She wanted to handle what she came to the projects for and then head out to Kola’s to see Peaches. She turned toward Tokyo and asked, “Do you know if he’s home?”

  Tokyo shook her head. She was trying to keep her composure, but now she wanted to curse Apple out. Just a couple moments ago she was jumped, so all she wanted to do was go home and nurse her wounds. All she kept thinking about was her face. How fucked up was it? She could feel the scratches running down her cheeks. The open wounds stung and one of her eyes felt different as if it were about to get puffy.

  “You did good back there. You know how to handle yourself. I like that. I respect that,” Apple complimented the girl.

  “Them bitches had it coming,” Tokyo said, rubbing her forehead.

  The girl had fire, and she was pretty too, with flawless brown skin and natural soft black hair she always kept in a bun. Tokyo only wore black catsuits that showed off her starter curves.

  “Call Hood.” Apple gave the order, and she listened. Tokyo reached down for her phone when Hood and IG exited the elevator. Both men paused, seeing figures in front of Hood’s door and then quickly acquiesced.

  “Yo, Apple, you gonna live a long time. I was just talking ’bout you. What’s good, baby girl?” Hood said.

  “Can we talk inside?”

  Hood led everyone inside his three-bedroom project apartment. His great-grandmother, Annabell, who raised him and his two brothers, was knocked out asleep in the back bedroom. She was old-school sixty-six, so although she looked no older than forty, her body felt like she was well into her eighties. Hood was the only surviving sibling. Both of his brothers were murdered. His mot
her lived in Baltimore and hardly ever came around. Apple looked around his apartment at the dated furniture, dingy walls, roaches scattering about, and a smell that referenced unsanitary hygiene habits. It was all too familiar—this was her situation about a decade ago. Apple would never forget where she came from, so she didn’t put on bougie airs. She took a seat on the worn sofa and was ready to get down to business.

  “Damn, what happened to your face?” IG asked Tokyo, finally noticing her wounds.

  Tokyo still had her lips poked out and was more than eager to give a recap of her latest squabble. Apple desperately wanted to interrupt. She hadn’t come here for the spotlight to be on Tokyo, but she let the young girl live. Tokyo told her war story while Hood passed out glasses of Henny and lit up a couple blunts. He took a pull from one of the blunts and passed it around.

  When it was time for Apple to speak, she got straight to the point. Apple’s eyes were low; she was faded but still focused.

  “I need some shooters on my team—thoroughbreds that if shit got thick, I would feel safe with my life in their hands.”

  “Whatever you need, you know I gotchu,” said Hood. This was an opportunity of a lifetime. For years he tried to come up on his own only to repeatedly fail. His hands saw no success, and he caught a few cases. Hood knew how to hustle and also had a skilled trigger finger, but he also needed guidance. Some people were born leaders; that was Apple. And some needed to be led. Hood knew he was the former and wasn’t ashamed to admit his shortcomings. Working with Apple, a hood legend in her own right, could ultimately be a big payday.

  Apple looked to IG.

  “You already know what it is. Let’s make this paper,” said IG.

  “I need a team to watch my back, but my enemy may be a friend. Things could get ugly—no, things will get ugly. So, I need to know where your loyalties will lie.”

  “A friend? We don’t got friends if it will interfere wit’ us makin’ our paper,” Hood said and gave IG a dap. Both men knew they would kill each other if pushed. It was just a silent fact in the hood that was never spoken.

  “Good, but full disclosure: it’s Queenie.”

  “Queenie?” IG repeated. His response lingered in the air as everyone either pulled on a blunt or took a sip of brown juice.

  Apple said, “That bitch came to where I lay my head at night and tried to murder me.”

  IG shook his head. Queenie always had heart since she was a young girl, but her downfall would ultimately be her inability to control her jealousy. He spoke, “So this is a hit? You want us to handle her for you?”

  Hood jumped in. “How much you payin’?”

  “Nah, that’s not what this is. I’m back to moving weight. My connect has that premium white powder, 97% pure. I need skilled shooters to help me move it through Manhattan and the Bronx, and maybe in the future, expand to Brooklyn, Queens, and Staten Island. With this crazy bitch on my ass, my re-entry into the game will not be unopposed.”

  Hood and IG thought quickly about what this meant. They looked at each other, and their eyes were speaking the same language.

  “Why don’t we just body her? I mean, Queenie is cool peoples, but fuck, we gotta eat,” said Hood.

  “We will. But for now, Queenie lives. We move on her when I say and not one day before.” Apple looked sternly into their eyes so they could see the seriousness of her direct order. “But, we need to send her a message. Let her know that my team is stronger than ever. Y’all know where she lives?”

  Both thought this was a mistake, but she was the boss. IG answered, “Nah, but she does own a restaurant.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Eventually, Tokyo spoke. “Do you think you could find a position for me? I mean, I’ve sold drugs before—nothing major, but I know the game. And I could really use the money.”

  “How old are you?” Apple asked.

  “Nineteen.”

  Apple looked to Hood and IG. “Y’all vouch for her?”

  Without hesitation, IG said, “We do.”

  Apple looked at Tokyo. “Don’t let me down.”

  Apple climbed out of her vehicle on 135th Street and walked toward Hood’s project building. Lincoln Houses was a dangerous neighborhood, but it had birthed her and Kola who were like gods to the locals—not to be fucked with. She strutted confidently through the grubby looking lobby and stepped into the pissy elevator. Using her thumb and index finger, she pinched her nostrils as she ascended to the top floor. Apple exited and knocked on door 15D, and the round slot in the door quickly slid back for the occupant to see who was there. The reinforced steel door flung open, and Apple walked inside.

  She smiled at what she considered a white Christmas. Snow had arrived early—fifteen kilos of cocaine spread out across the wooden kitchen table. It had arrived directly from the Mingo cartel in hidden compartments of several vehicles. The kilos went from various tractor trailers out of Zacatecas across the Mexican border into El Paso, Texas heading east. The cocaine was then transferred to awaiting transport vehicles. Hood and IG, Apple’s lieutenants, were at the meeting point to collect their portion of the two thousand kilos smuggled into the United States.

  Apple nodded toward one of her newly minted workers in the trap house and said, “Get me the purity kit so I can test this product. See if it really is as good as Caesar says.”

  The young goon obliged his boss and lifted his ass from his chair and grabbed the supplies. The worker stood in front of the table and pulled out a small pocket knife. A small slit was cut into one of the packaged kilos, and he extracted about 15mg of cocaine. The coke was placed in an ampoule with clear liquid and shaken. Everyone focused on the results of the test, watching the transparent liquid change colors. Instantly, the bottom layer turned dark like coffee, indicative that the product was 97% pure.

  Apple grinned. This product would monopolize the streets and cement her claim as the baddest chick that had ever done it. She was the rightful Queen of New York, and she was ready to make niggas and bitches bow down to her.

  “What we waitin’ on?” Apple said. “Let’s get this coke street-ready.”

  Apple’s workers jumped into action, processing a part of the cocaine into cooked crack rocks. The remaining ki’s were to be sold at massive profit margins to local distributors in Manhattan and the Bronx. Apple lit a Newport and inhaled, enjoying the sudden rush of nicotine as it entered her system. Apple and her lieutenants walked out of the kitchen, allowing the workers to do what they did best—cook coke and bag up crack vials. They went into the next room to politick. There was a problem. In the drug game, there was always opposition.

  IG set the tone. “Once this shit takes off we wanted to pull your coat to a possible threat. You haven’t been to Lincoln in years, and this is now L.O.E. territory.”

  Apple grimaced. All these acronyms were annoying. What happened to individuality? The days when a singular person held shit down like Nicky Barnes, Rich Porter, Corey Davis, Cocá Kola, and, not to brag, but Apple—The Baddest Chick. “Who the fuck is L.O.E.?”

  “Lincoln Ova Everything gang, not to be confused wit’ the Lower Eastside Crips. They ain’t puttin’ in the work we ’bout to do. They’re low-level but still dangerous.”

  Apple rolled her eyes. “The first lil’ nigga from that crew that’s bold enough to give a stern look, grit his teeth, clench his jaw in the direction of anyone under our umbrella y’all make an example out of him. Don’t call me to approve the hit, just do it. Do it fast, quick, and messy. Make a muthafuckin’ statement that we’re not to be fucked wit’. Understood?”

  IG and Hood nodded. This is how they wanted to get at L.E.S., but she was the shot caller.

  13

  The sleek vehicle double-parked on the busy Midtown street, and Tokyo coolly exited from the driver’s seat and came around to open Apple’s rear door. Apple climbed out of the Maserati wearing a red
Balmain bodycon dress that complemented her figure and a pair of strappy YSL heels. Pulling up directly behind the Maserati were Hood and IG. Both men had dressed for the occasion in designer suits that Apple had paid for.

  El Tempo’s in Midtown looked like a star-studded occasion. It was the perfect venue for the most sophisticated Latin celebrations, and it was conveniently in the heart of Manhattan. The long city block was inundated with high-end vehicles being valet-parked—Bentleys, Maybachs, Porsches, Benzes, Beamers, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis.

  Apple strutted toward the venue flanked by Hood and IG. Tokyo remained posted up outside. She would be Apple’s eyes.

  Standing outside of the venue were two stunning females—models, dressed sexily in mini dresses. One was a tall and slim Puerto Rican female, and the other was a tall and slender white female. Together, they guarded over a list. They smiled politely at the approaching guests and checked for their names. Poised nearby was an ominous looking man dressed in a dark suit and dark shades. He was muscle—a gunman.

  Apple stopped midblock and inspected the area. She knew she was taking a chance by showing up to the event unannounced and uninvited. But this is who she was: someone who always took risks. Apple knew to tread carefully. Therefore, she sent IG ahead to the front entrance of El Tempo’s to see if he could bribe their way in.

  IG moved with conviction. He approached the two ladies and tried to initiate conversation with them. He was quickly dismissed. IG was told that they weren’t allowed inside if they weren’t on the list. The two women found the incentive he tried to offer offensive. There were too many influential people inside, and anyone slipping into the event uninvited could be a threat.

  IG marched back to Apple with the news. “Shit is tight, Apple, and they ain’t taking no bribes.”

  Apple stood there expressionless. She was determined to make her way into the building—where there was a will, there was a way. The last thing she wanted to do was involve her sister, but there wasn’t another option.