Baddest Apple

by Nisa Santiago

  “We can go out during the day and start our own investigation. We can ask around about the dealers and talk to the drug addicts and ask the names of their suppliers. We can keep our eyes and ears open and search for drug dens. We can gather information for the authorities, and hopefully, they can start making arrests from there.”

  Jorge thought about it for a minute. “Maybe, Gabriel . . . maybe.”

  At that very moment, Touch walked into the living room. “That’s what y’all not gonna do. This drug epidemic ain’t your business. Let it go.”

  “Why should we?” Gabriel challenged.

  “Yeah, why should we?” Jorge now cosigned.

  Touch stared at his father. The man was in his mid-fifties and still looked physically fit although he had been complaining lately that his health was failing him. Jorge stood six-two and was a powerhouse fighter back in his day. He would often brag to his son how he could knock a nigga out with one punch. He was balding yet still handsome, sporting a dark, black beard with one polka-dot-shaped patch of gray hair, which gave him a unique look.

  “I don’t want to see anyone get hurt.” Touch weighed his words. “There are some situations that I won’t be able to help you—y’all—with if shit got too crazy.”

  Jorge snorted. “You help us?” He looked at Gabriel. “Did you hear this? My son helps us.”

  “I’ve offered to help you financially, but you won’t take my money!”

  Jorge pursed his lips together, an action he knew sent his son over the edge. “I don’t know where your money comes from.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m dope, Pops. I don’t sell it.”

  Jorge’s eyes rolled. “There are other unscrupulous ways to make money.”

  “You know I play professional poker!”

  Touch’s voice elevated, and he hated that his father could always bring him to the brink of pure rage.

  Gabriel needed to intervene as usual and play the referee. “Malcolm, you know your father is a proud man and doesn’t like handouts. Please don’t be upset with him. He’s been feeling under the weather lately, and his insomnia is back.”

  “Don’t talk as if I’m not here, Gabriel. I told you about that.”

  Touch smirked. “Insomnia, huh? Is that what we’re calling it?”

  Gabriel looked at Jorge, looking at Touch. Father and son exchanged silent words before Touch grabbed his jacket and left.

  “What did he mean?” Gabriel demanded to know. “Are you having an affair?”

  “Affair?” Jorge roared. “With what energy!”

  Gabriel watched as Jorge stormed into their bedroom and slammed the door shut. It was another ruined Sunday dinner. He didn’t understand why Touch continued to come around each Sunday to see his father. It was a contentious relationship—clash of the Titans—yet there was codependency that couldn’t be broken.

  Gabriel looked out their second-story apartment window at all the shady activity below. He would not let the drug dealers get away with bringing down his community.

  He vowed to do something. It was time to react, and Gabriel felt that with Jorge by his side, they could help fight the war on drugs.

  It was a beautiful day for a rally and a public protest. Jorge and Gabriel were dressed for the event in comfortable sneakers, jeans, and windbreakers. They were a cute couple, both handsome men; distinguished most would say. They held hands as they joined in with the crowds of people gathered in front of Soundview projects in the Bronx. The march would start from the Bronx and end in Spanish Harlem. Hundreds of people carried signs opposing drug use, gang violence, and the decay of their neighborhood. They were sick and tired of the overdoses and the gang shootings plaguing the communities, and most were angered by the teen boy violently stabbed to death in the local bodega by a Latin gang. The local businesses had helped organize the march to protest dealers flooding their rebuilt neighborhood with narcotics.

  The people chanted, “We’re sick and tired, and the drugs must go! We’re sick and tired, and the gangs must go!”

  Their mantra could be heard for blocks. Castle Hill was swollen thick with people marching and chanting. Gabriel and Jorge soon blended in with the moving crowd, and they, too, chanted and became a blended voice. They continued to hold hands as they moved with the group, expressing their outrage and anger.

  The march throughout Castle Hill had attracted the local media, and bits and pieces of it were being televised. The community wanted to emphatically state to every drug dealer and drug fiend that they would not tolerate the demise of their area. They were ready to fight back and take back what they had built.

  “We’re sick and tired, and the drugs must go! We’re sick and tired, and the gangs must go!”

  Gentrification was palpable. Throughout the march, there was a sea of multi-colored and multi-cultural faces. Every race, gender, creed, and sexuality was out in full force, trying to keep the new integrity of their neighborhood.

  “We’re sick and tired, and the drugs must go,” was chanted loudly out from block to block. “We’re sick and tired, and the gangs must go!”

  The police were in attendance. They silently monitored the protest. The people had their permit to march, and it was a peaceful demonstration. While marching, the people conversed and threw up their signs for the cameramen; their slogans against drug use and drug dealers needed to be read.

  “We’re sick and tired, and the drugs must go!” Gabriel and Jorge shouted together. “We’re sick and tired, and the gangs must go!”

  They were happy to see they weren’t the only ones who felt the same way about what was going on in their neighborhood. Everyone thought they could no longer be complacent to the danger happening right next door, in the parks, on the streets, and directly in front of their children.

  “We’re sick and tired, and the drugs must go!” she shouted. She was in the mix of things with the people—Queenie. She held her fist high in the air and shouted passionately about the cause. “We’re sick and tired, and the gangs must go!”

  She was marching with her peoples. The Hispanic Women Against Crime was a small organization headquartered in the South Bronx area and one of many non-profits Queenie donated to. Her gang affiliation teardrop was covered with makeup, her cartel connections masked through charitable donations.

  “We’re sick and tired, and the drugs must go! We’re sick and tired, and the gangs must go!” she shouted again.

  At some point, those rallying locked arms to show solidarity to the parasites trying to break down the neighborhood barriers. A hippie-looking chic with multi-colored hair gazed at Queenie. She couldn’t stop herself from blurting out, “You’re beautiful.”

  Queenie smiled and replied, “Thank you.”

  And together, they shouted, “We’re sick and tired, and the drugs must go! We’re sick and tired, and the gangs must go!”

  22

  Apple was sound asleep in her plush king-size bed when her cell phone vibrated on her nightstand. Lazily, her eyes stretched open as the dim blue light lit up her dark room. The noise alone crackling through the quiet of her apartment was enough to irritate her. Reluctantly she clumsily reached for her iPhone and it slipped through her fingers and landed on her carpeted floor.

  “Fuck!” she cursed and wondered what time it was. It felt late, or early, depending on one’s perception. Apple was still lying on her stomach when her manicured hand fumbled below to retrieve her phone. It couldn’t have fallen far, yet it was eluding her as she could not pick it up with the least effort. If she wanted her phone, she would have to cut on the light and get up, none of which she planned on doing until her gut told her it could be serious. It had to be business related, she figured. Maybe Hood or IG. When she heard the ting! alert telling her she had received a voice message, she jumped up.

  Apple clicked on her light, and it was 4:45 a.m.—hustling
hours. Something had happened. She grabbed her cell phone and saw the missed call was from Touch. Touch? She didn’t know whether she should feel flattered or furious. She hit the play button.

  A deep, baritone voice sang, “If only for one night.”

  Apple knew the song well. Her mother Denise would play it throughout their project apartment when she and Kola were young. It was a Luther Vandross song, only this wasn’t him. Was Touch singing to her? She hit play again, and his sultry voice filled her room and connected to her in ways she didn’t know existed. Apple was now snuggled under her covers fully awake. She hit play again, and again, and again. She realized that she had things to say too. With one hand and her thumb, she operated her iPhone with ease, moving from music to download within seconds. When she had the song she wanted, she dialed Touch’s number and hoped he wouldn’t pick up. But he did.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said.

  Apple didn’t speak. She hit play, and he heard the chorus to “Delicate.” It was a Taylor Swift song. Taylor sang about keeping a relationship casual because she feels it won’t work out due to her terrible reputation. The song was a downer to Touch—not at all what he wanted to hear.

  Apple then hung up, wondering what they were doing. What was she doing? She hadn’t felt this excitement—this heightened stimulation—since she was crushing on Cross at seventeen. Apple sat in bed and waited. She didn’t know what she was waiting for, but she felt she had put herself out there and didn’t want to be left hanging. Her breathing was fast. She could see her chest heaving up and down as she gripped her phone. Just when her anticipation was about to turn to agitation, he called back. She grinned and allowed the call to go to voicemail. It felt like minutes passed before she got the message notification. Apple hit play and listened as Touch sang the words to 112’s hit song, “Cupid.” He needed Apple to know that he was all in; he was just waiting on her.

  Damn, he’s good, she thought.

  Apple panicked as she racked her brain for a rebuttal. As the minutes ticked away, she felt the pressure mounting, swelling her chest and swirling around inside her head. She closed her eyes and thought about what her mind wanted to say because her heart was yelling at her to play Ella Mai’s, “Boo’d Up.”

  Finally, she settled on this: She called his phone, and he played along and allowed his phone to go to voicemail. The wise voice of Erykah Badu filled the air when he played the message.

  Touch heard Erykah’s voice explain to him that he had no chance whatsoever with Apple. The lyrics to “Next Lifetime” unequivocally outlined this. Touch would have to die first before he could get with her if he were to take this song literally.

  Apple hoped this summed up her current situation. Her body still felt like it belonged to Nicholas. She felt guilty even entertaining another man in her bed, fantasizing about someone else’s touch, someone else’s lips, tongue, thighs, dick. Nick was the only man to put his dreams on hold for her. He gave up something he couldn’t get back, and she felt she needed to honor his memory longer. But damn, Touch was persistent. He was different. His eyes had depth, like an explorer. Touch had that masculinity she was drawn to, but he also had a side to him that was guarded and childlike—an uncharted place that hadn’t been corrupted.

  Apple realized that nearly fifteen minutes had passed and he hadn’t hit her back. He went radio silent and left her to second guess her last song selection. Did I push him away? she wondered. She tried to shake the voice in her head because she was bugging. Wasn’t the whole point to the song to push him away? To make him see she wasn’t ready to give her heart away to anyone?

  It was now half past five in the morning, and she couldn’t go back to sleep. Apple clicked on NY1 news, and within minutes, a new report about The Huntsman was breaking. Police vehicles, yellow tape, and detectives in suits were videoed at a Bronx location. What caught Apple’s ear was that two drug dealers were massacred in the Castle Hill area for allegedly selling the drug Queen of New York.

  “Shit,” Apple said. She refused to believe this guy couldn’t be caught in nearly thirty years. No one had a run like that. Either this was the work of copycats, or he was law enforcement. Now this psycho was zeroing in on her territory with his vigilante bullshit. What the police couldn’t do she would try, which was put this piece of shit six feet deep. He was fucking with her takeover.

  Apple stared at the blue and gray suits and said, “Y’all probably investigating y’all own, crooked fucks!” She shut off the television.

  Her mood had declined since Touch hadn’t called her back. She felt dumb. Apple had a few hours before Tokyo was coming to pick her up, so she cleaned. Apple had finally found a three-bedroom in Tribeca and wanted Tokyo to drive her to order bedroom sets for the children. Ever since her run-ins with Queenie, her block was hot. A patrol car would randomly circle to ensure the safety of the residents of this privileged community. Tokyo was ordered to come through to do errands with Apple; that extra set of eyes was necessary when she was at war.

  Touch felt a surge of energy he hadn’t ever felt with any woman. Ever since his mother broke his young heart, he vowed to allow no girl to get close again. The younger Touch thought he would never fall for anybody. He wanted to tell himself that the feelings weren’t true, that he was just lusting after someone he couldn’t have. How could a stranger have such a pull on him, someone he didn’t even really know? But she did. He wanted Apple to know the best parts of him. He wanted her to see his potential and not his pitfalls, but she wouldn’t let him in. Her song choices were clear; her heart was filled to the brim with another man’s love, and since he had run into her twice without a nigga hovering and they had fucked, it could only mean one thing. Apple’s man must be incarcerated. Touch had no issues pushing up on another man’s girl while that man was locked up. You snooze you lose, nigga.

  Touch said his morning prayer and then got into a hot, steamy shower and thought about all the things he wanted to ask her. He lathered up with his pricey shower gel, and as the water cascaded down his back, her face kept flashing before him. She smiled little, but when she did, it was broad, authentic, and carried all the way to her eyes. Touch wanted to know what her interests were, what her favorite foods were, and, more specifically, who had her heart. Who was he?

  Touch changed his clothes three times before settling on a pair of velour sweats, Balenciaga sneakers, and a pullover. His haircut was fresh, so he didn’t need his fitted. Touch grabbed Girlie’s leash and his vintage radio and was out.

  It was an old school move, but Touch would try anything to hold her attention. He knew that standing outside Apple’s apartment uninvited and so early in the morning was a sucker move—also borderline stalking. Their flirtatious banter this morning was unresolved. He had so much he wanted to say, and even though he had started their musical conversation, what he had to say needed to be said with his own words, looking into her eyes. Touch parked his black Audi near the curb and climbed out. It was shortly before ten a.m. He had made several stops early this morning, but the most important was to a florist to get a dozen red long-stemmed roses. He figured her favorite color was red, because her nickname was Apple, it not occurring to him that it could just as easily been green. He quickly walked Girlie up and down the block while keeping his eyes peeled on the entrance of Apple’s building. He hoped that she hadn’t left already because he wasn’t prepared to wait there all day, but he would. She was worth it. Touch pulled out his old school boom box and placed it on the sidewalk near the curb. The roses sat perched on the hood of his car, and he leaned back on his pricey vehicle with his arms flanking his sides and waited. Girlie sat obediently on the curb as if she knew what was up. She and Touch stared at the building’s entrance with hope.

  Each minute felt like an eternity to him. He knew he could easily call Apple and tell her to come down, but he also knew that the spontaneity was the money move. The look on her face when she saw him would determine
whether he had a chance of getting into her life. Although Touch was on his Romeo, he was still a street dude. So when the Lexus circled Apple’s block twice, he instantly switched to protective mode.

  A few minutes later the Lexus pulled into an open spot directly in front of Touch, and a young female hopped out. She glared at him aggressively, looked at his dog and the flowers, and then nodded. He wasn’t a threat, she felt.

  Apple came downstairs a few minutes after she had received the text from Tokyo. She almost wanted to cancel because Touch had fucked her whole mood up. Apple felt played that he initiated something and just went MIA, despite the message she was sending with the Badu song. Apple reasoned that if she stayed home today, she would just wallow in her negative thoughts and continue to overthink their exchange, so the best thing was to distract her mind with shopping.

  Apple had washed her hair in the shower and added a patchouli-scented leave-in conditioner. Her hair was in a loose bun on top of her head, and she kept it simple with hoop earrings and pink lip gloss. Her hoodie and sweats were the least sexy thing she could put on, but it matched the way she felt. Apple figured she was only running out for a quick minute so there was no need to get dolled up. The automatic doors to her building opened, and Apple did the usual and scanned the block, only her eyes didn’t get far. They lingered on Touch, freshly dressed in sportswear. He grabbed a fist full of long-stemmed roses and just grinned. She grinned back. Near him, a chocolate colored French bulldog was dressed in a pink doggie dress with matching pink doggie socks. The dog sat obediently with her tongue hanging to the side, panting. And then Apple heard it, the music, and looked and saw a boom box. Touch was posted up against his whip and had hit play. Al Green’s distinctive voice switched from tenor to alto as he sang his megahit, “Simply Beautiful.”

  The song was laced with promises and expectations—sensual and sultry. This was a baby-making song, meant for all-night fucking to melodies and rhythms, bodies moving over bass and beats. Apple froze as they locked eyes, and everyone around them dropped away as Al sang.