Brooklyn Bombshells--Part 2

by Erica Hilton

  “Y’all bitches wanna fuckin’ jump me!” Bacardi shouted.

  It didn’t take long before the sisters got the best of their mother. Years of disrespect had come full circle, and soon it was Bacardi hollering out for help.

  Butch arrived home just in time to see Claire and Charlie beating on his wife. He was sober and immediately came to his wife’s rescue. Quickly, he assessed what was really in motion and angrily started to throw blows at Claire and Charlie. It was unreal. Had things gotten that dysfunctional with the family?

  “Get off ya mother!” he bellowed.

  His punches were solid. Nobody fucked with his wife, and nobody was going to disrespect their home. For a minute, it was a hurricane of hostility as both factions released hatred and aggression onto each other. Butch uppercut Charlie and she went crashing to the floor in a daze. It almost felt like he knocked out her tooth. Claire rushed to her sister’s aid and, miraculously, the fight ended. But not the hostility.

  “Fuck you both! I hate y’all! Fuckin’ die, fuckin’ fo’ real!” Charlie screamed hysterically.

  Bacardi matched her daughter’s outrage and screamed back, “You a trifling red bitch, Charlie, and you gonna burn in hell for what you did to ya sister. How could you set Chanel up and let God fuckin’ rape her!”

  The accusation leveled the whole room. Bacardi expected the guilt that was now written all over Charlie’s face, but when she looked to Claire, she saw the same thing in her eyes.

  “You knew too!”

  Claire tried to avoid eye contact. As Butch tried to process what his wife had said, Bacardi started tossing her daughters’ belongings into the hallway. She was done with them.

  “Y’all bitches get the fuck outta my house!” she shouted.

  “What? Are you serious? I just paid you rent,” Claire challenged. “Give me my fuckin’ money back then.”

  “Bitch, you ain’t gettin’ shit back!” Bacardi retorted.

  While Claire was fussing with her mother, Charlie was in the hallway trying to gather her things so they wouldn’t get stolen, knowing there were thieves in her building. The commotion inside their apartment had the entire floor coming out of their apartments to see what was happening. Cell phone cameras were out and recording. It was always something going on with that family—never a dull moment in the Brown household.

  Butch went along with the program and helped Bacardi with tossing his daughters’ shit out. When Charlie tried to go back inside the apartment, Butch stormed into the kitchen and grabbed a sharp knife and held it up threateningly to Charlie as Bacardi continued to throw out clothes, shoes, and personal items.

  Claire was now in tears, but Charlie refused to cry. She held her own and scowled at her parents and threw threats their way. Fuck that! She wasn’t embarrassed and she wasn’t about to break down and look weak in front of the neighbors. She refused to give them that satisfaction.

  Looking on at the ruckus at Bacardi’s apartment door with the other neighbors was Landy. She was mesmerized by the ordeal going down right next door to her apartment.

  Seeing Landy gazing at her, Charlie immediately asked, “Bitch, you just gonna stand there and watch, or you gonna get me some fuckin’ trash bags?”

  Landy went into her apartment and shortly returned to the hallway and tossed two black trash bags at Charlie. It was all the help Charlie was going to get from her. Shit, trash bags cost money, and Landy wasn’t about to create any issues with her own family, especially her mother. A few other neighbors tossed garbage bags at Charlie like she was some charity case and it gave them a reason to stay in the hallway and be nosy.

  After Bacardi tossed out what she wanted to get rid of, meanwhile keeping the good stuff for herself, she slammed the door shut on both her daughters, turned around, and looked at Butch. She knew she had some explaining to do.

  Chapter Three

  Chanel rode quietly in the backseat of the Uber and gazed out the window. Everything was changing, and it wasn’t for the better. It felt like she was cursed from the day her mother gave birth to her. When something good came into her life, it didn’t last. Why? Why couldn’t she experience happiness without it being ripped from her? Chanel remembered more frowns than smiles, more hurt than joy, and more hate than love. But Mateo loved her, and she loved him, and she had to hold on to that.

  She had gathered her things from the hotel and was on her way to Pyro’s condo in a posh area in the Bronx. When she arrived, Pyro was waiting for her downstairs. He smiled when he saw her in the Uber he had arranged for her. Chanel climbed out of the backseat with her bags and released a sigh. This was it. She hoped staying with Pyro wasn’t going to be yet another burden on him.

  “So, this is it, huh?” Chanel asked, looking up at the building and then fixing her eyes on Pyro’s.

  Pyro took her larger bags and replied, “This is it. You’ll be safe here. C’mon, let’s go up so I can show you around.”

  She followed him through the lobby and into one of the two elevators. It ascended with them riding in silence before it came to a stop on the eighth floor. Pyro stepped out and Chanel followed.

  Pyro smiled, slightly, as much as he was used to doing and he started to show her around his place. It was spacious and it was beautifully furnished with a large TV mounted on the living room wall. The spare bedroom where Chanel would be sleeping was cozy with expensive bedding on the king size bed and beautiful artwork on the walls. The walk-in closet was empty except for an area rug that covered the hardwood floor.

  “You can put all your things in there. There’s enough room,” he said, placing her bags on the rug.

  “Okay.”

  Pyro continued to show her around the apartment. There was a roomy kitchen for her to cook in, if she decided to. As she drank in her surroundings, Chanel recognized that everything had a place; things were lined up painstakingly. She wondered if he had a housekeeper. Pyro was neater than both her and Mateo, and that was saying something. The labels on his canned goods in the cupboard were lined up precisely, sparkling water in the fridge the same. His clothes were placed a certain way inside his closet. His sneakers and shoes were organized, and it seemed that there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. It seemed like he had a bit of OCD. It was a bit awkward, and she worried a little. She didn’t want to feel awkward in his home.

  Thankfully, the bedrooms and bathrooms were on opposite sides of the condo.

  After a quick tour of the place, Pyro went into his bedroom to change clothes.

  “You’re not staying?” she asked when he came back into the kitchen.

  “Nah, I gotta take care of something,” he said.

  She was still frightened to be alone. She stared at him, and he picked up on her uneasiness.

  “Chanel, you’re gonna be okay. I keep a low profile and nobody comes here like that. You have everything you need to be comfortable, and security is tight downstairs. No one can come up without you giving the okay,” he said with assurance.

  She still felt a bit uneasy, but she nodded. Pyro smiled at her and she weakly smiled back. He turned and left the apartment. The moment he was gone, Chanel made sure all the locks were secured. Now alone, the place felt much bigger than before. She had a nasty vision of God climbing into the apartment through an open window, even though they were eight floors up, and once again coming for her. She shivered from the thought.

  When night fell, Chanel still remained apprehensive even with the TV and lights on. She stayed glued to the couch and stared at the door each time she heard some kind of movement or the elevator door opening and closing. She was on edge, though she tried not to be.

  By three in the morning, her eyes started to get heavy, and no matter how hard she tried to stay awake, it was becoming a losing battle. Chanel decided to retire into the bedroom. To make herself feel more secure, she pushed the dresser against the bedroom door and went to sleep
with her clothes on.

  Eight hours later, Chanel’s eyes popped open to the sun shining through the bedroom window. It was a new day, but she was still living her same life with the same predicament. She got up, moved the dresser from in front of the door, and stepped out into the rest of the apartment to find no sign of Pyro. She wondered if he had come in late and left early. She went to his bedroom door and knocked gently, but there was no answer. Since the door was ajar, she opened it and went into his room. Everything inside seemed undisturbed.

  This bothered her greatly. She hoped that she wasn’t keeping him from his own home. She didn’t want to be a burden on him, but she didn’t want to be alone either.

  Chapter Four

  You should have told me, Bernice,” Butch shouted, the veins in his neck bulging and pulsing with his heartbeat. “I should have known about this shit sooner!”

  “Well now you know,” Bacardi snapped back.

  “It’s a little too late now,” he said, pacing around the kitchen. “My own daughter. Charlie—how could she do something like that to Chanel?”

  Bacardi placed her hands on her wide, robust hips and paused to contemplate the question. But there was no valid explanation. “Don’t worry, Butch. She’ll get hers.”

  He stopped pacing for a moment to look Bacardi in her eyes. “They all will.”

  Butch hated to be kept in the dark, especially when it came to his daughters. His youngest set up by her own sister. He couldn’t comprehend it. Every time he thought about it, his heart would race to the point that his chest hurt, and it was becoming harder for him to calm down and not think about it.

  “That shit ain’t right!” He continued to walk the floor, anger and guilt eating away at him. He had invited the man who attacked his daughter into his home and treated him like his own son.

  For the first time in over twenty years, Butch and Bacardi had the apartment to themselves. Usually, the kids leave the nest for college or marriage. Their kids left the apartment from trauma and deceit. Butch had a hard time believing that Charlie could do something so serious to her little sister. And God? He wanted to wrap his hands around that fool’s neck and snap it like a twig.

  Sitting down at the kitchen table, Butch growled, “I’ma kill that nigga, Bernice. What he did to our daughter, he needs to pay.”

  “He will pay.”

  Butch wasn’t immune to violence. Back in his day, he dealt with his share of goons. And although he wasn’t on the best terms with his kids, he was still a father and he was still very protective over his daughters—even Charlie. But she crossed that line.

  Bacardi recognized the look Butch carried in his eyes, and they were on the same page. They both wanted to implement justice for their little girl.

  “We just can’t get caught,” she said, reading his thoughts.

  “We won’t.”

  They continued to talk about murder over bacon and eggs. They both were serious and knew once the wheels started to turn to their plot, there would be no turning back. It was going down.

  “We allowed that nigga into our home and he betrays our family like this,” Butch continued to grumble. “I’ma empty my clip in that fool.”

  Bacardi told him that this wasn’t an excuse to start drinking again. Butch had been getting a monthly injection of Naltrexone, a drug used to block the pleasurable effects of alcohol. So far he hadn’t relapsed.

  He downed his pineapple juice and slammed the glass on the table. “It’s why I’m staying sober. When I shoot that piece of shit, I don’t wanna miss.”

  The knock at the front door interrupted their murder plot. They both fixed their eyes on the door and wondered the same thing. Was it their daughters trying to come back home?

  Bacardi pushed her chair back from the table and went to see who it was. When she looked through the peephole, she frowned and glanced at her husband. “It’s that dumb, white, wanna-be-black bitch, Landy.”

  “What she want?”

  “Like I fuckin’ know.”

  Bacardi hadn’t seen Landy around since that cop got shot in the stairwell of their building. Puzzled, she cautiously opened the door. “What the fuck do you want?”

  Landy ignored the rudeness and eased into the apartment uninvited. “Hello, Mr. Butch and Mrs. Bacardi,” she greeted warmly.

  Bacardi rolled her eyes and eyed Landy up and down. “Why you got ya hair in them braids? Who you ’posed to be, Alicia Keys?”

  Landy decided to let her comment go. She had known Bacardi for a long time and knew how petty she could be. She kept her amicable performance going by saying, “I came by to see if y’all needed anything from the grocery store. My parents are sending me to Stop & Shop in a Lyft. I could go shopping for you too.”

  Bacardi smirked again and asked, “You buying?”

  “Well, no, but I would shop for y’all if you needed anything and you wouldn’t have to contribute to the Lyft or pay me for my time.”

  Butch looked at his wife and mocked, “Well, ain’t that mighty white of her.”

  Landy made herself comfortable by taking a seat at the kitchen table. She was a bold one. Bacardi and Butch shared a puzzled look.

  “So, how’s Chanel? I haven’t seen her around lately.”

  Bacardi knew what was up. It was said that the second thing a person brings up is what they really wanted. Landy wanted to be nosy and Bacardi was ready for her.

  “Since when do you give a fuck about Chanel?” she retorted.

  Landy’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

  “Bitch, you heard what the fuck I said. You ain’t go visit my baby in the hospital not once! You was walking around here like ya black until those cuffs got put on you. And then you turned back into Elandy Slogenberg.”

  Landy coolly replied, “I only asked because there’s a rumor going around that Charlie had set up Chanel to get raped and murdered. Is that why you kicked Charlie out?”

  The heat came over Bacardi rapidly. She knew that there wasn’t a rumor, because Charlie being part of it had been under wraps until yesterday. The project walls were paper thin, and their neighbors were too damn nosy. Landy sat there looking like she was some reporter for CNN.

  “You got-damn white trash bitch!” Bacardi shouted.

  A fuming Bacardi went lunging after her, but Landy was quick on her feet. She sprung from the chair and flitted around like a housefly trying not to get smacked down. When Bacardi tried to grab her, Landy slithered out of Bacardi’s grip, bolted for the front door, ran down the hallway, and took flight down the stairwell—never looking back. She had escaped by the skin of her teeth, but she had what she needed. Bacardi’s anger was confirmation that it was true.

  Bacardi tried to give chase, but she was no spring chicken.

  “Don’t fuckin’ come back here no mo’, you white trash bitch!” Bacardi screamed into the hallway.

  She slammed the door and pivoted toward Butch. “This shit is gettin’ outta hand, Butch. We gotta do something. Our family’s reputation is on the line.”

  “We will, Bernice. We will,” Butch assured her.

  Chapter Five

  It was either a coincidence or a sign that karma was coming to bite her in the ass. At this turbulent moment in her life, Charlie’s hooptie refused to start. She shouted and cursed the old car and even slammed her fist against the steering wheel.

  Claire sat in the passenger seat quiet and confused. Is everything gonna be all right? Had she made the right choice by defending Charlie and leaving home with her? Right now, Charlie looked like a lunatic and Claire thought her head was about to spin around and green slime would soon spew from her mouth.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck everything!” Charlie shouted heatedly, banging her fist against the dashboard and against the window.

  “What we gonna do, Charlie?” Claire asked.

  “I don’t f
uckin’ know, Claire!” Charlie snapped at her.

  Just then, a few rapid taps on the driver’s side window startled Charlie. She was about to spin around and shoot with her hand reaching for her gun, but she quickly recognized who was at her window. It was two neighborhood drunks, Mike and Cooler. Charlie rolled down her window to see what they wanted—probably looking for a handout.

  “What y’all two lowlifes want?” she asked impolitely.

  “We heard ya car not starting. Want us to take a look?” Mike asked. He had a wide, hopeful, innocent grin that said he could be trusted. But he couldn’t. The hood nicknamed him “Smash and Grab Mike,” because if he was experiencing alcohol withdrawals he was known to pick up a bottle and smash someone—anyone—across the head and grab whatever cash and valuables they had on them. A few smash-and-grab licks in, he preyed upon the wrong target. Sixteen-year-old Kaizer emptied his clip into a man old enough to be his granddad. Mike’s bony body drank in those hot slugs and miraculously survived.

  “What, you a mechanic now, Mike?”

  “I worked on many cars back in my heyday,” he replied.

  “A’ight, see what you can do,” said Charlie, popping the hood. “Don’t try no shit, Mike. I’m watchin’ ya slick ass.”

  Mike and Cooler, the two parking lot mechanics, went to see what they could do to bring the old junk some life—maybe work their magic on the engine for some spare change.

  Charlie leaned back into the seat and turned to her sister. “We ain’t got nowhere to fuckin’ go, Claire. Even if they do get this started, what next?”

  Claire pressed her lips together, almost as if she didn’t want to bring something up.

  “What? You got something to say, Claire, then say it!”

  “I might know a place for us to go.”

  “Where?”

  “I can call a friend.”

  “Then what you waitin’ on? I’m not trying to sleep in this car tonight,” Charlie said, sitting up in her seat.