by Nikki Turner
“Depends,” he said.
“On?” she asked, wanting him to just let it all out what exactly “depends” meant.
“On how you deal with it. Only you will be able to keep us on solid ground.”
“Stop talking in circles and share what’s on your mind. Just kick it, for real.”
“It’s like this: I got to go turn myself in and do nine months on this assault charge.”
“When?” she asked.
“In two days.”
She was quiet for a few minutes. “Okay. Can’t you call me?”
“I can call.”
“And I can come and visit, right?”
“I get visits. But I don’t want to get my hopes up high of you saying you going to come, and I go get a haircut, up ready for my visit with you and you don’t show up, having me look crazy and all that shit. I ain’t on that kind of bullshit.” She tried to cut him off.
“I would never—”
But he continued with his tangent.
“Seen it too many times. That’s what chicks say in the beginning. They would be there and then things change gradually.”
She became offended and felt that she needed not only to put him in place but also take up for herself. “Look, it’s like this. I ain’t never had much of shit, but through all the things I went through, I always reminded myself that those things didn’t affect who I was and one day I’d be the shit. And I’ve always believed that if my word ain’t shit then I ain’t shit. And me not being the shit in any aspect of the word, isn’t happening.” She locked eyes with him. “So I said, I’d ride these nine months with you and that’s what I plan to do.”
He gazed in her eyes and saw nothing but love, concern, and sincerity. She wasn’t sure if it was the intense way he looked at her or the realness of the conversation that made her want to cry. The fact of the matter was her friend, her confidant, her boo, the guy who owned her heart and the man she had lost her virginity to was going to be physically removed from her for the next nine months. She tried like hell to hold back her tears to be strong for him, and he could see the water in her eyes and that’s when he was convinced and took her in his arms.
When he did, she whispered, “I will be there for you faithfully, while you do them nine months.… I promise.”
15
Calliope definitely didn’t make any promises just to break them. She held up her end of the bargain. She went to visit every single visiting day, wrote letters and sent cards practically every day. When he called she was always available for his phone calls. It did help that he had left her ten grand to take care of her and Compton, and his boy Jacques was supposed to bring her money weekly, which in the beginning he did and after a month or so after her ten grand ran out, Jacques changed his number.
“What the hell you mean, this motherfucker avoiding you?” Jean asked from the other side of the glass in the visitation room.
“My friend Casha told me that Jacques was in Lil Haiti and I went down there to see him.”
“Okay … and. He came off that paper right?”
“Not hardly, baby. The minute he saw my car bend the corner was the minute that he disappeared around the next corner.”
“Two minutes, until visits over,” the guard running visitation said.
“Here write these numbers down, and call these folks. They owe me money too,” he said to her before saying their good-byes. “Call you later on tonight, baby.”
When she got in the car, she began to start making the calls and the clowns started giving her the runaround, talking about how they were going to call her back. As she put her car in reverse, she caught a glance of herself in the rearview mirror, and then she got a call, a wake-up call from herself, with a strong message.
Listen … what the fuck you doing? she asked herself, then told herself, You must be out your rabbit-ass mind acting just like Shelly. You around here depending on a nigga … to figure out shit for you, to make sure you and Compton got y’all next meal. Bitch, is you crazy? You don’t chase nobody for no nigga’s money—or wait for no nigga to break you off when he sees fit. You get own money—always have and always will. Now make yo money! That’s who you are, and that’s what you do.
Though she faithfully kept the visits coming and letters pouring in, she did what she did … kept her word to her man and got her money!
16
The Double Life
The cocaine-white drop-top Mercedes cruised up and stopped smack dead in front of the club at 10:15 P.M. The real action didn’t take off until well after midnight but Cinnamon always liked showing up early, to get a feel for the crowd and to observe exactly where the money was.
From the passenger seat, she grabbed her Chanel purse and Gucci overnight bag, then slid out of her whip. “Take care of my baby.” She flashed a smile to Tony, the head valet attendant and the guy who always opened the door and helped her out of the car. She gave him a big smile along with a twenty.
“Thanks, Cinnamon.” Tony winked. “American Airlines ain’t got nuttin’ on yo fly ass. You do know I’m single, right?” He was always flirting, hoping one day that she’d take him up on his offer.
“You’ve only told me about a thousand times,” she said. “Don’t forget to put the top up for me, baby.” She loved riding at night with the roof back. It was just something about the wind whipping through her long Brazilian weave that cleared her mind and made her feel free.
“You got it, Your Flyness.”
The entire club’s movement of making money was achieved by the same principles of a Super Bowl–winning football team working as one. The valet’s responsibility began with getting the customers inside quickly, so that the offense could go to work relieving them of their do-re-mi.
“What’s up, Cinnamon?” The bouncer annoyed a few that were waiting in line when he allowed her to skip the line and rushed her in.
Inside, compared to a lot of the bigger-named spots, didn’t meet expectations, décor wise.
She often thought about how deceiving this place could be—glamorous on the outside, but a hole-in-the-wall inside. That didn’t stop either the patrons from coming or the workers from making that paper by the boatload, though.
Booty shaking was always in the full effect, almost around the clock, twenty-three hours out of the day.
Half-dressed, buck-naked daughters and baby mamas—most sporting at least one variation of pierced pussies, inflamed-asses from bootleg butt shots, or huge breast implants—strutted their stuff throughout the club. The circled stage, with three tall poles where at least two or three chicks performed at all times, danced for tips. The bartenders, all women, all hot, made great drinks and better tips, and were usually either retired dancers or girls who auditioned to strip and didn’t make the cut.
By 1:30 the VIP room was turned all the way up. As for broads the ballers were checking for to make it rain on them, Cinnamon had that part on lock. She was hands down the most popular dancer there. In her zone, she took the art of pussy popping to another level. Sexy. Limber. And in complete control of all her body parts. Dancing came natural to her and seducing anybody male or female with her eyes was second nature to her.
Other chicks (dancers and civilians alike) shot nasty, envious glares at her but that never intimidated her. Hating don’t make dollars or sense, she thought with a winning smirk, watching weak-willed men show their appreciation for her talents with mountains of one-dollar, twenty-dollar, fifty-dollar, and hundred-dollar bills. There was no denying money floated like confetti when she took the main stage and not to mention when she made an entrance to the VIP room.
A light layer of perspiration coated her well-toned body from the intensity of her dancing and demonstration of her contortionist abilities. Time for a costume change, she thought as she was about to make her way to the dressing room.
That’s when she seen him. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She had only taken her daily shot to the head to jump-start her night off and a twelve-hour e
nergy drink, so she wasn’t drunk. Had she caught some kind of contact from all the weed smoke that filled the air and her mind was playing tricks on her?
“What the fuck?” were the words that ran through her mind but verbally the same words that came out of Jean’s mouth when he seen her half-naked coming out of the VIP room. Her seductive smile that she wore quickly turned to fear. She felt like she had been caught doing something she had no business doing, and in Jean’s eyes she had. She didn’t know how to react or what to say. “What the hell you doing here?” she asked Jean.
“I could ask the same thing.” He shot back almost speechless.
“I’m working. When did you get out?”
He looked her up and down in total disgust and then smacked the shit out of her, making her stumble down the three steps that led up to the VIP room. He then leaned down and said, “Since you want to act like a whore, fuck and shit. I’m going to treat you as such.”
“What?” she said, trying to gather herself, her pride, and her heart off of the floor. “A whore?” she questioned.
“Yeah, you in VIP fucking and shit,” he said putting his hands around her neck.
“I swear on everything I love, that’s the farthest from the truth.”
“Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear it.” He silenced her with his fingers and broke her feelings. The truth of the matter was she did dance for money, but that’s it. Danced. No sex, no prostitution. Now did a lot of girls in the club exchange sex for money? Absolutely, but not her. She learned a long time ago that as long as she danced and didn’t make sex an option, the patrons would always come back and spend money, in hopes that one day, someday, they would get lucky. And they never did, not the funniest, not the cutest, not the wealthiest. No matter what he thought or said, the fact still remained that he was still the only man she had had sex with.
“I got out today, on some good behavior shit. I had to meet somebody here to get some money that belongs to me and was on my way to come surprise you, but I guess since you been giving the pussy away acting like a whore, I guess I will go give this good dick away!” he said to her. “I should’ve known better. I met you whoring. And I was taught that you can never turn a whore into a housewife!”
By now she was in tears, and Mocha had come over to comfort her. She tried to fight the tears back but by the time she got to the dressing room, she was crying a waterfall. She hated that the other dancers saw her crying, but, shit, she was only human. She couldn’t figure out what hurt her the most, that Jean hit her or that he called her a whore.
17
In the Heart of Downtown Richmond, Virginia
A light rain drizzled from an uptight, overcast sky, as urban dwellers, many just getting off of the daily grind, scurried about Broad Street trying to keep from getting too wet. A couple blocks west of the newly built federal court building—inside a barbershop called The Chop Shop—cats were not only staying dry but also holding court amongst friends.
Lynx, a once big-time hustler who was still respected in the city, owned the shop. It was equipped with a dozen skilled barbers—with clientele consisting of a lot of Richmond’s underworld and reformed drug dealers turned working men—four fifty-inch flat screens, an ambient surround sound system, and a wet bar. The Chop Shop was the coldest spot in the city to get not only a fresh cut but the latest news in the streets or in the penitentiary, tight gear, new electronics, and Vegas-style odds on major sporting events. Or just chop it up about who is making bread and who’s only trimming the crust. As customary, The Chop Shop was packed, believe it or not the damp weather had no impact on business or the old-school social networking.
Pope, one of the regulars, took a shot at Lynx. He said, “Been meaning to ask you something. Why da fuck you cop a barbershop and you don’t know shit about cutting hair?”
A few cats laughed.
Pope was a rare dude, a well respected OG, who’d earned his stripes in the game and survived to reap a lot of the rewards and benefits. Pope had never seen the inside of a prison, and he never dropped two nickels on anyone. These things—for the streets—were as atypical as a Catholic not being fond of young boys. “In my day,” Pope added, “cats didn’t start a business that they couldn’t finish, if need be.”
Another one of the regulars, excitedly said, “He got ya right there, Lynx,” and nodded his head.
Pope made a solid point, Lynx thought: an owner that couldn’t perform the job (regardless of what the job entailed) was at the mercy of his employees. Kind of like a pimp with his whores.
Normally, Lynx held the role of adjudicator in the shop’s debate, but every now and again, he had to defend himself. Half the eyes in the shop, and two-thirds the ears honed in on Lynx. A man’s ability to hustle said a lot about him and Lynx’s hustle had been put on trial. He had no choice but to defend himself and his actions.
Cucumber cool, with none of the greenness, Lynx brushed away a speck of imaginary dusk from his Versace button-up. The fifteen-hundred-dollar shirt was a present from his wife. With eyes on him, as thorough as high-tech surveillance cameras, he took a sip of tequila, one of the perks of being the boss and not having to shave or cut heads: he could drink on the job. Then he smiled a little and agreed. “I see the logic in what you are saying Pope. And it’s legit … in theory. But in practice, your view lacks imagination.”
While cats were stirring the pot between Lynx and Pope, the wind blew a peddler into the shop. “I got all flavor roses for the low-low,” the flower hustler made the grand announcement to the shop, with a few samples of his product in hand and the rest of them were outside in the van, double-parked in front of the shop.
Always wanting to patronize another man’s grind, Lynx bought four dozen. Red. Thirty-six for his wife, Bambi, and twelve for their daughter Nya. “’Preciate that my man.”
The flower hustler put the money in his pocket and gave Lynx a warm smile. “No doubt. Anybody else?”
A few other cats copped buds for their boos while Lynx continued to impart wisdom on Pope. “The way I see it. The strongest, the smartest, nor the man with a certain skill set is the one that rises to the top.” Lynx had it mouse quiet in that place, every ear was open as he pleaded his case. “That top spot is going to always be reserved for the man with the best ideas. Because it’s the ideas that make the bread,” Lynx said.
“Preach!” Somebody shouted, cheering him on.
A mock applause from Pope, Lynx nodded: game acknowledging game.
Patrons of The Chop Shop continued to debate while Lynx made his way to his private office for a quick meeting.
The meeting was with a local bookie named Popcorn. Lynx said, “Put two grand on the Lakers to cover against San Antonio. And another two on Dallas to cover over the Clippers.”
Gambling was the only vice that Lynx had. He had always dabbled a little with dice, lottery tickets, and made a few wagers on a game here and there when he was in the streets heavy. But then he had plenty of money coming in to cover his bets—so if he lost it was no sweat off of his back. Then money was no obstacle. His wife had a lucrative party planning business that catered to the upper echelon, and he was knee-deep in dealing some of the best dope the city had ever saw. Nowadays he wasn’t starving, but since he went legit, the money didn’t come as fast as it once did and when he took a hit with the bets, it stung harder.
“Roger that. But I’m going to need that 30k you already bleeding,” Popcorn informed him.
“You know I’m good for it Corn.” Lynx had been on a losing streak, but that’s why they called it gambling. Win some, lose some. The game was to do more winning than the latter.
“I fucks wit you, Lynx. You know I do.” Popcorn looked like it hurt him to deliver the message. He took a deep breath and then tried to speak with sincerity. “But I’m just the middleman here. My boss only believes what he sees, and right now he ain’t seeing the money.”
Thirty k.
“I’ll have all that little bread in two w
eeks, maybe sooner. But I’m going to need my line of credit to stay open until then. Okay?”
He and Popcorn had known each other for a real long time. They both went to John F. Kennedy High School together and played on the football team.
Popcorn looked him in the eyes and firmly said, “It’s not Okay. That two weeks shit is dead—you got one, and no more credit until the books are clean. We clear?”
I guess business trumps friendship, Lynx thought but said, “Crystal.”
“One more thing,” said Popcorn, “and this isn’t on me…”
“Just spit it out, Popcorn,”
Popcorn had a lump in his throat, “My boss says, to let you know, that the late penalty—that’s if one has to be applied—will involve blood.”
“You threatening me, Popcorn?” Lynx kept a Smith and Wesson .45 in his desk drawer and he wasn’t feeling the words spilling from his “supposed” friend’s mouth.
Popcorn, far from slow, felt a rise in temperature. “Never that,” he quickly corrected. “I’m only the messenger. I will never personally push anything at you. But Lynx … As a friend, I do want you to know that these dudes are serious about what they say. I have seen them really do some horrific shit. And they’re even more serious about their money. So get these people their bread—’cause man oh man! It could get bad—real bad.”
* * *
Later that night …
“Okay, Lynx, what’s wrong?” Bambi asked while they were lying in bed with the television on. Bambi was wearing a provocative Asian see-everything nightie, looking hella-sexy. Lynx barely noticed. Bambi playfully shoved him, almost knocking Lynx out of the king-size four-poster bed. “I’m talking to you,” she said, when he shot her that puzzled look of his. “You have been preoccupied with something all night. I might as well have went out tonight and ate alone, because you were there in body only. I’m still trying to figure out what planet your mind was on.”