“Wassup, nigga?” Jackson answered the phone. “I been callin’ your ass for like two days, nigga, and you ain’t answered. I figured you was off in Paris or somewhere with your chick or somethin’ and ain’t wanna bother you.”
“Man, Precious had me locked up,” Tramar said. “I spent the night Friday night with Ayana and shit, you know… Did the restaurant thing and the mall and walking in the park downtown and shit.”
“Yeah, romantic as shit,” Jackson said. “I ain’t try’na hear that shit. But damn, she had you locked up? How back in child support is you that she is goin’ that far? Or, excuse me, but is she doin’ this shit just to be a bitch, and you owe her ass like two dollars or something petty like that?”
“Man,” Tramar said, obviously sounding reluctant to say because he knew that his boy Jackson would wonder what exactly he was doing with his money that would cause him to not be able to pay off whatever he owed in child support. “I’m six thousand behind.”
“Damn, nigga,” Jackson said. “I mean, that’s some money, but it ain’t a lot of money. Why don’t you just go ahead and drop that shit so you ain’t gotta be lookin’ over your back and shit to see if the police is out to get you because you owe and shit?”
“That’s why I’m callin’ you,” Tramar said. “I ain't got it. I already know, Jackson. You ain’t gotta say. I need to stop spending so much money and shit and getting my car painted and done up and shit. I know. That’s why I’m callin’ you man. A nigga need to make some money and shit, like quick. I can’t keep up with this livin’ on the edge shit. She talkin’ bout I need to get a job or some shit, but you already know that a nigga ain’t bout to do no dumb shit like that. The only job they gon’ give my black ass is a job makin’ eight or nine dollars a hour or some pitiful shit like that. I need to make some fuckin’ money.”
“Funny you call me with this shit today,” Jackson said, with a bit of a smirk in his voice. “I was actually callin’ your ass on Saturday about some shit that I wanted to know if you’d be up for. You remember that nigga Byron?”
“Yeah,” Tramar said, wondering where the conversation was headed. “Ain’t that the nigga you helped get them cars and stuff, them cars that was on the side of the highways and shit?”
“Yeah, that nigga,” Jackson said. “Fuck that nigga.” His voice was clearly angry. “That nigga owe me some money and shit for that shit we did and now he try’na act like he ghost or somethin’. I wanna fuck that nigga up bad.”
“So, what you try’na do?” Tramar wanted to know. He was a little confused with where the money part would come into play. “Nigga, beatin’ the dude’s ass ain’t gon’ do shit for us when it comes to gettin’ no money.”
“It will if we roll up in his shit and take it,” Jackson said. “For real, nigga. We just go up in his shit and take that shit. I remember goin’ to the nigga house, and he was goin’ to the back to get something, which I thought was money. And you know with all the dirty shit he do, between Chicago, Milwaukee, and Indianapolis and shit, that he ain’t got no damn bank account. That nigga is keepin’ that money in a safe, I bet.”
“But you ain’t sure,” Tramar said, processing his best friend’s idea. “I mean, what if we go up in there, and he ain’t even got no money or nothin’? What we gon’ do then?”
“Look, nigga,” Jackson said, tired of the silly back and forth. “I don’t know who the fuck you kiddin’, but you know that nigga gotta have some damn money he can get access to when a fuckin’ gun is pointed at the side of his head. Shit, I ain’t sayin’ we gotta kill him. But he was supposed to give me like five stacks for all them cars he sold – them cars that he scrapped for the parts and, shit, I guess spread out over the country. Five thousand fuckin’ dollars ain’t no joke to me. I want my fuckin’ money, and I want the shit with interest. That nigga prolly got thousands in that safe, but he just ain’t had no niggas bold enough to run up in there.”
“Jackson, man…” Tramar said, “We gon’ have to make sure this shit right.”
“Don’t we always?” Jackson asked. “Look back, nigga. Ever since we was kids and shit, walkin’ up and down the street and scaring them white people downtown, we done found a way to make some money without gettin’ caught. Shit, how many of these niggas out here had felonies by the time they was eighteen and nineteen years old and shit. Another year and a half or so, and we gon’ be twenty-five and shit, with no records. Nigga, we not dumb. We can do this shit and do this shit right. Fuck that nigga Byron. I don’t like when niggas try to fuck with my money. I wanna run up in that shit and take every fuckin’ dime he got.”
“When you try’na do this shit?” Tramar asked. “When you try’na run up in that nigga’s house and shit and get in this safe that he betta have?”
“Nigga, I know he got a safe up in there,” Jackson said. “Trust. That nigga got access to some cash money. And shit, I was try’na do the shit today.”
“Today?” Tramar said, surprised. He looked at the time and saw that it was now going on a little after 11 o’clock. “Like what time today?”
“Nigga, I wanna run up in his shit around fuckin’ noon,” Jackson said. “I know the nigga ain’t gon’ be expectin’ no coordinated niggas to run up in his shit around noon. Shit, he probably think that niggas ain’t even up yet. Hell, that nigga Byron might not even be up his damn self if you ask me. I’m ready to get this nigga, and I’mma go with or without you. If you go, it goes easier and it’s easier to get all of the money, which means that there would be more for you to have.”
Tramar nodded his head as he thought about the idea. Running up into Byron’s house around noon, on a Monday at that, would certainly be the last thing anyone in the world would ever expect. Furthermore, Byron lived out in a suburb that was mostly residential – the kind of area where the parents worked in the corporations downtown while the kids were at school; the kind of neighborhood where you could ride down the street and look into the curtains of homes and see exactly who was home.
“Nigga, bet,” Tramar said. “I’m on my way over and shit. I’m at the Burger King downtown, not too far from Cook County. I’ll be through there in a minute.”
“Good deal,” Jackson said. “I thought you’d be smart about this shit. While we was talking, I was already getting the guns and shit ready.”
“But, dude, we gotta make sure this shit is smooth as fuck,” Tramar said.
“Nigga, pull your panties out of a bunch,” Jackson said and chuckled. “You forget that I was try’na do this shit on Saturday when you wasn’t answering. I been had the guns, and I even went as far as going out to Dre and getting guns that have silencers and shit on them. That way, if we gotta fire, the shit is quiet.”
“Yeah, let’s just hope he ain’t got no guns already ready,” Tramar said.
“That’s a given,” Jackson commented. “I already know he do. And that’s all right. Back when we was hittin’ them licks, a lot of them sweet homeowners prolly exercised their right to have arms or whatever it’s called. But what happened with that? You remember?”
Tramar laughed, remembering how smooth all those licks had gone. The look on the white peoples’ faces was simply priceless. “Yeah,” he said. “They wasn’t even ready for us and shit.”
“Exactly,” Jackson said. “And Byron ain’t gon’ be either. He prolly don’t get up until noon, probably got one of his big booty bitches over there walkin’ round suckin’ his dick just to go shoppin’ and spend money.”
“Nigga, you wrong for sayin’ that shit,” Tramar said, chuckling. “A’ight then, I’m coo with the plan and shit. Just let me call Ayana cause I know she prolly worried about a nigga and shit. Once I get done talkin’ to her, I’ll be on my way.”
Tramar hung up with his boy Jackson. He went into his text messages, seeing the numerous ones he’d missed while being in jail. So many of them were from Ayana, causing him to feel even guiltier that she had to be left in a state of confusion. He called Ayana.
***
As Ayana sat on her bed, scrolling through job postings online to start off her Monday, Tramar was constantly on her mind. Every so often, she would check her phone to see if he responded to any of her text messages or missed calls. It was quickly approaching 11 o’clock, and she hadn’t heard anything. She’d told herself that if she hadn’t heard anything by the end of the day, she was going to call his father and the two of them could file a missing person’s report. Ayana also thought about getting in touch with his father because he would know how and where to call downtown and find out if somebody was locked up and for what.
While these thoughts were wearing on Ayana mentally, she’d finally been given a reason to have a little optimism about her job search. After she’d put in for a couple of jobs first thing in the morning, she’d seen an email alert pop up. To her surprise, it was an email from a human resources agent for one of the companies where she’d sent in her resume and filled out an online application. The HR person wanted to ask Ayana some more questions about her work history and her qualifications to see if she’d be interested in coming into the office for an interview. Quickly, Ayana answered the questions, trying to write as politely and professionally as she could. She needed some money. She was beginning to worry that her mother would start to want rent from her. Ayana knew that anytime her mother wound up being short on funds, for whatever reason, it was Ayana who was at fault as she was twenty-one years old and still living at home for free.
As Ayana was answering the human resource questions, she heard her phone vibrating on the bed. She set her laptop down and turned around, grabbing the phone. Frantically, she answered when she saw that the person calling was Tramar.
“Tramar? Tramar?” Ayana answered the phone.
“Yeah, baby,” Tramar said. “It’s me.”
“Oh my God,” Ayana said, standing up. She walked around the front of her bed and pushed her bedroom door closed. “What the fuck happened to you? I been calling you since Saturday morning, and you ain’t answered. Are you okay? What happened to you, Tramar?”
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Tramar said. “See what happened was that I was on my way to Bob Evans, like I told you, and a cop pulled me over and said that there was a warrant out for my arrest.”
“A warrant out for your arrest?” Ayana asked. “For what? What they say you done did that they would have a warrant out for your arrest, Tramar?”
“It ain’t what they said. It was Precious,” Tramar explained. “I ain’t wanna tell you, but I’m behind in my child support. She mad that me and you is still together – you know that. She called me in and had them arrest me.”
“Why you ain’t tell me that you were behind on your child support, Tramar?” Ayana asked.
“‘Cause,” Tramar said, reluctantly. “I ain’t want you to start worrying any more than you already is worrying, about nothing at that. That’s why. I need to make some fuckin’ money, I know that. I called that bitch as soon as I got out, and you shoulda heard how the fuck she was talkin’ to a nigga. She did that shit on purpose, and she sound like she gon’ keep on doin’ it until I either pay all the way up, or…”
“Or what?” Ayana asked, snapping her neck back. “Or what, Tramar?”
“You know, Ayana,” Tramar said. “I told you she be throwin’ the pussy at me like it’s brand new or somethin’.”
Ayana shook her head. “I swear to God I’m so sick of that bitch,” she said. “I know she’s the mother of your child, but she is really turning out to be something. You remember when I met her ass, don’t you? What was I doing? I was being as nice as I could possibly be to her, and she still gave that ole nasty ass attitude. She lucky she don’t live near me. You know I don’t like to fight, but I will fight her ass just to prove a point.”
Tramar chuckled. “Okay, okay,” he said, finding it comical that Ayana would get worked up over Precious. “Calm down over there, baby. I don’t need you to go havin’ no damn heart attack or stroke for a nigga or somethin’. Just calm down.”
“Boy, whatever,” Ayana said. “Anyway, how much behind in child support are you?”
There was a long pause, and Ayana noticed that Tramar was not jumping to answer the question.
“Tramar?” Ayana asked, speaking a little louder this time.
“Ayana, I’m six thousand behind,” Tramar said.
“Six thousand?” Ayana asked. “Tramar, why you ain’t tell me about this.”
“‘Cause, what could you do about it, Ayana?” Tramar asked. “Ain’t like you got the money. And even if you did, I still would never take it from you no way. I just ain’t that kinda nigga.”
“Tramar, what you gon’ do?” Ayana asked. “You know all that bitch Precious care about is money, and she prolly gon’ have your ass in jail every fuckin’ weekend until you pay up all the way.”
“I know and I already told you,” Tramar answered. “I’m going to make some money. I got to. Shit slowed down for a minute, but I gotta get back out there and get some of this money flowin’ again. Just gon’ have to make sure that I’m real careful with my shit. I was on my way to see you actually when I got out. But when I called my boy Jackson back about makin’ this money, I gotta do it. I gotta get caught back up. If that bitch keep havin’ me locked up on the weekends, you know they gon’ really be watchin’ my ass. These cops is already racist as fuck.”
“Yeah, they is,” Ayana said. “What is you and Jackson gonna do?”
“I don’t wanna say just yet,” Tramar said. “He actually said he got a few things in the works, but we gon’ talk about them when I get over there. What you doin’? How’s your day and weekend been so far?”
“It’s been alright,” Ayana said. She sat back down onto the bed then slid her laptop onto her lap. “I’m still putting in for these jobs. They ain’t try’na pay no money out here.”
“I bet they ain’t,” Tramar said. “They wonder why niggas don’t wanna do that shit. Because the shit don’t get you nowhere. These jobs be try’na pay nine and ten dollars an hour and shit, and this is fuckin’ Chicago. Fuck that shit, at least for me. Have you had any of them even respond to you?”
“Yeah, one,” Ayana said. “This one company I put in for sent me an email asking some more questions so they could set up and interview. It pay like eleven dollars an hour, and I’mma have to take it. I need to get to makin’ some money myself, you know?”
“Yeah, I feel you on that shit,” Tramar said. “Well, it’s good you havin’ a little luck. The entire time I was locked up downtown, I was thinkin’ bout you. I swear to God I was. I was so mad at myself about this shit. But it’s my fault. I gotta get back out there and get to makin’ some money and shit.”
“Tramar, if you was behind in your child support like that, then why you take me shopping and to dinner and to the hotel and stuff?” Ayana asked. “You ain’t have to do all that for me if you behind in paying that bitch her fuckin’ money.”
“Shit, I don’t know,” Tramar said. “I was just try’na make you happy, I guess.”
Ayana looked at the phone. “You came up with a good one there,” she said sarcastically. “Boy, you know I’m just happy if you not behind bars and shit. Don’t be spending on me like that if you know you gotta catch up on that shit with her.”
Tramar and Ayana talked with one another for several more minutes before Tramar had to get off of the phone to go to Jackson’s place. Once Ayana had said goodbye and ended the call, she went back to finishing up the email, then skimming job openings in Chicago where she could use mass transit to get to work. She hated how not having a car limited where she could work. Tramar had promised that he could take her to work at whatever job she found if she needed him to do so. However, while Ayana truly did trust Tramar, she just couldn’t depend on him with what was going on with Precious. Precious was turning out to be the baby-mama from hell. Ayana could only hope and pray that everything would be okay with Tramar and Jackson, for whatever they were going to
do. After she’d sent a text message to Tramar saying that she wanted him to text her when he got done with Jackson, Ayana went back to focusing on the task at hand—trying to find a job.
***
As Tramar rolled in his boy Jackson’s black town car out toward the suburbs of Chicago, the skyline faded in the distance. What had been clusters of urban development in the form of apartment buildings and congested streets quickly transformed to wide, open streets with the roofs of houses sticking over the tops of wooded areas.
“Damn, this nigga live all the way out here?” Tramar asked, looking at areas of Chicago he’d only seen on the news. “This shit is fuckin’ far, Jackson. You sure that we gon’ be able to run up in there like this?”
Jackson, who was somewhat stocky and not very tall, at 5’8, looked over at his boy Tramar. In the midday sun, his brown skin almost looked several shades lighter. He nodded. “Hell yeah, nigga,” he said. “Remember what I told you about surprise and shit? It’s fuckin’ Monday morning or midday or whatever. Who the fuck is gon’ be expectin’ some niggas to roll up on his ass and get in that ass on a fuckin’ Monday morning? I’m tellin’ you, my nigga. This neighborhood is prolly gon’ be empty as fuck and shit because all the white people at work in they offices downtown, and the kids are tucked away in their private schools and shit. I don’t even know why you over there getting all scared about this shit. You know I ain’t gon’ do no dumb shit that’s gon get us caught.”
Just then, Jackson pulled a Glock from underneath his seat. Yet again, just like back at Jackson’s apartment, Tramar’s eyes zoomed in on how the gun was equipped with a silencer. He then turned his head and looked back ahead at the road. The two men were dressed in khaki pants and collared, blue shirts. Jackson had been smart enough to plan for them to at least look halfway professional in case any of the neighbors did see them. In fact, he even had clipboards that they were going to carry around back. The plan was to have the clipboards down at their sides, on whichever side of their body as the gun in their pocket. This would not only block the view of bulgy pockets, but it would also help them to look completely normal.
When It All Falls Down: A Chicago Hood Drama (A Hustler's Lady Book 1) Page 5