by Brick
He chuckled. “Spoiled bitch.”
“Papa’s do boy.”
“Puppet.”
We circled one another like warriors in a standoff. Neither of us would ever admit Papa pulled our strings like the puppeteer he was.
“You better hit me with your first shot,” Freddie coolly stated.
“Look who you’re talking to. I’ll kill you without blinking.”
“Not before I open your dome like melon.”
“Stop playing and tell me what I want to know.”
He smirked. “What’s in it for me?”
“How much?”
“You take the fallout if Papa finds out.”
I nodded. “Okay. Simple enough.”
“And . . .”
“And?”
A slow smile eased over his face. “Yes, and. And I want the girl.”
“What girl?”
“The dude who showcased these bullets had this pretty, dark-skinned, warrior-type chick with him. If I point you in the right direction, I want her.”
“You want me to take her?”
“No.”
“Then what?” I asked.
He looked off in the distance, like he couldn’t make up his mind as to what he wanted.
Finally, he asked, “You going to kill this dude?”
I sighed, then put my gun down by my waist. “No. Hadn’t planned on it.”
Freddie nodded, then put his gun back in his holster. “Then, if you’re going to talk business, take me with you. I can get the girl on my own from there.”
I knew that look in his eyes. He was trying to find some normalcy. It was hard for us youngsters to do that when an age-old war was going on. No matter how hard we tried, as soon as we mentioned our last names, any hope we had of normality fled. So I agreed to let him tag along once I found out where the supplier was laying his head. Then I asked him what was so special about the girl he was so fascinated with.
“Saw her when Papa made the deal. I think she’s ole boy’s bodyguard or something. Mami’s bad, like . . . like, she is unexplainable, bella. I want her.”
“Like a pet?” I asked.
I gave him a look that told him I wasn’t with that shit. The men in my family had a habit of taking women and using them as pets. I’d seen them break and bend women until they were no longer themselves. They were what the men in my family had made them to be.
“No, Rosa. Want to get to know her the way a man gets to know a woman. She’s so fucking beautiful. Her name is Oya.”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head as I headed back to the house so I could leave. Freddie had a goofy smile on his face, one showing all thirty-two of his perfectly aligned teeth, as he told me all the info he had on the cat who made the bullets. It was weird for me to see a man in my family smitten with a woman in a normal way. I didn’t know how to take it, to be honest, but if it made my cousin this happy, I would oblige.
A few minutes later, I said my good-byes and made my way back toward Clayton County, to the auto shop. I drove down Mt. Zion, past the Park Apartments and the Magic Food Mart. Kept going until I passed Tara Elementary, the Wood Apartments, and the Pines Apartments. Passed Firestone. I waited to turn right at the light next to a big purple beauty supply store. The side street was dark as I crossed the abandoned railroad tracks, made a left at the stop sign, then pulled into the lively garage.
I saw Auto’s black-on-black Ford Shelby GT500 parked haphazardly and knew he was in the shop. I didn’t see anyone else’s vehicle, but that didn’t mean they weren’t around. M.I.A.’s “Double Bubble Trouble” was blasting as I used my key to let one side of the garage up. I smiled when I saw the new girl. His arms crossed, Auto was standing behind her, in his signature wide-legged stance. He watched on in silence as she worked credit card–making machines like it was second nature to her. Equipment used to make fake IDs was out in the open, and so was skimming equipment with gas pump overlays and hundreds of counterfeit credit cards. The girl had the most comprehensive credit card–man-ufacturing lab that I’d ever seen.
“Damn, chica. This is all you?” I asked.
The girl looked up at me but didn’t respond. She looked like she had half a mind to run. I guessed being sold up shit creek by someone you trusted had the power to do that to you. Auto only glanced at me, as he was keeping his eyes on the girl and her elaborate setup. If the cops rolled up on us, we’d all be looking at a long time on lockdown.
“This is all my stuff,” she told Auto.
“Smiley, this is Code. Code, Smiley,” Auto said, introducing us. His voice was mellowed out, like he was deep in thought.
Smiley only nodded at me.
I was curious. “What’s all this for?”
Auto inhaled and exhaled, then unfolded his arms as he turned to look at me. “We’re about to see if Smiley is really as good as her record says she is. Talked to Pascal back in Vegas. He contacted his people at Minot First National. They can get us some gen on the Vikings’ bank account info. And we’re going to hit them where they’ll hurt. I want them to know it’s us. They hurt our pockets, so we hurt theirs.”
I nodded. “And then what?”
“You get to Vegas, to Chandler. Make him talk. While we’re doing that, Smiley here will be transferring money from the Vikings’ business account to a dummy account. Once that has the Vikings’ attention, Lelo, Stitch, and Reagan will be on the Cessna. They’ll wait for word from us on what to do next.”
I took in all he was saying. I trusted his judgment, but I wanted to make sure Auto wasn’t letting his anger push him in the wrong direction. Anytime we lost someone or came close to losing someone on the team, Auto took it personally. We hadn’t lost Lelo or Stitch, but we’d come close enough, and that had Auto bugging out. I think that had him more on edge than losing the money we had.
“You sure about this?” I asked him.
His pupils dilated and his eyes narrowed as he looked at me. “Don’t question me on this, Code. There will be many things you can fight me on, but this won’t be one of them.”
“Okay. Was only asking.”
“You get that info on the supplier?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Same guy the old man was doing business with?”
“One and the same.”
“Okay. Take Smiley with you and scope him out.”
“Already planned on it, but you know I work alone,” I said.
He shrugged and averted his eyes. Then his gaze settled back on me. “And now you’re working with Smiley until further notice. All you’re doing is eyeing the man. Show Smiley around while you’re at it. Let her know who our people are so if she’s ever in a bind, she knows where she can run,” he said. Then he began walking out of the shop.
“And where are you going?” I yelled behind him.
“I need to make sure the chick who sold Smiley out knows the tables have turned, and I need to make sure nothing else of ours ends up stolen,” he said over his shoulder.
I shook my head and turned back to look at the girl, who didn’t seem to be impressed one way or the other.
“You ready to ride?” I asked her.
For a while she just stared at me. She was pretty enough. I liked the whole “head shaved on one side” thing she had going on. She was what Seymore, Lelo, and Stitch would call skinny thick. Skinny, but her hips and ass had a thickness that couldn’t be denied. I didn’t know why she was staring me down, but I hadn’t eaten any twat since I was in college a few years ago, and I didn’t plan on doing it anytime soon.
I inhaled and exhaled hard. “We’re not about to have a catfight, are we?”
She shook her head. “No. Was just trying to figure out what you are,” she answered plainly.
“What do you mean?”
“You black?”
“By race.”
“You gay?”
“Depending on my mood.”
“I’m not with that.”
“Good, because I
’m not in the mood to be, either.”
She picked up her backpack and threw the strap over her left shoulder. “Not trying to be your best friend, but I don’t want any trouble, either, so if you prefer to work alone, I get it.”
I chuckled lightly. “It’s cool. The boss man has spoken, so I can’t go against that.”
“He said you were his partner.”
I laughed this time. “Only when I remind him. Come on. We need to see if we can play I Spy with a bullet manufacturer.”
Chapter 7
Boots
Even a guardian angel had a shadow. That meant that even those who protected needed protection. This motto of mine played in my mind as I leaned against my mirror-silver Ford Mustang. Ankles crossed, I popped Mickey D’s fries in my mouth and gazed at the old-school-style brick brownstone building in front of me. I looked at the gentlemen’s custom-fit suit establishment in front of me and thought about my obligations. I’d walked inside and handled a simple drop-off for my pops. The man I had been hoping to meet, unfortunately, wasn’t there.
I was in a calm mood, and my attire added to that vibe. Black slacks, leather slip-ons with rubber waffle bottoms, so if I had to move out quickly, then there would be no issue. My white button-down was rolled up at the sleeves and was open at the neck, showing my white tank under it, and I wore suspenders attached to my slacks. My beard was trimmed so it was clean and looking good. I heard niggas on the street calling me André 3000, and I chuckled. I was fine with that. It helped put me in a category no one would understand completely.
I hopped in my Mustang, revved the engine, then hit ANSWER on my ringing cell.
“Did you get the product delivered with no problem?” I asked, then pulled off.
“Yup. No problem at all. They were thirsty for those five hundred cases, so it was smooth,” Alize answered.
My mind kept ticking as I drove, whipping through the A. I was trying to decide if I was going to camp at my crib in the hood.
“Who’s near you, Alize?”
Her soft chuckle sounded in my ear before she answered, “Shredder’s here.”
“Let me holla,” I calmly stated.
Shredder came on the line. “’Sup, boss? I know what you’re going to ask. The tracker blew out. There is no tracing where the bullets are at this point. We just know they are here in Georgia.”
Grinding my teeth, I shook my head. “Tell me why the hell it blew out, Shredder? I designed it specifically for such shit. What up?”
“B-boss—” Shredder began, but I cut him off.
“Calm that shit down, fam! I’m pissed at the situation, not you. Tell me why the tracer blew out, please. Damn, son.” Frustration had me pinching the bridge of my nose.
That cat was family, but damn.
“Yeah . . . so . . . sorry. It’s like this . . .” He paused a moment, then began again. “We designed the tracers to track only the drop-off. They were created to stay on for long periods of time. After that time expires, their batteries become faulty, boss, which is why I was ordering new parts for that particular tracker . . . to update it. But the old tracker got put on the new product, and so, with it being on so long, it overheated and blew out.”
Making an immediate right, I sighed. “That feels too damn convenient, but I remember you telling me that. Fuck, man. I should have switched it out beforehand. A’ight. Ain’t nothing to do but deal with what we got. Have there been any whispers on the streets about our product leaking out?”
“Nope, nothing. Just the drop with the client last night, and that’s it. It was smart not to give him the rest of the product we have, boss man.” Shredder gave a husky, amused laugh. “Because he was foaming at the mouth with the small amount we gave.”
“Yeah, wasn’t my plan. Just fell that way. Our warehouses in Texas and Montana are just too far away to be giving him the amount promised in this small window of time. So digging into the smaller warehouses here and in Miami is quicker,” I explained, speaking more to myself than to Shredder.
“Right, man,” Shredder responded.
“Keep tabs. I’m heading to base two, but first I’m coming in to drop the Mustang off and get my Explorer,” I said as I turned into the sheltered shipment facility, which was mixed in with empty airport factories.
I hit the button over my visor. Two tinted doors to the facility opened, allowing me to drive in. Shredder stood there, with his oversize geek glasses, blue jean overalls with one of the straps hanging down, and a goofy smile on his brown-bronze face. Like me, he had a beard, but his was wrapped around his jaw and disappeared under the beanie cap he wore. His lean, muscled build and his height often made me forget that he had a stuttering habit when angry. The stuttering made me forget the sharp intelligence of his mind. Shredder was one of those black kids on the streets who, if they had been born into privilege, would have gone to MIT. Instead, a degree from Texas Tech was all he had, just like I did.
Shredder locked his hazel eyes on me, then tossed me the keys to my ride. “We’re producing more Blazers as we speak. Oya is overseeing the quality control, as Alize is in the streets, with her ear to the paint, reporting to Shango, who’s at base two.”
“All right, man. And what are you doing?” I asked, as if I really needed to know.
Shredder shrugged, a lopsided grin on his face. A deep dimple showed through the russet brown of his skin. “Eh, ya know me. Working on the coding of the new tracking system, moving our money, and talking to the fam in Italy about more shipments.”
Though this was a small team, our reach was wide, even stretching overseas, thanks to old networking ties in my family lineage. While growing up, I’d learned never to put my eggs all in one basket. I never had, and I never would.
“Good deal, man,” I said, commending him, then bumped his fist before I headed to my Explorer. “I’m out.”
Massive boxes, storage containers, railroad shipment boxes, and more were all around us. Much of my work since coming to Atlanta was done here, but the rest, only a minor taste of my real work, was back at my place in the hood, which was where I was heading to. Word on the street was that there were new faces on the block. This piqued my interest, but as long as it had nothing to do with me, I was chill.
Riverdale was my hood. Twenty-five minutes later I pulled up in my Explorer and nodded to the “eyes” for my operation on this block: Pops Tank, or PT, as he made us call him, who was working without Shango today. PT was a real OG. Back in the day, the man had been a street king who brought people together, but he had also done his share of terror. Now the seventy-five-year-old man was my eyes and my ears, and he also collected the Gs I made by slinging minimal illegal contraband, weed, and hot products that people asked for.
After turning down my radio, I rolled down my window and kept my eyes on the complex in front of me as I spoke. “’Sup, PT? What’s the biz?”
He gave a throaty laugh, and the scent of his favorite cigar mixed with weed seeped into my ride. “Twenty Gs in one hiding spot, another ten in my bag, and a bee in my ear talking about some hot new-new possibly hitting the streets soon.”
I smirked from pride, then took the stack wrapped in idle mail, magazines, and other people’s mail that PT slide in my window. “Thanks, Unc. You sitting okay?”
“Yes, I am, nephew. Got my baby loving the new gifts I got her. That new roof I put on the house is looking really lovely,” he said with a prideful smile and a puff of his cigar.
I shifted in my seat, scoping my perimeter. “That’s what’s up. Let me know if I need to send anything to her in AL. You know I got you, Uncle.”
“Ya know I will, nephew. Alize dropped in. She’s in the courtyard, tearing up the grill. Ooh-wee, if I didn’t know how good of a killer she was, I’d try to get some of that young snatch,” PT joked.
PT was crazy in love with a lady, hidden in Alabama, who had held him down for decades and who had been the Bonnie to his Clyde back in the day when they ran the streets. So I knew the old man
was talking smack, not that it mattered. Right now, he looked like a graying dopehead in dirty bum attire, but when I had need of him elsewhere, the man always cleaned up and appeared younger than the seventy-five years he was. I had always called him Mr. Colt 45, because he looked just like this guy I remembered seeing as a kid in the old Star Wars movies that my pops would have me watch.
I smiled at the tall older dude hanging on my car door. “So you want a fat plate? I got you, Uncle. Talk to me about the new faces you told Shango about.”
PT shucked and jived. He inspected his area but played it off as swatting at flies in his face and talking to himself. I waited for him to hop in; then I rolled up the windows and pulled away from my complex to drive through the hood. I let the old man relax as the air cooled him off. He pulled out his Glock to adjust it so he could sit comfortably; then I took us to the local corner store.
“Ah, God blind me, ’tis hard work for an old man,” PT said, letting his Barbadian accent come out.
“I know. Might be time to switch out and rest, old man,” I told him.
I made a smooth right turn and pulled into the lot of the corner store.
“You see to yuh left? Right there, in di ride? Di new blood,” he said with a nod of his bourbon-brown face.
My gaze scoped the modest car. I saw only one person sitting on the passenger side.
“Cops?” I asked.
“Nah, too green in how they move,” he said with a chuckle as he lit up a new cigar.
“You said ‘they.’ How many?” I asked, keeping my eye on the car.
“Just two, nephew. Two beautiful girls. One looks unique and kind of scary with the way she’s dressed, but there are just two. Doesn’t feel like a threat, but we know looks can deceive,” he said with a knowing tone of voice.
I gave him an amused look; then we both laughed. We knew what the other was thinking. Females running on the block, looking as if they had no care in the world, but once you walked up on them in a disrespectful manner, your life would be cut off. It was then you would know you’d just run into an African queen.
After parking the Explorer, I glanced back at the modest car. “They give you that vibe?”