The Dirty Red Series

by Vickie M. Stringer

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  That evening, Bacon stumbled forward, still holding his bottle of Grey Goose. It was an $80 bottle of imported French vodka, his favorite, and he was determined not to drop it.

  “Open the door, baby!” he slurred.

  Red locked the door of the black Range Rover and rushed to Bacon. She interlocked her arm with his to keep him from stumbling.

  “Red, that’s what I’m talking about!” Bacon shouted. “You got my back, baby.”

  “I always got your back,” she assured him as she struggled to lead him to the door. “Hold on, just try to stand up straight.”

  “I can’t believe my nigga is gone,” Bacon said solemnly.

  Tonight’s festivities had been twofold. One, they were celebrating the money that Bacon had been raking in since his new deal with his Mexican connection. He had basically taken over the streets in Detroit, and was pushing his product in Flint, Saginaw and Lansing, and even had Blue pushing his product well into New York and New Jersey. For the first time the product was moving from Detroit to New York, instead of the other way around. This had made Bacon very rich. In fact, he had so much money that he didn’t know what to do with it all. He had started opening up Laundromats, beauty salons and barbershops, car dealerships and nightclubs. The money was flowing too fast to keep up with.

  The second reason for the night’s festivities was to toast Bacon’s homeboy, Mike, who was recently killed by carjackers while rolling down the streets of Philly in his Bentley. The ballers in Detroit were up in arms and heated about their homeboy’s death. They had all gathered to toast him and give him a proper farewell, since his funeral would be held in North Carolina where he grew up as a child, and where his parents now lived once again.

  “Hurry up, girl!” Bacon slurred.

  Red fumbled with her key and finally got it into the lock. She opened the door and helped Bacon inside. He stumbled and somehow managed to land on the couch.

  “Damn, you’re heavy!” Red fussed, huffing and puffing.

  “That’s from good eatin’, Red!” Bacon laughed an alcoholic laugh. He slapped his stomach. “That’s them steaks, girl!”

  “Baby, I’ma run you a hot shower.”

  Bacon clasped her hand and pulled her down onto him. “I don’t want no shower! I want some of you.”

  “Boy, you need a shower.”

  “Shower me with your love,” Bacon began singing.

  Red burst into laughter. “You are fucked up.”

  Bacon looked over at his coffee table. Stacks were piled onto the table, twenties and hundreds, covering the entire top. An electronic money counter also sat on the table.

  “Watch this shit, Red.” Bacon smiled. He took a stack of loose bills, placed them in the money counter and watched the machine go to work flipping the bills. “I love that shit!”

  Again, Red laughed. “You’re crazy.”

  “What we gonna do with all this shit, Red?”

  Red shrugged. She had already begun stealing stacks of money from Bacon. Once he couldn’t count the money anymore, he stopped being careful, stopped caring about every penny. Red was more than happy to relieve him of some of it. After all he owed her.

  “We’re going to invest it, baby,” Red told him. She dropped down beside him and pulled off his shoes.

  Bacon stroked Red’s hair. He was in seventh heaven. Red had done a one-eighty. She had changed completely, and she was now being wifey. She wasn’t running the streets no more, she wasn’t tripping with him about hitting the streets to handle his business, she was always where she said she was going to be and she was even trying to cook and clean and iron his clothes for him now. He had a beautiful, down-ass woman who took care of him. She was a baller’s dream wife.

  “I’m fucked up, ain’t I?” Bacon hiccupped.

  Red nodded. She helped him out of his shirt, and then out of his pants. “Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

  “You take care of me, Red,” Bacon slurred. “I’m always going to take care of you.”

  Red stopped and looked at him. Within seconds, her eyes became teary and her eyebrows crinkled. She began sobbing profusely.

  “What’s wrong?” Bacon asked.

  “How, Bacon?” Red asked through fake tears. “How are you going to take care of me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at Mike. He was on top of his game and now he’s dead. What about his girlfriend? His kids? What they got now? They ain’t got shit. If something happens to you, then what? What’s going to happen to me then?”

  “You get the money, Red,” Bacon slurred. He picked up a pile of money from the table.

  “How long is this shit gonna last?”

  “This ain’t all of what I got, girl. I’ll tell you where the rest of it is,” Bacon slurred. “You can have it. You can have it all.”

  “I can have it all so the police can come and arrest me and take it all?” Red cried. “We need some legitimate shit, Bacon, and life insurance. We can’t keep living like this.”

  “We got businesses.” Bacon laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” As if on cue, Red started crying heavily. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. You don’t take me seriously.”

  Bacon caressed her head. “I do, baby. If that’s what you want we can go get some tomorrow.”

  “These people sent me the papers,” Red told him. “I can mail it off tomorrow, and we’ll be taken care of.”

  Red rose and pulled some papers out of her purse. She handed them to Bacon, along with a pen. She started crying again.

  “Shhhhh,” Bacon said, caressing her head.

  “I just want to do something for us.” Red told him through sniffles.

  “Where do I sign them?” Bacon asked without even bothering to read the documents.

  Red pointed at the places Bacon need to sign, and he took the pen and put his John Hancock on them where she told him to. He barely made it through before leaning back and passing out.

  Red gathered the papers and carefully placed them in her purse. A gigantic smile spread across her face. She had just gotten Bacon to sign a quitclaim deed giving her back her real estate company, and the closing documents for the sale of the house.

  “Checkmate, muthafucka!” Red spat, standing over a snoring conked-out Bacon. She had just taken a giant leap in her plan to fuck over those who had fucked her over.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Red sat in the chair while Donna dried her hair. Donna was her latest stylist at the Divas salon, a new shop Red had been trying out on the north side of town, and she was loving it. She had been going to Donna for three weeks now, and girlfriend was all that she was cracked up to be. Donna was a stylist who was in the game along with her man, so naturally, all of the big ballers’ wives and wifeys went to her. She was the “in” stylist of the moment.

  Donna was a Dominican who had moved to Detroit from New York. She was top flight when it came to doing hair. She was the baddest thing east of LA when it came to cuts and styling. She was also bad with a weave, especially infusions and quick weaves.

  “What you think? Is it time?” Red asked.

  “Time for what?” Donna replied.

  “Time to take it all off?”

  “Bitch, please!” Donna told her. “I ain’t cutting your hair, or letting anybody else do it. You gonna have to whip my ass if you want all of this pretty red hair cut off.”

  Red laughed. She wasn’t chopping off her hair for nobody. She just liked to tease Donna.

  The door to the shop flew open and in walked a tall chocolate female with a pixie cut. “Stop, drop and roll, bitches! Fire is in the house!”

  All of the beauticians in the shop broke into laughter.

  “Foxy, shut your ass up!” Donna told her.

  “Ms. Foxy is here for her weekly do.” She walked up to a display cabinet and eyed the beauty products for sale. “I need me a perm, and some spikes, and some highlights. I’m trying to get te
n more bitches hating on me by sundown.”

  “Bitch, you next,” Ciara told her.

  Foxy walked to the waiting area, picked up a hair magazine, took a seat and started flipping through the pages. “I need to pick me out a style that will make all of the bitches just go ahead and put that gun to they head and say forget it, they can’t catch me.”

  Donna laughed. “That bitch is crazy.”

  Red looked over at the waiting area. She didn’t recognize Foxy, but knew there was something strange about her. Foxy was a post-op transvestite, with breasts, a quick weave and all of the features to match. Her jaw was a little too square, and her Adam’s apple a little too visible not to be noticed. And despite how she had changed her voice, she still sounded like a teenage boy trying to be a diva. Her expensive hormone shots helped get rid of the bass, softened her up a lot and did wonders in getting rid of all the hair, but they still couldn’t put her all of the way over the hump.

  “Girl, is that a man?” Red asked quietly.

  Donna bumped Red. “Girl, stop.”

  “Is it?”

  “She used to be,” Donna whispered. “She had it snipped and tucked.”

  “No!” Red giggled under her breath.

  “Girl, what are you reading?” Foxy shouted across the room.

  One of the beauty shop’s customers was reading Bitch Nigga, Snitch Nigga.

  “You don’t know nothing about that book!” Ciara told Foxy.

  “I know everything about it!” Foxy said, snapping her fingers. “From the Catfish to the Bacon, to all the food groups, girl!”

  Everyone in the shop laughed.

  “I can tell you about Ms. Lennox, and the whole nine yards!”

  “Girl, you know Foxy is like dialing 411 in the hood!” Donna shouted.

  Red sat up a little. Who is this punk?

  “I can tell you who shot who, who snitched on who and who is still doing who and what,” Foxy continued. “Hell, that story is so crazy and it is still going on. Shit, now the nephews is all involved. Niggas is still shooting niggas over bitches, bitches faking babies and blaming it on other niggas. Niggas putting out hits on other niggas, and bitches getting killed. Girl, it ain’t over. They gonna kill that nigga who wrote the book, the bitch that stole the book and everyone in between.”

  Red went stiff. This punk was running his mouth and telling everything—shit that most motherfuckers didn’t know and didn’t need to know, but what did she know about the nephews? What did she know about bitches faking babies, and niggas shooting each other over bitches? This whore knows too much, Red thought. But even worse, he was telling too much.

  “Girl, how do you know?” Ciara asked.

  “’Cuz I do.” Foxy laughed. “Hell, niggas talk like bitches do.”

  “Yeah, they do!” one of the shop’s patrons chimed in.

  “Amen, I second that!” Donna cackled.

  “Especially when it comes to pillow talk.” Foxy laughed again. “Give a nigga some poohnanny and they can’t shut the fuck up!”

  The ladies in the shop howled with laughter.

  “FBI be trying to bust a nigga and get ’em to snitch,” Ciara added. “All they need to do is give them niggas some pussy. They’ll learn where all the dope is!”

  Again, laughter and howls shot throughout the shop.

  “Especially this poohnanny,” Foxy said, touching her hip with her index finger. “I give my little slice of bacon some of this, and he can’t shut the fuck up.”

  Red gasped.

  She was seated in the last chair in the shop, far enough away so that Foxy wasn’t paying her any attention. The shop was narrow, but extremely long, placing Red a good distance away from the waiting area but still within hearing distance. Besides, she had a cape covering her clothing and a towel still wrapped around her wet hair. Red was a well-known female, and if this Foxy was fucking with Bacon, then she would know her. She had to keep a low profile and just listen.

  As Red’s ears burned it all started making sense. So Bacon has been spilling the beans to Foxy, and somehow things have gotten back to Q. Which means that Foxy knows Q, or somebody Foxy ran her mouth to knows Q, and maybe even Bacon, too. One thing was for certain: Red knew that she had discovered a major flow of information. It was this punk-ass tranny who had thrown some monkey wrenches in her game. Ms. Foxy was now on her list, and would have to be dealt with.

  “Girl, relax,” Donna told her. “You’re tenser than a piece of steel right now.”

  Red exhaled, and tried to relax in the chair. “Stress.”

  “Well, don’t let it make your hair come out,” Donna told her. “You do anything to mess up this pretty hair, and me and you gon’ have some problems.”

  “I won’t.”

  “So how you want it today?”

  “Girl, just blow-dry it, and put a flat iron to it so it’ll have some body to it.”

  “You got it,” Donna told her.

  Yeah, Red thought, I got it and then some. That filthy fucking Bacon was running up in a tranny and fucking her. Either being in prison had really fucked him up, or he was a sick son of a bitch from the get-go. Whatever it was, he and his little tranny girlfriend were gonna get it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Catfish made his way through the inmate side of the visiting room, cursing the entire time. He had to rush and get dressed. His khaki uniform was wrinkled from not being ironed because he hadn’t been expecting a visitor. He hadn’t had his hair braided, nor had he had time to shave in anticipation of his visit. Everything had come as a complete surprise to him.

  He wondered who it could be visiting him today. His mother hadn’t told him that she was coming, and she and his sister were the only people who still visited him. His girl was long gone, and so were his homies. Sure he had loyal soldiers who were still on the payroll, but they certainly hadn’t made the trek upstate to pay him a visit today.

  “Booth number five!” the guard told him.

  Catfish shuffled down the corridor until he found the booth. He was shocked to see who was sitting and waiting for him.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Catfish demanded.

  “Sit down,” Red said calmly.

  “I ought to snap your damn neck!” he hissed.

  “Sit your ass down and listen to me,” Red told him.

  “For what?” Catfish looked around the room. He stared at the guard near the exit and thought about walking out of the visiting room. He had nothing to say to Red. She had screwed him and he wanted her dead.

  “Because it costs you nothing to hear me out. What else you gotta do? Go back to your cell and jack off?”

  “That’s better than sitting here listening to your bullshit,” Catfish barked. “Don’t you realize that I can still reach out and touch you?”

  Red nodded. “I know that, but we can fuck over each other.”

  “You got a lot of nerve coming here!” he snapped.

  “Sit down, and let’s talk business. We can both win.”

  “You’re a snitch, Red—or should I call you Lisa?”

  “You and I both know I didn’t write that book.”

  “You making money off of real niggas’ backs.”

  “And now you should make some money, too.”

  Catfish paused and stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s your story, you’re a part of it, you should get paid, too.”

  He pulled the seat out from the desk on his side of the booth and sat down. “You better come correct because I can kill you right here and right now. If I feel like I’m being played, I’ll reach across this booth on your ass and it’s nothing anyone can do to stop me.”

  “If you feel like that, then you can walk away.”

  “No, I’ma snap your damn neck!”

  “Okay, then snap my neck.” Red remained calm. “I got a moneymaking proposal for you. You want to make money or not?”

  Catfish quieted his ranting. “Let’s hear it.”


  “I hear they got a lot of talent in the joint.”

  Catfish pursed his lips and nodded slowly.

  Goddamn, you ugly, Red thought. His narrow face, bugged-out eyes and scraggly mustache made him look just like a catfish—a bottom feeder.

  “You know any good writers in there?” Red asked.

  Catfish smiled slightly. He automatically knew where she was going. “I know a couple of cats in here who can write.”

  Red shrugged. “They want a part two, and I damn sure can’t write it.”

  “What are we talking?” Catfish asked.

  “We split the advance down the middle.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty grand.”

  Catfish shook his head. “I need more than that.”

  “Look, I’m handling all the paperwork, the marketing, the book signings, all of the travel and bullshit.”

  “Yeah, but without me, there ain’t no book.”

  “Says who?” Red smiled. “I came to you to give you first shot at making some bread. I’m sure I can find a nigga in the joint who read Snitch Nigga, Bitch Nigga and who’s willing to contribute his talent.”

  “Then why did you come to me?” Catfish asked. He leaned back in his seat.

  “’Cause I want a full partnership.”

  “A partnership with you, Red? That’s asking for trouble.”

  “How? You can reach out and touch me from the joint, remember?”

  “No, you remember that.”

  “Look, I want to call it quits between us.”

  “What do you mean?” Catfish frowned.

  “We become partners, you call off the hit—take the price off of my head—and we make money on this book thing,” Red told him. “You know the story, the players, the real deal of what happened behind the scenes. You tell the story and get somebody to do a banging part two, and I handle shit out here on the streets, and we make money together.”