A Woman’s Work: Street Chronicles

by Nikki Turner

  Thinking of a Master Plan

  “Taylor Dixon, you may go back and see Felix Martin. He will be brought in momentarily by one of the guards,” the corrections officer stated. I hated jails, almost as much as I hated the police. I know they’re supposed to protect and serve but most of the time, the only thing those motherfuckers do is harass people and lock up our black men. To me, there ain’t nothing noble about that.

  I sat at the visitation booth and waited for Stacks to be brought in. When I saw him, my heart almost stopped beating. My baby had a black eye, a bruised lip, and a swollen face. “What the fuck happened to you?” I asked.

  “Nothing I can’t handle. Detective Morgan, one of the po-pos, got upset because I wouldn’t talk their language. So since he couldn’t get me to narc on my connect, he took it out on my face. He’s a fucked-up nigga anyway. You know me, baby, I’m gonna make him earn that badge.”

  I was steaming. I made a note to find Detective Morgan and pay him a visit later. I wasn’t going for that shit—no way, no how. “So what is it you need me to do? I called your mom and she sends her love. She’ll be down to visit later today,” I spat out without a breath in between. I hate visits because after you leave, you always realize there was something you forgot to say.

  “Taylor, I need you to take over the operation,” he began. I thought I was hearing things but I knew I wasn’t. Whenever Stacks is serious, he calls me by my government name.

  “I know you’ve been off the streets for a few years now, but you still know the ropes. I’ma be down for at least five years. I got too much product out there to collect on. Niggas need to know that while I’m down doing this li’l bid, my crew can handle bid’ness. I ain’t trying to come back to the block and rebuild,” he said, looking at me more seriously than I’d ever seen him do in a long time.

  “Why can’t we just stack what we have and work legit from here on out?” I asked. “We have enough cash to live comfortably. The boutique is pulling in enough to cover the mortgage. The car wash is holding its own, and our restaurant ain’t hurting at all. It’s a cash cow all by itself.” The truth of the matter was, I was proud of our businesses. Even though they started from illegal money, they had become legit.

  “T, haven’t you realized that once you’re in the game, you can’t just walk away? This empire I built ain’t about to crumble just ’cause I gotta lay down behind the walls. Niggas are depending on me out there. Families eat because of me. Li’l niggas who ain’t got no daddy and got crackheads for mommas are enrolled in colleges ’cause I pay for that shit. This shit goes deeper than the little boutique money that you make for a hobby. The reason you can do the things you do is because of the moves I made for us in dem damn streets. Now I’m not asking you to do no more for me than what I’d do for you.” I could tell by his tone that he meant it. I thought for a moment. I knew that if the shoe was on the other foot, Stacks would do whatever I asked with no hesitation. My mind flashed back to our first encounter.

  It wasn’t like I was new to the shit he was asking me to do. Hell, I met Stacks on the block. Back then I was an eighteen-year-old wayward teen trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents. My mom had passed away because of a drug overdose and I never knew my father. How I managed to complete high school was a mystery all in itself being that I was practically from pillar to post. My mother, God bless her soul, could never keep a steady roof over our heads due to her addiction, so I quickly learned that I could do one of two things: starve or survive. I chose the latter and learned how to sell drugs. Stacks was a mid-level-weight man who was known to have a good heart. Although he made his money selling drugs, he was one of those who gave back to the community. It wasn’t unusual to see him throwing a barbecue for the neighborhood, paying someone’s rent who would be facing eviction, or taking the less-fortunate kids of welfare mothers on shopping sprees. I guess he tried to karma all the bad shit he did. He was a little sweet on me and I knew it but never used it to my advantage. I bought my first fifty-cent pack from him. I flipped it, came back, and got a hundred-dollar slab. Once I flipped that, I copped an eight ball. I eventually moved up from an ounce to an ounce and a half. The next thing I knew, I had worked my way up to a bird. Stacks was impressed by my hustle and took me under his wing.

  I won’t lie and say that I wasn’t attracted to him. Hell, Stacks was finer than a motherfucker. I’d have been a fool not to be interested in him. I was actually a nice piece myself. I stand 5′6″ with caramel-colored skin, long beautiful wavy hair, and a body to die for. I’m a showstopper by any man’s standards, but I learned early in life that beauty can only get you so far. Stacks would constantly tell me that I needed a real thoroughbred to help me man these streets. I took what he said in stride until one night a drug deal gone bad almost cost me my life. I’d been serving this customer, Tate, for about six months. By this time, I’d moved up to the majors. I was purchasing ten keys a week. Tate would buy two keys at a time and was never short. But this particular night he seemed different. He normally just cops his product and bounces. This night he was a little extra friendly, but I paid it no mind. That was my first mistake. After making our normal exchange, he started grabbing me and fondling one of my breasts.

  “T, you a fine-ass bitch. Let me get a piece of dat ass,” he said.

  I could smell alcohol and weed on his breath. Normally I pack my “Nina,” but since I’d been dealing with him on a regular basis, I saw no need. I should’ve known better than to get caught slipping. The streets like to call our gun of choice Ninas, short for nine-millimeter Glock.

  “Look, Tate, you need to back the fuck off. I ain’t trying to deal with you like that. You’re drunk and you’re high. I’ma act like this shit ain’t happen,” I said in my hardest try-a-bitch-if-you-wanna voice. But he wasn’t trying to hear that shit. “No” was a word he wasn’t used to. As we began to wrestle, he got more belligerent. I managed to scream but then he slapped me so hard he knocked the taste out of my mouth. I had just about given up hope of winning the struggle when Stacks appeared out of nowhere with a gun to Tate’s head. He cocked the trigger and said, “The lady said no, nigga. Ain’t you ever heard ‘no means no’? What are you, some kind of rapist?” Stacks asked the question not really expecting an answer.

  “What the fuck you doing at my house?” Tate asked. I knew that he was crazy because no one in their right mind would question a man who’s holding a gun to their head.

  “Dude, you got a lot of nerve talking shit right now,” Stacks said. He uncocked the gun and hit Tate upside the head, knocking him unconscious.

  Realizing I was free, I quickly pushed Tate off me. I glanced at him lying on the ground. I couldn’t control the anger that had erupted inside me. I started kicking him and punching him. He didn’t budge. Then I spit on him. Stacks gently took me in his arms and held me. I was trembling and out of control. “Thank you for saving me. How did you know I was here?” I asked.

  “Something about ole boy didn’t sit too well with me ever since you started dealing with him. I normally check on you and your drops from time to time. I told you I had my eye on you and I meant that. You’re still a woman, meaning you’re vulnerable just like any other female, as you learned today.”

  “Well, this is one time I can say that I appreciate you being all up in my bid’ness,” I said, trying to muster a smile.

  “Let’s get out of here before he wakes up and I have to put a cap in his ass,” Stacks said. “I already don’t feel right leaving him breathing, but now ain’t the time or place to handle this nigga. He has too many nosy neighbors. If shit gets out of hand, I’ll pay him another visit. The next time, he won’t be so fortunate.” As we walked out the door, I stopped dead in my tracks.

  “What you waiting on? Come on, Taylor. Let’s get the fuck out this nigga’s house. What are you lollygagging around for?” he said. I didn’t say a word. I went to the coffee table and picked up the two keys Tate had bought from me earlier.

  “He w
on’t be needing this product. I have a strict ‘right to refuse customer service policy.’ This nigga stepped out of pocket, and he might as well find a new vendor,” I said. I was dead-ass serious. I had the dope and the money.

  Stacks laughed out loud. “Girl, you crazy. Let’s roll up out this joint.” We left Tate’s spot and I followed Stacks back to his crib. From that day, we’ve been inseparable. He had won my heart, and there was nothing I wouldn’t do for him.

  I quickly came out of my daydream and popped back into reality. I turned my attention to Stacks and listened to him as he laid down the details of the master plan he’d devised. I was all ears. My baby’s livelihood depended on me keeping shit in check. There was no way I was going to let him down.

  Down Like Four Flat Tires

  After leaving the county, I made arrangements to meet Jetta at our restaurant. Jetta was Stacks’s right-hand man, also known as his street lieutenant. Since Jetta wasn’t on parole, he had a bond and would be my assistant, so to speak. I had picked up Stacks’s phone from his impounded property. Every contact I needed to run the bid’ness properly was stored inside it. Our restaurant, located in southwest Atlanta, was named “Big Mamma’s,” which is what people in the neighborhood called Stacks’s grandmother. She was a strong, sturdy woman who knew her way around a kitchen. Although she was pushing eighty-three, she was still light on her feet. Everyone from the mayor to diplomats frequented the restaurant to get a taste of her cooking.

  When we bought the restaurant, grandma took charge and organized things. She knew about Stacks and me running the streets. She was the main reason I left hustlin’ alone and went legit altogether. “Them streets is mean and ain’t safe for no womenfolks,” she used to continuously say to Stacks and me. We ignored her as much as we could but she didn’t let up. “If you care about that girl, you’ll make her settle down. Your grandpa, God bless him, would have never allowed me to carry on like you let Taylor,” she would say to Stacks. Tired of her constant complaints, Stacks finally made me leave the game altogether. Instead of hustlin’ the streets, I enrolled in community college and took some business classes. Then I opened our boutique, helped run the car wash, and made sure things ran smoothly at the restaurant. Grandma stopped complaining and, to be honest, I was happy and content. Stacks and I had plans to get married, but we were still young and in no rush.

  I sat in a booth in the back of the restaurant and waited for Jetta. I spotted him walking in the door and waved him over to where I was sitting. As he approached me, I could see that he had been beaten up pretty badly too. He was a redbone, so if you looked at him too hard, he’d bruise. He had a black eye that he sported proudly. “I see Detective Morgan fucked you up too,” I said, not really expecting an answer.

  “Yeah, that’s one fucked-up-ass cop. He ain’t shit without that badge,” he said.

  “I feel you. Listen, are you hungry? I was waiting for you before I ordered anything. I’m hungry as hell.”

  “Shit, a nigga starvin’ like Marvin. I didn’t get out until five o’clock this morning. Stacks sent me a message to come straight over once I made bond. By the way, thanks for posting that for me,” Jetta said with sincerity. That was one of the reasons I had so much love for him.

  “Not a problem,” I said. Stacks wouldn’t have it any other way. After we placed our orders, I started filling him in.

  “Stacks is going to be out of commission for a while. But we ain’t taking no shorts. Y’all still gotta eat. With that being said, I’m coming out of retirement. I’ll be heading the operation, and you’ll be assisting me. I got to have a strong hand out there to make sure niggas don’t take me lightly. That’s where you come in. I plan on running this shit with an iron fist ’cause I don’t want niggas to think that just ’cause I’m a bitch, I won’t peel their cap back. I got to represent for my man, and I won’t have it any other way. I need you to ride with me on all the pickups so they can get used to seeing my face again. I know Carlos from Fourth Ward is always late with payments. I need to make sure he don’t try to game me out of our change. Since he’s the one most likely to try me, he’ll be the first one I’ll make an example of if he don’t come correct,” I said with authority.

  We were briefly interrupted when the waitress brought our food. Since Jetta was starving, he wasted no time digging in. “Ain’t no nigga gonna try you or get the drop while I’m around. You can bet your pretty ass on that. Stacks is my man, and since you’re his family, you’re my family. We’re down like four flat tires plus the fifth wheel on a caddy, feel me, ma.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way ’cause I consider you a brother. In these streets I need to feel like I can count on somebody. Go ahead and enjoy your breakfast. I have a few things to handle, and then let’s meet at the car wash tonight at six-thirty. I plan on letting everyone know what the deal is so there won’t be any misunderstandings. Gather up everyone on the squad and let them know there’s a mandatory meeting. I want everyone there.” Jetta could tell I meant business and nodded, letting me know he understood exactly what I meant.

  I got up from the table, said my goodbyes to my restaurant staff, and walked out the door. As I moved toward the parking lot, I took out my keys and pushed the automatic unlock button to my 600 Mercedes Benz. It was the “S” class, white on white, surround sound, and a navigational system. It was one of the luxuries Stacks had provided. There was no way I was going to give up “the good life.” I was going to handle the business as if my man were out there doing it himself.

  In the meantime, I had other things to deal with. Detective Morgan was at the top of my list. Word had it that he was a sucker for a big butt and a smile. Since I had both, he might as well consider me “poison,” as Bell, Biv, Devoe put it so eloquently. I was going to make this silly-ass Dick Tracy putty in my hands. If Stacks knew what I was planning, he would be totally against it. But that wasn’t my concern now. Since I’m the head nigga in charge, I’m going to do this my way.

  Planning the Double Cross

  I was sitting in the zone three precinct waiting for Detective Morgan to come out of a meeting. It was very busy inside. The secretary was aggravated because the phones were ringing off the hook and she was alone at the desk. Officers were jockeying for position at the coffee machine. The line there was about as long as the line at a good club on Saturday night. There were several boxes of doughnuts on the table by the vending machine. Everyone stopped and helped themselves to them. Some of them took more than their share. Now I know why them motherfuckers so damn overweight. That’s why they can’t catch nobody unless they’re in a high-speed chase, I thought to myself and laughed out loud. Suddenly a dark-skinned man, approximately 6′3″, with sparkling white teeth, beautiful skin, and features as handsome as those of the singer Tyrese appeared in front of me. For a moment, I was in a trance. The nigga was a stunner, but I had to remind myself that he was a pig and therefore also the enemy.

  I was happy that when, not if, this nigga took the bait, it wouldn’t be as dreadful as I’d thought. Since he was good-looking, that meant he had his share of women throwing themselves at him. Luckily for me, I’m a bad bitch. I ain’t Halle Berry but I’d give that chick Gabrielle Union a run for her money. I ain’t never had a problem getting and keeping a man. I don’t take no for an answer, and if I so much as bat these pretty eyes, I’ll get my prey.

  “Ms. Dixon?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s me, but call me Taylor,” I said in a flirtatious and friendly tone. I noticed him giving me an approving once-over.

  Got ’im, I thought to myself. I knew this nigga couldn’t resist me. I was hell on wheels and I knew it.

  “Well, Taylor,” he paused before he spoke, “how can I be of service to you?”

  “Well, Detective Morgan, I’d love to speak to you about Stacks—I mean Felix Martin,” I said. He looked at me, unsure of the reason for my visit. I lowered my voice before I spoke again. “It’s somewhat of a personal matter but I think I can be of grea
t help to you.”

  “Come back to my office,” he said. “It’s a little more private and a bit more comfortable.”

  I followed him to the back where his makeshift office was. It looked like a scene from Law & Order. The desk was old but sturdy. Nothing stood out. Even the phone was old as hell, only one step above a rotary phone. Several awards and plaques were on the wall. On his desk was a photo of a beautiful woman who could have easily been mistaken for a model. I assumed it was his lady. But Detective Morgan didn’t seem like the faithful type. I still had a chance. Not even a bitch could stand in my way. I took a seat in the vacant chair in front of him.

  “As I was saying, Stacks, my ex, was arrested last night. As much as I hate to say this, I’m not surprised you whipped his ass during interrogation. I’m actually glad you did. That nigga used to beat my ass night and day. I had to buy so much makeup from MAC to cover the black eyes and bruises he used to give me, I could have owned the company,” I babbled. I wanted him to relax and let his guard down.

  “So you say Felix is your ex? You don’t seem like the type who’d deal with a filthy low-down Negro like him. And speaking of the whipping, he and his crony Jetta deserved it. I plan on taking him down. I’ve been trying to nail his ass to the cross for years. I got his ass on a humbug,” he said braggingly.

  “A humbug? How so?” I asked. It was easy playing this nigga.

  “Well, I’d been staking out a well-known drug dealer named Bulldog who runs Decatur. We’d been waiting to catch the thug dirty coming off I-20. We knew the make and model of the car he was driving and the time and place where everything was going down. The only thing we didn’t know was who the supplier was. So imagine my luck when your ole boy, Stacks, shows up on the scene. But then we had one fuckup that we hadn’t accounted for.