Thug-A-Licious

by Noire

“Whatever, man. You always told me to put you and Smoove down when I finally got paid, man. I’m just trying to do that. I got you on all my paperwork too. You know, my insurance and shit, since Smoove is in Iraq and Noojie is dead, you my next of kin.”

  I could tell Pimp was feeling that news by the look in his eyes. That niggah had put his shit on the line for me on the streets, and he’d doubted my loyalty a few times too. It felt good to be the one bringing something to the table for once.

  But I wanted to hook my girl up lovely too. Living the baller life didn’t mean shit if I was living it all by myself.

  “You can move into my place uptown,” I told Muddah one night right after I signed my lease and got the keys to my nest. I’d gotten her so horny she let me get some pussy on the kitchen floor without wearing a glove, and my naked dick had felt like cream moving up inside her. We had been kickin it on the regular for almost my whole senior year, and it was just like back in the day between us. Nah, things were even better than that cause now a hustler was paid and could give her anything she wanted. “Bring Mere’maw too if you want, cause I got plenty of room.”

  “Thanks, Dre. But I can’t. I have the shop and all…you know. I just can’t.”

  I wondered if she was still hurting behind Ya-Yo getting smoked, and even though that niggah was dead and gone their past thang still made me jealous.

  “Nah, Muddah. I don’t know. What’s stopping you? They got trains that run downtown every day, all day. So don’t use the shop as no excuse. Besides. Ain’t you ready to get Mere’maw outta that nasty-ass building? Y’all been there forever, girl. I didn’t work my ass off to get where I’m at not to get my peeps out too. I might not can take care of Noojie, but I can damn sure look out for you.”

  She shook her head. “Dre, please. I know me and you are tight. But trust me. Us living together would never work out.”

  I kept pushing her. I’d done all kinds of cold-blooded dirty shit to get my life where it was today. Muddah knew how hard I had struggled and how the streets had almost kept me in the gutter.

  “Why the fuck not, Miss Carmeshia? Why not?”

  She sighed and fidgeted with her sweaty hair.

  “Cause, Dre. I’m scared of your ass. I can’t believe I let you dig in me raw just now. You be fuckin’ with too many females. Ain’t no telling what your ass got.”

  I hit her with it straight. “I got herpes, Muddah. Yeah. I picked that shit up from a jawn in college. But”—I said real quick before she could twist her face up—“that’s all I got. I had my team physical and everything else came out cool. I’m HIV-negative, my prostrate is good, my asshole is tight and I ain’t got no little red bumps on my dick.” I looked at her hard. “I’m straight, Muddah. My shit is real straight. I’ll even bring you a copy of my HIV results.”

  She shook her head again. “Still. You got all them kids….”

  “Man…,” I whined. “And you love them damn kids! You with ’em ten times more than I am. How long you gone hold that shit against me anyway?”

  “How long you gone keep getting other bitches knocked up? You know, God has been good to you, Andre. But you keep fuckin’ out like you doing. Your ass could get straight cursed.”

  “No more. I promise. No more, baby. I ain’t fuckin’ no other women except you. And no more kids either. Unless they’re yours and mine.”

  “How many you got now anyway? More than the six I know about, right? How many? Seven? Eight?”

  Shit.

  “Nine,” I said truthfully. “I’ve got nine kids, Muddah. I know that’s a whole lot, and I’m sorry.”

  She looked sick. “Damn. Nine fuckin’ kids. And if you ain’t doing shit for the six you got here, you probably ain’t doing shit for the rest of them, right?”

  “I haven’t done much,” I admitted. “But I’m about to do more now. I swear to God. Now that I’m on, I can grind for mine.”

  “I heard that shit before, Andre. I heard it right outta your mouth. How old are all these damn kids? I ain’t talking about Little Precious, Shantay, Duqueesah, Mariah, or the twins. How old are the three you got that I didn’t know about?”

  “One is dead,” I said. “And I think Malik and Dante are both two, maybe almost three.”

  Muddah made a nasty sound in her throat. “You think. What was it? A boy or a girl?”

  “Who?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “The baby who died, Andre! How did it die and was it a boy or a girl?”

  I just went on and told her everything about that crazy-ass Passion. I knew she wouldn’t quit dogging me until I did.

  That psycho jawn had snuck a pistol into the gym while we was practicing and started shooting shit up like she was some kinda hot female action hero. Niggahs had hit the floor, screaming like bitches and crying for they mamas. A freshman sitting on the bench had gotten popped in the arm before a group of cats tackled Passion and wrestled the gun from that tiger. Nobody except the freshman had ended up getting hurt, but everybody was mad at my ass cause they’d come close to taking a few bullets that had my name on them.

  “That’s so fucked up, Dre. Somebody coulda been killed. You think maybe losing the baby made her go crazy like that?”

  Hell no. Passion was a crazy freak way before she ever met me or had that baby. “Ain’t no telling,” I said. “I guess it’s possible, though.”

  Muddah got real quiet. She had a big thing for babies, especially mine, and I could only wonder about that shit.

  “Get right with your kids first, Dre,” she said finally. “Then come talk some shit to me. When you can tell me how old your babies are, when you know their first, middle, and last names and when they was born, then maybe me and you can talk about having something really deep. And I need to see more than one HIV test, Dre. I wanna see one every month, just to be sure. So for now your ass is going back to fuckin’ into a glove, and I’ma keep right on resting on St. Nick with Mere’maw.”

  Chapter 25

  The team flew to South Carolina for training camp and that’s when I knew I was really in the NBA. That number-one draft pick title didn’t mean shit down there. I spent nine days at the College of Charleston catering to the vets. Running around getting towels. Cleaning the locker room, fetching Gatorade, and keeping enough basketballs on the floor.

  Some of the rookies had a lot of pride and was pressed out about the gopher treatment, but not me. I thought all that shit was fun. I got to learn from vets like Anfernee Hardaway and Allan Houston and I listened to everything they had to say cause I was planning on blowing up and being around the league for a long time.

  We trained hard at John Kresse Arena and by the time we kicked off the pre-season every man on the team was ready to do the damn thang. We traveled to Dallas, Chicago, San Antonio, Milwaukee, Miami, and everywhere we went I shined like a star, putting up impressive numbers that was better than most rookies could dream of.

  Coach Brown knew what he had in me. I was still a thug, but I was also his LeBron James and Carmelo Anthony and Allen Iverson wrapped up in one, and the fans loved seeing me clown and put on a show. They gave up the noise and showed me crazy love, and I got high off that shit every time I stepped on the court and illustrated my skills. I’d spent my whole life waiting for this and now that I had it I couldn’t get enough of it.

  And a niggah was paid real long too. The minute I signed on with the Knicks, companies was blowing up my agent’s Black-Berry. I got offers from all kinds of places, and ended up signing on with Nike, Sprite, and Taco Bell. I was lovin’ that shit. Me and some of the other players had just spent five days at a baller party on a beach in Anguilla. We’d stayed at Cape Juluca drinking 10 Cane Rum and Moët, boning groupies, and partying to cuts by hot artists like Reem Raw and Ludacris.

  No matter what city I found myself in, I worked on Muddah long-distance. I sent her and Mere’maw expensive gifts and jewelry, and wired her money out the ass to spend on whatever she wanted. But as bad as I wanted to be with Muddah, I still pa
rtied and got as much ass as I could. I was mad cause Muddah wouldn’t give me no raw pussy or make me no promises. She wouldn’t even say she loved me, so I did what I felt I had to do. Plus, the groupies stayed on my dick on the regular, giving up that trim and loving what I gave them back. I’d been used to a lot of jawns following me around from when I first got out there on the rap scene. They were usually chickenhead skanks attracted to the gangsta culture who would lick and suck and fuck any and everything you wanted them to. Four and five times, if you told them to.

  But the groupies who followed professional athletic teams from city to city came across a little different. Oh, they were still the biggest hoes on the planet, but these was some gold diggers with a master plan. They looked good, had tight bodies and perfect asses. They dressed right, smiled, and talked like they had some common sense and a little education. And a whole lot of them did. But get one of them bitches behind closed doors and see what happened. She wouldn’t fuck both you and your friend at the same time cause that would be too hoochie. Besides, she wasn’t in it for the thrill of it, she was in it to get paid. She had to make a niggah think there was a gold mine up in her pussy, and if she could get that thang locked on you she’d have you moving her into your crib and putting a ring on her finger in no time flat.

  We were having a hot season and I was the man of the hour. Industry heads were amazed by my versatile skills and calling me the first professional basketball player who could actually spit. They interviewed me for the cover of Slam magazine and between my recent number one single, “Just the Head, Please,” blowing up, and the magic I was working on the court, the name Thug-A-Licious was coming out of everybody’s mouth. I dominated all the hip-hop rags and made the rounds on the talk shows, and my agent was even working on a film deal with New Line Cinema to make a movie about my life.

  The regular season just flowed for us, and nobody was surprised when we ended up in the Eastern Conference Championship. We smoked that shit like a big fat blunt, and the next thing I knew we were suiting up for the NBA Championship against the L.A. Lakers.

  We played the first three games in L.A. and left California leading the series three to none. I was anxious to get back to New York. I just knew we was gonna wax L.A.’s ass even harder in front of a home crowd in the Garden, and I couldn’t wait to be back in Harlem and be with my girl Muddah too.

  I was gonna chill with Pimp for a minute too. I’d gotten him a couple of tickets to the next game, and he said he was gonna bring a few of the young boys he mentored with him so they could see an example of what a street thug from Harlem could become.

  As soon as we hit New York I took a limo to my crib. Yeah, it was phat as hell with a doorman and all kinds of finery, but now I was thinking about buying a house somewhere in New Jersey. A crib with a lot of bedrooms and a big backyard. A few weeks earlier I had surprised Muddah’s little ass. I’d sat down at my desk and made seven phone calls to seven women. That fuckin’ Rasheena started cursing as soon as she heard my voice, and most of the other ones just listened like I was full of shit as I ran down my plan. But all of them gave me the information I needed. And by the time I had finished with the last call I had a full sheet of paper in front of me.

  For the first time since they were born, I knew the first, middle, and last names of every last one of my kids. Their names, their birthdates, and how much it cost their mothers to take care of them every week. I e-mailed all of that info to my accountant and told him to set up something so I could start doing right by them with the dollars.

  That same day I went over on St. Nick and asked Mere’maw if I could marry Lil’ Muddah. By the time I finished slipping that shine on my baby’s finger and got up off my knees, both her and her grandmother was crying.

  L.A. had been real high-energy, so Coach had given us a day off before we had to report back for game prep and a short team practice. I unpacked my suitcase and ordered some food from a restaurant downstairs, then took a shower and checked the messages that were waiting for me. Smoove had tried to hit me and left me a message, and so had this chick I used to bone when I was up at Syracuse.

  I had something else waiting for me too. An invitation to the G-Spot. Sent by Granite McKay. That niggah G was a Knicks fanatic, and a lot of hot ballers hung out up in his joint. G had reached out to send me some props on my game, and told me to swing by the Spot and check him out if I was up for it. The way his message came across made me wonder if that niggah thought I was some kinda punk. Like maybe I had gotten soft or something cause I was ballin’ on a professional level now.

  I decided I was gone run up in there for a minute since I was home. G was known for throwin’ some lavish parties and showcasing some of the finest strippers to ever slide down a pole. Besides. I wasn’t gone let that niggah sit around thinking I was still shook behind that money problem with Smoove.

  I watched some television and ate my food. I listened to some music too. My boy Reem Raw had sent me some mixtapes from a street rapper named Beez holding it down in Philly, and I checked it out for a little while then grabbed my remote and turned everything off.

  My life was good and I was finally ready and able to walk it the right way. My music was hot, my hoopin’ was tight, Lil’ Muddah was fine as hell and was ready to become my wife. What more could a niggah want? Some sleep, goddamnit. Some sleep! I slid my tired ass in my big phat bed and got me some winks.

  Chapter 26

  I caught up with Smoove on the phone later that afternoon and told him to come check me out at the crib. He had just finished serving seven months in Iraq and was about to get sent to Korea. The Marines had put him on leave for a few days first though, and he wanted to see me before he flew out.

  “You done good, Thug,” Smoove told me, looking around my nest. I got us both a beer while he turned on some music. We were kicked back in my living room chilling, and I didn’t realize how much I had missed him.

  I nodded. “Your shit is tight too, man. Look at ya. Close shave and a motherfuckin’ Caesar! Man, what happened to the braids! I thought we was gone play these babies forever!”

  Smoove laughed. “It’s the Marine Corps, yo. All that individual stylistic shit goes right out the door. I like it though, man. It can be tough, and Iraq wasn’t a whole lotta fun. But the corps helped me climb outta the hole just like college and balling helped you.”

  “Yep,” I said chugging from my forty. “None of us planned to stay broke in that pissy building on St. Nick forever, man. We got ours, man. Now it’s time for Pimp to come up.”

  Smoove shook his head real slow. “I don’t know, Thug. That niggah got problems. It’s like he still living in that old world where we fourteen and fifteen years old, running around gambling and stealing and raising all kinds of hell. I got away from all that shit and I ain’t never regretted it. Noojie was the one who encouraged me to check out the service and hope my criminal record wouldn’t keep me out, man. I took her advice and it changed my whole life. I mean, I ain’t living in no grand-ass penthouse like you or nothing, but for a little niggah I do aiight.”

  “Hell yeah,” I agreed. “Ain’t no way I would wanna still be running them streets from Riverside to the FDR chasing no pussy or no papers. I still hang out in Harlem now and then when I can, but not on the regular. Matter fact, guess who I had a message from when I got home today?”

  “Who?”

  “That niggah, Granite. G McKay.”

  Smoove put his brew down and looked at me hard. “What that motherfucker want wit’ you, Thug?”

  I shrugged. “Prolly nothing. You know how his showboating ass is. He see my name up in the papers, hears my sounds rotating on the radio. He want playas like me to be seen lounging up in his Spot. It yeasts up his image. I’ma roll up over there later on tonight, though, just so he don’t think a niggah got soft.”

  Smoove got real quiet for a minute.

  “Check this out, Thug. I know what it cost you to help me out that night, but I never really thanked you f
or what you did. I got sloppy and let Rico and his boys get a drop on G’s package.” He frowned. “T.C., Miss Lady…they got shitted on. Everybody involved got caught up in G’s flow just cause my young ass made a bad move.”

  I shrugged. “It’s spilt beer, man. Plus, we Dawgs-4-Lyfe, right? We lived by that shit every day.”

  “Nah, man.” Smoove shook his head real hard. “Nah. See, that’s the kinda shit that got us all fucked up from the beginning, man. We gotta let that shit go, baby. You done a whole lotta shit for me, and I’ve done some shit for you too. Pimp did a lot for both of us. But most of it ain’t been to the good, Thug. And you gotta know that by now.”

  I took a good look at Smoove, and what I saw in his eyes shook me. “Look, man,” I said slowly. “What me and Pimp did that night at T.C.’s was the only thing we could think to do at the time. It was wrong, and I regret what it cost all of us, especially the people who practically raised me. But shit was critical. We knew G had you and what woulda happened if he didn’t get his package back. And neither one of us coulda lived with that. So it’s good, Smoove. We all living with our decisions and our demons, man. It’s cool.”

  Smoove shook his head again. “It ain’t always what you do, bruh. It’s why you do it.”

  “What you mean?”

  “When Noojie died I got a call from the Red Cross, ya know? Muddah had them contact me and I came home the minute I heard.”

  I nodded. I was still messed up over not being there.

  “I stayed with Pimp over on 114th Street while we waited for you to get here from upstate, but things seemed like they was different between us, man. For the first time in my life Pimp wasn’t the bad-ass big brother I looked up to no more because so much about both of us had changed.”

  I set my forty down on the floor and just listened. There was a shitload of hurt on my cousin’s face and I wanted to know why.

  “The second night I was there Pimp woke me up real early in the morning. The sun wasn’t even up yet. We’d smoked some nice sticky that night and fucked with some Erk and Jerk too, so my head was still cloudy when Pimp came in the room and said get up. He said he needed help carrying something downstairs to this car he had parked in the alley.”