Hard Betrayal

by Jason Stanley

  “D’andre bought it for me last week. One day, he complains about the fish; the next, he buys me this beautiful tank. He’s like that sometimes.” Sugar pulled a cord to close the cream-colored drapes over the sliding glass door that led to the small, fenced-in patio at the back of the apartment. “Sometimes the sun hits the tank and it gets too hot. I like the light, but I like my fish more, and the hot sun’ll kill them.”

  “It’s nice. He picked out the tank and stand by himself, didn’t he?”

  “How could you tell?” Sugar asked.

  “Stand. It doesn’t match shit in here. The rest of your stuff is black leather, chrome, and glass. No way you’d buy a heavy-looking, honey-colored wood stand.”

  “He probably asked for the most expensive one in the store. I sure as hell can’t return it. He’d blow a fucking gasket, saying how I don’t appreciate anything he does for me.”

  “Well, that’s some big-ass tank, all right. But you didn’t ask me to come over to look at your new fish. What’s up?”

  Dontrice and Sugar had been friends for a long time. In the early days, they’d dress up and sneak into bars, where they’d do a little prostitution on the side. The extra cash was good, but it was mostly for fun, just seeing if they could get guys to pay them. When Sugar hooked up with D’andre, Dontrice was the first woman to work with her.

  “Yeah, D’andre and me got something we’re building up,” Sugar said, “and I need your help. But everything’s got to be on the low-low.”

  “You never have a problem asking me for help; we’re dogs.”

  “I’m serious. I need you to keep this quiet.”

  Dontrice frowned. “What’s going on, Sugar? You ain’t never been careful and double-oh-seven-like before.”

  “Well, keeping it on the down-low is critical; we’re messing with a big deal.”

  “Damn, girl, now I’m all curious. I’m in for sure.”

  “You remember that creep, Jerome? The one who had his ball shot off by Michelle and her friends?”

  “I loved that!”

  “We’re gonna use him to do a job, and you can help set him up with the right crew. Two guys is enough.”

  “I don’t understand. You want to help some asshole who goes around jacking women?”

  “D’andre’s making a run at Bam to take over Lewis’ territory. We’ve got some big, out-of-state backing for supply from back East. We need to pull off some of BamBam’s crew, get them busy with something else for a hot minute.”

  “How do I fit in?”

  “I’m thinking you and Blondell can get close to a couple of them, and then piss them off. You know, sweet-talk them, then roofie them and jack them for their money. Get them pissed at women so there’s a reason to join Jerome.”

  “Sounds like some dangerous shit.”

  “We can fix it with them later; give them the cash back and some free blow jobs or pussy, and make up some crap about how they were part of a joke on somebody else. In the meantime, D’andre and me, we got your back. You know we always do. We won’t let nobody hurt you.”

  “So, what’s in it for me and Blondell? We’re taking all the chances. If this blows back on us, we’ll be in the shit, real deep.”

  “Do this thing right,” Sugar said, “and I’ll give you each two hundred, cash.”

  “Yeah, the two hundreds are good. But it doesn’t cover the danger. Not really.”

  “Look, this is important. This goes right, we’ll own the hood. Won’t nobody can move in on us.”

  “No disrespect, Sugar, but . . . this action might be good for you, but it doesn’t mean much for me and Blondell. None of this helps us. We’re still working the street, same as always.”

  “When we take over, D’andre will push out Jimmy, too, and I’ll move you guys into his high-money spots over on Western.”

  “When?”

  “Soon as BamBam’s out, we’ll move on Jimmy.”

  “And the two hundred?”

  “Now.”

  “All right, I’m in. I’m sure as long as we do it together, Blondell will go along with me. Who do you think’s good for this?”

  “D’andre said he wanted you to take out Darius and Cheese.”

  “Darius and Cheese?” Dontrice winkled her nose. “Those two won’t never work. Darius is married and doesn’t mess with us, and Cheese is too mean. I don’t want him pissed at me. No way.”

  “Who do you suggest?” Sugar asked.

  “Terrance and Willie? We can wind them up pretty easy, and they’re okay, not real assholes like Cheese. For sure, they’re the two to get.”

  “All right, get them. I need them set up tonight.”

  “Sure, no problem. Remember, you gotta have our backs.”

  “My word on it.”

  “I’ll send a text when we’re done,” Dontrice said.

  “Thanks, girl, I knew I could count on you.” Sugar handed Dontrice four one-hundred dollar bills. “You’ll see, this will be good for all of us.”

  * * *

  About an hour after Dontrice left, D’andre meandered into the apartment, dropping clothes and shoes, phones and keys on his way to the bathroom like autumn leaves in a windstorm. In less than a half-minute, the living room filled up with his discards.

  He returned, buckling his belt, and sprawled out on the couch, propping his stocking feet up on the coffee table and his gun on the cushion next to him. He clicked on the TV. “Sugar, bring me some tea. Lots of ice. It’s hotter than a mutherfucker out there. Get me some aspirin, too. I’ve got a headache.”

  Sugar brought in a large thermal glass full of iced tea and handed it to him over the back of the couch.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” He half-twisted toward her. “I want some aspirin.”

  “It’s in the bathroom,” she said. “You were just there.”

  “I didn’t ask where the mutherfucking aspirin is. I told you to get me some. Now do like I said, and bring me the goddamned bottle.”

  “Christ,” Sugar grumbled. “No wonder you got a headache. You’re sure in a shitty mood.”

  Without looking, he reached back for her to put the bottle into his hand. “Did you talk to Dontrice?”

  “Yeah, we’re good to go.” Sugar walked around the couch to hook a leg over the arm of a large, overstuffed chair like she was riding a pony. “Blondell and Dontrice are hooking up with Terrance and Willie tonight.”

  “Shit, woman, that’s not what I said! I want Darius and Cheese out of the mix. They’re the ones who can handle themselves in a fight, and they’re the ones I want. Those others got no juice. Goddamned women can’t do nothing right.”

  “I know, D, but they’re afraid of Cheese, and Darius is married, so he don’t play. They picked two guys they’re sure they can pull off the street for you. They’re scared of getting hurt, so I promised we’d watch out for them.”

  “I’m not spending no time on a couple a’ hos who can’t even do what I say.”

  “D, they’re helping us. You gotta protect them.”

  “I don’t gotta do shit. Don’t you start thinking you can give me orders about how to run my bidness.”

  “I’m sorry, D, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m worried about my girls, is all.”

  “Look, you’re not thinking this shit through. When this whole thing happens the right way, you’ll be running a bunch of White women from Russia. You’re not gonna need no street hos from the hood. Think smart, and start looking at the big picture.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Sugar agreed. “I should be thinking about myself. I need to figure out how I can build a high-class bidness with those Russian women.”

  .

  Five: Tailor-Made

  MICHELLE KNOCKED ON the white metal door. Somehow, the fake wood grain surface made it seem less cheap. Without waiting, she knocked a second time, then took a half-step back. She leaned forward to knock a third time, when the peephole darkened. Michelle smiled a big, cheesy smile. The lightweight door amplified
the deadbolt click, the chain lock rattle, and the pop-thunk of the push lock snapping open when the doorknob turned.

  “Hey, girl, come on in,” Nikky said. “Damn, you said you’d be here at nine thirty, and it’s not even twenty after yet. Don’t you keep CP time anymore?”

  “I haven’t heard ‘Colored People’s time’ in a while,” Michelle said. “I completely forgot about that old saying. Yeah, I keep CP time, but showing up early and messing with my girl is more fun.”

  “Want some coffee? I made a fresh pot.”

  Omar stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam and with a towel on his head. “Hey, Nikky, where’s some lotion? My skin is all ash—” He stopped mid-stride and mid-word when he saw Michelle. “Oh, hey, Michelle.” Cool, calm, and naked, he turned and walked toward the bedroom, towel still on his head. A fresh-scrubbed musk scent followed him.

  “Wow, now there’s a brother who’s comfortable in his own skin!” Michelle said.

  “Not much rattles him,” Nikky agreed.

  “So, you and Omar now?”

  Nikky smiled with small shrug. “Girl needs to get her swerve on. How about that coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I had a cup earlier. I stopped by to make sure you were up. I’ll go pick up Deja and be back here shortly. Give you two a minute.” Michelle wiggled her eyebrows. “Remember, we’re fitting you for a dress, so you’ll be in your panties and bra with a woman measuring you every which way. You don’t want to be smelling like sex.”

  “Should I wear anything special?” Nikky asked.

  “Something cool; it’s already heating up outside.”

  * * *

  The trip to Top Class Tailors on Wilshire Boulevard in Brentwood took only a little over thirty minutes by surface streets, but was a million miles away from the hood where Deja and Nikky lived.

  The three women had grown up together in the hood. They’d gone through their first boyfriends and puberty together, had shared notes on their first sexual experiences, and they were all pretty in their own way.

  Deja was the knock-out glamorous, gorgeous one who stood at a tall five-foot-ten with a small waist and a voluptuous body, light skin and good hair naturally thick and worn long. Around her, most women were envious and most men were horny. Always smiling and laughing, Deja loved to have fun, and with her sometimes naïve Bambi-like appearance, she drove the men wild.

  Nikky had a Creole look with wavy hair and a striking, quiet beauty chiseled into her smooth, even features. Petite with a full figure, she barely hit five feet. She was as quiet as Deja was loud. Nothing slipped past Nikky; her eyes sparkled with intelligence, and she could ask a million questions and always remember the answers.

  Michelle had always been the average one growing up, though she’d developed into the strong leader of the group. Pretty, but not outstanding, she always kept her hair short, and at five-foot-five, she stood right in the middle. She had a slim, athletic figure — long, sexy legs and a round, tight ass — and her breasts, at an optimistic B cup, were an unfulfilled promise. As a teenager, Michelle dreamed of getting real tits, but her later assassin training squashed any of those thoughts. When hugging the outside of a building ten stories up, a large chest posed a problem. Besides, she found small tits had never-ever, not once, stopped her from getting laid.

  A bell rang in the back of the shop when Michelle opened the door. “Hola, Marie!” Michelle called out as she, Nikky, and Deja stepped into the shop crowded with hanging clothes and bolts of fabric.

  “Hola, Miss Michelle. I’ll be right out,” a voice replied from the back.

  Growing up, Michelle bought her clothes at Target or at the SwapMeet. Expensive designer clothes had been completely out of the question, and alterations didn’t happen. Back then she never knew what a good fit felt like. The idea of tailor-made clothes had been so far from her reality, it hadn’t even qualified as a daydream.

  Now that she had some serious money, custom-made clothes had become a special part of her life. She absolutely loved everything about it — the coffee or the ice-cold A&W Root Beer brought to her while she sifted through the materials; the soft smell of the cloth, its rustle as it slid off the bolt, and the feel of the different textures between her fingers.

  “Marie, these are my best friends, Deja and Nikky.”

  “So good to meet chew, Miss Deja and Miss Nikky. Oh, Miss Michelle, jour friends are so beautiful. And they both have nice big breasts I can work with. Not a little skinny toothpick like you.”

  Marie never seemed to care about being politically correct; she said whatever came to mind, which was fine with Michelle. Living in the hard world of professional assassins, Michelle strongly preferred truth over bullshit.

  “Yes, Marie, their breasts are big like most of you Mexican girls. Black women like me have some ass. You flat-ass Mexicans are jealous of my fine, round butt and you know it.”

  “Oh, you are so right. Me and my girls are always stuck with a flat bottom. It’s a Mexican woman’s curse,” Marie said with a deep, throaty laugh, exuding pure joy.

  “Who’s first?” Michelle asked.

  With happy-go-lucky, childlike enthusiasm, Deja jumped up. “I’ll go.”

  “Good, not a shy one.” Marie pulled a curtain, closing off the area. “Now, strip off those tight shorts and blouse.”

  “Now? Here?”

  “Yes, now, and where else? You don’t want to do this outside, do you?” Marie talked and laughed as she showed Deja the small, portable stage. “Here, Miss Deja, you stand here so I can look you over.”

  Michelle loved standing on the little stage while Marie measured her, loved how Marie said a piece should be “just so” to show off her figure. She even loved how Marie teased her about her small tits, then made them look perfect in her clothes. Today was even better. Today, she was lucky enough to share this special part of her life with her rows.

  Michelle nodded at Deja. “Go on, get out of those clothes and up on the stage. She wants to see how you’re put together. Next, she’ll start figuring out how to make you even more beautiful.”

  “Shouldn’t I tell you what clothes I want first?” Deja asked.

  “Oh no, Miss Deja. I need a picture of jour shape, skin, and face in my mind. Of course, all the measurements are important, but along with them, and the mental picture, I can make jour new clothes fit exactly right. Miss Nikky, what would you like to drink while jou’re waiting?”

  Dressed in her bra and panties, and wearing a big, cheesy grin, Deja hopped up onto the little stage.

  “Miss Deja, no, no, no, you can’t do that.” Marie shook her head, pointing at Deja’s bra. “Miss Michelle, please tell her she needs a much better bra. Oh, sorry, what would you know?” She laughed, looking Michelle over. “Miss Deja, jour friend, she had no need for a good bra. But you, with your full figure, you must have quality-made bra. Pretty lace is important, but there is much more to make a good bra. You must always wear a quality bra to show off jour wonderful shape in my clothes.”

  Nikky and Deja relaxed in a couple wingback chairs by the front window while Michelle finished her fittings.

  “All Done,” Michelle said. “Ready for some lunch?”

  “In a minute.” Nikky waved her hand indicating the shop. “All of this is super. I mean really super. Also, it’s gotta cost some serious bucks. I can’t see being able to pay you back.”

  Michelle pulled up a stool and sat in front of her two friends. “Trust me on this. I have the money.” Checking the back, seeing that Marie was out of hearing range, she lowered her voice. Remember I told you about all of those jobs I did while preparing to take out Michael’s killers?”

  Deja and Nikky nodded.

  “I did them to learn the business, but also to save money. I didn’t know what it would take to get even. It turned out, to be almost an accident that I got to them so easy and cost me nothing. So, I have close to a million stashed away.”

  “For real?” Deja asked.

  “Ye
ah.” Michelle said.

  “All from doing, you know,” Nikky glanced around. “Jobs?”

  Michelle looked back to check that Marie was still in the back of the shop. “Assassinations, yes.”

  Michelle glanced around again. “I’m telling you this because you should know where the money came from. We’ve been through this before and I know we’re okay with what I’ve been doing for the past three years, and what happened here with Michael’s killers. But I want you to understand that I have the money, no problem, and where it came from.”

  “Dilemma . . . Deja stretched the word out.”

  “You don’t need to make a decision. The clothes won’t be ready for a couple weeks. Let me know when it’s time to pick them up.”

  “What about the money? You’ll still have to pay for them, right?” Nikky asked.

  “Sure, but like I said. I have the money and a lot more. It doesn’t matter. What matters is what works for all of us and how we stay good with each other. The rest we don’t sweat.”

  “And we all know,” Nikky said.

  “It’s all small stuff, so don’t sweat it,” Deja finished for her.

  .

  Six: Partners In Crime

  LEGS SPREAD FOR A LITTLE RELIEF, Jerome sat on the chipped, worn wooden bench. He leaned back against the matching picnic table beneath the shade of a faded green patio umbrella. With Harry’s convenience store BBQ trailer behind him, he faced the mostly empty parking lot. Barbecue-scented smoke poured from the trailer’s rear stovepipe.

  A light breeze caught a few napkins next to the paper plate by Jerome’s elbow and they flipped past, one landing on the bench beside him, a couple on the ground by his foot. Jerome kept his eyes glued on Sugar.

  Sugar climbed out of her SUV and walked over. “Hey, Jerome, what’s up? You got a minute to holla?”

  Jerome cut his eyes up to hers. “Yeah,” he said, slowly drawing out the word.

  “Don’t go getting paranoid,” Sugar said. “There’s a rumor you’ve got a beef with some of the hos in the hood. Word is, a couple women pulled guns on you and shot you in the balls.”