by Mason Dixon
Everyone knew what Ice Taylor was up to, but the cops had never been able to pin anything on him that the DA’s office could get to stick. Witnesses either clammed up or disappeared. Associates, despite generous plea deals or offers of immunity, refused to roll over. Because no one crossed Ice Taylor.
After months of lobbying, Bathsheba had finally been able to convince her superiors in the newly formed Middle Eastern Division what they already knew: the only way to bring Taylor down was from the inside. Thanks to Raquel Overstreet, Ice’s favorite enforcer and the best, most punishing boxer in his ever-growing stable, Bathsheba had just found her way in.
Bathsheba thought of the videos she had seen uploaded to the Internet. She had studied the shaky images almost daily while she prepared herself for this assignment. The merciless woman she had watched mow down overmatched opponents in makeshift rings in backyards, abandoned warehouses, and back alleys was nothing like the woman she had met today.
The woman she had encountered in Pop’s Gym had an unexpected sweetness about her. An undeniable appeal. If she didn’t know what Raq did for a living or who she worked for, Bathsheba wouldn’t mind getting to know her better.
Bathsheba stared at her reflection in the rearview mirror. When an officer went undercover, she had to completely commit herself to the role she was assigned to play in order to lessen the risk of discovery and increase the chance of success. Ice Taylor had been ruling the streets of the Middle East for far too long. How far was she willing to go to get her man?
“As far as it takes,” she said, feeling her jangled nerves begin to steady. “As far as it takes.”
Chapter Two
Raq wished she had worn gloves. She rubbed her hands together to ward off the cold. October wasn’t normally this bad. Or maybe she simply wasn’t used to standing on street corners babysitting junior gangsters all day. Half Pint sold more product than anyone in Ice’s crew, but he probably didn’t know how to wipe his own ass, let alone cover it.
“Five-oh,” she called out as she saw a patrolling police car turn the corner at the end of the block. She pushed off the wall she was leaning against, shoved her hands in the pockets of her low-slung jeans, and hardened her expression as the car began to roll up.
Half Pint pulled ten small plastic-wrapped packages from his pocket and dropped them at his feet. Then he covered them with a piece of cardboard that had been laid there for that purpose. The packets wouldn’t be hard to find if the cops looked hard enough, but since the baggies weren’t on Half Pint, he couldn’t be charged with possession.
The police car slowed as it passed by. The beefy, red-faced cop taking up most of the passenger’s seat stuck his head out the window. “Pull your pants up.”
Like most guys Raq knew, Half Pint’s pants started out well south of his ass and the hems pooled around his Timberland boots. A good eight inches of plaid cotton peeked between his belt and the bottom of his Ray Lewis jersey. Hers were only slightly higher, but the cop wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were squarely on Half Pint.
“Have a good day, Officer.” Half Pint held two fingers against the flat bill of his side-turned baseball cap. As soon as the police car was far enough away, he turned the salute into a middle-fingered one. “Fucking pigs.” He bent to pick up the drugs he had dropped. “Why can’t they leave me alone and let me do my job, man?”
“They have a job to do, too. If they don’t meet their quotas, it comes out of their budget.”
Half Pint sucked air through his teeth in disapproval. “If I don’t meet mine, it comes out of my ass. When it comes to his money, Ice don’t play.”
“True that.” Raq held out her fist and gave him a pound. Then she lifted her Terps cap to scratch her head. Her cornrows were getting loose and she needed to get them redone, but she didn’t have the scratch. Not many people braided hair for free. The ones who did were lousy at it, plus Raq would have to hit them up first. Too bad they were usually lousy at that, too. “Heads up.”
One of Half Pint’s most persistent customers was lurching toward them, scratching at her face and arms as if she had something crawling on her skin. Everyone called her Gumby because she didn’t have any teeth, but her real name was Deborah or Delilah or some shit. Something that started with a D.
“Looks like someone needs a fix,” Half Pint said, lighting up one of the singles he had bought from the corner store.
Raq took in Gumby’s outfit. She was wearing a dirty sweater, ragged jeans, and a pair of men’s house shoes that were at least two sizes too big. “Does she have money?”
Half Pint blew out a stream of cigarette smoke. “She don’t need it.”
“Since when? You giving freebies now?”
“Don’t worry, Raq. I got this.”
Raq hung back and waited for him to prove it. He had been trying to prove something to one person or another since he’d started out on these streets. His real name was Rashad Jefferson, but everyone called him Half Pint because he was small for his age. He had the Little Man complex to match. He considered the gun he carried in the folds of his jeans his great equalizer, but it was Raq’s job to make sure he didn’t have to use it.
“You holding, Half Pint?” Gumby asked. She smelled like a skunk that had been rolling around in cigarette butts and malt liquor. And that was just her breath. Raq didn’t even want to get started on her body odor.
“I might be.”
“Let me get a dime bag,” Gumby said.
“You got the cash?” Half Pint asked.
“You know I’m good for it.”
“If you’re looking for a loan, you need to head to the bank. I don’t give something for nothing.”
Gumby grabbed the drooping crotch of Half Pint’s oversized jeans. “I’ll do you right. You know I will.”
A grin creased Half Pint’s face, making him look even younger than he already was. “All right then. Give me five minutes and I’ll meet you in the usual spot.”
“Can I get the stuff first?”
Half Pint shook his head. “You know it don’t work like that.” He pointed to the boarded-up building across the street that had been marked for demolition for so long Raq had forgotten what it used to be. “I’ll meet you there in five minutes.”
“That’s nasty, man,” Raq said after Gumby lurched across the street. “Are you really going to hit that?”
“Hell, no, but I’ll let her suck me off.”
“So you’re going to front her ten dollars in exchange for a blow job?”
“The pros would charge me more than that and most of them have all their teeth.” He swiveled his narrow hips. “I like the way she gums my shit. Nothing ruins a good blowjob like teeth scraping on my joint. Watch the spot, okay? I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Are you really going to do this shit on company time?”
“Consider this my lunch break. Everyone’s entitled to one. I read that someplace. You know where the extra stash is, right?”
“Yeah, but I’m not going to sell any of it for you. That’s your deal, man, not mine.”
Half Pint frowned like the little boy he was trying not to be. “Slinging crack is a hell of a lot easier than getting punched in the face. I don’t know why you pretend you don’t want to switch.” He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled to get the attention of his partner on the opposite corner. Then he held up his hands to let Little Tony know how long he’d be gone. Little Tony normally acted as a lookout, but he knew how to make a sale if a buyer came along.
Raq moved closer to him so she could cover his back if she needed to. She watched cars come and go, some stopping so their owners could make a buy, others slowing to check out the competition. None of the established dealers were stupid enough to encroach on Ice’s turf, but you never knew when some young buck would decide it was his time to try to move up the food chain.
Raq stiffened when a black SUV with tinted windows squealed to a stop a few feet from her position. She searched for a potential escap
e route when the power window on the passenger’s side began to slide down.
“Yo, Raq!”
She relaxed when Desmond Lassiter, Ice’s second-in-command, stuck his head out the window. The diamond studs in his ears glittered in the sun. A similarly encrusted cross dangled from a white gold chain around his neck. “Wassup, Dez?” She moved closer to the car. “Sweet ride. When did you get it?”
“I picked it up this morning, but I have to get a new set of rims before I start claiming it as mine. Right now, it looks like something my mama would drive.” He stroked his neatly trimmed goatee. His hair was worn in an Afro Raq thought of as his nappy natural. It was always the light-skinned brothers who felt the need to prove how black they were. Dez was no different. “Hop in the back. Ice wants to see you.”
Those words always put a chill in Raq’s heart. Because, more often than not, they were the last words some people ever heard.
“I can’t go anywhere right now. I have to watch the spot until Half Pint gets his rocks off.”
“That should take all of two minutes if the chick he’s banging can even find what he’s working with. Get in. Bigfoot will keep an eye on things until you get back.”
The rear door opened and Bigfoot, a six-foot-eight giant who had been an offensive lineman for the Terps before he tore up his knee and flunked out of college, climbed out with a great deal of effort.
“What’s good, Raq?” he wheezed.
“Nothing to it, big man.”
His playing weight at the University of Maryland had been around three hundred pounds. He had gained a good fifty more since he left school. He couldn’t run if you paid him, but once he got his hands on you, you weren’t going anywhere until he decided to let you go.
Raq climbed into the backseat of the car and Rico, Dez’s driver, pulled away from the curb. Everything about the car smelled new. Like money. Her hand slid over the black leather seats. She looked up to find Dez staring at her. His wide grin made him look like a crocodile.
“It’s nice, right?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“It’s just like me: big, black, and powerful.”
He was always fishing for compliments about the size of his dick or his intellect, but Raq had her doubts about both. Besides, she was hired to handle security, not kiss ass.
“Why does Ice want to see me?”
“You know he keeps everything on a need to know basis. And if I don’t need to know, I don’t want to know. Whatever he wants to talk about is between you and him. The two of you can have an A and B conversation. I will C my way out of it.” He pointed to the radio when the new joint from Kanye West began to play. “Yo, turn that up, man. That’s my jam right there.”
Rico spun the dial until Raq could feel the bass thumping like a heartbeat. Her eardrums were vibrating so much she couldn’t keep up with Kanye’s tongue-twisting flow. She watched out the darkened windows as the boarded up and knocked out windows of the Middle East’s abandoned buildings gave way to the shiny glass and steel of corporate offices and luxury apartments in downtown Baltimore.
Raq always felt out of place here. Even though it was the same city, this part of town didn’t feel like her Baltimore.
Her Baltimore consisted of a few blocks bordered by East Biddle Street on the north, East Fayette Street on the south, Bradford Street on the east, and North Broadway on the west. This wasn’t her neighborhood. This ’hood belonged to the people who called the shots, not the soldiers who took the orders.
Rico pulled to a stop in front of an apartment building overlooking the Inner Harbor. Several Ravens and Orioles players owned property in the area. Raq had seen them behind the wheels of their six-figure sports cars from time to time. What she wouldn’t give to drive one of those babies for an hour, let alone every day.
Dez suddenly spun in his seat, making Raq’s heart skip a beat she couldn’t afford to lose. “Ice is expecting you. You can handle it from here, can’t you? I need to pick up my rims before the shop closes.”
“Yeah. I can handle it.”
Raq climbed out of the car on shaky legs. She had been to see Ice a thousand times, but the fear never abated. Ice could have anything he wanted at the snap of a finger. Whether it be ordering a plate of blue crabs from one of those restaurants with white tablecloths and formally attired waiters or ordering someone’s execution. What did he want with her? She hoped it was something good, but she had to be prepared in case it was something bad.
The doorman outside let her in the building and buzzed her upstairs. Raq rode the glass elevator to the penthouse floor, enjoying the view of the waterfront the whole way. No one she knew lived like this. No one except Ice.
When she approached Ice’s apartment, one of his four bodyguards was standing outside the door. Raq didn’t know why Ice felt he needed so much protection here. Yes, he was vulnerable on the streets of the Middle East, but who could touch him here? No one, that’s who.
Hercules opened the door without offering a greeting. Raq stepped into the foyer and submitted to a pat down, even though everyone knew she never carried.
“You’re not being paranoid if they’re really out to get you, right?” Ice asked as he refilled his highball glass with Scotch. Raq couldn’t stomach the stuff, but Ice swore by it. Probably because the brand he favored cost three figures a bottle. Raq couldn’t understand the appeal. Olde English got you just as high for a fraction of the price.
Ice’s parents were from a small island in the Caribbean. Bermuda or the Bahamas. Something that started with a B. He had his parents’ work ethic, but not their accent. His changed based on his audience. When he addressed his street soldiers, he sounded like someone who was born and raised in the Middle East. When he spoke with Baltimore’s officials, policy makers, and moneymen, he sounded like someone from the Ivy League. And when he pulled in one of the string of honeys lining up to take a turn in his bed, he could have passed for Denzel Washington.
Raq envied his versatility—and his money. She wanted to be him when she grew up. Shit. Who didn’t?
She looked around the apartment filled with the trappings of wealth. Filled with things she could dream about but would never have.
“Have a seat,” Ice said, indicating the chair next to his. “It’s almost halftime.”
On the fifty-five-inch flat-screen TV, the Ravens were trailing Peyton Manning and the Broncos by a touchdown.
“The defense got ripped to shreds when my man Ray Lewis retired and Ed Reed took the free agent route out of town, but as long as we have Ray Rice carrying the rock and Joe Flacco slinging it, we have a fighting chance, right?”
Raq wanted to tell him it didn’t matter how many points the offense put on the board if the defense couldn’t stop the other team from scoring, but she didn’t want to end up on his bad side for contradicting him.
“Speaking of fights, do you have one for me?”
Ice smiled. Unlike his bodyguards, who favored gold and platinum fronts, his teeth were so white they made him look like he had a mouthful of Chiclets. “That depends. How’s the hand?”
“Sore, but I don’t need a left when I have a right.” She tried to keep her eyes from bugging out of her head when a local female rapper who had recently signed a record deal with one of the major labels walked from the bedroom to the kitchen butt-ass naked.
“You remember the Black Dahlia, don’t you?” Ice asked as Dahlia fixed herself something to eat. “Her album drops next month. You should come to the release party. I’ll make sure Dez gives you an invitation.”
“That’d be cool.”
Ice leaned back in his chair. His silk shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing his chiseled chest and rippling abs. On her way back to the bedroom, Dahlia stopped to cop herself a feel.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, okay, baby?” Ice said in his best Denzel voice. “I’ve got some business to take care of first.”
Dahlia took her apple bottom, double Ds, and plate of food to the bedroo
m. It was all Raq could do not to watch her go.
“If I got you a fight, can you promise it will last more than one round? I lose money when you knock bitches out in less than thirty seconds.”
“You tell me how long you want the fight to last and I’ll make it happen.”
Ice stared at her with eyes as cold as his name. “You’d better.” He reached for an envelope on the glass-topped coffee table and slid it toward her. Raq looked at it but didn’t pick it up. She wouldn’t until Ice told her it was okay. “I got you a fight on this week’s undercard. You’ve got to work your way back up to headliner. You’ll be fighting one of King’s girls. You could probably knock her out in one, but I need you to go three. Understand?”
Raq nodded. The longer the fight went, the more bets got laid down. The more money Ice took home, the more she took home. What was so hard to understand about that?
“There’s five hundred dollars in there,” Ice said as he fingered the envelope. “Consider it an advance. Buy you a new robe or something for your triumphant return to the ring, or take some girl out to dinner. Are you still seeing that big-tittied chick from East Fayette?”
“Nah, that was a short-term thing.”
Ice chuckled as he sipped his Scotch. “I hear you. It doesn’t pay to let any of them get their hooks into you for long. Not when there’s so many more to choose from.”
He nodded, indicating she could pick up the envelope. She reached for it and slid it into the pocket of her hoodie. She thought about Bathsheba and wondered if she could spend some of the money on her. She had to convince her to say yes first, but that was only a matter of time.
“Keep up the good work and there’ll be more of that to come,” Ice said, draining the rest of his glass. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to take care of some unfinished business in the bedroom.”
Raq almost asked how she was supposed to get home—cabs didn’t stop for people who looked like her—but she’d been solving her own problems since she was a kid. What was one more?
She took the bus back to the Middle East. Two, in fact. When she finally got back to the one-bedroom efficiency she called home, she lay on her bed and stared at the cracked ceiling, wishing she had a way out.