Love Trumps Game

by D. Y. Phillips

  “Fuck, Topps, ain’t nobody trippin’ but you. You the one keep drivin’ back and forth to the damn desert terrorizing folks. They livin’ with they grandmother, big deal. Stop trippin’ and leave them people alone.”

  That was all she wrote. For a tall man it was amazing how fast he could move. Blam. In her face. He was at her side like a blown gust of winter wind. He grabbed and started choking on her neck. “Bitch!”

  Gina tried to scream, but with no exchange of air, it was a major task.

  “This is the last time I’m warning you about yo’ damn mouth. Ain’t nobody asked you a damn thang!” He had her pinned to the new beige carpet, gagging, trying to scream. Each time it seemed that she would pass out for sure, he let up. Stingy with air, but she could breathe.

  Eyes bulging, Gina coughed and gagged.

  “Ain’t nobody taking shit away from me as long as I live! You hear me, Gina? No damn body!” He released the grip on her neck, grabbed her by her long blondish-brown weave and dragged her to the bathroom kicking and screaming.

  “Topps, stop it. I didn’t mean nothin’! Let me go!” The carpet burned her skin.

  “Not ’til yo’ ass understand what I’m saying. That ol’ tramp ain’t keeping my kids and that’s word. Them my fuckin’ kids. Mine!”

  “All right already! I’m sorry.”

  Like a man on a mission he ignored her pleading.

  In the bathroom he turned on the water in the tub, and saw the terror register in her eyes. That pleased him. “I wish yo’ stank ass would try to get up and scat.”

  Gina tried to claw her way up, but Topps was much stronger. He did a perfect execution of grabbing her frame and grappling her down into the cold water. “Stupid thoughts come from a dirty mind, Gina. That’s why yo’ thoughts are so fucked up; you need to clean out yo’ mind. Wash those dirty thoughts out.”

  “Get the hell off of me. You crazy mutherfucker! I ain’t playing with your ass!”

  Topps wasn’t playing either as his big hand saddled her face and pushed it down into the water. “You a strong bitch, Gina, but dirt is dirt. I’ma help yo’ dirty ass get clean.”

  She fought and splashed with all her might but couldn’t stop his assault. The fear of dying flashed in her eyes, and then Topps allowed her up for air only to push her head back into the water. Maybe next time she’d keep that mouth of hers shut. “Are you clean yet? Huh, Gina? I can’t hear you.”

  Finally, when he felt her struggle getting weaker he let her up for air. “That’s better, ain’t it? Clean as a mutherfucker. See. That’s what I’m talkin “bout.” He stood up straight. Gina was a hot mess to look at with wet snot hanging, face twisted, hair all wild. Pleased, Topps smiled. Keeping bitches in line was a neverending job. Tiresome, too. He could hear his stomach growling.

  “Yo’, Gina. I’m hungry! Get yo’self together, woman. Fix yo’ man some food.”

  After washing his hands and towel-drying off, Topps went into the kitchen to check on the food supply. It was Gina’s idea for him to move in with her while he listed and sold his big house. At his former residence too many of his soldiers knew where he lived. A lot of his enemies knew, too. He couldn’t have that. The plan was to start new and fresh once he got the kids back and settled. He could move to another state and buy a new house, maybe even start up a new drug business where he could start training his son. Brandon was nearing the right age to be recruited. He even had big plans for Raynita. Her innocent face could probably move a lot of drugs without suspicion. Keeping it all in the family. That’s what it was all about.

  “Gina! Don’t keep me waitin’!”

  Sharing habitats with Gina was okay for a minute, but like a lot of skanks he knew, she talked too damn much. He couldn’t have no skank trying to run his business, personal life or otherwise, especially when it came to his kids. That was the downside. Another problem staying at Gina’s place was its size. It was a small dwelling with only two bedrooms. Still, he liked that none of his former associates knew its location. Though he still slept with a gun beneath his pillow, he felt somewhat safe. After pulling up the carpet in the spare bedroom closet and pulling up a few floorboards, he’d found the perfect place to store some of his cash.

  Pearly, Gina’s white Persian cat, padded softly into the room. The animal purred before rubbing up against his leg.

  “Hey there, little pussy.” He picked the cat up, stroking its soft fur. “You hungry, too?” He had weakness for defenseless animals. He had a puppy once when he was around nine. Found the poor thing shivering under a bus stop bench on his way home from school. Topps still recalled how he took the puppy up, happy to have something to love—and ultimately, something that would love him back. He had taken the puppy home and fed it warm milk and cold cuts, prepared to raise it. But when his mother had awakened from her drug-induced coma, she was livid.

  “Little negro boy, you must be crazy! I ain’t tryin’ to feed another damn mouth!” his mother had screamed at him. His nine-year-old eyes had watched in horror as she took up the puppy, and marched it out the house to the fence. His mother put the frightened puppy outside the gate with a hard swat to its little behind. “You git now! Gon’ now. Get on outta here!”

  Two days later, he discovered the puppy’s maggot-filled, ravaged body. He had cried two days behind that incident.

  “Yeah. You look hungry.” Topps put the cat down and located some cans of cat food. He opened a can and put it on a paper plate. “There you go, partner. Handle that for now.” He washed his hands two times before heading to the living room to click on the fifty-two-inch plasma television. Maybe some tube would help settle his nerves. Smoking a blunt would probably do the trick, but he wanted to keep a clear head when he drove back to Victorville later. “Gina! I’m still waitin’. Damn, boo, what’s taking you so long?!”

  Dressed in a red sundress with wide straps, Gina appeared. Her eyes were bloodshot red, almost a perfect match to her dress. She had a bruise on her forehead and a few scratches on her face. More battle scars. For some reason her nose looked larger.

  “Boo, I’m sorry. You know how I get.” Topps pulled a small vial of coke from his pocket, and then used a credit card to section off a few thin lines on the glass coffee table. “Look what I got for you, baby. Come try this shit. It’s good stuff.”

  Gina stood looking skeptical.

  “Baby, I said, I’m sorry.” Topps looked up, making his face appear as sympathetic as possible for a brutal man who secretly believed that women were beneath him. “You know how I feel about my kids. I’m stressed like a mutha’ right now. But it’s gon’ get better. You’ll see. Once I get my business handled, find another house, things will get better.”

  Gina didn’t crack a smile. Didn’t say a word.

  “I’ma make it up to you, boo. You’ll see.” He waited for a reply that didn’t come. “Can you fix me a sandwich? Throw some of that Cajun turkey and black forest ham on some bread. Don’t forget the mustard and some of those little peppers I like.”

  Gina stared at him. Her still-nervous hand rubbed at the tender redness along her light-complexioned neck before dismissing herself to the kitchen to fix Topps something to eat.

  “Thanks, boo. We can go shopping later, if you want. Maybe go look at that silver Range Rover you been wanting so bad.” Topps fixed his attention back to the large plasma screen where the sad and pitiful faces of hungry children stared back at him. Feed The Children, that’s what the show was called. “Look at that shit,” he mumbled. A damn shame, if you asked him. Hell, he thought indignantly, Why can’t the folks over there with the camera doing the exploiting feed they asses? What’s up with that?

  He had a wad of money sitting on the table. Topps picked it up. He waited for the program to show the address so he could freeze it on the screen. It couldn’t hurt to send a few bills that way. Help some starving black kids with a meal or two. He got up to go find some stamps and an envelope.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Wa
ke up. C’mon now. Open your eyes.”

  The voice was clear but unrecognizable. Neema Jean’s eyelids fluttered before opening. She remained calm even with the intense green eyes that stared down into hers. She’d never been so close to eyes that green in her life. At least not that she could recall. Green eyes in a pink face she’d never seen before. It was almost spooky. The white jacket he wore hinted toward the medical field. Lips smiled down at her.

  “How you feeling?” Green-eyes asked, then sat in a wooden chair next to the small bed.

  The room was large and nondescript. A bed, a small dresser, a wooden chair. Nothing on the off-white walls, but the smell of peppermint and strong ammonia was distinct. Her eyes swept around her unfamiliar surroundings. If this was a hospital, it looked cold and cheap. If this was someone’s personal residence, they needed a serious decorator. Her trembling hand fumbled to the top of her head where it was bandaged.

  “What happened to me?” she queried through dry, cracked lips.

  “First things first, let’s have a good look at you.” Green-eyes aimed a pin light at her eyes, raised one lid, then the other. “Pupils are more reactive. That’s a good sign.”

  “Who you?” Bad English, but that was the least of her problems.

  “Relax. I’m a doctor. You’ve suffered a concussion from a head injury. Do you know what day of the week it is?” He stood and produced a stethoscope to listen to her heart. “Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”

  “What day?” Neema tried to think. That information was on the tip of her tongue…somewhere. “It’s…uh…” Dang. What day is it? Neema’s attention flew to the door where another white man entered. Wearing a white knit shirt and dark Dockers, he was dressed as casual as Green-eyes. Average build, not too thin or too fat, his blue-eyed expression showed genuine concern.

  Blue-eyes walked over to stand next to the doctor. “How’s the patient?”

  Dr. Green-eyes stood up. “She’ll live.”

  “I really appreciate you making a house call to check on her.”

  “No problem. She might have some lingering memory problems for a while. That’s normal for this kind of head injury. Aside from a couple of bruised ribs, she’s pretty darn lucky for not wearing a seatbelt. Oh, and here’s something for pain.” Green-eyes passed a bottle of pills to Blue-eyes. “Just follow instructions. Can’t stay. I have another house call to make.”

  “Thanks again, Doc.”

  “Sure thing.” Dr. Green-eyes packed up a new-looking black briefcase and left.

  Suddenly the idea of being alone with Blue-eyes hit her. Neema threw off the bedcovers and swung her feet to the floor. “I’m out of here.” Her attempt to stand up was greeted with a weakness to her knees. The room was spinning, making her clutch her nauseated stomach. “Oh God…” Her head felt like a container full of cotton balls. Blue-eyes rushed over before she hit the floor.

  “Hey. Not so fast. You need to rest until you’re feeling better.”

  “I need to go home.” Home. She tried to think of where that place might actually be.

  “Let me help you back to bed.”

  If he meant to harm her, he could have done so by now. Neema felt nothing but good vibes radiating from his persona. He was a stranger with whom she felt an uncanny amount of relaxation. She allowed herself to be made comfortable. He fluffed her pillow.

  “There. Are you hungry? I’m not the best cook, but I can make toast and eggs.”

  “Who are you? How’d I get here, and where am I?” His attentiveness amused her, reminded her of a doting father. If she had to guess, she would put him in his early sixties. Warm eyes. Warm smile, but how did she know him?

  Blue-eyes took a wooden chair, flipped it around and straddled it backward, which was pretty good for a man in his sixties. “John West is printed on my birth certificate. Friends call me West. I’m a private investigator. I was hired to follow you and that boyfriend of yours.”

  “Boyfriend? Hired by who, and follow me for what?” Neema watched him with the sharpness of an eagle. She didn’t dare blink lest she miss something.

  “Let’s just say that this guy named TJ wanted to see if you were creeping on him. Wanted dates and pictures. He hired me and I gave him what he wanted.”

  “TJ? Creeping?”

  “Yeah, you know, sneaking around behind his back. Sleeping with his friend, Slick. Damn adamant about it, too. The best-paying customer I ever had. I tell ya’ if all my jobs paid like him, I’d be rich.” What he wanted to add was how much she reminded him of his late daughter.

  She had no idea what he was talking about. “And was I cheating?” Her stomach was growling on the low, but eating could wait.

  “Pretty much so. I kept some of the photos. The way it was looking, your man, your boyfriend, whatever you want to call him, was going to have you terminated. My job was to get him his proof, get paid and be out the picture, but there was something about that guy TJ I didn’t like. I could see murder coming. I kept following you, keeping track to see what was up.”

  “You’re lying. I don’t know a TJ, and I don’t know you.”

  “Your memory is on the blink right now, but your name is Neema. Neema Jean Sims. You have two kids. A boy, a girl. You were slammed from behind by a truck almost two weeks ago. It was a hit-and-run because the driver took off. You hit your head pretty bad. I loaded you back in your vehicle and brought you here before the police arrived. With that hidden cargo you were carrying, you’d be in jail by now if the cops had gotten to you first.”

  “What hidden cargo? Wait a minute…I have kids?”

  “They’re with your mother right now. Her name is Hattie Sims. I’m very good at doing my homework.”

  “TJ?” Neema forced herself to think as hard as she could, but the name was elusive. If what West was saying was true, she really was experiencing some kind of memory loss. “If my mother has my kids, where is she now?”

  “Good question.” West ran a liver-spotted hand through his brown hair graying at the temples. “I’ve been too busy seeing after you.”

  She wanted to see proof. “ID. Where’s my driver’s license?”

  “That, I should be asking you. When I took you from the scene, I checked the vehicle you were driving. There was no purse. No wallet, just a cell phone that I tossed.”

  “Why do that? I could have called somebody that knows me.”

  “TJ would have found you by now. He’s pretty cunning. He would have tracked you through your cell phone.”

  Neema surveyed the room. “I told you, I don’t know no damn TJ!”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll come to you.” West stood up and looked at her.

  “And where are we?” The room’s drabness was bringing her mood down.

  “A house I own in Palo Verdes. Nothing fancy, but I keep it as a place to crash when I’m in town. I brought you here after the accident.”

  Her hand reached for her face to confirm a few cuts, scratches and bruises. “How long have I been here?”

  “Close to a week, in and out of consciousness. Anyway, little lady, enough questions for now. I’ll get you something to eat. You get some rest. I’ll be right back.”

  Neema must have dozed off. The next thing she knew West was back with a tray of food: Lightly scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, toast with jam, orange juice, and creamed coffee.

  “Here you go. My friend Doc been taking real good care of you, keeping you hydrated, but you gotta be starving by now.”

  “Hell yeah.” Her voracious appetite had her chowing down like a homeless person that hadn’t eaten in weeks. In a sad way, that’s exactly what she was. She stopped to reflect for a minute. She had kids somewhere, a mother, and probably a home, too. But where? Tears found their way to her eyes, but she went back to eating. Pleased, West sat watching her.

  Much later, Neema had some of her strength back, enough for West to help her get in a tub of water. Soaking in some fragrant liquid was like floating up to heaven to ease her ach
es and soreness. West was the perfect gentleman that kept a towel draped around her the whole time. Not once did he try to sneak a peek or cop a feel on her bruised, slender body. Not that she had anything to be ashamed of. One thing she did know, her body was tight. A few stretch marks on her stomach, but still it was so flat that it was hard to believe she was somebody’s mother. Alone in the bathroom, she lifted her gown and ran her hand over her C-section scar. “Yeah, it looks like some birthing been done.”

  She sat on the toilet. Taking up the hand-held mirror for a peek below made her smile. Still, it looked good and tight. On impulse she touched the pink pearl of her womanhood, ready to make pleasure, but there was a knock on the bathroom door. “Yeah?”

  “Everything okay in there?”

  “Yeah. Be out in a minute.”

  “If you feel dizzy or you need any help, let me know.”

  “Thanks, West.” Neema stood up and put on the T-shirt and thick, white robe West had given her, obviously his. “Wow, I can’t believe I’m really somebody’s mother.”

  After her much-needed bath, West sat talking to her in his spacious kitchen, revealing bits of information about her that she should know. It was like he was talking Greek.

  “Here’s a picture of you and your kids.” West passed the photo to her. He always made extras of his work, in case a client lost the ones he turned over.

  “These are my kids?” Neema experienced a tug at her heart, but that was all she felt. Try as she might, the two young faces held no recollection. “What’s their names?”

  “I believe I heard you call the boy Brandon and the girl Raynita.” He didn’t tell her how he had once sat next to her on a park bench. She talked on a cell phone but took time to stop and yell at her kids on the playground equipment. He had taken pictures with a hidden camera each opportunity she moved away from him or turned her back.

  “And my name is Neema?” She made a face. “I don’t feel like a Neema.”

  “That’s the name my client referred to you as. I ran the license on your Land Rover and it’s registered to a Neema Jean Sims.”