The Fix 3

by K'wan

  “You better be careful out there, old timer,” Li’l Monk warned his father.

  “I could say the same to you, youngster.” Monk lit a half-smoked cigarette that he’d found in the ashtray. “I heard about you and that sneaky-ass Omega getting your asses kicked at that strip club last night.”

  “Damn, I guess news does travel fast in the hood.”

  “Son, let me hip you to something.” Monk exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Two of the best sources of information pertaining to what’s going on in the streets are prisons and crack houses. Don’t too much happen that I don’t know about especially when it involves my boy getting the shit kicked out of him.”

  “There were more of them than there were of us,” Li’l Monk explained.

  “Don’t matter. A pistol always evens the odds in a fight, but considering I didn’t hear about nobody getting shot I take it you don’t have yours with you.” Monk’s face suddenly became serious. “What’s the first two things I taught you when you decided to start playing with guns?”

  Li’l Monk lowered his eyes like he was ten years old again and was about to get a spanking. “Never pull one unless you plan to use it and never leave home without one.”

  “Well your memory is working fine so that rules out brain damage, so we’re gonna chalk this up to you being a damn idiot.”

  “Don’t call me that!” Li’l Monk said sharply. He had always been sensitive about people making jokes about his intelligence, which his teachers and other kids did his whole time in school. It wasn’t that Li’l Monk was actually stupid, he just had a lot of issues that he didn’t know how to deal with so his natural reaction was to rebel against any and all authority. His guidance counselor had diagnosed him as having a learning disorder, but Li’l Monk had a social disorder.

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, junior. I’m only giving you a hard time,” Monk told him. “But on the real, you and your dumb-ass friend Omega might’ve opened a nasty can of worms by putting your hands on them Clark boys. I keep warning you that Shai Clark ain’t some sucka-ass niggas like Pharaoh and Ramses who hide behind their soldiers. They’ll get out in them streets and get with your little ass.”

  “I ain’t scared of Shai,” Li’l Monk said confidently.

  “I know you ain’t, son, but that don’t mean you gotta be stupid about it either. There’s a difference in going up against some street crew versus a real, organized crime family,” Monk warned him.

  “Whatever, man,” Li’l Monk said as if he was no longer interested in what his father was saying.

  About that time the girl was coming out of the bathroom. She was wearing a bathrobe and slippers, but it didn’t look like anything underneath. When she passed Li’l Monk she smelled fresh and sweet like soap. As he looked at the print her large ass made in the robe he couldn’t help but to wonder what something so tender was doing with a man like his father.

  “Listen.” Monk got off the couch and came to stand in front of his son. “You’re with Pharaoh and Ramses, so I know you’re loyal to them. I understand loyalty better than you might think, but I also understand staying in my lane. If Pharaoh and Shai got some kind of pissing contest going on, you leave that to them to sort out. Soldiers ain’t got no business involving themselves in disputes between bosses unless y’all at war and, the way I hear it, things haven’t gotten that far yet. For now, you keep your head down, get your money, and if it comes down to it make sure you blast first. Ya dig?”

  Li’l Monk nodded.

  “Good.” Monk patted him on the shoulder. “We might not always get along, but never forget that you’re my son and I love you. If something were to happen to you out there I’d have to make these streets feel me and the police would be cleaning up Clark blood and Pharaoh’s alike. Now go on in your room for a few ticks and let Daddy get his nut off.”

  Li’l Monk felt better after he dropped his load and washed his ass. When he came in he wanted nothing more than to lie down, but talking to his father had him so wired that he wasn’t tired anymore. He figured he might as well hit the block and get back on top of his money.

  After changing his clothes he strode back into the living room to tell his father he was heading out. The girl was gone and Monk seemed halfway sober by that point. He was sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette and going through a shoebox full of old pictures.

  “What you got there?” Li’l Monk asked, sitting on the couch next to his father.

  “Just some old memories.” Monk handed one of the pictures to his son. It was an old photo of a much younger Monk. He was shirtless, wearing a huge gold rope chain and standing in front of a bodega that no longer existed.

  “Shit, Dad, you were big as hell back then!” Li’l Monk examined the picture. Monk looked like a squat mountain of muscle.

  “I could bench press four hundred pounds back then. I was the only one in the crew who could get that much weight up back then,” Monk said proudly.

  “I can see why niggas has so much respect for you back in the day,” Li’l Monk said.

  “Nah, they feared me, but they respected him.” Monk handed him another picture. It was a photo of him and Face leaning on a BMW, posted up in front of Willie Burgers on 145th. “Me, I never had the patience to be diplomatic about shit. My gun did all my negotiating, but Face had a way about him that when he spoke, people listened. Face was the last of the stand-up guys in Harlem.”

  “Do you miss him?” Li’l Monk asked.

  “Every single day,” Monk said sincerely. “Face was more than just my business partner; he was my brother. Face was the one dude who had my back no matter what. Whether I was right or wrong he always rode out with me. My biggest regret is never getting a chance to tell him how much I appreciated his friendship.”

  “There’s still time, you know? Ain’t like Face is dead; he’s locked up. I got a car now, so maybe we can take a road trip,” Li’l Monk suggested.

  Monk thought about it and shook his head. “I ain’t seen Face in over a decade. I’d rather he remember me as I was rather than see what I’ve become.”

  “Well if you ever change your mind the offer still stands,” Li’l Monk said sincerely. “That reminds me, you ever hear of a nigga named Kunta?”

  “Who hasn’t? Roots was a must-watch in every black household,” Monk said, referring to the movie based on Alex Haley’s timeless novel.

  Li’l Monk sucked his teeth. “Not Kunta Kinte, fool. I’m talking about some dude who rolled up on me last night. He says he knows Uncle Face.”

  Monk ran his hand over the stubble on his chin searching his memory. “I do remember Face writing me a couple of times and mentioning some crazy-ass African kid he had become fond of in prison. His name started with a K, so it could’ve been Kunta.”

  “What’s his story?” Li’l Monk asked.

  “Wait a sec, I think I got the last letter here.” He dug around in the shoebox of pictures and came up with a folded piece of paper. Monk scanned through the letter. “Here it is.” He tapped the page. “See, Face had always been a smart muthafucka, not just streetwise, but book smart too. Quiet as kept he even had a college degree.”

  This surprised Li’l Monk because he had only ever known Face to be a drug dealer and killer. “No shit?”

  “No shit. He got an associate’s degree in English while he was on the streets and received his bachelor’s in prison. Him continuing his education was a secret; only me, him, Michelle, and your mom knew about it. He kept it from the guys because it wouldn’t have gone over well with some of them. Face feared it would’ve made him look weak.”

  “How could a man wanting to better himself have been looked at as weak?” Li’l Monk was confused.

  “Because on the streets it ain’t about smarts, it’s about slugs. In our line of work men are more inclined to follow someone who can outshoot rather than someone who can out-read them. Now are you gonna shut your hole and let me finish or what?”

  Li’l Monk nodded for him to co
ntinue.

  “Like I was saying,” Monk continued, “Face was a borderline genius and because of his smarts he was able to land a job as a teacher in prison. He taught some of the younger inmates to read and write. One of the inmates he taught was this Kunta kid. Face wrote me about a couple of the young guys he’d been helping, but the reason Kunta stuck out is because he was one of the hardest to reach. The kid was real damaged: hadn’t been in the country long, no family to look after him while he was on the inside, and having a rough time adjusting to American culture. Being in prison didn’t help. Face once described him as something like a feral animal, real skittish and defensive. He’d pop off in a heartbeat when he felt threatened. A lot of the inmates gave him shit for him being foreign and all, but Face kinda took him under his wing and tried to help him adjust. Face never said, but I suspect he tried so hard to help this kid as a way of compensating for not being there for Persia all these years. Face never forgave himself for leaving his lady and kid alone in the world.”

  Li’l Monk took a moment to process what he had just learned. “Okay, that explains his connection to Face, but why is he anxious to talk to you?”

  Monk shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. Maybe he thinks I’m Abe Lincoln and wants me to sign off on his freedom papers.” He chuckled. “Look, kid, Face has helped a lot of people over the years, in and out of prison. Some of them feel like they owe him, and it’s probably the same with this Kunta character. Knowing Face he’s probably got this kid out here wanting to save my immortal soul,” he said sarcastically.

  “Well what should I tell him if he comes around looking for you again?” Li’l Monk asked.

  “Tell him to fuck off.” Monk retrieved his glass cylinder from the table and reloaded it with a crack rock. “As you can see, I ain’t quite ready to be saved.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “Persia, you didn’t tell us you were expecting a guest,” Michelle said, standing there looking back and forth between her daughter and the visitor.

  “I, ah . . .” Persia tried to find her voice.

  “I’m afraid that’s my fault,” Rissa spoke up. “We were supposed to meet in the city to get our nails done, but my mom let me hold her car so I decided to come and pick her up. Persia, I tried calling you, but kept getting the answering machine.”

  Michelle looked at Persia.

  “Oh, right. I forgot to turn my ringer back on this morning,” Persia said, still not sure what to make of Rissa popping up at her house. “We were just about to sit down to breakfast, so maybe it’s best I catch up with you later.”

  “Persia, don’t be rude,” Michelle scolded her. “It won’t be any trouble to set another place for . . . I’m sorry, I never caught your name.”

  “Larissa, but everyone calls me Rissa.” Rissa smiled innocently.

  “Well, Rissa, you’re more than welcome to stay for breakfast if you like. Are you hungry?”

  Rissa looked at Persia and smirked slyly. “Starving. I’ve been running on E all day.”

  “Okay, well Persia will show you to the bathroom to get cleaned up and then you can join us in the dining room.” Michelle walked through the swinging doors back into the kitchen.

  Richard lingered for a few seconds, trying to figure what to make of Persia’s guest before mumbling something under his breath and walking into the kitchen to help his wife bring the food out.

  As soon as they were gone, Persia tore into Rissa. “Bitch, you must’ve lost your last damn mind, rolling in here.” She grabbed Rissa by the front of her shirt and gave her a little shake. “What the fuck are you doing at my house?”

  Rissa looked down at Persia’s hands. “First of all, you best get your mitts off me before me and you get to tussling and breaking up the nice shit yo’ people got in this living room.”

  Persia grudgingly released her grip on Rissa.

  “Thank you.” Rissa smoothed her clothes over. “Persia, believe me I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to, but it was either me or Chucky. He’s been trying to reach you all night and he wigged out when he couldn’t get a hold of you. Plus the last batch of drugs he bought was some weak shit so he can’t get his head right the way he wants to. You know how crazy he can get when he’s geeking.”

  Persia knew all too well how Chucky could get when that monkey started crawling on his back and he needed a fix. “Chucky’s addiction is no longer my problem.”

  “Shit, Chucky’s addiction is all our problems. The fact that he’s still got your ass in a sling is proof of that,” Rissa capped. “Look, Persia, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m sure you’d rather me be here playing nice then Chucky running up through this bitch making a scene.”

  “Well I can’t just dip out on my family like that. We’re just about to eat breakfast,” Persia told her.

  “Then I suggest you eat fast. Chucky is waiting on us.”

  Persia ate her breakfast in relative silence, only speaking when spoken to. Every time she looked across the table and saw Rissa smiling, eating her food, and chatting with her parents Persia wanted to pounce on her and beat the brakes off the girl. Yet she held her tongue. Chucky’s bullshit was starting to hit way too close to home and she needed to nip it in the bud, but to do that she would need a trump card and Rissa’s simple ass might prove to be just that.

  “So, where exactly are you from, Rissa?” Michelle asked.

  “I’m originally from Philadelphia, but I live in New York now. I’m up here for school,” Rissa lied, shoveling food into her mouth like she hadn’t eaten in days.

  Michelle pretended not to notice, but Richard was giving her a look of disgust.

  “Must be exciting, living in a new place,” Michelle said.

  “It has its moments, but I’m used to moving around a lot.” Rissa scarfed down a pancake, hardly taking the time to chew. When she was done she started eyeballing the rest of the pancakes that were sitting in the middle of the table.

  “Help yourself,” Michelle told her, noticing Rissa staring at the pancakes.

  “Thanks!” Rissa happily grabbed two more pancakes with her bare hands and dropped them on her plate.

  Richard was about to say something, but Michelle silenced him with a look.

  “Man, these sure are good! What brand are they?” Rissa asked.

  “Excuse me?” Michelle didn’t understand the question.

  “I mean what kind of pancake mix do you use?” Rissa clarified.

  Michelle chuckled. “I’ve never used boxed pancake mix a day in my life. I make them from scratch.”

  Rissa looked surprised. “You made these from scratch? Shit, Persia, you didn’t tell me your mom was Betty Crocker!”

  “Rissa, watch your mouth,” Persia checked her.

  “Sorry, old habits I guess,” Rissa said, embarrassed. “All my mama did was cuss in our house.”

  “Well we don’t use that kind of language in this house,” Richard told her.

  “So, what do your parents do?” Michelle asked.

  Rissa shrugged. “Beats me. I never met my dad and my mom died when I was young.”

  Michelle covered her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s cool. My sister has been looking after me since I was a kid. We’ve gotten along okay,” Rissa said.

  “So, what courses are you taking?” Richard asked.

  Rissa gave him a puzzled look. “Huh?” she asked with a mouth full of pancake.

  “You said you’re up here for school so I was wondering what your major was,” Richard clarified.

  “Oh, umm, I’m taking business courses,” Rissa stammered.

  “Really?” Richard leaned forward, elbows on the table and chin resting on his knuckles. “Where?”

  “I go to BMCC.” Rissa blurted out the first school that came to mind. She had once met a girl from New York who said she went there.

  Richard raised an eyebrow. “You moved from Philadelphia to attend a community college? Interesting.”

  “Richard, stop int
errogating the poor girl and let her eat,” Michelle cut in.

  “I’m not interrogating her, sweetie. Just trying to get to get to know Persia’s new friend,” Richard said with a smile. It was clear that he saw through her bullshit. Luckily for Rissa, Richard’s cell phone rang. He looked at the screen and frowned. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” He got up from the table. “I hope you have a good reason for interrupting my breakfast,” Persia heard Richard say as he walked out of the room.

  “You’ll have to excuse my husband, Rissa. He’s extremely protective of Persia and our home,” Michelle said apologetically.

  “It’s all good. You can never be too careful who you let in your house these days,” Rissa said.

  “Mom, I gotta get dressed so me and Rissa can head into the city. You know how Saturday traffic can be on the expressway.” Persia wiped her hands on a napkin and got up from the table. “Do you need me to help you clean up before we go?”

  “No, baby. I’ve got it. You and Rissa go ahead.”

  “Thanks. Love you, Mom.” Persia kissed her mother on the cheek.

  “Love you too.” Michelle patted her daughter’s cheek. “It was nice meeting you, Rissa. Don’t be a stranger. Persia doesn’t have many friends, but the few she does are always welcome here.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I really appreciate that,” Rissa said sincerely.

  “Let’s go, Rissa,” Persia said forcefully.

  Rissa followed Persia to the kitchen door and spared a glance back at Michelle, who was sitting at the table smiling warmly at her. She liked Persia’s mother. She was a kind soul, kinder than anyone else she had met since she had been in New York, or anyone she’d ever met in her life for that matter. She felt bad about being at Persia’s house under false pretenses, and for the first time since riding off with Chucky and her sister she began to question herself.

  As Persia and Rissa were about to head up to her room they passed Richard in the living room. He was dressed in blue jeans and a white shirt, slipping into a black blazer. He was moving fast and had an irritated expression on his face. When he noticed Persia and Rissa he hurriedly buttoned his jacket and smoothed it over in the front.