Animal

by Foye, K'wan

  As if on cue, a commotion broke out a few feet away from where the girls were sitting. Biz, the young dealer who King had been chastising earlier, had just made a sale to a random fiend on the avenue. As soon as he did, the doors to the Direct TV truck King had been warning them about all day flew open and out jumped several undercover police officers who swooped in on Biz. The youngster put up a good fight, but the police eventually swarmed him and tossed him, kicking and screaming, into a paddy wagon.

  Fatima looked from the throng of police to Pam and shook her head. “You might be right; maybe it is time for me to get outta the hood for a minute.”

  Pam smiled. “Now you’re talking, baby girl. Now you’re talking.”

  TEN

  “FRANKIE ANGELS, YOU HEAR ME TALKING TO you?” Cutty nudged her. He clutched the steering wheel of his black Excursion in one hand and a blunt of sour in the other. His cold eyes constantly scanned the slow-moving afternoon traffic on the 1&9 North, headed for the Holland Tunnel.

  “My bad, I was daydreaming,” Frankie told him. Her attention had been fixed on the skyline of Jersey City. She admired the waterfront buildings in the distance and wondered if she would ever have a place that nice to call her own.

  “See, that’s your problem. Your head is always in the damn clouds instead of on this money,” he scolded her. It seemed like every time Cutty spoke he was scolding her, even when he wasn’t. That was just his way. Cutty was an old-school cat who had recently been sprung from prison, but he still had a mess hall mentality.

  “Nigga, you tripping. My mind is always on my paper.” Frankie rolled her pretty brown eyes. She was a pretty cinnamon-complexioned girl with beautiful long black hair, which she, that day, wore pulled back into a tight bun showing off her attractive features. “Now pass the weed with your stingy ass.” She plucked the blunt from his hand, accidentally dropping ashes on the jumpsuit she was wearing. It was a skintight number that gave you a rare glimpse of Frankie’s well proportioned frame.

  They were making their way back from an all-night caper they had pulled out in Union, N.J. For the last few weeks, Frankie had been making time with a young Greek gentleman who was the manager of a car dealership out that way. She wasn’t really into foreigners, but he had long paper and was dashingly handsome. He was olive skinned with wavy black hair and movie star good looks. For all his good looks, he had the personality of a rock. The Greek felt because he had money women should worship him to be rewarded, so she did, and he fell hard for her. What the Greek didn’t know was that he was just a means to an end. Frankie had fleeced him for a copy of the keys to the car lot, and while he was out spending his money on her, Cutty and a few of his boys were making off with his cars. Cutty already had buyers for them at different chop shops in Newark and Elizabeth, so the flip would come back almost immediately. It was a sweet lick. Frankie felt kind of bad for stringing him along like that, but at the end of the day it was business. It was always business when it came to getting money with Cutty.

  “You speak to Jada?” Frankie picked up. “I know she’s probably worried or suspicious being that we’ve been gone all night.”

  “Nah, but Jada cool,” Cutty said as if it was nothing.

  Frankie twisted her lips. “Cutty, you been out all night with another woman and you ain’t bothered to call your lady. Don’t you think she’s gonna be a little pissed? Hell, I’d be waiting for your ass with a pot of hot grits when you came in.”

  Cutty looked at her. “Let me tell you something, li’l one. Jada is a soldier, so she’s gonna be okay. I taught her to be as cold as ice and put nothing above this money, which is what I’m trying to instill in yo’ young ass.” He snatched the blunt back.

  “I still think you’re wrong for not calling.” Frankie folded her arms over her nice-sized breasts.

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I don’t give a damn what you think. You know, Frankie, you’ve been getting pretty damn lippy lately, and I don’t know how I feel about it. We been getting a nice piece of change together so I fuck with you hard-body, but let’s not forget that your ass is still in my debt,” he reminded her.

  Frankie looked down at her lap. “Nah, I didn’t forget,” she said barely above a whisper.

  Not so long ago, Cutty had fronted Frankie some drugs to make money when she and her roommates were in danger of getting evicted. Frankie had never been a drug dealer, but in her desperation she had no choice but to adapt and make the best out of it, which she did. In almost no time, she had not only made Cutty’s money back but had a nice piece of change for herself. Things looked good for her until a dude from her hood named Scar and a few of his goons kicked her door in and attempted to rob her. They beat Frankie to within an inch of her life, but she didn’t go down without a fight. She managed to shoot two of them before she blacked out, but when she woke up she was in the hospital and being charged with double homicide.

  The legal aid she had been assigned was an imbecile, and Frankie was looking at quite a bit of time whether she took the plea bargain or not. Things were looking bleak for her when Cutty had thrown her a lifeline in the way of a high-powered lawyer and posting her bail. The lawyer had gotten the charges reduced to involuntary manslaughter, but they still wanted her to do time so they took it to trial. The lawyer had promised to drag the trial out for as long as possible, but to do so, he would need money, which she didn’t have. Cutty agreed to foot the bill for her legal expenses, but in return, she had to go to work for him. Granted, Frankie was making money in the streets with Cutty and doing better than she had been, but he never let her forget that he owned her until she could repay her debt.

  “C’mon, I didn’t mean it like that.” His voice was softer now. “I’m just trying to keep you focused, ma. I like ya style, Frankie, and debt owed or not, I think we can win together. Even though you got a twat between your legs, you’ve got bigger balls than most niggaz out here. The stakes we’re about to be playing for are too high for mistakes, baby girl. One fuck up could mean the end of both of us, ya dig?”

  “I hear you talking,” she rolled her eyes.

  Cutty laughed. “There’s that funky-ass attitude. You know, sometimes you remind me of my daughter. She’s another young broad who’s got her ass on her shoulders and thinks that she’s got the world all figured out.”

  “Fatima is seventeen; I’m grown,” Frankie pointed out.

  “Don’t matter. The both of y’all still wet behind the ears when you measure it against what a vet like me knows.”

  “You couldn’t have known that much or else your ass wouldn’t have winded up in prison for all those years,” Frankie rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t get fucking cute, Frankie. I did what I did for the team, shorty. Loyalty above all else is how me, Rio, and Shamel lived, and I’m trying to see if some of your cousin’s blood actually flows through you or if all y’all share is a last name.”

  “You know I’m built, Cutty, so you ain’t gotta question my character,” Frankie assured him.

  “I ain’t questioning your character; I’m questioning what’s going on in your head. Your mind is supposed to be on money at all times and not whether I called my bitch or not to check in.”

  Frankie’s eyes narrowed to slits. “See, that’s the bullshit with men. In one breath you claim to love us, and in the next breath, you’re calling us all kinds of bitches. How would you feel if somebody was always calling Fatima a bitch like you do Jada?”

  “Nigga call my baby girl a bitch and I’m gonna put his fucking lights out,” Cutty said seriously.

  “Exactly, because it’s disrespectful and you’d hurt a nigga who disrespected someone you love, so why does that make it okay for you to do it?”

  “Damn, you going through all this because I didn’t call Jada to let her know I was staying out?” Cutty was confused. He knew Frankie could be a firecracker, but he’d never seen her that irritable.

  “It ain’t just that; it’s a bunch of shit. Look, just forget it. I
t ain’t my business, and I shouldn’t have said anything,” Frankie said.

  Cutty looked over at Frankie, who had her arms folded and was staring intently out the window. Her face was as hard and uncaring as it always was, but there was a wavering in her eyes that said something was going on with her. Cutty knew from his championship bouts with Jada that there was no wining an argument against a stubborn woman so he offered a truce. “I’ll call Jada in a few if it will appease that woman code thing nagging at your conscious.”

  “Thank you,” Frankie said sarcastically, then went back to looking out the window.

  Cutty coasted through the Holland Tunnel, cutting across Canal Street, and eventually crossing the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn, where Frankie was currently resting her head. After getting evicted from the project apartment she and her roommates had been subleasing, Frankie found herself in quite a bind. In the beginning, she bounced around from place to place until she could think of what to do, and it was Cutty who came to her rescue . . . again. Cutty hooked her up with a Jewish cat he knew that owned a building in Bed-Stuy and was looking for a tenant to fill a recently vacated apartment. Because he owed Cutty a favor, the dude agreed to give it to Frankie for half the normal rent for the first three months. It was a small one bedroom, but it was perfect for Frankie. She was just happy to have a crib she could call her own without having to share it with roommates, at least not permanent ones.

  Creeping up Marcus Garvey, Cutty drove past the Blood Orchid, which was a small social club and current mystery to the people from the neighborhood. Since it had been erected it had never been officially open for business, but you could catch people sliding in and out at all times of the night. There was plenty of speculation about what the real deal with Blood Orchid was, but only a select few knew for sure.

  Cutty turned onto Jefferson and pulled up in front of Frankie’s building. It was a nice day, so, of course, everybody was outside. In front of her building two grills were set up on either side of the stoop and a card table was erected along the side of the building, where several familiar faces were engaged in a game of Spades. The front steps were occupied by two girls Frankie really didn’t rock with named Vashaun and Bess, who were smoking a blunt and speaking in hushed tones. From the way they kept cutting their eyes at Cutty’s truck Frankie figured they were probably talking about her, but that was nothing new. They were a messy pair so Frankie did her best to avoid them, but with all the time they spent on the block it was hard to miss them.

  Working one of the grills was a thick chick named Monique, who Frankie didn’t know that well, but they spoke when they saw each other. Monique tipped the scales at two and some change easily, but she carried herself like she was one hundred and fifty pounds, always wearing revealing clothing. Monique was big, proud, and didn’t give a shit what anybody thought about it. She was real, and that was one of the main reasons why Frankie respected her gangster.

  Working the other grill was Dena, a pretty brown-skinned chick with an around-the-way swagger and Harvard ambition. She was a few years younger than Frankie, but the things she had gone through weighed her down with an old soul, so hardships acted like a magnet bringing the two girls together. Dena was born and raised on that strip so everyone knew her and she knew everybody, but she had only recently moved into that building. Before that, she shared an apartment with her mother, siblings, nieces, and nephews up the block near Throop. When Frankie first moved in, she acted like sort of a welcoming committee, hipping Frankie to little things, like the easiest way to the train station, who had the best weed, and who was bad news. Frankie always appreciated the jewels Dena dropped on her because living in Brooklyn was like living on Mars to her.

  “These muthafuckas,” Frankie sighed, reaching for the door handle.

  Cutty peered out the window and noticed the neighborhood dudes were clocking the whip. He reached in the center console and took out his gun which he placed on his lap. “You want me to get out with you?”

  “Please, them niggaz are harmless, but it’s nice to know you care.” Frankie winked at Cutty before climbing out of the truck.

  “I’m just protecting my investment,” he called after her.

  The moment Frankie hit the curb all eyes turned to her. Her neighbors were used to seeing her dressed down in jeans or sweats, so to see her in the tight jumpsuit and heels were welcomed surprises, and their faces said as much. Their stares made Frankie a little uncomfortable, but she played it off and greeted them with a smile. “Hey, y’all,” she greeted Dena and Monique.

  “Looking sharp, girl. Where you just coming from, a job interview?” Dena smiled, admiring Frankie’s outfit.

  “Nah, had a li’l date,” Frankie said as if it was nothing.

  Dena looked at her in surprise. “Not Ms. Antisocial?”

  “Cut it out, Dena. I’m not antisocial,” Frankie protested.

  “Could’ve fooled me. You don’t speak unless somebody speaks to you first,” Vashaun said, finger combing her nappy blond weave.

  “That’s because I don’t rock with just anybody; that ain’t my style,” Frankie told her.

  “Harlem to the heart, huh?” Bess said with a smirk. Her eyes narrowed to slits from the blunt pinched between her fingers.

  “You better know it,” Frankie rolled her eyes. She didn’t care for Vashaun or Bess, but at least she could tolerate Vashaun’s simpleminded ass. Bess, on the other hand, made Frankie’s ass itch with her sneaky and meddling ways. She always had something slick to say.

  “So who was the lucky guy?” Dena asked.

  “Nobody special, just a dude I been talking to.” Frankie downplayed it.

  “He must’ve been special enough for you to squeeze into that jumpsuit. Damn, I didn’t know you had ass like that, Frankie,” Monique teased her, reaching out as if she was gonna pinch Frankie’s butt.

  “You know I don’t even play those games, ma.” Frankie warned. “What’s up with the mural?” Frankie nodded at the candles and empty liquor bottles sitting at the foot of the tree near the card table.

  “This dude from the neighborhood got killed,” Dena told her.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Frankie said sincerely.

  “That’s some sad shit; people always dying in the hood,” Vashaun shook her head. “They killed him right over there on Fulton in front of McDonald’s. I heard it was because he was wearing a blue coat in the wrong neighborhood. These li’l niggaz kill me with this gang shit.”

  “Vashaun, you sound stupid right now. That kid didn’t get killed over no gang beef. He robbed a muthafucka last week, and the boy he robbed caught him slipping,” Bess corrected her.

  “Well, it’s still somebody dying over something stupid!” Vashaun snapped.

  “Listen to Mother Theresa,” Bess laughed, showing off the gold crowns on her two front teeth. “This is coming from the same chick that told a lie and almost got an innocent man killed because he fucked her and didn’t call back!”

  “That was different,” Vashaun rolled her eyes.

  “Different how? Somebody got shot in both scenarios,” Bess retorted.

  “Why don’t both of y’all be easy? The front porch ain’t really the place to be airing your dirty laundry, especially when the streets are always watching,” Dena said, cutting her eyes at one of the dudes by the card table who had been eavesdropping on their conversation.

  “You’re one hundred percent right, D,” Bess said, “but my thing is, keep it one hundred. This shit is fucked up, and we all contribute to it in one way or another, and I accept that, but I get tight when people do foul shit, then boo-hoo about shit like they don’t know what’s up out here.”

  “Fuck you, Bess,” Vashaun spat.

  “Maybe after I’ve had a few, but not right now,” Bess said with a sly grin.

  “Y’all are a trip,” Frankie laughed, trying to ease the tension. She peered over at the coolers laid out next to the grills that were packed with meats and drinks. “Damn
, look like y’all ready to kick off a block party with all that shit.”

  Dena wiped her hands on her apron and retrieved two Coronas from the cooler. She cracked one for herself and handed the other to Frankie. “Vashaun got her stamps so we was just gonna throw a li’l something-something together, but you know how niggaz is when they smell barbecue,” she nodded to the dudes at the table. “Everybody kicked in a li’l something so we gonna do it how we do it until all the food is gone.”

  “At this rate, we gonna be out here all night,” Monique said, placing some more chicken on the grill.

  “Oh, while I’m thinking about it, did you ever look into that thing for me?” Dena asked Frankie.

  “You know I did. I got it the other day but haven’t had a chance to holla at you. That shit is gonna look right on you, Dena,” Frankie assured her.

  “See, that’s the bullshit in your life, Frankie. You never get nothing for us shapely chicks. Big girls like to get fly too!” Monique complained.

  “All you gotta do is hit me with your measurements and it’s a done deal, ma,” Frankie winked and walked into the building.

  “I might as well take care of that now.” Dena took off her apron and hung it on the rail of the stoop. “Mo, I’ll be back in a sec,” she told her friend and followed Frankie into the building.

  ELEVEN

  FRANKIE TURNED THE KEY AND STEPPED INTO the place she now called home. The apartment was cute and cozy but boasted high ceilings and railroad apartment style long hallways. The small living room was decorated simply with a couch, coffee table, and small entertainment system that held a 32 inch flat and stereo system. Off to the right was the kitchen which was sectioned off by a counter. It wasn’t much, but it was hers, and Frankie loved it.