The Game of Deception

by Victor L. Martin

  “For whut? Not over Poo-Man,” he said in disbelief. Ghetti hated to judge Poo-Man, but the facts stood up firm; nigga was straight lame. He listened as she told him about the drama behind Poo-Man. He was half-listening, mainly thinking about all the fun Poo-Man had with Maria in bed. His rail-thin ass probably couldn’t even lay the pipe right.

  “Why are you still with Poo-Man if he’s causin’ you so much stress?” he said pulling his eyes from her breast.

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged, looking down at her plate. “I guess I’m just content with him, but with all this bullshit lately, I’ve just been waiting for a reason to leave him.”

  “Well, don’t ask me for any advice,” Ghetti said.

  She looked up. “Hell, you’re part of the blame, too! I know about that room you got for Poo and that white bitch at the Red Roof Inn . . . what . . . um, two weeks ago,” she said, rolling her neck.Ghetti couldn’t do nothing but grin. Women always knew shit. How? He could never figure it out.“I don’t see nothing funny!” She crossed her arms.

  “My bad, shawty. It’s just—”

  “And please don’t call me that,” she said firmly.

  “Whut?”

  “Shawty,” she said, irritated a bit.

  My bad. But seriously, I was wrong fo’ gettin' the room for your man.”

  “Fuck him. Really, I’m not mad at you. Poo-Man is the one that’s cheating on me and I’ve been letting it slide.”

  Ghetti felt bad for playing his role in helping Poo-Man play her. He again apologized genuinely. She said it was all good.

  “So,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. “What’s the status on your love life? Still messing with that stripper from Cary?” Ghetti wiped his greasy lips. “Nah. And how you know about her?”

  “She was at the nail spot talking about you a few months back. Telling everyone how you laid it down right in bed.” She crossed her legs under the table, squeezing them real tight. Right now, she was thinking about him all inside her. Nervously, she looked away as her nipples got hard. Not only was Poo-Man cheating on her, his sex was falling off. She hadn’t given any pussy up in ten days. She was pissed off with Poo-Man‘s rapid sex and lack of attention.

  Pulling back from the topic of sex, she asked him how long he had been in the game.

  “Since I was seventeen, not that I’m proud of it. Hell, if I had it my way, I’d be in the NFL playin’ football.”

  “Sports shouldn’t be your only goal, Ghetti. Did you finish school?”

  “Nah. Got fucked up and caught a weed charge in the tenth grade. After that, I just went all out. Lost my chance to play football when I got kicked out of school. That’s life, yo.”

  “Do you have any goals? I know you don’t plan to hustle all your life. Look at how the streets got my brother,” Maria said wanting to get to know Ghetti.

  He looked across the table. “My goal. I really don’t know to keep it real with you. But right now I guess I need to go back to school and get my GED.”

  “What’s stopping you?” she asked.

  “Nothin’ I guess.”

  “Ghetti, I think you have a head on your shoulders, but if you don’t use it, then who can you blame? I know I’m far from being where I want to be in life, but one thing I’ll never do and that’s give up. You should set some goals. Find out what you want out of life and work toward it, Ghetti,” he nodded, taking her words in. “Well, I’ve always wanted to start a football league for inner city kids and doin’ that I know I can’t be out in these streets.”

  “You ever been locked up?”

  “Nope and I plan to keep it like that,” he said knocking on the wooden table being superstitious.

  Maria glanced around the restaurant. Couples and families were enjoying their meals as she tried to pretend that her life was in order.

  About forty minutes later, Ghetti paid the bill and left a tip. Back outside, the temperature had dropped. Ghetti eased his arm around her shoulders, walking slowly toward his ride.

  He could sense she had a lot on her mind when she remained quiet. He did the same. Reaching her crib, he got out to escort her to the front door. While she was pulling out the house key, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick roll of money.

  “Here you go,” he said.

  “What’s that for?” she asked, looking down at the offered money.

  “Just keepin’ my word. I told your brother that I would look out fo’ ya till he get out. Here, it’s yours and you don’t owe me shit.”

  “Thanks, Ghetti,” she said, slipping it inside her coat.

  “Look . . . um, you got my number, so hit me if you need anything okay.”

  She nodded okay, and then thanked him for the food and money. Catching him off guard, she stood up on the tip of her toes to give him a hug. Before releasing him, thoughts of asking him to come inside crossed her mind. She managed to suppress her carnal urges, allowing him to leave with mixed feelings toward him.

  Home for Ghetti was unknown to everyone in Durham. Durham was the place he did his dirt, but he wisely rested his head in Wayne County, Goldsboro, North Carolina, fifty minutes east of Durham. He shared a three-bedroom brick house with his cousin, Mance. It was a few minutes past midnight when Ghetti eased into his bed after a quick shower. Slipping the Glock under his pillow, he called it a day.

  CHAPTER 3:

  Volanda and Amanda

  Durham, North Carolina

  Sunday 5:38 P.M.

  Detective Amanda Hartford worked around the clock on the John Doe’s murder. Detective Carter, her partner was at her desk studying the crime scene photos of the two Arabs. Things were not adding up on this double homicide and Detective Carter knew it was going to involve a few twists and a bunch of surprises. On her notepad, she had crossed out robbery for a motive. The man in the street was found with $10,000 strapped to his chest. She also crossed out a drug deal, but on second thought, she placed a question mark beside it. She was doing her best to focus on the case, but it was hard due to a personal issue she was going through. Rubbing the nape of her sore neck, she briefly closed her eyes. She removed her glasses, placing them next to her laptop. Last month she had chickened out of going in for laser surgery to correct her sight. She hoped that Detective Hartford would get a break in the case as she talked to one of the crime scene investigators. The sooner the case was closed, the better.

  Detective Carter was a strict, sophisticated attractive black woman of the law. She was a different person from a year ago, based on her appearance. She once carried a burdensome weight of 220 pounds, which nearly cost her, her job. With a steady diet and true encouragement from Detective Hartford, she was now down to a sexy size thirteen. She stood five-feet-six-inches with her curly hair pulled up in a bun. Her skin was the deepest of brown and her smile was endless. She could match the looks of Jennifer Hudson. Next month she would celebrate her 31st birthday and she prayed that she would not spend it alone. She viewed Detective Hartford as a friend first and a partner second.

  Detective Hartford was a free-spirited individual that did not have an enemy in the world, but she would not test that theory against those that she placed behind bars. She was thirty-six- years old, married, no kids and she lived her life to the fullest as long as she didn’t break any laws. She was on the petite side and stood a mere five feet three inches with brunette tresses tied in a bun and a light speckle of freckles across her cheeks. Life was not perfect for Detective Hartford because she was painfully facing infertility. To escape the pain, she would fall inside her secret life. The two detectives had been partners for nearly three years and their friendship had grown since day one. Detective Carter yawned as she eased her glasses back on. Detective Hartford flipped her cell phone shut, smiling about something that crossed her mind.

  “What are you smiling about?” Detective Carter asked.

  “Oh, um . . . It was about this guy who was booked this morning. One of the jailers said he didn’t know my name so he tried t
o describe me, right? The guy asked to speak to the white homicide detective and added that she had a nice ass.” She playfully turned to the side showing off her nice figure.

  Detective Carter rolled her eyes. “Who told you that mess?”

  “Officer Watson.”

  “So let me guess. Your new theme song will be that Honky Tonk Badonka Donk, huh?”

  “You know I don’t do the country.” Detective Hartford laughed.

  “Chile, sit down and stop tripping,” Detective Carter said.

  Detective Hartford clipped her cell phone to her hip then switched to her no-nonsense mindset. “I think we have a break in this case,” she said as she sat on the edge of her partner’s desk.

  “Please don’t any buts.”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, please don’t add any buts,” Detective Carter corrected herself.

  “Oh. Luck is with us and no buts. The CSI said that substance you pointed out on victim number two was indeed human saliva. My guess is the same as yours: The shooter spat on the victim then shot him. We just need to hope we already have the suspects DNA on file when we do the DNA test.”

  “Do you still believe it was one person?” Detective Carter asked.

  Detective Hartford nibbled her bottom lip. “Yes. Both men were hit with the slugs, but victim number two also had a gunshot wound to the head. We know that those were the fatal shots. It’s possible our suspect surprised the driver then hit the other. Bang, bang,” she said, forming her hand into a gun.

  Detective Carter nodded her head in agreement. A few reports and statements were taken and all reported hearing two loud blasts back-to-back followed by a few rapid shots from a handgun.

  “So we got one suspect that killed two men within . . . seconds. We have no prints on any of neither the four bullet shells nor the two shotgun shells, so we are not dealing with a slouch,” Detective Carter said. “But,” she smiled. “The suspect left his DNA and that was stupid . . . or maybe it was intentional . . . some kind of bait to throw us off. My other hunch is this: our suspect knows the DNA wouldn’t trip them up.”

  “Meaning?” Detective Hartford asked.

  “Meaning that our DNA test will not find a match.”

  “I think we will. I think our suspect lost his cool and made a costly mistake.”

  “Want to make a bet?” Detective Carter challenged.

  “You’re on!”

  The bet was made and locked. If the DNA hit a match with a suspect already in the database, then Detective Carter would have to fill up Detective Hartford’s Chrysler Aspen for two weeks. If there were no match, then Detective Hartford would owe Detective Carter $200.

  “Can we call it a day?” Detective Hartford looked at her watch. It was now ten minutes past five.

  “Yeah, might as well. We can start early tomorrow.”

  Detective Hartford stood up. “Good.”

  “Just be sure to have my money in cold, green cash because I will win our bet.”

  “I doubt it, girl. Just know that I use nothing but premium gas.”

  The two checked out of the police department and called it an end for today’s work. Detective Carter got into her burgundy BMW 525i to head to her tranquil one bedroom apartment located off of Martin Luther King Boulevard. As for Detective Carter, her destination would usually lead her to an expensive gated community golf course home that she shared with her husband, but today she had another destination. When she pulled out in her arctic silver Chrysler Aspen, she was in her own private world with soft music easing her disturbed mind.

  Meanwhile in Goldsboro, Ghetti was in a tight game with his cousin Mance on Madden 98. The two had been glued in front of the 61-inch DLP flat screen for nearly two hours straight. Ghetti’s team was the Panthers while Mance ran with the Colts. It was the fourth quarter with three minutes remaining. The score stood at Colts 45, Panthers 42, and Ghetti’s team had just returned the kickoff for 38 yards.

  Mance and Ghetti were tight, acting more like brothers. Mance had just turned thirty-two last month, but did not look a day older than twenty-five. He was on the pretty boy type level and stayed so fresh and so clean 247. He stood 6’2” with a lean muscular body that he deemed, The Bedroom Body. His smile was defined by permanent gold teeth, top and bottom. This was a reminder from his days of hustling and Mance was a true vet of the game. He was now a businessman and owned two barbershops, one in Goldsboro and one in Raleigh. Mance was adjusting his defense when his cell phone began to chime. By its tone, he knew it was his woman.

  “Hold up.” Mance paused the game to answer the call.

  “C’mon man!” Ghetti vented. “Stop the bullshit so I can win this game.”

  Mance laid the wireless controller on the glass table then slid his phone open.

  “Mance!” Ghetti shouted.

  Mance ignored him. “Yeah . . . What time . . . Yeah, I can do that. Let me . . . ummm . . . Matter of fact, I’m on my way now.” Mance ended the call, rose to his feet looking at Ghetti.

  “Gotta roll out fam’. My beauty calls and I gots to go. Now where my keys at?”

  “I know you ain’t ‘bout to bounce?” Ghetti handed Mance his car keys that were lying on the end of the glass table.

  “Just as the sun rises and sets, I’m leaving.” Mance headed for his bedroom with Ghetti on his heels.

  “Man, let’s just finish the damn game! Don’t try to run now, you know I’m about to score on you.”

  “Yeah whatever. Just save it until I get back and I betcha a hundred you won’t score.” Mance walked into his bedroom leaving Ghetti leaning in the doorway with his arms folded.

  “I’ll think about it,” Ghetti said as Mance pulled a cream Rocawear leather hooded coat out of the closet. “Yo, who just called you? Must be somebody that got your ass wide the fuck open. Lemme guess that Asian girl from Havelock?”

  “Nope,” Mance replied making sure his gear was color coordinated in the full-length mirror.

  “Who is it then?”

  “Man, stop stressing the don.” Mance laughed.

  “Fuck you, you P. Diddy lookin’ ‘fucka.”

  Ghetti started laughing when Mance suddenly broke out doing one of P. Diddy’s signature dance moves while saying, “This is a remix . . . this is a remix,” over and over. In truth, Mance did favor P. Diddy and that shit went straight to his head.

  “Yo, what you want me to tell Kathy if she calls?” Ghetti said as Mance picked up his registered P89 nine millimeter.

  “Tell ’er to call me on my cell,” Mance replied. Kathy ran his shop in Raleigh.

  “You doin’ an all nighter?”

  Mance slid on his jewels, which consisted of an icy yellow diamond bracelet, necklace, and two diamond studs for his ears. “Nine times outta ten, yeah.”

  Ghetti sucked his teeth then went to his bedroom. “Be safe, dawg,” he said over his shoulder.

  Later outside, Mance checked his appearance once more as he sat in his whip. His glossy maroon Lexus LS 460 was an extension of his persona. Once he was pleased with his looks, he backed out of the driveway with the sounds bumping.

  Mance was keeping his girl a secret from Ghetti until he was sure she was a keeper. He hoped that things would work out for him. He now had a month and a half invested into the relationship. It was on some grown man flavor. He had to straight up wine and dine this woman and she deserved every bit of the effort. As for any erotic action, he had only engaged in some heavy groping, deep kissing and once he had delicately slipped her nipples between his lips while she massaged his penis under his slacks. They both agreed to take an HIV test before any sex jumped off. Even when their tests came back negative, she still held off from going all the way with him. Mance was not stressing the issue and he respected her character for making him wait. With the high number of HIV cases, a man or woman would be better off playing Russian roulette than practicing unsafe sex. That deadly syndrome killed without remorse and Mance wanted no part of it. He kept his sex partner
s at a minimum . . . one if possible or at least he tried to. As it stood now, he was going on three months without any sex. Mance wanted something long term. If he wanted to, he could be spraying 247 with the flock of women that stepped to him. He was keeping it honest with his woman and she too was looking ahead to building a future with Mance in their quest for stability and commitment. She was on his mind heavily as he headed for Durham. Ghetti was making plans for the night. He was lounging in his bedroom dialing up this bisexual diva that attended North Carolina Central University. She was twenty and favored Keyshia Cole. Every time he had sex with her, it left him worn out or so spectacular that he felt inclined to give her his car keys. She assured Ghetti that he was the only man she was fucking and he believed it by the way she went all out when they hooked up. But when it came to other girls, she was a player. Ghetti was about to hang up when she answered on the sixth ring. Her name was Verenity.

  “Hellooo,” she answered with thumping music in the background.

  “Hey sexy,” he said, hoping to get on her good side from the jump.

  “Hold on, lemme turn this music down. Okay . . . if it ain’t Mr. Centaur,” she said, closing the hardback copy of the Kama Sutra. She referred to Ghetti as a Centaur, a Greek mythology creature with the upper body of a man and the lower half a horse. Due to his large erect penis, she matched him with being hung like a horse.

  “I got your Centaur,” Ghetti joked.

  “Mmmm, I bet you do. Remember how I was riding it last week, real nice and slow, up and down?”

  “I’ll never forget it, but how about we hook up tonight?”

  “I’m gonna be busy,” she said sadly in a whiny soft voice that she knew would turn him on.

  “Busy how?”

  “Busy as in licking some pussy and getting mine licked,” she said nonchalantly.

  “Shit, that sounds interestin’. How ‘bout you let me join in?”

  “No. I told you the deal on that.”

  “Let me watch.”

  “No Ghetti! Stop being so demanding. You act like I don’t be breaking you off when we hook up. This girl I’m chilling with tonight don’t get down like that, and a few other reasons,” she said, looking at her designed fingernails.