Trap House

by Sa'id Salaam

  Real and Constance were on their way to a Tyler Perry play when Real got a call from Max. “Say, cuz,” said the manager of G-Spot, “we need your assistance down here. It’s very important,” Max said firmly.

  Max was Real’s older cousin. He was discharged from the military right after the Gulf War. As soon as Max heard about his lil’ cousin Real starting a strip club, he practically begged him for the managing position. Constance was totally against it, but Real disregarded Constance’s wishes and gave his cousin the job anyway. Unfortunately, it took a while for Real to see just how right Constance was.

  “I’m on my way,” Real said, placing his phone back into the car charger.

  “On your way? Where you goin’?” Constance snapped.

  “Max needs me down at the club. It’s only going to take a second,” Real said, turning the Lambo around and heading back up to the club.

  “Man, come on, now! What the hell you hire this nigga for? To watch pussy! Shit, you might as well be managing your own shit! Every night, you get a call to go do his fuckin’ job! You need to hire somebody to handle your business so you’ll have time to spend with your fuckin’ lady!” Constance barked as they pulled up into the club parking lot.

  Real knew when it was good to let Constance have her say, especially when she was right, but by the same token, Constance also knew when to hold her tongue.

  “Come on,” Real told Constance as he opened the door on the Lambo.

  Ignoring his command, Constance sat in the car until he walked around, opened up her door, and helped her out of the car. Walking hand in hand, they entered G-Spot.

  Chapter 2

  “Hey, cuz! Two slick-dressed Italian guys demanded to see you. For what, I don’t know, but they up in VIP with some of their other friends,” Max told Real as he pointed toward the VIP section of the club.

  “Italians?” Real repeated, trying to figure out what the men could possibly want. Real didn’t know any local Italians.

  “Yeah,” Max said, looking in their direction.

  “What they want?” Constance asked angrily, furious that her night was put on hold by Max—again.

  While Constance and Real stood in the middle of the club floor, naked girls spoke to Real and ignored Constance as they walked by. Constance made it known to every girl working that she wouldn’t hesitate to fuck them up when it came to Real. Some of the girls respected her situation, but a good majority of them didn’t. Every chance one of them got, they would come on to Real in some kind of way. After a while, it was known around the club that Real wasn’t going to cheat on Constance, so they stopped trying—all but Cream, the beautiful half-Black, half-White stallion. Cream was determined to break Real down and get him into her bed.

  “I told you I don’t know what they want,” Max snapped looking at Constance with pure hatred.

  “So you called us all the way down here, and you don’t even know what they want? Did you even ask?” Constance snapped back.

  “I called Real down here, not you,” Max answered harshly.

  “Enough!” Real yelled, leaving Max and Constance standing in the middle of the floor looking at each other as he went to the VIP section to see what the Italians wanted. “Somebody looking for me?” Real asked, looking at the men.

  They instantly stopped throwing money at the naked girl and looked up at him. “Who are you?” asked one of the men.

  “I’m Real, the owner. Now, who wants to see me?’ Real asked again.

  “Oh! Real! Come take a seat, my friend,” the young, fancy-dressed Italian told Real after making his friend move out of the seat beside him.

  “I’m good. What’s the problem?” Real asked, still standing staring the man down.

  “Oh, there’s no problem, my friend. I just came to deliver a very important message from Mr. Rossi,” the young Italian said as he stood and walked over to Real.

  “Rossi? What’s the message?” Real asked, confused. He didn’t recognize the name.

  The Italian man got up close on Real and whispered, “Mr. Rossi says you work for him or you don’t work at all. He knows you are making his competition, the Moretti family, very rich, which is also making Moretti’s stronghold on the cartel a lot stronger. Mr. Rossi can’t touch Mr. Moretti at this time, but he can touch you. So, what’ll it be?” the young Italian asked with a sly smile.

  Real placed his arm around the man’s shoulder and said firmly, “Tell your boss Mr. Rossi that I said to go fuck himself and that I don’t sit well with threats. Now, you and your boys get the fuck up out of my establishment!” Real said, smiling as he exited the VIP section, motioning for Max and Constance to follow.

  “What up, cuz?” Max asked as they entered Real’s back office.

  “Everything’s good. Just some rich, arrogant Italians trying to invest in the club, which is totally out of the question,” Real told Max as Constance stood by, picking up on the lie.

  “Oh, okay, cuz. I got everything under control. I will call you tomorrow with an update on thangs,” Max said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  Constance rolled her eyes.

  “A’ight, cool,” Real said, turning to walk out the office.

  “Under control my ass!” Constance uttered as she followed Real out of the back office.

  As Real walked across the floor, he noticed the Italians exiting. The tall, lanky one looked in his direction and smiled. Real smiled back.

  A few minutes later, Real and Constance were turning out of the G-Spot onto Peachtree Street.

  Picking up on Real’s different mood, Constance spoke softly. “What’s going on, baby?” she asked, sensing his uneasiness.

  “Some spic trying to make demands. Had the nerve to send me a message that if I don’t work for him, I don’t work at all. Can you believe that? Ain’t that some shit? He must don’t know who the fuck Real is!” Real shouted, getting madder and madder as he thought about the threat from the man in the silky suit.

  “Who sent the message?” Constance inquired, trying to see if she recognized the name as one of her wealthy real estate clients. She had sold several high-end homes to Italian drug lords.

  “Rossi!” Real spat.

  “Hmm. Never heard that name before. So what’s next?’ Constance asked.

  “I’m going to call old man Moretti to see what the deal is. If he don’t fix it, I will!” Real snapped.

  “He’ll straighten it out,” Constance said, hoping he would—but even if he didn’t, she was going to ride with Real to the very end, no matter what.

  “Look, baby, I really ain’t in the mood right now for the play. I really need to make some calls,” Real said, knowing that she would understand.

  “Okay. Me neither,” Constance agreed.

  Turning around, Real took the Lambo to speeds it had never reached before on the way back home.

  Chapter 3

  “Bitch nigga, you better have my eighty grand by the end of the week, or else my people here will be back, and the next time they leave, you won’t be fuckin’ breathin’!” Cash shouted as his two goons pistol whipped the young dealer.

  Cash was Real’s good friend and lieutenant. Real had met Cash back in the day on Godby Road. Cash was the true definition of a young hustler. He would stay in the trap all day every day. Seeing the hustle young Cash had and how solid he was made Real take him under his wing. Years later, Cash became very wealthy, all because of Real.

  As well as they worked together, Cash was the direct opposite of Real. He was tall, lanky, bald headed, and very unattractive. Known in circles for his pistol play, Cash wouldn’t hesitate to unload his clip. At the ripe old age of twenty-four, Cash was considered a legend around town. While Real dealt with the Morettis, Cash and his goons dealt with the streets. Cash knew his position and played it well, with no regrets.

  Just as he gave the word for his goons to release the dealer, Cash’s cell phone rang. “What up, bro?” he answered when he saw Real’s number on t
he screen.

  “I need you to come out to the house ASAP,” Real told him firmly.

  “Damn, bro, can’t it wait until tomorrow? I got Jesse and B-Low riding with me anyway. You know I can’t bring them out to your spot,” Cash said, watching B-Low and Jesse laughing as the young dealer run off.

  “Look, man, drop them two niggas off and get out here! This is important!” Real snapped and hung up his office phone.

  Cash could tell by Real’s actions that it was a serious matter, so he hurriedly dropped B-Low and Jesse off and navigated his brand new burgundy 600 SEL Mercedes Benz through the night traffic to Real’s house.

  A half hour later, Cash was pulling up in front of Real’s million-dollar home. Cash was lost for words every time he went out to Real’s place. The six-bedroom home sat on ten acres of well-manicured land. Behind the home sat an Olympic-sized swimming pool, full basketball court, tennis court, and guest house. Adjacent to that was a custom-built garage that housed Real’s lime green Lamborghini Murcialago LP460, snow white Rolls–Royce drop-head Coupe, and black on black Range Rover Sport. Next to Real’s expensive collection were Constance’s lavender Bentley GTC, bright cherry red H-2, and midnight blue Ferrari 360 Spider that she barely drove.

  Cash stepped out of his Benz into the cold night air.

  Ding! Ding!

  A few seconds after ringing the bell, Constance appeared at the door. “Hey, Cash,” she said. “Come on in. Real’s down in his office.” She stepped aside, letting Cash in.

  “What’s up, sis? You good?” Cash asked as he entered.

  “Just fine. Just see what’s up with Real,” she told him as she closed the door behind them.

  “All the time,” Cash replied as he hurried through the house to Real’s home office.

  On the way to Real’s office, Cash thought back on the times when Real had stayed in a humble two-bedroom condo out in College Park. Now, his crib had marble floors, two full kitchens, an elevator, three fire places, and a bad ass home theatre. Man, my boy’s come a long way, Cash thought to himself. “What’s up, bro?’ Cash asked as he entered Real’s office.

  “A lil’ problem from the cartel,” Real answered, rearing back into his oversized leather desk chair.

  “What kind of problem?” Cash sat down in the oversized office chair positioned in front of the desk.

  “A couple Italians came down to the club tonight with a message from a Mr. Rossi. This Rossi says I work for him or don’t work at all.”

  “Work for him or don’t work at all!” Cash spat.

  “Yeah. He got to be playing!” Real fired back.

  “Who the fuck this wetback think he is? He don’t run shit!” Cash yelled as he jumped out of the office chair and started pacing the floor.

  “I just put in a call to my connect, the Morettis. If they don’t handle this Rossi fool, I’ll do it my damn self,” Real said sincerely.

  “Bro, just get me this spic’s location, and I’ll eliminate all of this tough guy talk! Fuck them slick heads!” Cash shouted as he continued to pace the room.

  “I’m going to see what the Morettis do first. There may be no need for us to bother. What’s the word on the street?” Real asked, changing the subject.

  “Everythang moving lovely. I had to chastise a lil’ nigga this morning about an overdue debt, but all in all, everything moving like clockwork,” Cash said as he sat back down in the office chair.

  “Well, you know I got a shipment coming in this week, and it’s mandatory that it go quicker than the last. Oh, by the way… I hear Deuce and them on the west side are putting down real heavy. What’s up with that?” Real inquired.

  “Yeah, word is they got a new Colombian connect out of Miami. My crew and I were just discussing that yesterday. We are working on eliminating that problem before the end of the week,” Cash assured Real.

  “A’ight. We don’t need to be sitting on this shit no longer than a week,” Real said firmly.

  “I got you. I’m getting with my niggas tomorrow to handle that west side problem, and also I’ll connect with my folks in New York and L.A. with some good numbers to make that shit disappear.”

  “A’ight. And about that west side problem, let them niggas on payroll handle it. Don’t get your hands dirty. They expendable, and you ain’t,” Real said firmly, knowing all too well how Cash liked to get his hands dirty.

  “I’m just calling the shots, bro. Let me know if you need me to handle that slick back,” Cash said as he stood to leave.

  “Get at me tomorrow.”

  “Fo sho,” Cash replied as he exited.

  En route home, Cash picked up his cell phone and called B-Low, not realizing that a black crown Victoria driven by a federal DEA agent followed close behind.

  December 25, 2001

  The sixteen year old twins, Twon and Qwon, rose from their beds, anxious to see if their mom, who very rarely kept her word, just happened to keep it and got them those Jordan’s they had been hounding her for. As they looked into the living room, two shoe boxes wrapped in newspaper sat under their tree, which was really a plant with some hand-made school ornaments on it they had made when they were younger. It was what it was in the projects. As they raced across the living room, damn near knocking over the coffee table that already had one leg held up by books, they wasted no time ripping in to the packages. Within seconds, they emerged with their Jordan’s that they thought they would die without.

  “Momma,” the boys yelled simultaneously. There was no response as they approached her bedroom door. The smell of stale Newports filled their nostrils as Qwon slowly pushed the door open with Twon right on his heels.

  “Momma, you woke?” Twon said, pushing his brother aside.

  There was no response from the motionless body in the bed. They continued to call out Momma as they made their way around the bed. They simultaneously noticed the belt tied around her arm tightly and just below, a needle hanging. “Momma,” they yelled frantically as her eyes stared straight through them. Their attempts at reviving her failed. It couldn’t be happening to them, not today. It really sank in quickly that the woman that gave birth to them was dead. Twon reached down slowly, closing his mother’s eyes for the last time. Qwon then noticed a letter lying on the floor marked Twon and Qwon on it.

  “Twins, I know right now you’re confused and hurt, but it’s important that you stay strong for each other. Always know I love y’all with all my heart and I will always be there, no matter where y’all go. Just know I couldn’t go on a slave to this heroine any longer, and eventually my habit would become a liability to what the future holds for y’all. Now, this is where I need y’all to pay close attention. In the picture frame of y’all on my night stand, there is a key. This key is going to open a part of y’all life that can’t be closed once it is opened—it is in your bloodline. Today is the ten year anniversary of the night those pussy ass police took your father away from us. Ten long years I’ve waited to give y’all this key. The key to y’all’s destiny, and now the time is here. I want y’all to go to our old house. It is boarded up now, but y’all will find a way in. Once inside, go up to your old room. Remember that mural of Michael Jordan y’all Dad had painted for y’all on the wall? It is time for y’all to find out the real reason it’s there. Boys, there is one thing left…promise me you won’t let those police ever take y’all away in handcuffs and lock y’all up, ever. Now go reclaim the throne your father left behind. You’re the sons of King and boys, your father is waiting.

  Love,

  Mom.

  P.S. I hope y’all like the shoes I got you for Christmas.”

  As they stood there trying to take in everything that had been put before them, strangely, they never shed a tear. It wasn’t the first they had seen of death and it sure wouldn’t be the last.

  December 30, 2001

  Social Services took no time stepping in and placing the twins in a group home. It was only temporary because it would only be a matter of time before they
planned their escape. It was there mother’s funeral, and the Social Worker took them and sat with them the entire time. As they sat in the church, they watched as hundreds of people made their way in and out, paying respect to Debra Scott, also known to the streets as Queen.

  “Momma sure look good, huh, Qwon?”

  “Sure do. She almost looks unreal,” Qwon replied.

  The years had taken a toll on Queen. Ten years ago, she was the baddest thing in the hood at one hundred-fifty pounds, with a five-three frame. Thick was an understatement. Her creamy black skin was complimented by her hypnotizing brown eyes that seemed to take complete control over their dad. He’d buy her the world if he could, and he sure did try. From minks, to diamonds, to clothes—you name it, she had it. Once their dad got locked up, it seemed like part of Queen died. The first couple of years were straight, but by the time they were nine, they noticed all her nice things their dad had bought her slowly disappeared. There were days at a time their momma wouldn’t even come home, so they learned to take care of themselves. By their eleventh birthday, she had blown through a couple hundred thousand dollars that their dad had left her, and she was unable to continue paying the property taxes on their house. They were then forced to move to the Marion Jones housing projects. To some, it was unreal to hear Queen was living in the same projects her husband’s legacy began in. At first, everything was going good. Momma walked around like the world was still hers. People jumped around doing whatever she asked, whenever she asked. As the months passed, Queen’s ugly secret could no longer be hidden. Heroine called Queen night and day, and she answered. The people she once looked down upon, began to look down upon her as she’d sit on the stairway and nod off as the heroine stole her soul gram by gram. It was hard to believe the woman lying in the casket was once the Queen married to the infamous Tyler Scott, known to the twins as pops, but to the world as King.