by Mike Sanders
Most of our licks were quick and efficient—in and out like ghosts. But there were those few times when a nigga would have to put in some work. The sweetest lick we’d been on yet had by far been those football niggas. Those niggas were sitting ducks. Imagine their surprise when they thought they were letting in two bitches only to find out they had let in three monsters!
Those niggas were so drunk and horny they just opened the door without hesitation. We took everything them niggas had. Cash, plastic, jewels, you name it! When I went at niggas I was coming for it all! I wouldn’t leave a nigga with shit. I’d take a nigga’s socks, doo-rags, T-shirts...I wanted it all!
That night I had even taken those football niggas’ towels, sheets, and blankets, and had thrown them into a laundry cart at the end of the hallway. The news had failed to mention the fact that they had found those players duct-taped and ass naked. That shit was funny as hell to me. After that night, I couldn’t even watch a Panthers’ game with a straight face anymore.
Shaking those thoughts and returning to the present, I looked back over at the two chicks standing near the BMW looking like their shit didn’t stink. They were brushing niggas off like cats shaking fleas. I saw them shoot down at least six different niggas and that alone made me even more determined to try my hand. I thumped my cigarette butt to the pavement and looked over at D.C. He was still watching the women as well.
I told him, “A closed mouth don’t get fed, homie.”
I arose from my bike and hung my helmet on the handle bars. D.C. followed suit then he told Cross, “Watch our shit for a minute.”
“No doubt,” Cross replied.
We all smelled an imminent lick. Now it was time to put in work. Besides, a nigga might’ve even gotten lucky and ended up getting the pussy as well. Now that would’ve been a nice bonus! I put my T-shirt back on and draped my towel around my neck as D.C. and I walked toward the women. I had to keep pulling my shorts up a little as we walked across the parking lot, not because they were too big but because the pistol I had in my back pocket was heavy as hell. While we were approaching the BMW we saw two other niggas already trying to holla. We sat back and patiently waited for those clowns to be dismissed. As soon as they were gone we moved in.
I stepped to the driver with my confident swagger and charming grin. I noticed she had her mouth turned up into a scowl. When I was directly in front of her, I commented, “You shouldn’t be frownin’ like that, baby girl.”
“Excuse me, I shouldn’t be doing what?” She spoke with an up North accent, which was tainted with just an iota of Spanish. I was thinking maybe she was a Puerto Rican from New York. She dropped her head slightly so she could look over the top of her sunglasses as if she were trying to get a better look at me.
“I said you shouldn’t be frownin’ like that. ’Cause you never know who might fall in love with yo’ smile,” I told her with a grin. “Besides, it takes more muscles and more effort to frown than it does to smile.”
She cracked a slight smile at my remark and glanced over at her girl to see if she’d heard my comment also, but D.C. had the passenger’s full attention.
I leaned against the BMW and stuck my hand into the pockets of my shorts while checking her out. Her curly auburn hair was streaked with blonde highlights and hung well below her shoulders. Her skin was the color of freshly whipped cocaine and I could tell she had a tan because a line was barely visible on her right shoulder where her blouse strap had fallen. A beauty mark decorated the right corner of her mouth just above her pouty top lip like that actress Eva Mendes. She was dressed a tad bit more conservative than the rest of the girls who were running around like pigeons. However, her jeans were so tight it looked as if someone had poured her into them. I figured her to be about five-two or five-three and she was thicker than Government cheese. This bitch was fine as hell! Her friend was pecan-tan, tall as hell, but as equally fine.
“Who gave you permission to lean on my whip?” the driver joked.
“Damn, my bad, ma.” I pulled the towel from around my neck and pretended to wipe the spot where I’d been leaning. While clowning around I was discreetly trying to get a good look inside the Beemer.
I heard her say, “Five-speed, wood grain steering wheel, bucket seats, peanut butter interior. Find what you’re looking for?”
She’d peeped me.
“So, this is your ride, huh?” I was now walking around the BMW, openly admiring it while trying to pick her for information.
“It’s mine while I’m drivin’ it,” she returned.
Just as I’d figured, it belonged to someone else and I wanted to know who that someone else was.
“Ya nigga trust you to bring his whip out here? You must be somethin’ real special. A lota niggas wouldn’t do that. Hell, I wouldn’t do it. You wouldn’t be out here flossin’ in my shit. ’Cause for one reason you gonna draw too much attention and two, it’s gonna be a smooth ass nigga like me tryna get at you and I wouldn’t be havin’ that.”
I was smiling at her. She didn’t respond to what I’d just said, she was being cool. I changed tactics.
“What’s ya name?”
She looked towards me with those dark ass shades with the double Gs on the side and just stared for a minute.
“It’s Tan. Why? You takin’ a census or somethin’?” She was being sarcastic.
“Damn, why you so hostile?” I teased. “I just like to know who I’m talkin’ to, that’s all.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
She was letting me know I hadn’t introduced myself.
“I’m Chink.” I lied while digging into my pocket for my pack of cigarettes. I lit one and asked, “What part of New York you from?”
She corrected me and told me that she was from Jersey, Newark to be exact. I also found out that she was Dominican and not Puerto Rican liked I’d assumed.
She in turn questioned my nationality as well and I told her, “I’m half-African American and half nigga.”
She laughed.
She looked at me and stated, “I figured you to be part Asian or somethin’.”
She reached for my necklace and caressed it as if she were appraising it. She raised her sunglasses and squinted, trying to make out the charm.
She finally asked, “What is it?”
I lied again. “It’s a face.”
Actually, the charm was a white-gold, diamond encrusted ski-mask.
“Nice ice. What do you do?” she asked nonchalantly as she readjusted her Gucci frames.
“I direct traffic,” I replied, exhaling smoke.
“Say what?” She sounded confused.
“I make sure certain niggas stay in they lane, ya dig?”
She looked perplexed as hell, missing my meaning. However, I didn’t bother to clarify myself. We conversed for a few minutes before I ended up giving her my number. She wouldn’t give up hers, a clear indication that she more than likely had a man. If her man was the owner of the BMW, then I definitely wanted to see that nigga, just to make sure he was in the right lane.
I walked back to my bike to rejoin Cross while D.C. continued to holla at the passenger.
After I’d climbed onto my bike Cross looked over and asked, “Who them hoes?”
“Some bitches from Jersey. The driver is…is…damn, I done forgot the bitch’s name already. Um...um, damn!” I was snapping my fingers, trying to remember the girl’s name. “She just told me. I know it’s a color. Beige? Nah, that ain’t it. Oh, yeah, Tan! That’s it, Tan. Damn, a nigga need to quit smokin’ so much weed. That shit’s fuckin’ wit’ a nigga’s memory.”
Cross shook his head with pity as if he wanted to say “that’s a damn shame.”
Just then, D.C. was smiling as he walked back over to where we were parked.
He said, “Yo, I don’t know who them bitches fuckin’ with but whoever it is gotta be holdin’. Did you see them diamonds on them bitches’ fingers an’ shit?” D.C. was climbing back onto his bike as he spoke.
“Yeah, I peeped that,” I replied. “You come up?” I was hoping he’d gotten the girl’s number.
“You know I did. Hell, I knew you wasn’t,” D.C. responded, laughing. He waved a piece of paper. “You know I got the gift of gab, nigga. A bitch don’t stand a chance if she sit there and listen to me for more than five minutes.”
It was a good thing he had come up with the digits because we would surely need a way to contact the girls if we planned on getting at their niggas. While we were talking about the broads in the Beemer we heard the sound of motorcycles with loud ass pipes coming down Beatties Ford Road, nearing the park. The bikes were so loud it sounded like a thunder storm was headed in our direction. I looked around and tried to pinpoint the noise and I saw four bikes being stalled near the entrance of the park. The two bikes in front were painted with that candy shit that looked like it was dripping wet. The two in back were flip-flop painted and all four were Italian-built Ducatis, the most expensive bikes on the market.
The sound of Cross starting his bike made me look over at him. He was putting on his helmet as he watched the four bikes slowly progress up the strip in the slow moving traffic.
He looked at me and D.C. and said, “I’m about to bounce. Y’all comin’?”
D.C. and I looked at one another.
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere; it’s too much pussy floatin’ ’round out here,” D.C. answered.
Cross then looked over at me with raised eyebrows.
“Hell nah I ain’t ready either,” I answered.
Cross continued to watch the strip before abruptly pulling off. As I watched his bike with the new paint job he’d recently gotten I realized how much differently his joint looked. It looked like a totally different bike.
“Paranoid ass nigga,” I mumbled to myself while watching Cross pass the four Ducatis as he exited the park.
“What that nigga goin’ through?” D.C. asked.
“He act like he geeked up.” I replied while watching Cross disappear around the corner.
Moments after Cross had left, the four Ducatis were pulling up next to me and D.C. Once they were all parked they killed the engines and removed their helmets. I looked over at D.C. and saw him looking the niggas up and down. The driver of the bike that had been leading the pack spoke first. He looked over at D.C.
“What it do Dark Cloud. Or is it Dick Cheney? I never know what D.C. stands for from day to day. Is it Don Cornelius today?” His partners laughed.
“Nah, it’s Dying to Creep, ’cause I’m waitin’ to catch a nigga slippin’ today,” D.C. replied with a serious expression glued to his face.
The nigga turned to me and said, “What up bruh-in-law?”
It was Carlos. He had an arrogant smirk on his face. I looked at him and responded non-chalantly.
“Fuck you think’s up? A nigga’s hot, frustrated, and here y’all come fuckin’ up a nigga’s aura.” I was waving my arms around as if they could really see some type of aura going on. I was also bobbing my head to the beat of someone’s stereo that was bumping loud as hell off in the distance.
Ali spoke to both me and D.C. while Supreme and Scarface played the back and sat there mean-mugging like Carlos’ little watchdogs.
“Aura? Nigga you can’t afford an aura!” Carlos stated as he pulled a knot of hundreds from his front pocket. “Want me to buy you one?” He was laughing.
He stuffed the money back inside his pocket and moved his wrist back and forth so I could see the diamonds sparkling in his platinum watch.
“Seriously though, you got my number. You and D.C. sniper get at me when y’all ready to stop playin’ Robbin’ in da Hood and ready to make some real guap.”
He reached over from where he was seated on his bike and held my ski mask charm in his palm for a second, then let it fall back to my chest.
With much sarcasm he laughed and told his boys, “Aw, that’s so cuuuute.”
He pulled his chain from inside the neck of his t-shirt and held up his platinum Versace charm, which was flooded with baguettes.
He pointed at mine once more and said, “Look, y’all, my chain had a baby.”
I laughed and told him, “Fuck you.” I knew he was only clowning as he always did with me and D.C., but it was entirely too hot for that comedic shit.
After another joke or two, Carlos and his crew pulled off burning tires, leaving thick clouds of white smoke in their wake. I fanned the smoke from my face and coughed up a few fumes while slowly shaking my head at their feeble attempt to show off. They rode over to where the girls in the BMW were parked and they all greeted one another like they all knew each other.
After they’d left I thought about that nigga Carlos and just how much street money he was out there getting. Carlos was known for holding more weight than the scales at a Jenny Craig convention! He was also rumored to be a millionaire, but I didn’t know if that rumor had any truth to it. He was an arrogant ass nigga but we had always gotten along, except for one time.
I thought back to the day he had put his hands on Justice. They had a little lovers’ spat and he ended up smacking Justice. Needless to say, I was beyond heated. Fucking with my fam’ is a definite no-no! True enough, I’d heard about Carlos’ reputation and the bodies he’d supposedly had under his belt but I wasn’t fazed. I’d stepped to that nigga with my “problem solver” and checked his ass. And low and behold, Ice was right back with him a week later. Since that little incident had occurred I made it my business to stay out of their domesticated rifts. A woman gets her ass beat, leaves the nigga, and then ends up going right back to him? I still couldn’t figure out the logic in that shit. Women can be simple-minded as hell!
Carlos knew I was a robber and he said he respected my hustle as long as I “Never try him.”
Never try him?This thought caused me to chuckle to myself because I wondered who had died and made his ass God. That nigga actually believed that he was Mr. Fuckin’ Untouchable!
After Cross had left the park, D.C. and I stayed and hollered at a few girls for about an hour or so before heading to my sister’s place to give her the rest of her money from the Embassy Suites robbery. I’d finally sold the jewels we’d taken from those football niggas and we ended up with a nice stack.
Me and D.C. left the park with a few numbers from some bad bitches, but D.C. had the most important number of them all in his pocket. It was a number that we would undoubtedly put to use in the near future. It was the girl’s number from the BMW.
CHAPTER FIVE JUSTICE
It had taken Monk a few days to get rid of the jewelry that they had taken from the football players but he ended up breaking me off real proper-like just as he’d promised. I had to admit, I was thoroughly satisfied with my share. I was thinking that maybe I could sit my ass down for a minute and possibly find a real job for once.
The money I’d accumulated from the streets would’ve lasted long enough for a sistah to go to school and acquire some kind of bankable skills. Besides, all I knew how to do was find a way to get something for nothing. I had no idea what field of work those skills would be useful in other than some type of criminal activity. The only legitimate job I’d ever had was at Neiman Marcus as a cashier years earlier. However, when Sapphire had gotten stopped by security with over two thousand dollars worth of clothing and a receipt showing that she’d paid only fifty dollars for it my days as a cashier had come to an end. That had been before I’d gotten a taste of how sweet and how addictive that street money could be. Needless to say, I hadn’t done anything legit since.
That same day Monk had come through to break me off Carlos had called and asked if he could “stop by for a few.” I was no fool; I already knew what time it was. He wanted some punanny. I don’t know why I kept falling into that trap. It was as if Carlos had some sort of sexual spell over me because I could never refuse him. The dick had me whipped! No matter how hard I tried to resist him, I just couldn’t do it.
I told him he could come over but only
for a brief moment because I had some things to take care of. He knew I was lying and didn’t really have anything to do because I could see that damn smile on his face all the way through the phone.
After showering and lotioning myself in apricot body oil, Carlos’ favorite scent, I decided it was time to tighten up—literally. I reached beneath my sink in the bathroom way behind the Massengils, tampons, and other feminine items and grabbed my secret weapon. I called it my “Rebirth” because after using a teaspoon of it with my douche, the kitty would be almost as tight as it was when I’d come into the world. This coochie tightening cream had by far been my most rewarding purchase from my favorite on-line sex shop.
With a few “Oooh, Daddy, you so big,” “Ouch, you hurtin’ me,” and “It’s been a minute since I’ve done it,” a man’ll think he struck gold. The best thing about it was the fact that it was tasteless and odorless. Vinegar and water didn’t have shit on this concoction. Yep, tricked many niggas with this one!
After becoming “born again,” so to speak, I threw on the tightest pair of gym shorts I could find and donned a wife beater. I didn’t even waste time putting on panties or a bra because I knew I wouldn’t have them on long anyway. I let my still damp hair hang loosely over my shoulders and I put a thin coat of gloss on my lips before taking a seat on my living room sofa to await Carlos’ arrival.
I curled my feet up under my butt and clicked on the television with the remote. I tried to get my mind off Carlos and that good lovin’ that was on its way over, but my coochie seemed to have a mind of its own as it continuously throbbed with anticipation. I had to place a pillow between my thighs to try to temporarily soothe the sudden ache.
I’d been on the sofa for only a few minutes before my telephone rang.
My first thought was, This nigga’s on that BS. again. I thought it’d probably be Carlos calling with some tired ass lie as usual that would have him running another hour or so late, or would have him not able to show up at all.
Without looking at the number, I snatched up my cell with an attitude, “See, I knew this shit was gonna happen. I’on’ know why I keep on fall—”