Kiss the Ring

by Meesha Mink

  No the fuck he ain’t . . .

  “Yo . . . chill, Bas,” Hammer insisted, reaching over to grip his wrist. “Not yet. I got this, son.”

  The gun stayed pointed out the window, aimed and ready to fire, Bas’s finger still on the trigger even as he gazed down at Hammer’s hand with hard eyes. Eyes that shifted up to lock on his friend’s profile in the mask.

  Everyone in the car froze.

  What the fuck?

  Hammer instantly slid his hand off Bas and back onto the steering wheel.

  POW!

  THIS motherfucker just blasted off without even looking to see where the bullets might land. Hurt. Destroy. Injure. Kill.

  POW! POW!

  Yes the fuck he did.

  Again everyone checked over their shoulders or in the mirrors as hearts pounded and the sweat of fear filled the small confined space. The police car was still on their asses even with the front windshield shattered by Bas’s bullets.

  Hammer turned a corner sharply and the wheels burned black streaks on the brick paved roads. He swerved suddenly to miss a woman pushing a stroller across the street. They could still hear her high-pitched scream as he left the outskirts of South Orange and entered the city limits of Newark through its Ivy Hill section.

  The flash and blare of sirens were still close behind them, almost overpowering the sounds of early summer.

  “Let’s go, Hammer,” Red shouted, pounding his gloved fist against the back of the front seat.

  He screamed the words they all felt as their hearts pounded and their pulses raced even faster than the car. Nearly all.

  Bas calmly kept his slanted eyes on the rearview mirror, his body relaxed in the seat as he tapped his gun against his knee. “Go up two lights and make a right,” he said, his voice just as steady and sure as the hand ready to fire off another round. “Get off these main avenues.”

  Hammer deftly followed Bas’s commands until they finally reached a one-way street devoid of homes or traffic. He was able to open up the car and zoom ahead, steadily increasing the distance between them and the police. They knew the streets of the Brick City and used that knowledge to their full advantage, taking small side streets and shortcuts from one street to the next via openings where homes once sat. Soon the police were left behind to wonder where their prey disappeared.

  Thank God.

  Hammer slowed the car as the sounds of sirens completely faded. His shoulders and his stance in the seat relaxed a little. Shit was less tense. Less on the edge.

  They did the crime but no one gave a fuck about doing the time.

  Even without the presence of the police on their necks, no one said shit and the silence inside the vehicle was deafening. Everyone was lost in their thoughts. How to spend the money they just stole? How long before they were caught? What would the news say about them? When was the next bank robbery?

  Would they make it out alive the next time?

  Crime? Fine.

  Time? Fuck that.

  We just robbed a bank. I just helped rob a bank.

  Hammer drove the streets at a much less noticeable speed but he still was taking no shorts in getting them to the spot. He slowed down as he neared an old garage attached to a two-story abandoned brick church with its stained glass windows covered with sheets of wood. One push of the remote clipped to the sun visor and the door lifted for him to drive inside.

  It wasn’t until he put the car in park and closed the garage door that they finally removed their black masks and climbed from the vehicle. Seconds later the almost indiscernible “click” of the generator sounded before the overhead light illuminated the windowless garage. The machine hummed loudly as it provided the electricity they wouldn’t dare request from PSEG.

  The garage smelled damp and musty and was just big enough to house the Lincoln and a large metal cabinet. In silence they quickly removed their gear, knowing they were leaving it all behind to be used again.

  Nelson’s bright eyes gleamed from his deep chocolate complexion as he moved his short, thick figure forward to toss the leather duffel bag at Bas. “I’m guessing ain’t shit but ’bout ten grand,” he said, wiping the sweat beading around the edge of his short ’fro, and not looking anything more than his nineteen years of age.

  Bas caught it easily with one hand before tossing it onto the hood of the Lincoln. “We made better time and better money in Uniondale a couple of months ago,” he said, unzipping the black all-in-one jumpsuit they all wore. He stepped out of it and tossed it onto the floor by the rear tire of the car to stand in his Ralph Lauren orange V-neck T-shirt and khaki shorts. He had a deep brown complexion that was smoother than melted chocolate, tall and thin in build but short as fuck in temper. Bas was just in his mid-twenties but his willingness to get physical was legendary. When something sparked off his anger it was crucial as hell. He appeared to be laid back and cool-headed, but to anyone who knew him—or knew of him—it was clear that could all change in a heartbeat.

  Red’s mask, gloves, and uniform fell onto the pile next. He stretched every firm muscle in his brick-house frame and then flexed his thick neck. “I did my part to keep shit straight,” he said, his voice like rocks being crushed, and wiped his large hands over his bald head. His imposing build, jagged scar across his forehead, and the words KILLA tatted across the back of his shiny head left little doubt that he stayed ready to fuck shit up. Just one word or the right look from Bas and someone was completely dealt with. No questions asked.

  “Congrats for not knocking that old lady the fuck out,” Bas said.

  “That woulda most definitely kept shit . . . less than straight, son,” Hammer said, walking up to drop his things onto the growing pile on the concrete floor as well. He turned to check out his reflection in one of the car’s windows. Hammer was caramel fine and knew it. He slung his dick like he was scared to lose it. He had enough women—and kids—to prove he put all of his fine-ass looks to use.

  Red didn’t laugh and the side-eye he gave Hammer made clear he wasn’t in the mood to.

  “And Nelson, you gotta check your fucking temper,” Bas said, turning to unlock the metal cabinet and remove one of the three money-counting machines on the lowest shelf.

  “I got you, Bas,” Nelson said, gathering up all the guns to carefully place on the empty shelves of the cabinet.

  “You better,” he said in a cold voice, cutting his serious eyes up from loading the machine to lock on the youngest member of their crew.

  Nelson nodded, shifting his eyes away from Bas while he gathered up the pile and jammed everything into a huge garbage bag. It was clear as day that Bas’s approval meant a lot to him.

  “And you did a’ight for your one and only ride,” Bas said, his cool eyes warming as he came over to stand before the last person in the garage.

  “One and only is right,” said a male voice, as the black jumpsuit was unzipped to reveal a shapely body that was pure curves in a black form-fitting catsuit. Solid. Thick. Undeniably female. With a smile, she pulled off the ski mask and the hands-free voice changer she wore, and reached up to stroke the side of his square and handsome face. “A dare is a dare. I told you I could handle that shit,” she said.

  Bas smiled and eased one strong arm around her waist to pull her body close before bending his head a bit to taste her mouth. His hand dipped down to slap and then squeeze one of her plush ass cheeks as his tongue flickered against the tip of hers. “Don’t start something you know you not ready to finish, Queen.”

  The other men all groaned in annoyance.

  “I wish y’all would just fuck already,” one of them said.

  Bas chuckled before giving her another slap on the ass, then moved back across the small space to place rubber bands around the money. “Twelve lousy grand,” he said, tossing the money back into the bag.

  He never split up the take from the bank. He used money from his own stash that had already been laundered to make sure the chances of the stolen cash being traced back to them
were lessened. He was most definitely the leader and the brains of the Make Money Crew, and everyone in the group respected that and played their own positions well.

  Bas held the duffel in one hand and locked the cabinet with the other as everyone filed out of the garage by the side door leading directly into the church’s basement, where the kitchen had been housed. Queen slowed her steps and glanced back over her shoulder just as Bas snorted a bump of coke from the side of his hand. His sniffs echoed loudly in the quiet just before he cleared his throat.

  She turned and rushed from the kitchen and then down the hall to where dimly lit steps led up to the vestibule of the sanctuary. No part of her enjoyed being in his presence when he was high. Over the last couple of months she’d watched him go from cool, calm, and collected to a short-tempered, not-to-be-slept-on ninja after just a line of that shit. Protect your neck and keep your back knife-free if he dared to do two. Thank God he was just on the recreational level.

  She looked around at the abandoned space, which retained hints of its former beauty in the aged woodwork. Twenty years ago the church had been vibrant and beautiful. Now it was just a shell of its former self surrounded by waist-high weeds and bushes, the stained glass windows covered by boards and the gleam of the cherry wood dulled by dust and neglect.

  The hangout of a band of thieves and bank robbers.

  She still couldn’t believe she had convinced Bas to let her go along with them on the robbery. She had been scared shitless the entire time but it had been important to gain their trust. Plus she felt like she needed to see it all go down. She needed to learn more about the people she’d moved among for the last two months. Details about them were vital. Important. Necessary as hell.

  She looked through the diamond-shaped window panes on the wooden doors leading into the sanctuary. Her catshaped eyes rested on each person. Nelson stretched out on the front pew. Hammer lounging in the pulpit on his cell phone. Red was doing sit-ups on the floor in front of the leaning collection table.

  Her gaze shifted as the door behind the pulpit, leading directly back down a set of stairs to the office in the basement, opened. Bas walked through it carrying stacks of money in his hand, each held together with a rubber band. He had swapped the cash for the money he kept in the office in a huge locked safe for which only he had both the key and the combination.

  She looked on with squinted eyes as he tossed each wad to the men. She looked from one to the other over and over again, feeling the heat of hatred burn her stomach until she could retch. Bas, Hammer, Nelson, and Red. Bas. Hammer. Nelson. Red.

  She made a fist so tight that her nails pinched the flesh of her palm. Her hatred for them nearly choked her. One of them had killed her teenage son and left him for dead in the streets. She was going to find out which one and then she was going to take pleasure in killing him. Eye for an eye.

  “Queen, you a better bitch than me.”

  Naeema forced her body to remain relaxed even as she turned to smile at Vivica, Red’s girlfriend and her bridge into the crew. There were many times she had to remind herself that these motherfuckers knew her as Queen. For them, Naeema—the mother of Brandon Mack—didn’t exist. “It was a’ight,” she said, shrugging her shoulder as she took in the slender light-skinned beauty with wide-set eyes and full lips.

  Vivica played with her hot-pink cornrows that reached the top of her ass in the shorts she wore. “I’ll spend the money but fuck putting myself in the line of fire to get it,” she said, walking past Naeema to open one of the double doors.

  Bitch, if you had anything to do with killing my son, you’re already in the line of fire.

  “Queen, you coming?” Vivica asked, looking back over her shoulder.

  Naeema followed the other woman into the sanctuary, very aware that she was living among a den of thieves and a murderer that she was hell-bent on fleshing out.

  2

  Naeema gathered her bag as the driver of the green cab made the right on Eastern Parkway in Newark. She climbed from the back of the taxi and closed the door. She barely had time to take a step forward before the African cabbie pulled off up the street. She scratched at the synthetic bob wig on her head as she looked up and down the length of the street that sloped downward like a slide. The street was made up of one-family homes that had once belonged to Jewish business owners before the great exodus of white folks out of Newark back in the late 1950s and 1960s.

  Whether the house was still living up to its former glory or took a turn for the worse all depended on whether the owner—or the tenants—gave a fuck about curb appeal.

  Naeema eyed one of the two brick houses flanking her home. Freshly painted shutters, shiny brass house numbers, and cute mailbox adorned the front brick façade. The metal railings had a shiny black coat without a single peel. The landscaping behind the wrought iron fence was on point.

  She shifted her eyes to the other brick home. It was the exact opposite, like an image in a weird mirror that flipped shit. Thing was, Naeema was in no position to play pot to the black kettle.

  Biting her full bottom lip, she squinted against the afternoon sun as she stepped up on the curb and eyed her happy home. The windows of the second floor and attic were still boarded and one of the ones on the first floor was cracked and held together with tape. Some bricks were missing in spots with large red letters on it for whatever gang had decided to tag the once-abandoned building. The falling fence served no real purpose and the stack of old newspapers on the porch was an eyesore and a fire hazard. She never had signed up for a subscription to the Star Ledger but the papers came like clockwork and she wasn’t turning down shit that was free.

  “I am dead-ass wrong for this shit,” she mumbled before she hitched her tote up higher on her shoulder and bent over to pick up the fence gate that was damn near hanging to the ground.

  Twice she tried to prop it against the rusted fence. Twice she failed. Twice she swore.

  “Fuck it,” she said almost wearily, letting it fall back to hang near the ground before she stepped over it in her black wedge sneakers to jog up the stairs and unlock the front door.

  Rolling her eyes, she lifted the door up by the knob and shoved hard against it with her shoulder to dislodge it from the frame. She’d hired a bootleg carpenter—with more brag on his skill than actual skills—and the door had been his one and only project when he couldn’t even put that motherfucker on straight.

  Doing the same trick to close and lock it, Naeema kicked off her sneakers and dropped her tote onto the floor before she snatched off the short black wig to rub her slender fingers and long stiletto-shaped nails over her closely shaven head. For a second, she stood there in the large living room with its faded wallpaper, scratched hardwood floors, and decrepit fireplace. She could close her eyes and almost picture the days she’d spent growing up there.

  The house once belonged to her grandfather and now it was hers.

  She was the owner of a home that had seen better days, and although she cared that it still looked like the abandoned and battered shithole it became after her grandfather’s death, she didn’t have the money to fix it up the way it deserved. The way he would want.

  But it’s mine . . . what’s left of this raggedy motherfucker anyway.

  The brick colonial had been her home since the day her grandfather had had to choose whether to let her go into the foster care system or raise her. A drunk driver took her mother away and her father was never there. That left her grandfather to grieve the death of his daughter and raise his eleven-year-old grandchild, who was filled with grief and anger and lack of understanding.

  As soon as she hit her teens she took his age for granted. She had a love for hanging out in the streets—she’d inherited it from her father—and she’d let it lead her to sneaking out of the house at night or running away for days to discover parties, weed, and dicks—and not in that order. The years between thirteen and fifteen were a messy-ass blur.

  Just fucking wild and reckless. />
  There were plenty of women who came in and out of his life to help, but Willie Cole had done the work of raising a little girl. He cooked. He cleaned. He shopped. He talked. He listened. He did his best to do her hair. He made sure she went to school. He took care of her. He loved her. He was there. He didn’t deserve the nights he stayed up looking for her or waited for her to come home safe. Naeema paused in her steps as an ache radiated across her body from missing the only stable person in her life.

  The pain was a mix of longing and grief and guilt. Lots of guilt.

  Pushing away her thoughts with the release of a heavy breath, she reached behind her back to unzip her catsuit before pulling it from her curvaceous body to eventually kick it onto the pile of dirty clothes stacking up in front of the brick fireplace. She was using the living room as her bedroom until she could afford to replace the glass broken out of the bedroom windows by the rocks of bored children. The 1920s colonial had three floors, five bedrooms, three full baths, a semifinished basement, and even an old garage, but her entire existence was limited to the first floor. There were two clear paths from the living room to the bathroom on the left and then the living room to the kitchen at the rear of the house.

  Back and fucking forth like she was trapped in a cage or fish bowl.

  Still, she was blessed to have a roof over her head, a pot to piss in, and the window to throw it out of. There was a time when she hadn’t. Her grandfather’s death left her with her own life choice at fifteen: be pushed into the foster care system or run.

  She ran like hell and lived pillar to post. She didn’t want to remember some of the shit she did—the things she compromised—to have a place to sleep for a night. Lying. Stealing. Conning. Overlooking some dude’s uglies—face, body, or attitude—so he’d buy a motel room long enough for him to bust a nut and for her to enjoy its comfort until the front desk staff called at checkout.

  She had been like Malcolm X. By any motherfucking means necessary.