by Wahida Clark
Dark wanted to shoot him in the face. “So how does somebody go about gettin’ your blessing?”
Sherman tossed more bread in the air, and birds swarmed as soon as the crumbs hit the ground.
“You’re not only smart, you don’t waste time. That makes you a genius in my book. Your name is on that List, but, of course, you know that. A lot of nasty stuff is on that List. Enough to put a man away for a long, long time. But we don’t need to worry about that, do we, Dark? Because we’re going to cooperate. Isn’t that right?”
“How much?” Dark gritted.
“Noooo my friend. It’s a little more complicated than that. You see, I recently had a problem with a guy. You know a guy named Fat Rich? Fat Rich from Zone 8? I-I’m . . . Fat Rich and I no longer see eye to eye, so I don’t wanna see Fat Rich no more. You catch my drift?” Sherman explained.
Dark laughed. How ironic. He was being asked by a cop to kill somebody. “Naw, really I don’t,” Dark replied, standing up to leave.
Sherman stood up and got right in his face. “Dark . . . This ain’t a request. I thought you wanted to run this city? Well, this is the price. You walk away, and I’ll see you on murder one before the week is over,” Sherman promised him.
Dark knew Sherman had the power to put him away. Inside, Dark was boiling.
Since Dark didn’t walk away, Sherman knew he would handle it, so he turned back to the birds. “Will you look at that? That son of a bitch almost shit on me. That’s the thanks you get when you feed the bastards?” Sherman ranted and then shook his head. “That’s why I carry this.”
He pulled out a box of Alka-Seltzer, crushed up a few of the tablets, and then mashed them up into a chunk of bread. As he did, he said, “You see, when you feed ’em you got to teach ’em not to shit on you. So you make an example.”
He tossed the toxic ball of bread out on the ground, and a seagull greedily gobbled it up.
“Remember, Dark . . . I’ll be watching you.” Sherman leered.
Dark started to walk away until he saw the seagull that ate the chunk of tainted bread start to shake, and then squawk strangely. Suddenly, he tried to fly off, but the bird’s stomach exploded and the carcass slumped to the ground. The other birds scattered.
“That’ll teach ’em.” Sherman chuckled.
Dark couldn’t believe his eyes. The old childhood myth was true.
While they had been talking, Mook pulled up. He just missed the exploding bird trick, but he passed Sherman as he approached Dark.
“Hi ya, Mook,” Sherman greeted but didn’t stop.
Mook looked at him strangely. When he got to Dark, he asked, “Who the fuck was that?”
“The tax man,” Dark replied sarcastically. “What up wit’ Oak Ridge?” Dark held his gaze.
Mook couldn’t have looked away if he wanted to. It was a split second, a split second, and he decided he had to ride it out. “I told you, maine, I’d take care of it. It’s a done deal.”
“Yeah?” Dark checked, still eyeing him hard, not letting on if he believed him or not.
“No doubt.”
Dark nodded. “A’iight,” he replied, then fixed his mind on how to handle Fat Rich.
• • •
Dark pulled up to the S&C’s on Six Mile, a popular greasy spoon spot. He chirped the alarm, and got out. Just as always, a group of niggas took advantage of the beautiful night and were posted on the block like crows. He kept his eye peeled for Baby Boy. Not only because he had pistol-whipped and shot him, but he also had business with him. He kept his hand close to his waist casually, just to let niggas know he was chilling, but shit could get ugly fast.
Dark entered S&C’s, and the first person he saw was Jamilla propped up on her stool behind the register. He couldn’t front. For a hood rat, she wasn’t bad. She had that Eve-type sassy attitude, short haircut, body and all. If a nigga cleaned her up, the bitch could be top choice. He just wasn’t that nigga.
When he got to the counter, her face lit up with a sexy smile.
“What up, doe, Dark? You lookin’ good tonight,” she flirted.
“Better chill, li’l mama, or I’ma get your husband on you,” he teased.
Jamilla sucked her teeth. “Please! You see a ring on this finger? Shit, he can’t hardly handle this no way.”
“Okay, li’l mama. I hear you.”
She giggled. “So what you want, besides me?” She gazed into his eyes. “For real, what you want?”
Dark chuckled. Jamilla was putting her bid in hard. “I’d love to see you on my plate real soon, but right now, I need to holla at Quita,” he told her.
“Quita?” Jamilla snapped, rolling her neck and narrowing her eyes. “Nigga, I know you ain’t ’bout to ask me ’bout the next bitch!”
“Chill, li’l mama. I need to holla at her on some business shit.”
“Okay, business shit,” she huffed.
“On the real, ma, handle that for me,” Dark said firmly.
Sensing his impatience, Jamilla didn’t push the envelope. She sucked her teeth and yelled, “Quita! Somebody wanna see you!”
“Good look, Jamilla,” Dark told her.
“Mmm hmmm.” She rolled her eyes.
Dark tossed a couple of hundreds onto the counter. “Here. That’s for you. Get an outfit. And the next time I come through, I wanna see you in it.” Dark wore a grin that said, “You can suck my dick later.”
“Nigga, you ain’t slick.” She licked her lips seductively, snatched up the two bills and buried the money in her bra. “Call me later.”
Quita came out. When she saw Dark, her frown turned into a smile. “Long time no see.”
“I know. Come on. We ’bout to take a ride.”
“It’s ten of ten. Time for me to punch the clock anyways. Let me get my jacket.”
As they drove away from the restaurant, Dark pulled out his dick and looked at Quita, “Bitch, fuck you waitin’ for? You know what it is.”
“Where the money?” she shot back.
“Money? Bitch, I ain’t get right last time. This on you!” Dark demanded.
“You lucky I like you.” She sneered as she bent down and wrapped her sexy, thick, hot lips around Dark’s dick.
For a young bitch barely twenty-one, she definitely had skills, teasing the head with her tongue, then devouring it and relaxing her throat and working her neck just right. Dark couldn’t wait. He was ready to go up in that ass. He found a quiet back block and pulled over.
“Get out,” he urged her, opening the door of his Ferrari Spider 458.
She was right behind him. He came around to her, bent her over, and pulled her skirt up. “You remember how I like it, superman?” She looked back at him.
He answered her by sliding his dick straight up in her ass, causing her to let out a shrilling squeal. She reached back and spread her ass cheeks. “Fuck, Dark, y-y-your . . . dick . . . is . . . so . . . fat,” she grunted, but taking every inch.
“Shut the fuck up and take this dick,” he demanded, grabbing her around the waist and banging her asshole like it was a grudge fuck. He knew, with a bitch like Quita, he couldn’t just fuck her. He had to thug her too.
“Oh, daddy, this dick is so good! You gonna make me come,” she moaned, throwing that ass at him.
“Then make it come for big daddy,” he instructed.
“Yes . . . yes . . . yes!” she urged him until her pussy exploded, and the juices ran down her thighs.
She quickly turned and took Dark’s whole dick in her mouth. Quita was definitely a hood rat, but being so nasty turned Dark on even more and he came deep in her throat.
“Swallow it,” he told her. She did, licking her lips like she wanted some more.
“Damn, that was good. You been to jail before, ain’t you?” She smirked.
“Fuck you tryna’ say?” Dark snapped, ready to smack the shit out of her.
“I’m just playin’ wit’ you, dang.”
“Don’t fuckin’ play like that.”
<
br /> “I’m feelin’ you, Dark. You gonna be my new sponsor?” she pouted, playing with his half-erect dick right outside in the open.
“I don’t do the sponsor shit. What happened to your man, Baby Boy?”
“He in the county. Plus I don’t be fuckin’ wit’ him like that no more,” she quickly added.
“Li’l mama, you ain’t gotta lie to kick it. Real talk, he is who I really need to see.”
“For real? Why?” She sat up.
“Don’t ask so many goddamn questions. Just tell me his government name.”
“Jevon Monroe.”
Dark pulled out his cell and called a bondsman.
“What you doin’?” she wanted to know.
“Bailin’ him out.”
“Why?”
“Don’t talk wit’ your mouth full,” Dark spat, grabbing her head and filling her mouth with his dick.
• • •
“Fuck it then! Six!” Baby Boy shouted, bidding his hand.
He was dressed in a thermal shirt, with the top half of his county orange jumper tied around his waist and a doo-rag tied around his head as he bid his hand.
“Do you,” the dealer told him, pushing the kitty to him.
“Downtown,” Baby Boy said, as he picked up the kitty.
Before he could play, a big, black, buffed CO barked, “Monroe! Jevon Monroe! Roll yo’ shit! You outta here!”
Everybody at the table froze and looked at him.
“Out?” He frowned up. Who the fuck posted my bond? He had three assaults with intent to kill, and his bond was fifteen percent on one hundred grand. He didn’t have that kind of money. No one he knew had that kind of money. Damn sure not his dope-fiend-ass mother, and definitely not that trifling-ass Quita. She had even put a block on her phone so he couldn’t call. It was him against the world, just like he wanted it because it meant he didn’t owe anybody shit. He thought maybe one of his victims had got him out, but quickly dismissed it. They were all as broke as him.
“Monroe, you stayin’ or what?”
“Fuck no!” He slapped the cards down on the metal table.
“Then bring yo’ punk ass on!”
“Yo mama!” Baby Boy yelled right back at him.
An hour and a half later he stepped out of the county jail and looked around. When he saw Dark, he remembered him instantly. That was the nigga that had been fucking Quita. He also pistol-whipped him and shot him in the ass. He wished he had his pistol because he would’ve killed Dark right where he stood.
Dark read his expression and laughed. “Goddamn, li’l nigga. Right in front of the county jail?”
“I’ll see you again,” Baby Boy vowed.
Dark approached. “Hopefully, you’ll be seein’ me a lot, especially if you workin’ for me.”
“Work for you?” Baby Boy laughed. “Nigga, suck my dick.”
Dark bit his anger off. Looking at Baby Boy’s skinny ass, he knew he could break him in two.
“Li’l nigga . . . I’ma let that go ’cause I ain’t here to beef wit’ you. I’m the one that bailed you out.”
“You?” Baby Boy spat in disbelief. It made no sense.
“Real talk, li’l nigga, you a soldier. Fuck wit’ me, and I’ma make you a goddamn general. When we met, we was both out of order. But real niggas see past the bullshit. We’ll make better friends than enemies,” Dark offered.
Baby Boy couldn’t front. The vibe Dark was giving off was official. Besides, he was right. Quita had him fucked up. He had no reason to kick his car, damn near putting a dent in it.
“I guess you the man,” Baby Boy acknowledged, but with less hostility in his voice.
“I’m that nigga Dark,” he replied arrogantly, knowing Baby Boy had heard the name. And he had.
His name rang all over the county as the man who had taken over Cisco’s whole crew on some get-down-lay-down-type shit. Word on the street was he had also murdered Cisco and niggas were confirming that shit as if they witnessed it first hand.
“So what up? You gonna take this ride wit’ me or what? Straight-up, I’m tryin’ to fuck wit’ you. That is, if you tryna to take shit to the next level,” Dark proposed.
Baby Boy thought about it. He knew if Dark wanted to kill him he could’ve gotten him touched in the county. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
“Fuck it,” he replied, grabbing his nuts and bebopped up to Dark’s Ferrari and got in. The two of them drove off.
• • •
Because of Nyla, Nick missed his flight, so he instructed Shan to go ahead with the meeting. “It’s not even a meeting. He simply wants to feel you out. No talk of business. That’s my job, after you pass this test,” he said.
“After? Are you sure I’m gonna pass the test?”
“Shan!”
“But, Nick, I’ll be nervous,” she protested like a spoiled little girl. “I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“He’ll find you. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”
They were to meet at Manhattan’s South Side Seaport at an exclusive restaurant called MarkJoseph Steakhouse. Shan approached the maître d’ and said, “Powell party, please.”
The maître d’ checked the list. “Will you be dining alone, Madame?”
“I hope not,” Shan answered cheerfully.
She was shown to her table and given a menu with no prices. Before she could order or call the nanny and check on the kids, she heard, “Oh, there you are!” The words were drawn out.
Shan looked up and saw a heavyset white man smiling hard, but sweating even harder, and headed right for her. This was the connect? As he approached, his eyes were right on her, or rather seemed to be right on her. When he got close enough and she was about to extend her hand, she realized he had obviously been looking at someone directly behind her. The man passed her, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She looked back just to see who the man had greeted. Some older white woman with the air of someone that probably owned half of Manhattan.
“Shannon?”
No one had ever said her name like that. No one called her by her first name. Period. But hearing it said like that with an accent she couldn’t place, made Shan want everybody to start saying her whole name. She looked up, and her eyes were rewarded with a tall, dark-skinned brother with a short fade and eyes as green as emeralds that seemed to take in her entire being. Something in her made her want to stand up and greet this man, but he protested.
“Non, non, non—! Don’t get up. I am so sorry that I am late. I hate Manhattan tra-feeq.” He chuckled, extending his hand. “I am Edgard.”
“Shannon,” she replied, as close to hypnotized as she had ever been.
He kissed her hand. “I am, as you saaaay . . . pleased to meet you,” he stated as he sat down.
“The pleasure is all mine,” she replied, taking a sip of water but really wanting to fan herself.
“Neeak speaks very highly of you.”
“I’m . . . sorry . . . who?” Shan inquired.
“Neeak . . . Neeak.”
It took a moment, but she finally understood. “Oh, Nick.” She giggled. “I’m sorry.”
“Yes, Neeak.”
“If you don’t mind, what is your accent? It’s beautiful,” she remarked, not to be flirtatious, but he made everything sound like a song. So she needed to know exactly where they sang like that.
Edgard smiled graciously. “Thank you. My first language is French. My father is Moroccan and my Ma-Ma is Sudanese.”
The waiter appeared, and Edgard ordered first. Butternut squash, apple soup, lamb chops, yellow rice, and roasted asparagus tips. Shan followed his lead and ordered the same, except in place of the soup she requested a caesar salad. After the waiter left, Edgard said, “But I came to meet you. Don’t be nervees. There are no right or wrong answers. I simplee want to know about you, Shannon.”
“Like what?” she probed.
“Like . . . why a beautiful woman like you would want to go into such a dirtee bus
iness, eh? I mean . . . besides the monee.”
She shrugged. “Nick is family. And we are all we got.”
“Ahh Shannon, I know its more than that. What’s in it for you?”
“Freedom. Not having to depend on anyone for anything. Playing a losing game and winning. Beating the house,” she mused. “All I’m really trying to do is win for me and my kids.”
He chuckled. “So you are a gambaler?”
“Not really. I feel that I have nothing to lose, but everything to gain,” she stated.
“If so, then who makes the odds? Who is thee house?”
She contemplated his point. “Fate,” she answered.
Edgard shook his head. “Soreee, I cannot agree. Because fate means it was already written, no? So if it is already known, it can’t be a gamble,” he concluded.
“I guess I never looked at it like that.”
Their meals arrived. They ate and talked for hours. After the restaurant, they sat down on the deck on the USS Intrepid, the retired battleship right near the seaport. It was chilly but Edgard had her all warmed up. Talking to him was like a breath of fresh air for Shan. His conversation was intellectually stimulating, which she found that she hadn’t had in a while. Shan felt like she could listen to Edgard talk for days. Even if she didn’t always agree.
“So are you saying that black people shouldn’t believe in God?” Shan questioned incredulously, as they watched the sun set from the stern of the old battleship.
Edgard shrugged and replied, “Where has it gotten us? In my country of Sudan, the European give us Bibles, the Arab gives us Koran, but they get our resources, and we get famine, war, and genocide. So, if we are to judge a tree by its fruit, what kind of seed are we planting?”
“I mean, I see your point, but . . .” Shan shook her head, “I know there’s a God. There has to be after all I’ve been through.”
“There is, Shannon.” Edgard smiled, then lightly touched her on the arm. “You. Don’t be afraid of your own human potential, because, after all, a person must stand on their own two feet before they can fall to their knees. But when you are born on your knees, you are only a slave,” he jeweled her.