by Teri Woods
Angel was a hustler, a real hustler, and if she couldn’t fuck you and suck you to get what she wanted then she’d break the fuckin’ bank. She would always find a way to get at you.
“Damn, Angel! You know I don’t get down like you, but, damn! If I ever do, you gonna be the first bitch I call,” Jackie said. She was a fine red bone Angel wanted to fuck real bad. So bad, she bought her the Jacob heart.
“Thank you!” Jackie exclaimed, holding the heart in her hand.
“That’s for you, baby. It’s just between us, for our friendship. When you’re ready, you know what to do,” Angel said. “And if you need me, I’m here for you. Just call me.”
It wasn’t long before Angel’s investment paid off. Jackie called her one day, half hysterical.
“Calm down, baby. What is it?” Angel asked tenderly, reaching for her Sean John boxers as she put her finger up to her lip and gestured to Goldi to be quiet.
“It’s Devon,” Jackie hissed under her breath. “He got popped.”
“Whaaat?! When?”
“About a week ago. Now he wants me to help him set some nigga up so he ain’t gotta do no time. And he wants me to join the Help Yourself program. Angel, what am I going to do?”
Angel smiled and blew a kiss through the phone.
“You’re gonna pack and get ready for Hawaii,” Angel told her and hung up the phone.
Three days later, Devon was found in a Dumpster in the Projects in Patterson, courtesy of Nitti. Roll was impressed by the way Angel always stayed one step ahead of the game even if he couldn’t figure out how she did it. If only he knew the pussy she was getting, it might have given him an inkling. But he had no clue.
None of the hustlers understood Angel’s game. They were too wrapped up in their own lustful greed and trying to fuck her instead of trying to figure her out. They didn’t realize that Angel was sucking, both literally and figuratively, the loyalty from their women right in front of their lustful eyes.
“These niggas don’t give a fuck about you, boo,” Angel whispered in the ear of a chick named Trina. She was Rich’s baby mama and Rich was one of Roll’s chief bosses in East Orange.
She and Trina were lying next to each other in Trina’s bed.
“But Rich takes good care of me and his son,” Trina stated naively.
Angel brushed the hair from her face and massaged Trina’s sweaty stomach. “Don’t I take good care of you, too?”
“Yes.”
“And I would never do anything to hurt Rich, but… I need you to promise me something. You’ll never let Rich do anything to hurt me, okay?” Angel said in between laps with her skilled tongue. Angel really was a clit lickin’ captain and could get a bitch to do anything she wanted.
“He… he won’t,” Trina gasped, gripping the sheets.
“Stick with me, baby girl, and you’ll always be taken care of. Even when Rich is long gone.”
Angel sucked and fucked the cream of the crop. She had all the most powerful hustlers’ female companions on her side. She even got to the chicks the niggas had on the side. And once she felt her position with these different women was solid, she turned her attention to the street soldiers, the ones with the money.
“Them young niggas out here is fuckin’ up, papi. I’ma show ’em how to grind and make sure our paper stays straight,” Angel announced to Roll.
Roll was all for it. To have the legendary Angel out on the block for him, handling his business, made him look like a true kingpin, a real Dutch kind of guy. He didn’t realize that Angel was toying with his mind, his ego, and his dick.
Angel strapped up her Tims, put some sweats on over her long johns, grabbed her Canadian Goose Helliarctic, and went back to the corner to hustle bundles of heroin. She wanted to hand-pick her army from Roll’s payroll. So, carefully, she watched the young wolves in their prime and selected the best of them. Then she took them under her wing. Gradually, she won their trust. To them, she was a made bitch, a legend. Seeing her out on the block with them, sleeping in hallways, ducking 5-0 and busting her gun made them feel like big niggas.
“This is how you stay on top of your game. Stay hungry. All the Benzes and bottles of Cris don’t mean shit ’cause when a nigga gets too big to walk the same streets that made him, he’s out of touch with his own fate. And no matter what happens, if he can’t go back to where he started, how can he ever make shit happen again? Muthafuckas catch cases puttin’ weak niggas between them and the streets. You got to be the streets,” Angel said, schooling her wolves. They listened like she was teaching Hustle 101.
A young Puerto Rican cat from her old stomping grounds on Dayton Street was especially attentive. She nicknamed him Capo because she told him that was what he was gonna be.
“Never forget the grind, Capo. Never forget the streets. You hear me? And always throw back. Don’t wait until you’re Big Willie to throw back. Pay rent, give a dollar or two, buy some groceries. Create loyalty around you and you’ll die fat and rich in Miami somewhere.”
Capo soaked it up like he was a sponge.
Angel’s plan moved steadily ahead until she got a call from Roll.
“Hey, yo. You need to holla at your man ’cause he about to make me see him!”
Her man was Rahman, better known on the streets as One-eyed Roc, and the reason Roll was threatening to go to him was Miss Grownie Pants.
Miss Grownie Pants, Sonia, Jamillah, got off the bus near her apartment on Somerset Avenue. She had just come home from her job at the abused women’s shelter to find a 5-series BMW parked outside her building. As she got closer, her heart skipped a beat when she realized who was leaning on the car: her baby’s father, Jerome. He had been locked up for the last three years.
Before he went away, their time together produced two children. Once he got knocked, though, she basically turned her back on him. She stopped writing after a few months and lost her phone because he ran the bill up so high she couldn’t pay it. Once the calls and the writing stopped, so did the contact and the relationship.
Jerome, for the most part, had carried himself while in prison, and over the course of his incarceration, his anger for Sonia festered. He felt his entire hustle had meant nothing to her. Didn’t she know what jail was? Didn’t she understand his sacrifice? To Jerome, his choices were between death and jail, and he took the chances for his family, for her and for their two children. In his mind, she had become a fuckin’ slut who didn’t write or bring his kids to visit.
Jerome had anxiously awaited his release so he could see her face to face. He wanted to punch her in the eye. So his first stop after his release was to visit her. For Jerome, it was payback time. He planned to sex her then beat her, or beat her then sex her. He hadn’t made up his mind. But either way, he was going to stomp on her head when he had the chance.
Jamillah wanted to turn around and wait until he left, but she knew Jerome and she knew he’d come back again until he saw her. What should I do? she asked herself, her usual quick pace coming to a sudden halt at the sight of him. I wonder if he’s mad at me? I bet he wants to see the kids.
It was broad daylight and the streets were packed with summer activity. Jamillah decided it was best to get the confrontation over with.
She took a deep breath and kept her pace. When Jerome finally recognized her, his eyes widened in surprise.
Sonia, a Muslim? he thought to himself. Is she the same girl who always wore tight clothing that showed her frame and body parts? The last I heard she was strippin’ and trickin’ for change! Can’t be!
Jerome looked at her. She was covered properly with a niqab from head to toe, and she wore a baby-blue kemar over her head. Jerome couldn’t believe it but it didn’t make him respect her. In fact it made him even angrier, thinking the man in her life had converted her.
“Ohh, so you a Muslim now?” Jerome snickered, stepping into her path. “No more strippin’ and trickin’, huh?”
“Hello, Jerome,” Jamillah replied. “I see they let y
ou out,” she added as if she wished otherwise.
“Damn right I’m out and back on already,” he responded, gesturing to his BMW. “I just copped the five but gimme a month and it’ll be a quarter to eight,” he boasted.
“Mm-hmm,” she said, uninterested. “Well, the kids aren’t here. They’re in Linden at my mama’s house. So come back—”
He cut her off. “Come back? Why can’t we go get ’em now? I know they wanna see Daddy. We can go shoppin’, get somethin’ to eat,” he offered, trying to get her in the car.
“No, that’s all right. I’ll pick them up tomorrow. Just give me your number and I’ll call you.”
“Why can’t I have your number? What, your man might answer the phone? Fuck dat nigga!”
“I ain’t got no man! But if you must know, I don’t want you callin’ my house,” Jamillah said, sucking her teeth. “You want to see your kids, fine. Tell me when and I’ll have them ready. Other than that, we really ain’t got nothin’ to discuss.”
Jamillah tried to turn away but Jerome grabbed her arm.
“Get off me!” she hissed, snatching her arm away.
“Oh, so it’s fuck me now, huh? You think you gonna just shit on me like that?”
“Jerome, you went to jail and I was left behind with two babies. I was livin’ in a shelter until my mama took me in. I had to work and I been trying to get myself together in school and I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks of me. You shit on me when you left me and your children alone with nothing. I’m finally here and I’m not going backward.”
“Bitch, you ain’t fuckin’ nowhere! You still here. And fuck that, bitch! I went to jail bustin’ my ass for you and my kids. Don’t fuckin’ play with me,” he said, tightening his grip. “Bitch, I fuckin’ took care of your shiesty ass. And this is what the fuck I get back?”
Jamillah saw the fire dancing in his eyes and it scared her. She knew it was time to go.
“Look, Jerome. Ain’t nobody tryin’ to shit on nobody, okay? I have a new life now and I’m tryin’ to be a better person for myself and my children.”
“So you think you better than me now? You broke, trick-ass bitch. You better than me?” he ranted.
Jamillah tried to move out of his way but she was too slow and caught a heavy backhand to the face that sent her spinning to the ground.
“Jerome, please!” she cried, balled up in a fetal position. “Leave me alone!”
“This my word, bitch! When I get back, I want to see my kids. You hearin’ me? Call the police, call bin Laden, call Allah. I don’t give a fuck! But if you ain’t here wit’ my fuckin’ kids when I get back, I’ma break yo’ muthafuckin’ jaw!” Jerome shouted, then punctuated his threat by kicking her in the back. He jumped into his BMW and pulled off.
Jamillah struggled to her feet, holding her swollen face, and headed straight for the phone.
“But how you be a Muslim?” the young boy asked Rahman.
“You don’t become a Muslim. You just recognize who you already are. We are all born pure. Ain’t no such thing as original sin. We are born in a sinless state—it’s our environment that makes us other than who we are…” His words trailed off when he saw Jamillah emerge from a cab holding a pink towel full of ice to her face. In two strides, he caught up to her.
“Jamillah, what happened?”
Jamillah sobbed, trying to speak through her fear and apprehension. She knew Jerome was coming back, and she didn’t want to get Rahman involved in her personal problems. But her mind told her there was no other way.
“Jamillah,” Rahman repeated more firmly.
“My… my… my children’s father!” she cried. “He just came home from prison and came to my house. He said he was comin’ back!”
Rahman gently removed the towel from her face, and his entire body caught fire. The right side of her beautiful face was swollen and bruised.
“What’s his name?” Rahman whispered menacingly through clenched teeth.
When Jamillah looked into his face, she saw no trace of the man she called Sugar Bear. She saw someone she had never seen before.
“Jerome. Jerome Mills,” she said, wiping her teary eyes.
He gestured to the corner boys he was talking with to come over.
“Take this sister into the store and call Khadijah to take her to the hospital.”
“Rahman, please be careful. Jerome is crazy!” Jamillah sobbed, but it was like warning a bear about a rabbit.
Rahman opened his cell and called Salahudeen.
“Sal! Who is Jerome Mills?”
“I don’t know. But if he got a name, it won’t be hard to find out,” Sal answered.
“Find out who he is and where he is then meet me at the store, aiight?” Rahman ordered.
“Insha Allah,” Salahudeen answered, grabbing his Glock 9 and tucking it in his waist. He could tell by Rahman’s voice there was a problem. The Muslims were like a ghetto Internet. Once the word went out, it crisscrossed the city like radar until Jerome’s whereabouts were pinpointed.
Rahman, Salahudeen, and six Muslim shooters converged on the small housing project like a SWAT team.
They approached the building. When Rahman was close enough to strike, he barked, “Jerome!”
Out of instinct, Jerome snapped his head out of the window and gave away both who and where he was. Rahman grabbed him by the collar and a handful of pants and dumped him face-first onto the hard concrete.
The other gamblers didn’t know what was going on so they moved for their concealed pistols. Before they knew it, however, six weapons were aimed at them. Salahudeen stepped forward and disarmed them.
Rahman snapped. “You wanna beat on a woman, nigga?” he growled, bashing Jerome’s head into the concrete repeatedly until he lost several teeth and his consciousness. He then slapped him awake.
“You touch Sonia again, and I’ll kill you. You hear me?” Rahman threatened, kicking Jerome in the ribs and groin until Jerome spat up blood.
Blood.
It was the first time in years Rahman had seen blood, and his addiction to it made him instinctively reach for his gun and aim it at Jerome’s head.
“Rah, no!” Salahudeen yelled, and grabbed Rahman’s wrist.
The jerk made the bullet strike the ground inches from Jerome’s skull.
“Ock, chill! Justice has been served, yo!” Sal urged, trying to get Rahman out of the zone he was in. “Chill, man. This is not the place for that!”
“Then call an ambulance,” Rahman spat as he walked away from the scene.
“I want the block! The whole chunk, Sal, the whole chunk!” Rahman’s voice filled Salahudeen’s martial arts school.
He and Salahudeen had just come back from Lil’ Bricks.
“Listen, Ock. Calm down. I know you’re upset, but you gotta calm down. We’ve already got Jamillah moved. She’s stayin’ with Khadijah for now.”
Rahman furiously paced the floor. He felt sick with guilt. He knew he had overdone it and he realized how close he had come to going back to his old ways, the ways of the street.
“And what about him? You think it’s over? I shoulda murdered him right there!” Rahman replied.
Salahudeen shook his head.
“For what? He’s a nobody. He used to get a little paper in Irvington, but he ain’t major and none of his people are either. After he gets out that coma he’s in… if he gets out his coma… he won’t be comin’ back no time soon. It’s under control.”
But Rahman was still furious. Everything was going beautifully on the streets he had cleaned up and he wanted more. Jerome had given him a reason to take it.
“Sal, I feel you. But a Muslimah was attacked. Regardless of who or why, it won’t happen again,” he vowed.
“But this ain’t how we planned it, Ock. We planned to take the little blocks until we surrounded the hot spots. If we control the perimeter, it’s easier to control the center. You know that. Hell, you taught me!” Sal protested.
He,
too, wanted to rid the streets of Newark of the drug element but he thought it best to stick to the plan. Rahman was apparently changing the game in the ninth inning.
“A hundred thousand.”
“A hundred thousand what?”
Rahman smirked and clasped his hands behind his back.
“One hundred thousand dollars for Irving Turner to High Street, north-south, and West Kinney to Elizabeth Avenue, east-west.”
“A hundred?” Salahudeen gasped, clasping his hands again. “Rah, they make that in a day! You know they ain’t gonna take that. We might as well say twelve dollars and a Snapple!” Salahudeen shook his head. “Is our whole plan worth one slap, one bruise, Ock?” he tried to reason.
“Death or success, my brother. Never forget that. One slap, one disrespect, one violation upsets the plan. We have to stop things like that from happening. I want all the niggas to know that if one of us is touched, then we touch ten of theirs. You touch ten of ours, we touch a hundred of—”
“But is that justice?” Salahudeen interrupted.
“It’s an example, Sal,” Rahman shot back before turning for the door. With one hand on the knob, he added, “A hundred, Sal. Not a dime more. They don’t accept my offer…” Rahman grinned. “Can’t say we didn’t try. As-Salaamu Alaikum.”
“Alaikum As-Salaamu.”
Not long after Salahudeen put the word out on the streets to Roll’s people, Roll got word. He called Angel.
“Ay, yo! You need to holla at your man ’cause he about to make me see him!”
Angel drove to Roll’s mortgage company in Paramus.
“Didn’t I tell you that muthafucka was gonna be a problem?” Roll growled as soon as Angel stepped through his office door.
“You heard what the nigga said? A hundred thousand for Irving Turner! Fuck! I wouldn’t take a million from his bitch-ass.”