Flyy Girl

by Omar Tyree

“Look, man, don’t worry about it. Let’s just do this,” Timmy snapped at him.

  They stopped the car. Timmy got out and told Mat to keep it running. It was a dark restaurant in West Oak Lane, off of Ogontz Avenue. Timmy knew where they kept the money.

  Small crowds frequented the place, especially on Friday and Saturday nights when the bar had entertainment and an open dance floor. Timmy had watched the sexy waitresses taking money alongside the bar for safe storage on a previous visit, when he had asked to use the bathroom.

  He and Jay walked in slowly, wearing shades and baseball hats. Timmy told Jay to watch the outside, as he approached the back room.

  “Yeah, I was wondering if I could get change for a fifty?” he asked a honey-brown employee, who was heading toward the back. His adrenalin level was stable. Timmy was used to the action.

  “Sure,” Honey-brown answered, taking his fifty-dollar bill and walking into the back room.

  Timmy ran in behind her and pulled out the gun and a small bag in his left hand. “Aw’ight, just throw all that shit in the bag!”

  The manager was shocked. He did what Timmy demanded. Jay eased up against the door, making sure no other employees walked back.

  Timmy reached over and smacked the short, fat manager in his curly head with the butt of his gun. He then eyed Honey-brown. “You try some dumb shit, bitch, and I’ll kill your ass!”

  Timmy dashed out of the back room with the bag. The other employees were puzzled. What the hell is going on? By the time they had gotten word that they were being robbed, the car was speeding up a side street.

  The angry manager ran out with his own gun in hand and decided not to shoot. He ran back in and called his friend from the police force instead. Two cruisers happened to be in the vicinity. Ogontz Avenue was a busy strip.

  Timmy was frantic. “Yo, let me out right here!” he yelled, only five blocks from the hit.

  Chubby Mat whined, “Aw, man, you gon’ get us stuck wit’ the fuckin’ ride!”

  Timmy leaped out of the front seat and ran for the Broad Street subway. He took all of the money with him.

  Jay and Mat turned paranoid.

  Mat yelled, “See, I knew we shouldna’ tried this shit!”

  Jay roared, hopping in the front seat, “Fuck it, man, let’s get the hell out of here!”

  They turned a tight corner and crashed into a parked car.

  Jay shouted, “SHIT! Get out and break, man!”

  They sprinted in opposite directions. Philadelphia police cruisers whipped around at both ends only seconds later. The officers hustled in hot pursuit as Jay dashed up a street perpendicular from Mat and tried to jump over a fence. The fence snagged his leg, slamming Basketball Jay to the hard concrete. The officers caught up and pinned him down.

  “MOTHER-FUCKA!” Jay spat, with tears in his eyes.

  One officer smiled. “Your father can’t help ya’ now, son.” They smashed Jay to the ground and put the handcuffs on.

  BOOMP! BOOMP! BOOMP!

  “Open up! It’s the police!”

  Patti marched to the door. “What the hell is going on?” she demanded, answering it.

  “We would like to talk to your daughter concerning the whereabouts of a Mr. Timothy Adams.”

  Tracy walked out of the kitchen with big eyes.

  “Do you know Timothy Adams, ma’am?” the officer asked her on sight.

  Tracy’s voice cracked. “Yes,” she squealed nervously.

  “Would you happen to know where he stays?”

  “No,” she responded, looking over his clean stern face and dark uniform.

  The officer shook his head. “Now, nothing is going to happen to you. We just want to find out where he is.”

  Tracy wouldn’t have told if she did know. But she didn’t. “No, I don’t know where he is. I haven’t talked to him in weeks,” she answered.

  Stern-face said, “Well, if you hear from him, could you do us a favor and let us know? ’Cause from what I hear, it would be to his benefit if we caught him first.”

  Stern-face walked out while his partner radioed the station from the squad car.

  Patti closed the door and watched until the police cleared out. She then turned and stared at her daughter, shaking her head. She went to the kitchen to think. Tracy followed her.

  “Well, what’s it about, Tracy?”

  Tracy stiffened. “Stealin’,” she admitted.

  “Oh, so you knew what he was doin’, hunh?”

  Tracy pondered. “I couldn’t stop him . . . I wonder where he’s at though.”

  Patti frowned and said, “What? I don’t believe you even said that. You remind me of your aunts, girl, datin’ troublemakers and then wondering why they get all wrapped up in it. You stay away from those types! You hear me? That boy is no longer allowed in this house.”

  The word was out that Tracy was the former girlfriend of Timothy Adams. He was in deep trouble with the police and no one knew where he was. And although he had busted Tracy’s lip and assaulted her, she still felt for him.

  “How long you plan on staying here, Timmy?” his new girlfriend asked. She was twenty-three and had her own apartment in Southwest Philly.

  “I’on know,” he answered, stretched out on her bed, with only jeans and sneakers on.

  “You’re crazy as hell. You know that, right?” she asked, grinning at him. “You could have been a cute, green-eyed, light-skinned boy, growing up to go to college. I don’t understand you. I mean, you lived in a nice neighborhood and all. You already had money.”

  The twenty-three-year-old figured that Germantown had its “good parts” and “bad parts,” but it was still a nice area compared to where she lived, in a drug-and-crime-infested apartment complex. She took drugs herself. Timmy was giving her money to feed her habit while he stayed there.

  “Ay, Gina, just shet the fuck up! Nobody asked you shit!” he fumed at her.

  “Just explain to me where you’re comin’ from.”

  “Look, life ain’t shit unless you live it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means I’m gon’ do what the fuck I want! SHIT!”

  “And then what?”

  Timmy smiled. “I’on know . . . I guess you die.”

  Gina retorted, “See, all you criminal-minded niggas think the world is a joke, but you only get one chance to live, and you messed yours up.”

  Gina began to get ready to leave for work.

  Timmy asked, “Gina, what the fuck are you doin’ with your life? I mean, you strung out on drugs and shit.”

  Gina snapped, “I ain’t headed for jail, I got my own place and a good job. Muthafucka!”

  Timmy grinned and shook his head. Gina had a temper, too. He sat on the bed, thinking about what she had said after she left. She let him stay with her, thinking that she could help him out, while he gave her money for her habit.

  Timmy shook his head and smirked. “Life is fuckin’ crazy,” he mumbled to himself. Like father, like son was his story. His father had died in a shoot-out years ago. Timmy was raised by his mother and stepfather. He had never respected either one. He had to compete for attention. His mother then had a thing for abusive men, after divorcing his stepfather. She never had another child, and Timmy was lonely and miserable. He used females and mischief to fill his void. And before his wild lifestyle would end, he wanted to be with Tracy again.

  Timmy dialed her number. “Hello . . . Yeah, it’s me,” he answered.

  Tracy got excited and asked, “Where you at?”

  “That’s not important. I’m sorry, and I wanna come see you.”

  Tracy smiled, willing to oblige. “Where do you want me to meet you?”

  “I’m gon’ come up to your house, late at night, like two o’clock in the mornin’.”

  “But the cops gon’ be after you.”

  Timmy sighed. “I’m goin’ to jail soon anyway. It don’t matter no more.”

  Tracy was weak for him. She wanted to see him.
“You want me to sneak you in the back door?” she asked.

  “Yeah, you do that.”

  Tracy paused. “I love you,” she said, hanging up.

  Timmy began to think that if he had not been so demanding with her, he would have never followed such a path of destruction and robbery. Tracy kept him out of trouble when they were together, and her words of affection launched Timmy into emotional turmoil.

  Timmy snuck out that night while Gina took a shower. He packed his gun and five hundred dollars to give to Tracy. He had gotten away with twelve hundred dollars on his last robbery. He figured Tracy could use the money better than he could. At least no one would be after her. He had about four hundred left for himself after giving Gina her share for letting him stay with her.

  Not trusting the buses or the subway, he called a freelance taxi driver, or a “hack,” to ride him up to Tracy’s house. He stopped for snacks at a Korean corner store to stall for time. He paid the hack to wait with him. He then told the driver to let him out three blocks away from Tracy’s house, so that he could watch for cops. He didn’t want the driver to know all of his business either. Timmy wasn’t slow.

  He walked up the familiar streets toward Tracy’s house, watching his back from all directions with his gun loaded and ready. He arrived at Tracy’s driveway, feeling secure that no one had seen him, and knocked on her door. Tracy stood glimmering, naked as an angel, ready for them to make love.

  Timmy did not say a word as he undressed. They then stared at each other and held hands in the darkness. Their kiss was soft, gentle and calming. Timmy’s hands rubbed her body, and Tracy’s hands rubbed his as they caressed, standing in the middle of her blue-carpeted basement. And they proceeded to lay together for the last time.

  Tracy asked, “Where are you going?”

  Timmy sighed. “I gotta get outta here.” He jerked up his pants as he dressed in a hurry.

  Tracy pleaded, “Stay till the morning, Timmy.”

  Timmy frowned at her. “Shit, girl, it’s like four o’clock. It is the fuckin’ morning.”

  “Well, where do you stay?”

  He shook his head, refusing to tell her. “I told you that’s not important,” he answered, walking toward the door.

  “I love you.” Tracy told him again.

  Timmy smiled. “Yeah, I know.”

  He walked off with a quick pace, slipping around corners and making sure there were no police cars positioned around her block. He ran down another driveway and around another corner, heading for the Broad Street subway station.

  Once he had arrived, he waited nervously. A train pulled up after five minutes. Timmy rode the Broad Street line to Center City, feeling like he had escaped. He then transferred to the Market Street line. Fatigue pulled him into sleep while he rode. He awoke to find that he had missed his stop. He got up and crossed to the other side to head back. He was thankful that it was summertime. The sun would not rise until six, and it was already five-thirty.

  Timmy wobbled on the streets, trying to stay awake until he could reach Gina’s and fall asleep for the rest of day. He arrived at Gina’s apartment building and pulled out the key that she had given him.

  “FREEZE! YOU’RE UNDER ARREST!” a plainclothes detective hollered from behind him, with a raised gun.

  Timmy was too tired to notice them ducked inside of a parked car across the street from the apartment complex. He was a wanted man, and the officers had waited for him to arrive, arresting him for the sake of hard-working citizens.

  “Now drop the bag and turn around with your hands up high, son, or your life will end right here!”

  Timmy dropped the bag and did as he was told.

  drug money

  Crack cocaine was not on the popular scene in Tracy’s neighborhood until the end of that summer of nineteen-eighty-six. A few boys sold marijuana and beer, but cocaine was new, highly addictive and in more demand. It was also the most profitable. It became an achievement for a girl to have a drug-dealing boyfriend. The status, the glamour and the money were beyond compare for teenagers.

  Drug dealers in Philly drove Cadillac Eldorados, Ford Bronco jeeps, Mercedes Benzes and BMW’s. They became the most talked about, instead of the athletes, the fighters and the pretty-boys. Drug dealing was the new in thing to do, with dealers making hundreds to thousands of dollars a day. No one knew who was the first to sell drugs in Tracy’s part of the city. The word was out that drugs were moving into Germantown from North and South Philly, where crack cocaine had been popular since as early as nineteen-eighty-one.

  • • •

  Tracy remained in shock after the police arrested Timmy. She decided to leave boys alone for a while. She sat outside on her patio, watching flashy teens drive by in fancy cars with thumping sound systems.

  Tracy could not help but be curious about them. All of the neighborhood gossip became focused around who’s who in the drug world. Victor was one of the primary young sellers in the area, running things under his brother. Bruce’s friend Bucky began conducting “business,” as he liked to call it, for Victor’s brother in his area. College basketball was not profitable for Todd “Hoops” Hinson, but the cocaine business was booming.

  Tracy was attracted to a few of the dealers, regardless of her efforts to leave guys alone. On occasion, her growing curiosity had led her to the playground to learn more about them.

  As Tracy looked up and down her block, she noticed Bruce, walking up toward her house. He wore a light-blue Izod tennis shirt with matching shorts. Tracy knew that he and Bucky had broken off. Bruce was not fond of drugs.

  He walked right up to her steps and sat next to Tracy without a word.

  “What, you just gon’ sit here and not say anything?”

  “So, what’s been up, Tracy?” Bruce asked, as he looked into her hazels glittering in the sunlight. Damn, she’s beautiful! he told himself. Obviously he was still not over her.

  “Nothin’. What’s up with you?”

  “I’m ’bout to go to the Bahamas.” Bruce hoped that she would ask more about it.

  Tracy ignored it. “How come you don’t hang out with your friend anymore?” she asked, wickedly. She already knew why; she just wanted to hear Bruce’s full explanation.

  “Because, Bucky got his own life now.”

  “Are you mad at him or something?” she pressed, wanting a more precise answer.

  “Did I say I was mad at him?”

  “Well, I thought you and Bucky were best friends.”

  “Oh, we still cool, we just don’t hang out no more.”

  Tracy was guiding Bruce slowly but surely to where she wanted to go with their conversation: to talk about the drug trade.

  “Why not?” she asked him.

  “He got new buddies now.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “Look, I don’t like his new friends, aw’ight,” Bruce finally snapped at her. Although he was glad she was being cordial to him again, he was growing weary of her questions.

  “Well, don’t get mad at me for it.”

  “Stop asking me about it then.”

  Bruce was giving her the run-around instead of saying what she wanted him to say about drug dealing.

  A blue Eldorado with white trimming whipped around the corner. Tracy noticed Victor driving, with Mark Bates in the passenger seat. Victor had recently turned eighteen, the same age as Bruce. Tracy would be turning a mere fifteen in September, but she looked eighteen.

  Victor shouted, “Yo Bruce, come here, man!”

  Tracy felt queasy about Victor and Bruce being out in front of her house together.

  “You know where Bucky at, man?” Victor asked him.

  “Naw, I don’t be with him no more.”

  “Yeah, what’s up wit’ ’dat, man? You ain’t down with this money or something, cuz’,” Mark interjected.

  Bruce never liked Mark. Mark Bates faked being cooler and tougher than what he really was, perpetrating like he was a real somebody. He was not
hing to talk about to Bruce.

  Bruce quizzed him, “How much money you gettin’ out of it?”

  “Oh, I’m makin’ mine.”

  “Yeah, sure you are.”

  Victor knew that Bruce could easily beat Mark in a real confrontation. Bruce may have not been so good at enticing girls, but he was nobody’s punk.

  Victor said, “Bruce, if you wanna get put down just get wit’ me, man. And tell Bucky I was lookin’ for ’em.” He then looked over at Tracy and smiled. “Oh yeah, tell my young-girl that I said, ‘hi.’ ”

  Bruce nodded as Victor’s “El-dog” sped off, thumping Schoolly D’s “Gucci Time.”

  Bruce walked back over to sit with Tracy.

  “What did he say to you?” she asked him excitedly.

  It was clear to Bruce that she still liked Victor, even though he seldom said anything to her.

  “Nothin’,” he lied jealously.

  Tracy begged, “Come on. Tell me.”

  Bruce smiled. “What ’chew gon’ do for me?”

  Tracy looked at him and frowned. “Oh, well, never mind then. And if you’re not gon’ tell me, you can get off of my steps, too.”

  “Look at you actin’ like a kid.”

  “Well, tell me then, and I’ll do somethin’ with you.” Tracy smiled seductively.

  Bruce laughed. “You a trip, ’cause I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’.”

  “Please, ‘Brucie,’ ” Tracy begged, pulling on his arm. It was just like old times again. Tracy had not changed a bit.

  “You want me bad, hunh?” Bruce asked her sarcastically.

  Tracy released him, disgusted. “Boy, I don’t want you. I’m goin’ in the house.”

  Bruce knew he had gotten her goat. He strolled off with a big smile on his face.

  “And don’t come back here no more,” Tracy yelled at his back.

  Bruce continued to smile, and he took her ranting to mean the exact opposite.

  “Tracy! Bruce is down here,” Patti yelled up the steps that next evening.

  Tracy ran down, excited about seeing him. But she kept her liking for him incognito. It was more fun that way.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to come here anymore?” she said to Bruce with a grin. She was wearing a red Le Coq Sportif sweat suit with an asymmetric hairdo, and the gigantic Tracy earrings that Timmy had bought her. She refused to listen to her mother about not wearing them anymore, especially since Timmy had purchased them with what she called “dirty money.” Tracy argued, “Unless you just got new dollar bills from the bank, all money is dirty, mom.”