Queen Divas

by De'nesha Diamond

  Among other things, Kalief is an addict. He’ll sniff, smoke, and inject about anything. On top of that, he drinks like a fucking fish and gambles away money that his ass doesn’t have. Despite the circus of monkeys on his back, I still love him. I love him even though he entangled my ass with this club’s owner, Diesel Carver.

  One of the club’s scantily clad waitresses taps my shoulder as I come offstage.

  “The boss wants you.”

  Cool as a cucumber, I give the girl a small nod to let her know I heard her, but inside my stomach twists into knots while my heart claws its way through my throat. I don’t trust Diesel—though he’s tried hard to win me over with his fake charm. I almost fell for it. A couple of weeks back, the powerful thug pressured Kalief with an indecent proposal: I go out with Diesel and, in exchange, he wipes out Kalief’s debts. The kicker: Kalief agreed. Ain’t that some shit? To tell your girl that she has to go out on a date with another nigga to erase your gambling debts? Sure, Kalief dressed it up as a business date, dangling the carrot that Diesel Carver, with his deep connections in the music industry, was supposed to be our knight in shining armor—our ticket to stardom.

  I went on the damn date. And yes, Diesel put on quite the show. First, a one-of-a-kind Givenchy beaded gold gown was delivered to the house and then a ride in a classed-out, top-of-the-line limousine through one of the roughest hoods in the city. Nearly every banger in a three-mile radius came and watched me do a red-carpet type walk before climbing into the backseat. Since then that’s all it’s taken for folks to wag their tongues about my ass being Diesel’s new woman.

  I’m not.

  The limo ride took us to a small airstrip, where Diesel and I boarded a private jet that flew us to Atlanta. In the air, I was given a breathtaking diamond-and-platinum necklace, where I admit a few of my defenses were lowered. Then there was the kiss. The one that I sometimes still feel and taste. Where was my head to let him kiss me like that?

  But it was . . . nice.

  That shit is painful to admit—even to myself. From there Diesel took me on a night out on the town. Fine food, introduction to plenty of celebrities, and all the while, Diesel gassed me up about how he’s going to make me a star. I fell for the shit and signed a contract making him my new manager. Another mistake in a long lifetime of mistakes.

  My biggest one was not being around to protect my sister Essence. It’s my fault that she’s dead. I. Let. It. Happen. I should have kept her away from LeShelle’s evil ass. I’ve always known that the bitch wasn’t right. She’s the latest wifey Python plucked off the pole at his old strip joint, the Pink Monkey. Essence was best friends with LeShelle’s sister, Ta’Shara. And when a whole bunch of avoidable shit went down between the Murphy sisters, Essence was smack dab in the middle.

  LeShelle pulled rank and ordered Essence to snoop around Ta’Shara’s Vice Lord boyfriend’s hospital bed—the bed that LeShelle had put him in by dumping a full clip in him on the teenagers’ prom night. Essence was murdered for her efforts.

  LeShelle told everyone who’d listen that Lucifer was behind the hit job. Like a fool, I believed her. I swore that I would avenge Essence’s death, but the night that my path crossed Lucifer’s, in the middle of a cemetery of all places, she was the one to get the drop on me. By the time I heard her and thought to go for my weapon, Lucifer made it clear that such a move was suicide—and I believed that too.

  Lucifer is not like any other bitch in the game. Danger rolls off of her in waves. I didn’t have the balls to go toe-to-toe with her. Which is why I believed her when she said that she didn’t have anything to do with my sister’s death. She had no reason to lie. I posed no threat to her that night. But LeShelle? If that bitch’s mouth is moving, she is lying.

  I never told the rest of my family. I never will. What’s the point? Python has since married LeShelle’s trifling ass, which makes her untouchable. He wouldn’t give a single fuck about what LeShelle did to Essence. I told Lucifer that night where she could find LeShelle and Python, in hopes that the ruthless gangster would take the bitch out. But bullets bounced off them when the Vice Lords performed a drive-by outside the church where Python and LeShelle got married.

  “Boss man wants to see you.” Beast, one of Diesel’s right-hand men from Atlanta, appears at my side before I make it to my box-size changing room.

  “I know. I know.” I take a nervous breath.

  “Don’t worry. You sounded good,” Beast adds smiling. He never smiles.

  Diesel, the six-foot-four, honey-brown gangster with striking greenish blue eyes has turned plenty of women’s heads since he’s moved to Memphis from Atlanta. People bump their gums about how he’s taken with me and I’ve had more than my share of jealous glares—from the Queen Gs on the block as well as the women who work here.

  Frankly, they can have his ass. Now that I’ve shaken off his charm offensive, I can add up all the shady shit that isn’t sitting right. Like my seeing him fleeing from the Power of Prayer Baptist Church the morning I discovered Momma Peaches lying dead on the church’s floor. And what about that envelope stuffed with cash that I saw him hand to his boy Beast on the day Momma Peaches’s funeral was shot up? Everyone pinned that drive-by on the Vice Lords.

  I have my doubts.

  I don’t pay attention to the whole blow-by-blow of who’s up and who’s down in the street wars. I’m a Queen G, but I’ve never done more than petty shit when I was a kid. At the end of the day, I ain’t about that life—never have been and never will. Shit ain’t been right since Diesel Carver rolled into this city. I should be distancing myself from this man, but instead I’m contractually bound to him.

  With butterflies in my stomach I stroll over, with the best smile that I can manage, to Diesel’s reserved table. Seated are Nefertiti, the club’s general manager and omnipresent Amazon, and R & B legend and music-star maker Kenneth “K-Bone” Wallis, who grins at me and looks more moneyed than any rich white man walking around the entire city of Memphis.

  “Ms. Blackmon. Ms. Blackmon.” K-Bone stands from the table, clapping. “I gotta shake your hand.” He takes my hand and pumps it as if he’s jacking up a car. “When Diesel told me that he has found the next Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey combined, I thought he was blowing smoke up my ass. But after that powerhouse performance, I’m a true believer.”

  The flattery and his exuberance make me light-headed.

  “Why, thank you,” is all I can think to say.

  “Please. Please. Sit down.” K-Bone rushes around the table and assists me into the U-shaped booth. It may be my imagination, but I swear on a stack of Bibles that the man brushes his soft, manicured fingers over the back of my hand like a caress.

  By the time he and Diesel settle into their seats, there are two sets of lustful gazes staring back at me. I’m not surprised. The music industry is filled with horny hoes who prey on female artists.

  Without Kalief, for the first time I’m navigating through these shark-infested waters by myself.

  A bottle of Cristal is delivered to the table.

  K-Bone asks, “Tell me your life story and why I haven’t heard about you until now.”

  I came prepared, and rattle off an edited version of the truth.

  K-Bone nods and laughs in the right spots, but I know that he’s only half listening. Whether he’s figuring out my commercial appeal or what it will take to get in between my legs, I’m not too sure.

  I smile and make my chess moves, hoping that a real deal is actually on the table. One thing for sure, Diesel has wasted no time coming through, and it has me rethinking some of the bad shit I’d concluded about him. K-Bone is as legit as they come.

  “Well . . . I definitely want you at Kingdom Records. We need to set up a time and date for the whole team to meet you.”

  “Whoa. Whoa. Pump the brakes.” Diesel laughs. “We’ll need to discuss what you’re offering. I have a lot of cats lined up to meet my star here—and save your breath,” Diesel adds when K-Bone
opens his mouth, “if you’re talking about a standard slave contract. Pull that shit on someone who doesn’t know any better.”

  Diesel bossing up at the table takes K-Bone by surprise.

  “No. No. I wasn’t thinking nothing like that,” K-Bone says, after downing a full glass of Cristal. “But let me ask, what are you considering in order for me to get you to tell those other cats to take a hike?”

  Beast interrupts. “Excuse me, boss.” He leans over and whispers in Diesel’s ear.

  Diesel’s affable smile melts off of his face.

  K-Bone and I shoot nervous looks at one another.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” Diesel says and jets up from the table.

  What in the hell? My phone vibrates from within my dress’s bustier. “Just a sec.” I spin in my seat and slyly retrieve my phone. My grandma is at home with two young children, so I answer the call when I see her home number pop up on the screen.

  “Where’s Kobe?” Grandma shouts before I get hello out of my mouth.

  “What?” I plug one finger into my right ear so that I can hear better. “Where’s what?”

  “Where’s your brother?” she demands. “Please tell me that his fast behind ain’t part of this mess going down at Ruby Cove. It’s plastered on all the local channels.”

  Nothing she’s saying is making any sense to me. “What about Ruby Cove? What are you talking about?”

  “They’re calling it a massacre by the Gangster Disciples and Kobe isn’t home. Please tell me he ain’t involved in this gang-banging mess.”

  My heart drops and my grandma’s panic becomes a contagion over the line. Where is Kobe?

  16

  Hydeya

  Ruby Cove

  A half hour later, the police regain control of the crime scene and a slew of Vice Lords, including Mason and Profit, are crammed into paddy wagons and taken downtown. Shortly after, Lieutenant John Fowler finally arrives on the scene.

  “I came as soon as I got your message,” Lieutenant Fowler explains, jogging up the two steps at the scene of the crime. “What’s the situation?”

  “The situation is that I’m here now and I have everything under control,” I tell him, unable to wipe the smirk off my face even if the Lord Almighty sent Jesus back down here to ask me politely.

  Fowler doesn’t spare me a glance. Instead he focuses his attention on Chief Brown. The look on his face makes it clear that he expects the boss to override what I just said.When the chief doesn’t answer, I turn around and stare. What fucking kind of game is she playing?

  “Hawkins got here first. She has the lead on this one,” the chief rules, looking none too pleased about her decision before spinning on her heels to march back inside the house.

  Fowler’s painted-on smile drops before his eyes creep over in my direction. “I guess that means that I should be welcoming you back?”

  “Contain your excitement.” I roll my eyes, turn, and fall in line behind the chief.

  Fowler takes up the rear and hisses, “What happened to your administrative leave?”

  “I guess since you don’t know how to answer your phone when you’re on call, it ended.”

  Chief Brown and another officer give a brief rundown about where tonight’s sole survivor of this house’s attack was found bleeding out. “Our victim’s name is . . .” The officer looks down at his notepad.

  “Ta’Shara Murphy,” I fill in for him.

  Three sets of eyes shift in my direction.

  “I met her once at Baptist Memorial a couple of months back. Her and her boyfriend, Raymond Lewis aka Profit.” Thrusting up my chin and flashing a smile, I congratulate myself. I may not kiss the ring like they always want me to do, but I know most of my cases like the back of my hand.

  “What do you know? We’re making progress,” the chief quips, and then gestures for the officer to continue the briefing.

  “We also have Miss . . . Murphy’s 9-1-1 call. She called in and reported that she had shot an intruder. We’re assuming that was the body upstairs.”

  I step back. “I want to take a look.”

  The chief, Lieutenant Fowler, the officer, and myself turn and head for the staircase. The bullet-riddled living room is nothing compared to the bloody carnage found in the master bedroom. In here, the forensic team has their work cut out for them.

  “Holy shit,” Fowler swears, arriving last.

  “Tell me about it.” The chief sighs as her gaze sweeps around the room. “Just when you think that you’ve seen everything out here in the streets, there’s always some sick fuck roaming around to prove you wrong.”

  I keep my amen to myself while I watch the EMTs zip up a woman with half her head missing into a body bag. It’s easy to conclude that it’s her brain that’s shattered into small bits and pieces all over the walls and floor. There are also two weapons lying on the floor: a huge Browning knife and a .38. One of the windows in the room has been demolished. Shards of glass are strewn everywhere.

  “What about our kidnap victim? Was she taken from here?” I ask, referring to this Willow person that Fat Ace—or rather Mason—brought up.

  “Possibly.” The chief turns and shrugs. “You might want to check around with the other officers downstairs.”

  I nod and make my own notes.

  “Anybody have any idea what all of this shit is about?” Fowler asks.

  “The same thing that it’s always about,” the chief says. “Power.”

  “Or revenge,” I add cynically.

  Brown and Fowler nod in agreement.

  “So who is the other chick?” I ask, gesturing to the zipped body bag being carried out of the room.

  “Don’t know. No ID was found on her.”

  One forensic team member stops snapping pictures to inject himself into our conversation. “She isn’t from around here.”

  “What makes you say that?” I ask.

  The photographer strolls over to our small group. “Here. Look.” He holds up the screen on the back of his camera and scrolls through a series of pictures before settling on an image.

  “Crip Rider?” I frown.

  The photographer nods. “It’s the tattoo on our brainless victim’s back. The girl is a Crippette.”

  Fowler bristles. “What is she doing here on this side of the tracks?”

  “Sooo . . . this was a Crip hit?” I question, unable to hide my surprise. I was sure that I would be slapping handcuffs back on my jailbird daddy by the end of my shift.

  “That would be my first guess,” the forensic guy says.

  The chief shakes her head. “The gossip on the street says that it was the Gangster Disciples. Of course none of them want to go on record.”

  All I can think about are those crates of weapons that were in Isaac’s living room tonight. I know what the truth is. I can feel it in my gut. Why the fuck would he put me in this goddamn position?

  I shift my gaze to Fowler, who is studiously nodding and scribbling notes. “What are you doing?” I ask. “I already told you that this is my case.”

  “And since when do you not share?” he asks, perplexed.

  Ever since I found out that you’re really after my job. “I got this. Why don’t you go back to whatever it was that kept you from doing your job tonight?”

  Fowler’s face twists up as if I’m speaking a foreign language. “Are you serious?”

  “Don’t I look serious?”

  Fowler flips his notepad closed, but before he’s able to give me a piece of his mind, the chief breezes her petite frame between us to instruct, “Now you two play nice.There are plenty of dead bodies for you guys to share.”

  “LET ME IN! THIS IS MY DAUGHTER’S HOUSE!”

  Bam! Crash! Boom!

  “Let me go! I have to check on my daughter!”

  “What in the hell?” The three of us chime together before taking off to see what the latest commotion is about downstairs.

  “Ma’am, please. I can’t let you inside. This is a crim
e scene,” Officer Wendi Hendrix explains as she struggles to block the woman’s access into the house.

  Behind the older woman are two other cops, tugging her back.

  “What’s going on down here?” I ask, taking control of the situation.

  “My daughter,” the distraught woman wails. “Where’s my daughter?”

  “And who is your daughter?” Fowler questions.

  I know the answer before the woman says it.

  “Willow . . . Willow Washington. This is her house. Somebody said that they took her away.” Her wild eyes mist. “They can’t do that. They already killed my other baby. They have to give her back.” Whatever strength she is relying on caves, and she doubles over and releases a wail so deep that my own grief from Drake’s senseless murder stirs.

  Officer Reid consoles her. “Ma’am, we’re going to do all we can to find your daughter, but you gotta let us do our jobs.”

  It’s doubtful that the mother hears a single thing that’s being said.

  Grief counseling isn’t the chief’s forte, so she meanders off without a sound.

  I draw a breath, tap Reid on the shoulder, and tell him, “I got this now.”

  Reid looks up with hopeful eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks.”

  After giving him the don’t mention it nod, I take over soothing the mother. First, I give her a moment to release the pain that’s overtaking her. I lost it, too, when Drake was killed.

  Fowler disappears, too, but when he returns, he’s holding a glass of water. “Here. Get her to drink this.”

  I take the glass without thanking him. “Here you go, ma’am. Drink this. It should help you to calm down. Go on. Take it.”

  The older woman’s hands tremble as she reaches for it.

  Concerned that she won’t be able to maintain her grip, I help her to bring it to her lips. “That’s it. There you go.” I smile like one might at a newborn baby. When she’s drunk half the water, I pull the glass away to make sure that she doesn’t choke. “How are you feeling?”