Gangsta Bitch

by Sonny F. Black

“Huh?”

  “I’m talking about, Mary, nigga.”

  “That was Marv and Jamie’s moms?” Duce asked in disbelief. He remembered Mary from back in the days as one of the parents who actually gave a shit about the kids in the neighborhood. She was a bright and jovial woman, but the fur clad thing that had gotten off on the fourth floor looked anything but. Just further evidence of how strong the call of drugs was.

  Duce and Reggie got off on the seventh floor. Even if his cousin weren’t leading, Duce would’ve know the way to the apartment. He had spent more than his fair share of summer afternoons with his cousins and aunt. Reggie unlocked the door and ushered Duce inside. The first thing Duce noticed was the smell of pine. The house was so clean that you could literally eat off the floor. Duce knew that his cousin was lazy as hell so he figured that he had a woman or two frequenting the apartment.

  “Have a seat my dude, while I get the shit,” Reggie motioned towards the living room. “You know where everything is so don’t be shy,” he patted the refrigerator and went into the bedroom. “You home nigga!” he called from down the hall.

  Duce strolled into the living room with a familiarity that could have only come from spending a great deal of time in the house. The furniture and electronics were more modernized than Duce remembered it but in his mind it was still his Auntie Ruth’s house. There was a picture on the wall with him and his brother Knowledge in their PAL uniforms. In the days before the money came into play everything was sweet, but that was a long time ago. Not wanting to travel any further down memory lane he settled on the couch and waited for his cousin.

  By the time Reggie came out of the bedroom Duce was sitting on the couch watching television. He watched curiously as Reggie dragged what looked like a guitar case, only a square version, and placed it in the middle of the floor. Reggie fished the key from his pants pocket and undid the lock. Duce watched from over his shoulder and gasped when the case came open.

  When Frankie entered the apartment she was immediately annoyed. The garbage can outside the kitchen entrance was overflowing and the house smelled like old chicken. Frankie knew exactly what the smell was because she had shared the meal with him three days prior. On the table sat three empty Heineken bottles that looked like they had been sitting there for God only knew how long.

  Cowboy was lounging on the sofa shirtless, smoking a blunt. Though his chest and arms were still quite muscular, his belly protruded over his jeans a bit. Just another sign that time was catching up with him. Cowboy was almost ten years older than Frankie, but still carried himself with the immaturity of a man fresh into his twenties.

  “I see you’ve been busy,” Frankie said sarcastically. She dropped the bag with his crab legs on the coffee table hard enough to rattle the bottles.

  “Yeah, been a long day,” he replied, in an equally sarcastic tone. “Thanks,” he nodded at the bag of food.

  “Whatever,” Frankie mumbled, storming off into the bedroom. She had expected to find an equally disturbing mess there too, but it was surprisingly spotless. The sheets had been changed and the carpet was freshly vacuumed. It was too unlike Cowboy, so her antennas immediately went up. Frankie combed every inch of the room and all her search yielded was a pair of dingy blue, Polo boxers under the bed.

  “You’re bugging out, Frankie,” she said to herself. Frankie felt like a fool for crawling around on her hands and knees like a damn forensic scientist. Thankful that no one had been there to witness the spectacle, she got off her knees and made to take the boxers to the laundry hamper, which was also overflowing. She’d knock the laundry out for him later, but first she needed to get right. It had been a few days since Cowboy had bust her out and she had a new lingerie set she wanted to show off. The smile faded from Frankie’s face when she smelled the faint scent coming from the boxers.

  Frankie held the boxers as close to her nose as she dared and her face twisted. The smell was soft like honey, with faint traces of musk lurking beneath. When she examined the underpants and saw the dried smear near the cock-hole her hands began to tremble with rage. “Dirty son of a bitch,” she snarled. With the boxers clutched in her fist she made her way into the living room to confront Cowboy.

  The moment he saw Frankie’s face, Cowboy detected that something was wrong. Though she was smiling pleasantly there was tightness to her eyes that made him uncomfortable. When his Polo boxers came sailing across the room and landed on his lap he knew he had a problem.

  “You think you’re slick, don’t you?” she snapped. Her fists were balled so tight that you could hear her knuckles cracking.

  “Girl, what the hell are you talking about?” he asked as if he was really clueless.

  “Cowboy, don’t play with me. Why do your boxers smell like another bitch?”

  “Frankie, you tripping, I’ve been in the house all day.”

  “Yeah, with another bitch,” she jabbed her finger at him.

  “Man, don’t come at me with that shit. You know don’t no bitch come up in this pad but you.”

  Out of nowhere Frankie slapped Cowboy’s food off the table, splattering him with the warm butter he had been dipping his crab legs in. “Nigga, don’t you dare insult my intelligence!”

  In a flash, Cowboy was on his feet and advancing towards Frankie. “Bitch, you must’ve lost your damn mind. I ought to knock your fucking head off!”

  Equally fast Frankie grabbed her purse and dipped her hand inside. “I wish the fuck you would act a fool in here, Cowboy.”

  Knowing what she had inside the purse Cowboy stopped in his tracks. “Frankie, if you draw that gun on me you better pop off.”

  “Baby, you know Frankie Five-Fingers don’t bluff,” she said in a sweet tone. “Let me explain something to you, Cowboy, I’m not a dummy. I know you do your thing on the side, but I turn a blind eye to it because you’ve always let it be known that I was the queen bitch and treated me with respect, until now.”

  “Baby it ain’t what you think.”

  “Fuck what I think, it’s what I know.” She sucked her teeth. “I don’t even know why I fuck with your sorry ass. You ain’t shit, Cowboy,” Frankie slung her purse over her shoulder and headed towards the door.

  “Baby girl, don’t walk away from me now, I need you for the score tonight!” he called after her.

  “Fuck you!” she shouted before slamming the door.

  “Damn it!” Cowboy slammed his fist on the coffee table, almost breaking it. He knew that without evidence Frankie couldn’t convict him, but her storming out wasn’t what had him uptight. He had a sweet lick lined up that the two of them were supposed to take off that night and now he found himself a man short. Though his crew consisted of four seasoned thieves, he chose to take Frankie because he wouldn’t have to give her an equal split of the take. She was his girl so what was hers was his, and what was his was his.

  “Fuck it. Time to go with plan B,” he said, flipping open his cell phone.

  The entire case that Reggie had dragged into the living room was filled with guns. As far as guns went he had everything from American Colts to German Rugers. Duce picked up a black 9mm and tested the weight in his hands.

  “That there is new,” Reggie nodded at the gun, while snacking on a doughnut. “That little piece of iron can lay low the mightiest of men, cuzo. Be careful because there’s one in the head already.”

  “I like this shit,” Duce said, practicing his aim. “I can do a nigga dirty with this.”

  “Yeah, that shit has stopping power, but I like the more messy shit,” Reggie reached under the couch Duce was sitting on and pulled out a rifle. It had a long sleek barrel and a large scope on top. “See, you can blow a nigga’s whole chest cavity out and never have to get up on him. You can survive a shot from a nine, but ain’t no coming back from a .33.”

  “You can keep that shit, Reggie; I wanna get up close on this one. I need a nigga to feel my pain,” Duce said emotionally.

  “So, you about to make that right, huh?”
Reggie asked. His normally jovial tone had become serious.

  Duce looked at him with sad eyes. “If I can. Reggie, the five years I was in prison I never got one peaceful night’s sleep knowing that these niggaz was out here enjoying life and my brother was in the ground. In a sense, I felt like a coward for not doing anything about it. I gotta settle this debt, cousin.”

  “You know I got ya back, right?” Reggie balanced on the rifle.

  Duce looked up at him. He didn’t say what he was feeling because he was sure his cousin already knew. “Cousin, if I need you then I’m sure as hell gonna take you up on it, but for right now I’m going in alone.”

  “Well, the offer is open. Just say the word and it’s on,” Reggie said.

  Duce smiled. It was good to know that there were a few real niggaz left. “Thanks, family, I’ll come see you soon and let you know what’s up.” Duce picked up a Glock, which was slightly smaller than the 9mm he’d selected. “I’m gonna take these off ya hands and get up outta here.”

  “You bout to put in that work?” Reggie asked excitedly.

  Duce chuckled. “Not yet, Rambo, it’s just somebody I want to check up on. When the sun goes down, that’s when niggaz will start bleeding.” He slipped the 9mm into his coat pocket and the Glock into his jeans.

  “So be it,” Reggie nodded. He picked up three clips from the case and handed them to his cousin. “Never can be too careful,” he said leading him out the door.

  The two men waited for the elevator in silence. Duce could tell by the look on Reggie’s face that he wanted to say something, but the men in their family were never good at putting their feelings into words. Instead of talking, Reggie just tapped the elevator button. When the small box car opened, Duce gave his cousin another hug and stepped in. The doors started to close, but Reggie’s chubby hand stopped it.

  “You know how to reach me if you need me, so don’t hesitate,” he said seriously.

  “I won’t,” Duce said as the door slammed shut.

  FIVE

  The tears didn’t come until Frankie was inside the cab and away from Cowboy’s apartment. As strong as she was she always seemed to play the fool for Cowboy. Just like with most men, he was the perfect gentleman when they were dating, but also like most men, he started showing his ass once she had committed to him. Mo had asked her time and again why she continued to deal with Cowboy’s womanizing ass and she always had a good excuse, but the truth of the matter was that she was lonely.

  Frankie had been getting money here and there on her own, but since Cowboy come along she wanted for nothing, but it wasn’t the money that kept her with him. Cowboy represented a piece that Frankie had lost a long time ago. His soul might not have been a perfect fit, but it mended the hole well enough. Sometimes it was just being in his arms that made her feel whole, but it was a temporary relief. There was only one man in her life that had ever made her feel like a real woman and he was gone, never to return. She thought about her lover often, the good times, the late night talks, but with the good came the bad. The man she had once given her heart to left her for dead and that was a scar that would never heal.

  Frankie had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed the cab had stopped. She paid the man and climbed out. When her foot touched the icy curb, she almost lost her balance. “I hate the fucking winter time,” she mumbled, pulling herself the rest of the way out. Moving as gracefully as a cat burglar, she managed to make it to her building without busting her ass. While Frankie was fishing around for her keys, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She fingered her gun and using the reflection off the building’s entrance she scanned the area behind her. She missed him on the first sweep, but on the second her eyes caught him. He was standing on the other side of the street, watching Frankie. She couldn’t see his face, but the way he held himself was familiar. When it hit her, Frankie’s breath caught and she whirled around. A bus rolled down the avenue, momentarily obstructing her view, and when it moved the sidewalk was empty.

  It took her several tries, but Frankie was able to insert her key and let herself in the building. Her breaths came in short bursts as she stumbled into the lobby and closed the door. She stood there for a minute, back pressed against the heavy door, and tried to get her thoughts together. “I’m bugging the fuck out,” she told herself. She reached into her bra and pulled out the fifty of haze she’d bought on the way home and threw it on the ground. She reasoned that once you started seeing ghosts it was time to stop getting high.

  Duce pressed himself against the drawn gate of the recently condemned bodega. The gate’s frozen metal touched his back, even through his coat, but he welcomed it. He needed something to focus on besides his racing heart. From the way her body went rigid he was sure she’d spotted him. Thankfully the bus and its untimely arrival had kept her from making a positive ID. Exposing his hand too early would complicate things, and this was a plan he needed to go off without a hitch. He had told himself that it was a bad idea, but he had to come, he needed to see her.

  He cursed himself for being so careless, but sometimes the heart makes lumbering oxen of the graceful men. Every ounce of him wanted to swoop in on her, to let her look into his face and gasp, but it would have to wait. There were people he needed to see before he could go to Frankie. When his business was finished he would lay his heart open to her and if she stuck a knife in it, he could only fault himself. Sparing one last glance at Frankie’s back as she slipped into the building, Duce went off to handle his business.

  The livery cab wove in and out of traffic like a mad man. Several times Duce had to tell him to slow down. The last thing he needed was for them to get stopped while he was carrying two hammers. He hated taking cabs, but hadn’t had a chance to pick his truck up yet. A friend of his had been housing it in his garage out in Long Island. Duce made a note to himself to call his man and make arrangements for the truck to be dropped off.

  Duce pulled a Newport from his pack and tapped it against the back of his hand. Five years ago he frowned on smokers, but after what he had been through he understood the habit a little better. No sooner than he lit it the cab driver started beefing. A cold glare and the promise of a ten dollar tip quieted his grumbling. Reclining back in the seat he tried as best he could to get his thoughts together. Just seeing Frankie brought back old feelings that he needed to be buried for him to function properly. “Business first,” he reminded himself. When he was within three blocks of his destination he had the driver let him out on the corner.

  Just being back on the East Side brought back memories. He and his brother had run all up and down Second Avenue, chasing girls and getting money. When they had first set up shop in Wagner projects they met heavy opposition. It seemed like just about every other day Duce was shooting at somebody or somebody was shooting at him. The bullshit calmed down when Knowledge gave the young boys from the neighborhood positions in the organization. Had Duce had it his way, he would’ve just tried to kill everyone that came at them, but that wasn’t how Knowledge did things. “Diplomacy over bloodshed, little brother,” he would always stress to him.

  Duce pulled his skull cap low over his ear and entered the projects. The cold weather had caused most of the residents to seek shelter in the warmth of their apartments; business still had to be conducted. To the untrained eye the young men wondering in and out of the various buildings and cuts would’ve seemed little more than residents coming and going but Duce knew better. For as long as he could remember Wagner had been a gold mine.

  Though Duce had been a phantom in his days as D-Murder, there was still a chance that someone might recognize him and compromise his plan. He needed a way to locate his enemies without being detected too early, and the crack head shuffling past him would do nicely.

  Though he couldn’t remember her name, he knew who she was. She had lost about 40 pounds since he’d last seen her but for the most part her features were the same. The woman in question was as thin as a rail and sport
ing a short afro that looked like it hadn’t been combed in days. Back when Duce and his brother ran through the projects she was lacing her blunts with cocaine, but now she was just a base head. Smoker or not, a base head was still the best source for information in any hood.

  “Yo, ma, let me holla at you for a minute,” Duce called after her. She stopped and glared at him suspiciously, but didn’t come any closer.

  “Fuck is you the police?” she snaked her thin neck.

  Duce laughed as she was still as feisty as ever. “Nah, I ain’t no roller, sis. I used to pump around here with Knowledge. I’m fresh home from a bid and trying to get a pack. You don’t remember me?” Duce asked, hoping she didn’t.

  The crack head took a few steps towards him, squinting. “Can’t say that I do, but if you looking for Knowledge then you might wanna try Rose Hill Cemetery. Somebody blew his brains out a few years back.”

  “Damn, I didn’t know that,” Duce lied. “Who I gotta see to get right?”

  “Do I look like the damn information clerk at Macy’s? My time is precious, sweetie,” she said, scratching her neck and looking around nervously. It was obvious her monkey was clawing its way up her back.

  Knowing what time it was, Duce pulled a $20 from his pocket and dangled it in front of her. “Ain’t no need for the attitude, ma, I’m out here chasing a dollar like everybody else.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said, snatching the bill and stuffing it into her dingy bra. “Since you’ve been gone I know you probably ain’t up on it, but Butch is running the show now.”

  Duce’s jaw tightened. Back in the days Butch had been a part of their crew. The seasoned hustler had been fresh home from prison and Knowledge didn’t hesitate to put him in position. The old head was one of Knowledge’s most trusted lieutenants back then. He was the left hand while Duce was the right. He had sent Duce letters from time to time while he was away, but six months into his bid the letters stopped coming. The next thing you knew Duce was hearing stories about how Butch was the nigga to see on the East Side, and how he was bragging about taking what Knowledge once held. Duce was never sure exactly what Butch’s role in Knowledge’s murder had been, but he would catch it like the rest of them.