“Good morning, Lapeace,” said a crisp, young singsong voice. Startled by the break in silence, he let go of the drawstring and the blinds crashed onto the window seal noisily.
“Damn, don’t do that,” he said, trying to remember her name. “You ain’t right.”
“Aw, you ain’t gotta be all jumpy. I only said good morning,” she replied cooing as if talking to a child who’d been frightened. She’d gotten up and propped her head in her hand supported by her elbow on the bed. The comforter fell slightly away revealing her naked breasts.
“Naw, I was just thinking about something. I ain’t trippin’. Eh, where . . .” and suddenly he realized that he was naked. He looked down at himself and quickly over to the clump of clothes, none of which she missed. His body tensed, obviously aware of his audience, as he tried to suck in his gut and push out his chest, not that he had much of either. She looked on in amusement as he held his breath in an attempt to look mannish. Men are just as vain as they accuse women of being, she thought to herself.
“Um . . . are . . . we . . . I mean, is this . . .” but his train of thought would not connect accordingly, and his shyness splattered all over the room, revealing beyond the phat truck, expensive jewelry, and designer clothes a shy man-child stripped to his essence.
“Come here, baby,” she beckoned and held open her arms allowing her supple breasts to swing freely with her movement. Hesitantly, Lapeace stepped forward, trying to make it to the bed quickly and shield his nakedness, but still his heavy dick hit and slapped both thighs as he walked. Instead of embracing him or letting him get under the comforter with her, she held him at arm’s distance and stared up into his dark, handsome face. He looked down questioningly, tracing the length of her fine thin arms to her beautifully manicured hands, which rested firm on both of his thighs.
“Lapeace, you are a fine brotha. You ain’t got nothing to be ashamed about baby. Nothing.” And with that she took him into her warm mouth and sucked him to an erection. Lapeace groaned, moaned, and leaned into her bobbing head with one hand in her braids and the other twisting and manipulating his own nipple. Feeling the coming explosion, and not wanting the sensation to end, he withdrew from her and yanked back the comforter, revealing one of her fingers working furiously on her clit. He lifted her hand and sucked the nectar from her fingers. Licking every digit individually until her fingers were covered with saliva, he guided her hand to his extended dick and she began to stroke it gently while he busied himself with her wetness below. Before long she was moaning his name as he licked and lapped at her hot pussy. Lying on her back, arched into a bridgelike overpass, she ground her pelvis rhythmically into his face. Her firm breasts were held lovingly in each hand and her pretty toes were pointed toward the ceiling. “Do it Lapeace, eat that pussy baby. Ohh, yes, do it you sexy mothafucka, do it!” she hissed through pants and moans. And Lapeace smacked cheerfully on as her juices ran freely into his mouth. Satisfied that she had come, Lapeace got on his knees and gently entered her temple, allowing her to feel every raised vein in his shaft. When he’d buried the length, he slowly pulled out the engorged head and pushed with one even stroke until he’d buried it again and then proceeded to make passionate love to the woman whose name he still couldn’t remember. After an hour of multiple positions, they were both drained and exhausted, laid out breathing soulfully in satisfied gestures. They said nothing, just listened to the Mexican painters’ lively exchange next door. Their peaceful time was interrupted by the buzzing of the doorbell. Lapeace looked over at her blissful face and nudged her lightly.
“Eh,” he started, hoping she wouldn’t notice he hadn’t said her name once this morning. “Ain’t you gonna answer the door?” He got no reply. Just a low breathing sound similar to a baby’s snore. He nudged her again, this time a bit harder. “Say, somebody’s at yo’ door, ain’t you gonna answer it?” Bzzz, Bzzz. She then began to stir, slowly scooting to the end of the bed, pulling the comforter with her as she went. “Uh-uhn,” said Lapeace, snatching and gathering up the comforter. “You ain’t got nothing to be ashamed of—you fine,” he said, mimicking her words playfully.
“Now you learning,” she said, with a backward mischievous glance, and strutted naked as the day she was born toward the bedroom door. Lapeace sat up straight, holding the balled-up comforter over his genitals, eyes transfixed on her lovely muscular ass. Damn, he thought to himself, she is fine! When she got to the bedroom door, knowing he was looking, she put both of her tiny feet together, which served only to accent her bow legs, and bent full at the waist, bringing her face down to rest fully on her knees. Through her bow she could see his mouth fall slack. Bzzz, Bzzz. She lifted up and exited the room.
“Damn,” Lapeace said aloud to himself. “She’s straight.” For the first time he really scoped out the room. Hip-hop posters canvased every wall. Tupac was prominently displayed, going back three albums. Kausion, Kam, MC Lyte, the Poetess, Ice Cube, Bahamadia, and the 5th Ward Boyz. One whole wall was nothing but CDs—there must have been two thousand. Alphabetically cataloged. Atop a cute pink thirteen-inch Zenith television sat a row of small photos of her and some hip-hop artists: Too Short, Spice 1, MC Eiht, Mopreme from Thug Life, and Sheena Lester, editor in chief of Rap Pages magazine. He moved over to the nightstand on her side and read a list of things to do, one of which included: “Meet Spike at Georgia’s.” Was that Spike Lee? And was Georgia’s Denzel Washington’s place on Melrose? What was her damn name? he thought to himself angrily now. Over the headboard was a giant poster advertising Sankofa, and it was framed. He heard her padding down what must be the hall and tumbled onto the bed.
“UPS is so stupid,” she came in complaining. “They know I got an account with them but wouldn’t leave my package without my receipt book.” Lapeace, knowing nothing about UPS or receipt books, gestured helplessly with his hands and eyebrows. He lay there pretending to be contemplating her dilemma while lusting at her sexy stance. Damn, she is fine. Just then her phone rang and she plopped onto the bed with her back facing him. Her braids hung lightly down her back and he couldn’t help but reach out and rub her silky skin. In circular motions his big dark hands caressed her bare back. He eased them up to her shoulders and began to massage her tension-filled traps.
“Uhmm, yes . . . that’s it . . .” she said softly. “No, no, not you Mr. Duke, excuse me. No this is a good time. Okay, are you ready? Tashima Mustafa . . . 5428 Hillcrest Drive. L.A. California, 90043, 213-296-2871. And my pager number is 213-412-3880. Yes, I overstand. I’ll be looking forward to it. Thank you. Bye.”
Mustafa? Hillcrest Drive? Two things hit him at once. One, she was Tashima Mustafa, CEO of RapLife Music—the phattest hip-hop company on the West Coast and no doubt one of the biggest after Death Row Records. And two, he was in Rollin’ Sixty neighborhood. His worst enemies. He had to disguise both his excitement at having hit Tashima Mustafa as well as his dismay at being caught in the Sixties during daylight hours. When she’d finished her call she asked was he hungry, to which he replied he was. He thought she was going to make them breakfast but instead suggested they go to Roscoe’s Chicken & Waffles. She left the room after breaking his lustful embrace and began to shower, humming an indistinguishable tune that sounded like the old Teddy Pendergrass song, “Close the Door.” Lapeace’s pager vibrated and at its sudden life he hollered through the bathroom door and asked Tashima if he could use the phone.
“It’s about time you answered that damn pager. Someone’s been blowing you up all morning,” she shouted over the stream of shower water, surprising him that she’d been up the first time it had gone off. He said nothing and went to the phone. After he dialed the number he walked over to the side window and watched two Mexican kids playing happily in the next yard. On the fourth ring the phone was picked up by a service, which began with some lyrics from Tupac:Gimme my money in stacks,
And lace my bitches with dime figures.
Real niggas fingas on nickel-plated nine triggers
&nbs
p; Must see my enemies defeated,
Catch ’em while they coked up and weeded
Open fire now them niggas bleeding.
“West up, this is Sekou, I ain’t in right now, but leave a message and I’ll hit you back. Out.”
Beeeeeeeeep. “Sekou, it’s me, L.P. Pick up da phone, nigga.”
“Hello?”
“Man, why you keep that fucking service on like you ain’t there when you always there?”
“Aw, I be just screening my calls and shit. You feel me?”
“Yeah, I feel you, homie,” muttered Lapeace. Sliding open Tashima’s nightstand drawer and seeing a large-caliber weapon under a quarter ounce of pot—indo, no doubt the chronic.
“Why you didn’t hit me back earlier, Peace?”
“Huh? Oh, shit, ’cause I got the message and I ain’t had nuttin to say. Shit, fuck that nigga.”
“You know he stubo, huh? They fin’ to stretch that fool.”
“Fuck him,” said Lapeace, fiddling around in the drawer seeing a fresh pack of Philly Blunts, two extra clips for the weapon, and a battery for a Motorola cellular phone. He was trying to distract himself from the news of Anyhow’s capture and what seemed to be an imminent life term. He’d felt queasy really since he’d gotten the coded message this morning.
29 910 459-83
29 was the code given to Anyhow, Lapeace’s set, to monitor his movements and to be able to talk over cordless lines without fear of conspiracy charges. 9-10 is the alphabetical numerical sequence for “I-J,” meaning “in jail.” 459 is the penal code for burglary and 83 was the street number for Lapeace’s neighborhood, Eighty-third Street.
“Hello? Peace, you there?” asked Sekou, wondering where his homie had gone and why there was an eerie silence.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.”
“That’s your boy still, ain’t it, Peace?”
“Nigga, you mad? Hell naw! Fuck that slob ass fool. Eh, cuz, I’m fin’ to take a shower and grub, I’ll hit you on the hip later on.”
“Wait, I—”
“I’m out.” Click. Lapeace broke the connection and immediately the phone rang. Lapeace knew it was Sekou who’d hit him back with Star 69. He sat there by the phone until it stopped ringing and then moved to collect his clothes from the middle of the floor. He hoped his things hadn’t gotten too wrinkled. As he smoothed over the fabric on his black Kani jeans, he thought of some connections he could tap into, which could draw on more particulars involving the case with Anyhow. He had a sista friend who worked at the L.A. Sentinel that he could call who’d probably know more from a pig’s perspective than he’d learned from Sekou’s street version. Burglary? he thought. Anyhow? Unless it was an industrial burglary, involving a gang of money or jewelry, he couldn’t see it. He’d lain his clothes out neatly on the unmade bed when Tashima came into the room wrapped in a black fluffy towel, smelling of fresh strawberries.
“Your turn, lover man,” she said, bowing gracefully.
“Right on, then,” said Lapeace evenly and sauntered past her, but not before she’d grabbed a handful of his ass. He tensed quickly to her touch and she complimented him on his glutes. He blushed and kept his pace. The hot shower did him well, and soon he was dressed and lacing his black Kani boots. Standing in front of the mirror, he checked his appearance. Triple zero baldhead, two half-karat diamond studs in his left ear, one gold loop in his right. Thick eyebrows. Strong nose leading down to a thick dark mustache clipped neatly over full lips. He had a strong chin and jawline to match. His neck was still thick and muscular from being a jock in high school. He wore one two-inch herringbone necklace out over his Kani hoody, black Kani pants blushed up over his black Kani boots. Hopefully they could get in and out of Roscoe’s before the sun started to heat things up and he’d look ridiculous in the same gear, which was the bomb last night. “Can we take your car, Tashima?” he asked, hoping she wouldn’t inquire as to why.
“My car ain’t here. It was hit by a Mexican and now it’s being painted. Is something wrong with your truck?” she asked suspiciously.
“Naw, the truck is straight. It’s just that it’s hella dirty, you know?”
“Dirty?” she asked incredulously. “Dirty how? As in real dirt and grime? Dirty as in you got some heat in it, or meanin’ that you’ve done some dirt in it? The first two I can stand, but I can’t fade the latter. So, come on now, holler at me,” she said with her head tilted slightly leftward supporting the weight of her question.
“Not the third, fo’ sho’. It’s just a film of dust over it. Nothing we can’t stand. I wouldn’t jeopardize you, Tashima,” Lapeace countered, stepping up to her five-foot-two frame of young beauty, allowing his six-two height to tower over her persuasively.
“I sure hope not, ’cause I ain’t in no gettin’-shot-at mood this morning.”
“I feel you on that,” Lapeace responded, wanting to add, “’cause I know you be dumpin’ back.” But he didn’t want to reveal the fact that he’d been snooping in her drawer. She moved over toward the nightstand that held her weapon. Her Pelle Pelle jeans were beige, hip-hop baggy, and fresh. Her braids, which he learned were not extensions, were pulled back and fastened in a ponytail by a black hair tie. Some black Ray-Ban baby locs sat atop her head and her black T-shirt bore the faces of Suga-T, B-Legit, D-Shot, and E-40 on the front and on the back was simply “The Click, Game Related.” Her Norflake three-quarter-top boots were unlaced with the tongue hanging out.
“Lapeace,” she said, stopping before she reached the drawer. “You got heat in the truck, right?”
Reluctantly, after a few seconds, Lapeace said, “Fo’ sho’—in my lap at all times.”
“Awright, volume ten,” she said with a bright laugh and opened the drawer, retrieved the box of blunts and the pot, hesitated, then closed the drawer. She wore only eyeliner that accentuated her almond-shaped, amber-brown eyes and her lips were culturally atavistic works of art. Sculpted, seemingly, from the bloodline of New Afrika’s finest.
“Let’s bounce,” she said, walking two steps ahead of Lapeace, who snatched up his pager, keys, and Chapstick on the way out. At the kitchen they stopped briefly, as Tashima went to the service area and poured what sounded like dog food in a bowl. When she returned she explained that she had a rottweiler named Kody that was just getting over Parvo, and she felt very bad for him. She looked depressed. They walked up the dark hallway past two other bedrooms and into a spacious dining area, then an equally large living room furnished with low black-lacquered tables and leather. The walls reflected platinum everywhere. Before exiting the house, Tashima punched in a code for her alarm. From the porch, Lapeace hit his alarm but no sound returned, just a red light on his remote signaling his alarm had been disarmed. He pushed a second green button and Lucky roared to life. Tashima stopped momentarily and gazed at the truck and then quickly at his hand, raising an eyebrow. “That’s pretty phat, man,” she said, smiling, watching as his fingers touched a third button that unlocked the doors. They entered the air-conditioned confines of the plush Suburban, sat momentarily, and then backed out of the driveway slowly.
Lapeace took Hillcrest, down past 57th to Slauson, turned right, and didn’t play any music until he’d crossed Dean. He grabbed up his remote, pressed 5-4 and Sean Levert’s “Put Your Body Where Your Mouth Is” came out heavy and strong—flooding the interior of the truck with highs and lows, perfectly pitched, rapping them up in real soulful R&B—without the nasal twang.The Suburban pushed up Slauson, effortlessly gliding like a big ship over calm waters. Tashima nestled back into the big seat and relaxed. Neither spoke a word, just let Sean do his thing. South Central faded past as the small, hobbled-together store-front businesses gave way to more commercialized and less relevant to New Afrikan peoples stores. At La Cienega, Lapeace turned right and headed north toward Washington Boulevard. Lapeace circumvented the Rollin’ Sixties neighborhood as well as several smaller sets, some hostile toward his sand, some not. He just wasn’t in the mind-set to b
e dumping or chitchatting with bangers. Not that he was such an active force in the zones (as he’d been a few years back), but still he’d gotten his rep the old-fashioned way. He’d killed for it.
They arrived at Roscoe’s quicker than Tashima expected. The big truck floated so smoothly, coupled with the relaxing music, she’d almost dozed off. Lapeace guided her inside protectively, choosing a seat in the rear where he could sit with a bird’s-eye view of all who came and went, Malcolm X-style. The place was, as usual, hustling with people, mostly young, game-related folk. A few elders sprinkled here and there. Across from them diagonally sat a brotha who kept staring at Tashima, but because her back was to him she was unaware of his persistent gaze. He sat with a woman who looked very familiar in a wholesome, nonthreatening way. He couldn’t put his finger on just where he’d seen her before.
The waitress brought them menus and without looking they both ordered chicken, waffles, and orange juice. “Tashima, do you . . .” he started but didn’t finish.
“Lapeace, everyone just calls me Shima. I’d feel more comfortable if you used it too,” she said, her hand reaching across to sit on his.
“Awright,” he began again. “Shima, do you know ol’ boy behind you to your left? Don’t look over too obvious. Just do it casually,” he said, instructing her like a spy master. Shima was enjoying his little protective ways. She felt comfortable with him, and it hadn’t escaped her notice that he’d taken the long way there.
“Maybe,” she whispered across the table, “I should act like I’m going to the ladies’ room?”
“Naw,” he whispered back, lowering his voice to her level, “I don’t think it’s that serious.”
“Oh,” she said, surprised, leaning back in her booth. “I thought we were being clocked by jackers or somethin’.” Lapeace just stared across at her without saying a word. His expression said it all: Don’t be playing like that. She overstood. The couple were preparing to leave, gathering up their black leather appointment books, pens, and magazines when Shima turned slightly toward them. The man was muscularly thin, athletically so, like a track and field competitor. Dark-skinned, with tight, almost Asiatic-shaped eyes. His hair was cropped low on top, wavy in an “S”-curl fashion and faded to a one on the sides. His smile revealed splendid white teeth and he had no facial hair. He was dressed in black jack boots, stone-washed jeans, and a short-sleeved blue thermal shirt. The woman was quite short, but definitely packing. Close-cut hair, perhaps a two, waved from constant brushing. Her short hair accentuated her natural beauty. She wore no makeup. Didn’t need to. The woman was fine. Her jeans were darker, loose fitting, and comfortably holed in key spots. The T-shirt she was wearing was white with a silkscreen photo of Jimi Hendrix across the front with the words “The Beginning” under him. They stood to leave. “Antoine, what is up, my brotha?” said Shima excitedly, scooting across and out of her booth to greet him.
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