by Lennox, Lisa
“What bougie chick?” they asked, repeating her words.
“Laci, but I guess because she don’t live in the hood, y’all won’t even question her about anything. That’s fucked up.” Tonette knew that she was pushing the bar with how she was talking to the officers, but she had to do something to get the attention off her. “You accuse me of having a boyfriend who is a drug dealer and question me about guns, but she’s with the top dog. Do I look like I live the life of a drug dealer’s girl? No. I even let you go through my things, but you’re leaving with the same shit you came here with, and I still got questions.” She looked at both of the officers. “Did you find who murdered my boyfriend, and why did y’all kill Crystal?” The officers looked at one another. “Y’all can’t answer me that, can ya? All I want are answers!”
The officers knew of Tonette’s rep. As a matter of fact, they had been watching the South Bronx Bitches for some time for alleged drug sales and theft. The local police department never had anything on them other than anonymous tips that trickled in, but now after the shooting, it was the best time to investigate them all.
Tonette sat down on her bed with a tear-drenched face and red eyes. “This is just too much right now,” she cried and rocked back and forth in front of them. “Just too much.”
Her innocent look and acting was on point, because the police left not long after her outburst began.
“Thanks for your time, Ms. Thomas,” the officer spoke. “If we have any questions, we’ll be back, so don’t go too far.”
“That’s fine, but when you come back, please make sure you have answers for me. That’s all I’m asking.”
“We’ll see what we can do, Ms. Thomas. Thank you for your time.” They walked out of her apartment and closed the door.
“What you think, man?” one of the officers spoke as they left her apartment building.
“We got this information from an eyewitness, so something isn’t adding up. I’m not touching this one. Let’s turn this over to Clifton. I’m sure he’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“I agree.”
As soon as the officers left her apartment, Tonette’s anger radiated though her body. She was gonna get to the bottom of this bullshit. She really didn’t give a fuck about Dame, because a true hustler wouldn’t have slipped the way he did. His dick head was obviously so busy thinking about getting up in some raggedy-ass pussy that he couldn’t see he was about to get fucked up. “Dumb-ass nigga,” she rationalized, “that’s what the fuck you get.” Tonette got up and trod over to her mirror. “I know whoever that bitch was, she wasn’t fly like me, so fuck her ass too.”
WHAT SHE MOST wanted to find out was who the fuck told the police that she gave Crystal the gun to deliver in the first place. She had let it rest long enough, and now it was time to find out.
Tonette picked up the receiver of her Minnie Mouse phone and dialed seven digits. After a couple of rings, a voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Tonette spoke tiredly into the phone, a ploy to make the person on the other end think she was vulnerable. “Where you been?”
Monique paused before she answered cautiously, “How you doin’?” She ignored Tonette’s question.
“Why don’t you roll through?” Tonette asked, in her most pitiful-sounding voice. She noticed that Monique had ignored her question, so two could play that game, she figured.
“Uh . . . I don’t know.” Because she’d told the police that Tonette gave Crystal the gun, Monique thought it was best to stay away from her.
“Why?”
“With everything that went down, I think we need to lay low for a while.”
“Girl, please!” Tonette spoke, irritated. “You think they still trippin’ off that shit? Them muhfuckas done moved on. They don’t care shit about what happens in the South Bronx.”
“Well . . . I don’t know, Nette. With Crystal gone, it just don’t feel the same.”
“Regardless of what happened, we still the SBBs, baby.” Tonette gave her a pep speech. “We the baddest bitches out here.” She wasn’t going to let this shit die until she put it to rest.
Tonette heard a faint sigh. “Alright, I’ll run through.”
Just for good measure, Tonette called Shaunna, too. “Wassup bitch? What’cha doin?”
“I got yo bitch,” Shaunna laughed. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’. Just waiting for this nigga to come through. I tried to call yo’ ass earlier, you know, see what’s poppin’.”
“Who the hell you got rollin’ through?” Tonette asked. She realized that annoying sound she’d heard earlier while she was sleeping was her phone ringing.
“This dude I met at the club the other night. Shit, you know how I do.”
“Well, I take ‘bitch’ back,” Tonette laughed, “you a ho.”
“Takes one to know one,” Shaunna shot back quickly with laughter.
“Girl, I know you ain’t gonna fuck him with that big-ass stomach of yours.”
“I don’t know what kinda fuckin you be doin’, but my stomach ain’t got shit to do with my pussy,” Shaunna joked. “Maybe if he hit it right, he’ll knock this lil’ muthafucka in the head and tell him to get his ass outta there.”
Both girls giggled.
“Well when you done, why don’t you head over this way? Monique rollin’ through too.”
“A’ight, cool. Hang on for a minute.” Shaunna put the phone down and within seconds, Tonette heard a faint male voice. “Hey, I’m about to take care of something, but I’ll be through later.”
“A’ight, cool.” Tonette hung up.
CHAPTER 5
WEEKS AFTER THE shooting, Detective Rodney Clifton sat looking at the report of Crystal Moore that he was given by two of his colleagues. It would have been closed as an accidental shooting; however, after questioning the other shooting victim and the alleged suspect, there was more to the case than met the eye.
Rodney Clifton was a thirty-seven-year-old, fifteen-year-veteran of the NYPD. He was a light-skinned black man, tall and slender, with short, sandy-colored hair and freckles. He didn’t look like he was capable of being a cop because of his wimpy appearance, and many underestimated him; but those who encountered him knew differently. Detective Clifton had started out like every other officer, as a rookie on the beat, but his commitment to the streets and uncanny way of getting information quickly moved him up the ranks.
He saw the growing number of hustlers on the streets, but unlike most hotheaded cops, Detective Clifton didn’t go after them immediately. He watched them long enough to see their weaknesses, their strengths, and their habits. He also noticed that they were hustling strictly in the South Bronx so he figured as long as they stayed in their community, poisoning their own kind, it really didn’t matter.
He didn’t like black folks who tried to come up without working for it. Niggas always wanna hustle, he thought. As a cop, he knew that the corner hustlers couldn’t provide anything so he had to go after the big dog, but he also knew that by jumping too hastily, he could fuck up something bigger. As a man, he watched and waited for the right time to make his move.
ON A LATE-NIGHT stroll through the South Bronx, Detective Clifton had seen a young man who caught his eye. He was a light-skinned fellow, a little rough around the edges, standing about 5 feet 8 inches with weight that was too much for his build. Watching him for a couple of weeks, the detective knew that he hustled dope. He could tell because he was always fresh and had his jewelry game tight. The young man also had a flat-top fade with a blond stripe in the front, so he was easy to spot.
Cruising through the same neighborhood a week later, Detective Clifton saw his mark, then activated his patrol car lights and siren. The few skeezers and what looked like bums who surrounded him scattered like roaches, but the young man didn’t budge. He just looked at the officer.
With a cocky attitude, Detective Clifton got out of his car with his hands on his department-issued belt, which held his handcuffs, mace,
night stick, and gun.
“What’cha doing out here, Marco?” he asked, looking at the young man’s belt buckle, which displayed MARCO in gold letters.
Marco looked down at his belt buckle, then answered with a major irritated and condescending tone in his voice, “Conductin’ Bible study, man, and you just dismissed my flock. What the fuck you think I’m doin’ out here?”
“Watch yo’ smart-ass mouth, boy!” the detective grunted through tightly clenched teeth.
“What da hell you want, man? I got bidness to finish.”
Detective Clifton noticed the attitude. “Get yo’ hands on the hood and spread ’em!”
“For what? I didn’t do nothing,” Marco protested angrily.
Reluctantly, Marco did as he was told, mumbling under his breath while the officer frisked him. Marco was confident that the small package he’d picked up earlier wouldn’t be found.
“Turn around,” the detective ordered when he didn’t feel anything on the initial pat-down.
When Marco did as he was told, the officer did something that caught him off guard. After patting him down again, the detective stuck his hands inside the front of Marco’s pants.
“What the fuck . . . man, get yo’ hands . . . what you try’na do!” He tried to wrestle the cop away, but it was useless.
The detective felt around Marco’s dick and balls and pulled out a small baggie. Taking a deep sniff of the bag, he smiled and spoke in a teasing tone, “I see you got a large,” he pointed toward Marco’s hardening dick, “and small package.” He waved the baggie in the air. “This looks like an ounce or two to me. Do you know how long this will get you?”
“Man . . . please . . .” Marco began to cry like a true bitch. “That’s my boy’s shit, man, I’m just . . .”
“Under arrest for the possession of narcotics and intent to distribute,” Detective Clifton told Marco as he slapped the handcuffs on his wrists and led him to his patrol car.
Instead of sitting him in the back of the squad car, the detective shoved Marco in the front passenger’s side, then he got in on the driver’s side and began to drive. Not knowing where he was going, Marco tried to explain himself, only to stop moments later when they pulled up in an empty alley. The detective left his car running.
“What the fuck we doin’ here?” Marco asked.
“This a shortcut to the precinct. I gotta book you.”
“Please man, no,” Marco begged.
“Well.” Detective Clifton looked at Marco with a glimmer in his eye. “If you give me a reason not to book you, I may forget about this.”
“Please don’t arrest me. I can’t do no jail time. Please.” The wannabe hustler left Marco with a quickness.
“Aw, now you beggin’. You ain’t flappin’ off at the lips no more like you were before,” the officer teased. “I got something for you to do with those lips, man.”
“Anything, I’ll do anything,” Marco pleaded.
“Anything?”
“Yes, anything.”
The detective smiled at Marco and removed the handcuffs. He then unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his scrawny dick. For a black man, he was a disgrace to the race.
“I can forget all about that sack I got from you, but first . . .” He motioned toward his dick.
Marco knew what time it was and he had to do something to save his ass.
For the next two years, Marco’s asshole became a hiding place for the detective’s dick. Sucking and fucking was no big deal to Marco because he was already a down-low faggot. Molested as a child and raped repeatedly, Marco held his feelings for men at bay until he was able to unleash them.
Detective Rodney Clifton’s sly investigative skills were once again on point. Not only did he find a weak link in the South Bronx’s biggest drug ring who was willing to do anything to keep his hot ass out of jail, but the same person provided him with sexual pleasure. What more could a man want?
DETECTIVE CLIFTON PUSHED to the side a file that he was reviewing earlier in the day and looked once again at the statements of Tonette Thomas, Shaunna Parker, and Monique Daniels. He noticed that Crystal and Tonette had records but Monique and Shaunna didn’t.
“So these are the so-called infamous South Bronx Bitches,” he said to himself, rocking back and forth in his wobbly desk chair, looking at their pictures.
“Hey, Jones,” Detective Clifton called out. Officer Terrance Jones was a rookie, fresh out of the academy, and was assigned to a veteran for street patrol. He stood about 6 feet 2 inches, with his weight proportionate to his height. Officer Jones had caramel-brown skin and sported a fade. He had sharp features, a strong jawline, thin but shapely lips, dark brown eyes, and long, dark lashes. He wore an earring in his left ear and most of all, looked good in and out of his uniform.
“Yeah, Clifton,” the rookie answered, “what’s up?” He walked over to the detective and sat on the side of his desk.
Detective Clifton looked at him closely, then handed him the report. “Take a look at this and tell me what you think.” He was hoping the rookie could shed a light on what he thought he was missing, because his own mind was elsewhere.
Officer Jones read the statement given by Monique as well as those of the other girls; then he looked at the picture.
“Where’s this girl right here?” He pointed to Laci. “Where’s her statement? She looks out of place.”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” the detective told Officer Jones. He looked at his officer, trying not to be obvious, scanning his body.
Officer Jones handed the picture to the detective to validate his point. “Look at her, then look at the other girls.” The two looked over the picture again. “It’s two different breeds here.” Detective Clifton watched Jones’s masculine finger point to each girl. “The other girls look like they’re from the street.” He shuffled through the mug shots of Crystal and Tonette, then the picture one of their undercover officers took of them on the streets. “Look at the clothes, the jewelry, but this girl right here, she really stands out. Actually, she looks like she got her shit together. Nothing like these girls.”
“Okay . . . yeah, I see what you’re saying, but remember, youngster, just because she doesn’t look like she’d fit in with them doesn’t mean shit. We busted some wannabe hustlers who used a white boy to transport for them a few years back. In the game, all sorts of people are used for opportunity.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” the rookie confirmed with a head nod.
“We need to find out more about this girl, though. It looks like when the other officers questioned Ms. Thomas, she mentioned this girl. Actually, I put a big drug case on hold because of this one, but something is telling me that they both have something to do with the other,” he held up a thick brown file and put it on the corner of his desk, “so I’m not closing this one until I talk to her.”
“Why you think they’re related?” Officer Jones got up from the corner of the detective’s desk and walked to the chair that sat in front of his own. Detective Clifton watched as he sat down in front of him.
“All of my years in Narcotics,” Detective Clifton spoke to his rookie.
“Wait a minute. How did you get a hold of it when you’re in Narcs?”
“Because these girls are known to dabble in some type of drug activity. That’s why I think both cases have something to do with each other. But the weird thing was the initial call. I have never once heard of a man reporting a woman being crazy without saying why. If a man calls reporting a crazy woman, she’s normally going after him for some shit he did to her. From the report, he was also very descriptive.” The detective looked in Crystal’s file. “He said she was a crazy girl in a red tank top, green Damage jeans, and red Reebok Classics shooting a gun outside. When street patrol got on the scene, the gun was in a brown paper bag, but after it all went down and tests were done, the gun hadn’t been fired from the time the person called in until we apprehended the suspect.”
&nbs
p; “What’s so odd about that?” the rookie asked the seasoned veteran. “That shit happens all the time in the hood.”
“You’re right, but a description that clear with no type of follow-up with us means that someone was trying to set that girl up. Remember, in the report, Ms. Daniels stated that Ms. Thomas gave Crystal the gun, but it was a male who called in and reported her being armed and dangerous. Now, Ms. Thomas is telling us that someone else is involved. Something smells shitty in the Bronx, man.” The detective got up from his desk. “A’ight rookie, you ready for a stroll through the hood and see what we can find out?”
After watching Officer Jones, Detective Clifton was was anxious to get back to the hood. He thought back to the last time he had seen Marco—the day he gave him the dossier—but he hadn’t seen him since. Marco was known for playing cat-and-mouse with him, but it was time for some booty, so he had to go get it.
“Why don’t you sit tight and let me handle this,” Officer Jones suggested to his colleague with confidence.
“Handle what?”
“I can go to the South Bronx myself.”
“Naw, fuck that,” the detective said, shaking his head. “You ain’t going down there by yourself, man.” Cock-blocking bastard, he thought to himself.
“Why not? You think it’s dangerous or something?” Officer Jones joked.
“For a rookie, it can be.”
“Look, with you having two cases, if you go down there asking questions and shit, ain’t nobody gonna say a damn thing to you.”
“And you think they’re gonna talk to you?” the detective questioned.
“I fit in more than you do,” the officer spoke honestly. The swagger that Terrance had, along with his age and versatile looks, did have their advantages in the hood. “Let me do this.”
Detective Clifton stared at his young trainee and grinned. His enthusiasm and eagerness reminded him of himself when he first joined the force. After thinking over what Officer Jones had just said, Detective Clifton agreed.