In These Streets

by Shelly Ellis

  “I didn’t . . . I didn’t go behind your back. I just—”

  “No, that’s exactly what you did.” She reached for her robe at the end of the bed and began to shove her arms into the sleeves. She tied the belt around her waist.

  “Lissa,” he said, rising from the bed, “come on, baby. Let’s just—”

  “Dee, if you know what’s good for you, you won’t say another fuckin’ thing to me!” she shouted over her shoulder before striding into the hall.

  Derrick fell back onto the bed, closed his eyes, and let out a long, loud groan.

  Well, that hadn’t gone the way he’d expected.

  Chapter 8

  Ricky

  The echoing crack of billiard balls knocking together filled the hall along with male laughter and the faint smell of wood, beer, and pot smoke. Ricky squinted at the table as he held his pool cue between his forefinger and index finger, lining up his shot.

  “You about to lose some money tonight, bruh,” he declared to Derrick who stood on the opposite side of the pool table, partially hidden in shadow in the darkened pool hall.

  Derrick chuckled and raised his beer bottle to his lips. “Nigga, stop talking shit and just take the shot.”

  They had been playing pool for the past hour, deciding to try a different spot than Ray’s tonight. Derrick had asked him to meet up. He’d said the past few weeks had been filled with more drama than he could handle and he needed to de-stress. Ricky had been happy to oblige him, leaving the restaurant a little before closing to meet his friend.

  “Right corner pocket,” Ricky called out. He took the shot, like Derrick ordered, and they both watched as the cue ball sailed over the felt—a purple cannonball against a green background. It clacked against another ball and sent it careening into the right corner pocket.

  “Damn it,” Derrick muttered.

  Ricky stood upright and grinned. He cackled in triumph. “I’m one lucky nigga, ain’t I?”

  “Nah, I’m just unlucky.”

  Ricky lowered his pool cue to the floor, leaned against the table, and raised his brows. “Why you say that?”

  “Because it just seems that way. I told you, I had a rough week. Nothing seems to be going right. Even me and Melissa had a big blow up last night.”

  “Again?”

  Derrick nodded.

  “Damn, y’all have been going at it a lot lately. Why’d you argue this time?”

  Derrick sighed gruffly. “She found out I’ve been talking to her dad.”

  “Shiiiiiit,” Ricky exhaled, shaking his head sadly. “I told you that shit might come back to bite you in the ass! Didn’t I tell you?”

  “Yeah, you told me. But I can’t cut him off just because she’s not talking to him. It’s Mr. Theo, man! He’s like a father to me!”

  “But he’s not your father, Dee. He’s her father and she’s your woman. I’m not even hooked up with a chick, and I’d know where my loyalties would lie. She’s who you have to share a bed with every night, not Mr. Theo!” Ricky’s eyes drifted back to the table as Derrick began to line up his shot. His upper lip curled into a sneer. “Besides, if I was her, I probably wouldn’t have anything to do with him either. What girl wants a daddy who sucks more dick than she does?”

  Derrick paused mid-shot. He slowly raised his eyes to glower at Ricky. “First of all, you don’t even know who the fuck your daddy is. Let’s just put that shit out there. Secondly, don’t talk about Mr. Theo like that. Okay?”

  “But it’s the truth!”

  “No, it ain’t true! Besides, there are worse things in the world than suckin’ a dick.”

  Ricky snickered. “You speaking from experience?”

  “Nigga, grow the hell up!”

  “Okay. Okay! You’re right,” Ricky conceded, nodding thoughtfully. “I’m bein’ small minded. There are worse things than suckin’ another man’s dick.” He took a drink of his beer. “It’s still not as bad as eatin’ some dude’s hairy ass.”

  “Fuck you, Ricky,” Derrick murmured in exasperation just as he finally took his shot and missed, making Ricky burst into laughter again. But Ricky’s laughs abruptly tapered off when he heard his phone buzz. He pulled his cell from his pocket and squinted down at the text message on screen.

  “Gonna have to cut this short,” he said, lowering his pool cue and beer bottle to the pool table’s edge, making Derrick frown.

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “Just got a text from Big D. I gotta jet over to his place on Wisconsin Avenue. He says he’s got something for me,” Ricky said, tucking his cell into his back jean pocket. “Shit, and I didn’t have to go to the club tonight. I’ve got one of the managers covering for me. I thought tonight would be my night off.”

  Derrick didn’t say anything in response but gave him a look—a look that Ricky had seen many times before. It was the same look he’d given him when they were nineteen and Ricky had gotten so drunk, he threw up in the back of the cab and on himself. It was the same look he’d given Ricky when he saw him snort his first line of blow.

  It was the look of a big brother’s disappointment.

  “What the hell do you want me to do, Dee?” he asked, chafing at his friend’s silent judgement. “I have to go! He’s a dude that doesn’t like to wait.”

  “I just don’t understand why you get mixed up in that shit,” he said, making Ricky frown. “You don’t need someone like that in your life!”

  “Oh, so you’re turning into Jay now? You gonna lecture me about my life choices?”

  “No, I’m not turning into Jay! I wouldn’t do that to you. But none of this is new; I’ve said it before! We both know who Big D is and what he does. I can’t ignore that shit.”

  “Hey,” Ricky said, holding up his hands, “I ain’t got nothing to do with any of that stuff. That’s his business—not mine.”

  “That’s a damn lie, man! Your restaurant and Club Majesty are funded through all his shady shit. Even if you aren’t doing it directly, you’re making your bread off of the proceeds.”

  “So you’re saying I’m just like him?” he asked, feeling his hackles rise.

  He could take the joke about not knowing his father, because he didn’t. He could even take Derrick chastising him for his homophobia. But for some reason, he couldn’t let this one slide. Maybe it was because he got a flashback to the last time someone had castigated him about his relationship with Dolla Dolla. He remembered Police Officer Simone standing in his office back in Club Majesty a couple of weeks ago and the expression of utter contempt on her face. Derrick didn’t look remotely like Simone, but Ricky could swear the woman’s face was superimposed over his friend’s right now.

  He had been thinking about her off and on since that night, at random moments. He didn’t know why she lingered in his memory. He wasn’t responsible for her little sister and he doubted Dolla Dolla had anything to do with the girl’s disappearance but still, he couldn’t let go of what she’d said to him.

  “. . . you’re just another low life like he is! You’d protect him no matter what!”

  Is that what Derrick thought about him too?

  Derrick loudly exhaled. “No, I’m not saying you’re just like him, bruh—but I’m worried someday you could be. You keep working with him, he’s going to rope you in eventually. You can keep tiptoeing around shit, but it’s only so long before you end up with some on your shoes.”

  “Wow, that’s deep,” Ricky replied dryly.

  “I’m serious! Back away from him and do it fast. Stop being stupid about this!”

  “Yeah, well, I appreciate your concern, but I’m still gonna jet.” He angrily turned away from the pool table and strolled across the room, but he paused when he was only a few feet away. He turned back around to face his friend. “Considerin’ how many folks—your girl, included—look down on you and judge you for working at the Institute, I expected more from you, Dee. I’ve never lectured you about how you make your paper and pay your bills. As far as I’
m concerned, that’s your business—not mine. So don’t lecture me.”

  He watched as Derrick’s face fell before he turned back around again, and headed out of the pool hall.

  * * *

  Less than hour later, Ricky stepped through elevator doors onto the top floor of an apartment building. He walked to the end of the corridor, listening to the thump of his footsteps in the floor rug. When he approached the door, he rang the bell and was greeted by a familiar face—a large man in a black T-shirt and slacks. His broad shoulders were about the width of the doorway.

  “What’s up, Ricky?” Dolla Dolla’s bodyguard, Melvin, said, nodding his bald head.

  “What’s up, Mel? I’m here to see Dolla.”

  “Yeah, he’s waiting for you in the living room,” Melvin said, gesturing over his shoulder.

  Ricky nodded again and walked into the apartment as Melvin shut the door behind him. His eyes went straight to the ceiling, where an oversized, multicolored chandelier hung. It looked like an exploded octopus. Ricky knew that Dolla Dolla had to have dropped more than ten grand on the custom piece, though the drug kingpin wasn’t exactly a collector of avant-garde art. Dolla Dolla just had a lot of money to spend, but didn’t quite know what to do with it; hence, the monstrosity over Ricky’s head.

  Further evidence of Dolla Dolla’s willingness to blow his money on just about anything could be found in his living room where a six-foot tall, eight-foot long fish tank sat. Inside were more than a dozen exotic fish swimming around a miniature replica of the Las Vegas Strip. The furniture in the room was just as disjointed. It was a hodgepodge of expensive pieces in all styles and mediums: etched glass and Italian leather, chrome and Cherrywood, chinchilla and plush velvet. It hurt Ricky’s eyes just to look at it all; it was like stepping into a high-end fun house. He felt like he was buggin’ out on a bad high, and this was without sampling the lines of coke Dolla Dolla had set up on the coffee table.

  Ricky descended the three steps that led to the living room’s seating area. He watched as Dolla Dolla snorted one of the lines through a rolled up hundred-dollar bill, pinched the bridge of his nose, then slowly raised his blood-shot eyes to stare at Ricky.

  Dolla Dolla was an imposing figure, a Rick Ross lookalike but with more muscle mass than blubber. Rumor had it that he had been dealing since he was ten years old, getting in the crack game in the early days. Supposedly, he had killed a man by the age of twelve. Though he didn’t hustle on street corners or whip out a pistol as quick as he had decades ago, Dolla Dolla still didn’t mind getting his hands dirty every now and then. He cast a long shadow in the streets of D.C., from the hustlers to the pimps to the gangsters. The few who had tried to challenge him didn’t last long. He either ran them out of town—or had them taken out.

  Despite Derrick’s warning, Ricky knew it was smart to stay on Dolla Dolla’s good side. The drug kingpin was good to those who were good to him—he always had been.

  “Hey, Pretty Ricky,” Dolla Dolla said with a lazy grin as he sat upright, grabbed the glass sitting in front of him, and leaned back against the sofa cushions. “What you doin’ here?”

  Ricky narrowed his eyes. “You texted me and told me to come. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Dolla Dolla took a drink from his glass. He then waved him forward. “Come over here. Have a seat.”

  Ricky walked toward the hulking man and took the arm chair facing him.

  “Have some of this good shit, bruh! Came in just last week.”

  He held out the rolled up bill to Ricky. Ricky took the bill from Dolla Dolla, leaned over the line of coke, and took a quick hit, feeling the sharp burn of the powder in his nostrils and the taste of it in the back of his throat. He blinked and licked his lips, before slouching back into the arm chair, waiting for the coke to shoot through his system like nitrous oxide through a car engine.

  “You been doin’ a good job with Club Majesty, Ricky.”

  Ricky nodded and handed him back the rolled up bill. “Thanks, Dolla. I appreciate that.”

  “A damn good job.” Dolla leaned down and did another line himself. He sat up again. “Money’s good. Customers are happy. That makes me happy, Ricky. So I got a proposition for you.”

  He wasn’t sure if it was the coke, but Ricky suddenly felt his stomach tighten and his heartbeat pick up its pace at those words. The last time Dolla had offered him a “proposition,” he had saddled him with co-ownership of a strip club he’d never wanted that was a front for a criminal enterprise that he wanted nothing to do with.

  What the hell does he want me to do this time?

  “I’m thinking about starting a new business in real estate. Buying up and building properties and shit.”

  “Real estate?”

  “Yeah, I know it ain’t shit that I usually do, but I got partners that say they can handle most the regular business stuff. And I figure white folks been making money building in the city. I need to get in on that shit, too.”

  Ricky stared at Dolla Dolla, confused about the direction the conversation was going.

  “Well, anyway,” Dolla Dolla continued, “I need someone to be the face for my company . . . to head that shit up and watch out for my interests. My partners had a few dudes in mind, but I told them I only trust niggas I already work with. I ain’t about to trust my money to nobody I ain’t never heard of before! So I told them about you.” He slapped Ricky on the knee and grinned. “I told them what you’ve done for me so far, that you’ve got that magic touch, man!”

  Ricky gave an anxious smile in response. It was a challenge. The coke has been as good as Dolla had advertised; it was starting to make his face go numb.

  “So what you say, Pretty Ricky?” Dolla asked. “You ready for the come up? Ready to go big time, my nigga? Cuz I’ll be honest . . . you the only nigga in these streets that I’d trust with somethin’ like this.”

  “Well,” Ricky said, rubbing his hands together, “I’m . . . I’m happy that you’ve got that much faith in me, Dolla. I really am, but . . . uh . . .”

  Dolla’s grin faded. His heavy brow lowered, making him look like a bull dog at that moment. “But what, nigga?”

  “But I’ve already got a full plate with Club Majesty and the restaurant. I barely sleep as it is, running between two businesses on the opposite sides of town and—”

  “So then hand off that shit!” Dolla Dolla leaned forward again to take another hit of coke. “The restaurant and the club are doin’ good. You gotta learn how to . . . what they call it? Delegate! Let some other niggas manage them for you. This company would make you a helluva lot more money than any restaurant or strip club anyway.”

  Ricky’s jaw tightened.

  He’d be willing to walk away from Club Majesty. Bossing around women in thongs and keeping an eye out for rowdy patrons who he’d have to toss out of the club wasn’t exactly his life’s dream. But the restaurant was a very different story.

  Reynaud’s was an ode to his deceased grandmother. Mama Kay Reynaud—who had practically raised him and his sister, Desiree—had loved cooking as much as she’d loved the Lord. Half of the dishes on the menu were either straight copies or inspired by some of her favorite recipes. There was no way in hell he would leave Reynaud’s in someone else’s hands. It would be like walking away from Mama Kay’s memory. He’d rather die than give up his restaurant.

  “Look, Dolla,” he began, “like I said, I’m happy that you’ve got so much faith in me. No doubt. But I don’t want to—”

  “What the fuck are you doing out here?” Dolla Dolla barked, making Ricky jump in his chair and stop midsentence. He seemed to be shouting at someone standing behind them. “Didn’t I tell your ass to stay in the bedroom when I’m doin’ business?”

  Ricky turned slightly to look over his shoulder. A half-naked young woman stood at the hallway entrance, between the living room and the apartment kitchen. She wore an open pink kimono, showing that she wasn’t wearing much else underneath besides a black lace thong an
d a belly ring. Her eyelids were heavy. Her long curly hair hung limply into her face. She held onto the wall to keep her balance. She looked high and out of it.

  “I’m hungry,” she slurred in reply. “I just . . . I just wanted to get somethin’ to eat. That’s all.”

  She pushed the hair out of her eyes, and Ricky did a double take.

  The woman looked a lot like the girl Ricky remembered seeing on Police Officer Simone’s cell phone. She looked a lot like Simone’s little sister, Skylar.

  “This look like a damn cafeteria?” Dolla Dolla roared, rising to his feet. “Just take your stupid ass back to bed! Go back in there!”

  “B-but . . . but,” she stuttered, now trembling, “I just want some crackers or some—”

  “You deaf? Take your ass back to the room, or I’ll knock you back! You heard me!”

  Ricky watched as the girl turned and staggered back down the hall with her head down. She disappeared into one of the rooms and shut the door quietly behind her.

  Dolla Dolla grumbled before lowering himself back onto the sofa and glancing at Ricky. “Bitches,” he muttered. “They more trouble than they worth.”

  Ricky nodded limply, still stunned. “Yeah, I-I feel you,” he stuttered.

  “So what were you saying before that dumb bitch walked in? I hope you weren’t about to tell me no again, Ricky. Cuz I don’t like hearing no.”

  “Not a no, but . . .” Ricky glanced back at the hallway, at the closed bedroom door that the young woman had just walked through. “Let me think it over and see how I can work it out.”

  Dolla Dolla nodded. He was smiling again. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  Chapter 9

  Jamal

  He shouldn’t have done it; he knew it as soon as he opened the files on his desktop computer. Once he started, he felt compelled to keep going, to keep looking. Jamal opened one document, then another, two online news stories, then three more—going farther and farther down the proverbial rabbit hole. He started to ask questions around the office. Light ones that he blended into casual conversation, but the answers fit in the holes to the puzzle he was completing. The more pieces he added, the more his blood went cold.