Get Some

by Pam Ward

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the teller told Vernita. “We don’t honor endorsed-over checks anymore. There’s nothing more I can do.”

  “You are sorry. Now go get the manager, please.” Vernita glanced at her wrist. She wore a fake Cartier watch. “I really don’t have time for this shit.” Vernita rapped her acrylics against the hard marble counter. “Really, it’s only nine hundred and eighty bucks!” Vernita slammed her purse so hard on the counter that a stack of brochures floated down to the floor.

  Trudy finished counting the money and zipped it inside the bank’s blue satchel. She was logging the money on her bank teller ledger. All she had to do was print the receipt.

  The manager came over to the other teller’s window. His horn-rims stared at Vernita’s platinum head. He’d been playing Korean video games at his desk. He hoped this white snob didn’t take long.

  “We don’t cash second-party checks anymore. Please, ma’am, calm down. There’s no need for drama.”

  “Drama?” Vernita scowled. “Shit, this isn’t dramatic. Dramatic is if I decide to leap over this counter and go upside your lopsided head.” Vernita popped her gum in the manager’s face.

  The manager motioned for security to come over.

  No! Trudy thought. This is not good! The guard moved away from the bank’s large front door and now stood right next to her window.

  “What? Am I supposed to be scared?” Vernita raised her eyes over her sunglasses.

  But the security guard aggressively grabbed hold of her arm.

  “What are you doing, you rent-a-cop punk?” Vernita struggled wildly to tear herself free. Her platinum wig shook like a big Christmas tree you struggled to get out of the house.

  The tan-suit man glanced in Vernita’s direction. But he looked back too quickly for Trudy to make the switch. He was anxious. He rapidly tapped with his foot. He wanted Trudy to hurry up so he could get out.

  “Let go of me, fool. Leave me alone.” Vernita was losing the fight with the guard. He was moving her toward the front door.

  No! Trudy thought. She needed Vernita. Trudy was so outdone she could barely breathe now. She watched the security guard yank Vernita toward the front door.

  Trudy printed the receipt for the tan-suit man and zipped it up in the blue vinyl bag with the money. There was nothing left to do but slide him the bag of money. Trudy hesitated but the tan-suit man looked so annoyed she knew she couldn’t wait anymore.

  “Let go of me, punk, I know Johnnie Cochran. Y’all done fucked with the wrong bitch this time!”

  Trudy’s eyes shot to Vernita. What the hell was she doing? She was talking way too ghetto for someone passing as white. The plan was for Vernita to create a mild diversion so Trudy could make the quick switch.

  But it was too late. Vernita was captured. The guard firmly ushered Vernita toward the door.

  “Excuse me,” the tan-suit man said to Trudy. “Really, I don’t have all day.” Trudy had to give him the bag with the money.

  Damn it! Trudy thought. The plan was all ruined. She handed him the blue vinyl bag.

  But somehow Vernita managed to escape. She ran straight toward the tan-suit man’s line, colliding right into his back. Vernita and the man stumbled down toward the floor.

  It was Charles’s turn now. He was waiting for this moment. He’d been moving closer and closer to Trudy’s teller window. “Mail ready, ma’am?” Charles asked her fast.

  Trudy handed him a stack without looking up. She’d slipped the blue bag inside the thick mail pile and handed it quickly to Charles.

  Charles gave Trudy a mail stack too with an identical blue vinyl bank bag tucked inside. This bank bag was the same exact size and weight. Nobody in the bank even noticed the switch. In less than a minute Charles was back at his truck.

  The manager helped the tan-suit man to his feet. The guard hustled Vernita out of the door. The tan-suit man was visibly upset. He smoothed down his suit and straightened his tie. He snatched the blue vinyl bag from Trudy’s window and briskly walked out the front door.

  8

  Ray Ray and Lil Steve

  Ray Ray and Lil Steve nervously waited across the street. They both saw the security guard walk out to the bank lot. He wore the mirrored sunglasses of a cop. Ray Ray didn’t like cops or prison guards either; he kept his squinting eyes clocked on him. Suddenly a blonde in a white linen suit emerged from the bank’s wide glass doors. She walked briskly down the street tilting her head toward the ground. The guard watched the blond woman too.

  Then the tan-suit man came. He walked in a tight, quickened pace and hopped into his car. Ray Ray’s Lincoln idled loudly; the whole inside shook. They watched the tan-suit man tool the champagne Lexus from its spot. He easily pulled his car from the bank’s parking stall. In a few seconds, he’d be on Wilshire.

  “That’s him, homie. Let’s roll.”

  Ray Ray slipped it in Reverse and then shifted into Drive. He floored the car when he took off.

  When the tan-suit man drove out of the bank driveway, the guard nodded at his car. The tan-suit man left the lot.

  “Fuckin’ buster,” Lil Steve said. “I hate muthafuckin narcs.”

  Ray Ray drove the speed limit behind the sparkling-clean Lexus.

  They followed the tan-suit man two car lengths behind. He rolled his car mildly through the street.

  “All right, man. Ease up next to his ass.” Watching the tan-suit out the corner of his eye, Lil Steve said, “That’s right, homie, real slow. We’ll take him on a residential street.”

  They were heading west down Wilshire Boulevard. The Lexus made a right on Beverly. They went another mile or so and made a quick right on Cherry. It was a narrow street lined with immaculately groomed palm trees. The kind of street you see on postcards saying “Greetings from L.A.”

  At the stop sign, Ray Ray pulled right next to the tan-suit man’s car and then sped up and blocked the Lexus’s front tires.

  Ray Ray had a blue bandana tied around his nose and mouth. He took out the grey Smith & Wesson. Lil Steve stayed in the idling car.

  Ray Ray leaped out. He ran to the man’s door. He busted the window out with the handle of his gun and grabbed the front door open wide.

  “Hand me the envelope, white boy, ’fore I blow your bitch-ass face.”

  The tan-suit man was shocked. It all happened so fast. He’d been playing Frank Sinatra’s “Nice and Easy Does It,” and now here was a gun in his jaw.

  “What envelope?” he asked, his voice trembling hard. He was trying to reach the gun he had hidden under his seat.

  But Ray Ray saw the tan-suit man reach for the weapon. He bashed his gun upside the man’s jaw. Blood leaked down from his earlobe.

  “Okay, okay! Please, dear God, don’t shoot.” He shakily removed the envelope from his clutch and handed it over to Ray Ray.

  Lil Steve revved the engine for Ray Ray to come on.

  “Shut up, and start walking down the street,” Ray Ray said.

  The tan-suit man got out and shakily walked away. He slowed down like he was going to turn around.

  “Don’t even think about looking back, bitch, or I’ma haveta grease this fuckin’ curb with your muthafuckin’ brain!”

  Ray Ray leaped in the Lincoln and slammed the door closed. “Let’s go.”

  “Naw, man,” Lil Steve said, opening his door and leaping out. “I’m takin’ the Lex, dude.”

  “Don’t be no fool! Nigga driving a Lexus is bound to get noticed. You know Johnny Law don’t allow no brothers to drive nice rides, especially in no got damn Beverly Hills!”

  “Man, stop tripping. You startin’ to sound like a bitch! Let’s divvy up and meet at the crib in an hour.”

  Suddenly they both heard the loud scream of sirens. Ray Ray still held the blue envelope and his gun.

  “I’m taking the Lexus. We got to split up. They’ll be looking for two. Put that cash down on the fight like we said.” The sirens grew louder. Lil Steve revved the car and did a 18
0. The car made a big skid mark loop in the street. Ray Ray watched him tool that big ride down the next street. That crazy-ass fool didn’t need to take that car too. Nigga made a fuckin’ mistake.

  Ray Ray took off. He drove in the alleys. He wasn’t about to get caught with all of this cash.

  Lil Steve was flying. Racing fast down Wilshire. With one button, he had all the windows rolled down. The sunroof rays danced on his skin. He yanked off Sinatra and turned the radio knob until Tupac boomed loud from the woofers and tweeters.

  He looked in the rearviews. No one was behind him. He found a half-smoked cigar and put it between his teeth, bringing the lighter up close to his face. He exhaled the smoke deeply, blowing it out the window.

  “Now this is it,” he said. “This is the straight-up high life. White folks sho’ know how to live.” Woowee, this was some cool fucking ride. He flicked the ashes out the car window just in time to see the patrol car pull up alongside him.

  Lil Steve tried to look straight ahead, but the cop motioned for him to pull over.

  Lil Steve froze.

  He never saw the cop car coming.

  “Fuck!” he said loudly pulling the ride to the right. He smashed the cigar butt back in the ashtray. Lil Steve heard a loud pounding sound inside his eardrums. His heartbeat thumped just like a bass line.

  Lil Steve watched the cop car get closer and closer. Lil Steve never looked over. He opened his Kools, using his tongue to pull one out. When the lighter’s pink head popped out from the dash, he slowly brought it up to his lips. He had to act cool. Had to manage his breathing as sweat began ripening in his armpits.

  9

  Lil Steve and the LAPD

  He was sweating so badly, his shirt clung to his back like gum on the sole of a shoe. Lil Steve remembered the first time he got popped. It was Beverly Hills too. He and Flash were coming back from a party. They were riding in Flash’s new cranberry Porsche. Flash always had the nicest, cleanest ride in the ’hood. He had a red 911, not one of those chump 914s; it was the baddest car Lil Steve had ever seen. They were just coming down Sunset laughing all loud when the red lights shined on their necks.

  “Pull over now!” the loudspeaker barked.

  The next thing they knew they were facedown on the concrete, fingers woven together behind their necks. The police kept their legs spread a whole forty-five minutes, while they called in to check out the plates. Said they had to wait because the computer was down. Them busters always said that. Kept them sprawled on the street. They never did no white boys like that.

  Turned out all them cornfeds wanted was to watch some black flesh squirm. Johnny Law was liable to yank your card any ol’ time he pleased.

  Lil Steve remembered the cruel humiliation as the other motorists slowed down to watch. He remembered how he felt when the police finally did speak. How a policeman had yanked him up from the concrete with scorn, smashing his face hard against the wall. How their machine-gun questions kept blasting him like bullets. How their racism welled in their mouths and hit him like a big glob of spit.

  “Where are you boys going?”

  “Why are you in Beverly Hills, huh?”

  “Let me see your ID.”

  “Where were you fucks born?”

  “Keep your hands up,” the fat cop screamed in Lil Steve’s face. “I’m not done with you yet!”

  “What’s all this red?” the skinny one asked. “You boys banging or what?”

  The fat one tapped his flashlight against Lil Steve’s head. “Where are you black asses headed?” he asked. “There are no cotton fields around here, boy.” They both got a real good laugh at that. The fat one’s gut shook with joy.

  “Just tell me,” the fat one said, breathing in Lil Steve’s face, “how can some black monkey-ass niggras like you all get a bitching car like this?”

  “Must be dope money,” the skinny cop added.

  “Why’d you stop us?” Flash impatiently asked. “The registration’s good. You got my license. What else do you want me to do?”

  The fat one lowered his baton and jammed the tip in Flash’s throat.

  “Oh, so you’re one of them talking Negros. So maybe you can tell me where you got this car from, huh?”

  Well, the truth was, the car was legit. Flash bought a Porsche frame from a junkyard in Compton. He knocked the dings out and dropped in a Volkswagen engine. Painted the whole thing candy apple red. Flash had his Porsche cherried-out in no time. He liked fat rims and bright lacquer paint jobs. Hand-washed it himself twice a week. He wasn’t about to get pulled over for some busted-taillight crap. Flash kept that Porsche sparkling. Everything on that car worked.

  “Look man, he showed his ID. Why don’t you leave us alone,” Lil Steve said.

  The cop slammed Lil Steve with his wooden baton. Blood oozed out over his tongue.

  “Did I ask you to speak?” the fat one yelled in his face. Lil Steve felt the cop’s spit on his cheek.

  “Busters,” Lil Steve mumbled under his breath.

  “Oh, tough guy!” the fat one said, both his eyes gleaming.

  “Larry, we got a tough guy over here,” he told his partner.

  Both the officers rushed over to Lil Steve and rammed him against the brick wall. The fat one grabbed him and put him in a chokehold while the skinny one held his Taser gun next to his forehead. They slammed him again and his teeth slit his lip.

  “What’s-a matter, tough guy?” the fat cop said, huffing against Lil Steve’s jaw. He slammed his head hard against the wall.

  “Lose your tongue, huh?” He held Lil Steve until his feet dangled off of the ground. Blood flowed out of his nose.

  The other cop cuffed Flash and shoved him inside the patrol car.

  “Man, we didn’t do nothing!” Lil Steve screamed.

  “Shut up,” the fat cop said. “Get in the car, nigger.”

  They smashed Lil Steve inside the backseat. The officers checked for warrants, stolen plates, registration, any crimes that had gone down in the area. Nothing came up on their screen. The car and both of them were totally clean, but those assholes drove them all the way downtown anyway.

  “Okay, let ’em go,” the fat one told his partner, who walked over and uncuffed them both. Flash’s sister picked them up and drove them down to the impound.

  “Man, why’d they pull us over? We didn’t do shit. You wasn’t even driving fast or nothing!” Lil Steve asked Flash, still very much upset.

  “ ’Cause they can,” Flash said, staring at the mountain of cars. “Because them muthafucks can.”

  But all that seemed like a long time ago. Flash had been dead for over two years now. He got shot when someone tried to steal his Porsche.

  Lil Steve stayed focused. He had to be cool. He didn’t want to get caught or go out like Flash. He was as cool as ice lying in the tray.

  Lil Steve kept his head forward. The patrol car eased right against his side. There was no place to run or to hide. Ray Ray was nowhere in sight. Lil Steve removed the pearl-handled gun from his pocket and slipped it underneath the seat. “If they bust me, that brother’ll get to keep all that cash and I’ll get sent up for sho’.”

  The siren got louder.

  Lil Steve stayed glued.

  He kept his face straight. He clicked off the radio. He carefully placed his wallet on the passenger seat next to him. His movements were slow, methodical and measured. He didn’t want 5-0 to ask him to do anything with his hands. He didn’t want to give them an excuse and say he was reaching. Everybody knew how it went down in the ’hood. There were enough brothers who got shot by a cop who claimed they were going for a gun or a weapon, when all they were doing was rolling down the window or getting their wallets from under their seat.

  The heat was not going to fade his black ass.

  The officer got closer; his red and blue light soared. Lil Steve watched the green flashing arrow of his blinker as it loudly beat the leather-bound seats. But something made him pull his head off to the left.
He saw the cop slow down and stare at him hard, then sped up and pulled over the car in front of him.

  Mexicans! It was some muthafuckin’ Mexicans they were after. Lil Steve blew out a huge sigh of relief. He watched the cop pull the Chevy truck over; three men were riding in the front.

  “That’s right,” he said to himself. “Get them, busters.” He zoomed down La Cienega Boulevard and hopped on the 10 Freeway and then took the 110 heading south. He took out his cell phone and dialed Reggie.

  “Hey, man, I got one. Can I bring it by? Yeah, I’m riding in it right now. Cool. I’m coming right now.” He pushed down the phone and put it back inside his pocket. He exited the 110, made a quick left off Gage and rode the rest of the way on back surface roads. He took out the cigar and pushed the ashtray back in.

  “Damn, these rides is sweet,” he said to himself. He opened up the glove compartment to see what was inside. There were some sunglasses and a black Donna Karan cologne bottle, designed to look just like a gun. He put both of those items in his pocket. Way in the back of the glove compartment was a tiny black box. He pulled it out with one hand and lifted the lid when he got to the light. When he looked inside, Lil Steve almost rammed the car in front.

  “Got damn!” he said. Inside the black box was a giant pinkie ring smothered in giant inlaid diamonds.

  Lil Steve licked his finger and jammed the ring on. It was tight, but it fit.

  “Oh, yeah,” Lil Steve said. “Y’all can say what you want, but look at Stevie-baby now.” He smiled and hung his left hand out the window so he could see the brilliant diamonds hit the sun.

  “Yep, this is some real shit here.”

  He looked back at the box and noticed the tiny edge of a piece of plastic coming out. Below the black fabric of the jewelry box was a tiny plastic bag with about 5 grams of cocaine.

  “Well, merry Christmas, baby. We done hit the Lotto this time, nigga.” Lil Steve pulled up to an old metal warehouse with a raggedy metal garage door that rolled up with a chain.