Ghetto Girls

by Anthony Whyte

  “Coco, see, I don’t want you to be running wid them wild-ass girls, Da Crews or whatever, ‘cause they gonna get you hurt, killed. That’s why you want me to stay in, so you could be wild.”

  “That’s not it. You’re really better off on the inside. Anyway, one ain’t really got nothing to do with the other. I mean…”

  “You mean, you mean, you mean. Listen, you better start paying attention to what’s popping off around you before you wind up shot or killed. See, this is just the thing.”

  “Ma, I told you she was hanging wid these fake-ass gangstas.”

  “Excuse me, young lady. Just watch your mouth. You ain’t talking to your buddies on the damn street.”

  “Sorry, but you keep going on about…”

  “I know what I’m saying. People dropping around you like flies. What makes you think you’re so special? Now that girl Danielle, wasn’t she part of the group from your school?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, just imagine. Her parents, they probably tried to talk to her before, but no. Young people, they know what’s right cause they’ve been parents before.”

  “Look, Mommy. You’re gonna be late for your meeting.”

  “I know there was another reason for all this staying inside shit. But I’m gonna be out watching what you’re doing.”

  “Ma, I’ll be back to see you, cause you’re bugging.”

  “Yeah, I’m bugging, right. We’ll see.”

  “I don’t mean it that way. All I’m saying is, nobody knows for sure, alright?”

  “Well I suggest you start taking shit a little more serious, Miss Coco. Everything happening to everyone else and not to Coco is not the way to look at things.”

  “Okay already, mommy. Don’t beat me over the head wid that.”

  “And I’ll be sure to let Miss Katie know, so she can keep tighter control. She’ll love that part.”

  “Yeah mommy, sure, alright.”

  “What if…”

  “Mommy, you’re gonna be late for your meeting. I’ll come and see you again. Take care of yourself and think about staying for the residential treatment.”

  “Residential program. Yeah, so you can run the streets...”

  “I told you it’s not like that.”

  “Alright, alright already. I said I’d think about this residential thing. Now you better get straight home. Do you have car-fare?”

  “Yeah, mommy, I do.”

  “Take care of yourself, Coco,” Mrs. Harvey said. She patted her daughter’s sagging shoulders.

  Coco turned and hugged the recovering shell of her mother.

  “Mommy, please…” Coco’s last attempt was cut off by another knock.

  “Time,” the voice said.

  “Okay, ”Mrs. Harvey called. She squeezed Coco’s hand. “I gotta go, baby.”

  “See ya, Mom.” Coco whirled into the hallway. The meeting was at the end of the corridor. Coco had the opportunity to observe a number of recovering addicts. They appeared to gain strength as they got closer to the meeting place.

  Outside, Coco eased into her bop again as she made her way down the darkened streets. Danielle stayed on her mind, her death recorded in snapshots. Coco searched for answers. Coco halted as she recognized Rightchus.

  “Whuz-zup?” Coco asked. The greeting came like a demand, but she couldn’t take it back.

  “Chill, Coco, I ain’t trying to rush you or nothing. I’m just chilling. You know wha’ I’m saying?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sure mo’fucka. You weren’t trying to rush me, huh, yo?”

  “Nah, Coco, that ain’t my style. Coco, I’m saying, I saw you, and so I’m stepping to you like a brother to a sister. You know wha’ I’m saying?”

  “A brother, huh? A brother? Then, brother you better start cleaning up your shit. You feel me?”

  “I’m a righteous black man,” Rightchus yelled placing the palm of his right hand on his chest.

  “Save it, yo. I ain’t got time for da B.S.,” Coco said. She extended her arm, her palm blocking Rightchus’ mug.

  “Why you wanna play me like that?”

  “Because you’re a crack head. Is that reason enough, yo?” Coco asked as she made a move to leave. “I ain’t got time for front’n ass niggas like you. I’m bouncing.”

  “Coco, before you step, I got sump’n to say. Hear me out,” Rightchus said. Coco hesitated. She saw the plea in Rigtchus’ eyes and she waited.

  “Ahight yo, kick da shit. Then step da fuck off.”

  “Ahight, remember da shooting a week or so ago?”

  “What shooting? Every day people getting popped, yo.”

  “Yeah, but I’m saying da shooting wid Deja and da honey from your building.”

  “You mean Bebop?”

  “Honey wuz in da wrong place at da wrong time. See, them mo’fuckas were out to smoke Deja.”

  “Whoa! Hold up. Who’s them mo’fuckas, yo?”

  “Cool, I’m a tell ya soon enough. Someone put out a contract for a hit on Deja. Some shit that he raped a girl an’ jacked her ride and shit. You wuz supposed to be involved and all.”

  “Wait up, yo. Deja was killed because he raped a girl?”

  “Yeah, her uncle is, um, what’s his name, uh...”

  “You mean Eric Ascot?”

  “Word, that’s da one.”

  “Wait up. You ain’t nothing but a crack head. Why da fuck should I believe your ass, huh?” For a minute Coco thought he could be right. Maybe Deja’s killing was a hit. Coco stared at Rightchus and thought about what he had told her.

  “I’m saying, if you don’t believe me, check da stats. Check da stats, baby. Someone set up Deja to be killed. You and I know he ain’t rape the girl. Them wuz two niggas sent by the devil.”

  “You bugging out or what?”

  “I’m saying.”

  “I’m saying you da crack head. Why you wanna stress?”

  “Stress? Coco, da muthafucka killed my man, my nigga, my ace boom.”

  “Yeah, yeah, and all that. So what? What did you do? Smoke some crack, yo?”

  “I’m saying them niggas. Them’s da one responsible for your friend’s death. And you know they hit that Spanish girl and da big dude she was wid. Them’s Lil’ Long and Vulcha. Coco, it’s gonna take a nation to hold them mo’fuckas back.”

  “You’re saying that Lil’ Long wid da ‘fro and that guy wid da trunk-of-funk Navigator, always partying, they been shooting up da town like that, yo? Why don’t you go to the cops, then?”

  “C’mon! And sell da brothers out like that? Be real, Coco. I’d rather see shit stay da same. Gotta stay real, you feel me?”

  “So why you choose to stop me and try to feed all this bullshit to my ass, huh?”

  “Yo, Coco, listen up. I ain’t trying a run a game on you or nothing, but them niggas get picked up by the cops and come back wid bags of muthafucking dough. I’m talking G’s and triple G’s. Now, is them niggas working for da police, or what? I’m serious!” Rightchus yelled. Coco doubled over in laughter.

  “You’re saying…ha, ha, ha…Lil’ Long and Vulcha, them false hoods, they working for da police? How deep is their cover?” Coco howled. Rightchus stared, amazed at Coco’s reaction. She seemed to choke with laughter.

  “I know you think I’m only a crack head, but I’m a street person who has knowledge of what’s going down an’ so on. When you check da stats you’ll see. Boom! Rightchus was right. You gonna say, ‘yo, Coco, boom.’ Can I get five dollars? Yo, help a brother out. You a top celebrity an’ all that.”

  “Muthafucka, now you clocking my papers, too? How you living? Here’s a buck to start the scramble.” Coco handed Rightchus a dollar bill. He clasped it in both hands. Rightchus was gone as quickly as he had come. Coco continued her walk home. When she reached the building, Coco stopped and opened the door to her mother’s place. She paused and turned on the lights. The one bedroom glowed with a putrid scent. She went to the window and gazed out. Coco saw the street people
, once more, scrambling around like rats.

  She wondered if any of them bothered to clean their apartments, or if they even had places to live. She cleaned the dirty kitchen first, and finished in the living room in the wee hours of the morning. Exhausted, Coco took a shower and passed out in front of the television.

  A knock at the door awoke her. She opened the door for Miss Katie.

  “Hey, Coco, I heard you coming in last night. What happened? You didn’t even stop by.”

  “I uh…”

  “What a neat place. How’d you manage to keep it like this?”

  Coco was not prepared for this barrage. She yawned and rubbed her reddened eyes.

  “Oh, once you get the hang of it, it’s kinda easy to keep it going, you know?”

  “It looks real good,” Miss Katie said. She walked around the apartment, inspecting like a doting mother.

  “I would offer you sump’n to drink, but I haven’t gone shopping,” Coco added jokingly.

  “Oh, don’t worry. Stop by when you’re dressed, before you go to school. You are going to school, right, Coco?” Miss Katie asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, sure. I’ll stop by, Miss Katie.”

  “So, will I see you later, Coco?”

  “Sure, okay Miss Katie. I’ll see you.”

  Coco glanced around the apartment proudly. She knew there were still things to do, but right now, she needed an education. Shrugging, she made her way to the bathroom to get ready for school.

  Coco walked out to the moist feel of the morning’s air. Pausing, she lit a cigarette. She watched as people hustled back and forth through the building, not really going anywhere. Miss Katie, also the keen observer, watched the scene.

  At school, people stared at Coco, asking insinuating questions. Teachers offered sympathy in obvious attempts to get the latest nasty rumors about Danielle. Coco searched for Josephine or Deedee, but neither were in school. She spotted the notice of Danielle’s death displayed on the same bulletin board with announcements of parties. She left the building feeling disgusted.

  Coco wandered through the streets. Who could be next, she thought, walking aimlessly. The cigarette dangling from her dried lips made the frown she wore even more pronounced. For the tenth time, she tried to call Josephine from a public phone. She got no answer and slammed the receiver into its cradle. She had left messages earlier, but there were no return calls. She decided not to leave any more messages. Where was Josephine? Damn! Where are friends when you need them?

  Coco went up on the roof of her building and wept for Danielle and Bebop. Danielle had seemed so happy, Bebop so hopeful. Both happiness and hope was vanquished by the itch on someone’s index finger. She remembered the Polaroid shots of Danielle’s once vibrant body. They didn’t even try to cover her face—or lack of a face. Coco gasped for air. She touched the spot where the fist had struck her a few weeks earlier. Deedee had also been raped. These incidents bore new friendships, but there were so many old ones gone forever. Coco rummaged through the pockets of her sagging blue jeans, in search of Deedee’s phone number. She found the number and dialed quickly. Deedee answered.

  “So how’re you handling it?” Deedee asked. The question hung in the air.

  “Ah, as best as I can. But you’re gonna be at the wake, right, yo?

  “Well, we’ll…I’ll see you there. Take care.”

  “Okay. Listen, if you feel like talking, feel free.”

  “Okay, see ya.”

  “Alright, bye.”

  Coco wanted to say more, but the words never made it pass the barrier of her throat. She inhaled deeply on her cigarette, filling her mouth with smoke, and blew it into the receiver.

  Coco no longer felt alone. Her bop became brisk as she headed to a corner store for cigarettes, gum and a soda. She placed a cigarette to her lips. She reached for her lighter, someone flicked a light to her cigarette.

  “Thanks, yo,” Coco said.

  “Let me get one o’ those stogies,” the intruder said.

  “Now because you gave me a light, you gonna jack me for a smoke, huh, yo?”

  “I’m sorry to hear ‘bout Danielle dying, y’know, Coco.”

  “Yeah, that’s peace, yo. Here have the stogie,” Coco said and eased into her bop. Somehow the name of her best friend who was now murdered brought so much pain to her heart, that it became difficult for her to breathe. She tried to hold it in but couldn’t. Coco hummed as her tears flowed. She sang the song from Danielle’s repertoire was a Diana Ross classic.

  “Touch me in the morning then just walk away, we don’t have tomorrow but we had yesterday... Wasn’t it you who said that nothing good’s gonna last forever? Wasn’t it yesterday that we were laughing spending time together and didn’t we run away…”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Eric drove slowly and joined the traffic entering the city. His cellular phone rang.

  “Whassup?” It was Busta. I hope he doesn’t want to hang out, Eric thought. I’ve got to pick up my girl.

  “Yeah, so how’re you doing, B.?”

  “E., we gotta talk.”

  “Ahight. Yeah, let’s. When? If it’s about Da Crew, I’ve got ‘em booked for two weeks in the studio.”

  “Nah, nah. That’s another story, E. I’ve gotta talk to you now.”

  “Right now? Busta, I’m on my way to get my girl. We have a date. I’ve got to check back with you on that tip...”

  “E., hear me out. Hear me out. We hit da wrong fucking nigga, homey.”

  “Whoa. What?” Eric stuttered.

  He swerved to a stop, almost side-swiping a car.

  “Hey, asshole, get da fuck off the phone before it gets your ass killed,” the other driver yelled.

  Eric pulled over to the curb and stopped.

  “Meet me uptown at Mr. Gee’s, Eric.” The click followed.

  Eric floored the gas, rejoining the traffic. What had gone wrong? he wondered to himself. Deedee said it was Deja. He quickly dialed home. No answer. He checked his watch. It was seven-fifteen. He dialed Sophia’s number.

  “Hi, Baby...”

  “Where are you?” Sophia asked.

  “Baby, what time does this thing start?”

  “My partnership banquet, which I deserve, starts at eight-thirty, sharp. We should be there by nine, sugar plum. And your niece says ‘hi.’ And no meetings, sugar. Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. I’ve gotta meet with Busta.”

  “Oh, no. No more auditions.” This came out scathingly. Sophia was not holding back. “When you guys get together, it’s like you get lost in some type of childhood business and I get left out. No!”

  “Listen babe, I’ll meet you there by nine-thirty at the latest.”

  “You’re only saying that. Eric, your niece would like to speak to you.”

  “Put her on, babe.” Eric said. A second later Deedee’s voice was heard on the receiver: “Uncle E.,”

  “What’s the deal Dee?”

  “Don’t be trying to play out my good buddy for nobody else, Uncle E. Tonight is her night. Do you follow that, Uncle?”

  “Yeah, I do, but where do you get off talking that kinda talk to your uncle? You’re supposed to be looking out,” Eric said.

  “Well, I’m looking out for the best for both of you,” Deedee said.

  “Appreciate it. Now put your buddy back on. Talk to ya later, Deedee.”

  “Listen, Mr. E., be there, okay? I mean it,” Sophia said.

  “Honey, I’ll call if…”

  “Don’t call. Just be there, Eric… Are you there? Damn, I think I lost him. Well, he knows the place, time, where, how and why.” Sophia pressed the end button.

  Eric gazed at the flashing low-battery signal. “Shit!” He yelled and then concentrated on the traffic. Within minutes he was at Gee’s club. He went through the heavy red wooden door, passed the beefy security. Inside, Busta beckoned to him. Eric felt a trickle of sweat down his spine. He smiled uneasily and made his way to Busta.

&nb
sp; “Hey E., what’s up?” Busta gave him a hearty hug and a closed-fist shake.

  “What’s popping, Busta? You better cut down on your visits to the kitchen.”

  “No, see, when I get nervous I eat a whole lot more fried foods. Chicken? Send us a bucket over to the booth, honey.” Busta gave the order to a passing waitress.

  “A bucket?” Eric echoed.

  “Yeah, yeah, man. A mo’fucking bucket. They have some good stuff up in here. Why, you have a problem?” Busta sounded husky, threatening. He continued to sip from a glass of beer. He held his tongue. Eric had to do the talking.

  “Okay, okay Busta.”

  “We buried the wrong man. You know wha’ I’m saying?” Busta said.

  “No, I don’t know what you’re saying. So please tell me what da fuck you’re talking about, Busta.”

  “I’m talking ‘bout that hit, E. We…that guy, Deja. He was-n’t da one who raped your niece. He was just a well-connected, small-time drug dealer,” Busta said, his voice lowered to a raspy whisper.

  The mellow sound of a clarinet, in the form of a jazz riff, came through the speakers. It collided head-on with Busta’s heart-stopping message. Eric sat back and glanced around at the other patrons, as if waiting for someone to read him his rights. Had he done something wrong? He tugged at his nose, where sweat had suddenly formed. Busta noticed, as did the waitress who brought Busta’s chicken.

  “May I get you anything else, gentlemen?”

  “E., don’t sweat that shit. Yeah, couple o’ beers and extra napkins. Shit happens daily, man. I mean...”

  “Busta, Deedee was calling this guy’s name in her sleep,” Eric said. He raised his brows. “She was saying, ‘get off me... get off me... stay away from me, Deja.’ She told me he was trying to rape her again. I’m sure it was this fucking drug-dealing Deja. It had to be him or his peoples. Either way, somebody had to pay.”

  “E., let me tell you, man. I got da word. I mean…”

  “What word, B.?”

  “E., I got da fucking word,” Busta repeated.

  Eric Ascot’s attention drifted back to the music piped into the night club. He wanted silence. For once, the music haunted him. It sent chills down his back and he broke out in a sweat. Patrons laughed and drank. He thought of his brother. The police had done nothing.