Trust in No Man

by Cash

  “Meet me in Englewood,” Rich Kid said with the air of authority his major dope boy status gave him in the hood, and amongst niggaz like me, looking to come up.

  This time there were no King and other niggaz from Rich Kid’s crew awaiting my arrival. None of that patting me down routine, etcetera, etcetera.

  Rich Kid and I arrived in front of Poochie’s old apartment at the same time. I was in my truck. Rich Kid was the passenger in a big boy Benz. A fine jet-black honey was pushin’ his whip.

  Rich Kid stepped out, walked over to my truck and got in. I guess he trusted me after the job I had done for him in Alabama.

  Still, I could see the print of a heater in the waistline of Rich Kids pants, under the silk shirt he wore untucked. I peeped his profile: Rich Kid stayed sharp everytime I’d seen him. He didn’t rock baggy jeans, big jerseys, Timbs or other b-boy, rap gear. Rich Kid rocked silk, rayon and shit foreign to me such as ‘gator belts and shoes and mad Sean John hookups. Even Armani and other fly shit that exclamated his major baller status.

  Rich Kid was only five years older than me, but he had the presence of a nigga twice his age. Some people were just born grown. Plus, he had blown up so large while I was in prison, his success just hyped his style even more. I wasn’t all on his dick, though. I despised jock riders. Yet I was not a hater, I gave props to any nigga that mastered his game. The streets was a dog eat dog. The Big Dog ate first and left the scraps and crumbs for the puppies. Rich Kid was already a Big Dog, regulating shit. I had to give him his props.

  “Whud up, lil’ nigga?” he greeted me.

  I said, “You tell me. You da Big Dog, toss a puppy a crumb.”

  “Big Dogs were once puppies themselves, Youngblood. Stay real with those who are real to you and you’ll grow. Bet blood on that,” Rich Kid shot back.

  “True dat,” I agreed.

  “Pull up your shirt,” Rich Kid said, matter of fact, though I digested it as an order.

  I hesitated, not because I didn’t understand what Rich Kid was stressing, but he had come from out of left-field, catching me off guard.

  “Pull up your shit, lil’ nigga,” he repeated. When I did, he looked me over and then patted me down, running his hands over my body, making a nigga uncomfortable. “Just making sure you ain’t wired,” stated Rich Kid.

  It blowed me to know that dude could even consider me capable of being an informant, especially after what I’d done for him already. Not to mention I’d done juvenile time and time in the pen, never rolling over on anybody.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” I said, feeling like I’d been disrespected. Big Dog or not, this nigga was out of bounds. “I ain’t never snitched or informed on friend or enemy!” I continued angrily. “If you think I’m suspect, we got no rap for each other.”

  “Calm yourself, Youngblood,” Rich Kid responded without any change of expression or demeanor. “A nigga in my position can’t afford to take things for granted. I get caught slippin’, I fall and bust my head.”

  Rich Kid went on to explain that many boss hustlers were in the Feds doing stiff time because those they trusted had turned informant.

  He further explained that he hadn’t seen me in months and I could’ve gotten knocked and was willing to rat my way out of going back to prison.

  “If Sammy the Bull can turn on Gotti, anybody can turn informant,” Rich Kid reasoned. I saw his point but I wasn’t no goddamn snitch. “Don’t trip it, lil’ nigga. If you ain’t got nothing to hide, you should never be vexed if I ask to check. Feel me?”

  “I guess,” I relented.

  “Anyway, let’s step out the car and rap about a lil’ business.” Rich Kid told me that he wanted me to slump this dope boy who was dropping weight in some of his territories and making the block hot ‘cause the dope boy didn’t have an organized crew.

  He just fronted dope to niggaz and let them go for self. Slangin’ crack wasn’t my hustle, but I understood what Rich Kid was stressing and how dropping weight on a block, without a crew handling it, could fuck up the scene. See, when a crew was holding down a hood, the game was in check.

  All the dope on the block was the same quality, same size rocks. The sellers are usually working on a weekly salary, so there’ was no beef over who a crackhead brought from. All the loot ended up going to the same Big Dog anyway.

  But when niggaz rolled solo on the same block with a crew of slangers, there was gonna be mad beef. The niggaz rollin’ solo gotta slang hard, ‘cause their pay was predicated on how much they sold.

  They tried to short-stop customers before they get to the regular crew slangers. That led to pistol play, which brought the heat, the cops.

  And that was only one of the problems independent slangers caused a crew. There was a list of others.

  Of course, independent slangers had their problems. They lacked the protection a crew offered. It was a simple case of numbers. A robber would rather draw down on one nigga than a gang of ‘em.

  I knew Rich Kid could solve his problem by ordering his crew to ride dirty on the solo niggaz go to war, wipe them out one by one until the others were afraid to show up on the block. But turf wars brought around-the-clock heat from the po-po, which meant loot couldn’t be made. Rich Kid wasn’t having that. So he’d decided to eliminate the dope boy who was supplying the solo slangers. Smart move.

  “You’ll probably need a partner,” said Rich Kid. I immediately thought of Lonnie. “You can use Lonnie. Y’all still cool, right?” h

  “No doubt,” I confirmed.

  “Don’t tell him I’m involved, though. Our business ain’t his.” Rich Kid said with emphasis.

  I nodded in agreement.

  Rich Kid looked me in the eyes. I guess he was trying to read me on whether I’d tell Lonnie who had hired us or not. I would give Lonnie the heads up, but I doubt it showed in my eyes. Shit, I trusted Lonnie more than I trusted Rich Kid, or anyone else in the world.

  “Who’s the lucky fellow?” I asked, wanting the name of the nigga who was about to die but didn’t know it.

  The nigga was probably somewhere planning shit for next week, next month. Maybe even for next year, while we plotted the termination of his life in a fifteen or twenty-minute meeting.

  “You know that nigga Freddie?”

  “Which Freddie?” I asked, to be sure.

  “Freddie who’s supposed to be kin to Hannibal,” Rich Kid clarified.

  My head dropped. There went a lick down the drain.

  “I can’t do it,” I said clearly.

  “Huh?”

  Rich Kid looked at me like he didn’t comprehend.

  “I can’t do it,” I repeated.

  Without divulging any details of the thing I’d done for Freddie, I explained to Rich Kid that I had put in work for Freddie in the past and I never did dirt to a man I’ve done work for, unless that man did dirt to me first.

  It was like this: I considered it foul to hit somebody for Freddie and then turn around and hit Freddie for someone else. I’d be eliminating future business if I smoked Freddie. But more importantly, it went against my principles. Rich Kid had to respect that, ‘cause it also meant I wouldn’t hit Rich Kid for anyone, unless he did me a bad first.

  “I feel you,” he said, respectfully. “I didn’t know y’all were like that.”

  “We ain’t like nothing, but business.” I could see the wheels turning in Rich Kid’s head. Finally, he spoke. “I wouldn’t want you to tell Freddie what’s in store for him.

  “Freddie’s a big boy, he has to look out for himself.” And I meant that. It wasn’t my beef.

  “Good.” Rich Kid nodded, wheels still spinning. “What if it was me?” he asked. “Would you tell me somebody was gonna hit me?”

  I didn’t have to think about my answer, I spoke up quickly, “Nah, you’re a big boy, too. You can handle whatever comes your way.”

  “Most definitely.” He dapped me up and we parted ways.

  As I drove back to my crib, I
shook my head at the fickleness of life. How the pieces and players came together; how a nigga could be on death row and not even know it. I wondered what possessed Freddie to drop weight in Rich Kid’s territory. Was it greed? Probably. Was it stupidity? Definitely. Unless Freddie thought Rich Kid was slippin’, growing soft.

  Sometimes too much ghetto success did that to a nigga. He started figuring he had too much to lose to kill a nigga over turf. That was usually when he got killed himself, if he stayed in the game.

  I didn’t know what made niggaz choose the dope game years ago, and I still didn’t have the answer.

  All I knew were three things: the dope game still wasn’t for me. Freddie was living on borrowed time and I was ‘bout to go by Poochie’s and get my fuck on.

  CHAPTER 17

  When I called Poochie from the pay phone, she told me she was waiting on a cab to come take her to the hospital.

  Shotgun Pete had jumped on Shan and beat her up really bad.

  “Where’s Lil’ T?” That was my only concern. Fuck Shan! I couldn’t care less if she died.

  “Shan’s neighbor is keeping him,” Poochie said.

  “Call them and tell ‘em I’m coming by to get my son.”

  “Okay. But don’t go over there and get into it with ugly ass Pete,” Poochie warned.

  She could’ve saved the wind it took to say those few words. That was the last thing in the world on my mind. But I didn’t say that to Poochie. Shan was still her daughter. Besides, I was struggling not to laugh.

  I shot by Cheryl’s and scooped her up before going to get Lil’ T.

  Back at my crib, all of us were eating McDonald’s, Lil’ T said, “Daddy? You got a bunch of girlfriends.”

  “Boy, shut your bad ass up!” I told him, laughing my ass off. I didn’t know where he got that shit from, he’d only met Brenda and Cheryl. And Brenda was history.

  “Don’t tell him to shut up ‘cause he telling on yo’ ass. What’s your daddy’s other girlfriend’s names, Lil’ T?” Cheryl fed him some of her French fries, trying to make my son snitch.

  Lil’ T ate her french fries, although he had his own. Then he said, “I don’t know. He ain’t got no other girlfriends.” Flippin’ the script on Cheryl and playing the bitch out of her fries.

  Cheryl and my son fought for my attention through two movies I’d rented. Lil’ T wanted to sit on my lap and tell me about his mommy and Pete fighting. Cheryl wanted to lay her head on my shoulder and tell me everybody’s business.

  Finally, Lil’ T went to sleep. I carried him back to the bedroom, undressed him and put him to bed. I’d make him bathe in the morning.

  As soon as I came back in the living room and sat on the couch, Cheryl was all on me, like chest hairs. I kissed her lil’ hot ass. I wanted to fuck, too.

  She said, “I love you.” I tried to play deaf. “Did you hear me?” she whispered, looking up at me with big, brown doe eyes. “I said, I love you.”

  “Damn! Why you gotta go there?” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “‘Cause I do love you,” she insisted.

  I covered her mouth with my hand. “Don’t tell nobody,” I whispered, but Cheryl wasn’t letting me out that easy.

  “Do you love me back?” she prodded.

  “Let’s discuss it when my dick ain’t so hard. I’ll say anything while my nuts are hot,” I laughed, hoping to change the vibe.

  “You always trying to be funny. Dag,” Cheryl pouted.

  “I can’t get none of that good stuff?” I rubbed between her legs.

  “Tell me you love me.” She rubbed between mine.

  We went back and forth like this for what seemed like forever.

  Finally, my dick was about to break, it was so hard. Our clothes were unbuttoned.

  “I love you,” I submitted. By now we both were damn near naked, so I couldn’t hold out any longer.

  “Show me,” Cheryl purred, low and sexy as hell. She lay back on the couch and opened her legs wide.

  I hadn’t eaten her pussy before, but I was hungry to do it tonight. I was pretty sure Cheryl hadn’t been spreading it around since we’d hooked up. Pretty sure, but not absolutely, ‘cause a nigga never knew ‘bout a bitch. You could keep them locked in a bathroom, and they’d fuck out the window if they wanted to fuck around.

  I gave the pussy the stinky finger test. It passed so I proceeded on.

  I kissed my way down that pretty red body, taking my time so Cheryl would be good and wet and hot when I got down to that pussy and the magic little button. Shan’s bitch ass had taught me that.

  I licked and teased until Cheryl was moaning and pushing my head. I teased her some more. She tried to force my mouth down to the pussy. But I skipped right by it and licked the inside of her thighs.

  She was damn near crying.

  “Pleeeaaasse! Stop teasing me, baby!” Cheryl moaned.

  I stopped teasing.

  Cheryl screamed so loud she scared me. But it made me feel ten-feet tall. The bitch wasn’t faking, either. Her legs were shaking and she was crying, mumbling crazy shit.

  “Why you doing me like this? You gon’ leave me and break my heart. Oouuu—Ahhhh—Damn!”

  I stuck my finger up her ass and sucked on her clit. Her knees clamped my head like a vise grip.

  “I’m cuming!” she moaned. “Ahhh—Ahhh_Ahhh—Shit—Ahhh!”

  When Cheryl calmed down, my face felt like a glazed doughnut.

  After she regained her senses, I came up and kissed her. She tapped me on my shoulder and said, “Look.”

  Lil’ T was standing there looking at us!

  “Daddy? What you was doing between her legs?” I didn’t know what else to say, so I told him Cheryl was sick and I was checking her temperature.

  “What?” he said like his lil’ ass didn’t believe me.

  “She got a fever. I had to check her temperature,” I lied again.

  “Oh,” my son said. Like he hadn’t heard me the first time.

  I just hoped Shan or Poochie never caught a fever and told Lil’ T.

  He might ask to check their temperature.

  Lil’ T wouldn’t go back to sleep for shit. I knew his lil’ ass was sleepy.

  I was ‘bout to die! So Cheryl got a blanket, laid her head on my lap and covered herself with the blanket so my son couldn’t see what she was doing. I distracted Lil’ T by pretending like I was watching TV with him while Cheryl gave me some head. That had me busting in five minutes. Then I went to sleep on both of them.

  Two days later, when I dropped Lil’ T off at Poochie’s crib, Shan was there with her little baby. Shan’s face was fucked up! Both her eyes were black and her nose was fractured. Her lips were swollen so big they looked like a baseball catcher’s mitt. She tried to turn her head away from me and Lil’ T when we walked into the apartment.

  I didn’t say shit to her. I spoke to Poochie.

  With her head turned away, Shan mumbled through her bubble lips, “Why didn’t you let him stay with you ‘til my face went down? I didn’t want him to see me like this.” Sounded like she was crying.

  I said, “Yo’ face might never go down.”

  “If it do, that nigga gon’ swell it up again,” Poochie added. Shan couldn’t say shit.

  Lil’ T went to his mama and hugged her. Shan was a stank bitch to me. To Lil’ T, she was the world.

  Poochie took the little baby from Shan and tended to it. Honestly, I didn’t even know if that baby was a girl or boy. I damn sho’ ain’t know its name. It was Lil’ T’s sister or brother, but it was zero to me. That’s just the truth about how I felt.

  Lil’ T was asking Shan a hundred questions, trying to touch her black and blue face. She was crying, head down.

  I wanted to laugh.

  After leaving Poochie’s apartment, I stopped at the corner store to buy some phillies. It tripped me out when I ran into one of Shan’s dope boy-chasing girlfriends, and she had the nerve to ask me if I was gonna step to Shotgun Pete ‘bo
ut beating up Shan.

  “That ain’t my biz,” I said. “Shan chose the nigga. Now she is getting what she gets.”

  “She still yo’ baby mama.”

  “So! She got a baby by Pete, too,” I reminded Shan’s friend.

  “He only be jumping on her ‘cause he know she wanna leave his ugly ass and get back with you,” the friend claimed.

  I laughed. “I’ll stick my dick in a pit bull’s mouth before I fuck with Shan again,” I made it clear.

  “Why you trippin’? Everybody makes mistakes. That girl still loves you, she tell me that all the time.”

  “Too bad. I don’t love her.”

  “Youngblood, you got a lot of nerve being mad at Shan. You fucked her mama.” She said like she was there.

  I can lie with the best of ‘em, though. “Bitch, you done bumped yo’ head! I wouldn’t fuck Poochie wit’ yo’ dick!” I swore, straight-faced.

  “I don’t have a dick, nigga! But you fucked Poochie wit’ yours!” She fired right back at me.

  “Where you and Shan get that shit from?”

  “Pete told Shan about it. He said you used to tell him and Lonnie about it all the time,” the friend confessed.

  “Like that nigga tongue is notarized!” I was pissed that Shotgun Pete would go that route to get Shan.

  What else would he tell to get what he wanted? I knew I would kill that nigga one day; I just didn’t know when.

  I really didn’t hear the rest of playgirl’s rap, ‘cause she could politic for Shan forever, but I wasn’t taking that bitch back. A nigga had to have principles he wouldn’t break for nobody, but Shotgun Pete wasn’t built like that. His bitch ass was flawed to the core.

  It’s cool. Ima deal with his ass before it’s all said and done, I promised myself.

  A few days later, I ran across Shotgun Pete at a BP gas station. The nigga looked bad. He’d been ugly from day one, but dude was rawed out. I mean, he damn near looked like a crackhead. He was putting gas in a beat up, old Impala with only two hubcaps. I was pushing my Lex truck with Cheryl riding shotgun, looking like Beyoncé from Destiny’s Child.

  As if on cue, Cheryl got out the whip and strutted inside of the gas station.