Trust in No Man

by Cash

  On the side of the basketball court, a crap game caught my interest. I put my heater against my waist, under my Braves short-sleeve jersey, just in case a fool put some ill shit in the craps game.

  “Yo! What his point is?” I asked, nudging myself into the circle, my fist grippin’ a knot of twenties.

  “His point six.”

  “I bet six or eight, twenty,” I said, meaning I wanted to bet $20 that the shooter would roll a total of six or eight before he crapped out.

  “I bet he don’t,” somebody challenged me, dropping a twenty-dollar bill on the ground next to mine.

  Two rolls later, the shooter crapped out, losing my twenty.

  “Who next on the dice? I’ll buy your turn,” I yelled. Forty dollars got me on the dice. I checked them to make sure they weren’t loaded, fixed to crap out.

  “The dice straight,” some nigga said.

  “Fool, let me put insurance on my money.” I saw that the dice were good so I laid down twenty dollars as an opening bet and rolled the dice against a wall.

  An hour later, I added eleven hundred to my pocket stash. The losers were mad when I quit.

  A big bully-ass nigga named Charlie was the maddest.

  “Nigga, you ain’t gon’ gimme a chance to win my money back!” His tone was threatening, as he followed me.

  I turned around about halfway to my whip and lifted up my T-shirt, letting the fool see my heater.

  “It ain’t yo’ money no more, nigga!” I spat back.

  Charlie peeped I was strapped. He stopped in his tracks and yelled out some stupid shit just trying to save face. I let his studio-gangsta words bounce off of my back. Fuck him! I had his loot in my pocket, no need to bust a cap in his ass just to prove something that niggaz already knew—I would light a spark in a nigga!

  Anyway, I knew that Charlie was just running off at the mouth ‘cause he was stupid like that.

  I dipped, eleven hundred richer.

  That night I put on some fresh gear and headed to a shake-a-booty club called The Passion Palace. The club had just recently opened. I’d heard advertisements on the radio and the streets were giving it thumbs up.

  Once inside, I saw that The Passion Palace was a little too upscale for my taste. I was more comfortable in a grimy, hole-in-the-wall joint, where bitches acted exactly like what they were: shake-dance hos.

  The vibe inside of The Passion Palace told me that these shake-dance hos thought they were movie stars or divas, which meant conversation wouldn’t even be free. I had won eleven hundred shooting craps easy come, easy go. But I wasn’t paying just to rap to one of them fine bitches, so I gave a tall, white, blond honey a hundred dollars.

  “Keep dancing ‘til that runs out,” I told her as she began giving me a table dance.

  I sipped Yak, and watched Blondie grind what her mama gave her. Blondie moved slowly and seductively, leaning two big perfect titties down six-inches from my face. Blondie shook her shoulders, but her titties didn’t budge.

  Silicones.

  Her blond pussy was perfect, too, but unlike the titties it was 100 percent real. Blondie turned her back to me and bent over and grabbed her ankles. Her legs were spread, allowing me to see all up in her world. I tipped her an extra ten-spot.

  When the hundred dollars had been used up, I gave Blondie another c-note, flashing my knot.

  “Keep dancing.”

  “Anything you say, sugar,” cuffing the c-note in her palm.

  An hour later, Blondie had hustled me for three hundred and sweet-talked me into buying us a bottle of Dom Perrigon for $130.

  She said she needed to go freshen up and disappeared down some stairs. I wasn’t green, so I assumed Blondie had gone down to the dressing room to talk with some of the other girls and get the 411 on me.

  She’d seen my knot and that I was bling-blingin’, the bitch wanted to know who I was and how much of that knot she might be able to seduce me out of with that perfect pair of silicones and that beautiful, blond pussy.

  I knew Blondie would come back upstairs with the same info on me she’d had when she left—none. I didn’t know a single one of the bitches in there, nor would they know me.

  “I’m back, sugar. I had to go freshen up my cat.” She had a perfect smile, too. “What’s your name, sugar?” asked the blond dime.

  “Popeye.” It was the first shit that came to mind.

  “Is that your name for real?” Blondie giggled.

  “All year long.” Straight-faced.

  Blondie felt my puny biceps. “They must call you Popeye ‘cause you’re strong?” The bitch was jeffing.

  “Naw, ‘cause I keep plenty spinach.” I flashed three rubber banded knots, letting her sweat the real green before returning the spinach back inside of my pocket.

  “What you gonna do with all that money?” Whispering in my ear and her rubbing twin silicones against my arm.

  “I plan to share it with you,” I said, like a lame.

  By the time I had tricked eight bills on Blondie, other hos had peeped the scene and wanted in on the action. It was as if the dee-jay had announced, Trick at table seven, in the back! because G-stringed and butt-naked hos came around like vultures.

  Blondie whispered in my ear. “Tell them you came to see me personally.” I felt her wet tongue.

  I repeated what Blondie had told me to say to more than a dozen money-hungry bitches. Some took the rejection in stride, while a few had to be rejected twice before going off in search of their own trick.

  “Variety is the spice of life,” one dark stallion tried.

  “Oh, you gon’ let the white bitch make all the money!” a butt-naked sister said bitterly, not even whispering so Blondie couldn’t hear.

  “I got jungle fever,” I snapped back.

  Blondie smiled. Another four hundred dollars later, I had laid out my spiel. I told Blondie I was an A&R for a major record company that was opening an office in the Dirty South and about to come out with some new talent from Atlanta and other rappers from around the South.

  I told her I was really at the club to scout females to put in a video I was directing for a rapper whose name I couldn’t mention. I told Blondie not to mention any of this to the other dancers ‘cause I didn’t want them all bugging me to be in the video.

  “If they find out I’m scouting for video girls, they’ll stop acting natural and start auditioning.”

  “My lips are sealed,” Blondie said, gesturing with her hand.

  Then she immediately started telling me how she always wanted to be in a rap video, but didn’t think rappers used many white girls in their joints.

  “I might be able to put you in this video I’ll be releasing in a few months.”

  “Don’t be bullshitting me, Popeye.”

  I talked to Blondie for another thirty minutes, gave her two more C-notes and asked if she’d come home with me after the club. I flashed the spinach again and promised her a lead role in a video.

  “I’ll think about it,” she promised. It was her time to go onstage.

  I had no doubt she’d accept the offer, ‘cause even if she hadn’t believed the hype about the video role and me being an A&R for a major record label, I still had big knots in my pocket.

  That wasn’t a lie. Her blue eyes had seen the green. The white bitch already had fourteen hundred of my loot in her grip, I was sure she was greedy for more.

  Before Blondie went away to think about my offer, I asked her about different dancers, as if I was interested in putting them in the video.

  Blondie dropped salt on three of them bitches.

  CHAPTER 20

  Onstage, Blondie looked like a big-tittied younger Madonna.

  She’d changed into a leather S&M type outfit complete with whip and chains. She worked the pole like the pro she obviously was.

  Tricks stood in line to put their hard-earned or hustled loot in her garter. She was one of the only two white dancers working at The Passion Palace, at least this particular night
, which made Blondie a different, if not special, treat to the predominantly black male patrons.

  There were about twenty black dancers, all of them decent or dimes. But niggaz fucked sistas daily, white pussy was still an oddity to me and obviously to the other black dudes stuffing dollars in Blondie’s garter like she was the ride back to Africa.

  The bitch was tight, though. Her pussy trimmed so pretty God woulda licked it. She worked the crowd into a testosterone frenzy, an act that was hot even before the other white girl joined Blondie onstage to simulate a lesbian S&M fuck.

  Niggaz grabbed their dicks like, Damn!

  Other dancers were performing personal dances at private tables, but their trick eyes were glued to the stage. Those two snowflakes had mad fuck moves.

  Blondie made eye contact with me as if to say, “See what good pussy you might get if you’re talking enough spinach?”

  I’m sure my look said, “You can have my car, too.”

  There was a tap on my shoulder. I jerked around. Immediately I thought, Fuck! My heater’s in the whip!

  Rich Kid flashed a smile down at me. Relieved, I stood and we dapped hands. His main man, King, was a few feet to Rich Kid’s rear, mean muggin’ the whole joint.

  I nodded to King, but I didn’t really like that nigga and not just because I suspected him of cuffing some of that extra loot I took from that Richard idiot in Alabama. I’d also seen small but shady signs from King when we’d put in work for Rich Kid in Kentucky. The nigga just felt suspect to me. I don’t know why Rich Kid couldn’t feel the bad vibe coming off of dude. Still, it wasn’t my job to wake Rich Kid up.

  King ignored my head nod, but I was sure he had seen it. No biggie, the nigga would play himself sooner or later. At which time I would peel his cap just for the sport of it.

  “Whud up, lil’ nigga? I didn’t know you like strip clubs,” Rich Kid greeted me with respect and friendship.

  “Yo, what man in his right mind don’t?”

  “Check,” Rich Kid agreed. “You wanna roll with us in VIP?” I noticed a team of Rich Kid’s crew headed toward the glass enclosed VIP room.

  “Nah, I’m good. Thanks anyway.” Then I told Rich Kid that my name was Popeye if any of the dancers asked him about me.

  I told him the spiel I’d gave Blondie so he’d know how to cap it off. Rich Kid smiled, shook his head and bounced to VIP to join his crew. King followed behind like a loyal dog, though I wasn’t convinced.

  Blondie finished her stage routine and hustled downstairs to change outfits, I guessed, and stash our trick money wherever them hos stash their loot during the night.

  While she was away the vultures attacked again. I shook ‘em like the basketball player, Kobe, on a fast-break. They weren’t too disappointed, plenty more tricks were waving them over for private dances. And the VIP room was now jumpin’.

  I could tell Rich Kid was well known and respected at this club, ‘cause a man in an expensive tailor made suit came from a back office to go in the VIP room and shake Rich Kid’s hand. I had the expensive tailor made suit pegged as the club’s owner. I tend to notice everything around me because my game required it. A potential lick could be missed if I wasn’t on point. Or worse, an enemy might get the drop on me.

  Blondie emerged in a different outfit, her titties pressed against my neck.

  “Hey, sugar. Did you miss me?”

  “And you know this,” I shot.

  “So, you know Rich Kid?” Blondie asked. When I didn’t answer, she said, “I saw you guys talking while I was onstage.”

  “I thought you were concentrating on your girlfriend up there?”

  “Oh. That’s just an act when we’re onstage. I still can see what’s going on in the club.”

  I guess Blondie figured out I wasn’t going to acknowledge her question, so she told me she had to go around and thank everyone who’d tipped her while onstage. Plus, she had to perform personal dances for several of her regular customers.

  “Go do your job, baby.”

  “Don’t let any of these girls steal you from me while I’m gone.” She stuck her tongue in my ear. “Oh, I’m thinking about your offer, too.”

  A waitress brought two bottles of Cristal in a bucket of ice to my table and told me the guy in VIP had sent and paid for it. I could see Rich Kid and his crew being entertained by naked, dancing bitches through the thick glass enclosure. King leaned against the glass wall nearest where Rich Kid was seated on a couch. It appeared to me King was paid not to ever enjoy himself.

  For the next hour, bitches came up to my table pandering private dances. I was just chillin’, though, waiting on my young Madonna.

  I saw her in the VIP room showing other niggaz the inside of her world. I wasn’t vexed, the bitch was working. I saw her maneuver up close to Rich Kid a few songs later. Rich Kid nodded to King, letting him know it was cool. I had my head down like I was somewhere else, but I saw Blondie pointing at me.

  Both of Blondie’s fists were full of loot when she came back to my table. I didn’t see any dollar bills, either.

  “Rich Kid told me to tell you his little cousin is ready for a record deal. And he wants to know if you changed your mind about joining him in VIP?”

  “Tell him I can’t. I’m scouting dancers for a video. I’m trying to blend in with the crowd.” While Blondie was off delivering my message to Rich Kid, another dancer slid into the vacated seat next to me.

  “I know I ain’t supposed to know this, but would you consider me for the rap video?” the chocolate, honey whispered conspiratorly. I felt her hand on my dick.

  “I’ll check you out. But don’t tell anybody else.” I knew she would. Shit, that was what I was counting on.

  The rest of the night, stripper bitches was sweating me like I was Jay-Z, Hype Williams, Spike Lee or somebody of major importance. And after Blondie made her rounds, she stuck to me like skin.

  I saw a big nigga enter the club surrounded by a flock of niggaz, all smaller than him. I recognized the kingpin, Hannibal. I didn’t know him, but I knew who he was. My ears stayed to the streets and I knew the names of all the major dope boys, most of them I knew by face, too.

  I knew all of their names and where they ranked in the game. Of course, the structure could change at any moment. The dope game was frailer than a mafucka.

  Hannibal and his crew shared the spacious VIP room with Rich Kid and his posse. I didn’t see the two crews interacting with each other, though. And if Rich Kid and Hannibal knew each other, I couldn’t tell by watching them through the glass.

  I never saw them speak or even acknowledge the other one’s presence. Their crews were seated on opposite sides of the VIP room, roped off from one another.

  Sensing there were more big spenders in the joint, the dancers swarmed Hannibal and his crew. Most of the girls were entertaining either Rich Kid’s posse or Hannibal’s in VIP. Only a few were moving amongst the regular customers and one was on stage making her ass jiggle on command. Blondie was stuck like skin to me. I guess she figured, a trick in hand beats a room full in VIP. Plus, I was her ticket into rap video stardom. But I wasn’t trying to block her hustle. I told her to go make some money, I would wait on her ‘til the club closed.

  An hour later, the disc-jockey announced, “Last call for alcohol.”

  The crowd had thinned out considerably by now. Mafuckaz had spent their paychecks and went home broke and horny or had got wise and dipped before they went home broke and horny.

  I was standing at the bar talking to Blondie when Rich Kid stopped to holla on his way out.

  “I still might wanna use your blue Benz in a video,” I popped.

  “Just call me. And, dawg, you need to sign my lil’ cousin. For real, though,” Rich Kid sweetened my plot before he and his crew dipped, King right on his heels.

  Hannibal and ‘em left shortly after that when the club’s lights came on. The dee-jay announced it was closing time and thanked us for coming out. Blondie told me she’d decided to
accept my offer to spend the night with me.

  “Popeye, I gotta go downstairs and change into my clothes. Wait for me in the parking lot, I won’t be long. I hope you know how to treat a girl. I mean, I like a lot of spinach.”

  “I’ll treat you right,” I promised.

  A few other niggaz were parked in the lot waiting to spend more money for all night dates or just to get a look at shake-a-booty bitches in clothes. Security was outside to make sure we didn’t snatch the girls and take our money’s worth.

  I was parked so Blondie couldn’t miss seeing me. She came up to the passenger side of my whip, the other white dancer at her side.

  Blondie leaned her head in the window.

  “If it’s not a problem, whatever you’re going to give me, could you give it to me now? Not that I’m charging you, but since you offered.”

  I told her to get in for a minute. We talked quickly, and I handed Blondie a small knot. It looked phatter than it was ‘cause it was small bills from the crap game. Blondie put the knot in her purse and then handed her purse, with my knot, out the window to the other white girl.

  “I should be home by noon,” Blondie told her.

  “Call me and let me know you’re okay,” her roommate worried.

  I was sick watching Blondie’s friend walk off with Blondie’s purse, with my knot and probably all the other money she’d juiced out of me and other tricks tonight inside of it. I started replotting my game.

  After we stopped to get something to eat, I let Blondie choose which hotel we went to. Of course, her gold-digging ass chose a hotel with a nightly room rate of $250. I gave her the money and let her sign the registrar.

  In the room, she wasted no time stepping to her business. “Now that we’re alone, let me show you how good I can make you feel,” Blondie said.

  She took my hand and led me straight over to the bed.

  “You gonna be able to handle all of this?” I asked as I unzipped and pulled up my pipe.

  “Oh yes, daddy.” She covered the head of my dick with her mouth and began slowly bobbing up and down.