by Cash
Still, he continued to drop salt about my age, my hustle potential and my lack of ability to be the type nigga Inez needed in her life.
I replaced the receiver quietly back on the hook when I heard them set a date for lunch the following day. I didn’t let King’s salt vex me. If Inez was foolish enough to sell-out to a hater like King, then she would share his fate.
The nigga just didn’t know, while he was dropping salt, he was making my job a lot easier, plotting his own death.
Besides, dropping salt on a nigga to his bitch don’t do shit but make the bitch cling tighter to her nigga. If King’s game was on point, he could’ve trusted his rap to pull Inez from me, instead of trying to salt a nigga’s name. I never did shit like that, but then again, I kept it trill.
CHAPTER 29
I was on my way to Applebee’s restaurant to meet Juanita for a simple dinner. She had suggested a much more formal place when we had made the date earlier in the week, but I told her I was a jeans and Timbs-type nigga and since we were both from the hood, wasn’t no use in either of us putting on a phony face. She had a comment about there being nothing wrong with eating at a fancy restaurant once in awhile, but she didn’t argue about it.
Two weeks had passed since Juanita had hit me with her digits, and had she not called me, we probably wouldn’t be hooking up for this first date. ‘Cause I had no plans to call her.
Juanita was waiting for me in the foyer of the restaurant, drawing the attention of every male’s eye, black and white. She was wearing hip-hugging Pelle Pelle jeans that showed off her perfect curves and her sweet-looking belly button and a silk blouse tied in a knot about that gorgeous navel. A floppy hat gave style to her causal outfit, long blond tinted tresses hung down to her shoulders. Red lipstick accentuated her breathtaking smile when she greeted me.
I was rockin’ a Sean Jean denim outfit, wearing a matching-colored stocking cap over my braids and bling on my neck and both wrists.
Seated at a cozy booth inside of the restaurant, we shared a basket of hot wings and fries. Juanita had some type of fruity cocktail-mixed drink, while I ordered two Coronas.
I wasn’t trying to pull Juanita, so I did very little talking and a whole lot of listening.
She told me her story, which didn’t differ much from the story the hood told of her. Afterwards, claiming that she had promised herself she’d never get involved with another dope boy, I asked her why not, just to remind her I could talk. She said that dope boys didn’t really appreciate any woman ‘cause women came plentiful and easy to them.
“Every dope boy I’ve met, deep down they view females as possessions, like their cars,” Juanita said somewhat solemnly.
“Most females view niggaz as assets, like their credit cards,” I countered for the sake of conversation.
Juanita claimed it wasn’t that type of party with her. She freely admitted she didn’t want a nigga who had little to offer, but neither was a nigga’z bank the most important concern for her when choosing whom she’d get involved with.
But I couldn’t tell. The two niggaz I’d known her to be involved with were certainly big money niggaz, and I was sure that wasn’t by accident.
I didn’t know her whole profile, but Juanita didn’t strike me as the type of female who’d kick it with an average, everyday nigga. The strip club had sharpened her game, just listening to her was obvious she was no longer the bookworm shawdy I’d observed from a distance while growing up. The strip club and the fast life had taught Juanita’s tongue how to deliver what sounded real to a nigga.
Juanita was saying, “I want a man who wants me for more than my looks. Somebody I can share everything with, start a family and settle down with.”
“You don’t ask for much,” I said sarcastically, and Juanita laughed. A real feminine laugh. Her sexuality was powerful and probably intentional.
We were both young, and in our early twenties, but neither of us were new jacks to the cat-and-mouse game played between players and bitches, Gs and hos. I’d learned the ways of women through observation and personal pain. I was sure Juanita’s realistic view of men came from not only her past relationships but the ill shit she witnessed on the daily working at strip clubs.
She went on to tell me that she hadn’t been with a man in six months and was thinking about remaining celibate until she got married.
So here was what I was thinking: Her Miami nigga had got popped by the feds sometime last year, but she’d only gone without sex the past six months. So she hadn’t remained faithful long after dude got popped. Also, I’d have to marry her to get what other niggaz had gotten on-the-strength.
Fuck dat!
I was also thinking maybe Juanita was doing the girl-girl thing these past months, mostly all strip hos dibbled and dabbed like that.
I spat it to her in the raw, no cut.
Juanita seemed to be letting my words register before responding.
She flashed that cryptonite smile at me, acknowledging my straight forwardness.
“I’m not going to lie,” she finally said. “I’m not ashamed of anything I do. I met a friend a few months after Trent went to the feds, but it wasn’t anything serious. He was a lot older than I am and he’s married, so it was just somebody I could call when I got lonely. See, I don’t have a lot of female friends. They’re too jealous and petty. But I realized my male friend was getting too serious about me, so I stopped seeing him. I haven’t slept with anyone since.” She paused to sip her margarita, leaving red lipstick around the edge of the cocktail glass.
“As far as having sex with women,” she continued, “I tried that once when I used to be with this dude named Godd. Well, he talked me into trying it with another girl. But it wasn’t my cup of tea. So now, I’m either strictly dickly or I please myself.”
“True dat. What about playboy in the feds, you still in touch with him?”
“Who? Trent?”
“Whatever playboy’s name is from Miami?”
“Trent. Naw, we’re no longer in touch,” Juanita admitted with no visible regret. “He told me, as soon as he got sentenced, that he wouldn’t be home for a long time and to go on with my life. I tried to write him when he first got sent away, but he wouldn’t write back.”
Her expression saddened for a few seconds, maybe she was reminiscing about better times, when life with Trent was all bling and shopping sprees. Before he had to pay the piper.
“Enough about me, though,” her expression quickly brightened. “What’s been up with you since we both left the neighborhood?”
“I lay my head elsewhere, but I’m still in da hood, shawdy.” I wanted Juanita to understand I was still all hood. That way, she wouldn’t be expecting me to open no car doors for her or none of that gentleman shit.
“Anyway, I’ve just been tryin’ to maintain and stay a step ahead of my enemies. You know how the street is, on top today, obituary page tomorrow.”
Juanita acknowledged my doomsical outlook of the streets and seconded my opinion with an observation from a females’ view.
She said life wasn’t all bliss from their end, either. The ups and downs, joys and pains made them old before they reached thirty.
I could feel where she was coming from but I disagreed that their pain was comparable to a hustler’s ultimate fate. A female’s loss was mostly emotional or material when her nigga took a fall. A few hos bit dirt with their nigga if they happened to be with him when the enemy came. But, for the most part, they only suffered until they hooked another hustler to replace the fallen one. While a nigga usually fell hard, mad years in the pen or faced-up in a box, nothing could replace what he lost.
Juanita and I rapped for another hour, then she paid our tab and we went our separate ways, promising we’d hook up again, soon.
Inez went out of town for the weekend, so I picked up Lil’ T from Shan and we chilled at the crib with Eryka and Cheryl.
Cheryl was due to have the baby in a matter of days, so I’d promised to hang clo
se to the crib, in case she went into labor and needed to be taken to the hospital right way.
It was hard to do the family bonding thing while not feeling any affection toward Cheryl. I knew my disinterest in Cheryl pained her heart and made her life miserable.
It was obvious things would never be the same between us,and that Cheryl couldn’t remain living with me much longer. Other residents had begun complaining to the manager. Cheryl’s days in my crib were numbered.
Still, I enjoyed three days with Lil’ T and Eryka. Around them I was a clown, not a G. It was funny how I forgot all about murder, money and bitches when I was with my seeds. Nothing else mattered but their laughter.
Of course, it was just a matter of time before I’d put that ski mask on and pick up that heater and take what I wanted from this world. I was a robber/killer-for-hire, out to get enough bread to provide a good life for me and mine.
Watching me at home with Lil’ T and Eryka, no one would ever have guessed the life I lived, the way I got my loot. But, then again, that was the way to play it.
CHAPTER 30
My dawg, Lonnie, was with me riding shotgun. I was on my way to meet with Glen to return his dope and lay down the law, just in case the silly nigga had any idea of punishing my sister for what I’d done to him.
We agreed to meet in the food court of Greenbriar Mall where the open space would provide us both a little sense of security.
Lonnie and I arrived an hour earlier than I’d agreed to meet Glen so we could checkout the scene and make sure I wasn’t being lured into a trap. I had told Lonnie if Glen showed up with po-po at his side, get out of the way ‘cause I was going out like a G, guns blazing.
Wasn’t no sense in Lonnie catching a murder on a cop, this wasn’t his beef. Still, he said he had my back, true nigga that he was.
Glen rolled up not long after Lonnie and me. He, too, must’ve wanted to checkout the scene, leery of an ambush.
My sister was pushing the nigga in a wheelchair; one leg was heavily bandaged, the other was in some type of plastic cast.
“We came to get the stuff you said ya’ll have for Glen,” my sister said blandly.
I looked at her, showing no sign of the love. This was business.
“No disrespect, sis, but I wanna holla at Glen without your interference. Why don’t you and Lonnie give us a little privacy?”
Lonnie went and sat at a table ten feet away. Only after Glen nodded his consent did Toi follow Lonnie.
“Look, playboy,” I was mean-mugging the nigga as I spoke. “I’m not gonna make this speech any longer than it has to be. I’m sure Toi already told you what I said I’ll return.” Glen nodded, mean-mugging me back.
“That’s the price you pay for putting your hands on my folks.” I didn’t take my eyes off his. I wanted him to know that if he retaliated against my sister for my decision not to return the money and guns, he would be in a box next time instead of a wheelchair. I didn’t have to verbalize it, my stare said it all.
There was nothing else to say besides letting Glen know that I’d have someone to drop the dope off at my sister’s crib later.
On the way out, I told Toi she needed to start keeping better company, my sarcasm obvious.
Inez had got back in town the day before, so I got her to drop off the dope at my sister’s crib. She told me the drop went smooth, no hitch.
We were chillin’ at Inez’ crib, just passing time before we went to the movies. She’d told me yesterday all about her trip out of town, at least, as much as she wanted me to know. I’d questioned her relentlessly, not that I was a jealous nigga, but it was important that I got the full scoop. I was confident Inez revealed all.
The movie was some weak love-story shit, but Inez was loving it so I gritted my teeth and endured a boring two hours.
Back at Inez’ crib, I dicked her down and we both slept like babies. Well, until I got a persistent page and learned that Cheryl was at the hospital in labor.
“Shawdy, I gotta bounce,” I told Inez without any explanation.
I hopped up and was dressed and out of the door in minutes. When I reached the hospital, I was surprised to see Cheryl’s mother in the waiting room. She was holding Eryka like the perfect grandmother, which the bitch isn’t, wasn’t, probably won’t ever be. I swooped Eryka up out of her arms and sat down a few seats from her.
“Are you going in the delivery room with Cheryl when she’s ready?” Cheryl’s mother asked.
“Naw.”
“Why not?” Her tone was distasteful.
I didn’t even answer the bitch. Fuck her! I didn’t owe her no explanation.
I hated long waits in hospitals, so I’d come prepared. Eryka was asleep across my lap when I put on the headphones to the walkman I’d brought along with me. Cash Money Millionaires was pumpin’ in my ears. Big Tymer was spitting a verse about flossing in the hood when a nurse came out into the waiting room and announced something. I couldn’t hear her, obviously, so I took off the headphones. The nurse repeated her announcement.
Without saying a word, I handed Eryka to Cheryl’s mother, then I followed the nurse to Cheryl’s room. Cheryl was in the middle of a painful contraction, yet she tried to smile when she noticed me.
I rubbed her shoulder, trying to comfort her.
“Hey, fat girl,” I half-joked.
“Shut—up!” Cheryl cried.
I kissed her on the forehead and told her to be strong. I didn’t hate Cheryl like I did Shan. The only things I had against Cheryl was that she had grown lazy and fat, and she was crowding a young nigga’s space. But I put all that to the side and went into the delivery room with Cheryl and held her hand as she gave birth to another baby girl.
“So what did y’all name the new baby?” Inez asked while rolling a blunt.
“Chante Sierre,” I said, “and, of course, my last name.”
“That’s a pretty name,” Inez complimented. “Who thought of it, you or Cheryl?”
“Me,” I boasted.
“Well, you better start thinking of another name for a child because my period is two weeks late.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t going to say anything until I was sure, ‘cause you already have enough baby mama drama. Don’t worry, I’m gonna get an abortion if I am pregnant,” Inez switched up.
“C’mon, ma!” I was instantly pissed. “I thought you were on birth control?”
“Don’t worry, nigga, I said I’m getting an abortion. You already got enough kids.” She sounded pissed. Like her situation was all my fault.
Shit! Everywhere I turned bitches were popping up pregnant. As if a nigga didn’t have enough responsibilities already. I was so mad I just got up and left.
About forty-five minutes later, I was seated by myself at a table inside of the Gentleman’s Escape, the strip club where Juanita worked as Goldie.
I was in the back of the club tossing down Henny and Cokes, wondering why every shawdy I fucked had to get pregnant?
I was feeling Inez, and we were in deeper than I’ve led on, but I wasn’t trying to see Stan’s baby mama become my baby mama, too.
On the other hand, it could work to my advantage, assuring Inez’ loyalty, to an extent. Plus, if Inez didn’t get an abortion it would prove that she had no plans of getting back with Fat Stan when he got out.
I was sure his pussy-whipped ass wasn’t beyond forgiving such a transgression.
I was weighing the pros and the cons, gettin’ my buzz on, not really paying attention to the dancers in the club. I shooed a few snow whites away, but paid attention to the golden brown honey onstage working the pole like a human slinky, Goldie.
White men were lined up at the edge of the stage, with fists full of dollars. The few black men in attendance seemed more occupied by the snow white beauties in thongs.
Juanita was working the stage like a porn star. She’d leave the stage and return in different costumes, strip down to skin and collect another garter belt full of cash. It w
as easy to understand how she could afford the Viper she owned. Even from a distance, her curves were spellbinding. If I had any trick blood in my veins I would’ve been jostling with the white men, begging Goldie to hurry and take my fist full of money next.
As it was, I was a thugged-out young nigga with natural playa skills. So I just chilled in the back with my Henny and thoughts, still shooing bitches away from my table.
An hour after Goldie came off of stage and had completed her tour around the club, flirting with white men, she finally strutted over to my table.
“Hi. You look like you could use some company. Do you mind if—Youngblood? What are you doing here?” She was surprised and startled by my presence.
“Hey, you never know when I might pop up.”
She smiled genuinely and leaned down to hug my neck. But I leaned away from the attempt.
“Naw, ma, not in here. I don’t wanna be mistaken for one of your tricks.”
“Fans,” Juanita clarified. “In order for them to be my tricks I’d have to be a ho. And that I’m not. They pay to look, no amount of money allows them to touch.”
I quickly retorted, “Don’t get so defensive.”
“Oh, I’m not,” Juanita stated. “Just don’t label me as the typical dancer. It’s a job, not who I am.”
I told shawdy not to trip it. It was just the way I talked. Then I attended to my drink and advised her to go attend to her fans.
“I see you’re in a good mood,” she said sarcastically. Then she walked away, trying to be dignified in a mafuckin’ G-string. I laughed like a crazy man. The strobe lights were probably reflecting off of my platinum teeth.
I had barely stopped laughing when Juanita came back to my table fully dressed, a clothes bag slung over her shoulder.
“Let’s go.” She said it like there was no doubt I’d leave with her.