by Zaire Crown
“Well what the fuck happened to it?” Tuesday asked impatiently. He was only giving her the same information she had given him about the score.
“Because you had me thinkin’ it was all good, I had my mans come through with a U-Haul and we cleaned that bitch out. And for a minute I’m in the arms business. But only for a minute though. About a month later, The Bounce get firebombed by some Colombians sayin’ they want they shit back.”
“Colombians?” Tuesday was baffled by that. “Those guns belonged to a black dude named Face, ugly ass nigga with the acne scars; you met him when we had to get that body out of the club. I used to get all my straps from him when me and the girls did sticks. He the one who owned the junkyard.”
“Well I’m sorry TK, but the bean-eatin’ muthafuckas who was about to shove a machete up my ass disagreed.” DelRay picked up the half a blunt he was smoking with old girl and re-ignited it. “They came for everything we took. Everything! I didn’t just have to pay ’em back for the guns I sold, the bitch they work for made me apologize and charged me another hundred bands on top of that to keep my life.”
Tuesday had always thought that Face was independent but only then did she realize that her long-time gun connect was just a frontman for somebody much stronger. That explained to her how a back-alley mechanic was able to get hold of grenade launchers.
For a moment they sat in a shared silence. Tuesday had played a long-shot hoping that DelRay was still connected to the guns and then had to contemplate her next move. She was pulled from her thoughts when he tried to pass her the weed.
She frowned. “Fuck is this bullshit?”
He was defensive. “What you mean? This some head-cracker. Ounce of this cost four-fifty.”
She shook her head. “You rich now, but still smoke like a broke nigga.”
Tuesday dug into her purse until she found a small plastic vial. It only had one light-green cluster of buds inside about the size of a marble.
“They call this Executive Order kush. It’s engineered by the government so you won’t find it in any legal dispensary or hash shop. This the shit Barack and Michelle smoke when the kids ain’t around. It’s only sold by the gram.”
DelRay put away his low-grade and rolled up Tuesday’s. He took the first hit, expecting something so potent to choke him, but it smoked smooth and tasted good.
They again fell into a pensive silence. The blunt floated back and forth across the desk. The music played downstairs, but only the heavy bass lines penetrated the walls and vibrated the floor beneath their feet.
“TK, what the fuck you done got yo’self caught up in?” He asked in between puffs.
Tuesday heard a concern in his voice that extended beyond just her well-being. Without saying the words, DelRay was asking if this was the type of drama that might follow her to his doorstep.
Tuesday answered without the benefit of words. With her eyes, she communicated that she was in serious beef that might’ve followed her back to Detroit. She also made it known that if he told her to get the fuck out and never come back, she would respect that without holding it against him.
DelRay’s beet-red eyes said: You know that’ll never happen. I got yo’ back no matter what.
Message received, Tuesday slowly nodded her appreciation.
Just two-thirds into the blunt and they both reached their tolerance. By the time Tuesday butted the weed she knew what she needed to do but figured DelRay wouldn’t like it.
“Aye Fatboy, I need you to take me to meet them Colombians.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
DelRay was still muttering doubts while he slipped into a leather coat so large it must’ve killed three cows. He explained that the Colombians had spared his life and he had thanked them by staying the fuck off their radar.
Tuesday explained more adamantly that this was a different scenario. Then, he had come as a thief; this time they were coming as customers. She had money to spend. The right amount could even buy forgiveness.
She didn’t necessarily sway him, but DelRay made the call anyway. He knew Tuesday well enough that she would do this with or without him.
They left 24 Karats with him insisting to drive. Tuesday was fine with that because she knew the Hyundai would be a tight fit for him.
She noticed a cocky little smirk when DelRay hit the alarm and locks on a new pearl Escalade. It was the premium model with the extended frame. The noon-hour sun reflected brilliantly in thirty-inch chrome rims that resembled ninja stars.
He stared at Tuesday as if waiting for a compliment.
She slid into the passenger seat. “Nigga, don’t act like you ain’t the same muthafucka who had that raggedy ass Monte Carlo, dripping oil in front of my club for all those years.”
“As you can see, I don’t ride like that no more.” He settled himself behind the wheel. “This just my everyday driver—I gotta Benz S55O I pull out when I feel like crackin’ they heads. Copped the new ’Vette too, drop-top, but I only hit ’em with that every blue moon.”
“I remember you used to have the white CTS-V until you lost your Caddy to pay for Brianna’s bullshit. So, what you pushin’ these days?” He gave Tuesday side-eye while pulling from the lot.
Tuesday was happy that DelRay was doing better, but warned him that trying to dick-measure against her would leave him feeling short. He foolishly persisted in his game of Who’s Got the Bigger Stack? until Tuesday finally had to shut him down.
“Alright Fatboy, I see yo’ basic ass S55O and raise you the AMG Benz SLS coupe. That and a limited-edition V-10 Range Rover Autobiography are my everyday drivers. When I feel like crackin’ heads, I jump in one of my two Rolls Royces—the Ghost or the Wraith—depending on my mood. When I feel like being eco-friendly, I do my electric joint, the Revero by Karma Automotive, but you probably ain’t up on that. Then every blue moon I’ll bring out that neon-green Lambo my baby bought me ’cause he said it match my eyes.” She playfully batted hers at him in the flirtatious manner of a Southern Belle. “And that ain’t even everything in my garage, nigga.
“Do you wanna talk ’bout that Gulfstream being fueled up and waiting for me at Metro? I don’t fly it myself so I don’t know if you technically consider a private jet something that I’m pushin’ though.”
DelRay looked tempted to call “bullshit” but then thought better of it. Maybe it was because the night she left she had enough cake to break him off half a million in cash like it was nothing. Maybe it was because she had a piece of ice on her finger so big that it could’ve sank the Titanic. Maybe it was because in all their years of being cool, he had never known Tuesday to be on no fake shit.
“TK, where the fuck you been and who is this helluva nigga you married to?”
Just the mention of Marcus was enough to sour her mood. Her face grew tight as she turned forward in her seat. “My dude, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
After that, the conversation was minimal until they reached their destination. Face’s Salvage Yard was still open and doing business under the same name, but Tuesday could only guess who the current owner was.
The Escalade pulled through the entrance gate, stirring dust as well as memories in Tuesday of the last time she was there; she almost died that day. They weaved through a maze of junked cars until reaching a two-stall carport and adjoining office. It was a simple structure: a junkyard dwelling made of corrugated sheet metal and the very junk itself.
Tuesday was unfamiliar with the man in the first stall. He was a greasy white dude with long hair, taking a socket wrench to something under the hood of an old Mustang Fastback. Tuesday jumped out to approach him and DelRay followed.
“Twenty minutes,” he said, never looking up from his work. He apparently already knew what the business was. “Y’all can either wait here or come back.”
“We’ll wait.” Tuesday quickly spoke over DelRay who she knew was about to announce they were leaving. They were at the meeting place first which offered some, if not much, str
ategic advantage. Tuesday thought it was better than walking back into a trap, especially in a junkyard where so many places could conceal shooters.
When the mechanic pulled his phone and snapped their picture, DelRay shifted uneasily. “I ain’t feelin’ this shit, TK.”
“It’s cool,” she whispered calmly. “They got every right to be curious.”
She and DelRay went back to lean against his truck while the mechanic returned to his craft.
She spoke low. “You got a heater on you, right?”
He flashed her the butt of the Ruger jammed into the waistband of his jeans.
Brandon had replaced her Heckler in California, and since then it hadn’t left Tuesday’s side. “Good. We ’bout to be outnumbered and damn sure ’bout to be out-gunned. It won’t look good for us if we have to shoot our way out this bitch, but at least we ain’t naked.”
DelRay grimaced as if that thought made him sick. “I woke up this morning thinkin’ my biggest problem of the day would be a long line at the pharmacy. Yo’ ass ain’t been back a half hour and already got me in a situation where I might get killed.”
She smiled at him. “Don’t you miss the excitement I bring to your life?”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Tuesday used their wait-time to call Brandon and make some inquiries, but while talking to the old man she watched DelRay. She could sense the mounting anxiety in him with each passing minute. By the time the sellers showed, he was glazed with sweat despite the cool temperature. She knew that big man was no coward as he had already proven himself dependable in a jam, however, that was in the past, and time had a way of changing people. Especially after they gained more than they were willing to lose.
The Colombians arrived at the junkyard in two cars. Tuesday tucked her phone and gave DelRay a look that said “focus up.”
Men sprang out each of the four doors on a silver Dodge Charger. All of them youngsters trying their best to look hard. Tuesday guessed the oldest to be twenty-three. Brown but assimilated into black culture: Balmain, Jordan’s, Migos exploding out of their speakers. The driver had a chain on with an iced-out Michigan mitten.
Tuesday looked past them, kept her attention on the trailing vehicle. The passengers in the white-on-white BMW 760 chose not to exit right away. Three figures sat silhouetted behind lightly-tinted glass.
The mechanic rushed over to greet the foursome from the Charger. Tuesday waited patiently for them to talk among themselves. She refused to present herself as eager or nervous—even though she was both.
Soon they approached her and DelRay, where they stood against his Escalade. The quartet walked with the cockiness of young dudes getting money for the first time. Tuesday knew the type because she used to rob niggas like them.
“What’s good Ma?” This came from the driver whom Tuesday had already peeped as the Alpha. The kinky mohawk warranted Tuesday’s closer inspection which revealed predominantly black features mingled within his Colombian ones. She saw the resemblance immediately.
“I heard ya lookin’ for something.” His eyes lingered long on the Fendi denim hugging her thighs.
She offered a humorless smirk. “Look young dog, you Face’s boy right? I’m a long-time customer with deep pockets who lookin’ to buy in bulk. I’m here to talk grown-folk’s business and I don’t do that wit’ kids.”
One of his boys tried to swell up. “Yo A’Ron, who this li’l bitch thank she is?”
Tuesday said, “This li’l bitch thank she a boss. And bosses only do business with other bosses.”
Face’s son tapped his bird chest. “I am a boss. Ask anybody in the 313 with a Drecco, bet they copped it from me.”
Tuesday waved him off. “This ain’t amateur hour. C’mon li’l nigga, them stones cloudy as fuck, and half of ’em moissanite. You ain’t even in the Hellcat—you rolled up in the V-6. Quit playin’ wit’ me and go get whoever really in charge. Run tell yo’ people to come holla at me or they gone watch a couple million walk up out this bitch.”
The Alpha mugged her for a moment, looking angry and embarrassed. Then he finally turned and walked over to the BMW. He tapped on the window, and this seemed to be enough to let the occupants know the buyer was serious.
All three climbed out in unison. The driver and rear passenger were older than the boys, full-blooded Colombians, with long hair and cowboy boots. Tuesday recognized the quick searching eyes of experienced killers.
The only female came from the passenger seat, barely five-foot-one and dressed in a white linen one-piece with silver heels. Tuesday thought the woman was at least ten years her senior but had aged gracefully. She was also Latina but with black-girl swag. Her hair was done in a short wrap with several gray streaks styled into it as if proud of them.
She approached with the driver of the Charger while the others slipped into the background. Tuesday knew they weren’t present just to be spectators. To her, their body language suggested the quiet expectation of drama.
The woman in white stood before Tuesday, barely measuring up to her tits. She recalled Face mentioning a short Colombian dimepiece who drove a triple-white Range Rover, but the two had never met.
“I’m Maria Vega, but everyone calls me Madame.”
Tuesday went with her alias: “Tabitha King.” She accepted a warm manicured hand that made her feel some type of way that her nail-game currently wasn’t on point. Tuesday had been involved in too much shit to even think about the salon.
“I typically prefer not to do business like this, but I was told you and my husband had a long lucrative relationship.”
“How long has he been missing?” Tuesday asked innocently.
“Almost three years.” She punctuated that with a solemn nod. “We are not optimistic.”
Tuesday offered her condolences.
“You told my son that you were interested in a very large order. So what does a pretty girl like you need with so many big guns?”
“I don’t just need guns, but men to pull the triggers. I’m thinking ’bout two dozen or so, who know how to handle themselves and are willing to take orders from me. Money is no object.”
Her son broke in. “Where’s the money? Let’s see it?”
Tuesday screwed her face. “Of course I wasn’t stupid enough to bring cash here. Trust me though, I’m more than good for it.”
Madame Vega said, “You come here with a man who already stole from me, asking for trust.”
Tuesday motioned to DelRay. “He brought me to you as an apology—a gift. He knows the ridiculous amount of money I’m about to spend with you people.”
The son waved Tuesday off. “Bitch, you talk a damn good game, but until we see some—”
“Basta!” Madame Vega’s command silenced him mid-sentence. She spoke to Tuesday but never looked away from him. “I’m sorry but ever since he lost his father, my son Aaron thinks he runs my business.”
Tuesday smiled. “I understand. I’m also a mother dealing with a child with a reckless mouth.”
Vega chastised him with a glare for a few seconds longer, then looked back to Tuesday. “Guns I can help you with, but you’re on your own for the second part. I don’t run a temp service. You’ll have to find your own people.”
Tuesday took a step towards her. “I didn’t come into this meeting without doing my homework. Guns is just one part of how you eat—the other part is human trafficking. Your husband Face was just a front man for you, and for years your family has been making a nice piece of money smuggling illegals up from South America through Mexico. Like these muthafuckas right here.” Tuesday nodded to the two with the long hair. “Probably ain’t been here long enough to learn English yet.”
Madame Vega didn’t admit to anything, but the look on her face was enough of a confession. “Even if I could manage that, why would I? You’re obviously caught up in something serious. Why would I involve my family in your problem?”
“Because both of our families have the same problem: Reina Rodriguez.
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“It was your people she was beefing with over the border towns. The story about her sending an exploding cake to a little girl’s party helped to build her reputation. How many of your relatives died in the blast?”
The sour expression on Madame’s face went deeper. “La Guapa sees everything, knows even more. Even the Medellin cartel bosses fear her, and they don’t fear shit. They say she is a bruja.”
Years living in L.A. allowed Tuesday to pick up some Spanish. “She ain’t a witch. She’s smart and very detailed but not invincible. If we partner up we can chop this bitch down. You got the muscle; I got the mind and the money.”
Madame Vega stood there for a moment as if contemplating that. When she whispered something in her son’s ear, Tuesday just figured it was her opinion on the deal.
Tuesday didn’t notice how during their conversation that one of the long-haired Colombians had inched closer to DelRay.
He didn’t notice either until his Ruger was snatched from his hip with an expert hand. Another pistol was in his face before the big fella could respond.
Tuesday didn’t even get the opportunity to turn back to Vega and her son. She froze when she felt the familiar touch of cold steel against the back of her skull.
One of the other youngsters from the Charger came over to confiscate her big Birkin bag. He shook everything out onto the ground then fingered through the personal items. He picked up her phone, the Heckler, and two cash knots that contained about seventeen thousand.
Tuesday spat, “So this how y’all do business? Just like petty muthafuckas—gone stick me for crumbs when I was coming to spend real paper wit’ y’all.”
Aaron turned her to face his mother and the tiny woman in white frowned at Tuesday. “I’ve been waiting a long time to finally meet you. My husband was the face of my business, which meant he told me everything. Kinda hard to forget a name like Tuesday Knight.”