by Cash
Kyree was home from prison. We had hooked up a few times and I broke him off some cheddar so he wouldn’t be forced to try a stunt on nobody. We were still a’ight even though I hadn’t remained in touch with him and his sister, Brenda, had told him an exaggerated version of what went down between us. My nigga wasn’t beefin’ about that, it had been too long ago. Plus, he respected a nigga’s realness. Kyree knew I was gangsta and couldn’t be checked without bloodshed.
“Nigga, you look like Shaft!” Murder Mike cracked on my super-fro as I got out of my whip, having just pulled up in the shoe in Englewood to meet him.
Keisha put in her two-cents. “You do look like you out of the nineteen-seventies. I ain’t never seen you with your hair picked out.”
“I ain’t never seen you with yo’ mouth closed,” I shot back, snidely. “Y’all just don’t know style,” I said. Me and Murder dapped hands.
“Whud up, fool?” he greeted me.
“Same story, different day. Whud up?”
Wasn’t no business on his mind. He’d just wanted to meet in Englewood and show our presence, a reminder to our soldiers down in the trenches that we weren’t too good to visit the hood. Also, our visit reminded them and the brave heart, who was the Englewood crew chief, that we’d check on them unannounced to make sure they were on the grind and not bullshittin’.
The hood remained the same no matter the season. No new faces, just a year older. Blue and a handful of other faces were absent from the horseshoe, having blew trial and gotten trapped in the unforgiving jaws of southern justice with its equally unforgiving penal system.
Keisha was now pushin’ some werk, coming up a little nicely. I guess she had a front row seat for so long she had watched and learned how to roll. Whenever I came across some weight, I would hit her with it. Shawdy was proving to be about her business.
Angel came over to where we stood, looking straight dyke with a short Caesar haircut, baggy jeans and a Falcons jersey. She resembled nothing of the cutie I’d freaked at the hotel with Keisha a year and some months ago. I was almost regretting that I had introduced her and Keisha to that girl-girl sex ‘cause now Angel looked like a handsome nigga instead of the cute shawdy she’d been before that night.
“Hey, y’all,” she spoke to me and Murder.
My main man nodded.
I said, “Whud up, ma? Or is it Papi now?” Smirking as I waited for Angel’s response.
“It’s still ma, nigga!” she responded defensively. “You ought to know that. Or have you forgotten what’s under these clothes?”
“I know what was under ‘em last year, but shit obviously done changed,” I said. “Whatever you do, though, is a’ight with me.” ‘Cause it really was. I lived and let live. But I couldn’t help thinking about how turned on Angel had been that night at the hotel when I coerced her and Keisha into a ménage trio with me. Obviously Angel’s first taste of pussy had turned her the fuck out.
“Anyway,” Angel said. “Y’all heard about Miss Pearl?”
Changing the conversation. “Naw. What about her?” I queried.
“Oh,” said Keisha, “she died from a stroke, a few days ago.”
Murder lost interest in the conversation, death not connected to the game and not earning him another platinum nail was not worthy of his time. But Miss Pearl’s death was of great interest to me because I knew Juanita would be affected and may need a shoulder to cry on. I was thugged-out, but I always had concern for those who had genuine concern for me.
I asked Keisha and her boyfriend, Angel, if they had seen Juanita. Angel told me that Juanita had been in Englewood the other day, cleaning out her mother’s apartment and collecting Miss Pearl’s personal things. I told her to find out when and where Miss Pearl’s funeral would be and to call my cell and let me know.
“Don’t forget,” I reminded them. “And I’ma have some more werk for you soon, Keisha.”
A nigga like me didn’t do funerals unless it was fam or me in that box. Usually, if I went inside of a church, there was a safe up in there that I was after, or a mafucka I had to murk, but couldn’t corner anyplace else, was in attendance.
So I waited outside of the church until the service was over, and the mourners drove in a slow caravan to the cemetery where Miss Pearl would be laid to rest. I followed at the rear of the procession and then waited in my drop while the mourners went to the grave site saying their final goodbyes before the casket was lowered into the ground.
Juanita was dressed solemnly in a simple black dress and looked as distraught as someone who’d just lost her Ma Dukes would be expected to look. She returned to the funeral home’s limo, walking wearily at the elbow of a dude dressed in an army uniform.
Her brother, I figured.
Although I hadn’t seen him in years and wasn’t positive it was him. I was glad she spotted me as I walked up to intercept her because I really didn’t know what I would say to get Juanita’s attention. “Sup, shawdy?” would’ve been out of place.
“Hi,” I managed to say. “I’m real sorry to hear about your mother.”
“Thank you.” She broke out in a loud sob.
I wrapped my arms around her. “I’m here for you.”
“I really need it right now,” she admitted.
“C’mon, let me take you home with me so you can relax. Is that okay with you?”
“Yes.”
I gently took her hand and led her to my car.
Later that evening, we sat inside my living room. Juanita was understandably solemn and quiet. I had no words to lessen her loss, so I just held her in my arms in a consoling embrace, not at all sexual.
She fell asleep in my arms, bone weary from grief and travel. I just sat there and held her until she woke up after an hour of rest. Juanita was staying at my house that night. I planned to take her to the airport to catch her flight back to Las Vegas in the morning.
“I just moved out there two weeks ago,” she said, her grief-stricken voice almost a whisper. “I had sent Mama my new address and told her to give it to you if she saw you.” Her eyes teared at the mention of her Ma Duke. “Oh,” she continued after regaining her composure, “thanks for the postcard. How was New Orleans?”
“It’s decent down there,” I said, recalling my visit to N’awlins over a year ago.
I convinced Juanita to let me take her to Justin’s to put a meal in her stomach and take her mind off of grieving for at least a short time.
She dressed simple for dinner but still was every inch as beautiful as I recalled her being the day she’d driven away. She had a combination of strength and determination mixed with a fragility that made her more appealing than any female I knew.
Despite the sudden death of her mother, Juanita was at peace with her new life. She hadn’t been in Nevada long enough to tell me much about it, other than that it was hot and had a lot of flat land and few trees.
I admired the courage it must have taken to move so far away from everyone she knew, so she could pursue her academic dreams.
“I see the streets are being good to you.” she said and then added, “For now.” Obviously referring to the crib.
“I’m only leasing the house. I don’t own it.”
“I hope you get out of the game before it turns on you, whether you ever come back to me or not,” she said.
“I’ll do my best not to let the game win,” I promised.
“Please do.”
We talked for another hour, or so, and then we decided to get some sleep.
That night we slept in bed together but didn’t do anything more than sleep.
Morning came too fast for my taste. I had enjoyed holding Juanita all night. And almost before I knew it, we had eaten breakfast and was on our way out of the door.
“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” I said as I drove her to catch her flight.
“I wish you could come with me.” She looked over at me, hopefully.
I knew that wish couldn’t come true, not now. An
d since there was no way to lessen either of our disappointment, I didn’t respond.
At the airport, I gave Juanita a gift bag from Chanel.
“You’ll come to me one day, I honestly believe that,” Juanita said as she wiped at her tears.
I didn’t comment. What could I say? I just kissed her tears and told her not to let any of those college boys steal her heart.
When she left to board the flight back to Nevada and a life so much different from mine, I felt an emotion I thought no longer existed in me.
Whenever Juanita looked inside the Chanel bag, she would find five thousand dollars, the repayment of the loot she’d given me, and she would find a diamond-encrusted breast pin of two inter-locking hearts. Along with a note that read: I don’t know how to say it, so I gave you this gift to speak for me. Signed, Youngblood.
Also inside the bag was a CD by the artist Musiq Soulchild, the single Love.
I walked out of the airport terminal, hopped in my Escalade, put in a rap CD and hit flip-mode, pushing the vibe I’d just felt for Juanita into the cellars of my mind.
Last night had reminded me how much I dug Juanita. We’d slept peacefully, hugged up, despite the tragedy she was grieving and the fast pace of my life. Even without having sex, I’d enjoyed being with her and waking up with her in my arms.
Besides Inez, who was damn near like a niggaz’ comfort and convenience, I had never slept in bed with a woman with no plans of dicking ‘em until that night. Juanita held that distinction alone.
Snoop Dogg bumped out the system as I whipped the Escalade. His lyrics helped remind me that no female was special, barely.
CHAPTER 14
Another year passed so fast it seemed like somebody had hit the fast-forward button on a nigga’s life. No one had challenged our stronghold on the dope game in Atlanta, but we hadn’t gained control of any politicians or police officials like Crazy Nine said we’d need in order to have a long reign on the throne. We hadn’t accomplished our objectives in the other states yet, either.
We’d made significant progress, but it was proving much harder to gain control of St. Louis, D.C. and especially southern Cali than we’d anticipated.
I’d bodied another nigga in D.C. and Murder Mike had flown out to Cali and returned with two more platinum fingernails on his hand. He’d have to use toenails if he stayed in the game and continued murking niggaz, which was real likely. As for me, I still wasn’t rich, but I was living good and stackin’ paper.
These days, Lonnie remained my tightman, the one nigga I would trust over all others in my life, including fam. It surprised me that Pete and I had squashed our beef and, though we didn’t hang out together, we sometimes wound up at Lonnie’s crib at the same time.
Kyree had tried the nine-to-five thing, punching a time clock, but it was too slow delivering the type of things he wanted. Now he sold weed and went on licks with Lonnie and Pete.
Toi was still with Glen, and still lovesick. I wasn’t trippin’. He knew not to ever hurt my peeps again. I’d talked to him on the phone several months ago, and we had made peace. But in my mind, we could never be friends. I had busted caps in him. Even if he claimed to forgive it, I would never trust him.
Speaking of forgiveness, I still had none for Ann, the woman who birthed me. Toi was constantly trying to get me to call Mama or to go by there with her. She’d given Mama my new pager number, and Mama had paged me twice. I called her back. I didn’t hate her, but our conversations never lasted longer than a few minutes, as she and I still blamed the other one for our not speaking.
I let Toi take Lil’ T and Tamia by to see Mama. Inez had gone with her so that she could meet Mama, too. Afterwards she remained in touch with my mother and would take Tamia to see her sometimes, but she knew better not to try to play peacemaker.
Lil’ Terrence was every bit of me, just not as adverse to school as I’d been at his age, but physically he was all me. Tamia, who on the other hand, looked more like her mother, Inez. Though she also resembled baby pictures I remembered seeing of Toi, my lil’ girl was already walking and getting into everything, just like Eryka.
I still hadn’t found a trace of Cheryl or my daughters. Though I continued to make periodic searches of her mother’s home, I hadn’t found one slip of paper that indicated Cheryl had contacted her mother.
Some college graduate, a highly intelligent fool, had hired Inez to work at a bank. She’d been employed there for eight months now, enjoying honest work more than she’d expected to. I told her if she ever saw a foolproof way I could come in and cleanout the vault, to let me know.
“They have security out the ass,” she said. But I had no doubt that Inez would do some Bonnie and Clyde shit with me if times ever got that drastic. I guessed whoever hired her didn’t know that.
As loyal as we were to one another, in a way, I was getting bored with Inez. She was still mad crazy ‘bout a nigga, and she was even finer since having my daughter, but our relationship was growing stale. I hadn’t started neglecting her, yet, but I was definitely looking for another shawdy. Not that I would’ve replaced Inez with her. I’d never dis shawdy like that. She’d shown mad loyalty and I’d do the same. But I’d spend a lot of nights with a new shawdy if I could find one real enough to warrant it.
I knew where one well worth my time resided, but I wasn’t trying to pack up and jet to Nevada.
Occasionally, I’d get with Keisha and blow her back out. She was still bumpin’ pussies with Angel, but she was too sprung on this thug passion to go strictly veggie. Plus, I was frontin’ her four bricks at a time, and shawdy was coming up good in the hood.
One day, I was in the projects freestyle battle-rapping against a cat from up North named Swag who had moved to the Dirty with his cousins in Englewood. We were going back and forth, cuttin’ each other down with lyrical venom. A huge crowd had gathered around. Not too many niggaz knew that I rapped, so I surprised them with my flow. But dude was nice with his shit, so I couldn’t just chew him up.
A dude named Sheep was supplying the beats by drumming on the hood of an abandoned car. Wanting to end the battle once and for all, I spat:
I was raised on collard greens and cornbread/ I’m that Dirty South nigga/ You keep talkin’ out ya head/ I’ll be that go in ya mouth nigga/ Throw that ‘bo in ya mouth nigga/ That fo-fo in ya mouth nigga/ When my chrome split ya dome/ No more runnin’ ya mouth nigga/ When that Brougham takes you home/ I’m still runnin’ the South nigga/ The streets respect my name/ ‘Cause murda murda is my game/ Yo, why waste my time with this lame?/ I clap niggaz fo’ the dough, shawdy/ You rap niggaz just want the fame/ Y’all tell this up-North pussy what’s my name. “Youngblood!” Keisha shouted on cue, and I rapped on.
Yeah, that’s who the fuck I be/ A trill nigga who gets paid for that murda shit/ But Up-North niggaz I clap ‘em for free/ Take that to ya head like stale cornbread/ Keep slippin’ on Dirty South niggaz/ We gon’ send you home dead!
The crowd went ape! Swag, the up-North cat, couldn’t do shit but bow down.
“Sun, you wicked,” he paid props and gave me dap.
“You real nice yourself,” I acknowledged. “But this my hood. You can’t win down here.”
“Sho’ can’t!” Keisha chimed in.
“Bitch, shut da fuck up!” yelled a nigga named Zay, who used to slang for Rich Kid.
“Yo, nigga, who you callin’ a bitch?” I asked, steppin’ up in his grill. My hand was at my waist, grippin’ heat.
“Naw, Youngblood, I was talking to Keisha, not you,” he explained, about to piss on himself.
“Nigga, I know damn well you wasn’t talkin’ to me, but Keisha is my bitch, so apologize to her.”
I pulled out my heat. I could tell Zay didn’t wanna be punked in front of the whole hood, but the nigga knew that I was trained to go, so he didn’t test my G.
“I’m sorry, Keisha, my bad,” he uttered.
“A’ight, kick rocks, nigga!” I barked. “You ain’t from Englewood,
no way.”
Zay, who was really from Scottsdale, walked off like the lame he was.
CHAPTER 15
One day my pager started beeping, back to back to back. I was at Lonnie’s crib getting blazed with him, Delina, Pete and Kyree. I saw that it was my mother’s phone number flashing across the screen. No need to go to a pay phone to call her back, she wouldn’t want to discuss anything illegal, so it was cool to dial her from Lonnie’s home phone.
“Yeah?”
“Have you heard from Toi lately?” my mother asked.
“Not since early last week.”
“Well, I’m worried about her,” said Ann, her voice reflecting her words. “I’ve been trying to reach her all week. I even went by her house yesterday and no one answered the door.”
I told her Toi had probably gone out of town with Glen.
“No. She would’ve called to let me know. She was supposed to pick up a prescription for me. I’ve been sick. If she’d gone out of town, I’m sure she would’ve let me know to pick up the medicine myself.”
I didn’t know if my mother knew Toi’s boyfriend was a hustler, but I knew he was. Therefore, there were many reasons why him and my sister might go out of town without telling anyone, first. Maybe they’d gone to pick up drugs from Glen’s supplier.
“Toi probably forgot about your prescriptions, Ma,” I said, not wanting to mention Toi boyfriend’s business.
I didn’t begin to share my mother’s worry until another week passed without either of us hearing from Toi. I went by Toi’s crib. Her and Glen’s whips were in the parking lot, but no one answered the door. My mother filed a Missing Person report with the police.
A couple days later, the police searched my sister’s apartment. Though Mama told me they found no evidence of a disturbance inside of the apartment, they suspected foul play because they’d found Glen’s keys still in the ignition, and Toi’s purse inside of the truck on the floorboard.