Coca Kola - The Baddest Chick (14 page)

“Drop me off at Tiko’s spot,” Cross said. “I’ll catch a ride back to the crib wit’ him.”

Edge pulled up to the Lenox Lounge on Lenox Avenue and stopped outside the long-standing Harlem bar with its retro entrance pushed between the crevices of a growing and faster-moving Harlem. The fading neon sign looked like it was on its last bulb.

Cross stepped out of Edge’s truck without saying good-bye. Edge shrugged as he slammed the door and walked toward the bar like he had just gotten out of a cab. Cross didn’t even turn back. He walked into the bar without as much of a head nod in Edge’s direction.

Edge felt disrespected. “Fuck him,” he muttered to himself.

Edge shifted the truck in drive and sped away. He wondered if Kola was actually pregnant. It had to be a lie. He figured Kola to be the type to get an abortion if she was truly pregnant. He knew her kind. They were about business, making money—no time for family or kids. Still, he wanted a piece of her. Cross was a friend, but the game had no boundaries. Besides, Edge didn’t respect him as much, with Kola calling the shots now. He saw his friend becoming weak, despite the speech he gave, which he thought was just a charade.

***

Cross stepped into the dimly lit Lenox Lounge, walking past the time-scarred front bar, and met Tiko at one of the circular, padded booths near “the zebra room,” where pictures of music icons hung above the patrons’ heads.

Tiko sat alone, sipping on a dry martini. The aging hustler with graying beard and wise-man mentality had seen it all—been there and done that—and it showed in his eyes and the creases on his face. He remembered Harlem back in the days when gangsters like Nicky Barnes and Frank Lucas had a stranglehold over its streets. He grew up with Cross’ family and had done time with his ’ father in Attica when crack was at its peak. Cross was like a son to him.

About to turn fifty in a few days, Tiko was wearing a stylish black suit with white pinstripes, his matching round derby with the hard narrow brim resting on the table near his drink, and a gold Rolex on his left wrist and a diamond pinky ring on his right hand.

Cross slid into the booth and sat opposite him.

Tiko gave him a head nod, showing respect. He picked up his drink and took a few sips. He looked over at the young lady working behind the bar, admiring her shape and the way she moved. She looked over at the handsome man and smiled, and Tiko smiled back. He took his time with everything, from dressing to business.

He slowly turned his attention back to Cross. “How you been, youngblood?” he asked, his raspy voice trailing like a bumpy road.

“I could be better,” Cross responded.

When Tiko was in his prime, he would move hundred of ki’s, heroin and cocaine, on a weekly basis, but the game had changed. The young boys coming up in the game didn’t go by rules anymore. They were reckless and didn’t respect the art of being a hustler, didn’t know what being a gangster was supposed to be about. Besides, he’d done his stint in jail and wasn’t looking to go back. He was too old. He wanted to die in Harlem, not in some ugly prison in a rural area around a bunch of men and white guards.

He hustled quietly, like a puppy walking on cotton, moving only a ki a month, and only to his loyal clientele that he trusted. He didn’t need the headaches and left the corners for the young boys to fight over.

Tiko took another sip from his martini. He then raised his hand slightly and gestured to the passing waitress for another drink.

He looked at Cross for a moment. The young man reminded him of himself when he was that age. He admired Cross’ character and thought he was articulate and business-minded, but Cross still had flaws that Tiko wanted to bring to his attention.

“You know Chico came to me?” Tiko mentioned.

Cross raised his eyebrows when he heard the name come from Tiko’s mouth. “What he want from you?”

“My business.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I don’t deal with his kind, Cross. You should know that about me. He’s reckless . . . dangerous.”

“He’ll soon be dead.”

“Well, this war you have with him, you need to end it. It will bring too much attention on you.”

“I know, but Chico ain’t gonna go out quietly, Tiko.”

Tiko nodded. “But the violence needs to stop. You bring attention to yourself, then it trickles down to my business and me. I’ve been off the feds’ radar for years. Things have been quiet for me. I don’t need to become another blip on their screen because of you.” He spoke in a hushed tone, his voice traveling far enough for only Cross to hear.

“I understand, Tiko.”

“I don’t think you do, Cross. Violence will bring police, the police will attract the feds, and then business will come to a crawl. The feds up our asses will be like diarrhea. The feds don’t get off the pot until they all take a shit. And they
will
shit on us. I’ve been there, Cross. The last thing you or I need is a RICO case. Once it starts, it won’t go away.”

Cross nodded. “So how should I handle this muthafucka?”

When the waitress came over with Tiko’s drink, the conversation abruptly stopped. She placed the dry martini on a napkin in front of Tiko, who flashed her a nice smile.

She returned the smile. “Anything for your friend?”

Cross shook his head. “I’m good.”

“OK.”

As she walked away from the table, Tiko’s eyes lingered on her for a moment. He stared at her thick backside. She was the type of woman that always caught his eye—dark skin, thick in the waist and hips—a nice girl with a country accent. He had plenty like her, six kids by three beautiful women.

Tiko placed his eyes back on Cross. “You can’t continue to go back and forth with him. Four bodies in the past month, the numbers go red on the homicide board in the precincts, and so do our numbers for business. Red is red anywhere . . . brings shit down.”

“Yeah, I understand, but you ain’t telling me much, Tiko. You talkin’ in riddles right now.”

Tiko stared at Cross. “What do I suggest? Do what the Mafia used to do back in the days when there was a problem between two factions.”

“And what’s that?”

“A sit-down.”

“A what?”

“You and Chico need to sit down and work this shit out. There’s enough money in Harlem to go around without us killing each other over it.”

“I’m not sitting down wit’ that muthafucka, Tiko. You must be crazy.”

“You watch yourself, Cross. You’re being ignorant right now. You keep going in the direction you’re going, and you’ll be nothing soon . . . only a name in the streets blowing with the wind.”

“I’m not sitting down with him, Tiko. It ain’t an option.”

Tiko sighed. He massaged his gray beard, while Cross continued with his hard image, a scowl on his face.

“Youngblood, think about it.”

Cross shook his head and stood up from the booth. He was tired of talking. He had respect for Tiko, but he wasn’t about to listen to him talk about a compromise with Chico. He looked up at Tiko with a deadpan stare. “No disrespect to you, Tiko, but fuck that nigga!”

Cross caught the attention of other patrons in the lounge with his sudden outburst. The two ladies behind the bar turned to look at him.

Tiko knew there was no talking sense into the young hustler at the moment. Cross’ attitude and ego were his flaws. He gestured toward the seat. “Youngblood, sit and talk.”

“Nah, I’m done talking, Tiko. I’ma handle mine, you feel me?”

As Cross turned and headed for the exit, not once did he look back at Tiko. He walked outside, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his cell phone. He called Kola.

“What’s up?” she answered.

“Come get me. I’m at Lenox Lounge.”

Chapter 14

I
t was after midnight when Memo stepped out of his Accord, his pistol tucked snugly in his waistband. The rapidly graying skies above started to produce rain, and the wind was getting heavy. He zipped up his jacket and looked around briefly, making sure there wasn’t any threat looming, as he made his way across the street into the Lincoln Projects.

Memo had his hand close to his pistol just in case. He wasn’t taking any chances, because of the shootout with Chico and Dante a week earlier. He didn’t understand why Chico was after him. He remembered what had happened to his sister, and decided he wasn’t going out like that—shot dead on the streets.

He entered the quiet lobby and looked around again. The rain started to come down heavier. He pressed for the elevator and waited nervously. He was taking a chance by being in Harlem, but he needed to see his girlfriend Cherry, who was four months pregnant with his baby and crying about her bills and the rent. A small-time hustler selling weed and stolen goods, he made enough to live nice and drive around in a 2002 Honda Accord that he’d bought cash.

The elevator door slid open, and Memo stepped in. He pushed for the fifth floor, stepped back, and waited. He stepped onto the fifth floor and walked down the narrow, graffiti-covered hallway toward the apartment, which was the last one down the long stretch of hallway. To the right of it was the stairway exit.

Memo knocked on her door. He could hear 2Pac blaring in the apartment.

He knocked harder, shouting, “Cherry, open the damn door!”

He heard the music being lowered. He glanced around before turning back to the doorway. He knocked even harder. “Cherry, hurry the fuck up!” he shouted.

As Memo focused on the apartment door, the stairway door to the fifth floor swung open like a gust of wind had pushed it. He turned in time to see Dante emerging toward him with a 12-gauge, sawed-off double-barrel shotgun aimed at his head.

Memo’s eyes widened with fear as he stepped back and fumbled with the pistol tucked in his jeans. He gripped it, but it was already too late.

Dante didn’t say a word. The 12-gauge exploded in his grip, causing a loud echo in the narrow hallway. Memo’s head shattered like a water balloon hitting concrete, and his brain and blood splattered against the walls and apartment door.

Dante walked over to the body and smiled at his handiwork. Then he stepped back into the stairway and disappeared into the night like a shadow, leaving Memo’s contorted body on display for the neighbors to see.

***

Denise, eyes closed and legs open, squirmed underneath the sheets as the young stud was eating her out in the comfort of her bedroom. She dug her nails into the top of his skull when his long tongue wormed inside of her.

Her twin daughters and their problems were the farthest things from her mind. It was all about her and Robert. She loved the way the young hustler sexed her. Robert was a beast with his eight-inch erection, and she loved everything about him.

“Ooooh!” she cooed.

Robert inclined her legs at an angle where her knees were vertically pointed at her, and dug his face deeper into her throbbing pussy, his tongue sliding easily between her lips and making her legs quiver. Each stroke of his tongue and the movement of his fingers sliding in and out of her lit up her body with pleasure.

“I want that dick in me.”

Robert smiled. He lifted his face from her wet, throbbing pussy, ready to oblige his cougar.

Denise gazed at his chiseled physique. Her eyes traveled down to his penis, which was hard and ready, and her pussy jumped. Their last encounter had her spent and mouthing,
What the fuck!
The dick was good. Really good. She couldn’t complain. The young boy knew how to work her body.

He snatched the Magnum condom off the nightstand near the bed and tore it open with his teeth. Denise waited patiently with her legs spread for him to enter her. He slowly rolled back the Magnum onto his thick penis, and just as he was about to thrust himself inside her, the two suddenly heard a loud cannon-like explosion outside her doorway.

Startled, Denise jumped up and hollered, “What the fuck was that?” Then she heard a woman screaming.

She jumped out of the bed, grabbed her robe from off the chair, and rushed to her front door, and Robert followed her, stumbling over the carpet in the hallway as he tried to put on his jeans.

Denise was barely covered in her robe when she opened her door and saw the body sprawled out right next to her apartment door, half his face gone, and blood and brain matter everywhere. She placed her hands over her mouth in shock, wanting to scream, but the pregnant young girl in the hallway with her was doing enough screaming for the both of them.

More neighbors started to come out of their apartments, every one of them carrying the same horrified gaze, and the hallway quickly began to fill with people.

One elderly woman wearing a long bathrobe and curlers in her hair screamed loudly, “Oh my God!”

A mother grabbed her six-year-old and pulled him back into her apartment, not wanting him to view the scene, which made her skin crawl. A middle-aged couple had to restrain the pregnant girlfriend, who was crying hysterically.

Robert’s face became ghostly white. “Yo, I know that ain’t my nigga Memo!” he shouted.

Though the body was barely recognizable, Robert noticed the bloody chain around the neck and the pendant attached to it. Memo was the only one known to wear the distinctive gold piece—a pair of 14k gold boxing gloves with a small skull embossed into the gloves—a reminder of his time spent in the gym preparing for the Golden Gloves competition a few years earlier.