Gangsta Bitch (19 page)

“Yeah, Jessie, I got big plans for that girl,” Butch continued. “I spent years on the block getting it up so that my little girl wouldn’t have to want for anything. She ain’t gonna be no lump on the street like we were, trying to get by on our wits.”

“Because wits don’t always prevail,” Duce whispered into Butch’s ear. Butch’s eyes popped open and when he saw the man sneering at him in the mirror, he almost shit his pants. If it weren’t for the razor pressed into his jugular, he would have surely fainted.

Duce slid the razor up a bit, but didn’t apply enough pressure to draw blood. “Come on, Butchy. You don’t remember my name no more?”

“D… D-Murder,” Butch trembled just getting the name out.

“So, the liar has found its tongue,” Duce tapped Butch on his shoulder with the barrel of his gun. “I hear you’re doing big things in the world, Butch. You got that pot money?
‘No matter what we make, ten percent goes in the pot for the family so every nigga on our team can have lawyer money or be buried properly’.
Remember that, son?”

“Derrick, what’s this shit all about, man?” Butch tried to add some bass to his voice, but it kept cracking.

“Oh, I think you know what it’s all about, fam. My brother rests with the lord and you’re out here rubbing shoulders with his murderers. How do you think that shit was looking to the brothers on the tier? Let me answer that for you,” he moved the blade so quickly that Butch didn’t feel the stinging until Duce was standing in front of him. “It sounds like you’re a cock sucking piece of shit that would sell his mother down the drain for a street corner.”

“Nigga is you crazy?” Butch clasped his neck. He tried to hop out of the chair, but Duce kicked him back down.

“Nah, I ain’t crazy brother,” Duce slashed him across his protruding gut. “Just vindictive. Take your medicine with pride,” Duce advanced on Butch with the razor, but Butch rolled out of the chair and landed on all fours.

“You’re making a mistake,” Butch pleaded from his knees, damn near groveling.

“I’m not making a mistake,” Duce snatched Butch roughly to his feet by his jowls. “I’m correcting one,” he drew back for the killing blow, but Butch had a parting question.

“Wait…I can’t go out like this, what about my little girl!”

Duce hesitated as if he were about to change his mind before a chill crept into his eyes. “Shit, what about her?” he asked before opening Butch up. The man flapped around on the floor like a wounded fish for almost five minutes before he finally lost the battle. Duce turned to the old barber and leveled his pistol.

Jessie backed up with his hands held high. “Come on, Derrick, don’t do me like this. I’ve been cutting you and your brother’s heads since back when you were little boys, you know me, man.”

Duce nodded in satisfaction and lowered his gun. “Yeah, I know you Mr. Jessie, so I know you gonna keep your mouth shut about what happened here, right?”

“I did ten years in the joint and ain’t never let any nigga’s name but mine roll off my tongue,” Jessie said proudly.

Duce reached into his pocket and handed Jessie a wad of bills. The old barber was too scared to count it. “Sorry about the mess I made,” Duce headed for the door. As an afterthought he added, “Does your daughter still live down on ninety-something street in those projects?” Jessie’s dark skull suddenly became very pale. He thought he might be suffering a mild heart attack until Duce gave him that little boy smile. “I’m just playing with you, Mr. Jessie.” And just like that,

D-Murder was gone.

Frankie moved as silently as the grave
through the streets of Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. Night had fallen hours ago and there wasn’t much of anyone on the streets other than the dealers and stick-up kids. Frankie wasn’t worried about the latter because she was armed with a Desert Eagle. Even if it weren’t for the large pistol, the trained eye could see the shadow of death looming over her like a protective shield.

She was dressed in black jeans and a skully, with a black Woolrich coat that almost swallowed her. The soft, but filthy, snow crunched under her feet as she walked. The hood of her coat was pulled halfway around her head, enough so that she could fight off some of the chill, but not too much as to obscure her vision. Frankie wasn’t one to be caught slipping.

Frankie passed a group of young men who were loitering in front of the bodega on Throop and Hancock. One of them said something to her as she passed, but she ignored the comment and kept her stride. Not having anything better to do, the boys fell in step behind her. They whistled and made cat calls, but Frankie didn’t respond. She wanted to turn around and slap fire out of the boys, but didn’t. She was trying to keep a low profile and getting into a fist fight in the middle of the street might draw unwanted attention to her. Cowboy had eyes everywhere.

Tiring of the cat and mouse game, one of the boys pressed his luck and grabbed Frankie by the arm. Spinning, she clocked him with a left to the side of the head and followed with a right to the jaw, knocking him down but not out. The boy snarled and struggled to his feet but before he could reach Frankie, she had drawn her weapon and was pointing it at his head.

“You got frog in you?” she asked, pulling the slide back on the gun with her free hand. “Go ahead, I dare you.”

“We don’t want no problems, miss,” one of the boys said.

“Oh, ain’t no fun fighting a girl that might fight back, huh?” she mocked, sweeping the gun over all of them. “You niggaz beat your feet before I get stupid out here.” The boys made hurried steps in the other direction, clearly wanting no parts of the young lady holding the big gun.

She moved down Jefferson Avenue taking note of, but not making eye contact with any of the locals. The less they remembered about her, the better. A brown-skinned dread with a heavy accent came at her trying to push up and sell her some weed at the same time. All it took was a look from Frankie and he backed off. Near the end of the block, she found the building she was looking for and ducked inside.

The interior of the building was just as shabby as the exterior. Empty cigarette boxes and cigar fillings littered the floor of the lobby, turning into a damp mess from the snow that had been tracked from the outside. Frankie jogged up the dilapidated stairs, praying they wouldn’t collapse under her weight. When she got to the top floor, she knocked on a brown door in a rhythm and waited. There was the sound of bolts being slid free and the door opened. Duce stood there to greet her with open arms.

“Damn, I was beginning to worry about you,” he said, hugging her. “None of these niggaz give you any grief did they?”

“Baby, you know Frankie hold her own,” she pulled the Desert Eagle halfway out of her coat pocket so Duce could see the butt.

“Bring your crazy ass in here,” he stepped back so she could enter.

Frankie was thoroughly surprised when she stepped into the apartment. The building looked like it would fall over under a strong enough gust of wind, but the apartment itself was plush. The place had soft, lavender carpet stretching from one end to the other and high ceilings. He escorted her into the living room where he had a nice leather sectional and an entertainment system that housed a 42 inch television. Attached to the television were a Play Station 3 and an X-Box 360.
Typical of a dude
, she thought to herself. Duce motioned for her to have a seat and disappeared into the bedroom. He came back out a few seconds later with a blunt between his lips.

Frankie slipped her coat off and took a seat on the sofa. “I see you still love the Mary Jane,” she nodded at the blunt.

He lit the blunt and took two deep pulls. “Some things never change,” he said, exhaling the smoke. Duce flopped on the sofa next to Frankie and grabbed the remote off the coffee table. He clicked on the CD player and switched the disc to track number two. Lyfe Jennings’
Stick Up Kid
came softly through the speakers.

“That’s my shit,” Frankie said, humming along with the song.

“You know, I used to lie in my cell and think about you whenever I heard this song,” he told her, tipping the ash into the ashtray before handing Frankie the blunt.

“Stop trying to gas me up,” she giggled and took a baby pull off the blunt. Frankie immediately started coughing and handed it back to Duce.

“Better be careful with that, this ain’t no back yard boogie,” he teased her.

“Shut up,” she slapped him playfully on the leg, sending a warm sensation through Duce. “The only time you probably thought about me was when you were beating your dick!”

“Nah, I thought about you all the time, even when I was trying so hard not to. Frankie, that shit was killing me knowing that I might never see you again unless it was in a prison visiting room,” he saw her face take a saddened look and touched her cheek. “No need to dwell on that anymore though. We’re back together and I don’t ever plan on leaving you again.”

“Don’t say it unless you mean it,” she warned him.

“Baby, you don’t know how much I mean it,” Duce kissed her. It was a soft kiss at first, but soon grew more intense. Before either of them knew it, they had spilled onto the floor and were trying to tear each other’s clothes off. Frankie and Duce made love on the living room floor, then enjoyed each other on the kitchen counter. When they had finally managed to make it to the bedroom, all they had the strength to do was hold each other

Frankie looked at Duce in the dim light of his bedroom. He was trying to look peaceful but his face held a worried expression. “What’re you thinking about?” she asked, moving to lay her head on his chest.

“Give you three guesses,” he stroked the back of her head.

“So, you’re really going through with it?” she asked, hoping that he might’ve changed his mind.

“Yeah, after we take off that armored truck, I’m putting Cowboy to bed.”

“Duce, you know it’s not too late to walk away. I know where Cowboy keeps most of his money stashed and we can rob his ass blind and disappear,” she tried to give him an out.

“Oh, I’m gonna take his money. His life is just an added bonus,” Duce sat up and moved her so that she was looking up at him. “Frankie, I don’t know how comfortable I am with you playing a role in all this. Maybe you could go stay with your brother until it’s over with.”

She looked at him as if he was crazy. “And risk something happening to you? I don’t think so. I’m riding this train to the last stop.”

“Your head is
so
fucking hard,” he laughed.

“You’re one to talk,” she shot back playfully. “I guess you gotta do what you gotta do.”

“I guess so.”

“Duce…”

“Shhh,” he placed a finger over her lips. “In a few days all this shit is gonna be over and I’m either gonna be dead, or we’re gonna be off somewhere sipping the best of shit and lying in the sun. For now, let’s not talk about Cowboy or killing, I just wanna enjoy my time with you.”

Frankie nodded and put her head back on his chest. She had so many things running through her mind that she didn’t know whether she was coming or going. It was obvious that there was no changing Duce’s mind so all she could do was be there for him when the shit hit the fan. Frankie lie there, listening to the sound of Duce’s heartbeat until sleep finally took her.

The snow had been falling for three days
straight, and from the looks of things it wouldn’t be letting up anytime soon. The ground was covered at least to the ankle with soft frost which was dotted with dirty gray foot prints from all the people milling about downtown Brooklyn. As the saying went, it would be a white Christmas.

Bobby Steward leaned against the side of the armored cube truck, with one hand resting on his sidearm and the other one cupping a Newport in an attempt to keep the falling snow from wetting the cigarette too bad. He tapped his foot impatiently casting an occasional glance at his watch, as if he had somewhere better to be. He had been working for Armored Services for just over two weeks and he was already fucking up. His job had been to stay behind the wheel of the truck while Mike and Aaron gathered the money from inside Macy’s, but his yearn for nicotine caused him to disobey the order. He reasoned that no one would be stupid enough to try and take off an armored truck; things like that only happened on television. Besides, if someone did try anything they’d have to deal with Stringer and the double action shotgun that he kept in the back of the truck with him.

His attention was drawn to a statuesque woman making her way to the exit from inside the store to where they were parked. In one hand, she carried at least four shopping bags. A stack of boxes was balanced in the other, obscuring nearly her entire upper body with the exception of her face. She had coffee brown skin and wore her hair in a long black weave that came down her back. Bobby couldn’t see her body due to the boxes, but he was able to admire the long legs that stretched down from her short gray skirt. If the rest of her was as built as her legs, there was some lucky stud out there that Bobby wished he could trade places with.

A few paces behind the woman were Mike and Aaron, carrying four heavy bags and laughing about something that Bobby wasn’t quite sure of. No doubt they were enjoying the view as they could see the woman’s body better than Bobby could. “Lucky bastards,” he cursed under his breath.