Gangsta Bitch (4 page)

“Mo, you bugging,” Frankie tried to wave her off.

“Am I? Frankie, look at you. Girl you’re gorgeous! It’s nothing for you to bag a nigga that’s got something going for himself, yet you keep hooking up with these low life little boys who ain’t trying to see nothing outside of the block, all because your heart won’t let go of something that you’ll never have again. He’s gone, baby. Frankie, I can’t front like I know what it is to walk a mile in your shoes because you’ve been through some shit that has made the average chick break down, but bless your spirit, you always bounce back. Sweetie, heartache is a guarantee when you’re from the bottom of the barrel, but the thing that I’ve found to be true is that there is life after love.”

Frankie turned her face away, jaw tightening as she tried to retain some semblance of composure. “Mo, that’s ancient history, so let’s not dwell on it. I’m a new person, so old shit ain’t got no place in my world, feel me?”

Mo just looked at her and shook her head. It pained her to see her friend in denial. “I hear what your mouth is saying, but the hurt in your eyes betrays your heart. Baby, you can tell yourself anything you want, but you can’t lie to me.”

Outwardly, Frankie scoffed as if Mo’s words didn’t move her, but they’d tapped a nerve. Her face was calm, but the look in her eyes was enough to make Mo swallow. There were few people who could’ve come at her neck like that and Mo was one of them. Mo had her flaws, but a lack of honesty wasn’t one of them. She gave it to you exactly how she was feeling it.

The part of Frankie’s brain that was still in denial wanted to tell her best friend that she was just hating because she didn’t have a man, but Frankie felt the truth in her words. Frankie had a man, but she was still lonely and couldn’t keep from wearing it on her sleeve. It had been longer than she cared to remember since she knew what it felt like to love, or even to be passionate about a man. She tried to convince herself that the flings she’d had in between love and familiarity had a snowball’s chance in hell at capturing her heart, but it was a hard lie that Mo saw right through.

“Mo, I forgot I got something that I was supposed to do so I gotta get ready to shoot back uptown.”

“I’ll bet,” Mo said in a disbelieving tone. “Do what you gotta do; I got a few more stops to make.”

“A’ight, girl, so I’ll give you a call later,” Frankie said giving Mo a half-hearted hug and heading for the exit. She had almost made it out of the store when she heard Mo’s voice.

“I still love you, Frankie Five-Fingers, even if you’re still trying to figure out how to love yourself,” Mo called after her.

Frankie’s shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t spare her friend a second look as she exited the store and stepped into the winter chill.

“Fucking females,” Cowboy said, flipping the cell phone closed. When he did so the ashes that had formed on the tip of the blunt he was smoking dropped onto his white t-shirt. Cowboy ran his hand gently over the shirt, trying to dislodge the ash, but only succeeded in turning it into a stain.

“If you didn’t have so many of them you might spare yourself some of the headache,” the man sitting on the couch offered, counting out stacks of bills on the glass coffee table. He was in his mid-thirties with a slightly receding hairline.

“Man, to have just one bitch would be completely out of my character. A king has got to have a harem. You know how it is, daddy,” Cowboy said, with a cocky smile. Next to Cos he was the elder statesmen and had the most experience in high-end crimes. Cowboy had been initiated into the game as a drug dealer, but it proved to be too much work and too many headaches. When that didn’t pan out he turned to robbery and discovered that he had quite the knack for it. Cowboy quickly moved from stick up kid, to master thief, taking off bigger and better scores over time. Once he had the game down to a science he recruited a team and never looked back. They were a vicious group of young dogs who didn’t see any score as being too big. Anything over ten thousand that got snatched in and around the hood, they probably had a hand in it.

“I hear you talking cat,” the man said, placing the last of the bills on the table. “It’s all there; you can count it if you want to be sure.”

“We ain’t gotta go through all that, man. I know you’d never try to beat me out of a dollar,” he said, snatching the stacks of bills off the table and tossing them onto the couch beside him. Cowboy had been clocking the man’s movements since he sat down with the money, but he would count it again anyway once he was gone.

“Alright, I’ve showed you mine, now show me yours,” the man spread his hands as if his merchandise would appear out of thin air.

“I got you kid. Yo, go get that,” Cowboy said to a girl who had been sitting quietly on the love seat. She was thin with skin the color of overripe bananas. She slid off the love seat lazily, flashing a touch of thigh from under her short skirt. The girl disappeared into the bedroom and came back out carrying a shopping bag. Without so much as glancing at either man she placed the bag on the coffee table.

“Check that out, kid,” Cowboy nodded towards the bag.

The man laid the bag on its side and slid a shoe box out of it. After sparing a brief glance from Cowboy to the girl on the loveseat, he opened the box. Inside were an assortment of jewels of different shapes and colors. Even without his monocle the man could tell that the stones were of a high quality.

“That’s what I’m talking about, son,” the man said, running his fingers through the jewelry like the hair of a pretty girl. “This shit is even prettier the second time around, and worth every dime.”

“It’s actually worth a lot more, but y’all be hard on the God,” Cowboy half teased him.

“Man, you know we gotta make our points too, Cowboy. It ain’t easy getting rid of hot ass stones, especially quality shit.”

“Nigga, you a fence. It’s your job to get rid of hot shit so stop talking like you’re doing me a favor,” Cowboy said.

“Forever the ball buster,” the man said, standing with the bag in his hand. “I’m outta here, kid. See you on the next go round.”

“Fo sho,” Cowboy patted him on the back as they walked to the door. “Yo, I might have some more shit for you in a week or so.”

“That’s what’s up. You know I’m about a dollar,” the man gave Cowboy dap. “See about me.”

Cowboy closed the door behind the man and made sure it was secure. Placing the gun he had tucked in the small of his back on the table, Cowboy thumbed through the bills. After two counts it was still fifteen thousand, not bad for about 30 seconds of work. The two knuckleheads who had actually stolen the goods from a suburban couple’s house in Long Island, only wanted five thousand for it. Cowboy, being no fool to the jewel game, gladly paid their asking price knowing that he would get three to four times more for it through his people. Just like that he had tripled his money.

“That’s an awful thick knot you got there,” the girl said slithering against Cowboy. She massaged his dick through the jeans. “Why don’t you let me help you with that?” she breathed into his ear. The sensation made Cowboy shudder, but his face remained neutral.

“Damn, baby. You keep that up and it might be some shit in here,” he told her.

“Come on, daddy, let me get that up out you,” she stroked his dick a little more aggressively.

Cowboy thought about it, but came to his senses. “Shorty, you trying to get both of us killed. My girl is on her way and I don’t need the drama. I’m bout to put you in a cab, ma.”

The girl sucked her teeth and flopped on the couch. “Why I always gotta be the bitch to get put in a cab?” she asked, folding her arms.

“Because I say so, now get ya coat,” he told her, flipping open his cell to call the cab.

“Cowboy you ain’t shit,” she said, snatching her jacket and storming towards the door.

“Bitch you knew that before you gave the pussy up. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on ya way out!” he called after her, doubled over with laughter.

Duce got off the train
on 125
^th
and St. Nicholas. No sooner than he cleared the stairwell exit he was assaulted by an icy blast to the face. Pulling the collar of his slightly snug bubble coat as high as he could without ripping it, he thought for the hundredth time how much he hated the winters, New York winters especially. Duce had spun the snow-covered yards of at least three state correctional facilities, but that was a different kind of cold, gentle even. New York City cold was different. Because of all the tall buildings acting as sort of wind tunnels it always seemed more brutal. Ignoring the cold as best he could, Duce headed west towards the projects.

Even with night falling and the frigid temperature people were milling about 125
^th
street either shopping or plotting. The landscape was different than it was five years ago, but the vibe was still the same. Duce always thought of Harlem as being the epicenter of the entire city, if not the state. Each respective borough had its own flavor, but there was something about the allure of Harlem that most couldn’t resist. In a sense, the heart of the city was focused within the boundaries of Harlem. Sitting off to the west was Duce’s destination, the General Grant Houses.

Grant Projects brought back memories of Duce’s childhood. When his family had first migrated from the south in the forties, this was where they settled. Though Duce’s mother had moved them out sometime in the nineties it still felt like home to him. Over three generations of his line had rested and been bred in the projects.

His cousin Reggie lived in 430, which was the first building coming from east to west. His mother had moved to Georgia a few years prior, but Reggie remained. He had the finances to get out of the projects but refused to move. If you asked him why he stayed he would simply say, “This is all I know.” Duce scanned the block for a payphone to call and let Reggie know he was in the area, but he didn’t have to. He spotted his cousin standing in front of the building talking to two people.

The woman wasn’t much to look at nor was she ugly. She was attractive in an “I’d hit it” sort of way. Her pink Phat Farm snorkel covered her upper body but from the curve of her thighs, trapped within skin-tight jeans, he could tell she was working with something. The man was about five-nine, maybe ten, with a freshly shaved head. Smoke rose in faint wisps from his dome, but he seemed oblivious to the cold. From the too-tight flight jacket and the man’s pronounced movements Duce knew he hadn’t been home long from a bid. He couldn’t put into words how he knew, but he knew. While the woman was calm, the man seemed agitated and continuously moved his hands.

“Ray, why don’t you relax,” Duce heard the woman say as he walked up.

“I am relaxed, why the fuck you keep saying that?” Ray said, pacing slightly. “Yo, all I’m saying is that I wanna know what the fuck the deal between you and this nigga is?”

Reggie rolled his eyes off into space like he was tired of talking to the man. “Fam, ain’t no deal, me and ya girl is just peoples,” his voice was calm, but Duce noticed the fact that he kept his hands tucked into the pockets of his North Face as he spoke.

“That ain’t what the streets say. I’m up north for trying to keep a bitch fly and food on the table and niggaz is coming through telling me how she’s fucking with some fat nigga from Grant,” Ray declared, hostility in his voice.

From behind the thick glasses he wore Reggie’s eyes narrowed to slits. Duce knew that deadly look from their childhood. Reggie had always been a little insecure about his weight. He had tried to shed it, but with little results. Reggie was a junk food junkie and the constant intake of sugar did little to help his weight problem. Still, commenting on it was a good way to get yourself into a scrap… at the very least.

“Yo, my dude, I’m trying to be humble about this, but you’re gonna make me go there.” Reggie said with the tension now clear in his voice.

“What?” Ray stepped closer. “You sound like you got some gangsta shit on ya mind, son.”

“Come on, Ray, you’re being a real asshole right now.” The girl touched his arm only to have her hand smacked away.

“Fuck is you talking about? You act like you taking up for this nigga or something?” Ray glared at the girl, causing her to step back. “Word to mine,” Ray turned back to Reggie, “I don’t even like how you coming at me right now. Matter fact, take ya hands out ya pockets when you’re talking to me,” Ray insisted.

Reggie gave an exasperated sigh. “You don’t want me to take my hands out of my pockets.”

“Come on, Ray,” the girl pleaded.

“Do what you do, money!” Ray had laid the gauntlet. Duce was about to step in, but Reggie’s next move froze him.

Never taking his eyes off Ray, Reggie began drawing his hand out of his pocket. First there was the butt of the pistol, followed by the barrel. Reggie continued pulling and the barrel continued stretching. All three of the onlookers stood there in shock while Reggie pulled an impossibly long pistol from his pocket. The barrel was so long that the inside of Reggie’s pocket had to have a hole in it to conceal the gun. Cool as a fall afternoon, Reggie pointed the gun at Ray.