Gangsta Bitch (6 page)

“You know how to reach me if you need me, so don’t hesitate,” he said seriously.

“I won’t,” Duce said as the door slammed shut.

The tears didn’t come
until Frankie was inside the cab and away from Cowboy’s apartment. As strong as she was she always seemed to play the fool for Cowboy. Just like with most men, he was the perfect gentleman when they were dating, but also like most men, he started showing his ass once she had committed to him. Mo had asked her time and again why she continued to deal with Cowboy’s womanizing ass and she always had a good excuse, but the truth of the matter was that she was lonely.

Frankie had been getting money here and there on her own, but since Cowboy come along she wanted for nothing, but it wasn’t the money that kept her with him. Cowboy represented a piece that Frankie had lost a long time ago. His soul might not have been a perfect fit, but it mended the hole well enough. Sometimes it was just being in his arms that made her feel whole, but it was a temporary relief. There was only one man in her life that had ever made her feel like a
real
woman and he was gone, never to return. She thought about her lover often, the good times, the late night talks, but with the good came the bad. The man she had once given her heart to left her for dead and that was a scar that would never heal.

Frankie had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed the cab had stopped. She paid the man and climbed out. When her foot touched the icy curb, she almost lost her balance. “I hate the fucking winter time,” she mumbled, pulling herself the rest of the way out. Moving as gracefully as a cat burglar, she managed to make it to her building without busting her ass. While Frankie was fishing around for her keys, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She fingered her gun and using the reflection off the building’s entrance she scanned the area behind her. She missed him on the first sweep, but on the second her eyes caught him. He was standing on the other side of the street, watching Frankie. She couldn’t see his face, but the way he held himself was familiar. When it hit her, Frankie’s breath caught and she whirled around. A bus rolled down the avenue, momentarily obstructing her view, and when it moved the sidewalk was empty.

It took her several tries, but Frankie was able to insert her key and let herself in the building. Her breaths came in short bursts as she stumbled into the lobby and closed the door. She stood there for a minute, back pressed against the heavy door, and tried to get her thoughts together. “I’m bugging the fuck out,” she told herself. She reached into her bra and pulled out the fifty of haze she’d bought on the way home and threw it on the ground. She reasoned that once you started seeing ghosts it was time to stop getting high.

Duce pressed himself against the drawn gate of the recently condemned bodega. The gate’s frozen metal touched his back, even through his coat, but he welcomed it. He needed something to focus on besides his racing heart. From the way her body went rigid he was sure she’d spotted him. Thankfully the bus and its untimely arrival had kept her from making a positive ID. Exposing his hand too early would complicate things, and this was a plan he needed to go off without a hitch. He had told himself that it was a bad idea, but he had to come, he needed to
see
her.

He cursed himself for being so careless, but sometimes the heart makes lumbering oxen of the graceful men. Every ounce of him wanted to swoop in on her, to let her look into his face and gasp, but it would have to wait. There were people he needed to see before he could go to Frankie. When his business was finished he would lay his heart open to her and if she stuck a knife in it, he could only fault himself. Sparing one last glance at Frankie’s back as she slipped into the building, Duce went off to handle his business.

The livery cab wove in and out of traffic like a mad man. Several times Duce had to tell him to slow down. The last thing he needed was for them to get stopped while he was carrying two hammers. He hated taking cabs, but hadn’t had a chance to pick his truck up yet. A friend of his had been housing it in his garage out in Long Island. Duce made a note to himself to call his man and make arrangements for the truck to be dropped off.

Duce pulled a Newport from his pack and tapped it against the back of his hand. Five years ago he frowned on smokers, but after what he had been through he understood the habit a little better. No sooner than he lit it the cab driver started beefing. A cold glare and the promise of a ten dollar tip quieted his grumbling. Reclining back in the seat he tried as best he could to get his thoughts together. Just seeing Frankie brought back old feelings that he needed to be buried for him to function properly. “Business first,” he reminded himself. When he was within three blocks of his destination he had the driver let him out on the corner.

Just being back on the East Side brought back memories. He and his brother had run all up and down Second Avenue, chasing girls and getting money. When they had first set up shop in Wagner projects they met heavy opposition. It seemed like just about every other day Duce was shooting at somebody or somebody was shooting at him. The bullshit calmed down when Knowledge gave the young boys from the neighborhood positions in the organization. Had Duce had it his way, he would’ve just tried to kill everyone that came at them, but that wasn’t how Knowledge did things. “Diplomacy over bloodshed, little brother,” he would always stress to him.

Duce pulled his skull cap low over his ear and entered the projects. The cold weather had caused most of the residents to seek shelter in the warmth of their apartments; business still had to be conducted. To the untrained eye the young men wondering in and out of the various buildings and cuts would’ve seemed little more than residents coming and going but Duce knew better. For as long as he could remember Wagner had been a gold mine.

Though Duce had been a phantom in his days as D-Murder, there was still a chance that someone might recognize him and compromise his plan. He needed a way to locate his enemies without being detected too early, and the crack head shuffling past him would do nicely.

Though he couldn’t remember her name, he knew who she was. She had lost about 40 pounds since he’d last seen her but for the most part her features were the same. The woman in question was as thin as a rail and sporting a short afro that looked like it hadn’t been combed in days. Back when Duce and his brother ran through the projects she was lacing her blunts with cocaine, but now she was just a base head. Smoker or not, a base head was still the best source for information in any hood.

“Yo, ma, let me holla at you for a minute,” Duce called after her. She stopped and glared at him suspiciously, but didn’t come any closer.

“Fuck is you the police?” she snaked her thin neck.

Duce laughed as she was still as feisty as ever. “Nah, I ain’t no roller, sis. I used to pump around here with Knowledge. I’m fresh home from a bid and trying to get a pack. You don’t remember me?” Duce asked, hoping she didn’t.

The crack head took a few steps towards him, squinting. “Can’t say that I do, but if you looking for Knowledge then you might wanna try Rose Hill Cemetery. Somebody blew his brains out a few years back.”

“Damn, I didn’t know that,” Duce lied. “Who I gotta see to get right?”

“Do I look like the damn information clerk at Macy’s? My time is precious, sweetie,” she said, scratching her neck and looking around nervously. It was obvious her monkey was clawing its way up her back.

Knowing what time it was, Duce pulled a $20 from his pocket and dangled it in front of her. “Ain’t no need for the attitude, ma, I’m out here chasing a dollar like everybody else.”

“I’ll bet,” she said, snatching the bill and stuffing it into her dingy bra. “Since you’ve been gone I know you probably ain’t up on it, but Butch is running the show now.”

Duce’s jaw tightened. Back in the days Butch had been a part of their crew. The seasoned hustler had been fresh home from prison and Knowledge didn’t hesitate to put him in position. The old head was one of Knowledge’s most trusted lieutenants back then. He was the left hand while Duce was the right. He had sent Duce letters from time to time while he was away, but six months into his bid the letters stopped coming. The next thing you knew Duce was hearing stories about how Butch was the nigga to see on the East Side, and how he was bragging about taking what Knowledge once held. Duce was never sure exactly what Butch’s role in Knowledge’s murder had been, but he would catch it like the rest of them.

“Sis, I got another dub for you if you can point me to him,” Duce offered.

The crack head looked at Duce as if he had insulted her. “Baby, 40 funky ass dollars couldn’t get you that type of information, even if I did know where he was. Butch don’t come around here much. He does all his business through Scott these days.”

Just hearing Scott’s name made Duce want to go ballistic. Scott was a soldier in his brother’s organization. Duce remembered him as a loud mouth little bastard that was in a rush to die. On the day he took his fall, it was Scott who had placed the phone call telling him that the spot was being robbed.

“Little Scott still running round out here?” Duce asked in an easy tone.

“He ain’t little no more. Since Butch took over, Scott’s been running around here like he was Ivan the Terrible. It’s a miracle ain’t nobody killed or locked his ass up yet,” she told him.

“Man, I ain’t seen my nigga Scott in years, he around now?”

“Nah, I ain’t seen the little fucker in a few days. He’ll probably be poking his head out sooner or later to come see his baby mama Marsha.”

At that statement Duce felt like all the wind had been sucked out of him. At the time of Knowledge’s death, Marsha had been his shorty. The more the crack head spoke the thicker the plot got.

“Damn, Marsha still lives in the projects?” he asked almost innocently.

“Sure do. You’d think with all the shit her man sling he’d have moved her out, but the bitch is still up on the eleventh floor. She came through here not too long ago, swinging that fake ass weave.”

Duce handed the crack head two more twenties. “Good looking out, ma.”

“For what, I ain’t did shit?” she asked, confused.

“Love, you did more than you know,” he said, before leaving her standing there in a state of confusion.

“Yo, I wanna thank you for
finally trusting me enough to get some money wit you, Poppy. I was trying to get wit you for a minute, yo,” Rico said excitedly.

“No doubt,” Cowboy mumbled, never taking his eyes off the front of the bodega. He thumbed the handle of his gat and found it came away moist with sweat. He was nervous, but wouldn’t allow Rico to see it.

“For real, yo, you’ve been like my idol since back in the days. Yo, you like the black Jesse James, B. Word to my dead moms I cant wait to go up in there and take these Spanish niggas’ shit!” he continued to babble.

The more Rico talked the more annoyed Cowboy seemed to become. Frankie backing out at the last minute had almost led to Cowboy aborting the mission, but once he had his mind set to do something, nothing short of death or paralysis could deter him. He could’ve called on Cos or Thor, but they would’ve more than likely tried to talk him out of the foolish caper. El Pogo was a beast and was known throughout the underworld for his connections and brutality. To rob him was just as good as slitting your own throat, unless you were lucky enough to get away with it, which Cowboy felt he was. For as cunning and ruthless as Cowboy was, he knew he couldn’t pull the caper off alone. He needed someone to watch his back while he cleaned the place out; this is where Rico came in.

Rico was a young knucklehead from the neighborhood who was determined to make a name for himself in the game. Though Rico wasn’t the most seasoned criminal, he would follow directions and kill on command. He had been hounding Cowboy to put him in position for the longest, but Cowboy kept a close circle and was hesitant to let outsiders in, especially those who weren’t proven or didn’t come with a damn good reference. Frankie’s bullshit move had backed him into a corner and forced his hand, which was the only reason Rico was sitting in the passenger seat of the mini van.