Hard Candy Saga (5 page)

“Where the fuck you been at?” Broady barked at Shana. His reaction startled Candice, but Shana didn't seem fazed by his hostility.

“I told you I was outside waiting on my friend Candy. This is her.” Shana opened her arms as if presenting Broady with a prize.

Broady eyed Candice up and down, squinting his eyes to get a better look. “Your face looks familiar. Where you from?” he asked, raising his eyebrows as he stared her down.

A sudden hot flash came over Candice's body, and she felt something akin to nervousness flit through her stomach. She had waited for this day for a long time and didn't want anything to mess up her plans.

“Not from around here,” she replied with an attitude.

Broady eyed her up and down, a lazy grin on his face.

Candice could tell that all of the expensive bottles of Ace of Spades had worked on him. She held his gaze, shooting daggers at him with her eyes.

The moment felt surreal to her, almost like looking into the face of the devil. Candice could feel her heart thumping in her throat. She bit down into her molars to keep herself from screaming. It was really him, in the flesh. Her nose flared; she tapped her foot.

According to the hood, this was the man who had bragged about emptying a 10-round magazine into the back of Easy's head. Candice didn't know exactly who had actually shot the weapon that ended her father's life, but she knew Broady was heavily involved.

“I know you not from my hood, because I know everybody around my way. But, like I said, you look like somebody I might know. Something about your face is real familiar, baby girl, that's all,” Broady said, his voice slurring.

Candice lowered her eyes into slits and gritted. “I'm not your ‘baby girl,' and you sure as hell don't know me.” She instantly regretted the words after they had slipped from her mouth. Candice could feel her emotions taking a hold of her. She had to get it together, or she'd be in trouble. The sudden tension was as thick as the haze of weed smoke that hung in the club.

“You got a live wire for a tongue, huh? You better watch your tone. I may think I know you, but judging from how breezy you talkin', you certainly must not know me.” Broady lifted his drink to his mouth.

Shana started laughing nervously, sensing that shit was getting critical. “Broady, you don't know her. You always think somebody is familiar-looking. Stop the madness. We came to have fun. No more drama from ya ass,” Shana said, dragging Candice by the arm toward an empty table.

“Girl, I'm so sorry about that. That nigga can't hold his liquor for shit, and he always think he know some damn body from somewhere.”

“I'm fine. I'm a big girl. I can hold my own.” Candice folded her arms across her chest. She wasn't fine at all. She wanted to drop her bag and pull out her Glock and take Broady's fucking head off right then and there.

“Well, look . . . take a drink. All of the shit up in here, no matter how expensive, is free. I'm gonna go get Razor, so you can at least meet him. I mean that
is
the whole reason you came out tonight, right?” Shana said, eyeing Candice suspiciously.

Candice just nodded. She was lost in thought. She saw Shana get up, walk over to a group of dudes, and come back with one.

“Candy, this is Razor. Razor, Candy,” Shana called out over the music.

Candice stood up and gave a halfhearted smile and extended her hand for a shake. The man she had been introduced to did the same. She gave him the once-over.
Way too short, way too ugly, gold teeth, and a long pinky fingernail.
Candice cringed
.
This man could do nothing for her by way of attraction.

She sat back down, and Razor sat across from her at the table. She considered him for a moment. He might not prove entirely useless. Perhaps he might know some details of how Broady killed her father.

“Candy, are you as sweet as you look?” Razor licked his lips like he was about to indulge in a succulent meal.

Candice didn't hear the question, because she couldn't stop looking in Broady's direction.

“Yo, w'sup with your friend?” Razor asked Shana.

Candice was sure Shana would intervene to divert Razor's attention. She could hear them talking, but she wasn't listening. Right now, she had one mark on her mind, and she wasn't about to let him out of her sight.

Broady Carson stood a hulking six feet seven inches tall by the time he was fifteen years old. His dream was to go to the NBA, but like with so many of his counterparts on the streets, it never materialized. The streets had called him early, as conditions at home with a single mother and absentee father deteriorated.

Broady's older brother, Davon, who everybody called Junior, had always tried to protect his big little brother from a life in the streets. When Junior was hustling and trying to make a name for himself in Brooklyn, he'd chastise Broady for staying out late, and he would try to encourage him to go to school and get a basketball scholarship.

But Broady worshipped his older brother and always wanted to be just like him. He started hanging out on the street corners with his friends who were already hustling, and in the local gambling spot run by a dude called Shamrock. In fact, it was in Shamrock's gambling hole that Broady got caught up in an event that ultimately changed the course of his life.

* * *

It was a cold winter night, and Broady ran top speed all the way home. He was drenched with sweat under his North Face bubble goose jacket, fear danced in his eyes, and his heart was like a jackhammer in his chest. When he reached his building, he took the stairs two at a time and burst through the door of the project apartment he shared with his mother and brother.

He ran straight for Junior's room, which he had already been forbidden from entering. “Where the fuck is it?” he huffed under his breath, his chest heaving up and down as he rummaged through his brother's belongings, tossing Junior's numerous shoe boxes around. “Got it!” he said triumphantly as he finally found what he was looking for—a silver Beretta special.

Broady had seen Junior stuff the weapon in his front waistband many a day. He also knew that Junior used a different weapon when he was on his monthly trips out of town.

“Now, bitch! You wanna try to play somebody? Like a nigga can't get his hands on his own ratchet. Well, we gon' see who the boss now.” Broady gritted as he unzipped his goose, lifted his sweater, and tucked the weapon securely in the front of his pants, just as he had seen his brother do in the past.

“Who is that out there? Junior, is that you?” Betty called out just as Broady rushed out of Junior's room.

Broady sucked his teeth. He always knew his mother didn't give a damn about anybody but Junior. She didn't care if Broady fell off the face of the earth, as long as she could have her favorite son, Junior. Nothing Broady did, even playing basketball, could satisfy Betty. Consequently, most of the responsibility for Broady's care fell on Junior.

Broady ignored his mother's calls and walked calmly down the small hallway of their apartment to the front door. He took the project stairwell down, holding on to the cinder block walls so he could skip down the stairs two at a time.

Outside, the cold air stung the inside of his nose and made tears leak from the sides of his eyes. Broady was huffing and puffing, causing a steady stream of frosty breath to escape his lips. “You a dead bitch-ass nigga now,” he said out loud to himself. He had already made up his mind about what he was going to do. There was no backing down or turning back now.

Broady continued the pep talk with himself until he reached his destination. He banged on the raggedy wooden door three times.

“Who?” a man's voice boomed from the other side of the wood.

“Junior!” Broady called out, lying about his identity. Broady figured that after the earlier dust up at the spot, they wouldn't let him back in. He also knew his brother was well respected in the streets of Brooklyn, so saying he was Junior could get him into many places.

When the door swung open, Broady placed the end of the pistol in the man's face.

“Whoa, cowboy! What the fuck is you doin'?” Shamrock said, putting his hands up like he was being arrested.

“Where is that nigga, June Bug?” Broady huffed, his hands shaking fiercely.

“He back there still playin',” Shamrock murmured nervously. Shamrock had gotten his nickname because he was no bigger than a leprechaun. Standing five feet tall on a good day, he was no match for a hulking, young cat like Broady. “C'mon, man, you ain't gotta do this shit here,” he pleaded.

Broady grabbed Shamrock's arm and dragged him along with him to the back of the small basement. The local illegal gambling spot was usually always packed, but it was three o'clock in the morning, and most of the dudes who spent their days there had already lost their money and dragged their sorry asses home. But June Bug just so happened to be playing his last hand of ghetto poker.

“Everybody, stand the fuck up!” Broady screeched, placing his gun against Shamrock's head.

Shamrock pleaded with them with his eyes. One false move and he knew his brains would be all over the floor.

“Young'un, what the fuck is you doin'? Your brother know you here?” an older man at the poker table asked.

June Bug stood stock-still. He instantly regretted slapping Broady earlier in the day and taking his money back from him at gunpoint. June Bug was a notorious sore loser, so when Broady beat him in a game of cee-lo, he took it back by force. June Bug swallowed hard because he knew he was Broady's intended target. His gun was strapped to his ankle, so he knew he couldn't reach it without being noticed. Any sudden movements from him and his ass was as good as dead.

“Nobody fuckin' move!” Broady screamed.

The room went still. The only sound came from the small black-and-white TV that sat on top of a milk crate in the corner.

“Everybody empty y'all fuckin' pockets on the table now!” Broady barked.

At first, nobody moved.

“Oh, y'all think this is a joke?” Broady crinkled his face into a scowl and let off a shot into Shamrock's left foot.

Shamrock shrieked, his body buckling to the floor and blood soaking through his sneaker. Suddenly, all of the gamblers were emptying their night's take onto the table with quickness.

“Yo, Broady, man, we can discuss this shit,” Pops said.

With his gun still trained on them, Broady walked around the table and grabbed up as much of the money as he could handle with one hand. He was sure he got his money back and then some.

“You slapped me in my fuckin' face like I was your bitch, right? You pussy!” Broady growled, getting close to June Bug.

June Bug opened his mouth to answer, but before the words could leave his mouth, Broady raised his gun hand high and cracked June Bug in the mouth with the butt of the gun.

“Oh shit!” June Bug howled as blood and two teeth shot from his mouth. He doubled over, holding his mouth, dark red blood seeping through his fingers.

“Now who's the bitch?” Broady placed his finger on the trigger and pulled it before he could even give it a second thought. He wanted to prove a point that night, consequences be damned.

June Bug's head exploded like a pumpkin being thrown off of a tall building and smashing to the ground, making one of the men vomit instantly.

Broady had gray brain matter all over the front of his coat. He didn't know what to do next. He contemplated killing everybody in the room so he wouldn't leave any witnesses, but he was already spooked. He whipped around like a paranoid nut and then bolted from the basement onto the street. Broady knew he needed to call his brother, because he didn't know what to do next. Junior would take care of it; he always knew what to do.

* * *

“Candy, your ass been acting funny all night! Let me find out you's a quiet drunk and shit. You ain't hardly say shit to Razor all night. Girl, that is Broady's best friend in the whole world and his second in charge. I wouldn't hook you up with none of his other little flunkies. You better stop playin' and treat a nigga right,” Shana rambled on, eyeing Candice like she was disappointed in her or something.

“I'm good. I don't get drunk, first of all. What did you want me to do? Jump up and down and hang off of Razor's neck? I mean, he seems nice and everything.”

Shana perked up when Candice gave Razor a halfhearted compliment, figuring that was a start. Shana had a very important stake in Candice and Razor hooking up, and she wasn't giving up that easily. If she could hook Candice up with Razor, it would make her life easier because she would be able to use Candice to be around Broady more often.

“Well, come to breakfast with us. We always go out after we leave here. Sometimes the fuckin' party even spills over to our place, even though I hate that shit,” Shana said, her words beginning to slur. Shana had had a lot to drink tonight.

Candice looked over at Broady and Razor and their entire crew. They were drinking, laughing, and being rowdy as usual. They really disgusted her.

Candice was about to decline Shana's invitation when she spotted a man who appeared to be gliding on air. He walked like Barack Obama, and people seemed to move out of his way as he walked by with his six henchmen in tow. Candice was blinded by his jewels, even from a distance. Her toes balled up in her shoes, and she clenched her fists so tightly, her knuckles paled. He looked much different than the picture she had of him on her corkboard. He seemed older and had grown a mustache and goatee, just like her father had worn for years. Candice wondered how much he had changed since he had committed the heinous crimes against her family.