Heartbreak of a Hustler's Wife: A Novel (16 page)

Desember answered Rocko, “Just like you was crazy to run up in a got-damn club and steal some coats … my coat. You da one with some nerve.”

“This shit is super serious.” Rahllo was trying to keep his composure, but Yarni saw he was about to blow up.

Desember burst out laughing and threw Rocko the keys. “It’s in the parking deck at the Coliseum. Here’s the ticket. I was just pulling your leg, playboy.”

Rocko looked like he couldn’t help but dig Desember’s style. He nodded. “It’s all good.”

“Now, I’d appreciate you’d stop running to your daddy and coming to my stepmother’s job to straighten out the bullshit you start,” Desember said.

Rocko and his father said at the same time, “This is your stepdaughter?”

“Yup.” Though the test results hadn’t officially come in yet, Yarni wasn’t going to tell Rahllo any differently. Instead, she smiled and thought that Desember had a lot of spunk and heart to be only eighteen years old.

Rahllo caught Yarni giving Desember a look that said, “This ain’t over.”

“Yarni, don’t be giving the girl no hard time when we leave. You know good and well you weren’t no more of a saint than them when you were their age.”

Desember asked, “What you mean?” seeming excited to hear a war story about Yarni.

Before they left, Desember asked Rocko what he planned to do with the other coats.

“They don’t mean shit to me,” he said. “I took ’em to disrespect the promoter. Why you ask?”

“Well, I would love to take them off of your hands. You could give them to me for a low price and I’ll consider it a gesture of goodwill.”

“A’ight, we gonna rap about it. I like you, you a little hustler.”

“Natural born,” Desember said.

“We have that in common, and just on the strength of you going out to breakfast, lunch or dinner with me, tomorrow I’ll give ’em all to you to make up for the whole inconvenience.”

“Deal.” Desember shook his hand to seal the agreement, but her mind was on getting those coats and making money.

Yarni walked Rahllo and Rocko out. She told Desember, “Say your good-byes to your partner, because you’re riding home with me.”

Once in the car, Yarni didn’t hold back her displeasure. “Girl, do you know you could have been locked up? Or killed? And you borrow my coat without even asking?”

The words went into one of Desember’s ears and out the other. Her mind was still on the fact that she knew she could get
rid of the coats in a matter of hours if she went back to Flowerville. And in the process, she would be able to see Fame.

Once they reached home, Desember got a call from Lava, making sure she had survived Yarni and Des’s tongue lashings.

“I’m good.” Desember asked Lava, “Will you go with me to North Carolina so I can dump the coats?”

“No doubt, I got ya. You don’t even have to ask. But when you trying to go back?”

“ASAP!”

“Well, I can’t go tomorrow because that’s the anniversary for when Nasir was killed. I have to go to the cemetery first thing in the morning.”

“OK, well after you go to the cemetery, or the next day.”

“A’ight, I’m game.”

Momma Don’t Take No Mess

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and after winning a couple games of Bingo, Joyce headed home three thousand dollars richer. The soulful voice of Marvin Gaye, her favorite singer, poured from the speakers as her Mercedes glided up Darbytown Road. The sophisticated S550 rode so smooth it barely needed her assistance—hell, with all the bells and whistles that came in these new cars, Joyce was convinced those German engineers could make the damn things drive by themselves if they wanted to. But until then, her seat belt was snug across her shoulder and waist, her hands on the wheel at ten and two. She couldn’t operate half the gadgets the young folks thought they had to have now, but she knew how to get her car, a gift from her son, where she needed to go.

When Joyce pulled in front of her house she sensed something
was out of order. After living in the same place for twenty-five years she could feel when things were awry. Or maybe, she thought to herself, she was just getting paranoid in her old age.

The neighbor’s dog barked twice, probably at a bird or a cat, as she scooped up her purse and coat then exited the car before checking for something on the side of the house.

The moment she pulled her key from the front door lock and stepped into the foyer, the feeling from outside got stronger. It fact, it filled the house.

Six steps into the living room, her paranoia was upgraded to alarm when she heard a voice.

“ ’Bout time yo’ old ass showed up.”

Startled, but managing the urge to panic, Joyce faced the intruder.

The boy trespassing in her home was no more than eighteen. Wearing black denim from head to toe, black Nike boots and a black Yankees cap pulled low over his eyes.

“Don’t make this any worse than it has to be, old lady. I’m just here to rough you up a little, take what I want and leave a message for your son.” He spoke as casual as he would if he were running off a list of basic chores.

Until now, Joyce hadn’t noticed the mess he’d made while rifling through her things. This pissed her off because she kept a clean, perfectly organized house. She bought nice things and hated when someone moved her stuff and didn’t put it back in its place. Throw pillows and cushions from the sofa were tossed on the floor, a few picture frames were broken, and a half-eaten ham sandwich lay on her kitchen table.

The fucking nerve
, Joyce thought, trying hard not to lose her
composure. “Lil boy,” she said, “I think you done made a mistake. Now, you need to get your lil narrow ass out of my got-damn house while you still can.”

The boy laughed. He seemed genuinely amused by her feistiness. “You funny,” he said once he stopped chuckling. “But I ain’t got time for yo’ jokes. I got business to take care of.”

He removed a small pistol from under his shirt and waved it at her. “You better go on ahead and sit yo’ ass down while you still can, old lady,” he looked into her eyes, “before I lay you down right here and now.”

Joyce stood her ground. Matching his stare beat for beat, she didn’t budge; she dropped her purse and jacket, though, which she’d been clutching to her body. Youngin’s eyes grew big as saucers. “Make me, motherfucker,” she said.

Where they’d been was now a six-shot Mossberg shotgun. As a precaution, Des always kept one hidden outside her house for her, just in case something didn’t look right. Joyce had always argued that having that huge gun was both stupid and dangerous. But at the moment she was glad her son hadn’t listened to her.

She lowered the short-barreled shotgun so it was aimed directly at the boy’s groin. “Now, put that lil tiny thing away before I knock your dick in the dirt,” she shot a slight smile at him, “lil boy.”

Youngin sat the .32 down on the glass table by the sofa and put his hands where she could see them.

“Okay, now step your ass away from it and take yo’ hat off in my got-damn house. Y’all young folks kill me with your so damn disrespectful.” Joyce jerked the shotgun around as she spoke.

He removed his hat. As he put it down on the table, he
quickly picked up a vase and threw it at her to knock the gun out of her hand, but he didn’t succeed. Instead, Joyce took the butt of the gun and with all her might cracked him as hard as she could upside the head, causing him to hit the floor face-first. Before the boy could recover from the blow she was standing on top of him.

“Turn over,” she said with a kick in his side for emphasis.

“Okay, okay! Don’t kill me!” The boy was stunned and had turned cowardly. She could tell that he had not only lost his gun but his bravado; he was damn right scared. And messing with Joyce, he should be. Getting on the woman’s wrong side was nowhere anyone in their right mind wanted to be.

“Okay, okay, take it easy.” He stumbled over his words. “I don’t want no trouble, ma’am.”

Just for the hell of it, Joyce booted him again, in the side. “I know you don’t want no trouble now. But you were Billy-bad-ass a few seconds ago. Get yo’ ass up.” She didn’t even care that he had blood trickling down the side of his head dropping on her freshly steam-cleaned carpet.

She got a better look at him. “I be got-damn, wait me a minute.” She was surprised at what and who was standing in front of her. “You Beulah Pitchford’s grandson, ain’t cha?”

The boy obviously didn’t know if he should tell the truth or lie. Lucky for him, he opted for the truth. “Yes, ma’am.”

Ain’t this a bitch
, Joyce thought to herself. “Michelle’s boy? Which boy you is—Michael or Melvin?”

He shook his head as if he was saying no, but answered, “I’m Michael,” apparently too ashamed to look Joyce in the face.

For a second she was tempted to call the police on this fool,
but Joyce was old school and came from a neighborhood that always took care of their own problems when they could. That’s the way she was raised and that’s the way she’d raised her children. “Get the fuck up and onto my couch. I’m calling your got-damn grandma. Coming in my motherfucking house trying to hurt me and break up my shit I done worked hard busting my ass for. Youngins with no got-damn respect for people or they shit. You better be lucky. I know Beulah and Michelle ain’t bring you up like that.”

He could barely move. Judging by the gash in his head, Joyce might have seriously hurt him, but she didn’t care as she kicked him again as he was getting up.

“What’s yo’ grandmother’s number? ’Cause I just can’t believe this shit. You got the fucking nerve to be coming in my house, and I know yo’ grandmother,” she said, the shotgun in one hand and the phone in the other.

He muttered the number.

She dialed and Beulah picked up.

“Beulah, this is Joyce Taylor.” Before Beulah could get her salutations out, Joyce said, “Yeah, I’m fucked-up now, ’bout to go to the penitentiary because I’m about to kill yo’ got-damn grandson Michael. Don’t you know that bastard done come in my house, trying to rob me, and do
God
knows what else to me.”

Joyce was silent for a minute but never let the look of death she wore on her face stray from Michael’s sight.

“Can you be here in fifteen minutes, because he got about twenty minutes left in this here life of his.” Joyce said. Then asked, “You still drink scotch, don’t you?”

Once she hung up the phone, she turned to Michael. “Yeah,
me and your grandma go waaayyy back.” Joyce nodded. “I mean, way back. We done did some stuff together.”

Michael looked scared and was still bleeding, but Joyce wasn’t fazed by his blood at all.

“You got her two thousand dollars that she had under her mattress? ’Cause she said she ain’t seen you since that got legs and walked up out of her house.”

“I didn’t take that.”

“Boy, you getting high?” she asked, trying to figure out why he was doing such stupid things. “No, ma’am,” he said.

Joyce gave him another long look. “Who sent you here, child?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You don’t know, or you ain’t telling me?”

“I don’t know.”

Beulah was there in ten minutes flat. She came in and Joyce handed her a glass of scotch. Beulah was little and looked deceptively frail. She was close to eighty years old and had beautiful short silver hair and rich dark skin and she too looked good for her age. She went into her burgundy leather Aigner purse that had to be at least twenty years old and pulled out her .38 revolver and placed it on the bar, never acknowledging her grandson.

“Damn, you still toting?” Joyce asked.

“Yup. These young folks say they can’t leave home without their American Express, but nowadays I can’t leave home without my pistol. I ain’t used it in a while but I’ve been itching to.” Beulah took a sip of her scotch.

“I remember that night we was out at that house party and
you caught your first husband, Walter, with that huzzy and you shot him in the leg.” Joyce laughed.

“He ain’t walked right since and I heard his other leg ain’t never been the same,” Beulah said, and both ladies fell into laughter.

After Beulah had her second glass of scotch she walked over to Michael and slapped the taste out of his mouth. This was the first time either one of the women had even acknowledged him since his grandmother arrived. “You coming in Joyce’s house, breaking up stuff, embarrassing me like you ain’t got no home training. Negro, is you crazy?”

Michael wouldn’t make eye contact with his grandmother.

“Look at me,” she demanded.

Michael did as he was told.

“Who sent you here? You better tell me before this woman kills your ass and it ain’t nothing none of us going to be able to do about it.” She took another sip of her scotch, “And believe me, she will do it too and won’t think nothing of it and will play a game of backgammon afterward.”

“I can’t tell you.” He was shaking like a leaf.

“Why you can’t?”

“You wanna die now or later?” Joyce asked as she lowered the gun to his torso, but his grandmother asked again, “Who sent you here? And don’t lie to me, boy.”

Beads of perspiration popped up on his top lip and forehead. “I can’t tell you, because I don’t know.”