Heartbreak of a Hustler's Wife: A Novel (17 page)

Beulah looked at Joyce and she cocked the gun.

“A guy just showed up at the Bill Robinson rec center and asked who wanted to make a quick four grand. He said all I had
to do was scare Miss Joyce a lil bit, rough her up some, and break up some of her stuff. But I swear … I wasn’t gon hurt ya.”

Joyce knew damn well if she hadn’t gotten the upper hand there’s no telling what he would’ve done.

“You said you were given a message for my son.” Joyce asked him, “What was it?”

Michael didn’t say anything, his lip trembling.

Beulah went over to him and plucked his ear. “Spit it out—that’s what you were paid to do, wasn’t it?”

“Gimme the damn message,” Joyce demanded.

Michael swallowed a lump in his throat. “Dude said to let your son know that nobody is off-limits.”

Paying Respect

There’ll be plenty of time to sleep once you’re dead. The mantra was as familiar to Des as the color of his own eyes. A seasoned vet of the streets once said, “The cemetery is where a young hustla go to retire, and prison is where he goes to grow old.”

Many women were left to fend for themselves because their men insisted on trying to beat the odds.

Nasir had been one of the growing numbers that fell prey to the streets. His father died when he was two and his mother put him out of the house at sixteen. His grandmother Joyce took him in her house, but Nasir took to hustling like a duck takes to water. Everybody and they momma told him he was just like his uncle Des. In his eyes it was the ultimate compliment—Des was a bona fide legend in the streets. Des’s name still rang bells inside and outside the prison walls, even after doing a ten-year bid, and
the fact he went down for another man’s body when snitching was as in as fake hair and ass shots—but him keeping it real put him in the hood hall of fame.

Listening to one of his favorite Tupac cuts, Des sat in the front seat of his car wishing he could turn back the hands of time, wishing he would have never given Nasir his blessing to be a bigwig, to walk in his footsteps, when Des knew that the shoes were too complicated to fill. Des tried convincing himself that his nephew was already knee-deep in the game before Des had ever stepped foot out of prison, but what Nasir had been doing hadn’t worked the way it should’ve. Nasir may have cracked the door to the dope game on his own, but with Des’s connections and wisdom of the trade, the boy catapulted to heights beyond Des’s wildest imagination. Heights that eventually cost him his life.

At the end of the song Des killed the engine and slid from the car carrying a bottle of Rémy—Nasir’s favorite cognac—and a freshly rolled spliff as he made his way over to his nephew’s grave. The soft grass, still wet from the earlier drizzle, held his footprints, marking a trail from his Bentley to the headstone. Des didn’t believe in superstitions but he did believe in omens. Were the footprints trying to tell him something? Where was his own path headed?

Out of habit more than anything else he looked away from the impressions on the ground to survey the rest of his surroundings. Satisfied with seeing nothing but cold plots and warm flowers he turned his attention to the resting place of his nephew, unaware of the plots around him that were heating up.

“How’s my favorite nephew?” he said, popping the cork on
the Rémy. He poured some on the ground, took a swallow for himself, and then placed the bottle with the remainder of the brown liquor on the stone. “Yarni keep telling me that you’re in a better place, but I’m not sure if I buy it. A man makes his own Heaven—or Hell—right here while he’s living, no matter how long or how short his time may be on Earth.”

He removed a prerolled blunt from behind his ear. Des hadn’t smoked weed in ten years before he and Slim lit one up during Nasir’s repast. Since then, every time Des visited his nephew’s grave he fired one up.

The pungent blue smoke curled under his nose before wafting through the air. A toke, holding his breath, eyes already beginning to redden … after he couldn’t hold it any longer he exhaled.

“A lot of crazy shit going on, nephew,” he said, returning to his one-sided monologue. “First, I get shot at by a mu’fucka that had to be at least two hundred yards away. Had to be some fucking sniper shit. Street niggas don’t attack from two football fields away. They do drive-bys or kick in your door and start spraying automatic weapons, shit like that,” Des mused.

One more hard pull on the blunt and his jaws collapsed like he was sucking on an extra-thick milkshake through a narrow straw. It relaxed him. Oh yeah, he was feeling it now.

“Two days later the church was robbed.” Des hadn’t started the ministry until after Nasir had passed. “I know you probably still having a hard time believing I’m running a multimillion-dollar cash flow through a megachurch. I struggle with it myself still, from time to time. But anyway, these fools put on a smoke-and-mirror act by running the pockets and purses of everybody
attending the 12:30 service. Killed one of my partners—Tony—he was a good dude. You remember Tony, don’t you?” Des nodded, thinking about the good memories for a second and then got back to what he was saying.

“I reimbursed every person there of their losses. No big deal. That shit was a bigger hit to my ego than my pocket. What’s a few hundred thou amongst hustlers? Come to find out while the—what I didn’t learn til afterward was a diversion—robbery was going on, them mu’fuckers had two more goons in the back forcing my treasurer to give them ten mil of my paper by pushing some fuckin’ buttons on the computer.”

Des shook his head. “Unbelievable, right? And no one’s talking—that’s even more un-fucking-believable. Not a peep. But best believe I’m gonna figure this shit out, though. That’s why I stay ahead of the game … because I always figure it out. When I was sixteen and chumps that were getting lil money were putting rims on cars, I was buying houses and preparing for the storm that may come one day. Always prepare for the winter in the summer, ya know.”

Speaking of the seasons reminded him. “Oh shit! I almost forgot. I got a eighteen-year-old daughter name Desember. She spells her name with an
s
instead of a
c
, though. I met her mother, Angie, back in the day at bike week and must’ve left more than a lasting impression. We waiting on the DNA, but the girl resemble me so much it’s a no-brainer. Yarni ain’t really feeling it. I can see it in her eyes, but she trying to stay cool about it. It ain’t the girl’s fault. Really, ain’t anybody’s fault. But that don’t make shit any easier. I wish you were here to meet her. She seems real cool. She and Lava—your other half—hit it right off.”

When his pocket vibrated, he fumbled for his phone.

“What up, Ma? I’m at the cemetery, venting with Nasir.”

Joyce told him about the botched home invasion, but she assured him that it was all under control.

“I’ll be right there.” He hung up. He poured the rest of the cognac out. “I gotta cut this one short, nephew. The shit just won’t stop.”

On Stomping Ground

True to his word, Rocko came through with the furs his crew had jacked from Scrooge’s party. Fifty-six in all.

Rocko and Desember negotiated his take from the sale of the furs. He suggested twenty percent. “Or whatever you think is fair,” he said.

Desember wanted to further extend the olive branch and decided his offer was more than fair.

“You got a deal,” Desember agreed, and smiled.

That was all Desember needed to push her back to her stomping ground. She couldn’t wait to set foot back in North Carolina. The anticipation of the few stacks she expected to get from the coats excited her, but more than anything, the opportunity to see her man had her amped.

As she made plans to put the trip in motion, nobody back
home—not Fame or anyone else—had any idea she was coming. She didn’t even come clean to Yarni and Des. She felt bad about not telling them but she didn’t want to risk them vetoing the trip.

That wasn’t a chance Desember was willing to take.

Three days later, Lava and Desember were on the road. Lava drove most of the way until they got into the city, then Desember took the wheel. She was back on her home soil, yet it felt sort of weird. Like she’d been gone for a year instead of just two weeks. She set up shop in the apartment of her best friend, Kayla, and let her clientele flock to her. And once she started selling the coats, it was like riding a bike; six hours later, all but four of the coats were sold.

As she watched Desember count her money, barely keeping a hold of the huge stack of bills, Lava said, impressed, “Damn girl, you the man down this bitch.”

“Girl, you ain’t know I was the shit when it came to moving any and everything? I just have to figure out a way to implement my hustle up there in Richmond.”

“I’m sure you will,” Lava assured her.

They wrapped up things at Kayla’s apartment and headed to Desember’s mother’s house. Desember wanted to grab a few things and be in and out of there before her mother, Angie, got home from work.

Desember searched through a dresser drawer in her old room and found a gold heart-shaped locket.

“Fame gave this to me for my birthday.” Desember opened the locket and showed Lava the picture she and Fame had taken at a Young Jeezy concert, their smiling faces filling the small opening in the locket.

Desember stared at the photo and was so engrossed by memories that she didn’t hear someone messing with the front door.

“I think someone’s at the door,” Lava said in a low tone. “I thought you said your mother and stepdad were at work.” Desember had already shared with her why Fame and her mother had all but forced her to leave town: after Fame was nearly killed by gunfire, they didn’t think North Carolina was safe for her. No one was sure if Fame was indeed the real target. Also Fame feared his family might suspect that Desember set him up and try to get revenge. Their relationship was both passionate and volatile, and they had just reconciled before he was shot.

Desember jerked her head up, her eyes open wide. “They are.”

That’s all Lava needed to hear. She eased the chrome nine, one of two Nasir had given her, from her purse. “Just in case,” she said almost in a whisper.

They heard footsteps coming closer to the bedroom.

The two looked at each other. Desember shrugged her shoulders in confusion.

Then a voice: “Who’s in there?”

Desember sighed in relief. It was her mother.

“It’s me, Ma.”

Lava dropped the nine back in her purse as Angie opened the door. “You trying to scare me to death, girl? What are you doing here?”

“I do live here.” Desember frowned. “Or do I?”

Angie and Desember hadn’t been tight since Angie married Joe. As far as Desember was concerned, he was an abusive womanizer and a first-class jerk who drank too much. She hated that her mother would accept the shit he dished out. He was the wedge that pushed the mother and daughter apart, in heart and distance, causing Desember to swear that she would never depend on a man for her livelihood.

“Don’t be smart. As long as I have a place to lay my head, you will too.” Angie noticed Lava for the first time chilling in the corner. “Who’s your friend?”