Heartbreak of a Hustler's Wife: A Novel (20 page)

The waitress came over. “Would you like something?”

Sam finally managed to speak. “No, she’s not staying.”

“I would.” Yarni smiled at the waitress. “I will have a Belvedere with cranberry juice, please.” She then looked at Sam. “How do you think I should handle this? I can—”

“Handle what? Sam?” Cheryl looked at him for an explanation. Sam, who was usually dapper, smooth and quick on his feet, obviously could not figure out how to play this. He’d experienced firsthand how Yarni was in her younger days, and he didn’t want to draw attention to the table.

“So what now?” Sam asked Yarni in a low tone.

“Sam?” Cheryl was in a state of shock, not knowing what was going on or what to do.

Yarni smirked and put her finger up and spoke at a level just above a whisper, but loud enough for both Cheryl and Sam to hear her. “I got you, Cheryl. I promise I do. Just hold tight, because you seem like a nice enough lady. I’m not going to hold his bullshit against you. I’m going to fill you in, in a minute.”

Just then the waitress placed Yarni’s drink in front of her.

“You know, Sam, after I finish this drink, I’m going to let you know how we going to proceed.”

“Proceed with what?” Cheryl asked.

“You see, Cheryl, I’m his stepdaughter, which means he’s married to my mother. My mother, who was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. This is the same woman just released from the hospital after undergoing a lumpectomy just a little over …” Yarni looked at her Chopard watch, “… four hours ago.” Cheryl looked mortified, but that didn’t faze Yarni in the least; she kept going. “And her thoughtful husband did not have the love, respect or common courtesy to even come to the hospital and see about his wife—who, like I said, happens to be my mother.” Yarni was as cool as the cat on the Cheetos commercial as she said this, then took a sip of her drink.

“Oh my God,” Cheryl said.

Yarni turned to look at Sam. “See, you might not care about your wife, but I care about my mother.”

“Please, I didn’t know. Let me apologize,” Cheryl said. “Damn, Sam, I would have never suspected you to be that kind of man.”

Yarni took a sip of her drink, then said, “If he treats his wife like that, the one he stood in front of not only his friends and family but God and said I do to, imagine how he’d treat you.”

Cheryl shook her head. “You are something else, Sam. You told me your wife was an alcoholic and in rehab.”

“Guess what, Cheryl? He lied,” Yarni said sweetly.

Cheryl stood up. “Lose my number,” she pointed at Sam. “Do me a favor and delete it please.”

“Good move, girl,” Yarni said as Cheryl reached for her purse before rolling out.

Yarni gulped down the last of her drink. “Now, here’s what you’re going to do,” she said to Sam.

“What’s that?” Sam asked, still in a state of disbelief that everything had unraveled so quickly.

“You are going to run home to your sick wife, who needs plenty of rest and can’t drive or do any strenuous exercises.” She spoke slowly and clearly so he wouldn’t miss a beat. “And you are going to be at her beck and call and cater to every one of her needs, big or small, hand and foot, never leaving her side.” She put up her index finger. “Not one complaint, frown or fit for the next three weeks, and then again for the six weeks of her radiation treatments. Do not spend one dime of my mother’s money on any of your ‘friends’—or yourself, for that matter.”

“I don’t spend your mother’s money. I work for mine.”

“We are not going to go there,” Yarni said before continuing with the instructions. “Once the radiation treatments are complete, you are going to wait a few weeks, after which time you will go quietly and file for a divorce, not asking for a got-damn iron dime of my mother’s money. You will make this as peaceful as absolutely fucking possible.” Yarni never broke eye contact with Sam. “And Sam”—she stood up—“please don’t fuck with me, because you know my history and my pedigree. And I don’t fucking play when it comes to my mother.”

Big Balls

It was Yarni’s first day back in her office after her weeklong visit with her mother. She hated to leave Gloria’s side, but she had to get back to Desi and to work. However, she did have something to look forward to: the date night Des had promised her. With all the mayhem and confusion of late, the couple had had precious little alone time to focus on their relationship and each other. Yarni understood that things were hectic but she desperately missed the quality time that she and Des always had had together—until now.

“You have a Mr. Cook’em-up here to see you.”

“Cook’em-up?” Yarni questioned.

Though she had only been in the man’s company a couple of times, she had heard plenty of dirt about him from Bambi, who couldn’t stand him. Bambi swore Cook’em-up couldn’t be trusted, even though his undying loyalty for her husband, Lynx, and
Lynx’s brother, C-Note, should have made her feel differently. Cook’em-up and Lynx went way back and were as thick as thieves. However, his name stayed ringing bells in the streets, because he was a known hit man who considered nobody off-limits. After all the people he’d killed, nobody in the city understood how he had stayed out on the streets for so long without being arrested.

“He says it’s urgent and will only take a few minutes of your time. He says he knows how valuable your ‘mu’fucking time’ is,” Layla said with a slight chuckle.

What could this dude possibly want? Had he finally been arrested for a murder?
Yarni wondered.
Had someone actually dropped a dime on him? Were the ghosts from his past catching up with him?
Yarni’s curiosity was killing her; she wondered what he’d done and how he’d managed to get caught.

“Show him in,” Yarni told Layla, and then, “And by the way, any word on those phone records?” They had been waiting for the phone records from Roxanne’s cell phone for a couple of weeks.

“Yes, we will have the name of the caller and the billing address for the phone within seventy-two hours. Trust me, I’m on it. Do you want Mr. Cook’em-up in the conference room or your office?”

“In here is fine.”

Cook’em-up strolled through the door of Yarni’s posh office. “So, how are you, Cook’em-up?” She stood to offer him a seat. She felt like a dwarf to his 6′5″ tall, thin frame. He looked like he could be a retired basketball player, not a hit man.

“Fair, but the sun going to be shining for me real soon,” he said to her as he looked at the photos of Yarni and her family that were displayed on the shelves in her office.

“How can I help you?”

He ignored her as he continued to admire photos of the many memories displayed around the room. “That dude clean up real good, don’t he?” he asked, looking at her and Des’s wedding photo. They were married when the new millennium came in and 1999 left, in Vegas at the Paris hotel atop the Eiffel Tower.

“He does.”

Cook’em-up took off his Ray-Ban sunglasses and shook his head. “That nigga got it made. He has everything. The world is at his feet. Always did have plenty of exotic women and money gravitating to him.” Cook’em-up shook his head like he knew something that Yarni didn’t.

Bambi had told her that the man could be a bona fide hater, so she ignored his comments about the women.

“So how’s business going?” he asked, moving to study all her achievements on the wall.

“Business is good. Steady. No complaints. My colleagues thought it would get a little busier with the recession and all, that crime would pay, but to everyone’s surprise it hasn’t gotten crazy busy,” Yarni said, with a growing bad feeling in her gut.

“Do you give incentives for referrals?”

“My rates are always fair regardless of how I get my clients,” Yarni said, “but you are like family, so I would definitely give you the absolute rock-bottom price.”

The way Cook’em-up walked around her office like he owned the place would have intimidated most, but Yarni had been dealing with guys like him since her late teens. She had shared her bed with a couple, and later went on to represent guys like him in a courtroom.

“Really?” he asked.

“You know that. But that isn’t why you’re here,” she stated.

“I sent you my cousin and he was grateful for the job you did. He said you worth every penny,” Cook’em-up said, finally taking the seat that she had offered him five minutes ago.

“Who’s your cousin?” Yarni asked. She was growing impatient and wanted to know what in the hell he was really there for and wished he’d get to his point. Time was money and he didn’t seem to be spending any, only wasting hers.

“Douglas Crumb, but everybody calls him Bug.” He searched her face for fear or surprise, but there was none to be found. “You know, the nigga you shot, back in the day? On Grace Street?”

Chills went up Yarni’s spine but she didn’t let on. She had her poker face on. This was the day that she had been dreading. Her worst dream was becoming reality … a ghost from her wild past had finally resurfaced.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She followed the advice that she gave to her clients: never confess to anything.

“Oh you know. You know good and well,” he said with confidence. She saw the confusion on his face when he realized she wasn’t biting.

“See, Bug doesn’t remember you, but I do.” Cook’em-up laughed as he put his feet up on Yarni’s desk.

“Please remove your feet from my desk.” She stood, her arms folded.

Cook’em-up ignored her request, looked into her eyes, and kept talking. “That nigga done a lot of fucked-up shit,” he nodded, “when he wasn’t in his right state of mind.” He put up a finger.
“But after getting with dat bitch of his, the nigga finally got himself all the way together. Nevertheless the fact still remains, too many years of getting high can really fuck a nigga up for life.” Cook’em-up shook his head. “He can’t remember shit. But me?” He pointed to his chest. “I ain’t never got high. I always loved money and seek out every opportunity to get it. So, me? I remember everything. Never forget a face or name.”

“Cook’em-up, this doesn’t have anything to do with me. I think you are sadly mistaken. And I’m going to ask you one more time to get your feet off my desk.”

He continued, not moving. “I was the driver of the van. I started to get out and gun yo’ ass down,” he admitted, “but I respected your gangsta. Was sure that we’d meet again, but our paths separated and who’d ever thought you’d go on and be a renowned lawyer and me one of the best hit men to ever walk these streets.” He finally set his feet down.

“You’re out of your mind. You said you don’t do drugs, but you must have been smoking something,” Yarni stated.

Cook’em-up paused, and she knew he was second-guessing himself about whether it was her or not.

“Yo, this is what it is.” He reestablished eye contact with her and said, “You need to let your husband know that this shit is not a fucking game. He ain’t getting the picture. He’s going to die a slow painful death, but not before I take everything from him.”

Yarni was stunned and before she could gather her thoughts and speak, he continued, “I’m talking about fucking with and destroying everybody who means something to dat nigga. I’m going to make sure he’s broke and then I’m going to take his freedom,
and when he’s in the pen I’ll make sure he dies a slow, painful death.”

“You are such a big man, why don’t you tell him yourself?” Yarni asked, forcing herself to keep her voice steady. She wasn’t going to give Cook’em-up the satisfaction of seeing any fear in her eyes. “As a matter of fact, you need to leave …”

“Nobody is off-limits,” he said with a smile. “Not his momma, not his business, not his pretty little wife, not your law degree.”

Yarni knew she hadn’t done anything unethical, but she also knew she had pressed the envelope more times than she could remember to get her clients off. She wondered what he knew, or thought he knew.

She was sure he could see her wheels turning. “And I almost forgot.” He picked up a photo of little Desi and kissed it.

That’s all it took for Yarni to flip. “Nigga, you going to do something to a little kid? Are you really that fucked-up for real?” she asked with anger in her eyes. Once he threatened her sweet little Desi, she lost control and realized they were at the point of no return. That their destiny had already been dealt, and the cards would fall where they may.

“Just wanted you to know this shit here is like Afghanistan and ain’t nobody safe. It’s beef. It’s war.”

She walked toward him. “Get the fuck out. Coming here with idle threats. Who the fuck do you think you are?” she asked. Yarni looked at Cook’em-up like he was shit and didn’t blink or back down.

“I forgot behind that law degree and that fancy suit, you’s a real gangsta-type bitch, huh? You should’ve been on my team.”

“You ain’t a cat, nigga! You don’t have nine lives. You bleed just
like other bitches! You gonna come in here and threaten me and my child? You a pussy! Why ain’t you face Des? We both know why: because you’s a bitch-ass nigga, sucking other niggas’ dick.”

That last comment looked like it made Cook’em-up almost lose it. He raised his hand and she picked up a three-ring hole punch to let him know that if he hit her, then he better be prepared to take a hit back.