It's Like Candy (6 page)

Big Red jumped up and followed her upstairs. “River, hold up,” he called out.

“You know I was just kidding about you having to fuck a niggah, right?” Big Red asked, looking more concerned now.

“Yeah, I know,” River said.

“But I want us to step up. Too many niggahs getting money out here, and I wanna be one of them niggahs eatin' lovely, too.”

“Ayyite, Red.” River said, with her main focus on leaving Red's place.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“So, what you doin' tonight?” Big Red asked.

“I'm busy,” she told him.

“So when are we gonna do us, River? I wanna take you some-where nice.”

“Red, we about business. I'm gonna be real, you know I ain't feelin' you like that. We cool peoples, and I want it to remain that way.”

Red was a bit hurt. He'd heard the speech before, but the truth was, he craved River's undivided attention. She was beautiful, and he got jealous sometimes when he'd use River as bait and see her flirting with different men every night, even though he knew it was false and it was what they'd planned. He knew it was business and she was only doing her job, and she was the best at doing what she did. Red knew if River left, he wouldn't be able to find anyone as good as her.

“Ayyite, luv . . . go do you, you know what I'm sayin'?” Big Red said, trying to keep his gangsta composure and not show that River was getting to his heart.

River left without saying another word. And Big Red remained standing in the doorway, watching River's walk, watching her back-side glide down his porch, her legs shimmering in the sunlight, and her long soft black hair falling off her shoulders. Big Red knew that one day, he would be with her. She resisted now, but he knew one day she would climb into his bed, especially when he started getting that money.

It was early morning,
and the Dunkin' Donuts on Rockaway Boulevard was bustling with morning traffic. Employees on their way to work were purchasing a quick cup of coffee, tea, doughnuts, and bagels before their commute to work, quickly paying and leaving. Only those not in a rush and able to linger and watch the morning traffic pour in and out sat at the eight tables discussing nothing in particular.

One of these customers who loitered in the shop every morning around seven or eight was Pumpkin, a black male in his late sixties who'd been retired for about ten years now. He used to be a truck driver. He worked for many years and was able to save money and retire comfortably, living off his pension for the rest of his life.

He had salt-and-pepper hair and wore thick-framed glasses, looking a bit fatigued, since he'd smoked four packs of Newports every day since he was twenty-five. His face looked like crumpled paper. Pumpkin had lived a hard life, and had many stories to tell. He'd been through it all, Vietnam, the civil rights movement, racial profiling on the job, and even did time on Riker's Island for drugs and at-tempted murder.

Pumpkin was no stranger to the streets and the neighborhood. He
was born in the South but came to live in Jamaica, Queens, when he turned twenty-two. He had two kids, a daughter and a younger son. He hadn't seen or heard from his daughter in over ten years, and his son was doing a five-year sentence in Upstate New York for drug possession.

Choosing not to wither away at home, Pumpkin woke every morning around six in fine comfort, walked down to the Dunkin' Donuts a few blocks from his home and ordered himself a cup of tea and two Boston cream doughnuts. His routine was predictable. Every morning you'd find Pumpkin, Leroy, Sherry, and John-John lounging around in Dunkin' Donuts, chatting and observing customers that poured in and out.

Eric walked into the shop around nine that morning, and saw his uncle Pumpkin seated at his usual spot near the window. If his uncle Pumpkin wasn't in Dunkin' Donuts with his three comrades, then he would probably be home, lying on the couch, watching an old Western movie.

“There he is, my favorite nephew,” Pumpkin called out.

“Hey, Uncle Pumpkin,” Eric greeted, pulling up a chair to the table. He greeted Sherry, Leroy, and John-John.

“Hey,” all three greeted back in unison.

“What brings you around here, Eric?” Pumpkin asked, knowing his nephew didn't come around often.

Eric's father and Pumpkin were brothers. Pumpkin was the oldest of six siblings, all born in Durham, North Carolina. Eric's father had been a gun for hire back in the ‘70s and early ‘80s. He had even done work for the mob and had earned their respect. But in ‘85, Eric's father, who went by the street name Yung Black, was gunned down abruptly in front of his Hollis home one evening. Eric was eight when his father was killed, and his mother, who witnessed her husband's murder, became unstable and was admitted into psychiatric treatment in a Long Island institution a few months later.

Eric went to live with other relatives, aunts and uncles who looked after him. During the years of staying with his aunt Fran, he and his cousin Russell, a.k.a. Yung Slim, became really close, more like brothers than cousins. Eric never had any brothers or sisters, so to him Russell and his sister, Francine, became like siblings instead of cousins.

When they became teenagers, Russell took to the streets, hustling, fighting, and earning a credible street name for himself. Eric tagged along with his cousin, and they did practically everything together—drugs, pimping, fighting, stealing—everything, except for murder.

Russell took it that extra mile when he started carrying a concealed loaded pistol and started shooting homeboys in the foot or hand who owed him money or fucked with him. Eric wasn't down for the gunplay, he felt that murder and guns brought the cops harder down on you. Stealing and selling drugs was one thing, but when you start killing people, it was a different thing.

But Russell was always hardheaded, and was going to do what he wanted to do, nobody could tell him different. He was a bully, and he knew that niggahs in the hood feared him. He got off on the fear he caused, and put it into the streets, selling drugs, making money, and soon becoming a kingpin. And he was bringing his favorite cousin, Eric, along for the ride.

But in ‘97, Russell caught a murder charge because of a certain snitch. He was found guilty and sentenced to a ten-year bid upstate. So after that, Eric just did him, got himself a job and gradually left the streets alone. He feared prison, and didn't want to do time like his cousin. When Russell got sent upstate, they were both twenty years old. Eric missed his cousin, but he knew it was probably for the best, because Russell was on the road to destruction, and if he hadn't gotten locked up, he would probably be dead already.

Eric kept in contact with Russell once in a while, but when Russell had gotten transferred to different penitentiaries more than once, they
lost contact, and Eric never bothered to locate his cousin. He let it be.

Eric sat across from his uncle, and asked, “Yo, Unc, is it true that Russell got paroled? He coming home?”

Pumpkin looked annoyed. “Where did you hear this?”

“From a reliable source,” Eric said.

“You need to leave your cousin alone, Eric. That boy is the devil,” Pumpkin said.

“How you gonna say that, Uncle Pumpkin? Russell is family, just like you and me.”

“Well, sometimes family ain't no good for you. . . . Family get your soul taken away.”

“Russell, he cool people. He's my cousin,” Eric protested.

“Listen here, boy, you need to leave Russell alone when he gets out. I know that boy ain't changed in seven years. He ain't got one rehabilitated bone in his body. Prison ain't done him no good. It probably made him worse.”

“But he's getting out soon,” Eric said, looking content that his cousin was finally being released from Clinton Correctional Facility in Dannemora, New York.

“Eric, you doin' good for yourself. I know you don't want to hit them streets hard again. You already got shot one time. Fuckin' around with Russell when he gets out, you gonna damn near lose your life.”

“Unc, how you know Russell ain't changed? You ain't heard or visit the man since he went in, much less written him some kind of letter. You just let him be up in prison and have him rot to death,” Eric proclaimed.

“Listen, youngun', I've been in these streets harder and much longer than you've been pissing correct. I know a man like Russell will always be Russell. He's like your father, and just like your father, there was never no talkin' right in him. He was always hardheaded, just like your cousin. If your father would have listened to me, then he'd still be alive today,” Pumpkin stated.

“Uncle Pumpkin, let's not speak about my father,” Eric said, being sensitive about his father's death and how he was killed.

“Excuse me,” Sherry interrupted, “but I'm gonna let y'all fellows be.” She slowly rose from her chair. “Pumpkin, I'll talk to you to-morrow.” Sherry slowly made her way to the exit.

“Okay, Sherry,” Pumpkin hollered back.

Pumpkin knew that his nephew was being pigheaded about the topic. He knew Eric and Russell were family, like brothers, and Eric wasn't going to leave Russell alone when he got out. His nephew was becoming hardheaded like his father, and Pumpkin loved his nephew like a son. Eric was one of his favorites. He knew Eric was in the streets, but not heavy like his pappy, Yung Black, and Russell. The way Pumpkin saw it, Eric was just a small-time hustler, doing him with the strippers, and selling marijuana on the side. He was doing good for himself, keeping a low profile, and riding around in his Scion XB.

Pumpkin didn't want to see Eric end up like his father or his cousin. He had already lost one son to the system, doing a nickel up-state, and lost his daughter to the streets; he didn't know if she was dead or alive. But to Pumpkin, among the many nephews and nieces he had, Eric was his favorite. Eric was the one he saw occasionally, and Eric was a smart kid. Pumpkin knew how rough and deadly the streets could become, and he knew that Eric wasn't really built for the streets, for the game like that. Yeah, he looked the part, and had a little thug in him, but push come to shove, Eric wasn't his father and he wasn't his cousin—he was more calm and nonchalant.

Pumpkin warned his nephew again about keeping a low profile when Russell got out and not getting involved with him. But Eric waved off his warning and said good-bye to his uncle. The way Eric saw it, Russell was family, and you never turned your back on family because family was all you had sometimes.

It had been two weeks
since River hooked up with Hubert Miller, a small hood who was making good money hustling nickel and dime bags, even pounds of the shit to his clientele in Long Island, Manhattan, and Queens. Hubert pushed a BMW 3 series. Hubert was a bailer, a playa. He flashed money and jewelry like it was going out
of
style, and was a constant show-off. When he first saw River noticing him in the crowded bar up on Merrick Boulevard, he had to come over and say hello. River was looking stunning that night. Her sinuous long black hair was falling gracefully down to her back. She sported a minimicro denim skirt. Her long legs were gleaming in a pair of stilettos. Her cleavage was mashed together in a tight buttoned-down top that made any man—straight, gay, or bi—turn their heads and gaze at the eye-catching brown beauty all alone in a bar crowded with mostly men.

Hubert was flattered, in fact enthralled, when he caught the attention of this raving beauty giving him the eye across the room. Hubert wasn't the most handsome man in the place, but he was well dressed, and had enough money to pass around. He lounged by the teeming bar with his man, Kenneth. It took him ten minutes after catching her
attention to go over and say hello. He offered to buy her a drink, and River smiled and played along.

Two weeks later, River had Hubert's nose wide open. He tricked on River every day, buying her expensive gifts, taking her out to classy restaurants and treating River as though she was wifey. And he still hadn't fucked her. River teased him constantly, giving him back rubs, jerking him off in the car, and allowing Hubert to catch a glimpse of her breathtaking naked brown-skinned figure.

Hubert thought that tonight was his lucky night. He had River over at his place in Cambria Heights and he thought tonight he was gonna finally fuck her, getting at the pussy he'd yearned for for the past two weeks.

Hubert was feeling River so much that he wanted to give her a baby, get her pregnant and leave his mark in her. He wanted her to himself, feeling River was too fine to share with any other man. He was falling in love, and when River stepped out of the bathroom clad in a red stretch-lace slip, with the scalloped edges and a derriere-skimming length, his dick jumped an extra inch. She wore transparent stilettos and her skin glistened with baby oil from head to toe.

“Shit, baby . . . you look good,” Hubert complimented her, licking his lips as he gazed lustfully at River's gorgeous figure.

He grabbed his crotch and looked like a pervert in heat. Hubert was bug-eyed, sprawled across his soft king-sized mattress with silk green sheets, naked as the day he was born.

He wasn't much to look at, Hubert didn't have much of a body. It was rather shapeless and hairy, and didn't excite River to any extent. She slowly made her way over to Hubert, with his eyes dancing across her body.

“Yeah, come here . . . come to papa, sweetie. Come and sit on my lap and make a wish. Daddy needs some loving,” Hubert sleazily said.

River kept her smile and made her way onto the bed. Hubert wasted no time grabbing ahold of her soft, warm, womanly figure, groping her from head to toe.

“Ooooooooh, your body is so soft, River. Damn, I could touch and hold you forever,” Hubert proclaimed.

He passionately squeezed her breasts, cupped her round succulent ass, and slowly wet her skin with his tongue against her neck. River looked away from Hubert and rolled her eyes. She had to put up with this corny, no-macking, no-class, wanna-be-pimp, hairy-ass fool.