Sex in the Hood Saga (2 page)

“Hell yeah,” Duke groaned. For a second he was tempted to pull them gold chains to the side of her booty crack and drill himself some relief in a pussy that had never disappointed Timbo. But he had work to do, and he didn't need the mellowing powers of pussy to dull his mind when he was talking with bad-ass niggas about his bank.

Sex transmutation. That was the term in one of Duke's favorite self-help audiotapes based on the book,
Think and Grow Rich
by Napoleon Hill. It said most men didn't earn their fame and fortune until after they turned forty because they were so distracted by chasing pussy. In the hood, forty was the equivalent of ninety in the white world. Duke was damn lucky he was about to celebrate twenty-one, let alone fucking forty. So, on the hood accelerated life plan, he was right on target. And he was going to stay that way, with Duchess' help.

Once in chemistry class in seventh grade, the teacher talked about “shelf life,” how a chemical lost its full potential because it would start decomposing or getting weaker after a few days, months or years. All of Duke's friends started talking about “hood life,” how they only had a few years to do what they were going to do before they got shot, went to prison or got killed. And it was true. Most of his boys were either dead, locked up, fucked up on drugs or bums with babies they weren't taking care of. No plan, no goal, no vision. Just living down to the sorry-ass expectations the white world had laid out for them since the first slave ship left Africa four hundred and some years ago.

So, when Duke listened to that book hoping that someday he could actually read it, he decided he needed to focus his sex energy into his work and find just one woman to take care of it for life. That way he wouldn't be squandering his sex power on every ho in D-town. He'd be building his business every time he was fucking his sexy-ass partner in business and in life. His wife. Duchess. Even though all this pussy was his for the taking any time, any way, any day, he knew no pussy could compare to the one he wanted. Now, rather than snack on some always available chicken wings, he would wait for the rare cut of premium filet mignon.

First he had to make dog meat of Izz and any one of these Barrier motherfuckers who were giving each other looks that let Duke know something was up. And wrong.

“Let's roll,” Duke said to Beamer, who had zipped up his pants and was on the phone with Pound, checking to see if Duchess had arrived in the hood yet. Beamer tapped his phone to his heart, his signal that everything was cool for now.

Duke stepped toward the hallway leading under the staircase to the back of the house.

He walked fast, with purpose, into the kitchen. Izz was at the table counting bricks of Benjamins. Two handguns sat like black eggs in a nest of cash. One of Izz's titty bitches was standing behind him, braiding his hair, and shaking her butt-naked ass to the beat of the music. Some orange platform shoes were sticking out from under the table where another of Izz's own hoes must have been sucking his dick.

His boy, Rake, who was supposed to have Izz's back, was standing at the counter, scarfing down a deep dish pizza. And catching bricks. First Rake would take a bite of pizza then look over at Izz, who would toss a brick. Rake would catch it and toss it into a brown leather backpack next to the pizza box on the counter. They did it again, and Rake didn't even look up. He just held out his hand and caught the cash.

Duke hit that switch in his head marked BAD-ASS NIGGA-TURBO-DRIVE. He moved so fast, he was like a cat pouncing a mouse.

Before Izz could blink, Duke was on him, with the silver tip of a gun on each of Izz's ashy ears. Duke's voice was deep and hard. “Ma'fucka, fin' the rest o' ma bank you an' Rake stashed, an' you can keep havin' yo' dick sucked.”

Izz froze. Beamer was in front of the table, double-aiming at Rake.

Izz groaned. “I ain't—”

Duke pressed the cold metal into his ears harder, to help him think more clearly.

Izz grunted. “Yo, man. Rake.” The brown leather bag came flying. It landed on the table, making money flutter up.

“Put it all in the bag.” Duke pressed the barrel tips harder into this empty-skulled motherfucker. “An' listen close, bof y'all. One mo' whispa that y'all even
thinkin' 'bout
takin' wha's mine—” Duke loved the power of his deep voice that put the whole room on freeze-frame. “An' you bof gon' get a up close an' personal introduction to ma favorite brotha, Prince.”

Babylon Street was jumping as Duke screeched his ivory convertible Porsche between TV trucks, Escalades and hoopties. Folks packed the porches in every direction, dancing, barbecuing, and talking about this mixed rich bitch from TV who was moving into their hood. Whether they loved her or hated her, they couldn't touch her. Duke had big, bad Barriors standing guard on every corner, just like they did for school kids and grandmothers and anybody else who hired Babylon's protection services.

Now, all eyes were on Miss Green's crumbling little wood-sided house with faded, peeling blue paint, a sagging porch, and dirt for a front yard. A media mob was already camped out on the cracked front sidewalk. A strip of dirt stretched between them and the curb, where Pound Dog sat inside a black Hummer. TV trucks were parked in front and in back of the big vehicle that was holding the hottest spot in the hood right now.

“It's on,” Beamer said into his cell phone.

In a flash, the Hummer pulled out and Duke pulled in, just in time to watch his Duchess get dropped by fate right into his lap.

“Tell me I ain't the baddest ma'fucka in the galaxy,” Duke said, loving how his voice was vibrating as deep as the funky electric beat of his Bang Squad CD. “Ain't no otha ma'fucka got his own theme song to rock wit'. Jamal finally finish cuttin' Duchess' jus' in time.” Duke's diamond “D” ring sparkled as his enormous left hand fell from the polished teakwood steering wheel to the tentpole in his white linen pants. “Damn, Timbo ain't neva been this cocked. An' I ain't even seen her in person yet. This bitch gon' rule.”

“No joke, Massa Duke,” Beamer said, pulling a thin gold box from the dash. “If I didn't know you better, I'd ask what you been smokin'.”

“B, why you think TV here?” Duke nodded toward reporters and cameramen who were running around like ants, jockeying for a spot on the three-foot swath of dirt between his gold rims and the sidewalk. “'Cause e'rybody wanna see the mos' wild, whack give-you-a-heart-attack love story ev'a!”

“She gon' look at you an' run!” Beamer laughed then shouted to the media mob. “Yo! We security. Y'all can't block us.”

A white female reporter cut her eyes at him and shook her head, but she got out of the way anyway. So did the big black dude with the camera on his shoulder, and some other reporters with notebooks and tape recorders.

“You definitely on pussy patrol now,” Beamer said, nodding across the street where Sha'ante and her hoochie crew were blasting “Move Bitch Get Out Da Way” from the porch of their second story flat. They were also smirking down at the news trucks raising their poles to broadcast live from this urban warzone where the
rat-tat-tat
of gunfire was as common as sirens and screaming.

“Media on one side,” Beamer said, “and them blown-out hoes across the street at Sha'ante house, plottin' a bitch hunt.”

“Hell no.” Duke stiffened with the overwhelming need to protect his Duchess. Sweat prickled down his solid muscles that he had pumped tougher in the gym with the Barriors this morning. He glanced up at those jealous, hard-ass hoes then he looked down at the silver metal nestled between his leather bucket seat and the center console. “Let a bitch try.”

Above, the rhythmic beat of helicopter blades stirred up frenzied noise and movement amongst the kids on bikes by the weed-clogged lot next door, the dark faces crammimg every inch of porches on crumbling Cape Cod-style cribs, and the brothas and bitches parked in cars up and down the street sparkling with broken glass. Duke cranked the Bang Squad on the stereo and nodded with Beamer to the deep, steady drumbeat, like marching soldiers, and a chorus of Barriors chanting “Babylon!” Their voices vibrated through Duke with the powerful force of the black warrior motherfuckers he created.

Jus' like they boss. Me.
Duke flipped down the mirror. His black wrap-around sunglasses were cool as hell against the angular planes of his dark-dark brown, clean-shaven face and his bald head. The shades rested on an exact replica of King Tut's nose as it appeared on the gold masks Duke had at Babylon HQ. His heart was hammering so tough, he could see it pumping through those thick veins on each side of his wide neck, all the way from the white linen collar of his shirt to the little silver hoop earrings in each ear. They flashed in the late afternoon sun as Duke nodded harder and pointed to the stereo.

“Here go Jamal.” The background chant continued as Jamal preached. It was like the ghetto gospel according to rap.

“Babylon rule, wit' D-town cool, urban jewel, win any duel, jack a fool, sexy seductive, serve an' protect, in Babylon, Duke an' Duchess get respect.”

The male chorus got louder then faded as the girls rapped over a belly dancer beat. “Babylon men, I'll take ten, rock this ass, oh, so fast, they last an' last, like a rocket blast. The Duke, he rule, wit' D-town cool.”

“Watch,” Duke said. “She got a light-bright face, white voice, white brain—wit' black balls big as mine.”

A week's worth of TV reports flashed in his mind about the girl who would soon be formerly known as Victoria Winston. She had worked for her millionaire daddy in his business. Got straight A's at private school and was scheduled to start classes this week at the University of Michigan in nearby Ann Arbor. She was star of the debate club and school play.

“B, read 'bout how her daddy let her do deals.”

Beamer snatched the newspaper from the back seat and read aloud. “Victoria Winston was apparently so wise and mature beyond her years that her father who was known for his distrust of others, entrusted her to secure six-figure negotiations.”

“Tha's what I call good home trainin',” Duke said. “She perfect for helpin' me manifest my urban destiny, 'specially when we meet wit' the Moreno Triplets and Mr. and Mrs. Marx out west. They an' the rest o' the world betta sit down an' shut up. 'Cause Duke Johnson and his Duchess takin' ova, side by side.”

“Who you kiddin'?” Beamer said, laughing. “You know damn well that bigger, badder Knight gon' come back an' snatch Babylon back from baby br'a.”

“Hell naw.” Duke bit down, making his jaw muscles ripple so they'd stop trembling like the rest of him. “Knight know I be runnin' it as good as him an' Prince was.”

“Yeah,” Duke said. “Me an' Knight gon' be equals, like him an' Prince was.”

“Then why you look scared jus' thinkin' about it?” Beamer asked. “Can't nothin' or nobody else scare The Duke.”

Duke cranked the music louder.

“Except Knight,” Beamer said. “An' you should be scared o' your girl, Milan. She gon' go off! If you make some new, light-skinded, long-haired, blue-eyed
bitch
yo' Duchess, it's gon' be baby momma mutiny.”

“Milan ain't it.” Duke ignored the vibration of his phone flashing her number. “Blowin' up my phone. She all external. Got too damn skinny, tryin' to be like a model, obsessed wit' looks an' clothes. Greedy, powa-hungry bitch who'd stab my back if I didn't have her watched. Talkin' white, perpetratin' like she so smart.”

“She ain't stupid.” Beamer put the newspaper on the floor.

“Yeah, she stupid, thinkin' she can get over on me. I hate how she be perpetratin' like she so bougie. The spa. Her aromatherapy. Tellin' me spaghetti ain't spaghetti, it's vermicelli. Michelle ain't Michelle, she fake-ass Milan.”

“No joke, Massa Duke, I'd take Milan in a Motor City minute if you 'bout to put 'er out wit' the trash.”

“What bank you think you got to get that gold-diggin' diva?”

Scheme flashed in Beamer's goofy-ass eyes as he slid his Glock between the ivory leather seat and the console. He ran his hand over that gold box on his lap, pulled off the lid and stared at a dozen chocolate truffles.

He inhaled loudly, then said, “I'ma get my treasure. But while we on it, how you think yo' num' a one boy feel gettin' trumped by some snowflake you fell in love wit' through a TV screen?” Beamer popped a chocolate ball into his mouth. “Damn, these good when they half-melted in the sun.”

Duke shook his head. “Listen to you, ridiculous ma'fucka. Lookin' at chocolate like it's some good pussy. An' you want The Duke to take you serious about havin' juice at Babylon.”

“Why you lookin' at me like I ain't shit?” Beamer turned pale.

“'Cause you lack vision, ma'fucka.”

“I got vision, man.” Beamer nodded at a dark blue Caddie turning into Miss Green's driveway. “Here come Lily White.”

“The gods 'bout to deliver my Duchess. Delivered into some Timbo temptation she can't neva resist.”

“Mo' like Miss Lily White 'bout to get delivered into Terror Nation,” Beamer snickered. “She probably the mos' scary, prissy-ass brat who gon' get here, say ‘hell naw,' then do jus' like her daddy and take the quickest exit off Planet Black!” Beamer pointed his Glock at the sky and imitated that nursery rhyme, “Pop Goes the Weasel.”

“Pop go the white girl!”

“I'ma pop yo' ridiculous P.O.W. ass like I thought about when I captured you,” Duke said. “You ain't said it yet today.”

Beamer looked down and bowed his head, just like he did two years ago when Duke decided to let him live. “You gave me life, Massa Duke. You give me life every day, so I serve The Duke in every way.”

“Don't forget it, neither.” Duke cut his glare away from Beamer and focused on his goddess inside that Caddie about fifteen feet away. All he could see was the back of a white man's head in the driver's seat. The sun glare on the window was blocking her.

His heart hammered so loud, it made static in his ears.

The car door opened. Her long, black hair appeared like a silky, swaying cape as she stood up. “Hell yeah!” Duke groaned with his hand on his dick. Timbo was damn near doing flips. She slammed the door like she was mad at the world. She should be, the way the media was blackwashing her Daddy's scandal all day and night. It was a good thing, too, otherwise Duke never would have seen her on TV, thanks to Henry “Pound Dog” Green, who had pointed to the screen and said that was his cousin who was coming to live on Babylon Street.

Welcome to my urban empire.
Duke was like King Tut and Ramses and Caesar and Alexander the Great, all rolled into one. She would become his Cleopatra, conquering new territories, plundering the treasures and the pleasures of their kingdom together.

And fate was helping them out right now, delivering the face, the mouth, the brain, and body they needed to represent Babylon.

It wasn't a coincidence that Victoria Winston just happened to come on the news while Pound Dog was up in Duke's office at Babylon. Her cousin was a soldier who understood there was no such thing as coincidence when a great leader was manifesting the destiny of Babylon. When shit was divine, all the loyal folk a man needed to make it happen just came, like magic. Like the universe just called them up and said, “Yo, go see The Duke. He got a job fo' ya.”

And now his top diva was appearing before his eyes. Cameras were snapping. Reporters and their video crews were running all up on her. She walked tall, proud, and regally down the driveway. Her pink sweater hugged round, ripe titties. Her tight-ass jeans squeezed almost-thick thighs. Her legs were as long and graceful as a giraffe. That hair swinging down to her ass was like a shiny black cape that had to be sexy as hell over them creamy shoulders when she was naked. On red sandals that matched her purse, she stopped at the popped-open trunk, bent over and—

“Ka-pow!” Duke said, his mouth watering at the two ripe cantaloupes pointing his way. “I'ma slurp all ova that juicylicious booty.”

“Dang, Duke.” Beamer laughed. “Close your mouth, dog. Wit' all the bitches you got, why you—”

“Look at them big chocolate kisses on that ass!” Duke groaned. His dick was marble.

She yanked out a suitcase like it didn't weigh anything, then she turned around.

“Check out my Duchess, man. Got a poker face like a mug. Can't never tell her daddy blew his brains out last week. Now e'rybody know she black, broke and comin' to live in the hood wit' her grammomma.”

Sha'ante and her crew were blasting their music so loud, it was rattling the windows. They sneered down at Duchess and shouted, “Move, bitch! Get out da way!”

“If she scared,” Duke said, “she ain't showin' it. Like a true Amazon. Look at that sexy-ass mouth, like that ma'fuckin' pucker-fish I seen at the zoo wit' my kids.” Duke's mouth watered. Her lips were plump and puckered, and red. Extra red against a face that looked like it came straight out of one of Duke's books on Ancient Egypt.

“Damn, this some scary shit, like this chick just popped straight outta one of my dreams.” Duke could not believe how her face looked so much like the golden Cleopatra masks they had back at Babylon. Her skin was golden-bronze, her cheeks were pink, and her nose was just like a Barbie doll. Her big, metallic-blue eyes had to be the answer to Duke's silver-dollar wishes shining back from the Zeus fountain in Vegas.