Street Soldier 2

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Authors: Silhouettes

BOOK: Street Soldier 2
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Street Soldier 2
Silhouettes
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Chapter One
When Love Calls, Ignore It ...
Say what you want, but didn't too many people give a fuck about black-on-black crime in St. Louis, the city known for being in the top-ten most dangerous. If they did, I wouldn't have never been able to wipe out the three niggas who killed my baby's mama, Nadine, and get away with such a heinous crime. Yeah, the police had been lurking around, asking questions, but after three months or, possibly, the first forty-eight hours, I assumed Nadine's case was put in a file and never looked at again.
That's why I, Jamal Prince Perkins, had to get back to business around here. At first, I was skeptical about killing the fools who took Nadine's life, but with my son being in the car that was riddled with bullets that day, I figured those niggas didn't give a fuck about me, so in no way did I care about what I'd done to them. The only setback that happened was Nadine's mom was so distraught about how shit had went down, a month later she jetted with my son. I went to go pick him up one day and the whole house was empty. I knew she had held me responsible for what had happened to Nadine and, to this day, I felt the same. Mama tried to convince me that everything happened for a reason, but I could in no way see the logic behind Nadine being killed instead of me. She had just graduated from high school and was looking forward to going to a community college. No doubt, she had a bright future ahead of her and my son had a pretty decent mother.
As for me ... I was just an okay father, but had made some changes in my life so I could be there for my son like I needed to be. Having him at eighteen was tough, but I had to quickly give up my “boy” status and become a man. Proving that I was a real Street Soldier was imperative, and that meant getting a job to provide for my son; a son who I didn't know if or when I would ever see again. That shit hurt me like hell, but it wouldn't be the first time I had to deal with setbacks in my life. This was the norm, and like always, I had to brush that shit off and keep it moving.
I wasn't working for On-time Delivery Services anymore. I was doing things on my own. I ran a laundromat business that was going strong, as well as a liquor store that was right across the street from it on Union Boulevard. Hired an old black man, Nate, who I could trust with running the liquor store, because the niggas I had known from the hood wasn't about nothing. They were all out to see what they could get, and the only one I had ever trusted was my boy, Romeo. He was still locked down in prison, and with a thirty-year bid for an accessory to murder conviction, it would be a long time before we would ever see each other again. I never visited him, because he didn't want me to. I couldn't stand to see him behind bars. We wrote letters to each other and I made sure he didn't want for nothing. At twenty years old, I was still reaping the benefits from the money I received after killing my deadbeat-ass father. I had sense enough to make it stretch so I could do what I needed to do. In no way would I say I was balling, but I did have enough money to live comfortably and get by. Stealing, robbing folks, and hustling were no longer in my game plan and, for that, I felt as if I was on the come up. Hopefully, my shaky past was behind me and no retaliation for the murders I committed was ordered.
Hell couldn't be as hot as the laundromat was, and, as I sat in a chair sending Mama a text message about the items she wanted me to bring her, I could see what looked to be sweat dripping from the antique white walls. Two round floor fans sat in each corner, but they weren't doing nothing but blowing out more hot air. The smell of overly hot dryers, as well as Bounce fabric softener, infused the air. The whole damn place was stuffy, but all I was concerned about was making money.
About ten ladies were inside doing their laundry. A few kids were running around, and some were behaving while looking at the flat-screen TV I had mounted on a wall. I tuned out the noise. After I sent Mama a text confirming what to bring, I got up to get a soda from a soda machine. My lips were dry and my flowing, neatly cut waves were shining from the sheen on my hair. I wiped my forehead, then swiped my hands on my heavy-starched denim jeans that hung low. After getting my soda, I couldn't wait to pop the top and get back to my seat. The cold soda going down my throat felt good, and as I watched a woman enter with seven clear trash bags filled with clothes, I could only smile to myself, feeling I was in the right business.
“It would be nice if I could get some damn help with this,” she yelled out to a heavyset man who slowly trailed behind her. He seemed occupied with his phone call and the last thing on his mind was helping the woman with her clothes. She snatched up two of the laundry carts, and started to pack them high with the dirty clothes she had in trash bags. Since I was sitting nearby, I could smell the stench from the clothes. It was obvious that the woman hadn't washed in quite some time. Looked like she hadn't washed her ass, either, and the perspiration spots underneath her armpits and the dirt piled underneath her fingernails suggested that she hadn't seen something as simple as water. As she fussed about doing everything all by herself, the man who was with her paid her no mind. He leaned against one of the folding tables, still indulging in his conversation.
Spending so much of my time in the laundromat, I felt the bullshit about to go down. I got up from my seat, but was stopped by a woman who complained to me about the change machine being broke.
“I put five dollars in there and only got back four quarters. The same thing happened to me the last time I was here. That machine be gyppin' people out of they money.”
She was so loud and close to my ear that I backed away, not wanting her to get close to the two-carat diamond in my earlobe, or bust my eardrum. I was almost 110 percent sure that the woman had put a dollar in the machine, but I was in no mood to argue with my customers. Instead, I reached into my pocket and gave the woman four dollars worth of quarters. She walked away and, just for the hell of it, I put a dollar and a five dollar bill in the machine. To no surprise, it gave me the correct change. I cut my eyes at the woman who was trying to be slick and made my way toward my tiny office in the back. Before I got there, I listened to the irate woman and her man go at it. Everyone was pretty much tuned in, even the kids who had stopped running around to listen.
“You are lazy, Tim, and I don't give a shit who knows it! You need to get off that phone and wash your own damn dirty drawers!”
“And you need to shut the fuck up and keep your fat ass movin'. My drawers ain't the only ones dirty and look at yo' stained panties.”
“At least I'm willing to wash mine,” she fired back. “You ...” she said, picking up a pair of his drawers, swinging them in the air. It looked like the brotha had skidded in some mud and I, along with everyone else in the laundromat, was frowning. Some of the kids were holding their noses, as if they could smell his drawers. “You expect for me to wash these? Please! Put that damn phone down and wash your own shit!”
The man shifted his eyes around the laundromat, looking embarrassed as hell. He didn't have much else to say and, as the woman separated his clothes from hers, he stood with his arms folded. She kept cussing and fussing. As soon as I turned, that's when I heard a loud thud.
“Daaaaamn,” one woman shouted. “He didn't just hit her, did he?”
I saw another woman nod, and I watched as the man stood over the woman who had dropped to the floor, pointing at her. “I told you about that shit, didn't I? All you do is run your fat fuckin' mouth. I get tired of hearin' it ! Wash these damn clothes and call a cab when you're done! I'm out of here.”
Everyone was in awe, including me. Now, I had witnessed shit like this all the time, thanks to Mama and her men. My gut always told me to stay the fuck out of it, because nine times out of ten, the woman was going to stick with her man. From a short distance, I could hear the woman wailing out loudly, and I eyeballed another one of my customers who walked up to the man. She looked to be about five feet five, and weighed less than 150 pounds. Most of her hair was shaved off and was perfectly lined. She had some of the smoothest brown skin I had ever seen, and diva was written all over her. Her breasts were tiny as hell, but I could see the size of her nipples through the white spaghetti-strap tank she wore. The faded jeans she rocked had rips in them, but they plumped her ass up to stand at attention. She was no match for the 300-pound man who stood before her, but her bravery was admirable. She pointed her finger close to his face and her chipped long nail nearly touched his nose.
“That shit was uncalled for,” she said with a twisted look on her face. Her hazel-green pretty eyes, like Rihanna's, showed no fear and were lethal. “Your fat ass should know better, and if you hit her again while in my presence, I'ma do something about it.”
The man smirked and cocked his head back. “Bitch, get out my face. This between me and my woman, and you ain't got nothin' to do with it.”
“I got your bitch,” she said, reaching out her hand to help the woman off the floor. Obviously, she had a bunch of mouth but was afraid to get off the floor and challenge the man who had dropped her. Without saying a word, she wiped her tears, shooting daggers at the man with an embarrassing and devious look. The man threw his hand back at both women and headed toward the door, mumbling underneath his breath. I couldn't hear what he'd said, but the brave chick did. She made her way up to him, holding out her hands.
“A baldhead bitch I may be, but I bet you won't put your hands on me like you just did her. Try me, motherfucka. Stop talking that mess and try me.”
The man's eyes twitched and I saw him tighten his fists. He looked like a grizzly bear and I suspected he was about to knock the woman on her ass, so I decided to intervene. Just in the nick of time, I stood between them, touching the man's heaving chest. I could tell that the chick's aggressiveness had him fired up, but she wasn't backing down. I turned to him first.
“Man, you gon' have to go. I can't have you up in here fightin' with my customers. Don't force me to call the police on you, dig?”
The man stood for a moment, but didn't say another word. He soon pushed the door open and made his way outside. The chick who approached him rolled her eyes, then yelled out, “Sloppy, fat-ass punk!”
She walked up to the other woman who kept thanking her for intervening.
“You really didn't have to involve yourself like that, but I appreciate it. Sorry about that, though. I'm truly sorry.”
“No worries,” the mad chick said. “But you don't need to be involved with a man who treats you like that. I don't know you at all, but that was not a good look.”
The woman dropped her head in shame and two more ladies walked over to offer their opinions and support. They started to help the woman with her clothes, and as soon as I walked by, I heard one of them say, “Niggas ain't shit.”
“None of them,” the brave one added. “He was in here and didn't say shit! What kind of man just stand there and watch a lady get knocked the fuck out by a man? He could have said something, but since he up in here looking like Trey Songz, I guess he think he looks too good to get involved.”
I halted my steps and pointed at my chest. “Are you talkin' to me, Miss Rihanna wannabe, or are you talkin' about me?”
“If the shoe fits, wear it,” she responded while rolling her neck.
I was in no mood to argue with this bitch, who, for some reason, had a chip on her shoulder. I also hated a smart-mouth chick, and if I gave her the attention she wanted, the police would definitely have to show their faces. “Whatever. Hurry the fuck up with your laundry and get your mean ass out of here before I put you out.”
“I'd like to see that happen. And, as soon as my clothes get done drying, you don't ever have to worry about me coming back here again. I won't, and I will make sure that my other friends and family members don't either. You don't deserve my business and, since you can't even put a man in his place for wronging a woman, maybe you can spend your money on a damn air conditioner to cool off your customers.”
“Maybe you can take the advice of the man who left and shut the fuck up. Like he said, it wasn't your business, and the woman you're rushin' to protect will be somewhere tonight with his dick in her mouth or ass. You're wastin' your time. Your business: don't need it. You can get your wet clothes out of my dryer right now, and take that shit fourteen blocks to the next location. No loss here.”
The other women stood with their mouths hanging open. I was in no mood to argue with any of them. I didn't want to lose their business either, and as they continued to rant I walked away. I started sweeping the floor then noticed that Miss Meany must have taken my advice, because she stormed over to the dryer to get her clothes. She slammed them into one of the laundry carts, steadily talking about how much “niggas ain't shit.” It was apparent that she had some deep shit going on inside, and the frustration showed on her face. I had even noticed her smack away a tear, and I couldn't believe it was that serious.
Feeling a slight bit bad about losing her business, and about what I had said to her, I walked up to her. She was putting her wet towels in another basket.

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