The Glamorous Life (37 page)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nikki Turner is a gutsy, gifted, courageous new voice taking the urban literary community by storm. Called the “Princess of Hip Hop Lit,” she is the bestselling author of the novels
A Hustler’s Wife
and
Project Chick.
Visit her website at
www.nikkiturner.com
, or write her at [email protected], or at P.O. Box 28694, Richmond, VA 23228.

Read on for an excerpt from Nikki Turner’s new novel

Heartbreak of a Hustler’s Wife

The church musicians switched gears to an instrumental. The man performing on the keyboard and the drummer were both banging their hearts out while the lead guitar and bass players battled for supremacy in their own private competition. But when the sax player added his harmonic flavor, he nearly stole the show.

Now it was time.

Des entered the sanctuary as if he had his very own theme music.

The musicians and choir may have been the reason many of the seats were filled, but make no mistake about it: Des was the superstar and the stage belonged to him.

He came gliding down the middle aisle bopping his freshly cut head full of wavyhair to the uplifting beat. So smooth, he could’ve been walking on water. He wore a dark green four-button custom-made suit, a tailored French-cuff gold shirt and string-up gators so fresh that if he slipped them off they might’ve tried to take refuge in the nearest marsh. In the pulpit, he took his seat in a huge high-back gold and money green velvet chair, fit for a king.

As the soloist broke down the tempo, the music heightened. Once the song ran its course, having brought the congregation to a state of complete worship, the lead soloist handed the mic over to Des. With the mic in the shepherd’s hands, the volume of the music was lowered. Des descended from his throne and stepped up to the podium. Everyone looked at him like he was E. F. Hutton: when he spoke, people listened.

Looking out into the sea of faces, he spoke into an invisible mic, “It looks like everybody made it safely from the clubs last night, huh?” Half the crowd laughed because there was quite a bit truth buried in the humor. That was the half who liked the afternoon service most; they could party all night, sleep the buzz off and still get their praise on without the liquor odor seeping out of their pores. Morning services didn’t accommodate such a lifestyle.

“Yeah, some of y’all looking like, ‘Not me!’ Yes, you. It’s all good, though. No offense intended.” He looked upon the congregation with a serious face. “But that’s between you and God. I’m not here to judge you, embarrass you, or call you out. I’m just here to tell you what saith the Lord.” Des could see he was getting a reaction; as usual it fueled him to press on. “Y’all know how I do it. I’ma speak it like I see it, and if it don’t apply to you, then let it fly. Ya feel me? In other words, let the church say, ‘Amen.’ ”

Amens rang throughout the sanctuary.

Yarni marveled at how Des lit up the already bright room with his trademark smile. After all, this was the same youthful smile and quick wit that Yarni had fallen in love with so many years ago. She blew him a kiss. No one noticed. Every single eye was glued to the preacher man. Des tossed a look back to his wife that said, “I love you.”

When she caught it, they both smiled. Des continued to mesmerize the congregation, while Yarni sat in awe of her man’s finesse. But not long into the service, something didn’t feel right to her. She scanned the church, but nothing or no one looked out of place. Unable to put her finger on why she suddenly felt that way, she tried to put her focus back on Des’s words, but as hard as she tried, she could not ignore the bad feeling churning in the pit of her stomach.

She tried to maintain eye contact with Des while he gave a phenomenally inspirational message on why financial literacy and spiritual literacy were equally necessary in the community. The room was pin-drop silent as the people took in every word he said. If Des knew anything, it was that folks always paid attention when it came to talking about money. Finance was one of Des’s favorite subjects, and with the economy struggling the way it was, his followers loved hearing about how to get their hands on the almighty dollar now more than ever. Des had everyone’s attention, with some even taking notes. Most of the deacons were even intrigued, but not Slim; he was too busy on his job as the main lookout, making sure nothing around him looked or got out of order.

There were well over fifty deacons on board; all good men, for the most part, but Des only trusted six with specific tasks. His friendship went back more than three decades with most of those men. Tony, Black Bob, Chip, Mo, Stanka and Slim were Des’s road dogs.

Tony and Black Bob were brothers: Tony was younger and the more ambitious and reckless of the two. Chip was a bookworm and a genius with a computer. He should’ve graduated from MIT, but he got arrested for creating a high-stakes pyramid scam his freshman year. Nobody could remember a time when Des and Slim weren’t down for each other. Stanka, Yarni’s uncle, proved to be a real stand-up brotha. And the fact that he would do anything for Yarni was enough to win Des over. Mo was the most physically intimidating of the crew. He was huge, with muscles growing out of muscles. Des got tight with him after a riot in prison. All of his trusted crew packed concealed, sixteen-shot .40 caliber Glocks under their suit jackets, but Slim was the top man and the leader of the pack.

That morning at a meeting before the first service, Des gave strict instructions to his crew.

“Everyone needs to be extra-vigilant at all the services,” Des explained.

Tony nodded. “What we looking for?”

“I’m not sure, but if the Holy Ghost step up in this piece and it don’t look right, I need y’all on top of it. I got a funny feeling about today. And y’all know how I am when my sixth sense kicks in? It’s nothing concrete, but I’d rather waste time being safe than run out of time because I wasn’t.”

Now, several hours later, Des was heavy into his sermon. As he philosophized the word, he was careful to make periodic eye contact with each of his top men. The crew trusted Des’s instincts. If the weatherman said it was going to be sunny and Des said it felt like rain, they packed umbrellas along with their gats. Better safe than sorry.

A few minutes later while Des was explaining his ideology of assets and liabilities, seven brothers in black suits and long overcoats stood up from the pews, at first blending in with everyone else, on their feet cheering Des on with applause and Amens. Before anybody saw it coming, the coats flew open, and all seven drew guns. Sleek and compact MP5s, which had been concealed as well as a flask in the inside pocket of a casual fan at a football game. In the blink of an eye the machine guns were out front and center.

Slim was one of the first of the deacons to peep the game, but he hadn’t spotted it soon enough. He thought about snatching the Glock from the shoulder holster underneath his jacket but knew better. The automatic weapons the men had brazenly brandished were capable of spitting more than five hundred rounds per minute. He knew his pistol wouldn’t stand a chance up against that type of firepower.

One of the gunmen spoke up. He must have been in charge. “Y’all here, sinners and saints alike, know what’s up. This here is a robbery. For those of you who only speak church language: it’s offering time!”

And in harmony, his partners hummed the line from the old classic Eazy-E song “Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt.” And if that wasn’t bizarre enough, these exact words appeared on all the TV monitors throughout the church.

“What the fuck is going on?” a member of the Good Life Ministry called out. He was an older man. A former drug dealer. Before anyone could react, one of the gunmen caught him with a cold blow right upside the dome.

“Okay, people, don’t make this motherfucking shit any more
got-damn
complicated than this shit has to be,” the gunman in charge of the mission advised.

Some members of the congregation weren’t close enough to hear what he said, but everyone was close enough to one of the guys pointing the menacing weapons to understand that they should cooperate. Or die.

Tony went for his gun. With less effort than it takes to snap a finger to a catchy tune, the gunman nearest him tapped the trigger. Surprisingly, there was little sound. The silent slug snatched Tony from his feet, sending him to the shiny polished wood floor with blood pouring from his chest.

“Now, he was a dumb motherfucker!” The gunman that had pulled the trigger went over to Tony and kicked him. “Don’t you be like this idiot.” He pointed the MP5 machine gun in an arcing motion to emphasize his point. The other members of the congregation looked on with a tangled mixture of fear, shock and worry.

Sister Mary, who was an elder of the congregation and acted as a great-grandmother to most in the church, stood up boldly, unafraid of the hoodlums. She pointed a bony index finger at the gunman, her face twisted with anger and defiance. “You going straight to Hell, coming in here taking from the people of God. You gon rot in Hell.” She spoke with conviction, matching the gunman’s stare beat for beat.

He responded by aiming his gun at her head. “Sit the
fuck
down, Grandma, before you drop more than your money. Yeah, I may lose my soul over this, but you, old biddy, you might lose your life. So take off the Superwoman cape, put on your prayer shawl and pray to your God that I don’t take you out of your misery.”

She cut him a look that only a no-nonsense grandmother from the South could deliver. Sister Mary hadn’t gotten her age by being a fool. She followed the gunman’s instructions and sat down. Under her breath, she uttered, “You still going to Hell.” She rolled her eyes and added, “Crumb snatchchas.”

There was no way Des could let something like this go without retribution. He had a reputation to uphold: not only was God watching, but so were the streets. And the streets were watching from row seats and pews alike. He was tempted to reach for his own automatic weapon stashed under the podium and begin gunning himself, but there were too many innocent lives involved. Especially his wife and daughter. He noticed that Yarni had put their daughter underneath the pew to protect her as best she could under the unorthodox circumstances.

Sometimes diplomacy was the best course of action, he thought.

Into his microphone, Des spoke for the first time since the potentially deadly interruption started. “Please, my brothers and sisters, don’t do anything rash. I’ll personally replace any- and everything that these people take. You have my word.” Des would rather die like a man than live like a coward. He knew what he wanted to do, but there was no need to risk the lives of so many over money. “With the power of God, saints, you will be restored.”

Des and the leader of the gunmen locked eyes, which had nothing to do with one trying to intimidate the other; they were simply conveying a message to each other in a telepathic, psychological gangsta language that they both seemed to understand.

The gunman’s look said, “Chalk it up as a loss. It’s just part of the game.”

While Des’s look said, “There’s a consequence behind every action. I hope you can handle it when it’s reciprocated.”

Trash bags were quickly passed throughout each and every aisle and were gradually filled with wallets, credit cards and jewelry. Sister Mary continued to spew contemptuous venom. “Robbing old ladies’ purses. It don’t make no sense. The fire of Hell y’all going to feel.”

Long after the bold gunmen were gone, Des figured out that the whole thing had all been staged to divert attention from the real heist. While everyone in the sanctuary was emptying their pockets, two other gunmen had overtaken Chip, the church’s accountant, in the back office and forced him to wire ten million dollars to an overseas account. The move was brilliant, Des had to admit to himself. Except for the one thing. They had definitely fucked with the wrong preacher’s money.

The Glamorous Life
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2005 by Nikki Turner

Excerpt from Heartbreak of a Hustler’s Wife copyright © 2011 by Nikki Turner.