Watch Out for the Big Girls (14 page)

By the time Young Clips had turned sixteen, he was “made.” The team of Alley Cats perfected their structure and solidified themselves as up-and-coming terrorists. Anything that got in their way was moved. Nothing came close to disrupting Prime's operation. In fact, the money started coming in twice as much. Their friends were treated as clients. They were safely escorted up and down the blocks. That earned him respect and admiration among his crew and made drug users more comfortable spending their money on the particular block. Every day, Young Clips managed to impress Prime by doing something smart or admirable in the streets.

Young Clips finally got the opportunity he was waiting for. He had upgraded to twin .45s and was itching to use them. The money wasn't enough. He was an adrenaline junky. He wanted the rush from the power. Prime became his idol; he had graduated to just being an overseer. He hung around C-Class and Prince down at the barbershop while his team either walked around, drove around in cars, or used bicycles, motorcycles, or dirt bikes. The Alley Cats grew over sixty deep. And all of them ate well. The scraps were enough to keep them content with just being outside regulating and flirting with girls.

C-Class and Prince were shooting dice outside of the barbershop while Prime was inside getting razor lined. He was facing the two huge outside windows. He never allowed the barber to obstruct his view. Not even for a second. A split second was a man's worst enemy, Prime believed.

Outsiders were welcome to join the dice game. Young Clips was sitting in the driver's seat of Prince's 750Li listening to Biggie's “Niggas Bleed” while he smoked a blunt. While rapping along to every syllable, he heard a commotion break out. He looked to his right and could see C-Class arguing, but couldn't make out the words, so he looked into the barbershop's window and made eye contact with Prime. They both shook their heads.

C-Class was arguing with an older man about whether he had to pay for shooting the same number that C-Class had rolled. C-Class was flipping. “My muthafukin' bank, my muthafuckin' rules. Pushers pay, trips pay double. Cracks and leaning dice are good, as long as you can stack 'em. Closest numba to the sky. You see it, you pay it! My point was a five. Yours was a five. Drop three hundred.”

“I ain't droppin' shit! Get it how the Feds got it, bitch!” the man yelled. He was fresh home after doing twelve years. He was what you called a real live hustler back in his day. He was old school. He had heard how the streets had changed. It was a new era, a more violent one. The killers were a lot younger and more relentless.

C-Class backed out the pistol and stuck the barrel into the man's face. “Did the Feds have this?” he asked in a cocky manner.

The man laughed. “Nah. They had real guns. M16s with beams. You got a damn water pistol. Now get it out my face before I get mad.”

C-Class thumbed the hammer back instead. The crowd around him backed up and slowly inched away. Prince sat on the hood of his Infinity.

The man threw his hands up. “You got it.” He cautiously reached into his pocket and pulled out three crisp hundred dollar bills and dropped them the ground and stepped back. “Paid in full.” He turned his back on the pistol and strolled away to the corner, turning left. The dice game jumped back off without him.

Twenty minutes later, Young Clips was still in the same position listening to the same song. Dice were still being rolled. Prime was in the back of the barbershop playing pool with C-Class. Nighttime was just starting to fall. It got dark a little earlier than usual. Young Clips noticed an old gray Honda Accord with blacked-out windows parked across the street from him. The driver door flung open and an unidentified man emerged. Young Clips studied him as he and placed his hands in the front pockets of his windbreaker jacket. He had the hood over his head and kept his eyes low as he squeezed in between the front of the 750Li and the back of Prime's Bentley parked in front of it. He headed straight into the barbershop and none of the dice players seemed to notice, but Young Clips was paying full attention. He pulled his own hoodie over his head and removed the two guns from his waist after getting out of the car. He left the door open and the engine running. He quietly crept up behind the man, who was halfway into the barbershop.

“Nice shot,” C-Class complimented as Prime banked the six ball off of two rails and into the corner pocket.

“I know. I meant it to be,” Prime arrogantly joked. “Two ball, side pocket,” he called out his next shot, and missed. His disappointment showed as he banged the rubber at the bottom of his shooting stick into the ground. “Your shot.”

C-Class smiled and hunched over the table. “Eleven ball off of the nine ball, down the tail, into the corner.” His back was to the door.

Prime was looking down at the table, but something caught his eye. “Look out!”

Screams and yells could be heard in the midst of the rapid gunfire. C-Class dropped the stick and then dropped down on one knee as he slowly spun around. There he was, Young Clips, aiming two guns in his direction. He then looked down and saw someone laid face flat in his own pool of blood. The man's gun was still clutched in his hand.

Young Clips was in total shock. The pistols he held out were steaming. The fumes were intoxicating. He flashed back to the way he felt the day his radio was destroyed. He had just done the same thing with a human life, and it was easy.

Prince ran in as C-Class slowly rose to his feet, patting himself for undetected wounds. He had felt so many shots breeze by him and was thankful not to be hit.
It was a good thing Prime
...

“Oh shit, Prime.” C-Class turned, but didn't see him. There wasn't a back exit; they were trapped off. C-Class ran around to the opposite side of the pool table and looked down. There he was, lying in his own blood.

“Prime, you all right?” C-Class asked while dropping to his knees beside him as Young Clips did the same. C-Class waved Young Clips off. “Yo! You go. Get the fuck outta here. I'll meet you back at the spot.”

Young Clips reluctantly followed the order, going against his own rules to never leave a man down or behind. He hopped over spook's lifeless corpse and ran out. He jumped in the 750Li and sped off.

“Ahhh! Hell nah, I ain't a'ight. That li'l fucka shot me.” Prime gasped as he held his shoulder.

“But he's the reason you're still alive though, both of us.”

C-Class made his way over to the lifeless body lying on the floor. He leaned down and rolled the man over. He smiled and shook his head at the identity. He then made his way back over to Prime.

“Who the fuck was that?” Prime asked.

“The old head from the dice game earlier. Young'un was definitely on point.”

“Yeah, well that's what he gets paid for,” Prime stated as C-Class helped him to his feet.

The next day, Young Clips was an instant legend to the entire Alley Cats. He was already an idol. His respect spread throughout the hood; nobody told. The barber claimed the old head was outside arguing and a masked man later came in and gunned him down. It was the closest version to the truth, and all they would ever get. The strip was shut down due to the heat and the operation was moved to a new location a few blocks down. Business flowed as if it had been there for years.

Prime showed up to Young Clips's apartment with his arm in a sling. Young Clips opened the door. He didn't know whether to apologize. He remained silent while Prime spoke.

“It's all taken care of, soldier. You can come back out. By the way, C-Class owes you his life, and you owe me an arm. Consider y'all even.” He tossed Young Clips the keys to his Bentley GT and then turned back around to head to his awaiting ride. “Oh, yeah.” He stopped in his tracks and spun around. “It's yours,” he added, before hopping in a newer and much bigger model Bentley.

* * *

Young Clips returned to the present as he reflected on the gift Prime had given him and why and how he had laid eyes on a Phantom for the first time that day. The sound of the horn of a speeding car zooming by broke his reminiscing session on how he had obtained the Bentley GT. He was parked up the street from the apartment complex Felicia was in. He wondered if it was another one of the Double Gs' spots. A half hour later, Felicia reappeared with a large duffle bag hiked over her shoulder. Young Clips watched as her wide hips sashayed to the Range Rover he had been tailing for most of the day. He got his answer as he eyed Felicia removing a gun from the duffle before tossing it in the back of her SUV.

Agent McCarthy hung his head low as he scratched his scalp in frustration. He had been working diligently around the clock to get a break in the Double G investigation, but it seemed as if no matter how strong an effort he put forth, it was useless. With months of investigation and top secret intel on the organization, still they were no closer to taking down Queen Fem, Starrshma Fields, or the Double Gs than they were the first day he had announced the investigation. He grimaced at the thought. He prided himself on being a damn good investigator and he couldn't believe a group of men haters were running circles around him and every other law enforcement that did and didn't take them seriously.

“What type of freaking world do we live in?” he complained aloud. “This fuckery has to come to an end!” He pounded his fist on his metal desk. He was determined to remove what he now believed to be a thorn in his side by bringing down what he called a ruthless female gang. He came from a world where the bad guys didn't get away, and all that was connected to and associated with the Double Gs was no exception to that rule. Women or not, Agent McCarthy's mind was made up. He would dedicate all of his time and energy to this one case.

The sound of his office door hitting up against the back wall drew his attention to the unannounced body that had stormed its way inside. “Excuse me, sir!” an out-of-breath Agent Civic apologized for the intrusion.

“What is it?” Agent McCarthy wanted to know. “It better be good,” he added.

“We have a name!” Agent Civic informed him.

“What do we have on her?” he asked, filled with hope as he stood up from his desk chair.

“Until now, she seemed clean as a whistle. The only reason she was even in our database is because her job requires that all employees' personal information be stored in our system,” Agent Civic informed him. “Nothing serious or worth mentioning, but her name was taken down by one of the locals some years ago in connection with one of the Double G incidents. Just a random name check of innocent bystanders. I know it's a long shot, but I don't believe in any coincidences.”

“That's more than we had,” Agent McCarthy announced.

Agent Civic smiled like a proud son.

Agent McCarthy looked up at the ceiling.
Thank you.
He credited the tip to his Higher Power. He then drew his attention back to the agent. “So I'm assuming we have every piece of information we need on her. What about the others?”

Agent Civic shook his head from side to side. “Dead end. We'll need her to talk,” he stated, knowing it wouldn't be easy.

“Shouldn't be a problem,” Agent McCarthy declared with artificial optimism.

“She'll want full immunity.”

“At this point she can have a senate seat in Congress. We can find a loophole later and fry her then. Let's just get her and bring her in.”

“This won't be easy. No one's rolled over on them yet.”

“Up until now, we've never had anyone.”

“True. Good point. I'm on it.”

“I'm coming along for this one. Is she at work now?”

“Yup! Her boss has been informed to keep here there without suspicion.”

“Good work. Where'd they get the trucks?”

“The plates were switched around. Not exactly a felony.”

“Figures.”

“Any luck with your mole?”

“Mole?” Agent McCarthy asked with sarcasm.

“I set myself up for that one.”

“Nice try, kid.” Agent McCarthy smiled at Agent Civic's wit. It had become an office discussion as to his alleged plant in the Double G organization. Everyone wanted to know whether it was true and if so they wanted to know who was it and how he had managed to pull it off. That was the furthest thing from Agent McCarthy's mind though. He was more focused on the lead they had just received.
I promise to make this one count.
He peered up one more time, as he snatched his jacket from behind his desk seat and made a beeline toward his office doorway.

After finally making it home, Starr expected to fall into a deep sleep the moment her head hit the pillow. Instead, she tossed and turned until she found a comfortable position and drifted off. Ever since she had left Diamond's place and climbed into her own bed, she had been restless. Whenever she got like that, she always traveled back in time. She would be so comatose that it was as if she were watching a movie starring herself when she slept that hard. Accounts of her childhood continued to invade her thoughts. It was common for the thoughts to appear without notice. It had been a minute since she had taken a trip down memory lane, but now images of her as a child jumped around in her mind. Much of her young childhood was a blur. Many times, her dreams would turn into nightmares, causing her to wake up in a cold sweat.

They usually started out with the same scene: her mother giving birth to her at the young age of thirteen or her mother smiling down at her and cradling her like a doll baby in a lavender and white bedroom full of stuffed animals and toys. The image would soon transform into her mother's smile turning to a frown, while she still cradled her in the same manner. Only this time, tears streamed down her face and the lively room filled with stuffed animals and toys were replaced with an alleyway, trash bags, rats, and stray cats. For the first four years of Starr's life, she and her mother were homeless.

Images of her mother wrapping her up in filthy blankets and covering her with garbage bags played in Starr's head.
“This is the only way I can keep you safe and warm while Mommy's out getting us something to eat,”
Starr remembered her mother telling her. She devoured a sandwich while she listened to every word her mother expressed to her. “Never trust any man. Ever!” was stressed every day to her and embedded in Starr's young mind. Images of the wounds, scars, and contusions her mother revealed to her that were supposedly caused by a man every time she went out in search of food to keep her and Starr alive were the evidence she offered as the reason why her daughter should stay away from men.

The scene changed to when Starr reached age five. The image of her mother running down the alley screaming her name at the top of her lungs appeared. She could still see the pale white figure trailing behind her mother. The image switched to Starr about to come from behind the Dumpster until she heard the loud bang. She peered around the metal container and witnessed her mother laid flat on her stomach. She was wide-eyed, with a horrific look on her face, while the man who gave chase kneeled over her with what appeared to be a gun in his hand. She reflected on how she watched as he retrieved a brown leather wallet from her mother. Starr assumed it belonged to him. The image of Starr running out of the alleyway she had once known as home skipped through her mind. It immediately skipped to the moment she ran headfirst into a short, plump woman with blond hair and blue eyes and a warm and inviting smile plastered across her face.

Mary Reynolds adored children but couldn't bear her own. She was enchanted by a young Starr and took her home with her. Starr remembered it was where she had gotten her nickname. It was Mary who had always referred to her as her shining Starr. Starr remembered how her fake mother, as she thought of her, her husband Harry was not fond on her bringing Starr home. Eventually he warmed up to having a child around. Starr's life skipped to nine and a half years later. One day her fake mother went off to work and never came back. Starr had overheard Harry Reynolds saying she had gotten into a terrible highway accident after taking a detour to get a few things for Starr's upcoming thirteenth birthday party. After a full year and a half, things began to take a drastic change for the worse. Starr flashed to the time when her fake father began drinking very heavily.

Starr's life jumped to when she was fifteen and her body began to rapidly develop. She noticed all of her young curves had started to fill out. Her fake father had also started to notice, she recalled.

Starr's life skipped as she slipped into a mental trip down memory lane to one evening when she had explored herself in the shower.
The water was steaming hot, just how Starr liked it. She let it beat down on her back as she lathered up her flawless adolescent body. Every now and then, a cool draft would slip through, causing her nipples to harden. She gently stroked the body sponge across each one as she closed her eyes, and lightly pressed her top row of teeth into the middle of her bottom lip. She savored every moment of the sensation and self
-
inflicted arousal.

Her painful journey back in time was interrupted by the sound of her text message ring tone on her phone blaring in the air. She recognized the number and opened up the message. Judging by the text, she immediately noticed the texter was not the owner of the phone.

Who is this? Starr rapidly texted back, thinking the worst.

She sat up as the girl introduced herself via text and ran down the details of the nature of her call and how she came to have the phone. Starr thanked her for the information and told her someone would be there momentarily to retrieve the phone. She scrolled through her contacts and dialed out. Diamond answered on the first ring.

“We have a situation,” Starr announced before relaying the story that was just told to her.