5 Minutes and 42 Seconds (14 page)

“Ma'am.”

“I'm going to have to ask you to leave,” I respond, motioning for them to go.

As the men reluctantly walk out the door, the cute one turns to me. “If you ever have any leftovers, give me a call,” he says, handing me his card.

“I won't,” I answer, repulsed by his halfhearted attempt to charm me into turning in my husband.

I wait behind the darkened blinds at the front windows to see them off. As soon as they leave, I pull out my cell phone.

“What?” says Fashad.

“The cops were here.”

“I know.”

“I told them to come.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“I have my ways.”

“Well…then you should also know I hid the stuff and made them leave.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. They didn't get nothing.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“I don't know.”

“So why did you call me?”

“Because…”

“You power-trippin' now? You trying to show me what you can do to me if you want to?” says Fashad, sounding like he's about to give me the argument I've wanted ever since this
her
entered our lives.

“I did it because of
her.
”

“Because of
who
?”

“The woman who's more important than me.”

Fashad pauses. “There
is
no woman,” says Fashad, retreating from the argument, as usual.

“Not this time, Fashad. I had a choice today. I had to choose between myself and my family, and I chose myself, but I fixed that mistake. I'm giving you the same choice. I ain't gonna put you in jail. You don't deserve that. But me and my kids deserve better too. It's either
her
or your family. You can either have your special life with her, or your real life with me. Make your choice.”

He says nothing.

“What's it going to be?” I press.

“I can't.”

“You can't what? You can't choose?” I ask.

“I just can't.”

“What do you mean you can't?”

“I'm sorry,” he says before hanging up.

“Fashad. Fashad. Fashad.”

I begin to cry every tear I've held back for the past eighteen years. “Why!” I ask no one in particular. Fashad, Dream, my mother—none of them had a problem putting themselves first. Why can't I do the same?

I pull the clothes out of the closet, then go to the garage for the chain saw.

“No more!” I say.

I pull out the suitcase and drag it to the center of the living room.

“If
she
want my life,
she
can have it!”

I open up the suitcase and scream. The money's gone.

S
mokey sits on his leather couch,
smoking a cigar, watching an old episode of
The Sopranos.
Tony threatens a man with a metal pole that just happens to be lying in the parking lot, and the man trembles in fear. Tony's Rolex blings as he slams the pole into the man's pathetic begging face. Smokey cheers, then feels inadequate because gold is old and platinum is in. He looks at his gold Timex and mutters, “Dream better not fuck this up.”

He leans forward on the leather sofa and lowers his voice like a mafia don. “If Fashad's going to jail tonight then I got to be out of town by morning,” he says to himself. “A lot of niggas make ends off of Fashad. When he gone, they gonna have to hustle, and they gonna be angry enough to kill over it. Everybody gonna be pointing a finger, and I can't be at the end of none them. Especially since I'm the…” Smokey thinks
snitch
but can't bring himself
to say the word aloud. He sits upright on the couch and puts out the fake Cuban.

Smokey feels like a bitch for leaving just when the action's about to start. He tries to convince himself it's the smart thing to do, that it's only for the sake of his career. Still, he can't help but think he's all talk. He pushes the possibility from his mind and tries to focus on the money. After Dream comes through, he'll have enough to cut his demo. The rest, he's sure, will be music history. After he sells more records than 50 Cent he can move back. If anyone asks why he disappeared when Fashad went up, he'll just tell them he left because he thought the feds were coming for him next. Besides, hustlers aren't haters. They love to see someone make it out. He reassures himself that his plan is airtight, but he knows it hinges on his music being the best. He gets out his pen and pad.

His flow is interrupted by the ring of his cell phone. He checks the caller ID and sees it's Bill.

“Hello,” says Smokey with enough hostility in his voice to scare anyone who doesn't really know him.

“You haven't talked to Fashad yet,” Bill says, sounding angry.

Smokey remembers the cops have a tap on his phone and feels even more of a bitch than usual.

“I'll do it when I feel like doing it.”

“No, you'll do it when we say,” says Bill

Smokey says nothing. He knows Bill is in control here but doesn't want Bill to know he knows.

“If you don't like taking orders from us you can always take it up the ass in the pen.”

“Fashad won't talk on his cell phone. He's too professional for that. I told you I'll call him on his land line when it's time.”

Bill murmurs a curse word, and Smokey realizes it's the first time Bill is panicking instead of him.

“Don't fuck this up, Smokey. I got a lot riding on this,” says Bill before hanging up.

“I won't,” says Smokey with a smile. He turns
The Sopranos
back up and goes back to his pen and pad.

His flow is interrupted by the ring of a cell phone he got some girl to buy him coming from underneath his couch. Since the phone is prepaid, and the cops know nothing of it he knows it has to be either what's-her-face or Dream. He reaches underneath his couch to answer it and leaves finger-prints on the nine-millimeter Fashad gave him for his seven-teeth birthday in the process. He searches for something he can use to wipe the prints off but can't find anything. The
phone continues to ring and Smokey answers it. He'll wipe the prints later, he tells himself.

“Hello,” says Dream, whispering so softly he can barely hear her.

“What up?” says Smokey, not showing the least bit of emotion.

“Um, um,” says Dream.

This bitch better not have fucked up.

“It's done,” she whispers.

“I'll see you where we sposed to meet, then,” says Smokey, hanging up without so much as a thank-you, or a “good job, baby.”

Smokey drops the phone, then pumps his fist like an NFL player who's just scored the winning touchdown. He picks up his land line. Because he's so excited his fingers keep pressing the wrong keys and it takes him three tries to call Bill.

“I think Fashad's home by now,” says Smokey. “He'll talk on his home phone, but he won't talk on his cell,” he continues.

“Call him,” Bill commands.

“I'll call him on his home phone.”

“Hurry!”

Smokey hangs up and dials Fashad's number.

“Pick up. Yo. It's Smokey…” he says.

“Smokey, what's goin' on?” Cameisha asks, putting him on speakerphone.

“I need to speak to Fashad. I need to speak to Fashad real bad,” says Smokey, giving Cameisha her signal so that she hides the wrong suitcase.

Cameisha forgets to hang up. Smokey pumps his fist again and jumps off the couch like a ninja when he hears the trumpet sound.

“I'm rich, bitch,” says Smokey. “That's what I'm talking about.”

He hangs up and goes back to his writing pad, but before he can get to it, the phone rings again. It's Bill.

“He wasn't there,” explains Smokey.

“So I guess you're going to have to call his cell.”

“And tell him what? I told you, he don't talk on his cell. Fashad ain't stupid.”

“Tell him something went down. Tell him he's got to come over right away.”

“What am I going to say when he gets here and there
is
no emergency?”

“Make something up.”

“He ain't going to fall for it.”

“He'd better,” says Bill. “For your sake,” he threatens through clinched teeth before hanging up.

“Damn!” says Smokey, thrusting his fist into the leather sofa, wondering how in the world he's going to get Fashad to come over, and stay long enough for Bill and the others to come and arrest him. And then an idea, an unwelcome one, flashes through his mind.

The other cell phone rings. It's Dream.

“Baby, I'm
waiting
for you. I got the money.”

“Okay, baby. I'll be there, just wait for me. I got some things to do. Just stay there and don't go nowhere. And don't leave the car,” says Smokey. He hangs up, hoping he hasn't said too much on the unsecure line.

Smokey knows he's out of time. The nightmare image streaks through his mind once again, taunting him as it passes. He looks at his notepad.

I'll do anything to make a buck.

The words echo in his ears, and he knows what he has to do.

Reluctantly he picks up the phone what's-her-face bought him and dials Fashad's cell.

Fashad picks up. “Hello.”

“What you doin'?” asks Smokey softly, almost seductively.

“Huh!” asks Fashad.

“I said what you doin'?” says Smokey, repulsed by the fact that he sounds so much like Dream.

“Shit, man, I tell you. It's been a long day. I mean a long day.”

“It has,” says Smokey, pausing. His stomach turns. He bites his lips, grits his teeth.

Anything to make a buck.

“You know what else is long?” says Smokey, not as disgusted as he thought he would be.

Fashad laughs. “Yeah, I got a few things in mind.”

“I miss it,” says Smokey, instinctively remembering how to flirt with the man whose bitch he used to be.

“I'll bet you do,” says Fashad arrogantly, but discreetly, as if he's with someone else.

“I need it,” says Smokey, now fully in character.

“I have it.”

“Give it to me now,” demands Smokey, like a porn star.

“I'm on my way,” says Fashad without hesitation. Smokey dry-heaves as if he's about to vomit, then hangs up. He opens the phone again to call Bill with the news.

“He's coming over.”

“When?” asks Bill sounding very impatient.

“Now. How long do I have to keep him here?”

“Until we tell you we're coming for him.”

“Are y'all going to be outside?”

“Naw, can't risk him having a lookout. We'll be there when we get there. You just make sure you keep him there until we're ready.”

“What should I do when you come in to get him?”

“Run,” answers Bill.

“I ain't runnin',” says Smokey.
Gladiators don't run. They shoot, and if they die going for the gun, so be it.

“You have to,” says Bill. “That's an order.” He pauses, waiting for Smokey to respond, but Smokey remains silent.

“Don't worry about it,” he adds. “We won't go after you, we'll go after him,” he reassures.

“Fashad won't run,” states Smokey confidently before hanging up the phone, then slipping into something Fashad used to like.

Ten minutes later the door opens. Fashad enters the living room slowly, seductively gazing at Smokey the way a stripper does. He teases as he takes off his leather biker jacket, then slides off his gator boots. Slowly he licks his lips, before unbuttoning his designer shirt.

“You been waitin' for this for a long time, haven't you?” asks Fashad, letting his pants fall and exposing himself.

Smokey fears he might throw up, yet there is something inside of him that is perfectly comfortable. Smokey the gladiator runs for his life and another Smokey appears,
the sixteen-year-old who used to wait for Fashad to come home.

“You know I have,” says Smokey, feeling like he's been possessed by a demon.

“That's why you never cut your hair, ain't it?” asks Fashad.

“Yeah,” says Smokey, not knowing whether he meant yeah as in yeah, sure, whatever, or yeah as in yes, you're absolutely right.

Before Smokey has a chance to think any of it through, Fashad is on top of him. He quickly licks Smokey's chest, before roughly pulling down Smokey's pants. Smokey moans because it feels just like it used to. The feeling provokes Smokey to remember the whole story, even the parts he's forced himself to forget. Like how he knew he could leave that apartment anytime, but didn't; like how he never really hated it and eventually started to like it; like how he never stopped liking it. He remembers the day Fashad almost said “I love you” afterward. Fashad gave him the promotion the very next day and he didn't have to be with Fashad anymore after that. He remembers not thinking that was much of a promotion.

Fashad keeps going, and the more time passes, the more blurry things get. Smokey doesn't know if he's in heaven or hell.

“Turn around,” says Fashad.

Smokey obeys.

“Ahhh!” Smokey yells, because it's been a long time.

“Oooooh,” groans Fashad.

Smokey thinks:
This needs to last forever.
All of Smokey wants to keep Fashad there, but he's conflicted as to why. Part of him wants to keep Fashad there until the cops come and cart his nasty ass off to prison, 'cause if that happens, Smokey knows the money is his. Another part of Smokey wants it all to last longer, because he knows this will be the last time.

Fashad breathes faster, and Smokey feels Fashad's thick penis pinning him to the couch, trapping him. He tries to remember that he initiated this, that this is
his
plan. The gladiator tries to stop it, but the sixteen-year-old Smokey moans again.
This is never supposed to happen to a gladiator.

Smokey squirms and Fashad moans. Things are clear now, and it hurts.

“Fashad,” says Smokey.

“Yeah, say my name,” says Fashad.

“Fashad,” says Smokey, feeling sixteen again and not knowing what he wants to say, or if he's allowed to say it.

“Yeah,” says Fashad, going faster

“Fashad…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Stop,” whispers Smokey, but it's too late and Fashad ejaculates inside of him without a condom.

After a few seconds, Fashad gets up and puts on his pants. “Whew. That was even better than I remember.”

Smokey turns around to face him, hoping the look in his eyes is lethal enough to strike Fashad dead on the spot. He opens his mouth to curse Fashad, but nothing comes out. He closes and opens his mouth again—still nothing.
Smokey wipes his mouth clean of Fashad's tongue, sweat, and pre-cum, then spits.

“You okay?” asks Fashad, sounding unaffected.

Smokey's too embarrassed to look at Fashad, and too upset to lie. He wants to tell him that he isn't okay, that it was never okay, not now, and certainly not when he was only sixteen, that he had snitched, and that he would be the one to send Fashad to jail, where he belonged. He wants to but can't.

Smokey's tapped cell rings and he bends over to pick it up. It's a text message from Bill:

No arrest. Cant get warnt. Witness wont coop. Never mind. TTYL

“Never mind!” yells Smokey.

“What?” asks Fashad.

Smokey's head starts spinning. His vision becomes blurry, and he feels like he's being pushed backward into the deep hole in the ground he's been wavering over ever since he started slanging. Death or prison? Prison or death? Those are his options now. He knows the cops won't stop hassling him until Fashad's behind bars. If for some reason Fashad doesn't go down, the feds will make sure Smokey does. In order to make sure Fashad goes to prison, Smokey would have to stay and continue to snitch, which means: no album.