5 Minutes and 42 Seconds (4 page)

“This is just business.”

“See, Smokey!” said Dream. “I'm so tired of this. I'm tired of people doing they thangs.”

“Naw, not this. My thang is legit. Once I get up enough money, I can put my CD out.”

“And how you plan on getting up on that money? You gonna keep switching clothes with white boys?”

“I got plans, baby. Big plans.” He added a guttural gangsta giggle he knew turned the ladies on.

“Just stay out of trouble.” She punched his chest again.

“If you get sent up, or shot down, I'll be all alone.”

“Baby, I'm good. Don't worry about me, baby. I'm going to take care of us.”

She pressed her head against his chest, banging his mouth with her beehive. He almost pushed her away, but
that wouldn't be prudent. This was a tender moment, progress was being made. He knew she'd soon belong to him.

“I need you to do me a favor.”

“Anything.” She rested her open hands on his broad pectorals, more for her own pleasure than his, savoring the fact that she had someone she could sensuously rub.

“I need you to drop me off at this spot down on Twenty-first.”

“What for?” asked Dream.

“Oh, so now you askin' me questions. What, you don't trust me?”

“No, I just…I mean, you got a car,” said Dream, reaching out and touching him again, the omnipresent fear of abandonment blazing in her eyes like a fireball.

“Naw, don't touch me. Don't say nothin' to me!” said Smokey, swatting her hands away.

Then came the tears.

“Baby, please don't be mad at me. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. I trust you. I don't know why I asked you,” begged Dream.

Smokey stopped.

“Baby, just get in the car. Please get in the car,” she pleaded. She ran after him and pulled his arm as if he were the midpoint on a rope in a tug-of-war with the streets. Smokey was surprised by her strength and determination. He had her right where he wanted her.

With his back to her, Smokey smiled. He turned around and ripped his arm away, tearing the white boy's shirt in the process. Dream fell to the ground, clutching the torn shirt like it would soon be all she had left. He ripped the torn piece of cloth away from her, then got in the car.

 

W
hen are we gonna
tell them about us?” asked Dream driving past the pizza shop on Twenty-fourth that sells more than pizza.

Smokey looked at her, then looked away. He said nothing.

“When the time is right,” said Smokey, as they passed Twenty-second and the apartments behind the corner where young boys with NBA jerseys threaten to end each other's lives.

“What's wrong with right now?” asked Dream as she turned on Twenty-first, flinching as she heard what sounded like gunshots. Dream wasn't used to this part of town.

“It's too much shit goin' down right now,” said Smokey, rising from his instinctive duck.

“Fashad find out you my girl, and he might have a heart attack. Probably think I'm trying to come for his money or something, like I'm 'bout to back-stab him.”

“Is you?” asked Dream as she parked in front of Smokey's apartment.

Smokey contemplated testing her trust once again, but since he was leaving he didn't want to leave her with a bitter taste in her mouth, lest she stop dreaming of him. Besides, he needed to be clear on the subject of money. At least for now. He looked her in the eye with all the insincere sincerity he could muster, “Naw, baby,” he said. “Come on now, baby, you know me betta than that.”

“Do I?” she asked.

He didn't answer.

“When is the time gonna be right? It's been three weeks now, Smokey.
Three,
” she emphasized.

Smokey almost laughed when he realized she thought three weeks was a long time. He figured she'd probably never had a man put up with her longer than the fifteen minutes it took to come on her face. “We ain't gotta tell nobody,” he said. “We don't want niggas in our business no way.”

“Whatever,” said Dream, her jaded black-girl aura in full effect, her blue hair bristling like a weapon. Then a sigh, a roll of the neck, and a tongue smack. “Ain't this yo stop?” If it weren't for the Mercedes, she could have been mistaken for someone who was at home on the seedy side of town.

Smokey sensed she was becoming suspicious, so he enchanted her once more. “Hey,” he said, turning to her with a smile that would stand out in a Rembrandt toothpaste commercial. He playfully poked her in the shoulder, trying to lighten the mood.

Dream sat silent, playing with her powder-blue fingernails and taking violent choppy breaths.

“Hey,” said Smokey in a slightly louder tone, as if he was threatening to leave her.

She turned and looked at him the way Apples looked at Delroy. She was angry, but powerless.

“You know I love you, right?” he inquired.

She swerved her beehive away from him, injected a fingernail into the center of it, scratched, then said: “Go on, Smokey. Do what you gotta do.”

Smokey jumped out of the car.

S
mokey walked into
the diner wearing a wife-beater and the jeans the white boy gave him, his long hair discreetly tucked and folded under a Cincinnati Reds cap. Perusing the diner, he immediately noticed he was the only person of color. Initially he felt out of place but eventually came to take solace in the fact that no one there knew him.

“Blue Yankees cap,” he whispered to himself as he walked through the place.

“Blue Yankees cap,” he repeated.

He found the man with the blue Yankees cap sitting in the back of the diner, looking down at a full plate of food, his right hand clinching a clean fork. The man tipped his hat toward Smokey, then quickly looked away. Smokey walked over, and took a seat.

“What up, Bill?” said Smokey cordially.

Bill looked at every person in the diner other than Smokey, then asked, “What you got?”

“Apples Morgan.”

“What's she into?” asked Bill, looking back down at his food as he spoke.

“I don't know. Fashad had me drop a car off at her house yesterday.”

“What was in the car?”

“I didn't look.”

“Why not?”

“'Cause I never look. That would be suspicious.”

Bill grimaced in disapproval.

“So when y'all going to make an arrest?” asked Smokey.

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

Bill hunched his shoulders. “Whenever we feel like it.”

Smokey would have punched anyone else, but with Bill he ignored the disrespect. He had no other choice. “Did y'all talk to Jeron on Twenty-fifth?” asked Smokey.

Bill deliberated then took a sip of coffee. Paused. “Yes.”

“Tommy on Twenty-third?” asked Smokey, barely giving Bill enough time to finish speaking.

“Yes.”

“What they say?”

“They're singing like drag queens.”

“So what's taking so long for the arrest.”

“Like I said, it will happen soon. I need to make sure we got this shit closed airtight. Your
boss
is a very slick man,” said the detective, intentionally reminding Smokey that
he
wasn't.

“Whatever. But I just can't do no time, Bill.”

“And you won't, as long as you continue to cooperate.”

“And Fashad can't find out.”

“Stop panicking on me,” said Bill, looking directly at Smokey for the first time. “I'm a professional, let me do my job. We're almost home, buddy. But you got to trust me.”

“Check, please?” said Bill. He paid the woman, got up, and walked away.

Smokey slowly scanned the diner and noticed a rainbow flag outside. Still, all he really cared about was the fact that he was the only black person. Now that Bill was gone, there was no need to stay, yet something made him feel he belonged there as much as he did in the hood. He asked for a fried bologna sandwich, but when the waitress laughed at him, he decided on a ham and cheese instead.

M
y name is Smokey Cloud
and when that trumpet sounds, that money is going to be mine.

I met Fashad when I was just a young buck, still in high school. I'll never forget that night. I was in the hallway before a basketball game, chillin' with my peoples. Slangin' as always. Nothin' big, just some weed. Half of it was plants from my grandmomma's balcony, the other half I got as a gift from one of my momma's boyfriends.

I remember Fashad's friend comin' down the hallway. Danger was his name—for obvious reasons. He walked in, looking like a businessman. I mean a real businessman, like a rapper or some shit like that. He was wearing one of those rich man's suits, the kind that come in four different colors and look a hot-ass mess if they ain't on the right person. Two niggas was with him—Brandon and G-Money, I think. I can't remember, they both got locked up a few
weeks later. I guess they wouldn't rat. Either that or they were so dark the cops never asked them to. Danger is out in Los Angeles or somewhere—he retired.

Danger looked right at me and asked, “Who's runnin' this spot?” I was scared as hell. I mean, I was packin', but so was he. He didn't even bother to hide his piece; this nigga definitely did not play. I could bust my gun, but he could bust back. And I hadn't never shot no gun before—my shit was just for show, part of my uniform. Like the mascot on a basketball player's back. I ain't want to lie, but I wasn't gonna tell him I was head nigga in charge, neither.

He grabbed me by my collar right in front of my niggas. That shit was mad disrespectful. One of the niggas he was with grabbed my nigga Rob and asked him who was runnin' the spot. Rob pointed to me—the faggot! Danger looked at me like he was about to slit my throat right there in that hallway.

He told everybody else to leave 'cause he said he had to talk to me. Him and his mens took me out to his car. I thought they was gonna whoop my ass. When I got in, he told his boys to leave, and they did. As soon as the car pulled away I tried to open up the door, but Danger told me that it don't open from the back. He said he fixed it that way just for me.

He said one of his friends wanted to talk to me. I knew that shit wasn't true. If the nigga wanted to talk we could have done that shit inside. We drove for about five minutes before Danger got out the car and another man got in. That shit was real suspicious. I figured the new guy was a hit man; I figured Danger was too high up to get his hands dirty.
Then Danger called the man “Boss,” and I relaxed a little bit. I figured he might be more reasonable since he wasn't one of them street niggas who had to be all tough and shit.

I said, “What's up?”

“Shut the fuck up. I'll tell you when you can talk.”

He took me to this apartment he used to have across town. I was so busy trying to find a way out, and trying not to think about what would happen if I didn't, I forgot to look at where we were going. The streets were paved smoothly and the apartments had plants, so I figured we were in a nice neighborhood. That was good news. Fashad, the boss, wasn't 'bout to kill me where white folks could hear it, especially not where they was trying to raise they kids. Then I saw five niggas walking on the other side of the street and almost shit my pants. When they got closer I saw they was wearing they hats three different ways and knew I was close enough to the hood to hear a drive-by but far enough not to have to duck. I didn't know if the law let niggas kill niggas out here or not. I felt a knot in my stomach—I honestly didn't know if he was going to kill me or not.

“I'm gonna open up this door. You betta not run. I got eyes everywhere. I will find your little punk ass.”

I looked around his tricked-out Escalade and knew he wasn't lyin'. The man had a TV with a DVD player, and this was before that shit was played out. He had white leather seats, and a black leather steering wheel. I remembered hoping I'd live to see another day just so I could have leather something someday.

“Get out,” he commanded as if he were my muthafuckin'
daddy. I got out, and before I could think to yell help like folks in movies do when they're in trouble, he pushed me inside the apartment. My jaw dropped. It was like stepping into another world, like I had gone through a secret portal or some shit like that on the sci-fi channel. Everything in the room was red and white, right down to the TV and microwave. The carpet was so white, I took off my shoes without him telling me to. I took off my blue bandanna because it seemed so out of place. His bedroom door was open, and he told me to go sit on his bed. I sat on the red satin sheets slowly, because they looked like they would tear if they were wrinkled too roughly.

“So you sposed to be a dealer, huh?” asked Fashad, shutting his bedroom door behind us.

I didn't know what to say. I heard about my school being somebody else's spot, but I ain't think nobody would tell whoever was runnin' the spot that I was steppin' on they toes.

“Naw. I mean, I was just giving some to my friends. I wasn't really sellin'.”

“Nigga, do I look stupid to you?” asked Fashad.

“Naw, but…”

“So why the fuck you lyin' to me like I am?”

“I ain't lyin', I'm just—”

“Nigga, you been sellin' since last year. My dude down at the school been caught yo' ass. If you gonna lie, at least make that shit good.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Say your momma in the hospital and need to get a new kidney or something.”

“My momma in the hospital—” He put his hand in the air, so I decided not to finish the rest.

“My man down at the school came up to me about a month ago, askin' for my permission to go ahead and cap your punk ass. I told him naw.”

“Who?”

“What the fuck! Nigga, I just told you I saved your muthafuckin' life and you hollarin'
‘Who?'
Don't worry about
‘who.'”

He lunged at me like he was 'bout to punch me. I jerked back so hard I hit my head on the bedpost. He looked at me, and smiled. I'll bet that was when he knew he had me.

He stared me down. I was looking him in the eye at first, then the face, then the heart, and pretty soon my head was tilted down to his feet. I ain't never wanted to call my momma so bad in my life.

I was about to cry and I ain't want him to see me, so I turned my head away and acted like I had something in my eye. He moved closer and I felt his hand in my braids. He said, “You sure got a lot of white in you.”

I thought, Oh shit, now he really gonna kill me since he found out I'm mixed, because that always seemed to bring shit out of people. I tried to change the subject.

“Mister, I ain't know nothin' about you. I ain't know nobody was sellin' down at the school. If I had known I wouldn't had been all up in your spot like I was. Mister, please. Please don't hurt me.”

He was still stroking my braids. Said he like long hair. Said he noticed me as soon as he saw me. I should have known the deal right then and there, but I was too scared
to think. He pulled out an orange juice from under his bed and told me to drink it. I did. He told me to keep drinking because he didn't want my mouth to be dry.

It seemed like he was on some executioner-type shit. Even the way he handed me that orange juice was gangsta. I thought the nigga was 'bout to cap me fo' sure. I ain't much for that Christian shit, but I started to pray this one prayer I learned in Head Start:

 

God is great, God is good. Let us thank him for our food. Bow our heads, we all are fed. Give us, Lord, our daily bread.

—Love, Smokey

 

I closed my eyes and said it again. I was really gettin' into it. The teachers at the church said it's sposed to keep you from getting sick. I was hoping it worked on ass whoopings too. When I opened my eyes Fashad was even closer to me than he was before. I scooted over so he could have room to sit, and he scooted every time I did. I didn't want to piss him off, so after a while I decided to just sit still.

He put his hand back into my braids and said, “You like to sell, don't you?”

I wanted to answer but couldn't think fast enough. I wanted to say whatever he wanted to hear so he would leave me alone. I just wanted to go home to my momma. I promised myself if I ever saw her again I would stop hating her for being white.

“It's okay, you can tell me the truth.” He put his arm around my neck.

I didn't know what the hell was going on. It seemed like
he was trying to be friendly now, but Fashad didn't seem like the old-head type—you know, the thirty-year-old nigga that roll with a bunch of young ones.

I think he could tell I was scared and confused, so he pulled out a pipe full of chronic. “You want to hit this?”

I ain't want to at first—that nigga might have put some other shit that was dangerous in there. But I knew I couldn't say no to him.

So I said, “Hell yeah,” and took the pipe. Shit, I couldn't handle all that stress no more. One minute he seemed like he was gonna kill me, and the next he was tryin' to smoke up with me like we was boys. So I thought to myself,
Fuck it! If this nigga gonna kill me, I'm gonna be high when he do it and not feel a damn thing.

It ain't take me more than two puffs before I was gone. That was some good shit. I didn't even notice Fashad wasn't doin' none.

I started coughing like it was my first time or something. He patted me on my back and asked, “How would you like to work for me?”

I was loose then from all that chronic. Plus, I knew no gangsta nigga was about to share his chronic with somebody he was about to kill. So I was told him, “Hell yeah.” Shit, the nigga had a fly-ass car, a big-ass apartment, a big-screen TV, rapper suits, and chronic to waste anytime he felt like wasting it. I could tell he was doin' big thangs, and I wanted to do them too.

Then he turned all serious. His light-brown eyes darkened, and he gripped my hair so tight I thought he was go
ing to pull it out. He got so close to me I could smell steak and potatoes on his breath when he said, “If you want to work for me, I need to have all of you.”

“Nigga, what the fuck is you talking about?” I squirmed my head away from his, then started laughin' 'cause that chronic was some potent shit.

He laughed a little bit too, but he wasn't laughin' 'cause it was funny. I guess he was laughin' at me. He grabbed my head again, and his light-brown eyes went back to being dark. I tried to move, but this time he didn't let me. I took another puff.

“If you want to work for me, you have to belong to me.”

I thought he was high and talking crazy. So I said, “Aight, man, whatever,” then took another hit. It's funny how when niggas get high they think everybody else is high too. I thought Fashad was lettin' the weed talk for him, but, shit, he ain't never even hit that shit. Turn out, he don't smoke.

He stroked his hand through every one of my French braids, and licked his lips. “Say it. Say you'll belong to me.” From the tone of his voice I couldn't tell if he was mad as hell or happy. There was so much smoke in the air, all I could see were his dark eyes staring at me like crack fiends waiting to be served.

“Say what?” I asked, probably sounding like I was scared, because I was. I'd never seen a nigga with eyes like that before, and I was high enough to think he was some sort of monster.

“Say you belong to me.” He sounded calmer when he said it this time, but I still couldn't tell if he was mad or sad.
Either way, I knew he was crazy, so I just said it. I mean I ain't think it was that big of a deal. Just four words: “I—belong—to—you.”

“You gonna do everything I tell you to do, ain't you?” He pulled his hands from my hair and started massaging my neck. “Everything,” he said again. That's when I felt his hand rubbin' on my chest. It might have been there for a long time, but I ain't feel it until he started rubbin' like he wanted me to feel it. He wasn't rubbin' me like he was my boy, he was rubbin' me like he was my man. Then I looked down and saw his other hand rubbin' on his dick!

Shocked, I opened up my mouth, and he stuck his finger in it. I should have bit that muthafucka off. Then he said: “Pull my pants down and suck my dick.”

I would say I ain't want to, but I don't know. I mean I ain't no fag. Fashad ain't neither. He probably did time, though. That's just what niggas do in the joint—it's punishment. That must have been all it was. Still, I was only sixteen.

 

F
or two years
I lived in that apartment, being his bitch and sucking his dick whenever he told me to. I ain't have to go to school, or work, or nothin'. All I had to do was keep growing my hair long and wait for Fashad to stop by whenever he wanted to fuck. For a minute there, I even thought I was a fag. Just for a minute, though, 'cause I was young, dumb, and didn't know no better.

He said he owned part of a record company, that if I did
everything he told me to, he'd put me on. It's been three years since the day I met him, and I still ain't got no goddamn contract. Sur-muthafuckin'-prise, huh?

One day last year, out of nowhere, he told me to move out. I was pretty happy about it, to tell you the truth, until the next day, when I found out some other nigga was moving in. Whatever. My life has been ten times better since the day I moved out. Fashad started treating me like a grown up, trusting me to do shit. I think I was a little afraid he was going to forget about me when I moved, but it was almost as if I'd gotten a promotion. Fashad has a restaurant, a car dealership, and an auto shop to clean the money he makes from dealing. He put me in charge of all that shit. Every day I had to go see how they was doin', and if they needed something I had to get it, but that was almost never because they weren't doin' shit. And he kept me paid too. In about a year I had my leather.