A Hood Legend (13 page)

“Yeah. If I stay any longer they gonna be buggin' me about when I'ma find a man. Shit, I'm only twenty-two.”

Dwight smiled. “Maybe they have a point, Ty.”

She looked up at him and rolled her eyes. “Don't even start. How's Menage doing?”

“I really don't know, Ty. The hospital won't release any information,” he said. He reached out to touch her bare shoulder but quickly pulled back his hand.

“Well, I hope he pulls through. I know how tight you two are.” Dwight couldn't find anything to say so he left and went back to his office.

Lydia's mind began to race at full speed when she heard Menage's name and learned that this Dwight guy, who was right in front of her, was close to him. She made up her mind to use her cover of selling hair care products, which would actually be shipped. She kept her eyes closed and listened as the women started to gossip. The woman doing her hair spoke first.

“I know you'll find a man one day, Ty . . . if you stop actin' so dang silly all the time!”

“Child, please. I'm not even thinking about settling down. Mmm . . . I wish I could have Dwight on top of me,” Ty said smiling.

“You'd love to have any man on top of your hot ass,” said the woman doing Lydia's hair.

“I think I can break him down and get him in my bed. I can see it now . . .” Tylisha rolled her hips in a sexual manner, making some of the women laugh.

“Ty, you better slow down before your hot ass is out of a job . . . now cut that.”

Tylisha waved her hand at the woman doing Lydia's hair. “Y'all see that BMW he got? It's hot like fire!” Tylisha said.

“Ty, you and Felicia both need to watch your mouth with all these kids up in here!” said the older woman doing nails.

“Well, ex-c-u-u-u-se me!” Tylisha exclaimed. They all laughed. “I even hear that Tina is fucking around on Dwight,” Tylisha said in a lower voice this time.

“What!” said a woman putting in a weave.

“I'm just telling you what I heard,” Tylisha said.

The older woman doing nails put down her file. “See, Ty, there you go runnin' that Jerry Springer-Ricki Lake mouth of yours, gettin' shit started. How do you know what she doin'? Ain't none of your concern . . . matter of fact I don't wanna hear no more about it!”

“Yeah, whuteva!” Tylisha said.

Lydia thought things would get out of hand, but all the women who worked at the salon all lived in the same area and some even grew up together. They attended the same church and their kids went to the same schools. Menage had canvassed the housing projects to find girls who did hair in their kitchens or living rooms. With money out of his own pocket he paid for their schooling, down to the last penny. Now they all had a job, a new place to stay, and were no longer on welfare.

“I do hope Menage is okay,” Tylisha said. “Not to tell my biz, but girl, he is all of that... ooh . . . that fine chiseled body, handsome chestnut complexion, and much . . . you hear me girl, much sexual charisma,” she added recalling their trip back to her homeland Brazil.

“Did you sleep wit' him, girl?” said the woman doing Lydia's hair.

Tylisha looked at her and grinned. “Did I sleep with him? Hell, we didn't get no sleep at all, girl. He had me cummin' all night long.”

“For real?”

“Yes, girl, and I gots to see him again,” Tylisha said slapping her thigh.

The older woman spoke up. “See, that's what's wrong wit' ya whorish ass now.”

“What happened to watch your mouth with all these kids up in here? Quit hatin' from the sideline. You need to give it up and try to get your groove back. Forty-five ain't too old to be sexin'.” Everyone laughed and even Lydia couldn't hold back. She was under a dryer now and getting her nails done at the same time. She now had a way to find out a few things about Menage and the DB-7. And the thought of Dwight's cheating woman . . . maybe he had his weaknesses, but none of the girls said he messed around . . . or maybe he did it on the DL. Maybe he was in love. She was curious about his personal life because of her own lack of love. Most of the men she worked with were white and she didn't have any harsh feelings toward them at all, but she wasn't going to let what Paul had put her through destroy her feelings for a black man.

* * *

Scorpion stepped out of the shower and walked back into the bedroom. He ignored the dead girl as he waited for a call from D.C. The phone chimed right on time just as he finished dressing. He waited for the beeps and tones to stop before he could speak freely. Scorpion was passing as an undercover FBI agent. He really worked for the CIA—unbeknownst to the FBI. Scorpion spoke first.

“Any new info?”

“Yes,” said Joe Troublefield, the Director of Central Intelligence. “We now know for sure that Felix has a godson or something. His name is . . . just a sec . . . okay . . . here we go . . . Menage Unique Legend—black male, twenty-four, which tells us nothing. But I heard the FBI has thier eyes on him . . . you gave them the tip. It's a coincidence, don't you think, him now being tied to Felix? But I'll leave that up to you. Now back to Felix. The last time I checked there were only twenty armed guards on his island, but it's real lax. He's been there for ten years or so and nothing's ever happened. As of now, I don't know if the Secretary of State will approve of us snatching him up like we did our friend in Cuba. But for the time being, your mission is still max classified and the FBI Hostage Rescue Team will be able to help. And you are not to make a move unless the word comes from me.”

“Yes, sir, I fully understand,” Scorpion said. He hung up the phone and smiled. He had other plans that neither the FBI nor the CIA knew about. In the end he'd cross both organizations. The FBI wanted Felix for several offenses, including drug trafficking and racketeering. Troublefield had told Scorpion that Felix was suspected of dealing with an enemy of the United States. Scorpion had his own ideas. First he'd take Felix's girl and force him to give up his shipment as ransom for her return. Then he'd kill them both and collect four million as payment from a rival crime family. “Life is so good,” Scorpion said to himself. He knew he had to make his move before the FBI sent in the HRT. He wasn't worried about the money that he was supposed to pay the mercenaries. He pulled out a black Glock G30 and put the barrel in his mouth. This was how he planned to pay his help in the end. He loved the feeling of the barrel in his mouth.

Scorpion left the room in a disguise—a lifelike, latex mask, known to no one—including the CIA and FBI and they could only reach him by phone. He didn't worry about fingerprints in the room because they didn't exist on any file, and when he paid for the room the night before, he had worn the mask over his face. Before leaving, he closed the dead girl's eyes and kissed her lips. “Thank you,” he said and walked out the door laughing.

* * *

Detective Covington entered his office to see Hamilton reading
Stuff
magazine. He walked to his desk and sat down, first checking his memo box.

“So what's up?” Covington asked.

Hamilton put the magazine down. “Well, you're the boss. I should be asking you. And you picked a fine time to come in . . .”

“Chill out. It's only a little after four.”

“Well, I've been down in the lab all day—still nothing new though,” Hamilton said.

“I think we should go back and check out Menage's place tonight. Maybe we missed something,” said Covington.

Hamilton sighed. “Like what? We videotaped the search and ripped the place apart. All the prints were lifted . . . but if you got a feeling, I'm with you.”

Covington searched his desk for his Newports. “Last night I went over the statements again and our friend DJ said the guy he shot was reaching for a weapon.”

Hamilton rubbed his forehead. “I know. They say he was acting in self defense.”

“Yeah, right on the money,” Covington said tapping his new pack of Newports against the back of his hand.

“Maybe if Menage wasn't in a coma he could shed some light on the dark areas in this case.”

“That would be nice,” Covington said now searching for his lighter.

Hamilton reached into his coat and pulled out a red notepad. He flipped through it quickly. “I did a follow-up with the gardening service and they believe the break-in was early Saturday morning.”

Covington lit his Newport. “That still don't tell us much. But whoever wants Menage dead ain't playing no games.”

Hamilton closed his notepad. “We're missing something. I really don't need an unsolved case on my record—not now.”

The men sat in silence. Covington felt relaxed as he pulled deeply on the Newport. Hamilton fanned the smoke from his face. Before either could speak further, there was a soft tap at the door. Hamilton turned in the metal chair as Sonya, the dispatcher, stepped into the office. Sonya turned every single head in the station with her shapely body that once graced the pages of Penthouse. She carried a lot in her pants. The breast job from her rich ex-boyfriend added to her sexy frame, and Covington had to admit that she was hot for a white girl. She stepped in with a box of glazed doughnuts that Hamilton gladly took from her.

“Thanks, Sonya,” he said, not able to take his eyes off her breasts.

“You're welcome . . . and how are you, Dominique?” she said sitting on the edge of his desk. She had a thing for Covington and he knew it.

“It's the same old shit—nothing new, nothing old.”

“Why didn't you come to my pool party last month? I was hoping you would show up, Dominque,” she said coyly. Hamilton rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling as he listened to the exchange between the two and grabbed a doughnut from off his desk.

“You know I'm married, Sonya, and we've been through this how many times ... too damn many.”

“Not hardly,” she said. “I'll leave the two of you alone. But you, Mr. Covington, I'll speak to you later.” She made sure to sway her hips as she walked out the door.

“She never gives up. Hey, let me get one,” Covington said eyeing the doughnut in Hamilton's hand.

“The answer is no. Remember yesterday,” Hamilton said smiling.

“Man, please, you can't be for real. You got a whole damn box. Stop playing.”

“Be convinced that I am not playing, Covington. Be very convinced!”

“Fuck it then . . . hope your white ass chokes.”

“If I do, it will be on the last one and you still won't get any,” Hamilton said.

“Be that way. Yo, what did you do last night? I tried to call you.”

Hamilton slowly bit into another doughnut. “Mmm . . . ain't you a detective? Figure it out.”

“Funny,” Covington said.

“I had a date. Is that allowed?”

“You!” yelled Covington, nearly choking on the smoke as he inhaled his Newport.

“Yeah, and why is that such a surprise, huh?”

“Come on, Hamilton—look at you . . . you got no class. But anyway, did you get any pussy?”

Hamilton closed the box of doughnuts and slid them to the corner of his desk, but seeing Covington's eyes, he changed his mind and placed them on the floor by his feet. “Ha, ha, very funny, but I keep my personal life on the low down,” Hamilton said.

Covington burst with laughter. “It's down low, not low down . . . you crazy as hell, Hammie.”

“Who cares about . . . about slang talk? It only means you're uneducated anyway,”

Hamilton said with a serious tone. “And it's Hamilton—not Hammie!”

Covington put down his burning Newport and leaned forward on his desk. “Is that so? Is it your high level of intelligence that prevents you from becoming acquainted with street language, Mr. Harvard, or is it your lack of concentration that makes it difficult for you to grasp the true meaning or aspect of slang—the simple alteration of the meaning of mere words? All that confusion makes you feel less invincible, huh?” Covington said. He smiled, picked up his Newport and inhaled and exhaled, blowing a cloud of smoke into Hamilton's face. Hamilton was speechless.

* * *

Dwight had just escorted Lydia out of his office. They had just completed an order for a supply of various Clairol tones for hair color. To show his gratitude for the decent deal she gave him, he didn't charge her for the manicure. They planned to have a business lunch, and at first he was unsure about it because he sensed she was flirting. But the pictures of he and Tina were plainly visible in his office. He was busy on the computer when one of his barbers knocked on his door. It was Jamal—his head barber from Haiti.

“Yo Dwight, do you have a second?”

“Yeah, come on in,” Dwight said sliding his keyboard to the side.

Jamal closed the door and took a seat. “Who was that lady? Man, I swear I seen her face somewhere before.”

“Latosha Mandrick . . . you might have seen her at a hair show or something; she sells hair products,” Dwight said.

“Latosha . . . that name don't ring a bell, but man she was fly.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. But anyway, she's going to be doing some business with us, so you might be seeing her around.”

“Now that sounds good. Hey, maybe you can like, put a bid in for me. I didn't peep no ring on her finger.”

“I'll see what I can do. As a matter of fact, when I call her, maybe I'll tell her about this conversation and see if it's okay to pass her number on to you.”

“Yeah, I can deal with that,” Jamal said trying to remember where he had seen her face before.