“Okay,” Vanessa said.
“Money to blowww. Gettin' it innn,” was blasting from a car stereo.
“Damn, that shit loud,” Meisha said, looking through the shop windows to see where
Drake's singing was coming from. She pointed at the shiny black Audi A4 parking in front of the shop. “Is that Rich out there?”
Chanel peeked outside, followed by the rest of the women. “I don't think so,” she said.
“But that shit is hot.” She paused as the music ceased and the driver's side door of the Audi
opened. “Oh, shit. An Asian broad pushing a kitted A-Four, rocking hip hop. Ain't that some
shit?”
“That's my friend,” Vanessa said.
Mimi stepped inside the shop donning a gold Black Label halter and matching skirt with a black Prada bag and shoes.
“Hey, Mimi. Right over here.” Vanessa's eyes lit up like a child with a new toy.
“Nessa, what's good?” Mimi hugged Vanessa. “It's bakin' out there.” She pointed
outside. “Shit hotter than Jamaica, Queens after that cop got murdered back in the days.”
Vanessa noticed everyone staring at Mimi in awe. It was a look she had seen many times
when people first got a glimpse of Mimi’s swagger. “Everybody, this is my best friend Mimi,” Vanessa said.”
“Hey, girl. I'm Leah.”
“Candy.” Candy smiled.
Chanel also introduced herself.
Mimi was smiling and nodding her head as she returned their greetings. “All right, I want
y'all to know off the rip, Vanessa's my heart, you feel me? But that shit don't mean nothing
when it come to this `do?” She pointed to her silky hair. “So since I'm letting her touch my hair, you know she get busy, you feel me?”
“I feel you, girl.” Meisha clapped her hands, grinning and pointing at Mimi. “You the truth.”
“Shit, I'm just keepin' it a hundred. I gotta be at work with these crackers when I leave here. So I gotta talk like a white girl, hair gotta be right, everything. ‘Cause they be just looking
for a reason to fire yo’ ass if your eyes ain't blue. And Mimi is not gettin' rid of her A-Four and moving from SOHO back to Baisley Projects, you feel me?”
Everyone burst into laughter. Chanel asked Mimi if she knew a guy whom she used to date from Baisley. Mimi started telling war stories about the guy, who she had grown up with.
Then Vanessa and Mimi began reminiscing about their college days and the men they dated.
Everyone in the shop started rehashing tales from their past. By the time clients began trickling
inside the shop, hip hop was banging from the speakers and Mimi was rapping faster than
Twista.
After Vanessa was done styling Mimi's hair, Candy stood, inspecting the style from different angles. She was impressed. Vanessa had transformed Mimi's straightened burgundy hair into a black French bun with gold streaks that complimented her outfit.
After finishing with Mimi, Vanessa completed three other clients perfectly. She
converted one woman's afro puffs into micro braids. Vanessa styled another woman's Shirley Temple curls into a short Anita Baker 'do. The third woman left the shop with a weave that hung to the small of her back.
“I see you puttin' it down, Vanessa,” Chanel said.
“Since I was sixteen,” Vanessa responded, sitting down to
wait on her last client's arrival. “How old are you?” asked Chanel.
“Twenty-two,” Vanessa said proudly. Her eyes drifted to the
man waltzing up to the shop in a crisp Armani
suit.
Damn, he's handsome. His body looks kind of toned underneath that blazer, too.
Chanel noticed Vanessa's roaming eyes. “That’s Rich,” she announced.
Vanessa watched Rich. He sat on one of the chairs in the row reserved for clients awaiting
service. He folded one leg over the other, like a business professional in an executive meeting.
His green Mauri alligator shoes shined under the bright lights in the shop. He began reading
The
Wall Street Journal.
“Hey, Rich,” Meisha said. She was trimming a woman's hair. “You got about five
minutes before I'm done.”
“I know I'm a little early,” Rich said, peeping over the newspaper.
“How you doing, Rich?” Leah yelled.
“Leah, how you, baby?”
“Can't complain.”
“Ain't you supposed to be switching your last name?”
“Just engaged, for now. Two more months and I'll be in that long white dress.”
“Just give me the date and the address. You know I gottta watch you walk down that aisle.”
“You know you're invited.”
“All right, all right.” Rich smiled, then looked at Candy. “Big Candy, what's going on in
your world?”
“Progress. I think I have a new stylist,” she said, putting her
hand on Vanessa’s shoulder.
Vanessa turned to her with a wide smile.
“You got the job,” Candy whispered.
“Thanks.”
“Don't sweat it.”
Rich's eyes were sizing up Vanessa. “And what might this lovely new lady's name be?”
Vanessa responded with her name.
“Well, Vanessa, I'm Rich.” He grinned. “Let me rewind that. My name is Rich, but I am fairly wealthy.” He chuckled.
“Tsss,” Chanel sighed.
Rich turned to Chanel. “Somebody get a spare, ‘cause ol’ girl got a flat tire.”
“Not tonight, Rich.” Chanel waved her hand.
“Not tomorrow morning, afternoon, or night either. It will never be nothing between us but air.”
“What. . .ever,” Chanel said, rolling her eyes.
Rich pointed at Chanel. “I'll take that as a cue that I can continue talking to this lovely young lady.” He turned back to Vanessa.
“Vanessa, right?”
“Correct,” she answered.
“Well, Vanessa, I wish you success on the new job.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank yourself, 'cause you made it happen. It's all about you, baby.” He smiled.
“That's one way to look at it,” Vanessa said, as she sized up Rich. Her eyes took in
everything from his trimmed mustache and sideburns, to the diamond stud in his left ear and
the bulge between his legs. She could tell that Rich was the type of man who women feared
introducing to their friends. He had a strong presence and sense of style that could cause the most
loyal woman to cross her best friend. He was a smooth talker, not just because of what he said, but how he spoke. Words rolled off his tongue with an air of confidence and preciseness that Vanessa had never seen. She was itching to know if he handled himself as smooth in the bedroom.
“What's up, Vanessa?”
Vanessa looked up, spotting her last client strolling through the door. She helped the
young man to his seat. Vanessa started by shampooing his 'fro. Next, she dried his hair and greased his scalp, before braiding his hair into cornrows. When she was finished, Rich was walking past her.
“You have a good night.” He winked at Vanessa and was out the door before she could
respond.
“Girl, you don't want to mess with him,” Candy said.
Vanessa turned to Chanel. “So what's it with you and Rich?”
“Nothing,” Chanel said.
“She thinks she's God's gift to this world and Rich thinks he is God,” Candy said.
Chanel huffed. “You know when you were little and a boy liked you, so he was always
messing with you? Pulling your hair and all type of crazy shit? That's Rich. He want to be a part
of the Chanel Legacy, but he don't know how to approach me.”
“Don't forget the part about you wanting to give him the pussy,” Meisha said, laughing. “And everybody know you fucked his homie Chase.”
“I didn't fuck Chase; he just ate my pussy. But that's another story. You like him,
Vanessa?” Chanel asked.
Vanessa shrugged her shoulders. “I don't even know him.”
“And you don't want to. Trust me,” Candy said, emphatically.
Vanessa listened to the ladies rehash stories about Rich dogging women. They told her
that he was one of Harlem’s most celebrated drug dealers. Vanessa learned about the rumors of
people found dead after Rich had ordered them killed. There were tales of family members who
had been kidnapped and held for ransom by Rich's henchmen. Vanessa heard the chronicles of
crooked cops who turned a blind eye to Rich's criminal enterprise, because he had lined their
pockets. The narratives never involved Rich getting his own hands dirty
. The stories
always pertained to Rich ordering that dirty work done.
Vanessa interpreted that as him being the
ultimate boss. The more she heard, the more she was attracted to him. By all accounts, Rich was
the dominant man who reigned with power. He was the man Vanessa had been writing about, the
man she fantasized about, the man that could now become hers if things worked out how
she wanted them to.
CHAPTER THREE
He was born Jamel Thomas in 1975 at Bronx Lebanon Hospital. But the thirty-five-year
old had earned the name Rich as a kid who ran drugs for Rich Porter—a legendary Harlem
hustler who was murdered in 1990. Rich had studied the game and learned from the mistakes of others, especially his dead mentor.
Unlike the average hustler, he was an investor. Instead of opening barbershops, grocery
stores and other businesses like many drug dealers, Rich purchased stock in companies like Microsoft, McDonald's and Wal-Mart. These were blue chip stocks—stocks that were essential
to the American economy and had a long history of generating money. His smallest investment
was in his uncle’s company, which rented luxury cars.
Rich worked in the company’s promotions department. It was virtually a no-show
job that made him a tax-paying citizen with free access to any car he wanted. So the spotless BMWs, Bentleys and other cars he was praised for in the streets were not his. That was a secret
Rich used to his benefit. He knew the importance of image and he capitalized off of it every
opportunity he had. It was a tactic he learned from Free, a squeaky clean co-worker of his who often attracted women of the strength of Rich’s street credibility.
Rich walked through the door to the roof of the Polo Grounds Housing Project in Harlem.
Two of the young goons who worked at one of his dope spots had a man hemmed up. Another of
Rich's goons stood by observing. The man's wrists were tied behind his back with duct tape and his head was covered with a filthy pillowcase. Rich slipped on his Versace shades as the sun
beat
down on the gravel-covered roof. He stepped over and snatched the pillowcase off the
man's head. He smiled, looking into the teary eyes of the stickup kid who had robbed one of his
spots weeks earlier. Rich ripped the duct tape from the man's mouth.
“Yo, Rich. I ain't have nothing to do with this shit,” the man pleaded.
Rich grinned. “You know the streets is always talking and my ears stay open.”
“Shit, the streets be lying. Dudes got this shit all wrong.”
“I thought you would've came up with something better than that.”
“Huh?” the man mumbled, his lips quivering.
“Your life is on the line and you can't even think of an excuse to save it?”
“That's word to my dead grandmother, I'm telling the truth.”
“That's fucked up.”
“What?”
“You lying on your dead grandmother, knowing you about to go see her.” Rich pointed to the ledge of the roof.
“Come on, Rich. This shit ain't gotta go down like this.” The man begged, struggling to free himself from Rich's goons, as they dragged him to the edge of the building.
Rich followed them, along with his third goon. The fearful robber stood frozen in front of
the ledge, as the two goons backed away. Rich winked his eye and flashed an evil grin at the
third goon, who pulled a .44-caliber automatic from his waist. He pointed the huge
blue steel handgun at the man.
“Mouthpiece,” Rich ordered.
Instantly, Rich's goon jammed the semi-automatic into the robber's mouth, breaking a tooth, before squeezing a single round. The back of the man's head exploded. Rich peeped over
to the ledge and viewed the brain tissue and skin dropping twenty-four stories down, followed by the lifeless body that added to the list of murder victims who had felt Rich’s wrath. As he
watched the man's body fall, it seemed to get smaller and smaller.
Rich was growing tired of the
drama that came with the game. But he knew it was an inevitable part of fast money and the
streets. He liked fast money more than he liked life itself. It gave him a high that was as potent
as the product he pushed throughout Harlem. Yet, he had been thinking about making his exit and
entering the legal world. But there was always something pulling him back in.
* * *
Later that night, Rich pulled into the garage of his penthouse and parked next to a
midnight blue BMW 650 Coup. He exited the Bentley Continental GT and hopped inside the BMW.
He adjusted the mirror and pulled off, driving down Lennox Avenue until he double parked
next to a black Mercedes.
The tinted window of the Mercedes slid down. “What's good?” said Chase, as his hand
gripped the wheel. Chase was a stocky roughneck who had left a trail of blood and bullet shells
throughout Harlem before his 18
th
birthday. He served five years for manslaughter after he
disarmed and shot a man to death, a man who had attempted to kill Rich. Chase slipped past 25 to life,
because of a slick-talking lawyer that Rich hired with money he and Chase generated from their
dope spot in Wyandanch, Long Island. By the time Chase came home, Rich had expanded their
operation to every borough in New York City. Neither Rich nor Chase ever had any more legal
trouble. Part of their success came from their decision to never sell drugs in Harlem, where they
lived, and never show their faces at any of their dope spots.
“You still wanna hit Club Dream?” Rich asked Chase.
“Yeah. Free coming?”
“He said he'll meet us there.”
Chase ran his hand over his bald head and down to his goatee. “All right.”
“Hold on,” Rich said, answering his cell phone. His face grew solemn. Through clenched
teeth, he spoke in an assertive low tone. “We not gonna keep going through this!” He hung up the phone and shook his head, then let out a deep breath.”
“Danella?” Chase asked.
Rich nodded.
Danella was a high-class model who had been stalking Rich since he
dumped her two months earlier. She was looking for love; all Rich ever knew was lust.
“Chicks like Danella ain't used to gettin' shitted on,” Chase said. “Ain't too many dudes
from the 'hood can even bag her. And you probably the only dude around that kicked a chick to the curb, knowing she one of the only black chicks that’s been on the cover of
Sports Illustrated.
I
would've kept her just off the strength of how she looked in that swimsuit.”
“That's the difference between me and ninety-nine-point-nine-percent of dudes in the world. Anyway, what you doing here?”
“Waiting for this broad to bring down my chain. I left it on her dresser.”
Rich's eyebrows arched. “What broad?”
“Some little ho I bagged at the Knicks game last night.”
“Yeah? But on some real shit, I took care of that.”
“What's that?” Chase asked.
Rich replayed the incident that happened earlier on the roof.
“I'm glad that shit is out the way,” Chase said. “Always gotta make examples out of heads, no matter how long we been in the game.”
“You only as good as the last person you killed,” Rich said.
* * *
It was almost midnight when Rich and Chase pulled up in front of Manhattan's Club
Dream. There were two long lines extending the length of the long city block—one for women
and one for men. Rich and Chase exited their rides and exchanged hugs and pounds with the
valet, before handing him their keys. Chase pulled up his droopy Red Monkey jeans and twisted his fitted Yankees cap backwards.
Rich looked at Chase's Nike ACGs, and then his own ostrich shoes and grinned. He and
Chase had always dressed opposite. Rich was usually in designer or tailored suits and
hardbottoms, but occasionally he sported slacks and moccasins or gum soles. Chase was famous
for urban fashion—Timberlands, sneakers, jeans, sweat suits and any other garments or accessories
made famous by latest hip hop videos.
The bouncers greeted Rich and Chase, ushering them inside as if they were artists set to
perform. A TI song flowed throughout the club, as Rich took in the scenery. He and Chase
stopped at the coat check room. A young white guy gave Rich a pound and hug. They exchanged a few words and then the guy handed Rich three VIP passes. Rich and Chase stepped off.
“There go Free,” Chase said, pointing at a light-skinned pretty boy seated at the bar, kicking it to a thin white woman with auburn hair.
“Yeah, that's him,” Rich added, stepping toward the bar. Free was short for Dexter
Freedman. He
was a silver spoon fed baby from Jamaica Estates in Queens. He had never been arrested, never been in beef, never sold drugs and
had no idea what it felt like to have a gun tucked beneath his belt on his waistline. Blood
money was foreign to him, but he knew all about making legal money. That's where he and Rich
saw eye-to-eye. Rich used Free to get himself and Chase into doors that were closed to thugs
with rap sheets and street credibility. Virtually every lawyer, accountant and investor with ties to Rich and Chase met them through Free.
Rich and Chase nodded at Free as they walked past. They sat a few stools away. Rich ordered a gin and tonic and Chase ordered a bottle of Cristal.
Rich shook his head, resting his hands on the marble bar counter. “Can't take the 'hood out you.”
“Last time I checked, they ain't make Cristal in Harlem,” Chase said.
“No Kool-Aid and quarter waters either. And that's classic ghetto shit.”
Free walked over and gave Rich and Chase some dap. “What's going on, fellas?”
“Jungle Fever in the air,” Rich said.
“That's what's going on.” Chase grinned.
“I'm blind,” Free said. “All I do is smell pussy and hit it.”
“I hear you. But a brother like me got a sweet tooth and a taste for chocolate,” said Rich. “As a matter of fact, I see a nice little chocolate bunny I wanna get to know.”
Chase's eyes followed Rich's. “Yeah, she bad.”
“That's the truth,” Free said.
The thick woman in stiletto heels and a mini skirt sat two stools away from Rich.
“Excuse me, gentleman.” Rich handed two VIP passes to Chase and Free. “That young lady is hungry and I got all the meat she need.”
With that, he walked over and sat beside the woman, getting a close-up of her full lips and round
eyes. She was sipping a margarita. “Excuse me, Miss. I don't mean to invade your space, but I like what I see. And when I see something I like, I go for it.”
She turned her body toward Rich, her thick thighs showing as she crossed them. “So you like what you see?” she said, seductively gazing into Rich's eyes.
His pupils veered down between her legs, then back to her eyes. “I want what I see.”
“Sometimes people bite off more than they can chew.”
“Listen, baby,” Rich eased his arm between himself and the woman, looking at his Rolex.
“Every minute I waste, I'm losing money and getting older. And we're both adults. So let's skip
the preliminaries and get to the main event.”
He stood and held his hand out. When the woman grabbed it. Rich helped her from the stool.
* * *
Minutes later, Rich and the woman were inside a stall in the club's unisex bathroom.
His blazer was slung over the wall of the stall. He had just slipped on a condom, pinned the woman
against the wall and pressed his dick against her round butt. As she pulled up her short skirt, a
plump cheek popped out. Rich moved her thong to the side and slid into her.
She grunted.
Rich grabbed her shoulders and thrust himself in and out of her with forceful strokes. Her
cheeks began a rhythmic clapping. They grew louder as Rich dug deeper into her with each
plunge. He lifted her leg. “Put your foot on the toilet.”
“Huh?”
“The toilet!” he barked.
She complied and stepped her right foot on the toilet. Rich placed his foot behind hers. Then he grabbed her left shoulder with both hands and rammed deep inside of her on an upward angle.
“Shhhiit!” the woman's voice rose.
Rich was literally jumping inside of her with each stroke. “This what you want, right?”
“Yeah. Like that.” She reached her hands up as high as she could, as if she was trying to climb the wall to escape Rich's plunging. Suddenly her leg slipped. She and Rich fell from the toilet. She turned around and asked, “You okay?”
Rich nodded. He backed up and grabbed her skirt, lifting it all the way up in front. He tore her thong apart and tossed it in the toilet.
She smiled and grabbed his dick. “Put it in.”
“Calm the fuck down.” Rich paused a second. “Take them shoes off.”
“Huh?” She frowned, looking confused.
“Just do what I say.”
She smiled and removed her heels.
Rich stepped forward, slipping into her. He grabbed her butt with both hands and lifted
her up, pressing her back against the wall. “Put your feet against the wall behind me.” Her feet
hit the wall behind him. Her knees were bent in the cramped stall, as Rich stood between them,
pumping. She wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him.
“Yeah, take this dick,” Rich said.
She clutched him tighter, shifting herself into his strokes. “Give it to me.”
“Yeah, come on.” Rich sped up, as her tightness pulled him into a climax. He slowly
caught his breath and stopped stroking. He let her down from the wall. Backing up, he removed the condom and tossed it into the toilet, before grabbing some tissue and wiping his dick. He adjusted his tie and carefully put on his blazer. Rich grabbed the handle of the stall.
“You ain't gonna give me your name, number, nothing?” the woman asked.
“I gave you enough for the night.” Rich grinned before
making his way to the sink. He washed his hands and face. Seconds later, he was strolling out of the bathroom.
Rich hit the bar and bought two bottles of Krug Rosé on a bucket of ice. As he turned
around, a thin extremely light-skinned woman in a tight miniskirt strutted toward him. Her
almond-shaped eyes beamed at Rich. She held a virtually empty champagne flute in one of her hands.