Natural Born Hustler (12 page)

U gotta get out of here. Not safe
.

Francine read it with her. “I think he might be right,” she agreed with her son. “I will keep in touch with you.”

Desember knew that Francine wasn’t in her fan club, and Fame could see the hesitancy on Desember’s face. He looked to his mother for reassurance.

“I will keep in touch with you, but it really isn’t safe for you to be here.”

Desember felt as if Francine was saying that for her own selfish reasons, but deep down in her heart, Desember knew it was the truth. It wasn’t safe. They were unsure who had done
this to Fame or if the same people would come after her, not to mention the police and his family.

The last note read:

Trust no 1!

D spent a little more time with Fame and then kissed him good-bye, not knowing if that kiss would be their final one.

13.
Daddy’s Little Girl

As she exited Fame’s hospital room, D had to face reality. She called her mother.

“Mom,” she said when Angie answered the phone, “Fame’s been shot … I’m okay … He should be okay too … I know you did, but now is not the time to remind me … Thank you … I just need you to come pick me up from the hospital.”

About twenty-five minutes later a silver Volvo SUV pulled up in front of the hospital. Desember walked to the truck, got in and closed her eyes. She was dead tired.

“You okay, honey?” Angie was concerned. Desember looked a mess, like a runaway orphan who had been through fire.

“I’m not sure.” Desember didn’t look at her mother and spoke in a monotone. “Fame’s afraid that the people who tried to kill him may come after me.”

“Oh, my God. You have to tell the police about anybody that
would want to hurt him. Maybe they can pick up these killers before they try again, or even worse.”

“What can be worse, Mom?”

Angie took a deep breath, then said, “They come after
you
.”

“Maybe I don’t care if they come after me.” Desember raised her voice to her mother. “How about that? Maybe I don’t give a fuck.”

“Then you’re a stupid little girl. And I’ve known you to be a lot of things, but stupid was never one of them.”

“I’m not stupid enough to marry a drunk asshole who beats on me anytime he gets the urge to drum on my face.” Desember immediately felt bad for the low blow, but she wasn’t going to sit back and let her mother verbally shove her around without pushing back.

“I’m the same stupid mother that always did whatever it took, even if it meant having her face drummed on, to make sure you never wanted for anything,” she said solemnly.

“Everything but my real father,” Desember countered, refusing to give in.

Angie ignored the statement—it was an old argument—and said, “I’ll be the same mother that’ll bury her daughter before her time.”

They both had tears in their eyes now. It wasn’t that they didn’t love each other. Sometimes two people could look at the same picture and see different images. Position determines perspective.

“We all have to die one day.” Desember was looking straight ahead, in deep thought. “It’s one of the only guarantees in life,” she said.

They were nearing the house when Angie said, “That’s true, but only a fool would intentionally rush the process. It’s not
natural for a daughter to go before the woman that gave birth to her.”

It was the longest forty-five-minute drive either of them had ever taken. When they turned onto Angie’s block, there was a police car in front of her house. Joe ran out to the car the moment they pulled into the driveway. “Somebody broke out almost every one of the downstairs windows. This shit is fucking ridiculous!” he said at the top of his voice. “The police think that whoever did it may have been trying to send a message to
your daughter
.”

Joe seems more upset about the property damage than Desember’s safety
, Angie thought to herself.

Desember got out of the Volvo, walked up the steps and went in the house. There were two officers standing in the great room.

“How are you, Ms. Day?” one of the officers said. “If you don’t mind, we would like to ask you a few questions.”

“It won’t take long,” the other added. He looked like he would rather be somewhere eating doughnuts.

“Whatever happened here, I know nothing about it. I’ve been at the hospital all day, as I’m sure you probably already know. All I want now is to take a hot shower and get some rest. So you can go direct your questions to someone who may have some answers for you, because I have none.” D stepped past the cops and went to her room.

Twenty minutes of tears mixed with the shower water made D feel slightly better, but she was still exhausted. She dried off and padded to her bedroom.

She could hear Joe and her mother arguing about what they should do. She guessed that with all the commotion, it must
have slipped Joe’s mind that the day before she’d held a knife to his throat.

“Do you know how much it’s going to cost to get these windows replaced? They’re top of the line,” Joe said to Angie.

“Whatever the price, insurance will cover it. That’s what we pay it for.”

“
We
don’t pay nothing; I pay.”

“Whatever, Joe,” Angie said, sounding frustrated.

“But she’s bringing too much—”

“That’s my daughter, not some—”

It went on for another ten minutes or so as Desember got ready for bed. She pulled the covers back and placed a small .22-caliber pistol under her pillow. She heard her mother talking to someone on the phone, but she couldn’t make out what Angie was saying. Desember was too worn out to care, and her body only wanted to sleep.

Just as Desember was about to doze off, Angie came in her room, cutting on the light.

“Well,” Angie said with a strange look on her face, “you’re finally going to get what you’ve wanted.”

“Right now, Mom, all I want is sleep.”

Angie handed her a piece of paper with a name and an address on it. “Enough is enough. You’re going to Richmond, Virginia, to live with your real biological father and his family until things cool off here.”

Desember was stunned. “I’m going to live where?” She was sure she had misunderstood.

For as long as she could remember, she had been dreaming about the day she would finally meet her father. “Who is he, mom?”

Angie took a deep breath. “I don’t know what he’s doing these days, sometimes he’s a hustler, sometimes he’s a killer and, most recently, I heard he’s a preacher.” Angie sighed. “Everything you want to know about him he’s going to have to share it with you himself. I haven’t seen him in a long time. But you’ll be safe with him.”

Angie walked out of the room, but then turned around to add one more thing. “But I do know this for sure: throughout your life people could never understand why you had that innate need to hustle in you. Everyone knew that it didn’t and could not have come from me. Clearly you got that from Des,” Angie admitted as she chuckled a bit. “The truth of the matter is, you are a
Natural Born Hustler
.”

To be continued …

Acknowledgments

My grandmother Margaret L. Scott used to often say, “Every day with God is sweeter than the day before,” and my life proves to be a living testament, the way God keeps blessing me beyond my wildest dreams. I have to thank God; it is because of him that I’m here, blessed and highly favored.

My two children—you are both growing up so fast—I truly am proud of you both and the young adults you are turning into. I thank you for being so understanding—and always a part of my “solution”!

Thanks to my family and friends who are supportive; you know who you are. Mom, the older my children get, the more I do understand and appreciate you and your sacrifices as a parent. My Craig—my ride or die! Aunt Robin for giving me insight about any and everything medical; Aunt Yvonne for always having my back—whether I’m up or down and most of all always having positive words … NO MATTER WHAT! My friend Mia Upshaw, for always being so understanding; Kia, for keeping me up on what I need to watch on reality TV. Tim Patterson, always keeping me level headed; EEM—your patience with me has earned you eternal respect and love. Marc for connecting
the dots, and Melody for allowing me to take this from a brainstorm to pages. The entire Ballantine team for being so excited about the bridge that we have built!

To my undyingly loyal readers, thanks from the bottom of my heart for keeping my dream, hope, characters, and a world that I’ve created alive and vibrant! Without you none of this would be possible.

About the Author

N
IKKI
T
URNER
is a gutsy, gifted, courageous new voice taking the urban literary community by storm. Having ascended from the “princess” of hip-hop lit to the “queen,” she is the bestselling author of the novels
Relapse, Ghetto Superstar, Black Widow, Forever a Hustler’s Wife, Riding Dirty on I-95, The Glamorous Life, A Project Chick
, and
A Hustler’s Wife
, and is the editor of and a contributing author to her Street Chronicles series. She is also the editor of the “Nikki Turner Presents” line, featuring novels from fresh voices in the urban literary scene. Visit her website at
nikkiturner.com
, or write to her at P.O. Box 28694, Richmond, VA 23228.

Read on for an excerpt from Nikki Turner’s new novel

Heartbreak of a Hustler’s Wife

The church musicians switched gears to an instrumental. The man performing on the keyboard and the drummer were both banging their hearts out while the lead guitar and bass players battled for supremacy in their own private competition. But when the sax player added his harmonic flavor, he nearly stole the show.

Now it was time.

Des entered the sanctuary as if he had his very own theme music.

The musicians and choir may have been the reason many of the seats were filled, but make no mistake about it: Des was the superstar and the stage belonged to him.

He came gliding down the middle aisle bopping his freshly cut head full of wavyhair to the uplifting beat. So smooth, he could’ve been walking on water. He wore a dark green four-button custom-made suit, a tailored French-cuff gold shirt and string-up gators so fresh that if he slipped them off they might’ve tried to take refuge in the nearest marsh. In the pulpit, he took his seat in a huge high-back gold and money green velvet chair, fit for a king.

As the soloist broke down the tempo, the music heightened. Once the song ran its course, having brought the congregation to a state of complete worship, the lead soloist handed the mic over to Des. With the mic in the shepherd’s hands, the volume of the music was lowered. Des descended from his throne and stepped up to the podium. Everyone looked at him like he was E. F. Hutton: when he spoke, people listened.

Looking out into the sea of faces, he spoke into an invisible mic, “It looks like everybody made it safely from the clubs last night, huh?” Half the crowd laughed because there was quite a bit truth buried in the humor. That was the half who liked the afternoon service most; they could party all night, sleep the buzz off and still get their praise on without the liquor odor seeping out of their pores. Morning services didn’t accommodate such a lifestyle.

“Yeah, some of y’all looking like, ‘Not me!’ Yes, you. It’s all good, though. No offense intended.” He looked upon the congregation with a serious face. “But that’s between you and God. I’m not here to judge you, embarrass you, or call you out. I’m just here to tell you what saith the Lord.” Des could see he was getting a reaction; as usual it fueled him to press on. “Y’all know how I do it. I’ma speak it like I see it, and if it don’t apply to you, then let it fly. Ya feel me? In other words, let the church say, ‘Amen.’ ”

Amens rang throughout the sanctuary.

Yarni marveled at how Des lit up the already bright room with his trademark smile. After all, this was the same youthful smile and quick wit that Yarni had fallen in love with so many years ago. She blew him a kiss. No one noticed. Every single eye was glued to the preacher man. Des tossed a look back to his wife that said, “I love you.”

When she caught it, they both smiled. Des continued to mesmerize the congregation, while Yarni sat in awe of her man’s finesse. But not long into the service, something didn’t feel right to her. She scanned the church, but nothing or no one looked out of place. Unable to put her finger on why she suddenly felt that way, she tried to put her focus back on Des’s words, but as hard as she tried, she could not ignore the bad feeling churning in the pit of her stomach.

She tried to maintain eye contact with Des while he gave a phenomenally inspirational message on why financial literacy and spiritual literacy were equally necessary in the community. The room was pin-drop silent as the people took in every word he said. If Des knew anything, it was that folks always paid attention when it came to talking about money. Finance was one of Des’s favorite subjects, and with the economy struggling the way it was, his followers loved hearing about how to get their hands on the almighty dollar now more than ever. Des had everyone’s attention, with some even taking notes. Most of the deacons were even intrigued, but not Slim; he was too busy on his job as the main lookout, making sure nothing around him looked or got out of order.

There were well over fifty deacons on board; all good men, for the most part, but Des only trusted six with specific tasks. His friendship went back more than three decades with most of those men. Tony, Black Bob, Chip, Mo, Stanka and Slim were Des’s road dogs.

Tony and Black Bob were brothers: Tony was younger and the more ambitious and reckless of the two. Chip was a bookworm and a genius with a computer. He should’ve graduated from MIT, but he got arrested for creating a high-stakes pyramid scam his freshman year. Nobody could remember a time when Des and Slim weren’t down for each other. Stanka, Yarni’s uncle, proved to be a real stand-up brotha. And the fact that he would do anything for Yarni was enough to win Des over. Mo was the most physically intimidating of the crew. He was huge, with muscles growing out of muscles. Des got tight with him after a riot in prison. All of his trusted crew packed concealed, sixteen-shot .40 caliber Glocks under their suit jackets, but Slim was the top man and the leader of the pack.