Sweeter Than Honey (10 page)

D
ialing Lace’s home number, I told myself, “Stop trippin’, dog. You didn’t kill Sunny. It was her gun. She broke the rules. She pulled the trigger. Sunny killed herself. Yeah, that’s for real. The bitch committed suicide right in front of me.”

“What’s up, Valentino?” Benito answered, sounding all happy and shit.

For me, I had to keep shit movin’ at light speed twenty-four-seven. Time was of the essence. Last time I’d checked, not nare a nigga was related to John D. Rockefeller. A nigga with too much time on his hands was lying up on a bitch with lint in his pockets or looking for a ho to lay his lazy, broke ass on. Like my boy Benito.

“Hey, look, B, where’s your bitch?”

“Man, I keep telling you, Lace is my lady, she’s not one of your tricks. Never has been, never will be, so check yourself with all that. She’s on her way over to your spot.”

Ig’nant niggas and assumptions fit like a hand in a glove. Benito was sleepin’ with the biggest trick in Nevada and the nigga was clueless because the blood rushed from his head to his dick whenever Lace was around. All he had to do was Google the words
dicks
and
sucker
and watch his bitch’s name pop up on damn near every link with a dick in her, sometimes two.

“Straight up. Whatever you say, lapdog. Looka here, I need you to make tracks over to my spot right away,” I said.

Benito got quiet on me.

“Hold on just a sec.” I put that nigga on hold and dialed the real man in his relationship, Lace.

She answered, “Hey, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Correction. Go straight to IP, collect my money, then go straight home. I’ve already told security that when the girls are done to keep them at Immaculate. I’ve ordered a strip search.”

Screechhh!
Reclining in my bed fit for the king I am, I heard Lace’s twenty-twos burn a quarter thread into the road. That’s why a woman could never be president. Too many impulsive emotional reactions to shit.

“Valentino, no! You promised no more strip searches. Not again. Why? What happened this time?”

That bitch almost made me sit up. “Bitch, your ass is well over an hour late and you’re questioning me. You’d better be thankful I haven’t fired your ass yet. Listen. You don’t have to handle this strip search. Your job tonight is to collect and protect my money.”

“Wait, whatever you do,” Lace pleaded, “you can’t let them harm Sunny. We have a plan for her, remember. Do this one favor for me. Please.”

“Bitch!” I said, leaping out of my bed. “Don’t tell me what the fuck to do! You work for me! Just do as I say. I want you to lock my money in my safe at your house, then reprogram the combination to twenty-nine, seventeen, eighty-one, fifty-two, got it? And use our code to decode that shit.”

“But—”

Opening my nightstand, I picked up my ivory-handled Colt .45. Imagining Lace’s face in front of the barrel, I kissed the tip. Thumbing off the safety, I stretched out my arm, then aimed the gun sideways between her eyebrows.

“But my ass, get some rest tonight because tomorrow those bitches have a serious ass-whuppin’ coming from you. Sunny included.” I ended the call with Lace and resumed talking to Benito. “You still holding! Get your ass over here now, nigga.”

“Man, you act like you done killed somebody,” Benito said jokingly followed by a fake-ass laugh.

“Straight. Somethin’ like that but it was self-defense,” I replied, getting back in bed. I wanted to go into my study but I couldn’t take looking at Summer, so I lay down staring up at the projector’s image playing XXX porn on my bedroom ceiling, and continued. “The crazy bitch shot herself before I could. One of the girls waltzed her ass into my study like it was no big deal. When she saw my face, I laid hands on her but I didn’t know she had a gun. Stupid bitch. I had to teach her a lesson. I was in fear for my life. If I’d let her get away with that shit, all of ’em bitches would’ve ganged up on me. Plus, the bitch fucked up my face and my hand, so bring me some Neosporin.”

Whatever they put in that shit was the realist. Neosporin healed everything to perfection. Bitches and hos’ bruises, burns, cuts, all of that shit. I knew all the right shit to say just in case my conversation was being recorded. But I also knew every cop from the chief to the streets in my city. Switching from the boring dick-sucking bitches to satellite television, I listened to my boy. As I stuck my hand in my mouth, the cut stung something fierce.

“Let me get this straight…and so what you call me for? Besides, how can a black man claim self-defense and allege suicide at the same time? That’s reserved for white people.”

“Nigga, don’t get psychological on me and shit. I said I was in fear for my life. Don’t forget who bailed your black ass out of that rape scandal. You should be locked up and getting fucked in your ass. And don’t think if I get accused I won’t send your ass up the river. I kept that video and the girl’s cum-stained thong that you were too stupid to remove. And let’s not mention all the free pussy I hooked you up with when your ass lost your endorsements, cars, and home to the IRS for filing fraudulent tax returns. If I drop that on Lace, your ass, my friend, will be homeless without shelter. You owe me—”

“You tryna blackmail
me?
Your boy?”

B was my friend, but if it came down to my freedom or his life, that shit was a no-brainer.

Propping my good hand behind my head, I said, “Straight. Plus—”

“Plus what? Plus the hell what! You’re the one who introduced me to Lace, convinced her to let my broke ass move in while I pretended to have money. And speaking of money, don’t forget that I still owe you twenty g’s for the engagement ring you bought for me to give to Lace.”

That motherfucka knew the deal. “Ya damn straight! Don’t make me tell you again. Get your ass over here!”

“Naw, man. This ain’t worth me going to jail. Hell, I’ll take that rock off her finger tonight. You can have it back and I’ll go back to playing ball before I get involved with your bullshit.”

“Bullshit! Your sorry ass is washed up. Bad knees. Bad back. It’s my miracle that got you a fine-ass woman. Your tongue must do all the fuckin’ ’cause that’s the only thing you’re working right now. I told your punk ass it was an accident, nigga! Look, I’ll hook you up with a quarter of a mil and forgive your debt. I have a safe at Lace’s house with the money in it. Memorize this combination twenty-nine, seventeen, eighty-one, fifty-two, then unscramble it with that decoding shit we used in high school. Then never tell Lace I gave the combination to you.”

Right now, I needed to have every trick and dick close to me at my motherfuckin’ mercy. That ludicrous talk about Lace handling my business—“Everyone knows Lace is the one running this show and you’re just her dirty lil’ pimp ho”—was all about to change. Lace’s time had come to move on. But I wasn’t letting her leave with my money or her dignity. If Lace hadn’t brought Summer back into my life, she would’ve kept her job. Now I got a death on my hands because of Lace’s poor judgment. How in the fuck did Summer get to me? I should’ve had Reynolds kill Lace months ago.

Interrupting my thoughts, Benito mumbled, “Say what? For real? A quarter of a
mil?
”

That dumb fuck would bury his white stepmother for two hundred and fifty g’s. No matter how hard Benito tried, I knew he was never her favorite son anyway. That’s another reason why I hooked him up with Lace. Two rejects automatically became legitimately blind codependents. Each one aware of the other one’s faults. Both incognizant of their own baggage and shit.

My whole world was fucked up because my parents didn’t love me. Whateva. Niggas with one fuckin’ excuse after another needed to lie down and die, get the fuck bulldozed over, or get over their fucked-up childhoods and move on. Complaining and shit wasn’t going to change a motherfuckin’ thing. B would gladly take my dollar, but since he retired that mentally decapitated fuck wouldn’t get up off his ass to make dime.

Easy money. That’s why there were so many beautiful, brainless bitches waitin’ for a G like me to rescue them from themselves. I could snatch an educated bitch off Wall Street and with the right incentives, make her walk a beat. And I had no regrets. If a trick was stupid enough to let me sell her pussy, I was just the man for the job.

In the worst way, Benito wished that white chick hadn’t adopted him. Until he turned ten, he gave her someone to love. But then his mommy married a black man, and surprisingly got pregnant after the doc told her she couldn’t have any children. Blah, blah, blah…so sad.

Then his stepbrother, her biological son, was one of those elitist Negroes. Half black, half white, utilizing whatever ethnicity was beneficial to him at the time. Benito was too proud and too black to follow his brother’s lead, claiming one day he wanted to find his real parents because his adoptive mother never changed his adopted name.
Boo-hoo-hoo
. That was because she never wanted his ass in the first place. Benito needed to wise the hell up and man the fuck up.

But that trick couldn’t wait to give her son his father’s name, Grant Hill the second. If he wasn’t Benito’s brother, I would’ve paid somebody to whup his ass when we were in high school. I guess my boy should be thankful that white broad gave him a better life than his crackhead mammy and deadbeat pappy. And he should be grateful that I gave him somebody to love him back. Lace St. Thomas was the baddest, smartest, finest bitch in the state of Nevada. That was straight-up factual and too bad because I was exterminating Lace. No way she’d become more important to my operation than me.

“I don’t know where no safe is. Besides, how you got a safe in my woman’s house and I don’t know about it?”

What a waste. That’s why I couldn’t put his ig’nant ass on my payroll.

“Straight. Trust me. I’ll tell you after you finish this assignment. Man, I don’t have anyone else I can trust. I have to get rid of this bitch before Lace gets back tomorrow, so get your ass over here now! And whatever you do, don’t tell Lace. I can’t afford for her nosy, analytical, wannabe, law-degree forensic scientific ass to get past my front door until this stiff trick disappears. Lace is worse than a bloodhound. You’ve got thirty minutes to get your ass over here or else.”

“Whatever, I—”

Cutting Benito off, I placed the gun on the nightstand, sat on the side of my bed stroking my dick, then mumbled, “This shit never would’ve happened if I hadn’t given Lace last night off.”

When Benito got quiet, I knew I was in like a mug. Niggas were stupid. A hint that another man might’ve been banging their trick and their heads were all fucked up. Why niggas took another G’s word over his bitch’s was beyond me, but with a few simple lies, I had Benito right where I needed him.

Finally he spoke. “What? She told me she worked last night.”

“Nigga, you slippin’. I’ma buy you a pussy pocket. See if you can keep track of that. You believe everything that comes out…and goes in Lace’s mouth? You’d better start tappin’ that ass and I don’t mean with your dick. You gotta pimp smack the fuck outta her a time or two to prove your manhood, nigga. Check your woman. If you don’t, next thing you know her balls will be bigger than yours. Oops, sorry, my brotha, they already are. I’ll school your ass when you get here. Hurry the fuck up so you can get this decomposing bitch outta my house, and don’t forget my ointment.”

W
hen I arrived home with my father, all I wanted was to curl in Sunny’s bed underneath the covers and pray my bad vibes were crossed with some sort of stomach virus. Unlacing my black tennis shoes, I left them at the front door.

Greeting us in the living room with AJ in her arms, Mama asked, “Well, Daniel, where’s my baby?” One look at my snotty nose, red eyes, and droopy cheeks, and my mama screamed, “Lord, no! Say it isn’t so!”

AJ yelled a piercing scream so I grabbed him.

“Calm down now, Helen, you upsetting our grandson. I’ma call the police,” Daddy said. Picking up the cordless phone, he dialed three numbers and waited. “Yes, I’d like to report my daughter missing…uh-huh…okay…thanks.”

Rocking my son, I watched Mama closely watching Daddy’s mouth. “Well, what’d they say?” Mom’s wide brown eyes bucked at Daddy as she eagerly anticipated a response.

“Helen, please, she’s my baby too. Give me a minute before I forget the number.” This time Daddy dialed seven digits, then repeated himself. “Uh-huh, okay, I’m on my way.” Hanging up the phone, Daddy looked at Mom and said, “Helen, go get some pictures of Sunny and get your coat. Baby girl, I think it’s best you stay here. We’ll take the baby with us. We gotta go file a report.”

Mama stared at me as Daddy took AJ. I tried to conceal my emotions, but when Mama hugged me I started crying on her shoulder.

“I’ll get the pictures,” Daddy said nervously, walking away, drying his eyes.

Sometimes it frightened me how connected Sunny and I were to my mother. Was I that obvious? “Mama, I don’t know anything for sure. We didn’t find her,” I said, easing from her embrace before I had another breakdown.

Bypassing my room, I noticed a large insulated yellow envelope on my bed, so I backed up. I’d ordered identical charm bracelets online at www.italianbraceletcharms.com for Sunny and me to wear. That was gonna be my sentimental connection to her while we were apart. Each bracelet had twenty-one charms to celebrate our twenty-first birthday tomorrow. I’d bought links with our names, best friends, Daddy’s girl, love Mom, a pink butterfly, angel wings, an emerald heart trimmed in gold, praying hands, Jesus loves me, and a cross embedded in a sunset because Sunny was my sunshine and I was the summer rain she loved to dance with to the song Luther Vandross sang about his father.

I flipped over the package to find the return address missing. Shaking the envelope, I smiled when I heard a jingle. Peeling away the tab, I peeped inside. Emptying the contents onto my comforter, I cried, unfolding the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of paper.

Sunny Day. Checking account number 000…beginning monthly balance $276,000. There were twenty-five deposits of $2,000 each. Ending balance $326,000. PIN 6250, our birthday backward. I flipped over a business card with the name and number of a Sapphire Bleu. Sunny must’ve put this in here by mistake, I said, tossing the card into the empty waste basket beside my bed. Setting the bank statement on the pillow, I removed a green notecard from a lime-colored envelope.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow, and couldn’t stop the tears from falling. I had to find my sister and I knew just the ex-man to help me but had no idea where to find him.

In the upper left-side corner of the red, white, and blue statement was 555 Chestnut, number 201. Logging on to my laptop, I typed www.mapquest.com and got directions to a location near the North Las Vegas Airport where that small plane had recently crashed. Fortunately, no one in that accident was killed and I prayed Sunny was still alive.

I picked up Sunny’s house key, slipped it into my purse with the bank statement, and exited out the back door to my two-door Honda. By the time my parents returned, I’d be at my destination.

Arriving at Sunny’s condo, I parked in the lot on the back side in a space marked for visitors. The lighting was dim and her end unit was partially isolated. Climbing two flights of cement stairs to reach the second floor, I pulled the key out of my purse. Overcooked spaghetti couldn’t have been softer than the muscles in my legs as I slid the key into the hole.

Locking the door behind me, I called out, “Sunshine, where are you? It’s your Summer rain.”

Total quietness surrounded me as I stood in the living room. The condo was as I’d pictured. Looked like a model unit. Decorative gold and emerald plates sat alongside a forest-colored table runner that was perfectly stretched across the middle. Five eucalyptus-scented candles were tiered on a brass holder freshening the entire condo.

The kitchen was spotless. The stove had plate covers with our family pictures on two and our toddler photos on the other two. I smiled at the image of Sunny and me hugging and grinning at our thirteenth birthday party. At first we couldn’t wait to become teenagers; then we stayed up all night when we turned sixteen.

Suddenly I became sad again remembering our birthday was in an hour. The condo was freezing so I hugged myself praying my sister was safe. Entering the bedroom, I knew this had to be Sunny’s. Artwork by a famous artist out of Oakland named Eve Lynne Robinson, a relative of Ray Charles Robinson, hung over Sunny’s bed.

The bright orange canvas represented Sunny. The simple green dress represented me. And the poised dark-skinned woman with the golden hair reflected our Gemini personalities. As sweet as I was, I became a hundred percent evil whenever anyone messed with Sunny.

Noticing an envelope on her nightstand, I stuffed it in my purse. Whatever was inside, I was positive I couldn’t handle knowing. Not right now anyway. Since the rooms were identical, I’d see my room later. Sunny’s bed was where I wanted to lie. Clutching the Bible to my chest, I knelt beside Sunny’s queen-sized canopy and silently prayed. Pulling back the comforter, I removed my tennis shoes and tucked myself in. If God heard me, Sunny would come home soon and I’d be here to welcome her with loving arms.