Tales from da Hood (4 page)

I jump out the tub, throw my jean shorts back on, and tell Nessa to get dressed. I have to get to Cloverleaf before that broad in Foot Locker puts them Jordans back. I decided while Nessa was washing me off that tonight we gon’ go up on Broad Street and Allen Avenue. I really ain't wanna go there, 'cause that's transvestites’ turf, but what the hell, I heard the block was hot. They say a lot of straight niggas, hustlers, and out-of-town muh-fuckers be rolling through, paying punks to suck their dicks. I like Second and Broad 'cause straight women work that block. I really ain't tryna be round no mutherfucking niggas selling their asses, but my clients are all busy at the track, watching cars crash and shit. So, whatever is whatever.

I'M RUSHING
and shit trying to get up the block before Mr. Arnold leaves with the van. Nessa is behind me, moving slow like a mutherfucking turtle again. It never ceases to amaze me; it always seems like I have to put my foot in her ass for that bitch to get some energy behind her. My shorts keep falling down, 'cause I ain't ever liked wearing belts. I keep yelling behind me, “Keep up, bitch, don't make me miss this muh-fucking ride.”

When we get to the top of the hill, everybody is out on the strip, all the hustlers, hoochie mommas, and junkies. There's a crowd around La-La, who has just finished beating the fuck outta this young dude who works for him, name Smitty. I heard Smitty fucked up another package and now was five g's in the hole. I ain't have time to stay and watch that shit. Besides, I done seen that nigga
La-La beat plenty niggas’ ass. He don't fuck around when it comes to his scratch.

We catch Mr. Arnold just in time. “Yo, Mr. A, I'll break you off a dove if you take us over South-side to the mall,” I say as I'm walking over to him.

Mr. A heads toward the van, walking lopsided and shit, and says, “Shit, I'll do it for free if she sucks my dick; there's plenty of room in the van, you know.”

I laugh at his old ring worm-having ass, then I tell him, “Nah, Mr. A, a blow job is gonna cost you fifty dollars.”

“But I don't have fifty dollars, Demetria. I haven't made that much money today playing taxi,” he says as he pulls both pockets inside out.

“Man, let's go.” I brush him off 'cause Mr. A was starting to act like I was supposed to feel sorry for him 'cause he ain't have no money to trick with. I open the passenger doors for me and Nessa to get in the van.

I pull out a dove and hand it to him. “Here you go, Mr. A, twenty dollars for the ride, and when you get the money for a blow job, let me know, all right?”

“Demetria, keep the twenty dollars, and let me pay you thirty dollars later.” He starts begging. I push the money back at him.

“Nah, Mr. A, I'm not booking my ho's blow jobs, so stop tripping and drive the van.” I kinda yell at him 'cause I'm starting to get pissed off with him. That old nigga must be crazy, fuck he thinks he gonna get his dick sucked for credit. The entire ride to Cloverleaf Mall we have to listen to this nigga try to sing the O'Jays and Temptations. The nigga is whining and shit; he sounds more like Keith Sweat. That old gimp-leg mutherfucker is getting on my nerves. He pulls up to the front of the mall and turns down his music and says, “Do you want me to wait for y'all?”

“Hell NO!” I scream at him and jump out of the van. “Come on,” I say to Nessa. “We all right,” I tell Mr. A, knowing I didn't have us a ride back, but ain't no way I was bout to listen to that noise for another minute.

The mall is jam-packed. It's Saturday, and everybody is out shopping for club gear. I walk through the mall, checking out the gals and shit. I'm well known in the city. Everybody knows me, 'cause I am the baddest butch they have ever seen. I am smooth with my shit. Bitches come up to me, trying to strike up conversations just to get up on me. Lot of muh-fuckers have been asking am I all right since my baby bro was killed a year ago.

I run into my nigga, Rome. Rome is running shit over Hillside Court; nigga has the coke and heroin market on lock. Shorty is one of the thoroughest niggas in Richmond without a doubt. If he tells his crew to kill a nigga, they ask, “Should we kill the nigga's family, too?” That nigga's presence alone can shut a whole mutherfucking block down. Rome walks over to me, with bout five niggas trailing behind him and shit like he's John Gotti.

“S'up, dawg?” he asks, reaching out his hand to show me love.

“Ain't nothing. Chilling,” I respond, grabbing hold of his hand and throwing my chest up against his.

“You all right? Heard anything? You know I still got you,” Rome says, reminding me of the conversation we had at my brother's funeral. Nigga told me outside Manning Funeral Home that if I had to go to war with the chump that killed my lil bro, he had my back.

“Nah, Shorty, niggas still ain't talking, but I'm straight,” I say, giving him an easy answer 'cause I ain't wanna look weak to another nigga.

“All right then, you know where I'm at if you need me,” he says as he and his men walk off.

But for real, shit ain't been the same. I started getting high after KaQuanza was murdered. I'm still tryna find out who killed him,
and when I do, I'ma smoke the nigga like a Newport. Muh-fuckers ain't talking. You know how that shit goes. Niggas be on some ol’ bitch type shit. Even niggas you fuck with, they be knowing shit, but they be too scared to get involved. Man, I miss my lil nigga, me and that nigga was getting paid together and niggas couldn't handle that shit. Young dude and a female? Niggas wasn't having it. So some jealous-type muh-fucker figured they had to put a stop to us. They caught him out one night in the cut and blew his head off. Niggas was saying that whoever blasted him was mad 'cause he won all the nigga's money shooting crap that day and was talking shit.

I hate thinking about that shit, man, makes me wanna lose it, but I gotta stay strong for Moms. I been holding it down for me and Moms, 'cause she can't get no assistance since I'm too old. I had a nice stash put away, over twenty-five g's but I went through that shit so fast it ain't funny. Then Momma made me promise I wouldn't sell drugs again. I stopped selling, 'cause she was all stressed out and shit and seeing a shrink. That's when I came up with my new hustle, selling this ho bitch behind me that's still walking mutherfucking slow.

“Bitch, what the fuck is wrong with you? Pick up your goddamn feet.” I turn to see what the fuck Nessa is doing. I am halfway down the mall and that bitch is behind me window-shopping.

“Daddy, I'm walking as fast as I can. I'm trying to find me a dress for tonight,” she says as she peeps in the window of Victoria's Secret.

“You gonna spend your own damn money 'cause I ain't buying you shit. The next time a Mexican mutherfucker come up to you, you gon’ remember this here shit,” I say, pointing my finger toward the floor as if the shit last night happened at Cloverleaf Mall.

I step into Foot Locker and notice Ayanna behind the cash register. As I walk over to her, she starts grinning from ear to ear.

“Hey, Mommie, what's happening?” I ask, flirting with her.

“You, that's what's up,” she says with a sexy look. Her coworker,
an ugly chick in need of a fresh perm and a facial, gives her a look like,
I know you ain't feeling another bitch
, and walks off. Ayanna puts her head down as if she's embarrassed. I reach behind the counter, lean over, pull her chin up, look her dead in the eye, and say, “Mommie, your coworker bugging. She's the same ugly bitch that tried to give me her number when I saw her undercover ass in Colors, the gay spot downtown. She hating on you, baby girl, that's all.” I let go of her chin and raise back up.

Ayanna starts laughing while Nessa stands there with her hands on her hips, watching us kick it like she owns me or something. I pay for the Air Jordans and get a Chicago Bulls jersey. I stop by Cavalier's and cop a pair of jean shorts. Nessa buys herself a sexy black minidress from Limited Express. She says she gonna work that mutherfucker to death. Since we're going on new grounds, we both know she has to be on point.

We get something to eat from the food court and just as we're about to leave the mall, we run into Lil Mo. She is looking good. She has on a pair of stop-traffic Tommy Hilfiger coochie cutters and a Tommy halter top. Them muh-fucking shorts are squeezing her thighs so tight, I think that any moment her circulation is gonna be cut off in her legs. Every nigga in the mall that walks by stops dead in they tracks to look at her fine ass. Man, shorty is rocking a pair of white on white Flavs. Flavs are Nike sneakers. The niggas in Richmond named 'em Flavs 'cause you can get them in all types of colors. White on white, white with blue stripe, white with yellow, white with green, or whatever. Niggas up north don't know nuthing about Flavs. That's Richmond, Virginia's shit. We've been rocking them muh-fucking Nikes for bout 150 years. Lil Mo walks over to holler at us since Nessa is her client and shit.

“Hey, Nessa, what's up?” she asks, looking at me but talking to Nessa.

“Ain't nothing, girl. Me and my man in here shopping for tonight,” Nessa says, holding that goddamn Dolce & Gabanna bag under her arm like somebody wants to steal it or something.

“You know the club on Broad Street reopens tonight,” Lil Mo asks, or makes a statement. It reminded me of my conversation with her nigga Turk. Them mutherfuckers be talking stupid and shit. You fuck around with them, you don't know if they asking you or telling you something.

“Yeah, shorty,” I jump in, 'cause I don't plan on being in the mall all night talking to Lil Mo's ass. “Are you talking about Ivory's?” I ask her directly. See, I know how to phrase a muh-fucking question. I don't know what the fuck her and Turk be doing.

“Yeah, baby, Ivory's, just like the soap, and I'm gonna get my man tonight 'cause Turk ass is out of town and I'm on vacation for a week,” she says, skipping around like she's in a reggae video or something. I'm checking shorty out, and it is obvious she is interested.

“Well, we might check it out if we ain't doing nothing,” Nessa says, though she knows damn well her ass is gonna be busy even if I'm not.

Lil Mo offers us a ride back to the pj's, and I accept. She's pushing a 1993 Silver Isuzu Rodeo, and the broad has replaced the wheel cover on the back of the truck with a spray-painted picture of Turk. I think to myself, This is some 'Bama ass shit right here. No wonder muh-fuckers be thinking Richmond country and shit. Muh-fuckers like this give the city a bad name.

I jump in the backseat, 'cause after that shit with my lil bro, I just don't trust anybody, so I never ride shotgun, no matter who the fuck I'm riding with. Rule in the streets, you don't ride shotgun with people you don't know well enough to trust. Lil Mo pumps up the AC and cranks up the sound system. She plays “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-A-Lot, and her and Nessa have some type of girly competition,
singing, “I like big butts and I cannot lie, you other brothers can't deny”

Lil Mo is humping up and down while holding onto the steering wheel. Then she raises up out of her seat and starts shaking her ass while driving. I laugh to myself 'cause I know she's putting on a rodeo show for Big Daddy. I sit up and peep over Nessa's seat to see if the truck is an automatic. I get my answer, then sit back and slide down in the chair, thinking to myself, Yeah, this bitch can drive a stick.

I
GIVE NESSA
a serious pep talk before we get to Broad and Allen. I hold her chin in my hand, look her dead in the eye without blinking, and say, “Look here, Nessa, I'm not putting up with that slow-walking shit tonight. You better strut yo ass like you're a mutherfucking runway model or else I'ma beat your ass down to the mutherfucking ground out that mutherfucker! Now do you understand?” I let go of her chin after giving the bitch her last and final warning.

I'm rocking my new shit, and Nessa has on the tight black minidress and a pair of sexy-ass black sandals with stiletto heels that she purchased from Saxon Shoes. We reach our destination, and, man, there are so many transvestites out there it is unbelievable. Them niggas is looking better than the average bitch. But I don't give a fuck what anybody says, a nigga should still be able to tell a nigga from a bitch. Straight up! Niggas be using that shit for an excuse to get they gay on. Talking about they couldn't tell the difference.

I stand back on the wall and wait for the show to begin. Nessa blows me a sexy kiss like she always does before showtime. Before I know it, Nessa is strutting down the block like Julia Roberts in
Pretty
Woman.
Her legs are long and sensual, and her phat ass is bouncing and behaving. She looks good enough to eat and tempting enough to swallow. I stand back, half cover my mouth with my hand, and yell, “That's right, baby, make that muh-fucking money for Daddy, get that money, baby.”

A black Mercedes-Benz pulls up. Nessa sticks her head in the car and says a few words to the driver, who is a middle-aged black man dressed in a suit and hat. She turns to me and nods the okay signal. I jot down his license plate number in case Nessa turns up dead or something. They pull off; I stand on the wall and wait while checking out the other prostitutes. I have to give them niggas they props; cars are rolling up left and right. Hustlers, white men, black men, and a few college cats even walk up on foot. Them niggas is turning tricks right in the alley. I'm chilling; Nessa has thirty minutes to be back.

About then I see this shim out there named Shanté. I know Shanté from Richmond City Jail. Our paths crossed 'cause they put that nigga in the wrong holding cell at the lockup. They thought he was a girl and shit. Shanté turned a few niggas’ ass out in jail. Niggas caught him up under the sheets with William Braxton. Big Willie had just gotten knocked off for killing two niggas outside the twenty-four-hour McDonald's on Broad. That gangsta nigga killed the muh-fuckers, then said, Fuck it. He sat on the curb and waited for 5-0 to come get him. He was fucking Shanté while he was waiting to be transferred to a maximum-security prison. Shanté spots me and comes over to talk.

“Hey, baby, long time no see,” he says, all the while twisting and poking his ass out for the cars riding by.