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BOOK: Choosing Sides
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Chapter Twenty-two
T
he tension was so thick for the remainder of the night that Halleigh was thankful when it was over.
Manolo had retired to his upstairs office at the club with Tasha, who was more than likely watching him count up the evening's profits, if not counting it herself while he watched over her.
Halleigh and Mimi walked around silently as they helped Keesha clean up. Halleigh was exhausted. It was three in the morning and the club had been dead for about an hour. She couldn't wait to get home, take a shower, and go to bed.
They all looked up when they heard Manolo's footsteps echo through the quiet room. He walked slowly down the steps and approached Mimi, and without saying one word, smacked her clear across the room; his hand making a loud clapping sound when it made contact with Mimi's skin.
“Nolo!” Mimi yelled. “Stop! Don't, Daddy!” She put her hands up to block her face.
Halleigh looked on and witnessed Manolo become a madman, all the nicey-nice façade disappearing, and the real Manolo emerging, as his raging fit took over.
“Bitch, don't you ever,” he yelled as his open hand became a fist and he rained punches all over Mimi's body, “in your life . . . disrespect me!”
Halleigh stood frozen in fear; her feet glued to the floor and her mouth as dry as cotton.
Meanwhile, Keesha smirked as Manolo beat Mimi mercilessly, connecting with blow after blow to her body. He hit her repeatedly and made it worse when he grabbed her by her braids so she couldn't block her face. “Bitch, you . . . do . . . what . . . I say do!” he said almost in a patterned rhythm, pausing every time he swung. He was so enraged, he was foaming at the mouth. When his fists became too sore, he stood up and kicked and stomped her.
“Aghh!” she howled from the pain that pierced her small body.
“Manolo!” Tasha yelled, descending the steps two at a time. She'd heard the commotion all the way from upstairs, but she wasn't prepared for the bloody mess that she found downstairs.
Troy ran out behind her, but when he saw Manolo's act, he dismissed himself and left the club. He didn't want to get involved if the police were called in. As an officer, he knew he would be called in to question if he was caught in the red-light district.
“Fuck, Manolo!” Tasha stated as she pulled him off of Mimi. “What did you do to her? How she gon' make you any money now lookin' like this?”
Halleigh was frozen in fear. She watched as Manolo pulled Mimi up by her neck and held her out for everyone to see. “This is what happens to you if you disrespect me.” He let Mimi's body drop to the floor.
Tasha rushed to his side. “It's okay, Daddy. Calm down. You taught her. She won't do it again.” Tasha pulled Manolo away and led him back up the stairs.
Dumbfounded, Halleigh stared in disbelief at Mimi, who was squirming and moaning in pain on the floor. She was barely conscious.
Tasha snapped her fingers in Halleigh's direction to get her attention. Halleigh finally snapped out of it and looked at Tasha with nothing but pure fear in her eyes. Tasha threw her car keys at Halleigh. “Take her to the house and make sure she's okay.” She then turned her attention to Keesha. “And, Keesha, clean this mess up.”
Halleigh ran to Mimi's side. “Oh, my God! Mimi!” she whispered. “You'll be okay, Mimi. Come on, let's get you out of here.”
“Fuck him,” Mimi cried uncontrollably as she spit blood from her mouth.
“Shhh.” Halleigh picked Mimi up and put her head underneath her shoulder to support her weight. “We've got to get you out of here.”
Mimi limped and could barely walk as they headed to the car, and when they finally made it, she passed out in the back seat from the pain of her beatdown. Halleigh got in the car and looked in her rearview at Mimi's beaten body. Tears rushed to her eyes.
He could've killed her,
she thought to herself. “It'll be all right. Everything is gon' be okay,” she kept repeating; not only trying to convince Mimi, but herself as well. It was times like this that Halleigh wished she'd had a father. If she had one, there was no way she would have been so gullible, getting caught up with the likes of Manolo.
That night in their bedroom, she whispered back and forth with Mimi. “How did you get caught up with Manolo?” she asked her.
“I was just like you, young and dumb. I was trying to get to Hollywood. I wanted to be a dancer. First, he got me in his club, then the next thing I know, he had me on the stroll.”
“Do you think we can get away?”
“Only if we leave feet first.”
“What's that?”
“Six feet under.”
THE END
. . . but the saga continues in
FLINT #2
.
Coming June 2008
Flint
Book #2
Working Girls
Chapter One
“T
ake it or leave it, mu'fucka. It is what it is,” Malek stated as he held one hand in his pants and looked up the block to ensure the coast was clear as he interacted with the feind. “You can take yo' ass on the South Side and cop some of that bullshit, or be satisfied with what I just gave your ass,” he finished as he waited for his customer to respond, although he knew that eventually, the man would see things his way because Jamaica Joe had the best connect in the city.
The dope fiend examined the bag of heroin, held it up high, and thumbed it, trying to make all of the contents fall to the bottom. The fiend had been complaining about the pack's size, but he knew that he had the best dope in town in the palm of his hands and wasn't going to pass that good high up.
He walked off after leaving Malek with his fifty dollar, of course, and taking the bag of dope with him. Malek sat on the stoop as he waited for his next customer; not thinking about for one moment, how went from becoming a potential NBA star athlete, to a fuckin' corner boy.
Standing six feet tall, five inches tall, Malek was built for the NBA, but after his mother and stepfather were killed in a drive-by shooting, his distant dream of a budding basketball career died with them. They had been his strength, his rock, his reason for wanting it so bad. They had sacrificed their entire lives for him, and Malek had wanted nothing more than to return their efforts by seeing to it that through his skills and talents, they never had to work again a day in their lives.
Malek was in the hospital recovering from two non-life threatening bullet wounds he had suffered at the Berston Park Battle annual basketball game when he learned of his parent's fate. Bullets from a drive-by shooting riddled his house, killing his mother who was walking up the porch, heading home after spending days in the hospital by Malek's side and his stepfather who had lain asleep on the front living room couch.
With a broken spirit and broken dreams, it wasn't long before Malek fell into the street life full force. Jamaica Joe took him under his wing and put him on the block in seek of the American dream; one that it was obvious his basketball talents wasn't going to get him.
Although Malek's bullet wounds might not have been life threatening, one just happened to bury itself in his leg. He had barely been checked into the hospital before NBA teams, and even colleges, lost interest in him. Even his agent abandoned him in the hospital bed. They feared the inevitable, that his leg would never allow him to play ball like he once had before the ill-fated shooting. Malek now walked with a very slight limp, which camouflaged itself as just part of a smooth swagger.
Malek took to the streets, like a duck took to water and it turned out that he was a natural born hustler. He had only been hustling for a year, but quickly moved up in the ranks. Joe had given him his own block in the Fifth Ward, which was the most profitable block on the North Side of Flint.
Malek rubbed his tattooed neck that had his deceased mother's name written on it, and scanned the block. Everyday Malek thought about his mother and step-father and missed them dearly. The police never found out who was responsible for the fatal shootings, and that hurt Malek even more. Revenge and hatred toward the unknown perpetrator was buried in his bones.
The shooter had taken away every person he had ever loved, with the exception of one; who just seemed to walk away on her own free will, leaving Malek for dead it seemed.
Halleigh was the about the only girl Malek had ever loved. As a matter of fact, it was the night he decided to keep his promise to Halleigh and stand by her side and be there for her that his entire life changed for the worse. And yet she hadn't so much as thought twice about him since.
A silver Lexus pulled onto the block and Malek smiled and threw his hands up, knowing that it was Joe. Joe sat in the passenger seat while his head henchman, Tariq, chauffeured him.
“What's good, son?” Joe asked as he rolled down the window and looked at Malek.
Malek walked over to the car and extended his hand to show Joe love. “What up, fam?” Malek replied, greeting Joe.
“Get in,” Joe ordered as he threw his head in the direction of the back seat.
When Malek got in, Tariq gave him an envious stare through the rearview mirror. Tariq didn't care for Malek too much. He was kind of upset at how his boss had taken to the youngster, resulting in Malek getting his own block so quickly. Tariq had to be a corner boy for years before Joe gave him his own block. So he had envy in his heart towards Malek due to the fact that he was given his own block after only a few months. And for Malek to have the busiest block only added to Tariq's jealousy.
“How you do this week?” Joe asked Malek as he lit his blunt while they sat in the idle car talking business.
“I need to re-up again,” Malek said as he waved over one of his workers named Trap.
A heavy set hustler about the same age as Malek scanned the block and then reached under the porch and grabbed a brown paper bag. Trap then ran over to the car and handed it to Malek. Malek grabbed the bag and in turn handed it to Joe. Joe opened the bag and money rolls filled it up to the top. He closed the bag and smiled while shaking his head.
“You never cease to amaze me, Malek,” Joe said to Malek just as proudly as his stepfather would have congratulated him on winning the NBA championship. “If you keep this up, you're going to be great in this game,” Joe said, referring to the dope game.
Joe had never seen anyone move dope like Malek, and he knew that without a doubt Malek was born to hustle. Once again, Joe's intuition that he could benefit greatly from Malek's services paid off. The first time was at Berston Park, where Joe convinced Malek to play on his North Side team in the basketball game battle of which he had fifty grand at stake.
Against Malek's agent's wishes, Malek agreed; not because he wanted to, but because he felt obligated to. After all, Joe was the one who had hired that infamous Flint street attorney that got Malek out of jail for the robbery; a robbery he would have never even thought to attempt in his wildest dreams had it not been for Halleigh.
Thanks to Malek's basketball skills, Joe's team won the game indeed, but that only pissed off his life-long enemy, Sweets, who ran the South Side team; losing his fifty G's to Joe, plus bragging rights he had victoriously retained for the past four games, not to mention his pride. In retaliation, an all out North Side, South Side war broke out after the game. Malek, once again, coming to the rescue of Joe, had taken two bullets that were meant for him instead.
Malek remained silent and glanced at Tariq mugging him through the window.
What's that nigga's problem?
Malek thought as he and Tariq exchanged mean stares for a brief moment.
He might just be the problem. I'm going to have to keep an eye on that nigga, Tariq.
Joe interrupted Malek's thoughts with his next comment. “You ran through a whole brick in two days?” Joe asked Malek, not believing the obvious.
“Yeah. That shit is like clockwork ‘round here. I be hitting niggas off proper. I don't be cutting my shit heavy. I might not make as much on the flip, but I run through the dope faster, re-upping more. So in the long run, I make more money,” Malek explained strategically.
“If more mu'fuckas thought like you, then everybody could eat off this game.” Joe looked to his head henchman. “Ain't that right, Tariq? Not even your ass ever came up with that type of logic.” He turned his attention back to Malek, leaving Tariq's ego wounded. “Niggas get greedy and try to stretch they dope so much that it doesn't even get their customers high anymore. I'll have someone drop off a brick in an hour,” Joe said as he inhaled the smoke into his lungs.
“No doubt,” Malek said, immediately turning the conversation to some more important business. “Have you found out anything about the shooting?” Malek said, questioning Joe for the millionth time about the random drive-by shooting that took his mother's and stepfather's life a year earlier. He was worse than Cealy in
The Color Purple
asking Mista had any mail come for her everyday.
“No, not yet. But trust me, I am going to handle that for you. We're going to make whoever did that pay,” Joe answered as Malek then exited the car. “You feel me? You trust me on this one?”
Malek stood outside of the car and looked up to the heavens, where he knew that as much as his mother loved and served the Lord, she was watching down on him. He then looked back down at Joe. “Yeah, I trust you, man.”
“That's what I'm talking about.” Joe stuck out his hand to give Malek some dap, and then signaled for Tariq to drive off.
Joe and Malek had grown a close bond since the death of Malek's parents. After he lost all potential to go pro, Malek fell into the arms of the streets. With Joe there grooming him, Malek had risen up in the dope game swiftly, and began to make a name for himself in the drug game instead of the basketball game. He had once been popular at his high school, that he never even graduated from after all that stuff went down with the robbery, jail and the shootings. Instead, he just made money hustling, dedicating his life to the streets. And now turned out by the streets, for Malek, there was no turning back.
Chapter Two
H
alleigh waited for her next John in the hotel room. On that particular day, business was slow. Tasha usually sent Johns in the room one after another. Halleigh wasn't complaining though; she needed the break. Her body was tired from the constant sexing of men over the last year.
Halleigh sat in front of the vanity mirror and tears began to flow as she looked into her soulless pupils. She hated the woman that she had become. Once a plain Jane high school honors student with a positive future, with a shoe-in future NBA star, was now selling her body and her soul to any man with the right amount of cash.
Her mascara ran down her cheek as she reached into her blouse and pulled out a small baggy. She emptied the contents on the stand and made it into a straight line with her pinky. Halleigh looked down at the white substance that had just become her acquaintance over the last six months. She started snorting as an escape from the reality she was living, hoping that like Calgon, the feeling would take her away. That it wouldn't be her lying there while every Tom, Dick and Kwalie got on top of her and did their business.
Halleigh couldn't believe she was heading down the same path of drug abuse as her feind-out mother, Sharina, who she hadn't seen since she traded Halleigh's virginity to two thugs for a hit.
The brutal assault had left Halleigh devastated. Her own mother had turned on her. So with nowhere else to turn, she went to where she thought she would be safe and protected; she went to Malek. Her high school sweetheart had promised to take care of her; that he wouldn't let anything happened to her while promising to get her up out of the hood. But look at her now.
“I hate my life. It wasn't supposed to be like this,” she whispered as she lowered her head and sniffed the cocaine into her nostrils. She immediately jerked her head back to prevent her nose from running. She had picked up this bad habit from a frequent John she serviced that convinced her it was an escape; the much needed escape her mind had been desiring.
After her initial introduction to the vice, she had developed a steady habit for the drug. Anytime she was feeling down or needed a boost to cope with her profession, she leaned on her “new friend”—cocaine.
The phone rang, startling Halleigh as she was trying to enjoy her high. Halleigh wiped her runny nose and walked over to the phone.
“Hello?” Halleigh answered.
“You got another John coming up. He wants a number two,” Tasha said, referring to vaginal sex. They called oral sex number ones and vaginal sex number twos. Twelve's was the total package, meaning the client paid double for anything they wanted sexually.
Halleigh took a deep breath and shook her head from side to side. She was sore and wore out and needed a while to recoup.
“Tash, I just came on my period. I can't do it,” Halleigh lied, trying to avoid having to take the job. Tasha knew every girl's cycle like clockwork and knew that Halleigh's period wasn't due for a week or so.
“What you talking about, Hal? You know and I know that you ain't on yet,” Tasha replied in a confident tone. “Don't even try that bullshit. This is about making that dough. Now, do you want that tricks dick up in your pussy or Daddy's foot up in your ass?”
Halleigh knew that Tasha was right. Manolo, just like most pimps, was known for his short temper with the girls when it came to fucking up his money or just simply not following the rules and being obedient. Halleigh thought about that time when she had first started in the business and Manolo had beaten her down after she refused to please him orally. Then, just like now, she had been worn out and tired after spending an entire day with Johns. But even as she reflected back on the beating, as tired as she was, she thought the beat down just might be worth it.
“My body has been acting funny lately. I haven't been getting a lot of rest, Tash, you know that,” Halleigh replied to a whiny voice, hoping to gain her madame's sympathy.
Tasha felt bad for Halleigh and knew that she needed a break, but she also knew that Manolo would have a problem with that. If it wasn't for Tasha coming to the rescue that time Manolo beat Halleigh, the nineteen-year-old might not even be alive today. Tasha couldn't help but fear what would happen if Manolo got a hold of her again, and this time she wasn't there to protect her.
“Look, you can take the rest of the day off and get yourself together,” Tasha told Halleigh before adding a stipulation. “But you have to stay in the room so that Manolo won't find out. I'll send your clients to some of the other girls.”
“Thank you so much, Tash. I owe you.” Halleigh was glad that she had found favor in Tasha's sight. When Halleigh first started working for Manolo, she saw Tasha as some hardcore, feeling-less broad who cared about two things only: Manolo and Manolo. This meant that she carried the whip, making sure that bitches followed Manolo's orders so that he stayed happy, and making sure no bitch tried to take her place.
“Oh, please believe, you still working today. I'm just not going to send you any clients. I need you to run to the store and grab some condoms and douches for me.”
“No problem,” Halleigh said as she smiled at the thought of a day off. She then hung up the phone and went over to finish her coke before leaving for the store, glad to play the role of errand girl over whore any day.
Scratch, the neighborhood crackhead, sat in the alley next to the store as his body yearned for another fix. He had been without a shot since earlier that day, and now here it was nighttime and it was like he was turning into a werewolf. His body throbbed as he clenched his stomach tightly. He frantically scratched his arms that felt itchy and irritated as if something was trying to burst up out of his skin. He stood up, trying to think of how he could get some money for his next fix.
Scratch walked out of the alley where the streetlights illuminated the sidewalk. In Scratch's 41 years, he had been through hell and back. He once was Flint's “push man,” but now he was nothing more than a junkie. In the late eighties, he tried a dose of his own supply, and ever since then, he had been on the opposite side of the game, hooked on heroin and crack cocaine.
Scratch stood in front of the store pacing back and fourth, desperately seeking a way to get right.
“Ay, brotha. Look out for Scratch. Spare me a dollar, youngblood,” he begged to a man walking out of the store.
The man ignored him and proceeded to his car. A pain shot through Scratch's stomach as his body went through withdrawal. As he clenched his stomach, he saw a beautiful girl in high heels and a mini-skirt walking into the store.
“Ay, baby girl. Can you spare a dolla'? Come on, baby girl, hook Scratch up,” he begged as she walked right past him.
The bell over top of the store's door rang as the girl entered the store without paying Scratch a bit of mind. Her head was low, and it wasn't as if she was trying to ignore him like the man before her had so blatantly done, it was just that she was so consumed in her own personal thoughts that she hadn't heard a word that Scratch had said.
Scratch watched through the store's glass door as the girl stood in line at the counter, dug into her bra and pulled out wrinkled bills. His mind began to work overtime.
“Bingo!” Scratched whispered. He now had a plan.
BOOK: Choosing Sides
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