Hustlin' Divas (8 page)

“W
e have an eleven-ninety-nine off the three thousand block of Sharpe Avenue. Car thirty-four, are you still in the area?”

I reach toward the center of the patrol car console and snatch up the hand radio. “Car thirty-four, roger. We're on our way.” I quickly stand up between the open car door and yell to O'Malley. “We gotta roll!”

O'Malley's head snaps away from the suspected drunk driver, who's having a devil of a time getting through the first six letters of the alphabet.

“We have an eleven-ninety-nine,” I answer the unspoken question, and then jump in behind the wheel.

“You're one lucky motherfucker,” O'Malley tells the red-faced driver as he shoves his driver's license back at him. “Go home and get your drunk ass off the street!” He jogs back to the car.

“Yes, sir, officer, sir.” The good ole boy's glassy blue eyes light up as he gives a two-finger salute and stumbles back to his black F-450 pickup truck. “Y'all have a good night.”

O'Malley barely gets his ass into the passenger seat when I slam on the accelerator and rip a sharp right to head out to the Orange Mound district to answer the call of an officer in need of assistance. Given the general address, there's no doubt that we're racing toward danger. Orange Mound is well-known Vice Lord territory.

I handle my cruiser like an Indy 500 driver and make the ten-minute drive in under three. The second we're out of the car, a series of shots are either fired at us or around us. It's hard to tell. Weapons out, I hear O'Malley speak into his shoulder radio and report shots fired with possible gang activity.

I'm more puzzled as to why the fucking street is so goddamn dark—that is, until I hear glass crunch beneath the soles of my shoes. I glance down and then up at the light pole. “Fuck!”

Instantly alarmed, O'Malley barks, “What is it?”

“These muthafuckas shot out the damn streetlights,” I hiss.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

I duck down and sweep my gun out in front of me.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

The blue track light on top of our patrol car shatters, and Sharpe Avenue is once again bathed in darkness.

“What the fuck? Guess they don't want our asses seeing shit,” O'Malley states the obvious.

“Shhh!” I strain my ears to try and pick up any little sound. I'm not about to get my ass shot up because he wants to crack jokes. Tugging in slow, steady, deep breaths, I master keeping my heartbeat under control, but the adrenaline rushing through my body is the best kind of high I've ever known. I'm scared but my body feeds off danger. To my right, I hear the shuffling of feet. “POLICE. STOP OR I'LL SHOOT!”

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

I have never moved so fast in my life, but I can hear the bullets as they slam into the concrete where I was standing just seconds ago. Together, my partner and I return fire in the direction of our shooter.

“Aww, shit,” someone shouts before a thud meets my ears.

O'Malley and I rush to approach the sound; our guns sweep in circles. We reach the perpetrator moaning and groaning on the sidewalk but remain mindful that there could be others.

“Shit, man. Y'all muthafuckas shot me,” the dude moans.

“That's what the fuck you get when you shoot at cops, you dumb motherfucker.” O'Malley delivers a vicious kick to the man's side and then moves his foot around his moaning body. “Where the fuck is it?”

“Where's what, muthafucka?” the perpetrator challenges through gritted teeth. “I ain't got shit. You need to be getting my ass to the doctor.”

“Humph! Yeah, we'll get right on it, asshole.” O'Malley kicks him again. “As far as I'm concerned, your life can bleed out right here on this dirty-ass sidewalk. That's what most you niggers do out here, anyway, ain't it?”

I grind my molars and cut a sharp gaze toward O'Malley's dark silhouette while he whales on the guy. His slick mouth is exactly the reason I want to put a cap in his ass my damn self. It's like he doesn't see or care that my ass is black too. “O'Malley, ease the fuck up, man.”

“Yeah,
O'Malley,
” the perpetrator groans. “Fuckin' ease up, man.”

“Shut up. Now where the fuck is the gun?!”

“I don't have a goddamn gun, you stupid, racist fuck. I wasn't the one shooting at your ass. I was tryna get out the goddamn way of you two nonaiming muthafuckas. Shit. Where in the hell do they teach you pigs how to shoot?”

At the very real possibility of him not being the shooter, my hackles jump back up and my grip tightens on my Glock. My partner grows quiet as well but removes his handcuffs from his hip. With one hand, he keeps his weapon and locks down the suspect with the other. Something shatters behind me, and I spin around shooting. I just barely make out a dark figure racing toward an old church.

“POLICE! STOP OR I'LL SHOOT!”

Our second perpetrator runs at top speed, and I take off after him.

“Johnson!” O'Malley shouts after me.

I don't answer as I go full throttle, making good use of those many years of being a track star in high school and police academy. I close in and am just inches from reaching out and bringing him down, when suddenly both of us hit something that knocks our legs out from under us. Hitting the ground hard, I still manage to keep hold of my weapon, but the runner is able to scramble and bounce back up faster than me and is a ghost before I know it.

“Shit.” I look back down to see what I'd stumbled over, and I'm just mildly surprised to find that it's a dead body.

To my great relief, more sirens fill the air, and seconds later a small army of lights wash the street in blue. Thirty minutes later, two ambulances arrive—one for our weaponless and wounded suspect and one for a fallen officer, Detective George Holmes, the cop we'd raced there to try and assist.

Detective Holmes's body is pumped full of holes. I question what the fuck a plainclothes cop is doing in this section of town by himself. Judging by the expressions on some of my colleagues' faces that very question is dancing inside their heads as well. I look around, trying to come up with a plausible scenario, but everything that races across my mind is shady as hell.

Detective Holmes had been hailed as the next supercop in the
Commercial Appeal,
someone the city hadn't seen the likes of since my father's heyday. But clearly his ass wasn't bullet-proof.

“Everybody just wants to fuck the police in this motherfucker, right?” O'Malley roars, pained by losing one of our own. “Just fuck the police!” He starts marching toward the gurney on which our wounded suspect lies, waiting to be lifted into the back of the remaining ambulance.

I quickly jump into action and try to pull him back. “O'Malley, don't do it. Walk the shit off,” I urge. This is the part I hate, always trying to rein in a partner who acts an ass before he thinks shit through. His specialty is blurring the lines of questioning a suspect and beating the holy shit out of them.

“Nah. Fuck that,” O'Malley roars. “I'm sick of these ignorant niggers terrorizing these damn streets. This damn city is like a fuckin' war zone with these damn ghetto hamsters running around, thinking life is a damn video game.” He wrenches out of my grasp and keeps marching toward the gurney, which is surrounded by paramedics.

“All right, who is your friend out there?” he barks at our suspect.

I reach my partner's side, hoping some more shit isn't about to pop off, especially now that curious residents are starting to mill outside their houses, people who can be possible witnesses to what will undoubtedly be described as police brutality before the eleven o'clock news.

“Hey, hey. Get away from me, man. I already told you that I wasn't the one shooting at y'all.”

“If it wasn't you, then it was one of your fuckin'
homeys,
right? Your partnas, your family?”

“Man, you don't know what the fuck you're talking about.”

“Oh? Is that right?” O'Malley challenges.

“Yeah. That's right, asshole.”

My hackles start to rise again. O'Malley is definitely about to do something stupid.

“So you're just a fine upstanding citizen out for a stroll in one of the most dangerous Vice Lord territories? You think I'm stupid enough to believe that, you dumb fuck?”

The tall brother shifts his incredibly big, brown eyes toward me. “Is he for real?”

As expected, O'Malley's temper snaps and he delivers a hard right hook to the boy's wounded shoulder.

“Aaaargh!”

The paramedics jump in shock, the group of nosy and curious residents gasp and point, and the boys in blue quickly form a protective ring around the back of the ambulance.

“What the fuck?!” our suspect yells. “Y'all just going to stand by and let this muthafucka treat me like Rodney King and shit?” He cradles his bleeding shoulder.

“That's right, because you and your Vice Lord pussies just killed a
cop!
”

“Man, I done told you that I ain't have shit to do with all that.”

O'Malley socks him another blow.

“Aaaargh! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

“Did you see that shit?” a curbside witness asks loudly.

People start shaking their heads, and the paramedics start looking jumpy.

“S-sir, I need to ask you to back away from the patient.” A paramedic attempts to push O'Malley back.

“Get the fuck away from me.” He smacks the man's hand away. “I'm interrogating a suspect, and you're interrupting official police business,” he yells. “Gangsta Homey is a fuckin' cop killer.”

“I told you I ain't killed no cop!” the suspect yells, his eyes blazing.

“O'Malley, you're causing a scene,” I hiss. “We can do this another time,” I insist.

“If it wasn't you, then it was one of your friends, and you both can go down as far as I'm concerned.”

Despite the pain, the boy manages to laugh in O'Malley's face. “Whatever, man. You ain't got shit on me and you fuckin' know it. And don't be false flagging me as some gangbanger 'cause I don't rep no set, and you ain't going to find nobody that's going to say I do.”

I shake my head. The shit didn't sound right. “You're not Vice but you feel comfortable strolling through VL territory unstrapped?”

“That's right. Ain't nobody going to fuck with me down here—other than you two shooting-challenged muthafuckas.”

O'Malley cocks his fist back again. Our suspect flinches and the paramedics and I all move to shove O'Malley away from the boy.

“All right. All right. I'm cool,” O'Malley says, opening his fist as a sign of surrender.

Everyone eases back.

I look back at our suspect, who surprises me by flashing two large dimples. “You're not Vice Lord but clearly you enjoy the luxury of their security. So who are you?”

The kid's lips spread wider as his gaze shoots back over to O'Malley. “Just another nigga, I suppose.”

“Give me a name,” I say, annoyed. “Your government name.”

“Raymond Lewis,” he says. “But my friends call me Profit.”

I almost shit a brick.

“W
ake your ass up, bitch! Profit's been shot!” Essence shouts into the cell phone. “Girl, all these people blazing up my phone saying that the po-po capped his ass over in Orange Mound.”

“Wh-what?” My eyes spring open as my heart leaps into the center of my throat. “Say that shit again.” I rip the sheets off my body and tumble out of bed.

Click. Click.

“Hold on, girl. That's my other line.”

“Wait! No! Essence?” There's no use; she has already clicked over to the other line. “Shit.” I turn on my night-light and then rush over to my chest of drawers with my cell phone still pressed against my ear. With one hand, I start pulling shit out and not really giving a fuck if it matches or not. “C'mon, E. Hurry the fuck up,” I hiss, impatient for my girl to come back on the line.

“T, you there?”

“Yeah, girl.” I stop with just one leg jammed into a fresh pair of jeans. “What the fuck is going on? Is Profit okay?”

Essence clucks my tongue. “Giiiirrrl, they saying that some serious shit was going down over off Sharpe. There's a dead cop and everything.”

My legs nearly drop me on the spot. “But is
he
all right?”

“Everybody saying he's still breathing, if that's what you mean.”

Relieved, I close my eyes and whisper a prayer of thanks before I return my mind to some of the other shit my girl is saying. “They ain't saying Profit killed a cop, are they? I know he wouldn't do no shit like that.”

“Fuck, girl. Everybody saying different shit. One chick said that he went fuckin' Tony Montana on their asses, and I had someone else tell me that he just got caught being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I'm stressed again. “Where is he now?”

“The hospital, I guess. They said the ambulance came and got him.”

“Which one?”

“Shit. I don't know.”

“Find out and then call me back. I'm going to finish getting dressed.”

Essence laughs. “And just how in the fuck are you going to get there? We ain't got a car, and the buses have already stopped running for the night.”

I stop for a moment. “Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it. You just find out where he's been taken and call me back.”

“All right, girl.” Essence clucks her tongue. “I'll call you back in a few.”

I disconnect the call and rush to finish getting dressed. Seconds later, I shut off the lights again and then creep out of my bedroom. The hallway seems endless as I try to make my way down as quiet as possible. There's no time to feel guilty about what I'm doing. My man needs me.

Once I reach the stairs, each board in the floor is squeaking loud enough to wake the dead. I hold my breath until I reach the bottom of the stairs. When it seems like the coast is still clear, I race over to the black bombé chest in the foyer and retrieve Reggie's car keys. Less than a minute later, I'm rolling in his new Lincoln MKS out the driveway with the headlights off. It isn't until I get down the road to the first stop sign that I feel safe enough to turn the muthafuckas on.

Impatient for word from Essence, I dig my cell phone out of my jean pocket and hit her back.

“Yo, girl. I was just about to call you back,” Essence says after one ring.

“What did you find out?”

“The Med off Jefferson.”

“Shit.” I glance up to see what street I'm on. “Do you know how to get there?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm on my way to pick you up,” I say.

“Pick me…in what, bitch?”

“I'm driving Reggie's car.”

“What?” Essence erupts in stunned laughter. “You jacked your foster parents' ride? Have you lost your damn mind?”

“Nah. Nah. It's cool. I just need to make sure that I'm back before Tracee wakes up at five.” A white car appears out of nowhere. I drop the phone and slam on my brakes. “Shit. Shit.” The back end of the car fishtails, and before I know it, I'm going sideways toward a curbside fire hydrant. My hands clench the steering wheel just before the back end of the car hits.

“No. No. No.” I quickly jump out of the car and rush around to inspect the damage. My heart sinks at the sight of the busted taillight, but I'll have to think of a lie at another time. I have to get going. Once back in the car, I rummage around until I find my cell phone on the floorboard. “E? Give me ten minutes and be outside.” I end the call and drive the car off the curb and back onto the street. From then on, I keep my eyes wide and my foot a little lighter on the accelerator.

True to my word, I make it to E's grandmother's place, just a block from Shotgun Row, in ten minutes. I sigh in relief when I see Essence standing outside, because the last thing I want to do is stop or get out of the luxury sedan on this side of town and at this time of night.

Essence jumps into the car, laughing. “Damn, girl. What the hell happened to the taillight?”

“You don't wanna fuckin' know.”

“Shit. Are you sure you can drive this big muthafucka? I ain't survived this damn neighborhood just so your no-licensed ass can kill me in a fuckin' car wreck.”

“Don't you start that backseat driving. Just tell me how to get to the damn hospital.”

“Whatever. Just go up to the light and hang a right.”

I take off down the street with my heart still racing and my palms sweating. “Did you hear any more news? What else are people saying?”

“Ah, girl. A bunch of bullshit now,” Essence says, opening the glove compartment and checking shit out. “Niggas are now making shit sound like Profit went at the po-po with artillery of shit. Took out one cop and went at it with this one big, racist muthafucka who was still pounding on his ass even when the paramedics were tryna resuscitate him and load him in the ambulance.”

“What?” I rake a hand through my hair. “They saying he almost died?”

Essence clams up as if she's suddenly afraid to tell me more.

“Well? Spit it out!” I pull my gaze from the road to look at my girl. The suspense is killing me. God help me. I don't know what I'm going to do if anything happens to Profit. He means everything to me.

Essence stops nosing around in the glove compartment and turns in her seat to face me. “Look, I hate that I gotta be the one telling you all this, but the bottom line is I just don't know what really happened and neither does any of them gossiping niggas. So just take a deep breath and calm down.” To get me started, she starts sucking in air and rolling her hands to encourage me to do the same thing.

I roll my eyes only to get punched in the shoulder. “Oww.”

“Take a deep breath,” Essence insists.

Scared of getting punched again, I do as I'm told. Then from the corner of my eye, I see a patrol car. “Turn around and put on your seat belt.”

Having her own inner cop scanner, Essence is already ahead of me and is locking the belt across her waist. “Be cool. Be cool. Be cool,” Essence recites under her breath as the car rolls to a stop right next to a Memphis patrol car at a light.

I lick my lips while my sweaty hands clench the steering wheel. I just hope the cops don't look our way, because I don't fit the description of someone who could possibly own this luxury sedan, and my learner's permit requires that I drive with an adult. While the light is taking forever to change, I chance a look to my right. My heart stops short when my eyes crash with a female officer's.

I'm going to jail. I'm going to jail. I'm going to jail.

I swallow the lump in my throat and resolve that if the blue track lights come on, I'm jamming my foot down on the accelerator and making a run for it. I'm not going anywhere until I see for myself that Profit is okay.

The traffic light turns green. The police car moves forward and hangs a left.

“Whooo, giiirl,” Essence sighs. “That shit was close. I just knew our asses were about to be like those white bitches Thelma and something.”

“Thelma and Louise,” I say, finally easing off the brake.

“Yeah, them,” Essence cosigns. “I even got my gat ready.”

I glance over in shock. “What the fuck? You got a gun? Since when did you start toting that shit?”

“Since the last time Qiana and those Flower bitches tried to roll up on me in the girl's bathroom at school. Bitch got me confused if she thinks she's going to catch my ass slippin'.”

Shaking my head, I clamp my mouth shut.

“What? You wanna lecture me now?”

“Just tell me which way to the hospital.”

“Take a right up here on Adams.” Essence glances back over at me. “I don't think it's right for you to judge me. Not everybody got it as good as you do. These muthafuckin' streets out here ain't no joke. A bitch gotta do what she fuckin' gotta do.”

“I ain't said nothing.”

“But you want to. I can tell.”

I spot the hospital up ahead and breathe a sigh of relief.

Essence shakes her head, but she squashes the argument since I'm not going to indulge her. We quickly park the car and race toward the emergency room entrance. The muthafucka is packed. Old, young, crying babies—everybody. What's worse, it looks like they've been here for a long time.

“Aww, shit. I hope our asses ain't going to be here all night,” Essence complains, looking around.

“Shut up and come on.” I weave my way up to the reception desk. “I'm looking for Raymond Lewis. I believe he was brought here. I'm his girlfriend.”

The woman behind the counter definitely has molasses up her ass and is clearly in no rush to get off the phone or address my concerns.

Essence hip bumps me out the way and starts banging her hand on the counter. “HELLO!”
Bam! Bam! Bam!
“Get the fuck off the phone and help my girl out. Damn.”

The receptionist levels a dirty look at Essence. “Keisha, let me call you back. I got a couple of hood rats in my face.”

“WHAT?” Essence is heated and reaches toward her pocket.

I panic and grab my girl's wrist and give her a look to be cool. “Please forgive my friend. I'm just looking for Raymond Lewis. I was told that he was shot tonight.”

“Aren't they all?” The woman turns toward her computer and finally searches for the information we need.

A few minutes later, we're racing toward Profit's room in the intensive care unit. But seeing a large group of niggas flagging Vice Lord colors outside his door, Essence slows down. “T, I don't know about this,” she hisses.

I'm not listening. My brain refuses to process that we're actually running toward danger.

“T!” Essence tries again, but at seeing me continuing on, she follows through to have my back. “I swear to God, if we live through this, I'm going to fuckin' kill you myself,” she whispers when she catches back up with me.

“Just chill out.”

There are at least twenty people outside the door, and every one of them is now looking at us.

“Who the fuck are you two?” one burned-toast-looking muthafucka asks, twisting his face and mean mugging us.

“I-I'm Ta'Shara. I came to see Profit.”

The young Vice Lord rakes his gaze over us. “Profit isn't exactly up for visitors at this time.”

“Okay. Sorry to bother y'all.” Essence grabs my arm and attempts to pull me away.

I snatch my arm back and refuse to budge. “He'll want to see me. I'm his girlfriend.”

The small group starts chuckling.

“I ain't heard nothing about Profit having no girlfriend. If you ask me, you two look like a couple of chickens he's probably just fuckin' around with.”

“How would you know? You look like the last time you seen pussy was when you were coming out of one,” I snap back.

“Oh shit,” E moans.

“Now get out of my way so I can see my man.” I hold my ground and stare the asshole down.

“Aww. That young nigga got himself a feisty bitch,” another nigga with thick dreads and a mouthful of gold laughs and cheeses.

“Who the fuck you calling a bitch?” Essence and I snap in unison.

“All right. All right. Simmer down.” A woman I hadn't noticed until now steps forward. She's dressed like the other niggas, but she doesn't look like a dyke or nothing. She is actually very pretty, yet still looks like a bitch you don't want to fuck with.

“You say you're Profit's woman. Fine. We mean no disrespect. Go on in,” she says, stepping out of the way to let us through.

Essence looks like she can't believe what we'd just done.

I'm already over it. I'm focused on only one thing, or rather one person. The moment I push through the door, Profit's head snaps up from his cell phone and a look of surprise lights up his face. “Shara. I was just about to call you.”

Relieved, I fly into the room as my tears flow. I even ignore the man sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed. “I was soooo worried about you.” I try to wrap my arms around him. “Don't ever scare me like that again.”

“Easy on the shoulder, baby.” He chuckles.

“Oh.” I glance down and gently touch his bandages. “Boo, what happened?”

“Just another day in the hood, Ma. You know how it is.” Profit smiles tenderly while tears continue to skip down my face. “You really love a nigga, don't you?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I do.” I sit down on the edge of the bed and cup his face in my hands. “I love you more than life itself, baby. Now and forever.” I lean in close and pour my heart and soul into a kiss that sends my mind reeling.

When at long last our deep kiss is reduced to small, nibbling pecks, Profit smiles again. “You know sometimes a nigga just needs to hear the words.”

Gently, I lean closer and whisper in his ear, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He laughs. “I love you, too, boo.”