Harlem Girl Lost (3 page)

Silver picked up her napkin, wiped her hands, and extended one of them for him to shake. He didn't notice her hand at first, so she waved it to get his attention. He quickly shook it and pulled back.

Silver smiled widely and said, “Now it's official. That makes us friends, right?”

Chance shrugged and said, “I guess.”

“And since we are friends now …” Silver bent lower to get his attention. “I ask but one favor.”

“What?” Chance looked up suspiciously and then lowered his eyes again.

Silver answered seriously, “When we talk, I would appreciate it if you looked at me when you do, okay?”

Slowly, Chance raised his head and looked into her smiling face.

UPTOWN, HARLEM

T
he train station at 116th and Lenox was noticeably empty as a tall and exceptionally beautiful woman wearing a blond wig emerged up the stairs. Jessica Jones, whom everyone called Jesse, was returning home from a long evening shift of carnal exchange. Jesse had a statuesque, almost regal look about her. She took long, confident strides in her white knee-high boots and seemed oblivious to the freezing temperature. She wore only a short buck leather skirt and matching jacket. Jesse had grown accustomed to the cold. As she turned the corner, a powerful gust of wind greeted her head on, breaking her stride and causing her to readjust her wig. Everyone in the neighborhood came alive when they saw Jesse round the corner, from local merchants opening their sturdy black gates to downtrodden winos who slumbered about waiting for the liquor store or check-cashing place to open.

“Whassup, Miz Jesse?” Stickbroom Johnny, an old toothless man who delivered newspapers around the neighborhood from door to door, greeted her.

“Hey, Stickbroom. What was Brooklyn last night?”

Even though no one was within twenty feet of them, Stick-broom Johnny cautiously peeked around with his bugged eyes.

“Seven twenty-eight,” he whispered.

Though Stickbroom was older than dirt, he had the mentality of a ten-year-old; everyone from the neighborhood loved and took care of him because of his contagious sense of humor. He was particularly famous for knowing anything and everything that was going on in the neighborhood. If anybody wanted to know who was fucking whom and who was getting fat, you need only ask Stickbroom. “I dun put ya paper at yo doow, Miz Jesse.”

“Thanks, Johnny,” Jesse said, handing him a dollar. “I'll throw you something extra on my way back down, okay?”

“I sho’ appreciate, Miz Jesse,” he said with a gummy smile.

One by one, people on the street greeted her or asked for some spare change, which she gave them. This was her neighborhood, and she was happy to help them out.

Turning the corner on 117th and Eighth, Jesse slowed when she saw Mitts, the neighborhood's most notorious dope fiend. Mitts was one of those grotesque dope fiends who had repulsively swollen arms and legs from years of heroin abuse; it made him look like Popeye the Sailor Man. Everybody called him Mitts because he had hands that were the size of catchers’ mitts. No one could bear the sight of him because of the legion of crust-filled, pus-induced sores that covered his hands and body. Because of poor eyesight and cataracts, he wore thick dark glasses to prevent sun exposure. Seeing Jesse, he nervously rocked back and forth, because he knew the kindhearted Jesse was a sure score. As she approached, he extended his freakishly huge hands toward her. Jesse stared at him as he squirmed like
he had to pee real bad. Because of his addiction, butterflies in his stomach gave him the urge to defecate. Feeling sorry for him, she reached inside her purse and handed him ten dollars. Taking the bill, he strained to see the denomination as he held it close to his dark glasses. Once again he began to rock back and forth, for ten dollars wasn't nearly enough to get past his morning sickness. Seeing his reluctance, Jesse reached inside her bra, peeled off a twenty, and handed it to him. He snatched the bill and raced off down the block toward the nearest shooting gallery for his wake-up, or as they say in the streets, his “breakfast.” Jesse knew firsthand how it felt to have the beast on her back.

King Heroin—the ultimate slave master! In Harlem and throughout the free world, it is known by many pseudonyms: “smack,” “H,” “P-funk,” “boy,” “horse,” “snow,” “diesel,” “dope,” or “D,” but no matter what you call it, it'll eventually be called one thing: death, a slow and miserable one. To many who used it, it was the closest they'd ever get to heaven on earth. But to all who were hooked, it was a guarantee of hell on earth. Jesse had been off the poison for six months now, after vowing never to use the cunning, baffling, and insidious drug ever again, not only for her own sake, but to avoid the hell she put her daughter through.

Jesse put the entire episode with Mitts out of her mind and continued about her business. She heard a loud commotion coming from the alley and stopped in midstride. Normally Jesse would abide by the ghetto's golden rule of “hear no evil, see no evil,” but she faintly recognized the voice and took a chance.

Stepping over a jungle of dirty hypodermic needles, broken
wine bottles, and trash, she happened upon a man brutally beating another man with the butt of his gun. Edging closer, she stepped on a fragment of bottle, crushing it and alerting the man to her presence. In one swift move, he turned his weapon toward the unwanted intruder. Jesse instantly lost her breath as she stared down the barrel. Frightened, she quickly threw her hands up. “Chubby!” Jesse said quickly “It's me, Jesse!”

The generously proportioned man squinted to see who was disturbing his business. After recognizing her, he lowered his weapon, smiled widely, and began rocking back and forth like Stevie Wonder. He took a Tootsie Pop out of his mouth and said, “Oh, shit … Jesse, that you? Fuck you doing back here?”

Jesse dropped her hands in relief and stepped closer. Staring down at the beaten and bloodied man beneath him, she recognized Dupree, a neighborhood kid who used to hustle coke for Chubbs.

Chubbs lived on 116th Street between Manhattan and Morningside Avenues. He was big, black, and the meanest motherfucker on the black side of Harlem. A diagnosed manic-depressive with horrible mood swings, he stayed on medication to keep him out of the mood of premeditated murder, as per the New York State Mental Board and stipulations in his parole. But it was apparent the meds weren't working. Chubbs had four older brothers, all felons who'd been doing dirt since they came out of Pampers. Vonda, Chubbs’ older sister, had been Jesse's best friend since grade school. Their family had taken Jesse in when her mother kicked her out when she got pregnant with Silver at fifteen, and she'd lived with them for nearly two years. Even though Chubbs owned many legitimate
businesses such as bars, a barbershop, and some Laundromats, he remained street. Money to Chubbs didn't mean a thing—it just came along with being a gangster. He and his four brothers had grown up with artistic backgrounds—they'd perfected the art of stick-ups, the art of kidnapping, and the art of extortion, and they made use of those skills on drug dealers. The only thing sweet about Chubbs was the Tootsie Pops he had a habit of sucking.

Though Chubbs had many faults, the neighborhood loved him—especially the older folks. His minor transgressions were overlooked as inconsequential because he kept the neighborhood safe from petty thieves and stick-up kids who preyed on women and the elderly. Chubbs had hated that kind ever since one of them robbed his mother years ago. Legend had it that one crackhead had made the unfortunate mistake of robbing a seventy-three-year-old neighborhood lady of her social security check as she exited the check-cashing place at 116th and Eighth. That same day, Chubbs and his brothers found the man, threw him inside the trunk of their car, and drove off. The next morning the police found the man completely naked, beaten to a bloody pulp, and an inch away from death. He was gagged and tied to the very gate of the check-cashing place where he'd robbed the old lady, a bloody note pinned to his flesh that read, “I will not rob my neighbors ever again,” written one hundred times. After that, needless to say, niggers took their chances robbing white folks downtown before fucking around in the hood.

Still rather nervous, Jesse stared at the bloodied boy beneath Chubbs. “I'm all right, Chubby … but what's going on with you?” Out of habit, whenever Chubbs had to explain
himself, he nervously swayed his head and rocked his body to the side while looking away. He had had this habit since he was a child and turned into a perpetual liar because he got into so much trouble. Stuffing his weapon in his belt, he kept a tight grip on the man's Afro, as if he didn't have a single care in the world.

“Ain't shit. You know my style—work hard, live long, and takin’ care of bidness.”

Jesse walked a little closer. “I hear you, Chubby, but, um … shit don't look too good back here.”

He frowned and surveyed the garbage in the alley, took a slight whiff, and nodded. “Yeah, you right, shit is nasty back here … and it stinks, too.”

“Chubbs, man!” Jesse said in exasperation. “I ain't talking about the garbage, I'm talking about Dupree. He's bleeding pretty bad.”

Brows lifted in surprise, Chubbs pointed to Dupree. “You talkin’ bout this nig?” He grabbed Dupree even tighter. “Oh, you ain't got to worry about this lil’ nig, dis nigga a'ight. I got this!”

Suddenly, Chubbs unleashed a vicious slap across the boy's face with the butt of the weapon, cracking his facial bones. “Chubby, what tha fuck!” Jesse yelled, cringing.

Barely eighteen, Dupree was an undercover crackhead who owed Chubbs some money, which was a no-no in Harlem. A drug dealer didn't give a fuck how much a nigger owed—ten dollars or ten thousand dollars, shit didn't matter. All that mattered to these cats was the fact that you tried to fuck them, and they would surely kill you.

This was the perfect opportunity for Dupree to make a plea for his life.

“Yo, Chubbs, man,” he pleaded, “I was gonna pay you but—”

Whap! Whap!
Chubbs slapped the boy senseless across his head with the butt of his .44 long, and looked at him with his fierce black eyes.

“Nig, I'll fuck you up if you interrupt us grown folks again!”

Cringing again, Jesse asked in disbelief, “Chubby, damn, what the hell did he do to you to make you beat him like that?”

Chubbs paused as he tried to recall. Finally he appeared to remember. “Oh, yeah. This punk tried ta duck a nig and take advantage of nig kindness … talkin’ shit in the streets, sayin’ he ain't gonna pay Chubbs his money. Ain't that right, Dupree?” Chubbs lifted him by his collar and stuck the cannon deep inside his mouth. “Talk that shit now, lil’ fucka … talk it now!”

Dupree's bowels bubbled loudly as the foul odor from his shit filled the alleyway. Chubbs frowned and immediately tossed him to the ground like garbage.

“Look at that shit, Jesse. It's niggas like that,” he said, staring at Dupree with disgust, “that be givin’ Harlem niggas a bad name. They be walkin’ around talkin’ mad shit like they some muthafuckin’ mobsters … Now look at ‘im.” Chubbs spat on him. “He shits his muthafuckin’ pants when he run into a muthafuckin’ monster!”

Chubbs cocked the hammer. “Yo, Jess,” he said, “you better step now. You don't want to be part of this shit.”

Jesse wasn't sure what he meant. “Chubbs, you not gonna … damn, Chubby, you gonna kill him?” Chubbs rocked nervously
and could not answer, but Jesse knew the deal. “Shit, Chubby, how much he fuckin’ owe you?”

Chubbs looked down at Dupree and asked, “How much you jerk me for, lil’ fucka?”

Dupree looked up at Chubbs and answered softly, “Five dollars.”

Jesse looked at Chubbs in disbelief as he started rocking faster. “Shit, Chubby,” she said, “here's fuckin’ twenty dollars if that's the case.”

He shook his head. “Naw, girl. You know it ain't about the money. It's the fuckin’ principle, yo.”

Jesse threw him a sarcastic, knowing look. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he avoided eye contact with her until, after a few uncomfortable seconds, he relented.

“All right, Jesse, damn! I ain't got no principles. I just like doing this shit!”

She grabbed his black army jacket and black hoodie. “Then do this favor for me, Chubby. Just this one time, let him go.” She extended the money toward him, but he waved her off.

“Naw, Jesse, fuck dat … you keep yo’ dough. You know I'll do anything for you. Shit, you my maafuckin’ peeps.”

Relieved, Jesse let out a big sigh.

“But,” said Chubbs, grabbing his crotch, “there is something you can do for me!”

Frowning, Jesse gave him a wary look and put her hand on her hip. “What is it, Chubby?”

He gave her a knowing look “You know goddamn well what I want. I want a big-ass pot of lima beans, that's what the hell I want, just like you use to do it back in the day.”

Jesse smiled. “Deal!”

“With pig tails and smoked neck bone too,” he added quickly.

“Okay, you got it,” Jesse assured him.

Chubbs grimaced at Dupree and barked, “Get the fuck outta here, lil’ fucka.”

Dupree blazed the fuck out of the alley without looking behind, while Chubbs yelled at his retreating back, “And don't let me see ya bitch ass on the humble, nig!”

Jesse hugged Chubbs by the waist as they walked out of the alleyway. “Silver asks about you all the time.”

He smiled and folded his arms. “You don't say? How's my goddaughter doing academically this year in school?”

“Actually, she's doing extremely well. She got skipped to the seventh grade and is still at the top of her class. She said she's gonna be a doctor.”

Chubbs shook his head as his smile broadened. “My goddaughter, a doctor … whoa!”

Jesse gave him a big hug and a kiss. “Thanks, Chubby. Make sure you tell Vonda I said hi.”

“You make sure you give my goddaughter a kiss for me,” Chubbs said, opening the door to his black Pathfinder.

As an afterthought, Jesse turned around. “Yo, Chubby, were you really gonna kill that boy for five dollars?”

With the same devilish smile he'd had since he was a kid, Chubbs looked away and started rocking back and forth.