In My Hood (12 page)

His skin became flush red. He hated to be reminded of his family’s past. Truth of the matter was his great, great, great-grandmother was black. She was a slave and was raped by the slave master, therefore creating his great, great-grandmother whose skin was very light. She grew up to bare children by a white man, so the light skin got lighter with each generation.

He despised black people. He tolerated them when it was business and there was money to be made. He was picked on as a child whenever someone from his mother’s side of the family came to visit, because they were light-skinned blacks. Bowen was as white as they came, but the one thing that he could not escape from his African American heritage was his full lips.

All through grammar school all the way up through college he would come in contact with some kind of pressure from his peers about his background. A Harvard graduate, he vowed that every chance he got, he would stick it to a nigger.

“Hold on now there, Arnie. Bobby is right. What makes this punk so special that he gets a timeline? You know the rules: either he plays or he pays, simple as that,” Littleton interjected.

“I know all about the rules,” Bowen said as he dealt out the next hand. “The mayor wants to give Leroy a chance to talk to him. Now what are we gonna do? Go against the mayor and the governor?” He looked in each of their faces.

“Bullshit!” Cohen retorted as he scooped up his cards and studied them. “That niggers got over half the city in the palm of his hands. Now you and I both know that’s too much power for one nigger to have. You tell the mayor to talk to that old nigger and tell him he’s got thirty days to come back with an answer on that punk or I’m going all out, and I don’t give a fuck what happens after that.”

The men continued to play poker, laughing and talking. Once the hand was over, Bowen excused himself.

“I gotta go to the can.” He got up and left the room.

Once inside of the bathroom he stood in front of the urinal and relieved himself. He rocked back and forth, clearly showing his consumption of alcohol. Once he was done, he pulled the phone from his waist and began to dial.

“Hello.”

“It’s me Arnie.”

“What is it, Arnie? I’m out of town with my wife,” the mayor said.

“I’m playing poker with the guys.”

“Yeah? Who’s winning?”

“Cohen is, as usual. I swear I think that fat fuck cheats.”

“Arnie, I’m sure you didn’t call me to talk about the poker game. What’s on your mind?”

“Cohen’s putting pressure on me, Tony. He wants an answer from Leroy in thirty days, or he’s going to unleash the dogs. You know we can’t have that type of publicity so close to election time.”

“Fuck!” the mayor shouted. He blew out a deep breath into the phone. “Who does that fat bastard think he is?”

“I know, sir, but you know he’ll do it. That wouldn’t look good for you, Tony.”

“Yeah, I know. What do the other guys say about it?”

“They agree with him. You know they have their heads so far up his ass they taste shit every morning when they wake up,” Bowen said, pacing the floor. There was silence. “Tony, are you there?”

“All right. I’ll get in touch with Leroy and get back to you. One day somebody’s going to give that fat fucker Cohen just what he needs,” the mayor spat.

“I agree, sir, but until then, you need to uphold your image. So for now we play by the jerk’s rules until after you’re re-elected then you can stick it to his lard ass.”

“You’re right, Arnie. Okay then, it’s settled. I’ll talk to you later.”

Bowen replaced his phone in the case and looked at his reflection in the dingy mirror. He brushed his hand over his short-cropped hair and walked out of the bathroom without washing his hands.

Z
ola walked into the house and headed straight for the bedroom. She was vexed. She found out about the industry party through Damon. She wanted to go, but Ishmael wouldn’t tell her where the party was. She had called Damon and told him what Ishmael said and that she was going to crash the party anyway. He told her not to worry, he would keep an eye on him, but he thought it was best for her not to show up either. Damon also wouldn’t disclose the location of the party. Truth be told, Damon wanted to get his groove on without any hassles. Zola would definitely be a problem if she came to the party.

She walked into the closet, reaching up and pulling the chain to turn on the ceiling light. She pulled the lever that protruded from the wall and removed the panel. The shelf behind the wall that was mounted over the safe was bare.

“Shit,” she exclaimed.

She played around with the dials on the safe, which only frustrated her more. She tried birthday combinations, telephone numbers, and nothing worked. She plopped down in the middle of the floor and sat pouting.

Ishmael’s scent lingered in the closet like a rain cloud in the sky. She had never seen him do anything violent, but the rumors and his creditability on the streets were proof enough for anyone. And that’s what attracted her to him in the first place: his rep on the streets—and of course the mountains of paper he held didn’t hurt either.

Her cell phone began to ring. She ran to her purse and retrieved it. “Hello.”

“What’s up, girl?” It was Zola’s sheisty partner Nettie.

Nettie and Zola had been best friends since they were kids.

Nettie was a stripper and one of the most sinister bitches on the planet. She was nice with a razor, and she always had one tucked away safely in her mouth. She’d been that way for years and had the rep of slicing a nigga with a quickness. Had it not been for Zola, Nettie would’ve got at Ishmael a long time ago. She despised him, and he didn’t hide his feelings for her either. Both put up with each other on the strength of Zola. Although Nettie had helped Zola with her devious ways on plenty of occasions, Zola would not allow Nettie to take away the butter that coated her bread.

“What you getting into?” Zola inquired.

“What makes you think I’m getting into something?” Nettie asked defensively.

“Because, when aren’t you into something,” Zola shot back.

“Oh, a bitch got jokes, huh?”

“Aw, don’t be like that. You so sensitive,” Zola teased.

“No, that trick you living with is sensitive, with his punk ass.”

“Oh, don’t do it like that. That ain’t even right.”

“I ain’t call you for this. You want to hang out with me, or are you on lock down?” Nettie cracked.

“Picture that shit. Just bring your ass over, and we’ll think about what to get into when you get here.”

Twenty minutes later Nettie walked through the front door. She looked Zola up and down as she walked past her.

“What?” Zola inquired.

Nettie continued to walk toward the sofa and plopped down onto it.

“What’s your problem?”

“Nothing. Where’s yo’ buster at?”

“He went out. You ain’t dancing tonight?”

“Naw, I’m off. So what’s up? What you tryna do t’night?” Nettie asked as she retrieved a blunt from her purse.

“I wanted to crash the industry party everybody went to tonight, but I think I’ll pass on that.” Zola sat next to her.

“Let’s go by Gerry’s,” Nettie said, lighting the blunt.

Gerry’s was a small neighborhood bar the locals hung out at.

“I ain’t tryna go up in there with them bums.” Zola turned up her nose. “Them yo’ kinda people, not mine.”

“Zola, yo’ shit stink just like everybody else’s.” Nettie rolled her eyes.

They sat there in silence, passing the blunt back and forth.

“Fuck it. Let’s go round there and see what’s up,” Zola said, getting off the sofa.

They rode in Zola’s Range Rover. They approached the club and saw several people posted out front.

“See what I’m sayin’? Look at these bums out here.” Zola pointed.

“How you figure they bums, Zo?” Nettie looked over at her.

“Look at how they dressed. No style whatsoever. Them niggaz ain’t holdin’ no paper.” She continued to drive past the bar.

“Zo, don’t let the gear fool you. Please believe me. Some of them niggas is holding big time.”

“Nettie, I ain’t feeling that place.”

“Come on, Zo. Let’s just go in for a minute, then we can leave and go wherever you want to go.”

Zola sucked her teeth and busted a U-turn and found a park under a streetlight at the corner. The women strolled across the street, heading toward the club. A black E320 Benz with black tinted windows crept up the street behind them. Once the car was parallel to the women, the driver side window lowered halfway, revealing the top part of the driver’s face. The driver honked the horn. They both looked in the direction of the vehicle. The driver lowered the window completely, exposing his face.

“What up, Zo?” he shouted.

Zola and Nettie stopped and looked. Zola stared at the car, trying to figure out who the driver was. Then it hit her, so she began to walk over toward the car.

“What’s up, lady?” He smiled as he looked her up and down.

She was sporting a pair of Seven Capri jeans that fit like a glove. She had on a pair of Chanel high-heel sandals and a Chanel fitted tank top. She rotated her thick hips as she approached the vehicle.

“Nick D, what’s going on?” She returned the smile.

“You, baby. I know you ain’t about to go up in that rat trap,” he said, referring to the local bar. “That ain’t yo’ style, ma.”

Nick D was a handsome half-black, half Puerto Rican. He had status from several towns over. He was well known and got along pretty much with all the other dealers. He was a stand-up type of dude—until you pushed him. He never put in his own work because he had his own personal goon squad for that. They weren’t big time but they were known.

“I’m here with Nettie. She be sweating these knuckleheads, not me,” she defended.

“Oh, that’s Nettie?” he said, surprised. “I ain’t seen her ass in a minute. What up, Nettie Nett?” he yelled.

“Who dat?” Nettie yelled back from across the street.

“Come see,” Zola responded.

Nettie strolled across the street toward the Benz.

“Oh shit. What’s good, Nick?” She smiled.

“You, ma. Where you been hidin’?”

“Nowhere, man. I be around. What you doing around here?”

“Just cruising,” he replied nonchalantly.

“Yeah, a’ight. You know you out here cunt hunting.” She laughed.

“Naw, man, these chicken heads ain’t about shit out here.” He smiled. “Yo, you still sucking on that blade?”

Nettie rolled her tongue around in her mouth and flicked it out, exposing the blade on it then she flipped it back in her mouth and tucked it away.

“Damn! I can’t believe you still sucking on that blade. You gonna fuck around and get gangrene on your tongue, and they gonna have to cut that motherfucker off.” He laughed.

Zola agreed with him as she, too, laughed.

“Keep talking, slick nigga, and you can get it too,” she retorted.

“Hold up, ma. I’m on your side,” he surrendered. “I know you nice with that silver so pump your brakes. I’m just fucking with you.”

Nettie noticed someone she knew and walked off up the street.

“So what’s good, ma?” Nick inquired.

“Nothing much.”

“So you still swinging with that cat Ish?”

“Yeah, something like that.” She rolled her eyes.

“He ain’t good enough for you, ma. You need to be hanging with a real nigga.” He smiled.

“So I guess you would be that nigga, huh?”

“Word up,” he bragged.

Zola smiled at the sound of that as she ran her hand along the roof of his car, admiring its shine.

“So, what’s up?” he asked.

“I ain’t messing with Ishmael like that, Nick. That’s all I need for him to find out I’m creeping on him.”

“Come on, ma. You don’t want to be with that cat, and you know it. Come on get in. Let’s take a ride.”

“I can’t do that. Plus, I’m here with Nettie.”

“Nett can hold her own. Come on,” he edged on.

Zola stared into his handsome face and thought about it. It did sound like a good idea. He was fine as hell, and he was holding paper too.

“Hold up a minute. Let me holler at Nettie for a minute,” she said.

Zola pranced toward the club and approached Nettie who was talking with some dude.

“Nett, let me holler at you for a minute,” Zola said, interrupting their conversation.

They walked a few feet away from the crowd that had gathered in front of the bar’s entrance.

“What’s up?” Nettie inquired.

“I’m gonna roll with Nick.”

“What? Roll where?” Nettie eyed her.

“We gonna get something to eat.”

“And how am I supposed to get back to your house and get my car? You just gonna leave me here?”

“Aw, Nettie, don’t front. You know you wanna stay here,” Zola said. “Here take my keys and drive the Rover back to the house and leave the keys in the mailbox.” She held the keys out for Nettie to take.

“You act like you ain’t coming home for the night.”

“I’m coming home. I’m just getting something to eat.”

“Yeah, okay. So what’s up with that?” Nettie asked with an attitude.

“Ain’t nothing up but what I just said. I’m going to get something to eat.” Zola turned and sashayed away.

“Ho,” Nettie called out after her.

T
hey arrived in front of the Copa. Ishmael pulled into a parking spot. Partygoers flocked the entrance. Latinos, Dominicans, and Puerto Ricans were rushing in through the front doors.

Desiree looked around at the scene in confusion. The outside of the club resembled a castle. Once inside, the many lights sparkled all around. The atmosphere was bright and energetic.

Ishmael held Desiree’s hand and lead her to a table. The music was fast and loud. The cymbals and conga drums were the loudest of the many instruments that the band played. There were couples on the floor twirling and spinning around.

Desiree was dizzy just watching them twirl. A waitress walked around with a tray of tropical drinks held high above her head. Different types of fruit descended from the tall glasses. Ishmael saw Desiree eyeing the mouthwatering drinks.

“Would you like a drink?”