In My Hood (13 page)

“Yes, that would be nice.” She smiled.

As the waitress floated by with the now-empty tray, Ishmael grabbed her hand.

“Yes.” She smiled. The waitress was a Latino beauty. She had long, jet-black wavy hair that fell well below her shoulders. She had freshly tanned skin and a voluptuous sexy body.

“Can you bring us a Bahama Mama and a Grand Marnier?”

The pretty woman smiled and nodded as she sashayed away to fetch the drinks.

“What is this place?” Desiree asked, looking around.

“Oh, this used to be a favorite spot of mine.”

“A favorite spot?” Desiree looked at him, confused.

“Yeah.” He smiled at her. “Why?”

“Because this doesn’t seem like your style.”

“Oh yeah? What’s my style?’

“Well . . . you know?”

“No, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” He stared deep into her eyes.

“Well . . . like the place we just came from. That seems more like your style.”

The waitress returned with their drinks. They took them and toasted each other. Desiree sipped her drink, and the fruity passion slid down the back of her throat.

They sat and drank their drinks and enjoyed the scenery while engrossing in deep conversation.

Suddenly the band began to play “Lloraras” by Oscar D’Leon.

“Come on.” Ishmael grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet, practically dragging Desiree to the floor.

She was nervous. She knew nothing about dancing the salsa.

Once on the dance floor Ishmael pulled her close. They were face to face. He held her around her waist and held her right hand. They stood there eye to eye for a few seconds. He swayed her side to side, slowly at first.

“Ishmael, I don’t know how to do this,” she said.

“Don’t worry. I got you. Just loosen your body and relax. Let me lead you, and you move with me.” He smiled.

She nodded.

Ishmael picked up the pace, swaying side to side, never taking his eyes off hers. They began to turn around slowly at first.

“Just listen to the beat. Let the music carry you away,” he instructed.

Desiree didn’t know what that meant, but she gave it a try. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. Ishmael got into the grove of the music and took Desiree on a ride like no other. His pelvis moved from side to side against hers. She could feel his bulge pressing against her. They glided on the floor like they were on skates.

Desiree couldn’t believe she was doing the salsa. She had never thought in a million years she would even have the opportunity to, let alone actually dance it. She opened her eyes, and Ishmael was still staring deeply at her. His intensity made moisture seep from her treasures. She became nervous again and began to move off beat and stepped on Ishmael’s feet continuously.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he said. “I’ma have all kinds of corns and bunions and shit by the time you finish with my feet.” He laughed.

***************

They were on their way back to New Jersey. Desiree stared out the window, basking in her thoughts. She had a slight smile on her face as she gazed.

Ishmael looked over at her. “What you thinking about?”

“Oh nothing,” she said, breaking out of her gaze.

“Come on now. I can see it all over your face.”

“Well,” she said as she adjusted herself in the seat, “I was thinking about how I wish you were a different man.”

“Why?”

“Because you sell drugs, Ishmael.”

“Why are you so against it, Rae? It’s not like you’ve always lived your life like Mother Theresa.”

She looked at him with confused eyes. “How do you know how I lived?”

“I don’t,” he lied, avoiding eye contact.

She looked away. “My old life is in the past, and I’d like to keep it there.”

Ishmael didn’t press the issue.

They pulled up in front of Beverly’s house. It was 4:30 a.m. He turned off the ignition and laid his head back on the seat.

“Ishmael, I really enjoyed myself tonight. Thank you.”

“It’s all good,” he said, looking over at her.

They sat and talked for about half an hour.

“It’s late, so I’m going to go on in the house.”

They exited the car and walked up the steps onto the porch. The night air was still and warm. Desiree turned to him and stepped forward. He grabbed her around the waist, and they engaged in a deep kiss. The passion was breathtaking, causing her to release juices again. She broke their embrace and opened the door.

“Thank you again,” she said, not looking at him, and walked into the hallway.

“I’ll call you,” he said.

On the drive home, Ishmael thought about her. It bugged the hell out of him where he’d seen her before. It was her eyes. It was something about them that had him thinking they were familiar. There was something else she was keeping from him besides the robbery and her doing time. He was definitely feeling Desiree, and he was gonna make it happen with her one way or another.

D
esiree was sitting on the front porch reading
Sincerely Yours
by Al-Saadiq Banks. She was so engrossed in the novel that she blocked everything out around her. Children played loudly in the streets. Music blared from passing cars. She was so intrigued by the author’s style that she imagined herself as one of the characters.

Suddenly a motorcycle raced up the street, interrupting her reading. It zoomed back and forth past the house at high speeds. From one end of the block, back and forth it went. She watched as the man on the bike raced past her. His physique was phenomenal. His muscular arms were exposed and covered with tattoos. The way the rider leaned forward on the bike as he handled the monster turned her on. She desperately wondered what the secret cyclist looked like without his helmet.

The children in the street watched him in amazement as he zoomed past them again. There was an outburst of
oohs
and
ahhs
. Desiree stood, looking toward the corner where several men were standing to see what was going on. The cyclist was coming up the street at a high speed with the front wheel high in the air. As he past, Desiree admired the muscles in his arms, flexing as he showed their strength while holding the front wheel in place. The children jumped up and down, applauding the man and his circus act. Desiree felt goose bumps invade her arms. She was totally turned on and imagined herself on the back of the bike holding the man around his waist tightly.

The cyclist continued with the wheelie all the way to the end of the next block with an audience watching until he placed the front wheel to the ground. She watched as the cycle made a U-turn and headed back toward her. She didn’t want the man to see that she was still watching so she sat back down and planted her head into the book, anxiously waiting for him to drive past again so that she could sneak a peek.

The motorcycle cruised down the street slowly as it came to a full stop in front of the house. She raised her head in confusion. She became nervous as the man pulled the bike to the curb and shut off the ignition.

Who is this?
she thought.

The man began to remove the helmet. Desiree’s heart was beating fast and hard. She would finally get to see who the mystery man was behind the helmet.

He pulled the helmet up slowly, and his face was revealed. It was Ishmael. He was sporting a black bandana on his head. He smiled brightly at her. Her heart raced around in her body like an Indy 500 racecar. She jumped to her feet and ran down the steps and embraced him tightly.

“Show off.” She smiled at him.

“All for you, baby.” He smiled and placed a succulent kiss on her lips.

“Whose bike is this?”

“It’s mine.” He smiled, kissing her again.

The children on the block crowded around the bike. They began to ask Ishmael tons of questions about it. Several asked for a ride.

“Not now, fellas. Maybe later, a’ight?” he said.

They looked disappointed with his answer. An ice cream truck turned the corner onto the block. Ishmael reached in his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to the oldest of the children.

“Here. Y’all go get some ice cream.”

“Yea,” they all screamed.

“Hey. Make sure you get them all an ice cream or you won’t get a ride on the bike,” he said to the boy with the money.

The kids took off running up the street.

“How sweet was that?” Desiree admired his kindness.

“Ay, you know how I do it. I love the kids. Actually I’m sorta practicing for when I finally have my own.” He gave her a mischievous look.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, grabbing hold of her waist and pulling her close.

They were face to face, and Desiree could feel the warm air that came from his nose. He kissed her forehead lightly.

“You wanna go for a ride?”

“I don’t know, Ish,” she said, hesitating.

She wanted nothing more in the world than to ride on the back of his bike holding on to him for dear life, but she was afraid of bikes. All the deaths they caused were not what she wanted to experience.

After a few short moments of trying to convince her to go for a ride, Ishmael gave up. They sat on the porch and talked for a while. Ishmael received a call on his cell phone that seemed to be urgent. He kissed her on the cheek and hurried off on his bike, speeding up the street.

She watched him pull off. She was curious as to who he spoke to on the phone to cause him to rush off.

A man walked by and clearly by the way he walked he was high off heroin. He would take a few steps then stop, scratch himself, and then go into a nod. This behavior reminded her of Bilal.

“D
amn, Leroy, what was so important that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?” Ishmael inquired.

“Youngun, you know the damn rules. No conversation about business over the airwaves.”

“A’ight. So what’s up?”

“What are you going to do about my proposition?” Leroy was serious.

Ishmael thought again about if he really wanted to make a deal with the devil to be protected by dirty cops. He thought about if he agreed to their terms then there would be other shit that the crooked cops would start asking for.

“I don’t know, man. I think I’m gonna pass.”

“Sit down, son.”

They were in the office of the local pool hall that Leroy owned. It wasn’t your typical office environment. The office was tricked out with a fireplace that had a bear-skin rug sitting in front of it. The walls were covered with paintings of naked supermodels. The furniture was European, flown in on a special shipment.

Ishmael took a seat in one of the European leather chairs. A blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty handed him a glass of Cognac. He looked up at her, and her mountains of cleavage stared down at him. He shifted his eyes toward Leroy. The blond beauty smiled and glided off out of the room, leaving the men alone.

“I got a lot of heat coming down on me from the top about your position in this city. Ishmael, I wouldn’t come to you about this unless it was something of importance. I knew your father when he was the slickest pimp there was. He had a stable of the baddest bitches miles deep.”

Ishmael shifted in his chair, uneasiness showing on his face. He had heard this story a million times. He’d seen the pictures of his father and the many different women he’d had—his mother being his bottom bitch. Ishmael hated his father and did not idolize him one bit. He had his mother on the stroll and turned her out on heroin. Ishmael was dropped off with the one woman he had always known to take care of him: his grandmother.

He knew who his mother was and always longed to be with her, but his father saw to it that that never happened. His father didn’t even acknowledge Ishmael as his own. Once his mother lost her sex appeal and beauty due to the abuse from using dope, his father kicked her out of his stable, leaving her penniless and a hardcore main liner. His mother returned to his grandmother, seeking shelter only to die of an overdose one month later.

When his mother came home, Ishmael was happy to finally be with her. He dreamed of the day she would come home, and when she did, she was gone just like that, leaving him heartbroken all over again. Ishmael was nine years old when she died. He would hear his grandmother cry about his father killing his mother. She talked about it with her friends constantly.

Knowing his mother died from an overdose of heroin, he contemplated on many occasions avoiding selling dope and straight dealing with cocaine. But Ishmael was a hustler and loved to chase paper, and the major part of his flow came from heroin.

He definitely had no love for his father, and when his father was found dead in an alleyway, he was all too happy to put the man who killed his mother out of his mind. His father was found shot fifteen times sitting in his brand-new Cadillac Sedan Deville.

Leroy talked and talked about his father while Ishmael zoned out and thought about Desiree.

“So, you see, that’s why you need to take my advice. If you don’t, youngun, them mafuckas are gon’ to make it hard for you.”

“Who’s gonna make it hard for me?” he asked.

Leroy shook his head. “Where was your head at when I was talking to you?”

“OG, listen. I got too much going on right now to be pressed about some square-ass downtown cats.”

“Those are powerful men. Let me tell you something: You young punks don’t last too long in this business because you got your nuts rammed up some fish-smelling bitch’s pussy. Get your head right, boy, and be smart.” Leroy stood.

Ishmael stared into the old man’s eyes. He felt his wrath and knew from where he was coming. All the game in the world wasn’t enough to compare to the pull Leroy had. Ishmael respected him to the fullest—after all he put him down on the game. He took him under his wing and treated him like his own son.

“A’ight, so what I gotta do?” Ishmael asked, still staring stone faced at Leroy.

Leroy took a seat and reached into an antique wooden box that sat on his desk. He took out one of his Cuban cigars and lit it, taking deep puffs.

“You report to me and me only. I’ll be your connect, and you’re to only purchase from me. At the end of every week you bring me forty-five percent of the money you pull in, whether you get rid of the weight or not.” He sat back and rocked in his chair.