In My Hood (4 page)

“Man, fuck that shit. We ain’t rolling over so those mafuckas can stick us in the ass,” Derrick retorted.

“Word,” Ishmael stated as he began to shamp the Black and Mild.

“Yo, anybody ever tell you that you look a little just like that mafucka Leroy?”

“Yeah, man, all my life,” Ishmael said, popping a match, lighting the cigar.

“O
kay, lady, this is your stop,” the taxi cab driver announced.

Desiree looked around the old neighborhood. Everything basically looked the same. A lot of new faces flocked the block, but it was still the same traffic flow.

“You gonna get out?” the cabdriver asked.

“Um . . . yeah.”

She went into her pocket and paid the cabby. She reluctantly opened the door and stepped out. The cab pulled away from the curb. Desiree stood on the sidewalk and looked around as if she was a stranger to the neighborhood. She looked in everyone’s face that walked past her. She tried to see if there was anyone she recognized. Desiree found herself standing in front of the building where she and Bilal used to live, and a chill ran over her entire body. The place was abandoned and boarded up. She wanted to cry as she relived the past standing right there on the streets.

“Red tops! Got them red tops,” a man yelled.

“What up, ma? Got them red tops. You need anything?” he asked her.

“I’m good,” she said, shaking her head at the man as she viewed the contents in his hand.

Desiree found herself walking the streets in search of her friend. She had gone by where her friend used to live, only to be disappointed that she had since moved.

As she walked, she spotted the old friend she had been looking for coming out of the liquor store. Beverly wasn’t an addict, but she was an alcoholic. She used to come up to Desiree’s apartment with her boyfriend who used both heroin and cocaine. Some call it speed balling.

Desiree, Bilal, and Beverly’s boyfriend, Mike, would get high, and Beverly would drink her liquor. She had two kids and an apartment on the same block. Beverly was a good woman, and Desiree loved her company.

“Bev,” she called out to her.

Beverly turned around.

“Rae-Rae?” She squinted.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Get the hell outta here. What’s up, girl?” Beverly shouted, walking toward her.

The two women embraced. Desiree could smell the foul, stale alcohol odor coming from her. They stood back and looked at each other. Beverly exposed a rotten-tooth smile.

“Damn, girl. You look good. When you get out?”

“I just came home.”

“Where you headed?” Beverly asked.

“That’s what I’m tryna figure out. I don’t know where to go,” Desiree stated sincerely.

“I feel you, girl.” She suddenly looked down at her feet. “How you taking Bunchy’s death?”

“You know about that?” she asked, surprised.

“Hell yeah. Now since when you known me not to know the low down on anything that goes on in the hood?”

“You right, but he died in a prison upstate, not in the hood.”

“I got ways of finding things out,” she boasted.

There was an awkward silence between the two women as they walked. Desiree felt the tears welling up in her eyes.

“It sure is good to see you. I missed you, girl,” Beverly said, putting her arm around Desiree’s shoulder, trying to change the subject.

“You still with Mike?” she inquired as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

“Please. Mike got locked up.”

“For real?”

“Yep. A lot of things have changed around here.”

“I can tell. There are a lot of new faces out here. A lot of young boys, too,” Desiree said, looking around.

Beverly dug into her brown paper bag and unscrewed the top to her bottle of poison. She peeled the bag back, and Desiree watched her turn the bottle up to her chapped lips and take a deep gulp of the poison.

“Yeah, a lot of people you use to run with are gone, girl,” she said, screwing the top back onto the bottle.

“Gone? Gone where?”

“Dead or in jail. Hey, Cookie went to rehab and got clean. I heard she’s doing real good. She moved down south too.”

“Wow, that’s good.”

The two women continued to walk down the street.

“Hey, Rae-Rae, if you want, you can stay with me.”

“I don’t know, Bev . . . you got kids, and I don’t want to get in the way.”

“Get in the way of what? Please, girl, you can stay with me. You know you my girl.” She smiled.

“I don’t have much money. I’m going to go and join this program my counselor told me about. I’ve been out of work for a long time. Did you know I had marketing skills as a top buyer?”

“Yeah,” Beverly drawled, “I remembered you told me before.”

“So I’m tryna get back into that. After I finish the program, they’re supposed to send me to school to improve my skills, then I’m gonna get me a good job. I gotta get my life back on track.”

“I hear you, girl. I can’t go to nobody’s school though. School wasn’t never for me. Nope, I’m gonna keep doing what I’m doing and enjoy myself,” Beverly stated proudly.

Beverly was a master at robbing the system. She received three hundred dollars a month in food stamps and got five hundred dollars a month welfare for two kids—eleven-year-old Tony Jr. and nine-year-old Michaela.

She paid a hundred dollars a month for rent, and she received energy checks to pay her utilities. Beverly milked the system for all that it’s worth. She got furniture vouchers every two years and appliance vouchers every three years. She sold the vouchers to locals or whoever would buy them.

The attractive days were long gone for Beverly. She had missing teeth, and the ones she still had were rotting. She had beautiful wavy hair that she kept in a ponytail. She stood five-two and had a brown liver-spotted complexion.

Everyone knew her, and she knew everyone and their business as well. Beverly was the 411 of the hood. If she didn’t know it, she would surely find it out for you.

“I went by your old place and found out that you moved. Where did you move to?” Desiree asked as the two continued to walk.

“I’m on Eighteenth Avenue now. I got me a two-bedroom, and it’s got a service porch that I can use as a bedroom. You can have that if you want, and I can get you a bed.”

“That’s cool. I’m not going to be there long anyway,” she said.

But in the back of Desiree’s mind, it wasn’t cool. She just hoped that Eighteenth Avenue wasn’t anything like it was when she left with drugs, addicts, and more drugs cluttering the corners. Desiree just prayed that she would be able to maintain her sobriety.

T
wo days had past, and Desiree was sitting in her room at Beverly’s apartment. It was a quaint apartment on the second floor in a four-family duplex that sat in the middle of the block. It was clean and decorated with the new furniture that Beverly acquired from the state. She didn’t have any pictures hanging on the walls, but nonetheless the apartment was comfortable. The downfall to living with Beverly was the noisy neighbors and drug trafficking that went on down below on the street corners.

It was the first of the month, and Desiree was watching the news in her room while Beverly waited downstairs on the street for the mailman to bring her welfare check and food stamps.

The mailman came, and Beverly went to the liquor store to cash her check. When Beverly returned, she asked Desiree to go with her to the grocery store. Desiree didn’t want to go, but she figured she would have to leave the apartment sooner or later. She said a prayer and was off to the Super food store to shop.

To her surprise Beverly took her clothes shopping as well. She only bought her a few things, but Desiree was happy just being able to put the government-issued jeans away for a few days.

They arrived home and put away the food, and Beverly prepared dinner. It was only 3:30 in the afternoon, but she couldn’t wait to eat. She hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in a long time. Since she’d been living with Beverly she’d only eaten sandwiches made by the corner store that Beverly went and got for her. She was down to thirty dollars from her commissary money.

The new bed Beverly had gotten her was a twin. It was small but better then the cot she slept on in the facility.

Desiree sat on her bed after eating dinner. She was full and satisfied.

“Hey, Rae-Rae, you want to come out on the block with me?”

Desiree shook her head without looking her way, continuing to stare at the television.

Beverly sat down on the bed next to her. “What’s wrong, Rae-Rae?”

“I don’t want to be around that shit, Bev. If I’m gonna stay clean, I gotta stay clear.”

“I feel you, but you don’t have to be around it. I’m just gonna sit on the porch and get some air. That’s all. Plus, they be on the corner, not in front of the house.”

She was sincere but Desiree was afraid.

“I know, Bev, but you don’t understand.”

Both women sat in silence.

“Is it because of Bunchy dying?” Beverly asked.

Desiree didn’t say a word, looking down at her fingers instead. Finally she spoke. “That’s not the only thing, Bev. I mean my life is a mess. All I do is have nightmares, about the murders too.”

That was the first time either one of them had mentioned that horrible day.

“You know they never found out who did it, Bev.”

“I know.”

“But what bothers me the most is I went and did some ole greedy shit to get me and Bunchy locked up, with him doing life. And then the bullshit came when they said he killed himself. Killed himself, Bev? No way in hell would he do that. I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Bev.” She placed her hands over her face. “Bunchy was all I had. He taught me everything I knew about the streets. I knew nothing about this game when I met him. I miss him so much. I’m so scared to be out here by myself,” she cried.

“I know how you feel, Rae-Rae,” she said, patting her on the shoulder. “But you a big girl. You said it yourself, Bunchy taught you everything you know about the streets. You a survivor, girl. You can do it.”

“I can’t do it without Bunchy.”

“Rae-Rae, listen, girl, you can’t depend on no man to make you complete. Them mafuckas will bring you down, girl. You was a successful businesswoman before you met Bunchy, and look what happened. You depended on him to make you complete, and he wound up getting you hooked on drugs.”

Desiree looked at her as if she had some nerve talking.

“I know I’m an alcoholic,” Beverly said, noticing the look, “but ain’t no man make me this way. This was my choice, and I ain’t wanting for nothing. My kids are fed and clothed. My place is nice. I gets paid and the whole nine. But dis ain’t about me, Rae-Rae. It’s about you. I ain’t scared to go outside. You is.”

With that, Beverly got up and left the house. Desiree sat staring off into space. She knew it wasn’t Beverly’s fault she felt the way she did. She also knew Beverly was right. She used to be a strong black woman. She supervised the toughest of men and dominated with an iron fist. All she wanted to do was go to sleep. If she went to sleep, she wouldn’t have to think about it. This is something she became accustomed to doing while being incarcerated. In the beginning she slept a lot so as not to think about the horrible murders—until recently the nightmares came.

I
t was 7:00 a.m. and the phone was ringing. Ishmael rolled over and grabbed the phone.

“Yeah.”

“Ish man, we got that package,” Derrick said.

“A’ight. Where?” he whispered.

“I’m on the way to pick it up. I’ll meet you at the spot.”

“Get at me when you get there,” Ishmael croaked.

He hung up the phone and rested his arm across his forehead. The lovely lady who lay next to him threw her arm across his chest. He reached down, grabbing her arm, and he began to plant soft kisses up it. She giggled. He reached her lips and kissed her deeply.

“What you getting into today?” he asked.

“I’m gonna do some shopping.”

“That’s all you do.”

“Oh, that reminds me. I need some money,” she said.

“I just gave you a stack day before yesterday.”

“I know but I had to use it. I had to pay some bills, and then there was this outfit I had to have. I want to go and pick that up today,” she whined.

“Damn, baby, you spending the money faster than I can make it.”

“Oh, stop your complaining. You got more money than you can handle,” she retorted.

Ishmael got out of bed and headed toward the bathroom. He stood in front of the mirror and prepared to brush his teeth.

The woman who lay in his bed was his on- and off-again girlfriend, Zola. She was Jamaican and was brought over to the United States when she was five. She didn’t have an accent but she was fluent in her native language.

They just had gotten back together three weeks ago. Derrick always tried to tell Ishmael about Zola. He referred to her as a “gold-digging bitch.” Ishmael had one weakness, and that was Zola. He loved her deeply. No matter how many times he’d busted her with other dudes, he’d always take her back after she’d sex him crazy.

Zola was good at her game. She was straight from the street—a diva at heart. She knew what ballers were holding paper, and she knew what to do to get at that paper. She was a master at her skills. She pimped Ishmael on a regular. She did care about him, but it could go either way. It wasn’t like she was in love with him. If he weren’t in the picture, she wouldn’t lose sleep over it. She would move on to the next baller. For the moment, she had a good thing going, and she was not about to lose it. She also knew how far to push him. Every man had his limit. Even though Ishmael was sweet on Zola, he was still one of the most notorious gangster dealers out there.

He never mixed business with pleasure, and he knew how to separate his feelings for Zola from his business. Each time he caught Zola out there creeping with another square, he handled himself in leadership manner, but was ruthless enough so as to set an example for all who watched him.

One time, Ishmael, Derrick, a few of his crew and security men went out one Saturday night. They had just pulled up in front of a club where a heroin baller named Duke was giving a party.