King Divas (3 page)

I
disconnect the call with Mason, text 9-1-1 to the top team, and then throw on some clothes. By the time I exit the house, Charlie a.k.a. Tombstone is in the whip, ready to roll.

“Where are we headed?” he asks.

I jump into the backseat, rocking an AR-15. “Hit I-55.” I get Mason back on the phone.

“Where you at?” he barks.

“Need your coordinates,” I say and then relay them to Tombstone and text Profit again.

“I'm headed to Dr. Cleveland's. Meet me there.”

“I'm on it,” Tombstone says, overhearing the call.

The questionably ethical doctor has long looked the other way when treating life-saving emergencies for the Vice Lords—mainly because we pay with stacks of cash and bricks of cocaine. Anxious, I fidget in the backseat. My man has recently returned from the dead. I won't be able to handle it if I lose him again.
What the fuck happened? Why in the hell did I even encourage him to meet up with his older brother?
Blood don't make you family. After learning that the two rival chiefs are brothers and seeing the anguish on Python's face when he realized who Mason was, I went against my own street code and encouraged Mason to heal old wounds. I should've known better. Some of the most evil shit out here in the streets comes from muthafuckas that look like you.

There'll never be a truce between the Gangster Disciples and Vice Lords. How fucking naïve can a bitch get?

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

“What was that?” Tombstone asks, looking up into the rearview mirror.

“Drive,” I bark.

“You got it.”

Dismissing Tombstone's nosiness, my mind scrolls through a series of bad scenarios that could've gone down at that church. The shit that happened between our people and the Angels of Mercy biker club pops into mind.
Could this have been another damn setup?

Ever since Uncle Skeet, the former captain of police, was killed by Mason's real mother, Alice, a couple of months back, the Vice Lords needed a new arms dealer. I fucked up and struck a deal with the notorious biker gang. Those muthafuckas double-crossed me with the Gangster Disciples and nearly took a chunk of us out. I still don't know how that shit went down. But there was no mistaking that it was Python shouting for his brother on the top of the roof that night. He couldn't have known that Mason would be at that delivery. At the time, everyone thought that Mason was dead. I still recall the raw emotion in Python's voice. It was full of pain and anguish, but looking back on it now, maybe it was hatred. Had I gotten it wrong again and Python wasn't longing to reunite with his brother—but instead was still determined to kill him? Street beef dies hard out here. More often than not, blood doesn't trump gang affiliation.

In record time, Tombstone whips into Dr. Cleveland's driveway out in Tunica, Mississippi—a town right over the state line.

I hop out of the ride before Tombstone stops. After scanning the perimeter, I bust through the front door without knocking. “Where is he?”

A nervous Dr. Cleveland points. “He's upstairs.”

“Is he all right? What the fuck?” I don't wait for an answer, but I take the stairs two at a time. “Mason!” I draw my gun. “Mason!”

“In here.”

I follow the sound of his voice to a bedroom—and get another shock. There lying in a bed on bloody white sheets is Dribbles. I lower my gun. “What the hell happened?”

Mason, sitting in a chair, blood drenching his shirt, looks up at me with his one brown eye and one milk-white eye. “She's not going to make it.”

I rush over and press his burned and scarred head up against my chest. “Don't say that. I'm sure that she's . . .” My gaze falls on Dribbles's ghost-white face. In fact, she's one shade from blue.
She's not going to make it.

I look down at Mason's hard but sad eyes with no words to comfort him. “I'm sorry.”

He lowers his head. He loves this woman—like a real mother. He never cared that she snatched him from his
biological
. He'd made it clear that as far as he was concerned, she'd
saved
him from a crackhead who'd put him in her kitchen oven. It didn't matter that Dribbles, who earned her nickname because as kids we'd always see slob dribbling from her mouth whenever she was high as a kite on the street, was no angel and struggled for years with crack too. She'd married her pimp, Smokestack, and together they raised Mason and had their own kid, Profit, together. Once Smokestack got locked down, she found the strength to clean up her life. After that, she got the fuck out of Memphis. The only reason she'd returned was for the funeral we'd prematurely had for Mason a few months back. Since then, she got caught up again, trying to fix this or that before getting snatched by Mason's real mother, Alice Carver.

Alice had escaped from the mental institution, kidnapped her sister, murdered Uncle Skeet and his wife, and was seconds from putting Dribbles into the ground before Maybelline Carver, Momma Peaches, escaped from the house's basement and rammed her sister into an oak tree—saving both of them.

Duty bound, Dribbles wanted to right an old wrong. I got swept up too. Now look what has happened.

I fight the urge to interrogate Mason. He'll tell me the details in his own time, in his own way.

Mason's grip on his mother's hand tightens. He's trying to force life back into her frail body.

“What can I do?” I ask.

“There's nothing that can be done.” He pauses. “Is Profit with you?”

I tense up. “He should be here any minute.”

“Good.”

I nod.

The silence grows as the seconds tick by. I'm going to stand here for as long as he wants me. He needs all the comfort that he can get. As sorry as I am for Dribbles's possible transition from this world, I'm relieved that my man is in one piece.

“I'm still trying to play that over and over in my mind,” Mason says, shaking his head. “But I can't get the pieces of the puzzle to fit.”

I squeeze his shoulder, encouraging him to take his time.

“We went to this church where she and . . . my aunt had agreed to meet.The whole ride over, I had this bad feeling. But Mom was so excited that I pushed that shit to the side and went anyway.”

And I pushed you, too.
Guilt skips down my spine.

“When we entered the building, there she was . . . lying on the floor with blood all around her.”

I frown, thinking that the CD scratched or something. “What?”

He nods as if he's making perfect sense. “Maybelline . . . she'd been shot.”

“By who?”

He shrugs. “I don't know. We raced over to her and when she looked up at me, it was with so much . . .
love
. It blew me away because I wasn't prepared for that.”

The room goes silent again while he relives the moment.

“Then all hell broke loose. Python stormed into the church. He took one look at Maybelline and then me—and drew the wrong damn conclusion.”

“So he thinks that you . . .” I grasp the situation and can't believe what I'm hearing.

Mason nods. “I tried to tell him, but that nigga wasn't hearing shit. Him and some other nigga went for their piece and I went for mine. I had to fuckin' shoot our way out of there.”

“Oh shit.”

“Exactly.” Mason gets to his feet. “I caught two to the shoulder.” He pulls his shirt down to show me.

“Mason—”

“They're clean. Went straight through—but Dribbles took four hits while trying to get back in the car. I don't know who that muthafucka was with Python, but his ass got added to my fucking shit list.”

“At first, I didn't know that she'd been hit. She didn't say anything when I jetted out of that muthafucka. I was all in my head space, pissed as shit and going the fuck off. Then a minute later, she slumped over in her seat like a rag doll.” He moves closer to the bed, still holding Dribbles's hand. “She doesn't deserve this shit.”

“I know, baby.” I rub his back, wishing that I could take away his pain. “I'm so sorry.” There are so many questions still lingering.

“Sorry isn't going to change a fuckin' thing, now is it?” His angry glare slices toward me.

I pull back, stunned. Is this when he starts blaming me? A laundry list of emotions scroll over his face a few times before he shakes his head.

“I'm sorry,” he says and then pulls me into his embrace. “This isn't your fault. It's those nasty Gangster Disciple roaches. They'll pay for this. I'll make sure of it, even if it's the last thing I do.”

“H
ello, Isaac,” I greet him through my half-rolled-down car window outside the Federal Correctional Institute.

My father's smile falters. “I was hoping that you'd call me daddy.”

“And people in hell pray for ice water,” I counter. “Are you going to get in or are we going to go over our Christmas list too?”

Isaac's smile broadens again. “Still the tough cookie, huh—like your mom.” His hand pounds the top of the car. “All right. I could use a ride.” He straightens up and then strolls around the car to the passenger's side.

As he moves, my eyes narrow. For a man in his sixties, he doesn't look a day over forty. He's six feet, chocolate brown, with impressive prison muscles. Effortlessly, he oozes power and strength. Once upon a time, I admired that about him—if not envied. Now, as captain of the police gang unit, I'm worried.

Isaac pops open the passenger-side door and settles into the seat with an easy smile.

“Buckle up,” I tell him before starting the car.

He looks at me. “Why? Who is going to give
you
a ticket?”

“Do it.”

“Will do, Lieutenant Hawkins.” He reaches for the seat belt.

“It's captain,” I inform him, but there's no surprise in his face. “You already knew that.”

His smile stretches wider. “Congratulations, princess. I'm proud of you.”

I laugh before thinking.

“That's funny?”

“Actually, it's hilarious.” I pull away from the curb and get us back on the main road.

“Look. I know we've worked from opposite ends of the law, but I shouldn't have to remind you that hasn't
always
been the case.”

I clench my jaw and cut him a sharp side-eye.

“I recall picking
you
up from jail a couple of times when you were younger, back when you had your nose all up that one li'l nigga's ass. What was his name again?”

I grind my jaw until it feels like it's starting to lock.

“Casey—Carson—C—”

“Cash,” I snap. “His name was Cash.” I know damn well that Isaac hasn't forgotten my ex's name. When you dangle a boy over a balcony by his foot, I'm pretty fucking sure that the name sticks.

“Cash.” He nods, smiling. “That's right. I kept thinking that his momma should've named him Chump Change.”

“You're not funny.”

He shrugs. “Wasn't trying to be.”

Tension thickens the air between us. I don't know why Isaac insists on ripping off scabs and exposing old wounds.The thousands of letters that he's sent me during his ten-year stint—each one more desperate than the last—lead me to believe that he wants to turn over a new leaf. For the longest time, I didn't understand him. He disappeared from my and my mother's life without so much as a “fuck you.”

For most of my life I hated him, which caused me to act out. I joined the Folks Nation and helped turn South Chicago into Chiraq. Looking back on it now, I'm pained to admit that I did it all to get his attention. After countless crimes, heartache, and numerous overdoses, it was my stepfather, Dyson, who pulled me out of the abyss and straightened me out. I owe everything to that man.

The man next to me is a stranger—I need to remember that.

Isaac cracks under the car's silent pressure. “Look. I'm sorry. I got us off on the wrong foot.”

I cut him another side-eye.

“Okay. I always start us off on the wrong foot,” he amends, placing a hand over his heart. “I'm truly sorry. Can we start over?”

I meet his stare and see his sincerity. Grudgingly, I cave. “All right.”

His lips split into a wide smile. “Good. You'll see that things will be different between you and me, going forward. I'm a new man.”

“So you kept telling me in your letters.”

“It's true. A man does a lot of soul searching when he's locked down in a six-by-eight jail cell doing a dime bid. It's plenty of time to think over your life and review all the mistakes you've made.” The car falls silent once again as he gazes out of the passenger's-side window. “The streets are hard on a black man, but at the same time, it's all most of us have. These concrete jungles are where a man learns how to be a real man. The slightest show of weakness and your family is putting you into the ground.”

“There's more out here than the streets, Dad.” I wince the second the word
dad
flows out of my mouth.

His smile stretches from ear to ear as his eyes warm. “I know that now. Plus, I'm getting too old for this shit. I mean what the fuck do I even have to show for any of it?”

It's not easy, but I hold my tongue. I learned a long time ago not to believe a damn thing that comes out of his mouth. Isaac is a smooth liar. According to my mother, he always has been.

“I'm out, Hydeya,” he says. “I hope you believe that.” He waits for me to say something, but everything I want to say will hurt his damn feelings.

Isaac continues. “Who knows? Maybe one day soon you'll invite me and Peaches over for dinner so I can meet this
white
boy you married.”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” I counter and then soften the blow by adding, “Let's take things one day at a time.”

He nods with a confident smile. Clearly, he believes that he can win me over. I'm not so sure and I don't want to make it easy for him.

Isaac adds, “None of this will be easy. I'm going to have a hard enough job getting my home in order. Peaches and I . . . aren't exactly on the best of terms. After all she's been through with Alice, it's probably going to take a miracle to save our marriage, but I'm prepared to do all I can to set things right.”

What in the hell makes him think that I want to hear about his marital problems, especially to a woman he deserted me and my mother for?Years of resentment curdles my blood. I don't hate Maybelline Carver—
hate
is a strong word—but I don't care for the woman—or her family.

When I finally get him over to Shotgun Row, Isaac sighs. “Hmph. The place looks exactly the same.”

I pull to a stop in front of Peaches's house. Isaac's heavy gaze returns to me when I don't shut off the car.

“Aren't you coming in?” he asks.

“No. I have a lot of work to get to.”

He nods. “Another time?”

I take a deep breath and then lay into him. “Look, Isaac. I don't know whether you're pulling my chain or not with all your talk of turning over a new leaf, but I do want to make one thing clear: Memphis is my city now. I'm responsible for keeping the citizens safe from thugs like you—and I take my job seriously. As you've seen, the streets are really crazy right now. So until I'm convinced that you're an average Joe Citizen, I'll be watching you.”

Our eyes lock during a mini-battle while we size each other up for the battle ahead. After a minute, his lips slide into one more smile. “So that's a rain check then?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

He unhooks his seat belt and then climbs out of the car, but before he shuts the door, he leans down. “Thanks for the ride. I'll call you.”

I give him a flat smile, certain that I look like an idiot.

“Bye, princess.” He shuts the door. Instead of watching him walk into the house, I pull away from the curb. In my rearview, I see him standing there, watching me go.

Good. I want to make sure that he takes me seriously. As bad as the gang wars are now, they could get seriously worse if King Isaac gets back into the mix.

Suddenly, there's a loud screech and a horn blares.

Cutting a look to my right, an SUV barrels toward me. “SHIT!” I slam on my brakes, narrowly missing being T-boned at an intersection.

Horns blare and tires screech as cars slam on their brakes to avoid colliding. A few were unsuccessful, causing pileups.

I shift into cop mode, hit my flashing lights, hang an illegal U-turn, and take off after the fleeing SUV.

I whip from lane to lane, trying to catch up to the black Escalade. At the same time, I reach for my phone and call into dispatch. “This is Captain Hydeya Hawkins. I'm in pursuit of a black Escalade, speeding west on McLemore. I'm requesting backup.”

At the intersection of Florida Street, an 18-wheeler Wal-mart delivery truck pulls out.

“Shit,” I exclaim again.

I drop the phone and swerve into oncoming traffic.

“Fuck!”

A hard yank on the wheel and I swing in the opposite direction, sideswiping a minivan but saving my life.

The Escalade takes the cloverleaf on two wheels onto I-55, and then takes off like he's on a NASCAR track.

I lean over and fish for the phone. When I get dispatch back on the line, I rattle off the SUV's license number. A couple of seconds later, I'm told the car is registered to Barack Obama. “Well, someone has a sense of humor.”

Two cop cars join the chase. I lock on to this sonofabitch, determined to take this crazy driver down.