Red Hot Liar (9781617738654) (11 page)

I
was crawling six feet deep at the bottom of a nightmare when Bunni woke me up and scared the shit outta me.

“Guess what?” she shrieked all loud with her lips right on my ear. “I just got a call from a TV producer, baybee!”

“Bunni, please!” I wailed as I rolled over in bed with my whole body sweating. I had been tossing and turning and dreaming that Gutta had his big hands wrapped around my throat tryna choke me out, and I was scared and mad at the same damn time. “What did I tell you about waking me up like that? Go somewhere and lee'me 'lone, girl!”

“C'mon, Mink!” She snatched my pillow. “I finally got one of them stuffy Hollywood mofos to agree to come out here and check us out so we can get our own reality TV show! Get in that bathroom and brush your teefus so we can get stupid on our grind today. The producer is coming over this afternoon to interview us and see if we're the type of peeps who can hold down a reality TV show for more than a couple of episodes.”

I lifted my head and peered at her from one eye. “We? We
who
?”

“Me, you, and Peaches, that's who! Keep up, dammit!”

Snatching my pillow back, I rolled back over and mumbled. “Bunni, please. After that bullshit with Okrah you know I ain't feeling no more TV shit and Viceroy done already said Peaches can't stay here playin' all them tight skirts and high heels he be rocking. He swore to God he could see P's dick print through his dress and it freaked him straight out.”

“So what?”

I flicked my hand at her. “So you scammed him, Bunni. You told him your manly brother ‘Paul' was coming for a little visit! Viceroy practically shit on the couch when Peaches pranced up in here in that fly-ass pink Chanel suit.”

“So what?” she said again.

“So you can just kill all that reality show noise, okay? It ain't gonna happen.”

“But P's gotta be living right here in the mansion in order for us to get the show, Mink! That's what's gonna get us on, girl! People are gonna wanna see how all of us different types of rich black people live together under one big old gigantic roof.”

“That ain't happening.” I shrugged. “Viceroy wants Peaches out the door like yesterday, and besides, none of them other producers who was blowing up your phone at first ever called you back again, now did they? I'm telling you I am
not
with this reality bullshit, Bunni. All they want us to do is talk shit about each other and stab each other in the back. Who they think we are? The Braxtons? Nah, I ain't tryna put on no front and walk around with no camera stuck up in my face twenty-four /seven.”

“Trick is you serious?” Bunni shrieked as she plopped down at the foot of my bed. “Uh-uh, Mink! You cursed Okrah out on live TV so I know damn well you ain't tryna act camera shy! Me and you
belong
on TV! Remember how we used to wanna be the hosts on
Wildin' Out
so we could show off all the fly clothes we stole?”

I smirked. “Getting seen and being noticed ain't everything no more, Bunni.”

“It is to me, goddammit!” My Harlem rowdy crossed her arms and poked out her lip. “I don't know about you, but it is to
me
!”

 

Gutta and Shy stood outside the dirty Greyhound station smoking Newports and chillin' as they waited for the bus to arrive. They were planning to take a long-ass ride down to the Lone Star State since going up in an airplane scared the shit outta Gutta. The bus station was filled with all kinds of people coming and going from one destination to the next. There was always an under-current of griminess and shady characters that rolled low-key among the ordinary travelers, and Gutta and Shy fit in perfectly with that set.

“Yo, son,” Shy said as he flicked the butt of his Newport on the ground and crushed it under his foot. “What's the plan once we get down there, bruh? How we gonna get up close to these silver spoon-ass muffuckas?”

Gutta was already two steps ahead of his comrade. In his mind he was already in Texas puttin' in work. He knew they were gonna have to do some scoping in order to find out where Mink's family lived and how they moved. Gutta was gonna use every tool that predators in prison used to manipulate people and situations and to exploit any weaknesses they might have. He had spent enough time in the joint to know how to get up close on a target with a smile and a handshake, just to shank 'em in the back as soon as they lowered their defenses.

“Don't worry 'bout it. I got this. We gonna make something happen, son,” Gutta said confidently to his young soldier. “We gonna go down there and show these niggas how Harlem get it in. Once I put the murder or the kidnap game down on Mink and her coward-ass fam, they gonna be begging me to take their money and get the fuck up outta Texas.”

Shy was about to ask another question when some mangy-looking white woman approached them pulling a shopping cart loaded with junk. She bore all the classic signs of a drug fiend. Her dirty hair was matted to her scalp and her clothes were ripped and raggedy.

“Hey fellas, how ya'll doing,” she walked right up on them and greeted them. “Umm, I don't mean to bother you guys but I was wondering if you . . . umm . . . if you know where I can cop a little bit of scag.”

Shy started to answer her but Gutta cut him off.

“What the hell is
scag
?” Gutta snapped, knowing damn well the bum-fiend wanted some heroin. “Yo, do I look like a fucking drug dealer to you?” he demanded, pretending to be mad. “I'm fucking offended, lady! It's junkies like you that lower the value of our great city.”

Gutta took an aggressive step toward the woman and raised the intensity in his voice.

“Yo, why don't you go ask your fuckin' cop-buddies over there chewing on them dirty franks where you can get you some scag! Niggas over there tryna act like they ain't been scoping me out for the last damn hour,” Gutta said as he pointed at the two undercover agents who were standing near the hot dog vendor eyeing him. “Miss Officer,” he said to the dirty white woman, “your shit is very sloppy. Next time tell those muffuckas to stop stuffing that mystery meat down their throats while they're on the job, you fucking rookies!”

The white woman's face turned Kool-Aid red with anger as she got busted out in front of the entire bus station. She was definitely a cop trying to make a buy and bust, but Gutta had just shot her cover straight outta the water so she turned around and grabbed her raggedy cart and jetted out of the terminal. People started laughing and clapping and finger-pointing like crazy. The undercovers at the hot dog stand had no choice but to pack it up and get the hell out too.

“Yo, you peeped the fuck outta that shit, son!” Shy grinned at his manz in amazement. “How the fuck did you know ol' girl was a fucking cop? I was just about to serve that bitch!”

“You gotta be observant, my nigga,” Gutta told his young partna. “Remember that shit when we get to Texas. Keep ya eyes open when we get down there and learn to scope everything around you. Not just the obvious shit in front of you. Ya dig?”

A half hour later Gutta and Shy were on their way. The bus wasn't too crowded yet so Shy got up and went to the bathroom. Gutta sat in the aisle seat with his headphones on rapping loudly to the music on his iPod. Soon, the unmistakable scent of Sweet Grand Daddy Purp was floating all throughout the bus. An old black lady and two middle-aged Hispanic women complained to the bus driver that someone was smoking in the bathroom so the driver pulled over.

“Ayo,” Gutta said, snatching his headphones from his ears as the bus came to a halt on the edge of the road and the driver stood up. “What you stopping for old man? I need to be somewhere on time and you holding us up.”

“Somebody is smoking weed back there and I ain't having that type of shit on my bus,” the heavyset black man responded as he headed down the aisle. “Whoever is in that bathroom better come the hell on out right now!”

A few moments later the door squeaked open. Shy came out with a thick cloud of smoke trailing behind him with his red eyes looking like he was part Chinese. Gutta looked at his boy and shook his head. That nigga was higher than a light bill after Christmas.

“I'm going to need you to exit my bus, young man,” the driver said as he huffed and puffed his old chest out. He pointed toward a red and white billboard overhead. “Smoking is strictly prohibited on this bus, can't you fucking read the signs?”

“Man, go sit ya old ass back down and drive this bus.” Shy waved him off lazily as he got back in his seat. “I ain't getting offa shit!”

The driver frowned and nodded. “Okay then, smart-ass. Have it your way, but this bus won't move until you get to stepping,” he said defiantly. “Now you can take that shit up with all these other passengers and see what they say. I'ma get paid either way, mothafucka.”

The passengers started getting real rowdy and cursing at Shy to get off the bus. One tall, light-skinned dude sitting across from Gutta got out of his seat and confronted Shy directly.

“Yo, you gotta get the fuck off the bus, homey,” the dude said in a real brolic voice. “I gotta go see my goddamn son and you holding us the hell up.”

Shy was high as shit and found the whole scene funny as he grinned from ear to ear.

“Man, fuck you light-bright!” Shy laughed. “You gotta problem come handle it.”

Before the tall nigga could react a swift hand of lightning came down and struck him across his face.

The monumental force of the slap dropped him perfectly back into his chair and he slumped over with his forehead leaning on the seat in front of him. That nigga was asleep just that fast. All he needed was a pillow.

It got so damn quiet that you could hear a pin drop on the bus. Folks were wide-eyed and silent as Gutta stood over the sleeping guy and grilled the rest of the passengers.

“All ya'll shut the fuck up and stop that bitching and moaning,” he barked, putting the entire bus in check. “The next mothafucka who got something to say is going straight to sleep just like this clown right here!”

Gutta turned his murderous attention to the driver.

“Nigga if you don't get this bus moving right now I will body yo old ass, stuff you in the back of that dirty-ass bathroom, and then drive this bitch myself to where I gots to go. You feel me?”

The driver looked horrified at the huge brolic nigga with fire in his eyes, knowing he meant every word he had uttered. He needed that paycheck he got every two weeks, but Greyhound didn't pay him nearly enough to handle these types of problems.

“Y-y-yes sir,” the driver stuttered as he headed his ass back down the aisle to his seat. “We're out of here right now, sir. No problem at all.”

“Now.” Gutta turned to the frightened passengers again. “If anybody else got some smart shit to say I can make ya'll asses go night-night too. My right hand is better than Nyquil, dammit! I will put you smooth the fuck out, free of charge.”

Nobody even looked in Gutta's direction as the bus cranked back up and everything got back in motion.

“Fuck you, nigga!” a tiny voice came from the back of the bus. “Ain't nobody scared of yo' big head Incredible Hulk–lookin' ass!”

Gutta whirled around ready to kill a mothafucka and then he saw Shy cheesin' his ass off. Gutta's scowl melted into a smile as he laughed at his homeboy and shook his head.

“Don't be playin with me like that, man,” Gutta said, cracking up. “All this was yo dumb-ass fault anyway! You got me on the Greyhound wildin' out and shit, nigga!”

“We Harlem, baby,” Shy said, still cheesing from the weed. “We do what the fuck we wanna do. It's a Harlem world.”

 

“We've got a small problem,” Bob Easton said the moment Viceroy stepped into the executive boardroom at Dominion Oil. He was sitting in Viceroy's chair with his feet up on the desk. The rest of the crew sat randomly around the conference table. They were an informal bunch today, this Gang of Five. They sat around in their shirtsleeves with their collars unbuttoned, smoking Havana cigars and pondering the political futures of the candidates like a think tank full of vicious sharks.

“What's up?” Viceroy asked as he walked past the white man lounging in his chair and took a seat in the middle of the pack. When he stood at the head of the table and conducted board meetings and dictated company policy he was the HNIC. The oil business was his specialty, but the arena of big-time politics belonged to the elder white men in the room, and today Viceroy knew to stay in his place.

“It's Ruddman. He's running against you, Viceroy. He filed his paperwork ten minutes before the deadline, and now he's in the race.”

“That greasy bastard!” Viceroy sneered. “That fat-head fuck!”

“Now, now.” Bob held up his hand calmly. “There's no need for all of that. This isn't a game of emotions, Viceroy. It's a game of cunning and skill, and obviously Ruddman is using a bit of both.”

“But if he's running against me then that could split some of the votes. Folks who are against Larry Dawkins and want him out will now have to choose between a rich black man and another rich black man!”

“That's the whole idea,” Bob said, nodding. “Ruddman's being smart and strategic. He's got some top-notch advisors who are setting him up for big-time success.”

Viceroy balked. “So if his cats are setting him up for success, what the hell are you guys setting me up for?”

“A killing,” Bob said quietly. “We're not just setting you up to win, we're setting you up to conquer and annihilate! When we get done throwing rocks in Ruddman's campaign he'll go crawling back into his cave at the Omni and never come out again.”