Ruthless and Rotten (6 page)

“Listen up, Royce.” Kenya was trying her best to remain professional as all eyes were glued on her. “I just need to ask you something in private, if that's okay. You can save the rest of that.”

“Why, do you have a wire on you? Did the
Feds
send you to fuck with me or something?” He stood up from the table with his glass in his hand. Everyone within ear range, drug dealers, dancers, and even the workingman, was quiet waiting for Kenya to respond to the old man's allegations of her working for the police in some capacity. “Now, tsk, tsk tsk. There's no need trying to act naive, young lady. I already know that you play for the other team, so to speak. You snitchin' little tramp! Yeah, I saw the picture. We all did!” Royce raised his left eyebrow, grinning, drink still in hand. “Your man Storm tried denying it, but we all knew. He wasn't slick and you ain't either!”

“What the hell are you insinuating? Storm knew what?” Kenya's violent streak and Detroit-born-and-raised temper was surfacing quickly. She had come to him respectfully, in peace, in hopes of gaining some information on Storm. Now he was calling her out—in her man's club, of all places. “Yeah, all right then.” She promptly dismissed the dancers who were idly standing around, not making money but ear hustling. “Y'all girls can leave. This one and his entire crew on they way out the door.”

Kenya's teeth were clenched tightly and her lips trembled as she summoned the dancers once more to move on to another customer. They hesitantly did as they were told in a slow fashion, trying to linger around for the shit to hit the fan. “Hurry the fuck up before I start sending bitches home!” That serious threat of being cut off from the crowd of stuffed pocket men made them speed their departure up. “Now back to you old man! How dare you insult me!” she feverishly lashed out, ready to kill. “All I wanted to find out is if you know anything about Storm. Why are you in here playing games with me? This shit ain't no joke!” Her voice was increasing with every infuriated word. “Are you crazy?”

An equally angry Royce quickly responded. “Pay attention, you little whore! I don't know shit about that coward Deacon or Storm . . . ask Javier, that's your best bet!” He stroked his unshaven salt-and-pepper beard, while straightening out his multicolored polyester suit. His crew were all young in age, yet must have been inspired by their leader when they selected their gear for the evening, all looking like Royce clones. They were hanging on every word that slipped out his past-tense jaws like he was spitting gold. “Matter of fact, here's a better option for you. Why don't you ask the coroner at the local morgue?” Royce boldly suggested, enjoying the growing tension that filled the room. “Yeah, get in touch with them. They probably could answer all your questions better than anyone else. After all, Tasty, Kenya, London or whatever name you're going by tonight, that is where snitches and bitches end up, ain't it—dead in the morgue?”

Kenya was straight bugging out and trembling in denial. Her past was coming back to bite her in the ass. She was completely drained from worry about Storm and sleep deprived. With her body temperature close to reaching boiling level from him exposing her private life to everyone in Alley Cats, her mentality started to further go off into explosive mode. On the other hand, Royce and his friends were taking pleasure in the sight of Kenya's high-and-mighty stuck-up self being brought down a couple of notches to where they felt she belonged. They were still holding their glasses in their hands and smiling, enjoying the show.

Kenya couldn't hold it together any longer.
These busters think I'm here to entertain them. Yeah, all right!
Kenya's mind was racing. Her palms were itching to smack Royce across his unshaven beard. She used her finger to nervously twirl her engagement ring as only one thought monopolized her brain: Storm coming home alive. Now Royce was putting shit in the game, making a scene. “The morgue! What? The morgue! Did I hear you act like you know something about my man? Is that what you doing?”

“You heard what I said, little girl!” With spite, he raised his glass as if he was making a toast. “Now your best bet is to get the fuck away from me before I kick your period on!”

The crowd was amused by Royce's brash words. Kenya was now borderline psychotic
. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one—
blast the hell off. Before Royce knew what was happening, Kenya socked him dead in his left eye, followed by several combinations of right and left hooks. He was thrown off balance, falling back into the booth, knocking all the bottles of champagne onto the club floor. Her attack caught his smug crew off guard as they watched Kenya pounce on top of Royce like a sick, deranged mountain lion.

“Motherfucker, you done earned this right here!” she shouted with each blow.

By the time one of his crew could snatch her off of their boss and get him back on his feet, Royce's face was scratched to the white meat. His lip was bleeding and his dentures were hanging sideways out his mouth. Showing no signs of letting up, Kenya wasn't done yet as she struggled to break free and continue showing Royce exactly who was boss in that motherfucker.

“Let me go! Let me go!” Kenya's piercing screams could be heard throughout the whole club. “Let me the fuck go!”

“I'm gonna kill you, slut, just like Javier killed that no-good snitchin'-ass man of yours!” he boasted once more. Royce's words were vindictive and sliced deep into her inner soul. “Matter of fact, they can bury you both together in a cheap wooden box!”

Kenya broke free of the guy's grip just as O.T. and the bouncers approached them. She stole on Royce once more, this time tagging the other eye. Her perfectly manicured nails had broken off into his face, causing him to scream out like a little baby.

“Don't fold now, old man! I ain't done. Let's do this! Boss the hell up!”

“Y'all better get that wild little whore!” Royce tried commanding his boys, “Before I kill her up in here.”

Kenya was on the zigitty nut boom and close to practically foaming at the mouth as Boz grabbed her up in his chest. With Kenya's legs kicking wildly and arms still swinging, Boz caught some serious hell in dragging her up the staircase to the office door. He had easier times trying to throw a grown-ass, six foot two, 300 pound, drunk and disorderly man out of Alley Cats than he was having with his boss's girl.

“I'm gonna get you, Royce! I swear to God, I'm gonna lullaby that old, wrinkled-ass for good one day!” Kenya was leaning over the railing, yelling as an exhausted Boz still struggled. “I swear on everything that I love, just wait! You got that shit coming, Royce! On my parents' grave! That's ya ass!”

“Don't fret, Tasty.” Royce was putting on a brave front for the club patrons. His ego was bruised, but he still continued to talk shit, trying his best to save face. “All right girl, I'll see you in them streets real soon and when I do, oh my! I'll teach your pole-swinging-ass a priceless lesson of a lifetime, one that you'll never, ever forget!” Royce blew her a kiss and smiled in spite of the severe pain he was feeling. “I'll see you soon, little girl, real, real soon!”

“Say you promise! You old son of a bitch! Say you motherfucking promise!”
Kenya managed to shout recklessly across the crowded bar as Boz finally pried her fingers off the railing and threw her in the office onto the couch, next to her terrified sister.

“Damn, Kenya! What was that all about?” London puzzled, not knowing what to think.

Kenya confessed to London the real reason that she hadn't mentioned her very existence to her friends and employees. “It's simple. I know that you can't stand drugs or anything affiliated with them, so why would I even wanna get your name mixed into this world that I'm calling home? I mean, be serious, London, I already knew that any hopes of you accepting Storm and his lifestyle was little to none. I ain't stupid.”

“Regardless of whatever, Kenya, we're sisters—family—blood. You act as if you're ashamed of me,” London argued, feeling some sort of way. “No matter how much foolish stuff you've been caught up in the middle of in the past, I've never turned my back on you or even once thought about it.”

“Yeah, you right, London.”

“I know I'm right. So there's no reason to be up in here, feeling sorry for yourself. Things are gonna work out, you'll see. Now chill, Kenya, before you have a total nervous breakdown.”

Kenya let her body relax and break back down to normal. However, her heart was still racing from her confrontation with Royce. “Girl, I think I better. That old bastard gonna make me hurt him.”

“I was watching on that security camera behind the desk over there.” London smiled, knowing how her twin could get when pushed to the edge or backed into a corner. “You are in some serious need of anger management. I'm telling you, Kenya, you are a straight-up nutcase.”

“I know sis. I think I picked up some of your bad habits.”

London hugged her twin, trying to ease her pain and worry. “You wish!”

Much to Kenya's surprise, during the course of their conversation, London announced to her that after long consideration, she'd reluctantly decided to at least return the 15,000-dollar gift that her twin had blessed her with.

“Thank you, sis. I knew that you wasn't gonna just leave me hanging like that. You best believe that I wouldn't even think about being an Indian giver if it wasn't a doggone emergency.” Kenya was counting every penny she got her hands on, as a penny closer to Storm's release.

“Stop that kinda talk. I'll call my bank sometime tomorrow and get the money wired out here, okay?”

“Thanks, London.”

“We're sisters, girl. I love you.”

 

 

Meantime, O.T. was left to settle up and iron things out with a half-crazed, wounded physically and emotionally Royce. “Man, what the fuck did you say to piss her off like that?”

“What the hell you mean, what did I say?” Royce quizzed, hunching his shoulders, wiping the blood out the side corner of his swollen lip. “That silly once-a-month-bleeding bitch just went bananas for no good reason at all! She needs to be fucking medicated or put down!”

O.T. quickly studied the faces of Royce's crew as they listened to their self-proclaimed leader punk out. They, along with several of the dancers and patrons, were stricken with amazement; that after blowing all that old-style wannabe-gangster bullshit out his busted grill, Royce was standing in O.T.'s face taking a cop to his snide comments, hurtful open-ended threats, and incredible accusations about the club's owner, O.T.'s brother.

“Damn, dawg, it's like that?” O.T. turned his fitted baseball cap backwards, getting in his zone. He cracked his knuckles while slightly smirking. Beads of sweat were swiftly forming on his forehead. “Please don't let me even imagine that your ass is truly gonna go out like this! I ain't trying to act no fool up in here and ruin none of these hardworking folks' night!”

The bouncers, ten deep, were all posted, ready to attack just in case O.T. needed backup.

“Come on now. What you talking about, youngblood? Where you going with all this?” Royce was shaking in his burgundy and yellow two-toned Stacy Adams as his crew put some cowardly space in between him and O.T.

When the shit jumped and the fists started to fly, it was more than apparent Royce was gonna be on his own on this one. This was potentially gonna be one stump down that his old-school-ass had coming. He had no business coming up in Storm's club, of all places, beefing with his girl, talking all that la-la-la mess. He'd crossed the line on number one of the player's code of ethics. Now, for real, for real, flat the fuck out, it was on! He had to pay up.

A bigger crowd started also gathered around the booth after the DJ stopped spinning music. Most of the dancers held their G-strings in their hands and had stopped giving private dances to eyewitness Royce get put back in his place. Even Chocolate Bunny's hard-hustlin' behind was waiting for the come on to come on and she wouldn't let the pope himself or Jesus slow her cash flow.

The entire town knew that O.T. was on lunatic status; a true, legendary madman when it came to clowning. And knew he was a few seconds shy of putting on a real show for all those who cared to see. A show so worthy that the streets would be buzzing about it for months and months to follow.

“Well, what's it gonna be, Royce? You plan on being a man and pulling your panties out your ass or what? How you wanna handle this bullshit? You gonna be a man or is we straight about to get gangsta with it?”

“Come on now, O.T., sit down and have a drink with me, youngblood. Can't we handle this misunderstanding like two gentlemen? I mean player to player, pimp to pimp?” Royce was trying his hardest to backpedal and talk his way out of the situation at hand.

O.T. had blood in his eyes as he spoke. “Listen here, pops, I wanna work with ya, but I ain't gonna be able to.” He frowned as his cheekbone twitched and he posted up seconds away from attacking. “The question is still on the table. You gonna have some balls and 'fess up or what? Trust me, Royce! This is the final time a nigga like me gonna ask a ho-ass nigga like you! Trust when I warn you, you think my sister-in law Kenya whooped that ass, you ain't seen shit yet!”

“Okay, okay, okay!” Royce pleaded, throwing his hands up in hopes of buying a few more minutes, stalling a beat-down. “Just pump ya brakes, O.T., let me explain, but I guarantee you want to hear what I have to say in private. Please, man, for old time's sake? How about it?” Royce, having lost all pride, begged relentlessly.

“Yeah, okay then. I'm gonna hear you out and this shit better be good!” O.T. collared Royce up by his oversized lapels. “We can talk over there at my private table. Ya ho-ass boys can wait here or out in the parking lot! I don't give a shit!”

Royce was passed embarrassed, but still tried to save face and delegate some authority with O.T.'s huge hands firmly wrapped around his throat. “Y'all dudes can chill over here. I'll be back.” Hopefully he would save himself the possibility of having to drink his food outta a straw for the next six months.

His crew, like everyone else in Alley Cats, had to laugh. Not only had Kenya and O.T. made a fool of him, now he was doing it to himself. It was official—Royce was a class-A idiot and all of Dallas knew it.

 

 

After nearly an entire hour of listening to Royce talk, explain, take a cop, and lie, O.T. was even more heated. He couldn't believe what he was hearing the old man claiming. Royce was right. This was the type of information that shouldn't be made public. Yet, in reality, he knew this was the first time Royce had probably repeated the outrageous story.

“Come on now, Royce, how many people you done told this story to? And try your best not to motherfucking lie!”

“To be honest with you, youngblood, only my boys over there know about it.” He nodded toward their general direction. “And I've already told them to keep it close to the vest.”

“Damn, Royce! Good looking out.” O.T. was playing the game. He wasn't dumb. He knew good and goddamn well that if Royce hadn't already told the entire town of Dallas, he was well on his way; especially after tonight. After all, truth be told, if he or Storm had that type of dirt on Royce, you best believe that all bets would've been off.

“No problem, youngblood. We in this here game as us against the man. We gotta stick together.”

O.T. was fed up with Royce's ass-kissing, but he was glad that he'd at least heard Royce's tainted version of what really went down with his brother, Deacon, and Javier on the island. From the pictures of London Roberts, one of the cofounders of P.A.I.D., being passed around the table, to Storm's initial shock of seeing them, realizing that his woman was playing both sides to the middle. However, not wanting to throw his own self under the bus, Royce failed to mention to O.T. that he was the first one to put his brother on blast. Not wanting any more hand-to-face confrontation, he wised-up. He didn't want to risk getting beat-down again, so he conveniently left that part out of the story.

Royce went on to explain how Javier had both Storm and Deacon physically removed from the round table. He confessed that he and others heard a lot of hollering and commotion from inside the villa as he and the men were dismissed for the day. “Listen, real talk. I even tried reasoning with Javier, telling him that your brother wasn't like that and it had to be some sort of a mistake, but Javier wasn't trying to hear it.” Royce threw that lie in the conversation, trying to throw O.T. off his scent of bullshit. “The next thing I can recall was two days later, Javier summoned us all back to the round table and dropped some knowledge on us.”

“Oh, yeah, go on with it.” O.T. was on the edge of the booth, listening in amazement.

Royce reached for a napkin to wipe the still slow-dripping blood off his lip that was continuing to throb as time ticked by. “As I was saying, Javier informed us that the hit man named Swift, or something like that, he sent out to Detroit to assassinate London Roberts, had the tables turned on him and he himself been murdered.” Royce paused to catch his breath. “Apparently, not only is your brother's woman a straight-up crazed bitch living a double life, she's hooked up somehow with a radical group in Detroit that calls themselves the Motown Muslim Mafia. They must be powerful as hell with they shit, because one of their members who goes by the name Brother Rasul, had Swift's body shipped COD to Javier's front door with a note attached to his torso. I mean, that's the word that was floating around that man's compound.”

Mentioning the Detroit-based hard hitters that Kenya and London were mixed up with caused O.T. to be silent, listening to Royce's deadly tale of what could possibly have been his big brother's last days on Earth. Royce could see the look of worry on O.T.'s face and decided to play his act for all that it was worth. He knew that he had to do a lot of fast talking and expert acting to convince O.T. to let him walk out of Alley Cats in one piece. Royce kept it coming.

“Now, I don't know what exactly were the contents of the letter word for word, but I do know that Javier stated that a horrible mistake had been made and asked us all to vacate the island by nightfall. He generously gave us each a half a kilo of his finest product uncut, having us to swear to keep the situation under wraps until further notice. That's it!” Royce grabbed for another napkin, trying to absorb the pouring sweat mixed with blood from his aging face. “No more was brought up about Deacon or Storm's whereabouts and who was I to question that man? A few hours later we were all put on a private jet and flown back to the States.”

“Just like that?” O.T. sat, amazed at the wild tale he'd just heard.

“Sorry I couldn't have given you more encouraging news about Storm's well-being, but from where I stood, it didn't seem too pretty. But, one thing for sure, two things for certain, Javier seems to be very calculated about every single move he makes and words he speaks, so don't give up hope, youngblood. Anything is possible.”

O.T. chose not to drop his hand, letting Royce's backstabbing-ass in on the fact that he'd already been in contact with Javier and if things went as planned, Storm would soon be returning home. Bottom line, you never let the left know what the right is doing. With authority, he then signaled to Boz to escort Royce and his entire crew to the door. Before leaving, O.T. made sure to make it perfectly clear that he was interested in buying some of that high-quality dope that Royce claimed he was sitting on. Royce quickly agreed, knowing that if he didn't, it would more than likely be an all-out open drug war in the streets of Dallas. His hands were tied tight.

Royce might have dressed like a clown and fight like a bitch, but he was a true businessman and it was to his benefit to make money, not mayhem. He really couldn't care less where the drugs were being sold at as long as he got his money off top. What did he care about—as far as he knew Storm and Deacon were both dead; so that meant he was about to rule the city one day soon.

Now O.T. was a hothead and extremely arrogant about his shit, vowing to die first before letting other crews violate the blocks that him or his big brother ran with iron fists. A fool would be signing their own death certificate if they ever tried. Always down for whatever it took, he didn't give a shit about it being only two or three burn bags that a dopefiend was trying to get off, O.T. always kept it gangsta.

Those blocks belonged to them, point-blank, period, end of fucking story! You feel me! Case closed!