Slipping (5 page)

Don laughed. “Fool, you ain't said shit. Me, Semo, and Carlos the best dice shooters around this motherfucka!”

“Well, like I said, if you niggas still got some of my money left we can go do this shit. Just to make this shit interesting and to keep the petty motherfuckas out of the game, let's say that we start off shooting dubs.”

“Twenty dollars, nigga. Shit, I thought you was gone say fifties or something. We can go gamble in the basement. No interruptions. Just follow me.”

In the basement Don was joined by his friends. Pulling out wads of bills, all the boys got down on their haunches. Big Man held the shotgun while Don gave the .357 back to
Keno for added security. There was something about the presence of pistols that kept arguing to a minimum. Diego and his right-hand man Lonnie knelt alongside Don. They cast the die to see who would roll first; Lonnie was the lucky man. He peeled a twenty off of his bankroll and tossed it on the floor. Fading him for the twenty Carlos matched his bet. With a nonexistent shake, Lonnie slick-rolled the dice into the middle of the circle. Carlos grabbed one of the die before it could stop spinning.

Looking at Lonnie he sneered, “Nigga, what choo doing? I thought this was a friendly game. Fuck you trying to lay them down for?”

“Nigga, catch what you don't like! Point seen, money lost! You know the game! If yo ass is scared, nigga, then don't fade me!”

“You better calm yo ass down,” Carlos retorted. “You ain't even got to trip. You want to lay 'em down, do yo thing, nigga. I got something fo yo ass, boy. Don't say shit when I bust my shot out. You gone wish we wadn't shooting no slick shots.”

Carlos threw the die on the floor and Lonnie scooped it up. He set the dice in his hand and without so much as a small shake he slid the dice out into the circle. Both dice spun for a few seconds. The first die stopped, landing on six. The second die bumped off of Semo's shoe and landed on six also. Boxcars. With a stupid look on his face, Lonnie paid Carlos twenty dollars for crapping out. He paid to back the dice and shot again. This time he caught eight as his point.
There was a flurry of movement as everyone in the game rushed to bet for or against Lonnie. Confidently, Diego bet Dre, Carlos, and Don that Lonnie could hit a six-eight. Slick-rolling the dice again Lonnie promptly rolled an eleven. The losers bet again. The money had barely changed hands before Lonnie threw a seven to crap out.

Scooping up their money, Don and Carlos laughed in Lonnie's face.

Carlos joked, “This nigga done got so slick that he done slicked hisself out.”

Don said, “You ain't lying, Carlos. For my money he can keep shooting that bullshit ass shot. I love pigeons like this.”

Angrily, Lonnie kicked the dice to Carlos. He asked, “Is you niggas gone shoot the dips or run y'all motherfuckin’ mouths? Carlos, it's yo damn shot, big mouth. I'll fade you for whatever.”

For the next seven hours the game went pretty much against Diego and his crew. It was almost nine a.m. the next day before Diego decided that he had lost enough money and quit. With his tail between his legs, and thirty-five hundred dollars in the rear, he left Semo's basement.

Too tired to celebrate, Don and his friends crashed on the couches and beds in the basement. He didn't wake until eleven o'clock that night. He staggered upstairs to find Juanita. She wasn't in the bedroom. He searched the entire house, but she was nowhere to be found. He went back to Semo's father's bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed smoking a cigarette. Deciding to smoke a premo, he went to
the closet to get the Baggie of crack. Reaching onto the shelf, instead of a plastic bag, he pulled down seven joints. Amazed, he dragged a chair over to the closet and stood on it to get a better look on the shelf. Nothing.

Feelings of betrayal washed over him as he realized Juanita had stolen the rest of the crack. They had been in the basement so long that he didn't have any idea of the time she might have left. “Fuck it,” he said aloud. There was nothing that he could do. Using his cigarette he held it to the tip of a premo and laid back on the bed.

“
WANDA, OPEN THE DOOR! IT'S ME, JUANITA. WANDA, GET
yo ass up girl, we finta party!”

A sleepy voice spoke from behind the thick wood of the housing development door. “Juanita, do you know what time it is! I ain't got no money and if yo ass is in trouble you can turn yo ass right back on around. I got enough problems!”

“Wanda, bitch, open this motherfuckin’ door 'for I kick this piece of shit off the hinges!” Juanita shouted while kicking the door to let her sleepy friend know she was serious.

“Hold on, bitch, you better stop kicking on my goddamn door before you wake up my damn kids with yo stupid ass! If you wake 'em, yo ass gone be the one that put them back
to sleep! I just finally got all they asses to fucking go to sleep and you come over here making all this gotdamn noise!”

Using one hand to wipe the crust from the corner of her mouth, Wanda ran the other through her nappy hair. She hadn't been expecting company, but that didn't make a difference. She would have looked the same if she was. Anyway, what difference did it make? Juanita had seen her looking much worse than this. As she unlocked the door she wondered what Juanita wanted at this time of night. When she opened the door an early summer night breeze pushed its way into the room, kicking the stale air out of an open window. Juanita rushed into the room as soon as the door was opened. She almost bowled Wanda over as she came through the door. She pushed Wanda out of the way as she slammed and locked the door. From Juanita's wide-open eyes and paranoid movements, Wanda could tell the younger girl was high off of crack.

“Bitch, don't come up in here on that tweaking shit,” Wanda said.

“Fuck you, Wanda, ain't nobody tweaking.”

“Yeah you is, you tweaking like a motherfucka. Must have been some good-ass shit, too, 'cause you tweak city.”

“Whatever,” Juanita said as she looked around the urine-scented room. She took a seat on a reasonably clean cushion of the sagging couch. Inwardly she shuddered. She hated Wanda's nasty little apartment. If this had been daytime, babies—Wanda's or her trifling girlfriends'—would be everywhere, shitty diapers and spilled Kool-Aid on the floor,
and soap operas, Judge Mathis, or Jerry Springer on the television. Wanda was a lazy bitch and almost never tended to her dirty, ill-mannered children. She was glad they were asleep. The little bastards were nosy and mannish. The oldest boy at six years old was already a pervert, a trait which his stepfather Raoul, Wanda's boyfriend, encouraged. The boy made it his business to expose himself to Juanita whenever possible. His mother would just laugh and say that he was going to be ho-ish like his father. Once when Juanita had passed out on the couch she had awakened to find the little boy pulling her panties down. She was outraged and found it hard not to kick the little fucker in his gapped front teeth. Just the thought of that embarrassing moment made her shiver. Raoul had sat across from her leering all the while. Only the fear of her brothers restrained him. If Wanda wasn't Juanita's favorite brother's baby's mama, Juanita wouldn't fuck with her. Even when she did come over to see her nephew, he was usually asleep, shitty, or sick. All Wanda did was argue with Raoul, usually over the last sip of beer. Both of them were so petty that they deserved one another.

“Bitch, you still ain't told me why the fuck you woke me up,” Wanda complained, rubbing her eyes as she pulled a cigarette from the box on the three-legged coffee table and lit it off the stove a few steps away in the kitchen. Wanda's eyes fell on the coffee table and she thought about how two years ago she had bought it along with the living-room set from the money her sister gave her when she let her use two
of her kids on her income taxes. Now one of the legs was missing, broken during one of her numerous parties. Telephone books kept the scarred wood surface from falling down.

“I woke yo ugly ass up for this,” Juanita said, pulling Don's crack from her purse.

The sight of the drugs woke Wanda all the way up as it made her choke on the harsh smoke in her lungs. There were no traces of sleep in her voice when she whispered, “Damn girl, who you done robbed?”

With a sly smile Juanita replied, “Girl, get the fuck outta here. I ain't robbed nobody. My new man gave me this shit. Girl, I got a vic. This nigga is so sweet. I ain't got to do shit but lay on my back, or suck on that nigga dick and he give me anything I want. I heard that there was niggas out there sweet as him but I wouldn't have believed it to be true until I met him. That nigga will do anything for this pussy and some of this head. I came over here to share some of this good shit with you. You know you my girl and shit.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Raoul's sudden appearance; he smelled drugs like a police dog. He stood half asleep in the doorway of Wanda's bedroom in a dingy pair of boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Scanning Juanita's face he knew without her even saying a word that she had drugs. He walked past the two girls, snagged a cigarette, and went into the kitchen to light it off the stove. He returned to the minuscule living room and sat on the tattered and taped fake leather settee.

“Fuck!” Raoul muttered as one of the springs poking through the material scratched the back of his scrawny leg.

Juanita knew what was on Raoul's mind. He was so smug that she was tempted to get up and walk out the door.
That would fix his funky ass,
she thought. Conjuring a picture of Raoul chasing her down the street with his shit-scarred boxers flapping in the wind almost made her laugh out loud.
Enough bullshitting,
she thought,
I might as well get this leeching motherfucka high too. Ain't no way I'm finta leave out of here now, ain't no telling what Don'll do if I bump into him tonight.

“Wanda, girl, close yo damn mouth and get me a mirror.”

Looking at Wanda's face she almost laughed at the puppy-dog look on it. Answering her unspoken question, she said, “Imma lay out enough shit for all us to get high. Bitch, you know I ain't one of yo petty-ass check-day friends that just get you high right before you get yo aid check.”

Relieved that Raoul hadn't ruined her chance to get high, Wanda went into the kitchen to retrieve her utensils from the cabinet over the sink. She pulled down a chipped mirror, an arsenal of cigarette lighters that had been rigged to produce a high flame, pieces of wire hangers, and a razor blade. Last, but definitely not least, her crackpipe. To her it was a thing of beauty. It was a delicate masterpiece with a graceful stem like a swan's neck. The bloated middle was adorned with butterflies in different stages of flight. Under the bowl the glass swirled into a pig's tail curl. It hypnotized her to
light a rock in the bowl and watch the smoke wind its way through the fluted glass, always finding its way into her mouth. To Wanda it was her most precious possession. Even Raoul knew better than to touch it without her consent.

Returning to the living room with the paraphernalia, Wanda placed everything on the coffee table in front of Juanita. She took a seat as she watched her young friend dump some of the crack from the sandwich bag onto the mirror. All the while she caressed her pipe like it was a magic lamp and she was summoning a genie. Meanwhile, in order to maintain some semblance of self-control, Raoul began fidgeting with the cheap stereo sitting on two milk crates in the corner. The soulful sounds of smooth R&B filled the room. The music helped to ease the couple's tension as they waited for Juanita to ration out the crack.

Looking up from the tedious task of breaking the crack down with the dull razor blade, she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Damn, Wanda, it's hot in this motherfucka. Why don't you bring the fan in here and put it in one of these windows.”

Carefully, Wanda sat her pipe on the coffee table and crept into her children's bedroom to get the fan. She brought it into the living room and handed it to Raoul. Quickly he set it in the window and plugged it in. Juanita dug in her purse for the weed and Tops papers. She found the weed easily—she had stolen two dubs sacks from Don along with the crack. Tops, however, were a different story. She turned her purse inside out, but still no sheets.

“Damn!” she said aloud.

“What, what?” Wanda and Raoul chorused.

“I ain't got no fucking Tops,” she replied disgustedly. “This is some bullshit. I left my motherfucking sheets at that nigga's crib.”

This is perfect,
Wanda thought. She decided to take advantage of the situation and use her influence over Juanita to introduce her to the pleasures of smoking crack on the pipe. It sickened Wanda to sit and watch the young girl waste perfectly good crack on weed and cigarettes. To a pipe smoker, premos were just a messy, smelly, time-consuming, roundabout way of getting high. She had never dared complain to Juanita in the past because it was usually Juanita's crack, but she knew from watching her recently that the premos weren't getting her as high as she wanted to be. She was consuming damn near a dime bag of crack on every joint; it was time to stop bullshitting and graduate to the pipe. The same way that an older girlfriend of her mother's had turned her out, Wanda would return the favor and turn out Juanita. All she had to do was get Raoul out of the way for a few minutes and the deed would be done. She couldn't risk having him around when she was doing something as delicate as turning a new smoker out. Knowing Raoul, he would say some stupid shit and any spell she could weave with words would be broken. If she could convince Raoul's greedy ass to leave the house, it was a Chicago cinch that she could get Juanita to try the pipe.

Turning to Raoul, Wanda winked and said, “Raoul,
baby. Why don't you take that five dollars off the dresser in there and run to the store? Go get a four-pack of St. Ides and a book of Tops.”

Raoul didn't catch her wink. He exploded, “Bitch, is you crazy? I ain't finta miss out on all this good yam, ho! Greedy-ass, pipe-head bitch, you just want to be by yo'self with Juanita so you can tell her not to let me get high! I'm sick of yo bullshit! Bitch …” His tirade tapered off as he caught Wanda's rapidly winking eye. Sensing that Wanda was up to something, Raoul left the living room, all the while mumbling under his breath. In their bedroom he picked up a pair of khaki shorts and slipped into them. He snatched the five dollars off the sagging dresser and headed for the front door. His house shoes barely made a noise as he descended the concrete stairs and headed for the store.