Street Divas (29 page)

Y
ou can't keep a good bitch locked up and babysitting miscellaneous bastards. So after strapping Christopher to his bed, I roll over to Memphis Mental Health Institute. I've put off this visit to see Ta'Shara for months, and now that Essence's double-snitching ass is put out of commission, I can refocus my attention on my other problems, two of them being my sister and Profit.

Profit.
That lucky muthafucka. I still can't believe his ass is not only alive, but also awake and talking. That's okay. A bitch like me ain't never scared. I'll be waiting for that ass.

Strolling into the hospital, I sign my name on the guest list at the front desk. I'm halfway expecting the bitch behind the counter to take one look at my name and sound off an alarm. Instead, the chick doesn't even pull her eyes out of the magazine she's reading.

“Which room is Ta'Shara Murphy in?” I ask, pressing my luck.

“You'll have to ask one of the nurses at the station,” she says, flipping through pages.

Rolling my eyes, I stroll past this lazy bitch and go in search of my sister. It doesn't take long, but when I approach her door, my gaze lands on Tracee. I slow up and roll my eyes. I can't stand this fucking bitch. The last thing I want to do is deal with her ass right now, and if I walk through this door, it's going to be a situation and some fucking furniture moving.

Instead of turning around and walking my ass back out of here, I stand there and watch this bougie bitch bump her gums about nonsense while she knits some crazy-looking thing in her lap. Every once in a while, she looks up at Ta'Shara and strokes her hair as if she were some life-sized doll. Watching the two of them churns my stomach, but still I can't look away.

After a while, tears streak down Tracee's face and she puts her knitting down and rushes toward the door.

I jet toward another room until Tracee blazes past me to get to God knows where. A poke my head out first, glance around to make sure she's gone, and then dip back into the hallway and head into my sister's room.

“Hello, Ta'Shara,” I say, closing the door behind me.

She doesn't respond.

Cocking my head, I take a closer look at her. I try to see if I can catch this bitch faking this shit. I ease closer. “Surprised to see me here?”

No response.

Cautious, I move all the way over to the chair Tracee had been sitting in and move her knitting to the bed. Now that I'm up close and personal, I lean into Ta'Shara's face so that I can block her view out of the window.

Nothing. Ta'Shara looks straight through me. It spooks me, and I lean back out of her face. Unexpectedly, guilt rushes through me like a freight train, but then I try to derail that muthafucka by shaking the shit off. “I'm not going to feel guilty about this shit,” I tell her. “This is
your
fault. You pushed and pushed.” I roll my eyes and suck in another long breath.

Silence.

“I mean, what the fuck did you think was gonna happen, huh? You thought that I was gonna ignore that you were sleeping with the enemy? I mean, I fuckin' ask soooo little of you, and you . . . you just had to show me your ass.”

Silence.

“Whatever. It is what it is,” I tell her. “This shit ain't on me. I ain't gonna feel guilty about none of this. And as for your lil nigga, if his ass wants to continue where we left off, that shit is fine with me, too. It'll be a cold day in hell before I'm scared of a fuckin' hook. If he wants to get at me, then he can find my ass right where I belong—at the muthafuckin top.” I flash my ring in front of Ta'Shara's face. “Choke on that, bitch. I got my family now. I don't need you anymore.”

Silence.

“You hear me? I. Don't. Need. You.” I lower my hands and then ball them at my sides. I fight the urge to knock her out of that damn chair.

I want her to acknowledge what I've accomplished on my own. I want her to see that no matter what, my ass is going to land on top. After the silence stretches too long, I move in on her again. “You know what? Maybe you sitting in here like a vegetable is the best thing for me all the way around. At least this way you're out of my hair. I don't have to look after your ungrateful ass anymore.” Clenching my jaw, I suck in an angry breath. The guilt I felt earlier is now a low, simmering anger.

“You got just a lil taste of what I've been through in the past. Just a
little
taste—and what do you do? Check out? Shrink into your lil shell.” I tap her on the side of her head. “Hello? Anybody in there?”

Silence.

“Look at you. Weak. How in the hell are we even related?” My eyes narrow. “If the roles had been reversed, you wouldn't have lasted one day out here on the streets. Not one
fucking
day.”

Silence.

“Oh. And don't be looking for your lil girlfriend Essence to come around here anymore. I took care of her disloyal ass—just like I'm going to take care of your man, Profit, once and for all.” I flip Ta'Shara's hair into her face and then turn toward the door.

I don't get more than two feet before I hear this deep, guttural voice behind me.

“You fuckin' bitch!”

Stunned, I turn around and barely comprehend Ta'Shara charging toward me or those two large knitting needles swooping down and plunging into my chest.

“Aaaaargh!”

We fall to the floor as Ta'Shara jerks the needles out and then jams them back in, over and over while her scream rings in my head.

“DIE, YOU BITCH! DIE!”

M
elvin Johnson stands proud while our people open crate after crate of new weapons for tonight's bloodbath. As usual, I hang back while Mason and Cousin Skeet discuss business. During the entire time they're talking, I can't help but steal sideway glances at them and wonder.

Could they be?

The idea doesn't sit too well with me because that would mean that this whole time Mason was fuckin' his . . . no. I don't even want to think no shit like that. But it's not impossible. I knew Skeet got around, my mother and Aunt Nikki were testimony to that shit. But damn.

I'd long thought Skeet was just slumming in Ruby Cove. Skeet and Smokestack had the perfect setup—one brother neck-deep in the game while the other ran the police department and made record busts on our main enemies the Gangster Disciples. To complete his double life, Skeet raised and kept his perfect, bougie family on the other side of town. That was another reason why I couldn't stand his ass. His family was too good for us, including this Gangster Disciple–fuckin' daughter.

Irony.

You'd think with my ass giving him Python's name for plugging his daughter that he could've at least dragged his ass in for questioning, but as usual, if the Vice Lords don't hand shit to him on a silver platter, he's worthless.

So tonight we're going to handle this shit ourselves.

Street justice.

I think that's what Skeet wanted this whole time. He wants Python dead, not behind bars.

Tonight, we're hitting two hot spots to let the street know that we're taking this shit to another level. Dressed in my usual Grim Reaper black, I turn to join up with my peoples on Ruby Cove. We have seven black Escalades lined up with plates off. Mason dubs them the Murder Train.

It's fitting.

When Mason and Cousin Skeet slap palms together, shoulder bump and separate, it's time for us to roll out.

“Looking good, Willow,” Skeet says, shooting his handgun at me and hopping into his vehicle.

I glare at him while he rolls out and then disappears down the Ruby Cove.

Mason strolls back out from his crib, in his own black gear and with his flag draped around his neck. My heart starts hammering at how good he looks and how well he's walking. “Let's do this!”

Niggas break and head to their vehicles.

“Yo, Lucifer,” Mason calls out. “You ride with me.”

I stroll to the front of the line and climb in with Mason. “I'm honored.”

Mason starts up his shit. “You know you're my right hand . . . and my fucking lucky charm.”

“ 'Bout time you recognize.”

“Oh, I've recognized that shit. Didn't want your head to get any bigger than it already is.” He reaches over and surprises me by taking my hand and squeezing it.

Smiling, I slip on my shades. “If that's your backhanded way of telling me that you can't live without me, then I guess it'll have to do.”

“Hard-ass.” He slips on his own shades and then pulls away from the curb. It doesn't take us long to reach our first spot: the Pink Monkey.

One by one, we all pull into the parking lot and block entrances and exits. Next we jump out, armed to the teeth and ready for the slaughter. Half of us march toward the door. The bouncers inside take one look at our asses and go for their weapons. That's the last muthafuckin' thing they do on this earth. My new .22 LR semiautomatic blows the biggest muthafucka back nearly ten feet.

Bitches scream and run, but their naked asses get blasted, too. What the fuck, I'm an equal-opportunity killer. The only time we get some exchange of gunplay is when some niggas come running out of VIP, but other than that, this shit is an easy hit. We're in and out in less than four minutes.

Heading back outside, there are a few more bodies facedown on the concrete. They must've tried to escape out of the back door but were picked off by our soldiers who remained outside.

“Cutty, man. Do you,” Mason yells.

“You got it, boss.” Cutty gives a mock salute and then runs into the building while we all load up again and roll out.

Three minutes down the road, we hear Cutty's bomb explode.

“That eyesore is officially out of business.” Mason chuckles as we hug a right turn. Our next stop: Goodson Construction. If Bishop is right, tonight Python will be doing his weekly pickup with his connect. There should be two armed cars from his connect and two cars loaded with Gangster Disciples—we would still overwhelm them by three.

“You ready for this?” Mason asks.

I'm not used to his ass asking me such a question. “I was born ready.” His gaze lingers on me, and after a while I become self-conscious. “You want to pay attention to the road?”

“About what we were talking about earlier—”

“When?”

Mason swings a left. “When I told you that I couldn't live without you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” He draws in a deep breath. “Look. It ain't like me to beat around the bush, but me and you . . . well, shit is complicated. NahwhatImean?”

I debate on whether to let him off the hook. “No. Not really.”

He laughs. “You're not going to make this shit easy on me, are you?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Still laughing, he shakes his head. “A'ight. Cool. Well, here goes. I have feelings for you, Willow. Putting all cards on the table, I always have, but Bishop made it clear a long time ago that you were off-limits.”

“What?” I shift around in my seat, but then I remember something that Smokestack had said. “I don't believe this. First off, why in the hell would you discuss something like that with my brother?”

“Are you kidding me? That nigga stepped to me from the jump. He did that shit with damn near everybody back in the day. Hell, he even fucked up a few niggas who said anything out of pocket around him. He even checked Cousin Skeet one time.”

“You're shitting me.”

“Fuck naw. He ain't never liked that nigga. Me neither, you want to know the truth, but the nigga is a handy muthafucka to know. I understand why you didn't want to deal with him while I was . . . out of commission. But business is business. NahwhatImean?”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“You'd rather put a bullet in the center of his head?”

“I wouldn't pass it up if the opportunity presents itself.”

“See. This is what I'm talking about. You always say exactly how you feel. There's nothing fake or phony about you, Willow. Unlike a lot of females I've dealt with in the past.” He shakes his head.

“Like Melanie?”

He shrugs.

“Yo, look. I'm flattered, I guess. But don't be looking at me like I'm some fucking consolation prize. Old girl played you—oh, well. Shake that shit off and move on.”

“Oh, it's like that?”

“What? I'm supposed to faint at your feet because once upon a time you might have stepped to me, but because my big, bad brother stepped up, you changed your mind? Get the fuck out of here with that bullshit before I shoot you my damn self.”

“A'ight. That shit didn't come out right.”

“You don't say.” Our conversation is cut short when we arrive at our spot. We're barely up in the lot before these muthafuckas unleash heavy artillery at our asses. Instantly, I hit the automatic window and then I'm up out of my seat and on the passenger side door, returning fire. Bullets whiz by my head. A new surge of adrenaline gives me a high that you just can't buy on the streets.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT!

Once these niggas see how much firepower is being returned, they all scatter like cockroaches when a light comes on. “Damn muthafuckas. Where ya going?” I laugh while enjoying the feel of the kickback from the semiautomatic. I don't waste a fuckin' shot as I pick off one nigga after another. So far I don't see that nigga Python nowhere.

When Mason hits the brakes, I ease off the trigger and brace myself so that I don't tip over and fly out the window. Once we stop, I'm out of the SUV
Dukes of Hazard
style and slapping in another clip. I've never feared getting shot or killed in these fuckin' battles, and as a result, I've yet to take a hit. Not even once.

I'm not Superwoman, but I sure in the hell feel like the Terminator while I unload on these assholes.

Mason's out of the vehicle, rock-a-byeing muthafuckas right next to me with his TEC-9. To no surprise, the battle is short, with most of these muthafuckas dropping to the ground and folding their hands behind their heads as a signal of surrender. Unfortunately for their asses, only the Vice Lords are leaving this muthafucka breathing.

“Where that muthafucka at?” Mason roars, grabbing one nigga by the back of his head and jerking it up. “Where that nigga Python?” he barks in his face.

“He's . . . he's not here,” the nigga croaks.

“Bullshit!” Mason plants his gun at the top of the nigga's head and blasts his brains all over the concrete.

The nigga lying next to his murked friend starts cursing, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Mason systematically goes to the nigga and grabs him by the back of the head. “Same question, nigga. Where he at?”

“He told you the truth. Python didn't sanction this deal. McGriff set this shit up, wanting to cut Python out.”

“Bullshit!” Mason plants his gun at the back of that nigga's head.

“NO. I SWEAR!” the nigga screams, and then squeezes his eyes shut to prepare for his brains to be blasted, too.

Mason looks up at me. “Are you buying this shit?”

I take another look at the shaking nigga and nod my head. We all scan the ground until we see McGriff lying facedown by one of the car's shipments. Both Mason and I stroll over to his ass. This nigga's back is coated in blood, and he wheezes for air.

“Damn, nigga. I don't think you're going to make it,” I say, squatting down next to him and cocking my head. “You really look fucked up.”

McGriff raises his head. “Fuck you, bitch.”

Placing my hand over my heart, I gasp. “Such language. I'm hurt. Truly.”

He sputters out blood while his body starts to tremble violently.

I see that familiar light dimming in his eyes. “Any second now,” I tell him. “But while we're waiting, why don't you tell me why you're out here, dealing behind Python's back? Ain't you supposed to be his right-hand man?”

Blood oozes and drips out of this fallen soldier's mouth. “You're a fuckin' snake, aren't you?” I ask, shaking my head. “You're trying to knock your man off his throne, aren't you?”

“Great,” Mason mumbles, rolling his eyes skyward.

“We just did that ugly muthafucka a goddamn favor, blasting these fools.”

Still shaking, McGriff gives us a bloody smile. “It's time for new leadership. J-j-just a matter of time before he goes down for killing that cop. Johnson is not going to s-s-stop until he brings him in.”

“So you figure that you'd position yourself to be the next leader in your piece-of-shit gang,” I finish for him. “Pathetic. I had more respect for that nigga Killa Kyle while I was carving him up.”

McGriff fixes his mouth to say something else, but I'm tired of hearing his voice and simply remove my handy Browning knife and carve a permanent smile across his neck.

Mason's face is still twisted up for our having killed the very niggas who were planning to dethrone their own leader. “Shit. We could've made this a movie night and let these muthafuckas do our work for us.”

“I ain't gonna cry if there's a few less GD bastards in the world. Believe that,” I tell him.

Bishop and his team of niggas stroll out of the warehouse building. “Yo, man. You should see this huge muthafuckin' snake up in this bitch.”

“I ain't interested in that nigga's pets! I wanted that muthafucka dead—tonight!”

Bishop tosses up his hands. “I ain't had no way of knowing his ass wasn't going to be here.”

“You
should
have fuckin' known.” Mason moves toward Bishop and chest bumps him.

Surprised, Bishop steps back. “What the fuck?”

“You get one fuckin' job and your ass can't do that?” He bumps Bishop again, while anger twists his face.

Hopping up, I get in between them. “Y'all squash it. This ain't the time or the place.”

Heat radiates off Mason in waves while my brother's confusion remains highlighted on his face.

“Let's take care of this shit out here and then we roll over to his crib.”

“Shit,” Mason swears. “The nigga stays at different places all the time. He got so many baby mommas. Do you want to guess where he's resting his head tonight? Hell. That's if Bishop actually has been following him to the right addresses,” Mason growls, storming away.

“Damn.” Bishop turns to me. “What the hell is up with him?”

“Forget it. Let's blast these fools and get out of here.”

The minute I say that shit, niggas jump up and try to make a run for it, but it's like shooting fish in a barrel, and we mow these muthafuckas down in twenty seconds flat.

When it's done, we all slap palms and shout, “Five for life!”

Glancing over at Mason, I see that he's still pissed as shit. “Fuck it,” I say. “Let's keep the Murder Train rolling. We got the crew, the firepower, and the element of surprise on our side. Let's hit these muthafuckas at their heart.”

“Shotgun Row?” Mason says with an excited light in his eyes.

My smile stretches wider.

“My people, load up,” Mason yells. “We're rolling this train through Shotgun Row.”

“No shit?” Bishop asks, smiling.

“No shit,” I confirm, and hop back into Mason's bullet-riddled ride. Seconds later, we're headed south. The moment we cross enemy lines, a silent alarm must've gone off because niggas come at our murder train hard.