Trap House (17 page)

P.I.G. had given her $30,000 to check some other dealers in town. Normally, putting that much
cash in the hands of two smokers was begging to be ripped off, but he wasn’t concerned in the
least.

What almost no one knew was that shortly after rescuing young Blast from the clutches of her
ruthless pimp, P.I.G. married her. They had to hire a junkie to pose as her mother since Blast was
only fifteen at the time. She was the only woman P.I.G. ever had actual intercourse with. Blast even
got pregnant once, but her polluted womb was no place to form life. They didn’t have sex anymore,
but she would blow P.I.G. several times a day if needed. Blast knew her husband was a trick. He
would trick off every gram of product in the house if not for her. She was, by far, P.I.G.’s biggest
asset, the driving force behind his accession up the ranks of Atlanta’s drug dealers. She was the
brains, and Earl was the muscle.

Earl was a known shooter, and as such, he didn’t have to bust his gun much anymore. When
you’re known for shooting niggers, you don’t get tried often.

Because of Earl and Blast, P.I.G. had five traphouses throughout the city, all doing big numbers.
The two million dollars in the bank was due to Blast’s business acumen.

P.I.G. knocked over his drink as he scrambled to answer his vibrating cell phone. “Yeah!?” he
barked into the phone without bothering to check the caller ID.

“It’s me. We straight. Be there in a minute,” Blast said quickly before hanging up.

A wave of relief and excitement swept through P.I.G., causing him to summon his sex slave.
“Gina!” he roared, loud enough to be heard in the back of the house.

Gina ambled out and went straight for P.I.G.’s exposed penis.

The junkies in the room knew he must have scored and perked up, some passing gas loudly
from the anxiety.

A knock on the door didn’t disturb P.I.G. from the pleasure Gina was providing. “Get that!” he
ordered without looking up.

“It Wanda dem,” the junkie closest to the door announced after looking out the peephole.

“Let her in,” P.I.G. growled reluctantly. He knew she despised him, and the feeling was mutual.
If not for the business relationship he shared with Mike, he wouldn’t even sell her a crumb. He
hated the constant insults and the haughty way she turned her nose up at him.

True to form, Wanda sucked her teeth as she and Tiffany walked in. “Girl, that nasty fat bastard
at it again,” she hissed over her shoulder to Tiffany. “Where Blast? Let me cop so I can get da fuck
outta here,” she demanded with as much venom as possible.

“She ain’t back yet, so you can push,” P.I.G. spat back, matching her tone.

“We’ll come back den,” she said, turning on her heels.

“A’ight, but, uh…might be done sold out before you do,” P.I.G. said, stopping her in her
tracks.

Wanda was well aware of the shortage of cocaine in the city. The thought of going another day
without a blast shook her to her very core. “Well, we’ll just wait, then, if you don’t mind,” she said
contritely.

P.I.G. knew what the upper hand looked like, and he knew he had it. He decided to take full
advantage of it and make Wanda as uncomfortable as humanly possible. “Mmmm,” he moaned
loudly, grabbing the back of Gina’s bobbing head. When he had everyone’s full attention, he pulled
out of Gina’s mouth and ejaculated. “Anyone want some of this?” he said, spewing semen all over
the girl.

Tiffany fought the urge to throw up at the spectacle.

Suddenly, the front door swung open, stopping time in its tracks. Blast and Earl stormed in and
headed straight to the back without saying a word. Their very presence set off another round of
flatulence from the sofa.

P.I.G. got up as quickly as his massive weight would allow and followed them to the back.

Gina simply stared off into space as the semen ran down her face.

“Well? Whatcha get?” P.I.G. demanded, looking back and forth from Blast to Earl.

“One brick,” Earl said solemnly, as Blast removed a kilo from her purse.

“And it’s some bullshit,” she added painfully.

“Desean charged you thirty stacks for a brick?” P.I.G. asked in disbelief.

“He charging more than that,” Earl spoke up. “He let you get it for the thirty, and it’s mediocre
at best.”

“You need to get back wit’ dem New York dudes,” Blast ordered. She caught her tone and
attempted to clean it up before P.I.G. cursed her out.

“I’m saying though, Daddy, they got that raw, and the price is right,” she purred sweetly. “We’ll
have the city on lock!”

“Humph, we’ll see,” P.I.G. responded, glaring at her. “Earl, I want you to put the whip on the
whole thang.”

“The whole thing?” Earl repeated, unable to mask the hurt in his voice. He could easily whip
one key into to, but it was some bullshit.

“Hell, yeah. The whole thing!” P.I.G. barked. “I paid thirty for this. I gotta get mines back.”

As he spoke, Blast separated an ounce that she no doubt intended to cook properly for her
personal use. P.I.G. saw her do it, but he said nothing.

P.I.G. smiled brightly at the name on his caller ID. “What up, young balla?” he said when he
flipped the phone open.

“I need to bump into you,” Pony said desperately. He had all but cut Marcus off and was
blowing up quickly. Marcus was allowed to hang around out of sheer loyalty, but that, too, was
wearing thin. Pony threw him a little work every day, fully expecting him to fuck it up, and Marcus
never let him down in that respect.

“Shit tight right now, but I got a little something. Gimme a minute to cook up,” P.I.G. said
before flipping the phone closed again. “Take twelve ounces to each house,” P.I.G. told Earl, who
was preparing to sample the freshly cooked batch. “And set aside four for that young nigger.”

Earl and Blast both loaded large chunks of the pasty white product onto their shooters.

P.I.G. looked back and forth anxiously as they took long drags on their pipes. “Well? How is
it?” P.I.G. demanded, causing Earl to blow out his hit sooner than he intended to.

“It’s straight,” he replied through a plume of noxious gray smoke.

“It’ll do,” Blast cosigned, blowing out her hit as well.

“Well, beggars can’t be choosers,” P.I.G. said arrogantly. “Tell them Js all we got is point five
fifties.”

Blast silently multiplied the $100 a gram they were charging by the 2,000 grams they had and
smiled.

“Hurry up and make them rounds. We going to New York when you get back,” P.I.G. ordered.

P.I.G.’s house was in full swing by the time Pony arrived. He silently prayed he wasn’t too late.
There was no coke in the city, and if he could get on, he could really get rich. He had customers
waiting to spend good money with him.

Wanda and Tiffany were pulling out as Pony pulled in. Marcus attempted to suck his teeth when
Pony honked and waved at the women, but he didn’t have any. Pony had to stifle a laugh at the
resulting sound. The men sprinted toward the house, both hoping for the best, albeit for different
reasons. A junkie opened the door, and they rushed inside.

“Where P.I.G.?” Pony asked breathlessly.

“In the back. Go on. He waiting on you,” Blast replied.

Both men took off toward the rear until Blast stopped them.

“Just you,” she said to Pony before lighting her pipe again.

Marcus made that strange sound again with his mouth and then plopped down on a sofa. He
wistfully watched as everyone around him smoked. He was dying for a blast, but nobody shares
in a drought.

“Come on!” P.I.G. shouted in response to the knock on his door.

“What it do?” Pony asked, looking around as he entered P.I.G.’s inner lair. “Damn!” he exclaimed
at the sheer elegance of the room. It was unexpectedly extravagant. His Jordans sank up to the
ankle in the plush white carpet.

Gina was laid out on the huge custom bed, wearing a sexy nightie, looking like a Special
Olympics version of Lil Kim.

The room contained all the latest audio-visual equipment all run by a huge remote control
unit.

“I need a whole one,” Pony said, looking up at his reflection in the mirrored ceiling, pulling out
cash from the pockets of his designer jeans.

P.I.G. took note of the expensive clothes Pony wore and nodded in approval. He had to admire
the hustle the young man had. He’d quit smoking and totally transformed himself. The dingy
clothes he wore were replaced by Polo and Gucci. The stolen hoopties they pushed were swapped
for a new Tahoe sitting royally on twenty-eight-inch rims. “You know shit tight right now,” P.I.G.
replied. “Best I can do is a couple of zones for a stack a piece, and it’s that whip,” he added, almost
apologetically.

“Damn, P.I.G.! A stack? For whip?” Pony whined.

“Who else got dope besides me and now you?” P.I.G. asked.

“Ain’t nobody got nothing,” Pony admitted.

“That’s right. Nobody got nothing,” P.I.G. repeated. “So you charge a dollar a gram? Niggers
got no chance, either pay it or stay sober, and you know they ain’t tryina stay sober.”

Pony quickly figured out he could at least triple his money. P.I.G. sold him four and a half
ounces for $4,000, giving him a slight discount, and Pony thanked him profusely before turning
to leave.

“Oh, and one more thing…” P.I.G. said, stopping Pony as he hit the door. “If you really wanna
get rich, you gonna hafta lose that deadweight.”

CHAPTER 15

T
iffany felt like crying as she looked at the small amount of coke her money got her. She
spent her last $100 and had only a gram to show for it. Being relatively new to the dope
game, she didn’t understand the mechanics of a drought. Had she not been there, she would have
sworn Wanda had cheated her. She was used to getting an eight ball for sixty and spoiled the extra
gram or two P.I.G. would throw her. Tiffany felt a swell of anger as she watched Wanda cut large
chunks from the package she had, knowing her money paid for it.

Wanda had been literally milking her dry since she came to stay with her. Every day, she had
her hand out for something—$50 for the light bill, $80 for the gas, $100 for this, and $200 for that.
When Wanda found out that Mike would toss her a few extra bucks here and there, she went after
that as well. The attention Mike showed Tiffany was making her jealous.

The plan, tried and true, was to leave the girls broke, forcing them to strip and trick. Wanda’s
blood began to boil as a drug-induced paranoia suggested that Tiffany must be trying to take her
man. In an instant, she began to hate her young protégé, but she was far too shrewd to show it.
“Phase Two,” Wanda said to herself as she pulled out her straight shooter in front of Tiffany for
the first time. It was time for Miss Goody Two Shoes to earn her stripes. She felt the young girl’s
eyes glued to her as she loaded a large piece of crack onto the pipe. Wanda twisted and turned the
shooter dramatically as the flame danced on its tip, filling the quiet room with a loud sizzle.