A Hood Legend (3 page)

“Y'all shut the hell up and give dat boy his damn bottle!” Menage held the phone away from his ear.

“Hello, who dis?” Katori said in her best ghetto sexy voice.

“What's really goin' on?”

“Ooooh, Menage baby, what up, nigga? Please say you 'bout to swing by. I swear I'm tryin' ta roll out dis piece—plus I'm horny as fuck . . . yeah, my baby daddy locked the fuck back up!” she said smacking her lips.

“Yeah, we can get up tonight,” Menage said thinking about her tight little bubble ass. Katori was only eighteen and already had two kids. She was four foot eleven and had a see-through gap between her legs.

“Yesss, now that I'm feelin', 'cause you know I be missin' the dick and how you stretch me open, baby.”

“Yeah, whatever. What time you gonna be ready?” Menage heard a door slam in the background.

“Hold on a sec, boo-bitch. Don't worry 'bout who I'm talkin' to and no it ain't your brother . . . huh?” The phone disconnected. Menage was about to try Plan B—a Hindu chic in Opalocka, but his Nokia chimed.

“Hey, I'm sorry. Dat was my baby daddy crackhead sister. Look, I had to give her a twenty to watch the kids, so you can come right on over.”

He was about to say no, but he thought of how she loved to suck his dick. He was on his way.

* * *

Back at the apartment, Benita was telling her cousin Lisa what had happened at Bayside.

“Girl, you for real?” Lisa asked.

“Yes, it happened so fast,” said Benita.

Lisa turned toward her bedroom mirror. “Well, I'ma take my behind to work. And yes, I'll see if I can find out how your . . . hero is doing. You sure you ain't give him no stuff?”

“Lisa!”

“Chill, cuz, just joking. Like, you get a dude to save your life on the first date and I gotta persuade dudes to go downtown.” Lisa ducked the pillow Benita tossed at her. Minutes after Lisa left for work, Benita curled up on the couch to read the latest
Honey
magazine when the phone rang. The deep voice at the other end and the loud music in the background made her quickly regret picking up the phone. Big Chubb was the owner of the Bounce Back strip club.

“Hey Nita Poo, you off tonight, I already know, but Platinum and Silk can't find no babysitters, so can you come in?” he shouted.

“Chubby, my cousin is at work and you know I'm scared to catch a cab.”

“I know, but check it: I got some NBA and NFL players in tonight, so I'ma have Dacle come pick you up . . . how 'bout dat?”

Benita rolled her eyes, but at the same time she knew she needed the extra cash. “Okay, Chubby, I'll be ready.”

“Good lookin', I owe you one. She'll be there in half an hour.”

Benita hung up the phone and went into her room to pack a bag. She gathered two sets of bikini tops with matching thongs and black leather form-fitting Prada shorts. An hour later she was in the dressing room at the strip club applying eyeliner. Her body was oiled from head to toe, with a double coat on her plump ass cheeks. Standing in front of the mirror, clad in black pumps and the low-riding shorts and bikini top, she was proud of her 100 percent natural body. As she was about to head up to VIP, two of her fellow dancers stepped into the dressing room.

“Hey, Nita Poo, girl,” cooed the taller of the two.

“Hey, Sexion.” Benita preferred not to be alone with the two lesbians. “Hey Plum.”

“Ah, Nita Poo, do us a favor and watch out for us. There's fifty in it for you,” said Sexion.

“Do what?” Benita said rolling her neck.

“Girl, relax. Just don't let nobody walk in on us. Just give us a couple of minutes,” said Plum. Benita held out her hand for the money. Sexion smiled as she reached into her bra to pull out the bills, but in the process her bra popped open, spilling out her round 36Ds.

“Oh, sorry,” Sexion said coyly, hoping Benita would join the fun. Plum sat on the stool by the door on her hands and knees as Sexion pumped her from behind with a strap-on dildo.

“Times up!” Benita said.

“Don't matter,” Sexion panted, still stroking Plum. “I just wanted you to watch me fuck Plum.” She burst out laughing when Benita raised her middle finger and left the room.

Bounce Back was on fire tonight. Up on stage were five strippers, ass up, face down, moaning and groaning as men sprayed whipped cream on them and then doubled their pleasure in a pussy-eating contest. Red tinted strobe lights flickered throughout the club and Benita could smell weed burning. Over at the bar, a stripper looked over her shoulder as she made her ass clap, while dollar bills fell all around her dark parted thighs. With all this sex and lust in the atmosphere, all Benita could do was think about Menage and hope that he would show up tonight or leave a message on her machine. She shook her head with disapproval as she went up the steps toward the VIP area. Near the pool table, a stripper stood against the wall holding her butt cheeks apart as a man knelt behind her, drinking the beer that another stripper poured down her crack. A loud cheer erupted when he stood up and pointed to the dry floor between the girl's legs. It was double the fun up in VIP. Benita spotted a stripper she knew by the name of Mink who was only eighteen. She sat between two men, giving them both a hand job. Benita knew it was a contest to see which of the men could hold out the longest, and judging from the way Mink's eyes were bulging and darting back and forth from dick to dick while biting her lips, it was obvious that she wanted to do more than just use her tiny hands. Even the music was on point; 50 Cent and Lil' Kim's “Magic Stick” was blasting full force.

It didn't take long for Benita to gain attention and be called over to someone's table. Her shorts fit her snugly, and she noticed her pursuer's eyes on her pussy as she stood before him at his table. Right away she knew he was in the NBA by his height and the three hundred-dollar bills he laid on the table next to a bottle of Moet. Catching the beat, she started to pull her shorts down while keeping her eyes on his. After stepping out of the shorts, she began humping over the print she saw growing in his jeans. Reaching behind her back, she pulled the string loose on her bikini top just as the remix to David Banner's “Like a Pimp” filled the joint. Cupping her breasts together, she jiggled them in his face as he tried to lick one of her nipples. Stepping back to show her ass, she looked over her shoulder while pulling up her thong to make it slide deeper into her crack. Backing her ass up, she let out a little squeal when he grabbed her soft hips and pulled her down onto his lap. “Be a good boy, now,” she purred, trying to stay calm while reaching down to remove his hands. His grip was tight, and her struggling caused her ass to grind over his throbbing erection.

“Yeah, ho, that's it,” he said reaching between her thighs to squeeze her sex through her thong. Benita closed her legs and tried to stand, but his grip was too strong. “Bitch, be fucking still. Just let me pull out so you can ride this dick!” Benita felt her thong being slid to the side.

“Um . . . let's not do it here,” she said, hoping to make him believe that she was willing to take it elsewhere. “Look, what is wrong with you!” she said trying hard now to release herself from his grip.

“You the one that's wrong. So quit tripping, ho!” By now she felt his hard penis pressing against her thigh.

“Fuck this!” she said under her breath as she reached for the bottle of Moet. He was too busy trying to enter her to notice the bottle.

“Stupid bitch!” he shouted and pushed her off of him out of sheer frustration. He quickly began wiping off his clothing. Benita tried to bounce, but he grabbed her wrist as she reached for her clothes.

“Ho, what's your problem?” he hissed.

“Let me go!” she said jerking her wrist, only causing him to grip her tighter. The first backhand stunned her.

“You know who I am?” He reared back to deliver another backhand, but he froze in mid swing as Big Chubb cocked the hammer on his silver and black .357.

“Nita Poo, get your paper and go to my office!” Big Chubb said with a toothpick hanging from the right corner of his mouth. Benita wasn't even halfway down the steps before Big Chubb hit the NBA player in the jaw, knocking him back and flipping him over the chair. Big Chubb straddled his chest and stuck the barrel into his mouth as blood ran down his cheek. “I don't give a fuck who you be or what set you claim—none of the shit! But nigga, you done lost your fuckin' mind to hit one of my girls!” He slid the barrel deeper, watching the man choke. “Breathe through your ass, bitch, 'cause that's what you is. Oh . . . you a pimp . . . huh . . . what . . . what nigga . . . you can't talk . . . huh bitch? Don't cry now!” you can't talk . . . huh bitch? Don't cry now!” Keeping the heater in his mouth, Big Chubb reached into his pockets for his stash. Stripping him of his roll, he stood the man up and shoved him toward his two bouncers standing by. “Kick his ass out!” Big Chubb turned to see a few girls looking on in shock. “Get y'all ass back to work and show that dookie hole,” he said grinning and headed out of the VIP section.

Benita was fully dressed and waiting upstairs in Big Chubb's office, which overlooked the entire club through a one-way mirror. “Chubby, I . . .” Benita immediately started to speak when he stepped inside and closed the door, but he held up his big hands and pointed for her to sit.

“Nita Poo,” he said, sitting on the edge of his desk, “I know you is new, but my girls come first. It was my fault because I pulled Lamont from VIP. I forgot he was up there by his damn self.” He paused to count out eight hundred dollars. “Here, this is for your trouble . . . don't need no police up in here. Ya feel me, Nita Poo?” Benita nodded. “Well, you still have a job and ya did right, but I'ma let you call it a night. I'll get one of the girls to take you home.”

“Thank you, Chubby.” She stood up to hug him. “You still my big red teddy bear.”

Later that night, Benita stripped off her clothes and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, thankful that she didn't have a bruise on her face. Even without the money Chubby gave her she would have kept her mouth shut because she didn't want her mom up in Kinston to find out that she was stripping. “Dang,” she said seeing that she had no calls on Lisa's machine. After taking a shower, she went to bed with thoughts of no one other than Menage. She fell asleep five minutes after midnight.

* * *

Menage watched Katori's tits flop up and down as she rode him while making ugly sex faces.

“Uhhhh, it's hitting my stomach!” she moaned squeezing his chest. He didn't worry about her leaving any marks because she bit her nails. As she continued to ride him, he gripped her hips and forced his mind to think of something else other than her fist-tight sex.

Katori brought him back to the present by sticking her tongue in his ear as she continued to ride him. Pulling her tight, stretch-marked butt cheeks apart, he thrusted himself into her deeply. Then without pulling out, he rolled her over onto her back. Licking the sweat from her neck, he started stroking her as she lifted her legs and locked them hungrily around his waist. Moments later, he flooded the first of a box of five condoms that he had brought along with him as Katori reached down to fondle his balls.

 

“Hurry da hell up, girl!” Menage yelled walking toward his garage. Today he was Nautica from head to toe, white tank top and a pair of Carolina blue, cashmere buggy sweatpants. His eight-inch afro was picked out to its fullest. Vapor and Vigor sat still under the shade of the palm trees, the morning air cooling off their fur. Menage's Bulova read 7:47 a.m. and his man Dough-Low had left an early-morning message on his two-way about a cookout in Carol City for The Big League Car Club that he belonged to.

Keying the remote, only two doors slid open on his three part garage. Beside his Escalade ESV sat a 1995 topless bowling ball green and black four-door Acura legend sitting on twenty inch remote chrome and oak-trimmed free-spinning Dalvins. He yelled for Katori and put on his shades. He had brought her back to his house to continue their sex fest. She came out seconds later, and he couldn't help but smile at her tight little ass. Knowing that she wore no panties under her white tennis skirt pleased him even more.

“Man, my kitty is sore, so don't even be trying to rush me!” She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, only to moan when he slid a hand under her skirt to palm her ass. “Hey, let's ride in the Escalade with the spinners,” Katori said twirling a finger, giving the ESV a command. The front doors slowly rose in the air and the rear doors slid back. “That bitch is a fucking beast,” Katori said running to plant her ass in the Burberry seat. “Your truck got me pregnant, boy,” she said watching the door slowly come down with a soft click, “and man, my dookie hole sore.”

“What? Ain't even get my head in . . . stankin' ass,” Menage laughed, changing his CDs.

“Mmm, you ain't say that last night,” she said reaching between his legs. Katori was far from shy, and Menage wasn't surprised when she told him to slide his seat back and tilt the steering wheel upward so she could suck his dick on GP—after she promised not to spill anything on the leather. She completed her task in four minutes and five seconds. After placing his .380 under his seat, he started up the SUV. Sliding the tinted sunroof back, he activated his sound system and Project Pat's “Don't Save Her” came booming through the sound system. Katori playfully punched him in his arm when she heard the song, knowing he was trying to be funny. It was another hot ass day—chicks beating the heat under whatever shade they could find as they waited for the bus, and ballers speeding down the avenue in old model cars with loud booming systems. Menage's ESV, as always, turned a few heads or broke a few necks as it cruised down the streets of Miami, and that suited him just fine. They stopped at Burger King and bought a breakfast meal at the drive-thru. Without Katori noticing, the chick in the drive-thru window slipped Menage her phone number.

Menage wasn't paying Katori for sex but he knew she was making ends meet as best she could. She was more than shocked when he gave her five hundred dollars and told her to use it for the baby before dropping her off at her place. It was almost elevent thirty and he was on his way to the cookout, but he made a U-turn after remembering that he had scheduled a meeting with Felix Marchetti, the don of the underworld in Miami.

Menage walked into a dimly lit, small café on Collins Avenue and spotted Felix in the back smoking a thick Cuban Cigar. He had noticed two well-dressed huge men, Felix's bodyguards, at the tiny entrance.

“What's up, old man?” he said pulling out a chair and spinning it around to sit in it backward.

“Fifty-five isn't old, and how's your back?” Felix said squinting from the thick, rich smoke of his cigar.

“How you know about my back?”

“Dr. Wilson called me as soon as you were brought to the hospital. Remember, this is my city and I already have a few of my people looking into it.” He paused to brush off his tailor made Herme silk shirt. “So maybe you might wanna fill me in about this mess at Bayside.” With a nod of his head, the waiter brought two glasses of red wine. After telling Felix more about Bayside, they finally got down to business.

“That DB-7 you say DJ brought in . . . you didn't inform me of the change of rules.”

“What change are you talkin' about, Felix?”

Felix flicked some lint off his seven-thousand-dollar overcoat. “The DB-7 was stolen from L.A., but I don't have the owner's name.”

“L.A!” Menage yelled and quickly lowered his voice. “Felix, DJ know damn well that I don't deal with out-of-state shit . . . fuck!”

“Have you spoken to him yet?” Felix asked tapping his cigar.

“Nah, but I sure as hell will today. Maybe someone will drive it from L.A. I'ma stop by the shop also.”

Felix then offered Menage the chance to come stay on his island if he felt worried about the hit at Bayside, but Menage declined. He briefly thought about skipping the cookout and going to see about the out-of-state stolen car sitting in his shop instead. He had a gut feeling that it was going to be a fucked up weekend.

* * *

Special Agent David Myers rubbed his temples as he sat behind his cluttered desk in sunny Los Angeles. Without opening his heavy eyelids, he called out to the receptionist sitting at a smaller desk outside his office. “Amy, can you please page Special Agent Lydia Nansteel for me?” He was past exhausted. He tried to straighten up his desk, knowing that it was pointless trying to flirt with Agent Nansteel. He was nearly twice her age and married, and he doubted that she dated white men. But hell, with all the blacks her age either in prison or dead, he thought that maybe he'd have a chance at the beauty.

She came in minutes later with a strictly business look about her. Myers knew her measurements from her last fitness reports, but the pants she wore hid her eye-pleasing, firm body. Nansteel was five foot eight and weighed 125 pounds. Her 34-25-35 measurements would make her a true rival for the workout guru Donna Richardson.

“Yes, Agent Myers, you—”

“Call me David,” he said cutting her off with a wave of his hand as she took a seat. “We're on the same team here.” His intense, gray eyes quickly glanced at the outline of her perky tits showing through her simple, white blouse. Dismissing his wicked thoughts, he pulled a folder from his desk. “How are things on the Alistair case?” he asked.

Agent Nansteel softly cleared her throat. “Still no leads.” She was shocked when she was put on the case last Tuesday. Robert Alistair, the eldest son of the Mayor of L.A., had been found in his condo with a single gunshot wound to the back of his head in front of a safe. After interviewing the Mayor, she found out that his son never kept more than seven grand in his safe. The only object missing was the black Aston Martin DB-7 Vantage Volante that he drove. After she gathered all the information, she withheld certain details about the case from the media; so when Myers told her he'd just received an anonymous call from someone in Miami mentioning the car and a name, Nansteel sat up in her seat with a surprised look on her face. The caller described the car down to its rims and apparently the tags were still on it. The name given was Menage Unique Legend. Agent Nansteel quickly left to head for the records section to see what the FBI had on this man. This was her first big case, and being the only black female in her section with five years under her belt at the age of thirty-two, it would make her look damn good to solve it.

Before joining the FBI she tried to model, but the only modeling credit she had was gracing one of the pages of
Jet
for Beauty of the Week. And after walking in on her husband of four years to find him on top of their white, chubby next-door neighbor, she threw herself into her job. It wasn't fair. She was faithful to him, and the thanks she got was a woman, much less attractive than herself, sneaking around with her man. Then he tried to do a Kobe Bryant to buy her love and trust back—picture that. Her divorce became final eight months later. When word got out that her ex had slept with a white woman, a few white agents tried to push up on her. Thanks but no thanks was the position she always maintained. And her ex, still even two years after the divorce, never found out about the miscarriage she had due to stress. But through it all she forged ahead. However, sex or love was no longer a major issue in Agent Nansteel's life.

She returned to Myers office and informed him that the only charge Menage had on his record was possession of a stolen vehicle, and that was lessened to joyriding a year earlier. She also mentioned his bad conduct discharge from the Marines. Myers told her he made a few calls to Miami and found out that Menage was living rather large. He wanted to express his feelings of suspicion, but because Menage was black he didn't want to offend her. His sexual feelings aside, he had lots of respect for the young woman. Not only was she beautiful and highly competent as an agent, but she was even a black belt in some kind of Japanese fighting that he couldn't pronounce and fluent in six different languages.

Nansteel's second surprise of the day came when Myers told her she'd be going to Miami on her first undercover case. She flashed her ID at the gate, and a smile finally appeared on her face as she pulled her pearl white BMW 330ci into traffic. She knew she could handle the job and do what needed to be done—serve justice.

* * *

Menage knocked on Dwight and Tina's door for the second time. He was looking at his two-way when Tina opened the door. Sure, Dwight was his man, but shorty was looking good right about now. Tina already had a slammin' body, and standing in the doorway wearing a pair of denim boy-shorts and matching T-shirt with her perky nipples showing through made him swallow hard.

“Boy, come in,” she said pulling him in by his elbow and motioning for him to sit down. “Oh man, I know Chandra threw a fit about what happened,” she said sitting across from him with her legs open, allowing full view of her thick, juicy caramel hips and thighs.

“Damn, Tina, I need to get shot more often if you gonna treat me like this,” said Menage as he sat down. “And no, I didn't tell Chandra and I plan to keep it that way . . . hint, hint.”

“Boy, you can't do that!”

“Look, go and get Dwight,” he said looking at his Bulova. “I got a cookout to make.” Tina sucked her teeth and left the sunken living room with the bottom of her smooth butt cheeks jiggling with each step. Menage shook his head, slumping back onto the soft couch. It was huge, with a full bar to his left and a two-hundred-gallon fish tank flushed into the wall in back of him. To his right were four black marble steps leading to the bedroom and a floor-to-ceiling tinted glass window was across from where he sat. The stylish condo was only a jog away from a sandy beach and rows of palm trees across the street.

“Well, if it ain't Superman,” Dwight said walking into the living room. “You feeling okay, dawg?” They gave each other dap and ended with a secret handshake. Menage told Dwight about the DB-7 being stolen from L.A. “Say word?” Dwight said now sitting in plush chair, crossing his left ankle over his right knee.

“W-O-R-D—word!” DJ know the damn rules. He must got short-term memory or somethin'!” Menage said. He then told Dwight that he would let the DB-7 sit for a minute until he holla'd at DJ. He knew he could get an easy fifty thousand for it off the street or sell it to a dealer and get eighty or ninety thousand. Menage only needed $150,000 to reach a mil. He had $850,000 in the bank that he didn't touch, but his balling paper was close to $75,000 the last time he checked. Dwight was $250,000 from his goal, so Menage suggested that he catch up by using the paper he was about to make off of a few brand new 6 series BMWs that he would soon have his team steal off the back of a car carrier. At first Dwight said no, wanting to keep the game fifty-fifty like always.

“Chill. We made a plan to reach this mil as one, and that's what we gonna do—plus it'll be spring break and I'ma be with Chandra, so get wit' Tony at the shop and do that for me.”

Dwight gave in reluctantly. “So Chandra don't know about Bayside . . . yeah, Tina told me.” Menage nodded his head, running his tongue over his platinum teeth. Dwight leaned forward with his hands clasped together, his elbows resting on his knees.

“Look, man. You being my ace and all, this on the real . . . when you gonna settle down with Chandra? You need to put that woman first.”

“Oh, you Jaheim now!”

Dwight stood up abruptly. “Bruh, I'm for real. You need to grow up and quit this wanna-be-a-pimp life. What about H.I.V. and AIDS . . . STDs, come on, bruh!”

Menage turned his head, stared at the fish tank and watched a baby shark glide through the clear water. “Yo, Dwight, I ain't even gonna get into it wit' you about my personal life, so turn the page and close the book.”

Dwight let out a deep breath. He sat down and allowed Menage to change the subject. The young men shot the breeze back and forth until Menage's Nokia started chiming. Dwight passed on the cookout and told Menage he'd drop by later. He stood at the tinted glass window and watched the Escalade cruise down the street. He turned to find his woman bent over on the couch, sporting a belly chain and high heels.

“I'm hot,baby. You know what I want,” she purred. Dwight was glad that he passed on the cookout.

 

 

 

 

Dough-Low rubbed the dice over his belly and gathered them up into a tightly balled fist. He was six foot two, 300 pounds and black as hell. With his bald head and mouth full of gold, he looked like a man that didn't give a fuck. He was Jack Master by trade and sold dope like g-strings to a strip club. His motto, “I'm thirty-two, and I'll stick a muthafucka up for his dreams if I catch 'em slippin'.” He rolled the dice up against the wall. “Oh, it's true!” he yelled rolling an automatic winner. The group moaned and cursed as he scooped up close to nine hundred dollars. “Oh, it's true!” he said again as sweat rolled down his face. The game broke up and everyone headed back to the cookout.