Animal (23 page)

“We were having major fun until those cats from the Bronx started acting up, but you laid it down, baby!” Veronica squealed excitedly as if it had just happened last night. Some older cats who were getting money in the Bronx tried to disrespect Alonzo and his young crew by stepping to their girls, but they soon found out that the teenagers were as vicious as a pack of wild dogs. Alonzo pistol-whipped one of the older dudes so bad that he never regained the sight in his right eye. “After that, everybody knew not to fuck with Zo-Pound. You really showed them.”

“I sure did,” Alonzo said with a sigh.

What Veronica was omitting from the story was how when the shit hit the fan about assault and the police came around asking questions, it was one of her girlfriends who got spooked
and sent the police in Alonzo’s direction. He ended up catching a case behind the incident, but because of his age and the dude’s criminal history, Alonzo managed to escape with five years probation.

“You know, I always knew you were going to be a ghetto star in the hood, even after you went away,” Veronica told him.

Alonzo raised an eyebrow. “Is that right? And what makes you say that?”

Veronica looked at him as if it were a stupid question. “Because you’re Zo-Pound, baby. In high school, we used to talk about who was gonna blow up and who was just fronting, and all the girls knew you were serious about your hustle. You stayed fly, and you kept me fly, and that’s why we were the king and queen.”

Alonzo hadn’t meant to, but he laughed. “Veronica, you got jokes. You ended up working for the city, and they threw my black ass in prison, and ten years later, we’re both still living in the projects. So what exactly are we the king and queen of besides hard times?”

Veronica frowned. “Don’t be a dick, Zo-Pound. Of course, I know a lot has changed over the last few years, but I’m still me, and you’re still you, and the fact that we’re even sitting her entertaining this conversation is proof that there’s still chemistry.”

“Yeah, ma, I was digging on you when we bumped heads at the toll booth,” Alonzo admitted.

“A’ight, then, so stop playing and act like you know,” she told him.

They talked a bit more for a while, and Alonzo even found himself trying to have a good time, in spite of the rocky start to
the date. Between the shots he was taking and the big-ass drink on the table, he started to loosen up, and Veronica didn’t seem to be feeling any pain either. Every so often she would reach over and touch his thigh under the table and cause his penis to become erect. Staring at Veronica’s cleavage, Alonzo began to change his mind about ditching her early. He figured if nothing else came of it, he could at least get some pussy so that the night wouldn’t be a total loss.

Three-quarters to the bottom of the Texas-sized drink Alonzo’s bladder was good and full. He excused himself from the table and headed for the restroom. On his way there, he remembered that he had turned his phone off when they went into the movie theater and never turned it back on. When he powered the phone on he saw that he had several text messages and a few voice mails. He checked the texts and didn’t see anything that required his immediate attention so he decided to let the voice mails wait until the end of the night before he checked them. He had just about made it to the bathroom when he heard a familiar laugh coming from one of the booths. Out of curiosity, Alonzo peeked around the corner and spied on the occupants of the booth. There were three nice-looking chicks, eating and sipping colorful drinks. When his eyes landed on the chick sitting in the corner with a french fry pinched between her fingers and a smile on her lips, his heart felt like it had skipped a beat. He threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure Veronica wasn’t paying attention before approaching the booth.

TWENTY-FOUR

P
ORSHA CHECKED HER WATCH AND WONDERED FOR
the twentieth time in as many minutes what the hell was keeping Frankie. After she had spoken to Frankie earlier to arrange a time and meeting place, she still dragged her feet around town getting her nails done and her hair touched up before finally jumping on the A train to Brooklyn. Because of a track fire at West Fourth, Porsha ended up ten minutes late and Frankie
still
hadn’t arrived, which was unusual because Frankie was big on punctuality.

BBQ’s was crowded that night so Porsha had put their names on the waiting list for a table and went outside to wait for Frankie. It was a nice night, thank goodness, but she was still irritated at the fact that Frankie hadn’t made it yet. She only hoped that Frankie would make it by the time they were called to be seated. She was getting hungry and wanted to get her drink on after having a rough day at work. Porsha’s primary source of income was from the office building where she worked as one of the receptionists. The bosses were evil, the job
was stressful, and the pay was shitty, but it beat shaking her ass for singles or being homeless. She had dabbled in both and was a fan of neither, so she thugged it out at her gig.

Porsha longed for the day that she would be able to free herself from the plantation and model full time, but modeling was slow motion at the moment, especially trying to break in at the age Porsha was. She was still in her early twenties, but in the modeling world, she might as well have been on the cusp of retiring. A lot of the girls she found herself competing against for the good jobs were younger, taller, and thinner than she was.

Porsha was a beautiful girl, standing at around five-foot-something, depending on the shoe, with a beautiful smile and well-defined curves. She was becoming very popular with some of the hipper, more urban magazines who catered to the around-the-way chick, but the bigger brands she was shooting for kept passing her over. They wanted rail-thin girls who were still in high school or fresh out, who were willing to starve and abuse themselves in the name of perfection. Porsha couldn’t get with that program, so she had to take work where she could get it. She had done a few bathing suit spreads and had been offered some nice cash to do partial nudes, but she didn’t want to taint her brand. She knew one day her ship would come in so she held fast to that and kept grinding.

Porsha was leaning against the wall outside BBQ’s texting Frankie to see where she was when she felt a presence looming over her. She looked up and found herself staring at a dude who looked like he had just walked off the set of
New Jack City
. His Fila sweat suit was two sizes too big, and all ten of the thin gold chains he was wearing looked like he copped them fresh from the kiosk in the mall. Adjusting the brim of his white
Kangol, he flashed a single gold tooth among several rotten ones at Porsha.

He said, “What’s up, baby? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Not unless it’s to tell me that you apologize for coming out dressed like that. Have a good night.” Porsha shooed him away with a flick of her hand.

“Fuck you, bitch,” the dude said in disgust and stormed away.

“Ya mammy is a bitch,
bitch!
” Porsha shouted after him. Since she stepped out of the house they had been on her like stink on shit, with corny lines and promises of ice-cream dreams, but Porsha wasn’t on that. She had enough going on in her life than to add training a man to her list of things to do. No matter how old or young, they all needed a little training, at least that’s what she reasoned. When she looked at her reflection in the restaurant window, she smiled and couldn’t say that she blamed them for pressing her because she was looking quite tasty that night.

Porsha had her homegirl at the shop give her hair a subtle blue-black rinse that you would only notice in the right light and press it up into a high Mohawk. She dug out her tightest blue jeans, which looked painted on over her plump ass, and accented them with a length of chain and padlock instead of a belt. The final pieces to the puzzle were an ode to her stripper days in the form of a pair of thigh-high black leather boots that stood on chrome-wedged heels that added at least three inches to her height. She drew more than a few stares for her appearance, but Porsha didn’t care. Her style was her style, and that’s what set her apart from the rest.

She was just about to hit send on her text message to Frankie when she saw a Livery Cab come to an abrupt halt two cars down
from where she was standing. She saw Frankie spill out of the cab first, followed by a girl she didn’t know wearing a cute sweater dress. Both of them were exchanging words with the cabdriver. The cabdriver shouted something back at them in a language that Porsha didn’t understand, but she was able to make out the word “
Bitch,
” and she saw Frankie’s head rear back in shock. Porsha knew what would come next; she had seen it on more than one occasion. She headed in their direction as fast as she could in the tall shoes. The high wedges made her feel like she was on ice skates, trying to get to Frankie before her hand made it into her purse.

By the time the taxi carrying Frankie and Dena had crossed into downtown Brooklyn, the two women were thoroughly irritated. The taxi didn’t have air-conditioning, and the windows were broken so they didn’t roll down. To top it off, the stuffy car smelled like so much funk that the girls feared the smell would linger in their clothes. From the route that he took, it was obvious that he wasn’t familiar with Brooklyn, but when they tried to give him directions, he ignored them. The fifteen-minute ride ended up taking forty minutes, and they were pissed about that.

“About fucking time,” Frankie cursed when they finally hit Livingston Street and spotted BBQ’s in the distance.

“Thank God, now please let me out of this cab before I faint.” Dena fanned herself.

The driver slid the divider back and stuck his coal-black face through it. “You pay now,” he ordered in clipped English.

“Ain’t nobody trying to skip out on your li’l bum-ass fare,” Frankie barked and tossed two balled up bills through the partition.

The driver uncrumpled the bills, which were a ten and a five. “No, no . . . it’s no fifteen dollars . . . twenty-five-dollar ride.”

“
Twenty-five dollars
to come from the Stuy to downtown? You bugging,” Dena told him.

“I not bugging, you bugging!” he shot back. “It take almost one hour to come here so you pay me twenty-five dollars.”

“Nigga, first of all, I don’t see no meter in this cab. Second of all, it took us an hour to get here because you didn’t know where the fuck you were going and wouldn’t listen when we tried to tell you.” Frankie was getting heated.

“You pay me or I call the police,” the driver threatened.

“Call whoever you want, but best believe that when they get here, you’ll
still
be sitting on that same fifteen dollars because I ain’t giving you shit else,” Frankie stated, throwing the door to the taxi open and stepping out. Dena was right behind her.

“You owe me money!” the driver screamed out the window at the girls, waggling his fist.

“We don’t owe you shit. As a matter of fact, I need to send your nasty ass a bill because your cab funked up my dress,” Dena replied.

The driver said some things that neither of them understood, but from the tone of his voice, they could tell they weren’t compliments. The girls kept walking until they made out the word “
bitches,
” and then Frankie came to an abrupt stop. She had never been fond of the word
bitch,
even when it was said in jest among her girlfriends, but it was a definite no-no when it came out of the mouth of a man. When Scar and his crew robbed her, the word took on a whole new meaning. While they were beating her within an inch of her life, all Frankie could remember was hearing them call her a
bitch
over and over. Whenever she heard a man say the word now, it took her to a dark place.

“
What
did you call us?” Frankie turned back to the cab.

“You heard me. I call you thieving bitches,” the driver repeated, daring Frankie to do something.

A sinister smirk crossed Frankie’s face. “That’s what I thought you said.” As cool as the other side of the pillow, Frankie slipped her hand into her purse. She was drawing her .22, ready to pop a hole in the cabdriver for disrespecting her, when a firm hand grabbed her about the wrist before the gun could clear the purse. Frankie’s head snapped around, but some of the fight drained from her eyes when she saw that it was Porsha.

“Francine, I know you’re smart enough to know doing what you were about to do ain’t a good look in downtown Brooklyn, especially since we’re just a hop and a skip away from the precinct,” Porsha whispered in her ear. Porsha’s words brought Frankie back to her senses. “Frankie, let it go, ma.” Porsha began slowly pulling Frankie away from the altercation.

The realization of what almost happened made the cabdriver realize that the extra ten dollars he was trying to beat the girls for wasn’t worth a bullet, so he wisely pulled off.

“Asshole!” Dena said to the taxi’s fleeting taillights. “You know, for a minute, I thought you were really going to shoot him,” she told Frankie, expecting her to laugh off.