Booty Call *69 (9 page)

We continue on the Belt Parkway into Brooklyn. We’re in Bed-Stuy fifteen minutes later. Tyrone pulls his BMW to the curb in front of a well-maintained, three story brownstone on Decatur Street, a block from Marcus Garvey Avenue. He picks up his cell phone and makes a call as I scope the neighborhood from the passenger seat. “Come wit’ me inside,” he says shutting his phone.

I follow him up the steps toward the brownstone. As soon as we reach the top of the steps, a young woman who looks to be in her early twenties opens the door. She moves to the side, allowing us entry into the building. We enter, and she closes the door and proceeds down the hall. As we walk behind her, I can’t help but notice how beautiful she is. Her hair is cut short, and she’s wearing large, silver hoop earrings. She’s brown-skinned, and she has more curves than the letter
S
. She’s also wearing a large white T-shirt and tight blue shorts that accentuate her hips and butt. She sashays down the hall, walking barefooted on the parquet floors.

We enter another room that is well furnished, and I notice two more young ladies seated on the couch. One is smoking a cigarette, and the other—a white girl—is reading a magazine in her panties and a scanty, tight shirt. They’re both beautiful. The young woman puffing on the cancer stick
has flawless brown skin. She’s wearing thin, wire-rimmed glasses, and her beautiful, golden-brown, wavy locks fall down to her shoulders. The white girl has brownish blonde hair, baby blue eyes and a pure and innocent, all-American, small-town-girl- from-the-dirty-south look about her.

All of a sudden, I notice twelve kilos of pure cocaine on the glass coffee table. I’m surprised.

“Jakim, this is Mandy,” says Tyrone pointing to the girl with the short hair. “This is Sweet,” he continues, pointing to the woman with the beautiful locks. “And this is Milk,” he says pointing to the wholesome-looking white girl, who smiles up at me and continues to read her magazine.

I smile at all three women and give them a quick head nod. Mandy takes a seat next to Sweet, while Tyrone appears to be more preoccupied with the coke on the table. He picks up two kilos and looks at Mandy, Milk and Sweet. “Y’all bitches ready?” he asks. They all nod.

Sweet takes one last drag from her cancer stick, passes it to Mandy and then gets up and walks over to Tyrone. The ass on Sweet is like
whoa
! I mean, the bitch is wearing sweatpants, and it still protrudes.

Sweet gives Tyrone a quick kiss on the lips and then disappears into a back room. Mandy remains seated on the couch, pulling on the cancer stick as I stand in the middle of the room, clueless to what’s going on. I know Tyrone’s heavy in the drug game; shit, the niggah was moving ten kilos a week when we were all in high school, sweating the females and trying to look fly. At one time he had me working for him, pushing crack and peddling that shit off to the crackheads. Sometimes he would make me the money man, counting the intake from his lucrative drug business. He was making up to twenty thousand a day at the age of eighteen. After a while I fell off from working with Tyrone and moved on; I didn’t have the heart for
that type of business like he did; he was born to be a hustler. Me—I was too scared of prison, and I was so in love with Shana that I wouldn’t be able to stand being away from her for so long. Tyrone, being my boy, understood my situation and let me be without any beef.

After about ten minutes, Sweet comes out the back room, carrying two unique-looking suits. They’re made of soft material—probably cotton—and they have two long straps that clamp around the body.

“Ja, check it out,” Tyrone says taking one of the suits from Sweet and tossing it at me. I quickly catch it and take a closer look. The material is soft, as I thought, and it’s light in my arms. It looks like a fat suit, the kind they use in Hollywood when a slim actor or actress is playing a fat role, like Eddie Murphy did in
The Nutty Professor
. In this case the suit is white, and I notice that it can make a woman appear to look very pregnant.

I look up and see Tyrone grinning. It finally hits me: the three women in the room are drug mules for him, and he uses them and the suits to move his kilos Upstate and down south undetected.
Damn, that’s some clever shit
, I think to myself.

“Yeah, yo, shit is gettin’ hot out there, Jakim. Fuckin’ cops been on a niggah’s ass like a fuckin’ magnet over the past two months. They arresting niggahs in my crew like crazy. Cops be knowing about all of my drug runs and where my hidden stash be at. I got a snitch in my crew, Ja, and I’m gonna find out who it is and take care of it. But you see this? Niggahs don’t know about this yet,” he says referring to the pregnant suits. “This some new shit I’ve been doing for the past month and a half.”

He tells me more about the suits. Each suit is able to hold and conceal four kilos in the stomach area, which is padded with cotton and a special lining to hold each kilo in place as the ladies make moves.

“Yo, y’all bitches start getting ready; it’s about dat time,” Tyrone says looking at the clock on the wall.

He doesn’t have to tell them twice. All three ladies quickly get up, and before I know what’s happening, they start to undress in front of me and Tyrone. Tyrone takes two kilos off the glass table and starts carefully inserting his product into the suit. I just watch.

All three ladies have tight and lovely bodies. And Milk, for a white girl, has a nice ass, too. But of course she can’t fuck wit’ Mandy, and definitely not Sweet. Sweet has an ass that you can sit a cup on.

The more I watch them get undressed, the more excited I become. I want to turn my head, but I can’t. I am so mesmerized by their bodies that I want to ask Tyrone for a favor, to take one of his ladies to the back room and handle my business.

Milk and Mandy both smile when they see me gawking at them with lustful eyes. They all begin putting the suits on over their naked skin, crisscrossing the straps against their backs for better support. Then they start to dress. They have each packed exactly four kilos, which are concealed in the special lining of the suits.

It takes about an hour for the ladies to get dressed. Afterward they all pile into the back of Tyrone’s BMW. They’ll play the roles of pregnant women to a tee, especially Milk, who looks like the unfortunate country girl from the south, who migrated North because of her pregnancy, and was probably an outcast in her hometown.

An hour later, Tyrone pulls his BMW in front of the Port Authority bus station, located on Forty Second Street in Midtown Manhattan. “Aiight, Mandy, you got the first bus out to Albany. It leaves in an hour. You gonna meet up wit’ Mike at the bus station on Hamilton and Green. He’s your protection.
You can’t miss him. When you arrive, Mike is gonna take it from there and lead you to my connect. You give him the product, get my money and bring your ass back to the city on the next bus. Your hear me?” Tyrone says. Mandy nods. He then passes her an envelope filled with cash and continues to instruct her about her trip. Mandy listens without saying a word. After everything is understood, she steps out the car dressed in a pair of basic blue jeans, a large white T-shirt and a light denim jacket. Tyrone pops the trunk of his car, and Mandy retrieves a small, slightly tattered suitcase to give off the appearance of a poor, pregnant city girl, traveling out of state. If I didn’t know any better, she could have fooled
me
. I mean, she definitely looks the part.

When Mandy disappears into the Port Authority station, Tyrone turns to look back at Sweet and Milk, who sit quietly in the back seat of the car. “Y’all bitches hungry? We got an hour and a half to spare before y’all catch the four o’ clock bus.”

“Yes, daddy, I’m hungry,” Milk says.

“Aiight, we gonna catch a bite over at Applebee’s down the block,” Tyrone says. We head down the street to the restaurant.

Tyrone pays for everything, and he even tips the waitress a fifty just because he can. It’s twenty past three when we all head back to the bus depot. Milk carries a small book bag strapped over her shoulder and sports a blue and white track suit. Sweet is wearing loose fitting sweat pants and a gray hoodie. She’s also carrying a brown plastic shopping bag. Just as he did Mandy, Tyrone instructs both girls on what to do. Sweet and Milk prepare to board the same bus to Norfolk, Virginia, where they are to meet up with one of Tyrone’s soldiers at the bus depot. Tyrone gives both ladies an envelope filled with cash, and then watches them be on their way to take
care of his business.

A half hour later, Tyrone and I walk out of the bus depot. He’s in a good mood. His cell phone goes off again. He looks at the number and utters, “Yo, Ja, wait for me at the car. I gotta call this girl back before she has a bitch fit.” He tosses me the keys and walks off with his phone pressed to his ear. I go and wait in the car, listening to the radio until he arrives twenty minutes later.

“Let’s be out, my niggah!” he says with excitement. “This bitch wanna link up wit’ me tonight.”

“Damn, niggah, you must be fuckin’ da shit out of dat bitch. What’s her name?” I ask, curious about who’s continuously blowing up his phone.

“Man, I just be fuckin’ these bitches; I ain’t got time to remember names and shit.”

I laugh. “I hear you. Do you, playa. Do you.”

“What you gettin’ into tonight, playa?” Tyrone asks turning the ignition.

“Don’t know. I might give Shana a call and see what she up too,” I blurt out with a shrug.

“Damn, niggah, I ain’t tryin’ to be in your business and all, but you kinda sweatin’ dat bitch a little too fuckin’ much. I know you got plenty of bitches to call tonight. Don’t call dat bitch, Ja. Let her miss you or something. Fo’ real, yo.”

I hear what Tyrone is saying to me, but my mind is telling me something different. I keep recapping that night we walked and talked on the boardwalk, and I want to spend a night like that with her again.

“Yo, Jakim, you gonna do you tonight and let Shana be for a minute?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna do me, dawg. I hear what you sayin’,” I lie, while feeling that this is my business and not his.

“I’m just trying to look out for you, Ja. I hate to see my niggahs sweating one bitch, when there is so much more opportunity out there. You feel me?”

“Yeah, I feel you,” I say with a nod.

Tyrone slowly pulls out of the parking garage and merges into the bustling midtown traffic. I recline in my seat and stare out the window, observing the active city life while thinking about my ex. I’m a bit hopeless, I admit. I’m still in love with Shana, and breaking up with her is one thing I truly regret—especially since it’s over some bullshit. But I’m not going to stop trying to win back her love and trust for me. I’m missing her.

Fuck what anybody else says to me. I’m going to stop by Shana’s crib tonight and see what’s up. When I’m around her, it makes me feel good. I just want to talk to her, stare into her beautiful, angelic face and probably reminisce with her about old times.

Tyrone waits forever to call me back. I swear, if the niggah didn’t have a big dick and I wasn’t so horny and desperate to see him tonight, I would have told him, “Fuck you!” But the niggah has me hooked on the dick. And he has me open twenty-four-seven like 7-Eleven.

When he finally calls me back, he explains that he couldn’t talk because he had Jakim in the car with him. Of course I understand. He’s coming to see me around nine tonight, and I’m ready for him.

I lay around my room naked for a good fifteen minutes, fingering my pussy and thinking about Tyrone. I feel like a cat in heat, waiting for him to come through and put that magic stick on me. My pussy just keeps throbbing and throbbing, and I feel that if I don’t get any dick soon, I might bust.

As I continue to please myself, the phone rings. I stop for a quick second to pick up the receiver. “Hello?” I answer, thinking it’s Tyrone at the other end of the line. I look at the time. It’s eight-thirty.

“Shana,” I hear a voice that doesn’t belong to Tyrone say. It’s Jakim.

“Jakim, what do you want? I’m busy at the moment,” I tell him, eager to hang up on him and finish satisfying myself.

“I wanna talk to you. I’m parked outside your crib,” he says.

“What? You’re parked outside of my house—right now?” I inquire. “What’s wrong wit’ you?”

“I just wanna talk to you.”

“Jakim, are you crazy? What if I had someone over?”

“You do?”

“Jakim…” I pause, sighing. Oh-my-God…I get up off my bed and look out of my front window. No doubt, there’s Jakim’s Maxima parked outside my house. He sounds distressed, and despite our situation I still need to be there for him—even though I have company coming through in a half hour. I don’t want him doing anything stupid to himself or anybody else.

I take a deep breath and reluctantly say, “Jakim, give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll be outside. Okay?”

“Aiight,” he replies.

I go to my closet and pull out a pair of jeans, a baggy T-shirt and some old Nikes. I throw my hair up in a simple ponytail and strut outside to Jakim’s Maxima.

I quickly get in the car. “What’s up? What do you want to talk to me about?” I ask, getting to the point; I have no time to fool around. Tyrone will be here any minute, and I need Jakim to leave as soon as possible.

“Damn, you look nice, Shana. You got company inside?”

“Nah, I was just busy with some housework,” I lie. “Why are you here?”

“Yo, I ain’t gonna lie to you, Shana. On da real, I’m missing you so much right now. This shit is fuckin’ killin’ me,” he straightforwardly tells me.

“Jakim—”

“Yo, all I’m asking you is to give me another chance. I deserve that, Shana, don’t I?” he pleads.

I can’t answer him. I’m at a loss for words. There are only two things on my mind: one, why is this ni
ggah hounding me like this, and two—Tyrone.
I love me some Tyrone, and having Jakim around isn’t making things easy for me.