For the Strength of You (2 page)

“That she was switching banks or some shit and withdrew the money to take to another bank. I don't fuckin' know. But once I find out who hurt her, I swear to God, I'ma split their ma'fuckin' wig.”

“Yeah, I feel you . . .” Fe-Fe said, as if Anshon's comment carried her into deep thought. “It fucks me up having to see her in a wheelchair, not walking and shit.”

“Yeah, me too.” Anshon sighed.

Fe-Fe looked over her shoulder at Bob, who now was pacing back and forth. “Yo, Anshon, my man. My future baby daddy.” She grinned.

“Baby daddy?” He frowned. “Don't be speaking that shit into existence. We ain't that fly.”

“Look, why don't you hit a sista up real quick. This broke-ass white nigga just got paid. He ready to smash and give up some cash. Let me get some of that work you got.”

“Get the cash first.” Anshon smirked. “And you got whatever you need.”

Fe-Fe walked over to Bob, whispered something in his ear, returned to Anshon with the cash, and they made the exchange of two vials of crack and two bags of dope.

“Well, let me go.” Fe-Fe stood up and smiled. “I need to go feed Bob's creamy ass some candy. You're welcome to join us.”

Anson didn't respond. Instead, he stared at her, hit the hydraulics on his Chevy, and took off.

* * *

“Don't cheat, nigga!” Anshon heard as he rode down Lizzie Street. The twins, Wallo and Teck, were sitting on their front porch, frying fish, grilling chicken, drinking Olde English 800, and playing dominos. Except for Teck's eagle tattoo on his shoulder, there was hardly any telling them apart. Football stars in high school, they had a stocky build, stood at five foot eleven, and were a milk chocolate brown. Rocking gold fronts, on occasion they dressed alike. The twins were always into some kind of hustle.

Anshon beeped the horn as he passed by.

“Yo, Shon!” Teck yelled, standing up and waving his hand for Anshon to come back.

Anshon peeked in his rearview mirror and saw Teck. He did a U-turn in the middle of the street and parked in front of their house.

“What the fuck is y'all doin'?” Anshon laughed, slamming his car door. “You fryin' fish and grillin' at three o'clock in the morning?”

“Don't sleep, nigga,” Wallo said, getting up from the dominos table to turn the fish and chicken over. “We sellin' this shit. See that li'l spot on the corner?” He pointed to the small white house with the blue lights decorating the doorway.

“Ms. Johnnie Ray's house?” Anshon smirked, giving Teck some dap.

“Hell yeah,” Wallo said. “Don't let Ms. Johnnie Ray fool you, 'cause she always giving out
Watchtowers
and shit. That li'l spot is a fuckin' shot house. Niggas is drinkin' and gambling their ass off. And we got a deal with Ms. Johnnie Ray that when ma'fuckers get hungry, she sends them over here to us.”

“That's wassup,” Teck added. “And don't be fooled. We got more than fish and chicken. Shit, we got black-eyed peas, candied yams, squash, collard greens, rice, and some smokin'-ass red velvet cake that my baby momma, Kristi, made. And you can have all of this for $4.99, fried corn bread included.”

“Sounds like a hustle to me.” Anshon grinned.

“Hell yeah!” Wallo gave Anshon a pound. “A nigga ain't never been so legal in his life. But in a minute, we wanna get some of that work. You know what I'm sayin'?”

“Money talks and bullshit walks.” Anshon smirked as a line of people started to form in Teck and Wallo's yard. “Y'all li'l niggas don't like to pay. It's bad enough that half of the time I can't tell you apart, but damn if I'ma be chasing you for my ma'fuckin' paper.”

“Give us a hour, for real, and we gon' get you the cash. Teck,” Wallo yelled, pointing to Anshon, “fix my man some food so he can chill for a minute.”

Anshon ate and finished the dominos game with Teck as Wallo served the long line of people. Despite it being the wee hours of the morning, people were outside as if it was the middle of the afternoon. Cars were all doubled park, and Teck's radio was blasting Game and 50 Cent's “In Da Club.”

“What . . . you wanna do something, Tom-Tom?” Anshon lifted his wife beater above his waist, revealing the butt of his gun. “I been wanting to blaze yo' ass for a long fuckin' time.”

Tom-Tom looked at Teck, Wallo, and Anshon, who by now were all standing side by side with their hands on the butts of their nines. Tom-Tom tapped his foot and rolled his eyes.

Anshon whipped out his gun and pointed it. “Apologize, nigga,” he said, walking toward Tom-Tom. Once he got in front of him, Anshon pressed the barrel of the gun into Tom-Tom's forehead. “I wanna shoot you so ma'fuckin bad that I can taste it.”

Sweat started bubbling on his nose and above his upper lip. “Do you know how it feels to see my sister broken-hearted and in a wheelchair? Do you know how it feels to see her not being able to take care of her kids? You were supposed to have been her fuckin' man and have her back.”

“Look, I-I . . .” Tom-Tom stuttered.

“Look-I-what?” Anshon yelled. “Shut the fuck up. I'm talking!”

“Anshon.” Fe-Fe ran over and stood in front of him. Her long, thick, jet black and wavy hair was falling over her shoulders. For once, she didn't look high, and if it wasn't for Anshon knowing that she was a crackhead, he would have thought—at least for a moment—that she was beautiful. “Please don't do it.” She grabbed his arm and tried to stare in his eyes. “Please. You got too much to lose. Tom-Tom ain't shit. He ain't worth it.”

Anshon didn't budge.

“Teck! Wallo!” Fe-Fe turned to them. “Do something!”

“If the nigga buck,” Teck yelled, “pop his ass!”

“Apologize,” Anshon said to Tom-Tom, breathing heavy, as if he were in a trance. Tom-Tom held his mouth tight and Anshon clicked the gun.

“I ain't sayin' shit,” Tom-Tom protested.

“You's a dumb nigga!” Anshon took the butt of the gun and slapped Tom-Tom diagonally across the face with it. The skin above his right eye popped open like unballing paper. Blood ran down his face like water.

“Say, ‘I'm sorry',” Anshon growled. Tom-Tom stiffened and stared Anshon down. “You tryin' to punk me?” Anshon took the butt of the gun and slammed Tom-Tom across the face again, causing Tom-Tom's body to wave like a ripple in a pond.

“I'm sorry,” Tom-Tom slurred as he braced his weight against the banister.

“Oh, now you wanna be sorry? I tell you what.” Anshon had a crazy look in his eyes. The blood-splattered gun was now pointed at Tom-Tom's face. “The next time you tell a lady to suck yo' dick, I'ma make sure you know how to suck one first!” Before Anshon would let Tom-Tom move, he ran his pockets. Anshon took $200 and three vials of crack. He handed it to Fe-Fe.

“Tell her Merry Christmas!” Anshon snarled at Tom-Tom.

Tom-Tom was shakin' so bad from the stinging pain on the side of his head that he could barely get the words out, “M-M-Merry Chr-Chr-Christmas.”

“Now get the fuck outta here!” Anshon shoved and kicked him in the ass as he took off running.

Then Anshon turned to Fe-Fe. “Don't bring yo' ass outside talkin' shit no more.”

“Whatever,” Fe-Fe mumbled on her way back into her house.

Anshon looked at Teck and Wallo. “Yo, y'all got the money or what? I'm out.” Wallo handed Anshon the money in exchange for the rest of his work. Anshon got back in his car, started his hydraulics up, and sped off. It'd been a long night, and Anshon wanted to get some much-needed sleep.

* * *

“You know what, nigga?” was the first thing Anshon heard in the morning as he listened to his voice mail. It was Tammy flippin' out. At first he thought he heard wrong, until he started the message over. As he did that, Constance walked in the front door, rolling her eyes and sucking her teeth.

“If I was that white bitch you fuckin' or you needed to re-up,” the message continued, “I would've seen your monkey ass yesterday. All I know is that you better come over here today or I'ma handle that ma'fuckin' chest.”

Anshon had to laugh. He pressed seven and deleted the message. Constance stood in front of him and huffed.

“What's yo' problem?” Anshon sighed.

“You, that's what.”

“What about me?” he said, pulling at the waist of her pants.

“Why the hell are prison inmates telling me how you had a gun to Tom-Tom's head, runnin' his pockets and shit, all over a damn crackhead?”

“I don't know. You tell me. Why would you be hearing that all the way in prison? Especially if you work the graveyard shift. Phones go off at eight and lights go out at nine. By the time you get there, most of them niggas either playing with themselves or 'sleep. And by the time you leave, they still in the same position. So, fuck why. I wanna know who told you that shit.”

Constance stood there and looked at Anshon. She backed away from him, causing his hands to fall from her waist. “Don't try and flip the script. You just got out of prison and trouble is the last thing you need. Tom-Tom is crazy. You know he runnin' with the Jamaican Mafia and shit.”

“Jamaican Mafia?” Anshon laughed. “Please. Tom-Tom is a punk ass. Period. End of discussion, and for the record, don't ever question me about how I handle myself in the street. Understand?”

“Whatever. And another thing.” Constance sucked her teeth. “You got fiends coming to my door all times of the night. My kids be here and shit. You gon' have to chill with all that.”

“You know what?” Anshon snapped his fingers. “You must have another dick you suckin' on, 'cause you actin' like a chick with a nigga on the side. Now, if I stop doing business here, then I stop coming, period. You make the choice. I don't know what the hell is wrong with your mouth, but you better catch it, before my fist does. I'm out.”

“Anshon! Anshon!” Constance yelled, running to block his path as he prepared to leave. “Okay, okay. Don't leave, baby.” She pulled him close to her and started groping his dick. “I'm sorry. I'm flippin'. It's just that I don't want anything to happen to you. Selma is a small town, and I don't want no shit jumpin' off. Okay? You accept my apology?”

He pushed her off of him. “Bitch, please,” he hissed. “I don't like your fuckin' attitude.”

“Don't call me a bitch!”

“Well, stop acting like one!” Anshon pushed Constance to the side and walked out the door.

“I don't need this bullshit!” Anshon hopped in his car and decided to head over to his sister's crib on the other side of Selma. “I guess I'll get cussed out a second time,” he said to himself.

As Anshon pulled up to the gate surrounding Tammy's house, he noticed that the entrance was swung open. Instantly his heart stopped and his head started to hurt. He couldn't figure out why the gate would be open when it was controlled by a numeric code.

The dew from the early morning grass splashed across the toe of his Tims. He placed his hand on the knob and noticed that the door wasn't locked.

“What the fuck! Tammy! Tammy! Where you at?” Anshon's heart started pounding. He pulled the gun from the waist of his pants, leaned against the front door, and peeked into the living room as best he could. From the angle where he was standing, he could see nothing. He slid across the wall so that he could get a full view of the room. Once he got to the archway, he squatted down, took cover, and ran in there. Nothing.

Immediately Tom-Tom popped in his mind.
I knew I shoulda killed that nigga
.

He clicked his gun. Then he reached for the nickel-plated .38 that he kept in the holster around his calf. With a 9 in one hand and a .38 in the other, Anshon was determined that if somebody had hurt his sister or was setting him up for some shit, this morning would be do or die.

From where Anshon was standing, he could see directly into the adjoining dining room, where he spotted Tammy's feet balled up underneath the table. The rest of her body was hidden by the curio. Tears fell from his eyes as he rushed over to where Tammy was.

He bent down and rested his guns next to his thigh, placed her head in his lap, and felt for a pulse. She was alive.

“Tammy,” he called softly. “Come on, big sis, you hear me?”

She snatched her hand back. “Got yo' punk ass!” She laughed. “Teach you for not coming over here when I call you.”

Anshon was pissed. “You play too damn much.” He mushed her on the side of the head. “I should leave yo' ass right there. Where is your wheelchair?”

“I ain't using that shit! Hand me my walker from the corner over there.”

Anshon put his guns away. He helped Tammy off the floor and handed her the walker.

“Why would you play like that?” His heart still hadn't returned to its normal beat. “I almost shot this ma'fucker up.”

“No you wasn't.” She smirked, pushing her walker toward the marble dining room table. “Yo' ass was f'in-a cry. Why they kill my sister? Boo-hoo-hoo.”

“Oh, that's funny to you?” Anshon helped Tammy take a step so that she could sit down. “What the fuck?” He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, please. That shit was funny. But what I'm about to tell you is not funny. I got a call from Fe-Fe. She told me that you put a gun to Tom-Tom's head and shit.”

“It was behind her ass.”

“No, it wasn't.” Tammy frowned at him. “You did that shit because he left me. You can't fight my battles, Anshon. I've been hustling a lot longer than you. And you can't mend my broken heart. Fuck that nigga. Why would you even bust a sweat over his ass?”