Gangsta Divas (11 page)

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Authors: De'nesha Diamond

BOOK: Gangsta Divas
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“ALICE! I KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE. LET ME OUT OF HERE!”
Looks like Sleeping Beauty has finally woken up. I smile and hit the light switch. Slowly, I descend the stairs while the lightbulb goes through its flickering routine.
“ALICE! ALICE! DO YOU HEAR ME?” Maybelline pounds her fist on the door. “YOU CAN'T KEEP ME DOWN HERE FOREVER!”
“I don't know about that,” I answer calmly during a small break in her banging and screaming.
“ALICE? IS THAT YOU?”
Crossing my arms, I lean against the locked door. “Were you expecting someone else?”
She calms down. “What are you doing, Alice? Why the fuck am I in here?”
“C'mon, Maybelline. Don't play stupid. It doesn't suit you.”
“Fuuuuuck,” she groans. “Leroy? Still? Damn, Alice. How long are you going to keep punishing me for that shit? You know I've never meant that shit to happen. I lost a leg, I've supported you, I raised your child—”
“Ha! Kill yourself with that Mother Teresa shit.”
She sighs. “So what do you want?”
“Why, I want us to spend some time together,” I tell her. “That's not so wrong, is it?”
Maybelline doesn't answer.
“How about this—are you hungry?”
Silence.
“I bet you are. Tell you what. Why don't I go back upstairs and fix you something to eat? Then we can have a long sisterly talk. Sound good?”
Silence.
“I'll be right back. Don't you go anywhere.” I rush back upstairs and into the kitchen. I step over Arzell's body and head over to the stove. “You know what? Maybe I will fix some flapjacks.” I rummage around until I find an old bottle of Pine-Sol underneath the sink. “I'm going to fix the best damn pancakes this bitch has ever had.”
Resurrection
16
Lucifer
October . . .
Mason “Fat Ace” Lewis
September 13, 1990–August 24, 2011
 
T
wo months after Mason's death a decision within the Lewis family is reached, and a funeral is scheduled. The prospect puts the city on edge. Even media outlets express their concerns about potential violence between rival gangs breaking out during the services. As it stands now, chaos reigns in the streets and as long as a majority of them are GD roaches, I have no desire to end the war—not until I have Python's grimy ass sucking on my 9mm.
Cousin Skeet uses the citywide concern as an excuse to pack the funeral with cops. Rumors ran rampant in the streets about what really went down that night on the bridge. Some insist that someone was seen coming out the river that night. Despite the odds and common sense, too many times I find myself hoping that the rumors are true and Mason is laid up somewhere lost and with amnesia. Hell, it works on those soap operas I was forced to watch while I was on the mend.
The city spent a lot of money pulling vehicles out the mighty Mississippi and, so far, only Dougie's bloated body has been found. If Python had been the one to survive that shit, then I'd be convinced that the muthafucka made a deal with the devil.
Every once in a while, I remember him clutching Mason and weeping like a little child. That shit still has me stuck. No matter how I turn the shit around in my mind, I can't explain it and I damn sure haven't told anybody about it.
Profit's mother, Barbara, flew up from Atlanta. I have to admit that I don't recognize her as the same white, dirty crackhead that used to patrol our corners and parade on Smokestack's arm. She claims to be clean now and has made a new life for herself. Smokestack made big moves and was released from prison in order to attend the funeral, but he has to go right back to prison when it's over.
A nineties OG, he is still pretty-boy fine with a mean-ass swagger. Like the old days, women still clock his ass whenever he's around. The soldiers give him nothing but mad respect and each make a point to make their way over to shake his hand and flood his head with praise.
However, Smokestack only has eyes for Dribbles, but she's sending out signals that she's shut the door on that part of her life and refuses to make eye contact.
I watch everything feeling like a widow without the ring. Cloaked in my Grim Reaper black, I stand between Bishop and Smokestack as Profit strolls forward. After two months of intensive rehabilitation, Profit has packed back on his thirty pounds of muscle and has developed a swagger that commands attention. As he thrusts up his chin to speak to our people, the resemblance between him and Smokestack is stunning.
“First, let me start off by saying, I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out here today,” Profit begins. “Seeing so many of you out here brings home that we are more than just soldiers on a battlefield—we're family. Blood be damned.” He pauses a beat while he works his jaw muscles to control his emotions. “We might not have shared the same blood”—he glances over at his mother and father and tosses them a smile—“but he was my brother . . . no matter what anybody says . . . and I loved him.”
While mother and son share a tender moment, I choke down a knot in my throat and mentally beg myself to keep it together.
“We
all
loved him.” Profit turns back toward our street family. “And because of that, his death will be avenged. The war against the Gangster Disciples niggas is far from over. This murkin' season has just begun. SIX POPPIN', FIVE DROPPIN'!”
Our soldiers pop off a few shots and cheer.
At last, Profit's brown eyes shift to me. “I'm not choosing any sides or even saying that I speak for anybody else but, for me, this war won't be over until we murk every last one of those pitchfork muthafuckas.”
More gunfire and cheers, but I zero in on his comments about choosing sides. Only one person would have asked him that. I cut my gaze over to Bishop.That knot in my throat now tastes like acidic bile.
Bishop glances away first, mainly because he knows that I never would.
I tune back in to Profit's speech just as he removes his own piece from his waist, kisses it, and then holds it up to the sky. “All is well until we see our brothah in the sky.” With that he fires off his pistol.
In solidarity, I remove my gat and then empty it into the clouds. Seconds later, Mason's gold casket lowers into the ground while one of our soulful Flowers sings “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.”
The feelings tripping inside my chest paralyze me. I feel like a coward for not saying a few words during the ceremony. Truth is that I can't. I don't trust myself not to get up there and submit to my inner bitch and start balling my eyes out. I can risk muthafuckas looking at me sideways. I've never been no weak, crying bitch and I'm not starting now.
I never aimed to be on top. I rocked my flag to prove that I was as good as my brother and Mason. Now that I wear the crown, I'm not about to let any muthafucka knock me off.
Mason would be disappointed if I did.
For a brief moment I close my eyes and allow the words of the song to tear up my heart. A memory of my and Mason's first kiss plays behind my closed lids and I experience that same rush of heat sweep through my soul. I remember dropping my towel and then pressing my wet body against him. The wonderful feeling only lasts for a moment before it's replaced by a bottomless ache that keeps threatening to drag me down. My knees are seconds from buckling, when a strong arm wraps around my shoulders and holds me up. When I open my eyes, it isn't Bishop's arm, but Smokestack's. He even breaks me off an encouraging smile, but it does very little to lift my spirits.
The song ends, and then a processional line of VL soldiers march by the casket to toss in their gold flags before leaving the grave. Though my casts are off, I'm pimping a black-and-gold cane as I leave the gravesite. Smokestack doesn't let me get too far.
“What? You don't have no love for your cousin Smokestack no more?”
“All day, every day.You know that shit,” I spit out our usual routine and then push up what I hope is a smile. “I'm sorry for your loss,” I tell him.
“Thanks, Willow. The same back at ya. How you holding up?”
“I'm still standing.”
“True dat,” he says, looking me over. “But how are you feeling? You look as if you could use some sleep.”
“Me and sleep aren't exactly seeing eye to eye these days,” I acknowledge. “There will be plenty of time for that on the flipside of the grave.”
“Don't talk like that.” His attention shifts over to the golden casket.
“Sorry,” I say. “That was insensitive.”
“It's all right.” He pauses for a moment. “I don't know if you two ever had that talk, but given this new situation, I don't think that I'd be considered a snitch now if I tell you that my boy had serious feelings for you.”
That damn knot in my throat grows as heat rushes up my neck.
“Aw, shit.” Smokestack cocks his head. “Are you blushing?”
“Nah. Nah.” I shake my head and look around to make sure no one is ear hustling on our convo. From across the way, Bishop and his new crew are hugged up tight and whispering.
“Anyway,” Smokestack says, producing a cigarette and lighting up. “I always thought that in the end, you and Mason would put the guns down long enough to do the right thing.”
The memory of Mason fucking me against the bathroom door flashes through my mind. It was the first time I truly felt like a woman. Already I miss the way our bodies snapped together as if we were one.
“Wait.” Smokestack cocks his head the other way. “Y'all hooked up, didn't you?”
The heat on my face becomes an inferno and all I can do is stare and wordlessly bump my gums.
“I'll be goddamn.” Smokestack's chest gets all swoll as he brags, “My boy closed the deal.”We share a beat of silence. “I'm glad. I'm sure that you made him really happy.”
For two hours.
That was the total time of our intimate relationship. I press my lips together, determined to keep the details of my and Mason's short relationship to myself. It's the only real treasure that I have.
Smokestack's gaze jumps over my shoulder toward Barbara. Judging by the longing in his eyes, he really wants to talk to her, but even I'm getting a little frostbite from her cold-shoulder. “Love is a bitch,” he says, sucking in another drag of his cigarette. “We all learn that shit the hard way.”
I bob my head as he shifts his attention back to me and tries to catch my gaze. I hate to deny him this bonding moment, but the game is watching me and I can't fuck up now.
Smokestack checks out where my gaze is swinging and comments, “Feeling the weight of that crown, I see.”
“Something like that.”
“Heavy, ain't it?”
“Nah. I'm just finding enemies where I least expect it, that's all.”
“That's what it means to be king or queen of the jungle.” He pauses for a second and then asks, “Bishop?” Smokestack blows out a long stream of smoke and then offers it to me for a puff.
The question hangs while I accept the cigarette and drag on it gladly.
Smokestack bobs his head as if he understands my silence. “Brother or not, it ain't easy for a man to be answering to a woman. That's keeping the shit one hundred.”
Anger flares through me as I lean forward and hiss, “I'm so fuckin' sick of hearing about niggas' paper egos and glass dicks, I don't know what the fuck to do.”
“I hear what you're saying, but let me ask you this: Why the hell do you want this shit anyway?”
“Oh give me a fuckin' break.” I roll my neck away.
“What? The question is legit.”
“The fuck it is. Are you going to walk over there and ask Bishop that shit—or any other nigga that's dreaming and conspiring to blast me off the throne? You're standing there saying that I gotta prove myself to you, too?”
“A'ight. Toss a little water on that fire, baby girl. I ain't tryna get on your enemies list. I'm in your corner on this,” he assures me.
Now I hold his gaze tryna evaluate whether that's true. “What? You don't trust
me
now?” He looks amused and offended.
“Sorry, Smokestack, but if my own damn momma walks over here right now, I'm gonna be lookin' at her sideways, too.”
He smiles. “Smart girl. No wonder my boy was crazy about you.” He winks and then meanders off toward Profit.
Jealous, I stand there and watch as father and son huddle together for their shared time of grief. As if to stab more knives into my heart, Bishop struts his ass over to the family to pay his respects. Clearly, Profit isn't giving him as much grief as he's giving me over the loss of his big brother. Soldiers are clocking this shit and whispering. Lines are being drawn and sides are being picked.
I'm not sure if I'm hearing my name fall off everyone's lips or I'm just imagining it. Either way, I'm ready to bounce. While waiting inside the limo, I make myself a drink. Minutes later, Dribbles climbs into the caddy. Her large blue eyes are drowning in an ocean of tears. However, when our gazes meet, she pushes up a smile.
“Hello, Willow.”
“Hey,” I croak through my tightening throat. I shift in my seat and watch as she closes the door behind her.
“I've been meaning to talk to you, but you're a hard woman to nail down,” she says.
“Yeah. Well, I'm sorry about that, I have a lot on my plate lately.”
She nods and then struggles to continue the conversation. “Look, I've heard that you and Mason—”
“From who?” I snap, defensive.
“From Profit,” she answers. “He tells me that . . . well, that Mason had some strong feelings for you—”
Damn. Did everybody know but me?
“—and I sort of remember you always hanging out with him and your brother . . . well, I guess, what I'm tryna say is that . . . I really appreciate you always being there for my son. After I got myself cleaned up, I tried to talk him into leaving this crazy life out here, but the street has always been a part of him. It was all he ever knew—all most of us knows.” She blots her eyes with a kerchief. “When I left here, I thought I was at least saving Raymond from this madness, but the struggles of a woman tryna raise a man—a
black
man at that—isn't any easier in the streets of Atlanta. Now—” She looks out of the tinted windows of the limo toward her son. “Profit has the fever and I'm afraid that one day I'm going to get another phone call.” Her hands fall so that her tears roll freely down her face.

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