Get Some (5 page)

Charles stayed up front. He didn't want to appear suspicious. He grabbed the sports page and pretended to read, but his body was as stiff as a crowbar.

Something is different,
Flo thought to herself.

Charles tossed the paper. He anxiously stood up. He leaned on the living room mantel. He could see most of Flo in the gold beveled mirror.
Don't open the closet! Don't go in there!
He hoped she didn't see the changed sheets.

When the teakettle yelled, Flo and Charles both leaped. Charles hurried to the kitchen and turned off the flame.

Flo frowned when she finally walked out of the room. She didn't notice the sheets but she did notice something. It was the faint hint of flowers from a woman's perfume. She looked at Charles hard when she left.

Charles avoided Flo's question-mark eyes. But he watched while she threw the new car in reverse. It left skid marks on their long driveway.

Charles sighed deeply when he slid the closet door open. His rib cage expanded and collapsed with each breath. From Trudy's position he could see her red panties. He knelt down and pinned her right there on the floor.

“Wait a minute!” Trudy said, shoving against his dense weight.

But Charles held her arms. His body was determined. He wanted something to erase the look on Flo's face.

“Come on, girl,” Charles said. “Don't make me beg.” Her standing, firm breasts looked like two juicy melons. He wanted to bite them. Let his tongue graze each tip. He tried to hook off her panties with his thumb.

But Trudy twisted and turned on the shoe-laden floor. She didn't want sex. She wanted to go but Charles pushed her back down.

“Stop . . .” she said louder. “Get off me, Charles!”

But Charles was blazed from the lemonade gin. The thought of almost getting caught turned his burners on high. He wanted some of this. There was definitely no question. He was risking too much to get nothing.

“Wait . . .” Trudy squirmed. This was not what she'd planned. But Charles ignored her and pulled down his pants. Trudy felt his belt buckle digging into her leg. “No!” Trudy yelled, trying to push Charles up. Trudy's frantic eyes shifted around the dark floor. She grabbed a leather shoe from the back of the closet and slammed it with all her might across his head.

“Are you crazy?” Trudy said, ripping herself up. She got out of the closet and left the room. She smoothed down her dress and walked into the living room again.

Charles tried to stroke her arm with his finger as she passed, but as soon as he touched her Trudy jerked it away.

I ruined it,
he thought. What was he doing? He'd never pulled a stunt like that before. He looked down at the carpet, avoiding her eyes.

“Look,” Trudy, said jabbing one hand on her hip, “let's get this job done. Then we can play house. Besides”—Trudy mustered a thin veiled smile—“getting done on a junk-closet floor ain't no date.”

Charles kept his head down. He felt totally ashamed. He didn't know what else to say.

“Just be at the bank like I told you, okay?” Trudy handed Charles a blue vinyl bag. “And make sure you bring this in your satchel.”

“What's this?” he asked, unzipping the bag's top. The bag was stuffed with newspaper stacks cut down to the same size as money. Each stack had a real bill on top. “Hide this in your satchel and bring it tomorrow. All you have to do is be there at ten and pick up the mail from my line.”

Trudy walked down the steps and hurried to her car.

“Ten o'clock!” Trudy yelled from her window.

Charles watched her car race down the street. A snail worked its way under a bush.

The two glasses clanged when he took them out of the oven. He carried them both to the sink. Trudy's strawberry was still jammed on the thin crystal edge. Charles put the whole strawberry inside his jaw and bit down. He licked the sweet tart from each of his fingers. A line of red juice ran down his chin.

D
on't nothing make you feel your race more than putting a perm on your head.

The god-awful burning.

Those horrible sores.

That foul-smelling chemical stink.

“You so quiet, girl. You ain't yo' same peppy self,” Vernita said to Flo in the mirror.

It was Wednesday. Flo had a hair appointment at two. Flo sat there while Vernita sectioned her hair. She watched while she mixed a batch of white, putrid stuff. The short, chubby tub, the small plastic spatula she used, the hospital gloves on her wrists. The room was so warm, Flo had to sip some water. The toxic fumes mixed with the dank, angry smell of hair sizzled to the root were slowly making Flo sick.

Truth was, Flo was fuming herself. As the lye began eating the first layer of her scalp, all she could think of was Charles.

Charles was fucking up again. Now she was sure. Flo sat there remembering how bad she felt last time. How he begged the next day, how he called the girl “dog food,” some co-worker whore, then he swore that he'd never stray again.

“Dump him,” her grandmother had said when she called. “The dog that bites once bites again.”

Flo felt that first tingle, knew there wasn't much time before the sting started working her brain. All she could think of was burning hot ovens, barbecue pits filled with piping-hot coals, cayenne that burned the first layer off your tongue, and Charles out fucking up again. She sat perfectly still while her tender scalp blazed and the searing rage blistered her heart.

There was definitely nothing fun about getting a perm, unless you were washing it out.

Flo left the shop and got back in the car. The new car had lost all appeal for her now. She felt tired, and this flu feeling would not go away. She stopped at the drugstore down the street. She bought some Theraflu and some Tylenol PM, but as the man rang her up she bolted from the line, racing to the feminine products aisle, and picked up a pregnancy test.

When she pulled in her driveway, Charles was nowhere to be found. Flo got out, clutching the brown paper sack with the pregnancy test and a rustling bag of barbecue chips. She'd bought the chips to hide the pink pregnancy-test box from those nosy folks standing in line.

She ripped the package, peeling open the instruction sheet.

“Please, Lord,” she said out loud to herself, “please don't let me be pregnant this time. Don't make me go through all that madness again.”

Flo squatted over the toilet seat and peed in a blue cup. She put the cup on the sink and stuck in the wand. She paced the floor for the ten endless minutes the test took, while the test rested on the sink's counter. Finally it was time to pull out the wand. But in her eagerness she accidentally knocked the plastic cup over. Flo bent to her knees to wipe up the mess. She prayed before she looked up again. But at the tip of the wand, there was definitely no mistake. A dark blue plus sign had appeared at the tip. Big and clear as the day.

Positive! Oh, God! It can't be positive again. Flo tossed the kit in the small bathroom trash. She laid some tissues on top to hide it.

It can't be positive. Please, Lord, not now! I can't be pregnant again.

Flo jumped in her car and drove halfway across town to the free clinic on the west side.

She waited. Her face was stuck inside a magazine, but Flo wasn't reading at all. She was studying the other women who sat in the clinic. Women with two or three children already. Young ones with boyfriends parked out in front. Older ones sitting there staring straight ahead. Most of them looked scared. Their faces etched in worry. Like they were all waiting for some terrible lottery that half of them were guaranteed to win.

Someone came out and called Flo's name.

A woman in a peach doctor's coat brought her to the back room. Technicians were testing the clear yellow liquid. One of them stopped and looked up.

“It's positive,” the woman said. “If you'd like to make an appoint—”

Flo turned and ran quickly back to her car. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so hard, her knuckles turned pale and went numb.

It can't be positive
, she thought.
Not now, not like this.

There was a time when Charles and she had discussed having a child. It was when his hand cupped her face under the cool steel moon. When he'd whisper and tell her he wanted a daughter. A little girl who'd look just like her. He would hold Flo so tight, bring her close to his chest or nibble against her plump stomach.

But all that seemed like a long time ago. Now when Charles got in the bed, he just pulled all the covers across his muscular back and the next thing she knew he was snoring. And that last time! Well, that was so awful that Flo had silently cried herself to sleep when it was over. Her eyes welled just thinking of it now.

Flo drove with the radio off and all the windows rolled down. She couldn't stop feeling nauseous. Her stomach did flips. She felt like she was stuffed on an over-packed bus with fifteen aggressive perfumes stealing what was left of the air.

Damn, I'm pregnant,
Flo thought.
I'm pregnant again.

Even though Charles was her man, Flo felt it was over. Deep inside Flo could feel he was already gone. She drove, half-conscious, until she reached her long driveway. She parked and walked inside the house. She saw the light blinking on the message machine and pushed play.

There on the box was the high-pitched voice of a female she didn't recognize.

“Charles,” the voice said low, “be there at ten.” The message clicked off after that.

Whose voice was that? It sounded familiar. Flo played the message over and over again, standing in the kitchen, right next to her knives.

Finally it dawned on her whose the voice was. Trudy! So he was seeing her! That bitch had the nerve to call Charles at home? Where the hell was his trifling ass at?

Flo'd been watching Charles these last few days, before he left the house. The way he dressed, the way he smelled, the way he paid extra attention to his hair and teeth. Humming to himself while he ironed his pants. It was the way he took his time, never once looking at her. Blind to Flo standing there grinding her teeth.

It wasn't easy watching your man get ready to go see another woman. It felt like all four burners on a stove set on High. It made tears leak like lava from her red, bloodshot eyes. She felt vicious, a lot more animal inside. Like she wanted to break something or bite down really hard, or rip something up like a stray does your trash.

Flo stood in the kitchen thinking of gunshots and skid marks on the center divide, but mostly she thought of revenge.

L
il Steve woke to fingernails tapping his car. He was sleeping good from a half-hour shower at the gym he'd taken real early that morning.

“Good morning,” Vernita said, peering at him through the glass.

Lil Steve squinted while rolling down his car window. The cool air killed the hairs on his arm. L.A. was a desert. It could be one hundred degrees by day and drop to forty in the wee hours of morning.

“Get in,” he said. “It's too chilly to keep this open.”

“No, baby, I gotta go.” Vernita pointed to her car. “I just wanted to talk to you a second.”

“You always gotta go. Why don't you break a brother off proper?”

Vernita smiled and slipped into the passenger's seat.

“Can you braid my hair, please? I need to look corporate.” Lil Steve always snatched whatever that person was selling. Whatever they had, he wanted it for free. “And zigzag one side and tuck the ends when you finish.”

Placing his back on her seat, Lil Steve leaned his head over and Vernita skillfully plaited his hair. The only reason she was there was to make sure Lil Steve was ready. This was Friday. Today was the day. Trudy told her to come early. She wanted her to make sure he didn't get high and forget.

“So what up, baby? Tell me what you need.” Lil Steve smiled, rubbing his hands over his wide-open knees.

Vernita examined his neck. He smelled nice and looked clean and was as scrubbed as a Catholic-school nun. She braided his hair with speed and finesse. All she had to do was fake a quick question.

“I just wanted to know the hot picks for tonight's fight.” Vernita didn't want to bet. She hated losing money. But it was the perfect reason to tap on his door.

Lil Steve loved attention. He drank that shit up. He'd give a big long speech if anyone asked him a question. Truth be told, not too many folks did.

Lil Steve scratched his head, like he was pondering the question. He studied the birds on the telephone line. Unzipping a toiletry bag, he pulled out a fine-tooth comb and a tiny black handheld mirror that was cracked. He carefully began combing down his mustache.

Vernita watched his eyes in the tiny mirror and smiled.

“Jones. Put your hair money on him.” Lil Steve rubbed his goatee and pushed black glasses over his eyes. “Liston swore he'd knock Jones out in three, but I wouldn't trust Liston. Always running off at the jib. The smart money's going against him.”

Vernita finished his hair. She looked into his eyes. “Okay, you're all set.”

Lil Steve got up and pulled an Armani suit from the trunk. He ducked in the backseat, expertly changed his clothes and rose from the seat looking like a stockbroker.

“Damn, you look like you're going on a job interview, honey.” She rarely saw him in anything but head-to-toe Nike gear. That brother had more Air Jordans than the law allowed. He polished his Gucci sunglasses and pushed a C-note inside his sock. He'd boosted two Compaq laptops that morning at the gym. The rest of his money slept under his car mat. His trunk was a stock room. It was filled with boxes, stereos, radios and speakers for your car, laptops and digital cameras. Leather coats with security tags still on, mini vacuums, thirteen-inch television sets and a whole row of new tennis shoes.

“So are you ready?” Vernita asked.

Lil Steve sidestepped this question. He knew Vernita knew about the job but he didn't know how much, and he was never one to show his hand.

“I stay ready, baby.” Lil Steve smiled, pulling a gun from under the seat. “Y'all better recognize,” he said as he put the gun back.

Seeing the gun immediately made Vernita nervous, and she hurriedly got out of his car.

“Wait. Can you give me a ride to my partner on 39th?”

Vernita managed a weak smile. That brother sure was something. A real pretty boy. A handsome thug with cut features. Lil Steve didn't have much, but you'd never know from how he dressed. And you sure wouldn't suspect that he lived in his car. He always looked so fresh and clean.

It was too bad she wouldn't be hanging with Lil Steve anymore. It had been fun planting seeds and pumping him up with information. Oh well, she said, gliding the key into her car door. This life was about to be her past.

“I appreciate this, baby.” Lil Steve hopped into her 5.0 Mustang. “My transmission is starting to slip.”

Vernita roared her big V8 engine and let the top down. The car was a dark turquoise green that sparkled in the sun, with chrome rims and a white convertible top.

Lil Steve admired Vernita's new car. “Damn, girl, you got the freshest ride in the streets. Riding down the street witcho brains all blown out.”

“Brains blown?”

“That's a convertible, girl! Damn, I sho' love these five-ohs.”

Vernita rolled down Crenshaw Boulevard until they hit 39th. “Goin' Back to Cali” shook her woofers and tweeters. Biggie Smalls had just been gunned down that year.

“Turn here,” Lil Steve told her.

Vernita glided her Mustang into the driveway. “This it?” she asked, leaving the ignition on.

The apartment had a few dead cars on the lawn; a washing machine was left on the front porch and there were some rose bushes that looked like barbed wire.

“Baby?” Lil Steve kissed Vernita's hand. His lips pressed the fake diamonds she had drilled in each pinkie. “Can I borrow a yard 'til tonight?” He smiled and brushed his palm across her warm cheek. Lil Steve clocked a whole lot of loose cash like this. He'd been unsnapping purses all over town. Beauticians were notorious for carrying lots of money. Fixing hair has always been a cash-friendly business. He knew plenty of men who macked the hell out of beauticians just to get next to them ends.

Vernita sighed mildly and opened her wallet. She knew Lil Steve's thing was milking honeys for money. She took out a five, holding out the crumpled bill. “Sorry, babe,” she lied, “but that's all I have.” Shutting her purse tight, she put the car in reverse and held the brake until Lil Steve hopped out of the car.

Lil Steve scowled but he shoved the bill into his pocket. He didn't have time to mack her down and get more. He watched her roll back her car.

“Hey, wait!” Lil Steve screamed. “Call me, all right? Don't make a brother wait so long, either. You know that shit ain't right.” He smiled at himself and combed his thin mustache. He may have gotten only five bucks today but there was definitely going to be more. Watching Vernita's shaved skull leave, Lil Steve's tongue licked his lips. It was only a matter of time.

Vernita glided her car into Drive. As she started to pull away she saw Ray Ray come outside. Ray Ray had that hard penitentiary look. The sun showed the hideous burn mark on his face. He had a coffee cup in one hand and wore black low-cut socks and a pair of worn corduroy house shoes. Damn, she thought, pulling off. Ray Ray sure was a mess. How could Trudy think that hatchet face was cute?

“I don't know why she's messing with your sorry ass.” Ray Ray grinned. “She's a little too high-class for you.” Ray Ray took a long swig from the hot fluid he held, flashing a wide, knowing smile at Lil Steve. “Got a nice looking 'Stang under her ass, though.”

“Woowee!” Lil Steve rubbed his palms together. “Fool, that's my new shit. Don't give me no trouble. Don't ask for no cash. All she wants is my black juicy dick.”

“You wish, homie. A bitch like that has more than your monkey ass on her mind.”

Lil Steve frowned. Truth was, he didn't know Vernita. The only thing he knew was Vernita did hair. He'd really seen her only a handful of times. It was always real early, always at his car, and she always went home right away. She just showed out the blue, parked next to his car and asked for help putting oil in her tank. They never had sex, but he didn't tell Ray Ray that. He let him think all women wanted him bad.

“Let's go, Romeo.” Ray Ray walked into the house.

While following him into the bedroom, Lil Steve saw Ray Ray's mother. “Hey, Moms,” he said. “What's going on?” But Ray Ray's mother never looked his way.

Lying on the bed was a gray .45, a black Smith & Wesson and a short-nosed, pearl-handled, cute .22. There was a switchblade and two boxes of bullets, some handcuffs and two cans of Mace.

“Shit, we ain't robbing the muthafuckin' bank! Why we gotta bring all this shit?”

“Protection, brotha. Just take your piece and chill.” Ray Ray strapped on his underarm holster.

Lil Steve had a gun but just used it to flash. He didn't even have any bullets. He leaned down and picked up the pearl-handled one.

Ray Ray picked up the Smith & Wesson and snapped in the clip.

“Damn, man, where'd you get this shit, dude? It's sweet.” Lil Steve admired the steely weapon.

“I just got it, all right?”

“It's cool, nigga, but what's up? You gonna Mace the dude and shoot his ass too?” Lil Steve laughed. “That Mace'll fly back in your own got damn face,” he told Ray Ray. “You ain't never had that shit, have you, man? You'll be coughing so bad and your eyes'll be crying. You'll be begging for some Primatene mist but can't have it. Why we gotta be strapped?”

“Just in case,” Ray Ray said, serious.

“In case of what?”

“In case he gets wild and starts trippin'.”

“You gonna shoot him?”

“Listen, I'll shoot the fool if I have to, but I ain't in it like that, G. Besides, I got priors. I ain't tryin' to get me no strike. If the shit don't look right, it's all off, okay? I ain't getting my ass faded 'cause some raggedy shit went crazy.”

“For real,” Lil Steve said, fingering his gun.

“I done did my time on some whack shit already.” In tenth grade, Ray Ray had gone to juvenile hall. He wasn't the trigger man but wasn't about to scream on no OGs. He did four months and kept his mouth shut. The brothers in the 'hood respected him for that too. It was one of the dudes from the set who kicked him down with the arsenal. But he wasn't about to tell Lil Steve that. Lil Steve didn't claim no gangbangin' shit. He was a hustler. Took cuts from both sides. Made money from anybody who wanted to be in the game. Not like Ray Ray. All his people were Crips. And although he didn't claim in a color-line way, in his heart he wore nothing but navy.

“You ain't gonna use that, dude. Listen, if there ain't no money, we out, right?” Lil Steve said this last part real slow. He wanted to make sure Ray Ray understood this.

“Right, right.” Ray Ray nodded his head, throwing his robe off on the bed. Pulling a black T-shirt over his hard, bench-pressed body, he put on the rest of his gray pinstriped suit. He hooked a silver-chained cross around the back of his neck. He brought the cross to his lips and kissed it.

“Come on, Moses, let's go.” Lil Steve buttoned his Armani.

Ray Ray mumbled a quick prayer to himself.

“You the most religious psycho I know.”

They both strolled outside into the loud
A.M.
sun. It was a clear day for a jacking. The sky was completely clean. You could see the Hollywood sign straight from VanNess Boulevard.

Lil Steve and Ray Ray went to Winchell's doughnuts first and ordered a couple of glazed before heading down Wilshire to the bank. They parked the Lincoln and waited across the street.

Ray Ray spoke after sitting for almost an hour. “Where's he at, dog?”

“Chill out, G, we early.” Lil Steve finished his last bite of doughnut and popped open a new pack of Kools. “You don't want to just drive up and do this shit, man. We got to see what the dude looks like first.”

“Trudy's going to point the dude out when we get there. All we do is wait for that damn fool to show. Said he never comes in before eleven.”

“You got your fake ID?” Ray Ray asked him.

“Yep.”

“Okay, so you go on in and I'ma be—”

“Nigga, you don't have to tell me my business. Listen, I'ma walk in, right. I'ma ask a few bullshit questions. I'ma wait at that skinny table and pull out these checks like I'm filling the amounts on these slips. You stay out here and wait. Don't bother coming in. They see two young black niggas in a bank and may trip. We don't want anybody gettin' suspicious. I'ma take my time, right, like I got a big deposit.” Lil Steve unbuttoned his coat and took outa stack of loose checks. He got out of the car and looked back inside.

The car didn't have a backseat. It wasn't that long ago that Ray Ray had gotten the car. Looked like a piece of shit in less than six weeks. Brother was as hard on cars as he was on women and shoes. A rosary hung from the Lincoln's rearview mirror. Ray Ray's mother was Catholic—they never went to church, but Ray Ray never left the house without his cross.

“Remember, wait here. I'll be back in a minute.” Lil Steve checked his Rolex and dodged across the street.

 

 

Ray Ray watched Lil Steve walk through the bank's large glass doors. He fingered the cross around his neck and turned his head from the blazing sun's rays.

 

 

Lil Steve strolled through the door. He paused for a moment. It was burning outside but the bank was near freezing. He buttoned his jacket, took off his Gucci sunglasses, wiping them off and putting them back inside their case. Lil Steve boldly walked toward the tall middle counter and started removing the stack of checks from his billfold. Trudy watched him come in but kept her eyes on her hands. The bank was mildly busy, but only two tellers were open. Nine people were waiting in line.

Trudy almost smiled when she saw Lil Steve. He looked like he owned a yacht in Marina del Rey. He had the tall, well-groomed frame of a broker.

Lil Steve smiled at one of the ladies standing in line. The white lady smiled back but quickly turned away. Lil Steve began filling amounts on the bank deposit slips. He coughed and pulled out a check register book as if he were cross-referencing amounts.