Hustlin' Divas (20 page)

A
few hours later, I return to my parents' place to pick up Christopher. Fat Ace had wanted me to go back to his crib for a private celebration, but I had to take a rain check. I'm trying to convince myself that I feel good about my decision in telling Fat Ace about the baby, but the truth of the matter is, there's a fifty-fifty chance that the baby is his. And unlike Python, Fat Ace doesn't have a whole bunch of babies sprinkled all over Memphis.

I met Fat Ace when I was slapping handcuffs on him at a BP gas station. I didn't quite appreciate having to chase his ass for seven blocks, but he seemed impressed that I could even catch him. I wasn't attracted to him or anything, but after he posted bail the next day, he didn't waste any time calling and hounding me for a date. At first I didn't pay any attention to his advances, but Fat Ace wasn't a man used to taking no for an answer. Three weeks later, I caved and then fucked him on the first night. He satisfied an itch during a time when Python was slithering from one bitch to another.

I shut off the engine to my SUV and took a moment to draw a deep breath. In my mind, I can still see Python fucking that girl, and I just barely stop a rush of tears from pouring down my face. “I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry.”

Once I collect myself, I climb out of the car and head toward my parents' two-story brick home. Like every house on the street, the yard is emerald green and neatly manicured, as if everyone is in some silent competition to make the cover of
Better Homes and Gardens.

I enter the house without knocking and holler, “Mom?”

“In the kitchen,” she yells back.

My mother, Victoria, prides herself on being the perfect homemaker. Her home is her pristine castle, and cooking and gossiping about everybody in the church is her life. Unfortunately, today the smell of fried chicken and collard greens has my stomach churning.

“What's the matter with you?” my mother asks, looking up from stirring her homemade mac and cheese.

“Nothing,” I lie, but I'm unable to stop my nose from trying to twist off my face.

She just gives me a look and opens the oven to slide in her crackling and corn bread. “Your father wanted me to tell you he wants to see you in his office upstairs when you got here.”

I groan. The last thing I'm in the mood for is my father's long-winded stories about what's going on at the department. Unlike him, I like to leave the job at the job. “I really don't have time. I just want to pick up Christopher and get home.”

“Aren't you staying for supper?” she asks, looking all butt-hurt. We go through this song and dance every Sunday. She just wants me to stay so when her gossiping sisters come over, she can brag about how much I've straightened up my life despite the child-out-of-wedlock episode I put her and Daddy through. Wait until she learns that I'm about to have my second one.

“Momma, I really don't have time.”

“Make time,” she tells me, washing her hands at the sink. “You need to start sitting down at the table with Christopher and not just always dropping him off somewhere. Besides, I told him that he can spend the night here.”

“Well, I wish you would have told me that before I came. You could have saved me some time.” I lean against the wall and fight down another wave of nausea. “Where's Chris?”

“He's in the backyard playing with his cousin Dewayne. And he'll still be out there while you go see what your daddy wants.” She turns me around and propels me out of the kitchen. “Now go on.”

There's no point in arguing, so I head on up to see what my father wants.

“And tell the captain that dinner will be ready in twenty minutes,” my mother yells out.

“Yes, ma'am.”
The captain.
I roll my eyes again. Beats the hell out of me why she always insists on calling Daddy by his job title. Growing up, it went from sergeant to lieutenant to now captain. It's weird but it's their little thing, so I let them have it.

I climb up the stairs in the foyer, grateful that my stomach is starting to settle as I get farther away from the wafting aromas. I walk past my parents' bedroom and head to my father's home office, which used to be my bedroom. Hoping that I can just cut this shit short, I knock one time and enter the room.

“Hey, Daddy. You wanted to see me?”

POP! POP! POP!

My eyes instantly fly to the thirty-two-inch television in the corner of the room and the black-and-white image of me running down the back of Goodson's Autoshop. Python has his hands up, and O'Malley has his gun aimed at the back of his head.

My father hits the
PAUSE
button on the remote and turns toward me “Do you need for me to finish playing this?” he asks.

“No.” I enter the room and quickly close the door behind me. Now, on top of my stomach sloshing around, a huge lump is clogging my throat. Never has his aging face looked more haggard and troubled than it does at this moment.

“Why, baby girl? Just tell me why?” His eyes plea with me.

“Who else has seen that tape?”

His eyes spring wide. “Nobody. What, you think I'm just going to hand something like this over? You think I want everyone down at that department—a department that I've devoted most of my life to—to know that my damn daughter is a fuckin' cop killer?”

“Who gave you the tape?”

“What the fuck does that matter?” he thunders, jumping to his feet. “I want to know what hell you were thinking!” He turns to the screen and points to Python. “And is that who I think it is?”

I suck in a deep breath and cross my arms. “That's Christopher's father.”

My dad's hand falls away from the screen as he continues to stare at me. “What?”

“O'Malley wasn't going to arrest him. He was going to kill him.”

“So you
killed
your partner?” he asks.

“I did what I had to do,” I say honestly. “And I would do it again.”

Still staring at me as if I'd just sprouted a second head, he plops down into his chair. “Oh, baby girl.”

“I haven't been your baby girl in a very long time.”

His big bushy brows dip together. “Excuse me?”

“And please spare me any sermon that you've been practicing for however long you've had that tape,” I say, wanting to be spared the dramatics. “When it comes to doing our jobs, we've both done some shit that kind of colors the line of justice. Don't you think?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about you and ole Smokestack. Word is, your affiliation with the Vice Lords run pretty deep, Dad. Some would even say that they helped you build a career off the backs of the Gangster Disciples.”

“Who told you that?” he asks, turning purple.

“Why? You want to waste your breath denying it?” While I watch him sputter, I push aside my guilt. I love my father, but he's no angel. “The Vice Lords have been greasing your palms and helping you with those career-making busts against the Gangster Disciples. You were always at the right place at the right time. You don't have to be a cop to know that not all gangsters are on the streets.”

Shock chases the blood out of my father's face as he gives denial another shot. “I don't know who you've been talking to but—”

“Let's just say that Fat Ace and I are really good friends.”

My father clamps his mouth shut. “He's been talking?”

“Tell you what, Daddy. Get rid of that tape and let's just forget we ever had this conversation. Agreed?”

He just stares at me, but I wait him out. I know his heart is breaking just as I know that our relationship will never be the same. At last, he hangs his head and glances away. “Agreed.”

“Good. Momma says dinner is almost ready.” I turn and walk out of the room, wiping away the tears that finally roll down my face.

March…

S
itting under the hair dryer at FabDivas hair salon, I'm reminded why I can't stand gossiping bitches. Lately, every time I walk into a room, a nail shop, or even a party, bitches stop talking and start whispering and pointing. It isn't that I don't know what they're jaw-jacking about. Clue one is Python's increasing absence from our bed, and clue two is that every time I turn around, there's Yolanda skinning and grinning in my face. I'm not stupid; I know the signs. Python has clearly been throwing dick her way for a couple of months, and now the retarded bitch is smelling herself.

As Python's wifey, I see the sudden shift in not just this crazy bitch but also in a couple of other Queen Gs' attitudes. There have been blatant signs of disrespect, and I'm not having that shit. It's now time to check these broads.

“If you got something to say, then just say it, bitch!” I push up the hair dryer and glare at Yo-Yo over at the shampoo bowl.

Amusement dances in the bitch's eyes, but she keeps her mouth shut.

“Nah. Nah. Speak up,” I say, not wanting to let shit go. “You obviously got something to say. I done watch you spit my name outcha mouth a couple times while I'm sitting right here in front of you. So speak the fuck up.”

Another girl at the shampoo bowl chuckles and rolls her eyes like she done forgot who the fuck I am.

I know that heifer well. Octavia. She works down at the Pink Monkey, dancing under the silly name
Gucci
—like any nigga wanted a no-tittie stripper with pussy you could smell a mile away. How come bitches can't learn to douche their shit?

I turn my anger toward Octavia. “All right, Ms. Comedian. What the fuck is so funny?”

All eyes zoom back and forth between us. One of the stylists even turns down the radio so everyone can hear better. Now that we have an audience, Octavia's smirk fades. “I didn't say anything.”

I twist my face as I stand up. “Didn't say anything?” My neck rolls like a cobra getting ready to strike. “Bitch, ain't shit wrong with my ears and my fucking eyes. Neither one of you bitches has stopped talking since you switched up in here.” I shift my attention to Yolanda. “Especially your skank ass.”

She glances around, probably to see if anybody has her back, but everybody suddenly got
real
interested in the old-as-hell magazines sitting in they laps.

“I'm talking to you, ho.” My hand drums at my side, where everybody knows I keep my gat.

“Shelle, honey.” Ms. Anna, the shop's owner, speaks up. “Calm down. I'm sure that child didn't mean any disrespect.”

I stare Yolanda down. I know the smug bitch has something she's just dying to get off her chest, but she is just too scared to spit it out.

Ms. Anna tries again. “Chile, I really can't afford to have any trouble in here.”

“It's all right, Ms. Anna. These bitches are just getting ready to apologize for ruining my morning.” My eyes narrow on them. “Ain't that right?”

Octavia's jaw tightens as her gaze shoots daggers at me.

“You need some help getting that mouth to work?” The gun is in my hand before anyone has a chance to blink, and I make sure it is in her mouth like the dicks she likes to slobber on.

Fear finally leaps into Octavia's face as she starts stuttering. “I-I'm sorry,” she muffles around the gun.

“And?” I prod, my trigger finger itching like a muthafucka.

Confused, Octavia glances around again.

“I'm waiting.” I tap my foot.

Octavia swallows hard and tries talking around the gun again. “I'm sorry for ruining your morning.”

I think about making the bitch lick the bottom of my shoes or something, but I'm already tired of her and want her out of my face. “Now, I think you were just leaving,” I tell her, pulling the gun out of her mouth.

Octavia is so angry and humiliated that her face looks like a gigantic cranberry. Left with no choice, Octavia removes the smock from around her neck and stands her skinny ass up and walks out of the salon, wet hair and all.

The women in the salon crack the fuck up.

Bold as fuck, Yo-Yo kicks up another smile as she shakes her head.

My gaze zeroes back onto this bitch. My real enemy. My clit starts thumping and my trigger finger starts itching. I walk over to the empty chair next to Yo-Yo, sit down, and with one finger poke her on the arm. “I can touch you, bitch.”

The bitch cuts her gaze away like I'm a bothersome child she doesn't have time to deal with.

“Yolanda,” I say with my attitude barely in check. “Your ass needs to roll up out of here, too. For real, girl. I'm trying very hard not to waste your ass on Ms. Anna's floor.”

Yo-Yo rocks her neck just as hard as I am. “I ain't gonna go no damn where.
Our
man broke me off some change to get my wig straight, and that's exactly what the fuck I'm doing.”

Everyone gasps and then cracks the hell up. I'm stunned.

To prove that she means what she said, Yo-Yo crosses her legs and folds her arms.

“Bitch, what did you just say?”

Yo-Yo holds her own. “Girl, you heard me. I—”

I flip the gun in my hand and make a perfect golf swing with the butt of my Glock, crashing it against that smiling ho's face with a hard
CRACK!
Blood spews out of Yo-Yo's busted lip, and before the disrespecting heifer has the chance to clear her mind, I send the gun flying across the other side of her face.

Bitches scream and jump out of the way.

“WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TO, BITCH?”

Whap!

“You think my man's dick is pumping you full of kryptonite? You think I won't kill your monkey ass up in here?”

Whap!

“CHILL OUT!”

Out of nowhere, I'm tackled from my right side. I lose my balance and hit the floor with a thud. However, I still have a good grip on my weapon, but by the time I flip it to grab the butt, Baby Thug has her piece leveled at my head.

“I SAID, CHILL THE FUCK OUT!”

I can't believe my fuckin' eyes. “Have you lost your muthafuckin' mind?”

“Nah, but you have. Everybody up in here knows that this girl is pregnant.”

Baby's words are like a swift punch to the gut.
“Pregnant?”

“Yeah.” Baby bobs her head. “Call me crazy, but I don't think Python will take it too lightly you tryna kill his seed.”

Everyone in the salon starts whispering again, and the floor starts spinning beneath me. After a couple of deep breaths, I glare at Baby while Yo-Yo whimpers and bleeds by the shampoo bowl. “Get her the fuck out of my sight,” I hiss.

Baby's chin goes up.

“NOW!”

Baby steps back and finally lowers her gun. “C'mon, Yo-Yo. Let's get out of here.”

One of the girls working the shampoo bowl hands Yo-Yo a clean hair towel so she can take care of the blood gushing out of her mouth. Baby helps the girl up and escorts her to the front door, never once turning her back on me.

“By the way, Baby,” I say, climbing back to my feet. “Watch your back. You just landed on my shit list, too.”

Baby glares, pulls open the front door, and leads Yo-Yo's stupid ass out of the salon.

I dust myself off and walk back over to the dryer and sit down as if pistol-whipping a pregnant girl is something I do every weekend. “What y'all looking at?”

Everyone scrambles to look busy and the radio comes back on. Despite looking calm, cool, and collected, my thoughts are in a state of chaos.

After my hair is done, I fake a couple of hours of happy shopping with my girls Pit Bull and Kookie. I'm shoveling Benjamins at a good clip at every register. But today retail therapy ain't doing shit for me. After I ditch my girls, I make a rare trip out to Goodson Construction near Winchester and march my ass up to the back door. I bang on it like it was Python's big-ass head. When no one opens the door, I try again and add a few kicks for good measure.

Killa Kyle busts open the door and then glances around to make sure I'm alone. “What the hell, girl?”

I shove my way past him. “Where's Python?”

Killa Kyle races behind me and grabs my wrist. “My man is a little busy at the moment, LeShelle. You're going to have to come back.”

I snatch my arm out of his grip. “I don't think so. I have been laughed at and humiliated one too many fuckin' times. WHERE. IS. HE?”

“He's in a business meeting,” he whispers. “Come back in about an hour.”

“AHHHHHHH!”

I jump. “What in the hell?” I sidestep Killa Kyle and move farther into the warehouse.

“YOU BROUGHT A MUTHAFUCKIN' DEA AGENT INTO THIS MUTHAFUCKA?” Python kicks a body that's wrapped in plastic. “Y'ALL MUTHAFUCKAS THOUGHT YOU WERE GONNA BRING ME DOWN?” He kicks the body again and then turns his attention to Tyga and Datwon, who are tied down in two metal chairs. Behind Python, a ring of Gangster Disciples have their forks up, looking as though they're just waiting for the word to start blasting.

“Python,” Tyga sputters. “You gotta believe me. I didn't know this fool was a pig. I…I swear.”

Python shakes his head and twists his lips. “Nah. Nah, man. I distinctly remember you vouching for this muthafucka Dmitry. Don't you remember? Your dick was tonsil-boxing my girl up in the VIP.” He stopped in front of Tyga. “
You said
I could put your name on this deal.
You said
that you worked with the nigga before. Remember?”

Tyga's eyes look like they're trying to squeeze out of his head. He knows what time it is. He recognizes that crazy, manic look in Python's eyes just like the rest of the niggas in the room.

“Okay. All right.” Tyga throws some bass in his voice so at least he won't sound too much like a bitch if his nigga snubs him out. “I know…I know I said that, but hear me out. Datwon came to me saying that the nigga was cool. He swore the nigga was legit. I was just tryna help the little nigga get back into your good graces, man. That's all it was. I didn't know your own cousin turned fed, man. I swear. I just felt sorry for the dude.”

Python's narrowed gaze swings over to his cousin Datwon. He's sitting in the middle chair, trembling so bad he looks like a self-contained earthquake. “Were you tryna set me up, cuz?”

Datwon shakes his head. He looks too paralyzed to actually speak.

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” Python says, scratching his temple with the barrel of his Glock, “but didn't I tell you this wasn't the business for you?”

Datwon swallows, his extra-large Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

“Help me understand this,” Python continues. “You steal, you lie, and now here you are tryna send me, your own cuz, to the federal pen. Did you really think you were gonna get away with this shit?”

“I…I—”

Python stops pacing and leans close to his cousin. “I'm sorry. What was that?”

Datwon licks his lips. “I'm s-sorry.”

“Oooooh. You're sorry.” Python bobs his head and then turns toward his blue-flagged army. “Niggas, y'all hear that? This nigga says that he's sorry.” He tosses up his hands. “Well, fuck. I guess that settles everything. You're sorry.” Then, quick as lightning, Python squares off and punches Datwon dead in the throat.

The loud smack sounds more like a crunch. When Python pulls back, there's this weird wheezing, as if air is trying to find an alternative way in and out Datwon's body, but isn't having too much success.

“Bring Damien on out here,” Python instructs.

My brows jump at the order. Damien is Python's favorite pet…and his most dangerous. The twenty-six-foot python reticulatus has always given me the heebie-jeebies, and thank God Python keeps the menacing-looking monster in a big aquarium here at the warehouse office. It takes about fifteen niggas to carry the aquarium out to the middle of the warehouse.

“OH, FUCK!” Tyga starts bouncing in his chair. “OH, FUCK! NIGGA, NAH!”

Datwon looks like he's shitting a cement block in his pants.

Python just smiles. “Y'all know how I do. I like a little entertainment with my dirt.”

“NAH, NAH! Y'ALL JUST SHOOT MY ASS!” Tyga shakes his head while still trying to sound all hard, but in truth a little bitchassness is creeping in strong. “Man, I can't go out like this.”

“You lost that vote when you lied to me, nigga.” Python turns to some more soldiers. “Y'all get this pig out of here. Chop that nigga up and make me a nice cement block to remember him by.”

Niggas jump to it, grabbing the body wrapped in bloody plastic and running toward the back door. Killa Kyle and I move out of the way.

“Y'all niggas got any last words?” Python asks, looking over into the aquarium and making cooing noises at his beloved snake.

“D-don't do this,” Datwon chokes, still trying to breathe through his collapsed windpipe. “I swear you'll never see me again. I-I'll leave town. I-I'll do whatever you want me to.”

Python shakes his head. “Daddy brought you something good to eat today,” he says in a loving voice. “Just consider it an early birthday gift.” He chuckles.

“FUCK NAW! FUCK NAW!” Tyga starts jumping like he's going to hop all the way out of the warehouse tied to that chair.

Python laughs. “All right, man. Chill the fuck out.” He snaps his fingers and points to a few boxes. The brothers rush over and pull out thick sheets of plastic. “Seeing as how you've been a true soldier for me up until this unfortunate incident, I'm going to do you a solid and let you go out like a soldier.”

Tyga glances back as his brothers cut the ropes from his chair and then force him to stand on the plastic. Amazingly, Tyga looks a little calmer about the situation. He faces Python, lifts his chin and chest, and throws up his pitchfork signs. “ALL IS ONE!”