Hustlin' Divas (5 page)

“W
e have a code purple reporting off Utah Avenue. Car thirty-four, are you still in the area?”

I groan and ground my teeth. Utah Avenue—better known as Shotgun Row. I've been on the force for four years, and I'm so sick of all the gang activity in this shitty-ass place I don't know what to do. It's dusk, there's a blood-orange glow settling over the city I call Hell's Paradise, and I'm more than ready to take my ass home, jump into a warm bath, and blaze up a fat blunt to relax my nerves.

“Car thirty-four, you roger?”

My partner and pain in my left ass cheek, Detective Keegan O'Malley, chuckles and reaches over for the hand radio. “Thirty-four, copy. We're on our way.”

“Roger that, thirty-four. We have reports that there is eleven-forty-four on the scene. Car forty-three and fifty-four will assist.”

“Shit,” I spat. “We're probably rolling up on a war.”

“If we're lucky.”

I side eye O'Malley. No doubt my adrenaline-junkie partner is just looking for an excuse to shoot at niggas. The muthafucka is always acting like this gang shit is some kind of fucking video game and he's the big exterminator who is going to rid Memphis of gangbangers. I suspect most of that blustering comes from all the steroids his ass be pumping. Oh, he would deny the shit, but I know nobody's neck is supposed to be as thick as a tree trunk.

Sure, O'Malley works out all the time, but the shit still doesn't seem natural. When he isn't in the gym, his ass is at a gun range. He's a perpetual solider who'd traded in shooting at sand niggas for the real thing. In Memphis, the badge is a license to shoot first and ask questions later—and nobody dares challenge that shit. The city at large knows what kind of battle we're in with these street gangs, and they don't ask too many questions as long as it appears that we're doing our jobs.

Appearances aren't everything.

The truth is much more sinister.

O'Malley laughs, his bald head rocking back and forth. “Don't look at me like that. The sooner we get over there, the sooner we get off the clock and you can go back home to play with your
cat
.”

“Don't start that ignorant shit with me,” I hiss, pressing the accelerator down to the floorboard as I whip around cars, trucks, and a little old lady taking her sweet-ass time trying to cross the road.

“What?” He laughs, cracking himself up. “When was the last fuckin' time you even went out on a date, Detective Johnson?”

“That ain't none of your goddamn business, O'Malley.”

He tosses up his hands, still smirking. “Fine. But if you ever need someone to scratch that itch—”

“Don't even fuckin' finish that goddamn sentence.”

“—I'll be willing to take one for the team.”

As O'Malley's laughter explodes from his chest, I imagine ramming his Mr. Clean head into the dashboard until I bust his face wide open. I can't stand his racist ass, and I find it exasperating that he thinks shit is cool between us.

Far from it.

In the meantime, I bide my time. I don't want to complain to my lieutenant—mainly because he'll take my complaint to the captain, who just happens to be my father. It isn't easy being the police captain's daughter. Everyone is always eyeballing me to make sure I'm not receiving any special treatment. What they find instead is that I have it harder than anyone else. From the police academy to now, Captain Melvin Johnson made sure my superiors pushed me harder than everyone else. He wants to break what he calls my iron will so that I'll quit and take my ass to college and law school like he always wanted.

But Daddy Dearest found out that his only daughter is just as tough and hardheaded as he is. Instead of receiving my colleagues' envy, most times I garner their sympathies, which is worse.

For the most part, I have a reputation for being a bitch. I don't put up with or take any shit from anyone. I'm strong. Five-eight, curvy, and no one can pinch more than an inch on my toned body.

During my short time on the force, I have been shot at more times than I care to count. One Latina
puta loca
managed to get a blade into my left side.

I fucked that bitch up over that shit.

Of course, the very thing that makes me so good at my job usually scares niggas off. I'm loud, domineering, and maybe a little quick to throw the first punch. But this is what happens when a woman works with and hangs out with a lot of men. I start talking and acting like them. Once that happens, it's just a matter of time before people hurl names like
dyke
and
carpet-muncher
, thinking the shit is funny.

It isn't.

My personal life isn't anybody's muthafuckin' business. Never has been. To this day, I have never told anyone Christopher's father's name—or that we still get it on from time to time. Sure, some know, but they never got the information from me. So I put up with the jokes, the bullets, and the occasional broken bone because…Hell, I don't know why. It isn't like the job pays well, and respect in the black community is nonexistent. Maybe I'm addicted to the drama and the danger.

Shit. That means me and O'Malley do have something in common.

With lights flashing and the police siren blaring, we fishtail onto Shotgun Row with tires screeching. We're instantly jolted back to the serious situation at hand when we spot a burning car at the opposite end of the road.

I slam on the brakes and jump out. In a flash, my weapon is out of its holster and gripped tightly in my hands. Everyone on the block hustles out of the way, a lot of them laughing and pointing fingers.

“Niggas got what the fuck they deserved,” a small voice shouts.

I whip my head around. “Who got what they deserved?”

A boy, who can't be more than ten, glares back at me with dark eyes that seem to belong to an old soul. “The muthafuckin' Vice Lords. Who the fuck you think, bitch?”

“Watch your mouth,” O'Malley snarls.

The young boy just rolls his eyes.

That's when it hits me. The odd smell I'm picking up is the scent of burning flesh. One hand comes off my weapon as I press a finger against my nose in a weak effort to block the stench. “What happened here?” I bark at the kid.

His face immediately twists in disgust. “What? I ain't no snitch, bitch.”

A few of his friends, all young with old faces, snicker in support. “Yeah, bitch. We ain't snitches!”

“What the fuck did I tell you?” O'Malley leaps forward, acting like he's ready to knock one of the boys off their bikes.

“Easy, O'Malley.” I roll my eyes. This Rambo wannabe muthafucka is going to get our asses blazed up on this damn street. I know every one of these niggas is packing more heat than the U.S. Army out here. I glance around the street. Just then, two backup patrol cars blaze onto the scene.

Our backup exits their cars, weapons drawn.

The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention as my eyes shift to one of the houses that has a yard full of people with music blaring. At the fence, an army of brothers stand with their arms crossed and their gazes daring me to walk my ass over to them. The whole scene makes me nervous, but they have it twisted if they think that Detective Melanie Johnson is some weak-ass bitch who can't do her fucking job. I've earned my badge, and I'm not afraid of no muthafucka.

To prove my point, I holster my shit and stroll over to the fence with my chin up. About a hundred sets of eyes follow me to the fence. “Anybody want to tell me what the hell happened here?”

No one moves. Not even so much as an eye twitches.

“Somebody saw something,” I press.

Silence.

“Maybe we should call in a few wagons and haul everyone down to the station and ask our questions there?” My gaze shifts to each face on the front line. “You all look like fine, upstanding citizens. I'm sure none of you have any outstanding warrants or anything like that.”

Finally, a few gazes shift around.

“Ain't nobody seen nothing,” a deep, gravelly voice says from behind the front line.

People shift and then part like the Red Sea.

Python steps up with a stony expression. “You're wasting your time here.”

I draw a deep breath and cock my head. “Why don't you let me be the judge of that?” A long glaring contest ensues. The only reason I'm the first to break the eye contest is because the dueling blares from the approaching fire truck and ambulance catch my attention.

“Anything?” O'Malley asks, walking up beside me.

“Of course not,” I answer. “As usual, everyone hears no evil and sees no evil.”

A corner of Python's lips curl as his eyes rape my curvy frame. “Don't forget ‘speak no evil.'”

I stop my lips from kicking upward. “Smart-ass.” I turn away from him and mumble under my breath, “I'm sick of this gang bullshit. Go ahead and destroy this city. Why the fuck should I care?”

T
he Douglases are cool people. After a lifetime of bouncing around from one shitty foster home to another, the man upstairs finally did the Murphy sisters a solid and brought Reggie and Tracee Douglas into our lives. The middle-class couple lives in a two-level, beige and gray stone craftsman bungalow on the edge of picturesque midtown. The lawn is green, the house is clean, and the neighbors are freakishly friendly.

The first biggest thrill when I first moved in was that I had my own room—mainly because LeShelle had been still walled up in a girls' home. Those first two years were like a dream as the childless couple rained money on everything from clothes to the latest computer gadgets. In the beginning, I resisted letting the Douglases buy my love. I kept waiting to peek out their hustle. I wasn't stupid. LeShelle taught me early that
everyone
had a hustle.

At night, I kept counting the minutes and hours before my new stepfather started creeping to my door. Since LeShelle wasn't there to shelter me, it would be my turn to cry into my pillow while some grown-ass man ripped my young pussy to pieces. But night after night, Reggie Douglas never darkened my bedroom door.

Soon the days rolled into weeks and then months, and all the Douglases pushed was me getting an education, talking all this shit about how I can do or be anything as long as I put my mind to it. That shit was funny as hell the first hundred times I heard it. However, after a while, I realized that the Douglases were serious. They were a walking, talking public service announcement. If you had an education, you can do this, or if you had an education, you can do that.

Reggie is a history professor at the University of Memphis, and Tracee works part-time for the public library. They are complete squares. Books litter their house from one end to another. Most times if they weren't reading a book, they were talking about one.

The first time they took me to the public library, they made it a big production, like it was a trip to Disney World or something. They gushed over just getting ready, and they were overly giddy during the short drive to the cement and glass building.

I didn't see what the big deal was. That place had just as many books as the Douglases had at home. Then they made the big announcement: I was allowed to check out my very own book.
Whoopie!
It took everything I had not to roll my eyes. Were these people serious? But with their wide eyes on me, I felt tremendous pressure to pick out a really good book, something that would impress them, something worthy to talk about at the breakfast table. I must've roamed those shelves for hours before finally settling on Edward Bloor's
Tangerine
. I knew it was a good choice by the way Tracee lit up like a Christmas tree.

After the first year, I concluded that Tracee and Reggie didn't have a hustle. What you see is what you get. For a young girl of thirteen, it was a refreshing and welcome change of pace.

I began to trust them.

Then I began to love them.

It was odd at first. My feelings for the Douglases sort of felt like a betrayal to LeShelle. It was supposed to be just the two of us against the world, but life wasn't working out that way. LeShelle was in a group home, and I was on my own.

I wasn't stupid or naïve. I understood my sister got sent away because she was trying to protect me. But the Douglases offered something that was almost impossible for me to turn down: hope.

Inspired by my foster parents, I thought long and hard about what Reggie and Tracee were saying; then I started dreaming about my future instead of how to just survive the present. What if there was another life out there for me—something better than what the streets were promising? LeShelle wasn't the only one I knew going in and out of juvenile hall. Hell, it was damn near everybody around me, including my best girl, Essence. She got popped on her thirteenth birthday after going on a home burglary spree out in Cordova with a group of Queen Gs.

That wasn't the life I wanted for myself. Not if there was the possibility for something more. So I started to pay attention in school and found that I was a natural at math and science. Tracee mentioned that I would probably make a good doctor one day—and the idea stuck.
Dr. Ta'Shara Leigh Murphy.

It had a nice ring to it.

Then a year later, LeShelle showed up. I was thrilled at first, but then I saw how much my older sister had changed. She was harder, louder, bitter, and rabid for the illusion of power, money, and respect that the street life promised. At the Douglases, everything went to hell in a handbasket—fast. At every chance LeShelle got, she'd curse out the Douglases, refuse to go to school, and rarely returned home. The times she did, she reeked of marijuana, sex, and alcohol.

I hated to admit it, but I was actually embarrassed by my sister's behavior. She was like a bull in a china shop, determined to break every dish that stood in her way. There were many days I wished she would just go back to the group home so the Douglases and I could go back to being happy, living our quiet suburban life. It was a horrible thing to wish for, but night after night I watched the Douglases pace and fret over LeShelle's whereabouts. Soon my wish became a prayer. Then one night, God answered my prayer….

 

It was late. LeShelle was dead set on proving that Reggie Douglas was no different than any other nigga and that he was just lying in bed with his perfect little wife but was dreaming that he was fucking one of us. LeShelle claimed that she caught him watching her switching her ass around the house. I didn't believe it, so my sister set out to seduce him—to prove me wrong.

I tried to talk her out of it—tried to convince her that Reggie wasn't like our other foster fathers and uncles, but LeShelle wanted to prove that the Douglases weren't worthy of my love and blind devotion. She preached that I needed to get my head out of the clouds and get back into the real world, where street smarts were all that a bitch needed to get by.

LeShelle took a hot shower, oiled her body down, and then split her inky black hair into two ponytails. “Men love the idea of fucking lil girls. That's why they always asking, ‘Who's your daddy?'”

I frowned. I wasn't aware of that tidbit.

“Watch and learn,” LeShelle said with a smug smile, and then headed downstairs wearing nothing but a pink towel wrapped around her incredibly grown-up curves.

Reggie had fallen asleep watching ESPN in his favorite chair in the living room. I was scared—that my sister was right—and that I was wrong. If Reggie failed the test, would this set off a pattern of him creeping to our bedrooms? If he passed, would he be so angry that he would kick us both out? At first, I just paced around in my room, but then my curiosity started getting the best of me, and I crept toward the stairs so that I could at least hear what was going on. I didn't need to bother, because when Reggie Douglas woke up, what I heard—what the entire neighborhood heard—was an explosion.

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME. PUT SOME FUCKIN' CLOTHES ON! TRACEE!!”

I had just barely made it back to my room when Tracee fumbled out of the master bedroom and raced toward the stairs. “REGGIE? WHAT'S WRONG, REGGIE?”

My heart pounded everywhere: my head, my throat, my chest, my stomach. This was it. LeShelle had fucked it up for the both of us. Hot tears burned the backs of my eyes as hatred started boiling in my veins.

“THAT'S IT! SHE HAS TO GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! DON'T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!”

LeShelle raced back into our bedroom; her entire face was purple with anger and embarrassment. “Get your shit. We're getting the fuck out of here!” She pulled out the torn duffel bag she had from the girls' group home and started shoving clothes in it.

I didn't move.

LeShelle crammed on a pair of panties and tight jeans. “Didn't you hear me? I said get your shit!”

“I'm not going,” I hissed through my gritted teeth.

LeShelle froze as her homicidal gaze leveled on me. “What the fuck did you just say?”

“I said I'm not going anywhere,” I repeated, my hands balled into fists at my sides. “I told you not to go down there.”

“Don't you fuckin' start with me,” LeShelle said, determined to assert control. “I ain't got time for your bullshit. Get your shit!”

“I'm not going.”

“YES THE FUCK YOU ARE.”

I swallowed and shook my head. “I like it here, LeShelle. Besides, where are we going to go?”

“Anywhere is better than these Huxtable wannabe muthafuckas.” She shoved on a Detroit Tigers jersey and matching cap, its gray and blue colors easily identifiying her with Gangster Disciples. “Now stop standing there like a scared chicken and c'mon.”

“No.”

LeShelle moved so fast that I barely registered what was about to happen, and by the time my sister's hand whipped across my face, it was too late. I reeled back and hit the wall. For a few seconds, I felt like one of those cartoon characters with stars rotating around my head and a few tweeting birds. When I touched my burning face, it was soaked with tears.

“When I tell you to do something, you fuckin' do it, bitch! Now get your shit!”

“SHE'S NOT GOING ANYWHERE.” Tracee burst into the room and thrust herself in between us. She was a tall woman, at least six feet, but flat chested and rail thin. On most days it looked like a good, stiff wind could snap her in two, but tonight she looked strong enough to take on Superman himself and stood a damn good chance of winning.

LeShelle's head whipped around toward the usually timid Tracee. “She's my sister. She goes where the fuck I tell her to go.”

“No. That's not how it works here.” Tracee lifted her chin. “I'm the head bitch in this house, and you will leave my man and my daughter alone.”

LeShelle glared, but Tracee seemed unfazed.

“I'm not afraid of you, little girl.” She straightened even taller. “I've already called Family Children Services, and they're coming right now to march your fast ass up out of here tonight.”

“Don't bother.” LeShelle's head swiveled back toward me as she said, “I'm leaving.”

I watched my sister as she stomped back over to her duffel bag and collected her things. There was no mistaking the anger, betrayal, and humiliation etched into her face as she tried to cram everything she owned into the tattered bag. I wanted to explain my decision better, but Tracee stood guard, watching my sister like a hawk. But what could I really say to make my sister understand?

LeShelle stormed out of the bedroom and then out of the house and never returned. Eventually, word got back to me that my sister was dancing over at the Pink Monkey. Some time after that, she had launched to the head of the food chain as Python's latest wifey. Our paths crossed every now and again, but things were never the same between us and I doubted they ever would be….

 

I shove an old picture of me and my sister back into the top drawer of my vanity and try to wipe the memories of that old fight out of my head, but I have a sinking feeling that that blowup will be nothing compared to what will happen when news of me and Profit reach Shotgun Row.

I reach for my hairbrush the same time my cell phone starts buzzing against the vanity's glass top. On the ID screen, the words My Boo causes my lips to curl upward and my heart to start skipping around in my chest.

“You know our shit is all on Front Street now, right?” I spit angrily.

“Damn, baby. Hello to you, too.” Profit chuckles into the phone.

I roll my eyes and struggle to remain mad. “That shit you pulled wasn't cool, boo.”

“Hey, it ain't my fault that your ass is so fine I can't keep my hands off of you.”

I cluck my tongue but can't keep the grin off my face. “See. You can't even be serious.”

“Sure I can. In fact, the main reason I'm calling is so I can apologize.”

For a brief moment, I pull the phone away from my ear so I can make sure that I am talking to who I think I am. When I put the phone back to my ear, Profit is laughing.

“That's right, baby. I said it. A brother can admit when he's wrong.”

“I guess there's a first time for everything.” I stand up from the vanity table and start walking around the room.

“So, are you going to accept my apology or just leave a nigga hanging?”

“Of course I accept it.” I huff out a breath. “But it doesn't stop the fact that the damage is already done.”

“Then maybe we should hook up and put our heads together on how we going to handle this.”

I draw in another breath and shake my head. “I don't know.”

“You don't know?”

“Look, baby, I just don't think it's a hot idea to risk being seen together again.”

He chuckles. “C'mon. Now, I ain't said nothing about us going all public. Besides, we've been able to keep our shit tight for six months, haven't we?”

“Yeah, until you fucked up,” I snap, a little harder than I intended.

A strained silence stretches over the phone.

I suspect that my secret boo is struggling not to curse me the fuck out. I know him well enough to know that he doesn't like it when people mouth off at him, and there have been more than a few times when he had to tell me to check my slick mouth when talking to him. He never wilds out or anything; he just has this cool way about handling me without me feeling handled.

“Are you finished now?” he asks. His deep baritone is like warm honey in my ear. “Have you got all of that shit out of your system?”