Keyshia and Clyde (3 page)

“Fuck it,” Sonny said as he locked the front door behind his brother. “Don't worry about nothing, Martha. Me and old boy here,” he said while looking at Clyde, “we gonna handle this shit.”

He tapped Clyde on the shoulder and gestured for him to follow into the bedroom. Sonny was already pitching his caper to Clyde before he even took off his jacket. “Yo, I got word of this sweet spot up in the Bronx.” Clyde sat on the bed and remained silent. He never knew who was giving Sonny the information on stickup jobs, but they were always reliable. “Only one gun in the place, put his ass down and everybody ready to give it up.” He stared at his younger brother to see if he would bite.

Clyde asked reluctantly, “How many we gon' need to pull it off?”

“I say we would only need three niggas to take over the spot.”

Clyde frowned and asked, “Who's the third?”

Sonny looked at his brother through the dresser mirror. “Me, you and . . . Wolf.”

Clyde jumped up. “Fuck, no,” he said quickly. “I damn sure ain't fucking with you if you bring that trigger-happy nigga along. Hell, no. Find somebody else.”

Wolf was Sonny's right-hand man in the stickup game. He stood a mere five feet eleven and weighed only 170 pounds, and nobody fucked with him on the streets 'cause he was all heart. He and Sonny met in C-76, the juvenile ward on Rikers Island. On the island, young Brooklyn cats were the majority, so they ran the house. When Sonny and Wolf walked in, neither knew each other, and five Brooklyn cats stood by the gate and asked the eight new prisoners, “Where y'all niggas from? And y'all better say Brooklyn or y'all getting fucked up!” Almost simultaneously, Wolf and Sonny dropped their blankets, pillows, and sheets and said, “Harlem here. Now come get some!” From then on, they fought back to back until they took over the whole house together.

If Wolf didn't bust off his guns at a robbery, he'd find a reason to do so just for the fuck of it. Wolf had been shot so many times, he'd lost track of how many.

Sonny exploded, “Nigga, fuck you care 'bout who I bring along? All you doing is watching our backs.”

“What, you think I'm stupid, Sonny?” Clyde asked with a twisted face. “You think I forgot that shit y'all pulled last time I got down with y'all? You and Wolf killed everybody in the fucking place and didn't even tell me. I had to read about that shit in the paper.”

Sonny snapped, “Yo, you think I planned that shit to go down? Shit like that happens sometimes. It comes with the territory of our profession.” Clyde remained silent. “We doing all the hard work and you still get an equal piece of the loot!”

Clyde smiled at him and said, “I would also get equal time if we get caught. Don't think I don't know if we got caught I be charged with the same amount of bodies y'all stack up.” He shook his head. “Naw, fuck that, y'all go find somebody else to play pussy, I ain't with that killin' shit.”

Sonny remained cool and said, “It ain't a problem. It's plenty niggas out here who wanna get this money, but you remember one thing, maafucker, if Martha don't get money for her rent and bills every month, you are assed out, too.” He stared at his brother hard and long. “I'ma gonna pay the rent up for three months, so you gotta start pulling ya own weight around here and bring money to the table or you gonna starve and be living in the men's shelter.” He stared at Clyde, knowing he'd struck a note in him. Despite Ceasar offering Clyde a place to stay, Sonny knew his little brother wouldn't take him up on his offer because he had too much pride. Clyde wasn't used to no handouts; he was a loner who did his dirt all by his lonesome.

Chapter 3
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The windows of the black Honda Accord were so fogged up that no one could see in or out. Jeff was in the front of the car with his young vixen, and Dino was in the back with his. They were parked by the Hudson at the 125th Street exit. Both couples were going at it hot and heavy, oblivious to the fact that they were being watched.

“Come on, ma, take your pants off,” Dino said to his girl from the backseat.

“For what?” asked the squeaky-voiced girl. “What you giving me?”

Dino responded, “Come on, ma, we take care of that shit later.”

The girl up front was more direct. “Yo, fuck that, Lee-Lee. These niggas ain't even offering to take us to a motel or something and you expect them to hit us off?”

Both boys knew she was right but were duty bound to keep up the front. Jeff said, “Yo, check this out, me and my man ain't no chump-ass niggas, and don't get down with that punk shit. We just testing the water to see if it's worth it before we take y'all to our cool-out spot in Jersey with the indoor Jacuzzi.”

The girls were young and fell for the older boys' game. “So, what you mean by test the water? What we got to do?” said the girl in the back with Dino.

Both boys looked at each other and knew they had the pussy. Dino said slyly, “All we want is a little sample right now, you know, a li'l bit, and we could bounce after that.” He gave her a serious look, pulled out a wad of money, and showed it to them both.

Jeff sealed the deal when he said, “Yo, ma, real talk. I don't know what type niggas y'all be fucking with in the Bronx, but we Harlem niggas ain't about just talkin' 'bout it. We 'bout it,” as he pulled out a thick wad of his own.

The girls smiled at each other and began peeling off their tops. Just as they were about to come out of their tight-fitting jeans, the driver's-side door flew open.

“What the fuck?” Jeff said with terror in his eye as he stared down the barrel of a twelve-gauge Mossberg.

“Shut the fuck up,” the masked gunman said as he searched Jeff's body for a weapon. The gunman used the barrel of the weapon to knock out the overhead light in the car. “Where the heater at, nigga? I know you got one.”

Speechless, Jeff couldn't do anything but stutter uncontrollably.

The gunman used the butt of the shotgun and whacked him viciously across the jaw. “Nigga, I ain't asking you again. Where the gat at?”

Jeff pointed to the glove compartment, still too afraid to talk. The gunman turned the weapon on the occupants in the backseat, who were both shivering in tears, sniffling. “If any one of you motherfuckas move, I'm putting y'all brains on the carpet.” The gunman told the girl in front to open the glove compartment slowly and hand him the gun. When the gunman felt the weight of the pistol, he knew immediately that it was a fake. He snarled at them and tossed the toy gun in the boy's face. “Nigga, run the money.” He looked in the back and said, “You too, nigga, run it!”

The gunman collected both knots of money and looked at them closely. He stared at both boys in disbelief. He unfurled the wads, and stuffed inside between a couple of dollar bills was cutup newspaper. He threw the money in their faces. “Y'all two fake-ass niggas.”

The girls stared at the fake money flying everywhere and realized they were being played. Disgusted, the gunman snatched the seemingly platinum and diamond necklace and cross off Jeff's neck and examined it. The gunman looked up and ordered, “Get the fuck out the car.” He thought for a second and said, “You two”—pointing the shotgun at Jeff and Dino—“strip! And I mean butt-fucking-ass-naked.”

In seconds, both men were naked as the day they were born. He ordered one of the girls to pick up their clothing and put it in the car. She did. She stood with her hands up in the air, unsure of what to do next as she watched the gunman continue to stare at her. She nearly panicked when he approached her. Suddenly, he raised his hand to her face and snatched the gold chain and pendant off her neck.

The gunman got into the car and stared at both boys, who were bending and covering their exposed penises. When he got half a block away, Clyde pulled off the black mask and gloves and laughed all the way to the chop shop. Pops was right, he thought as he remembered how both boys had been trembling from fear. Body language.

Chapter 4
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It was springtime in New York City, and it seemed like every high school student in the city had taken off to play hooky. Keyshia was one of those students, but she didn't need a weather change to motivate her to take off a day. She didn't like school, and she had long stopped attending on a regular basis because she simply had no interest in being laughed at and ridiculed by her fellow students. Keyshia still had a thick, broken southern accent, and as soon as she opened her mouth her fellow classmates laughed themselves silly because no one could understand what she was saying.

Keyshia was sixteen years old and still in the ninth grade, having been left back three times. Every time she would be transferred to a new school or new class, she had to stand and identify herself to the class: “Hi's, I's name iz Keyshia Simmons.” That would be the furthest she got before everyone bust out laughing at her, and she vowed each time never to open her mouth in front of anyone again, if she had her way. The cruel students never stopped taunting and teasing her in the hall and cafeteria, so she lost interest in being accepted and kept to herself.

Her aunt Ninny was cool as long as Keyshia had the whole house spick-and-span, food cooked and set on the table, dishes clean, and laundry washed every week. She even let Keyshia sleep on the couch because she had grown quite a bit and felt remorseful that making her sleep in the closet wasn't the “Christian” thing to do. But the school issue was another subject. Her aunt went to her schools a number of times and had her transferred until Keyshia found herself in a last-chance charter school designed for problematic and incorrigible youth. These particular schools were the worst of the worst both academically and socially. Most of the students had been to jail for infractions such as bringing concealed weapons to school, assault on other students or teachers, and in some cases rape and murder. Teachers didn't expect anything from these students, and the students expected nothing from them.

Keyshia would walk around midtown Manhattan for hours on end, looking into the windows of the most expensive and exotic stores in the world. She was amazed that all the white people lived the way they did. She would almost get dizzy as she walked around, staring up at some of the tallest high-rise buildings in the world. There were so many people walking so fast that she felt she would fall down and get trampled by them. On many days in the shopping district, Keyshia would imagine that she was rich and part of that society. It was only a matter of time before she conjured up the nerve to go inside the ultrachic and expensive stores such as Saks Fifth Avenue, Bloomingdale's, Macy's, Gucci, or Fendi. She would roam for hours on end, pampering and indulging herself with the most expensive perfumes in the world. She even got a makeover in the cosmetics section as she marveled at how different she looked with a simple highlight here or a smidgen of eyeliner there. She gained confidence with each brazen venture and even tried on sleek designer clothing. By now, she'd learned how to act and speak whenever suspicious salespeople or security guards questioned her presence in the store. She would talk like they did in the movies, with a snobbish air about her, and tell the questioner that she was in the store with her mother and their driver. They would smile and tell her to take as much time as she needed and simply call them if she needed further help. Keyshia would agree and turn around and giggle.

One day, on her way back home from one of her excursions in the makeup section at a department store, she ran into a boy from her school named Omar, who also lived in the neighborhood. Omar was sitting on his stoop with three of his friends when he jumped off and ran up to her and said, “Hey, Keyshia, what's up?” They had never spoken until just now. As a matter of fact, Keyshia was surprised that he knew her name. The boy repeated, “Yo, what's up, you can't speak back?”

Eyeing the ground, she answered nervously, “Hi.”

He turned around and looked at his crew before asking her, “So, where you on your way to?”

Still eyeing the ground, she answered, “I's on my way home.”

He noticed her shyness and asked, “Why you act like you afraid of me?”

Keyshia looked up for a second and answered, “I's not 'fraid of yous, I's just don't know who you is.”

He quickly extended his hand and said, “Oh, my bad, my name is Omar. You don't see me in your class?”

She shook his hand quickly and pulled it back just as fast.

“Yeah,” said Omar with an assured smile. “Sixth period, Ms. Wiggins's English class.” She remained silent. He observed her closer, then asked, “Is that makeup and lipstick you got on?”

Keyshia blushed. She had forgotten she still had the makeup on her face and wanted desperately to hide now.

Omar picked up on her awkwardness and added, “You ain't got be ashamed. You look hot.”

Keyshia looked up because she'd never received a compliment before, so she had to know if he was joking. Unsure what to do next, she said softly, “I's got ta get home now. My aunt don't like me being out if she ain't home.”

Looking her over, he asked, “You don't live with ya momma?”

Growing edgy, she said, “No, my momma south, my aunt look afta me.”

He asked, “So nobody home but you?”

She shook her head, “Till she come home and bring my li'l cousins t'night.”

“Can I walk you home, then?”

Unsure what to say, she just shrugged and said, “If you want to.”

He smiled again and offered to carry her book bag. As she led the way, he signaled to his three homeboys to follow.

Three hours later, when Aunt Ninny arrived home that evening, she found her apartment in complete disarray and screamed immediately for Keyshia. Keyshia came limping out of the bathroom, hunched over, arms wrapped around her shoulders as if she were holding herself together. With tears in her eyes, she muttered, “Dem boys done rape me,” as Ninny and her sons stared at Keyshia in shock.

The four boys had raped Keyshia brutally that evening. This kind of thing took place every day in the inner city, as boys saw a girl no longer as a person, but as an object—a piece of meat.

Keyshia sat on the couch trembling as she answered a barrage of questions for nearly forty minutes from the police officers, who grew weary and suspicious with each incomplete and unsure answer that young Keyshia gave them. Looking down at her with frustration, one officer stopped writing in his pad and asked, “So, young lady, you said that you invited”—he paused to look back into his notes—“Omar in as your guest and the other three boys came in later?”

Keyshia was barely audible as she tried to answer each question to the best of her ability through her tears and broken English. “No, I's only let one boy carry me home.”

Both officers stared at each other. “So, you're saying you were only willing to let one of the suspects spend time with you?”

Shaking her head in frustration, she repeated, “No, they carried in by demself, thro da doe, wise da other boy was on top of me.”

Shaking his head in frustration, the other police officer repeated, “So, three other boys came in, through the front door, while you and the first suspect were having intercourse?”

Keyshia was so dizzy and confused that she nodded her head and agreed.

The other officer immediately caught the inconsistency. “I thought you said that you only let the first boy take you home, you didn't say anything about having sex.” Keyshia's head was spinning as she buried her head in her lap and began crying.

Her aunt interjected, “Officer, you got her confused and scared. She ain't too bright, either, so she may be a little afraid right now and can't think straight. She say four boys done pushed up in here and raped her, so don't you think you should be going out there and looking for them?”

The two white officers stared at each other, and the older one responded, “Well, ma'am, it's like this. We see a lot of cases like these, and unfortunately, many of them have no validity after we've investigated.”

Aunt Ninny grimaced and asked, “So what the hell you telling me? My niece wasn't raped?”

“What we're saying,” the older cop continued, “is that based on the information we received from the complainant, she basically allowed the boys an opportunity.”

Appalled, Aunt Ninny retorted, “What the fuck do you mean, allowed them opportunity? Four little bastards break into my home and rape my niece and she gave them an opportunity? She done told y'all she tried to stop them and told them no. You got evidence that she was raped, now what else do y'all fucking need to go after those bastards?”

Both officers waited until she'd calmed herself down, then the other officer, on cue, pulled out a white washrag and held it up. “Ma'am, is this your makeup and lipstick on this rag?”

Aunt Ninny stared at the rag for a moment and shook her head no.

“Well, it matches the same cosmetic that appears on your niece's face.” Aunt Ninny stared down at Keyshia, too shocked to speak, as the officer continued. “Now why would a sixteen-year-old young lady doll up her face with heavy makeup and lipstick if she wasn't expecting to impress or see someone?”

All Ninny could do was stare sullenly at her niece with anger and embarrassment. The police didn't even want to continue to make further efforts to take a report. They didn't even offer to take poor Keyshia to the hospital after the brutal assault on her body. Once again, and for the second time in Keyshia's short life, injustice was done to a poor little girl through no fault of her own.

After the police had left, Aunt Ninny gave her niece the beating of her life. She took off every stitch of Keyshia's clothing and whipped her till skin came off her body, till she was black and blue, to the point of exhaustion. She castigated Keyshia with every ill-gotten word in the book. “You bring li'l niggas in my house, you no-good bitch, you better have me some money when you finished.

“You little fucking slut, you got what you deserve.

“If your little funky ass turn up pregnant, you getting out my house.

“You ain't shit but a little whore.

“That's exactly why they didn't want your ass down south.”

Nobody was ever charged or arrested for the rape, and Keyshia was never the same. Any innocence or happiness she'd had in her body left her that day. So she turned cold—cold and bitter against everything that society stood for. Instead of falling into a shell, afraid to live life on life's terms, she confronted it and everyone else with a brazen attitude and contempt. She now took to the streets and gravitated toward all the ill reputes, misfits, and general hardheads the cold Harlem streets had to offer. She now found a place where she fit in, and fit in she did. All her life she got into trouble because of the evil that men or boys do. So from then on, she vowed that she would no longer resist, she would give up her body so she wouldn't have to suffer as a result of them taking it. So much trouble, she thought. She'd make it easier for them from then on. She didn't want to make no more trouble.