Love Trumps Game (8 page)

It took a while before Neema could gather her composure. After she'd showered and donned a maroon, velvet warm-up suit and sneakers, she was hoping that Topps would take off and go home, but it was almost like he was hanging around her place to watch her. Like she might pick up the phone and call the police and drop a dime on him. The minute she announced that she was finally going to get the kids, Topps' cell phone rang.

“What kind of damn trouble?” Topps was asking somebody. His tone was serious.

Thinking that it might be her mother calling again, Neema froze in her step at the front door, listening.

“What the hell you mean the old man won't do it? He what? Alright, alright. We on our way there.”

W
e? Oh hell no!
Neema stepped out her apartment and headed to her vehicle. It was getting later and later. Driving to her mother's house was the only thing on her immediate agenda, and she wanted to get there before they were put to bed.

“Yo', hold up, boo.” Topps stepped out right behind her. He checked her door to make sure that it was locked.

Neema cringed before turning around.

“We need to make this run real quick. It seems that the old man running the crematorium is giving my crew a hard time. Gotta go straighten his ass out. Ride with me.”

“That's between you and yo' boys. Why should I have to go?”

“Because we wouldn't be having this conversation if you and that Kaykay hadn't been stealing my shit. That's why.”

“I don't wanna go.”

“I didn't ask you. We'll take your ride. Yo', Nee, stop tripping. This shouldn't take long,” Topps told Neema as he steered her Rover down Crenshaw Boulevard to Stocker and took a right. The windows were down, allowing cool air to splash their faces. Bose speakers blared Pretty Ricky singing something about talking dirty to somebody. Topps bobbed his head to the music. “You gonna be upset all night or what?”

Neema acted like she didn't hear him.

“Fuck it, be that way then. Shit happens in this business, Nee. You should know this by now.”

“Look, just get there. Do what you need to do and get it over with. We don't have to talk about it, too.”

“Yeah, aw'ight.” Topps grinned at her. The selling of drugs had been lucrative, but not enough to be his only financial venture. Once he had accumulated enough money to draw more greed, it seemed only natural to want to invest money in preparation of retirement. As a result, he owned a few apartment buildings, two food franchises, and a stripper nightclub on Imperial Highway. All businesses were good for laundering money, but his prized investment was Harmond's Funeral Home in the Crenshaw District. “It's probably some trivia bullshit. You know how it is with old people. They get stubborn every now and then. Know what I mean?”

“If you say so,” Neema deadpanned, keeping her eyes on the straight ahead. Her lips were poked out and all she could think about was her friend, and how they would never be able to hook up again. No more shopping. No more lunches. No more scamming high-rollers. No more nothing. She knew one thing; she wasn't getting out the car to go see them do more awful things to Kaykay. No way. It wasn't happening. “I'll wait for you here,” she told Topps after he parked and shut the engine off in the parking lot.

“Nee, you coming in, and I don't want no damn grief about it.”

“Why I need to go inside? Hell, I said I'll wait in the car.”

“Nee, I ain't playing with yo' ass. You can either walk your sweet ass in, or be dragged in, so what's up?”

His expression told her it was best to get out of the car. “Damn you, TJ. I'm sick of this shit.” She rolled her eyes and smacked her lips. She hated him.

The gray brick building known as Harmond's Funeral Home looked small from the outside, but for those who passed through the thick, double doors, they soon learned that the place was sprawling. Inside, they moved past the viewing room where several caskets sat with the recently deceased, prepared and waiting for the loving family that would come before their final resting.

“I hate this place,” Neema hissed, recalling the two times she'd accompanied Topps to the facility to take care of business. Each time she'd waited patiently in the front, refusing to see what took place behind the scenes.

“Too bad, my shorty. Business is business.”

A two-bedroom house was built at the back of the building. Harmond had lived there alone for years after his wife passed three years ago. The self-containment of the business included everything needed by a grieving family: an office to negotiate burial plans, a facility to prepare the body for final resting, a modern-designed chapel, a flower shop, and facilities for cremation. Topps favored the latter. In fact, it was the facilities for cremation that had signed the deal. He saw the business as the perfect channel for getting rid of the myriad of bodies that came with his line of business. Old workers trying to leave his employ ended up here, as well as enemies who thought they were clever. The establishment also did its share of legal business.

“It stinks in here.” Topps walked up into the pastel-blue main office where his crew had old man Harmond waiting at his large desk. Clutter was everywhere. Topps rarely visited the place because there was always a scent in the air that made him feel nauseous; death and despair. His last visit had been over two months ago to check out some damages done by some burglars. No doubt druggies who sought the embalming fluid they loved for dipping cigarettes and blunts in. Since then security bars had been installed on all the windows.

“Here you go, partna.” Zoot, one of his henchmen, got up from his seat so Topps could sit down.

“I'm aw'ight. What seems to be the damn problem here?” Topps asked, taking a pack of Wet N' Wipes to cleanse germs from his hands. He chose to stand.

Rolling her eyes, Neema walked over, pulled the chair back from the desk and plopped down hard enough to break a hip.

“I don't burn on Sundays,” Harmond half stuttered.

“And why the hell not?”

“It's the Sabbath.” Harmond looked to be in his late sixties with thick gray hair and cloudy-looking eyes that set back in an old, wrinkled brown face. Topps paid him good. More money than he'd ever made when he was the sole owner of the place. The only reason he was still working in the business that he no longer owned was due to fear. The fear of trying to retire. A man that knew too much of Topps' business couldn't retire. He, of all people, knew this.

“Is that right?” Topps smirked at him. “Last time I checked, I was paying your salary. I don't care what muthafucking day of the week we bring trash here, you fire up the damn pit.”

“She wasn't trash!” Neema yelled. She started crying quietly, resenting Topps for implying such about Kaykay.

“Shut up, Nee! Trash is trash.”

Harmond frowned up at him. “Uh-huh…well, that's another thing. I've seen what y'all call trash and it don't look like what you usually drag up in here. Burning up those street thugs is one thing, but that there in that room look like a young, innocent woman to me. I don't want no part of it.”

Topps almost laughed at the man. He panned his view of his four-person crew that had delivered Kaykay's body for disposal. “I can't believe y'all niggas couldn't handle this shit without call
ing me. Harmond here says he ain't firing up the pit; then one of you niggas fire that shit up. And throw his old ass in the flames when you through.”

Harmond's rheumy eyes widened. “Now…now just a minute, young man. I've been a loyal worker for you.”

“True that, but that was in the past, old man. When you get to thinking you running my shit, it's time to go.” Topps looked around. “Who else here know how to fire the burners up so we can be done and get the hell on?”

Harmond was quick to throw in, “What's wrong with tomorrow? It's a normal working day. I don't want to, but I…I guess I can do it then.”

“Don't wanna wait, old man.” It had to be Topps' way or no way.

Zoot spoke up. “I've been here and watched his ass a few times. I believe I can do it.” Tall and lanky, Zoot gave the appearance of a man that loved drugs and would do anything to obtain money to feed his habit. His dark eyes always had that hungry look.

“Get his ass up and out to the pit,” Topps snapped.

The crew members followed orders, wrestling Harmond up. They traveled to the back of the building where bodies were cremated.

“Last chance, old man. Fire the burners up and handle business, or you'll get to see what it feels like.”

Zoot grinned. “Shit, burn his old ass anyway. We don't need 'im.”

“Very well then.” Harmond pulled himself away from their grasp and walked over to the controls that started the incinerator. “Better hope no one notices the smoke and calls the authorities. Might look suspicious to be cremating this late on a Sunday. There's been a few complaints about the smoke and smell.”

“Screw that. Get the shit over with 'fore I pass the hell out in here.” Topps sniffed.

“I'll go wait in the front.” Neema made an attempt to leave, but Topps grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

“Yo, Nee, you stay. You need to see what happens to people that steal from me. People that don't handle my business right.”

“TJ, I don't wanna see shit.”

“Too bad.”

It took two men to carry the large trunk containing Kaykay's body to the incinerator room. Neema watched them remove her friend's jewelry and hand it to Topps who tried to pass it to Neema. “Here, a few souvenirs for you.”

Rolling her eyes, she refused to take it. “Screw you. I don't want that shit.” Once the proper temperature was reached, Harmond pressed a button that opened the heavy doors. Flames released radiant heat into the room as the body was shoved inside the incinerator. Neema was looking into the mouth of hell. That's exactly what it would be like if she didn't get her life right. “I don't need to see this.” Neema started to cry.

Topps warned, “Better not close yo' eyes, Nee.”

The coldness in his eyes, the crude, sadistic smiles on all the faces except for hers and Harmond's, made Neema want to puke.

“Yo, can you smell yo' homie cooking, Nee? Huh, can you?”

“Smells like crackling to me.” Somebody had the nerve to joke and laugh.

“My boo like crackling, don't'chu, Nee?”

“Fuck you! A bunch of sick pricks.” Neema pulled away from him, stormed toward the door and turned. “I'm going for my kids.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Topps sneered, tossing her keys in the air for her to catch. “I'll get a ride back to the crib.”

It took some driving around trying to calm herself before using her personal cell phone to reach out for help. “Meet me at the place,” was all she had to say.

“That's right. Let Slick make it all feel better. Yeah. You like that?”

“Ooh, baby, yes. Do it harder. Oh yeah. It's so good.”

“And whose pussy is this?”

“Ooh, baby, it's yours. It's all yours for now.” Neema pressed her head back into the pillow and closed her eyes. She had been under so much stress earlier that the only way to relieve it was to bust her a nut a few times. Since bad vibes still flowed toward Topps, she had to utilize the next best thing. Slick. To her, Slick was ugly as hell, but he had the longest and the fastest dick she'd ever seen on a man, and she'd seen a lot of dicks to know.

They had decided to meet at a faraway motel on the opposite side of town. It wasn't the first time, and it probably wouldn't be the last. It was their secret den of lust. To Neema, love didn't have a damn thing to do with it. Plus, she couldn't take any chances with that sneaky, always-suspecting-and-checking-her-ass Topps.

After leaving Topps and his goons at the funeral home, she had all but burned rubber away from the place. First she stopped at Fat Burger to get something to eat hoping food in her stomach would calm her nerves. It didn't. She had thought about stopping for a wine cooler but didn't care for drinking while driving. The more she had driven around, the worse she felt. She had no choice but to pull out her other cell phone, the one that Topps knew nothing about, and call Slick to plan their rendezvous. It wasn't
top-of-the-line amenities, but the room was clean and spacious with a vibrating bed and cable television that boasted free porn.

“Oh yeah, work that shit good, baby.” Neema lay back with her legs wide open like Slick was her brand-new gynecologist doing a full examination. His thick, black rod was his examination tool and he knew how to work it in and out at the right pace.

Nigga got my kitty kat purring like a 'mutha.
Every now and then he gave her a power-thrust that sent both a jab of pain and pleasure through her love tunnel. “Ooh, hell yes!” Neema was like a junkie going through total withdrawal.

“You like it?”

“Hell yeah, I love it.”

“Tell me how much now.” Slick pumped it to her harder. “You better say it.”

“Your shit is the bomb. It feels so good. Don't stop. Do it, Daddy, do it.”

Neema opened her eyes and watched his powerful-looking ass from the ceiling mirrors over the queen-sized bed.
Damn, brotha.
She could see every tight muscle working in that ass pumping like new pistons in a high-performance engine. He pumped straight before going sideways, then back to straight, causing a volcano of ecstasy to push its way up through her core. For him to stop now would kill her, or she'd probably snap and have to kill his ass. She needed the sweet release that his sex would give her.

“You want this dick?”

“I want it.”

“I said do you want this big dick or not?”

“Nigga, please, stop talking so much and just do it!” She loved a good orgasm like the next person, but too much dirty talk was distracting.

A few more power thrusts and she could feel Slick's body quiver
ing on top of her. He was about to come. She could always tell because his dick seemed to swell up more once his quivering started. Neema wiggled her hips and clenched the walls of her vagina to milk him tight. A good open-and-clutch motion was all it took to bring it all home. Her own climax came at the same time as his. The two sweaty bodies rested for a few seconds before disengaging.

“Damn, girl,” Slick panted, falling to her side of the bed. His breathing was so labored he could barely catch a good breath. “You almost killed a nigga.”

“Sounds like your ass getting too old for all the snow you be flying up your nose.”

“Shit, that's the icing on the cake.” Slick wiped sweat from his forehead.

“Yeah, right.” Neema grinned. She got up and pranced her perfect body to the adjacent bathroom for a face towel to sop up the juices between her legs. Then she hopped in the shower.

Slick was kicked back on the bed smoking a blunt when she came out with a large towel wrapped around her. “I can't kick it too long. Gotta get to my mom's house and pick up my kids. I know she's fit to be tied by now.”

“I'm sure you know how to sweeten her back up.”

“Hell yeah. A few hundred dollars should do it.”

“That's for real, but what you gonna do?” Slick flicked ashes onto the carpet.

“I just told you, I'ma slide by my mom's place.” She almost caught an attitude, thinking that Slick might be checking her. Hell, Topps' constant checking was one thing, but two niggas drilling in her business was more than she could tolerate. “Dang, Slick. Somethin' wrong with your ears, too?” She picked up the pillow and playfully hit him with it.

“I'll ask you again, Miss Neema, 'cause you ain't listening to me. Whatchu gonna do?”

Irritated, she smacked her lips. “About what, Slick?”

“About this mess you in.” He offered the blunt to her.

Neema made sure that her towel was secure before she took the blunt from his hand. She took two big draws on it before blowing a cloud of smoke in his direction. Between flying lines up her nose and smoking herb, doing lines was her favorite. But the way she was feeling she needed something to maintain calmness—something to take her mind off everything that represented Topps Jackson. She looked over at Slick's spent love bone. That had helped some, but two more treatments might be warranted.

“Hey, how come you don't have a wife?”

“Haven't found the right one yet.”

“Are you looking?” Neema put it out there, hoping to change the subject.

What they were doing was dangerous. Screwing around behind Topps' back. But Slick was always nice to her. Kinder. He never talked down to her the way that Topps did. Slick was someone who didn't mind cuddling later if she needed it. He was an ear that would listen. These were her justifications. True, he wasn't handsome like Topps, but Neema saw him as a prince trapped in a frog's body. The only reason he wasn't her main man was fate had her meeting Topps first. Switching horses in the middle of the scene could get one or both of them popped and pushing up daisies.

“Not really, but you changed the subject. What'chu plan to do about yo' situation?”

“I'ma get my kids and do what my man wants me to do.” She flounced down on the bed beside him, then rested her back against the wooden headboard. Taking up her tote, she fished in and found a small bottle of vanilla-scented lotion.

“You thinking about splitting, aren't you? Don't lie, Neema. I can see it in yo' eyes.”

“Nigga, please,” she countered, working the silky fluid into her arms and legs. “I'm about to be Mrs. Topps Jackson. His big ballerette. Watch and see that we don't be picking out some rings by next week.”

“Nee?”

“Topps loves me. He'll do anything for me. Why would I wanna sky up and leave all that?” Even to her the lie didn't sound right.

“Nee?”

“What, nigga?! You got somethin' to say, just say it.” She slammed the lotion back into her bag and took up the blunt for a few puffs.

Slick turned to face her. His stare was hard and serious. “Topps is my boy and all, and yeah, we go way back from the 'hood, but I know how that nigga be thinking sometimes. Topps got a problem, I got a problem. The way I see this shit right now, you've become a problem for him.”

“Slick, you paranoid. You need to slow yo' roll on that coke. Hell, you bringing my high down. I gotta split.” Neema went to move off the bed, but not before Slick grabbed her arm.

“We talkin' about a man that let his own mother die. A man that didn't shed one tear when his own father got popped. Need I say more?”

“And?” Neema challenged. “I mean, if he so bad, why you still working for him?”

“'Cause I got bills to pay like the next nigga. But what I'm try'n to say is that my boy got you on radar. You think he was watching you before? Please.” He snorted, removing the burned-out blunt from her hands. “He'll be watching yo' every move now. You won't be able to fart without him knowing when and how much gas was passed. You got the power, Nee.”

“What damn power?” Slick always had some kind of advice to give her, usually about what transport jobs to take and which ones to stay away from. Most of the time she didn't mind, but this was not one of them. Getting out the game was heavy on her mind, but it was something she didn't even trust telling Slick about.

“The power to get 'im caged behind yo' girlfriend dropping. It's one thing to get caught with yo' hand in the cookie jar, Nee. Topps is sharp. He knows you been skimming from him for years now.”

“That's bullshit…I don't steal from my own…”

“Nee, please. It's me, Slick. You can cut all that false jaw-jacking. Yo' hand in his cookie jar is one thing, but now we talkin' about murder.”

She squirmed along the bed. Neema tried to play it off, but he had her full attention because she was scared. Scared to leave and scared to stay. “Hell, Slick, you act like it's the first time my man dropped somebody. Thought y'all been bragging about popping punks since kindergarten.”

Slick sniffed. “Check this tho'. You ever seen 'im pop a nigga with yo' own eyes?”

Neema thought about it. She'd seen a few brutal beatings, fingers cut off, and a tongue sliced in half. Once even, she witnessed a fallen soldier take a bullet to the spine. Topps had pulled the trigger. The soldier didn't die, but she was sure he'd never walk again. But now the writing was on the wall. She'd witnessed a murder. Accident or no accident. Kaykay wasn't coming back. Tears threatened her eyes. “I hadn't thought of it that way.”

“Now you listen to me, Nee. That little friend of yours was getting around. She was kicking it with Rocco, better known as ‘Bulldog Roc.' I'm sure you've heard of 'im.”

“One of Topps' old rivals?” Her heart raced. That explained why Topps was riding the girl so hard behind some coke. “So it wasn't about the stupid coke after all.”

“You hear me now? Bulldog Roc is an old gangsta that went into retirement some years back. That's the same nigga that popped his father for sleeping with his bitch over twenty years ago. I didn't wanna say nothin' when I was at yo' place, but I recognized her then.”

“I am so tired of all of this.” Again, thoughts of Kaykay dying almost brought tears to her eyes, but the blunt she'd smoked earlier was helping her to cope. A couple of glasses of wine would make it even better. “Swear to God, I can't do this no more. I can't.”

“This is on the real, Nee. That nigga Rocco is known for being crazy. He'll have some of his old cronies out sniffing around to find out what happened to his girl. That's a fact.”

“It was an accident though.”

“Yeah, try telling that shit to an enemy. But yeah, accidents do happen. They happen all the time.”

Neema looked away, thoughts clicking a mile a minute. “Maybe I need to cut my losses and move the hell away.”

Slick shook his head. “Good idea and bad idea.”

“I gotta do something, Slick. I just want out.”

“Look, fo' sho you need to get yo' kids and run like crazy, but you need to move yo' moms away, too. Maybe even that sister of yours.”

“My sister?” She shot him a look of disbelief. “What about my sister?”

“My boy Topps is an obsessed man, Nee. He's been keeping tabs on you like a mutha. He knows where your moms lives, and that prissy little sister of yours. What's her name? Mia? Myra? Living in Victorville, right? Married to a guy named Glen, a doctor. Three kids. He thinks her twins are too cute.”

“Ohmygawd.” Neema felt sick to her stomach. It was worse than she thought. Topps wasn't just checking and keeping tabs on
her because she sometimes transported his product; he was stalking her family.

“Running could be a dangerous thing right now. Go along with the program for a while. And if you gotta do the wifey thing, do it. Once Rocco gets word that Topps had somethin' to do with his girl's drop, he'll be gunning for 'im. And you don't wanna be around when that happens.”

“Nobody knows about it but me, him, and you.”

“And the cleaning crew. Enough money can make anybody talk. And that fool they call Zoot, hell, I wouldn't trust him around his own mama. That nigga's mind is whacked.”

She rubbed her hands along her tired face. “I gotta go.”

Slick grabbed her hand again. “Look here, shortie. I like you. I like you a lot. All I'm saying is, I don't wanna see you get hurt behind all this, but I see it coming.” He wanted to warn her about the cell phone that Topps had given her, but Neema could be a hot-head at times. He could see her storming over and confronting Topps about the tracking device. That would blow his position. “Stay put for now, go along with his plan, but don't be car riding with 'im too much. I'll keep my ears open for you.”

“Why you spilling to me like this, Slick? Thought you and Topps were like white on rice.”

Slick let her arm go and got up from the bed. “We are.” He grinned as he headed for a shower. “But that don't mean I have to agree with everything he does. Now do it?”

Neema admired his muscular body as he headed to the bathroom. He was a chocolate, walking, dick-thick, Wesley Snipes-looking man except for his bulging eyes and bad skin. A nice smile though. Shorter than Topps by an inch, Slick had more muscles in the right places. His high behind looked powerful, like a good time promised. She smiled at the thought.
How right they would be
. “Thanks for the advice.”

“No problem.”

Neema was dressed by the time Slick walked back into the room. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” said Slick, sliding back into his silver-and-dark gray Sean John walking suit.