Riding Dirty on I-95 (11 page)

On their final day in the Big Apple, Raheem took Mercy up to Spanish Harlem for lunch. In the middle of their meal, Raheem excused himself from the table and went to the back, past the kitchen area, to cop his work.

When they got in the car to head back to Richmond, Raheem took a paper bag from inside his jacket and pulled out a Baggie full of white powder.

“What you got there?” Mercy asked, looking at the Baggie. She knew it was drugs but didn't know what kind. She didn't really care but thought maybe she ought to know something about his work.

“Rent, food, clothes, nice cars. Everything we need to live the good life,” he said. He had copped a clean spoon from the restaurant and scooped some of the powder into a smaller bag. He slipped the smaller bag into his pocket and placed the larger Baggie back in the paper bag. “We got to stop off in B-more and deliver this little package. I want you to keep the rest of this in your pocketbook in case we get pulled over and they start fucking with me,” Raheem said, like he was handing her a brown-bag lunch.

What could this hurt? Mercy felt it was the least she could do for her man after the way he'd treated her while they were in New York. And in a way it made her feel closer to him that he trusted her to take care of things. Her daddy's motto had always been to take care of those who take care of you, so she was determined to be the same way.

As soon as they hit the Maryland House, they stopped for a minute. Raheem would rather piss in a Coke bottle than pull over at the Maryland House rest stop, but he wanted to catch a power nap. Besides, there was something about those plush hotels that made Mercy step up her sex game. She had really put something
tough on him this weekend. Mercy was worn out, too—not from the sex but from all the nonstop shopping, eating and sightseeing. They both dozed off. An hour hadn't gone by when Mercy was awakened by a Maryland state trooper knocking on the passenger window. Mercy's heart began racing while Raheem went into action.

Raheem quickly swallowed the heroin that he had separated from the main package. The trooper noticed his movements and drew his gun. He then ordered Mercy to open up the door, but she froze.

“Fuck the police,” Raheem responded.

At that point, the only commands Mercy obeyed were those of her man. As the trooper reached for the door, Mercy fumbled around for the automatic lock but was too slow. The trooper took one of his hands off of his gun and swung open the door. He then quickly replaced it on the gun.

“Get out!” the trooper yelled at Mercy. He yanked her out of the car as she gripped her purse in her hand. “Get down on the ground!” Mercy dropped on her stomach. “Driver, hands on the steering wheel.” Not even giving Raheem time to do it, he screamed it again: “Hands on the steering wheel!”

As Raheem attempted to put his hands on the wheel, the trooper reached over and tried to open up Raheem's mouth as he was swallowing the last bit of the drugs. The jaw used the strongest muscle in the human body, and Raheem's mouth was glued shut.

“Open your mouth, you fuckin cocksucker! Open up, I said!”

“Ouch!” the trooper screamed when Raheem tried to bite his finger off. When the trooper looked at his finger, Raheem took a huge gulp and began choking until he swallowed again, clearing his throat passage.

“Get the fuck out of the car,” the trooper said, cocking his gun.

During the showdown between the trooper and Raheem, Mercy managed to slip the drugs out of her pocketbook and throw them off into the grass without the trooper seeing her. But once the trooper got the situation under control, Mercy was sure that Raheem was going to jail.

Mercy lay on the ground and watched as the trooper leaned Raheem over the trunk of the car and patted him down.

“What you got here, son?” the trooper said as he grabbed at the wad of cash in Raheem's front pants pocket. “Traveling with cash, huh?” The officer pulled the money out of Raheem's pocket. “And a large amount of cash, too. Didn't your mother ever tell you never to travel with large amounts of cash? You could lose it all, or better yet,” the trooper said as he slipped the money into his front shirt pocket, “someone could steal it from you.” He then laughed. “Now where are the drugs?”

“I ain't got no drugs,” Raheem said.

The trooper slammed Raheem down on the trunk of the car and handcuffed him. “Get down on the ground,” he said as he pulled Raheem up off of the car and made him lie on the ground. He proceeded to search the car and didn't find anything but a small bag of weed under the seat. “Since you like to eat stuff, eat this,” the trooper said, holding up the bag of marijuana.

Raheem turned his head in defiance. The trooper got down in Raheem's face and shouted, “Eat it, cocksucker, or go to jail.”

Raheem had several warrants out on him, so his decision wasn't hard at all. He ate the weed.

The trooper walked back over to the car and pulled out a small blue cooler that was full of water from melted ice. The cooler had been there for over a week, and the water was starting to reek. “Here, drink the water out of here so that shit don't get stuck in your throat,” the trooper said, setting the cooler down and helping
Raheem up into a sitting position. “It wouldn't look good if you died out here.”

Raheem gagged as he drank the water. The trooper laughed. He then uncuffed Raheem and left him and Mercy sitting there on the side of the road as he drove off with his unexpected bonus. Two months and four trips later, each time carrying more and more drugs, Mercy seemed to have found her niche in life: hustling.

M
ercy sat in the prison visiting room, waiting to see her brother Nayshawn. She was supposed to have been there two weeks ago. But she was here now. This visit would change the game for her forever.

“Damn, your name been cleared my visiting list forever. Why it took you so long to get here?”

“Been traveling.”

“Where?”

“To New York with my man,” she said, stressing New York like it was on another planet or something.

Nayshawn grew upset and asked, “Do dat nigga got you running up and down the road with shit in your pussy or toting his shit?” He wasn't new to this thing; he saw dudes from all over come through the system discussing their ride-or-die chicks.

Mercy was almost embarrassed to say yes, the way her brother was deep in her ass. “It ain't like that.”

“That's what
y
o' mouth say. Well, do dat nigga be paying you?”

“Yeah, he pays all the bills, and takes care of me and I ain't never broke.”

“ 'Fuck dat. You can do that shit yo'self” Nayshawn threw his
hand up. “Baby girl, that nigga ain't doing nothing but using you.”

“It ain't like that.”

“Listen to me.” Nayshawn grabbed Mercy's hand. “Listen, Sis, you know I ain't going to let no nigga play you out pocket, right?”

Mercy didn't respond, but she listened.

“Look, that nigga ain't doing shit you can't do for yourself. You can't give up the goods for free and mule the pack. That nigga is getting over like a fat rat.”

Nayshawn broke the game down to her even though Mercy didn't want to believe him, but she started to think about the way Raheem played his game, the way he sweetened her up at first and then slowly tricked her into helping him out. It was true—he was getting paid, and she wasn't even on the payroll. The truth hurt like a motherfucker.

“And, Mercy, if you gets busted, you'll wind up in the penitentiary and he'll have some other girl quicker than a New York minute doing your old job. Boo, I'm sure you're not the first. You're just the lastest.”

On the long ride back from the prison, Mercy thought about everything Nayshawn had said to her. She replayed bits and pieces of his conversation over in her head, and she reflected back on the hotel scene when she had first met Raheem—the girl that was with him. She digested the whole situation and saw how easily their relationship had turned eighty percent business and twenty percent anything else.

Once she got back home, she watched as Raheem sat at their kitchen table bagging up his dope. She began cooking dinner. Once the food was almost finished, Raheem came up behind her and put his arms around her.

“Tonight I should be done with this and we should be ready to hit the highway tomorrow,” he whispered in her ear.

For a minute she was going to agree just like she had in the past, but something flashed through her mind:
You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know when to run.

That gave her the strength.

“Stop, Raheem,” Mercy said, squirming away from him before heading to the cupboard to get some plates. Raheem stood there shocked. Mercy had never rejected him.

“What you mean ‘stop’?” he snapped.

Mercy sighed, set the plates on the counter, and turned to face him. “Look, I know what's up. I ain't green for real.”

“What?” Raheem said with a puzzled look on his face. “I'm over here in the right field, how you just gon' throw some shit out in left?”

“You heard me,” Mercy said, as if she had just visited the Wiz and was given some courage. “See, you think I'm stupid, right? Oh, is it because I'm from down South, huh? Poor little country Mercy, huh?” She looked into his eyes as she stepped in closer to him. “I know how you New Yorkers do. Yeah, I been schooled, motherfucker. Y'all come down here tryin' to find y'allself one of them country girls to buy a few presents for, then you throw a little dick at 'em and get her sprung. Why? Just so she can do what you need her to do.”

“Man, stop it. You know better,” Raheem said, gritting his teeth. “Man, who been in yo' ear?”

“You are right, I do know better,” Mercy agreed. “So you need to make a decision.”

“What kind of decision? What are you talking about?”

“Look, I ain't going to be running up and down the highway for you, carrying yo' shit.” She emphasized yo', pointing at him. “I ain't going to be laying up, letting you fuck me, doing your dirty work while I settle for a Chanel bag with matching shoes.
Fuck that,” Mercy spat, now more bold than she had ever been in her life.

Raheem chuckled while shaking his head. He couldn't believe Mercy had finally caught on. “So?” he said, throwing his hands up in defeat.

“So, you need to take your pick: Either we can get money together or we can lay up together. Take yo' pick, New York.”

Raheem looked Mercy up and down, admiring her curvaceous body and her beautiful face. He knew by her body language that she meant every word she was spittin'. He smiled and licked his lips.

He had come into Mercy's life and accepted her with a black eye while she rolled in a Chevette. Raheem had helped build her up, and although he didn't own her coochie, he owned something that was valued much higher than a piece of ass—her undying devotion.

“All right,” he said in a sincere tone. He pulled Mercy toward him and moved her chin closer to kiss her passionately on the lips.

Mercy melted as she aggressively began to kiss him back. She couldn't believe it. For once in her life someone had made her feel like there was nothing in the world more important than her, not even money, and a hustler's money at that. That said a lot.

Raheem pulled away from Mercy and wiped his mouth. Her eyes were lit up as she waited for him to speak.

“All right, Mercy, you win. Let's make this money.” Raheem then turned away to finish his business.

Mercy stood there feeling stupid. How could she think for one minute that a nigga would have chosen a bitch over money? So just like any dude on the come-up, Raheem had picked the money over Mercy. Mercy was hurt. There was a part of her that wished he would have chosen her, but it was cool. She was used to not being chosen. All those years in foster care, no family ever
chose to keep her either. But hopefully, like Yorkey, that girl in jail, had told her, things wouldn't be so bad after all.

But from here on out, I'm not thinking with my emotions, because every time I do, they get crushed, she thought. Lil' Kim couldn't have said it better than when she put it on wax: “Fuck niggas, get money!”