Bonded by Blood Page 13

  By the time B-Man finished smoking the woo-woo, they were turning into the club’s parking lot. Adina described the box Chevy that she was now standing outside of. She nodded at them imperceptibly as they drove by.

  “I’ma get at you tomorrow, Ma,” Bed-Stuy said into the phone. “One.”

  It was time to put in work.

  “You see his whip? It’s over there where all those hos are posted up,” B-Man pointed.

  “Yeah, I see it,” said Bed-Stuy inconspicuously parking amongst other whips a few car lengths away.

  After several hours of stuntin’, Lamar chose one of the thirsty females who were sweating him and mashed out. The chic was giving him slow neck as he headed down Memorial Drive to a motel. The whip was swerving like the driver was DUI.

  “Stupid ass nigga gon’ fuck around and get pulled over,” B-Man worried as they followed Lamar at a discreet distance.

  “I think shorty braining him,” said Bed-Stuy. “I don’t see her head.”

  “We bodying the ho, too?”

  “You know how I rock—no witnesses.”

  They followed Lamar to the Motel 6 further out on Memorial Drive, where he parked and dashed inside to get a room while the chick waited in the car.

  “Dayum! I was hoping he took her to his crib, I know the nigga got some chips wherever he rest at,” said Bed-Stuy. A frustrated frown was etched on his face.

  “It is what it is,” remarked B-Man. He was ready to nod Lamar and get it over with.

  “Let’s go do this nigga,” he said as soon as they saw Lamar come back toward his whip.

  Bed-Stuy moved in sync with his man as they both slid out of the vehicle and crept up on their target, catching Lamar just as he was pulling open his car door.

  “Get on in, nigga!” growled B-Man with his strap pressed against Lamar’s temple. Bed-Stuy ran around to the other side of the whip and yanked open the passenger door.

  “If you even let out a sound I’ma push ya wig back!” Bed-Stuy warned the chick.

  He forced her into the back of the vehicle and pressed her forehead to the floor.

  In the front seat, B-Man forced Lamar to do the same, then searched his waist for a strap. Not finding one, B-Man made Lamar clasp his hands together behind his back in case he had a strap stashed somewhere within arm’s reach. He went inside of Lamar’s pockets and removed the stacks he was carrying.

  “Yeah, lil’ bitch-ass nigga, you thought this shit was a game didn’t you?” he taunted.

  “Nah, man. I was gonna pay your brother!” cried Lamar, recognizing B-Man.

  “Too late!”

  The two gunshots that followed sounded like loud claps of thunder. In the back seat Bed-Stuy didn’t hesitate to silence the scream that filled the car after the girl realized what had just happened to Lamar.

  Boc! Boc! Boc!

  Q was in bed spending the night with Corlette. He had told Persia that he had to make a run out of town with Fazio. Corlette was cuddled up under her man, sleeping contentedly. Earlier they had gone out to dinner and the movies then came back to her place and devoured each other’s bodies. Q had torn that pregnant pussy up.

  Corlette was in LaLa Land, dreaming about eternal bliss with her man. Q, however, could only feign sleep; he was amped because he knew what was supposed to be going down tonight. He peeked at the digital clock on the nightstand near the bed and saw that it was nearly 2:00 A.M.

  He was laying there imagining all the shit that could’ve gone wrong. He hoped B-Man and Bed-Stuy hadn’t fucked up. Just when he was about to worry himself sick, his cell phone rang. He leaned over the edge of the bed and snatched his cell phone off the floor.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s a done deal, shawdy,” B-Man informed him.

  Q was quiet; he was trying to picture Lamar dead. Damn, all you had to do was pay me my dough.

  “You heard me, shawdy?”

  “Yeah, I heard you,” Q finally replied morosely. “I’ma get at you tomorrow.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll call you.”

  “Get at me,”said B-Man.

  Click.

  Q pretended to still be talking, just to cover his ass with Corlette if she became suspicious of the call, after she learned of her cousin being killed.

  “Man, I ain’t getting out of bed with my girl just to serve you four and a baby. You gon’ have to get at me tomorrow, I done told you that three times.”

  Corlette rolled over, sat up and, and mouthed, “Un-uh, you ain’t goin’ nowhere!”

  “Man, my girl just laid down the law; for real, though, I’ma get at you tomorrow,” he said to no one.

  Q stayed in bed with Corlette a few hours longer before getting up, showering, and getting dressed. He was tryna dip before Corlette’s mama woke up and put the beg to him like she always did. But luck wasn’t on his side, Miss Jean, Corlette’s mama, came out of her bedroom, almost bumping into Q in the hallway as he was about to bounce.

  “Good morning, Quantavious.”

  “Good morning, Miss Jean. You looking good; how much weight have you lost?” Q replied, gassing Corlette’s mom.

  “Oh, I done lost a lil’ bit,” she smiled, sucking in her stomach. “Can you tell?”

  She profiled for Q, front, back and side, knowing she hadn’t lost one single pound and was just as plump as ever.

  Q continued gassing her up.

  “Yeah, I can see it in your face, too,” he complimented her then tried to push on.

  “Quantavious, can you gimme some money to go play Bingo tonight? I feel kinda lucky,” Corlette, who was handing Q his cell phone he’d forgotten said, “Mama, why you always asking him for money? I know he gets tired of everybody always tryna hit him up for something.”

  “Nah, it ain’t no trip,” Q intoned, clipping the cell phone on his waist. He pulled a couple hundred dollars off his trap and handed the money to Miss Jean.

  “Thank you, baby,”

  “Here you go, boo,” Q said, offering Corlette some guap. “Go buy yourself something pretty.”

  Corlette turned down the money.

  “I’m good, baby.”

  “You sure?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Corlette kissed Q goodbye.

  As Q drove off he was thinking about how much Corlette was changing since getting pregnant. Before, she had always had her hand out, begging. But lately he had noticed a profound change in her; it was as if carrying his child had given her the security she’d craved; the assurance that she was more to Q than a piece of ass. Now she was no longer fixated on trying to get as much money out of him as she could.

  Q was taking notice of Corlette’s new and improved attitude, but right now he was more concerned with what her and her peeps attitudes would be like once they learned of Lamar’s murder. He wondered if Corlette would suspect him of being involved.

  When Q got home, Persia wasn’t there. He assumed that she’d gone in to work at her uncle’s bails and bonds company, but just to reassure himself that Persia wasn’t off somewhere creeping he called her at work.

  “A and A Bonding, how may I help you?”

  “I wanna make love to you all night long,” Q whispered into the phone, disguising his voice.

  “Excuse me?” replied Persia.

  “I wanna make love to you all night long,” repeated Q.

  “My man might not like that,” giggled Persia, playing along.

  “Who is your man?”

  “Quantavious Jones, the same man who’s trying to disguise his voice,” Persia laughed.

  In his natural voice, Q said, “I still meant what I said.”

  “We’ll see when I get home,” Persia challenged.

  “It’s on, shawdy,” Q promised.

  “Nigga, you’ll be in the streets by the time I get off work,”

  “Nah, I’ma chill wit’ my boo tonight. What time you gettin’ off?”

  Persia told him she’d be home by eight o’clock;
it wasn’t even noon yet.

  “Damn, your uncle gon’ work you to death, ain’t he?” Q quipped.

  A few hours later both B-Man and Corlette were blowing up Q’s cell phone. Q answered his brother’s call, telling B-Man to come on over; he knew that B-Man wanted to pick up the pay for nodding Lamar.

  “Don’t bring ya partna with you,” he reminded B-Man, who already knew that Q didn’t fuck with Bed-Stuy like that.

  B-Man could fuck with Bed-Stuy all he wanted to, but Q wanted no direct dealings with the nigga. He was gonna break B-Man off for slumping Lamar, and leave it up to B-Man to break bread with Bed-Stuy.

  “Gimme ‘bout an hour before you come through,” Q told B-Man.

  He needed to make a quick trip to his stash spot to pick up some work; he was going to pay B-Man with half coke, half money.

  Disconnecting from his brother, Q dialed Corlette’s number. She answered on the first ring.

  “What’s up, shawdy?”

  “Can you talk?” she asked, thinking he was around Persia. Her voice was somber.

  “Yeah, I can talk. What’s the business? You miss me already?”

  “Lamar is dead.”

  “Huh?” replied Q, feigning surprise.

  “Somebody killed him last night.”

  “Dayum!”

  There was a long silence on the phone.

  Q broke the silence, “You know I was salty with Lamar ‘cause he owed me money; still I hate that the lil’ nigga done got himself killed.”

  “I told that boy a million times, somebody was gon’ do something to him if he kept playing games wit’ people’s money,” recollected Corlette. If she suspected Q it didn’t show in her voice.

  Q didn’t know how to respond to that, guilt had his tongue in a knot. He was glad he wasn’t face to face with Corlette. Finally, he offered, I’m sorry about your lil’ cuz, boo. You good? Or you need me to come through later?”

  “I’m okay,” Corlette said, and then began sniffing back tears.

  Lamar had been tempting death for several years, running off with work different niggaz had fronted him, so his death wasn’t a huge surprise. Still, he was fam’.

  “He’s in a better place,” Q added consolingly. “Just look at it like that, shawdy.”

  He promised to fall through Corlette’s crib later, then he said goodbye, and went to get the cocaine he had to give B-Man.

  While en route to his stash spot, Q hit Khalil on the hip.

  “What’s up, shawdy?” Khalil answered.

  “Shit,” replied Q. “What you up to?”

  “Taking Sinnamon to get her hair styled. Why?”

  “Nothin’ I was just asking. Handle ya business, pimp.”

  “I’ma always do that,” vowed Khalil.

  Q couldn’t dispute it, his big bruh was macking the fuck outta Sinnamon, Baby Love, and a new hoe named Cha Cha who Khalil had just caught two weeks ago. Q had to give his brother props for pimping with the utmost finesse. Until he’d seen the stacks with his own eyes he would’ve never thought pussy could clock them type of dollars. He still couldn’t understand what made those dumb ho’s sell pussy, strip dance, and suck dick for money, then give the money to a nigga. But he knew that their pop was schooling Khalil well and whatever game Rapheal was giving Khalil was damn sure working.

  “Oh, guess who got slumped last night,” said Q.

  “Who?” asked Khalil.

  “Remember I told you about my lil’ shawdy Corlette’s cousin owing me for a half brick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, somebody slumped him last night.”

  “Somebody?”

  “It wasn’t me,” Q declared, laughing. “Lamar must’ve owed somebody else, too.”

  “Just don’t be doing no stupid shit, shawdy,” warned Khalil. “Keep your focus on the big prize.”

  Q was keeping the truth from Khalil because he knew that Khalil would’ve told him that if he was going to slump anyone it should be Fazio. Khalil had told him before that Lamar was small shit that could certainly wait, while Fazio was the most serious threat.

  “I’m focused, bruh,” Q assured Khalil, who was just pulling up in front of Bangin Head beauty salon.

  Khalil wasn’t slow, by any means. Instinct told him that Q wasn’t being straight up with him, but he’d holla at Q about that later. He damn sure wasn’t discussing it over a cell phone.

  “Hit me up later, shawdy. Let me run in here with Sin, I just pulled up at the beauty salon.”

  “I’ll holla,” said Q.

  When Q got back home, B-Man was parked out front waiting for him.

  “What it is, shawdy?” Q touched with B-Man as they walked toward the condo.

  Inside, Q tossed B-Man the half of brick he was paying him, plus ten stacks.

  “How much is this?” asked B-Man, indicating the tightly wrapped cocaine.

  “Eighteen zones,” said Q. “Plus ten stacks.”

  B-Man looked disappointed. “I was expecting at least a whole brick and twenty five stacks.”

  “Nigga please!” Q snapped. “Shid, Lamar ain’t owe me but twelve stacks. What da fuck I’ma pay you twenty-five and a whole brick to slump him fo’?”

  “It ain’t like you can’t afford it.”

  “Don’t try to count my trap, shawdy. You be on some next shit.”

  “Nigga, you just stingy as fuck,” B-Man said.

  Q brushed off his brother’s remark. “How did that shit go down last night?” he asked.

  B-Man gave a blow-by-blow replay, enjoying the recounting as much as he’d enjoyed the actual hit.

  “Dayum! Why y’all do the bitch?” Q questioned him.

  “Wrong place, wrong time,” replied B-Man.

  When B-Man left, Q dipped over to Corlette’s crib.

  The vibe at Corlette’s crib wasn’t accusatory or distant, so Q felt at ease with that. He offered fake condolences to Corlette’s mom, sounding so sincere Miss Jean cried on his shoulder.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Yo, B, fuck is this?” spewed Bed-Stuy, frowning at the two thousand and five hundred dollars in his hand as if it was a food stamp card.

  “That’s what I said when Q handed me only five stacks. That’s your half, though,” contended B-Man.

  Bed-Stuy sensed that B-Man wasn’t playing it square with him. He peeped game because in his own sheisty heart he knew that he would pull the same stunt on B-Man if the tables were turned. They had both cuffed money from each other numerous times in the past. I ain’t gon’ get mad, I’ma get even. Bed-Stuy promised himself as he fought hard not to let his feelings show on his face.

  B-Man pulled a half a brick out of a shoe bag that he was carrying and placed it on the coffee table in the living room of Bed-Stuy’s apartment.

  “At least he showed some love on this,” said B-Man coming clean in regards to the work, which they split evenly.

  The cocaine calmed Bed-Stuy some, but he was still tight about receiving only $2500. These country niggas got me fucked up, yo!

  “Son, we gotta break bread with Adina. She put in work, too,” Bed-Stuy reminded B-Man.

  “Call her up. When she gets here I’ll give her a stack and a zone, and we’ll both give the lil’ bitch some dick,” suggested B-Man.

  When Adina came through they broke her off as B-Man had suggested. Adina was a Reebok bitch so she was good with what they gave her.

  Bed-Stuy tapped the pussy but whispered to her, “Don’t let B-Man hit it, ma. I’m salty with that nigga.”

  “What you gon’ do, lil’ mama?” B-Man asked when he entered the bedroom to find Adina getting dressed after being dicked down by his partna.

  “I’ma holla at y’all later,” Adina said, finished dressing, then mashed out.

  B-Man wasn’t fooled; he knew that Bed-Stuy had blocked him. Fuck him and that punk ho, he silently vented.

  “Shawdy, I’m ‘bouta bounce; I’ll get back at you later,” he said to Bed-Stuy then jetted.

&n
bsp; The hair stylists at Bangin Headz were sweating the fuck out of Khalil as he lounged in the waiting area of the beauty salon while Sinnamon got her hair done by Fila, the self-proclaimed best stylist of the bunch.

  Today was the first time Khalil had accompanied Sin to the beauty salon. Khalil was stylishly casual in cream-colored Armani summer wear; his wrists were heavy with ice, diamonds in both ears. No introductions were forthcoming or necessary; Like in most salons gossip ran rampant and unmitigated at Bangin Headz. All the stylists there had heard that Sinnamon was selling pussy for a nigga.

  When gossiping behind Sinnamon’s back, Fila and ‘em derided her for being weak and gullible, allowing a nigga to pimp her. That shit was played out, they all had agreed. None of the stylists spoke against Sinnamon for stripping and tricking, but to sell ass to support a nigga? Ain’t no freakin’ way! Was the consensus up in the salon before the stylist laid eyes on Khalil.

  Now seeing him for the first time and quickly becoming intoxicated by his swag, the opinions of Fila and ‘em weren’t as strongly opposed to how Khalil put it down. They were more than a little curious to know what made a nigga worth selling your pussy so that he could live the life of a balla. They guessed that Khalil must’ve had a sick dick game. They didn’t realize that mackin’ is all between the ears, not between the legs.

  Khalil peeped their wide-eyed curiosity, but he had no time to appease it. He answered his vibrating BlackBerry.

  “What’s good, baby doll?”

  “Hi, daddy,” replied Cha Cha a thick, ghetto booty redbone he had bagged a month ago.

  “Where you at?” he inquired because last they spoke she was going on an all-nighter with a balla she had cut into at the ESPN Zone bar in Buckhead.

  “I’m on I-285; headed to Riverdale. I just left ol’ boys spot. Is Rayne expecting, me?”

  “Don’t question me, girl,” he lightly scolded. “I told you I would handle it, and I will. The question is did that nigga break bread?”

  “I was only able to get a stack out of him, daddy. He’s tight with his trap.”

  “A stack? Ho, either you’re tryna play me, or you let that nigga play you! Either way, it ain’t happenin’—you hear me? What did I tell you to get for an all-nighter?”