Trust No Man 2 Page 2

  We rapped about Blue and how the Ribs Lady adopted daughter had died, too. Blue was facing the death penalty. Lonnie said he wished he could’ve gotten to Blue before the police did; he would’ve killed the nigga himself, to save Delina and the kids the drama. We both shook our heads, not knowing what else to say about it.

  As for Cheryl, he said the bitch needed to be put in a body bag. I hadn’t told him how much was in the safes, but he still doubted she would ever return to Atlanta. He said that if the bitch wasn’t in Haiti, she was probably on some island in Jamaica or the West Indies.

  “If she hasn’t left the United States, you can track her down with her social security number,” Lonnie said. “That dumb ho won’t think to establish a false identity.” But I was never going to underestimate any woman again. Cheryl had to be some kind of smart to get ghost with my bank.

  Lonnie believed Blondie and Little Gotti were probably responsible for my kidnapping. But how would they have known where Inez lived, unless they had us followed from The Players Ball that night. It dawned on me that I’d told Blondie my name was “Youngblood” when she’d called me “Popeye” at The Players Ball. Yet, at the sports bar I’d told her man my name was “Terrence”. Both were the truth if Little Gotti had the means of checking it out, but had that small discrepancy caused him to believe I was lying to cover my ass?

  But how would he have known I was in Englewood the day I was abducted? Who could’ve known that and had time enough to plan the abduction? Fuck it! I’d ride on all my enemies, that way I was sure to get the guilty one.

  But first things first!

  I rang the doorbell.

  “Who is it?” the woman asked.

  “Terrence,” I answered as clearly as my wired mouth allowed.

  I heard the lock turn, and the door opened just a crack. Lonnie’s foot kicked it loose from the security chain, and knocked the woman backwards, but she didn’t fall. Nor did she scream. She just stood there, petrified, like a deer caught in headlights.

  I pointed the gun at Cheryl’s mother.

  “Tell me where Cheryl is!” My voice was low, demanding. Lonnie closed the front door, grabbed her by the throat, and pushed her toward the stairs, damn near lifting her clear off her feet. His gloved hand dug into her throat as he forced her up the stairs and into the bathroom. When he released her from his grip, Cheryl’s mother coughed violently. As soon as the bitch caught her breath, I nodded to Lonnie. My partner grabbed her by the back of her hair, forced her over the commode and pushed her face down in the toilet water.

  I nodded again and he yanked her head up.

  The bitch was coughing, crying, and gasping for breath all at the same time. “Tell me where Cheryl’s at!” I said for the second time.

  “I…don’t…know,” she cried.

  I nodded to Lonnie and he dunked her head in the toilet again. This time for thirty seconds. When he brought her up, she was coughing violently, desperate for air.

  “Where’s Cheryl?” I asked again.

  “I swear…I…don’t…know!”

  I punched her in the eye!

  “Drown this bitch!” I said to Lonnie. And he would’ve, if I hadn’t told him to bring her back up when her body started twitching violently, and her legs kicked at the air.

  She lay on the bathroom tile gasping for air, coughing up toilet water. Her blouse was soaked. Her hair was wild and amiss. Her left eye was swollen halfway shut already. I put my size ten in the center of her back and pointed the gun down at her.

  “Last time,” I said. “Where’s Cheryl?”

  “Wait! Don’t…kill…me,” she cried. She begged me to let her show me a letter Cheryl had left under her front door. I led her to her bedroom, pulling her by the hair.

  Cheryl’s letter to her mother read:

  Dear Mama,

  This is the last time you’ll ever hear from me. I’ve taken the children and moved far away. I’m sure you won’t miss me or your grandbabies, being that you never loved us or wanted us around anyway.

  I remember how mean you used to be to me when Daddy was at work. When he died, I missed him. You couldn’t wait for me to grow up so you could be rid of me! I don’t hate you, though. It takes too much energy to hate more than one person at a time, and right now all my energy goes into hating Youngblood.

  Speaking of him, he’ll probably try to hurt you because I took a lot of money from him, as well as taking Eryka and Chantè away. Be sure to let someone know that if something happens to you, Terrence did it! I threw away all his guns so he couldn’t come over there and shoot you for thinking you know where I’ve gone, but he can easily get more guns.

  Anyway, I’ve met someone who loves me and my girls. I’ll be a good mother to my children, unlike you were to me! Well, I’ll bring this letter to a close. You always told me I talked too much!

  Cheryl,

  (Daddy’s little girl)

  P.S. I’m never coming back!

  I folded up the letter and put it in my pocket. I stared Cheryl’s mother in her swollen eye and said, “If I get arrested…he’ll come back and kill you!” I gestured toward Lonnie, who smiled menacingly. “I’m gonna find your daughter one of these days.” It was a threat more than a promise. “You can bet on that!”

  I wasn’t trying to be seen in the streets with my mug swollen and my jaw wired shut. Haters would’ve loved to see a young nigga banged up and vulnerable. If I wasn’t out with Lonnie trying to ride on my enemies, I was either chillin’ with Inez or at Juanita’s crib laying low. I can’t even begin to describe the feeling of being rich one minute, then right back to having nothing! It felt like I had dreamt I was rich, only to wake up and realize I was still struggling. But the shit hadn’t been no goddamn dream. The shit was real! I had let a bitch rob me for my whole stash without having to draw a gat! I realized I committed two cardinal sins: One, I took shit for granted, and two, I underestimated a woman’s scorn.

  I had only eight Gs in my pocket, a tricked-out Lexus truck I could sell for a decent penny, and a brand new Benz drop that would sell for even more than the Lexus. Plus, Inez had fifty grand. But add it all up and it came to, probably, less than 130 grand, 150 tops. No comparison to the mil’ and change Cheryl had ganked me for.

  The only choice I had was to go back to robbing niggaz, but I knew I’d never hit another big lick like that again. How was I supposed to look forward to robbing for “small” money again? Doing hits for Rich Kid wasn’t steady enough, and wouldn’t demand the type of loot I had lost. Plus, I was seeing him through different eyes these days.

  My other option was to get down with what Juanita was stressing. But how could I trust a bitch after what Shan and Cheryl had done? Squaring up and going legit wasn’t a young nigga’s style. I couldn’t walk away from the streets when I had the upper hand. How in hell could I walk away now, when I had just gotten knocked on my ass?

  Anyway, what was I supposed to do with Inez? Not only was she carrying my seed, she was carrying my secrets. The way I saw it, I had no choice but to stay in the streets.

  Maybe I’d have chosen the route Juanita proposed if it hadn’t required such a sudden and drastic change from what I’d been doing all of my life, or if it wouldn’t have placed me in the unenviable position of being so dependent on her. After all, we may have grown up in the same projects but I didn’t know her that well. Where would it leave me if one day, after she became a doctor, the bitch woke up and decided I wasn’t the best thing since cell phones no more? And, what type of nigga chose to be dependent on a female? Pimps maybe. But those clowns had played out with Jheri curls. The few that were trying to keep the mack game alive were witnessing crack driving the price of pussy so low, it now cost less than a Happy Meal.

  In retrospect, maybe I was just searching for convenient excuses not to leave the streets. Whatever! I do know that even while chillin’ at Juanita’s house and getting to know her better, and watching her prepare to leave Atlanta and its unforgiving fast life, I never
seriously thought of going away with her.

  Juanita had placed an ad in the newspaper announcing a house for sale, so mafuckaz were occasionally calling and coming by to browse the furniture and whatnots. She was also selling all of her designer clothes, shoes, and “exotic dancer” costumes. She said that when she left the city, she’d take nothing with her but the clothes on her back, her bank book, and the strength to pursue her dreams.

  How could a nigga argue with that?

  Fall was giving way to winter; it was chilly at night. Some nights Juanita would light the fireplace and we would sit watching the flames lick at the fake logs. We’d talk about all the people the hood had swallowed up. I’d mostly listen; my mind was there, but in a million other places too. We’d also listen to Maxwell, Eryka Badu, and Juanita’s favorite, Jill Scott.

  When I was tired of love songs, I’d turn the fireplace off and replace melancholy music with whatever rap CDs I could find in Juanita’s collection. She’d get up and try to dance. I’d laugh so hard my ribs would hurt, and it would feel like my jaw had re-fractured. Juanita might’ve been one of the best strippers in the Dirty South, but she had white girl moves when it came to regular dancing. I’d turn off the music before I laughed myself back into the hospital, and we’d drift off to our own private thoughts. Sometimes I’d get up and go sleep in the guest room. Sometimes I’d fall asleep on the floor, with Juanita in my arms.

  If my heart wasn’t made of concrete, I might’ve fallen in love with Juanita. As it was, we just enjoyed the moment, knowing the day was coming fast when all her things would be sold and she’d drive away.

  I called Inez daily so she would know our bond was still strong. I’d scoop by her mom’s crib, where she was at most of the time, or have her meet me at her spot. If I felt her trust in me beginning to wane a bit, I’d take her to a motel and show her that my interest in her was as strong as ever. I couldn’t kiss or eat her, and even though it hurt my ribs to fuck too hard or too long, I needed Inez to know that Juanita hadn’t been draining me. I’m sure she didn’t believe I wasn’t sexing Juanita, but to her credit, she never once fussed about it.

  I reassured her every time I talked to her, or saw her, that things would be back to normal before long. She was anxious to go back to living at her own place, not really liking to stay with someone else. She asked again if I wanted the money she had put up. Again, I told her to just hold on to it.

  “I’m not having nightmares anymore,” she announced, sounding relieved that the demons that had entered her dreams after setting up King for me to jack and murk him were no longer haunting her in her sleep.

  “That’s good,” I said. “How’s my baby?” I asked patting her stomach.

  She responded, “My doctor says everything is fine, but I have to stop smoking weed.”

  I asked her how the doctor knew she smoked weed.

  “I told her,” Inez smiled. “She’s cool.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Lonnie told me that he had seen Murder Mike, and that Murder had given him a number and told him to tell me to get in touch with him. I took the number and put it in my back pocket. I’d get with Murder later.

  “Oh, I seen Shan yesterday,” he said. “She told me to tell you Lil’ T has been acting up at school and you need to come by there and talk to him.”

  “Yeah?” I mumbled. But all that would have to wait. I wasn’t trying to let my son see me bruised and banged up. To him, I was Superman, indestructible! I couldn’t ruin his image of his pops. Besides, ain’t no way I was letting Shan or her powder head nigga, Shotgun Pete see me not shining and on point. Niggaz wouldn’t see me until I was well and had straightened my biz. They’d hear about me, though, I thought to myself. Starting tonight!

  I launched two fire bombs through the window of the sports bar, just seconds before Lonnie unleashed his. The four Molotov cocktails instantly erupted into small fires, igniting the bottles behind the bar. I wanted to watch the building explode, however I knew better than to stick around.

  Burning down Little Gotti’s sports bar was just the beginning, sort of like a jab before the big punch. I’d get his white bitch next, make her take me to him and his lovely stash. Why kill ‘em without robbin’ them first? The bitch should’ve let things stay as they were. Now the ante had been upped! “Let’s see if you and your man can play the high stakes game of murder!” I would’ve said to the bitch, had I been the type of nigga to give out warnings or idle threats.

  But I wasn’t that type of nigga. When my enemy saw me, the rest had been already written. Didn’t these fools in the streets know better than to wake a sleeping beast? My sister’s boyfriend Glen was gonna feel my rage, too. Him and any other mafucka I suspected of causing me harm. They all would feel the rage inside of me, the thirst for blood. Cheryl had said that taking my money would make me nicer. Naw, bitch! It would make me even more of a killer than I’d been before.

  As the weeks passed, the weather continued to change. Daylight Savings had demanded time be set back an hour, making the days shorter and the nights longer. Giving a night stalker like myself even more time to hunt and capture the prey.

  So far, Little Gotti and his bleach blond, white bitch were outrunning their death warrants, but time is always on the side of the hunter. If my thirst for blood and revenge got too strong to wait, I could easily pay Glen a visit first. He was always easy to find, basically a sitting duck.

  Time had also taken the swelling out of my face and the soreness from my ribs. The gash in my head had healed, hair beginning to grow in its place. My jaw was still wired closed; otherwise, I was almost as good as new. Still I hadn’t been seen in the streets, causing mad rumors to circulate and take flight: I was dead. In prison. Running scared. Blah. Blah. Blah.

  I can’t say a few of the rumors didn’t vex me; a street nigga never likes mafuckaz to think he’s running scared. Unless it’s by design, and he’s just waiting to strike. I heard all the rumors from a distance, just biding my time.

  Time. It went backwards, it went forward, but it never stood still or waited for anyone, which meant the time had come for me to make a choice.

  Juanita and I watched the two men load the last of her bedroom furnishings onto the U-Haul trailer. One of the mover’s wives carried the bedside lamp and placed it inside the car that the trailer was hitched up to, making sure the Egyptian figurine-based lamp would be safe and out of harms way. The lady waved goodbye and got inside the car. Juanita was still waving goodbye long after the woman’s hand had dropped out of sight. I figured she was now waving bye-bye to the last of her furnishings, the last remnants of her past.

  Sold and gone were all the material things she’d once valued as much as her pride and dreams. The Dolce & Gabana dresses and sexy evening wear. The Prada, Yves Saint Laurent to the Cardin and the Victoria’s Secrets. The old Tommy Girl casual but expensive outfits. The leather and suede minis. The minks and other furs. The gator shoes, boots, bags and accessories. The shine, the ice—necklaces, watches, and rings. The flat screen television. The Gucci-printed sofa and loveseats. The china and gold silverware. Everything.

  Even the Viper was replaced by a used Toyota Cressida.

  “Well,” she exhaled, “that’s the last of it.”

  We walked back inside the house and its emptiness made the house look huge. Only the refrigerator, stove, and microwave remained in the kitchen.

  Juanita tidied up as she went from room to room making sure the house wouldn’t be left a mess when she turned it over to the new owners tomorrow.

  The sun had gone down when she finished tidying the place. A little exhausted and a bit sad, she sat down on the floor pillow next to me. I held her in my arms, neither of us speaking for a very long while.

  “You hungry?” she asked, breaking the silence.

  I nodded.

  I can’t even remember what she mixed up in the blender for me that night. I do recall that we were both tired and dozing off. Not really saying much of anything. Our silenc
e carried the moment. Juanita was still waiting on my decision; I hadn’t yet told her she’d be leaving ATL without me. She’d asked me for my decision several times in the past few days. Each time I’d said I wouldn’t make up my mind ‘till the last minute. Maybe, deep down I was seriously considering leaving with her.

  She sat up and placed her hand on my chest, under my sweatshirt. Her fingers traced the scars left from the old gunshot wounds.

  “You’re not leaving with me, are you?” Her voice was low, but strong. Knowing.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  She didn’t say anything. She just got up and went into another part of the empty house.

  I assumed Juanita was mad, so I let her be. I lay alone on the pillow in the center of the den’s floor, wishing I was two people. One of me would stay in Atlanta and rule the streets. The other me would go with Juanita and try my hand at living legit.

  I could smell her Chanel perfume on the pillow.

  Damn!

  I’m trippin’.

  Since when did a thug, robber, and a killer get caught up in emotions? I started thinking about Shan, what caring about her had taught me: Never love them hos!

  I never loved Cheryl. Inez, I liked a lot, but didn’t love. Couldn’t love her. Didn’t know how.

  Juanita was standing over me. Wrapped in only a towel. She went over to the fireplace and turned up the flame. When she returned to me, she sat down on the pillow, and I caught a glimpse of auburn bush.

  She said, “I haven’t slept with anyone in months, and I’m not doing this to try to change your mind. I’m doing it because I’m scared I’ll never see you again once I leave. If I don’t, I’ll always remember this night. If there’s any such thing as fate, tonight will bring us back together.”

  She kissed my closed lips and began undressing me.

  I stood up, removing my jeans and boxers, and tossed them on top of my shoes and shirt. Juanita stood up and removed the towel.