Bonded by Blood Page 7
“Ma keep changing her mind,” said Bed-Stuy. “If she don’t shake nothin’ soon, I’m like Fuck Ma! On this other joint where we gon’ flex these kids, I’m still working on that. Kid a real scary ass nigga; I gotta gain his trust.”
They chilled at Bed-Stuy’s for a couple of hours getting blazed, playing NBA Live, and choppin’ it up. Ayesha and Jazelle, two powder monsters Bed-Stuy knew, came through and helped him and B-Man snort up all the coke and burn the dro.
Ayesha was Bed-Stuy’s cut buddy, while Jazelle was free unclaimed pussy. Jazelle’s coke habit hadn’t had her in a chokehold long, so she was still worth running up in. B-Man took her in the bathroom and did just that. A half hour later, B-Man was on Moreland Avenue, headed to the apartments where the dro trap was located. Fifty Cent was thumpin’ out of the sound system in B-Man’s candy-painted bubble Chevy as he parked a few doors down from the dro trap.
As he walked down to the apartment, a few corner niggas was outside grinding. B-Man went up to one whom he usually copped from and bought a half ounce of dro and a hundred-dollar sack of dust. On the way back to his whip, B-Man’s face balled up when he caught sight of Rapheal approaching him. Fuck this junkie ass nigga. I ain’t gon’ even speak to his ass.
He had seen Rapheal over this way before, but had pushed on, not even acknowledging him. B-Man’s dislike of Rapheal went way back to when at age ten, B-Man tried to intervene when Rapheal was putting his foot up Black Girl’s ass for coming home with short trap.
“Don’t hit my Mama no more!” cried B-Man, wielding an aluminum baseball bat.
“Boy, take yo’ lil’ ugly ass to your room and stay out of a man’s business before I get mad,” threatened Rapheal. Khalil was off somewhere and Q was sitting in the corner of the living room acting punked.
“Pop, if you beat my mama, you gon’ have to beat me too.”
Rapheal laughed hard. “She might be yo mama, but she’s my ho. When she steps out of line I’ma kick her funky ass. Now stay the fuck out of it.”
“Basil and Quantavious go to your rooms!” cried Black Girl.
“No, Mama. I ain’t scared of that nigga,” said B-Man. But Q obeyed.
“Basil, please?” she pleaded, but B-Man refused to leave her alone to take another one of Rapheal’s ass kickings.
When Rapheal began bouncing Black Girl off of the walls, B-Man hit him across the back with the aluminum baseball bat.
“Leave her the fuck alone Pop!” screamed B-Man.
Whap! Rapheal slapped the dog shit out of Black Girl! Then he absorbed one more whack from B-Man before wrestling the bat away from him and beating him with it.
As B-Man lay crumpled on the floor, Rapheal spat, “Don’t you ever get in my business again, Trick Baby!”
B-Man swore to himself that when he grew up he would get at Rapheal. Rapheal later apologized to him for bustin’ him up, but B-Man wasn’t trying to hear it. He had always felt that Rapheal treated Khalil and Q much better than he treated him.
On her death bed, Black Girl had finally explained to B-Man what Rapheal’s behavior toward him was about.
At the funeral B-Man had hoped to see Rapheal; he was going to spit dead in the nigga’s face. Not only for those ass kickings from years before, but also because he held Rapheal responsible for Black Girl’s demise. Old heads told the sad story of how Rapheal met a sweet young college girl, many years ago, and turned her into a stripper and a prostitute . . . and eventually into a fiend; whose recklessness led to her contracting HIV. Long before her death, though, when drugs became a stronger pimp than Rapheal was, he had kicked her to the curb like a discarded piece of trash; leaving her and three sons to fend for themselves. After Black Girl was put in the ground, B-Man’s anger toward Rapheal had become a toxic acid in his heart. The two ran across one another in these same apartments where they now met again. At the first encounter B-Man, who was sixteen at the time, walked up to Rapheal and punched him in the grill.
“That’s for Black Girl, nigga!” he’d spat.
Rapheal had pulled himself up off the ground.
“I’m sorry about your mother. I woulda been at the funeral, but I was too ashamed to show my face. Look at me . . . this crack got me fucked up. I didn’t want you and your brothers to see me like this,” Rapheal had explained as blood trickled from his busted mouth.
B-Man had no compassion. Crack might’ve been kickin’ Rapheal’s ass, but Black Girl was dead!
“Whateva, nigga!” B-Man gritted then spat dead in Rapheal’s face.
Rapheal wiped the glob of spit from his face and charged it to the game. When he turned to walk away and B-Man kicked him in the ass. Rapheal could not overlook that type of violation—he was a fiend, but underneath his addiction he was trained to go. He went old school on B-Man, smashing that ass with knees and elbows; beat him like he used to beat a trick that tried some funny style shit with one of his hos.
So now, seven years later, as B-Man came face to face with Rapheal again, he still didn’t like or respect the nigga, but he knew not to diss him.
“B-Man, is that you?” asked Rapheal, stopping to look him over.
“Sup?” gritted B-Man.
“Been in and out of jail since the last time I seen you, but I’m good. Dayum, you a man now.”
“I been a man. Been one since Mama died.”
“Yeah, I guess you and your brothers had to be ‘cause I sho didn’t step up to the plate,” Rapheal half-apologized. “I sho miss Black Girl. They don’t make ‘em like her no more.”
B-Man didn’t comment, he just looked Rapheal up and down trying to assess if the nigga might have anything worth jackin’ him for. Rapheal was rockin’ sweats and crisp vintage Jordans, but no jewels.
“What you doing for yaself? You gettin’ it up or what?” inquired Rapheal, interrupting B-Man’s grimy thoughts.
“I’m making it do what it do.”
“What about your brothers?”
“Q gettin’ his weight up. Khalil is on lock but he touch down tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” uttered Rapheal.
“What about you? You still fuckin’ with the hard?” asked B-Man.
“Yeah, I can’t lie. I’m still gettin’ high, on and off. Can’t seem to put it down for good, but I ain’t givin’ up.”
Like I give a fuck, B-Man thought as Rapheal went on.
“Listen, I know we’ve had our clashes, and I handled ‘em wrong most of the time, but it’s still love. How about we let by-gones be by-gones? I got a young square chic who I’m staying with over here in 9B. Let Khalil and Q know where I’m at, and the three of y’all come through and holla at me sometime.”
When snakes start wearing sneakers . . . which is never, ‘cause them muthafuckas ain’t got no feet! thought B-Man.
Rapheal could feel the vibe. “Aight, just remember . . . 9B,” he repeated then pushed on.
By the time B-Man slid into his whip and drove off, he had already pushed Rapheal’s invitation out of mind. His cell phone rang, further erasing it.
“Sup?”
“I need you to roll wit’ me to make a drop,” said Q.
“Aight, scoop me from the crib in twenty minutes.”
“One.”
Chapter Ten
Khalil tried once again to close his eyes and will himself to sleep. Unfortunately, sleep avoided him like unrequited love. He hadn’t been able to sleep much the past three weeks. The anxiety of upcoming freedom had kept him awake like he had swallowed a case of No Doze.
Counting down the last weeks of his bid had been a slow, torturous ordeal. To Khalil it seemed that days were suddenly twice as long, and nights were even longer. But finally he was “shorter” than a mosquito’s dick. When morning brought its sweet, beautiful ass around, those crackers would have to open the gates and set him free. Earlier today, following prison policy, he had been moved into an isolation cell to await his release. Before leaving the dorm he had given away all the shit that had got him through his b
id: CD player and Koss headphones, an ass of CDs, two pair of sneakers (Jumpmans and LeBrons), Coogi pajamas and robe, almost $200 worth of commissary, and postage stamps.
“I wish I could take y’all niggaz with me,” he had told his homies Tank, Onion Head, and Big Reese.
Khalil meant that.
Though he was happy that his bid was up and he was less than twelve hours from getting up out that bitch, Khalil felt bad for Onion Head and ‘em. Only Big Reese was sure to ever get out. Onion Head and Tank both had—life sentences plus a number of years to serve.
After Khalil gave them some dap, he headed to the sallyport where the escort officer was waiting to take him to isolation. C.O. Wells intercepted him, pretending to be asking official questions.
“Is that all the property you have?” she asked, observing that the only things Khalil was carrying was a photo album.
“This is all I’m taking home from here,” replied Khalil. “Unless I can take you with me?”
“I’m not your property,” Rayne pointed out. Then she smiled and added, “Not yet.”
Khalil said, “I’ma call you tomorrow night. You still gon’ come up to the “A” on your off day, ain’t you?”
“We’ll see,”
“So, you already breaking your word to me?”
“Just keep your word, Khalil—I’ll always keep mine.”
“Check. I’ma handle mines, Baby Love. Now let’s show these haters what’s really happening. Gimme some tongue, let me leave these country niggaz with something to tell.”
“Khalil, I am not kissing you right here!” her face was flushed.
“Why not? The escort officer just stepped outside, he can’t see nothing. C’mon, shawdy, let me shine on these niggaz.”
“No, Khalil. Don’t ask me to do that,” she pleaded. “Someone will tell, and I’ll lose my job.”
Khalil replied, “So? You can move to the “A” and roll with me. Fuck working for the state anyway.”
“Bye, Khalil. Call me tomorrow night.”
“Fuck that, shawdy. Show me you’re real—let’s stunt on these lames.”
Rayne made a face in protest. Then it melted into a sweet smile. She moved closer to him, stood up on her tippy-toes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, but Khalil wasn’t about to accept just a peck, he wanted to put on a show. He pulled her into his arms and tongued her in front of everyone in the dorm.
“Y’all haters tell that!” Khalil shouted out after breaking the lip lock with Rayne.
“Stunt, shawdy!” Big Reese yelled.
“Represent dat city, homeboy!” hollered Tank.
“Yeah, niggaz—what!” Onion Head challenged the whole dorm.
The haters rushed to their cells to write kites to the warden.
Khalil sat on the bunk in the isolation cell imagining what those niggaz in the dorm were saying now. He knew how the chain gang was; by now, he figured, the story was all over the compound. By morning, the story would be that he had fucked C.O. Wells in front of the whole dorm. Niggaz always exaggerated things.
As the hours ‘til his release ticked by at a snail’s pace, Khalil thought about what awaited him on the other side of the prison’s fence. He had never lied to himself, like he wasn’t going to hustle again. If he didn’t hustle, he wouldn’t know what the fuck to do.
Khalil knew that his forte was hoes. His days of chill pimpin’ were over. Now he was ready to mack and take pimpin to another level. He planned to locate his pop and pick Rapheal’s brain. Rapheal had once been a top-notch pimp in the city. Khalil knew that he could learn a lot from his pop. He sat up thinking of ways he would take the game to that other level; ways to mack his way to millions.
Sleep finally came to Khalil in the isolation cell as he lay planning his come up.
Khalil stood in the warden’s office not listening to a word coming out of the cracker’s stankin’ mouth. He wished the chump would hand him his discharge papers, shut the fuck up, and let him bounce. Freedom was just outside the prison’s front gate and Khalil couldn’t wait another minute to claim it.
Warden Croyle was saying . . . “so it’s up to you what you decide to do with your life, inmate Jones. You can—“
“Hold the fuck up, cracker!” Khalil cut him off. “As of a few minutes ago, I ain’t no fuckin’ inmate no more. Furthermore, save ya tired-ass speech for somebody who gives a fuck. We both know that you’s a racist mafucka; you would like nothing better than to see me return to prison—so don’t front! Just hand me my discharge papers, let me out the front gate, and miss me with the speech.”
Warden Croyle’s face turned red.
Khalil was still laughing to himself when he walked out the front gate into the visitor’s parking lot where his brothers were waiting to pick him up. Q had sent him some new gear to wear home so that he wouldn’t have to walk out the front gate in the monkey clothes the prison provided upon an inmate’s discharge. Khalil was outfitted in baggy Iceburg jean shorts, an oversized white T-shirt, a crisp new pair of vintage Air Jordan’s. His prison barber had tightened him up yesterday with a fresh temp fade and a razor sharp line that accentuated his deep, circular brush waves.
As soon as Khalil stepped out into the hot summer sun a Hummer stretch limo pulled up to where he stood. The chauffeur, Azure, stepped out of the limo. She was wearing coochie cutters and a sheer halter, with six-inch stilettos. When the dime-piece chauffeur opened the limo’s back doors, out stepped Q and B-Man followed by six fly chicks dressed in bikini tops, thongs, and high-heeled shoes.
Q was bejeweled like the Birdman. He removed one of the iced-out platinum chains from around his neck and put it around Khalil’s.
“Welcome home, big bruh.” They hugged.
“Well, you ain’t home yet,” B-Man said, “but you’re free.”
“As a bird!” Khalil exclaimed, accepting a hug from his other brother. Then his eyes cut to the chicks in bikini tops and thongs.
“What’s up with them?” Khalil asked grinning.
Q said to the girls, “Y’all go ‘head and do y’all thang. Show my fam how it’s going down.”
On cue, Azure retrieved a fold-up lawn chair from the rear of the Hummer. She unfolded the chair and directed Khalil to sit in it. Grinning, he played along. Using a hand-held remote the lovely chauffeur turned on the limo’s sound system and crunk music blasted from the Hummer’s eighteen speakers. The six vixens surrounded Khalil and started poppin’ pussy at him. They served him up right there in the prison’s parking lot.
Khalil could picture Warden Croyle and the other staff members looking out to the parking lot, eyeing the stretch Hummer and the damn near naked bitches dancing to the head-thumping music. Khalil knew that those muthafuckas would rather go blind than be made to watch what they were now witnessing. Crackers can’t stand to see a brutha leave prison in style. They like to send him home broken down and defeated. Khalil Jones had denied them their pleasure.
From certain spots inside the prison inmates could see out to the parking lot. Every prisoner but the haters would rejoice in seeing Khalil leave in grand hustla-style, stuntin’ on those crackers up front, and those bad-body country hos who worked there as C.O.s and wouldn’t give a nigga any holla. Khalil was gettin’ some getback for the homies left on lock.
From the small yard outside their dormitory, Big Reese, Tank, and Onion Head saw their homey puttin’ on. They were screamin’ and hollerin’, happy to see Khalil representing for the “A”.
The Hummer limo was on the interstate highway headed back to the Atlanta. Music thumped, weed smoke clouded the inside of the vehicle, and bottles of Cristal, Remy XO and Grey Goose were being popped. Khalil leaned back in the soft butter leather seats and let purp’ and cognac get his head right.
Halfway back to the “A”, Q proposed a game. He offered a stack to any one of the chicks who could give Khalil some brain and make him bust in under three minutes.
“Q, let me in on that,” Azure said from up front.
Creamy had hella confidence in her head game. She unzipped Khalil’s Iceberg shorts and stepped to her business. Khalil started to stop her before she got started. Having a mack’s mentality, he wasn’t down with tricking off with a bitch, even if Q was the one actually paying for it. But, it was all in fun and in honor of his freedom.
Shawdy stroked him to erection, slid a condom over it, and proceeded to do her thing. When her three minutes were up, Khalil hadn’t busted.
“Who’s next?” asked Q, laughing and sipping on Henny.
A shawdy who could’ve passed for Kelis took Creamy’s place between Khalil’s knees. As her head bobbed up and down, her friends were chanting, “Go Sunshine . . . Go Sunshine . . . Go Sunshine!” Sunshine failed to win the prize money, too.
“Damn, nigga, what you on? Viagra?” she complained. “Q, I thought you said yo folks been locked up for five years?”
“I have.” confirmed Khalil. “What’s up?”
“What’s up? Nigga, if you ain’t been with a bitch in five years, you oughta be this quick to nut,” said Sunshine, snapping her fingers to emphasize her point. She really wanted to win that stack; she had a mean powder habit, along with an affinity for X pills.
“Maybe ya head game is weak,” cracked Q.
“Nigga please! Don’t even try to clown—my head game must be all that. Yo’ ass stay blowin’ up my cell phone,” she said with a smirk, putting Q on blast.
“Shawdy, ain’t nothing wrong with ya skills. A nigga just gotta piss that’s all,” revealed Khalil.
“Nigga, no wonder you can’t nut!” fumed Creamy, causing the others inside the limo to laugh.
“That shit ain’t fair, Q,” she pouted. “How was I s’pose to make him nut if he gotta piss? Y’all should let me try again.”