Angel's Revenge (16 page)

“I got some clothes on,” she retorted with an attitude. To her, there was nothing wrong with the way she was dressed.

“Sal, show her the door, please,” he said extending another hundred dollars, which she took from his hand. She looked at the
eleven hundred dollars she was holding and realized her mouth had gotten her into trouble.

“Ay, yo. I’m sor—”

“Sal, the door,” Rahman repeated, and turned his back to her.

She sucked her teeth and stormed out. The other girls without robes or coats quickly covered themselves. They certainly weren’t
tryin’ to piss the nigga off, especially since he was so free with his money. They definitely wouldn’t make the same mistake.
Besides, if they could take their clothes off for tens and twenties, they could damn sure put them on for gees and cees.

“Is this what you want?” Rahman’s voice boomed, waving more money in the air. “Is this what your dignity is worth? They pay
you to take it off so you can sell your soul to the highest bidder? You call that independence?” he asked, looking around
the room, shaking his head in disgust. He looked at one of the girls, who couldn’t have been more that eighteen or twenty.

“Why you a stripper?”

“ ’Cause I’m grown,” she snapped with attitude.

Turning to a Puerto Rican girl sitting in the corner, he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Mona.”

“Why you strip?”

“Bills. A checkout girl at Pathmark don’t pay ’em,” she replied.

“I can dig it,” Rahman agreed. He turned his attention to a tall red bone.

“How much you make a week?”

“Two gees,” she said, lying through her teeth.

“Tops, fifteen hundred,” he surmised, recognizing game. “Now back to Miss Grownie Pants,” he said to the young girl. “You
like bein’ a stripper? You like niggas treatin’ you like a piece of meat? A slut?”

“I ain’t no slut,” she spat. “I’m an exotic dancer, and no, I don’t like it. But I got two babies that tell me I ain’t got
no choice.”

“What if I offered you a job?”

“What kind of job?” Miss Grownie Pants asked skeptically.

“One that doesn’t involve sex, drugs, or disrespect. Jobs for beautiful black queens and bonita latinas,” he said, smiling
at Mona. “Making double what you make at the club.”

“Hol’ up,” the tall red bone spoke up. “What’s wrong with being a dancer? My body is my asset, just like an athlete’s. I like
to dance. I like—”

“Then go dance, mami,” he said, throwing a hundred dollars in her lap.

Red bone rolled her eyes and tucked the money in her ample bosom on the way out the door.

“Anybody want to go with her?”

Nobody made a sound.

“You work for me, you work by my rules. Rule number one, don’t question me and play your position. I promise you, I’ll never
ask you to do anything illegal or immoral. I’m a Muslim concerned with my nation. It’s my duty to provide. I’m not here to
judge you. You wanna be a boy toy, there’s the door. But if you want to hold your head high because of who you are, then trust
me.”

He looked from face to face. He could tell the women were used to being abused and tricked by so-called players and bitch-ass
niggas. They had never met a sincere man who truly wanted to help them. His honesty, even more than the thousand dollars he
had given them, made the women listen to him further.

In the next month and a half, Rahman expanded his circle of control to three more blocks, buying them to be drug free. His
oil enterprise flourished and cash began to flow. The strippers had all been employed. Some had been hired to cook and care
for the elderly in the neighborhood while others were hired as childcare for working mothers. The word spread about the jobs
the Muslim brothers were offering, and Rahman ended up hiring fifteen more girls all out of his own pocket.

Even Miss Grownie Pants was won over by his strength and commitment to the community. He didn’t deal with the women directly,
but Miss Grownie Pants always watched him, admiring the big man she had nicknamed Sugar Bear. She liked the way the Muslims
carried themselves with high regard and respect for one another and their wives. She was curious about the lifestyle she had
heard so much about, so she started asking questions.

One day, Rahman was walking down the street and heard a soft voice.

“
As-Salaamu Alaikum
.”

He turned around to find Miss Grownie Pants dressed in a loose-fitting jogging suit and kemar.

“Miss Grownie Pants?” he asked with surprise.

“My name is not Miss Grownie Pants. It’s Sonia. But you can call me Jamillah,” she said, smiling from ear to ear. It almost
brought tears to his eyes. Every dime he had spent was worth that one moment.

“
Al-hum-dil-li-lah
,” he said to her before parting ways.

Everything was going smoothly. The money was slow but steady, and the community was thriving. It had become safe for small
children to play outside. The streets were calm. Even the elderly were out on their stoops. People seemed happier. The small-time
hustlers who once occupied the neighborhood’s corners weren’t making any noise. They knew who they were dealing with. The
community knew him as Rahman, but the streets remembered him as Dutch’s vicious lieutenant.

But the real test lay ahead.

For now, Rahman was satisfied. He felt humble but powerful, quiet but strong. He felt like Dutch.

In an ironic way, Rahman owed his plan to Dutch. He’d never forget the day they all met to discuss the murder of Kazami. Rahman
remembered his reluctance and apprehension to take such a bold step. Dutch’s words made him realize his own power.

It ain’t what can we do, it’s what can’t we do.

That was the attitude of men who made things happen instead of waiting for things to happen to them. Those words had given
birth to Rahman’s plans to rid the black community of the poison that plagued it.

Poverty.

It wasn’t drugs or crime that were to blame. It was poverty and desperation. Rahman figured if Dutch could infest the city
with his strategy, then he could clean it up with his own.

“There go my baby!”

He heard a female’s voice shouting as he stood on the corner talking to a few young hustlers. He turned around to find Angel.

“What’s up, boooooo?” she sang as she climbed out of the drop-top Jag. She was dressed in cuffed D&G jeans and a crisp white
vee-neck T-shirt. Her hair was pinned back by Dior sunglasses, and she walked with a confident strut.

“I know, I know Muslims can’t hug she devilz,” she joked, slurring the words. “But you know I wanna wrap myself around yo’
big ass!”

Rahman chuckled, uncertain what to say.

“Look at you! You got all fat,” she said, poking his stomach.

“How you, ma? What’s good?” he asked, hoping she couldn’t tell he had been caught off-guard by her presence.

Rahman had heard about Angel teaming up with Roll, and his old dark side wondered why she was dealing with a sucka like him,
especially after he found out Roll had Young World killed. Roll’s blocks were definitely on his hit list.

“I’m good. But word up, papi. I am so mad wit’ you. I can’t believe you been out all this time and you ain’t even holla!”
Angel said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I just can’t believe that!”

“I’m sayin’, I been kinda caught…”

“Caught nothin’. Don’t front, nigga. You been gone three years, and Ayesha had that ass on lock!”

They both laughed.

The truth was he had been avoiding her and avoiding what a meeting with her meant. He didn’t know, but Angel had been doing
the same thing. She had heard about Roc’s community actions. She remembered all his letters from prison. But she thought it
was just the bars talking. She didn’t think he would actually come home and put it down.

The time had come for two old friends to have a meeting of the minds.

“On the real, though. It’s good to see you. What you up to now? Let’s go get something to eat. And don’t worry, I don’t eat
pork either,” she said with a smile.

Rahman glanced at his watch.

“Yeah, we can do that. Gimme about twenty minutes.”

“Aiight, cool. Meet me at Applebees.”

“Insha Allah.”

Rahman arrived at the restaurant first. The sun was setting and his eyes stayed glued to the window. The Applebees happened
to be across the street from University Hospital, the hospital where he had been shot by the Feds.

Freeze!

The bullet didn’t freeze him. It jolted his inebriated mind into a painful sizzle. The bullet wound burned his flesh. He lay
on the hard asphalt, blood gushing from his wound, looking up at the night stars wondering,
Is this the end?

“Kinda ironic, huh?”

He heard Angel’s voice, and it brought him out of his thoughts.

“Ironic?” he repeated.

“We’re both back where it all ended,” Angel said, sliding into the booth across from him. “And where it all begins,” she added,
getting comfortable.

“For who?”

“For us. Me and you, Roc. We grand champions in this game, and it’s time to put it down like true thoroughbreds.”

“And Roll? He a true thoroughbred, too?” Rahman smirked.

Angel sucked her teeth then sipped her water. “He’s a pawn. A fuckin’ fat, black, fake-ass Biggie-lookin’ pawn. He thinks
I’m givin’ when I’m really takin’. I got him so twisted, he don’t know if he comin’ or goin’,” she boasted nonchalantly, then
added sincerely, “but this thing ain’t right without you, bro.”

“Would you like to order?” the waitress asked politely.

“Just coffee,” Rahman replied.

“And you?”

“Same thing,” Angel told the waitress, watching as she walked away.

“Come on, Angel. You know where I’m at. You been hearin’ about me just like I been hearin’ about you. You know what I’m doin’
and it ain’t a game, it ain’t a joke, and it ain’t a front for somethin’ else,” he explained.

Angel lit up a cigarette, trying to conceal it from view.

“It may not be a joke, Roc, but you can’t be serious. Muthafuckas been gettin’ high since the beginning of time and ain’t
shit gonna change that, no matter how many blocks you buy, or strip clubs you… strip,” she said, hitting her cigarette and
blowing the smoke under the table. “You tellin’ me
that
ain’t gangsta? You fuckin’ gorilla’d him!” Angel laughed.

The waitress returned with their coffee.

“Thank you, sister,” Rahman said.

“You’re very welcome.” The waitress smiled, then walked away. Angel watched her again. Rahman stirred his coffee.

“I can’t stand a pimp, Angel. They ain’t nothin’ but leeches preying on our women. He had it comin’, and it wasn’t about bein’
gangsta.”

“Okay. You want certain blocks drug-free, cool. I feel you. I respect what you’re doin’, for real. But somebody, somewhere
is gonna see it and somebody gonna buy it. Why not use that money and put it to good use?” she suggested.

“Blood money.”

“This is America, Roc. It’s all blood money. But look at what you can do with that blood money. I’m talkin’ controllin’ it
all—boy, girl, E, and smoke, brick to bottle,” Angel said.

But Rahman shot right back. “I’m talkin’ ’bout the same thing except it’s legal. We control every dollar, not just drug money,
but a piece of every dollar in the community. Off all alone, we bring in over three hundred grand every six months.”

“Three hundred?” she said, her voice rising, but she caught herself. “Three hundred grand! Roc, we used to piss that. I still
piss that,” Angel said as she realized he was definitely thinking on a smaller level than he once used to. She smashed her
cigarette under her boot.

“My little three to you is a start for me.”

“Then we right back where we were when we came in, a start. Me and you. I help you lock down the legal shit and you ride wit’
me on this thing of mine and together we got every angle covered.”

He sighed deeply. They were at a stalemate. They both had the same plan for different reasons and neither could convince the
other to abandon theirs.

“Angel, it’s time to take the game to another level.”

“Exactly.”

“Not that game, the real game. That game you playin’ only keeps us trapped at the bottom of the barrel,” he said, trying to
reason with her.

“Listen, it was good seeing you, but…”

He stood up and Angel smiled at him.

“I love you, nigga. And I don’t care what you say. One-eyed Roc is somewhere in that belly of yours. I’ma make him come out
if it’s the last thing I do.”

“
As-Salaamu Alaikum
.”

“
Siempre
.”

Rahman backed out in his Cadillac Deville, watching Angel through the plate-glass window of the restaurant. Their eyes spoke
a language of their own and the words of Nas echoed in his mind.
Love changes, a thug changes, and best friends become strangers.

•   •   •

Angel meant what she said and was determined to bring out the One-eyed Roc she once knew. She just hoped he came out for her
and not against her, because if that happened, things could get very ugly.

He took the longer way back home, driving slowly in deep contemplation. The visit with Angel had been planned. She wanted
to feel him out, see what he was doing, hear what he had to say, and see if he was serious. Now that she knew, what would
be her next move?

He had purposely avoided the hottest drug blocks run by the bigger dealers. Sooner or later, however, he’d have to deal with
them, whoever they were, even Angel. He knew what she was capable of, because he had taught her. In Dutch’s organization,
he had been the problem-solver. Now that he had become a problem for her, he wondered if she would try to use his own tactics
against him.

One-eyed Roc is somewhere in that belly…

Her words struck a chord within him, because she was right. He had felt it that night at the strip club, the way his temper
took control, the assault on Freddie. He was on a mission and was prepared to use any means necessary to accomplish it. He
prayed he wouldn’t have to be Roc to do so.