Angel's Revenge (20 page)

Angel and Goldilocks laughed as Angel switched lanes.

“Is that what that thing with Leslie is all about?” Goldilocks questioned.

“Exactly. I remember the night Dutch broke it down to me. But the difference with us is we gonna take it to the next level.
We ain’t goin’ after these niggas ’cause that’s what they expect. We goin’ after their bitches. Trust me, we’re about to lock
this shit down, boo. Lock this shit down, and Roll gonna give it to us!” Angel said, laughing.

“What about him?” Goldilocks asked as she gestured to the Escalade.

“Man, when we finished toyin’ with this weak-ass nigga, we’ll be sittin’ right where we wanna be,” Angel replied, taking a
quick right, using the skills she had mastered as a car thief. She swung a left and timed the next light on the yellow. Safely,
she made it through but the Escalade wasn’t as fortunate. A cab rammed into the driver’s side in the middle of the intersection.

Angel glanced at Goldilocks, “Any questions?”

Angel wasted no time putting her game down. She concentrated on Leslie, and it wasn’t long before Leslie had a secret fetish
and her name was Angel. It was so bad, it got to the point that Leslie couldn’t get through the day without calling Angel,
and if Angel didn’t answer, oh boy! Leslie called and called until she heard Angel’s voice. The promise of a rendezvous, the
promise of her between her legs licking and sucking her pussy, completely opened her up. Leslie couldn’t handle the sex. But
not only did Angel get in her panties, she got in her head and meticulously picked at her brain.

Leslie owned four hair salons. Roc had sponsored them and all catered to the Who’s Who of the upper hustling class. Leslie
knew everybody’s business. She knew who was fucking who, who was creeping with who, and who wanted to get crept on. She knew
which chicks liked men, who went both ways, and who vacillated. Baby mamas, wives, and mistresses confided all to Leslie,
and Leslie told all to Angel during the quiet of their intimacy. Thanks to Leslie, everyone became pawns in Angel’s plans.

Angel was a hustler, a real hustler, and if she couldn’t fuck you and suck you to get what she wanted then she’d break the
fuckin’ bank. She would always find a way to get at you.

“Damn, Angel! You know I don’t get down like you, but, damn! If I ever do, you gonna be the first bitch I call,” Jackie said.
She was a fine red bone Angel wanted to fuck real bad. So bad, she bought her the Jacob heart.

“Thank you!” Jackie exclaimed, holding the heart in her hand.

“That’s for you, baby. It’s just between us, for our friendship. When you’re ready, you know what to do,” Angel said. “And
if you need me, I’m here for you. Just call me.”

It wasn’t long before Angel’s investment paid off. Jackie called her one day, half hysterical.

“Calm down, baby. What is it?” Angel asked tenderly, reaching for her Sean John boxers as she put her finger up to her lip
and gestured to Goldi to be quiet.

“It’s Devon,” Jackie hissed under her breath. “He got popped.”

“Whaaat?! When?”

“About a week ago. Now he wants me to help him set some nigga up so he ain’t gotta do no time. And he wants me to join the
Help Yourself
program. Angel, what am I going to do?”

Angel smiled and blew a kiss through the phone.

“You’re gonna pack and get ready for Hawaii,” Angel told her and hung up the phone.

Three days later, Devon was found in a Dumpster in the Projects in Patterson, courtesy of Nitti. Roll was impressed by the
way Angel always stayed one step ahead of the game even if he couldn’t figure out how she did it. If only he knew the pussy
she was getting, it might have given him an inkling. But he had no clue.

None of the hustlers understood Angel’s game. They were too wrapped up in their own lustful greed and trying to fuck her instead
of trying to figure her out. They didn’t realize that Angel was sucking, both literally and figuratively, the loyalty from
their women right in front of their lustful eyes.

“These niggas don’t give a fuck about you, boo,” Angel whispered in the ear of a chick named Trina. She was Rich’s baby mama
and Rich was one of Roll’s chief bosses in East Orange.

She and Trina were lying next to each other in Trina’s bed.

“But Rich takes good care of me and his son,” Trina stated naively.

Angel brushed the hair from her face and massaged Trina’s sweaty stomach. “Don’t I take good care of you, too?”

“Yes.”

“And I would never do anything to hurt Rich, but… I need you to promise me something. You’ll never let Rich do anything to
hurt me, okay?” Angel said in between laps with her skilled tongue. Angel really was a clit lickin’ captain and could get
a bitch to do anything she wanted.

“He… he won’t,” Trina gasped, gripping the sheets.

“Stick with me, baby girl, and you’ll always be taken care of. Even when Rich is long gone.”

Angel sucked and fucked the cream of the crop. She had all the most powerful hustlers’ female companions on her side. She
even got to the chicks the niggas had on the side. And once she felt her position with these different women was solid, she
turned her attention to the street soldiers, the ones with the money.

“Them young niggas out here is fuckin’ up, papi. I’ma show ’em how to grind and make sure our paper stays straight,” Angel
announced to Roll.

Roll was all for it. To have the legendary Angel out on the block for him, handling his business, made him look like a true
kingpin, a real Dutch kind of guy. He didn’t realize that Angel was toying with his mind, his ego, and his dick.

Angel strapped up her Tims, put some sweats on over her long johns, grabbed her Canadian Goose Helliarctic, and went back
to the corner to hustle bundles of heroin. She wanted to hand-pick her army from Roll’s payroll. So, carefully, she watched
the young wolves in their prime and selected the best of them. Then she took them under her wing. Gradually, she won their
trust. To them, she was a made bitch, a legend. Seeing her out on the block with them, sleeping in hallways, ducking 5-0 and
busting her gun made them feel like big niggas.

“This is how you stay on top of your game. Stay hungry. All the Benzes and bottles of Cris don’t mean shit ’cause when a nigga
gets too big to walk the same streets that made him, he’s out of touch with his own fate. And no matter what happens, if he
can’t go back to where he started, how can he ever make shit happen again? Muthafuckas catch cases puttin’ weak niggas between
them and the streets. You got to be the streets,” Angel said, schooling her wolves. They listened like she was teaching Hustle
101.

A young Puerto Rican cat from her old stomping grounds on Dayton Street was especially attentive. She nicknamed him Capo because
she told him that was what he was gonna be.

“Never forget the grind, Capo. Never forget the streets. You hear me? And always throw back. Don’t wait until you’re Big Willie
to throw back. Pay rent, give a dollar or two, buy some groceries. Create loyalty around you and you’ll die fat and rich in
Miami somewhere.”

Capo soaked it up like he was a sponge.

Angel’s plan moved steadily ahead until she got a call from Roll.

“Hey, yo. You need to holla at your man ’cause he about to make me see him!”

Her man was Rahman, better known on the streets as One-eyed Roc, and the reason Roll was threatening to go to him was Miss
Grownie Pants.

Miss Grownie Pants, Sonia, Jamillah, got off the bus near her apartment on Somerset Avenue. She had just come home from her
job at the abused women’s shelter to find a 5-series BMW parked outside her building. As she got closer, her heart skipped
a beat when she realized who was leaning on the car: her baby’s father, Jerome. He had been locked up for the last three years.

Before he went away, their time together produced two children. Once he got knocked, though, she basically turned her back
on him. She stopped writing after a few months and lost her phone because he ran the bill up so high she couldn’t pay it.
Once the calls and the writing stopped, so did the contact and the relationship.

Jerome, for the most part, had carried himself while in prison, and over the course of his incarceration, his anger for Sonia
festered. He felt his entire hustle had meant nothing to her. Didn’t she know what jail was? Didn’t she understand his sacrifice?
To Jerome, his choices were between death and jail, and he took the chances for his family, for her and for their two children.
In his mind, she had become a fuckin’ slut who didn’t write or bring his kids to visit.

Jerome had anxiously awaited his release so he could see her face to face. He wanted to punch her in the eye. So his first
stop after his release was to visit her. For Jerome, it was payback time. He planned to sex her then beat her, or beat her
then sex her. He hadn’t made up his mind. But either way, he was going to stomp on her head when he had the chance.

Jamillah wanted to turn around and wait until he left, but she knew Jerome and she knew he’d come back again until he saw
her.
What should I do?
she asked herself, her usual quick pace coming to a sudden halt at the sight of him.
I wonder if he’s mad at me? I bet he wants to see the kids.

It was broad daylight and the streets were packed with summer activity. Jamillah decided it was best to get the confrontation
over with.

She took a deep breath and kept her pace. When Jerome finally recognized her, his eyes widened in surprise.

Sonia, a Muslim?
he thought to himself.
Is she the same girl who always wore tight clothing that showed her frame and body parts? The last I heard she was strippin’
and trickin’ for change! Can’t be!

Jerome looked at her. She was covered properly with a niqab from head to toe, and she wore a baby-blue kemar over her head.
Jerome couldn’t believe it but it didn’t make him respect her. In fact it made him even angrier, thinking the man in her life
had converted her.

“Ohh, so you a Muslim now?” Jerome snickered, stepping into her path. “No more strippin’ and trickin’, huh?”

“Hello, Jerome,” Jamillah replied. “I see they let you out,” she added as if she wished otherwise.

“Damn right I’m out and back on already,” he responded, gesturing to his BMW. “I just copped the five but gimme a month and
it’ll be a quarter to eight,” he boasted.

“Mm-hmm,” she said, uninterested. “Well, the kids aren’t here. They’re in Linden at my mama’s house. So come back—”

He cut her off. “Come back? Why can’t we go get ’em now? I know they wanna see Daddy. We can go shoppin’, get somethin’ to
eat,” he offered, trying to get her in the car.

“No, that’s all right. I’ll pick them up tomorrow. Just give me your number and I’ll call you.”

“Why can’t I have your number? What, your man might answer the phone? Fuck dat nigga!”

“I ain’t got no man! But if you must know, I don’t want you callin’ my house,” Jamillah said, sucking her teeth. “You want
to see your kids, fine. Tell me when and I’ll have them ready. Other than that, we really ain’t got nothin’ to discuss.”

Jamillah tried to turn away but Jerome grabbed her arm.

“Get off me!” she hissed, snatching her arm away.

“Oh, so it’s fuck me now, huh? You think you gonna just shit on me like that?”

“Jerome, you went to jail and I was left behind with two babies. I was livin’ in a shelter until my mama took me in. I had
to work and I been trying to get myself together in school and I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks of me. You shit
on me when you left me and your children alone with nothing. I’m finally here and I’m not going backward.”

“Bitch, you ain’t fuckin’ nowhere! You still here. And fuck that, bitch! I went to jail bustin’ my ass for you and my kids.
Don’t fuckin’ play with me,” he said, tightening his grip. “Bitch, I fuckin’ took care of your shiesty ass. And this is what
the fuck I get back?”

Jamillah saw the fire dancing in his eyes and it scared her. She knew it was time to go.

“Look, Jerome. Ain’t nobody tryin’ to shit on nobody, okay? I have a new life now and I’m tryin’ to be a better person for
myself and my children.”

“So you think you better than me now? You broke, trick-ass bitch. You better than me?” he ranted.

Jamillah tried to move out of his way but she was too slow and caught a heavy backhand to the face that sent her spinning
to the ground.

“Jerome, please!” she cried, balled up in a fetal position. “Leave me alone!”

“This my word, bitch! When I get back, I want to see my kids. You hearin’ me? Call the police, call bin Laden, call Allah.
I don’t give a fuck! But if you ain’t here wit’ my fuckin’ kids when I get back, I’ma break yo’ muthafuckin’ jaw!” Jerome
shouted, then punctuated his threat by kicking her in the back. He jumped into his BMW and pulled off.

Jamillah struggled to her feet, holding her swollen face, and headed straight for the phone.

“But how you be a Muslim?” the young boy asked Rahman.

“You don’t become a Muslim. You just recognize who you already are. We are all born pure. Ain’t no such thing as original
sin. We are born in a sinless state—it’s our environment that makes us other than who we are…” His words trailed off when
he saw Jamillah emerge from a cab holding a pink towel full of ice to her face. In two strides, he caught up to her.

“Jamillah, what happened?”

Jamillah sobbed, trying to speak through her fear and apprehension. She knew Jerome was coming back, and she didn’t want to
get Rahman involved in her personal problems. But her mind told her there was no other way.

“Jamillah,” Rahman repeated more firmly.

“My… my… my children’s father!” she cried. “He just came home from prison and came to my house. He said he was comin’ back!”

Rahman gently removed the towel from her face, and his entire body caught fire. The right side of her beautiful face was swollen
and bruised.

“What’s his name?” Rahman whispered menacingly through clenched teeth.

When Jamillah looked into his face, she saw no trace of the man she called Sugar Bear. She saw someone she had never seen
before.