Gangsta Bitch (8 page)

“Fuck is going on?” Tic pushed away from Marsha.

Duce clicked on the small lamp, illuminating the side of his face. The weak light played tricks with his features giving him a demonic appearance. “Just a little unfinished family business.”

“Oh my God,” Marsha gasped.

“Damn, only five years and you already forgot my name?”

“Duce…”

“Bitch,” he cut her off, “that name is for family and you lost that security blanket when you started lying with snakes. No offense, money,” he said to Tic.

“My dude, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but it ain’t got shit to do with me,” Tic tried to bargain.

Duce took on a very sincere tone. “Sadly you don’t, but unfortunately this bitch has got you in a jam, son. Marsha,” he kicked one of the wooden dining room chairs over to her, “why don’t you have a seat, boo.”

It was a good thing he had slid the chair over to her because Marsha felt like her knees were going to give out on her at any second. Taking the seat she turned her terrified eyes to Duce. “D, why you feel like you gotta bring a gun into my house? You know me,” Marsha said in a shaky voice.

He shook his head. “Nah, I don’t know you. I know the mutha fucka you pretended to be when you were with my brother. The bitch I knew would’ve never betrayed the fam.”

“D, I swear on my kids I ain’t have nothing to do with what happened to Knowledge.”

In the breath of a second after the lie left her mouth, Duce’s leg shot out and kicked the chair from beneath Marsha. She crashed to the ground, banging her head on the hard project floor. By the time Tic moved, Duce was kneeling in front of him with the nine pointed at his crotch. Even if he hadn’t shaken his head, Tic knew better than to stir.

“Let’s try this again,” Duce said, getting to his feet slowly. “Help ya bitch up,” Duce shoved Tic roughly, “so we can get this show on the road.”

Not knowing what else to do, Tic helped Marsha to her feet and back into the chair. Though her eyes pleaded for him to believe that she had nothing to do with what was going down, he didn’t believe her. If he was lucky enough to live through the ordeal he would settle up with her real ugly.

“Why, Marsha?” Duce began. “My brother loved you and you fed him to the dogs, help me to understand this shit?”

“D, I know what you think went down, but it wasn’t like that,” Marsha sobbed. “Knowledge was out here fucking everything on two legs, so it was only natural that I did my thing. Scott was just a young nigga with some good dick; my heart always belonged to Knowledge.”

“So much so that you started playing house with one of his killers? Marsha, you know better than to bullshit me,” he stepped into the space between Marsha and Tic. “My brother was one of the kindest niggaz to ever play the game, and he’s gone because a hating ass nigga wanted his spot.”

“D, I didn’t know they were gonna kill Knowledge, you gotta believe me.”

“The only thing I believe is that my brother is dead, and he’s gonna need some company in hell,” Duce spat. “Where’s that sneaky ass nigga Scott?”

“I don’t know. He comes and goes as he pleases,” she said.

Duce placed his gun to the back of her head. “Bitch you better tell me something that’s gonna keep your brains from fucking up this nice ass living room set.”

“I don’t know!”

Duce sighed. “Somehow I don’t believe you.”

BANG!

Cowboy and Rico were headed north up Broadway while the police were flying south. They had beat the heat by less that three minutes and Cowboy thanked the Thief Gods above that he had made it out on time. Rico hadn’t shut his mouth since they had left the bodega. He was so busy talking that he hadn’t even known they’d left the city until they were passing the sign for Patterson, N.J.

“Yo, kid, fuck we doing in Jersey?” Rico asked, looking at the unfamiliar surroundings.

“What, we gonna hang out in Harlem after ripping El Pogo off?” Cowboy asked. “We gotta get low for a minute. I got a bitch that stay out in Elizabeth, so we can crash at her pad until the morning.”

“Cowboy you always got shit figured out, son!” Rico said.

“For sho, my nigga,” Cowboy coasted the car to the side of the road and pulled over. When they had come to a full stop, he killed the head lights. “I gotta take a leak,” he said, stepping out of the car.

“Yeah, I gotta squeeze the melons too.” Rico got out on the passenger side and went to stand beside Cowboy, who was relieving himself on the side of the road. “Yo Cowboy, good looking out on saving my life back there, kid. Yo, shorty was gonna try to air me out. If I hadn’t fucked around and…” Rico didn’t even get to finish his sentence before Cowboy shot him in the side and again in the chest.

“You talk too fucking much,” Cowboy said to the corpse, tucking his gun back into his pocket. After giving a quick look around, he hopped back into the vehicle and sped off.

Marsha pissed her pajama pants at the sound of the gunshot. It took almost a full minute for reality to set in and she realized that she was still alive. Looking over at Tic she couldn’t say the same. Feathers from his bubble coat were falling softly from the apple sized hole in his chest. Tic’s head was cocked at a funny angle in the chair, and his eyes held a far off look in them. Not being able to hold it down, Marsha threw Chinese food up all over the floor.

“Marsha, you gonna tell me something, or the next one is yours.” Duce told her.

Marsha thought on it for a minute. Scott had his uses, but she hardly saw him as being worth her life. “Willie’s Lounge!” she blurted out. “Scott goes through there a few times a week to get his drink on.”

“You bullshitting me?” he tapped the barrel of the gun against her nose.

“That’s my word, D. You can catch him in there most nights, I swear on everything, just please don’t shoot me,” she pleaded.

“Calm down, baby, that’s not for you,” he touched his cheek gently to hers. “For as fucked up as you are, you still brought my brother a little happiness while he was here,” he whispered into her ear. His hand slid to the dining room table and retrieved a steak knife that had been left on a dirty plate, “but you still have to answer for what you’ve done.”

“Derrick,” she called him by his first name, praying that it would stir some type of their lost love of long ago. “Please, ain’t no body gonna be here for my son. Ain’t you got no heart?”

He nuzzled her neck as a lover might’ve and replied, “My heart died with my brother,” before dragging the knife from one side of her throat to the other.

Tito sat on the plush suede recliner, smoking a cigarette like it was the last one on earth. He tried to appear as calm as possible, but the sweat in his palms gave him away. He hated to deliver bad news, especially when the recipient was known to fly off the handle and kill indiscriminately.

Across from him a young woman lounged on the loveseat, taking petite pulls of a blunt of what smelled like pure chronic. One leg was thrown over the arm of the chair revealing just enough thigh to send his mind wondering. He did everything in his power to keep from gazing at the cinnamon thigh, but even had he not been about to break terrible news to his boss, he would’ve never been foolish enough to covet anything El Pogo owned.

The man of the house appeared beneath the arc of the living room entrance, wearing nothing but a silk robe and flip-flops. El Pogo was thin, with wavy black hair that he usually wore in a ponytail, but that night it hung freely around his angular face. His smoke gray eyes seemed to bore into Tito’s very soul, making it hard for him to meet the man’s gaze.

“Tito, I know you didn’t wake me up in the middle of the night just to sit there with a stupid look on your face,” El Pogo said, in a raspy tone.

“No,” Tito began, but couldn’t seem to find the words to continue.

“Then tell me, why are you here?”

“El Pogo, I know you hate to hear bad news over the phone so I came to deliver my report personally,” he cast a glance at the woman, silently asking if it was okay to talk in front of her.

“Madelina, wait for me in the bedroom. I won’t be long,” he said to the woman. She gave him an obedient smile and slithered off the couch. On her way to the bedroom, she gave Tito a look that he was hardly foolish enough to acknowledge.

“So,” El Pogo took the seat the woman had vacated. “Tell me what troubles you, Tito?”

Tito thought about a diplomatic way to phrase it, but diplomacy wouldn’t have done him much good with El Pogo. If he was going to flip, pretty words wouldn’t cushion the blow so it was better to just spit it out. “Our store on 147
^th
got robbed.”

“Robbed?” though El Pogo’s voice remained neutral, the temperature in the room seemed to go up a few degrees. “How the fuck did this happen?”

Taking a breath, Tito went on to explain the situation to El Pogo as it had been explained to him by the crew at the spot. Needless to say, El Pogo was not pleased.

In a flash, El Pogo had a razor in his hand and was pinning Tito by the neck to the recliner. “You mean to say that some little monkey mutha fuckas were able to run up in my spot, make off with twelve and a half kilos of my coke and 65 grand of my money?” El Pogo leaned in so close that spittle hit Tito in the face.

“El Pogo, I had nothing to do with it. I wasn’t even in the spot when it happened,” Tito gasped.

“I don’t give a fuck who was in the spot, it happened on your watch so it’s your mess to clean up,” El Pogo pressed the razor to Tito’s cheek, but didn’t cut him. “Tito, you better tell me you’ve got a lead on these cock suckers or it’s your ass in the fire!”

Tito swallowed. “From what Rosa says, there were two of them who took the coke, but one of my look outs says that three men left. He says that two of them he’s never seen, but the third one comes in the store from time to time to buy beer and shit so he’s probably local.”

“I want them, Tito. I want my money, my coke and the sons of bitches that had the balls enough to rob me for it.” El Pogo demanded.

“On everything I love, I’ll take care of it!” Tito almost shrieked.

“I’m sure you will,” El Pogo slacked his grip a bit. “And just to make sure you’re properly motivated,” El Pogo flicked his wrist and cut Tito’s face, not enough to scar him, but enough to draw blood. “Get my shit, Tito, or I’m gonna cut more than your pretty little face,” El Pogo patted him on the bloody cheek before leaving Tito to show himself out.

Frankie was awakened
by the sounds of Jane’s Addiction’s
Been Caught Stealing
. Without even looking at her cell she knew who it was so she didn’t bother to answer. Just as she was about to drop back off to sleep, her house phone started ringing. She tried to ignore it as she had done her cell, but unlike her cell the house phone’s ringer was much louder. The caller obviously wasn’t getting the hint so she picked up.

“Hello?” she rasped into the phone.

“Nigga, why you ain’t pick up ya cell?” Cowboy barked.

“Good morning to you too,” Frankie yawned.

“Frankie, I know you ain’t trying to be funny?”

Frankie cast her sleepy eyes to the digital clock, which read 9:30am. “Cowboy, it’s too early for this shit.”

“Oh, you leave me stranded last night and you got the nerve to have a fucking attitude? What the hell happened to you?”