It's Like Candy (23 page)

“Russell, it's my beef, let me handle it.”

“Then handle it, niggah. You family, you represent me and this crew out there. If one niggah got a problem, then we all got a problem,” Russell proclaimed. “You got names, right?”

“I got one name.”

“What about the bitch?”

“Nah, I don't even think she gave me her real name,” Eric said.

“Then what the bitch look like?”

“Russell, we done here?” Eric asked, looking irate.

“Fuck it, then, niggah, we talk about this later. But you gotta understand, E, I'm tryin' to harden you up. You my blood, and if you show weakness in these streets, niggahs will definitely come at you. And I can't have my cousin lookin' weak,” Russell stated.

“I survived this long,” he returned.

“Surprisingly,” Russell snapped back.

“Whatever,” Eric muttered as he made his way to the stairs.

“E . . . niggah, I ain't done talkin',” Russell called out, watching Eric leave.

“Well, I am,” Eric returned, ignoring Russell.

Russell was angry, but let the disrespect slide because Eric was his cousin. But if it had been any other fool who had turned their back on him while he was still talking, they would have gotten shot down immediately.

Eric quickly strutted through the crowd of men and scantily clad strippers in the club, making his way to the exit. Critter noticed his boy moving hastily through the crowd, as he had a young well-endowed woman on his lap with his finger embedded in her pussy.

“Excuse me, ma,” Critter said, pushing her off his lap and following Eric outside.

“Yo, E, what's up?” Critter called out.

“Fuck off, Critter!” Eric cursed, still walking toward his car.

“Niggah, what the fuck is your problem?” Critter shouted.

Eric turned around, and shouted, “You really want to know what
my fuckin' problem is? You, Donald, and all y'all low-level mutha-fuckas that put my cousin on that pedestal thinking he's a god. He home two weeks and y'all kissing his ass like his bitches!”

“Yo, you sound like you hating right now, son,” Critter said.

“It ain't hate!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Critter snapped back. “Yung Slim is doin' a good thing right now, E. He's lookin' out for me and his peoples.” Critter reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of hundreds.

“You see this,” he continued. “It's never been like this for me before. I got money. I got respect. And I got that love, especially from the ladies. And no offense to you, but he's doin' more for me that you ever did.”

“I never had your back, Critter?” Eric asked.

“Yeah, you did. But you wasn't putting this much money in my pocket.”

“And you can't keep your fuckin' mouth shut,” Eric shouted. “You had to tell him!”

“Yeah, niggah . . . Yung Slim ain't stupid. He knew you got jacked. He came to me and told me to be real wit' him. I can't lie to Slim, we like brothers, E.”

“Brothers?” Eric questioned.

“E, you down wit' us, right? C'mon, in this game, the more of us, the stronger we are. You're smart, and you're my friend. You see that up in there,” Critter said, pointing to the strip club. “That's what life is about, having fun wit' your peoples and running things, and gettin' paid to do it. You remember how we always had each other's back when we were kids. Any niggah stepped to us, no matter how many or how big they were, we went at them together . . . you, me, Donald, Rah, and Mel. We weren't scare of nobody, and niggahs knew it, too. You fuck wit' one of us, and you fuckin' wit' all of us. And the majority of niggahs hesitated to step to us, because they knew how strong our bond was. It's the same way now, E. I'm in this game wit' your cousin, but if I got you by
my side, I know I'm in good hands, because I trust you. You got my back, E?”

Eric stared at Critter. He was quiet for a moment.

“I got your back, Critter,” Eric said, giving Critter dap and embracing him.

“Thanks,” Critter blurted. “I'm sorry I told your cousin about your beef.”

“Nah, don't sweat it. It's water under the bridge now,” Eric proclaimed.

“This is us, Eric, we were meant to live like this. You see me, having money in my pockets, and running wit' your cousin is my only way to earn the respect I deserve on these streets. I ain't no Denzel, and the only way these bitches and niggahs feel me is if I'm a coldblooded hustler. You feel me? I'm not a nine-to-five office muthafucka. I'm too ugly for that,” Critter joked.

Eric let out a slight chuckle. “Yeah, you're right.”

“I know what I'm gettin' into, E. C'mon, I've been on these streets since I was ten. You know Mom never give a fuck about me; she was too busy riding that white horse. You and Slim, y'all like family to me. Y'all the only family I have. Without you and him, I probably wouldn't be here today,” Critter proclaimed. “Brothers, yo?”

“Brothers,” Eric returned.

“Yo, we could survive in this game if we stay strong, E. . . . I got your back, and I know you got mines,” Critter whispered in Eric's ear, as they held each other in a quick embrace.

“One, my niggah,” Eric said, meaning he was out.

“One, E—be safe out there.”

Eric walked back to his car with a different attitude. Even though he was against Critter and Donald working for his cousin, he knew that he had to be there for them, they both were still his boys. And the only way to watch their backs was to do what they did. Critter had had his back so many times that it almost felt as if he was his guardian angel. And despite Russell's warning about earning outside
money with the Brooklyn connection, Eric took that lightly, saying to himself,
Who is he to tell me what to do and what not to do?
Business was business, and he knew that he was going to continue doing business either with his cousin or with Willy.

 

Yung slim walked
into his parole office early Wednesday afternoon looking fresh and clean. He strutted into the Jamaica Avenue office in a pair of black Dickies, beige Timberlands, a white-collared shirt, with a few pieces of jewelry, including an eighteen-karat white-gold pinky ring encrusted with diamonds.

 

He sat in the waiting area alone, and was cocky, while waiting to hear his name called. Critter sat in the truck parked on Archer Avenue trying to hit on every cutie who passed by.

“Russell Beaumont,” he heard a woman call his name.

He quickly got up and smiled.
Oh, shit,
he thought, as he followed the red-bone cutie in the black skirt, heels, blouse, with wavy light brown hair. As he followed her to her office, she never looked back.

Inside, Russell took a seat at her desk while she closed the door behind him and then positioned herself behind her desk.

“Mr. Beaumont,” his PO said, not even giving him eye contact as she shuffled some papers on her desk.

“Damn, you're in law enforcement now,” Russell said, smiling and staring at her.

“Yes, and as your PO I must inform you about the stipulations of your parole,” she said, trying to be stern with him.

“You can't even look at me, Meeka,” Russell said. “You look good, though, damn . . . really fuckin' good.” He stared at her with dark eyes, and just wanted to rip her blouse off. “You miss me, Meeka?”

“Please, Mr. Beaumont, I'm your PO, and you will treat me with respect or I'll have you in violation and you can continue your three years back upstate,” she warned.

“You really wanna do that, Meeka?”

“My name is Karen, Mr. Beaumont,” she sternly stated.

“Yo, stop callin' me Mr. Beaumont. How many years we go back, Meeka? How long have you been a PO?” he asked.

“Four years.”

“Damn, a lot of shit done changed since I've been gone. You were in college when I got locked up,” Russell said. “And now look at you, damn! You do look good, Meeka . . . really good. Don't sit behind that desk and front, forgetting how we used to get down. You still got my name tattooed above your breast?”

“Mr. Beaumont—”

“Meeka, c'mon, you know the deal. It's ironic that you're my PO. Do your supervisors know that we used to fuck our brains out?” he brazenly asked.

Karen was quiet. She stared at Russell, trying to do her job adequately without letting old feelings get in the way. They had a past together, and when she saw that he was being released and was assigned to her, she knew she should have informed her supervisors that she knew the parolee, or to be more exact, that she was in love with him. But something inside of her stirred and she wanted to see him again.

“You wanted to see me again, admit it, Meeka. You saw my name, you could have pushed me off to another officer, but you still got feelings for me,” Russell proclaimed.

“You're still a cocky sonuvabitch, Russell,” she spat.

He chuckled.

“Listen, just because we used to fuck, you're still a felon, and excon, and you're on three years' probation with this office. You violate anything by failing a piss test, arrests, or doing the same shit you did that got you locked up, and I'm going to violate your ass and have you finish your time in a maximum prison,” Karen stated.

“So, how long have you been married?” Russell asked, peering at the diamond ring on her fourth finger, and looking unaffected by threats of being sent back to prison.

“Did you hear what I just said?” she barked.

“Yeah, I heard you, but you really think I take that shit serious?” he countered, looking smug.

Karen let out a faint smile, shaking her head in disbelief. “You were always impossible.”

“And that's why you loved me.”

“And you loved that bitch Sherry more than me,” she angrily said.

“C'mon, Meeka, Sherry was pregnant at the time,” Russell informed her.

“And so was I,” she uttered.

Russell was shocked. “By me?”

She nodded.

“And what happened to the baby?”

“I had it. But I didn't want to take care of it, so I gave him up for adoption,” she stated, looking upset.

“Damn!” Russell muttered. “I'm sorry.”

“You should be, muthafucka; I should violate your ass right now for how you hurt me so much. I loved you,” she announced. “And all you ever cared about was yourself and the streets.”

“Meeka, I'm a gangster . . . this is what I do. I was born into this shit here,” he said. “Yo, when I was locked up, why you never wrote me and let me know what was goin' on wit' you?”

“Because I wanted to forget about you. I wanted to hate you,” she admitted. “And here you are, and I told myself that I can handle you. I'm more mature, wiser. I'm over you. And I plan on treating you like all my other parolees. So are you looking for some kind of employment?” She stared at him, noticing the gleaming diamond ring on his pinky finger, his clothes, and the diamond earrings embedded in both his ears. She knew he was hustling again.

“You're not over me, Meeka,” Russell said, gazing at her. “The way we left it, it wasn't right.”

“It was fucked up.”

“I know, but I'm home now, so why can't we continue where we left off?” he asked.

Karen sighed. “You must be crazy. I'm married now, and I'm your fuckin' parole officer.”

“I know, but you know I don't give a fuck. Who's your husband anyway? “

“I'm not telling you about him,” she snapped.

“Is he treating you right?”

“Russell, please respect me and my position—okay?”

“Ayyite,” he said dryly.

“Are you lookin' for employment at this time?” she asked, trying to focus on work.

“What you think, Meeka?”

“I assume no. I need your place of residence, a number where I can reach you, and you need to take a urine test before you leave this office,” she instructed. “And also, your curfew is at nine o'clock every night.”

“Curfew! Let's be fo' real here, Meeka, you know I ain't doin' no fuckin' curfew,” Russell said, slouching in his chair.

“Why do you have to make this so difficult for me, Russell?”

He smiled, looked at her, and boldly returned with, “Because I can. Meeka, you know what I'm about.”

“Believe me, I know, and I'm trying to forget.”

“Meeka, are you happy wit' your life now?”

“What?”

“I know you, don't forget that. We fucked wit' each other for years, and I know what you're about. You like the finer things in life. And now you're a parole officer, doin' your thang, I suppose. But before I got locked up, you had dreams of going to school to become an actor, and you wanted to own your own business. What happened?”

“Life, and this pays the bills,” she said.

“You need your bills paid, Meeka, you know I got you. I know
you're not happy doin' this. I can look out for you,” Russell said.

“I get involved with you and lose my career and my freedom, no thanks.”

“You call this having a career?” Russell went into his pocket and pulled out a roll of hundreds. He tossed it on Meeka's desk.

“Russell, are you stupid?” she barked, staring at him angrily and then looking down at the money.

“Take it, it's yours.”

“You must be crazy. I can't take that.”

“Why not? Who's watching? They got cameras on you?” he asked.

“No.”

“So, there's fifteen hundred in that roll for you. My gift to you. I won't tell a soul what I saw in this room today,” he said. “I owe it to you.

Karen was tempted. She had many bills past due, and the payment on her Benz was behind by two months. Russell read her like a book. She loved having the finer things in life and her paycheck some weeks just wasn't cutting it for her.