King Divas (13 page)

Barbara Ann Lewis
December 3, 1961–January 28, 2012

 

 

L
ess than twenty-four hours after her passing, Dribbles is lowered into the ground. It's a small service, the way she would've wanted it. However, we couldn't have held it on a worse day. The sky is a grayish black and the heavy rain is freezing.

Mason is taking it hard. He hasn't eaten or slept, nor has he stopped blaming himself. “You can't change the past,” he keeps mumbling. I know what he means.Whatever small chance that existed for him and his brother Python to reconcile is officially over. They will be enemies until the day they die. It's a shame, but I understand and will support my man in his decision. There will be no peace in the streets until he avenges his mother's death.

In the hours after the shooting, Mason's description of the man who'd actually shot Dribbles matched only one person: Diesel Carver.

My blood turned cold when I heard the name. Everybody in the South knows that nigga. He has amassed as much power as a real American cartel. The fact that he's even here is a reason to worry.

But Mason isn't worried. He's determined. Sadly, I know what that feels like. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't have my own homicidal fantasy about the last two grimy Crippette bitches who killed my brother Bishop. I promised Mason that I'd put my hunt on hold until I deliver the baby—but I'll get Shariffa and Trigger. They can bet money on that shit.

“ ‘In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord,' ” the pastor says, “we commit Barbara Ann Lewis to the ground. ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .'”

Mason's jaw clenches before he steps forward and shovels in one patch of dirt on top of his mother's casket. When he steps back, he hands the shovel over to Profit. When he steps forward to do the same thing, I catch Ta'Shara eyeballing the shit out of me.

I throw up a brick wall and tune the bitch out. Profit needs to handle that situation. Shit like this is the main reason why I don't hang with females: too much bullshit over little shit.

Mason moves to stand before the casket while pulling out the folded piece of paper that he spent all night writing and rewriting. However, he takes one look at the words scratched out on the page and then slowly puts it away. “There are no words that really describe my relationship with the woman who saved my life. Her blood may not run through me, but she was my mother—in every sense of the word. She may not have been perfect, but she truly tried to do the best that she could, given the circumstances. She really was a wonderful woman, though at times, she didn't believe it. There have been more times than I care to count where I had to take care of her. The times I had to pull the needle out of her arm or beat some brothah up for jacking her up—and never mind. No matter what the people said or the names they called her, I loved her. And I loved her and my pop, Smokestack, even more when they gave me a little brother.” He looks up and winks at Profit. “It felt good, having him under my wing, showing him how to navigate through these mean streets. I say all of that to say—” He pauses to regain control of his emotions. “To say, that the one lesson that I've learned in life is that blood doesn't make you family. Love does.”

The brothers share a smile.

“I don't hold out too much hope that there's a God. But if there is one, and there is a heaven, I hope that they look past my mother's circumstances and look into her heart—because there is no one with a bigger heart than Barbara Ann Lewis. One of her last acts was to try to right something that . . . that should've been left alone. There was a reason that she showed up at my real mother's house the day that she did. She saved me. Without her, I probably wouldn't be here. What happened at that church . . . should have never happened. We should've never gone.” He wrings his hands for a while. “I'll miss her. And I'm going to set shit straight.”

Mason looks over at me. “We're going to set shit straight.”

I nod, letting him know that I'm down for however he wants to handle this vendetta, but in my heart, I can't help but feel remorse for how this whole thing turned out. The streets are going to get bloodier and I don't see how anyone can stop it.

I
make it down to Club Diesel with a prepared speech scrolling through my head. I already know before walking in this bitch that I'm going to be engaging in the world championship of mind games. As far as I can tell, Diesel is the type of nigga that is always four chess moves ahead of the closest competitor. That shit worries the fuck out of me, especially since he could've outed my ass to Python the other night. The fact that he didn't tells me that there's a chance to negotiate. But what in the fuck could he possibly want?

It's four o'clock when Avonte, one of my trusted Queen Gs, pulls up to the back door. People are filtering in and out, getting ready for tonight's crowd. We slip inside as a stock boy exits the building with large empty liquor boxes. Winding our way through the back, I'm once again impressed with what Diesel has been able to throw together in such a short time. This joint is nothing like the Pink Monkey, which Python used to own. Besides, it being the place where I met Python, I never really cared too much for the place. Too many drunk niggas and too many pussies vying to get on. In retrospect, the Vice Lords did my ass a favor by blowing that shit up.

Exiting out of the back room, I hear a band practicing on the stage. As I draw near, I'm surprised to see Cleo singing a Mary J. classic. I stop near one of the tables, stunned by the raw power of the girl's voice. By the time she's halfway through the song, the staff who were scrubbing tables and sweeping the floor have all stopped to listen. There is also another captivated fan: Diesel.

I watch him, watching her. There is no mistaking the desire written all over his face. Jealousy pricks my skin, which makes no sense. Despite his good looks, I can't stand this muthafucka. Game recognizes game. Cleo ends her set and the skeleton crew applauds, including Diesel. Hell. He even throws in a whistle too.

To my surprise, annoyance flashes across her face before she turns away. In the next second our gazes collide. Her annoyance transforms into anger.
Does this bitch know?

Cleo cuts her eyes away to speak to her band.

I review what happened. I had my people imply that Essence's death was dealt at the hands of Lucifer. Has the truth gotten back to her? It's possible. I did blaze the bitch up in broad daylight with a gas station full of witnesses. Instead of being concerned, I shrug the shit off. It ain't like Cleo's ass is somebody. Yes. Technically, she's a Queen G, but I can't remember the last time the girl put in any work. The girl is a fucking nobody and I've already wasted two minutes thinking about her ass.

Returning my attention to Diesel, I cross over to his booth. When I spot Cleo's crackhead boyfriend, skinning and grinning in Diesel's face, I stand back and wait for the men to finish their conversation.

Diesel listens to Kalief's long-winded ass, looking bored as shit. Yet at the same time he seems to be evaluating the man. A few minutes later, my ass is bored. I know Diesel sees me over here, waiting to talk to him, but he doesn't appear to be in any hurry to finish up his conversation.

I huff and tap my foot.The blatant disrespect sets my blood boiling.

Damn. Even Avonte stays coughing and looking at her watch.

After five more minutes, my patience snaps and I march over and pop Kalief on the shoulder. “Get lost.”

Kalief's head snaps up with an attitude, but once he recognizes me, he apologizes. “Oh hey, LeShelle. I didn't . . . how are you doing?”

“More moving and less talking,” I tell him.

“Yeah. Yeah. I'm sorry.” He glances back at Diesel. “I guess we can finish this conversation later?”

Diesel doesn't respond and Kalief is left to scamper off like a rat.

“Mind if I sit?” I ask, but drop into the seat without waiting for his response.

Diesel is still watching Kalief. “What the fuck does she see in him?”

“Who?” I follow his gaze and make the connection. “Cleo?”

He exhales a long breath and then slowly shifts his attention over to me. Unfortunately, he still looks bored. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I need a few minutes of your time.”

He leans back and rubs his legs. “Sure.” He waves to a chick behind one of the bars. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Henny on the rocks.”

When the chick arrives at our table, Diesel relays my order.

“Now that that's out of the way.” His boredom deepens. “Talk.”

“Okay. I'll get right to the point.What is your angle?”

“My angle?”

“Don't play me. We're both far from dumb. Why are you still here? Python is not going to hand you his throne. He's back in the game and he's in it to win it. So why don't you go back to your empire in Atlanta?”

“Atlanta. Miami. D.C. Richmond. St. Louis,” he ticks off. “My empire spans a lot of places and a lot of businesses. Memphis is hardly a place one would install a throne.”

“Then kick rocks,” I counter. “If we ain't no damn body, why stay?”

“I came because I was invited and my cousin asked me for help.”

“Now I'm uninviting you.”

Amusement finally replaces his boredom. “I don't think that's quite how this works.”

“Then what will it take to get you to leave?”

“Now why would I want to leave? I just opened this great club. I stand to make a lot of money. And money makes my dick hard. Do you want to feel?”

I clamp my mouth shut to prevent the yes from flying out of my mouth. Once the moment passes, I respond with a more poised, “I'll take your word for it.”

The bartender chick returns with my drink. “Anything else?”

“I'm good,” I say.

Diesel waves her off and then leans farther back in his seat. “I like Memphis. It's a nice, snazzy city. And a brothah like me is always looking to diversify.”

“I don't trust you,” I tell him, reaching for my drink.

He laughs. “
You
don't trust
me
? That's rich.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, it's kind of like a pot calling the kettle black.”

Our gazes battle each other from across the table.

“You aren't going to ask me?” he taunts. “Or do you already know what I'm talking about?”

With my heart hammering inside of my chest, I ask, “What are you talking about?”

Diesel's smile blooms wider. “I'm talking about your little secret; only, it's not too little. Is it?”

“Spit it out,” I say. “You're dying to say her name.”

“I have two names. Qiana Barrett and Yolanda Terry.”

Though I was bracing myself, my heart still bottoms out.

“You can't imagine my surprise when Qiana told me about y'all's deal. Scandalous. Queen Gs and Flowers crossing color lines and striking deals? The next thing you know, cats and dogs will be fucking together.” He snaps his fingers. “The only thing is, I don't really give a fuck about you tampon soldiers offing one another,
but
this one bitch was carrying my cuzzo's seed. She was due any day. That's some cold shit.”

“What do you want?”

“Now my cuz may not earn no father of the year awards, but blood is blood.”

“Blood is overrated.” I gulp down more of my drink.

“Well, at least you're not going to insult me by denying the charge.”

“I don't have to deny it. You don't have any proof. Python isn't going to take the word of some wilted Flower on the wrong side of the tracks.”

“Are you sure about that?” He sits up while his smile keeps creeping wider.

“Positive.”

“Hmph. Then it sounds like you don't have anything to worry about.”

A migraine hammers my temples while my hands grow slick with sweat.

Diesel cocks his head. “What's the matter? You don't look so good.”

“You don't want to do this,” I warn. “You're fucking with the wrong bitch.”

He lowers his arms from the back of the booth and leans toward me. “Don't I?”

With nothing else to say, I drain the rest of my drink and climb out of the booth.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Fuck you.”

“Aww. Don't be like that. We're family. Remember?”

I signal to Avonte from across the club and then march out of the club, all the while flashing him the finger.
I have to get rid of Qiana and that damn baby. Now!

I
watch LeShelle storm out of Club Diesel, feeling like a fucking punk. That evil bitch killed my sister and she marches around town without a care in the fucking world. The shit isn't fair.

“Are we going again?”

I jump. “Huh? What?”

Practice,” Joe asks. “If we're taking a break right now, I have an errand I have to take care of.”

“Yeah. Sure. Let's break for an hour,” I tell him and then stroll off the stage. It was getting a little uncomfortable performing in front of Diesel anyway.

I wish I could quit this job, but since Kalief has already spent the money, I have no choice but to fulfill the one-month contract.

On top of that stunt Diesel pulled in his office, I keep wondering about Momma Peaches's shooting. I have yet to see any proof that he even gives a damn about her death. At the same time I can't believe that he would actually have anything to do with the shooting. After all, she's his aunt.

“Sounding good, baby.” Kalief cheeses at me the second I slip off the stage.

I swallow back my annoyance as he wraps his arms around me. However, when I pull back, I peep the perspiration beading his forehead. I glance in his eyes and see that they're dilated.

Fuck. He's high.

Kalief sniffs and wipes his nose. “Hey. You got a few minutes ? I need to talk to you.”

Sighing, I already know that I'm not going to like whatever he's got to say. “What is it, Kalief?”

He fidgets around on his feet while he tries on a different smile. “Look. I know that this is going to sound crazy, but don't say no until you hear me out.”

“No,” I say, shutting him down.

He jams his fists on his hips. “I haven't told you what it is yet.”

“You don't have to. I know you—and the answer is no.”

Kalief's fake jovial smile evaporates. “C'mon, Cleo. I need you to be serious.”

“I was being serious,” I tell him. “Whatever it is, my answer is no.” I step around him, but he snatches my wrist.When I try to jerk free his grip tightens.

“Let go,” I hiss.

“I'm not finished talking with you.”

We wrestle over my arm for a few seconds before I give in.

“All right. What is it?” I snap. The sooner I let him say his piece, the sooner I can end this.

“I . . . I need for you to go out with Diesel Carver,” he says.

I wait for the punch line. When it's clear that there isn't one, I burst out laughing.

“I'm not joking,” he says. “I need for you to do this.”

“What? Why?”

He works his mouth, but no words come out.

Something is up. I square back around to stare at him. “What aren't you telling me? What did you do?”

He continues shuffling his feet, but his hand remains locked on my arm.

“Kalief? Spit it out.”

“I owe him some money.”

“What do you mean? How much money?”

“Look, Cleo. Please. Do this for me, okay? I promise that I'll make it up to you.”

“Do what?” I cock my head and try to figure out what he's not saying—but I'm not liking where my thoughts are leading. “Are you fucking trying to pimp me out?” I snatch my arm free. “I don't fucking believe this.”

“Cleo, you don't understand. I owe him.”

“Then you fuck him.” I spin around and march off. “I'm outta this bitch. I quit. And YOU'RE FIRED!”

Kalief races after me. “Cleo. Cleo. Come back here!”

This time he grabs my upper arm, but when I spin around, I slap the holy shit out of him.

He backhands me and I hit the floor, my face stinging from the blow.

Kalief drops down beside me. “Cleo, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do that.”

“Get away from me.” I scramble away from him.

Kalief's face falls as his hands drop to his sides.

I don't know how he does it, but I actually feel sorry for him. When he looks at me again there are tears in his eyes. “Cleo, I wouldn't ask you to do this if it wasn't important. Please. Do this for me. You—you won't have to sleep with him. He wants to take you to dinner. That's all.”

Tears burn the backs of my eyes. What kind of man would ask his girl to do something like this? At the same time I can see in his eyes that he's scared.

“How much money do you owe him?”

Kalief's gaze drops again.

“How much?” I repeat.

“You don't want to know.”

I press my lips together and shake my head. But my tears still fall.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, and reaches for my hand.

“I promise you that after this, I'll get my shit together. I'll go to rehab. I'll quit cold turkey. I'll do whatever you want. I promise.”

Disgusted, I pull myself off the floor and walk away.

“So you'll do it?” Kalief calls after me.

I ignore him while tears skip down my face.

“Cleo? Cleo!”