King Divas (24 page)

“A
re you sure that you want to go?” Drake, my six-foot-one Italian husband says as he serves my morning coffee. “Your father will understand if you don't.”

“Spoken like someone who has never met my father. He'll say that he understands, but he won't. We're supposed to be turning over a new leaf, remember?” I accept the coffee cup and welcome its warmth between my hands. Last night the heat went out and we had to sleep in an icebox.

“Yeah, but still. If you're not up for it, you shouldn't spend your first day off in a long, long time, attending this thing.” Drake sits down next to me on the bed, and pulls back his ink-black hair.

I smile because I know what he's doing. “You just want me all to yourself,” I say. I place my foot against his arm and playfully push him away.

He gives me a brief smile. “Guilty as charged. No offense, but I'm starting to feel like a bachelor again, and I'm lucky if I can get you to stop by for a booty call.”

I stop the cup halfway to my lips. “Bachelor?”

“C'mon, baby. I know how important your work is to you, but you're rarely home, and when you are home, you're still working cases. Even the ones that you're not supposed to be working.”

“Oh God. Not you too. It's bad enough that I have Fowler and the chief planting knives in my back.”

“I'm not doing any such thing. I'm just saying that I'm feeling neglected.”

“We just went out a few weeks ago.”

“Yeah. And it was nice.”

“Just nice?”

“No.
That
part was great.” He leans over and brushes a kiss against my forehead. “But it's hardly enough. I married you because I want to have more sex with you, not less. C'mon. Did you forget that we're supposed to be starting a family this year?”

Oh God.
I roll my eyes. I can't even imagine putting a baby on my plate on top of all that I have going on.

“What? Did you change the plans again without consulting me?” he asks, hurt twisting his face.

“No. It's nothing like that,” I lie. However, the problem with being with someone for so long is that they learn how to read you like a book.

“Aww, Hydeya. Don't do this.” He springs up from the bed.

“Don't do what?” I ask defensively. “You know how much this new promotion means to me, and now I have the chief threatening to take it away.”

“Maybe that's not such a bad idea. Maybe you are in over your head.”

“What?” I set my coffee aside on the nightstand and climb out of bed. “What are you saying?”

“Look, Hydeya. I know you love your job. I respect that. But what about
me
? What about
us
? I'm supposed to be getting something out of this marriage too.”

“And what? I'm supposed to quit my job and let you pump me full of babies? Is that it? How the fuck is that fair?”

“Why in the hell do you think people get married? We're supposed to be creating little people that look like us. I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm looking forward to being a father. All my friends have two or three of them. Even my parents are asking me when we're going to make them grandparents, like every other day.”

The more he talks, the more I feel like I've been cast in a horror movie.

“What?” He catches my expression.

“Nothing.”

“Damn it, Hydeya. Don't make me feel like the bad guy. We made plans together. We had a plan.”

“Plans change sometimes.”

“For how long?”

“I don't know. I just know that I'm not ready to juggle all of that right now. I want to do my job, and I want to do it well. We still have plenty of time for kids.”

Drake clamps his jaw and shakes his head.

Guilt rattles through me, but I can't help how I feel. Yet, at the same time, I don't want to signal that I'm bailing on the relationship. I draw a breath and soften my approach as I slide my hands around his neck. “I'm not saying that I'm bailing on the family plan completely. I just want to postpone it for a little while. That's all.”

“For how long?” he presses.

“I don't know. Another year—or two.”
Or three.

“A year,” he says, latching on to the lowest number. “You promise.”

“I can't promise but—”

“Damn it, Hydeya!” He breaks away from me. “Quit jerking me around.”

“Then you quit being selfish and unreasonable. If the shoe was on the other foot and your career was taking off, I'd understand and adjust our plans.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? What the hell is wrong with my career? The guys and I have booked that audition down at that new club. It'll be a long and
local
gig. I thought that's what you wanted after our last summer tour.”

“I did. I do. That's great, but that's not what I mean. I just . . .” I sigh, frustrated. “I don't want to argue. Not today. I'm stressed out enough as it is. The job. Isaac.”

“Then go,” he says, equally upset. “Go to the funeral. Go babysit King Isaac. That's what you really want to do anyway.”

“Don't be like that.”

“Be like what? Isn't that the real reason you want to go to that funeral—to verify whether or not your father is really out of the game?”

He got me on that one. I don't believe that my father is going to walk away from so much power in the streets to take up gardening or some shit, especially now that Maybelline is dead. According to his many prison letters, she was the whole reason that he was going to turn over a new leaf and become a new man. Power has a way of digging its claws into people.

“One year,” I tell him.

Drake stops pacing. “What?”

“One year from today and I promise that we can start seriously trying for a baby.”

He searches for the truth in my eyes. When he sees that I'm on the up-and-up, his smile returns in full bloom. “Deal.”

P
ython is struggling to be strong, but I know that it's fucking with him that he can't be here at Momma Peaches's funeral service. I decided to take the risk to come incognito and represent for the both of us. Rocking a fierce honey-blond blunt haircut wig, large Jackie O–style glasses, a large black church hat, and a matronly looking black dress.

It's been three weeks since the shooting, and everyone wondered if and when Isaac would send Memphis's original OG lady gangster to paradise. That's a long time to keep a body in a freezer. It comes as a surprise that the services are being held at the very church where she lost her life. The bullet holes are still visible for everyone to see. Not to mention the Power of Prayer's church-building fund needs to be used to replace the carpet instead of relying on whatever bootleg carpet cleaning service did this whack job. Everyone can still see where the old lady bled out.

The stage looks nice. Flowers teem around the entire church stage and casket. The neighborhood must've bought out an entire flower shop. During the viewing, I have to admit that Momma Peaches looks as fierce in death as she did in life. Beautiful to the end.

I'm not a sentimental bitch by any means, but even I get choked up listening to story after story from the residents of Shotgun Row. I'll admit I get caught up in my feelings. Despite my being with Python for nearly five years, Momma Peaches never warmed to me. I don't know why. I was always nice to the old bitch. Mainly because Python acted like Momma Peaches walked on water.

The choir stands and sings a few songs that have me shouting a couple of amens along with everyone else. It's a beautiful service for a packed house.

Soon I'm wondering,
Who will miss me when I go?
Depending on Python's criminal status, he'll probably not be able to arrange or come to a service. My thoughts then wander to the only other family member I have: Ta'Shara. For the first time in about a month, my blood pressure doesn't shoot up when she pops into my head. Doesn't mean it changes shit, but . . . I don't know. My ass is tripping.

Cleo Blackmon steps in front of the choir. I shift in my seat, thinking about her sister, Essence. Cleo opens her mouth to sing, and I'm blown away again. How in the hell does this girl not have a record deal already? Jealousy crawls at my throat. The only talent God has ever given me is how to pop my pussy and hustle in the gutter-streets of Memphis.

This bitch, I have no idea what the fuck she's still doing here. I cut my gaze to Diesel in the middle of Cleo's song, and once again this muthafucka is enraptured with this girl. My jealousy spreads. By the time Cleo closes her mouth, there isn't a dry eye in this bitch.

Isaac, dressed to the nines in a black suit, sets a few tongues wagging. The man definitely has swagger. The only other man who trumps Isaac is Diesel. Mesmerizing in a rich blue Tom Ford suit, he melts every pair of panties and a few diapers in the building.

I hang back as the two men approach one another with fake smiles and stiff handshakes. No one misses them sizing each other up. I can hear the buzz from a few soldiers questioning which of the two powerhouses were running shit. The census favors King Isaac. No one trusts the brotha from the dirty A.

Not that Diesel confides in me, but he has to be feeling some kind of way about Isaac's early release. He's made quite an investment in Memphis's Gangster Disciples in Python's absence. His grand club in the heart of Beale Street is just one example. He's going to want a return for the arms, drugs, and security he's provided. Whose pocket is that shit going to hit?
Damn Python for calling that nigga up here in the first place.

When Isaac takes the stage for the eulogy, he tells everyone how he and Momma Peaches met at Goodson Auto shortly after he'd moved here from Chicago. He swears that she stole his heart the second his eyes landed on her. He drifts into a few regrets and vows that their love will live on long after he joins her in the grave.

After the service, a smaller crowd piles into their cars to travel to the burial.

I'm stunned when Cleo climbs into a Mercedes with Diesel.
What fresh hell is this shit?

Avonte follows close behind. My confusion deepens when Diesel's car doesn't continue on to the cemetery.

“Everything okay?” Avonte asks.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. I'm good.” I twist back around in my seat, but my mind remains on the new couple. If Diesel wins the new power struggle, Cleo could be a political threat. But the shocks keep coming when Memphis's new captain of police, Hydeya Hawkins, arrives at the burial.

H
alf the city of Memphis appears to have showed up for Maybelline Carver's last party. As Drake and I exit from our car and follow the line of mourners to the burial site, I note all of the old as well as the young. Not everyone is wearing their Sunday best. There are quite a number of people sporting the Gangster Disciples colors and flags.

Drake leans over and whispers, “Are you sure it's safe to attend this thing?”

His question echoes inside my head. “I'm sure that it's going to be okay,” I say. “If not, I still have my piece in my purse if anything goes down.”

I scan the crowd on the wild notion that Terrell Carver may make a surprise appearance. I know how close he was to his aunt. Can he really resist the temptation to say his final goodbyes?

“Most of these people came to pay their respects to a woman who has been in the game for a long time,” I assure him.

I spot Isaac as soon as we arrive near the site.

The second Isaac sees me, he stops shaking hands with the other guests. There's no mistaking his genuine surprise. Excusing himself from the line of mourners, he makes his way over to us.

“You came,” he says, opening his large arms and sweeping me inside of them. “Thank you. This means a lot to me.” Slowly, he shifts his eyes over to my husband. “And you must be Drake,” he says, releasing me and assessing my husband, up and down.

Drake eagerly thrusts out his hand. “It's nice to meet you, Isaac.”

My father glances down at the white hand offered to him. For a brief moment, I fear he's going to leave Drake hanging, but he flashes a quick smile and accepts the handshake. “It's a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Drake relaxes. He'd feared a snub as well.

“I wish we could've met under better circumstance,” Isaac adds.

“Me too.”

The conversation fades and we all just stare at one another, hoping someone has something else to say.

“Oh. I brought you something,” I say, handing over the Bible. “It's Maybelline's. She, uh, had it with her at the church that day.”

His smile returns. “Thank you. I appreciate you returning it to me.”

We share a genuine moment before he has to excuse himself.

“Well, I better get back to greeting the other guests. I hope that I can still cash in that rain check soon,” he says. His gaze shifts back and forth between Drake and me, and though he is still smiling, he's trying to get the piece of the puzzle to fit.

“That will be great,” Drake jumps in, completely missing my father's disapproval. The men shake hands again and Isaac strolls off.

“You know, I don't think that you have anything to worry about. He seems like a really nice guy.”

I smile at Drake's ability to always see the best in people.

At promptly three o'clock, Pastor Rowlin Hayes clears his throat to gain everyone's attention. “Death has visited us once again. We are left to mingle our sorrow with thanksgiving. Thanksgiving for the life we knew her to have had; thanksgiving that for her the day of pain is over; thanksgiving that God, in his infinite wisdom called our beloved Momma Peaches home. However, our thanksgiving does not veil our mourning, for indeed the rending of our hearts at the loss of love and memory is as old as humanity itself.”

“Amen,” someone shouts.

“So mourning is indeed ancient, and our search for relief is equally ancient. Those of New Testament times were no exception. Paul, in writing to the Philippians, says that death is the desire to depart and to be with Christ. Taken in and of itself, there is comfort in that passage, but when we understand that to which Paul may have been referring, it brings us even more solace.”

Pastor Hayes's eulogy holds everyone captivated.

I, of course, keep stealing glances at Isaac to see how he's holding up. He's the Rock of Gibraltar. His strength has always been something I've admired.

Drake whispers something.

I lean over to ask him to repeat it when the first burst of gunfire interrupts the service.

Gasps, screams, and prayers erupt from the crowd as some run and others dive for cover. Pure chaos breaks out.

“Everybody get down!” someone shouts.

Before I have a chance to think one way or the other, I'm off my feet and Drake scrambles to throw his body on top of me to shield me.

I try to twist around to see what's going on, but Drake's two-hundred-pound body makes that shit almost impossible. Gunfire rattles off for what seems like eternity. Bullets ricochet all around us. Some slam into Maybelline's mahogany casket.

My purse! Where the hell is my purse?
For the first time in a long while, I am thrilled to see the Gangster Disciples rise to their feet to return fire. I finally spot my purse a good five feet away. “Honey, my purse,” I shout, hoping that he can hear me and will let me grab it. But he keeps me smothered under his weight and I fight to wiggle my way out. I don't have time to argue with him. I'm a cop and I don't need him to protect me from doing my job.

Freed, I reach my purse and retrieve my weapon.

Tires squeal and then shoot off into the distance. Soldiers in the Folks Nation take off behind their attackers. When everyone understands that the coast is clear, the crying and screaming crowd clamber back onto their feet. There are more than a few bodies, bloodied and mangled, who don't get up.

“Shit.” I turn around toward Drake and then stop cold at seeing his lifeless eyes. The emerald grass soaking up his brains and blood.