Love Trumps Game (5 page)

“Looks like the Crenshaw District.”

“Crenshaw and Martin Luther King. That dizzy-ass woman. Looks like she's at her crib to me.” Topps pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed her digits. Neema answered on the third ring.

“Hey shawty. What's up?” He listened to what he knew would be lies.

“Where you at now? Hollywood? No shit? On your way back, huh? Hey, it's all good.” Just like he thought, she was straight up lying to him. “Alright then. Check you when I see you at the house. Later.” He punched off. “Damn, my boo bitch is lying like a rug.”

Slick gave him an I-told-you-so look but held his tongue.

“Damn. She's been my best one yet.” For a second, it looked like his eyes tried to fill with water. He was hurt. They had been kicking it for over seven years and had their ups and down like any other couple, but Neema kept convincing him that she had changed her sneaky ways. And yeah, there had been a few discrepancies over the years, but nothing major. Caught in her web of lies more than once, Neema always promised to do better. Topps had believed her and was getting to the point of thinking that he could take her as his wife. Maybe have a couple more kids. Live happily ever after. Yeah, right, like that shit really happens
to people like him. “No sweat. My boo loves that bling-bling living. She's wicked as hell on a nigga, but I caught feelings for her ass and she got my kids. I'll get her straight, fo' sho.”

Slick thought he heard commotion out on the line. “What the hell?” Always alert, he shot up to go investigate but it was nothing serious. A soldier thought he spotted a worker tucking a rock beneath her hanging breast. A quick check had revealed nothing. Everyone was back to work.

“Man, women are like small children; you have to keep an eye on they asses at all times.”

Topps wasn't listening. He was back at the sink washing his hands again. Shaking his head, Slick watched him.

“Topps, man, you know they have medication for yo' condition.”

“My condition?” Topps turned around to regard him. His look was vexed.

“Hell yeah, man. Had an uncle had the same affliction. Couldn't touch a damn thing without washing his hands all fucking day. Not even pussy. Hell, he almost washed the black off his ass, he washed so much. You need to check on some meds.”

“Medication?”

“For real, my nigga. Medication works.”

“And what would my affliction be, Slick?” Insulted, Topps' expression turned serious. “What, you saying I'm weak now?”

“Hell no. Hey, man, I'm just try'n to help. Damn, stop being so sensitive and twisting my shit up.”

“Fuck it!” Topps was clearly irritated. He couldn't stop thinking about Neema and how she kept trying to play him. Always lying to him. Always begging for more money. Probably still stealing from him, too. He had to do something about her. Make her an example so others could see that he didn't play. “I'ma slide outta here. Got some business to take care of. You know what to do, if you need me.”

“No problem. I'ma hold things down 'til close-up. It's drop day, you know. We got major paper coming in. But I'll swing by your place first thing in the morning with profits.”

“Sounds tight. I'm out.”

The two knocked knuckles before Topps headed for the door. Disappointment with Neema had his shoulders slumped. Seemed like the more he tried to trust her, the more she proved that she couldn't be trusted. At least he had Slick. Slick was his man, his ace, his dawg. It felt good to have at least one person that he could expose his back to.

“Yo', dawg,” Slick called behind him. “Whatever you do, don't be too hard on her. Neema is just being Neema.”

“Nah. I wouldn't do my son's mama like that. Still, I'ma deal with her. That's word. Later.”

It wouldn't be right to pop his own son's mother over some money. When his son was old enough, he would be next in line to fill his shoes. Thoughts of Brandon made him smile. Already the boy was showing signs of being hardcore and fearless. He dug that shit big time. Maybe he'd slide by Hattie's place again to see his kids before heading to the crib to wait on Neema. Nah. Neema first.

T
en seconds after her doorbell rang, Neema Jean ran to it and looked out the peephole. The neighborhood where she lived wasn't the best. Plus, she had to make sure that it wasn't her mother or that pesky sister of hers, trying to bring her brats back home. Good. It was her home girl, Kaykay.

Neema unlocked and swung the door open for her. “What's up, my homie?”

“Did you get it?” Kaykay asked, waiting with hungry eyes.

“Hell yeah, I got it, and damn it's good.” Once Kaykay stepped inside, Neema closed the door behind her. “Didn't think you were coming, so I started without you. It's some of his best.”

“That's what I'm talking about. Let's get this party going then.”

“Ooh, I forgot. Shit, lock my damn door behind you. Can't have Topps sneaking up on a sistah before we can get our head right.”

“I know that's right,” Kaykay agreed, turning the deadbolt. Truth be told, if she never saw Topps Jackson again in life it would be too soon. She'd been around the man on several occasions and from what she'd observed, he had a temper like a firecracker that sizzled before going
bang.
She'd seen it with her own eyes, how he could beat a man down until he begged for his life. If he knew how Neema was topping off with his drugs, no telling what his crazy ass would do.

“C'mon in. We can fly a few lines before I have to leave to square some business. That fool Topps got me on his damn clock. I should be on my way back already from my drop in Hollywood. I don't feel like hearing his mouth today.”

“Hollywood? Dang, girl, I feel sorry for you. That's too far for this time of day.” Kaykay was about to step on Neema's imported white Persian rug but checked herself. She took her shoes off and felt good for it. The new heels she had on were killing her. “Damn, girl. You got it fly up in this 'mutha.” It had been weeks since she'd been to Neema's place. Their meet-and-chill spots were clubs, the mall, and sometimes at Kaykay's place. “When all this jump off?”

“A week or so.” Neema beamed. “You like it?”

“Hell yeah!” Kaykay panned her view, admiring all the new touches: paint, furniture. A creamy vanilla leather sectional with matching coffee and end tables. A fancy looking painting adorned the walls. Everything was too fly, in glass and leather. Any fool would be shocked, stepping up in the place, since the outside of Neema's Crenshaw district apartment was old and rundown. But the inside was the difference between Compton and Palos Verdes. She walked over to the smoky glass dining room table where Neema had some coke piled on a mirror. “Looks like you're doing good, for somebody unemployed. Hell, girl, I work six days a week and still live in a shack.”

“That's because you not hooking up with the right niggas.” Kaykay was a true get-money chick who mainly dated big-ballers, but occasionally she went through a dry spell. Neema wasn't sure who her main man was now, but the last she'd heard, her girl was involved and stalking a married man who had to uproot and leave town with his wife and family to end their relationship. “Hell, I was tired of my place looking like a dump while that nigga Topps kicked it in luxury. Shoot, I like nice things, too.”

“You ain't never lied.”

Attired in a short, yellow sundress, Neema sashayed over to the table where she had Topps' package wide open for her dipping pleasure. “Make yourself at home.”

“Hell, yeah,” said Kaykay, pulling out a chair. Her hungry eyes locked on the white blow like a kid lusting behind chocolate cake. “Good looking out for inviting a sistah over for a lift party. I sho' appreciate it.”

“Kay, you know how we do? You my homie. We share.” Neema took a seat across from her. She took up an index card and sectioned off four generous lines. “Here you go.” She passed Kaykay a cut-off straw, then watched that greedy girl fly two lines up so fast that it made her shudder. “Girl, look at you. You a dope fiend crackhead.” The two shared a brief laugh.

“Yeah, right, Miss Pot-Calling-the-Kettle-Black. I do a few lines every now and then, but I ain't no crackhead. I can't stand smoking no crack.”

“I know that's right.” Neema flew the last two lines and stood up feeling as light as air itself. “Want something to eat?”

“Nah. Maybe somethin' to drink. Nothing with too much sugar in it. You got any diet Coke?”

“Diet? Girl, please.”

Kaykay was one of her closest friends. The two had met during jury duty a couple of years back. The girl was constantly crying broke but always dressed like she was running with a big-baller with heavy pockets. She wore diamond rings on all fingers, and gold dangled from her neck and wrists. Kaykay's long, reddish-brown hair, as usual, was fly to perfection; even if it was a lace-front wig. Neema admired the slamming black miniskirt with a matching top over a red Baby Phat tank she wore. She resisted the urge to ask where she'd bought those jamming Jimmy Choos she'd kicked off. The look was way hot for a chick with a hot
body—something Neema appreciated from her friends because she couldn't be seen in public with skanks who didn't know how to dress to impress. Truth be told, Kaykay could pass for Ciara's twin. At least from a distance. Up close she had a mad scar on her left side from a car accident three years back.

“You know you still look good. Yo' man wouldn't let you get fat and you know it.”

“Word. That fool keeps my gym membership paid up.”

“Are you serious?” Neema laughed but knew she wasn't lying. “Well, who is he? What's his name?” With two kids and running product for Topps, Neema stayed pretty busy herself. The two friends rarely got together anymore, so Neema wasn't quite sure who Kaykay was talking about. “Is he a true baller or what?”

“Let's just say he treats me good.”

“Whatever. Anyway, if you ain't doing nothin', come make this run with me.”

“You mean, ride dirty for Topps?” Kaykay snorted with a mock frown. She took out her compact mirror to check herself. Pink-manicured nails primped at her expensive lace-front wig. “You know I can't stand that nigga. No offense. I don't want shit to do with his mess.”

“You wasn't saying that when you was flying his shit up your nose.”

“Humph. That's different. And I ain't trying to tell you how to handle yo' business or nothing, but you need to cut that fool loose before you find yourself in a world of trouble. Take me, for example. I likes my freedom. Got me an old gangsta on the side. Keeps me happy. Hear what I'm saying?”

“Kay, I'm not asking you to suck his dick. Come ride with me. You can keep me company. Once I handle business, we can sprint over to that fancy eating place called Crustacean in B-Hills, have lunch, and a few apple martinis. My treat.”

“Girl, you trying to tempt me, but no. Maybe next time.” Perplexed, Kaykay sniffed and looked around. “Dang. Them kids of yours are too quiet. They napping or what?”

“They not here.”

Hell. That reminded her that she needed to call her mother to check on her kids. Neema dreaded the task like going to the dentist. After three days, her mother had to be pretty pissed off about the kids being dumped on her. She took up her cell phone from the table, flipped it open, and looked at it.

“Nah. Maybe later. I don't feel like hearing Mama's mouth right now. She a Christian and all, but my mama keeps it real. You piss her off, she libel to swear and curse and tell you how she really feel.”

She tossed her phone back, went into her kitchen and returned with a can of cola and a box of baking soda. “Here you go.” She passed the soda to Kaykay. “I better wrap it up and get going then.” Opening the plastic bag containing the cocaine she was supposed to deliver, Neema replaced equal amounts of the white powder. “That should do it,” she said after using a scale to check the weight. “Perfect.”

Kaykay eyed her suspiciously. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Covering my ass. What else?” Neema zipped the plastic bag up, then carefully placed it in her oversized tote bag on the table. “You know that nigga Topps keep his shit down to the nit, and his clients all know it, too. I gets mine from the top, but I know to be careful.”

Kaykay found her antics comical. “What, those niggas can't tell the difference between pure blow and baking soda?”

“Girl, please, sometimes I run outta baking soda and substitute with foot dust.”

Kaykay cracked up laughing. “No you didn't say foot dust.”

“Girl, I'm for real. If you sand your feet and catch the dust, it
almost looks like cocaine. Especially if you mix it with pure blow. You can't tell the difference.”

“That's some crazy shit. You one crazy and bold bitch.”

“Screw them fools. They shouldn't be dope fiends if they can't take the risk.”

The two laughed even harder. “Shit, my foot dust probably the best shit they asses ever flew up they nose.” All that laughing made her bladder wake up. “Damn, now I gotta go pee. Still, you need to come ride with a sistah. I'll make it worth your while. Think about it while I go pee.”

Neema hurried toward her bathroom, already hiking up the floral hem of her sundress. She made a mad rush of doing her business and washing her hands. Her perfect lips were just form-ing the words, “Let's raise up outta here,” when she heard the distinct click of a key turning in the lock of her front door. “Who the hell…” She froze in place; eyes wide and trained on the door.

“Girl, what is it?” Kaykay whispered loudly, noticing her face. She jumped; scared.

Neema felt her heart speed to a drum beat as her front door slowly opened and in stepped Topps like he owned the place. He had that cocky look on his face that she couldn't stand. Those cold, dark eyes of his were staring straight through her.

“What's up, ladies? Looks like Mister Topps got here right on time for the party.”