Lovers & Haters (7 page)

“Fall back on the lecture, big homey,” Fathead said. “You sound like five-o, telling somebody to turn informant. No snitching—that's the code.” He looked at the dry bloodstains on Xavier's clothing and pointed. “We ain't trying to end up like that.”

“No disrespect, Xavier,” Monster interrupted with a sneaky grin on his face. “But you must be smokin' bath salts. For the record, none of us be knowing nothing.”

“They don't know anything,” said Alfonso. “If they did, I would know.”

Xavier shook his head in frustration at his brother. “Do you know how stupid you sound, Alfonso? These knuckleheads are not your friends.” He addressed Fathead: “You little clowns think that this is a game. Let me tell you something—let me tell all of you something. Y'all babies, playing in a grown man's world. Yes, it's true that you love the game, but where is the game's love for you?” Xavier pointed toward the bloody spot in which Mitchell had lain. “When you love something that doesn't give you love back, you end up burning and lying flat on your back.”

“That's some burning you can keep,” Fathead said. “I rather take my burning in a bag of plain potato chips with extra hot sauce, you know what I'm saying?”

The entire thugged-out version of
The Smurfs
crew fell into laughter, except Apollo. He stood with a steely-eyed resolve. There was nothing remotely close to a sense of humor inside this boy's reptilian eyes.

Monster smacked Fathead's hand.

“You know it, homeboy,” Monster exclaimed. “That type of burning can be cleaned up by drinking cold soda. Ain't no coming back behind the burning that Mitchell Green just got broke off.”

Xavier had had enough of trying to talk some sense into the heads of the sawed-off gangsta knockoffs. “Have it your way,” he said, and turned toward the house. Over his back, he gave one last statement: “I'll be seeing all of you at your funerals.”

“We'll be there, big homey. Don't be late,” Dusty sarcastically shot back, laughing.

As Xavier walked back toward his crib, he noticed that the police were putting Billy in the back of a police car. The absence of handcuffs around Billy's wrists meant that he was going down for questioning. Xavier figured as much since Billy had been one of the key players in the ruckus, and the essential reason why Mitchell Green was probably still breathing.

“Get the hell off my damn grass,” Ne Ne yelled from the porch at a few people who were using her lawn to chase the cameraman's shot, as he panned his camera in an effort to show the pain and anguish that had been produced by the tragedy. “Damn media-chasing monkeys.”

Xavier slowly walked back to his porch and picked up his book. He already knew that the shooting would provide Ne Ne with the opportunity to make her case.

“Told you so, boy. What I tell you? Ain't nothing but three ways for a black boy to get out of the ghetto—one of which you are seeing play out in front of you right now. You said that you wanted to be the man of this household—at least that's what your
pappy
commanded you to do when they were taking him out after his trial was over.

“You got a chance to do that—just let me hook you up with the right people. You know prescription pain medication is popular with kids. And I can't say that I blame them one bit.” Ne Ne shook a cigarette out of a Newport package, put it up to her two-tone lips, and lit it. She took a drag and removed the stick, releasing a thick cloud of grayish smoke.

Xavier simply shook his head. He wasn't trying to hear any of his mother's foolishness right now.

“I would much rather prefer these kids to get high on prescription painkillers than flipping out on chemicals that these folks are putting in this weed nowadays—and I definitely don't want to see anybody's child smoking crack. So besides getting your family out of this ghetto, you can do some good and save somebody's kid from a trip to the mental ward or being strung out on that crack rock.”

His mother didn't know how stupid she was sounding in trying to pitch it to him that one drug was more addictive than the other. It was ridiculous with a capital
R
.

“Ne Ne, are you about done?” Xavier brought the Shakespeare play into view. “If so, I'd like to go and get some studying done. I have a test on this stuff Monday.”

She pulled heavily from her cigarette. “Here you go with this English class nonsense. Shakespeare ain't gonna save your brother from lying in that same spot as Mitchell.” Ne Ne flicked her burning butt down on the porch's cracked up floor and heeled it out. “You think about one thing,” she said as smoke escaped her lips. “If Alfonso gets killed in those streets, and you had the power to make it better for him, it's gonna be your fault. Remember that I can put you out of my house anytime I want. It's tough supporting this household without help. I owe somebody right now because I had to borrow the money to get the lights and gas back on.”

Ne Ne snatched open the screen door and walked into the house, leaving guilt on the porch to keep Xavier company.

I
t was Friday night and the State Theater was on bump with a healthy crowd of teenagers. The place was jammed tight with as many teens that could be crammed into the place without violating the fire code.

Two fifteen-year-old girls stood next to Xavier, looking him up and down, giggling, and trying to be discreet with their insults.

“Girl, that's your boo,” said the tall, slender, honey-complexioned chick with a big badonkadonk butt, weave down to her waist, stilettos, bracelets, and bangles—all wrapped up in a tightly fitted sleeveless dress.

“You know you ain't even trying to give me no broke-ass LL Cool J, okay, girl?” the shorter one joked, and popped her fingers. She was straight up dressed like a hoochie, wearing a black dress with a plunging neckline that displayed a soft trail of cleavage.

“You silly, girl,” Tall and Slender tried to whisper. “Special Agent Sam Hanna from
NCIS: Los Angeles
is putting a hurting on those already barking Air Force Ones.”

The two burst out into hysterical laughter like their perfume had the effect of laughing gas.

Xavier couldn't believe the stones on these two. But it wasn't like he hadn't heard these cracks before. Yes, he could've blazed both of them by blaming their moms for letting them out of the house without paper bags to cover their ugly mugs, but he didn't. Xavier was known for not sweating the small stuff. He cracked a smile at the two girls and kept it moving.

Friday nights were extra special and very popular with teens across the city of Detroit and beyond. Back in the day, the State Theater had seen a grand opportunity to cash in by creating an atmosphere where high school kids could come to hang out. No one was permitted without flashing proper high school identification. The dress code was relaxed and drinks or drugs of any kind were absolutely prohibited on the premises. Anybody in violation would be banned for life. The State Theater didn't tolerate fights of any kind. A violator was swiftly escorted to the door by one of the many big bouncers and immediately bounced. Because half the security force was comprised of off-duty cops, the place was pretty secure.

Located in the heart of downtown on Woodward Avenue, the State Theater was just a stone's throw across the street from Comerica Park. The owners of the place went out of their way to keep a buzz going by mixing in live entertainment at least twice a month. Tonight the multi-award-winning platinum artist 2 Chainz was in the house and moments away from blowing up the stage with a dynamite performance.

Xavier was trying hard to relax and put out of his mind what had happened to Mitchell just six hours ago. He played the wall while waiting for his boy Romello to catch up to him. Tables and chairs were set around an enormous dance floor that was in the shape of a circle. A narrow catwalk connected it to a pretty wide performance stage.

The lights were now dim to create the perfect ambience for couples. A slow tune from Miguel had removed a little energy out of the air to set the mood. Those who weren't feeling the slow stuff walked off the floor to take seats at the tables or pay the restrooms a visit, or went to the refreshment stand to grab a beverage.

The club scene wasn't really Xavier's thing. He felt that he was obligated to Romello because the homey had his back that day Dylan Dallas and his crew tried to bring the noise to him at school. Almost everybody in this place was phony with it, pretending to be something that they were nowhere near. The who's who from Coleman High had turned out. Jocks, musicians, thugs, academic-driven mummies—all had come here to shake their things on the dance floor. Xavier watched in amusement as kids walked past trying their best to look tough. Not too many sat down during teen night. Most were too busy trying to show off their brand-new gear.

Xavier didn't realize that this many students from high schools across the city could chill in the same spot and not try to get after one another.

An hour later and Romello was still a no-show. This had been a bad idea. Xavier was about to bail, when his boy walked up with a few members from Zulu in tow.

“What it do, homeboy?” Romello greeted Xavier with a bro hug and bore the distinct sweet, pungent fragrance of marijuana. And if Xavier could see behind Romello's super cool designer shades he would lay out everything in his pockets on his dude's eyes looking redder than the color itself.

“What up, doe?” Xavier said. Then he looked over Romello's shoulder and addressed the crew. “What's poppin', y'all?” Xavier knew every last cat that rolled in the entourage. All of them were from Coleman, and right now, every last one of them looked to be smashed.

“Let's go post up at a table,” Romello suggested.

Xavier fell in behind Romello. Counting him, they rolled six deep, walking through the crowd like they owned the joint. Every boy in the crew was done up fresh from head to toe. Heads turned in admiration of the expensive gear, flexed individually by each Zulu member. Xavier clearly stood out from the group—and not in a good way. It was like his crunchy, sagging hoodie, faded jeans, and crusty sneakers were swallowed up by a tidal wave of expensive, crispy Air Force 1s, Timbs, True Religion jeans, light North Face jackets, fitted baseball hats, and flashy jewelry.

Xavier was burning with jealousy at the attention Romello's crew was receiving from the girls. His gear was crunchy, which made him look like trash rolling with them. He would be lying if he said he didn't want to shine like these cats. Getting it the way they were getting it. Life would be all good. Samantha would probably drop her act and get with him because he would have money and dope clothes.

They found a table on the left side of the catwalk and set up shop.

“Yo, Go Go,” Romello called out to a fifteen-year-old short, dark-skinned cat who was built. He was also a sophomore. “You and the homeboy Arson go up to the refreshment stand and grab drinks for all of us.”

“You sipping on dat fruit punch, 'Mello?” the dude Arson asked. This guy was a grimy looking, sixteen-year-old junior. Didn't matter how much money he'd spent on designer clothes, it still looked like the brother had slid from underneath a car in an auto shop and didn't bother to wash before rolling to the theater to get his boogie on.

“Of course,” Romello replied. “X, what you drinking on?”

“I'm good.”

Go Go and Arson took the drink orders from the rest of the guys and bounced.

Nobody said anything for the first few minutes. The boys were scoping around, checking for the ladies with the big ol' booties. And clocking the wannabe pimps, thugs, and bubble gum bad boys who were tripping all over themselves trying to get the ladies' attention.

“Look at these clowns,” Romello said, as he watched guys make fools of themselves by trying to get girls to dance.

“A true hustler gets chosen by the women,” Alex chimed in. At sixteen, he was the pretty boy of the group—biracial kid, curly hair—the Robin Thicke type.

“Listen to this guy,” said Tyson. He was a sixteen-year-old junior and he looked every spit of the former champion too—always looking mean, neck as thick as they come, and a muscular body that, no doubt, saw many hours in the gym. “Romello, you better go over to Alex's crib and confiscate those old pimp movies he be watching.”

“Oh, you're trying to style on me, huh, Tyson?” Alex said, smiling.

Romello saw a chance to get in a cheap shot. “Tyson, you know what they say about this fool, don't you?”

“Aww, here . . . you . . . go,” Alex said to Romello. “Y'all about to gang up on brother now.”

“What they say, 'Mello?” Tyson asked, grinning, knowing damn well where the joke was headed.

Romello laughed before saying, “This guy running that ‘true hustler' line—can't be a true hustler if the ladies are coming back and telling me that you robbed them of satisfaction, because you are a true two-minute brother hanging shorter than a French fry.”

Xavier cracked a smile. Tyson bit his lip, he was laughing so hard. And even though the joke was on Alex, he almost fell out of the chair, chuckling.

Romello noticed that Xavier wasn't really with it. So he asked, “What's the problem, X?”

Xavier took his time answering. The DJ must've gotten the message that the crowd wasn't feeling the third slow tune and dropped a joint by hometown native Big Sean. The dance floor was then bum-rushed by huge numbers of rhythmic swinging arms and feet, kicking fly dance steps.

“Saw one of my homeys popped out, with a straight twist earlier,” Xavier explained in a grim tone.

“He gone?” Romello wanted to know.

“Damn near. Haven't heard the news, but it sure looked like it—all the blood he dropped on me.”

“Dude, you were that close?”

“Yep—was holding pressure onto the wound.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Don't know. All I saw was dude cutting around the corner, with fools wearing ski masks bussing at 'im. Don't know more than that.”

“These fools have lost their minds in the
D
,” Alex added.

“It's like Iraq up in this piece, cuz,” Tyson said.

“Here we go, fellas,” Go Go announced, as he and Arson carefully carried two trays of beverages to their table.

“It's time to get this party started right,” Romello chirped, and then went inside his North Face jacket to remove a pint of 1800 Tequila. “X, I got what you need, baby. This is going to take the chill out of the air.”

“That's what your mama say whenever I walk into her bedroom just wearing my drawers,” Arson said to Romello.

Everybody at the table erupted into laughter.

“Boy, you'll get your head kicked in talking like that,” Romello shot back, smiling.

“How did you bring that up in here—thought they patted you down at the front door?” Xavier asked.

Go Go and Arson set the drinks on the table and everybody went for theirs.

Alex laughed and followed Romello by removing another pint of 1800 Tequila from the inside jacket pocket of his coat. “Ha, wouldn't you like to know, X.”

Romello guzzled down half of the cup, twisted the cap off the bottle, and looked around for security before pouring. “Alex got fam at the front door—that big black bald-headed cat who be patting everybody down is his uncle.”

All of the guys except for Xavier drank themselves under the table for the next hour—an hour that came with the disappointing news that 2 Chainz would not be performing, due to some kind of scheduling conflict. The rest of the teenage crowd might've been waving middle fingers at management in disgust, but Xavier could give a good fart about the live entertainment. He was in the company of good friends. It was fun, too. The rest of the cats were high and talking straight trash to each other.

“Ay, man,” Romello said to no one in particular. He pointed at a girl on the dance floor with a weave that looked like rats had been chewing away at it, dropping
it
like it was hot. “Ain't that Tiffany Baker right there?”

“I—I—I don't know,” Alex slurred. His face had taken on a frozen smiley expression. “Her body's so tight, I wasn't really looking at her grille. My attention was focused on other parts, if you know what I mean. That girl could run up and smack me and I wouldn't know who she was.”

Xavier laughed so hard that he nearly coughed up a lung. “I thought I was sick, but you clowns are hilarious.”

“Yeah, these knuckleheads keep you laughing,” Romello admitted.

A girl walked through the crowd with the subtle grace of a ballerina. It was Samantha. She was gorgeous. When the house lights hit her, it almost seemed like everybody paused to be treated to a taste of what elegance and swagger looked like. The other two girls she was with couldn't even compete.

“Dazam,” Romello said, before asking Xavier, “Ol' stuck up Samantha Fox be looking good, huh?”

“I thought she was new,” Xavier said. “You sound like you know her.”

“I do. My sister used to manage one of their car services,” Romello replied.

“Her parents got that bread,” Alex added.

“You mean the Foxes that own the Fox Hill Furniture chain?” Xavier asked.

“Yep. The very same ones,” Tyson interjected.

Xavier was staring at the girl with his mouth open, eyes dazed. The gears inside his head were turning, churning, trying to figure out the best way to approach her. Let her know that he was feeling her flavor.

It was like Romello was reading Xavier's mind. “Ain't no hope for you on that tip, homeboy. You have to get your paper proper if you're trying to step in her league.” Romello let his eyes roam over Xavier's clothes. He then looked around the table. “Y'all, give me a few minutes. I need to holler at X for a couple of quick hot ones.”

“What's on your mind, Romello?” Xavier asked, looking at the crew get up from the table and blend into the crowd.

“Homey, I've known you too long not to know what you're thinking.” Romello glanced at Samantha on the dance floor, swinging her hips to the music with her girls. “If you want that, I can show you how to get it.”

“Don't need your help on this one. Trust me, I got this,” Xavier said with his voice dripping in bravado.

Romello laughed at him. “The hell you do. No disrespect, X, but if you step to her looking like an old dishrag, you won't make it past her girls.” Romello pointed to Samantha's two friends, Jennifer Haywood and Tracy McIntyre.

Romello leaned in like he had something private to say. “Listen, I've been meaning to holler at you. I know we kicked this around a few times, but I need your help.”

Xavier could hardly tear his eyes away from the smoking-hot, black, slimming dress, slender waist, nice hips, hoop earrings, and stilettos that his copper-complexioned fantasy was wearing.