Authors: Silhouettes

Street Soldier 2 (3 page)

BOOK: Street Soldier 2

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“Whose radio is this?” I asked with my hand already touching the cord to unplug it from the outlet.

“Mine,” one lady said. “Is there a problem?”

I snatched the plug from the outlet. “Yeah, there's a problem. My electric bill is already too high.”

The lady pursed her lips, but didn't give me any gripe. I could hear some of the others whispering under their breath. Good or bad comments, I didn't care. I kept it moving to my office, but stopped as I smelled something horrible coming from the bathroom. When I opened the door, vomit was all over the floor. The stench made my stomach turn, and I swear I wanted to throw these women and their kids out of my establishment. I was sure somebody knew who the hell had thrown up, but was too damn lazy to clean it up. I went to the closet to get a mop and bucket. But as soon as I strolled the bucket of water with Pine-Sol in it into the bathroom, my neighbor and fuck partner, Francine, came up from behind.

“I thought I'd find you here,” she said, looking down at the vomit. She could see the irritated look on my face, and without saying one word, she took the mop from my hand. “Go sit down. I got this. I've been looking for you for a while, but didn't see you.”

“I went to the liquor store, then stopped at my mama's house. Why were you lookin' for me?”

Francine rolled the mop around on the floor while frowning. She was a bit on the chubby side, but was cute as hell. Had a round face with curly hair that was kind of molded into an afro. I had a thing for Jill Scott, and Francine definitely took me there. Plus, she had a motherly thing about her that I loved. Simply put, she was nice. Kind of took care of me, and looked out for me all the time. When she'd cook something, she always brought me a taste of whatever she cooked. She gave me good advice, but one thing we had in common was being messy. Her studio apartment wasn't what I would call spotless, but it was decent. We clicked better with each other because she was only twenty-two, two years older than me. The fact that she was a stone-cold freak made me appreciate her even more.

“I wanted to tell you that Mr. Jefferson came by looking for his rent money. Did you forget he was coming?” she asked.

I stood in the doorway, and patted my back pocket for the money order I'd gotten earlier for my rent. “No, I didn't forget. He just be showin' up and expectin' people to always be home when he get here. I'll drop it in his mailbox when I go back upstairs.”

“Well, I told him I would remind you. I know you have a lot on your plate, and you sometimes forget about things. Just like you forgot about taking me to the grocery store last week. I caught the bus, but it wasn't no fun lugging all those groceries back from Aldi.”

“I already apologized for that. Had some business to tend to. You should have reminded me.”

“Business like what? Screwing Jenay's old ass? I saw her creeping out of your apartment, but you know I'm not gon' trip, right?”

“I should plead the fifth, only because you don't want me to comment about nobody creepin' in and out of your apartment, do you?”

Francine smiled, knowing that she kept niggas running in and out of her apartment. She had a high sex drive and was the first to admit it. Her being with other men in no way bothered me, and if anything, what we had was all about getting sexual pleasure. She could suck the skin off my dick, and as good as her head job was, she was free to do it any time.

“No, don't comment,” she said, laughing. “I catch your drift, but you still played me though.”

“Not intentionally.”

“Maybe not, but I was still left ...”

Francine continued to talk, but I didn't pay her much attention because from the doorway I could see Miss Poetry getting out of her Ford Focus. I figured she was back to cause trouble. She headed my way, but I turned my head in another direction.

“I know you see me,
boy
,” she said. “Why you turn your head?”

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, pretending as if I would use it to call the police. Surely, though, this chick I could handle. “What do you want? Why you keep buggin' me, ma?” I asked.

“What I want, you can't give me. That would be a decent man, who stands up and protects a woman when need be.”

“Protect women? Maybe. Hoodrats? No. Sorry, and if it applies, don't be mad at me.”

Francine had stepped outside of the bathroom to see who I was talking to. She glanced at Poetry, who seemed angry, but still looked sexy as hell. Poetry put her hand on her hip while staring at Francine.

“Can I help you with something?” Poetry asked.

“Nope,” Francine said, handing the mop over to me. “I'm going back to my apartment. Have fun and see you later.” She wiggled her fingers at me, waving good-bye, but cut her eyes at Poetry.

For the hell of it, I playfully smacked Francine on her meaty ass, causing all of it to jiggle. She couldn't help but blush. “Prince, you need to quit,
boy
. Bye.”

I winked and let out a sigh as my attention turned back to Miss Attitude who kept running her mouth. “I assume you were referring to the woman from earlier as a hoodrat, so I'ma let what you said slide,” she said. “The real reason why I came back was to show you what your money paid for and to thank you for being so kind.”

She held out her hands, just so I could see her perfectly polished nails. Then she had the nerve to look down and wiggle her toes that were visible by the thong sandals she wore. The polish was a lime green with designs on it.

“Now, that's some ugly shit,” I said, walking away from her and into my office.

“Ugly,” she shouted, following me. “How can you say my nails look ugly? You probably don't know nothing about polish anyway so forget you.”

“I know enough to say that shit on your fingers and toes look awful. I thought you were ghetto before, but now I'm much more convinced.”

She couldn't wait to start rolling her neck, even though I was just playing with her. “Ghetto? You think I'm ghetto? Negro, please. You're the one ghetto, and look at how you dressed. Jeans all sagging. Shirt too damn big. Name all jacked up, and who in the hell go around answering to Prince? The only Prince I know is from the 1970s or 80s. He sang âPurple Rain,' and unlike him, you do not have it like that to be calling yourself no Prince.”

“Oh, I got it like that, bet. A Prince I am, and Prince I will always be.” I removed my white oversized T-shirt that covered the carved muscles on my chest. S
TREET S
OLDIER
was still tattooed down my chest and my mother's name, Shante, was scripted on there as well. With my jeans hanging low, Poetry got a good look at my body that I always kept in shape and cut to perfection. Her eyes were glued to me, but her lips were pursed.

“I guess your mouth is twisted because you need to contain those liquids formin' in your mouth,” I said. “And a shirt or pants don't make a
man
ghetto, the way he conducts himself does. Just like the way you do. By your actions, I have to assume that you are Princess Ghetto and it appears that you wear your crown well.”

Poetry dropped her hand from her hip, but folded her arms across her chest instead. The rolling of her neck ceased. “That's fair, but ghetto or not, you like it.”

I cocked my head back. “Tuh. What makes you think that?”

“'Cause I know these kinds of things. But since you prefer to play hard to get, I'ma leave you with this.” She reached into her pocket. “Here's your hundred dollars back. Like I said, I was just fuckin' wit' you, and I don't need your money. And I got something else for you, too.”

I took the hundred from her, waiting to see what else she had. She went back into her purse and reached for a pen on my desk to write something. She reached out to give the piece of paper to me. I took it.

“That's my phone number,” she said. “If you're interested, use it. If not, your loss.”

Poetry turned to walk away, and I couldn't help myself from taking a look at her nice ass that fit well into her torn jeans that showed some skin peeking through the holes.

“Poetry,” I said, this time walking behind her. She turned and I happily tore up her number and dropped it in the trash can beside me. I swiped my hands together. “Thanks, but no thanks. You got too much attitude for me, and
girls
like you don't move me.”

She snapped her fingers. “Damn. If chubby ones did, I was so sure I would too. But like I said, your loss,
boy
, not mine.”

She walked out, leaving me to wonder if I had made a big mistake by tossing out her number. I revisited all that had happened today, pretty positive that I'd done the right thing. To me, she was trouble. Trouble that I didn't need.

Chapter Three

The Past Is Never Behind Me ...

I was lying on my sofa sleeper with the windows wide open. No breeze was stirring and the blue sheer curtains were at standstill. Sweat ran from my forehead and since the air conditioner was broke, I regretted giving Mr. Jefferson my rent money. He hadn't come by to fix the air since I'd reported it broken three days ago. This was the kind of shit that frustrated me the most, and when it came to me spending my money, I expected things to be taken care of. The only complaint that I didn't have right now was with Francine. As I sat with gripes about what wasn't going right, there was no doubt that I was pleased with her skillfully sucking my dick. She had it gripped with her hands, taking it all in like a pro. My eyes were fluttering and I couldn't tell if the sweat was from being so hot from the stuffy room, or from what she was doing to me. I felt like I was in a coma. Didn't dare to move and my mouth was sealed tight.

“I know, Prince,” she said, taking a few seconds to break. “You like ... love this, don't you?”

All I did was nod. Francine inched me to the verge of busting a nut, and when she felt my dick pulsating, she backed away from it. She straddled my lap, and lifted her ruffled skirt above her hips. I had all hips and ass in my hands, trying to maneuver my hard muscle into her wetness as she squatted. She slammed down on me several times, causing my body to jerk from her aggressiveness.

“Damn, ma. Take it easy. What's the rush?” I asked.

“No rush,” she said. “I just like fucking you, that's all.”

With that, I kept my mouth shut, and let Francine do her thing. By the time we were done, which was about an hour later, the smell of sweaty sex filled my entire studio apartment and I had blown through three condoms. I'm not saying it wasn't worth it, but as Francine lay sprawled out on my sofa sleeper, asleep, it was time for her to go. I wanted to go check on Nate at the liquor store and there was no way I was leaving anyone in my apartment without me being there. I shook her shoulder, causing her to roll over on her back and yawn.

“What time is it?” she asked, stretching her arms.

“Almost seven in the
P.M.
I need to go check on the store, so I'ma need you to jet. We can hook up later, all right?”

Francine tossed the covers aside and quickly got dressed. We both headed down the hardwood-covered hallway that led to an elevator. As soon as it opened, Jenay stepped off, smiling and speaking to both me and Francine. I spoke, but Francine didn't.

“Be good, Prince,” was all Jenay said and kept it moving. The upside to her was that she didn't give a fuck about nothing. She minded her own business and was cordial to everyone in the building. Yeah, she knew what time it was with me and Francine, but she wasn't the kind of woman to trip off no twenty-year-old and who I was fucking. I liked that shit about her, and her maturity played a big part in us having a connection that suited both of us. We only fucked when she wanted to, and that was more rare than one would think, only because Jenay was bisexual. She loved women more than she did men, but still required some dick from time to time. I was definitely down with that, and since she'd let me in on a few of her threesomes before, I wasn't one to complain.

I crossed over Union Boulevard, making my way to the other side of the street. Like clockwork, Nate was behind the counter waiting on several customers. The only time he took a break was for lunch. Either I would come to the store to relieve him, or he would close the store for an hour. His one-bedroom apartment was above the liquor store and that was to both of our benefits. I had someone I could depend on, and I paid him well for being just as committed to my business as I was.

“Sup,” he said, tossing his head back as I opened the door to go behind the counter with him. I slammed my hand against his, laughing at the way he was dressed. For him, wearing blue jean bibs, Stacy Adams, and a baseball cap was the style. He was too old school for me but I guessed at fifty-nine years old he felt his attire was appropriate.

“You know you be killin' me,” I said, sitting on the stool behind him. Nate knew exactly what I was talking about, because I had shot him down several times about the clothes he wore.

“What did I tell you,” he said. “You don't know nothin' about the way a for-real man is supposed to dress, and the only thing you got goin' on is that diamond in your ear. You around here with those saggin'-ass clothes on, tryin' to look hip, but lookin' like a slouch. I ain't never seen you in one thing I would have worn back in my day, and when I tell you this Negro right here had it goin' on, I mean it.”

I laughed as Nate got back to waiting on the customers. This time, a woman was short ninety-two cents for her items and he looked over at me. “She short. I normally don't let nobody slide, but ...”

“I don't care if she's short a penny. I need to get paid, man, and unless you want me to take it out of your salary, go ahead and make the call.”

He looked at the woman who stood with an attitude. Nate was like meâhe didn't like women with attitude or those looking for freebees. Obviously, she fucked herself without knowing it. “Sorry, babes. You gon' have to put somethin' back. We expect full payment in here.”

“Not always,” she challenged. “You let my friend get some stuff on credit last week. But you gon' trip with me over ninety-something cents? Just cancel my stuff. I'll go elsewhere.”

“I don't have a problem with that, Miss Lady. And just so you know, ain't nobody came in here and gotten shit on credit. Y'all need to learn how to pay up or stay the hell out of here. Now move out of the way so I can wait on other payin' customers.”

The woman stormed off after snatching her change from the revolving window. “People always want somethin' for nothin'. Do you know how many times that kind of shit go down in here? I don't know why they think I'ma give them somethin' for free.”

I laid the word find puzzle book on the counter and bent down to circle the word I'd found. “Maybe because you've been in here givin' people stuff away on credit. That's what she said, ain't it?”

“I know you don't believe that shit, do you?”

“Hell, nah. That's just to get you to give her somethin'. I like how you handled that, and male or female ... if they ain't got the money, they don't get the product.”

Nate slammed his hand against mine and continued to wait on customers. I worked my puzzle then got up to use the bathroom. No sooner than I returned, I heard some fools outside of the liquor store arguing. I looked through the window to take a peek. Nate didn't seem alarmed by the ongoing threats that were coming from outside, and when he eyeballed the twelve-gauge shotgun that was leaned against the counter for protection, I knew he had us covered.

“What can I get you, sir?” he asked the older gentleman who didn't respond because he was listening to the ongoing ruckus outside. And, before we all knew it, several people rushed inside to prevent themselves from being hit by the stray bullets that were piercing the air outside.

“Get down on the floor,” one man shouted while shielding a woman next to him.

“Damn!” a lady said while yelling for her kids to get on the floor. Nate had the shotgun in his hand and I dropped to the floor, dialing 911. As the sound of screeching tires took off, many of the customers quickly got up and rushed toward the door. But, before they made it outside, the begging crackhead from the other day came in holding the bullet wound on his side.

“Suuumbody, call for help,” he said, before dropping face first to the floor. Blood covered his white T-shirt and ran down on his dirty and greasy jeans.

Nate and I rushed to help the man. The others stood in shock, looking at the man who appeared to be fighting hard for his life. “Everybody get outside,” Nate yelled. “Get these kids out of here and stop standin' around lookin'!”

Nate held the man in his arms, and I rushed outside looking down Union Boulevard to see if the police were coming. I called 911 again, this time telling the dispatcher that an ambulance was needed.

The policed arrived, then, ten minutes after that, an ambulance did. Five more minutes after that, the news reporters were pulling up, trying to get a story for the ten o'clock news. As soon as the police arrived, I became scarce. I didn't want anyone questioning me about anything, and the farther away from them I stayed, the better. Nate already knew the routine. The liquor store belonged to him, he didn't know nothing, and he didn't see nothing. Nobody was snitching, even though the majority of us had seen the gray 2004 Chevy Trailblazer that pulled away. I had the license plate number stuck in my head, but in my head it would stay.

From across the street, I leaned against the front of my laundromat, watching as the man who was shot was put into an ambulance. It looked as if he had a chance to survive, and if he did, maybe something of this magnitude would be a signal for him to clean up his act and get off the streets. Then, I saw two chicks who were in the store with their kids talking to a news reporter. This was their chance to make it big time like Antoine Dobson and they knew it. One straightened her lace-front wig that was tilted on her head, and the other kept yelling for her kids to move out of the way. The reporter loved every bit of having the two ghetto tricks on camera and she sucked it up.

“Tell us again what happened,” the reporter said, preparing herself to switch the microphone to one of the chick's mouth. “Was he shot in or outside of the liquor store?”

The woman exaggerated, and did her best to get as much camera time as she could. “The dudes who shot him ran up in the liquor store like they were some kind of Mafia or somethin'. Da blasted the man right in the store and me and my babies were inside lookin' at everything that happened. Our kids were petrified and ain't no way they gon' sleep tonight after seein' somethin' like that. This mess is a shame and these nig ... folks need to get it together.”

“Damn right,” the other chick said, nearly pushing the other one out of the way. “We can't even walk to the store with our kids without gettin' shot at. That bullet almost hit my daughter and it was this close to her head. A posse of them fools ran up in there, blasting bullets with masks coverin' da faces. We didn't get a good look at dem, but da were throwin' up gang signs and everythang.”

I shook my damn head and had heard enough. But as soon as I was getting ready to go inside of the laundromat, a young black male reporter headed my way.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “May I speak to you for a minute and ask you some questions?”

I hesitated, but pulled up my sagging cargo shorts and flattened my flowing waves with my hand. My black wife beater tightened around my chest, so I deemed myself as being appropriate for TV.

“I see you've been standing out here for a while,” he said. “Did you see what happened today, or did you know the victim who was shot and is in critical condition ?”

I cleared my throat as he held the mic close to my mouth. “No, I didn't see what happened, but I do go to P's laundromat and his liquor store across the street on Union Boulevard all the time. The laundromat dries my clothes for free and the environment is always calm, cool, and collected. The liquor store has some of the cheapest prices in town andâ”

The reporter cut me off, as he suspected that the only thing I was interested in was promoting. “So, you didn't know the victim?”

“No, but I do know that the owner of the liquor store is a man who truly cares about this community. Sometimes he allows customers to get things on credit and ifâ”

“Thank you, sir,” the reporter said, lowering his mic and walking off.

I guess I wasn't talking the nonsense he wanted to hear, so I went inside and looked across the street from afar. As I watched the charade continue outside, my cell phone vibrated. I looked at the flashing number, and seeing that it was Mama I answered.

“Prince, what are you doing on the news? What in the hell happened?”

“A man got shot and came into my store. I called the police.”

“Is he gon' be all right?”

“I think so, but I'm not sure.”

“Well, as long as you're okay, that's all I'm concerned about. You looked good on TV, too, and I called some of my girlfriends already and told them to watch the news. Those other two tricks, Lawd have mercy! They didn't make their mamas proud, and who in the hell told them to get in front of the cameras?”

“Don't know, Mama, but I need to go check on Nate to make sure he's okay. I'll hit you back later.”

“Okay. But, when you come by tomorrow bring me a couple of beers and a carton of Virginia Slims.”

“Did I say I was comin' by tomorrow? I may not make it until the weekend.”

“Come on, Prince. I'm not gon' beg, but I'm over here having a nicotine fit. If you don't ...”

“Enough said, Mama. Tomorrow. Now, I gotta go.”

BOOK: Street Soldier 2

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