The Corner II (13 page)

Spivey and Toya, which was short for Tijuana, their secretary, smiled at the sergeant as they caught him ear hustling their boss’ conversation.

Styles nodded and grinned back. “Hey Spivey, hold tight until I’m finished talking with the LT. I gotta holla at ya about something.”

While taking off his shoulder holster that held his Smith & Wesson and slinging it on the back of his chair, Spivey responded, “Hurry it up. Soon as I finish this Philly cheese steak I’m outta here. Gotta hit my spot.”

Spivey was a degenerate gambler and referred to the casinos across the state line as
‘his spot’
so Styles knew that he had to get the cash back from Spivey or some of it could be gone by tonight. Styles blew pissed off air as he glanced at the gold
Lt. Dixon
painted on the window of her door. He said fuck knocking as he entered.

Dixon was just finishing her conversation with the person on the other end. She spun around in the leather chair and hung up the phone. In a stern voice she said, “Sergeant, make that your last time not knocking on my door before entering. Now what is it, do you have my paperwork?”

“I’ll have it for you by day’s end, that’s what I wanted to tell you.” Styles had overheard his lieutenant talking about something that he needed to know. So he figured he’d take a shot and see if she’d give him an answer. “LT, I overheard you talking about an undercover agent in the field. Is he someone from our department or is he fed?”

Pissed that her sergeant was listening to her phone conversation, she decided to keep him out of the loop and piss him off by acting nonchalant about it. “It could be a she. And she could be from our department or the feds. FBI, DEA, ATF, who knows.”

“Well it would be nice to know who they are working on and with.” He held on to his paperwork as he held his arms in a peaceful gesture saying, “You know, so we don’t bump heads.”

“Don’t worry, keep me abreast of everything you’re doing and you won’t,” she smiled as she leaned back in her high back leather chair, drumming her freshly red painted nails on the arm as she smiled.

Not one to show when he was mad, Styles told her, “Cool LT.”  He walked out of the office and headed straight for the exit waving for Spivey to follow.

Spivey told Tiajuana, “Later, I won’t be back today.”

“Okay, Spivey,” the young lady said as she pushed the circle magnet that was next to his name on the big board from in over to out. “And thanks for the cheese steak,” she told him as she picked up the phone to chat with her boyfriend on department time.

“What’s up?” Spivey asked Styles as they stood outside the station.

“Call Rivera and Smith. Tell them to give you the money back, we gotta return it.”

“What the fuck?” Spivey barked, thinking that he needed that money to catch up on child support and to hit the casino.

“LT says the feds are taking over the case. They talked to ol’ boy in lock up and we don’t know if he told them how much cash he had so we gotta get that money back to inventory with the rest of it.”

“Fuck!” Spivey shook his head side to side slowly. “Alright, I’ll ring you when I got it.”

“Okay, I gotta make a run to meet someone.”

They knocked fists then went their separate ways to handle their business—all illegal.

*     *     *

LaTanza got out of her Benz and into Styles’ black 300C that was sitting on twenties. It was a seized vehicle from a drug dealer that he’d arrested last year. He was parked in the lot of a forest preserve out north. The sun was setting and he was ready to call it a day. He and Rivera had plans to hit the bar to meet with a few of their cop friends who were still in the patrol division. Styles always tried to keep friends with different people in the different divisions of the department in case he needed them for anything. Pulling files and or records, having someone in patrol to show up on the scene in a squad car when he and his partners were doing dirt. He would have to kick the officer down, but due to the fact that there were a lot of honest officers, there were only a few that he could trust.

Styles watched as LaTanza stepped out of her Benz. She was in jeans and a fancy tube top. He felt his dick shift a bit as his always-horny ass thought of what it would be like to tap that ass.

LaTanza stepped into his vehicle and closed the door nonchalantly saying, “Damn, another seized vehicle. You guys are putting it to the hard working dealer again, huh?” She noticed his gaze as he was about to speak, but she spoke before he could get what he was going to say out. “It would be the downfall of you.”

“What?” Styles asked, wondering what she was talking about.

“This,” she pointed in between her legs.

“I ain’t thinking about your ass like that. Just keep paying a nigga. Anyway, it’s probably the other way around. You know Pepe ain’t puttin’ it down like that in the bedroom.”

“Watch yourself, just ’cause you the police don’t think you can’t get touched.”

“Whatever, woman,” Styles laughed even though he knew she was serious.

LaTanza didn’t have time to waste with Styles. “What do you have for me?”

He handed her the file he had and all that was in it was two sheets of paper. Styles explained, “All I got back on him was a ticket he got in Indianapolis. A State Trooper pulled him over for speeding on Interstate 465. He’s clean as a whistle. He lives at that address there. DMV has him getting his Illinois license about eight months ago. Prior to that he had an Indiana driver’s license and lived in Indianapolis. He works for Fed Ex. Other than that, nothing.”

“Okay,” was all LaTanza said as she gave the paperwork another look over then she handed it back to Styles.

“She probably met a new nigga since that ballplayer dipped after she got caught up,” Styles commented.

“I don’t give a shit about some fucking athlete,” she hissed.

“I know it’s Slim you want. But hell, not even the Feds been able to catch up with him.”

“I’m not the Feds.”

Styles cell rang. He checked the number. “Hold on for a sec,” he told LaTanza. “Yeah, what’s up?”

It was Rivera on the other end wanting to know why they had to give the money up. Styles told him that he was with someone and couldn’t talk but to do it and he’d explain later. LaTanza reached into her Louie, took out an envelope and tossed it into Style’s lap. It slid to the floorboard. The car chimed as LaTanza opened the door. She walked the short distance to her car. Styles watched as her tight ass switched from side to side. He opened the envelope and thumbed the cash, all fifteen thousand of it. He thought about how fine LaTanza was and how he’d love to tap that ass but knew that under all the beauty and smarts—was the devil
her
damn self.

Three Crews—One City

“
M
y bad about being late, G.” 

“No thang playa,” Greg told Noonie even though he hated meeting Noonie early in the morning to pick up more product and to drop off loot that was made on the corners. Greg was a straight hustler who had visions of being big time but loved being in the street. The two didn’t mix so he stayed in the middle, running the houses for the crew reporting to Slim’s and Lucky’s lieutenants, Noonie and DC. With running the houses came the responsibility of making sure the money was right and enforcing shit. He liked doing that so that’s why he never became a lieutenant because he liked to get grimy at times, fucking with the hood rats, kicking ass to get points across and dumping round after round after round every now and then.

The two were at a low-key family type restaurant in Evergreen Park. Noonie ate at the spot a couple of times a week when he was holding down a job at the Footlocker in the mall, back when he was on probation for stealing a car. He didn’t steal the car but was caught riding with the person who did. He had to maintain a job while he was on probation and as soon as he was done, he quit the twenty-two hour a week bullshit seeing as how he was making money hustling. “How much we pull in?” Noonie asked as he gazed at the menu.

“Man, you do that shit every time,” Greg laughed.

“What?”

“Look at the fuckin’ menu as if you gonna try somethin’ new. Two eggs, two slices of bacon, grits, wheat toast and orange juice. I bet the bill that the waitress already wrote out your order on her pad,” he said as the woman walked toward them.

“Bet.”

“Hey fellas, what will it be?” the older thin black woman asked.

Greg told her, “A cup of coffee to start with and I’ll have the French toast, four sausage links and orange juice.”

“Noonie,” she asked.

He placed his order and she didn’t even bother to write. They noticed and when she walked away, Greg smirked, saying, “Told ya. This one’s on your dollar, homie.”

They received their coffee and while they sipped, Greg told Noonie that the corners had made close to fifteen grand Friday night and that they should do the same or even more tonight since the police had locked up Sammy, the other major hustler in the area. Sammy wasn’t on the same level as Slim, but was a close second and had been expanding his corners fast—a bit too fast. Most of Sammy’s lieutenants and soldiers were gang bangers, and that brought a lot of attention to him and he eventually got caught up. Word on the street was Carlos Fuentes had a woman get close to Sammy and set him up, but that was street talk. The truth was that the killings and all out flashiness that Sammy and his young gangsters he employed had going on was the downfall of him. Now he was sitting in MCC waiting to see what the U.S. Attorney had on him.

“Shit, that nigga Sammy getting locked up was a good thing,” Noonie said.

Greg sipped his coffee then set the cup back on its saucer. “Yeah, I hate when anybody gets locked down but it sure makes for more money out there. Whoever he gets his shit from doesn’t trust any of his crew to front them. So it has been getting dry in his areas. You think Lucky would trip if I moved in on a couple of Sammy’s spots?”

“Yeah, he’d have your ass for some shit like that. It could cause beef between Sammy and us, and a war ain’t what we need right now. Even though he’s locked up we shouldn’t step on his toes. You know that crazy ass nigga, Bone, is in charge, let’s wait and see if Sammy’s sentenced to a long bid then we’ll know how to play this shit. Besides, his customers only have to travel a couple of blocks to get to one of our corners. As a-matter-of fact, I’m gonna send an extra half bird over to the spot on 67
^th
since his spot is about to dry up. Them fiends will be comin’ our way pretty soon.”

The waitress arrived with their food, and they waited until she left to continue talking.

Greg had slathered a ton of butter and was now pouring a lot of maple syrup on his French toast. Noonie’s brow furrowed and now he realized why his partner had gone from a fit and trim football star at Morgan Park high school to a chubby, always-sporting Sean John and Roca Wear, hustler. As he poured he told Noonie, “That’s cool fam. We gonna make our paper regardless.”

“All good, and another thing, I need you to kick DC that money you made off John John.”

“What?” Greg asked and the syrup pouring immediately stopped as he wondered if he’d heard his man right. He leaned back and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Shiiiit, I made them ends straight up. I hit your boy up three times, three times too many to come make that loot. That square John John was on the clock with his job and time is money.”

“I know. You did the right thing, homie. But Lucky got us testing that nigga, John, and a lot of that money goes to him. Also, he ain’t a square.”

Greg’s fork clinked on his plate, and he wiped his mouth with his napkin as he leaned back in his chair. He was obviously pissed for having to give up the unexpected thousands that he’d made. But Noonie and DC were his boys, and if it wasn’t for them putting him on and welcoming him into the crew, he wouldn’t be living plush now.

His attitude changed and he smiled saying, “You niggas know you owe me, right? Y’all got money to pay him back but it’s cool, I understand. And ya boy is a square. Making money off them birds and still punchin’ a clock.”

“That’s called being smart. He’s stackin’ his loot. Anyway we thinkin’ about putting his ass on in the crew, we just gotta get it blessed by Lucky first.”

They pounded fists then continued to eat. Once they were done they got into the other car and drove off. Noonie took the money to Frank who would pay all the ranking officers their cut and then take Lucky his share, and he’d put away Slim’s cut.

Night had fallen, and it had been a long day for Noonie, and he’d been away from Chantel for too long. With all that was going on in the streets, Noonie needed the one thing that soothed him, his Chantel.

He walked into his Gold Coast condo, locked the door behind him and took off his shoes. He walked toward the kitchen and his feet sank in the plush white carpet that felt as if it was two inches thick. He was young and had it going on, cars, condos, jewelry and money, which brought power, which in turn brought respect. He also had what all ballers of his status needed, a fine ass woman. Chantel was a thing of beauty, hour glass figure, flawless pecan skin and shoulder length hair that she’d wear naturally or in braids. She also had a head on her shoulders. Blessed with book, common and street sense. Noonie loved her more than anything and felt blessed that she’d come into his life.