Trickery (15 page)

“Yo why you always on my fuckin’
dick
, Trey? Who the fuck is you? I’m tellin’ you man, you need to stay outta my fuckin’ bizzness, ya heard? You don’t know me, niggah! You don’t fuckin’
know
me!”

Trey froze as he stared down into the cold, empty eyes that squinted up at him in rage. The truth was in those eyes, clear as day. He had failed this cat. Lost him. Maleek’s soul had been eaten by the streets, and his brother Mayhem was prolly rolling over in his fuckin’ grave.

“You better check ya’self,” Trey warned the boy as he tried to slow his own breathing. “That little girl was fourteen, yo. And she was innocent. You keep fuckin’ around like you doing and you gone be headed upstate for good. Believe that.”

“I didn’t fuckin’ do nothing!” Maleek barked from the ground. From where Trey stood the boy resembled a cornered animal. He looked like one, he sounded like one, and he smelled like one too.

Trey just nodded. He got it now. He got it. Maleek, Flex, and that whole fuckin’ squad was throwed off. All them lil cats was bent.

“A’ight. Run that ‘didn’t do nothin’ shit on the fuckin’ judge when the blue boys roll up on you and bust yo ass. If you was any kind of man you would go ahead and turn yourself in ’cause I’m done fuckin’ with you, Leek. I’m done.”

A disrespectful noise burst from Maleek’s lips as Trey turned and headed back down the steps. He had only made it down three steps when Maleek reached deep into the waistband of his jeans and pulled out a glistening silver Beretta. Wrenching his bruised body into a sitting position, he gripped the tool with both hands and pressed his right index finger to the trigger action and aimed.

“Pow,” the boy whispered as he sighted an imaginary bulls-eye target on the center of Trey’s back and pretended to fire his gat. “Pow!”

CHAPTER 16

A dusty white van with painted-over windows rolled down 125th Street at a moderate pace. From the outside it appeared no different than any other vehicle moving through Harlem’s Saturday morning traffic, but inside there were two bloody and naked men with their wrists shackled together in handcuffs.

“Y’all niggahs is making a big mistake,” the larger of the two young dudes spit through his busted lips. His name was Boog, and him and his partner Rome had been on their way to the count room at Three Brother’s Funeral Home to make their customary money drop, when suddenly some old smelly bum had rushed up to them and started grabbing all on their clothes and hollering some crazy shit about the world coming to an end.

Boog and Rome had dropped the grub they were munchin’ on and started kicking the shit outta the bum-ass dude, when outta nowhere a van pulled up at the curb and mad niggahs rushed out and snatched both of their asses inside. The next thing Boog knew their drop bags full of drug money got ripped outta their crotches, and then both of them got straight-up stripped outta their trendy new clothes. Them fools even yanked them outta their drawers!

Boog trembled in rage and embarrassment as them crazy niggahs joked him about his flabby, ashy body. This is what the fuck he got for listening to that bent niggah Maleek. He’d known better than to violate a business that was protected by the Talented Ten, but Maleek had insisted he had shit covered. Covered hell! Where was that niggah now that the retribution was about to go down?

“Y’all cats is making a big mistake taking them drop bags!” Boog hollered again. “We down with that dude Flex! You fuck with that niggah’s money and ya dead! Ya heard? Ya dead!”

“Shut ya fat ass up!” Fizz Williams barked. He was breathing hard from the ass-kicking he had just laid on the two naked men. Him and his boyz had watched them come outta a local Chinese restaurant gnawing on jumbo shrimp and greasy fried chicken wings, and proudly sporting the gear that they had stolen from Empire Attire’s delivery truck. 

“Pull over right here,” Fizz reluctantly instructed the van’s driver. Him and Hill had wanted to snuff these two fools out and dump their dead bodies in the East River, but boss man Trey had vetoed that idea.

“Nah, don’t plant ’em,” Trey had forbidden him. “We just gonna send our manz Flex a lil message, that’s all.”

The van came to a stop on a packed-out portion of 125th Street. Vendors, shoppers, and every day Harlemites were crowding the streets in droves. Fizz grabbed Rome’s wrist and unlocked his cuffs. He slid the door open and planted his big foot so deep in the boy’s chest that he flew out the door and landed hard on the concrete, his naked back slapping painfully against the ground as his shriveled-up dick and balls jiggled freely.

A lady screamed, and a bunch of young dudes selling mix tapes started laughing real loud. Rome rolled over onto his stomach, then jumped to his feet and hauled ass down the block with the sound of loud laughter rising in the air behind him.

“Yo, you kickin’ us outta this bitch naked?” Boog shouted in disbelief as his wrists were freed too. He grabbed desperately for the jeans he had been stripped out of, as Fizz brought his knee up hard under his chin and sent a semi-circular arc of blood spraying from his mouth.

“These is my boss’s muthafuckin’ clothes!” Fizz screeched, wanting for all the world to plant a hot one in that niggah’s chest. Instead of kicking Boog out the door, he lifted his saggy body under the arms and hurled his fat ass out into the street, frowning in satisfaction as brakes squealed and tires screeched as drivers tried to avoid running that fool over.

Boog had attracted mad attention, and all eyes were on him as he lay naked in the street. He balled up into a knot and shrank inside himself as a bootleg taxi sped past and clipped his shoulder. He jumped to his feet and tried to cover his dick and balls as he darted toward the curb with everybody laughing and pointing at his loose, ashy ass.

With blood running from his mouth and dripping down his chin, Boog ran up to the first young cat he saw and collared him with one hand.

“Gimme ya fuckin’ pants!” he demanded hysterically as the crowd of people stared at his flabby bare ass. “Give ’em up goddamn it, or I’ll shoot ya ass!”

Dude looked him up and down and stiff-armed the shit outta him.

“Shoot me with what, homey? Ya flabby, stretch-marky dick?” He raised his knee and put his foot in Boog’s stomach, pushing him off. “Get ya jiggly ass the fuck outta here!”

With the sound of laughter tormenting his ears, Boog stumbled backwards with embarrassment leaking from every pore on his exposed body. Once again he was the ugly fat kid, and his worst nightmare had suddenly come true. He glanced around and saw a wino leaning against a light pole and sipping from a bottle of cheap drank. Dude had on a faded trench coat that was so grimy and caked with dirt that it looked stiff. He rushed over and slapped the bottle from the old man’s hands, then jerked the coat down his back and tried to tear it off his body.

Desperately, Boog tried to stick his arm through the coat sleeve, but he quickly realized that he was way too fat. With tears of rage forming in his eyes, he gave up and wrapped the coat around his waist as best he could, and then he took off running down the block.

$$$$$

Daydreaming about her growing romance with Slick Sallie and deep in economic scheme mode, Money-Making Monique was walking toward the avenue when a naked dude ran past her and damn near knocked her down.

“Damn, niggah!” she stumbled and hollered at the sight of his fat ass jiggling down the street while he tried to cover the front of his body with a trench coat. “Watch where the hell you going, dude!”

Shaking her bomb booty in a five-hundred dollar designer skirt, Monique kept on tipping down the street as she tried to figure out exactly what to do about her little issue. Life was really looking up for her now that she had a paid white boy eating outta her ass, and if Sallie’s shit was as legit as she thought it was, then she damn sure wouldn’t be slumming around Harlem much longer.

But before she left the Big Apple there was some unfinished business that Monique needed to attend to, and no matter how sweet the road ahead was looking for her and her new boo, there was no way in hell she was gonna leave Harlem without paying that snake-eyed bitch Salida back for all the conniving, double-crossing, and humiliating shit she had done to her.

Just thinking about Salida made Monique’s face get hot as she waited at a corner for the light to change so she could cross the street. She had tussled, fussed, and scuffled with a whole lotta bitches in her day, but she had never hated a chick as much as she hated Salida.

All that fake love the bitch had shown her. The lies about them being partners for life. The empty promises to hook her up with some big-time cash. Monique didn’t even wanna think about the way Salida had pulled a gat on her and mushed her forehead in. Or about how she had been forced to stand up at the stove after Bilal ran over the old bitch, and cook Salida’s meals morning, noon, and night.

Speaking of cooking, a small idea began forming in Monique’s brain as she crossed the busy intersection, and by the time she was on the other side of the street a sly smile was playing on her lips. Yeah, Salida liked it when people waited on her and cooked for her, and slaved over her like she was some type of queen. It didn’t matter how much you did for the bitch, or how nice you were to her, her greedy ass sucked up your kindness and then demanded more.

Monique was giggling under her breath now. She could barely hold her laughter in. She was gonna wait on Salida’s ass, alright. She would give that throwed-off bitch something that would make her feel real special. Something that had been made especially for her.

“Yeah!” Monique pumped her fist and shouted out loud, ignoring the curious looks she got from people on the sidewalk. She had something for that crusty old heffah. Something that was gonna blow her rotten-ass mind!

CHAPTER 17

It was a real sweet plan if Flex had to say so himself. Tapping Maleek as his ninth man was a slick, bold move, and it had definitely gotten the attention he had intended it to get. Right about now, that community-organizing niggah Trey was all over Flex’s dick hoping he could pull Maleek outta the game.

Trey had sent him a message earlier saying they needed to have a face-to-face, and Flex was on his way to meet with him right now. They were gonna hold court at a Chinese restaurant down near South Street Seaport, and although Flex had used the spot for business transactions many times before, he still made sure to get there much earlier than he had to. His chief of security had checked the place out thoroughly, then posted his team in strategic spots that covered their boss from every angle.

Trey was part of a known click. The Talented Ten were businessmen first, but they were gutter all the same. They held down their side of the street and were known to pounce when they needed to.

Flex had expected Trey to post up in the joint at least ten deep. Instead, the muscled-up ex-baller slid in alone, which made Flex respect him way more than he wanted to. He watched as Trey took his time following Dre to the table he was sitting at in the far back corner of the room. In a way, Trey was almost family. Next to crazy Jimmy Stanfield, Trey’s brother Cooter had been the best dawg Flex had ever had.

But Trey was nothing like his brother. Cooter was older and grimier, and he had been deeply entrenched in the street life. That niggah was so loyal to the game that he had stayed on G’s team even after G had his sister Charlene bumped off in an alley and discarded in a Dumpster.

Trey was built real different. He had set his sights on playing professional ball, and when he ran into that lil trouble over his manz Mayhem and got sent upstate to do him a lil bid, he had come back to Harlem on some kinda “Ungowa” Black Power trip. 

Flex was all about blacks being in power, and the only real beef he had with Cooter’s brother was the fact that they always seemed to be going after the same thing at the same time. They both wanted the cream of the crop. The best and brightest and most beautiful that Harlem had to offer, and whether it came down to having Juicy, or controlling the dun duns on the street, only one of them could come out a winner and take home the prize.

These were the thoughts on Flex’s mind as Trey sat down in the chair across from him. Killer vs. Killer, they stared into each other’s eyes. Trey made the first move. His big hands hit the table with a thud as he got right down to it.

“I thought I told you Maleek was off the table, yo?”

“I thought I told you not to be in my bizzness, ay?” Flex shot right back.

Trey leaned forward and grilled him for a few cold seconds.

“Leek is just a kid, man.” He chuckled and then shook his head and went in hard. “Yo, your ass is just a kid too, son!”

Flex felt his face turn to stone. Trey was Cooter’s blood, but that wouldn’t stop him from peeling this muh’fucka’s wig back. The cool steel of his burner pressed into his side and made his skin tingle. Flex took a deep break and tried to get himself under control. This niggah had one more time to try to son him. It was dead disrespectful.

“Maleek is a soldier,” Flex said finally. “Soldiers go to war.”

“Soldiers take orders too,” Trey barked. “So order him to sit the fuck down.”

Flex shrugged. He knew how bad Trey wanted the kid off the streets. “Now why would I do some shit like that, man? Maleek is one of my most fearless, most reliable troops.”

“Yo, I heard about what happened to that kid Truth,” Trey said quietly, coming outta the blue. “He got popped on a busy street in broad daylight. Right outside the G-Spot. Maleek wouldn’t have nothing to do with that, would he?”

Flex shrugged again, lookin’ like he could give less than a fuck about what Trey was saying. “Maleek is a soldier,” he repeated. “Sometimes soldiers go to war.”

“Cut him loose, Flex,” Trey said point-blank. “Maleek is talented. He could make it outta here. Cut him loose.”

“Oh you right about that,” Flex agreed as he mentally assessed how strong his bargaining power was. Maleek was highly valuable. Give him an order and he would jump right on it. Leap all over that shit. Without the slightest regard or concern for his personal safety or anybody else’s. “Maleek’s got a whole lot of talent, that’s word.”