West End Girls (5 page)

“Don't mind that foo. He's full o' the yay,” Finest said, sensing her discomfort.

Sinclair sat with her hands clasped in her lap. Her tightly interwined fingers must have been a dead giveaway.

“I was just playing. My dick ain't hard. I mean, it's hard but . . .” Finest grinned widely, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Finest, I'm a big girl. I'm not thinking about them niggas. Ain't nothing jumping off here!” Sinclair tried her best to sound tough, like Tanqueray. “So if they got business to handle, they better handle it themselves.” She jerked her neck slightly. “'Cuz, umm, this here ain't no party.”

“
Hubbbaaaa, baybeeee,
” So-an'-so sang, high on coke, interrupting Sinclair's brave front. “Fuck! It's hot in
hurrrr
,” he bellowed loudly, pushing the button to lower the dark window.

Finest immediately rolled it back up. “You must want the cops to pull us over. Must be fuckin' sick . . . must be, foo.”

“Cool it, Finest. He's messed up. Nigga need some air. It's hot as a mug back here, and then baby gets in, done took a bath in Body Works ‘n' shit, sucking up all the air with her ‘
purday
stank.' ”

Sinclair began, “I'm sorry. I didn't know—”

Finest raised his hand to silence her. “You don't have to explain anything to them niggas. You riding with me in my car, and so that's all they need to know.”

Sinclair sat back satisfied that Finest had taken care of the situation and wasn't going to let anything happen to her.

The ride over the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge into the city was a quiet one. So-an'-so had finally passed out after a few more swigs from the bottle of Hennessy they'd been passing around.

Sinclair had eventually lost her resilience and taken the offer of a sip after the third time the bottle was shoved into her face. She wasn't much of a drinker, although many of the white girls she went to school with thought it was cool to lift a bottle of something or other from their daddy's liquor cabinets for them to drink on and giggle after a game. So, after a few sips from the boy's bottle, her head was spinning just a little. Her mind drifted into a blur, occasionally focusing on Finest's exchanges with his friends in the backseat.

Friends . . .
Sinclair missed her school friends, the laughter and fun times hanging out at school. Even though much of it was fake on her part, it made her feel good to be accepted.

Sinclair could walk the walk and talk the talk, which was the only thing that mattered. She was book-smart and got good grades, so nobody questioned anything. Even her clothes were considered “shabby chic,” even though they were Target “specials.” It wasn't as if Sinclair didn't have her game tight. Her life was a perfect façade during school hours, and she felt like she had the whole pretense down pat. It wasn't as if they hung out after school or during the summer, so none of her preppy friends realized she was from the ghetto. Only one of her white friends, Felicia Armstrong, knew, but she never told anyone in their little circle of friends. Maybe Felicia had her own secrets. Who knew? But she treated Sinclair's address like a big secret.

Although, Sinclair had never asked herself if she was ashamed of the Palemos, she was glad that none of her school friends had come there to hang out. All of them seemed content to see her at school or at games. Living the lie she had been living until now, she'd never really thought about where she lived as being an issue. No, not until this very moment. The neighborhood she was forced to now call home was clearly the hood.

Looking around however, she realized they were no longer in the poor side of the world. She wondered where she was.

Finest brought the big vehicle to a stop, the locks opened with a click, and he and Floyd stepped out.

“What about him?” Sinclair pointed over her shoulder at the young boy falling over in the seat after Floyd moved from next to him. He didn't look much older than her.

“Fuck 'im. Be right back, baby. Don't get out.” Finest slid his dark glasses on, and he and Floyd walked away from the car and disappeared around the corner.

Glancing at the boy passed out in the seat, a strange sensation came over her.
What if he's dead
? “So-an'-so?” she called softly.

The boy didn't move.

“I wonder where we are?” she asked softly, hoping he could hear. “Oh, and don't get sick in this car, okay.” She turned back around, pushing the seat back and closing her eyes, giving into the contact high and the alcohol that filled her system. Maybe if she went to sleep she'd wake up from this dream. It wasn't quite a nightmare yet, but if So-an'-so was dead, this could all change real quick. She thought,
Touch him to see if he's dead. Please, who you think I am?

It took forever for Finest and Floyd to return. Sinclair was awakened by them climbing into the van. The looks on their faces read
devilment
, but it wasn't for her to ask any questions. And neither Finest nor Floyd said a word the entire ride back to the
P
, to Malcolm's house.

Actually Sinclair wanted to go home, but passing the rubble that was once her house, the lot surrounded by yellow caution strips, reminded her that home no longer existed. She quickly turned her head as they drove past.

Finest didn't seem to care that she was devastated by the sight, and Floyd, well, he was just riding as if deaf and dumb. And dumber.

Sinclair was still worried about So-an'-so, who'd not yet awaken after all this time. When they pulled up to Malcolm's house and she stepped out of the big SUV, she was scared to look back there.

Malcolm had obviously seen or heard them pull up and came out of the house. Seeing Sinclair riding shotgun with Finest, his expression was one of surprise. Sinclair wasn't sure if it was jealousy, but it was an expression she'd never seen on his face before.

“Hey, bubba,” Finest said, smarting off. “Brought ya girlfriend to ya. Don't say I never did nothing for you.” He chuckled wickedly, moving past him into the house. “Yeah, don't say I ain't never gave you nothing, nigga.”

“What?” Sinclair asked.

Finest and Floyd ignored her, heading on into the house.

Malcolm just stood there, his body language questioning why she was with them.

“I'm . . . I'm gonna work with him,” she answered. “I wasn't, like, with them,” she lied.

“Oh really.” Malcolm cocked his head to the side. “What kind of work might that be?”

“I don't know. I just told him I needed a job.”

“You don't even know what you're getting into. You just out, getting into stuff.” Malcolm shook his head and walked off.

Sinclair, wanting to hear what Finest had to offer, didn't call after Malcolm or follow him. Making money was making money, and seeing that house in rubble made it even more important. More important than Malcolm's stank attitude right now. She went into the house.

Malcolm's mother was at work, so as usual, Finest and Floyd took over the house as if it was theirs. The music cranked up, and they talked loudly about their movie-making business.

Sinclair caught on quickly as to what she would be doing. Hustling. Had it come to this?
Guess so,
she figured. Passing that house made her think about Gold Mouth. Blowing up the house wasn't gonna take care of Debonair's debt, so she had to make money the best way she could. What if he came looking for her? What if she was truly in this on her own? Needless to say, watching folks make their way through the streets was different than actually being on the streets. Okay, so yeah, she was with Unique, but bottom line, she didn't have a pot to piss in right now, unless she wanted to search through the rubble for one, something she didn't want to do. She'd have to view this movie hustle as a fundraiser and go for it as if she would get a free trip somewhere if she won. Her ideal trip would be a free pass out of the ghetto.

It had been a while before anybody thought about So-an'-so. Floyd ventured out to the car to see what was up with him. “Damn!” he yelped, rushing back in the house, his eyes wide. “Finest, I think dude is dead in yo' car!”

Jumping to his feet, Finest spat the toothpick from his mouth. “What the fuck! In my car! Ohhhh shit!”

The three of them rushed out to the SUV, pushing each other aside, peeking in the back window.

“Get back! Get back!” Finest finally yelled, looking around conspicuously. “Now all y'all shut the fuck up!” he barked. “Let me think.” Sweat was forming on his face.

Sinclair suddenly felt sick to her stomach, realizing she'd possibly been riding in the car with a dead body for who knows how long.

“What you gon' do?” Floyd asked nervously.

Finest looked around. “Wait 'til it's dark and then go dump his ass.”

Sinclair could see he was barely hanging on to toughness.

“By then he's gonna shit all in your car. It's gon' stank. Cops gon' be wondering, if they ever pull yo' ass over, why yo' car stink like that.”

“How you know?”

“Foo, you don't know dead people be shitting after they die?”

Finest looked at Sinclair for confirmation. She'd heard about what happens at death, the releasing of body fluids, the changing of the skin tones, and then the effects of rigor mortis, but she said nothing.

“Is he dead for sure?” Finest, not happy at all with Sinclair's silent agreement, peeked through the window again.

Floyd backed away from the car. “I'm not gonna get in there and see.”

Finest then looked at Sinclair. “Get in there and check it out, baby.”

“Me? Why the hell would I do it? I'm not doing it!”

“Do it. I'll pay you.”

Sinclair smacked her lips and reluctantly climbed in.

So-an'-so felt cool, clammy, and not quite the way she was used to someone feeling. There was a slight, unsteady pulse. Jerking her hand back from his neck, she quickly got out of the backseat. Her eyes widened as she felt hysteria coming on. So-an'-so was dying, if not mostly dead already. Her mouth opened as she attempted to push words out, but only gulped air.

“Is he dead?” Finest asked, trying not to get loud.

Sinclair shook her head slowly from side to side as her eyes met Finest's.

“Good!” Finest rushed around to the driver side. “Come on, Floyd. Let's drop his ass off!”

Floyd quickly climbed in, and away they went.

Sinclair ran the water hotter than ever before. She didn't even care if Malcolm's mother came home and caught her. She felt dirty and wanted to wash the feeling of death off her hands and body. Every few seconds she would hold out her shaking hands to verify that she was indeed terrified. Suddenly she heard the door open.

Peeking from behind the raggedy green shower curtain, she saw Malcolm's back as he faced the toilet. “Malcolm?” she called.

He looked over his shoulder and then back to his business, giving himself a shake and then quickly zipping up his pants. “You were taking forever! Where is everybody?” he asked, not turning around, moving toward the sink to wash his hands. “You need a towel?”

“Yeah.” She reached out to receive the large blue towel he'd just dried his hands with.

“This here's mines. Where is errbody?”

Sinclair turned off the water and took another moment behind the curtain to pull herself together. Finally she wrapped herself in the large towel and stepped from the shower. Malcolm's eyes covered her, and she thought she caught a smile, but that wasn't on her mind right now. So-an'-so was.

“You all up in a man's restroom naked,” he responded, as if she had questioned his once-over.

“There was a dead body in the backseat!” she blurted, getting him back on track.

“What? Where?”

“In the backseat of Finest's car. That nigga was dead, fo' sho!”

Malcolm was animated now, getting loud. “Who?”

“So-an'-so,” she explained, gesturing with one hand and holding the towel up with the other.

“Where are they? I mean, where did they go?”

“I dunno.”

Just then the door burst open, and Malcolm's mother stood there looking accusative.

“We weren't doing anything,” Malcolm burst out, looking and sounding more guilty than innocent.

Malcolm's mother dropped her large Modesto bags filled with who knew what. Surely, the woman carried a whole store with her to work.

“What kinda shit is this? Y'all up in here making me a grandma befo' I'm ready!”

“Mama!” Malcolm yelped.

“You tryin' to be a man up in my house. You best be paying some bills. Shit! And, you, Ms. Nation, I know you don't know no better. Lawd knows, yo' mama wasn't no betta, having men in and out up on you kids like that. But in my house women act ladylike. Now, I know you all traumatized about your house blowin' up, but this ain't no shelter here.”

“Mama!” Malcolm yelped again.

“I'm just sayin', Malcolm, don't get caught up with this girl right now. She's in need, and you ain't got nothing to give.”

Sinclair just stood silent. She didn't like how it felt to hear herself being referred to as needy. She had never heard anyone make implications about her mama before and wasn't sure what kind of implications Mrs. Johnson was making now.

“Mrs. Johnson,” Sinclair said, gathering up her under things and clothes, “I'm sorry this looks bad, but Malcolm and me, we ain't got nothing going on like that. Besides, I got a place to live in the West End with my sister, and I'm going to college soon, so I sure don't want or need a baby, not your grandbaby anyway. And about my mama, she's dead, Mrs. Johnson, so wondering about this or that, when it comes to her, is a waste of time.” Sinclair hoped her words sounded worse to Mrs. Johnson than they did to her own ears. She wasn't trying to be flip, just real. Sinclair never spent a lot of time wondering about what kind of mother Javina Nation was and just loved her for the kind of mother she was.

Embarrassed and frustrated, Malcolm shook his head.

Mrs. Johnson's lips grew tight, and she just-grabbed up her heavy tote bag and walked out mumbling.

Sinclair wasn't even trying to hear what she was saying. “Let me get my clothes on, Malcolm, so I can leave.”

“Sin, I'm sorry,” Malcolm said in a low voice.

“Don't be. I'm not somebody to feel sorry for.”

“And what is all this shit in this living room, Malcolm? What the hell are you up to in my house?” Mrs. Johnson called.

Malcolm rolled his eyes and rushed out.

Sinclair chuckled under her breath, realizing that, no matter what, Malcolm was always gonna get the pointed end of the stick. He was just an “eight ball” kinda guy, but she was glad he was her friend. She dressed and dodged Mrs. Johnson, who had gone in her room to unwind from work.

Malcolm joined her, and they walked. Eventually they passed the mess that was once her home.

“What choo gonna do about your house?”

“Work for Finest.”

Malcolm stopped in his tracks. “You ain't gonna make money like that!”

“Why you trippin'? I gotta fix my mama's house.”

“What about dude that blew it up. He's the one you need to be trying to fix.”

“Fix, how?”

Malcolm looked away and then back at her. “You need to find his ass and teach him a lesson.”

Sinclair stared at him a long time before bursting into laughter. “Right, Malcolm. If anything, I need to just find him and ask him how much money he wants to leave me alone.”

“Girl, you crazy. Foo ain't gonna ever leave you alone.” Malcolm chuckled slightly.

“Don't say that.”

“It's true.”

“It's not true. I'ma get some money and pay him.”

“Okay, Sin, okay. And I'll help you. I told you that.”

They both turned and looked at the rubble before continuing on to the bus stop. “I'll ride with you to your sister's.”

“Okay.”