What's Really Hood!: A Collection of Tales From the Streets (6 page)

Silence ruled the den until Nikki slowly regained consciousness. She rolled to her side, then slowly sat up. Her nose was
busted. She was fully aware of what had happened. Tears traveled down her face as she looked at Mance. “Baby…” she sobbed.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Her head snapped back as the bullet from the .38 punched her above her right eye. Her body
remained erect before it fell backward. Desiree screamed as her hands covered her mouth. Lamar just shook his head as the
blood flowed from Nikki’s head wound. Lamar started to plead his case. His angle was that Nikki wasn’t any good.

“Yeah, I know,” Mance said coldly. He lowered the .38 and saw Lamar release a deep breath. Lamar stood up but noticed the
.38 was still aimed at him. Before he realized it, Mance had calmly squeezed off two shots at his groin area. Lamar crumpled,
howling in torturous pain as he faced a slow death. Desiree’s screams filled Mance’s ears. Everything was moving in slow motion
for Mance. He got tired of Lamar’s moaning so he shot him twice in the face. He then walked over toward Desiree, stepping
over Nikki’s body. Desiree begged and begged for her life. Mance only smiled at her with tears in his eyes.

Polo and Bizzy had witnessed Mance’s murder spree by peeking through the window. Polo had followed Mance but what he was seeing
now was something he didn’t want any part of.

“Let’s go, yo,” Bizzy whispered near Polo’s ear. Polo took that as some good advice but he remained glued to the window when
Mance pulled his last victim toward the fireplace. He squinted to get a better look.

“C’mon, Polo!” Bizzy had a touch of urgency in his voice.

“Wait…” Polo said, pushing Bizzy’s hands from his jacket. “That’s… Ms. Eason! Whut the fuck!”

“Fuck dat. Let’s be out, yo.”

Polo ignored Bizzy as he watched Mance place the gun against Desiree’s forehead as she knelt in front of him.

“Please, Mance,” Desiree sobbed. “I…”

“Shut up!” Mance said, pressing the .38 into her forehead. Behind Desiree the blazing fire was making a cruel thought burn
its way into Mance’s mind. He wanted to see her burn. He wanted her to suffer. He nudged her back toward the fire. When she
felt the intense heat at her back she pushed forward but Mance started to choke her with one hand. He wanted her to burn alive.
She raked at his face with her nails. She dug her nails in deeply to the white meat but he ignored the pain.
Toying with her, he raised her to her feet. He released his grip. She gasped for air. Seeing how light and small she was,
he dropped the .38, then ripped her sweater off with his free hand. Desiree fought, kicked, clawed and screamed as Mance shoved
her toward the fire.

Polo knocked the back sliding glass door out as Desiree’s screams filled his head. He rushed toward the den with his .38 in
his hands. When he reached the den he found Desiree fighting for her life with her back on fire. Polo rushed toward her, jumped
over the sofa, landed on his feet, then shot Mance three times in his neck before he could turn around. He shoved Mance’s
body to the side, then pulled Desiree from the fire to frantically beat the fire out on her back. She passed out from the
pain. Seeing that she would live, he called 911 on Lamar’s phone, wiped off his prints and left it off the hook. He knew the
911 operator would send police sooner or later, and Polo would be missing by then. As he left with Bizzy he received a call
from Lil’ Rick. He made it a point not to mention Lil’ Rick’s name.

“Whut up?” Lil’ Rick said. “My cuz tole me about Tink. Is he okay?”

“Yeah, got hit wit some birdshot.”

“Damn. Any idea who did it?”

“Nah,” he lied.

“Well… keep this on the low. But if you need a nigga, I’ll be ova Candy’s crib. Get at me, dawg.”

Polo hung up. “Bizzy.”

“Yo.”

“That was Lil’ Rick. Look, I’ma keep what you told me to myself and you do the same about what went down at Kaseem’s crib.”

Bizzy crossed his heart then kissed his finger. “Dat’s a bet, my nigga. I’m not havin’ no D’s question me about nothin’.”
In truth, it was his fear of Lil’ Rick. The deal of silence was sealed.

Five weeks later

Lil’ Rick was now back in Raleigh pimping hard in his new sunburst orange Hummer H2 rolling on twenty-eight-inch DUB rims.
With Kaseem dead and his team broken up, he had no fear of anyone retaliating for his lick on Datwon. Even Datwon had packed
up and left with his girl. Shit, he was happy to be alive.

Tink was home now. He could walk, but no running, nor could he lie on his back. The good news was that Trina was now four
and a half weeks pregnant with his second seed. Tink also had a job. He worked at a kiosk selling black-authored novels for
Vic Mar Publications. It was legal and positive and Trina was proud of her man.

As for Bizzy, he got tired of stressing about Lil’ Rick finding out about his deal with Mance, so he packed up and moved to
South Carolina with his uncle.

Polo was still going back and forth to court for his gun charge—well, he only went twice but it was two times too many. Today
he was waiting at his lawyer’s office to speak to his lawyer. He nodded at the new white legal assistant who had Desiree’s
old office. Polo had been
at Trina’s crib watching the news when the story had broken about the three dead bodies at Kaseem’s crib. He knew Desiree
was okay when the reporter stated her condition but didn’t mention her name. He would never forget that November night.

“Tyrone Bell,” an unfamiliar voice called his name. He looked toward the door to see a fine shapely brown-skinned woman wearing
winter apparel by Baby Phat from shoulder to feet. The woman walked toward him in her fur-lined boots and held out her gloved
hand. Polo came to his feet.

“My name is Jelena,” she said.

“How you know my government name?” he asked after shaking her hand.

“You mean the one your mother gave you?” She smiled. Seeing that Polo didn’t return her smile she got serious. First, she
thanked him for sending Desiree flowers when she was in the hospital. Polo lied and said it wasn’t him. She waved him off.
She explained in a whisper that Desiree hadn’t mentioned his name to the police and that she now wanted to thank him for saving
her life. Polo knew it was pointless to lie after Jelena had told him that she was Desiree’s best friend and roommate.

“How is Desiree doing?”

“Fine. Just minor burns on her lower legs and back. She’s a fighter.”

“That’s good.”

“She was right about you.” She smiled as she looked him up and down.

“About what?”

“Said you looked like Michael Vick.” She then looked him in his eyes. “Polo, do you have a girlfriend?”

“No… nobody to stress me if I don’t call or stay out. Why?”

“Like I said. My girl wants to thank you and I know she likes you and I’m just looking out for my girl.” She then asked him
to follow her outside. There was a light snowfall but Jelena was traveling in a well-equipped tan gold Lexus LX 470. Sitting
in the passenger seat was Desiree, wearing a black mink coat and YSL shades. He got into the back as Jelena got behind the
wheel. There was an odd moment at first until Desiree broke the silence. She turned slowly in her seat to look at Polo. She
removed her shades and said thank you. Polo said it was no big deal. But it was a major deal to her. He had killed a man to
protect her. She then asked if he wanted to go out to dinner later on that night if he was free. He accepted her offer.

It was nine months later when Polo gave Desiree his last name. He was now a married man with a legal job and everything was
all good.

THE “P” IS
FREE…

BY LASHONDA TEAGUE

T
he pussy is freeee but the crack cost money! Oh yeaaah!

Knowledge reigned supreme from the boom of Wiz’s brand-new gold Volkswagen Jetta. It was kitted bumper to bumper and cruised
the streets of Newark on gold BBS rims.

It was 1986 and Wiz was on top of the world, because the new game in the streets was making young nigguhs rich, damn near
overnight. It was called crack or flavors, depending upon the vial cap color, and it was quickly becoming the answer to all
the ghetto’s problems. Poverty, abuse, despair, you name it, crack was the shoulder we collectively cried on. But for nigguhs
like Wiz, eighteen and hungry, the only addiction to the drug was the money it made, which created its own high. Not even
a year ago, Wiz was a tackhead dropout, stealing cars and robbing cats for sheepskins. Now he had a sheepskin in every color,
with Ballys to match, a solid gold dookie rope with the dangling anchor medallion and a four-finger ring that read WIZ KID
in looping gold letters.

He drove through the streets bumping KRS-One with
the windows down to let the spring air in. Every light he stopped at, his system turned heads. Nigguhs scowled and frowned,
while women frowned upside down, from ear to ear.

It was his system and kitted Jetta that got their attention, but his looks kept it. Wiz never had a problem scooping females.
He had a peanut-butter-brown complexion, chinky hazel eyes that shimmered behind his gold CAZAL frames and dimples that winked
from his cheeks when he smiled. Wiz was skinny, but his bowlegs made the shorties melt when he walked.

Wiz definitely had his share of chicks, but none could claim his name because he was engaged to the streets with a summer
wedding fast approaching. He had two crack houses, one on Goldsmith Avenue, the other on Chadwick, and was looking to open
a third. Each spot brought in a grand on a bad day and Wiz stayed on top of his B.I., milking it for all it was worth. He
pulled up to his spot on Chadwick, checking his beeper for the fifth time in as many minutes.

“Damn, this bitch on my dick.” He sucked his teeth, faking annoyance that his pipe game kept the chicks sweatin’ him.

He looked up, then got out of the car, and all he heard was:

“Yo, Wiz!”

“Baby, talk to Moe. I ain’t got but eight dollars.”

“Yo, Wiz! You still want them sneakers?”

“Wiz, I need to see you!”

The block seemed to be infested with shabbily
dressed zombies, moving to and fro, trying to feel that blast. He was annoyed at the way the feens were all over, making
the spot hot. He had told Moe about keeping order, so he was vexed that his word wasn’t being followed.

“Get the fuck out of my face,” he hissed at the woman with eight dollars as he pushed past her and took the front steps of
the two-family house two at a time. He had rented the basement and second floor from the old man who lived on the first. The
old man was cool and didn’t ask questions, because he was well paid for his silence.

“Yo, Moe! Moe! Open the fuckin’ door!” Wiz yelled, ringing the doorbell repeatedly. A few moments later black Moe, the fortyish
coon he had running the spot, opened the door.

“Oh what up, Wiz? I ain’t know—” Wiz brushed past him and entered the foyer, slamming the door behind him.

“Yo, Moe, how many times I have to tell you to keep the fuckin’ feens in line? You makin’ the whole block hot!”

“Man, nigguhs and flies, Wiz, nigguhs and flies,” Moe quipped with an irreverent wave of his hand.

“What?” Wiz sniped, because he was in no mood for Moe’s coon talk.

“Nigguhs and flies I do despise, but the more I see nigguhs, the more I love flies.” Moe chuckled and, despite his ire, Wiz
did too. “Them mutherfuckas feenin’, Wiz. I been out over an hour. Hell, I been beepin’ you like crazy.”

“Yeah, yo, I had to bag the shit up,” Wiz told him, as he pulled a large Ziploc bag from the elastic of his Fila suit. The
Ziploc was stuffed with small orange-topped vials rubber-banded together in groups of ten. He handed it to Moe. “That’s thirty
clips. I’ll be back through tomorrow.”

Moe turned the bag over in his hand. “Shit, you coulda saved time and just brought me the shit to bottle up.”

Wiz adjusted his slight sag, freeing his boxers from the uncomfortable bind the Ziploc had put them in. He didn’t respond
because the truth was that Moe was in question. Moe was a grand hustler, but every time he let Moe bag the weight, it always
came up short. So Wiz had started doin’ it himself.

“Yo, I’m ghost, Moe. Beep me if you need something else before tomorrow.”

Wiz stepped out on the porch. The feens seemed to sense the presence of their crystallized savior, because they had stopped
wandering up and down the block. Now they all were basically in a line, eyes glued to Wiz standing in the door. A wave of
remorse momentarily seized Wiz’s emotions, seeing the intense expression of anticipation on the ashen black faces. Their eyes
bloodshot, lips cracked, bodies shriveled, a total disregard for themselves as human beings. He looked into the faces of the
women: many were still pretty. Young, old, it was all the same and it made him think of his mother. Even though she smoked,
she still worked and Wiz vowed he’d never let her end up out here. “Nigguhs and flies,” he mumbled to himself as he headed
to his car.

*   *   *

“I raised you better than this, Crystal! Look what you’re doing to yourself! I refuse to watch you destroy your future… your
self
! Not in my house,
not
in
my
house! Now, you either give me that mess or you and it can get out in the streets where it belongs!”