True to the Game I, Page 3

  “Remember the guy I told you I met in New York? He’s coming over.”

  “For what?”

  “To see me, to be with me. What don’t you understand?”

  “He’s gonna see you alright, and if Norman Bates comes back to this motherfucker, you gonna see. Do you understand that?”

  “I’m gonna take a shower. Let me know when they get here.”

  She was nearly finished when she heard the doorbell and quickly stepped out of the shower and into her robe. Patting dry, she looked at her face through the steamed mirror. It wasn’t that bad, but it was noticeable. Down the hallway she could hear the sounds of her company in the living room. She hung her towel and walked down the other end of the hallway to her room. Just as she was kneeling over to slip on some panties, Sahirah stormed into her bedroom to let her know Markita went home. “Do you know how to knock?” asked Gena with her arms folded over her naked breasts.

  “You act like I haven’t seen you naked. You look different though. Your breasts are bigger,” Sahirah said, looking at her girlfriend’s nakedness.

  “Thank you. I’ve been drinking my milk,” she said winking at Sahirah.

  Seeing her friend’s reflection in the dresser mirror, Sahirah asked, “What’s happened to your face?”

  “Jamal was outside waiting for me this morning.”

  “What?” Sahirah listened with her jaw down to her clavicle, beginning with the shootout, Jamal’s attack, and the three deaths at the fast food restaurant.

  “I knew that motherfucker wasn’t right, ever since his ass crashed into a wall on that motorcycle.”

  “Well, I have had enough of Jamal. The next girl can have him. She turned back to the dresser mirror, inspecting her face. Sahirah knew she meant what she said.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Quadir Richards is the man of life.”

  “Why is Quadir the man of life?”

  Smirking, Sahirah served up her gourmet dish. “My cousin use to mess with his sister, Denise. Girl, sit down and let me tell you. G, the boy is paid. The BMW? It’s his. He has a Range Rover too. Guess what? He is a millionaire. Can you believe this shit? A real life millionaire drug dealer right here in this house,” Sahirah said, plopping on to the bed next to Gena.

  Gena was starting to like the sound of this. The hair on her back was standing up straight.

  “Guess what else? He is supposed to be seeing some girl named Cherelle that lives up in Germantown, but she wouldn’t know what to do with that motherfucker if he came with a booklet.”

  “He got a bitch? Why’d he lie?” Gena tried to be disinterested.

  “No, girl. Are you deaf? He’s seeing the girl, he’s not claiming her. Rasun said he don’t have nobody at home. The bitch is none of that but some change, G. I’m telling you, girl, you are in the house. You could just take over shit and move that bitch right to the curb. You know what I’m saying?” Sahirah was just a-smiling. Sahirah knew Gena. She knew Gena was a con.

  She continued. “I’m saying the kid been bugging out all night over you.”

  “Word?”

  “Word. The nigga is definitely trying to see you. Aren’t you glad we went to New York? Isn’t this shit blue?”

  “Yes, so blue.” Gena was all smiles.

  “Girl, you found the jackpot, mark my words. You know you’re taking me shopping for this one, right?”

  “You know I got you covered. Tell him to come here for me?” Sahirah left for the living room.

  In another moment, Quadir entered Gena’s bedroom. The man was fine. He had on a pair of blue jeans with a polo shirt and a brand new pair of sneakers. He had just been to the barbershop. His beard was nice and groomed, and for some strange reason he looked much better than he did last night.

  “What’s up?” Then he noticed the marks on her face. “What happened?”

  She told him the entire story. “I won’t be seeing him again.”

  He was glad to hear that, but wasn’t too sure if he should be in the house without Ena, his favorite nine millimeter, which was in the car.

  “No one is gonna come in here, are they?”

  “No one has keys except for me.” She reached up and ran the back of her fingers over his cheek. “I don’t even miss him. I’m glad he’s gone. I wish I could just get away, you know?”

  “I know. I’ve been wanting to get away myself. You gonna go away with me?”

  She looked him straight in the eye. “Mmm huh.”

  “When can you go?” he asked.

  “Whenever you’re ready. I can go right now.”

  “Let’s go to A.C. first.”

  FIRST DATE

  Quadir knew exactly where to go. He drove over to Atlantic City. After buying everyone back in Philly a pair of Gucci sneakers, they gambled. Sahirah lost every bit of the $550 Rasun had slowly given her. Gena, on the other hand, was doing mighty well, taking the $1,000 Quadir handed her and winning, winning, winning. She ended up with close to $4,000 by the time the night was over at the blackjack table. Later, they took the escalator up to the third level where there were several restaurants to choose from. Once they were seated, Quadir told Rasun about his little run-in with Jerrell Jackson. Rasun didn’t like nothing about the Junior Mafia.

  “Quadir, don’t mess with him. He wants to be Scarface. Own the fucking world and shit. He’s the type will stab you in the back. Don’t fuck with him, Qua.”

  “Ock, that will never happen.”

  Gena was curious. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Man talk,” Quadir said. “Nobody you know, anyway.”

  “I know who you’re talking about,” said Sahirah.

  Rasun jumped in, trying to shut her up. “You don’t know nothing.”

  “Yes, I do. You were talking about Jerrell Jackson.”

  Gena brightened a little. “Oh, yeah, I heard about him. Isn’t he supposed to be the leader of the Junior Mafia, or something?”

  “Yes,” said Sahirah.

  “Really?” Gena turned to Quadir. “How do you know him?”

  “What difference does it make? He isn’t the mob.”

  Sahirah wouldn’t stop. “He’s the leader of the Junior Mafia. It is the mob, okay?”

  Rasun spoke up, “Well, how do you know him?”

  Sahirah warmed to her gossip. “One night, I was with my girlfriend. She was going out with him a lot. Anyway, he gave us a ride back to her house.”

  Qua didn’t like her no more, and he didn’t believe one word she said. The girl might have been telling the truth, but nine chances out of ten, the bitch was lying through her teeth. He threw some money on the table and got up.

  “Let’s go. Gena, you know how to drive?”

  “Yes.”

  He handed her the valet stub. Gently, she pulled Sahirah over to her and hissed through her teeth, “You talk too much!”

  The drive home seemed to take forever. Everyone had fallen asleep and Gena had no one to talk to. She reached over and rubbed Quadir’s leg. He opened one eye and squeezed her hand. “You still want to go away?”

  Gena wasn’t sure she was hearing what he wasn’t saying. “Isn’t nothing gonna happen to me, is it?”

  Warming to her childlike fear, he told her, “Baby doll, I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I’ll protect you from all harm,” he said, as he winked at her.

  Gena pulled up outside Rasun’s house and dropped Rasun and Sahirah off. When they were alone in the car, he asked, “What time will you be ready to go tomorrow?”

  “Ready? Where we going?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s go to the Bahamas.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Gena just stared at him. She remembered how anxious Jamal was when they first met. Then she wondered should she just leave town with Quadir. What if something happened to her? What if he was just as crazy and deranged as Jamal? She looked into his eyes and didn’t have a clue. He could be a rapist, but she already made up her min
d. If he wanted to take her to the Bahamas, then she was going.

  She turned on to Chancellor Street and pulled up in front of her door. “Five o’clock. I’ll be back at five,” he said.

  “I’ll be ready,” she said, real serious.

  “So, I’ll see you later.”

  “Later.” Gena just sat there looking at him. For some strange reason she couldn’t get out of the car. Something was holding her. She didn’t know what it was until he reached over and put his hand around her neck. He pulled her closer to him and kissed her. At first, he just touched her lips with his, lightly. Then, he opened her mouth with his tongue and gently probed. Confusion and heat filled her like nothing she’d ever felt before. Like magnets, drawn to one another. It was magic.

  Our first kiss, Gena thought, in the safety of her apartment. Sahirah was right: Quadir Richards is the man of life.

  The next morning, she had much to do! Shopping, hair, nails, packing. And that was only the beginning. The phone pulled her out of a trance.

  “Gena, it’s Jamal.”

  “Oh. Hi.” Ice crept into her veins.

  “You all right?”

  “I’m okay. How are you?”

  “I don’t feel good. I have a sore throat and a fever.”

  “Have you been to the doctor?” she asked him.

  “No, I’m not going to no doctor.”

  “Well, I hope you feel better.”

  “Are you gonna come over to take care of me?” She could hear the faint hope in his voice. Thinking to herself, Hell no, bitch. Die. With satisfaction, she informed him, “Jamal, I can’t. I have to go to the beauty salon and get my hair done.”

  “Well, what about after you go and get your hair done?”

  “After that, I have to go to the mall and pick up a few things, and I have to get my nails done. You know what I think? I think, I’ll get my feet done, too. So, I don’t think I have time to come over there. I have a very busy day.”

  Jamal felt like he was getting the brush off, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. Everything he had done for her meant nothing. He could die and it wouldn’t mean anything to her. “Well, Gena I can tell when I’m not wanted.”

  “Jamal, why do you say it like that? I thought we understood that it wasn’t working when you beat me up.”

  “Gena, you always gonna be mines. What do you mean when you say it isn’t working?”

  Is he brain dead? Gena thought to herself. “Jamal, I can’t come and see you. I’m confused. I need some time. I want us to just be friends.”

  “Fuck you. All you bitches are the same. You ain’t shit!” shouted Jamal.

  With enough serene confidence to make his brain explode, she continued, “See, that is the very reason right there, why we are not together.”

  “Everything is my fault, right? You’re the one who wants to be at every party on the East Coast. You’re the one who stays out all night with other niggas. Yes, you do. Don’t lie, Gena. Tell the truth. For once, be truthful. You and that Sahirah bitch stay out in the street all night chasing behind niggas. I know what you do. You don’t fool me.”

  “Jamal, first of all let me tell you something, okay? I don’t chase behind nobody. I get chased. And I am not out in no street all hours of the night, either!”

  He cut her off and really let her have it. He accused her of everything under the sun, saying incredibly hurtful things. She found a wellspring of understanding that told her it was because he was hurting. If the things he were saying were true, it would cut her real deep, but what he was saying made her mad. Jamal had lost his mind calling her with a whole bunch of bullshit. She hung the phone up.

  That was it, conversation over. And when he called back, she turned off the ringer. She wasn’t about to listen to any more of his threats and accusations.

  Quadir was down in North Philly collecting the money everyone owed him. He went to the house where Gena had dropped off Sahirah and Rasun. Rasun and Sahirah were in a good sleep when Qua woke them up, knocking at the bedroom door.

  “What happened to your hair, Sahirah?” Qua asked her, as she brushed by him going into the bathroom. “Ask your friend!” she spat back at him.

  “Nasty little thing, ain’t she?”

  “Yeah, she’s not a happy camper.” Ra grinned and gave Sahirah another $300, but she continued to grouse when Qua told her she would have to catch a cab home.

  Quadir and Rasun cut through the park in West Philly to see Ms. Shoog. Ms. Shoog was a little elderly lady he did business with. Shoog was something else. Back in her day she ran a speakeasy and a gambling spot. She even ran the numbers game. Shoog had it all. All the men raved about her. She could have had her pick of any of them, but chose none. By the time she was ready to choose, she had so many kids by so many different men and the streets had beat up on her so bad, she was considered not the marrying type. Shoog was a hell of a woman, though. Quadir listened to everything she said. He might not follow her instructions, but he listened.

  He knocked at her door. One of Shoog’s granddaughters let him in. She had so many grandchildren. There must have been at least fifteen people living in the three-story row home on the narrow one-way street of the 2200 block of Bouvier Street. Entering the kitchen, he placed a bag holding a quarter kilo of cocaine on the table.

  “I need you to cook this up for me, Ms. Shoog.”

  “Fool, you always needing something. The only time you come to see Shoog is when you need something,” she said, pointing her finger at him. “I got the family coming over today. I got enough cooking around here to do already.” Shoog could cook her ass off. She use to cook and sell platters when she was running her speakeasy, back in the day.

  “Those niggas used to pay me to cook their food for them and you gonna pay me to cook this shit for you.”

  “Don’t I always pay you?” Quadir considered, for a moment, this woman he’d come to count on and saw that the once proud and sassy woman had slowed under the burdens she’d carried for so many decades of doing for others.

  “Come on, baby, what’s the matter?”

  “Everything,” she said.

  “What?” He softly touched her shoulders and sat her at her own table. A barely discernable squeeze and a touch to her cheek brought a sad smile.

  “It seems like you just don’t be getting too far out here in life, Quadir. You do what you got to do to survive out here; you try your damndest to see that there’s some food on the table and clothes for the kids, and it don’t get you nowhere. Bad ass motherfuckers around here now don’t listen. I done brought mines into the world. These ain’t mines. They killing me, Quadir. Sure as there is a God in the sky, these bad ass kids is gonna be the death of me. Eight damn kids that ain’t mine and here, look at this.”

  Ms. Shoog pulled out a paper from her apron pocket and handed it to Quadir, hoping that her scam would work. Ms. Shoog always had a scam.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a get-the-fuck-out notice. I been paying the mortgage on this house now for twenty-seven years. I only got three more to go then this house is mine. After all this time, you’d think they couldn’t do this.” Her face began to crumble.

  “How much do you need?” said Quadir, locating the total due on the paper. “Oh damn, Shoog you had me worried! That’s all you need? I got that for you, baby. Calm down.”

  “Quadir, stop your lying. You hardly pay me when I cook this shit up for you. So I know your black ass not gonna pay all that!” She looked at Qua as if it were all his fault.

  The truth of the matter was that Quadir always paid Shoog whatever she wanted. The price wasn’t always the same, but Shoog got paid. He would even stop by to see how she was doing and not ask her to do nothing for him. The bottom line was everybody wanted something. Everybody had a story. Qua separated the two. He was always gonna look out for her. It was the right thing to do. “Cook my shit up, Shoog,” he said as he went outside. He came back in and handed her a bag of money. Shoog snickered on the
inside but on the outside showed a look of gratefulness Quadir had never seen.

  “There. That will save your house.”

  Shoog couldn’t believe it. It worked. It was as if the Lord blessed somebody else and they passed it on to her.

  She could barely whisper her thanks. “That’s gonna be more than enough, Quadir.”

  Qua was glad to bring hope to someone who deserved it. “Here, get yourself something and get something for the kids.” He pulled out a wad of money from his pocket, peeling back a couple hundred-dollar bills. Qua had money all over him.

  “I don’t mean to fuss at you, baby,” she said, changing everything up. “You’re the only one that understands. Oh, Qua, I wish that damn John-John had turned out like you,” she said, now standing up and reaching for an empty mayonnaise jar, going about the business she was in.

  She took the cocaine and mixed it with baking soda. She poured the combination in the mayonnaise jar and added the right amount of water, cooking batches at a time. Shoog knew what she was doing too.

  Gena got dressed and called a cab, going straight to LeChevue Beauty Salon in South Philly.

  “Hi, Gena,” said one of the girls who worked there. Everyone knew her.

  She saw Beverly, her stylist. “What’s up, Bev?”

  “Yo, G,” Bev smiled, “Where you been?”

  “Nowhere, trying to get my life on.”

  “Guess whose pregnant by Rik?” Beverly asked.

  “Who?”

  “I’m not gonna tell you. I know how you run your mouth.”

  “Who? I won’t tell.”

  “Veronica.”

  “He been fucking with her?” Gena said, turning her face all up.

  “Girl, she said she told him she was pregnant and Mr. Rik ain’t called her back since.”

  “What?” Gena couldn’t believe it.

  “I’m telling you, shit is crazy.”

  Beverly finished the girl who was in the chair and took Gena over to the bowl, talking about everybody under the sun. Gena told her how she had been up at the fast-food place when the three guys died. She didn’t say nothing about the guy driving the caddy. Nothing said in a beauty salon is sacred. Everybody knows your business as it is. Gena didn’t tell no secrets, but she stayed to gossip.