Coca Kola - The Baddest Chick (9 page)

It was late in the evening, the sun being a memory as night loomed over the city. The traffic was dying as the time ticked toward midnight.

Chico wanted to find the crackhead named Joe, even if he had to tear Harlem apart looking for him. But he knew a crackhead wasn’t going to be that hard to find. He’d sent a few goons out on the streets, putting the buzz in a few people’s ears that he would pay a hundred dollars if they knew where to find Joe.

Within a few hours, it had gotten back to Chico’s goons that Joe spent the majority of his time in the stairwell of the Lincoln Projects or at a hole-in-the-wall spot off Lenox Avenue. He wasn’t at the spot on Lenox, so Chico figured he was hiding in a stairwell of the building.

Chico was eager to have a word with Joe in private, and then he would be ready to tear the man apart. He was burning inside thinking about the incident.

“What’s on your mind, Chico?” Dante asked.

“Nothin’ much. Just thinking.”

“We gonna find this muthafucka, Chico . . . make the
puta
talk and then fuck his whole shit up.”

“Muthafucka disrespected mines, Dante. You should see her. She’s a mess right now.”

“And I’m here to make it right.”

Chico took a pull from his cigarette and reclined in his seat. He felt untouchable with Dante back in town. He gripped the .45 in his hand and stared out the window, his mind wandering.

Chico had learned that Cross had cut his price down to sixteen thousand a ki, and even though Chico was selling his birds cheaper at fifteen, his clients were choosing quality over his lower price.

“How dare these muthafuckas! They come at my bitch, and now this nigga Cross tryin’ to move in on my shit. I want ’em dead. Fuckin’ dead!”

“I’m gonna make it happen, cuzzo. Just be patient.”

The two continued to sit and wait, knowing Joe would be found sooner or later. They had too much muscle and too many informants spread out everywhere in Harlem for him not to be spotted.

Dante looked over at his cousin with a curious stare. “What’s up wit’ this bitch anyway? Why you so into her, Chico?”

“She do her thang, yo. I mean, she’s smart, and when we met, she wasn’t looking for a handout like most of these bitches. She had her own thing going wit’ this loan-sharking, and she had her own soldiers too. I liked that, man.”

Dante nodded. “A’ight.”

“And, besides, she reminds me of Nikki.”

“She do?”

“Yeah, her style, and the way she carry herself, sometimes I confuse Apple with Nikki.”

“She ain’t her, though, Chico. That was a long time ago. You gotta let that shit go, cuzzo. I know that shit is still eating away at you.”

“I try, man, but I know it’s my fault. If I was only there, it wouldn’t have gone down like that.”

“But you weren’t, and it did. You were locked up. What the fuck were you able to do? Nothing!”

“Nah, I promised I would always be there for her and protect her. I loved her, and for niggas to violate her like that . . . Muthafuckas!”

“I got two out of five, and believe me, Chico, the two I caught suffered like they were in the hands of the devil himself. I tried to get them to talk. Even had both their balls squeezed in a pair of vise grips and under a hot flame, but they were tough. They knew, after that, not to fuck wit’ you.”

***

Chico thoughts went from Apple to his first love, Nikki, who was killed ten years earlier. He was eighteen then. He was incarcerated on drug charges and beefing with a rival crew for control of a profitable drug corner in Washington Heights. Chico’s name had been ringing out since he was fifteen, and Nikki had been his sweetheart since they were fourteen.

One night, while he was doing time on Rikers Island, five rival gang members rushed into his home looking for money and drugs. They found Nikki asleep in the bedroom. They raped and beat her repeatedly for hours and then shot her three times in the head. The horrendous crime sent shockwaves through the hood. It was a clear message to Chico—they were coming for him next.

Dante hit the streets in his cousin’s name and found two of the men responsible for Nikki’s death in a week’s time. He made sure they suffered before hacking them into pieces with a machete. Chico was distraught for months and spent most of his time on Rikers Island in isolation. After a year on Rikers, he came home a more ruthless man, vowing to never let anyone take anything away from him again.

***

Chico watched Dennis emerge from one of the project buildings and approach the parked Impala with wild-looking eyes. Slim and grungy-looking with unkempt hair, he had a devastating addiction. Crack had controlled his life for years, and he was willing to do anything for a payday, even if it meant selling out a friend. He could taste the hundred dollars Chico was paying him for information. It was going to be put to good use in a crack pipe.

Chico rose up in his seat. “What you got for me, nigga?”

Dennis smiled, showing the few teeth he had left. “I got good news, Chico.” He fidgeted near the Impala, looking around nervously. He then grabbed the car door with his greasy hands.

“Nigga, get ya fuckin’ dirty hands off the car. You fuckin’ crazy!”

Dennis jumped back, his eyes widening with fear. “I’m sorry, Chico. I’m sorry.”

Chico stepped out of the car and glared at Dennis with a cold stare meant to send chills into him. “Where he at?” Chico sternly asked.

“Joe in the stairway now gettin’ high,” Dennis said in a nervous tone.

“Which one?”

Dennis pointed to the first building directly across the street. “He on the third floor smoking now.”

Chico stared at Dennis for a moment, making the fiend even more uncomfortable. He just wanted to get his money, run off, and get high.

Chico reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of money. He peeled off five twenties and slowly handed it over to Dennis.

When Dennis went to reach for his reward, Chico pulled the cash back. “Nigga, if ya lyin’ to me, I’ll kill you.”

“I’m not lyin’, Chico. He up there in the stairway now, alone and gettin’ high.”

Dennis was beaming after Chico handed him the hundred dollars. It had been the most money in his hands in a long time. In fact, he felt like he had won the lottery.

“Get the fuck outta here!” Chico exclaimed, and Dennis took off running.

Dante exited the car with the .50 concealed in its holster. He stared over at Chico. “You want me to take care of this alone?”

“Nah, I wanna be there for this.”

Both men walked toward the building and entered the cold, empty lobby. They walked straight into the stairway and slowly headed up the stairs. Dante had his Desert Eagle in his hand and Chico had his .45 cocked and ready. They got to the third floor and found Joe slumped against the wall with a crack pipe in his hand. He looked up at Chico and didn’t say a word.

“You Joe?” Chico asked.

Joe remained quiet.

Chico approached him closer and glared at him. He glanced at Dante, while Joe just sat there.

“Joe, Joe . . . who’s Joe? I’m good, though. Nah, you good,” Joe mumbled incoherently, the crack pipe dangling from his fingers..

Joe’s eyes were sunken, red, and spaced-out. He was wearing a thin, tattered jacket and dirty, torn jeans and had a foul odor. He had smoked “red devil’s lay,” the talk of the town, which so happened to come from Cross, and it had seeped into his system, making him feel like he was on a different planet.

“Yo, take this nigga up on the fuckin’ roof!” Chico said to Dante.

Dante holstered his gun and grabbed Joe from the stairway by his jacket. Then the two men forced him up the steps. Joe didn’t put up much of a fight.

Dante kicked open the door to the roof, pushed Joe out, and kicked him in the ass.

Joe fell against the hard gravel and didn’t bother to get up. Joe was still mumbling, “I ain’t do it. He done it. It ain’t me.”

“You ain’t do what, muthafucka?” Chico exclaimed.

Joe turned over onto his side and looked up at Chico and continued to mumble.

“Yo, this nigga is really fucked up,” Dante said. “He high, man.”

“I don’t give a fuck what he is. He knows something.”

Chico walked over to Joe, snatched him up by the collar of his jacket, and dragged him to the edge of the roof. Dante walked behind them. Chico lifted him off his feet and dangled him over the edge.

“Who paid you to throw acid in Apple’s face?” Chico asked sternly. “Huh, muthafucka?”

“Apple? I don’t know Apple. I wanna go home. Home. Home,” he replied, looking lost.

“Yeah, you do. Don’t play wit’ me, nigga!” Chico tightened his hold around Joe and pushed him farther over the ledge.

Joe didn’t cringe, and it angered Chico. Joe was a full-blown crackhead. His skin was ashy and scarred, and he, unknown to Chico and Dante, suffered from dementia.

“Who the fuck paid you, nigga?” Chico repeated, with Joe dangling from six stories up.

Joe just stared into his aggressor’s eyes, looking unfazed by everything going on around him, and mumbling to himself.

“He ain’t gonna talk, Chico. The nigga’s really fucked up.”

Chico looked over at his cousin, knowing Dante was right. He threw Joe to the ground and stood over him.

“Just end this nigga and let’s go,” Dante said.

Chico removed a lethal shot of dope mixed with rat poison from his jacket. He was ready to inject Joe with it, but then he looked down at him and decided against it.

“Crazy muthafucka might wanna go out this way,” Chico stated.

Dante laughed.

“Nah, I ain’t giving him the pleasure.” Chico took out his .45, hovered over Joe with the gun, and fired two shots into his skull, spilling his brains out on the gravel. “Stupid muthafucka!”

“C’mon, cuz, we out.”

Chico and Dante rushed down the stairway and jumped back into the Impala. Chico still wasn’t satisfied. He didn’t get a name.

***

Two hours later, both men were at a local bar on Broadway having drinks. Jack’s spot was teeming with people, a mature crowd of men and women in their thirties and up. Jack was a really close friend and customer to Chico and would purchase a few ki’s from him every month. In fact, he was one of the few who still showed loyalty to Chico.

Chico downed a rum and coke, all the while worrying about his business. He’d been spending so much time at the hospital with Apple, Cross had crept up on his customers, and territory. A lot of his money was tied up in Apple’s medical bills, since he was paying for everything, from the medication to her surgery. He wanted his lady to come out a hundred percent, but he wasn’t sure if that was possible.

Jack walked into his establishment clad in a dark, pinstriped suit, bejeweled in diamonds and bling, and flashing a catching smile. An old-school player in his mid-forties, he was a well-groomed man with a casual demeanor. He was a well-liked guy, but he had a dark side. Jack’s spot was a front for money-laundering and drug distribution. He was a businessman first and considered himself a gangster second. He was greeted with love and respect the minute he stepped into his bar.

Jack locked eyes with Chico and gestured for him to meet him in his office in a few minutes. Then he went into the bar’s back office, followed closely by his right-hand man, Antonio, and shut the door,

Chico nodded and finished off his drink. He waited for a short moment and then walked through the crowd, headed toward Jack’s office. He knocked once on the door, and Antonio opened up.

Chico and Dante locked eyes with Jack’s right-hand man and bodyguard.

Dante was far from impressed. He smirked at Antonio and followed his cousin into the office.

Jack was seated behind his red oak desk, tilted back in his leather chair and smoking a cigar. He stood from his chair and greeted Chico with a handshake and a smile.

“It’s always good to meet with you, Chico,” he said.

“Likewise,” Chico replied. “You remember my cousin, Dante?”

Jack nodded at Dante with respect, and Dante returned the nod.

“So what brings you around, Chico? If you’re here to question my loyalty, you have nothing to worry about. I’m too old to switch over, and I don’t care nothing about Cross and his crew.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Have a seat then. Let’s talk.”

Jack sat in his expensive leather chair and continued to smoke his cigar. He poured himself a shot of Henny. Chico took a seat opposite Jack and poured himself another drink.

Jack looked at his friend. “You better take it easy on that stuff, Chico.”

“Don’t worry about me, Jack. I’m good.”

Jack shrugged. “How’s your woman?” he asked.

Chico downed his drink. “She could be better.”

Jack was a little worried about his friend. He hated to see Chico drinking and worrying about Apple so much, but he wasn’t his daddy. It was always business between the two, and he wasn’t too fond of Cross and his goons. Even though Chico was a thug himself, Jack felt he could trust him somewhat.