Flyy Girl (31 page)

“Well, what's it about, Tracy?”

Tracy stiffened. “Stealin',” she admitted.

“Oh, so you knew what he was doin', hunh?”

Tracy pondered. “I couldn't stop him . . . I wonder where he's at though.”

Patti frowned and said, “What? I don't believe you even said that. You remind me of your aunts, girl, datin' troublemakers and then wondering why they get all wrapped up in it. You stay away from those types! You hear me? That boy is no longer allowed in this house.”

The word was out that Tracy was the former girlfriend of Timothy Adams. He was in deep trouble with the police and no one knew where he was. And although he had busted Tracy's lip and assaulted her, she
still
felt for him.

“How long you plan on staying here, Timmy?” his new girlfriend asked. She was twenty-three and had her own apartment in Southwest Philly.

“I'on know,” he answered, stretched out on her bed, with only jeans and sneakers on.

“You're crazy as hell. You know that, right?” she asked, grinning at him. “You could have been a cute, green-eyed, light-skinned boy,
growing up to go to college. I don't understand you. I mean, you lived in a nice neighborhood and all. You already had money.”

The twenty-three-year-old figured that Germantown had its “good parts” and “bad parts,” but it was still a nice area compared to where she lived, in a drug-and-crime-infested apartment complex. She took drugs herself. Timmy was giving her money to feed her habit while he stayed there.

“Ay, Gina, just shet the fuck up! Nobody asked you shit!” he fumed at her.

“Just explain to me where you're comin' from.”

“Look, life ain't shit unless you live it.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means I'm gon' do what the fuck I want! SHIT!”

“And then what?”

Timmy smiled. “I'on know . . . I guess you die.”

Gina retorted, “See, all you criminal-minded niggas think the world is a joke, but you only get one chance to live, and you messed yours up.”

Gina began to get ready to leave for work.

Timmy asked, “Gina, what the fuck are you doin' with your life? I mean, you strung out on drugs and shit.”

Gina snapped, “I ain't headed for jail, I got my own place and a good job. Muthafucka!”

Timmy grinned and shook his head. Gina had a temper, too. He sat on the bed, thinking about what she had said after she left. She let him stay with her, thinking that she could help him out, while he gave her money for
her
habit.

Timmy shook his head and smirked. “Life is fuckin' crazy,” he mumbled to himself. Like father, like son was his story. His father had died in a shoot-out years ago. Timmy was raised by his mother and stepfather. He had never respected either one. He had to compete for attention. His mother then had a thing for abusive men, after divorcing his stepfather. She never had another child, and Timmy was lonely and miserable. He used females and mischief to fill his void. And before his wild lifestyle would end, he wanted to be with Tracy again.

Timmy dialed her number. “Hello . . . Yeah, it's me,” he answered.

Tracy got excited and asked, “Where you at?”

“That's not important. I'm sorry, and I wanna come see you.”

Tracy smiled, willing to oblige. “Where do you want me to meet you?”

“I'm gon' come up to your house, late at night, like two o'clock in the mornin'.”

“But the cops gon' be after you.”

Timmy sighed. “I'm goin' to jail soon anyway. It don't matter no more.”

Tracy was weak for him. She wanted to see him. “You want me to sneak you in the back door?” she asked.

“Yeah, you do that.”

Tracy paused. “I love you,” she said, hanging up.

Timmy began to think that if he had not been so demanding with her, he would have never followed such a path of destruction and robbery. Tracy kept him out of trouble when they were together, and her words of affection launched Timmy into emotional turmoil.

Timmy snuck out that night while Gina took a shower. He packed his gun and five hundred dollars to give to Tracy. He had gotten away with twelve hundred dollars on his last robbery. He figured Tracy could use the money better than he could. At least no one would be after her. He had about four hundred left for himself after giving Gina her share for letting him stay with her.

Not trusting the buses or the subway, he called a freelance taxi driver, or a “hack,” to ride him up to Tracy's house. He stopped for snacks at a Korean corner store to stall for time. He paid the hack to wait with him. He then told the driver to let him out three blocks away from Tracy's house, so that he could watch for cops. He didn't want the driver to know all of his business either. Timmy wasn't
slow.

He walked up the familiar streets toward Tracy's house, watching his back from all directions with his gun loaded and ready. He arrived at Tracy's driveway, feeling secure that no one had seen him, and
knocked on her door. Tracy stood glimmering, naked as an angel, ready for them to make love.

Timmy did not say a word as he undressed. They then stared at each other and held hands in the darkness. Their kiss was soft, gentle and calming. Timmy's hands rubbed her body, and Tracy's hands rubbed his as they caressed, standing in the middle of her blue-carpeted basement. And they proceeded to lay together for the last time.

Tracy asked, “Where are you going?”

Timmy sighed. “I gotta get outta here.” He jerked up his pants as he dressed in a hurry.

Tracy pleaded, “Stay till the morning, Timmy.”

Timmy frowned at her. “Shit, girl, it's like four o'clock. It is the fuckin' morning.”

“Well, where do you stay?”

He shook his head, refusing to tell her. “I told you that's not important,” he answered, walking toward the door.

“I love you.” Tracy told him again.

Timmy smiled. “Yeah, I know.”

He walked off with a quick pace, slipping around corners and making sure there were no police cars positioned around her block. He ran down another driveway and around another corner, heading for the Broad Street subway station.

Once he had arrived, he waited nervously. A train pulled up after five minutes. Timmy rode the Broad Street line to Center City, feeling like he had escaped. He then transferred to the Market Street line. Fatigue pulled him into sleep while he rode. He awoke to find that he had missed his stop. He got up and crossed to the other side to head back. He was thankful that it was summertime. The sun would not rise until six, and it was already five-thirty.

Timmy wobbled on the streets, trying to stay awake until he could reach Gina's and fall asleep for the rest of day. He arrived at Gina's apartment building and pulled out the key that she had given him.

“FREEZE! YOU'RE UNDER ARREST!” a plainclothes detective hollered from behind him, with a raised gun.

Timmy was too tired to notice them ducked inside of a parked car
across the street from the apartment complex. He was a wanted man, and the officers had waited for him to arrive, arresting him for the sake of hard-working citizens.

“Now drop the bag and turn around with your hands up high, son, or your life will end right here!”

Timmy dropped the bag and did as he was told.

Crack cocaine was not on the popular scene in Tracy's neighborhood until the end of that summer of nineteen-eighty-six. A few boys sold marijuana and beer, but cocaine was new, highly addictive and in more demand. It was also the most profitable. It became an achievement for a girl to have a drug-dealing boyfriend. The status, the glamour and the money were beyond compare for teenagers.

Drug dealers in Philly drove Cadillac Eldorados, Ford Bronco jeeps, Mercedes Benzes and BMW's. They became the most talked about, instead of the athletes, the fighters and the pretty-boys. Drug dealing was the new
in
thing to do, with dealers making hundreds to thousands of dollars a day. No one knew who was the first to sell drugs in Tracy's part of the city. The word was out that drugs were moving into Germantown from North and South Philly, where crack cocaine had been popular since as early as nineteen-eighty-one.

•    •    •

Tracy remained in shock after the police arrested Timmy. She decided to leave boys alone for a while. She sat outside on her patio, watching flashy teens drive by in fancy cars with thumping sound systems.

Tracy could not help but be curious about them. All of the neighborhood gossip became focused around who's who in the drug world. Victor was one of the primary young sellers in the area, running things under his brother. Bruce's friend Bucky began conducting “business,” as he liked to call it, for Victor's brother in his area. College basketball was not profitable for Todd “Hoops” Hinson, but the cocaine business was booming.

Tracy was attracted to a few of the dealers, regardless of her efforts to leave guys alone. On occasion, her growing curiosity had led her to the playground to learn more about them.

As Tracy looked up and down her block, she noticed Bruce, walking up toward her house. He wore a light-blue Izod tennis shirt with matching shorts. Tracy knew that he and Bucky had broken off. Bruce was not fond of drugs.

He walked right up to her steps and sat next to Tracy without a word.

“What, you just gon' sit here and not say anything?”

“So, what's been up, Tracy?” Bruce asked, as he looked into her hazels glittering in the sunlight.
Damn, she's beautiful!
he told himself. Obviously he was still not over her.

“Nothin'. What's up with you?”

“I'm 'bout to go to the Bahamas.” Bruce hoped that she would ask more about it.

Tracy ignored it. “How come you don't hang out with your friend anymore?” she asked, wickedly. She already knew why; she just wanted to hear Bruce's full explanation.

“Because, Bucky got his own life now.”

“Are you mad at him or something?” she pressed, wanting a more precise answer.

“Did I say I was mad at him?”

“Well, I thought you and Bucky were best friends.”

“Oh, we still cool, we just don't hang out no more.”

Tracy was guiding Bruce slowly but surely to where she wanted to go with their conversation: to talk about the drug trade.

“Why not?” she asked him.

“He got new buddies now.”

“So what does that mean?”

“Look, I don't like his new friends, aw'ight,” Bruce finally snapped at her. Although he was glad she was being cordial to him again, he was growing weary of her questions.

“Well, don't get mad at
me
for it.”

“Stop asking me about it then.”

Bruce was giving her the run-around instead of saying what she wanted him to say about drug dealing.

A blue Eldorado with white trimming whipped around the corner. Tracy noticed Victor driving, with Mark Bates in the passenger seat. Victor had recently turned eighteen, the same age as Bruce. Tracy would be turning a mere fifteen in September, but she
looked
eighteen.

Victor shouted, “Yo Bruce, come here, man!”

Tracy felt queasy about Victor and Bruce being out in front of her house together.

“You know where Bucky at, man?” Victor asked him.

“Naw, I don't be with him no more.”

“Yeah, what's up wit' 'dat, man?
^Y
ou ain't down with this money or something, cuz',” Mark interjected.

Bruce never liked Mark. Mark Bates faked being cooler and tougher than what he really was, perpetrating like he was a real somebody. He was nothing to talk about to Bruce.

Bruce quizzed him, “How much money you gettin' out of it?”

“Oh, I'm makin' mine.”

“Yeah, sure you are.”

Victor knew that Bruce could easily beat Mark in a real confrontation. Bruce may have not been so good at enticing girls, but he was nobody's punk.

Victor said, “Bruce, if you wanna get put down just get wit' me,
man. And tell Bucky I was lookin' for 'em.” He then looked over at Tracy and smiled. “Oh yeah, tell my young-girl that I said, ‘hi.' ”

Bruce nodded as Victor's “El-dog” sped off, thumping Schoolly D's “Gucci Time.”

Bruce walked back over to sit with Tracy.

“What did he say to you?” she asked him excitedly.

It was clear to Bruce that she still liked Victor, even though he seldom said anything to her.

“Nothin',” he lied jealously.

Tracy begged, “Come on. Tell me.”

Bruce smiled. “What 'chew gon' do for me?”

Tracy looked at him and frowned. “Oh, well, never mind then. And if you're not gon' tell me, you can get off of my steps, too.”

“Look at you actin' like a kid.”

“Well, tell me then, and I'll do somethin' with you.” Tracy smiled seductively.

Bruce laughed. “You a trip, 'cause I ain't tellin' you nothin'.”

“Please, ‘Brucie,' ” Tracy begged, pulling on his arm. It was just like old times again. Tracy had not changed a bit.

“You want me bad, hunh?” Bruce asked her sarcastically.

Tracy released him, disgusted. “Boy, I don't want you. I'm goin' in the house.”

Bruce knew he had gotten her goat. He strolled off with a big smile on his face.

“And don't come back here no more,” Tracy yelled at his back.

Bruce continued to smile, and he took her ranting to mean the exact opposite.

“Tracy! Bruce is down here,” Patti yelled up the steps that next evening.

Tracy ran down, excited about seeing him. But she kept her liking for him incognito. It was more fun that way.

“Didn't I tell you not to come here anymore?” she said to Bruce
with a grin. She was wearing a red Le Coq Sportif sweat suit with an asymmetric hairdo, and the gigantic
Tracy
earrings that Timmy had bought her. She refused to listen to her mother about not wearing them anymore, especially since Timmy had purchased them with what she called “dirty money.” Tracy argued, “Unless you just got new dollar bills from the bank,
all
money is dirty, mom.”

Bruce sat on her couch and said, “I was around the courts, and I thought I might as well stop by.”

“Was it a game around there?” Tracy asked him. She joined him on the couch, keeping a space in between them.

“Yeah, but it's over with now,” he answered her. “And you know dude named Peppy?”

Tracy frowned. “Yeah, I know that punk.”

Bruce smiled. “Dig, I don't like dude either, but he got busted up at the courts though.”

“By who?” Tracy asked, hungry for gossip.

“Some drug-dealing dude named Cash. You know who I'm talkin' about?”

“Unt unh. I heard about him though. What he look like?”

“He a cool-looking dude, tall, brown and slender. He look a little like Rudy on the
Fat Albert Show,”
Bruce told her with a laugh.

Tracy shook her head. “No he don't,” she responded. She thought about getting a chance to meet the boy. She then turned her attention back to Bruce.

Tracy asked him with a smile, “So Bruce, when you gon' buy me somethin' again?” She gestured passion with her hazels.

Bruce slapped his hand on her knee and whispered, “As soon as we make love again.”

Tracy figured he was serious. “You ain't making love to me,” she snapped, turning away from him. She wanted to see if Bruce would pursue her. He would be more exciting that way.

“Why not?” he asked, begging already.

“Because I said you can't,” Tracy told him, annoyed by his weakness. Bruce was still
slow.

“Well, the fuck if I'm gon' buy anything then,” he snapped in a low tone. Patti was right in the kitchen. Bruce added, “You ain't givin' me no ass. So what I look like, Santa Claus or some shit to you?”

“Watch your mouth, boy,” Tracy said, tickled brown. She chuckled at his radical response. Then she lied. “I don't want nothin' from you, Bruce. I just wanted to see if you were still stingy.”

Bruce looked in between Tracy's legs. “Look how stingy you are.”

Tracy grinned. “You nasty.”

“Aw, girl, don't even try it. You know damn well you be givin' them panties up.”

Tracy laughed aloud.

Bruce asked, “Can I get some water?”

“No, you can't have
nothin'
from me.” She was hoping that Bruce would keep talking nasty to her. Tracy liked it.

Patti came out of the kitchen.

“Is Jason still in front of the house?”

Tracy responded, annoyed, “Yeah, mom.”

Patti was in the way.

She walked to the front door to see for herself.

Bruce figured it was a perfect opportunity to get the upper hand on Tracy. “Oh, I can't get anything to drink, Tracy?” He was sure that Patti would hear him.

“Tracy, get up and get him somethin'.”

Bruce giggled at his success.

Tracy said playfully, while bringing him a glass of lemonade, “I hate you.”

“Yeah, I know you love me.”

“I don't hardly love you, boy.”

Bruce chuckled, gulping from the tall blue glass. “Well, I'm 'bout to roll,” he said, finishing the lemonade. His mother had told him he had to start packing for their trip to the Bahamas.

Tracy asked, “Why you leavin'?”

Bruce lied. “I gotta go see my girlfriend.”

“What girlfriend?”

“None of your business,” he answered sharply, walking toward the door.

Tracy followed him out of her house, disappointed that he didn't stay longer. She was jealous, thinking that he was telling the truth.

“Don't leave, Bruce,” she pleaded. She then whispered, “Fuck that girl.” She looked back toward her brother, who was playing on the lawn with a neighbor, to make sure that they didn't hear her.

Bruce felt in charge. He wanted to keep Tracy begging. “Nope. I gotta go. Bye-bye. Seeya' later.
Buenos noches.
Don't forget to write.” He laughed as he walked off down her block.

Tracy retorted, “Well, don't come back then.”

Of course, she meant the opposite. Bruce was fun.

She looked and noticed a brand-new jeep at the opposite corner. She waited for Bruce to disappear before going to inspect it further.

“Where you goin', Tracy?” Jason asked, tagging along. His friend had been called inside.

“Nowhere, boy. Get back in front of the house,” she told him. Jason remained at her side as Tracy looked the Bronco jeep over. It was two-toned, black on the top and gold across the bottom.

Jason squealed, “Deeeeep. This truck is
decent.”
He was four years old.

“Shet up, boy,” Tracy told him, being evil.

“So you like my jeep, hunh, pretty?”

Tracy turned and spotted a tall, handsome, brown-skinned teenager wearing white leather shorts and a purple t-shirt. A wide gold chain was wrapped around his neck, and he wore no socks with his Timberland shoes.

Tracy said, “It is kind of nice.” Feeling nervous, she seized Jason's hand.

Tall-and-handsome asked, “What's your name?”

“Tracy.”

He leaned up against his jeep. “You live on this block, Tracy?”

“Yeah.”

“My name is Jason,” her brother said, reaching out to shake Tall-and-handsome's hand.

“Oh, you a cool little dude, hunh?” he responded. He picked Jason up, shocking Tracy with his friendliness. She stood there, waiting to be sweet-talked, as he put Jason back down and looked her over.

“So Tracy, I got an aunt that lives here, and whenever I'm up here to see her, I can stop by and shoot the breeze with you.”

“Aw'ight. I live right there,” Tracy told him, pointing to her house. “What's your name?” she finally asked him.

“Everybody calls me ‘Cash.' My name was Ronald three years ago. But hell, you might as well call me Cash now, too.”

Tracy asked, “Was you just fightin' some boy named Peppy at the playground?”

Cash nodded with a grin. “Yeah, I had to smack dude up a bit, you know. He was talkin' shit to me like he was hard or something.”

Tracy liked his sense of authority and his nonchalant attitude. “I hate that boy,” she told him.

“Yeah, well anyway, won't you give me your number so I can call you when I come back around to see my aunt?”

“Aw'ight,” Tracy responded, refreshed by a new boy with a Bronco jeep. She wrote her number on a business card that Cash had pulled from his dashboard. He seemed to have everything in control. Tracy loved his organization. He gave her a beeper number and a three-digit code before he left, pumping Roxanne Shante from his booming system.

“Yo Cash, we gon' pick up that package later on?” asked a short, tanned-skinned friend.

“Naw, man. We ain't got the money together from the last one yet. And I ain't trying to owe no niggas nothin'.”

Cash sat on his apartment couch, back in North Philly, counting ones, fives, tens and twenties.

“So you busted dude up today, hunh?” Short-tan asked.