King Divas (11 page)

“W
hy in the fuck did you bring me here?” I ask as we pull up to a new crib in West Memphis. “I thought that you were taking me back home.” I turn my nose up at the place.

Lynch cocks his head and gives me a flat look. “You know that I can't do that. Shit is still hot.”

“So the fuck what? I have a psycho bitch stalking me out here. You're going to leave me to fend for my damn self?”

“Nah. I didn't say that shit. I'm going to assign a couple of my most trusted soldiers to stay out here and keep an eye out for you.”

“Fuck that shit.
You're
supposed to be my nigga. You're supposed to protect me. Why the fuck can't I be with you?”

“C'mon, Shariffa. We've already been over this shit. You already know the situation back at the crib. I can't take you back there.”

My mouth falls open. I can't believe the shit I'm hearing. “You're the muthafucka boss. You can do what the fuck you wanna do. You tell them purple niggas what's up and that be that. You ain't gotta ask their asses for permission.”

He sighs and rolls his eyes like I'm getting on his fucking nerves or some shit. “You know that things are more complicated than that. My people think you brought all this heat on yourself and they don't see any fucking reason why they gotta get involved in your bullshit.”

“You mean
our
people,” I correct him. “They are involved because they are supposed to be our family. And on the streets, family takes care of family. That's the whole fucking point.”

“Goddamn it, Shariffa. Why can't you do what the fuck I tell you to do? Why the fuck do you always make shit so damn complicated? You know why your situation is different. Why the hell are you forcing me to say it? Your shit is suspect because your flag ain't always been the right fucking color. And when you finally get the fuck out of your muthafuckin' feelings, you'll recognize the damn truth in what I'm telling you.”

“I'm your fucking wife. How long do you fucking plan to hide me out here?”

Instead of answering me, he clamps his mouth shut.

“You don't fuckin' know, do you?”

“Shariffa, I—”

“I don't believe what the fuck I'm hearing.” I stare at him as if it's the first time I've ever seen his ass. True. I've always had to push his ass to seize power and respect, but this shit is ridiculous. “You can't stash me out here forever.”

“It's not going to be forever. I promise.”

I want to believe him, but I feel like there is some shit that he's not telling me.

“C'mon, baby.” He stretches his arm out to brush a curl of my hair behind my ear. “Trust me.”

I shrink away from his touch. He may look like a big, strong man, but he's acting like a little boy. Not for the first time, but I miss being with a nigga like Python. He ran a tight ship—and no one dared to question his ass. His word was law. Same shit with the fucking Vice Lords. I can't imagine Fat Ace or Lucifer having to put up with the kind of bullshit I'm putting up with now. More and more I'm starting to see that the Grape Street Crips are nothing but toy soldiers playing at being in the game. I gotta figure out some fucking way to get this shit back on track, but how in the hell am I going to do that with this fucking crew?

“Hey. Look at me, ma,” Lynch instructs. When I refuse, he leans over and cups my chin and forces me to look at him. “I need for you to trust me on this, Shariffa. I'm going to fix this shit. I need for you to give me a little bit more time. Can you do that shit for me, ma?”

“You ask like I have a fucking choice.”

Lynch heaves out a deep sigh as his hand falls away from my chin. He's run out of fuckin' shit to say—and I'm fuckin' glad. There's not enough room in this vehicle to shovel more bullshit. “C'mon. Let's go inside and get you situated.”

This time, he doesn't wait for me to respond before he opens his door and climbs out of the Range Rover.

“Can we go in too, momma?” Marcel asks.

I glance in the backseat where my boys' excited faces beam back at me. “I don't know. You'll have to ask your dad.” I turn and open my door.

“Daddy! Daddy!” they shout until they gain Lynch's attention.

My nerves are frayed like a muthafucka so I march ahead into my new crib—or prison. I immediately wonder what bitch Lynch kept stashed up in this place, because I don't remember his ass ever mentioning having a place out here in this neck of the woods. The moment I walk in the door, my suspicion heightens once I pick up the subtle floral scent wafting throughout the place. As much as I stay on Lynch about his funky drawers and shoes he likes to leave all over the house, I know damn well his ass wouldn't know what the fuck a can of Febreze looks like.

“Mommy, Mommy. Daddy said that we can stay with you for a few hours,” Marcel shouts.

They both wrap their small arms around my legs and squeeze so hard that I nearly topple over.

“Careful, you two.” Lynch laughs. “You don't want Momma falling.”

My smile melts off my face. “A
few
hours? Why in the fuck can't they stay with me?”

He huffs and then gives me a scalding look like my ass is a child or some shit. “You know that they have school and shit. Why are you asking me dumb shit?”

“Maybe because this whole thing is dumb. You kicked me out of my house and I'm not supposed to feel some kind of way about it? Where they do that at?”

“I'm tired of arguing with you, ma. You want my word to be law? Fine. You keep your ass right here like I fucking said and I don't fucking want to talk about it no more.”

“I'm saying—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he shouts so loud that the kids jump.

Julez starts crying.

“Are you happy now?” I kneel down and comfort my son until he stops crying.

Lynch paces back and forth like his ass is the one that's being locked in a cage.

Right now I can't stand his ass. It's clear that I'm going to have to take matters into my own hands. In order for me to go back home, I'm going to have to get rid of Lucifer. I swear that bitch isn't going to see my ass coming.

“D
amn. People are dropping like flies out here,” Fowler says, shaking his head as the forensic and paramedic teams arrive at Josephine Holmes's residence. “What're the odds that this shooting is related to the one at the church?”

Frustrated, I run my hands through my hair while trying to hazard a guess. “I don't know. Anything is possible.” Which is true. Everyone on Shotgun Row is milling around in the streets. I catch a few of them questioning whether Fowler and I rolled in the older lady's crib and shot her ourselves.

Luckily there's enough people out here to set them straight before we have a riot on our hands.

“I don't know what to think,” I tell him, though my gaze drifts across the street to Momma Peaches's house. I also don't want to believe that this would have anything to do with my father returning to the neighborhood. “But neighbors killed on the same day? It's a bit too coincidental.” I glance over my shoulder back to Momma Peaches's crib.

“Let's split up and question the neighbors. The faster we get started the faster we can get this damn thing over with.”

“Why? We already know what everyone is going to say.”

“
I didn't hear shit or see shit
,” we say in unison.

As sad as that fact is, we start with the people, who are watching our every move with hostile eyes. Sure enough. One by one, they repeat the same line of being blind and deaf. After a while, they walk away from us before we can fix our mouths to ask them a question. This part of the job is always heartbreaking.

I understand the mistrust. I'm a cop and I don't trust half the force. Racism, excessive force, deep-seated corruption—sometimes it feels as if I left one gang to join another one.This one is a lot more powerful than the Gangster Disciples.

By the time the last person on the scene flips me the bird, the sun is setting and my stomach is growling like a sonofabitch. “Shit. It's been a long damn day.”

“Tell me about it,” Fowler grumbles, slapping his steno pad closed. “How about that drink? You game?”

Before I can respond, a black '68 Dodge Charger rumbles down the street, snatching everyone's attention.

“It's him,” a few excited teenagers say, pointing.

I recognize the car instantly. Isaac must have gotten his baby out of storage. When the car finally rumbles to a stop in front of his place, a crowd quickly gathers around him like he is an NFL star.

“Daddy's home,” Fowler says.

I cut him a look to let him know that his joke isn't funny.

“Do you want to talk to him together or . . . ?”

“Nah. I got this,” I tell him. “You can go on back to the station. I'll catch a ride back.”

“Are you sure? I can hang out in the car.”

“I'm sure,” I tell him and stroll across the street. Fowler's heavy gaze follows me, probably wondering whether he should follow the order or not.

Isaac sees me approaching. There's a lifetime of pain, hurt, and mistrust flowing between us. Pain that neither of us knows what to do with anymore. We're two bad actors, waltzing around a stage, praying for a director to yell
“Cut.”
But I still have a job to do.

“Hello, Mr. Goodson,” I say formally in front of the crowd. “Do you mind if I come in and ask you a few questions?”

He shrugs his big shoulders. “Suit yourself.” He turns and weaves his way through the crowd, which is shouting, “Welcome back, Isaac.” And “Sorry about Momma Peaches.”

If any of the shit is getting to him, it doesn't show.

“What's going on across the street?” he asks after we enter the house.

“You don't know?”

He faces me with a lifted brow. “Should I?”

There's no point in trying to read his sincerity because he could convince a pack of nuns that he's Jesus reincarnated if he put his mind to it. “Your neighbor Josephine Holmes had the back of her head blown off today.”

“Josie?” He looks up toward the front window where he can see the yellow tape wrapped around the house. “What happened?”

“You tell me.”

His eyes snap back to me. “You gotta be kidding me. You can't possibly think that I had something to do with it. I was down at the damn morgue, identifying my wife's body!” He stepped back and quickly grabbed hold of his anger. “Sorry. I shouldn't have shouted.”

“That's okay. I . . . shouldn't have made the insinuation. It's just that a lot of shit has gone down on your first day back home.” I swallow hard before adding, “I'm sorry for what happened to Maybelline. I know how much you were looking forward to you two having a fresh start.”

He nods and then works his jaw for a few seconds, like he's having a hard time spitting out the words. When he looks up, his eyes are wet. “Thanks. I know that you never really cared too much for her, but—she really was a good woman. I didn't always do right by her. In fact, I did a lot of shit I wish I could take back.” He hangs his head for a second so that he can gain control of his emotions again. “I wish I could've been a better man for her.”

He looks up as if hearing my thoughts. “Sorry. I haven't been much good for any of the women in my life.”

It's a backhanded apology, but I'll accept it. “What are you going to do?”

“Scrape up the money to put her in the ground, I guess. Give her a proper send-off.” He walks over to a nearby chair and sits. “Have the police found her killer?”

“We're working on it. I'm sure we'll find him.” Python jumps to the front of my mind. “I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“You probably still have a few eyes and ears out here on the streets. You heard anything about where Maybelline's nephew, Terrell, may be hiding out?”

Isaac gives me a perplexed look. “Terrell is dead.”

“No. I saw him this morning, right after I dropped you off, in fact. Chased him all over town and made the noontime news.”

“Hmph.” He gives me a half smile. “I still can't get over you being a cop.”

“Captain,” I correct him.

He nods, evaluating me. “You know what they say: Once you're in the Folks Nation you never really truly leave.”

“So all that yack about you turning over a new leaf was bullshit?”

“Nah. Nah, princess. I'm keeping it one hundred. My bad-boy days are well behind me.”

“You know that there's another saying: You can't teach an old dog new tricks.”

Our gazes connect again. I make sure that he can read in my eyes that I'm not buying his bullshit—and that I'm going to be watching him.

“You don't believe that a man can change?”

“Men—yes. Snakes—no.”

His head rears back at my blunt talk. He's never liked being challenged.

I stand and wait for the spiel about how he found himself, or better yet—found God or Allah in prison. He's going to give up this and that and blah, blah, blah. The convict anthem.

Isaac refuses to allow me to bait him into an argument. “You have every right not to believe me. All I can do is show you. You know, I spent ten years in that hellhole, thinking about the day my ass would get out and set shit right. In time, maybe you and your mother will find it in your heart to forgive me.”

He walks toward me, but I instinctively back up.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean to—”

“It's all right.” I wave the shit off. “Back to Terrell. If you hear something, you'll call me, right?”

Isaac laughs. “I may have changed my ways, but that doesn't mean that I'm taking up snitching to police—not even to my daughter.”

“All right. Well . . .” I glance at my watchless arm. “I gotta go. I have a lot I have to take care of.”

His head bobs in understanding again while we finish out this bad acting scene. “Yeah. Well . . . thanks again for coming by.”

“Not a problem.” I start backing toward the front door. “I'll catch up with you later.”

“You got it. I still got that rain check. You, me, and your white boy.”

“His name is Drake.”

“Right. Drake.” He grimaces. “I look forward to meeting your husband.”

I roll my eyes and exit the house. Still standing next to his parked car in front of the house is Fowler.

“What can I say?” Fowler grins. “I have a hard time obeying orders from female authority figures.”

I should be pissed, but I'm actually glad that he stayed back. “You don't say.” I walk out to the car and climb in on the passenger side. “Remind me when we get back to the station to write your ass up about that.”

Fowler laughs and starts up the car.