King Divas (5 page)

 

 

 

“This muthafucka has lost his damn mind!” I rage at the text message Python sent my ass an hour ago. I done wore a fucking hole into the carpet in the master bedroom in the small ass hideout while calling and texting his ass back, but the muthafucka won't answer his fuckin' phone. How many times has this nigga jumped all over my ass about not answering when
his
ass calls? Too many goddamn times to count. “Aaagh!” Spinning around, I throw the phone as hard as I can at the wall.

A hole opens up in the wall but my anger has me turnt all the way up and I reach for any and every goddamn thing to throw at the muthafucka.

Lamps.
Bam!

Clock radio.
Bam!

I swipe shit off the damn dresser and then take our clothes out of the closet and fling them everywhere. “I'm so sick of his shit! Shit! Shit! Muthafucka got my ass stuck out here in bumble-fuck Egypt while boss bitch Lucifer and silly bitch Shariffa with the Grape Street Crippettes run the streets in Memphis.” This ain't what the fuck I signed up for when I married the chief of the Gangster Disciples. I signed up to be the head bitch of the Queen Gs. I signed up for power, money . . . and even to be a part of a real family—since my backstabbing sister, Ta'Shara, ain't about shit.

Exhausted, I drop to my knees and battle back my hot, angry tears. Why can't Python let go of this obsession about Fat Ace being his brother? They have been battling in the streets for supremacy for more than a decade. I don't know if that nigga is his long lost brother or not—and frankly, I don't give a shit. It won't change a fuckin' thing. Too much time and blood have been invested in this war.

The war we're fucking losing.

We haven't been on our throne on Shotgun Row since Python murked his pig baby momma, Melanie, and landed his ass on the federal Most Wanted list. Python hid our ass out here in West Memphis, Arkansas, and then called up his shady-ass cousin Diesel from Atlanta to handle
our
fucking shit. What muthafuckin' gangster does that shit? Diesel already got Atlanta on lock. It's clear that nigga raced his pretty-boy ass up here to expand his empire—not to fucking babysit. Python don't see that shit. My man trusts that nigga. Bottom line: Shit is spiraling out of control. I got to figure out how to fix this shit with a quickness. I been through and sacrificed too damn much to let Python lose his goddamn mind.

I'm all in my feelings when I hear the front door slam
.

My heart skips as I jump to my feet and race out of the bedroom. “It's about muthafuckin' time,” I shout. “Do you know how long I've been calling your ass?” I race down the hallway and around the corner to confront Python in the living room, but I take one look at my man's face and pull up short. “What happened?”

Huffing and puffing, his face twisted in rage, Python ignores my question and unleashes a series of hard punches into the wall.

I watch him as chunks of plaster explode and spray everywhere.

I step back. After all the shit that we've been through—and we've been through some unimaginable shit—I've never seen Python
this
angry. His rage has rendered his ass fucking unrecognizable.

My heart skips a beat. Have my skeletons fallen out of the closet? Did I fuck up by giving that teenage bitch Qiana a window of opportunity to bury my ass? Her stupid ass has been sleeping with Diesel, a VL enemy, and didn't know it. The question is, has Diesel blabbed everything to Python about the hit job?

A strong part of me refuses to feel guilty about the shit. What's one less baby momma and jizz-baby running around? The way Yolanda's retarded ass kept refusing to stay in her lane and disrespecting my crown, I had to take care of that bitch. Shit. I thought I'd taught her a lesson when I pistol-whipped her ass up in Fabdivas Hair Salon in front of the other Queen Gs—but basic bitches can't learn. She called herself getting back at me by doing a shitty drive-by when I was exiting a club one night, but that non-aiming bitch signed her death certificate with that punk-bitch move. I did what I had to do. I didn't give a fuck about her carrying one of my nigga's seeds. He got plenty of those ugly niggas running around Memphis. The bitch deserved every damn thing she got. My only regret is not handling the damn job myself. I enlisted a kiddie banger who can't follow fucking directions. I blazed up Essence, one of my own girls with the Queen Gs, because she was on that bitch's shit list in exchange for her to murk my headache and the blood clot growing inside of her. Now the situation is a full-on migraine. Yo-Yo is gone, but Qiana snatched the baby Yo-Yo was carrying.
Why?
The only answer I can come up with is the li'l bitch planned to play me.

I suck in a breath and prepare my ass for anything. Ain't shit I can do about it now.

Python stops punching the wall—only to release a lionlike roar from the depths of his soul.

The hairs on my body stand at attention while every muscle coils in preparation to be his next target.

“You were right,” he growls.

I hear the words, but I'm confused. “What?”

He pants and paces, opening and clenching his fists.

I stay back in case he does punch something else: me. “What the fuck are you talking about, Python? What happened ?”

“That muthafucka shot Momma Peaches.”

Those are more words that don't make sense to me.
Momma Peaches? What the fuck does she have to do with any of this?
“I thought your text said that you were going to go talk with—”

“Fuck that nigga,” Python roars again. “The next time I'm gonna smoke his ass on sight.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. The next fucking time, we're going to end this shit for once and for all. It's settled. The two of us can't be on this muthafuckin' planet. Blood or no fuckin' blood. That nigga is dead.”

My heart leaps with excitement.
Finally!
“But wait. You said Momma Peaches has been shot? What are you talking about?”

He huffs. “Aunt Peaches arranged the meet-up. She said the woman who'd raised Mason wanted to make shit right. When Diesel and I got there . . . Aunt Peaches was laid out . . .”

I blink. “Laid out? She's dead?”

He swings his fist around and punches the air. “I don't fucking know. Diesel made me get out of there before the police showed up.”

Damn
. The old bitch ain't been out of the hospital a hot minute and she's already taken some heat? “All right. Start from the beginning.”

Python ignores me and keeps pacing around.

Frustrated, I snap, “Python! Fuckin' talk to me! What in the hell happened?”

He spins around and kicks an end table. The lamp goes crashing to the floor—but that shit ain't enough. He advances farther into the living room and kicks the coffee table. Bricks of coke and stacks of rubber-banded cash fly everywhere.

There ain't shit for me to do but wait for him to finish with his temper tantrum. A few minutes later, the entire living room is a wreck. Knickknacks, chairs, and electronics are tossed around the room by the human hurricane.

“Are you done?” I ask.

For the third time, Python ignores me. He drops to his knees and the sound that rumbles from his chest is like a wounded animal on its last legs. The shit touches and even scares me. My man is beyond hurt. I recognize that pain. Ungluing my feet, I walk over to him. Despite the glass and broken furniture, I kneel next to him and pull his trembling body over so that he can lay his head on my shoulder. His warm, fat tears drip onto my collarbone. Never in a million years would I have thought this moment could happen. Real niggas don't cry. How many times has he told me that? How many times have I drilled it into my own head? Then again, this is his aunt Peaches. He already thought he'd lost her once, but to lose her again? I don't know whether he'll be able to handle it.

I let the minutes tick by while Python rages, cries, and then tries to pull himself together. I get it, but at the same time, I'm feeling some kind of way about the double standards in our situation. It was on his orders that I chopped and burned my relationship with my own sister, to prove that I was his ride-or-die and to get my wedding ring. Now I've been watching him pine and risk everything we have left to raise his brother's dead memory from the grave. At least he seems to be over that bullshit.

Now Momma Peaches is another story. She raised Python—saved him from having to grow up with a crackhead mother who, in the end, lost all her goddamn marbles. Growing up on Shotgun Row was no picnic, but it's where Python learned to be a man—and a leader. “Everything is going to be all right,” I tell him. Mainly because Peaches can take a licking and keep on ticking. “I'm sure she is going to be fine.”

“There was so much blood.” Python shakes his head. “When I walked into that muthafucka and saw . . . him hovered over Aunt Peaches like that . . .” Rage ripples across his face.

“Start from the beginning,” I say again. “I need a clear picture of what the fuck went down.”

He nods, but takes in several deep breaths before he gets started. “Aunt Peaches got word to Diesel that Mason and his other
mother
wanted to meet.”

Clamping my jaw tight, I keep my commentary to myself.

He glances up at me. “I didn't tell you because I know how you feel about the situation. I thought that it was the peace offering that I was looking for. I mean, now that I know who he is and shit—and what I did to him, putting him in that oven. I thought it was the opportunity I wanted and needed to make shit right. Blood is thicker than water, right?”

“
My damn family is fucked up,” he rants. “Muthafucka made a damn fool outta us.” Python sniffs, but there are no tears in his eyes now—only rage. “The meeting was set up at a church—not too far from Shotgun Row. It's a good damn thing that I asked Diesel to come with—or my ass would've been caught wide open.”

“The second we walked in and saw him over Peaches—blood everywhere—it was a wrap. I wish that we'd got there a little sooner, you know? Maybe I could've stopped that shit from going down.”

“Don't start that,” I tell him. “Fat Ace is a fuckin' low-life thug. That shit ain't news.”

Python nods, listening to reason. “You right. You right. I lost sight of that shit for a minute. Blood don't make niggas family. Loyalty does.” His rage softens a bit. “That's why I wifed you. You've always been loyal to a nigga—even when he's being stupid and acting all brand-new.”

I don't know what to do with that backhanded compliment. “Finish the story.”

“I snatched out my piece. What the fuck you think? Fat Ace said some shit, but I wasn't hearing it. I wanted that muthafucka toe-tagged right then and there. Aunt Peaches is my heart.” He glances back up at me and adds, “Next to you. You know that.”

I let the shit slide. This is no time to be nitpicking his ass.

“At least Diesel is a stand-up nigga. He had my back as we turned that muthafucka into the goddamn Alamo up in that bitch, but the fucker and his white momma got away. Diesel gave chase while I checked on Aunt Peaches.”

The way he stops the story makes my heart pound. I'd assumed that she was still alive. “She's not . . . dead, is she?”

Python shakes his head. “No. But she was weak as fuck. I didn't want to leave her—but I heard the police sirens and Diesel insisted that I go. I left once he promised to stay with her.”

Python looks around like he's searching for something else to throw, but there's not a damn thing in this room that's standing.

“I'm glad that you've finally come around to seeing shit my way,” I tell him.

He says nothing so I reach over and cup his chin and force him to look at me. “Forget about that muthafucka. Mason Carver is dead. He died years ago. You got that? That nigga that shot your aunt is our enemy. He's the fuckin' leader of the goddamn Vice Lords. He's not your brother. He ain't shit to you. You got that?” I lean forward and place my forehead against his while our eyes lock. “
I'm
your family. Me and Momma Peaches. And we're in this shit until the world fuckin' blows. You got that?”

He nods. “Until the world blows.”

“M
omma Peaches!” I drop everything and race over to her. “Oh my God. What happened?” There's no movement.
Is she dead?

I race to find a pulse, but I've never done this shit before and I can't tell one way or another because of my heartbeat hammering in my ears. I lean all the way over and place my ear up against her chest. “I don't hear anything,” I declare in shock. “No! No! No! You can't die.”

Momma Peaches is a legend on Shotgun Row. Years ago, Essence and I got busted by the cops while working in her shoplifting ring. There were never any harsh feelings; she bailed us out and took good care of us when our mom died. Momma Peaches took care of everybody at some point or another. Everybody in the neighborhood loves Momma Peaches.

“I have to get you to the hospital,” I declare, realizing that the sirens are getting closer. “Hang on, Momma Peaches. Help is on the way.” Not taking the chance that the sirens are for someone else, I scramble back to where I'd dropped my purse to dig for my cell.

“This is 9-1-1. What's your emergency?”

“Yes! I'm calling from the Power of Prayer Baptist Church over on Florida Street. A woman has been shot.”

“Is the woman breathing?”

I wrench my neck back around to Momma Peaches's still body and practically will her chest to move. In my anxiousness, I really can't tell. “I . . . I don't know.”

The operator asks me another question, but at that moment, tires screech outside.

“Wait. I think—”

“Freeze! Hands up!” The police charge inside.

I drop the phone. “Please. Hurry. She needs help. She needs a paramedic. She's hurt.”

“Hands up!”

“But—”

“Hands up!”

Swallowing my anger, I lift my hands. The next thing I know, I'm planted facedown on the carpet.
What the fuck?
A three-hundred-pound pig bitch jams her knee in my back and then pats me down.

“Is anyone else here in the church with you?” she barks in my ear.

“I don't know,” I snap. “I got here and found her like that.”

Once the cops are satisfied that I've been neutralized, another officer shouts, “All clear,” and they finally attend to Momma Peaches's still body. I note now that she's a dull grayish blue.
She's dead.

Tears blur my vision. I don't understand. What the hell happened in here? Why was Diesel speeding away? Was he involved in this shit? Only then do I gaze around and take in more of my surroundings. Splintered wood, shattered glass, and blood spread throughout, it's clear that the place had been turned into a war zone.

Without warning, I'm unceremoniously hauled to my feet and shoved toward the front door. “Wait. Wait. I had nothing to do with this,” I say, panicked that they are taking my ass to jail.

“We'll take your statement downtown.”

“Downtown? But why?” A cop opens a car door and tells me to sit.

“This is bullshit. You don't have any grounds to arrest me. I already told you that I wasn't even here when this went down.”

“Calm down, ma'am. No one said anything about you being under arrest, ma'am. We're securing the area.” She gestures for me to have a seat in the back of the squad car.

“No, thanks. I'll stand,” I say.

The asshole looks as though she wants to slap the cuffs on me.

“Since I'm not under arrest, I prefer not to be treated like a fucking criminal, if you don't mind.”

“Suit yourself.” The cop sighs again. “You want to tell me what happened here?”

A migraine creeps up on me. “I told you. I don't know. I came here to pick up my new church robe before heading home. I . . .” I stop myself from mentioning seeing Diesel blaze out of the parking lot. Snitches don't get stitches in Memphis. They get body-bagged.

“You what?” the officer prompts.

“I . . . was so shocked to find Momma Peaches lying on the floor like that. I've known her my whole life.”

For the first time, the cop's face softens with compassion.

Despite my concern for Momma Peaches, my mind keeps roaming back to Diesel and his possible involvement in this shooting. Given the amount of damage inside, surely he wasn't banging against his own aunt. Did she get caught up in the crossfire?

Kalief hasn't missed an opportunity to tell me about Diesel's long reach of power. Though it's a little disturbing if he's still out here gangbanging like a low-level foot soldier.
Maybe he was the intended victim?
That makes more sense. Then again, I don't know why I'm trying to come up with an excuse for the guy. The muthafucka doesn't mean anything but a check to me.

“Excuse me,” a man says.

I turn toward him as he's extending his hand.

“Hello. I'm Lieutenant John Fowler. I'm the lead detective for this investigation. How are you? Can I get you anything?”

Finally. Somebody with manners. “No. I'm fine. Thank you.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

More questions.
“No. Not at all.”

“First: Can I get your name?”

“Cleo. Cleo Blackmon.”

The paramedics finally arrive. I swing my attention away from the lieutenant and watch the emergency responders scramble out of the van. Dread crashes over me in waves.

“You'll be missed, Momma Peaches,” I whisper, shaking my head. “You will be missed.”