Nasty Girls (23 page)

Saturday, I had the locks changed. I was fortunate that Earl, the locksmith, made time out of his busy schedule to come do me a favor. Earl's shop on Guy Brewer always closed around two in the afternoon. But he came by my way a little after three to change all of my locks. I was grateful. He really saved my life. I knew Earl through my mother, and he watched me grow up, and as long as I could remember, Earl had that shop located on Guy Brewer forever. He was a really nice guy. He was from Barbados and been in the neighborhood for over thirty years now.
He was in his mid-fifties, had a thick gray beard, and was a stout man with a receding hairline. I remember him always having a crush on my mother.

But Earl, he would always warn me about James, saying, “Jade, that boy no good for you . . . ya hear? You're young woman. . . . You need to go out and find you a Bajan, and stop dealin' wit' deese Yankee boys, ya hear?” You could still hear a bit of his Bajan accent as he talked.

I smiled. And thanked him. Earl was one of the few folks that never feared James. If he saw James, Earl would tell James about himself, straight up, not caring about James's street reputation.

I glanced at the time and saw that it was 11 p.m. I'd just gotten out the shower and was in the bedroom preparing for my date. I'd barely leave my apartment anymore, fearing I might run into James. So I tried my best to stay indoors. And it was fucked up that I had to live my life like this. I was scared to go out for food or anything else. But it was November and cold outside, so I knew I wasn't missing much on a daily basis. But still, the predicament that I was in was un-fuckin'-believable. But tonight, I was willing to risk running into James to see Casey. He was a cop, but I no longer cared. He was cool, generous, and nice.

I didn't know what to wear for the occasion. I had a closet full of clothes, and I was wedged, not knowing what to put on. I searched from drawer to drawer, and examined my closet fully—something casual, or street, maybe a little formal? I thought,
Fuck it, something nice, lay back, but still classy.
I threw on my white turtleneck sweater, a pair of tight jeans, and my knee-high black-with-cream-trim leather spectator boots with the stiletto heels. Now all I had to do was throw on my black leather jacket, and I was good to go. My twists were done, and I had just
the right makeup on. I peered at myself in the mirror and loved my image.

I called a cab earlier, and they said twenty minutes. Some cabs don't come around here no more, fearing they might get robbed or beat up, sometimes even murdered—but my cabbie, he was cool, and he grew up around here, so he never feared his neighborhood. We dated when we were fifteen. But other than that, whenever I needed a ride somewhere, all I had to do was call Johnny up, and he'd come by just like that.

It was fifteen minutes to midnight. And I was waiting for that call. I poured myself a quick drink and waited around in the living room.

The phone rang. I quickly picked up, and it was my cabbie, telling me that he was outside. I told him I'd be out shortly. I grabbed my things, even a small razor for protection in case James or any other asshole came strolling around.

I exit out my apartment with caution, observing my area and locking my door. I quickly strutted to the elevator. I didn't want to take the stairs, because sometimes there be too many crack-heads and hustlers lingering around, especially when it's cold outside, and plus I didn't like the smell of urine and I just didn't want to risk it.

The door opened on my floor, and I quickly stepped in. When the doors closed, I went into my purse and pulled out my small weapon just in case a bombshell was waiting for me down in the lobby. I was nervous as the elevator descended two floors.

I got to the lobby, and it was empty. I exhaled lightly, being relieved. I saw Johnny, my cabdriver, waiting for me out front. I walked hurriedly to my cab, and when I made it inside the car, I sighed with relief.

“Hey, Johnny,” I said, getting comfortable in the backseat and closing the door.

“Hey, Jade. Where you goin' to?”

“Chantell's, up on Merrick Boulevard.”

“Got you. Everythin' okay wit' you?”

“Yeah, I'm tryin' to be good . . . but you know, livin' here, drama is always around.”

“I hear you, Jade.”

He put the car in drive and moved forward. I rested against the old cracking leather seats and closed my eyes.

Johnny pulled up in front of Chantell's ten minutes later. The ride was quick. I gave him a ten and thanked him for the ride. Before I got out the car, he told me to be careful. He heard about my situation with James. I told him that I was all right and headed for the entrance.

Chantell's was a lounge and bar, and it was a cool place to chill, mingle, and stray away from home when you didn't feel like going. There were no lines, no bouncers out front, and no fleet of cars parked outside with drug dealers, thugs, and ballers profiling. If it was a Friday or a Saturday night, the place would have been swamped with people and business. But being that it was a Monday, Chantell's seemed more laid-back and tranquil.

I walked in, and it was damn near empty. There were a handful of folks scattered throughout the place, talking, eating, and drinking at the bar as a Destiny's Child song played throughout the place. No one paid me any attention when I walked in; it was like the wind just blew in.

Casey and I agreed to wait for each other at the bar, and there were two men already seated at the bar, and none of 'em was Casey. So I made my way over and ordered myself a quick drink
while I waited. I glanced at the clock behind the bar, and it was 12:10. I knew he would be coming off work, so he needed time to change. I was reasonable.

By 12:25, I was becoming a little bit impatient. The female bartender tried to make conversation with me, saying she knew me from somewhere, but I couldn't place her face. I shrugged her off, and she went about her business.

I sighed, downing my second drink, and was about ready to pick myself up and leave. This nigga's wasting my time, I thought. I peered at myself in the hazily lit mirror behind the bar, gazing at my reflection between the Johnnie Walker bottle and the clear Armadale bottle.

Chantell's felt invisible—it wasn't even lively. It was like I wasted my time, and it was my idea to meet before Thanksgiving, and now I was having second thoughts about that too.

I rested my chin in the palm of my hand, with my elbow pressed against the bar counter, looking at myself—looking like a bored bitch.

“Honey, you okay?” the bartender asked.

“Yeah.”

“You need another drink?”

“I'm still good wit' this one.”

“Okay,” she said, and then attended the other two men. She was a bit taller than me, with locks down to her back and dressed like she lived out in the Village.

I closed my eyes and pictured a better place, a better place for me and my soul mate, if he ever came. I heard George Michael singing “Father Figure” from the speakers that were situated over the bar. Father figure. I chuckled. I never knew my father. He abandon me and my moms when I was three, and his sorry
ass never came back. My mother, she was my father. She raised me the best she knew how to. Shit, I remember my moms struggling trying to make ends meet day after day, working two, sometimes three jobs at a time. She always tried to be strong, but sometimes life would kick her in the ass and tell her to stay there.

When I was eight, that's when the men started coming around. The first one I remember meeting was Angus. He was nice, but not the best-looking man in the world. He was a bit stout, had short black hair, and was light-skinned. I always saw him in suits, never in streetwear. I guess he was a businessman or something. But every evening, Angus would come by, drop a twenty in my hand, and hang out with my mother. Every time I saw Angus, he had money to give, either to me or my mother. At nights, I would hear the both of 'em moaning and panting. I knew about sex at an early age, so it wasn't a shock to me, knowing what they were doing. I later found out that Angus, he was about business, but his business didn't take place in the corporate world; he handled business out in the streets, moving heroin like it was sugar. And I caught on to why my mother was dating him. He helped her with the bills, rent, and even spoiled her with jewelry, dinner, and money. Life was bringing her down, so she found a way to get around it, and that was through dating hustlers and having them take care of her. After a while, Angus stopped coming around, and I never asked my mother about him.

After Angus came Chaz. Now he was a pretty boy—light-skinned, with S-curls, tall with a medium build to him, and stayed looking nice in expensive clothing. He was the opposite from Angus; Chaz never wore suits. He always wore jeans,
Adidas, sweatsuits, and sported a lot of jewelry. When I first met him, I was ten, and I thought my mother hit the jackpot with him. He was cute. But he was a straight thug, and he wasn't nice like Angus. Some nights he could become an asshole and beat on my mother. But after the fights, he'd apologize to her and me and then shower our apartment with gifts like it was Christmas. But a week later, it would be the same old bullshit. It was like a recycling trend in our apartment: first there were the fights and, later on, an apology, and expensive gifts followed. But Chaz was shot in his head outside our building when I was eleven. I heard it was over a beef with a girl he was cheating with while he was dating my mother. Apparently, his mistress had an overzealous boyfriend with a hot temper.

After Chaz came Tommy, and after Tommy came Morris, Edwin, Justin, Alishma, and Angel—it was one hustler or thug after the other.

But my favorite and the most remembered man my mother dated was Kahlil. I was fifteen when my moms met Kahlil. He was a smooth-ass pretty-boy nigga. He was dark-skinned, sported a fade, drove two cars—a Porsche and a Benz—and dressed really nice in suits and street clothing. He carried nothing less than two grand or more on him at a time.

Kahlil was a few years younger than my mother, and a few years older than me, but the respect he received in the hood was unbelievable. Everybody, and I do mean everybody, gave him his props, from the young to the old. He was the hustler of hustlers. When my moms got with him, bitches started hating hard, because they were jealous of my mother being with him, and it trickled down to me.

Kahlil was only twenty-six, and already he owned grocery
stores, laundromats, restaurants, and a clothing store on Jamaica Avenue. He had so much money that he would buss me off with a G sometimes—why, because he could, and he did. My mother benefited lovely when she was fucking Kahlil. She was thirty-five at the time, and Kahlil bought my moms her first car, a '93 cherry red Benz, and all my moms had was her permit. The nigga even took us to fucking Disney World one summer. I was in shock.

With Kahlil around, I went to school every day fly, and having bitches wishing that they could be me. Niggas gave me respect, knowing that my mom was fucking with Kahlil. If I had a problem, Kahlil took care of it. He ran these niggas in South Jamaica like they were puppets on strings. When he told them to do something for him, they did it with a sense of urgency.

I developed the biggest crush on him. I think I loved him more than I loved my mother. But he always saw me as a fifteen-year-old girl, no matter how many years passed and how endowed my body became. To him, I was like his little sista. Because of Kahlil, I fell in love with that thug, that hustler, and that get-street money lifestyle. Kahlil was my image of the perfect man—smart, thuggish, cute, rich, and don't take shit from no one. He always treated my mother fair, even though he was still going around fucking other bitches. I saw him, and knew my man or my husband had to be just like him, or somewhat close to his image. Because Kahlil was an icon.

Kahlil fucked with my mother for three years. A few months before my high school graduation, the feds came down hard on Kahlil and his crew. They ransacked through his homes and took away all of his business. That drug lifestyle of his finally caught up to him, only because of two snitches who didn't want to go
to jail for a very long time. So they gave up Kahlil and a few of his associates, and they charged him with A1 felonies, conspiracy, and the drug kingpin act, and Kahlil got twenty-five years in a federal prison.

I cried when he was found guilty and was sentenced. I think I took his incarceration harder than my mother did. But we kept in touch over the years, writing each other letters and sometimes talking over the phone. I tried supporting him during his time in lockup, and it was hard. Kahlil knew about James and me, and he had no beef with it. James wasn't no Kahlil, but he was definitely close.

I've dated and been around a lot of hustlers, players, killers, and even pimps in my short lifetime, and I found it to be ironic that I was waiting for a cop, my date, to show up. Not in a million years would I see myself going out with a cop. Growing up in my hood, police, 5.0, po-po, they were always the enemy; you don't fuck with police unless they were throwing you in the back of a squad car.

“Waiting for me?” Casey said, coming up behind me.

“It's about time—it's almost goin' on one.” I said.

“I'm sorry, Jade, but I ran in late at the station. I promise I won't keep you waiting again.”

“I was about to leave.”

He smiled. “Thank you for waiting this long. I'll make it up to you. You had a drink already?”

“Two.”

“Well, the rest are on me tonight. You want to get a table?”

“Yeah. I'm tired of sittin' at this bar.”

I got up off my barstool and followed Casey toward the back. He looked nice tonight. This was my first time seeing him out
of uniform. He had on loose-fitted blue jeans, brown and white Timberlands, a button-down, and a nice-looking brown leather jacket. He had a small thin chain with a small cross around his neck.