Nasty Girls (33 page)

He sat in his Denali, holding a chrome nine-millimeter Beretta, and listening to his 2Pac CD. He could have gotten someone else to do the job for him, but he wanted to do it himself. Cream hadn't caught a body in over four years—and to him, this was personal. He saw the hurt that James put into these three women lives. And the one thing Cream had some respect for was women. Even though he was a player and did him over the years, he respected women and always been straight up with them. He never laid a hand on any woman, and he never mislead a bitch, promising her one thing and then doing totally the opposite. He really did love Camille. Over the many years they knew each other, his heart grew fonder and fonder for her so strongly, that his plan was when they got to California, he was going to ask Camille to marry him. He let Camille slip from his grip once. He wasn't going to let it happen again.

Cream had resources. He had clout, and he knew people—occasionally the wrong people, and sometimes the right people. He got word that James be staying in one particular building where he was hiding out in Brooklyn. His name became mud in Jamaica, Queens. The cops were after him, and Roscoe wanted him dead. Things didn't quite turn out the way James expected them to turn out. After Jade's death, everything went to shit for him. They arrested Tasha a day after she shot Jade, and she snitched him out, telling police that James made her do it. He promised her that if she killed Jade, getting her out the way, then he'd pay her and hook her up. Tasha was in love with James, and she was the type of bitch, if he said jump, she'd ask how high.
James became jealous and was raging that Jade was dating a cop. And when he knew she was happy with him, his ego couldn't handle that Jade was finally happy without him around. He wanted Jade to become miserable and come crawling back to him, begging for him to take her back and wanting the dick again. But Jade moved on, and James couldn't stomach that.

Now he was on the run, trying to escape prison. He knew if caught, his fate was sealed. Because he would be transported to Rikers Island, and Roscoe was in Rikers. And he knew Roscoe had the right niggas to get at him—and he knew Roscoe was undeniably going to try and get at him. He done talked shit, fucked his woman, and set him up—James was fucked.

Cream got wind through niggas he knew from way back in the day that the man he was looking for was staying up in a particular building on the seventh floor, and he crept out only at nights. James stayed with his baby mother Gloria, who he had a two-year-old son by. No one knew but him and Gloria.

Cream glanced at the time, and it was eleven fifteen; and the wind picked up dramatically.

“Bingo,” he uttered, spotting James coming from a twenty-four-hour bodega, gripping a black plastic bag and trying to look inconspicuous.

Cream shook his head. Niggas like him—fucking cornballs. They don't know how to stick it out. Shit get rough, and they go out and run, shacking up with some gullible bitch. Cream did five years for murder. He never got someone to do his dirty work; he always pulled the trigger on someone himself. Cream was the real gangsta. James, the nigga, hid behind bitches and naïve muthafuckas that believed his hype. But tonight, he knew James's hype was about to come to an end.

He stepped out the truck, concealing the nine-millimeter. He subtly followed James to his destination, and placed the silencer on the tip of the barrel quickly. He didn't need the attention on himself, having muthafuckas in the hood hear the loud shots. Cream wanted to be in and out—body the nigga and catch a 7:20 flight to LAX the next morning.

James never turned around as he strutted to his building. He had the hood to his large black coat draped over his head and munched on some chips.

James entered the lobby, and soon after, Cream stepped in right behind him, playing the nonchalant role—pretending to be a local resident. He knew James was new to the hood, and he didn't know faces on the regular. So Cream had an advantage.

“What up?” Cream nodded.

James nodded back, giving Cream a quick glance and not being intimidated by Cream's presence. James stood over him a few inches, gripping his bag and kept his mouth shut. The elevator came down, and the black metal door slid back into the wall, allowing for the two men to step in.

Cream stepped in first, and James next. Cream pushed for the sixth floor and James pushed for the seventh. The elevator door came to a close, and both men stood in silence as the elevator began to ascend.

Cream slowly reached into his coat and began pulling out his weapon. His eyes looked forward the entire time. James seemed to be in his own little world.

They passed the third floor, and then the fourth, and suddenly Cream was smacked across the head with the plastic shopping bag, the contents inside dazing him a bit. James began pounding on Cream.

“Nigga, you lookin' fo' me!” James shouted, his fist striking Cream. The gun dropped, and the two men struggled in the elevator.

James slammed Cream against the wall; his grip was strong against Cream. “Who the fuck is you, nigga? You think I'm stupid? I'll fuckin' kill you. Roscoe sent you, right?”

But what James didn't know was that the gun Cream dropped was a .45. Cream casually reached into his other pocket while trying to fight off James with his one free arm, and pulled out the loaded nine-millimeter, and had it pointed at James abdomen on the low.

Poot!

A single shot went off, causing James to jerk suddenly. His eyes widened with shock. And his grip against Cream loosened. He stumbled back, clutching his wound, his hand covered in blood.

Poot! Poot! Poot! Poot!

Cream fired four more times at James, dropping him. Shockingly to Cream, James was still alive, lying on his back, sprawled out on the floor and clutching his stomach. His breathing was sparse. James peered up at Cream, seeing his attacker breathing down soft on him.

“This is for Jade, Shy, and Camille, you dumb son of a bitch!” Cream said as he pointed the gun down at James's head.

James had it mistaken. He thought Roscoe had sent him. He was surprised that those bitches had the nerve to send a hit man to finish him off.

He let out a quick chuckle. “Fuck 'em! Fuck those bitches!” he mumbled.

Poot!

The last and final shot struck James in his front lobe—killing him instantly.

Cream picked up the .45 that was dropped and darted off the elevator and went for the stairs. His job was done. The one nigga who had caused so many so much pain and suffering was shot down. Because of James, Shy was now a junkie, suckin' on that glass dick everyday, and she lost two boyfriends, one to the streets and one to prison. Jade was dead. And Camille, she lost both her sisters and had seen enough drama for a lifetime.

Like a thief in the night, Cream ran back to his truck and took off. His luggage was packed, and he was ready to catch his flight with Camille in a few short hours.

New York would be nothing but a memory for him and Camille.