Riding Dirty on I-95 (18 page)

“That's what I'm talking about,” Herb said, moving in closer to Mercy. “The people that I'm dealing with can put you in a good position.”

“Okay, well, introduce me to them then,” she said, but was wondering why he wouldn't just foot the bill himself. Forty-five hundred dollars shouldn't have been nothing but a drop in the bucket for a baller like him, balling out of control, flyest gear, tightest whip, and fat-ass bankroll. He knew her potential and had said it was good.

“Well, it's kinda tricky. That's why I wanted to meet with you face-to-face so that I could go into depth about everything.”

“I'm listening,” Mercy said eagerly.

Herb took a deep breath. “Well, first off, I have to confess something. I would like to come clean with you. My name isn't Herb.”

Mercy snickered. “I kinda figured that. I figured it was something
like Herbert and that they just call you Herb for short. No baller ever gives out his government, anyway.”

“Not quite,” Herb said, putting his head down. “It's Robert Cummings, and I'm …,” He paused for a moment and then continued. “I'm an FBI agent.”

Those words went through Mercy like a sharp knife. She didn't know what to do. Her first instincts were to get up and run, but then she thought that perhaps the restaurant might be surrounded. She was in too much shock to even move.

He held out his hand to her. “Hold on to my hand. Take a few deep breaths and relax. Everything is going to be okay.”

“What?” she screamed, attracting the attention of the other people in the restaurant. “What do you mean, ‘Everything is going to be okay’?” Mercy then lowered her tone. “You're a fuckin' rat. You're a liar. What … what are you going to do, arrest me or something?” Mercy was starting to panic.

Once he saw that Mercy wasn't going to grab his hand, he withdrew it. “Let me finish,” he said, trying to calm her down. “I know you're confused.”

“Like a motherfucker. You got that right,” Mercy said, thinking about how Herb had appeared so much like he was a big baller, getting money.

“Listen, Mercy, I don't want to arrest you for anything. I swear. As a matter of fact, we have something in common.”

Mercy just sat there, listening to the agent. Looking at him now, he even looked like a fuckin' pig. “Oink, oink,” she wanted to say to this hog. Listening to him, she noticed he was no longer using slang or some fake ghetto-ass accent. Now all of a sudden the way he talked was different, more professional and educated.

“I don't know what that could be,” Mercy said, her thoughts running wild and stomach twisting in knots.

“A friend of yours,” Agent Cummings said.

“A friend of mine?” she asked, with confusion written all over her face.

Just then the waitress came back over to the table. Mercy didn't say a word and just gave her the evil eye until she walked away.

“Yeah,” Agent Cummings continued. “Your friend Raheem.”

“What? What are you talking about?” She felt like vomiting, because she knew she was doomed and would be hauled off to the women's jail. Her ride sat right in front of her.

“Raheem sent us to you. He told us everything, Mercy, but don't worry. Like I said, it's not you we want to arrest.”

Tears started to run down Mercy's face. She couldn't utter a word. Well, she knew better than to say anything, although Raheem had said it all.

Agent Cummings grabbed hold of Mercy's hand. He looked in her eyes and said, “Don't cry, Mercy.”

Mercy closed her eyes. For a minute the feeling of having her hand held was comforting. It reminded her of when she would sit on her father's lap and he would sometimes put his hand over hers. The betrayal and pain she felt at that moment wasn't the same hurt that she'd felt when her father was cremated in front of her eyes, but it was damn sure close to it.

“Don't worry. You're not in any trouble.”

Mercy opened her eyes and looked up at the deceitful man before her. She then looked down at her hand and snatched it away from Agent Cummings. “What do you mean by ‘everything’?”

“He told us that you were his girl, that he had been down here living with you and that when he got knocked, he connected you with his friend Hyena.” Mercy's heart was in her panties. “He told us that once he went to jail, Hyena took care of his lawyer and everything … and you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Mercy snapped.

Agent Cummings continued as if Mercy hadn't even interrupted
him. “He told us that Hyena is the man behind the organization. Now, as you know, we could arrest you for taking money—illegal money—and bring you in as a part of the whole conspiracy. And you could be faced with a good twenty years.” He paused and looked into Mercy's eyes. “You were just doing what you thought you needed to do to get by and to stand by your man. You're just a girl doing what a girl's gotta do. Yeah, you might seem a little rough around the edges, but you've got a good heart. We know about what you did for your sister's kid and your friend that's a prostitute, Chrissie, and all.”

She interrupted, taking up for Chrissie. “She ain't no prostitute.”

“Well, she might as well be the way she chases behind men with the largest money sac in their pocket, but I didn't mean any offense.” He shifted the conversation. “As I was saying, you have this natural ability to take care of others who you think need you. That's what you were doing for Raheem. We know you were just standing by him. We see young girls in your position every day.”

Mercy sat there listening to Agent Cummings talk as if he could sympathize with her.
What does this six-figure-salary-making pig know about a young black girl surviving the streets?
Mercy wondered. As far as Mercy was concerned, he was a liar, a joke. Just someone trying to blow smoke up her ass, hoping she'd get high off of it. Mercy looked around at the patrons of the restaurant and wondered who was FBI and where the surveillance instruments were set up.

“Mercy, do you know that Raheem would have taken any charge that we might have had for you?” Agent Cummings continued, now sounding sentimental.

Trust me
, Mercy thought.
That nigga ain't taking no charge for me. Shit, he done proved he can't do his own time.

She didn't speak as he continued to pour what she assumed was his well-rehearsed bullshit speech on her.

“Raheem loved you so much that he didn't even have the heart to tell you that he needs your help.”

“He needs
my
help?” Mercy asked.

“Yes, he needs your help. We need your help.” He paused. “Help us get Hyena, Mercy. Otherwise we just waste time and money locking up people like Raheem and their runners.”

Mercy shook her head at Agent Cummings's insinuation that if she didn't help, then she would perhaps find herself locked up, too.

“Getting Hyena would mean a sentence reduction for Raheem. He'd be able to get home to you a lot sooner.”

“What? I don't understand,” Mercy said.

“Yes, he's been working with us. Actually, he's been working with us for quite some time.”

Mercy started to experience hot flashes as her hands got sweaty. She was beginning to feel dehydrated.

“I don't believe you. Raheem hated the law. He'd never join up with the fuckin' Feds.”

“I know it's hard to believe, but believe it, Mercy.”

“Stop saying my fuckin' name like you know me like that,” Mercy snapped.

“I do know you, Mercy. I know your kind.”

“Look, let me get this straight. So, you are police? They got you set up looking like and acting like a drug dealer?”

“Unh-hunh,” he said.

“So, they got you balling big time. You got the car, the jewelry, and the lingo, and everything. Isn't that entrapment?”

“No, not really. Entrapment is only when a person does something that they normally wouldn't do. See, these hustlers, this is what they do: sell drugs.”

“I can't believe you. I don't even know what to say.” She shook her head.

“I know you are shocked right now. However, I want you to know that if you help us, not only would you be helping Raheem, you would be helping yourself also.”

“Helping myself? I don't see how any of this can help me.”

“See, the federal government is very powerful, and we know people everywhere in high and low places. We could get your script into the hands of the right people and guarantee your work would go on the big screen.” He snapped his finger and said, “Just like that.”

Mercy couldn't help but burst out laughing. “Just like that, huh? So the Feds and movie producers, y'all got it all on lock. Where's the hidden camera?”

“This is no joke, Mer—,” Agent Cummings said, cutting himself off, as if he didn't want to patronize Mercy.

She let out a small chuckle.

“Share the laugh,” he said.

“I'm just sitting here tripping off of how you waltz into my life pretending to be my friend and the whole time you had your own motives. Damn, do you police even have a conscience the way you play with people's emotions?”

“It's a very hard job; you have no idea. I really like you, Mercy, and wish that the circumstances were different.”

“Well, they're not. You want me to snitch. Well, to be a snitch bitch!”

“Don't look at it like that. You're just helping a friend, that's all,” he said soothingly.

“Look, my head is racing all over the place, as I'm sure you can imagine. I know this isn't the first time or the last time you have broken this kind of news. So let me get back to you,” Mercy said, with no intention of ever addressing the situation again.

Agent Cummings replied, “Don't wait too long.”

Mercy got up from the table and started to walk away.

“Yo, lil' mama,” Agent Cummings said in his Herb tone. “You sho' you don't want nothing to eat?”

Mercy stopped in her tracks, turned around, stared him dead in his eyes, rolled her eyes, and then walked away. She got in her car and sat there feeling like she was going to have a nervous breakdown. Anxiety, hyperventilation, loss of breath all came and went. She didn't know who to talk to or confide in because everyone was suspect at this moment. On the ride home she looked around, and every single person she glanced at she wondered if they were a mole, informant, or FBI agent.

C
hrissie greeted her as soon as she walked in the door.

“Girl, I got this motherfucker you gots to meet,” she said as she gave Mercy a hug. She had just gotten back from a rendezvous in LA, and shopping bags from Rodeo Drive cluttered the living room.

“I ain't in the right state of mind to meet nobody,” Mercy said, brushing Chrissie off as she walked through the living room to her bedroom, almost tripping over one of the bags.

“Not meet him in person. Girl, he don't even live here. He live in Chicago. Just talk to this dude on the phone. He's cool with the dude I was just kickin' it with. Girl, he paid. He's a professional athlete. No, not the typical football or basketball player. He's a boxer. But he paid all the same. He gets about two fights a year and walks away with a check for four or five mill easy. And those fighters be fighting a good two times a year. You do the math, boo.”

Chrissie was as excited as a priest among Boy Scouts. She just kept babbling on and on. Mercy couldn't muster up an ounce of excitement. She was still bugging out about Raheem being a snitch.

“I told him all about you. He said he's ready to meet a
down-to-earth chick. He's tired of messing with all the girls he meets out at parties who can smell his green. Girl, and he up for one of the biggest fights ever, which means you need to hook up with him now before he get his purse—that way you won't be suspect. You know what I'm saying?”

“Yeah, girl, yeah,” Mercy said, sighing and rubbing her forehead as she flopped her restless body down on her bed.

“Girl, what's wrong with you?” Chrissie said, sitting down on the chaise in Mercy's room. “I thought you'd be a little bit more excited than this. I mean, this dude ain't one of them thugs you usually fuckin' around with. Easy money come, easy money go. He got legit money, and lots of it, might I add, and by the time you add in the endorsement deals, that's more money.”

Mercy was just staring off, not hearing a word Chrissie had just said.

“Hello. Is anybody in there?” Chrissie said, softy knocking on the side of Mercy's head.

“Girl, yeah, I hear you,” Mercy lied, snapping out of her trance.

“So here it is.” Chrissie pulled a phone number out of her pocket and handed it to Mercy like she was giving her the winning sweepstakes ticket.

“Here's what?” Mercy said, taking the number and looking down at it.

“His phone number, stupid,” Chrissie said, getting up.

“I don't know what the boy even look like.”

“The only face you need to worry about is those big faces on those hundred-dollar bills. He could look like Kermit the frog, but all money looks and spends the same,” Chrissie put in her two cents.

“What's his name? Who is he?” Mercy asked with a puzzled look on her face.

“Were you not listening to a word I said? He's a world-ranked boxer, boo. Don't sleep on him. He went to the Olympics and everything. His name is Taymar. Call him, girl.” Chrissie headed into the living room.