Street Chronicles Girls in the Game (16 page)

“No, baby, ya mama is fine,” Ant's mother replied. “I keep telling you not to worry about me; the good Lord will keep me safe.”

Olivia Quarles was a strong, God-fearing woman who was known for her kind spirit and enduring faith. She had dedicated her life to serving the Lord after the senseless murder of her oldest child, Davis, who was an innocent bystander shot during a bank robbery. That was almost twenty years ago, and her youngest child, Ant, was still trying to come to terms with the loss of his brother.

Ant had been only four years old at the time of the murder, and Davis was the only father figure he had known. As he grew older, Ant began running the streets, dealing drugs, and robbing people for sport.

Every day Ant headed to the only job he'd ever known: slinging dope. After being in the game for seven years and getting away with so many crimes, Ant felt invincible. Any true hustler knew the future held only one of two things: prison or death. Ant wasn't afraid of either, which made him a menace. The streets of Youngstown, Ohio, didn't allot any young black man the option of fearing the unknown.

As Ant drove down Warren Avenue he cracked open his second forty-ounce of White Mountain citrus wine cooler as the clock struck nine a.m. The powerful sounds of Parliament coming from the charcoal-gray deuce-and-a-quarter could be heard coming three blocks before he reached the drug house. Everyone in Youngstown had one thing in common—the hypnotic sounds of funk. George Clinton, Bootsy Collins, and Roger Troutman and Zapp had contributed more to the rearing of young men than their absentee fathers.

“What up wit’ ya, dude?” Twan greeted his boy of fourteen years.

“Ah, man, I can't call it. How ya livin, Pimp? Ready to do this?” Ant questioned between sips. The partners in crime were up early to meet with their runners and tally up the week's earnings.

Sitting inside the two-bedroom drug house situated on the corner of Warren Avenue and Overland Street was Ant's south-side chick, Shadaisy Davis. She was a high school dropout, dope-dealing mother of four, and a money-hungry freak. She kept her dirty brown hair covered with a cheap blond weave and her ass hiked up in leather pants whether it was winter, spring, summer, or fall. Because of her lifestyle and lack of stability, the state had removed all four of her children from her care two years ago. Her mother got custody to keep the children from being lost in the system, and Shadaisy had no plans of getting them back.

“Come on, girl, let's move this shit. You already rollin’ and ain't even washed ya ass yet. Shit, you knew I was coming,” Ant snapped at his ghetto queen. Shadaisy was tagging along to double-count the money collected and play chauffeur for the day.

“Ah, nigga, fuck you. We got three hours to do this; why you sweatin’ me? I just got in a minute ago.”

“Ain't nobody tell ya hot ass to close down the after-hours spot. Go wash that ass before I tap that ass,” Ant threatened as he finished off his liquid breakfast.

Ant kept his work car, a 1986 Ford Escort, parked at the Warren Avenue drug house. The car needed some bodywork and a paint job, but the engine purred like a kitten. Before making their rounds, the trio headed north to hit up Perkins restaurant for breakfast.

After scarfing down enough food to feed a small country for a week, the trio made their way to the various drug houses Twan kept around the city. After all of the money was collected and bills were paid, Shadaisy was dropped off at home and the partners headed to Sharon, Pennsylvania.

Shortly after Teddy Bear was killed, Ant put the wheels in motion so that one day he would be able to break away from Twan
and stand on his own feet. He loved his boy like a brother but Ant was tired of standing in the shadows while Twan received all the glory on the streets. Today was their first meeting with Ant's new contact. The product wasn't as good as what they were getting from their Florida connection, but Ant needed this relationship if he was going to make his move. It took a lot of doing, but he was able to get Twan to go along with the deal. Ant reasoned that Pennsylvania was a lot closer than Florida, and expanding resources was a good thing.

There was only one problem resulting from the new connection—where to house the additional weight.

T
wan, what the hell is all of this? I know damn well you're smarter than this. Just like a little kid, you got ya hands in too many cookie jars!” Bossy had tried relentlessly over the past six months to calm Twan down. He was acting like a teenager rebelling against his parents because he thought he knew all of the answers to the world's problems and everyone else was just getting by in life.

“Come on, Bossy, don't trip on ya boy. You like gettin’ that paper just as much as me. All I'm doin’ is stackin our paper higher and faster.”

“Twan, this is already fast money. What type of race are you running?”

“The same one as you and the rest of these hustlers in the streets. You know how it is out here—every bailer for himself.”

Twan was right. Bossy understood firsthand what it was like on the streets. That was exactly why she'd bent over backward to continue teaching Twan about the streets after Teddy Bear was killed. Frustration grew daily for Bossy, because Twan refused to
listen to her teachings, to recognize her experience. It was one thing for Twan to increase the amount of weight he was moving, but he was stepping into an arena he was totally unfamiliar with.

Like a carryout restaurant, Twan's products could now be listed on a menu: powder cocaine, crack cocaine, heroin, weed, Percocet, OxyContin, Valium, meth, and the list grew weekly.

“Listen to me, Twan, because I'm only going to say this once.” Bossy paused for effect. “You are making too many trips up and down the highway. You are making too many dropoffs and pickups here. Every day it seems like your name is mentioned at the shop, because the night before you and Ant were out flossin’ at the clubs.”

“Not this again.” Twan sighed.

“I wouldn't be surprised if some wannabe gangsta is measuring you up, looking to take your place. For that matter, I wouldn't be surprised if five-O ain't already on ya trail. And if that's the case, you might have unknowingly led them here to me.”

“What you trying to say to me, Bossy?”

“Slow the fuck down or I'm gonna stop fuckin’ with you!”

Terry walked out of her office to hear two familiar voices engaged in a heated discussion. She had no idea what Aisha could possibly be arguing with Twan about.

“Excuse me, but would the two of you please join me in my office?” Terry's statement was more of a demand than a request.

Aisha sprinted into the office and immediately began pacing the floor. “Terry, do you know Twan has the nerve to want us to keep some of his shit here until Bossy's ready for it?”

Terry couldn't believe what she'd just heard. Twan knew better than to make such a request. In the beginning, KAT69 turned bad money into good money, but since then no illegal activity ever took place in the hair and nail salon.

“Why y'all trippin'? Tryin’ to act all brand-new like y'all hands ain't dirty. Shit, it's only this one time,” Twan tried to reason.

“You must have lost ya damn mind, Twan. I told you no outside, and I'm telling you no again,” fumed Aisha.

“Come on, girl, y'all know I ain't bringing no heat up in here. Just let me stash a couple of keys here till Bossy ready for ‘em.”

“Terry, you talk to him. The longer I stand here, the more my head hurts.” Aisha slammed the door behind her and walked toward the phone to call Bossy. She knew Terry could and would handle Twan and his careless request, but Bossy needed to know what was going on.

Twan stood contemplating his next move. He knew he was wrong for asking this of his friends but he felt he had no choice. He and Ant had made a deal with the new supplier, Clifton “C-Lok” Boyd, without thinking ahead. Ant had made the deal sound so inviting, there was no way Twan could have said no. Now they were stuck.

Before approaching his friends, Twan had contemplated hiding the stash in his basement, or even at Ant's mother's house. His conscience wouldn't allow him to deceive Ms. Quarles, and he didn't want to take the chance that one of his kids would find the drugs at home. He would ride around with the drugs in his trunk before he stored them at home and put his kids in harm's way.

Terry calmly walked around her cherry oak desk and sat down in her black leather high-backed chair.

“Have a seat, Twan. We need to talk about this request of yours,” Terry calmly stated.

“Listen, Terry, I'm not trying to disrespect. You know me; we go way back. I wouldn't ask if it weren't an emergency.”

“How many times did Teddy Bear say to you, ‘No business but hair business takes place at KAT69'?”

“Yeah, but Teddy Bear ain't here no more, and what I need ain't that deep. It's just this one time.”

“Twan, I'm all about business, and this place is my livelihood. Teddy Bear set down rules for a reason, and just because he's gone doesn't mean everything changes.”

“What you want me to do, beg?” asked Twan.

“No, I don't. But I do want you to think about the possible consequences of your actions.”

“Look, I don't need you lecturing me, too. Lajetia and Bossy bitch at me enough. So what's it going to be, Terry? Are you with me or not?”

“Simple—it's going to be no, and I resent you trying to take advantage of our friendship this way.”

As Twan stood to leave, he looked into Terry's eyes and said, “Teddy Bear and Bossy were right—ain't no friends in this business.” As he walked out the front door, fuming, Twan ran right into Lajetia. She was there for her weekly appointment with Sirenna. Twan explained that he was in a hurry and would see her at home later.

After reminding her man about the promise he had made to the kids for that evening, Lajetia stepped aside and watched as Twan got into his car and sped off down Hillman Street.

L
ajetia left KAT69 feeling like a queen. In the two weeks since she'd put on her crying act, Twan had been making her life a little easier. Per her request, Twan had been helping with the kids
in the mornings and coming home from the streets by two a.m. Her man had even been attentive and taken time out to join his family for dinner every other day.

Today was Thursday, and Twan had promised the kids he'd be home when Kiara got in from school. It was coming up on eight o'clock and becoming obvious that Twan's promise had been broken.

“Mommy, where's Daddy at? He said he'd be here to watch a movie with us after I did my homework,” whined Kiara.

Lajetia's nerves were already on edge, and having to answer questions from her five-year-old daughter was the last thing she wanted to do. Lajetia's disappointment gradually turned into anger. She'd suspected the honeymoon wouldn't last long, but lying to the children was inexcusable. Letting her down was one thing; letting the kids down was something else altogether. Lajetia knew all too well the pain felt when the person who was supposed to love and protect you broke your heart.

T
wan turned his key in the lock and braced himself for the impending fight he was about to be party to. The search for a place to store his newly acquired stash had taken much longer than he or Ant could have ever imagined. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint his kids, but today it just couldn't be helped. It was now three in the morning and all he wanted to do was lie down, but Twan knew Lajetia wouldn't let that happen.

The house was eerily quiet, and that sent a chill up Twan's spine. No voices came from the television, and no soulful sounds were playing in Lajetia's private sitting room. This really took Twan by surprise. Lajetia used that room as her place of refuge. The walls were a soft lilac and housed a state-of-the-art stereo, a
plush cream-colored sofa, and two matching wing-backed lounge chairs. The bookshelf matched the end tables, and the scent of aromatherapy candles overtook the room.

Lajetia retreated into her room to read, relax, and escape the responsibilities of motherhood—and to mentally prepare for an argument with Twan.

A plate covered with a paper towel caught Twan's eye as he walked through the kitchen. He took a minute to place his dinner in the fridge and pour himself a glass of water. Twan thought that just maybe he'd dodged a bullet and Lajetia had fallen asleep. The idea allowed him to relax his shoulders and breathe a sigh of relief.

In the bedroom, Twan undressed and slowly got into the custom-made four-poster bed, trying not to wake Lajetia. The second he closed his eyes, Lajetia spoke to him.

“All of my life people have talked about me. They can say anything they want about me, but no one can ever say I'm a bad mother. Even at age fourteen I was a good mother, and I work hard at being there for my children.

“If you ask some people what it is they aspire to be, you might hear a variety of jobs. If someone were to ask me what I aspire to be, I'd answer, ‘A good mother.’ ” Lajetia paused to collect her thoughts.

“You're a very good provider; I can't deny that. From what I hear on the streets, you're even a good hustler, but you fail where it counts, Twan. Kiara, Tyler, and Trayvon worship the ground you walk on. No matter how many times you let them down, all is right in their worlds when Daddy walks in the door.” Lajetia's voice cracked as tears streamed down the sides of her face. ”A little girl should always be able to count on her daddy, always. He's the only man in her life who will be there no matter what. I
say that because Kiara cried herself to sleep tonight because her daddy let her down. It appears to me that you're aspiring to be a sorry-ass father.”

Twan lay tense and speechless. He'd never taken the time to measure what type of father he'd become. He felt that providing material things, like shelter and food, and raising another man's child made him a prime candidate for the father-of-the-decade award. Lajetia's words must have held some truth, because no sleep would come for Twan that night.
You're aspiring to be a sorry-ass father.
As the words replayed in Twan's mind, he mumbled to himself, “Damn, that was personal.”