Street Divas (18 page)

July . . .

 

R
olling my ass up to the federal pen is never a good time, but it's necessary. There's a lot of good soldiers here. All of them putting in their bid with their heads held high while playing a harder game on the inside. They have my respect on that shit.

The moment I stroll into the visiting room, heads turn and then bob back at me, like,
What's up?
They all know that I've been holding shit down, but only the few and trusted got the 411 on where and what is going on with Fat Ace. That's the way I like it and the way that it's going to stay.

The visiting room is loud with women and children. Some are crying; most are wearing their game faces. I cut through the crowd dressed head to toe in Grim Reaper black, my eyes cautious and my lips flat-lined. When I drop into a seat, I take another look around. I strongly believe in being aware of one's surroundings. Everybody in the game knows that it takes only one time to either be too slow or too late and you get white-chalked in the game.

The door opens and another stream of prisoners shuffles into the visiting room. The man I'm waiting on pulls up the rear.

Still pretty-boy handsome with a mean swagger and a bigger muscular build than he had back in the day, Smokestack enters the place like he owns the muthafucka. I smile before I can stop myself. What can I say? He's still got it, and maybe if I was still wearing Sunday school dresses, I might've stood up and started twirling around for compliments.

“Well, well, well,” he says, smiling and shaking his head. “I was wondering what a nigga had to do to get you up in here. What? You ain't got no love for your cousin Smokestack no more?”

“All day, every day. You know that shit. It's that we're in the middle of a fuckin' war and—”

“Hold up before you get started. Squash the excuses,” Smokestack says, shaking his head. “You know I've never been one who liked a nigga with a whole lot of excuses. I deserve to know what the hell is going on with my fam. You feel me? I'm hearing so many conflicting bullshit stories up in here I'm about to qualify for a transfer to the mental institution. NahwhatImean? Now come with it. What's really poppin' out there? Give it to me straight, no chaser.”

Straightening my back, I take another look around to make sure that niggas are minding their own business. “It's all good. It ain't great. Both of your boys got banged up pretty bad.”

“But they're alive, though, right?” he barks, his eyes bright with hope.

“Yeah. They're alive.”

Smokestack closes his eyes and whispers, “Thank God.” His shoulders deflate with relief and he pulls in a deep breath. “In my heart, I know one day one of you is going to march in here and give me a different answer . . . but thank God that today ain't that day.”

I bob my head because I know exactly where he's coming from. Street niggas ain't got a lot of options out here in this muthafucka. Hustling and grinding is all there is and all there ever will be. I stop myself before I hop onto a mental soapbox. At times I sound like him in his old militant days.

“Thanks, Willow. I appreciate you coming out here to tell me,” he says, and then reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.

I don't even correct him on that Willow shit. Some people are afforded the privilege. There's so many emotions racing across his face I feel like I should look away.

“This street shit . . .” He shakes his head. “When word got 'round these steel bars about what happened to Raymond . . . and then no one knew where or what happened to Mason . . . gut check. NahwhatImean?”

I don't respond.

“Of course you don't. You don't have children of your own yet.”

Right before my eyes, he ages. That or I'm now noticing all the lines in his face.

“They're not mine. Mason and Profit, I mean.” Smokestack flashes me a sad smile. “Doesn't matter. I've always loved and raised them up like they were my own. And as far as they're concerned, I am their real daddy.”

Now, that surprising confession confirms one of my lifelong suspicions, but I'm still curious about a few more things.

Smokestack shakes his head. “Mason's momma was a real piece of work. She was an old customer of mine and stayed out in the LeMoyne Gardens area back in the day. Typical crackhead who knew how to suck a nut out of a nigga's sack like a Hoover vacuum.”

His eyes cut up toward me. Before he can apologize for the crass remark, I wave that shit off. “Whatever happened to her?”

“Who gives a fuck? She should be happy I didn't bash her muthafuckin' head in for that foul shit she did.”

“What did she do?”

“Well, I was one of the few trusted Vice Lord niggas who was even allowed to roll up in the LMG gang territory. Those young niggas around that way was really feeling theyselves back then. They were body-bagging as many soldiers as the Vice Lords and Gangster Disciples, if you asked me. Since I was slinging the best candy on the street at that time, I was their main connect.

“Barbara was hanging out over there at that time, too. She had a candy problem herself. I always knew that, but I was still feeling her, and from time to time, she would really try to kick the habit. She would get clean for a couple of months, relapse for a while, but then try again to get that monkey off her back.

“Anyway, Barbara hung real tough with her best friend, Alice. Frankly, whenever they got together, I called them Salt and Peppa. They were as thick as thieves because they truly were a couple of thieves. If you turned your back, they would jack you for everything you got. And Alice could pull out a blade like her middle name was Zorro or some shit. I don't know who taught her that shit, but she was good. Any time Salt and Peppa got their hands on some paper, they were blowing up my cell, looking to score.

“After a while, Skeet showed an interest in her, but then that shit was no fuckin' surprise. He's my brother, but he never came across a pussy he didn't want to hit. So he hit it. They had a thing for a hot minute, just as he and Barbara had a thing much later. Anyway, as soon as Alice came up pregnant, he lost interest. Must not have been a big deal to Alice because when he got ghost, she never once even asked about his ass. She kept on keeping on, and that meant partying her ass off. Baby be damned.

“I don't have too many fuckin' rules, but I don't sell product to muthafuckin' pregnant women. I don't roll like that. But what I won't do, another nigga will. You feel me? Alice would get her shit through Barbara or some other lil nigga I was supplying in the neighborhood. I asked Skeet to intervene and shit, but he was adamant that the bitch was fuckin'
way
too many niggas for candy and shit for the baby to be his.

“And he had a fucking point. Plus, there was something off about that girl. I told Barb that I didn't like her hanging around her too much, but Barb was convinced her girl was cool.

“The first time I saw Mason, it was a couple of months after she took him home. I ain't never heard a baby cry so much and so loud in all my fuckin' life. I wondered if she was feeding the kid, you know? For a minute, whenever I popped up around there, it looked like Alice was trying to do right. After a while, all that screaming started getting to her. She started hittin' those rocks in place of her three squares, and her apartment went from halfway decent to smelling like straight-up shit. Barb claimed that she kept going over there to help out. At least her mind was clear enough on occasion to make sure the baby kept eating and diapers got changed. She said her girl had a sister who would come around every so often, but I never saw the bitch.

“Shit. As far as I could tell, her family wasn't worth a fuckin' thing either if they kept leaving the child in her care. A retarded nigga could take one look at Alice and tell that her ass was cracked the fuck out, and she didn't have any business tryna take care of a baby.

“Anyway, one day I rolled over there to the complex to do a little business and then drop in on Barb to see if she was up for some one-on-one time. She was walking out of her apartment door to go party some more with Alice. I put on my best moves, but she claimed she needed to give her girl her package. Thinking that it was just going to take a few minutes, I walk on over there with her.

“We knock, but Alice doesn't answer. Cool by me. I was ready to roll instantly, but Barb tried the door and the shit was open. Now, when I tell you that muthafuckin' place was stank the hell up, that's what the fuck I mean. Barb pulls me inside and I'm twisting my face and tryna block the funk, but that shit was impossible. Hell, I didn't even want to cross the threshold for fear the scent was gonna get into my clothes.

“Then I heard the baby crying.

“Barb barged right on in and went over to her girl, who was stretched on the sofa on top of a mountain of clothes. Either Barb was used to the smell or her sense of smell was shot to hell.

“ ‘Alice, girl. I'm back. I got your shit,' ” Barb kept saying.

“I'm still wondering about that baby. It sounded all muffled and shit. Barbara slapped her on the face, tryna wake her up and then shoved the vials of rock into her hand. Alice moaned and slobbered all over herself.

“Meanwhile, I'm concerned about the baby and start moving around the apartment, but the crying seemed to be coming from the kitchen. That shit definitely didn't seem right, so I followed the sound . . . all the way to the kitchen oven. . . .”

“You're shitting me,” I say, staring across the table at Smokestack. “She fuckin' put Mason in the goddamn oven?”

He bobbed his head at me. “It was just luck, I think, that she didn't turn the muthafucka on. I mean, you know how fuckin' spaced out your ass got to be to put a kid in the fuckin' oven? Who in the hell does that?”

I can't wrap my brain around that shit either. Knowing Mason, the kid and now the man, all the what-ifs are fucking with me. What would my life have been like without him in it? “So what did you do?”

“Grabbed him, snatched Barbara, and stormed up out of there. It was either that or put a fuckin' cap in that bitch.” He shook his head. “Look. The shit hit too close to home. I lost my own damn momma to an overdose. Heroin was her candy. Me and Skeet stayed in that house with a dead body for two weeks before someone came over to check on us. We didn't know what to do, so I sat in that muthafucka, crying and begging her to wake up. After that we were thrown into the system, which was worse than the muthafuckin' streets. In the streets, I found my real family with the Vice Lords. Those niggas are still my heart, even though one is holding it down on high. NahwhatImean?”

I nod, but then something else hits me and I feel sick. “Soooo, Skeet is Mason's real father . . . ?” This is blowing my mind.

“I'm Mason's father! I raised him.”

“But—”

“There's no fuckin'
but
. He's
my
kid. Him
and
Raymond. Biological or not. Their daddy stepped out. I stepped up. End of story!”

“I hear you,” I say, raising my hands in surrender even though my mind is racing a million miles a second.

Smokestack sits there and huffs for a full minute. “All right. So they're alive,” he repeats slowly, calming down. “Looks like I got me two real soldiers, huh?”

“Yeah. A couple of beasts,” I cosign, and then get uncomfortable about what I really came here to ask him.

It doesn't take him long to pick up on it. “What's on your mind?”

Sucking in a breath, I come straight out with it. “This fuckin' war, Smokes. It's putting a major crimp on our cheddar, and I need some type of connect that's going to double up our firepower. That Python muthafucka ain't no bitch. He's proving to be as hard to murk as your seeds. You feel me?”

Smokestack bobs his head as he listens. “I've been hearing about that shit. Heard your ass been banging pretty hard, too. Taking those grimy GD niggas out like the muthafuckin' devil.” His chest swells. “I'm proud of you, girl. I know your father would be proud, too.”

I can't believe this shit, but I'm actually blushing.

“And it's clear that our soldiers respect you as well. I ain't heard one bad word about you stepping in while my boy's down. They following your orders like your balls sag as low as my shit.”

I reach down and cup my crotch. “What makes you think that they don't?”

Laughing, Smokestack rocks his head back so far it's amazing that the shit don't roll off his shoulders. “You're all right, Willow. I'm gonna give you that.”

“Cool. But I rather you point me in the direction of a new connect.” The look he gives me is one of suspicion. “Oh. It's like that? You think I'm miked or some shit?”

“No disrespect but I'm a suspicious muthafucka by nature.” He hunches up his shoulders. “But I'm gonna roll with my gut on this one and believe that you're on the up-and-up. Have you checked in with Cousin Skeet?”

Huffing out a long breath, I roll my eyes and slouch back against my chair. “Bad idea. What else you got?”

Smokestack frowns as his light brown eyes scan me up and down again.

“I know he's your boy and all but—”

“But nothing.” Smokestack glances around to make sure that no one is listening to our conversation. “Skeet is the best connect we got. Bricks, guns, protection—whatever the fuck you need, he's got you.”

I twist up my face, really not wanting to hear this shit.

“Look. I get that there's no love lost between you two, especially when he started hooking up with your momma not too long after your daddy died, but you gotta put your personal feelings aside. We're discussing business, and business always trumps all other bullshit. You got access and a good connect. Use the tools in front of you. If not, another nigga is gonna spot the opportunity and step up to plate.”