Tales from da Hood (5 page)

“Word,” I answer, trying to keep the conversation short and simple. I wasn't out there to be lollygagging. I was out there to get paid; I didn't have time to be fucking with Shanté.

“I'm just waiting on my Saturday night special,” he says. Shanté
looks good. His real name is Sam Oliver Brown. That S.O.B. is bout five feet ten, 210 pounds. He wears a long red dress and red hooker shoes: red plastic criss-cross type strap across the front and a fat-ass three-and-a-half-inch-wedge heel. His hair is up in a French roll, and he's wearing this “fuck me” red lipstick.

“Is that right?” I say, trying to be polite, but I am already feeling uneasy with Shanté all up in my space.

“Oops, got to go,” he says and takes off running to this white Honda Accord.

I look to see who his client is and I be damn, if it wasn't La-La then my goddamn name ain't Demetria. I check the license plate and the tag starts off with an R, which means rental. Mutherfucking La-La has been hitting faggots. I start tripping 'cause I think about what my cousin Melody said about him. She had told me that their sex life wasn't hitting on two cents. La-La has been fucking with my cousin for about five years and is hustling out of her house in the pj's. She only puts up with the nigga 'cause he keeps her hair and nails done and supports her dope habit.

Nessa comes back and passes me our first $75 of the night.

“Hey, baby, did everything go okay?” I ask.

“No, that tight-shirt-wearing-ass schoolteacher only tipped me five dollars,” Nessa says while standing with her hands on her hip and her face balled up in a knot.

“What service did he get and how do you know he a school-teacher?” I ask 'cause it was obvious her ass wanted me to.

“He paid for a blow job and a golden shower, and I know he's a teacher 'cause his little dick ass taught me sixth grade,” Nessa says.

“Did you piss on the nigga?”

“Nope, I sucked that little dick and he came within two minutes. Then we waited for about ten minutes for me to work up some urine. When it was time for me to pee on him, I straddled him and sat on his dick. But as soon as I starting peeing, I jumped off his dick
so fast, you would've thought lightning struck my ass. Piss ran all down the seat of the car. That limp-dick nigga was trying to lick the piss up from the leather interior,” Nessa says, imitating the man. I'm bout to die laughing out that mutherfucker. Then I smack her on her ass and tell her get back to work.

The next car that drives up is a pretty red Corvette with a black ragtop. A white man in his thirties wearing a baseball cap with long stringy hair hidden underneath is driving, and a punk-rock-looking female is on the passenger side.

“Two goes for a hundred dollars straight up.” I walk over and force my head in the car. I have to get involved with them complicated-type situations. “What you want?”

“My girlfriend wants to eat her out, and I want her to suck my dick,” the man says, sure of himself.

“Okay, but no extra shit. Nessa, do you understand that this is a one-at-a-time?” I ask just to be clear, 'cause sometimes Nessa's ass be getting amnesia and shit.

“Yeah, I got it,” Nessa answers as she squeezes her way in between the couple, landing sideways on the white girl's lap.

“All right then, everybody listen up.” I squat down low so I can be at eye level with them. “This is how it's going down. Nessa, you gon’ let this white chick eat you out first, then you gone give ol’ boy the best blow job he ever had in his life.” I pause for a moment, 'cause I need to be sure they asses is listening to what the fuck I'm saying. When I realize all six eyeballs on me, I continue on like I am coaching a Little League baseball team. “Look here, gang, I'm serious as a heart attack about this one-at-a-time deal. There will be no muh-fucking double-teaming, gang banging, getting in the bed for any reason, no penetration, no titty sucking, ass licking, none of that, this here is not a mutherfucking ménage-a-trois type deal! Mato-fact, fuck it. Nessa, I want you to stand up while the bitch eats you and, player, you gon’ stand up while Nessa sucks your dick. I'm
telling you now, dude,” I say, and nod my head back and forth to let 'em know I ain't playing, “if you want a fucking threesome tonight, it's two hundred dollars. If not, follow my rules, 'cause if you try to run game, I'll find your redneck ass and slit yo throat. You got it, buddy?”

“Yes, sir.” the white man salutes me like I'm a sergeant in the United States Army.

I pat the hood of the car and order, “Be gone.”

Nessa comes back in about forty-five minutes. She hands me $100 in small bills.

“Daddy, them crackers was crazy as hell. They drove me around the corner to their house on Cary Street.”

“Is that right?'’

“Yeah, and when we got inside, the chick turned on some heavy metal music and started jumping up and down like she was fucking crazy. I told her ass I didn't have all night. Daddy, that bitch dropped to her knees and said, ‘Spread 'em open, you sexy black bitch,’ ” Nessa says, walking back and forth trying to keep up her pace.

“What happened next?”

“So, I stood with my legs far apart and when that bitch starting eating me, I felt something sharp on my clit. It was her tongue ring. I was about to tell her she had to take it out if she wanted to eat me, but before I could even say ‘eat me,’ the bitch had thrown the ring across the room. She looked up at me with them dark-ass mascara eyes and said, ‘I've been waiting all my life to taste dark meat.’ Uhm, uhm, uhm. Daddy, that bitch ate me out so good, my goddamn knees buckled. I had to take a break before sucking her boyfriend's dick,” Nessa says, fanning herself 'cause the memory was just that hot.

“Did you take good care of ol’ boy?” I ask. I need to know if we have made a lifetime customer.

“Oh, yes, I did. I sucked it so good, the skin peeled off that tiny pink mutherfucker. They said they didn't have any extra money to tip tonight, but asked if I could provide services to them on a regular and said we could stop by his store on Monday if we need anything.”

Nessa hands me the man's business card; he is a general manager at Kinko's. I toss the card in my back pocket, thinking, What the fuck does he think I need a photocopy of?

The next car that rolls up is a young black cat in his early twenties. Nessa struts over to the car, makes a sharp turn to show him her rear end, then swings back around and leans, asking, “You think you could handle this, baby boy?” He's pushing a black Acura Legend, with tinted windows and chromed-out wheels. His windows are rolled down so you can hear the bass from his stereo. He's blasting

“Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang” by Dr. Dre. The nigga is leaning to the side and bopping his head off track five of the Chronic. When he opens his mouth to talk, his gold teeth sparkle.

He whispers, “I want the total package.”

Nessa jumps in, and I yell, “One hour.” It is already ten P
.
M
.
and Nessa is rolling. I walk over to the Exxon Gas Station to get me a pack of Newports, a Snickers bar, and a Mountain Dew. It's gonna be a long night and I need a sugar rush to keep my ass up.

As I cross the street, I see Shanté getting out of the Honda. I'm tearing open the pack of cigarettes with my mouth, and by that time I am right up on the car. La-La's eyes meet mine, and that nigga speeds off:
Screeeech.
He has to be pushing eighty down Broad Street. I go back to the alley to wait for Nessa. Shanté comes over.

“Heyyy, I'm about to roll out,” Shanté says while tucking his money into his bra.

“Damn, so soon.” I try to give da nigga a blank statement so he'll keep it moving.

“Hmm, after my Saturday night special, I'm done,” he says while sounding all lisp tongue and shit.

“Oh yeah?” I shoot back. I didn't want to ask shit about La-La but I felt a story coming. One thing's for sure, if you fuck a shim, them muh-fuckers gon’ tell it sooner or later, and one thing about it, they don't ever lie on a nigga's ass.

“Hmm.” He sucks his teeth. “You see that nigga I was with? He picks me up every Saturday night at the same time, and we go to the hotel on Chamberlain across from Burger King. And trust me, I lets the nigga have it his way.” He strokes his hair and continues. “Baby, I gets four hundred dollars a whop. Oh yes, baby, that nigga fucks the shit out of me. I asked him if I could hit him one time, but he don't trade off.” Shanté rubs up and down his girlish figure, straightening up his tight-fitting body dress.

“See ya.” He waves good-bye and heads toward Feldens, where each and every Saturday night the drag queens perform. He was sashaying like Naomi Campbell on the runway. I thought about hiring him to give Nessa some touch-up lessons, but I just flat-out refuse to pay a nigga to show a bitch how to work it.

It's now eleven and Nessa's ass isn't back. Broad Street has a party atmosphere. Cars are going up and down, back and forth. I see the same cars ride by me so many times that I get dizzy as hell just from being out there. Carload after carload of muh-fuckers is making they way to Ivory's. My pager goes off with a 5-0 code. I know then that the gold tooth–wearing nigga that Nessa left with was the po-po. I jog over to Exxon to the pay phone, only to realize that there ain't a phone in the cradle. So I walk down to Mickey D's to use the phone out there. I close the door to the booth behind me and call Momma.

“Ma, what up?” I ask, knowing very damn well what time it is.

“You know, don't play games with me, Dee,” Mom says, sounding irritated and sleepy. “That girl said come get her first thing Monday morning. She said her bail is three thousand dollars, which
mean you ain't got to pay but three hundred dollars to get her out.”

“Tell Nessa if she calls back that she ain't make three hundred dollars tonight, and even if she did, her commission is only twenty percent. So tell her ass I said to turn a couple tricks with some of them RoboCop guards like she did last time to get up the money to get her slew-foot ass out.”

“You don't make no damn sense. Every time that gal gets locked up, you leave her in there for days and weeks at a time when she could be out there tricking for you,” Momma says. Momma is over-stepping her boundaries by getting in my business.

“Ma, I'm gone, just tell her what I said if they let her call back.”

“All right then, and what time are you coming home?”

I hang up when Momma asks that question. I don't like it when Momma asks me about my business. My business is my business. Shit, I don't be all in her business when she's at that goddamn Purple Pit Nite Club acting like she's fucking sweet sixteen and shit. Wearing them short-ass miniskirts with them ugly-ass knocked knees.

I decide to go check out Ivory's to see what all the hype is about. I walk down Broad, and bitches are yelling and shit out the car at me like I'm Denzel Washington.

“Hey, Dee, Dee baby, what's up?”

I'm walking cooler than a penguin on ice. When I walk, I glide. I just know I'm the baddest mutherfucker in Richmond and nobody can tell me shit. I'm gonna take that club by storm. I tell myself on the way there that I am gonna run that mutherfucker. I'm used to going to gay clubs, but tonight is different. Every hustler, hood rat, killer, baller, skeezer, hoochie, player, nobody, and everybody from every project in Richmond is gonna be in that mutherfucker 'cause Armani's is closed, and I'm prepared to make Ivory's my own.

The line extends down the sidewalk. I notice the bouncer from
the Slip at Shockoe working the door. He sees me and motions for me to come to the front of the line. I walk past the crowd, pimping and shit like I got clout. This punk nigga in the back of the line mouths some ol’ foul shit at me: “Look at that fake-ass nigga.”

I yell back at him, “Yo bitch Keisha loves this fake-ass nigga.” That nigga's mouth drops. He looks surprised that I know his girl's name. I look over to the crowd and say, “Yeah, I fucked that bitch two months ago, but she wasn't cool with Massengill, and any bitch that don't fuck with Massengill can't fuck with me.” Everybody in line falls out laughing.

I keep it moving and walk into the club. I ain't sweating that weak-ass nigga.

Ivory's isn't like any other club I've ever seen in Richmond. Them muh-fuckers have the scenery all bubbly and shit. Everybody walks around sipping on champagne, compliments of the club owner. This is the grand reopening and niggas is representing. Everybody in the joint is acting Hollywood. I notice all the ballers kicking it, and the sack-chasing girls circling around the niggas with money in hopes that they ass is gonna be the chosen one for the night. Oh yeah, Ivory's is definitely off the chain.

The DJ is kicking that old joint by Doug E. Fresh, “All the Way to Heaven,” and man, oh man, people is bout to lose their damn minds. Then that nigga starts spinning “Push It Real Good” by Salt-N-Pepa, and the girls on the dance floor start showing niggas just how hard they can push it. I'm not feeling that shit, 'cause I keep thinking bout how muh-fuckers compare me to Spinderella. I walk over to the bar to get me a straight shot of Henny, 'cause for real, that Champale and Andre shit is for bitches.

Lil Mo stands at the bar, ordering a Courvoisier and Coke. She spots me and walks over with her drink in hand, stirring the ice around with her finger.

“Where's your girl? You mean to tell me she let you off the leash
tonight?’ she asks with a sarcastic smile, then sucks on her wet index finger.

“She's out working, like she 'sposed to be. And what about your man—you mean to tell me he let you out of the house in that dress?” I down my shot of Henny. I set the empty glass on the bar and grab a small napkin, not to wipe my mouth with, but for writing the numbers down that I know I'm gon’ get.

“Like I told you in the mall today, Turk is out of town on business. He will be gone all week,” she answers, moving closer to me.

“All right, I'll holler at you later,” I say in a very friendly tone. Then I walk away and make my way through the crowd.

Lil Mo looks so good, I want to drink her bathwater. Her long jet-black hair is spiral curled. She's wearing a short black spaghetti-strap, doll-baby dress that accents her small, round phat ass, and every time she moves that dress moves with her. Her dress dips low in the front, and you can see the butterfly tattoo on her breast. Her titties are sitting up nice and high. She has on these tall black sandals; looks like some shit Mary J. Blige would wear, but them shits is tight. She has a big-ass tattoo of Cookie Monster, Ernie, and Bert riding a bicycle over her left ankle and lil mo is tattooed on her right arm. From all the tattoos and shit on her body, I know her lil ass could handle pain.