The Lipstick Clique (18 page)

ONE

June, 1995…

The tattered, decrepit building on 1st and 3rd street in Mt. Vernon, New York was a dugout for the hustlers and a smoke haven for the addicts. Hundreds of empty crack vials lay scattered along the urine filled steps. Graffiti ridden staircase walls held the names of those past and present and the stench of marijuana lingered through the air, but still, this was home, a sanctuary to more than fifty families.
  

Three flights up, in an undersized, cluttered apartment, the soothing melody of Mary J Blige’s
“My Life”
and the scent of hamburgers and French fries escaped into the hallway.

Sybil snatched open the refrigerator door in search of the last bit of ketchup, but the bottle was empty.

“Cleo!” She yelled.

“Yes??”

“Go over to your aunt’s and get some ketchup.”

His shoulders sunk and his once playful expression turned grim. “Aww, Ma… I don’t wanna go over there.” he pouted.

Sybil walked into the living room and stood in front of the television. “I ain’t asking you, I’m telling you, now get your ass up and go next door.”

Cleo shook his head and poked his lips out. He hated going across the hall to his aunt Wanda’s house, it was overrun with roaches.

“But they got roaches, Ma.”

Sybil didn’t like when Cleo said things like that. Even though she was slightly better off financially than her little sister, she never acted as if she was superior. They were both stuck in the hood.
 

“So do we. This apartment ain’t no better than theirs. I told you about talking like that.”

Cleo’s reason for not wanting to go next door wasn’t really the roaches, it was his cousin
Mox
. The truth is, his fear was being fueled by his own inconsistences. He was very aware that
Mox
is smarter, faster, and stronger than he is, but
Mox
was naïve, hesitant, and unconscious of his own abilities.

He put his sneakers on and went to do what his mother asked.

__________

“Who is it!?” Wanda screamed from the bathroom when she heard someone knocking at the front door.

“I got it Ma!”

Mox
put the controller down, got up from the futon, checked the peephole and then swung the door open, letting his cousin Cleo in.

“Cleo,
wassup
?”

“
Wassup
.” He mumbled, and then nodded at Casey.

The pungent odor of
Sensimilla
invaded Cleo’s nostrils instantly, and then a cockroach the size of a small
Bic
lighter darted across the 20 inch television set grabbing his attention.
Mox
paid it no mind.

“You scared of a little roach Cleo?” he joked, seeing the fear in his eyes.

“Nah, I’m
sayin
’… that joint was big.”

“Whatever…
Yo
!
Them
joints is hot!” he shouted, looking down at Cleo’s new, white, grey and red Air Max. “Let me rock your old joints since you got those?”

“Nah…”

“C’mon Cleo…” he begged. “You said you was
gon
’ look out for me.”

“I did look out for you. I gave you those black sneakers.”

Mox
reached underneath the grubby futon and pulled out a pair of black, soiled Reeboks.

“I been wearing these every day for more than a year.” He said, shaking his head.

Cleo wasn’t concerned with how long
Mox
had been wearing the sneakers. He was still upset at the fact that his mother made him give up a pair of his old ones. If he had it his way,
Mox
would be walking on his bare feet.

Any opportunity Cleo had to be better than
Mox
, he took full advantage of. He knew morally it was incorrect, but he wasn’t able to shake his envious characteristics. It came from his heart, so it was in his blood.

Switching the subject, Cleo asked, “Y’all got some ketchup?”

Mox
went into the kitchen, grabbed the ketchup and squeezed some into a plastic cup.

He held up the cup. “Is this enough?”

The cockroach that was once on the television, skirted across Cleo’s sneaker. He panicked and his arm brushed against the vase sitting on the mantle, knocking it to the floor.
  

“
Ooooh
…” Casey crooned.

Mox
raised his index finger to his lips. “
Shhh
… be quiet, Casey.”

The crash rattled Wanda’s nerves. She reached to pull her pants up and almost knocked the small mirror off the sink. The bathroom door was locked and she was puffing a joint and sniffing a line of coke.

“
Mox
, what the fuck was that!?” She hollered.

“Damn, Cleo… you just broke her favorite vase.” He looked down at the shattered pieces on the floor. “Go head man, take the ketchup and go before she comes out here.”

“What you
gon
’ tell her?” He said, opening the front door.

“It don’t matter…
I’ma
still get my ass whooped.”

The bathroom door flew open and the front door closed.

Cleo was gone.

“What was that noise?” Wanda asked.

 
She looked to her youngest, and then down at
Mox
picking up shattered pieces of her favorite vase.

“I know that ain’t my vase,
Mox
!?”

He was too afraid to make eye contact. “I knocked it over by accident, ma.” He lied, and that was something he never did.

Wanda’s lip curled as it did every time she became angry. She screwed her eyes, balled her fist and shot a sharp, right hook to his ribs. “Get the fuck up and get
yo
’ ass in that room... and take them goddamn pants off!”

Mox
absorbed the blow and did as he was told.

At ten years old, he was accustomed to the beatings, and eventually he learned to block out the pain and visualize more pleasant occasions. But those fantasies never lasted long.
 

He closed the bedroom door, stripped to his bare skin and waited to endure another lashing. He was cool about it though, his only concern was what her weapon of choice would be today.

The iron?

 
A wire hanger?

Or maybe that bamboo broom Aunt Sybil brought back from Japan?

LATER THAT NIGHT

Wailing screams at 2:30 am woke
Mox
and Casey from their sleep.

“What was that?” Casey jumped up, wiping the crust from his eyes.

“I don’t know. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

He begged “No,
Mox
… don’t leave me.” Jumping out the bed, he followed his big brother.

The room was pitch black as
Mox
and Casey silently tip toed to the bedroom door.
Mox
turned the doorknob slowly and took a peek into the hallway. It was too dark to see, but he could hear someone’s voice, they were saying a prayer.

“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just—” As they got closer to the living room, the rumbling vocal sound grew louder, “—and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness…”

The sour scent of blood perfumed the air and irritated
Mox’s
nose. His stomach muscles tightened and a sudden sweat fell over his body. He fought the urge to vomit and before reaching the entrance to the living room, he stopped short and Casey was on his heels.

“Casey, wait right here,” he whispered. “Don’t move.”

Mox
crept through the static dimness. His midnight skin tone merged perfectly with the blackness. Now only a few steps from the living room, he sensed something wrong and wanted to turn back, but his feet continued moving forward. When he entered the living room, the sight before his eyes churned his insides and the vomit he suppressed only seconds ago erupted through his lips.

His father’s butchered, unclothed body was draped over the futon, his hands were tied behind his back in a pipe hitch knot which is used primarily by boy scouts and his throat was slit.

Mox
was unable to move. Paralyzed, he watched the tall, wide body, dark skinned assassin hover over his mother’s defenseless, naked figure. The twelve inch blade he gripped securely was called a
Tanto
and it was soaked in blood.

Wanda lay stretched across the floor in the middle of the small, filthy apartment, choking on her own blood. She had suffered thirty five stab wounds to the face, chest and neck.

Casey startled his big brother when he brushed up against his arm and attempted to glance over his shoulder.

Mox
went to shield his eyes from the horrendous scene, but Casey was determined to see.

They stood, bare chested and barefoot in their underwear. Innocent, they focused on the woman who had pushed them from her womb, as she gagged, taking her last breaths before their sinless eyes.

2002

A milky, drop CLK 430 crept along the jagged pothole filled pavement, slowing down at the corner of Horton Avenue and Brook Street. The lambent rays from the early morning sun made the polished white paint look like glass.

Wise Earl and two young wolves were holding the block down on this early morning. They watched the glossy, two door convertible pull to the curb and park.

“You young niggas don’t know shit about gettin’ this money.” Earl hissed. The temperature was almost at a hundred degrees and the air was sticky, condensed and humid.

 
He wiped the sweat from his brow and took a long drag of his cigarette. “Now this nigga here,” he said, pointing to the car. “That nigga gettin’ that real paper.”

The passenger side door opened and one of the sexiest creatures God ever created stepped out. Her olive complexion was radiant and her skin was flawless. The tight fitted, pink shorts she was wearing cupped her dainty, heart shaped ass cheeks perfectly and her well-formed c-cup breasts bounced with each step.

Priscilla was a Goddess. She had recently cut her hair short and was rocking the natural look. It completely fit her personality.

She pranced around the front of the vehicle with a bag in her hand. Her cupid shaped, berry colored lips looked juicy enough to bite.
 

The young wolves gawked at her glowing beauty.

Wise Earl shook his head at their actions. “See… that’s the problem
wit
’ you young niggas, you worried ‘bout some pussy when you need to focus on the come up.”

The beautiful young lady approached Earl.

“
Wassup
, Uncle Wise?”

“Hey, baby girl.” He answered, embracing her. She smelled wonderful. “Tell that nigga to roll the window down.”