West End Girls (14 page)

It took about an hour to get to Omar's place. Sinclair was surprised that Tanqueray didn't seem to think anyone would notice them creeping into the predominately well-off neighborhood in their ill-fitting Wal-Mart specials.

Sinclair had never seen Omar's place before, but danged if it wasn't fantastic. From the outside it looked like at least four bedrooms big. It was a one-story, but it spanned the width of two downstairs apartments in Unique's complex. The yard was manicured with actual real flowers growing under the bay window in the front. There were no outward signs, none that Sinclair saw anyway, that anyone other than someone with class lived here. Anybody could have walked out that front door and been considered upstanding in a neighborhood like this. How could Tanqueray want to leave there?
So, yeah, he had to have put her out.

Tanqueray knocked on the door. She shoved her hands into back pockets, as if anticipating something. Sinclair was ready to run if need be.

Tanqueray knocked again.

“You don't have a key?” Sinclair asked innocently.

“Girl, you must be crazy,” Tanqueray whispered. “I didn't even get to leave with my purse, let alone a key.” She quickly stepped off the porch and headed around to the gate that led to the backyard.

Sinclair followed her closely, looking around, surprised that nobody had called the cops yet.

“Doggie door,” Tanqueray said, standing on her toes and looking over the fence, pointing toward the condo's back entrance. She tried the gate. It was locked. “Dang it! Come on, we'll go over.”

“Don't doggie door mean
doggie
?” Sinclair tentatively stepped into Tanqueray's folded fingers and lifted herself over the medium-high gate. Looking over the fence she could see that the backyard looked just like the front yard, down to the barbecue pit, lawn chairs, and concrete patio. This was truly suburbia. Sinclair began to wonder if this was how her school friends lived.

Tanqueray followed, climbing the fence with ease. Skulking through the yard as if being watched, they reached the doggie door carved into the back door that appeared to lead into the house.

“Nigga scared of dogs. Ain't never had no dog. I think every Negro child should have a pet,” Tanqueray answered as if her words made sense. “You can fit through there. You get in there and open the door.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. And hurry up!”

“You knew this was going to happen, didn't you? You planned this shit.” Sinclair smacked her lips.

Tanqueray rolled her eyes. “Quit all this talkin' and get through the doggie door,” she then whispered loudly.

“You are such a liar and a fraud. I mean, you got me breaking into this man's house, and you probably don't even have anything in there. What's up?”

“I do have stuff in there. You have to believe me, Sin. And I need my stuff. Omar just can't throw me away like this. He can't just treat me like a whore. I'm not a whore!”

Tanqueray's words came choked up. Sinclair searched her eyes for the lie. It wasn't there. What she saw was a woman trying to find her pride—at any cost.

“We're doin this for some dresses and mess. I mean, why are you doing this? Let it go, Tang. This man is crazy. You've said it before. He's crazy. It's not worth it.”

Tanqueray again smacked her lips and pursed them tightly. She sighed. “Please, Sin?”

Sinclair looked around before pulling off her hoodie and her T-shirt, to get as skinny as she could. She slid from her thick, mannish-looking Timbs and slid out of Unique's Baby Phat sweatpants. “You owe me,” she said before heading easily through the narrow opening in nothing but her underwear.

Once inside, she was again amazed at how big, clean, and expensive-looking Omar's place was. The furnishings, complete with an accent wall, which was a soothing sage color, looked fresh out of those beautiful home magazines. The floors were covered with a plush beige carpet, and there were matching sage green area rugs under the ultra-modern beige-colored furniture pieces, with accented sage-and-brown pillows thrown about. The coffee table was a smoked glass, and Sinclair could see the tall space-age-looking lamps all matched. “Wow!” she voiced, as if seeing the Land of Oz for the first time up close.

Sinclair had been as quiet as she could be, just in case Tanqueray was wrong about Omar not being home, and good thing too, because she heard smooth jazz playing somewhere off in the distance, maybe a bedroom. She quickly opened the back door.

Tanqueray rushed past her, not even considering that she had left Sinclair's clothes outside. Sinclair, with only her undies on, rushed out to the backyard, retrieved her stuff, and hurried to catch up with Tanqueray.

Sinclair stood nervously by, while Tanqueray rummaged around behind the mirrored bar. She then rushed over to the sofa and dug around in the cushions, where she found an envelope filled with money.

Omar, almost as if smelling the green stuff, suddenly appeared in the living room. Sinclair gasped at his appearance. She'd never really seen him up close like this before. It was normally dark when he brought Tanqueray out to the house in the Palemos, and even then he would never get out. He'd just drop her off, and that would be that.

Big and dark-skinned, Omar looked scary with his bloodshot eyes and the blond fuzz on his head. His silk robe hung open, exposing a muscular chest and tight-fitted bikini-type leopard-print briefs.

Suddenly Sinclair realized who he reminded her of—a ghetto version of Wesley Snipes on steroids. Before Sinclair could wonder again what else was wrong with Omar and why Tanqueray didn't want to be with him, he answered both those questions.

“Bitch, what in the hell are you doing in my house?” he yelled, aiming the gun in her direction.

Instantly Sinclair was too scared to scream, but her gasp must have been loud enough to catch his attention, because he looked at her and was smiling. She realized then she was still only in her bra and panties.

“Oh, so is this your way of saying you're sorry? Bring me an addition to my stable? Yeah, she'll work. I'll forgive you . . . maybe. I'ma have to try her out first,” he said, wiping his lips as if he was planning to take a bite outta her.

Sinclair's stomach turned. She dropped the remainder of her clothes. She wished she'd had time to put them all on, but shit was about to jump off now. She felt it in her bones.

“Shut up, Omar. I came for my things.” Tanqueray said.

Sinclair noticed that the envelope was gone. Tanqueray had quick hands. Mama used to always be yelling at her for shoplifting, but nobody could ever prove it by catching her. She just always had stuff that everybody knew there was no way she could afford. Like now, Sinclair knew she had money, but damned if she knew where Tanqueray had put it.

“You don't have no
things
here. I bought everything in this apartment. Hell, I bought you, sold you too.”

“What is he talking about?” Sinclair was growing angry at the ultimate disrespect being shown to her sister by this ugly nigga. “Ain't no man gonna—”

Omar turned the gun in Sinclair's direction, silencing her.

“Stop, Omar! Look, I'ma go in that room now and get my shit. Put the gun down. Put your clothes on, Sin.”

Tanqueray pointed her finger at Omar and stepped forward, only to have Omar step in her way, still holding the gun on Sin. He focused on Tanqueray just long enough for Sinclair to pick up and slide quickly into her oversized hoodie.

Omar was holding the gun on Tanqueray now. “Get outta my house!”

“Put the gun down, Omar. Now you know I know karate.”

“You don't know no karate, you crazy heiffa. Now get outta my house!”

Tanqueray began moving like Chris Tucker in the movie
Rush Hour
. “Put the gun—”

“Omar, what the hell is going on?” Shantel asked, walking from the room, looking hungover and nasty.

Tanqueray stood straight as a board. “What the hell is she doing here?” She pointed. “And what is she doing in my shit?”

Omar jutted the gun at her, and Sinclair took the distraction as her cue to kick him hard in his nuts. She'd seen how easy it was for Finest to get Malcolm to drop the gun by catching him off guard, so she tried it and sure enough, it worked. Omar bent over, dropping the gun as he cringed in pain.

Sinclair picked it up. It was heavier than she thought it would be, but it didn't matter, because she used both hands to hold it steady. “Get cho shit, Tang!” she barked. “I'm scared, and I don't want to have to hurt nobody, but I'll kill e'rybody. I swear the fuck, I will!”

Shantel screamed.

“Shut the fuck up!” Tanqueray yelled. She slapped Shantel hard across the face and ripped the jewelry from her thin neck. “This is my shit. Bitch!”

“Bulldagger!” Omar growled, still bent over in pain.

Sinclair then raised the pistol and pointed it at his head. He flinched and ducked lower, holding up his hand to stop her.

“Punk! You looking like a bitch in my eyes, so unless you want this pistol up your ass, don't push me.” Sinclair had to admit, holding the gun felt powerful. She thought about Malcolm's first response to holding one, turning it on Finest like that. Yeah, it had gone to his head real quick, and the same thing was happening to her.

“Tanqueray, you crazy for doin' this,” Shantel scoffed.

Sinclair glared at her out of the corner of her eye. She knew she looked hella crazy because Shantel grew wide-eyed and shut smooth up.

Meanwhile Tanqueray ran into the bedroom, hollering loudly in her disgust at all she was seeing in there.

Sinclair ordered Shantel to sit, and then with the nose of the gun against his shoulder, she urged the still bent over Omar to do the same. Sitting next to Shantel, he pulled his robe closed while still nursing his aching manly jewels.

Shantel started sniveling.

“I hate that sniveling shit, so shut the hell up!” Sinclair barked, trying to sound hard and mean, which came easy with a gun in her hand. It was like kicking the fence of a mean dog on a chain. You just had to do it.

“Fuckin' pig!” Tanqueray yelled. “Look at my Ralph Laurens! Oh my God! No, you did not have your cracked corns up in my Pradas!”

“Come on, Tang. Dang!” Sinclair called out. “We do not have all day!”

“Okay, okay!” she called back, and within seconds she appeared with an armful of dresses, and some shoes dangling from her fingertips.

“How you gonna get outta here with all that shit?” Shantel smarted off.

Sinclair was thinking the very same thing. Tanqueray appeared to take a bite into the fabric filling her arms, only to come up with a pair of car keys.

“Oh fuck, nah. You gonna have to shoot me! You ain't taking my Benzo. Nah, nah, bitch, you can't have my car.”

Sinclair buckled her lip as she released the safety on the gun, as if planning now to use it for real, and Omar ducked his head behind his large hands. Sinclair realized then that his fear came from knowing she had no idea how to use a gun. It had to have shown. The power she felt now was spinning her mind. She thought about firing off a round just for the hell of it.

“Hanging on my pocket, Sinclair, two pairs of handcuffs. Cuff them together,” Tanqueray ordered, “since they seem to like each other so damn much!”

Sinclair handed off the gun awkwardly to Tanqueray, who held it on them from under the dresses. “And you know I'll kill you both dead with my crazy ass, so don't even think about trying anything.”

The two of them didn't move while Sinclair cuffed them wrist to wrist and used the second pair to handcuff them ankle to ankle.

Out the door the two girls went, heading directly for the BART, Sinclair with the gun retrieved and tucked in deep into the pocket of the hoodie, and Tanqueray with an armful of clothes.

Tanqueray wasn't crazy. In Omar's car they would be headed for jail within an hour, but with her clipping the keys, at least they stood a chance of getting back to the
W.E.
intact and without him following. She tossed the keys as soon as they stepped out of the train at the Daly City Station.

“My sister is a fool!” Sinclair told Malcolm when he met her at the bus stop. She'd gotten home and called him to tell him she was still on if it wasn't too late. He explained to her that Finest hadn't shown up either, so it was all good, but she'd better get there ASAP. He met her at the bus stop and walked her back to his house.

Glancing at the house, she noticed what looked like construction cones. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear something was going on. Like repairs. She wondered who could have started the work. The city? She'd have to tell Unique as soon as she got home.

“Tell me more about this heist,” Malcolm said, bringing her attention back to him.

Sinclair quickly related the story of how she and her sister had pulled a clothing heist in the East Bay, running down the street like hood rats, their arms full of loot. “And I know bitch got some money, lots more than the two hundred bucks she gave me.”

Malcolm was in stitches. “Yo' sista is one crazy heiffa. I remember one time she had a nigga running naked down the street.”

“Oh yeah!” Sinclair laughed out loud, remembering another of Tanqueray's relationships gone bad as they walked into the house.

Sinclair and Malcolm both yelled out, “Sug-gggggg!” thinking about the past when the young man's bellows could be heard for the length of the block as he tried to escape Tanqueray's wrath. She'd found him and Brenda Blackwell having sex in her mama's house across the street.