Dirty Money Honey Read online

  Dirty Money Honey

  Nisa Santiago

  Erica Hilton

  Kim K.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Dirty Money Honey. Copyright © 2011 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Melodrama Publishing, P.O. Box 522, Bellport, NY 11713.

  www.melodramapublishing.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011927243

  ISBN-13: 978-1934157442

  ISBN-10: 1934157449

  First Edition: September 2011

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Interior Design: Candace K. Cottrell

  Cover Design: Marion Designs

  Cover Model: Renata

  The Mastermind

  Nisa Santiago

  mas·ter·mind (mstr-mnd)

  n.

  A highly intelligent person, especially one who plans and directs a complex or difficult project: the mastermind of a robbery.

  tr.v. mas·ter·mind·ed, mas·ter·mind·ing, mas·ter·mindsTo direct, plan, or supervise (a project or activity).

  Intro

  East Harlem, NY

  2009

  It was a bitterly cold day in December and there I was, Honey Robertson, sitting in on my first raid with my immediate supervisor, James Dougherty, a hard-drinking, tough-talking Irish-American. I’d been working as an agent for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, better known as the ATF, for six short months. My health insurance had kicked in, my checks were being direct-deposited into my checking account, and I’d even signed up for their 401(k) plan, where I was investing heavily into different stocks and United States Treasury bonds. Not bad for a 23-year-old female from Harlem.

  “How much longer do you think we’ll have to wait?”

  “How the fuck should I know some stupid shit like that?” James quipped. “And why you asking anyways? You’re getting paid for each second you sit here doing nothing. Like, what the fuck are you doing right now that I gotta hear you complaining?”

  Not many females would be able to take his direct talk, but I felt he was a breath of fresh air. Sure, he was abrasive, but I wasn’t a sensitive type of chick. In fact, if he was all polite talk and stuffy, it would have taken me longer to open up and trust him.

  “I got a stiff black penis that needs the attention of my mouth tonight.”

  James laughed. “And that takes precedence over possibly apprehending a terrorist? A small black penis?”

  “Who said small, muthafucka?”

  “Ain’t all black penises small?” James arched his eyebrow and smirked. He definitely found himself amusing.

  I looked at his puffy face, a telltale sign of years of alcohol abuse. It was a look I knew too well. His skin, which should have been pale white, was tinged with a fuchsia pink. Though slightly overweight, he was a handsome man, but he always looked flustered and overworked, and had that “cop air” a seasoned criminal could spot a mile away.

  I took another sip of my now warm coffee and thought about Dré, who I’d married two days after my eighteenth birthday and was still head over heels in love with. We’d grown up in the same building in Lexington housing projects in East Harlem, New York. He’d sold drugs hand-to-hand, but within a few years he began pushing weight and even had a few soldiers under his belt.

  My brother Chief had fucked up Dré’s work, and Dré came around to collect. He’d shot up Chief in the hallway of our building, and Chief had crawled to our front door with Dré looming over him. Chief took two bullets, one in the abdomen, and one just grazed his temple. I’d heard the shots and came running out the front door and stood face-to-face with Dré holding a .357 to Chief’s head at point-blank range. I pleaded with him not to finish him off, and for some inexplicable reason, he lowered his pistol and slowly backpedaled, never taking his eyes off me.

  Before that unfortunate incident, Dré, fourteen years my senior, didn’t look twice at me, who, at the time, was a 16-year-old school nerd, focused on getting out of the PJs.

  “So much for counterintelligence,” James said haphazardly. “I think we’re in for a long night. This muthafucka might have us out here breaking day, which is good. I need the overtime.”

  I exhaled. As much as I loved my job and was grateful that the Federal Bureau had hired me, I loved spending my nights with Dré. Sitting in an undercover car waiting only God knows how many hours on a possible terrorist wasn’t appealing.

  I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Dré. “Hey, babe,” I said. “It looks like we’re gonna pull an overnighter.”

  “What about dinner?” he asked.

  “Umm, there’s some spaghetti in there from last night, and the salad.” I thought quickly.“Or you could make yourself a hamburger.”

  “Yo, you gotta do something about this job of yours!”

  “Do something?”

  “You know what the fuck I mean. They can’t have you out at all types of night when you got a household to hold down.”

  “It ain’t like this happens all—”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit. I don’t give a fuck about all that you talkin’. You got me up in here cookin’ and cleanin’ up shit. What the fuck I need you for?”

  “I’m not your maid, Dré.”

  “You’re my wife!”

  “Exactly!” I wanted to say more, but who wants to air their marital laundry out in front of their boss?

  “A’ight, I don’t got time for this bickering shit. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I could sense he wanted to continue the argument but chose not to.

  Dré had a warped vision of women and my duties as his wife. When I told him I was applying to be an ATF agent, he thought he’d hit the jackpot of wives. He thought that meant he’d have a get-out-of-jail-free card, which I later explained wasn’t the case. For some odd reason he felt that I would contact local and state police and also all federal agents and announce to them that my husband Dré Robertson could move as much drugs as he pleased and to not fuck with him, or else. Once I drilled into his head how asinine his rationale was, it was back to him thinking a woman’s place was in the bedroom and kitchen.

  So, although I was a young wife, I handled mines. I kept a clean house, fucked Dré whenever he wanted to be fucked and, except on nights like these, kept his meals on the table.

  “You don’t look too happy?”

  “I’m good.”

  “He hates your long hours?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Fuck ’im.”

  “Is that your advice? ’Cuz if so, I’ll pass.” I rolled my eyes playfully. “Besides, you have three ex-wives. You’re hardly in the position to be dishing out advice, with your track record.”

  “Two. I have two ex-wives,” Dougherty corrected.

  “Whatever.”

  I reclined my seat, slightly, and propped my feet up on the dashboard. I needed to think about my marriage and how Dré spoke to me. After tonight I intended on things changing. Dré was the only person who I allowed to fully rule over me, and I did it because I was his wife. He treated me like some side chick.

  Dougherty tapped the side of my leg. “Move your feet.” He then reached into his glove compa
rtment and pulled out a flask of whiskey. “Might as well lighten the mood.”

  “We’re on the clock.”

  “So?”

  “So any minute we’re about to do a full-on raid on an armed, dangerous fugitive for selling weapons—AK-47s, Uzis, Glocks, the whole gamut. We can’t be fucked up.”

  “Honey, I’m Irish. A pint of whiskey can’t get my four-year-old daughter fucked up.”

  “But what about backup, car 44-10? What if they smell it on us?”

  “Jesus, Honey! I’m not even drunk and you’re blowing my high. I’m your supervisor, and you’re my subordinate. Let me worry about the other car. If one of them even opened up their mouths to say something foul, I’ll fucking punch their teeth down their throats! All the shit I’ve seen go down out here while we’re on a stakeout is shit you’d have to see to believe. One thing you gotta learn is that we have a brotherhood. Whatever is done out in the field stays there. You got me?”

  I shook my head. “Well, you know I’m down for whatever.”

  “Then shut the fuck up”—James flashed a broad smile—“and drink.”

  An hour into our hardcore drinking, I was giggling and cracking jokes, yet neither one of us was drunk, despite the fact that we’d down the whiskey and had now mixed it with a liter of Scotch Dougherty found in his back seat. Honestly, I wasn’t a whiskey or Scotch type of girl. I was more Moët or margaritas, but the randomness of the night made it fun.

  “So how much does a pair of fancy sneakers like you got on cost ya?”

  “These?” I replied, looking down at my Prada kicks. “Close to four hundred.”

  “Four hundred dollars? On footwear?”

  “Just about.”

  “You people sure keep the white man rich then complain about being oppressed.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know how many young punks I’ve arrested throughout the years for moving arms, and when we kick open the door to their dilapidated apartments, these kids have thirty-thousand-dollar Rolex watches, and dozens of sneakers piled up against their bedroom walls—enough sneakers to supply a whole African village—yet can’t pay for a proper attorney?”

  “So?”

  “So?”

  “Yeah, what right do you have to judge them? Or me for that matter?”

  “Calm the fuck down and take that bass outta your voice. I’m just wondering, that’s all.”

  “They buy what makes them feel better about themselves.”

  “Really? So those Prada sneakers are about self-esteem?”

  “I buy Prada because I can. My self-esteem is already intact.”

  “You can afford four-hundred-dollar sneakers on your pay? Your pay grade is GS-level 4, Robertson. Who you foolin’?”

  “I guess, not you.”I cut my eyes toward James. I really wasn’t sure where he was coming from. Perhaps the liquor was talking for him.

  “Who the fuck cares about fashion? Huh? Not me.” James gave me a playful punch on my shoulder with his massive fist. “However you get yours is your business. Fuck ’em! Fuck the government! Fuck the IRS! Fuck ’em all! Do you think I report all my earnings, my little side jobs, to Uncle Sam? Hell, fucking no!”

  “I hear that,” I replied, as the liquor finally began going to my head. “As you said, my pay grade don’t stretch that far, so Uncle Sam don’t know about half the shit I buy nor how I can afford it.” I felt tipsy, but I wasn’t drunk. I knew better than to open up to him about Dré and all the cocaine he was moving through Harlem.

  “So what made you join the force?”

  “Honestly, I needed a come-up. Something progressive that held respect.”

  “Respect?”

  I shook my head and took another sip of Scotch, which burned going down.“Yeah, that was important.”

  “Do you mind telling me why?”

  I hesitated briefly. “I dunno. I guess having a father in and out of ‘club fed’ all my life, a brother who’s the dumbest criminal on earth, and a mother who has struggled with mental illness since I was born. I was always the butt of jokes where I grew up. But my environment and struggles actually helped propel me. It kept me ambitious and toughened me up. When I was twelve years old, I was fighting women twenty and up, all for respect.”

  “Didn’t you grow up in Suffolk County?”

  “Not at all. I grew up in East Harlem amongst prostitutes, pimps, and drug hustlers.”

  “Harlem?”

  “Yeah, Harlem. And not the Harlem with the huge beautiful brownstones like the Huxtables lived in on The Cosby Show. I grew up in the gutter and had to claw my way out.”

  “Yeah, I had a hard life too. My old man used to beat the shit out of me on a regular basis, and my mother just sat there and let it happen.” James had a faraway look in his eyes. “But the past is the past, right?”

  “I hope so. I try not to let that shit get to me. It’s all in how you cope with things. They can either break you or make you.”

  James held up the liter of Scotch. “This is how I cope with things.”

  “I think we should take it a little easy on that bottle, James.”

  James let out a hearty laugh, his deep blue eyes staring intently into mine. “You know, Honey, you really are beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” I said and ran my hands through my short haircut.

  “Do other black women think you’re beautiful?”

  “What type of question is that?”

  “Do other people see what I see? Are your features considered beautiful to the blacks?”

  I cocked my head to the side. Did I hear him correctly? “The blacks?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, no, the fuck I don’t. You said it, not me.”

  “Calm down,” James said assertively, almost bordering on a command.

  “Ain’t nobody hyped,” I said, getting hyped.

  James chuckled. “This ghetto hoochie-momma thing you got going is turning me the fuck on.”

  Taken aback by James’ last comment, I instinctively looked down and noticed that he had unzipped his fly and was massaging his pink-colored penis.

  “Come on and suck it,” he said. “Give me what you give your husband.”

  Before I could react, James had his hand on the back of my neck, trying to lower my head.

  “Get the fuck off me!” I knocked his hand away.

  “Come on, just do it. Ain’t nobody watchin’.” James quickly peered over his shoulders. “Just suck me off, and I’ll eat your pussy next. I promise.”

  Shell-shocked, all I could say was “Huh?”

  Before I could think, I felt his strong hands groping and pulling at my clothes. His hands were fast and experienced, like he’d done this before. He leaned over and forced my seat back and already had half his body weight on top of me while his finger was close to being inserted into my pussy.

  “Are you retarded?” I screamed. “Fuckin’ psycho!”

  James suddenly eased up, his blue eyes becoming small and menacing.“What did you call me, bitch?”

  I stared at my supervisor and knew I had two choices. I didn’t like either one, but I went with my gut. “I said, ‘Get the fuck off me, psycho!’” and put my Glock 9 in his face. My clenched jaw felt like it would lock up. “Don’t you ever put your filthy hands on me again!”

  There was a stare down.

  “You’re fuckin’ dead, you hear me? Dead!”

  I managed to briefly see a little humor despite the tension. My supervisor was literally sitting with his dick in his hand and a gun in his face.

  I backed out of the vehicle with my Glock steadied at his head. When I was clear, I hauled ass out of there and made my way home. I was too amped to be scared, yet I knew that things had boiled over.
In a nanosecond things had changed. I went from being on a stakeout to catch a suspect moving weapons to almost getting raped by my supervisor.

  I ran into my house like a tornado, only to be met by the sight of my husband, head first into some bitch’s pussy. All I saw was dyed-red pussy hair and caramel-colored legs spread-eagled across my sofa. My heart sunk into my stomach. I knew at that moment what a broken heart felt like.

  “What the fuck! Oh, hell no!” I could feel my body tense up, and I was rapidly losing control. The one person I trusted had betrayed me. “On our muthafuckin’ couch, Dré? Seriously?!”

  The red-haired-pussy bitch jumped up and quickly started scrambling and looking for her clothes.

  “Baby, this ain’t what you think,” Dré said to me, standing to his feet. His dick was standing at attention and pointed right at me as he started to approach me with his hands in the air, showing surrender.

  I pulled out my Glock and I aimed it right at his forehead.“Take one more step, and I’ll blow your brains out!” My eyes cut to his mistress. “And tell that bitch to sit the fuck down right now!”

  “Honey, why you—”

  BLAOW!

  I fired off one warning shot that whizzed right past Dré’s head and lodged into the newly painted sheetrock wall in our living room. The shot had definitely caught everybody’s attention.

  “A’ight, baby, you win. I lose. I’m wrong, dead wrong,” he said to me, his dick suddenly limp.

  “So this is what you like?” I asked, my voice accusatory and laced with malice. My eyes scanned his chick from head to toe. I knew Dré was a street dude with a wandering eye when I married him, but you always think that your man wouldn’t go there. It’s always some other chick’s man that’s the tramp.

  “Hell no, baby. I was just fuckin’ her, that’s all. It don’t mean nothing.”

  “Dré, I know you’re not going to stand there and tell her that I don’t mean nothing to you,” the chick said, rolling her eyes and looking at Dré.

  Dré bent down and reached for his jeans.

  “Did I tell you to get dressed?” I barked.