Coca Kola - The Baddest Chick Page 10

  Cross’ mind was heavy with thoughts. He said to her, “I gotta run to the city to meet with my lawyer and discuss this.”

  Kola nodded.

  Cross stepped away from her.

  “I love you, baby,” she said.

  He turned around. “I love you too.”

  Cross departed the bedroom, leaving Kola to ponder what his decision would be.

  A few minutes later, she watched him exit their home and get into his cocaine-colored BMW. He sped out of the driveway, tires screeching.

  Kola turned away from the window and walked toward the mirror, where she dropped her robe at her feet and gazed at herself. Naked, she placed her hand against her stomach and tried to picture what she would look like pregnant. Even though she was a pit bull in a skirt and a hard woman to fuck over, she couldn’t imagine getting that same respect with a growing belly. She felt that pregnancy would make her look weak.

  Unbeknownst to Cross, Kola was once pregnant with their child a few months ago. The moment she found out about it, she set up an appointment at the local clinic and terminated the pregnancy. Now she was lying about being pregnant, to try and keep her man out of jail.

  Chapter 13

  Cross and Edge left Meyers Mitchell’s plush downtown Manhattan office with a blank stare, his words lingering in their heads. “My advice is, someone needs to take a plea,” Meyers had said, like it was a parking ticket.

  Meyers was doing everything he could with the case, meeting with the prosecutor to negotiate on his clients’ behalf. He had clout and influence with a few people, and had the case postponed as long as he could, but the charge wasn’t going away. He had informed his clients about the chances of going to trial, and they had the weekend to think about a plea bargain, their best option.

  Cross and Edge walked toward the parking garage, both men absorbed in their own thoughts. Edge smoked his cigarette, while Cross was on his cell phone. Edge pressed the button to the alarm on his Hummer, deactivating the device. He jumped in the driver’s side, and Cross sat in the passenger seat, his cell phone still pressed to his ear. Edge knew from the conversation that Cross was talking to a woman, but it wasn’t Kola.

  Cross’ infidelity was nothing new to Edge. As long as the two men knew each other, neither of them had ever been faithful to one woman, their reputations and illicit riches attracting the ladies in droves.

  Edge started the ignition to his Hummer. The thunderous engine roared to life, and Jay-Z instantly began blaring in their ears. He immediately turned it down, giving Cross the respect. He took a few more pulls from his cigarette and tossed it out the window. He then reclined in his seat and went through his CD collection, which was mostly rap, from old-school Big Daddy Kane to 50 Cent and Kanye West.

  Tired of listening to Jay-Z, Edge ejected The Blueprint 3 from the high-end car stereo and replaced it with Lil Wayne. He pushed in the CD and pressed for his favorite track. He liked Lil Wayne’s style and the entire Cash Money roster when they were the Hot Boys representing New Orleans.

  He began making his exit from the parking lot. He maneuvered his truck into the downtown rush-hour squeeze of Manhattan on a Friday afternoon. The Lower East Side was jammed with traffic and pedestrians bustling from one block to the next. Edge sighed, knowing it would take them forever to get to the FDR and head uptown into Harlem. He lit up another cigarette, nodding to the catchy, upbeat lyrics of Lil Wayne’s “A Milli,” which was playing low enough for him to hear it and for Cross to conduct his call.

  When Cross finished his call, Edge turned up the music until the speakers rattled the truck. Men and women from Wall Street and prestigious law firms in nearby cars glanced at the truck like it was an eyesore, their white faces scowling at the loud rap violating their space, interfering with their easy-listening music. But they only gave Edge and Cross foul looks because no one dared to say anything.

  Edge navigated the Hummer north up Broadway and then made a right turn onto Houston Street, headed toward FDR Drive. When Edge finally merged onto the jam-packed FDR Drive, Cross reached for the volume to the radio and turned it down a notch.

  Edge glanced at his friend.

  Cross said, “You know, Kola might be pregnant.”

  “She is?”

  “She hit me today wit’ the news.”

  “Congrats, yo,” Edge replied matter-of-factly.

  The traffic on the long stretch of highway from the Battery Tunnel was bumper to bumper. The only thing Edge saw from his windshield was the brake lights of cars.

  “Shit, it’s gonna take forever to get back uptown,” Edge said.

  Cross took a cigarette from the pack Edge had stashed in the console between them. He lit it, took a deep drag, and glanced out the window for a moment. “I was thinking about this case.”

  “What about it?”

  Cross exhaled. “I might be a father soon, so I need you to take this charge for me.”

  Edge couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What you sayin’?”

  “I’m sayin’, take this hit for me, Edge. You heard what Meyers said—three years easy and then you’re out.”

  “Nigga, it was your gun. And I got kids too, Cross. What the fuck you sayin’ to me?”

  “I know, but we’re gonna take care of you, Edge.”

  “Who the fuck is we? Kola? Yo, you got that bitch speaking for you now?”

  “Edge, watch your tone.”

  “Nigga, she got ya connect. Now she got your heart and balls too?”

  “Fuck you, nigga!”

  “Fuck you, Cross! Why you lettin’ this bitch come in between us, my nigga? Huh? Are you sure she’s even pregnant?”

  Cross wanted to hit Edge, but he kept his cool. He smoked the Newport and glared at him. “Fuckin’ respect her, Edge, or I swear . . . ”

  “Nigga, look what the fuck she’s doin’ to you. To us. I don’t trust her, Cross. You giving her too much power, fo’ real, my nigga.”

  “You jealous?”

  Edge chuckled. “Nigga, I don’t need ya chick.”

  “Nigga, I still run this shit, these streets. Don’t get it twisted, my nigga. I’m still the muthafuckin’ boss out here. You hear me, Edge? Fuck what ya heard or think. Ain’t nothin’ soft about me. And if you hatin’ on a nigga and his bitch, then let it be known, muthafucka!”

  “I ain’t hatin’ or jealous of you.” Edge had been yearning for Kola for a long time now. He wanted to fuck Cross’ bitch and move up on the food chain. When he heard about the pregnancy, his mood just snapped. But he was still willing to fuck Kola, pregnant or not.

  The heated argument between the two men continued until they got to the 59th Street Bridge. Edge just wanted to drop Cross off and be by himself. It wasn’t their first argument, but it was the only one they’d ever had over a woman.

  Edge was suspicious of Kola. She had her hooks too deep into Cross. He also questioned why a man like Eduardo would suddenly only want to deal with Kola. In his eyes, it didn’t make any sense. Eduardo and Cross had been good associates for a long moment, and business was always good. It dawned on him that Eduardo wanted to keep Kola around because he was attracted to her. It was easy to cut out Cross and get closer to Kola if she was the one coming around for work.

  Edge smiled. He thought to himself, Sneaky muthafucka. Eduardo wanted what everyone else was chasing, a piece of pussy. Edge believed Kola was fucking Eduardo.

  Cross and Edge were quiet until they reached Harlem, turning onto 125th Street. Because of the dense traffic, a twenty-minute drive from downtown to uptown took forty-five minutes.

  “Drop me off at Tiko’s spot,” Cross said. “I’ll catch a ride back to the crib wit’ him.”

  Edge pulled up to the Lenox Lounge on Lenox Avenue and stopped outside the long-standing Harlem bar with its retro entrance pushed between the crevices of a growing and faster-moving Harlem. The fading neon sign looked like it was on its last bulb.

  Cross stepped out of Edge’s truck without saying good-by
e. Edge shrugged as he slammed the door and walked toward the bar like he had just gotten out of a cab. Cross didn’t even turn back. He walked into the bar without as much of a head nod in Edge’s direction.

  Edge felt disrespected. “Fuck him,” he muttered to himself.

  Edge shifted the truck in drive and sped away. He wondered if Kola was actually pregnant. It had to be a lie. He figured Kola to be the type to get an abortion if she was truly pregnant. He knew her kind. They were about business, making money—no time for family or kids. Still, he wanted a piece of her. Cross was a friend, but the game had no boundaries. Besides, Edge didn’t respect him as much, with Kola calling the shots now. He saw his friend becoming weak, despite the speech he gave, which he thought was just a charade.

  ***

  Cross stepped into the dimly lit Lenox Lounge, walking past the time-scarred front bar, and met Tiko at one of the circular, padded booths near “the zebra room,” where pictures of music icons hung above the patrons’ heads.

  Tiko sat alone, sipping on a dry martini. The aging hustler with graying beard and wise-man mentality had seen it all—been there and done that—and it showed in his eyes and the creases on his face. He remembered Harlem back in the days when gangsters like Nicky Barnes and Frank Lucas had a stranglehold over its streets. He grew up with Cross’ family and had done time with his ’ father in Attica when crack was at its peak. Cross was like a son to him.

  About to turn fifty in a few days, Tiko was wearing a stylish black suit with white pinstripes, his matching round derby with the hard narrow brim resting on the table near his drink, and a gold Rolex on his left wrist and a diamond pinky ring on his right hand.

  Cross slid into the booth and sat opposite him.

  Tiko gave him a head nod, showing respect. He picked up his drink and took a few sips. He looked over at the young lady working behind the bar, admiring her shape and the way she moved. She looked over at the handsome man and smiled, and Tiko smiled back. He took his time with everything, from dressing to business.

  He slowly turned his attention back to Cross. “How you been, youngblood?” he asked, his raspy voice trailing like a bumpy road.

  “I could be better,” Cross responded.

  When Tiko was in his prime, he would move hundred of ki’s, heroin and cocaine, on a weekly basis, but the game had changed. The young boys coming up in the game didn’t go by rules anymore. They were reckless and didn’t respect the art of being a hustler, didn’t know what being a gangster was supposed to be about. Besides, he’d done his stint in jail and wasn’t looking to go back. He was too old. He wanted to die in Harlem, not in some ugly prison in a rural area around a bunch of men and white guards.

  He hustled quietly, like a puppy walking on cotton, moving only a ki a month, and only to his loyal clientele that he trusted. He didn’t need the headaches and left the corners for the young boys to fight over.

  Tiko took another sip from his martini. He then raised his hand slightly and gestured to the passing waitress for another drink.

  He looked at Cross for a moment. The young man reminded him of himself when he was that age. He admired Cross’ character and thought he was articulate and business-minded, but Cross still had flaws that Tiko wanted to bring to his attention.

  “You know Chico came to me?” Tiko mentioned.

  Cross raised his eyebrows when he heard the name come from Tiko’s mouth. “What he want from you?”

  “My business.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I don’t deal with his kind, Cross. You should know that about me. He’s reckless . . . dangerous.”

  “He’ll soon be dead.”

  “Well, this war you have with him, you need to end it. It will bring too much attention on you.”

  “I know, but Chico ain’t gonna go out quietly, Tiko.”

  Tiko nodded. “But the violence needs to stop. You bring attention to yourself, then it trickles down to my business and me. I’ve been off the feds’ radar for years. Things have been quiet for me. I don’t need to become another blip on their screen because of you.” He spoke in a hushed tone, his voice traveling far enough for only Cross to hear.

  “I understand, Tiko.”

  “I don’t think you do, Cross. Violence will bring police, the police will attract the feds, and then business will come to a crawl. The feds up our asses will be like diarrhea. The feds don’t get off the pot until they all take a shit. And they will shit on us. I’ve been there, Cross. The last thing you or I need is a RICO case. Once it starts, it won’t go away.”

  Cross nodded. “So how should I handle this muthafucka?”

  When the waitress came over with Tiko’s drink, the conversation abruptly stopped. She placed the dry martini on a napkin in front of Tiko, who flashed her a nice smile.

  She returned the smile. “Anything for your friend?”

  Cross shook his head. “I’m good.”

  “OK.”

  As she walked away from the table, Tiko’s eyes lingered on her for a moment. He stared at her thick backside. She was the type of woman that always caught his eye—dark skin, thick in the waist and hips—a nice girl with a country accent. He had plenty like her, six kids by three beautiful women.

  Tiko placed his eyes back on Cross. “You can’t continue to go back and forth with him. Four bodies in the past month, the numbers go red on the homicide board in the precincts, and so do our numbers for business. Red is red anywhere . . . brings shit down.”

  “Yeah, I understand, but you ain’t telling me much, Tiko. You talkin’ in riddles right now.”

  Tiko stared at Cross. “What do I suggest? Do what the Mafia used to do back in the days when there was a problem between two factions.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “A sit-down.”

  “A what?”

  “You and Chico need to sit down and work this shit out. There’s enough money in Harlem to go around without us killing each other over it.”

  “I’m not sitting down wit’ that muthafucka, Tiko. You must be crazy.”

  “You watch yourself, Cross. You’re being ignorant right now. You keep going in the direction you’re going, and you’ll be nothing soon . . . only a name in the streets blowing with the wind.”

  “I’m not sitting down with him, Tiko. It ain’t an option.”

  Tiko sighed. He massaged his gray beard, while Cross continued with his hard image, a scowl on his face.

  “Youngblood, think about it.”

  Cross shook his head and stood up from the booth. He was tired of talking. He had respect for Tiko, but he wasn’t about to listen to him talk about a compromise with Chico. He looked up at Tiko with a deadpan stare. “No disrespect to you, Tiko, but fuck that nigga!”

  Cross caught the attention of other patrons in the lounge with his sudden outburst. The two ladies behind the bar turned to look at him.

  Tiko knew there was no talking sense into the young hustler at the moment. Cross’ attitude and ego were his flaws. He gestured toward the seat. “Youngblood, sit and talk.”

  “Nah, I’m done talking, Tiko. I’ma handle mine, you feel me?”

  As Cross turned and headed for the exit, not once did he look back at Tiko. He walked outside, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his cell phone. He called Kola.

  “What’s up?” she answered.

  “Come get me. I’m at Lenox Lounge.”

  Chapter 14

  It was after midnight when Memo stepped out of his Accord, his pistol tucked snugly in his waistband. The rapidly graying skies above started to produce rain, and the wind was getting heavy. He zipped up his jacket and looked around briefly, making sure there wasn’t any threat looming, as he made his way across the street into the Lincoln Projects.

  Memo had his hand close to his pistol just in case. He wasn’t taking any chances, because of the shootout with Chico and Dante a week earlier. He didn’t understand why Chico was after him. He remembered what had happene
d to his sister, and decided he wasn’t going out like that—shot dead on the streets.

  He entered the quiet lobby and looked around again. The rain started to come down heavier. He pressed for the elevator and waited nervously. He was taking a chance by being in Harlem, but he needed to see his girlfriend Cherry, who was four months pregnant with his baby and crying about her bills and the rent. A small-time hustler selling weed and stolen goods, he made enough to live nice and drive around in a 2002 Honda Accord that he’d bought cash.

  The elevator door slid open, and Memo stepped in. He pushed for the fifth floor, stepped back, and waited. He stepped onto the fifth floor and walked down the narrow, graffiti-covered hallway toward the apartment, which was the last one down the long stretch of hallway. To the right of it was the stairway exit.

  Memo knocked on her door. He could hear 2Pac blaring in the apartment.

  He knocked harder, shouting, “Cherry, open the damn door!”

  He heard the music being lowered. He glanced around before turning back to the doorway. He knocked even harder. “Cherry, hurry the fuck up!” he shouted.

  As Memo focused on the apartment door, the stairway door to the fifth floor swung open like a gust of wind had pushed it. He turned in time to see Dante emerging toward him with a 12-gauge, sawed-off double-barrel shotgun aimed at his head.

  Memo’s eyes widened with fear as he stepped back and fumbled with the pistol tucked in his jeans. He gripped it, but it was already too late.

  Dante didn’t say a word. The 12-gauge exploded in his grip, causing a loud echo in the narrow hallway. Memo’s head shattered like a water balloon hitting concrete, and his brain and blood splattered against the walls and apartment door.

  Dante walked over to the body and smiled at his handiwork. Then he stepped back into the stairway and disappeared into the night like a shadow, leaving Memo’s contorted body on display for the neighbors to see.

  ***

  Denise, eyes closed and legs open, squirmed underneath the sheets as the young stud was eating her out in the comfort of her bedroom. She dug her nails into the top of his skull when his long tongue wormed inside of her.