Cartier Cartel--Part 4 Page 3

  Cartier’s curiosity about what the girl had been arrested for grew. Her wardrobe was decent and clean, and all night, the young girl had been hesitant to talk to anyone. The jail was a scary place, especially for first-timers.

  As the night turned into dawn, more females were added to the already overpopulated holding cell. Arrestees were coming in quickly and were slow to go out. The hard benches became prime real estate. A husky woman with broad shoulders, battle scars across her face, and a few permanent gold teeth came barreling in. Her eyes quickly darted forth and back until they settled on the young girl. Her steps were heavy, measured, and deliberate as she made her way toward her prey.

  Forcefully she tapped the young girl on her shoulder. “Get up!”

  Wide eyed and fearful, the girl began to oblige. The only place for her would be the floor. As she put her body in motion, she heard another command.

  “Nah, don’t move,” said Cartier. “Stay seated.”

  The husky woman quickly spun around to confront the loudmouth bitch. “And who the fuck is you!”

  One word was all that needed to be said. “Cartier.”

  After a pregnant pause she asked, “Cartier from Brooklyn?”

  “Facts.”

  “Oh, what’s up, girl? You remember me. I’m Tracy—Rhonda’s cousin?”

  Cartier shook her head. “Nah, I don’t.”

  “Tracy? They call me Big Tee. I used to live in Lafayette Gardens.”

  Cartier looked her up and down and cut her eyes. She didn’t respond.

  Tracy’s eyes darted around. “Anyway, you cosigning for everyone?”

  “Do you.”

  Tracy turned toward the next female and commanded, “Get up,” and she did.

  Around 9am the holding cell began to thin out. The moment a seat next to Cartier was vacated, the young girl bolted to it. It had been nearly 14 hours she had spent in jail, and now Cartier was cranky. She no longer wanted to be bothered, but she made a conscious decision to not take it out on the girl.

  In a low, feminine voice, she heard, “I just wanted to say thank you.”

  Cartier replied, “No problem.”

  “My name is Harlem.”

  “Harlem?” Cartier repeated. “Your parents actually named you Harlem?”

  Harlem slightly giggled. “Yes.”

  “It’s a cute name . . . different, but cute.”

  “Cartier is different too,” Harlem concluded.

  Cartier asked what she vowed she never would. “What you in here for?” The words tumbling out her mouth felt so lame.

  Harlem looked away with a look of embarrassment on her pretty face.

  “Look, I’m in here too, so I’m not here to judge you,” Cartier added.

  Harlem sighed. She shyly looked at Cartier and uttered, “I’m being accused of something that I didn’t do. I’m innocent.”

  “And what’s that?” Cartier asked again.

  Harlem leaned in and whispered, “Prostitution.”

  Cartier was shocked. Prostitution? How could a pretty and innocent looking young woman like herself get caught up in something like that? It angered Cartier. She never understood how a woman could allow a man to dig so deeply into her mind that he could convince her to sell her body.

  “I’m actually an escort,” Harlem clarified. “I don’t really sleep with men. I just keep them company.”

  “And they arrested you for the company you keep?” Cartier asked, her voice laced with sarcasm.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “In this day and age, what isn’t?”

  The two continued to whisper to each other on the bench, and it was helping the time go by quicker. Harlem opened up to Cartier about her life. Once she got started, it was hard to stop.

  Harlem was nineteen years old, and her parents were born in Ethiopia. Kofi and Eden Williams moved to America before she was born. They embraced the American culture to fit in, gave their daughter the only name they could think of that represented where they were living at the time, and changed their last name to what Harlem considered a slave name. They had moved fifteen times since she was old enough to remember, so she had a hard time connecting with people. She hated her parents and blamed them for not having an identity and being confused about who she was.

  “Your peoples are from Ethiopia, huh?” Cartier said.

  Harlem nodded.

  “I always wanted to see what it was like over there.”

  “I couldn’t tell you,” Harlem said.

  “You’ve never been home?”

  Harlem shrugged. “Africa is no more my home than yours. I was born here. This is my home. I love and celebrate my culture, but that’s it. I’m American.”

  “True,” Cartier agreed. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence and then, “So, arrested for being an escort, huh? That’s your story you’re sticking to?”

  Harlem looked directly into Cartier’s eyes searching for a connection. “It’s true. They never touch me; we just hang out.”

  Cartier gave her the side-eye. “Selling ass is so wack. What’s wrong wit’ good ol’ fashioned stripping?”

  Harlem grinned. She liked Cartier’s candidness and realized the jig was up.

  “Two things. Tits and ass,” and then she added, “and rhythm too.”

  “There are so many commodities that you could sell, especially living in Harlem. Coke, weed, clothes, fake bags, books, oils, incense, CD’s. Explain to me how a young, pretty girl decides to sell her pussy and especially for a pimp.”

  Harlem shook her head rapidly. “He’s a she. And no one says—” she looked around, “pimp anymore.”

  “A woman?”

  “Her name is Esmeralda and she’s deadly.”

  Cartier knew her well. So that bitch was still getting paid. “You’re too smart to be exploited like this, spreading your legs for niggas out here for coins.”

  “I’m working off my parents’ ten-thousand-dollar debt. That was the only way I could quickly come up with so much money.”

  “Oh.” Cartier knew the game. “Sucks to be you.”

  3

  Cartier stood in front of the judge the following morning and awaited her punishment. She knew it was going to be minimal damage. She hoped they wouldn’t trace the gun back to her, and she felt there was no need to hire outside counsel. It had been a long couple of days, and the only thing she wanted to do was go home, take a shower, and get some sleep.

  Cartier pled guilty to disorderly conduct, and if she didn’t get into trouble in the next six months then the case would be dismissed. The judge was lenient. Cartier strutted out the courtroom a tired, but thankful bitch. With her record, things could have gone a lot worse.

  Seeing the judge right after Cartier was Pebbles. Her face had lumped up, showing visible signs of the prior day’s beatdown. She looked pitiful, really. Still, Pebbles held her head up high, refusing to show any hint of weakness. Cartier didn’t want to see that bitch anytime soon, so she kept her eyes focused on her exit and left the building.

  However, both ladies expected to see Head in the courtroom for their inconsequential arraignment, but he wasn’t there. Noted. If the shoe were on the other foot, they would have been there for him.

  At the bottom of the courthouse steps, Cartier lit a cigarette and took a needed drag. She wanted to go home, but there was one thing she wanted to do first. Harlem had been on her mind, and she didn’t want to leave the young girl behind in case she needed bail money. Cartier felt strange. Her mind kept flashing back to Monya, all the good times they had, and then Harlem. It was as if Monya was telling her to look out for the young girl. Reluctantly, Cartier went back inside the courthouse and took a seat. She figured the young girl’s charges for prostitution would be dropped to a minor infraction such as loitering, especially with this lenient j
udge and it being her first offense. She also assumed she would see Esmeralda in the courthouse on behalf of Harlem.

  Two hours later Harlem Williams was arraigned, and the DA read off a litany of prostitution charges. Bail was promptly set at $15,000, and Harlem screamed and wailed for mercy. “I don’t have any money,” she cried. “Please, don’t send me back . . . don’t send me back!”

  “Order! Order in the court! Bailiff, quiet this defendant!” the judge instructed as he banged his gavel.

  Harlem was practically dragged back into a holding cell, shackled.

  Cartier sighed. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time, she thought.

  Cartier exited the courtroom, still not understanding why she had taken an interest in the little liar. But she had. She walked a couple blocks north and ended up at Freedom Fighters, Inc., a local bail bondsman. Ten percent was needed, and luckily for Harlem, Cartier had that and then some on her person when she got arrested.

  Hours later, Harlem was finally released from Central Booking. Cartier waved her over, and the girl was shocked to see her outside.

  She approached Cartier with a nervous smile. “Are you waiting for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I posted your bail,” Cartier answered.

  Harlem thought it was Esmeralda. She grinned and gave Cartier the tightest hug until being shoved off.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She nodded.

  “C’mon, let’s go get something to eat. But first, I need to go and get my car.”

  With Harlem by her side, Cartier flagged down a cab, and the two climbed into the backseat.

  “I need to go to the Brooklyn Tow Pound,” Cartier told the cab driver.

  He nodded and drove off.

  “What the fuck? Are y’all fuckin’ serious?!” Cartier cursed while staring irately at her Bugatti Chiron, which now had a scratch and a noticeable dent on the side. “Y’all don’t know how to take care of people’s shit?!”

  The tow yard worker named Benny shrugged. “File a claim,” he said. “Sometimes accidents happen.”

  “Accident my ass! Ya’ll fools were careless towing away my shit,” Cartier corrected.

  Cartier circled her car looking for more damage. Fortunately, there wasn’t any.

  “You know how much this car cost?”

  “I know it’s an expensive car,” Benny replied indifferently.

  “Very expensive—more than you’ll ever make in your lifetime,” Cartier snapped.

  She was pissed off. It was bad enough that she had to spend the night in jail, now she had an ugly dent on the driver’s side of her car and an obnoxious scratch. Fuck me! she said to herself. It was because of Head—his dumb ass, she believed. The only thing she could do was pay the fine, take pictures of the damage, and take it to the auto body shop the next day. It was going to cost her. Her Bugatti was her new baby, and she wanted to knock someone out for what she perceived as a deliberate act.

  She huffed and slid behind the steering wheel and started the ignition. The car roared like a lion. At least the interior is unscathed, she thought. She turned to look at Harlem, who was still standing idly on the side. She was in awe that Cartier drove such an expensive vehicle. The woman now piqued Harlem’s interest. Harlem was curious of two things. What did Cartier do for a living? And why was she locked up?

  “Get in, Harlem,” she said.

  “We going to eat?”

  “I’m taking you to my place first.”

  “I can’t stay long. Maybe it’s best I just go. I need to get back to the Bronx and see Esmeralda. I need to tell her what happened.”

  “Don’t worry about her. I’ll take care of that,” Cartier replied.

  Harlem looked reluctant. How was Cartier going to take care of her situation? But Cartier was adamant that she would handle things for her. Harlem climbed into the passenger seat of the Bugatti—never had she seen such a lovely interior to a car.

  “Sexy!” Harlem squealed.

  “Nice, right?”

  “It is. One day I’m going to own one just like it.”

  “You fuck with me long enough, and you’ll have something just like this soon.” Cartier smiled and sped off, smoothly shifting gears to the Bugatti like she was a NASCAR driver. Harlem sat back and enjoyed the ride inside the luxury vehicle. It felt like she was riding on air.

  Cartier steered her way through the Brooklyn streets and arrived at her apartment a few minutes away in Downtown Brooklyn. She pulled into the garage of her building and parked. Both ladies exited the car, and Cartier hit the alarm button. They stepped into the elevator and Cartier pushed for the sixth floor. They rode up in silence.

  Harlem felt a bit uneasy. Cartier was nice, but why the hospitality? Why post her bail? And why take up for a stranger against a bully? Harlem knew that patience was a truth revealer, so she would just wait.

  Cartier’s home was a three-bedroom rental less than a mile from the Kings County Criminal Court in Brooklyn—the same one she had sat the night in. Her rent was $7,500 a month and that was considered cheap nowadays. Coming back from Seattle and Miami, she couldn’t believe what Brooklyn had become. Rent in the hood, with bullets whizzing past folks’ heads, cost two grand. It was outrageous. Anything considered decent was $3,500 or more.

  Harlem walked into an empty apartment, and she was baffled. The only furnishing was an inflatable bed, some scattered clothes, shoes, and shopping bags, and there were some oranges on the kitchen countertop. Besides that, the apartment was spotless and bare.

  “You live here? Where’s the furniture?” she asked.

  “I just moved in,” Cartier explained. “I haven’t had the time to nest.”

  “Oh. It’s still a beautiful place. I could live here forever with a futon and bean bag.”

  “Yeah, it’s expensive, but it’s worth every cent. It feels good to be back on my old stomping grounds. I swear, the only way I’m leaving Brooklyn again is in a body bag. I will live and die here. Real talk.”

  Harlem felt the statement was a bit dramatic, but who was she to judge? Harlem shook her head. “I could never love anything, or anyone, let alone a crummy borough as you’ve described.”

  “Never say never.”

  “Maybe. Hey, would you mind if I take a shower?” Harlem asked, and then smelled under her arms. “Kinda funky.”

  Cartier laughed and dug in a Saks bag for some toiletries for Harlem to use. “The guest bathroom is down the hall, to your right. I’ll put out some fresh linens for you.”

  Harlem smiled, thanked Cartier, and walked away to use the bathroom. She wasn’t the only one who needed a shower. Cartier could not wait to wash the funk of that jail off her skin. While Harlem showered in the guest bathroom, Cartier did the same in her master bath. After her shower, Cartier joined Harlem in the guest bedroom with a new dress for her to try on.

  “This should fit you,” said Cartier.

  “It’s brand new—and expensive.” Harlem eyed the four-hundred-dollar price tag on the Christian Siriano dress.

  “It’s too small for me. I haven’t worn a size two in a while.”

  Harlem looked at Cartier’s curvy shape. She had a flat stomach, plump ass, and thick thighs. “What size are you?”

  “A four. Sometimes a six.”

  “Well if you have any more clothes that are a size two, just send them my way. I ain’t too proud to beg.”

  “Hold up,” Cartier said and walked to her room. She did in fact have a few more pieces. She came back and gave Harlem what she had.

  Harlem eyed the clothes and fell in love with each outfit. “I love them.”

  “I knew you would. Now try them on,” Cartier suggested.

  Harlem was popping tags, grateful for this stranger’s unexpected benevolence. But as she eyed
her attractive image in the mirror, her mood shifted all of a sudden—something had dawned on her.

  She turned to face Cartier with a look of apprehension and asked, “Am I gonna have to fuck for these clothes?”

  “What?” Cartier responded. Did she hear her correctly?

  “These expensive clothes—you know I don’t have any money, so will I have to go down on you or something? Or do I have to fuck a friend of yours? Just keep it one-hundred.”

  Cartier was disgusted by the statement. “You got me fucked up right now. I’m strictly dickly and I’m not here to try and slut you out. Just take my generosity with a thank-you and a smile.”

  “I’m just not used to people being nice to me unless they want something from me . . . usually pussy.”

  The young girl needed some work. Cartier knew that. She sighed. “Listen, if you don’t add some self-worth to yourself, then someone will convince you that you’re worth less than you are.”

  “It’s complicated,” Harlem admitted. “My parents taught me how to barter for everything. They explained that in Ethiopia if you wanted milk, then you’d trade rice. I was so confused between the American and Ethiopian culture that I got teased—bullied. You should have seen me. In second grade, I wanted a classmate’s shoes. I had a pencil and asked for an exchange. The kids clowned me until I cried. We spent all our time in America begging until my father met a friend who was from Nigeria. He seemed nice. He would give us money for food, and my parents would exchange my mother until the price was too much for her. Last year my father borrowed money from Esmeralda and bought a huge shipment of fake Gucci bags. The wholesalers saw him coming. They gave him the easy-to-spot fakes, the ones the manufacturer should throw away. There was no way he’d make a profit. Esmeralda got wind that my father couldn’t pay her back with interest, so she sent a hit squad to kill him. My father made the trade, and here we are. Basically, I am worth a fake Gucci bag.”

  “You’re not!” Cartier refuted. “You can’t believe that.”

  “Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.”

  Cartier thought about her mother. “You know, most parents aren’t perfect. My moms left me hungry numerous nights while she was out getting fucked. But Trina would have died before she sold my pussy. How can they sit back and watch you go through this—getting locked up and exploited?”