All Hail the Queen (17 page)

She waited before she entered, turning to head back
down the drive and farther down the street before she reached the corner and turned to walk back.
No one home. No police sirens. No inquiring neighbors.

Naeema quickly turned back up the drive like she lived there as she pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and reached her hand in carefully to unlock the door. She entered via the kitchen and looked around as she moved through the opening to what turned out to be a long hall. Room by room, Naeema searched the house for any hint of betrayal against Tank. She found none and made her way to the living room to sit in the leather recliner, cross her legs, and wait.

The sun faded and the room got dark as hell. Naeema eyed the lights of passing cars flashing against the wall. She hit her stiletto nails against each other.
Click-click-click.

Naeema appeared to have the patience of Job when instead her anger and need for revenge was slowly being stoked by impatience.

Click-click-click.

The sound of a key turning in the lock caused Naeema to shift her eyes toward the front door. Moments later it opened and the living room was flooded with light as Yani hit the switch and stepped inside his home.

He froze at the sight of her sitting there.

“Come on in, Yani,” she said, beckoning him with a quick double bend of her index and middle fingers.

“What's going on here, Naeema?” he asked.

“You tell me,” she said.

He stepped into the living room and shut the door. He pulled an office chair from a small hutch in the corner.
“How's Tank?” he asked.

“Why did you try to kill him?” she asked.

Yani's ass was about to press into the seat but he paused and lifted his head to look over at her. “Do what?” he exclaimed.

Naeema stood up and sharply extended her foot to his chest to push him down into the seat. It rolled back and hit a curio cabinet causing it to rock slightly as she pressed her foot between his open legs. Yani grabbed her ankle and her calf.

Naeema flicked her wrist to undo the latch on the small but very sharp switchblade on her key ring. “You'd be surprised how deep I can plunge this motherfucker through your skull,” she warned, her eyes hard and brimming with her intent.

He held up his hands. “Out of respect for Tank, Naeema, but this is disrespectful.”

“Where were you when the shots were fired?” she asked.

“You think someone was gunning for Tank?” he asked.

“Shut the fuck up,” she snapped. “Where were you?”

“The crowd went crazy and by the time I was near him you were already there,” he said, looking up at her. “I didn't shoot a gun.”

“No, but maybe you made sure he was in the line of fire and you wasn't,” she said, pushing her foot against his balls. “That's what the fuck it looked like to me.”

“Then look again,” he said.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. And sometimes they're one and the same,” she said, bringing the knife up to lightly stroke his cheek with it.

His eyes darted to the right to eye the
knife. The blade's sharpness seemed to glisten. “Yo chill, Naeema,” he said, bringing his hand up to tightly grip her wrist.

She drew her foot back and thrust it forward as she bit her bottom lip in a mock growl.

He hissed at the pain and buckled over.

Naeema withdrew her foot and stepped back. “If I find out you had anything to do with this—”

“I didn't,” he snapped, pressing his hand against his injured nuts.

Naeema eyed him.

“You talk about friends and fucking enemies and I haven't talked to nobody from the team since the night of the shooting. Nobody is answering my calls. But they my boys, right?” he asked. “All of a sudden I'm out of a job. That's where I been all day fucking filling out applications and shit.

“Now you in my fucking house thugging out on me like I really couldn't take you if I wanted to,” Yani said, rising to his feet.

Naeema squared up.

Yani looked her up and down and laughed as he stayed with his hands pressed to his knees. “I got a jacket—a police record—and I caught hell finding a job in the past because of it,” he said, his voice less strained as he rose to his full height. “Tank gave me a job and trained me himself. Helped me to make money so I wouldn't be desperate enough to push dope again. I was able to rent this house and do for my kids. You can believe what the fuck you want but I didn't have shit to do with this shooting, Naeema, and if you try to
come at me I will stop you.”

She arched a brow before she dropped low quick as shit and kicked the back of his leg to send him down to the floor. She retracted the knife. “I'm not done with this or you,” she said. “And remember that Tank trained you but he trained me, too. Don't let my femininity get you fucked up because you think dick trumps pussy every time.”

She turned and stepped over him to reach the front door. “Sorry about your side door,” she said over her shoulder before she left.

As she made her way down the steps and then down the street she quickly removed her gloves and tucked them in the rim of her leggings. She had hoped everything would begin and end with Yani but she wasn't confident enough in his guilt.
I can't call it. I just can't call it.

“I love you, Daddy!”

Naeema turned toward the direction of a child's laughter. A man and his daughter were in their backyard jumping on a trampoline. Their faces were both bright with happy times. And love.

She smiled as the little girl's laughter filled the air.
Not a care in the world.

Those days were long gone for Naeema.

Pushing away her regrets she continued down the street and reached the Tahoe, climbing into the driver's seat. As she turned the corner and drove by the house with the laughing little girl she forced herself not to turn her head and take another glimpse at a past she wished she had been able to enjoy.

She looked at Yani's house though and saw him standing on the small stoop outside the side entrance looking at the
damage she left behind. He wouldn't call the police. Men like Yani never did. His mistrust of the police was just as strong as hers.

She put him and the chance of his guilt aside for now.

One down. Two to go.

10

I
t was mid-August and the summer heat was blazing like twenty hells combined but Naeema kept on the short black jacket she wore as she walked inside Lucky Bail Bonds. The little storefront left a lot to be desired. The brown carpet was stained, matted, and filled the entire office with the smell of mildew. Posters of wanted criminals and adverts for legal services were tacked to the fake wood paneling that made it feel like a cave. There was only a desk with two chairs in the center of the room with a dented tan metal file cabinet in the corner and a table against the wall holding a small fridge and microwave.

Willie Parker sat in one of the chairs. He eyed her from behind the veil of smoke filtering up from one of the Swisher Sweets he smoked. Or at least she assumed he did because he had on his ever-present shades. She'd bet good money they were authentic designer brand. Just like his clothes. Willie was a label whore. Always was and always would be. She also knew he still had the cardboard box with a lid that the Swishers came in. She wouldn't doubt his money, his keys, and probably even his piece was in it.

“Stop right there, Naeema,” he said, opening the top drawer of the metal desk to pull out something.

A motherfucking Swisher Sweets box.

Naeema smiled and shook her head. Her smile faded when he flipped it open and pulled out a gun that he sat atop the files cluttering his desk. Then he reached under the desk.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Clank.

He'd locked the door.

“I ain't trusting you worth a fuck,” he said.

Naeema felt a jolt of apprehension but she hid it well as she motioned for approval to sit in the seat by his desk. At his nod she moved closer but before she sat she opened the jacket she wore and removed her 9mm from its holster. She sat it on the desk with the barrel pointed at him before taking the seat. “If your Rick Ross—looking ass pulled up the rug in this rank motherfucker it
might
smell better,” she said, crossing her legs in the torn boyfriend jeans she wore cuffed with a pair of bright fuchsia heels with silver tips and heels that matched the words
FU FOREVER
across her T-shirt.

He didn't say shit as he sat forward to press his elbows into the top of the desk and continue to look at her from behind his aviator shades.

“Haven't you seen on the news that Tank is in the hospital?” she began, reaching up to trace the details of the gun with the pointed tip of her brightly covered nail.

Willie lay his hand down on his gun.

They both tensed.

Then Naeema smiled. “Tank's doing a little better—still unconscious—but better . . .
if
you give a fuck,” she said.

“I don't,” he admitted.

Naeema fought not to grip her gun and blow a hole in his gut. Neither his gun nor his locked door could stop that.
“But I do.”

Willie turned his lips downward as she nodded slowly. “And you should,” he said with a one-shoulder shrug. “He didn't shit you out of nothing. My ass still sore from the way he fucked me over.”

Even with the shades Naeema could see the anger in his face and hear it in his voice. “Half of a part-time business that wasn't shit before Tank took over is worth him dying, motherfucker?” she asked, her anger rising to his own. She was tired of playing checkers with his ass.

Willie reached up and took off his shades. There were dark marks on his cheeks from his constant wear of the accessories.
Him and Rick Ross's ass need to stop that shit.

“Yo, you trying to say Fevah wasn't the bull's-eye, yo,” he said.

It was Naeema's turn to remain close-mouthed. “I heard you been coming for Tank pretty hard out there about some old shit. Some old beef. It's just funny that right around the time you start to get in your fucking feelings and shit Tank got shot. That's what I'm saying.”

Willie's eyes darted down to Naeema's gun before jerking back up to her face.

She thought he forgot his shades weren't on to shield that move. Her suspicion was confirmed when he slid them on and leaned back in his seat. “First off, you speakin' out of turn, Naeema, but that's nothing new,” he expressed sarcastically. “Tank didn't make shit successful. I was right there with him—”

“Then why ain't
this
motherfucker thriving?” Naeema asked, looking around at his office with a smirk meant to make him feel small. “This all you, right?”

BAM-BAM-BAM.

They both looked toward the door. All Naeema could see was the top of a head and a fist but she knew it was Big Rita, Willie's boo thang. And that was the best title Naeema could think to give her.

She smiled as he swore under his breath and tapped under the desk.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Clank.

Big Rita was tall—two inches shy of six feet—and high yellow with shoulder-length hair dyed plum and an ass Willie could literally ride. Most would think she had a million ass shots or Brazilian butt lifts but she was born and bred with that ass way before bootleg versions of these procedures hit the hood and gave women the asses and hips God didn't. Big Rita's name was the most truth ever told about a woman's ass.

And like Willie she loved good shit—when it came to clothes and accessories.

“Why y'all up in here with the door locked?” she asked, giving Naeema a nasty stare when she walked past her to bend over and beckon Willie with one long fingernail.

“Ask your man,” Naeema said, frowning in distaste as they kissed. Tongue sucks, licks, moans, and all. She looked away.

Back when Tank and Willie were tight she and Big Rita had done the phony friends thing but once they fell out they didn't even pretend to want to hang together anymore. “How you been, Rita?” she asked, hoping to end the show they were giving.

Big Rita sucked the whole of Willie's mouth into hers before she stood back tall and looked down at Naeema as she towered over her. “I been aight. How Tank?” she asked,
and then put her hand up in Willie's direction like she knew he was about to get at her for even asking or giving a fuck.

“Better,” Naeema said, her eyes shifting back and forth between them trying to figure shit out; lining up people on either side of her list of innocent or guilty.

“So what's this all about?” Big Rita asked, waving a thick finger at the guns on the table.

“She think I had something to do with Tank getting dumped on,” Willie said.

Big Rita gave her a look like
Bitch, please
as she waved her hand. “It's not that serious, Naeema,” she said, turning to walk over to the table and pull a bottle of juice from the fridge.