All Hail the Queen (18 page)

“I hope not,” Naeema said.

Big Rita and Willie shared a look.

“Where were you the night of the shooting?” Naeema asked him.

“Oh you the police now?” he asked. “Just like old boy? Testifying against Mark was a bad idea. Maybe you need to take your fake detective work somewhere else.”

“Co-sign!” Big Rita added with attitude before taking a deep sip of her juice and then smacking her tongue afterward.

Naeema's chest was hot with anger as she reached for her gun.

Willie reached for his as well.

“Let's be clear. The police ain't got shit to do with this because when I find out who is behind this shit 911 won't save dat ass,” she said, holding her gun pointed at the dirty carpet as she backed toward the door.

“Well, what in the hell is Naeema on?” Big Rita asked, her face confused.

Willie's was not. He was a little more privy to the fact that she was willing and able to fuck shit up.

She reached behind her and opened the door keeping her back to the street as she finally holstered her gun.

“You be safe out there, Naeema,” Willie said, lightly tapping the barrel of his gun against the edge of the desk.

“Same to you,” she said before turning and leaving.

The heat swarmed her and Naeema rushed up the cracked sidewalk to climb onto the motorcycle parked between two cars on the corner in front of a store. The dudes posted up on the side of the building eyed her as she pulled on her pink helmet.

“Damn, she strapped yo,” one of them said.

Nobody moved or fled. She wondered if she were a dude would they be that relaxed. She lowered her arms and eyed them before she flipped the pink visor down as she drove off with a sweet rumble of her bike's motor. It felt good to be back on a motorcycle even if the drive from Willie's office to her house on Eastern Parkway took less than five minutes. She felt regret to turn onto her drive and ease past Tank's Tahoe to enter her small garage that had seen better days forty years ago.

She had just parked the bike and locked the garage when her cell phone vibrated against her ass in her back pocket. She checked it.
Mook.

“Holla at ya girl,” she said, pressing the phone to her ear.

“Got sum'n for you.”

“Come thru, come thru,” she said.

“Done.”

Naeema walked up the broken brick path to the back door and unlocked it before entering the house. When she arrived from NYC that morning the heat that built up since her last visit to the house was stifling. She turned on the AC in the living room but the kitchen was just ridiculously hot for no reason. Frowning up at the smell of rotten trash she walked over to the can. A mouse jumped up out of the middle of the bag, landed on the counter, and scurried down the crack between the counter and the stove. “Fuck,” Naeema swore with a grimace, fighting the urge to pull the stove away from the wall and fire off a round at the bootleg Mickey Mouse.

She shivered like she had the heebie-jeebies as she tied the bag and then carried it out the back door and then around the side to the large metal cans they pulled to the street every Monday and Thursday for trash collection. Back in the house she rushed through the kitchen to the coolness that had finally built up in the living room.

Naeema quickly pulled off her jacket and holster before putting the gun under her pillow as she sat down on the edge of the bed. She kicked off her heels and propped her bare feet against the rail as she looked down at the flyer for Gentlemen Only. It was Davon “Murk” Grant's high-end gentlemen's club where he ran his underground operations in dope hustling, murder, and extortion.

His reputation was well known and made him well respected. Winning his last legal battle against murder charges had to make him cocky. Stronger. More lethal.

She barely felt the discomfort of the metal's edge against the soles of her feet as she took a deep breath and tried to
prepare herself to go up against a killer. She was a ballsy bitch most of the time but fear wasn't a stranger.

Her plan was laid out. She was just looking for the strength to enforce that shit.

Naeema picked up her phone and dialed Sarge.

“Yeah.”

“How's everything?” she asked, glancing up at the ceiling.

“Safe. You?”

Naeema pinched the bridge of her nose. “I'm fine, Sarge.”

He grunted.

She was tired of having the same old argument. “Sarge, I'm not gonna sit back and let someone—anyone—come for Tank,” she said, her tone sharp.

If there was anything she could do to make sure another attempt on his life did not succeed she would. He would do the same to protect her. Ride or motherfucking die.

“I'll call you later, Sarge,” she said.

“I
hope
you can.”

Beep.

“I hope so too,” she said, as she dialed her burner phone.

It rang several times before going to a generic voice mail. She rose from the bed and walked over to the window to look down the street at Mya's apartment building. The window where she liked to sit and look out of was empty. It was the first time since she took her to the doctor two days ago that the phone had not been answered.

Her eyes shifted again as Mook's car pulled into a parking spot in front of her house. She walked out onto the porch as he came up the stairs by twos with a cookie can in
his hand. “Christmas in August?” she asked, turning sideways to allow him to ease past her into the house.

“Huh?” he asked, looking confused.

“Nothing,” she said, not bothering to explain. “What you got?”

She closed the door and eyed Mook as he took the lid off the can with the tips of his long dark fingers. She turned up her nose at the Fruity Pebbles Treats. “The fuck?” she asked.

“I'll be selling weed, drinks, and snacks. Get high and kill your munchies at the same damn time,” he said, offering her the can.

Naeema arched a brow. “Who baked that?” she asked, looking up at Mook.

“It's legit,” he said.

“Yeah, but who baked it?”

“A company. Same place I get my weed,” he said. “I ain't in no kitchen mixing up no damn cereal and weed juice.”

Mook's business thrived because those states with legal medical marijuana dispensaries regulated how much weed the growers could produce per patient. The excess beyond that was big on the black market and Mook's ass was making major bank with it.

But stepping into selling edible weed, too?

“I'm offering all my clientele the first one for free,” he said with a toothy grin.

Naeema picked up one of the krispies that was in a vacuum-sealed plastic. “I don't know about this but I'll try one and let you know.”

“You good on weed?” he asked.

Naeema nodded before walking over to open the front
door. “I'll hit you up when I need something,” she said with a little wave of her hand toward the door.

“You wanna smoke?” Mook asked, not moving toward the door.

“Nah, I only smoke alone or with my man,” she said, stepping back to pull the door open wider.

“Well, try the krispie. I really wanna know if it's hitting.”

Naeema eyed Mook. His eyes shifted a bit to the left before he looked at her and twisted one of his dreads. Something was up.
This fool never press me to get high with him.

“I'm good, Mook,” she said. “Now you have a good one out there today.”

He came closer and his eyes dipped down to the krispie in her hand. “Well, if you not gonna try it now then let me get it back because I only got a little bit,” he said, reaching to take it from her hand.

Naeema pulled it out of his reach. She held it up and then dragged it across her nose to smell. “What's in this?” she asked as she moved over to sit on the edge of her bed.

Mook laughed nervously. The whites of his eyes got big. “Weed. Shit. What you think?” he asked.

“I don't know . . .
but
I can get it tested,” she said.

Mook stepped over to tower above her. “Damn, Naeema, why you frontin' on ya boy?” he asked, reaching again to try and take the krispie back.

Naeema tossed it up toward his chest with her left hand and reached under her pillow with the right. He turned and walked to the door, pulling his cargo shorts up by the back hem as he did.

“Mook,” she called out to him.

He turned in the open doorway.

Naeema pulled her gun and pointed it at his chest. “You 'round here droppin' bitches to get pussy? That's your life?” she asked snidely.

“Yo, Naeema, chill, yo,” he said, backing out the door.

“Forget my number, yo,” she said, mocking him.

“Aight, aight, aight,” he said, before turning and hurrying across the porch.

Oh shit.

Naeema looked into the face of Mya as the teen finished coming up the stairs as Mook passed her moving as fast as his baggy shorts would let him. The girl's eyes dropped to the gun still in Naeema's hand. Sliding it back under the pillow, Naeema rose to walk over to the door. “You feeling better?” she asked.

Mya looked back over her shoulder at Mook climbing inside his wheels before turning back to look toward Naeema's pillow. “Yeah,” she said, walking up to the door where Naeema stood to hand her the cell phone.

Naeema took it and saw the fear and curiosity in the girl's eyes. “Sometimes a woman living alone has to protect herself,” she said.

Mya's eyes showed that she had a response or a question to that but was unsure whether to ask or say it. With a little shake of her head she finally said, “My stepfather almost found the phone so I thought I better bring it back to you.”

“Will you remember to take your meds? Because you have to finish the antibiotics. The big pill,” she clarified.

“I will. I promise,” she said, leaning a little to the right to look past Naeema's presence in the doorway at the pillow on the bed.

“It's legit, Mya. I have a permit,” Naeema explained, not sure why she felt a need to do so.

“You straight,” Mya said.

Naeema chuckled. “Well, I have to go,” she said, already stepping back to close the door.

Mya turned on the porch with a little wave of her hand. She stopped suddenly and turned back. “You ever shot somebody?” she asked.

“No,” Naeema lied.

“Would you? Could you?” she asked.

“No,” Naeema lied again, even as the bodies of the people that she had shot in the past flashed in her head like a speedy picture show.

POW! POW! POW! POW!

“Bye, Mya,” she said, closing the door before any more questions could flow.

Naeema looked out the rear passenger window of the taxi at Gentlemen Only. The brick storefront could just as easily have been an accountant's office as a high-end strip club. There was a lone security guard in a tuxedo posted up outside the club with his arms crossed over his massive chest. A red carpet ran halfway across the street up to the solid black door.

She paid the driver and opened the door to climb out and step up onto the sidewalk. Before the night at Club Vixen, it had been a long time since she last assumed the identity of Queen—to protect her true identity and to present as an ultra-sexy hood chick who wasn't very bright.

Walking up to the building she raked her nails through the blond lace front wig she wore with lots of body to match
her elaborate makeup with inch-long mink lashes and sheer gold glossy lips. The black lace dress she wore over a black bodysuit flared at the arms and the sleeves, cutting mid-thigh and showcasing her toned legs with six-inch heels.

The whole getup was a showstopper meant to draw plenty of attention just the way she wanted.

The bodyguard eyed her as she approached.

“How you doing?” she said, coming to stand before him.

His eyes were appreciative of all the sexy she was giving but he still untucked one beefy hand to point to the building wall. She didn't bother to look because she knew it said
GENTLEMEN ONLY.

“Gentlemen love eye candy and I'm looking for work,” she said in a sexy vamp voice so unlike her own.

“They hire on Wednesdays. Come back then,” he said.

“That shouldn't be up to you,” she said.

“It ain't,” he said, looking past her.

Naeema looked back over her shoulder as three fine men in tailored suits walked up to the door. “Good evening,” they all said, eyeing her as they passed and entered the building.

One looked back at her over his shoulder just before the door closed.

Naeema reached in the black feather-covered clutch she carried and pulled out a couple hundred-dollar bills from the money she had gotten from Tank's wallet. She held the folded cash up between her index and middle finger. “I'm here now,” she said.

“So,” he said. “Either go away or I will—”

He raised his hand to press toward his right ear with his head cocked slightly to the side.