Animal 2 (10 page)

“Yeah, she was definitely on some different shit. Hanging with her, you would've never known she had those kinds of tendencies. She seemed cool as hell,” Porsha said.

“They always do until they show you that they're fucking nuts,” Zo said.

“That is such a mean thing to say, especially after what happened to her,” Porsha scolded him. “Has anybody heard anything on Cutty?”

Cutty was an old-school gangster, whom Frankie had owed a debt. To get the debt repaid, he sucked her into his high-risk lifestyle and strong-armed robbery and refused to free her until the debt was settled. Dena blamed Cutty and his influence for what happened to Frankie. In her mind, it was the bad karma that rubbed off from him that got her assaulted. She hated him for this and vowed to take his life as revenge. It was too bad that when she tried to make good on the vow, Dena ended up in the morgue and Cutty ended up back in prison.

“I spoke to Fatima. She said it's looking like her old man is finished. She didn't take it too good when she got the news,” Zo told Porsha.

“I guess not. I'd be taking it pretty hard, too, if my father was looking at life for a murder I committed,” Porsha said.

Word on the street was that Cutty had been the one who shot Dena that day outside the hospital, but the truth was that it was Fatima who had committed the murder. She saw a woman holding her father at gunpoint and did what any little girl would have done: tried to protect her dad. When the police
showed up, Cutty claimed the gun and confessed to Dena's murder. Growing up, Cutty had never been there for Fatima, but in the end, he had made the ultimate sacrifice to give her a shot at life.

Zo looked around nervously to see if anyone had heard her, before moving in and grabbing Porsha by the arm. “Dig, don't you ever let me hear you speculating on some shit like murder. Whoever the streets say killed that girl is who killed her. Do you understand?”

“Zo, I didn't mean anything by it. Regardless of what happened, I like Fatima. I think she's a good kid who was just put in a fucked-up situation.”

“It ain't on you to
think
anything about it, it's on you to forget that you even know about it,” Zo told her.

“What's this, a lovers' spat?” Lakim walked up.

“Nah, just talking to my shorty,” Zo told him.

“What up, sis?” Lakim greeted Porsha with a nod.

“Hey, La,” she replied dryly. Porsha and Lakim never really saw eye-to-eye. They both felt like the other was a bad influence on Zo but kept the peace out of love for him.

“Yo, I'm about to go across the street to the liquor store. You gonna be here for a minute, Zo?” Lakim asked.

“No, we about to leave in a little while. Zo is taking me on a date,” Porsha answered for him.

“Damn, Zo, I didn't know you were a ventriloquist,” Lakim capped, and walked across the street.

“Why y'all two always at it?” Zo asked Porsha.

“Because your brother is an asshole. All he does is play the block and wants you to play the block with him, and the shit be cutting into my quality time. He needs to get a fucking girl, so
he can stop being the third wheel with us,” Porsha said with an attitude.

“I love it when you get all jealous.” Zo pinched her cheek.

“Boy, cut it out before you ruin my makeup.” She swatted his hand playfully. Porsha pulled out her phone and glanced at the time. “We should probably get going. I know you wanna change your clothes before we head out, or do you plan on taking me to eat dressed like an extra in
Paid in Full
?”

Zo looked at his outfit. “This is classic Harlem, you better recognize. But yeah, I do wanna throw something else on right quick. Let's bust a move.”

Zo and Porsha were making their way to the car at the same time Lakim was coming back from the liquor store, talking on his phone. Zo could tell from his body language it was a heated discussion. When he saw Lakim pause, crack the bottle, and take a deep swig, he knew shit had just gotten real.

“Word is bond, son. It's about to be kufi-snatching season out here. I'll see you in a few, peace.” Lakim disconnected the call.

“Everything good?” Zo asked.

“Nah, everything ain't good. Some shit just went down. I need you to help me round up the troops so we can handle business,” Lakim told him.

“Oh, hell, no, not today, Alonzo,” Porsha said, calling Zo by his government name. “You've been promising to take me out all week, and you ain't gonna pull this on me again.”

“Porsha, cool the fuck out. Take the car, and I'll come meet you at your crib once I find out what's going on.” Zo tried to hand her the car keys, but she just glared at him with her arms folded.

“Zo, I'll be in the lobby waiting for you. Hurry up, B.” Lakim stormed off.

“Porsha—” Zo began, but she cut him off.

“Why are you always doing this, Alonzo? Every time we're supposed to do something, I gotta take a backseat to Lakim, Ashanti, or whoever else needs your attention. Are you fucking them or me?” Porsha asked.

Zo sucked his teeth. “Go ahead with that dumb shit, Porsha.”

“It ain't no dumb shit, Zo. You know what dumb shit is? Neglecting your girl so you can go play with your friends. I'm too old for this shit, Zo, and so are you.”

“Porsha, he's my brother,” Zo said.

“Yeah, I know. He's your brother, and I'm just the chick you claim to love. I guess there's no contest. I'm so off this bullshit.” She snatched the car keys and headed back toward the Audi.

“I'll be by to scoop you in an hour, I promise,” Zo called after her, but Porsha was already pulling out into traffic. He stood there and watched her peel out down Broadway, feeling like a complete dick because he'd broken yet another promise. He hated hurting Porsha, but Lakim was his older brother, and they were all they had. She was mad now, but eventually she'd get over it . . . or so he hoped. Adjusting the .357 in his pants, Zo turned and walked toward the building to meet Lakim. Whatever was going on had better be life-or-death, or Zo and his older brother were going to have an issue.

I
T WAS A SMALL NOISE
that brought Frankie Angels out of her sleep. It was so faint that the average person wouldn't have heard it, but circumstances in life had left her anything but average. One of the benefits of being extremely paranoid was that it gave you super hearing. She cocked her head to one side, brain still heavy with sleep, and listened.

When Frankie heard the noise the second time, she knew she wasn't bugging. Someone was fucking with the locks on the apartment door. With one hand, she pushed her long hair back from her face, while the other disappeared under the sofa she had been sleeping on. When it reappeared, it was holding a .380. Frankie slid from under the comforter and tip-toed across the floor, commando-style. She was wearing nothing but a tank top and a pair of purple panties that were almost swallowed by her supple brown ass. Around her neck she wore a black bandanna. It covered the scar from the slashing.

She peered around the corner to the foyer in time to see the doorknob wiggle. Her heart pounded in her chest. Frankie's mind
went back to the last home invasion, when Scar and his people rushed her apartment in the projects. She remembered the feeling of being violated, the touch of death as she lay on the floor, barely conscious. At that time, that was the closest she had ever come to death, but a few years later, getting her throat slashed on a stoop in Brooklyn trumped it. With those situations, and many others, it had been Frankie's will to survive that carried her through. That was the story of her life; she was a survivor.

Frankie placed her hand over the doorknob. Her palm was sweating and left a print. She'd have to wipe it down later or take it with her when she left. She took a deep breath and held the .380 at eye level. Exhaling, Frankie snatched the door open and fingered the trigger. She was able to stop herself before she accidentally blew Porsha's head off.

“What the fuck, Frankie!” Porsha jumped back, startled.

“Jesus, I thought you were a burglar.” Frankie lowered her gun.

“Who breaks into their own house?” Porsha snapped. “My key got stuck in that cheap-ass lock, and I was trying to wiggle it loose.”

“My God, I'm sorry, Porsha. I heard somebody messing with the locks, and I thought—”

“It's fine, Frankie. Don't worry about it.” Porsha walked into the living room. She was trying to act calm, but she was really scared shitless. This was the second time she had been greeted by a gun when she came home. Frankie had been staying with her for the past few weeks, and it had been quite an experience. When Frankie got out of the hospital, there was no way she was going back to the apartment in Brooklyn, so she found another spot. She had given the realtor every dime she had saved to
cover the deposit and three months' rent in advance, only to find out later that she had been scammed. She was flat broke and out on her ass, so Porsha took her in.

Porsha and Frankie had been roommates before, but this time, it was different. Frankie had been through some terrible things, and she wasn't the same. She was paranoid and skittish. She barely left the house, and even when she did, it wasn't without a pistol. She was suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder but refused to admit it. Porsha wanted her to get help but didn't force her. All she could do was be there as best she could for her friend during her trying times.

Porsha tossed her purse onto the couch and went into the kitchen, where she proceeded to raid the refrigerator. When she came out, she was carrying a cold bottle of tequila. She plopped down on the La-Z-Boy and screwed the top off the bottle. Forgoing a glass, Porsha took a deep swig.

“Well, damn, what's going on with you?” Frankie asked. She'd never known Porsha to be much of a drinker, especially not that early in the evening.

“I'm just stressed out,” Porsha said in a huff.

“Porsha, I said I'm sorry about the whole gun thing,” Frankie said.

“It's not you, Frankie. Zo just got me in my feelings,” Porsha told her.

“Trouble in paradise?” Frankie asked. She sat on the couch and tucked her legs beneath her.

“Paradise, my ass. I'm about sick of Zo and his bullshit. Every time we're supposed to spend time, something comes up, and I have to take a backseat to his brother or one of his dumb-ass friends,” Porsha fumed.

“The life of a dope boy,” Frankie said. “Zo is out there chasing a dollar, so shit like this is to be expected.”

“I think I liked him better when he was working in the supermarket,” Porsha said.

Frankie gave her a disbelieving look. “Yeah, right, you wouldn't give Zo the time of day when he was stacking boxes, but now that he's stacking paper, that's ya boo,” she joked.

Porsha looked offended. “Frankie, don't come at me like that. I'd love Zo if he was up or down, so don't act like I'm just in this for the paper.”

“I was just kidding, Porsha. Why don't you relax?” Frankie suggested.

“I wish I could, but I'm wound up tighter than a clock. My job got me stressed, my parents are on my nerves, and I ain't been fucked properly in a week. I'm about to go postal out this bitch!”

“Well, baby girl, when life gets me down, I look for guidance from the most high,” Frankie said.

“God?” Porsha asked.

“No.” Frankie plucked a rolled blunt from the ashtray. “The weed man, since he's always the
most high
!”

Porsha laughed. “Frankie, your ass is shot out.”

“Indeed I am.” Frankie lit the blunt. “Now, why don't you get shot out with me?” She extended the blunt to Porsha.

Porsha happily accepted the weed. The two girls smoked and caught the last half of a funny movie that was on cable. When the munchies kicked in, Frankie went into the kitchen and fried up some chicken wings. Frankie was as hard as any dude on the streets, but she was all woman when it came to the kitchen. Porsha smashed her wings while Frankie picked
over hers. She was laughing at the jokes in the movie they were watching, but Porsha could see something was troubling her. Frankie had a great poker face, but Porsha had known her so long that it was transparent to her.

“What's on your mind, Frankie Angels?” Porsha asked.

Frankie gave a weak smile. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to someone who knows you,” Porsha said. “Now, what's good?”

“Same shit, just stressing over this shitty hand life has dealt me. I'm damn near broke and homeless.”

Porsha waved her off. “Frankie, you know as long as I got a place to lay my head, you do, too. We family, boo.”

“I know, and I love you for that. At the same time, though, this is your space. Your apartment is small enough as it is without my grown ass crowding you. I'm looking online and in the newspaper trying to find something but haven't come up on anything in my price range yet that isn't a slum or a room for rent,” Frankie told her.

“You know rent is high as hell in the city, Frankie. It ain't like when we was living in the projects. That whole situation was a pain in the ass, but I can't even lie, we had mad fun in that apartment,” Porsha said.

“Yo, do you remember that house party we threw that summer?”

“Do I? Poor Sahara threw up so much I thought we were gonna have to take her to the hospital.” Porsha laughed.

Frankie sucked her teeth. “That was her damn fault. Who told her to drink all those cans of Four Loko?”

Porsha shook her head, thinking back to how they had to carry Sahara to the bedroom. “She was always going overboard,
but that was my bitch. Have you spoken to her lately? I tried to call her last week, but the number I had on her isn't working.”

“Nah, I haven't spoken to her in a good minute. You know her, she's probably somewhere chasing a dollar.” Frankie thought back on her friend and all her get-rich-quick schemes. “Oh, and speaking of a dollar . . .” Frankie picked her handbag up off the table. She pulled out an envelope and handed it to Porsha.