The Coldest Winter Ever (40 page)

“Yeah,” I said dryly. This nigga just can’t relax.

It was almost 6 P.M., when I found a place. Instead of overlooking the river, it overlooked the FDR highway that was beside the river. It was located on the East Side, in the thirties block. There was a doorman, but no butler. The place was spacious, with large windows. I knew I could freak the layout with all kinds of designs. The important factor was that the greedy man renting the apartment was easy to work with. He was the first landlord I met who understood to mind his business. He wanted cash. I wanted the keys. I figured he needed the loot to feed a nasty cocaine habit. He sniffed all the way through the twelve-minute interview. Besides, the tip of his nostril was eaten away from the drug. I had seen that effect before. Now, when he started babbling about how I could pick up the keys next week, he had to have the apartment cleaned, I threw him another three hundred dollars to get the keys on the spot. He grimaced when I told him I needed one hour for my boyfriend to bring me all the dough. I don’t know if he was mad that he had to wait sixty minutes or mad that I had a man.

Magazines were spread out all over the living room floor in the big empty apartment. I took my time reviewing each magazine design ad. Selecting an item from each ad I admired, I pieced together a collage of a one-bedroom apartment that was perfect for me. Bullet, who was out concentrating on what he described as the biggest move of his lifetime, had agreed that whatever I wanted was good for him. His only request was for me to leave the huge walk-in closet for his private use.

Initially, I was cool with the amount of time he spent away from home. Decorating was taking up all of my energy anyhow. But, Bullet was slowing down my decorating with his lack of trust. Every time I wanted to purchase something I had to wait for him to have free time to go with me to each store so he could pay the cashier directly.
It was clear to me that he wasn’t gonna let my hands feel no dough. Half the time I had to go to each individual store to locate whatever item I wanted. I’d keep the items on a shopping list. At the miraculous moment when Bullet had a few hours available, we’d pick up each thing I wanted one by one. I tried having pieces of furniture delivered. I even had to schedule that around Bullet, who didn’t want “no delivery man sliding around my crib while I’m not home.” He even conveniently struck up a relationship with the doorman, passing him twenties and fifties for whatever favor he needed. After a while, I started to think one of the doorman’s assignments was to watch me come and go. I figured it would only be a matter of time before Bullet would see that I was down for whatever. Not only could I decorate the joint and order up delicious dinners for two, but I’m a businesswoman who should easily be at least half of the team.

But I was swift. Daddy taught me how to think my way through and work around certain people to achieve the same results. The first thing I did was lease the apartment in my name. He handed the money to the designated person in each transaction, but I signed off every time. As soon as we moved in, I filled out all my credit card applications and mailed them away. One day soon I’d get one or two cards in the mail and use them to walk out the store with whatever I selected. If Bullet took too long to include me in his business plans or left me at home with too much time to think, I could easily see myself cooking up my own little hustle.

He must have been reading my mind. More than a month had passed. I completed my decorating project and had the place looking picture perfect. No one could front. Our spot was phatter than the designs in the magazine ads. Not only was everything top quality, it was elegant, a smart use of the space, and had flavor and attitude. I was just sitting on the white leather sofa listening to a little Mary J. Blige when his key slid in the front door earlier than usual. Busting in with speed and urgency he picked me up and spun me around.

“What got you all gassed up?” I quipped.

“I’m almost there. Everything is good. Trust me.”

With my face close to his face, I responded, “Should I trust you like you trust me?” He busted a smile.

“Ha. Smart tongue. Get dressed, we going to a party.” He flung open my closet and said, “It’s a triple date. You got to look your best. Here.” He flung a box onto the sofa. Excited like I used to be when I
was just a little girl, I ripped open the wrapping paper and pulled out a brand new diamond bezel Lady Rolex. I started jumping up and down until I pounced right on top of him. “Thank you, Daddy!”

“What did you call me?” he asked, looking at me with surprise.

“I said thanks baby. This is the shit right here.”

The dinner spot was the meet-up point. After all, we agreed not to bring anybody from the old neighborhood to our new apartment. That meant nobody would know where we rest, which is how it should be. The spot was called Houston’s. Dimly lit, it was a restaurant on the down-low. As we sat parked outside of the place, a black Benz pulled up behind us and a blue Lamborghini jeep behind that. As I watched through the rearview mirror, I asked Bullet, “Are their girlfriends anybody I know?”

“I doubt it,” he responded. “You know what to do. Don’t talk too much.”

“Is this business or pleasure?” I asked, sensing something.

“For you, it’s all pleasure.”

They were already seated when we stepped up. We slid into the big semicircle booth and Bullet introduced everyone. Right away a bottle of Cristal was brought to the table. I was kind of happy to meet Tiffany and Iris. It had been a long time since I kicked it with any female friends. I wasn’t under the illusion that we was gurlz or anything. But it was important to me to hang with females who had they own loot so I wouldn’t have to deal with no jealousy and funny business. It was obvious that at least for tonight they were rolling with two fat cats as well.

After the order was placed, all three of the men politely excused themselves and left the table. We were left looking at each other. It seemed like nobody wanted to say nothing.
So I’m the party-starter,
I thought to myself.

“So where are y’all from?”

“I’m from D.C.,” Tiffany said.

“Me, I’m from Virginia,” Iris said. The way Iris hesitated I assumed she was lying.

“How about you?” Tiffany asked me.

“I’m from Long Island.” Lifting the bottle I said, “Well, we might as well drink this. They bought it for us.” We sat there and drank the whole bottle together. Then everything loosened up.

“I like that dress, girl. Where did you get it? That shit is banging,”
Iris said to me. I knew for sure she was from out of town ’cause if she was from Brooklyn she would have never gave the compliment. Moreover, she definitely wouldn’t of played herself by asking where did I get it from.

“Thanks.”

“How many pieces you got in your head?”

“What?” I asked.

“Your hair.”

“Oh, this is all me,” I said, gesturing by pulling my hair. They both started laughing.

“Yeah, we all use that same line. It looks nice though.”

“Which one of y’all was riding in that Lamborghini?” I asked.

“Me,” Tiffany said.

“Is that shit comfortable?”

“It’s a lot of space in there to do whatever you want to do. It’s like an army truck. Roland told me if someone was shooting at us, the bullets couldn’t even get inside.”

“That’s bullshit,” Iris said.

When the food came, Iris pushed her plate away. “I already ate. I’m not hungry.”

Tiffany dipped two fries in the ketchup and said, “That’s it for me.” Searching through her oversized MCM pocketbook, she finally found her lipstick. “Let’s go to the bathroom.” I moved to let them out. Then I continued to sit there. Tiffany called to me and gestured, c’mon. I looked around the restaurant. I saw Bullet standing in between the bar and the window, talking. He saw me looking but didn’t say nothing.
I guess it will be alright,
I thought. So I got up and went with them.

“Iris, your titties is coming out of that bra.” Tiffany helped her to adjust the straps. Everybody was touching up their hair, looking in the bathroom mirror. Iris was smoking a cigarette.

Then Tiffany picked up my pocketbook. I noticed she left her bag on the sink. “Tiffany, you got the wrong bag,” I told her. But she kept walking toward the door.

“That’s your bag right there,” Iris said to me pointing to the MCM bag.

“What the fuck?” I rushed Tiffany, grabbing my bag by the strap. Iris pulled out a nine and pointed it directly at me. Both the wind and the words left my mouth. I couldn’t talk.

“Take that bag. It’s for your man. Don’t blow it. Somebody should’ve put you up on it in advance.” They bounced.

In the bag I found several guns and a small bag of coke. I’m not dumb, so I caught on. I tore a small hole in the bag and tasted it. It was the real thing. I closed it up and stepped out. When I walked out, Bullet, Bryce, and Roland were seated at the table laughing and talking like they were best friends. They had started to eat their food, each of them. Tiffany and Iris had slid themselves back in the booth. Bryce asked, “Ladies, is everything OK?” My eyes shot over to Bullet. Our eyes locked into one another. He nodded slightly.

“It’s all good, baby. Sit down.” Now I’m thinking,
No it’s not all good. This fucking bag don’t match my dress. Nobody in Brooklyn rocks MCM anymore.
Somebody needed to tell these down South hoes that. I wanted to be in on the business. But I didn’t like being the only one who didn’t know what the fuck was going on.

We continued to sit casually for five more minutes. Money on the table, a tip to the waiter, phony hugs and kisses, and we were out. When we got outside in the cool, crisp air I thought I seen the feds milling about across the street. I recognized their whole style from the takeover of my house. Now that I understood what was going on, I could view the entire scenario clearly. With his arm draped around me, Bullet kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear. “Drive the car home. Put the bag in my closet.” He gave me a deep tongue kiss, like natural, while passing his keys into my hand. I walked to the car with no sign of strangeness. I started it up and pulled out slowly. When I waved goodbye, Bullet was standing talking to Bryce and Roland. The feds were focused on the men. I slipped right by.

An hour later Bullet walked in all smiles with his arms extended wide. “Sexy, you did it.”

Without raising up from the couch where I was seated, fully dressed with my shoes kicked off in front of me, I said, “I thought we were going to a party.” He picked up his keys. By now he was inside the walk-in closet, checking behind me as usual. Three minutes later he came out with work tools in his hands. He talked to me while he put a new lock on the walk-in closet door.

“We
are
going to a party. Give me five minutes.”

“Oh, you ain’t gonna say nothing, nigga?”

“Nothing about what?”

“That little scene an hour ago.”

“You said you wanted to be in. Now you’re in.”

“Why didn’t you put me up on what was going down?”

“ ’Cause the key to success is to be natural. Everything was easy. Nobody acting strange or unusual. Them fucking feds can smell you when you’re nervous.”

He didn’t want to talk about it in the crib. He didn’t want to talk about it in the car either. We picked up his man and another dude named Moose. We rode to the club with the music blasting. “Real Love. I’m searching for a real love.” Mary J. Blige. I love that old record.

We pulled around the back of the club. His man switched into the driver’s seat, and me, Bullet, and Moose walked through the back door straight into the VIP section.

“Whose party is this?” I asked. But I was drowned out by the music, noise, and excitement that surrounded us.

Everybody in the place knew Bullet. It wasn’t like cats was excited to see him. It was like a respect thing. They acknowledged him quietly, said a few words in low tones, gave him pounds and hugs. But nobody got in his way, asked him for the VIP passes or identification or shit like that. Moose had Bullet’s back so close, you’d think them niggas was joined at the hip. When Bullet wasn’t giving somebody a pound, his hand could be found right on my waist, resting lightly on the top of my ass.

We found a small table in the corner in the dark. After ordering drinks, Bullet relaxed a little and began to talk to me the way he felt comfortable—in a crowded room, with the music at the high point, and Moose with his back to him facing the crowd like a gigantic black stop sign.

“Winter, you did good. I knew you could. I been checking your flow, I like the way you think. The way you move.”

“So what does that mean?”

“What do you mean what does that mean? I’m giving you a fucking compliment.”

“How much was it worth?”

“How much was what worth?”

“The guns and the powder. What? A quarter of a million, a half ?”

“You see, you getting ahead of yourself now. I did the setup tonight
for you.
To get
you
accustomed to shit.
I could’ve pulled it off without you.
I have plenty of times. You think you could just walk into this cold? You can’t. They’ll see you coming like a neon purple
lightbulb. You gotta work your way into this shit slowly. You gotta feel everybody you dealing with. You gotta feel yourself. It could be the littlest shit that gives you away. A itch on your nose, or tapping your feet and fingers too much, or the way your eyes move. If you do this shit enough then you can give the appearance of being comfortable, at ease. Then you’re natural at it, instead of looking, smelling, and walking like a suspect.”

“I ain’t new to this, Bullet,” I said with mad attitude.

“You wasn’t a player on your father’s team, Winter. You think street smarts is inherited,” he laughed. Just when I opened my mouth to say something back, Moose turned and tapped Bullet. His attention was drawn away. Now I was waiting for him to finish talking to some dude. I was thinking at the same time that I just wanted to get my hands on some loot. Not for no specific reason except I didn’t like him keeping me with no more than twenty dollars in my pocket and a few train tokens. I wasn’t asking for a cut of his product or profit, just a few hundred dollars, maybe a thousand in my pocket so I could feel good.