A Hood Legend

“Hurry da hell up, girl!” Menage yelled walking toward his garage. Today he was Nautica from head to toe, white tank top and a pair of Carolina blue, cashmere buggy sweatpants. His eight-inch afro was picked out to its fullest. Vapor and Vigor sat still under the shade of the palm trees, the morning air cooling off their fur. Menage’s Bulova read 7:47 a.m. and his man Dough-Low had left an early-morning message on his two-way about a cookout in Carol City for The Big League Car Club that he belonged to.

Keying the remote, only two doors slid open on his three part garage. Beside his Escalade ESV sat a 1995 topless bowling ball green and black four-door Acura legend sitting on twenty inch remote chrome and oak-trimmed free-spinning Dalvins. He yelled for Katori and put on his shades. He had brought her back to his house to continue their sex fest. She came out seconds later, and he couldn’t help but smile at her tight little ass. Knowing that she wore no panties under her white tennis skirt pleased him even more.

“Man, my kitty is sore, so don’t even be trying to rush me!” She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, only to moan when he slid a hand under her skirt to palm her ass. “Hey, let’s ride in the Escalade with the spinners,” Katori said twirling a finger, giving the ESV a command. The front doors slowly rose in the air and the rear doors slid back. “That bitch is a fucking beast,” Katori said running to plant her ass in the Burberry seat. “Your truck got me pregnant, boy,” she said watching the door slowly come down with a soft click, “and man, my dookie hole sore.”

“What? Ain’t even get my head in . . . stankin’ ass,” Menage laughed, changing his CDs.

“Mmm, you ain’t say that last night,” she said reaching between his legs. Katori was far from shy, and Menage wasn’t surprised when she told him to slide his seat back and tilt the steering wheel upward so she could suck his dick on GP—after she promised not to spill anything on the leather. She completed her task in four minutes and five seconds. After placing his .380 under his seat, he started up the SUV. Sliding the tinted sunroof back, he activated his sound system and Project Pat’s “Don’t Save Her” came booming through the sound system. Katori playfully punched him in his arm when she heard the song, knowing he was trying to be funny. It was another hot ass day—chicks beating the heat under whatever shade they could find as they waited for the bus, and ballers speeding down the avenue in old model cars with loud booming systems. Menage’s ESV, as always, turned a few heads or broke a few necks as it cruised down the streets of Miami, and that suited him just fine. They stopped at Burger King and bought a breakfast meal at the drive-thru. Without Katori noticing, the chick in the drive-thru window slipped Menage her phone number.

Menage wasn’t paying Katori for sex but he knew she was making ends meet as best she could. She was more than shocked when he gave her five hundred dollars and told her to use it for the baby before dropping her off at her place. It was almost elevent thirty and he was on his way to the cookout, but he made a U-turn after remembering that he had scheduled a meeting with Felix Marchetti, the don of the underworld in Miami.

Menage walked into a dimly lit, small café on Collins Avenue and spotted Felix in the back smoking a thick Cuban Cigar. He had noticed two well-dressed huge men, Felix’s bodyguards, at the tiny entrance.

“What’s up, old man?” he said pulling out a chair and spinning it around to sit in it backward.

“Fifty-five isn’t old, and how’s your back?” Felix said squinting from the thick, rich smoke of his cigar.

“How you know about my back?”

“Dr. Wilson called me as soon as you were brought to the hospital. Remember, this is my city and I already have a few of my people looking into it.” He paused to brush off his tailor made Herme silk shirt. “So maybe you might wanna fill me in about this mess at Bayside.” With a nod of his head, the waiter brought two glasses of red wine. After telling Felix more about Bayside, they finally got down to business.

“That DB-7 you say DJ brought in . . . you didn’t inform me of the change of rules.”

“What change are you talkin’ about, Felix?”

Felix flicked some lint off his seven-thousand-dollar overcoat. “The DB-7 was stolen from L.A., but I don’t have the owner’s name.”

“L.A!” Menage yelled and quickly lowered his voice. “Felix, DJ know damn well that I don’t deal with out-of-state shit . . . fuck!”

“Have you spoken to him yet?” Felix asked tapping his cigar.

“Nah, but I sure as hell will today. Maybe someone will drive it from L.A. I’ma stop by the shop also.”

Felix then offered Menage the chance to come stay on his island if he felt worried about the hit at Bayside, but Menage declined. He briefly thought about skipping the cookout and going to see about the out-of-state stolen car sitting in his shop instead. He had a gut feeling that it was going to be a fucked up weekend.

* * *

Special Agent David Myers rubbed his temples as he sat behind his cluttered desk in sunny Los Angeles. Without opening his heavy eyelids, he called out to the receptionist sitting at a smaller desk outside his office. “Amy, can you please page Special Agent Lydia Nansteel for me?” He was past exhausted. He tried to straighten up his desk, knowing that it was pointless trying to flirt with Agent Nansteel. He was nearly twice her age and married, and he doubted that she dated white men. But hell, with all the blacks her age either in prison or dead, he thought that maybe he’d have a chance at the beauty.

She came in minutes later with a strictly business look about her. Myers knew her measurements from her last fitness reports, but the pants she wore hid her eye-pleasing, firm body. Nansteel was five foot eight and weighed 125 pounds. Her 34-25-35 measurements would make her a true rival for the workout guru Donna Richardson.

“Yes, Agent Myers, you—”

“Call me David,” he said cutting her off with a wave of his hand as she took a seat. “We’re on the same team here.” His intense, gray eyes quickly glanced at the outline of her perky tits showing through her simple, white blouse. Dismissing his wicked thoughts, he pulled a folder from his desk. “How are things on the Alistair case?” he asked.

Agent Nansteel softly cleared her throat. “Still no leads.” She was shocked when she was put on the case last Tuesday. Robert Alistair, the eldest son of the Mayor of L.A., had been found in his condo with a single gunshot wound to the back of his head in front of a safe. After interviewing the Mayor, she found out that his son never kept more than seven grand in his safe. The only object missing was the black Aston Martin DB-7 Vantage Volante that he drove. After she gathered all the information, she withheld certain details about the case from the media; so when Myers told her he’d just received an anonymous call from someone in Miami mentioning the car and a name, Nansteel sat up in her seat with a surprised look on her face. The caller described the car down to its rims and apparently the tags were still on it. The name given was Menage Unique Legend. Agent Nansteel quickly left to head for the records section to see what the FBI had on this man. This was her first big case, and being the only black female in her section with five years under her belt at the age of thirty-two, it would make her look damn good to solve it.

Before joining the FBI she tried to model, but the only modeling credit she had was gracing one of the pages of Jet for Beauty of the Week. And after walking in on her husband of four years to find him on top of their white, chubby next-door neighbor, she threw herself into her job. It wasn’t fair. She was faithful to him, and the thanks she got was a woman, much less attractive than herself, sneaking around with her man. Then he tried to do a Kobe Bryant to buy her love and trust back—picture that. Her divorce became final eight months later. When word got out that her ex had slept with a white woman, a few white agents tried to push up on her. Thanks but no thanks was the position she always maintained. And her ex, still even two years after the divorce, never found out about the miscarriage she had due to stress. But through it all she forged ahead. However, sex or love was no longer a major issue in Agent Nansteel’s life.

She returned to Myers office and informed him that the only charge Menage had on his record was possession of a stolen vehicle, and that was lessened to joyriding a year earlier. She also mentioned his bad conduct discharge from the Marines. Myers told her he made a few calls to Miami and found out that Menage was living rather large. He wanted to express his feelings of suspicion, but because Menage was black he didn’t want to offend her. His sexual feelings aside, he had lots of respect for the young woman. Not only was she beautiful and highly competent as an agent, but she was even a black belt in some kind of Japanese fighting that he couldn’t pronounce and fluent in six different languages.

Nansteel’s second surprise of the day came when Myers told her she’d be going to Miami on her first undercover case. She flashed her ID at the gate, and a smile finally appeared on her face as she pulled her pearl white BMW 330ci into traffic. She knew she could handle the job and do what needed to be done—serve justice.

* * *

Menage knocked on Dwight and Tina’s door for the second time. He was looking at his two-way when Tina opened the door. Sure, Dwight was his man, but shorty was looking good right about now. Tina already had a slammin’ body, and standing in the doorway wearing a pair of denim boy-shorts and matching T-shirt with her perky nipples showing through made him swallow hard.

“Boy, come in,” she said pulling him in by his elbow and motioning for him to sit down. “Oh man, I know Chandra threw a fit about what happened,” she said sitting across from him with her legs open, allowing full view of her thick, juicy caramel hips and thighs.

“Damn, Tina, I need to get shot more often if you gonna treat me like this,” said Menage as he sat down. “And no, I didn’t tell Chandra and I plan to keep it that way . . . hint, hint.”

“Boy, you can’t do that!”

“Look, go and get Dwight,” he said looking at his Bulova. “I got a cookout to make.” Tina sucked her teeth and left the sunken living room with the bottom of her smooth butt cheeks jiggling with each step. Menage shook his head, slumping back onto the soft couch. It was huge, with a full bar to his left and a two-hundred-gallon fish tank flushed into the wall in back of him. To his right were four black marble steps leading to the bedroom and a floor-to-ceiling tinted glass window was across from where he sat. The stylish condo was only a jog away from a sandy beach and rows of palm trees across the street.

“Well, if it ain’t Superman,” Dwight said walking into the living room. “You feeling okay, dawg?” They gave each other dap and ended with a secret handshake. Menage told Dwight about the DB-7 being stolen from L.A. “Say word?” Dwight said now sitting in plush chair, crossing his left ankle over his right knee.

“W-O-R-D—word!” DJ know the damn rules. He must got short-term memory or somethin’!” Menage said. He then told Dwight that he would let the DB-7 sit for a minute until he holla’d at DJ. He knew he could get an easy fifty thousand for it off the street or sell it to a dealer and get eighty or ninety thousand. Menage only needed $150,000 to reach a mil. He had $850,000 in the bank that he didn’t touch, but his balling paper was close to $75,000 the last time he checked. Dwight was $250,000 from his goal, so Menage suggested that he catch up by using the paper he was about to make off of a few brand new 6 series BMWs that he would soon have his team steal off the back of a car carrier. At first Dwight said no, wanting to keep the game fifty-fifty like always.

“Chill. We made a plan to reach this mil as one, and that’s what we gonna do—plus it’ll be spring break and I’ma be with Chandra, so get wit’ Tony at the shop and do that for me.”

Dwight gave in reluctantly. “So Chandra don’t know about Bayside . . . yeah, Tina told me.” Menage nodded his head, running his tongue over his platinum teeth. Dwight leaned forward with his hands clasped together, his elbows resting on his knees.

“Look, man. You being my ace and all, this on the real . . . when you gonna settle down with Chandra? You need to put that woman first.”

“Oh, you Jaheim now!”

Dwight stood up abruptly. “Bruh, I’m for real. You need to grow up and quit this wanna-be-a-pimp life. What about H.I.V. and AIDS . . . STDs, come on, bruh!”

Menage turned his head, stared at the fish tank and watched a baby shark glide through the clear water. “Yo, Dwight, I ain’t even gonna get into it wit’ you about my personal life, so turn the page and close the book.”

Dwight let out a deep breath. He sat down and allowed Menage to change the subject. The young men shot the breeze back and forth until Menage’s Nokia started chiming. Dwight passed on the cookout and told Menage he’d drop by later. He stood at the tinted glass window and watched the Escalade cruise down the street. He turned to find his woman bent over on the couch, sporting a belly chain and high heels.

“I’m hot,baby. You know what I want,” she purred. Dwight was glad that he passed on the cookout.

Carol City

Dough-Low rubbed the dice over his belly and gathered them up into a tightly balled fist. He was six foot two, 300 pounds and black as hell. With his bald head and mouth full of gold, he looked like a man that didn’t give a fuck. He was Jack Master by trade and sold dope like g-strings to a strip club. His motto, “I’m thirty-two, and I’ll stick a muthafucka up for his dreams if I catch ’em slippin’.” He rolled the dice up against the wall. “Oh, it’s true!” he yelled rolling an automatic winner. The group moaned and cursed as he scooped up close to nine hundred dollars. “Oh, it’s true!” he said again as sweat rolled down his face. The game broke up and everyone headed back to the cookout.

Dough-Low stood in the door of his pearl black Yukon Denali XL with gold twenty-four-inch rims, counting his money. Standing nearby with their flashy rides were other members of The Big League Car Club. Leaving his two front doors up in the air and sliding the rear doors back, Menage made his entrance as two dark-skinned chicks began eyeing him intensely before he could even get out of his Escalade.

“My nigga, Dough, what up?” Menage said getting out of the ESV. Seeing that Dough-Low was counting money, he asked him who he had robbed.

“Nobody—yet. I beat Li’l Coonk, Jay-Po, and dem in Cee-lo.”

“Yo, man, look at Moet and her crew comin’ in,” Menage said leaning on Dough-Low’s Denali XL. Both men watched the pussy pink Toyota Tundra double cab pull into the crowded parking lot. Five girls started to strip as Jacki-O’s “Nookie” boomed from the system. Menage had his eyes locked on a brown-skinned chick wearing a g-string and a baby tee. Li’l Coonk jumped in the back of the pick-up truck and doused the girls with a bottle of Moet. “Get the one in the baby tee, Coonk,” Menage yelled as the girls started to scream. All the members of the Big League were on the spot now. Pretty Lou was getting mad play, since he had released his second CD a week earlier. Menage was about to holla at him, but seeing a chick sitting in his lap and moving in an odd way in the cramped space of his silver Porsche 911, he let him get his smash on.

“Yo, nigga, let’s eat,” Dough-Low said tossing back a bottle of Old English 800 after seeing that the food was ready. His mouth watered as he eyed hot dogs, hamburgers, baked beans, steak, and dessert. There was also a healthy supply of beer and weed and Menage caught a few getting skied up with powder. There was no need for a deejay. June-June’s candy green Dodge Magnum, with its ten, fifteen-inch Kenwoods provided the music and Li’l John and the East Side Boys kept the party live. Chicks with big tits and no bras played a game of volleyball, and their running and jumping caused many dicks to swell at the sight of bouncy breasts under halter-tops and baby tees.

“Kamesa ain’t comin’?” Menage asked pouring ketchup on his hotdog.

“Nah. She had to take her sister back to Florida A&M,” Dough-Low said after swallowing a piece of steak. “I saw you ’bout to holla at Lou. That fool still trippin’ ’cause you fucked one of his groupies?”

“Not really. And he ain’t say shit a few weeks ago when he used my crib to shoot his video.”

Dough-Low looked over at Lou, who was now being pulled into the girl’s bathroom by a white girl with fake tits. “I don’t too much care fo’ the cat!” Dough-Low said. “And oh, yeah. Last week, Coonk and me was at the studio gettin’ high and shit while Lou was laying a track. Anyway, there was these three blood-ass raw Ethnicity models gettin’ smoked out too. Lou tried to feel one of ’em up and she treated that clown like an unplugged Sega.” They began laughing hysterically.

“No play!” they simultaneously shouted.

“Lou ain’t about shit, but I’d be a fool to waste my time beefin’ with him. I got money to make. By the way, let me tell you what that nigga DJ did,” Menage said. He gave Dough-Low the short version about DJ and the out-of-state DB-7. They were about to go to the grill for seconds when a young girl about sixteen or seventeen walked up and ran her blue nails through Menage’s wild-looking afro.

“Let me do your head. I can hook it up with a fly X & O pattern.” She sat on the table with him between her legs, doing just that in an hour flat and left a C-note richer. Revealing that she would be turning eighteen soon, she and Menage exchanged numbers and a few “what I’ma do to yous.”

“I might need to give her a job at my salon,” Menage said as the girl pranced off wearing a smile.

“Yo, I heard Lou’s in a gang now,” Dough-Low said with a smirk. “But I wouldn’t give a damn if he was in the Cub Scouts! I told Li’l Coonk he was funny actin’. I’m waitin’ fo’ him to cross me. CD or not, I’ll blaze his ass and make him famous like 50!”

“More like Tupac, you mean,” Menage said knowing that Dough-Low didn’t usually aim to maim.

“Yo, Kamesa had some chickenhead she wanted you to holla at the other day.” Kamesa was Dough-Low’s shorty that stayed in Carol City. “Look, I gotta go hit the block, so holla at me later,” Dough-Low said and hopped into his Denali. Menage stayed a bit longer and kicked it with Li’l Coonk. Everybody was asking him about Lou. Fuck Lou.

“Well, he ’bout to go to L.A. for a week. He leavin’ tonight,” was all Menage kept hearing.

Menage glanced over at the windshield of the Cadillac XLR parked next to his SUV. On the hood sat a tall and slender female, clad in a white skimpy tank top and a pair of red boyshorts. He read the message on the top half of the windshield. It read DNNN. “What does DNNN mean?” he asked standing by the fender of her ride.

She cocked her head to one side and without cracking a smile said, “Don’t need no nigga.” She said it good and slow, obviously wanting to make herself clear so she wouldn’t have to repeat herself.

“So I guess I can get your number, huh?” he said letting his eyes travel up and down her long, dark, hairless legs. Little did he know that she was Lou’s ex. She smacked her full lips and slid a strand of blonde weave behind her ear. She then stood up, her stiletto sandals increasing her height to five foot nine.

“You don’t get it, do you?” she said placing her hands on her hips.

Menage could see her nipples pushing against the thin top. “Nah, not yet,” he said smiling. “You might not need a nigga but I know you want one, so what’s your name?” She rolled her eyes. Most of the time a brother would call her a bitch and move on, which made no difference to her. Menage was right; she didn’t need a man, but she sure as hell wanted one.

“My . . . name is Andrea,” she said blushing. The game was spit and they discovered that they both wanted the same thing—sex. Menage got into his ESV and followed Andrea to the room she had rented at The New Radisson Hotel. Andrea had a body like Eve, and he wondered if that was the reason she wore her clothing line. Once in the lavish hotel room, Menage untied the strings of Andrea’s tank top. He immediately began sucking on her breasts and helped her slide out of her boy-shorts. They fell onto the bed as they groped one another and Andrea began to nibble on Menage’s neck with her blood-red coated lips, leaving prints all over his body. Menage slipped on his jimmy and Andrea reached for his dick without hesitation. With her back to him, she slowly slid down onto his erection. Menage gripped her tattooed butt cheeks, sliding deeper into her and enjoying every second.

* * *

Menage pulled into his driveway an hour later as the gate closed on its own. Vapor and Vigor came running from the backyard, begging for attention as soon as he stepped out of his truck. Entering his crib, he activated his answering machine by voice command as he made his way to his kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice. Throughout the entire mansion, the female computerized voice spoke in a soft tone: “Good evening, Mr. Legend. The time now is five twenty nine p.m. You have a total of three calls . . . Saturday, four ten p.m.—message one: Menage . . . baby, pick up . . . helloo . . . well, I guess you’re not in and you better know who this is . . . nah, just playing. The next call was played as Menage poured himself another glass of orange juice. Menage . . . baby pick up . . . helloo . . . well I guess you’re not in and you better know who this is, nah, just playing. Anyway, I just called to say I love you. I’ll call later, if I’m not in my dorm . . . just two-way me. Bye, love.” It was Chandra, and he felt guilty because he was out sleeping with a girl he didn’t even know while she was doing what she did best—loving him.

The computerized voice spoke again: “Saturday, four twenty p.m.—message two: Boy, this is your mama! I told you about leaving all that loud rap stuff on this machine! Anyway, you need to call your nephew because he’s acting up in school again and if you come up here, bring some church clothes. I love you. Call me later.” Menage smiled. Vapor and Vigor shot out the door toward the backyard as a large flamingo landed on the picture-perfect lawn. They’d never catch it. “Saturday, five ten p.m.—message three: Bitch-ass nigga . . . yeah, you can be touched up again, so don’t get caught slippin’ . . . you marked, nigga! End of messages.”

The last message caused Menage to nearly choke on his drink. He could count the people on one hand that had the number to his crib. He played the message twice more to see if he could recognize the voice. Shit wasn’t right. Whoever it was, was now touching too close to home. He wasn’t used to feeling paranoid in his own crib, and he thought that maybe it was the weed. He went into his bedroom to a hidden stash spot in his walk-in closet. Vapor and Vigor were now back in the mansion. Facing the Rottweilers, he looked them both in the eye. With a closed fist he hit his chest twice, giving them the silent command to go on guard. Vapor and Vigor wouldn’t let anyone on the estate and would attack with or without Menage around and would do so until an additional command was given. Vigor swiftly ran out of the bedroom and went outside, as Vapor took off to check the other three bedrooms and three bathrooms, which he inspected thoroughly, entering each room grinding his teeth. He then came back to his owner and watched his every step. Menage took off the safety of his H & K Mp5 tactical assault rifle and went back into the living room with a full thirty-round clip. A black bulletproof vest now covered the tank top he wore. By voice command, he called up the surveillance channel on his eighty-inch plasma screen TV that showed all surveillance shots simultaneously. Menage gripped the customfitted rubber grip and finally realized how close he came to being six feet deep. And now some fool had his home number. He was supposed to be safe in his own home—not walking around wearing a vest and carrying a loaded Mp5. Fuck it. He sure as hell wasn’t going to call the police . . . picture that.

Menage studied the screen. Everything looked clear and when Vigor trotted in moments later, he knew that outside was clear. The two dogs rubbed noses, then sat down on either side of Menage. “It’s gonna to be a long day, boys.” Both dogs let out a low whine. Menage sat on the couch with his finger on the trigger . . . and waited.

* * *

Tina was now at the MD Beauty Salon headquarters on 175th Street in her office doing paperwork. Finally taking a short break, she looked at her watch. It was five forty. Resting her elbows on the desk, she slowly rubbed her temples. Today had been busy since one of her manicurists had called in sick. Her desk, like her life, was in perfect order; she had a good man, a job, car . . . hell, what else could she possibly want? She picked up the picture of she and Dwight cutting the ribbon at the first Menage Dwight Beauty Salon, better known as MD Beauty Salon. Why not DT or TD Beauty Salon? she thought to herself. Her office was fully renovated with a plush, money-green, wall-to-wall carpet. Her name was written in faint gold letters in the center of the rug. In the corner was the sound system that filled the huge, two-story salon with the latest hits. There were over a thousand mirrors as well as a marble onyx floor in the luxurious space. A plasma screen was fitted and flushed into the wall in the waiting area, and upstairs kids under ten could play with the latest video game systems. Menage played a major role in designing this area of the salon.

Tina was about to call Dwight, but a soft knock on her door changed her plans. “Come in, it’s open,” she said folding her slender hands on the desk. Cookie, one of the stylists, stuck her head through the door.

“Hey, Tina, we gettin’ a little behind. A new client just came in and I think all she needs is a relaxer. Can you do it?”

“Yeah, girl, just set her up for me. Let me tie things up in here and I’ll be right out,” Tina said slipping out of her silver, Gucci slingback pumps to switch to her sandals.

“Thanks, girl . . . and can you put on that new Kelly Price CD?”

“Yeah, I was about to take it home with me the other day,” Tina joked.

“I’ll have her ready for you, okay?” Cookie said. I just wanna tell you before you leave that I’ma need next weekend off.” Tina made note of it on her desk calendar. She then turned on her answering machine and reached for her jacket. Before stepping out of her office, she checked herself in the mirror. She was flawless as always.

“Hi, my name is Tina. Welcome to MD Beauty Salon,” Tina said as she put on some green latex gloves and tilted the new client’s seat back to wash her hair. Benita, right?” Tina said making sure Cookie gave her the correct name.

“Yes,” Benita said with her eyes closed.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you new to this area? And let me know if this water gets too hot.”

“Okay. Yes, I’m new . . . well, I’ve been here for a few months—ever heard of Kinston, North Carolina?”

“Uh, well, I can’t say that I have,” Tina said turning on the water.

“That’s no surprise. Kinston is small and you’ll ride right through it in no time,” Benita said with her eyes closed as Tina washed her hair. Back and forth they had small talk, and Benita couldn’t help but notice the stunning diamond encrusted bracelet on Tina’s right wrist. She was still thinking about Menage, and she could have easily found him had she asked Tina what MD stood for. Lisa had already brought home the news that Menage had checked out of the hospital, but it was odd because there was no information left on him—no address or anything.

When Tina turned Benita around to face the mirror, she was stunned by her own work. Benita paid at the desk with her credit card, and as always, she drew instant attention when she stepped outside. Yeah, she liked it, but she ignored the horns and catcalls as she crossed the street to Lisa’s cream Acura TSX. Pulling into traffic, her thoughts drifted back to Menage. It wasn’t every day that a guy risked and saved a girl’s life on a first date. They didn’t even get the chance to kiss. She wanted to ask him so many things and there was something she wanted—something she wanted to give, but he had yet to call her. Maybe he’d call or show up at the club. Well, until then, she’d keep an eye open for that stunning, canary yellow, Cadillac Escalade ESV.

The digital clock on the dashboard read 7:15 p.m. Not wanting to get lost, she made sure to input Lisa’s address in the navigational system—just to be on the safe side. Maybe her cousin was right; she needed to spread her wings and have some fun due to the simple fact that she was young and alive. Maybe she’d enjoy herself at the club that Lisa talked her into going with her later on that night. But still in the back of her mind, she wondered what Menage Unique Legend was doing at that very moment.

* * *

Menage was coming out of the bathroom when the computerized voice announced a visitor at the front gate. He viewed the eighty-inch screen and saw Dwight sitting in his dove gray BMW 745Li with the twenty-inch chrome Dalvin spinners. Since Vigor had a shorter temper when it came to visitors, he had to stay outside, but it didn’t stop him from barking at the glass back door. “Easy, boy,” Menage said to Vigor, and he reached down to rub Vapor’s head as Dwight came into the house.

“What’s going on?” Dwight said looking down at the table full of cash.

“Everythang but the right thang,” Menage said, then quickly told Dwight about the threat he received on his phone.

“Say word? I thought that line was private,” Dwight said.

“It was, but fuck it, that’s a bitch game. Well, I now know that dem niggas was gunnin’ for me, and I’m not ’bout to sit and hide . . . let’s hit the streets, man,” Menage said. “You gonna call your girl and ask her if you can you go out?” he added smiling.

“Funny!” Dwight said wondering how Menage could put the incident at Bayside on the back burner.

* * *

They pulled up to a corner store on Sixty-second Avenue. Menage came out with two ice-cold bottles of Old English 800 and a bag of Skittles. He was back in his element, gripping the steering wheel with the system knocking. Dwight finished his beer before Menage and the tight feeling he felt in his stomach made his mouth water for a second. Leaning back in the Burberry printed seat he glanced at Menage, who was bobbing his neck to the booming system as he gripped the steering wheel with one hand and yelled at some girl on his Gucci Logo Nokia 3650 camera phone. Dwight quickly glanced at the screen on Menage’s phone. There was a picture of a naked girl lying in bed. There was even an X-rated DVD playing on a TV screen that was mounted from the black chrome dashboard. Dwight was feeling good when he reached for his blunt. He only got high when he was with Menage. Tina wasn’t going for it, so he made the best of it and didn’t bug Menage about all of his women.

Menage didn’t lead anybody on or sell any false dreams. Chicks saw the whip with its spinning rims and banging system—not to mention the platinum he wore—and they were hooked. He was also fine as hell, so they said. He couldn’t recall the last time he waited over a week before sexing a new woman that he’d met. Hell, sometimes they made the first move toward the bed. “There’s an art to this game,” Menage once said.

Dwight watched him meet seven different girls as they cruised around Miami—same line, different chick. He did it all the time. And they flagged him down—flashing high beams, blowing horns . . . so how was he at fault? Dwight could only smile and shake his head.

“Where you going?” Dwight yelled leaning toward him as he turned down a side street.

“I’ma see some girl I met last week. Wait till you see her—badoonka-donk-type ass . . . oh, this my shit here!” he yelled turning up the system a notch louder as the latest hip-hop cut shook the Escalade. They pulled up to a housing project off of Twenty-seventh Avenue past a football stadium. Dwight looked at his red gold Bulgari watch and saw that it was after nine. Menage backed into a parking space and before he took the key out of the ignition, a light-skinned female came outside in a tight pair of coochie cutters and a green bikini top. Her ass was huge! She walked up to the ESV, waved at Dwight and kissed Menage on the lips.

“You still going out tonight?” Dwight said.

“Yeah,” Menage replied, then whispered something in the girl’s ear. “Yo, man, it’s too early to go to the club, but are you coming in?” he added looking at Dwight while reaching under the seat for his .380.

“Nah, bruh, I’ma chill out here,” Dwight said placing a .357 on his lap. On nights like this, Menage didn’t think about the chop shop or the money he laundered through his salons. It was all about how many girls he could get with. Dwight watched him follow the big-butt girl into the building and he could actually see them enter her bedroom on the third floor from where he sat. By looking at the digital clock on the dash, he noticed that it only took four minutes for the bedroom lights to go off. He eased back in the plush seat to get comfortable, switched on the plasma screen and watched Biker Boyz.

* * *

Armed with New York street smarts, DJ was slicker than baby oil between Lil’ Kim’s breasts. He brought his baby blue Lexus GS430 to a slow halt at a light on Biscayne Boulevard. DJ was twenty-seven, with the pretty-boy looks of Ginuwine. Menage put him back on his feet when word got around that he could steal a car with ease without breaking the steering column. Menage had saved him from a two-year bid and paid his bond of seventy-five thousand. DJ had walked out of the county six months earlier to find Menage sitting across the street in his roofless Acura Legend. He introduced himself, and DJ quickly found out who had paid his bond. Menage took DJ under his wing and showed him how to make real money. Two weeks later, he had DJ use his skills to snatch a brand new Ferrari off the docks as soon as it was unloaded off the cargo ship. That same night Menage drove him to a modest apartment in Hollywood with the Lexus GS430 parked in the driveway. DJ thought it was another job, but he was speechless when Menage gave him the keys to the apartment and Lexus along with twenty thousand in cash spread out on the bed inside the crib. Now DJ was his number-one car thief, and he gained even more status when he brought in the DB-7, but he hoped Menage wouldn’t flip once he told him when and how he got it. Money was money, right?

“Yo, be quiet while I’m on the phone, a’ight!” he said to the Jessica Simpson look-alike sitting next to him. Only the greenish glow from the Navi system filled the GS430. He quickly dialed a number by heart as he waited for the light to change. There was an answer after the second ring. “What up, sexy?” he said turning down the music with a knob on the steering wheel.

“Un-uh. I called you around six.”

“I was tied up.” His passenger did as she was told and kept her mouth shut, but since he didn’t say anything about not touching him, she leaned over and zeroed her attention between his legs. DJ didn’t turn her away. He gave into his need to feel her hands on him. “Can we get up later on tonight? You know I’m tryin’ ta beat that.” He held in his moan as his zipper slid down.

“Oh, really!” the woman on the other end laughed.

“Y-yeah . . . can we meet at our spot or what?” he said resting the phone on his shoulder and gripping his passenger’s blonde hair. His eyes closed and he became silent as she took him deep into her mouth.

“DJ!”

“Y-yeah.”

“I called your name five times, boy! Anyway, I’ll be there in an hour.” She hung up before he could reply, but he didn’t give a damn. Flinging the phone over his shoulder, he pressed the back of blondie’s head down, calling out her name as she sucked him. Neither of the two realized that the light had changed until horns started to loudly blow behind them. Screeching off with the girl’s face buried in his lap, DJ quickly took her back to the University of Miami in Coral Gables and made it to his second session in record time.

* * *

“So, how do I look, girl?” Lisa said turning sideways in her bedroom mirror to examine how her ass filled out the yellow Enyce bodysuit. Benita, standing alongside her, smacked her lips and tilted her head to one side. She wore the same body suit in black. Benita was also pleased with what she saw through her tinted frameless Miss Sixty shades. Both women knew they had the looks and body measurements that many women envied, and they were single. Lisa was ready for a man—not the thug on the corner who would end up in jail or prison; those collect calls and visits were over for her. She rubbed her full lips together after applying her lip gloss. Nails were done, toes painted, nose hairs pulled, and make up in flawless order.

“Benita, will you please bring your ass on here! I wanna stop at the store to buy some coolers,” she said looking down at the print between her thighs. “I should have trimmed my kitty hairs some.” Benita rolled her eyes and slid on the back of her earring. Grabbing their small Enyce tote bags, they headed out the door. Lisa opened the sunroof of her Acura and told Benita that Club Limelight held true to its reputation as she popped in her favorite CD and let it pump through the speakers. Benita was still thinking about Menage. Finally she met a man that didn’t press her for sex out the gate—not that he got the chance. But she would have given him just that, which was something that no one had ever gotten with her. Everyone felt that because she was a stripper she’d spread her legs for that mighty dollar without hesitation—wrong!

“Maybe you’ll bring a man home tonight and get some!” Lisa yelled over the music. She had yet to see Benita bring a man to the apartment.

“I’m not down with one-night stands like some freaks I know,” Benita said laughing.

“Whateva, but I betcha I’ma get somebody to lick my kitty tonight,” Lisa said snapping her fingers twice. Benita smiled at her silly cousin. Yeah, maybe Lisa was right; she should live a little.

* * *

“So what’s the surprise, bruh?” Dwight sat on the hood of his BMW in Menage’s driveway.

“Got a new whip,” Menage said stepping into his dark garage. He lightly ran his fingers over a platinum-colored Mercedes-Benz S600. It sat on triple chrome, twenty-one-inch custommade Neeper concept rims. Everything was voice-activated, and the interior was done in Gucci leather. Three eight-inch plasma screens along with four twelve-inch Alpine speakers made his S600 a showstopper. Slowly it pulled out of the garage, a bluish glow beneath it. Dwight laughed to himself as he got into his BMW.

“Yo, I got sumthin’ in store for you later on, but I’ma wait till we get to tha club,” Menage said leaning his elbow out the window as he pulled alongside Dwight.

Dwight was thinking of Tina and stopped himself from using her favorite saying—Oh, really! “Let’s roll, bruh,” was all he said, brushing the collar of his Armani jacket. Menage pulled off first, nearly blowing a fuse as he pushed his speakers to the max. He sported his regular jewelry—watch and chain—but tonight he added a four-fingered diamond encrusted ring that read PIMP on his left hand. His gear matched the inside of his S600, from his leather fedora, green tinted shades and the twenty-seven-hundred-dollar flannel flight suit—all by Gucci. Dwight was still feeling a little buzz as he brought up the rear. He knew Tina would have a fit if she knew the condition he was in while driving. Smoking weed would really put him on the couch. He planned to be sober by the time he got home, so it would be all gravy. Thinking of her as he sped down I-95 made him smile. She had been in his life for three years and they stuck together through the worst of times. It was pure love he had for her and he placed her before everyone—even Menage. The thought of life without her made him speed up and pull ahead of Menage . . . now he was leading. Maybe Tina was right, he thought. She was afraid that Menage’s cheating ways would rub off on him and Dwight thought her thinking was simply foolish; their love was too strong.

* * *

Club Limelight was a tri-level 7,750 square foot club that did hold true to its rep but right now all the action was outside in the parking lot—parking lot pimping, you could call it, as everyone checked out the flashy rides. If you had the props and a costly ride, you were able to park in the VIP section, located under two huge lime green street lamps. Lisa and Benita sat on the hood of the Acura, waiting for the long line to shorten a bit. In the meantime, they enjoyed the action in the parking lot. There was loud music, mingling, souped-up bikes doing burnouts . . . and of course the police.

* * *

DJ pulled into the parking lot at Club Limelight. “Why are we stopping here?” asked his female passenger.

“I’m just riding through, that’s all.” DJ turned to look at her and saw that she wasn’t pleased. “Just keep the window up, can’t nobody see inside,” he said grinning. She glared at him as he began to light a blunt.

“Will you put that mess out?” she snapped and pressed the button to lower the passenger’s window slightly. She snatched the blunt out of his mouth and tossed it out of the window. DJ didn’t stress. He would just drop her off and return to the club later.

* * *

“Girl, check out that Lex. Now that is off the hook. Maybe I can buy me one next year,” Lisa said. Benita turned to look just as the window inched down and a slender arm flung something out onto the street. The face couldn’t be seen but Benita could tell it was a female. It was the shiny bracelet on the woman’s wrist that caught her attention. She wondered about the bracelet but with so much going on and being on her third cooler, her mind failed to stay focused. She watched the Lexus slowly pull out of the parking lot as the deep thundering bass vibrated from its speakers.

* * *

Dwight was in the Limelight parking lot waiting for Menage to reveal his surprise.

“Yo, Dwight,” Menage said excitedly into his cell phone, “I’ma show you how to make a scene!” Right now nobody could tell him a thing. He was in his element, his world. He slowly cruised his S600 AMG into the parking lot. “CD two, song seven, volume max, windows down.” The four tinted windows and sunroof opened simultaneously. Seconds later music thumped loudly from the stunning Benz.

Menage hit the scene behind a gold Chevy G4 jacked in the air on three wheels, but his S600 stole the show.

“Daaamn!” Lisa said. “Look at this ride here.” She pointed at Menage’s Benz as it rolled into the parking lot. Benita turned to look and nearly dropped her drink. As the car pulled up, a crowd slowly formed around it. Sure, the system was so loud that she had to yell at Lisa who was right next to her . . . but why all the attention? She was unable to see the driver from the passenger’s side, but she soon found out why everyone was all keyed up. This time she dropped her drink. It had to be an illusion. She rubbed her eyes and figured that she’d had too much to drink, but when she looked again the view was the same. With the system at its max, the huge twenty-one-inch rims on the S600 started to slowly spin forward as the car remained motionless. The rims suddenly stopped and then started to spin backward. Then they began spinning in different directions and speeds. The scene was hypnotic. Dwight was astonished by what he saw. Benita watched the S600 pull into the VIP parking space. She was about to find out who the driver was but Lisa pulled her away, telling her that the line had gotten much shorter. Benita missed Menage by just a few seconds and Dwight walked up as he got out of his car.

“Yo, nigga, you see what happened? Right now I can have any chick out here! You know it, I know it, they know it,” he said pointing to the crowd. “I’ma fuck da world and make her mine, that’s my word. They can’t see me, they can’t see me . . . I’m the nigga,” he said pounding his chest with his fist. “Shorties dissin’ their niggas—fuck ’em all! Dis how you s’pose to rep. It’s all a game and I make the rules!” Menage was now trembling with pure adrenalin. A few members of The Big League Car Club showed up and Coonk and Dough-Low met up with Menage and Dwight. They all went into the club to get their party on.

The floor inside Club Limelight was packed. The huge, mirrored dance floor slowly rotated. Women in fishnet stockings and thongs walked around sippng Tanqueray. Menage stepped to the bar to order some drinks as a hit by Three 6 Mafia filled the club. He turned on his stool to face the dance floor. Everyone but he and Dough-Low was up in the VIP section.

“Yo,” Menage yelled at Dough-Low, “where Lou at? I thought he was coming tonight.”

Dough-Low shrugged his shoulder. “Said something came up. I don’t know where the hell he at!” They sat at the bar checking out the women on the big dance floor.

“That’s my song, yo, see ya!” Menage yelled before quickly finishing his drink. Minutes later on the dance floor, he was surrounded by two full-figured women jamming to a cut by the Ying Yang Twins. He let the loud music and flashing strobe lights hypnotize him. Life couldn’t get any better—fast and fancy cars and women just as fast . . . and easy as switching lanes. And of course there was the money. It made his world go ’round.

Menage was quite aware of the problems that still existed in the world and he knew that no matter how much money he had, there were many people who would still judge him by the color of his skin. But his view on color was plain and simple: “We all the same when the lights go out.” He’d been crossed and played by all colors, but he knew about the hate and envy amongst his own. He didn’t look over his shoulder at the white man waiting to stick him up for his ride or his money. It was his own kind that he had to watch out for. All this created drama and stress—something he could do without.

Hands in the crowd flew up in the air when the DJ played an old school song. By now Menage had danced close to two hours and it was time for him to hit the bar again. Before leaving the dance floor, he tried to push up on the chick he was dancing with but she kindly held up her hand, revealing a ring. Oh, well, that’s life, he thought as he slowly made his way back to the bar. Not watching where he was going he bumped into someone, knocking the drink out of his or her hand. He yelled that he was sorry and quickly found the dark-skinned woman standing before him attractive. Together they headed for the bar. It didn’t take Menage long to find out where her head was. Her name was Tanita, and she was down from Maryland visiting her sick aunt. She wasn’t a beauty queen, but her looks were decent without a face full of makeup. They took a few pictures together in VIP and later talked about what things they had in common. He was sure he had her figured out, that is, until she pulled him on the dance floor and placed her head on his chest as a song by Musiq slowed things down a bit and changed the mood in the club. Holding Tanita in his arms, Menage closed his eyes. Her slender body was warm and soft. He gently kissed her neck and deeply inhaled, taking in her natural scent. Feelings of arousal swept through his body. Sex was easy for him to get and he never disrespected a woman or pressed her for it; there was no need. Tanita looked into his eyes, pleased with the respect he was showing her. No words needed to be spoken as she led him off the dance floor. He would’ve never guessed her age to be thirty-nine.

DJ sat across from Lisa, holding her hand. They carried a conversation over all the loud music, and it was clear that they were interested in one another. They finished their drinks and wondered what the night would bring. DJ already knew the mathematics: Hennessey and hormones was equal to panties around the ankle.

“Just take the car and I’ll call you tonight . . . or in the morning,” Lisa said to Benita later on in the ladies room.

“What!” Benita exclaimed. “Girl, you just met this guy and you going home with him?”

“Chile, please. I ain’t married and it’s been . . . what, two weeks for me, and I’m not looking for no relationship. What’s wrong with a little safe and fun sex—on one of the very few occasions I don’t have to work on a Saturday, huh? And I’m about to go on vacation, too . . . girl, please.”

“Well, never mind, but if you’re leaving now I’ll just go on home,” Benita said.

“You gots to be jokin’ . . . all these fine-ass dudes up in here and you going home? It ain’t nothing but . . .” she looked at her watch, “three something. God, girl, have some fun, will you!” Lisa said.

Benita rubbed her temples. “I can’t . . . I’m still thinking about Menage. I just can’t get him off my mind, Lisa. He saved my life. How would I look checking out some other guy that nine times out of ten only want some pussy and don’t give a damn about me!” she said turning away.

“Look, just calm down. Take the car and go home. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to come out here anyway.” Lisa placed her hands on Benita’s shoulders and turned her around so they could face each other. She continued. “I was just trying to cheer you up, that’s all, but I’m sure he’ll call,” Lisa said softly looking into Benita’s eyes.

“Okay, but you better call me so I’ll know where you are and—”

“Yes, Mother,” Lisa said laughing, cutting her off. They embraced and Lisa went back inside the club.

Benita was ready to get home to see if Menage had called. She was in such a rush as she started to back out of the parking lot that she almost hit a dove gray BMW that drove by. “Damn fool!” she screamed. Upon making it home, she was disappointed to see that Menage hadn’t called. Tossing her body suit to the floor, she fell onto the couch and stared up at the ceiling. She thought of Menage with each breath she took. Why do I have to be alone? she thought as she turned off the lamp. Outside she heard a police siren. She looked at the digital clock, its red numbers piercing the darkness. It read 3:45 a.m. Letting out a deep breath, she rolled over and punched the pillow, ignoring her new eighty-dollar hairstyle. She was asleep in minutes.

* * *

Showing off was something that Menage mastered. He sat in his S600 in front of the club as everyone exited. The music pumped from his Benz as the rims slowly spun around and around. Directly in front of him, Tanita sat in her sporty Toyota Camry Solara coupe, no doubt checking him out from her rearview mirror. It had rained a little, and the slightly wet platinum Benz glimmered even more under the moonlight. Menage knew Tanita was down after excusing herself and going to the ladies room at the club, only to return with her silky thong balled up in her fist. “I have a birthmark I want you see,” she had whispered in his ear. They stopped at the Waffle House and Menage then followed her to her hotel room. He wanted to do more than just see her birthmark. Just another day, he figured, as he stood at her hotel door, rubbing his fingers over the ribbed condom in his pocket. Safe sex it would be ... no doubt.