When Shamoney awoke at noon espying the twelve missed calls from Pat, he briefly chuckled.
What the fuck this nigga want? Shamoney thought as he emerged from bed with his iPhone and walked naked to the bathroom from his and Chantele’s room.
Lying in his bed was one of this sideline bitches, far from his mistress, Gina. Her name was Tasha, an extremely swarthy complected hood bitch, who had a sexy-ass curvaceous body. She was a bad bitch, but not bad enough for Shamoney to leave his wife or his mistress, Gina.
As he relieved himself at the toilet, Shamoney called Pat to see what was on his mind. The phone rang twice before he heard Pat pick it up abruptly. “Hello?”
“You know who this is, nigga. What the fuck do you want?” Shamoney asked spitefully.
“Damn, my nigga! Tell me what’s going on in the swamp? Why the fuck I got five dead men, and they all my top-dollar traps!”
“Hold on, nigga. You mean to tell me that you callin’ me askin’ me about shit I can’t answer fo’ you. Last I checked, you muthafuckas cut me off. Nigga, if I did know something, I wouldn’t tell y’all niggas shit!” Shamoney sternly retorted.
“Man, who the fuck you think you’re talking to, nigga? You must of fo’got who the Haitian Mafia is, nigga?” Pat shouted at Shamoney, who began laughing, which caused Pat to become even more enraged.
“Listen, Pat. I bleed just like you,” Shamoney said, shaking off his dick and then flushing the toilet. “You must fo’got how you met this nigga!” Shamoney concisely retorted before he disconnected the phone.
* * *
“This bitch-ass nigga just hung up on me, Chub!” Pat exclaimed angrily. “Take me to B-Zoe, Chub. I got something fo’ this nigga!” Pat promised while sitting in the passenger side of Big Chub’s S-class lime-green Mercedes.
“Do you think he had something to do with hitting Popa Zoe then?” Big Chub asked Pat, who was now rubbing his temples out of frustration.
“I don’t know, and I pray that he don’t!” Pat retorted in Creole.
The remainder of the ride from Palm Beach County to St. Lucie County was in silence. All Pat could think about was finding the nigga responsible for his dead men. He thought about what Shamoney had reminded him of.
“You must fo’got how you met this nigga!” the words of Shamoney replayed in Pat’s head.
Pat could never forget the nigga who saved his wife, Gina’s, life one night from his enemies who had tried to kidnap her at a club in downtown Palm Beach. Shamoney was in the parking lot and nailed the two abductors with his MAC-10 and then rescued her, albeit Shamoney had constant eye contact with her before the hit popped off.
I was ambushed in the club’s brawl and could do nothing to save Gina. But Shamoney, a complete stranger, did, Pat thought retrospectively of when he had met a much younger Shamoney.
“Something tells me that Shamoney isn’t involved,” Pat told Big Chub as they pulled into B-Zoe’s driveway in Killa County. He lived on the south side in a middle-class neighborhood away from the ruthless gutter.
“So let’s put him back on and send him after—”
“We can’t. Black will never approve of it,” Pat said, cutting off Big Chub.
“Well, I don’t know what to say,” Chub said honestly.
“Me either,” Pat retorted.
They both stepped out of the Mercedes and walked up to B-Zoe’s front door. Before Pat could rap on the door, B-Zoe opened it and allowed them in.
“Damn, strangers!” B-Zoe exclaimed while clapping hands with his superiors, already knowing that they would soon come for him after he saw Popa Zoe’s death on the news.
“Yeah, we strangers, but we’ll always be family,” Pat said to B-Zoe, who closed the door and locked it behind them.
Pat saw that B-Zoe had his strap tucked in the center of his back.
This nigga always ready, Pat thought.
B-Zoe was an extremely dark-toned Haitian who stood five eight and weighed a solid 210 pounds. He kept a low-boy fade and rocked an eighteen-plate gold grill. He was the mafia’s most ruthless assassin, other than Pat, who had a lot of his men beat. His name was definitely feared in the streets of Fort Pierce City among the other killers. Unlike Martin County and other counties along the Treasure Coast, Fort Pierce was born with straight killers, where they killed other killers daily. Not everyone could fit into the environment in Killa County like B-Zoe, who had migrated from Haiti to Miami to St. Lucie County. That’s what made him unique at thirty years old—as well as extremely lethal.
“So, what’s good, y’all niggas? Want something to drink?” B-Zoe asked Pat and Big Chub, who had sat down on his sofa.
His entire living room was white and very immaculate.
“Yeah, brah. Grab me a glass of Remy, straight.”
“Me too,” Pat agreed.
“Shit, me too!” B-Zoe said as he strutted over to his kitchen and poured his superiors Remy on the rocks.
B-Zoe returned in three minutes, handed them their drinks, and then took a seat in his comfortable all-white La-Z-Boy.
“So, what’s good, Haitians?” B-Zoe asked in Creole, anticipating a Creole dialogue.
“Did you hear ’bout Popa Zoe?” Pat asked.
“It’s all over the news, fam. What’s up with that shit?” B-Zoe retorted as he took a sip of his Remy.
“I dunno! We tryin’ to figure that out ourselves,” Pat answered.
“What do you think?” Big Chub asked, taking a sip of his drink.
“I think somebody in the swamp knows more than anyone. I’ll even go as far as to say one of them did it,” B-Zoe insinuated.
“Ain’t that Shamoney’s area?” B-Zoe questioned.
“He’s no longer with us. Black cut him loose.”
“Fo’ what?” B-Zoe asked Pat, cutting him off.
“He caught a case. You know how Black is if you not 100 percent Haitian!” Pat exclaimed.
“Damn! Did y’all cut him before Popa Zoe’s death?” B-Zoe asked.
“Yeah,” Pat retorted.
“Then there you go! That nigga is the one we need to be talkin’ to,” B-Zoe suggested.
“We know, but before we see him, I need you to handle something fo’ me, B-Zoe,” Pat said. He then downed his glass of Remy.
“What’s on the table, Haitian?” B-Zoe asked.
“$100,000, B-Zoe. You in or what?”
“Is there blood involved?” B-Zoe asked, with a smirk on his face.
“Most definitely,” Pat responded, breaking out with an evil smile.
“Then hell yeah! I’m in fo’ a bloodbath!” B-Zoe said.
He was addicted to murder, even it if was just for the hell of it.
“Well listen,” Pat broke off B-Zoe with what he needed done ASAP.
* * *
Bellda was the fourth customer in line at the Sketchers store inside the Treasure Coast Mall in Martin County. It was a mall where everyone on the coast enjoyed shopping and sometimes just hanging out.
I wish these muthafuckas would stop bumpin’ their damn gums and move on, because a bitch is tired! Bellda thought impatiently, after working a twelve-hour day.
She was only making a quick stop in Sketchers to purchase a new pair of work footwear for her new job at a nursing home in Stuart, the capital city of Martin County. She had so many things running through her vagrant mind about her relationship with Pat.
Last night she had cried herself to sleep, yearning for a man who she couldn’t have for herself. Thinking of how it would be with Pat if she was no longer the mistress brought tears to her eyes. Absentmindedly, she lost her emotions and was unable to stop the rapid flood of tears cascading down her face.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” an older woman working at the store asked, after seeing Bellda silently crying.
Bellda smiled at the sweet old lady who reminded her of her late grandmother, as she wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her sweater.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m okay,” Bellda spoke.
“Whatever it is, baby, you just ask God for deliverance, and he will give it to you, okay?” the black woman in her late sixties but with the energy of a twenty-five-year-old said.
Bellda could tell that the lady had been gorgeous in her prime, and that she was a devoted Christian, as evidenced by the gold cross around her neck.
I need a man to treat me queenly. Fuck being a sideline bitch! Bellda wanted to say, but refrained from it and simply thanked her. “Thank you, ma’am. I will do that.”
“Ma’am, you’re next in line,” the store clerk said to Bellda, who hadn’t realized that the line had moved.
“Yes, ma’am,” Bellda said as she walked to the checkout counter to pay for her shoes.
“That’s $49.99, ma’am.”
I can’t let him keep doing this to me, Bellda thought while she waited for her credit card to clear.
Beep!
“It’s all good. Thank you for shopping at Sketchers, ma’am,” the unattractive blonde said, cutting her eyes at Bellda.
Bellda smiled and then kindly said, “You’re welcome, ugly,” as she walked out of the store.
On her way out, she passed by a jewelry booth and a scintillating XO necklace caught her eye, prolonging her plans of leaving. She just had to stop and check out the necklace.
Damn! That bitch got some diamonds on her! she thought as she admired the dazzling necklace.
“How much for that X and O necklace?” Bellda asked the
Arab clerk.
“This one? Ahhh, it’s my favorite, and I’m sure it’ll look very nice on you, gorgeous,” the man said while going inside the glass counter to retrieve the piece of jewelry.
Bellda noticed that the Arab was about her age and that he was handsome as well. But picturing herself with him was halted quickly, since she never had dated anyone outside her race before.
“This one is costly!” he said honestly. He whistled, which made Bellda laugh from the face he made.
“Boy, let me see how much it is.”
“How ’bout trying it on first to see if you like the feel of it. Come, turn around!” the Arab clerk said, gesturing a circular motion with his finger for Bellda to turn around.
“Sure,” Bellda retorted as she turned around to allow him to clasp the necklace behind her neck.
Bellda never saw the attentive eyes of a man who was strutting toward her.
“Take a look!” the clerk said, spinning around a mirror so Bellda could see for herself.
When Bellda looked in the mirror and saw the man standing behind her, who she hadn’t noticed watching her from a distance, she was startled and almost jumped out of her skin.
“Oh shit!” she shouted at the handsome man behind her.
“Sorry, beautiful. You look nice with that blinging-ass necklace on. It was so bright, I just had to come see who it was.”
“You sure it’s not from all them damn golds in yo’ mouth! Nigga, you can’t be doing that. I could have shot yo’ ass!” Bellda told the handsome man, almost forgetting she still had the necklace on.
“Oh shit, sorry!” Bellda said, turning around to return the necklace to the Arab clerk while Mr. Handsome eyed down her phat ass.
In nurse scrubs, Bellda still was a bad bitch, and Mr. Handsome was pleased with every detail of her curves accentuated by her baby-blue scrubs.
“How much is it?” Bellda asked for the price.
“For you, $9,500!”
“What?” Bellda exclaimed.
“Hey, the original price was $10,000. So being that you’re such a gorgeous woman, I cut it down.”
“Boy, do it look like I have that type of money?” she asked.
“Then that means that the right nigga isn’t in your life,” the handsome man responded.
Oh no he didn’t! Bellda thought, ready to accost the handsome nigga and stand her ground.
But when she snaked her neck over him, the sight of him peeling off straight Benjamins from a phat wad left her dumbstruck.
“Put that necklace back on her neck. I just want to pay for it just to sit on her neck,” Mr. Handsome said, still counting and licking his fingers.
I’m fucking the biggest dope boy on the Treasure Coast, and I can’t even purchase a $9,500 necklace, but I bet his wife could. Fuck Pat! Bellda thought, not realizing that she was crying again.
“Baby, whatever it is that got you hurt, just know I’m not one of those flashy niggas. I know a real woman when I see one,” the handsome man said as he was paying the necklace in full. “Just call me when you get a chance, beautiful, and we can talk about anything—and I mean anything.”
“You don’t even know my name, boy!” Bellda said.
“Of course I do. Your name is Bellda Success, according to your CNA name tag,” Mr. Handsome retorted, pointing at her ID card clipped on the V-neck of her scrubs top.
When Bellda looked down at her tag, she smiled, blushed a bit, and then said, “Oh!” She then said, “And what is your name?” while watching him write down his number on the back of the receipt for the necklace.
“My name is Real, but you can call me Jermaine. Now hit me up when you get a chance and are ready for me to take you out somewhere nice,” he said as he walked off, leaving Bellda and the Arab speechless.
“Damn! He’s fine as hell and on time!” Bellda exclaimed.
“Yes, he is beautiful, and if I was you, I’d go see what type of car he’s getting into,” the clerk said, with a lot of femininity in his voice, which prompted Bellda to take a second look at him. When she did, she saw it clear as day.
“Are you by chance a homo?” Bellda inquired.
“No, baby. I’m the rainbow!” the Arab clerk said with a flick of his wrist.
“Oh, hell no!” Bellda exclaimed, laughing as she stormed off with her $9,500 necklace and Mr. Jermaine’s number.
Damn! That nigga is fine. I’ma give him a couple days. I don’t need him thinkin’ that I’m like any of these easy-to-go bitches in Martin County, Bellda thought as she drove away from the mall in her Lexus truck that Pat had bought her last year.
* * *
As Real drove through East Stuart to meet up with T-Gutta, he couldn’t stop thinking about the bad bitch Bellda. He knew that she wasn’t a gold-digging bitch, because when he had left her standing at the jewelry booth, she didn’t call out for him or follow him out of the mall. Bellda had no clue that she had scored so high in his book.
After leaving the mall, he pulled her up as soon as he could to see who she was. Seeing that she was single made him even more eager to get to know her, with a little skepticism of her being so beautiful but without a man. She was from the Stuart area, and if she was a ho, T-Gutta would definitely know. T-Gutta had fucked so many hos in the lowly populated Stuart area and Martin County that he lost count years ago.
Real pulled into the driveway of T-Gutta’s baby mama, LeLe’s, house and honked his horn twice.
A couple seconds later, T-Gutta strutted outside dressed in all-black attire. He walked to the passenger side of Real’s brand new BMW truck. He was smiling and showing off his new platinum grill that sparkled ominously in his mouth.
“What’s up, nigga?” T-Gutta asked as he hopped inside while smoking a phat dro blunt.
“You tell me! I see you done went and upgraded on me with the platinum, nigga.”
“Something like that,” T-Gutta retorted.
“Check it. Do you know this bitch right here?” Real asked, wasting no time getting to his reason for coming to see T-Gutta.
“Hell yeah! That’s phat booty Bellda, dirty. She lives in Salerno, brah, and she’s definitely single,” T-Gutta explained.
“What you mean single?” Real inquired.
“Ain’t no nigga ’round here hittin’ that bitch, but she tight with my baby mama,” T-Gutta retorted.
“Who, LeLe?” Real asked.
“She’s the only baby mama I got. She Zoe too,” T-Gutta
stated.
“Bellda?” Real questioned.
“Yeah! She Zoe, brah. Like I said, if she has a nigga, he ain’t from ’round Martin County. So, to the public’s eyes, she’s single,” T-Gutta added.
Shorty too damn bad to not have a nigga somewhere in her life. If she did, I know the nigga’s not treating her good. She cried in front of me, and them were tears of pain. She’s hurt, and like any hurt soul that needs to be rescued, she’s highly vulnerable. She needs a real nigga to come treat her like a queen. I gotta see what lil baby ’bout, even if it’s just one night. That phat ass got my name on it, just callin’ my name! Real said to himself while deep in thought.
T-Gutta took the moment of silence as Real searching his mind for more questions about Bellda while he stared out the window and watched two boys toss a football.
“So, she from Salerno, huh?” Real inquired about the city in Martin County that had a hood called 46th Avenue.
“Yeah. She lives out there with her dad, brah!”
“What street?”
“Innez,” T-Gutta responded. “Nigga, what’s up? You must done ran across the bitch or something.”
“Yeah, I caught her at the mall an hour ago, feel me. Dat bitch is definitely swole back there too,” Real exclaimed.
“Hell yeah, she is,” T-Gutta agreed, exhaling smoke from his mouth.
“Shit still hot, T-Gutta! So, play it safe out here, feel me?” Real told him.
“Yeah, I got ya, brah.”
“Well, I’ma get up with ya later, brah,” Real said as he threw the gear into drive.
“You know where I’m at, brah,” T-Gutta said, bumping fists with Real.
“Be careful, Gutta,” Real reminded.
“Trust me, brah, I will,” T-Gutta said as he lifted up his shirt, showing Real his Glock .40. “This bitch ready fo’ whatever,” he said as he exited the SUV and walked back inside.
Real sat for a few minutes staring at Bellda’s Facebook profile picture. At that moment, he wanted Bellda to be in the same vicinity as him.
I’ma get shorty fo’ real. Real committed himself to the task ahead of him. He then pulled out of T-Gutta’s driveway, engrossed in all types of different approaches he could step up with Bellda. He chose the gentleman route.
Maybe she could be wifey? Hell nah, nigga! You got too much shit on yo’ plate to be worried ’bout making a bitch yo’ wife! Real reminded himself.