Brooklyn Bombshells--Part 2 Page 5

  Bacardi and Butch exchanged a look. They didn’t want anything to do with God, and they certainly didn’t want to identify his body. They were glad that he was dead, and they hoped he was rotting in hell. Bacardi’s mood shifted, and she became upset that the detectives came to their door with this shit.

  “We’re not his fuckin’ parents and that muthafucka raped our daughter. So fuck him!”

  The detectives were shocked by the revelation and right away started to take notes, as if they were going to arrest a dead man. They left shortly after, but Butch was mad he didn’t get to kill God himself.

  “I can’t even get revenge for my daughter’s rape,” he grumbled. “I wanted to feel his life drain from my own hands.”

  “It’s karma, Butch. That nigga is gone and he’s never coming back,” Bacardi said.

  Bacardi immediately got on her cell phone to tell Chanel the good news. She no longer had to worry about God and she could come home now.

  ***

  Chanel felt like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Her mother’s phone call with the unexpected news about God made tears drop from her eyes. The evil monster was dead. God was gone—murdered. She didn’t know by who or why, but he was no longer a threat to her. She needed to tell Mateo and Pyro and let Pyro know that it was safe for her to go home.

  She wanted to tell Pyro right away, but he was preoccupied with female company in his bedroom at the time. She heard them fucking. It was one of his main females, and she knew not to disturb him. She got dressed and left the apartment to visit Mateo at the hospital. She figured by the time she came back, Pyro wouldn’t be too busy to hear the news.

  Chanel sat by Mateo’s bedside and exhaled. She took his hand into hers and looked into his eyes with a smile.

  “He’s gone. He’s dead, baby,” she said to him. “God is dead.”

  She could tell that it registered. Mateo had heard every word she said. He gently squeezed her hand and almost had a look of relief to him.

  He managed to squeeze out one word. “How?” His voice was extremely low and raspy.

  “Someone murdered him in New Jersey. We don’t have to worry about him anymore,” she added.

  Chanel knew that even in his condition, Mateo was still worried about her. It was a bittersweet visit despite the news. God was dead, but Mateo was still on a long road to recovery. There wasn’t much Chanel could do but sit at his bedside and talk to him and pray for him and show him love and support.

  She spent nearly two hours with Mateo, talking to him and feeling nostalgic about how they first met. She wanted to feel his arms around her again and see his bright, wide smile. Mateo’s love for Chanel was evident and undeniable. Every time Chanel would walk into a room, he would light up.

  With it getting late, Chanel decided to end her visit. She smiled down at Mateo and kissed him lovingly on his forehead and then his lips.

  “I love you, Mateo. Get well, baby. I need you.”

  An hour later, Chanel made it back to Pyro’s apartment just as he and his girlfriend were finished eating Chinese takeout. Pyro was in a good mood. She figured pussy did that to a nigga. He was glad to see Chanel.

  “Hey, where did you go?” he asked.

  Chanel was all smiles. “I went to visit Mateo. It was good. We talked.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s gonna get better. I know it. I can see it in his eyes. As we were talking, I saw so much life in them,” she said, nearly bouncing around with an upbeat attitude.

  Pyro could tell that something was different about her. He figured it had to do with Mateo’s progress.

  “I’ma slide through tomorrow and bring him some food from La Madres.”

  “Thanks, Pyro. He loves your visits.”

  “So, what’s good? You look and seem different right now,” said Pyro. “I mean, I’m not complaining. It’s good to see some life coming back into you.”

  “It’s just—I’ll tell you later,” she said, looking past Pyro and gazing at his girlfriend Dior, who was standing behind him with her arms folded across her chest.

  Dior rolled her eyes at Chanel. To her, “later” meant when she wasn’t around.

  “So our party just gonna stop the minute she comes here, Pyro?” Dior asked him with her lips twisted up.

  “Say what?” Pyro questioned. “Why the sudden attitude?”

  “I’m just saying, we were chilling and doing us, and now you actin’ funny because she’s here.”

  Dior glared at Chanel, sizing her up. She knew the type. Dior despised Chanel’s soft voice, how she never kept direct eye contact, and how she was always cooking and cleaning for Pyro. The docile, humble persona that Chanel projected was just an act in Dior’s eyes, and she was irked that Pyro didn’t see it.

  Chanel lowered her head a touch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start any trouble between y’all. I’ll be in my bedroom,” she said, walking away from them.

  “Ain’t no need to be sorry, Chanel.” Pyro’s eyes lingered on Chanel walking away.

  Dior peeped it. “Why your eyes more on her than me?”

  “She’s a friend, and she’s been through a lot in the past few months, Dior. Her man, my nigga, is fucked up in the hospital and we’re both tryin’ to be there for him, and I’m tryin’ to be there for her because it’s what Mateo would want me to do. I ain’t got time for your fuckin’ jealousy,” Pyro barked.

  “Jealousy?” Dior screamed. “Nigga, how long you knew me? When have I ever been jealous?”

  “You know what? Just leave.”

  Dior looked shocked. “What?”

  “Just get out!”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, like cancer.”

  “Look, you’re being extra right now. I didn’t mean to overreact,” Dior explained. “I just wanted us to spend some quality time together.”

  “Yeah, well that can happen some other time. I got shit to do anyway,” he replied unemotionally.

  “Really? You got shit to do after I done fucked you?”

  “Listen, I’m not tryin’ to argue with you or be an asshole. You need to leave, though,” he said sternly to her.

  Dior didn’t want to leave, but Pyro rushed her out the door while she tried her best to do everything to stay. But his mind was made up. Besides, she wasn’t really his girlfriend.

  With Dior finally gone, Pyro went to Chanel’s bedroom door and knocked. He was curious about what later news she wanted to tell him. She opened her door and smiled. Once again, she started to apologize for interrupting his quality time with Dior.

  “I’m so sorry, Pyro. I didn’t mean to start any trouble . . .”

  “Nah, you good, Chanel. Everything’s good. You didn’t start any trouble,” he said with a smile. “I wanted her to leave anyway.”

  Chanel came out of the bedroom and into the common area. She was still cheerful about something.

  “What was it you wanted to tell me?” he asked her.

  “Good news. He’s dead. God is dead. My mother called and told me this morning,” she stated.

  It was astonishing news, but Pyro felt ambivalent about it. He wanted to be the one to tell Mateo that he had killed Fingers and God. Still, he was glad that the rapist was dead. Killing one out of two wasn’t bad.

  “I can go home now,” Chanel said. “He can’t hurt me again.”

  Home. She was right about God not posing a threat to her anymore. But there was one thing he felt she was forgetting. Charlie. He had become Chanel’s protector, and he didn’t want her in the same apartment with Charlie, the mastermind. Pyro felt that bitch was a wicked sociopath to set her own sister up to get robbed and raped by her own boyfriend, and then make her live through the trauma of her fiancé being shot in the head. Charlie was more ruthless than any bitch Pyro had encountered before.

/>   He stared at Chanel with some concern. “Maybe you shouldn’t rush to go back home. I would feel more comfortable if you stayed here until Mateo gets better. And then y’all can both move on with your lives.”

  “You’re worried about Charlie, right?”

  “That bitch is wicked, Chanel. Sister or not, you can’t trust her, and she needs to get got.”

  “Pyro, promise me that you won’t do anything to her,” Chanel said, locking eyes with Pyro.

  “You still want her breathing after what she did to you?”

  “She’s still my sister, and I don’t want any blood spilled in my name.”

  Pyro didn’t want to make her that promise, but Chanel continued to hold his gaze and he could only relent. “I promise you that I won’t touch that evil bitch.”

  Chapter Eight

  The hotel in Midtown Manhattan had quickly turned into Charlie’s place of business. Working with two cell phones, she had merchandise to move and connections to reach out to. She called a few frenemies to see if one of them could pick her up in the city and run her around to do her errands. She paced around the hotel room with her cell phone glued to her ear and talking a mile a minute—trying to run game on someone to help do her bidding.

  Unfortunately, one by one, each person she reached out to gave her a chilly reception and blew her off.

  “Nah, I’m good, Charlie. Word around town is that you bad news right now,” one of them said.

  “What the fuck you mean, I’m bad news?” she yapped back.

  “I’m just sayin’, you hot right now.” He hung up.

  Charlie stood there dumbfounded by his remarks. She didn’t know what was up, but she figured it had to do with how she and God had fallen off lately. She was no longer up to putting her used hooptie in the shop or waiting on anything because she had money now. She had room to breathe and stretch out her legs with eighty large. She thought about renting a car, but she liked the perks of being driven around, especially through rush hour traffic. But it wasn’t looking promising. Every person she called had something negative to say.

  Fuck it! Charlie said to herself. She decided to Uber around town. Time was money and money was time.

  Charlie carefully secured every bit of cash into the rolling luggage. She left the room, leaving Claire in bed under the covers without saying goodbye.

  When the Uber driver arrived downstairs, she got into the backseat with her things and right away asked him, “How much would it cost me to rent you for the day? Flat fee.”

  The driver, a young and clean-shaven white male turned around. Charlie knew he was sizing her up. He replied with, “Fifteen hundred, plus tolls.”

  Charlie laughed at his ridiculous price. “You gotta be a fuckin’ comedian,” she mocked, followed by tossing him ten dollars for his time.

  “Get lost!” she added, climbing out the backseat.

  Everyone was a crook.

  Charlie sighed. First things first, she needed to secure the cash. She walked to the nearest Chase bank to open a safety deposit box. The bank wasn’t too busy in the early morning. She met with a bank representative and filled out the necessary paperwork, and he escorted her to a private vault. She kept out four thousand for expenses and stashed the rest of her newfound fortune in several safety deposit boxes without any questions or raised eyebrows. To everyone inside the bank, she was a causal businesswoman looking to protect her assets.

  Next, she went to the bank teller and paid her Chase credit card bill, which would include the hotel fee, and subsequently dropped $500 on her debit card. There wasn’t much pocket money left, but it was more than she’d had in a long time. She wondered how Claire was going to feel about not having access to the money. It was a thought that was short-lived. Charlie didn’t give a fuck how Claire felt. It was her money and she kept things moving.

  She marched back to the hotel and went into the room to find Claire just as she had left her—lying in bed, moping, and doing nothing. Charlie glanced at her sister but didn’t ask if she was hungry or anything. Charlie didn’t have the time, nor did she want to console her sister. She was in business mode, and she wasn’t about to let Claire hold her back.

  Charlie pulled out her cell phone and decided to call her favorite client, Mona. A few rings later, Mona answered her phone.

  “You busy? I got some really nice shit for you to check out.”

  “If it’s worth my time, come through.”

  “It’s definitely worth your time,” Charlie guaranteed.

  “Cool. Meet me at place. You got the address, right?”

  “No doubt.”

  Charlie smiled. Money. Money. Money. That’s what it was about—making money and lots of it. She was a one-woman show—the headliner who attracted the crowd. Charlie had a ton of stuff to profit from, and she was ready to eat like a hungry, hungry hippo.

  She called for another car. She was eager to get to Mona’s place and show her everything she had for sale. Mona was good peoples, someone Charlie could rely on to help unload her merchandise. With two suitcases of shoes, jewelry, designer shades, and fashionable clothes with the tags still attached, Charlie estimated cost was at least over thirty thousand dollars. She was willing to sell everything to Mona at a huge discount.

  The ride to Westchester County was pleasant. The cab came to a stop in front of a friendly looking two-story house on the peaceful, suburban street. The white vinyl house had a fire engine red door with a brass lion’s head doorknob. Parked in the driveway was a burgundy BMW with tinted windows. The area was a direct contrast to Brooklyn. Charlie liked the manicured lawns and ornamented porches and front steps.

  After she removed her two suitcases from the backseat and paid the driver his fare, Charlie strolled toward the front door and knocked. The front door opened, and the first thing that stood out on Mona was the NYPD badge attached to her hip along with her holstered weapon—a Glock 19. She smiled at Charlie and invited her inside.

  “So what you got for me?” Mona asked, ready to get down to business.

  “Shit that’s gonna have muthafuckas envious of you,” replied Charlie.

  Charlie took a quick survey of Mona’s place, and the woman had the best that money could buy. In Mona’s living room was one of the largest flat screen TV’s Charlie had ever seen—an 80-inch. The décor in the living room was topnotch with a leather sectional, a distinguished coffee table, a pricey area rug, and modern artwork. Lying on the sectional was some shirtless thug—probably some nigga Mona was fucking. It wasn’t Charlie’s business.

  Mona was a detective at the 77th Precinct in Brooklyn. She was in her late thirties and grew up in the Gowanus Houses in Brooklyn. Mona was a tough and streetwise woman who had seen it all and been through it all. She had two sons who were being raised by her mother in the Bronx, and she had just finished recovering from a fat transfer to her ass and a tummy tuck. Her waist was now snatched and you could balance a bottle on her round, protruding ass. She called it her mommy makeover. Her peers at the precinct called it a mid-life crisis, but the hustlers and thugs called Mona their Serena Williams. Though she was a cop, her friends were boosters, cokeheads, thugs, and some of the grimiest niggas from the streets. She was known around the way to be a down-ass bitch for a cop. Mona had a thing for bad boys, and those same niggas loved that she had a badge.

  “You got time, right?” asked Charlie.

  “Bitch, I wouldn’t have told you to come over if I didn’t,” Mona said.

  Charlie placed the two suitcases on the floor near Mona’s feet and unzipped them both. Mona’s eyes lit up with delight. “Damn, bitch! Who you robbed, Kim Kardashian?”

  “Damn near,” Charlie joked.

  Mona started going through the items like a fat kid in a candy factory. She already knew that she wanted it all. She loved fashion and what Charlie presented was high-quality shit.

 
“Fuck it, how much for everything?” asked Mona.

  “For real, you want it all?”

  “Bitch, didn’t I just ask you that?” she mocked.

  “I got you. For everything, give me seventy-two hundred.”

  “Good.”

  Charlie beamed. Mona never disappointed. She remained in the living room while Mona disappeared into another room. So far, Charlie was turning her tragedy into a profit. She was a natural-born hustler and she wanted to pat herself on the back. There weren’t too many people who could get grimy with it and survive by any means necessary like she could.

  Mona came back into the room and handed Charlie a wad of cash, mostly hundreds and fifties. While Charlie counted it, Mona started to remove everything from the suitcases, but Charlie said to her, “Yo, you can keep the suitcases, too.”

  Charlie wasn’t about to drag back any empty suitcases to the city.

  Accomplished is what Charlie felt after the transaction with Mona. She was $7,200 richer. She felt unstoppable. She briefly thought how Mona’s place would be the perfect lick if she ever became desperate. Charlie subtly took an inventory and it was a pretty penny. But it wouldn’t be easy, though. Mona was a tough, cautious, and shrewd bitch, and she kept either a .357 or a .45 at arm’s length, plus her holstered Glock. Mona was one of a small few that Charlie knew not to even think about fucking with.

  Climbing into the backseat of the Uber, Charlie wondered where Mona was coming up with so much cash, especially being on a cop’s salary.

  ***

  Charlie walked into the hotel room carrying Chinese takeout and feeling like a million bucks. She realized that Claire hadn’t eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours, and if her sister didn’t eat, she was going to die.

  Claire looked comatose on the bed. It looked like she was spaced out and didn’t care to live at all. Charlie had grown annoyed about her sister’s behavior. She had seen enough. She marched toward Claire scowling and angrily pulled away the covers from her body.

  “Claire, this shit needs to stop right now. What the fuck is wrong wit’ you?”