Chapter 11
Amir
Delilah had never seemed that anxious for sex, but she had wrapped my dick with a condom herself and begged for me to fuck her on top of the coffee desk in her small office.
I left her breathing hard and scrambling to straighten shit back up before her first client came through.
I knew it wasn’t Jasmine because when I left Crew’s spot this morning, she was still in bed.
I couldn’t get her ass off my mind after last night, and I kept beating myself up for missing out on the opportunity to feel her in every way possible.
I, however, had too much respect for her.
Too much respect for her family to take her down like she was a random hoe.
When I left Delilah’s office, I drove over to The Bronx to scoop up Elijah.
He was visiting his people in the Pink House Projects, which was a place I never went to unless I was doing something dirty like I was today.
I sat idle in front of the projects, watching as three small Muslim kids played baseball on the sidewalk outside with a rock and a stick, making do with what they had.
Because they all had thick black hair and similar face shapes, I assumed they were brothers.
Laughing, getting along, playing with one another like brothers should.
It was funny seeing kids using sticks instead of bats, because my brothers and I couldn’t even get along, even though we had a mansion with everything a little boy could want or need.
As I watched them, admiring the way they played the game, I was only distracted by my phone for a few seconds. When I looked down and then back up, I heard a sharp crack in my windshield.
I had PTSD from when Abraham’s bullets came through my windshield, so I immediately reached for my gun, but when I looked through the glass, I saw the little boys standing there with their hands over their mouths because they had hit my windshield with one of those rocks.
I got out of the car, and they stood there, almost frozen in place as I approached them.
“I hope you little niggas got jobs,” I said with a sarcastic tone.
I wasn’t really mad at them. How could I be mad for kids being kids? I’m not like my father was. I don’t expect little boys to make grown man decisions all the time.
“No, we don’t have a job. We're barely old enough to walk to school alone,” one of them spoke up.
“Yeah, I can tell, but why y’all not playing on the other side of the building, where there are no cars? Or better yet, why y’all not playing with a baseball, wiffle ball, or something that wouldn’t break anybody's window?”
“Rocks are all we got, right now, and we have to practice. We are trying to go to the league. I’m going to be playing for the Yankees one day,” one of them said.
I looked to the other one.
“And I’m going to be playing for the Royals. Short stop.”
I laughed, loving the fact that they had dreams.
“Listen, be more careful with these rocks because you might run into somebody who is not as understanding as I am about their windshield.”
One of them put his fist up to his mouth.
“Wait, I know who you are.”
“Oh yeah? Who am I?”
“You, you’re the last living Quatar.”
He said that like I was the last living Air-binder or some shit.
“And how do you know that?”
“Cause the Quatar family are legends around here. When the family got wiped out, everyone talked about how it was just one Quatar left. Amiri or something like that.”
“It’s Amir,” I corrected him.
“Oh! See, I knew it was you because of that chain!” They got hype like I was a celebrity or some shit. This kind of reaction to a little nigga knowing who I am is different. I never saw any shit like this before.
“You got a bunch of money now, don’t you? I bet you could buy us a whole new baseball and some bats. Ouu and gloves.”
One of them asked, and the other elbowed him in the stomach like he crossed a line.
“Yeah, little dude, I can buy you a baseball bat and a ball. But if I do that, y’all have to promise me that y’all won’t be playing on the side of the road. Go in the middle of the courtyard and play.”
“We try to play there, but the older dudes always run us off so they can play dice and smoke weed.”
“Well, I’ll handle that for you, but in the meantime, get off the side of the street and find something safer to do until we get this baseball shit lined up, alright?”
“Alright. Thank you, Amir,” one of them said, giving me a handshake.
When the little dudes ran off, I heard a whistle behind me, and it was Elijah coming down the pathway with a blunt to his lips, smoke floating in the air.
“Amir Quatar, what’s up, my people?”
“Shid, waiting on your slow ass talking to these little dudes that just ran off the block. So, you're part of the problem these little niggas were telling me about,”
“What problem, nigga?”
“Niggas smoking weed in the courtyard and doing dumb shit instead of letting the little niggas play baseball and other shit to keep them off the sidewalks and in the middle of the streets.”
“I’m not a part of any problems over here because I’m just visiting my mom. I don’t live over here. You know, I moved on up like The Jeffersons.”
“Yeah, I heard you got a new spot, congratulations.”
“Appreciate you. All I need now is a bitch to move in with me, and I’ll really be George Jefferson around this mutha fucka.”
I started the engine so we could pull off, and a question started to plague my mind.
I saw Elijah getting at Jasmine, but I wondered if she had actually given him any play before.
I wasn’t against a woman doing her thing if she’s single, but I was against dealing with women who have smashed people too close to me or in my circle.
“So, what’s up with you and Crew’s sister, Jasmine?”
“Shit, nothing yet, but her ass is fine as fuck and she can get it.”
“Well, don’t you think it’s fucked up for you to be trying to get at his sister? Some people don’t play about their sisters,” I replied.
“Yeah, but I’m sure that Crew doesn’t give a fuck anymore. Her name has been floating around the city for years, so why should he care what she’s doing now?”
“What does that mean?”
“She got a small reputation around here for giving it up, and now that I have money, I’m sure I can be next. I've been wanting her for a while now.” He licked his lips like he was thinking about his next meal.
I couldn’t lie, hearing this nigga talk about Jas like that pissed me off.
She was too damn pretty for a reputation, and I could tell she had more to her than just giving up sex.
A woman like her needs to know her worth, so knucklehead ass niggas like Elijah didn’t think they could stand a chance.
Just from seeing how pretty her pussy is last night, I knew only a certain caliber of nigga deserved it.
Niggas that wouldn’t prey on her but wait on her because a pussy like that is a dime a dozen.
Elijah and I had to go and handle business because we knew there was a chance the shootout yesterday was directly linked to Trey and his murder.
That wasn’t something I could ignore. Not when bullets had already flown once.
So, my first stop was the house I found out was Trey and Troy’s mother’s.
Oftentimes, in situations like this, it’s best to go directly to the source.
We drove all the way across town, the city changing the deeper we went.
The buildings got older, the streets narrower, the sidewalks crowded with people who looked like they’d been standing in the same spots for years.
When we finally pulled up, it was a row of brownstones in Brooklyn, all lined up shoulder to shoulder like they were holding each other up.
A lot of times, dudes get money and leave their moms in the hood while they move to spots where they know they are safe.
Niggas fix up the inside of their mama’s house, throw in some new furniture, and fresh paint, trying to make it feel like an upgrade.
But on the outside, they're still living in the same neighborhood, with the same problems, the same danger. It’s like throwing a bone to a dog and calling it a feast.
I found out about this place because one of Trey’s baby mamas went on Facebook talking recklessly about her mother-in-law for not getting her grandson. The video was still up on her page of her riding past the house, screaming out the window,
“Your son is dead, and you don’t even care to pick up the slack for TJ.”
On the video, her ass pulled over, hopped out, and walked right up to the stoop. The camera tilted, but still caught the house number clear as day.
Social media got folks thinking they're just venting, but in reality, they give up too much information on these apps, making it easy for a nigga like me to find who I’m looking for.
I leaned back in my seat; eyes locked on the stoop where Trey’s baby mama had acted a fool at.
“That’s it right there,” I muttered.
Elijah followed my gaze, the smoke from his blunt drifting toward the windshield.
“Bet, let’s roll inside then.”
We got out of the car, knocked on the door, and waited until the locks clicked.
The second it opened, we gave the person on the other side no time to ask who we were, because we blew past her, guns drawn, lifting them slightly as we cleared each room, making sure nobody was about to jump out and blow our fucking heads off for storming into their shit.
But as I said, dudes like Troy leave their family behind. They probably didn’t even have a gun in here to protect themselves against the troubles her children caused.
“What, what’s going on? Why the fuck are you here?” she stuttered.
“Where is your son?”
“My son is dead.”
“You know which son I’m talking about. The one that’s still alive. The one your son worked for.”
“Who, Troy? I don’t know. He doesn’t come around here much. I haven’t seen him since Trey’s funeral.”
“Well, if you don’t want him to have to attend more funerals, then you’ll tell me where the fuck I can find him.”