4. Marisol Lani Cruz #2
“Nova,” I stated, voice low but sharp, “you gotta stop lettin’ ghosts eat off your plate. Ro back, yeah. Saint lurkin’, yeah. But at the end of the day, it’s you and that baby girl. Ain’t no man out here worth you losing your damn mind for.”
She pressed her lips together, shoulders folding like she’d been holding a scream. “I don’t even know what’s real anymore.”
I leaned forward, dropped my rag flat on the table. “What’s real? That little girl in your arms every night. That ring on your chest every day. The rest? Noise. And baby, I know noise when I hear it—I been married to noise for years.”
For a moment she cracked, laugh short and bitter. I reached across, squeezed her hand. My skin rough from grease and bleach, hers soft but trembling. “I’m with you, Rae. Don’t forget it.”
Before she could answer, the front door swung wide with a clang!
of the bell. A blast of street air rushed in—smelling of wet asphalt and exhaust. And in he came…
Toothpick Tony, oversized tee hanging past his knees, flannel half-buttoned, camcorder strapped across his chest like he was channeling Spielberg with food stamps.
“Ladies, ladies, ladies,” he crooned, toothpick bobbing between words. “Did I just walk into an episode of As the Hood Turns?”
Nova rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might stay stuck. “Tony, don’t start.”
He slid right into the booth beside her like he paid rent there, slapping his palms on the table. “Don’t start? Girl, I already been started. Y’all sittin’ here lookin’ like a funeral reunion spin-off, and I’m just tryna direct the pilot.”
I snorted, even though I wanted to stay mad. “Tony, ain’t nobody want your bootleg DVD series.”
He grinned wide, toothpick twitching with every syllable. “Shoot, the streets do. I keep y’all legends alive. Tell it raw, no cut. Y’all gon’ thank me when VH1 calls in ten years.”
Nova tried to stifle a laugh, but it slipped through, soft and cracked. I watched her shoulders ease a notch. Tony didn’t even know the gift he carried, acting the fool just enough to let a woman breathe.
I wiped the counter clean of crumbs, shook my head. “Tony, go order before I toss you back out with that rainwater you dragged in.”
“Order? Girl, you already know my order.” He leaned back, throwing his arms out. “Three-piece dark, extra hot sauce, Kool-Aid red enough to stain my soul.”
Nova finally chuckled, low and warm. Her hand lingered at her chain again, but her eyes softened.
And I thought—yeah. Sometimes, even in the middle of debts and whispers and ghosts, God sends a clown to keep you upright.
Tony tore into his chicken like the man hadn’t eaten in three days, juices shining across his chin, toothpick waiting on deck. He chewed loud, talked louder, and somehow still managed to grin at Nova like he was doing her a favor.
“So lemme ask y’all—” he pointed a drumstick at us like it was a microphone, “that Saint dude? He always been that smooth or he practiced in the mirror?”
Nova stiffened; I caught it. Her eyes cut away, back to her coffee.
Tony chuckled, oblivious or pretending to be. “I mean, brother rolled up at the funeral lookin’ like he was born under your umbrella. Ain’t a raindrop dared touch him. That’s money posture, y’know? Mayor’s boy posture. You don’t buy them suits off the rack.”
I stopped wiping, leaned on the counter. “Tony,” I warned, voice flat.
He grinned wider, popped the toothpick between his teeth, grease still glistening on his fingers. “What? I’m just sayin’ what everybody already whisperin’. Sal owed the mayor’s son heavy. Whole block know it. One thing I do know is he won’t get the MC.”
Nova’s hand found the chain at her breastbone, thumb rubbing slow like she was trying to polish the truth out of it. She didn’t speak, but her silence said plenty.
I leaned across the counter, close enough Tony could smell the hot sauce still in the air. “You run your mouth too loose, boy. These women ain’t your audience.”
He threw both hands up, grinning around the toothpick. “Aight, aight. No disrespect. Just tryna keep it real. But real got a price, don’t it?”
The spot went quiet for a beat. Just the crackle of the fryer and the faint hum of the radio. Nova’s eyes glistened like she wanted to say something but didn’t trust her throat.
Tony finally leaned back, stuffing another piece of chicken in his mouth. “Y’all don’t gotta thank me. I’m just the messenger.”
I muttered under my breath, low enough only I could hear: “Messengers get shot first.”
Tony smirked like he’d just dropped the hottest line of the year, grease glistening on his lips, toothpick cocked like punctuation. “Saint ain’t just there for shade—he’s there collectin’ receipts.”
That’s when Nova snapped.
Her coffee cup hit the counter with a sharp crack, dark liquid rippling over the rim. Her hazel eyes lit like they caught a spark, voice tight but cutting clean through the chatter.
“Watch your damn mouth, Tony.” Her tone didn’t rise, but it sliced sharper than any shout could’ve. “You think ‘cause you sit in the corner with your little camcorder and that toothpick you get to narrate people’s lives? Sal’s dead. My life’s not your street comedy.”
The whole spot hushed, like even the fryer oil leaned in.
Tony blinked, caught mid-chew, then tried to recover with a weak grin. “Aww, c’mon, Nova. I ain’t mean no?—”
“You meant it.” She cut him off cold, shoulders squared.
“You meant every word, and don’t think I don’t hear it.
You wanna spit Saint’s name, spit it outside.
Not in front of me, and you better not ever fix your mouth to spit it if and when my daughter is in front of any of you, and damn sure not in the place Lani gotta run so her man don’t drown in the same mess all y’all keep stirring. ”
Her voice shook on the last words—not from weakness but from the heat she was holding back.
Tony’s grin faltered, the toothpick stilled. He glanced at me like maybe I’d bail him out. I didn’t. I just kept wiping the counter, slow, steady, letting Nova’s words hang in the thick, gossip infested air.
The old heads shifted in their seats, murmuring low. One of them whistled under his breath. Kids at the back table went wide-eyed, forks frozen halfway to their mouths. Even the mailman ducked his head, suddenly fascinated with his biscuit.
Tony cleared his throat, tried for a shrug. “Aight. My bad. Just playin’.”
But Nova wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was staring down at her hands, chain caught between her fingers, chest rising heavy.
I leaned across the counter, voice low but sharp enough for him to feel it. “Play somewhere else today, Tony. Today isn’t the day.”
He nodded quick, stuffed the last of his chicken in his mouth, and sank back in his chair, quiet for once.
The radio hummed soft in the corner, like it was trying to smooth the air back flat. But the truth was out now, and it wasn’t going back.
Nova’s chain glinted under the neon light, her fingers clutching it like it was the only thing steady in this room. Her voice came low but sharp, still ringing from snapping at Tony.
“You hear what they’re sayin’, Lani? Saint this, Saint that. Like I asked that man to stand next to me. Like I picked him out the lineup.” Her jaw flexed hard, voice cracking through the air. “I didn’t ask for none of it. And now everybody think they know what shade I stand under.”
I set the rag down, leaned forward across the counter. My voice was rough, but not unkind. “Baby girl, people gon’ talk whether you breathing or not. That’s the tax on being tied to men with crowns and cuts. Sal left a mess, and mess don’t just vanish ‘cause he in the ground.”
Her eyes flared, tired but fierce. “So what—they expect Cruz to clean it? Expect me to wear it on my back? The Street Disciples going toe to toe?”
I held her stare. “If Sal owed the mayor’s boy like folks’ whisper, that debt looking for a new address. And it don’t knock soft. You feel me?”
Nova sucked her teeth, shaking her head, curls sticking to her damp cheek. “Saint ain’t my cover. He ain’t my protector. He ain’t—” she caught herself, chest rising heavy, “he ain’t Ro.”
That name hit the table like a dropped knife. The old heads at the counter suddenly got real interested in their plates.
I lowered my tone, kept it between us. “Listen. I ain’t judging Saint, but men like him don’t move without a reason.
If he’s circling you, Nova, that reason got numbers attached.
Paper, favors, protection—always a price.
And I need you to know the streets ain’t gon’ be gentle just ‘cause you holding a baby on your hip.”
Nova blinked hard, hazel eyes glistening but not breaking.
She swallowed like the truth scraped her throat.
“I just buried some one that was like a true uncle to me and Aaliyah. I can’t bury Cruz, too.
I can’t bury Ro… not again. And now I’m standing here feeling like I’m carrying the whole block’s sins, and I didn’t even write ‘em.”
Her voice dropped low, near a whisper. “Lani… what if they come for me? For my baby?”
I reached across the counter, covered her hand with mine, coffee-stained rag still clutched in my fist. My voice softened but stayed steel.
“Then they gotta get through me first. And through Cruz. And through that patch. You ain’t standing alone, Nova.
Don’t let the whispers fool you. You family here. You blood by choice.”
The room was quiet now, even Tony kept his fool mouth shut.
I let go of her hand, picked the rag back up. “But you need to keep your eyes open, baby girl. Debt don’t die with the man. It waits for the widow.”
Nova’s voice cracked the quiet, low but jagged.
“Tell me straight, Lani. What’s you think is Saint’s angle? What’s the Mayor’s boy got to do with all this? Don’t dance me around it—I need the truth.”