Girls from da Hood 14 Read online

  “Sonya, I done told your wannabe-a-boy ass about locking doors in my damn house.” Mom Dukes insulted me while barging into the room. She stopped dead center and did an inventory with her eyes. “Yeah, your father told me what you were down here doing.”

  “And?” I laughed at her, even trying to sound tough or as if she were a decent parent with real rules that mattered.

  “And I done told you not to bring no trouble round my domain. You make this your last time, do you understand me? You gonna make my house hot.”

  “Trouble? The whole damn house is trouble. And this mug been hot since the day you started squatting in this crib.” I didn’t back down or show her any real respect.

  “Yeah, so what, smart-ass? It’s mines.”

  “It’s yours until the real owner come around claiming this motherfucker. Then you and Pops and all of ya drug-addicted cohorts gonna be back out in the streets searching for another halfway decent bando.”

  But let’s keep it real. I peeped game and always did where she was concerned. Mom Dukes was an extortionist on the low. To shut her up was simple. I peeled a ten off the top of the cash I had stuffed deep inside my pocket. I shoved the money in her palm, and her bitching and fake house rules abruptly ceased. That was more than enough to get her first rock of the day.

  “Thank you, baby girl.” She smiled and turned on her heels, marching out of the room as if she had not just gone ham on me.

  Next, Pops entered the room. He swiftly took Mom Dukes’s place, giving me the sad eye. Anxiously, he rocked back on his leather heels, wiggling his stiff toes like he was playing the piano or trying to tap the floor. “Sonya,” he swallowed hard, hoping I was still feeling generous.

  “What?” I yelled at him while rubbing my fingers through my dreads. “I don’t know what you waiting on. I was gonna bless you until you told on me like some damn snitch. So, now, you gonna suffer. So, yeah, bye.”

  “Baby girl, wait. I ain’t tell her nothin’. I swear on God and three angels I didn’t. She just worked you, that’s all,” Pops firmly claimed, following me over to the sofa. “Come on, Sonya. I need to get out the gate before ten o’clock, or you know I’ma be sick. I feel weak already, and my stomach about to bottom out.”

  “What was you gonna do if I ain’t stop by? Then what?” I twisted up my face, waiting for a response.

  “I don’t know, but you did stop by. So, help ya old man out, will ya?”

  I can’t lie. I couldn’t stand to see my sperm donor like that, scratching his skin until he bled. He was a cold dope fiend and was bold. I knew, unlike my mother, who didn’t have to smoke a rock to be okay, Pops needed to push that needle in a vein, or he’d get sick damn near on the verge of death. The heroin had long claimed him and would continue to do so until God called his number. All the treatment and special programs he took part in over the years hadn’t helped any. I accepted the fact Pops was a dope fiend, and Mom Dukes was a bona fide crackhead. That’s just who they were. Sometimes, I had to remind myself, though. That way, I knew never to expect anything different from each but running game on whoever had the bag. It kept me focused because I know if I weren’t the one to go out and get it for them from time to time, it wouldn’t be got. In my feelings, I reached in my pocket and felt around.

  “I know you peeling. So just how much you get?” he inquired as his tongue protruded through his mouth.

  “Damn, nigga, here. Take it.” I gave him a twenty from my now almost empty pocket. “Make sure you get something to eat with the rest of it after ya get that pack.”

  “Rest of what? Shiiid . . . All this going to my arm.” Pops tucked the twenty into the front pocket of his filthy track pants and started for the door.

  “I hope y’all happy. I done gave y’all half of what I made. That shit foul, ’bout y’all don’t give a care. As long as y’all two high, it’s all good,” I hollered at my no-good parents.

  * * *

  I kicked back and caught the end of some Breaking News Story. Then I heard the voice of OC out in the living room, which was annoying because I had to go to the bathroom, and that meant I’d have to see his ass. Out of everybody around our way, I hated that guy the most. Over the past ten years or so years, he had been my father’s main heroin connect. I been wanted to kill OC because I felt like he was responsible for my Pops being strung out. Begrudgingly getting up from the couch, I left the room, heading down the hallway. Once in the front of the house, I shook my head, wanting to slap the fire outta OC’s nickel slick-talking mouth.

  “Hey, now, baby girl, you showl looking nice and sweet today.” He licked his lips as if I were a plate of pork chops and gravy. “What you hiding under all them loose clothes you be wearing, huh? You want me to take you shopping one day?”

  Any normal father would step to any grown-ass man trying to push up on his daughter. But, naw, not my damn father. Instead, he stood there like a small child waiting for a piece of candy. I was fuming. Here it was, my father was a mere nothing-ass crumb with a habit, while OC sported minks and gators, slamming Cadillac doors. I could see his old, wrinkled, crooked face smile showing that country-ass gold tooth, while he pocketed the twenty I’d just blessed Pops with. His disrespectful ass was most definitely on my list. But it was going to take some serious planning and lots of balls. However, I was down for it.

  Chapter Two

  Melody, Money Mel

  I was depressed. I felt like my life was going to end. And for me, it was. When my mom told me that we were moving to Detroit, it seemed like the end of the world because all I knew was Chicago. I loved home and wouldn’t trade it for nothing in the world. That’s where all my friends were, my existence, and most importantly, my hustle . . . how I made money. But when you’re 16, none of that matters. When my mom accepted the job offer at Ford Motor Company, what she really meant was that “we” accepted the offer; her, my two sisters, and me.

  I tried everything to keep from leaving my birthplace. I even got my uncle to agree to let me live with him and his wife, but no such luck. My moms wasn’t buying it. When the U-Haul was packed, my black ass was included. In the weeks leading up to the day we were to leave, she kept talking about us having a better life waiting for us in Motown. But to me, that was all a bunch of bullshit. In all honesty, my life was fine just the way it was back at home. I knew off the bat that I’d hate Detroit just on the strength of it not being the South Side of Chicago.

  My mom rented a three-bedroom lower flat on Waverly off Dexter. It was dead smack in the heart of the hood on the West Side of the city. The house came with worn-out wall-to-wall carpeting, an old stove with a nonworking oven, a refrigerator, and roaches. Big-ass roaches neither my siblings nor I had ever seen before. I was disappointed and confused. Back home, we were living rough, true enough, but our new house and the neighborhood it was in were like staying in a third world country.

  “Mom, are you serious right now? This is what you dragged us all the way from back home for—for this?” my oldest sister whined as we all took our first tour of the interior of the house.

  “This is kinda messed up. I’m just saying, we was doing way, way better in Chicago,” my youngest sister added her two cents, avoiding even touching a wall with her shoulder.

  “Okay, y’all, settle down and quit y’all bitchin’. This is just until I can save a few paychecks. This is temporary but necessary. We won’t be in this house for long. But until we move . . . welcome home.” Mom spoke in an assuring but stern voice.

  “I mean, they are kinda right. This is wrong all the way around,” I put my two cents in as well.

  “Look, ‘Ham,’ I need you, of all people, to stop complaining and make due until I turn things around.”

  Ham was my nickname. I was told I had temper tantrums as a baby, and my moms started saying I was always going “ham.” So, that title came to stick with family members.

  That plea from my mother changed my perspective. I was the first to step in and at least act like things woul
d get better with time. Deep down, I knew my mother needed me there with her to help with my sisters, and that was cool because I loved all of them. Our new digs was just gonna take some getting used to. For the most part, we were all close, always had been, and I guess that’s how our mother wanted to keep us. I knew all she wanted was a fresh start, not just for herself but for the entire family. And I had her back.

  More than anything, my mother wanted me to finish school. I had been held back twice already, and I was going for a third. I was 16 years old and still in the eighth grade. My younger sister and I were in the same grade. And the oldest was in high school. Moms was hoping that I’d do better being in Detroit and away from Chicago, but I gave up on school when my dad died. He was killed gambling in an after-hours joint. Some lame couldn’t stand the loss and probably all the cash shit my father would talk while taking loot off of them. “I now pronounce you broke.” He would taunt them after he broke the next man’s bank. I miss the shit out of that old, slick fool. Even though I was a girl, I was his favorite child. We were best friends and did everything together. When he passed away, it kinda left us fucked around, so school wasn’t nowhere on my mind.

  I found my true calling seven years ago down in Teri’s basement. She was an old, free-spirit type woman who lived two blocks over from me back in Chicago. For some reason, Teri took a liking to me. She said that I reminded her of her late husband. He was like me, an occasional Muslim when it suited him, but still infatuated with the streets. Rumor has it that man had to be the slickest Negro God ever created. Legendary, he was the coldest to ever play the “two-finger dip” game in the South Side of Chicago.

  Teri saw something in me, I guess, so she blessed me with the game on how to dip. The dark-haired woman had a mannequin set up in her basement. It was fully clothed and rigged up with buzzers that went off at the slightest touch. The object was to pretend the dummy was a victim, and you had to pick wallets and other hidden trinkets from various pockets without setting off the buzzers. Every day after school, I would go straight over to Teri’s and down in the basement to practice on that damn dummy. For three months straight, I practiced. Sadly, every time I went for one of the wallets, the buzzers would sound off. That infuriated me. But at the same time, it encouraged me to try to go even harder to get the game down packed.

  Teri would say, “You don’t get a second chance in real life. Now, let’s get it right this time.”

  She would demonstrate with ease how to pick the dummy, clipping one of the wallets, removing the money, then return it to the pocket. Her expertise had me mystified. Finally, one day after millions of tries and countless hours, I successfully clipped my first wallet. I was struck to see that the mannequin didn’t snitch me out.

  “I did it, I did it,” I excitedly called out for Teri. I wanted to show her that I had mastered the art of pickpocketing. Impressed, she made me do it repeatedly until she was satisfied that I had it down.

  She smiled through the cloud of smoke from her cigarette. “It’s time to put all that practice to work. You ready, Melody, or what?”

  Damn, I couldn’t wait. The deal was since Teri blessed me with the game, I owed her 20 percent off the victims that I picked for the next six months. I wasn’t tripping, though. For the art she had given me, I would’ve agreed to two years. I was just ready to put what I’d learned into play.

  The next morning, I skipped school. I started out riding the train. I’d brush up against people picking they shit left and right. Teri showed me how to train my eyes to spot where a victim was holding their prized possessions. I could look at you, and in five seconds, I knew where a wallet, cell phone, or iPod was located. Once I did zero in on that small bulge of wealth, there was nothing that could keep me from clipping yo’ ass. Every day when I finished pickin’, I would break bread with Teri. She would have a nice dinner spread waiting on me. We’d eat and then count our chips, and I’d dip. She’d keep all the credit cards and IDs. All I wanted was cash. And initially, that’s how I traded in the nickname “Ham” and became “Money Mel.”

  * * *

  Blessed with a skill, I didn’t leave Chicago empty-handed. I took my show on the road. For the first two weeks in Detroit, all I did was learn the city. As soon as my mom dropped us off at school, I’d wait until she pulled off. Once I made sure she was well out of sight, I would cross the street and wait for the bus to take me downtown. Once at the main transit terminal, I would ride east to west, picking the early-morning passengers for their lunch money and whatever else I could clip.

  One morning while I was riding the Woodward bus, I scanned the seats looking for a victim before I sat down. I spotted a gorilla knot bulging out the front shirt pocket of a heavyset, no-neck man. He was too lost looking out the window to notice that I had slid in the seat beside him. I folded my arms high across my chest and assumed the two-finger dip position. I scooted so close up on the man that he looked over at me with a look that said, “Damn, girl, you ain’t got enough room?” I kept my head and eyes straight to the front of the bus. I didn’t care how his big ass was feeling. I had my seat, and I wasn’t moving until I got that knot up off him.

  Every time the bus rocked and dipped into a pothole, I would inch closer up on him until my position was just right. No-Neck kept breathing hard and looking over at me with his eyes bucked like “Get up off me.” When the bus rocked again, I leaned into him, and that was all she wrote. Got ’em.

  Ole No-Neck got frustrated by the closeness. “Fuck it, I’ma move. Excuse me,” he yelled, trying to get into the aisle. “Move the fuck outta my way. You young people are the worse. Y’alls’ mommas raising y’all like animals.” He rolled his eyes on the way to an empty seat.

  That was my cue. “Sorry,” I smiled, letting his insult roll off my animal back. I pulled the cord and got up, walking to the rear door while keeping eyes on No-Neck in case he realized he’d been hit. Out of all my times of clippin’ folks, I could count on one hand how many times I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Twice, but never did I stick around long enough for the police to show up. If a victim caught me dippin’, I would flip the script. I had to because shit could get ugly—quick—and Teri taught me not to allow the victim to pump they self up. Lastly, I was to remember, in most cases, that they were just as scared of you. So, when they screamed, I’d scream louder. Shit, I would play crazy . . . whatever the situation called for, as long as it was good enough of a diversion to get up out of there.

  Once off the bus, I darted around the corner, then sprinted up the block to watch the bus through a parking lot. After patting myself on the back, I counted my earnings as the bus faded into traffic. Yeah, not bad, fat boy. Yeah, not bad at all. This so-called animal got down on you for $300. God made suckers so us hustlers could survive. Content with myself, I tucked the money in my pocket and crossed the street. I was starting to feel like moving to Detroit might work out.

  Chapter Three

  Two of a Kind

  The parking lot of Atlas grocery store was packed with customers. It was the first of the month, and everyone had their government money—my damn favorite day. For me, it was like my birthday and Christmas put together, only better. The first is when I did my best pickin’ because everybody had money to lend, not spend. I dubbed the first as the official two-finger dip holiday. It was the only holiday that came twelve times a year. Ready to get it going, I stood outside the entrance, just peeping everything out before I started moving. Everyone had turned out to spend their food stamps in groves. They pushed carts packed to the hilt with generic items, everything from soap to dog food-size bags of cereal. Jitney cabs lined the exit, soliciting folks in need of a lift, while random teens helped exiting customers with their bags. I was no different. I fell right in with them . . . only I wasn’t accepting tips. I was on another mission, bigger than the scraps they’d probably offer.

  “Nah, that’s okay. Keep your money. I’m just out here helping, doing God’s work,” I’d tell them when the
y offered a tip. I’d lie, of course, helping myself to their choice items as we walked to their car with the bags. By the time we reached the trunk, I would have all the tips I needed. I would wave them off, then return to my post with the pack of thirsty teens wishing for that one big tip.

  After a twenty-minute dry spell, an old man came scooting out of the store, pushing a buggy. Jackpot! It was easy to see his old ass had a vault in his back pocket. I could practically see the bills screaming from his wallet. Ready to make my presence known, I yanked an anxious boy by his shirt. “Fall back and chill out. I got this one.”

  “Come on, Pops.” With a reassuring smile, I grabbed the two bags from the basket and waited for him to walk around the rail. “I got you, Pops.” He just smiled back from behind the big blue blockers he wore on his face. He was happy to see a pretty young girl’s face offering to assist him. He had to be pushing 70, but I didn’t care. That wasn’t gon’ save him or his first-of-the-month windfall. “So, okay, where you at, dear?” I asked once I had him in the solitude of the closely parked cars.

  “It’s a grey Crown Victoria, with a dent on the side door. It should be around here somewhere.”

  “Okay, then, there it is. I see it.” He had parked near the alley, which was perfect for what I had in mind next. As we approached the trunk, I went into my spiel about not wanting a tip, all the while I was angling myself for the clip. Not thinking anything was strange, he popped the trunk so I could put his bags inside. I did that while checking each side of the vehicle for any passersby. Luckily, the coast was clear. When the old man reached upward to shut the trunk, that’s when I made my move. Oh, hell yeah, this like taking candy from a baby. As my hand reached for my prize, the sight of a huge pistol stopped me. My eyes widened, and I shook with fear as it was aimed dead at my face.

  “Both y’all jokers move to the alley. And hurry the fuck up.” It sounded like a young person about my age who ordered me and who was going to be my victim to be quick in our actions. It was hard to see his face, but I could tell he was talking through clenched teeth. “Hurry the fuck up before I make this thing sing. Move,” he snapped, waving the gun barrel toward the darkness of the alley.