It took me about thirty minutes to find the street I was looking for. I had messed around and took a wrong turn, and then couldn’t make a left to double back until I found one of those stupid jug-handles that Jersey is famous for. I finally found the right street and as soon as I turned in to it I knew shit was flaky.
Most of the streetlights were out and there were niggahs everywhere like it was two in the afternoon instead of two in the morning. Lounging on the stoops, sitting on cars, shooting cee-low on the curb, and hanging off fire escapes. Every one of them turned to stare into the Z and check out the rims as I drove down looking for the right house number, and one or two of them had the balls to step up to my window and motion for me to stop, like I was stupid enough to do it and my damn head screwed off and on.
Even with my windows up I could hear the music blasting outside, the bass making my windshield vibrate. I got really scared when I drove in further and realized that the street was a dead end. That meant I would have to drive out again, right back past the same niggahs I had almost run over coming in.
The house I was looking for was at the bottom of the street, right at the dead end. G had told me just to do whatever the connect told me to, so I had no idea what to expect. I saw a buffed-up brother with a wild afro sitting on a crate with a whole crew of niggahs, and as soon as I stopped the car he jumped up and came over to me.
He had on jail clothes. A big-ass white T-shirt and some baggy pants. A thick silver cross was hanging around his neck and I could see he was strapped.
He tapped twice on the window. “Roll it down,” he ordered.
I hit the button just enough to drop the window about an inch.
“What?”
I had my finger next to the trunk release button, ready to pop that bad boy open and let him get his package of whatever was back there.
“Nothing,” he said. “We changed the plan. You can go on back now.”
“What?” I gave him a dirty look. I wasn’t riding all the way back to Harlem with no hot package in my trunk. “Nah, G sent me-”
“I know who sent you. Now take your ass on back.”
“But I got stuff-”
He slapped my window so hard I covered my face, expecting the glass to shatter. When it didn’t, I put it up in a hurry, scared he’d somehow get his hand through that tiny crack and get to me.
“You got too much fuckin mouth! That’s what the fuck you got. Now get your ass up outta here.” He nodded up the street. “Before I get them niggers up there to strip this little toy car and then start on you.”
I know damn well I left some tires on that pavement. I put the Z in reverse, then whipped around so fast I hit two garbage cans and almost hit a parked car, too. I came up out of that dead end so hasty them niggers at the top of the street weren’t brave enough to run out at me this time. I didn’t even stop at the corner, instead I took my chances with a glance, then turned right into traffic not knowing if I was going in the right direction or not.
I was mad enough to kick G’s ass. Bad enough I drove all the way to Jersey in a drug dealer’s car with no damn license. He had me riding around with who knows what in the trunk, swearing the cops were gonna stop me and take me to jail, and in a strange city where I didn’t know nobody and the only thing I had for protection was my knife.
I was too scared to pull over and ask somebody on the streets how to get back to the turnpike, so I waited until I saw a gas station where an Indian man with a big turban on his head was pumping gas and asked him.
By the time I got back on the turnpike my foot was heavy and my mind was steady on driving north. But as scared as I was, curiosity was burning in me, too. I wanted to know. I wrestled with myself until I got to exit 8, then turned off at a gas station and parked on the side of the road. Looking around, I made sure nobody was anywhere near me, then punched the trunk release and jumped out of the car.
I stood there looking into the little ass trunk, getting mad as hell. It was empty. Wasn’t shit in there. Either the connect in the Bronx had taken something out, or the one in Camden was supposed to put something in. Either way, I was going home. Back to Harlem, and if G ever asked me to make another drop we was gonna have a showdown right then and there. This kind of cloak-and-dagger shit wasn’t happening for me no more, I didn’t care what G said. Let him send Punanee or Honey Dew, or one of them other bitches who were always up in his face next time, ’cause it sure as hell wasn’t going to be me.
Chapter Twenty
It was Ladies’ Night at the G-Spot, but I had my period and the cramps were kicking me like a mother. All day long I moped around the apartment, holding my stomach, dragging my feet, and plain old looking pitiful as hell. G caught the hint and allowed me to stay home from the Spot for the night. He even told Jimmy to make me a cup of tea before they left so I could feel better.
Pacho came to pick them up, and as soon as the door closed I tore off my nightgown and put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I ran into the kitchen and popped two Midols, then watched out the window until I saw Rita’s SUV pull up out front.
Minutes later Rita’s fingers were on G’s keyboard, working their magic.
I’d had her come by every chance we could get. After that bogus drop G sent me on in Camden, I was more determined than ever to get my hands on some papers and get me and Jimmy out of Harlem. Rita kept a book of computer codes she’d already used on G’s system, and today she was pulling some fresh ammo out of her bag of tricks.
“I don’t know, Juicy,” she said, her eyes staring at the screen in concentration. She looked in her book and started typing again. “G got this system locked down tight. Every damn trick I try has something protecting it. He’s gotta have something to hide. Burying a password in all this-”
Rita almost jumped out the chair.
“Bingo, motherfucker!” she yelled. “We’re in, Juicy. We’re in!”
I was jumping up and down and screaming, too. Glad Rita had worked her magic and hoping we’d finally find out where G had stashed his bank.
An hour later Rita had picked G’s computer clean, but not one damn bank account had come up. No account numbers, no stocks, no stash. Yeah, we’d busted into a hidden file and printed out the names of all of G’s connects and the dirty-ass cops in Harlem and low-level government people who were in his pocket or who he’d had dealings with over the years, but that was almost the same information we had copied out of his binder and there wasn’t even a mention of how G paid the rent on this phat apartment or how he financed his building leases or paid his taxes. I figured the Spot was just a front that he washed his money through. There was also a list of other businesses that he owned, some that I had known about and others that I didn’t, but that knowledge didn’t help me at all. I needed to find his money if I was gonna get Jimmy someplace safe, but my hope was dying as Rita read through the last of G’s files.
“Damn, Juicy,” Rita said shaking her head. “That motherfucker must have him another hiding place. The only thing left on here is a grave certificate registered to Orleatha Mae Stanfield.”
Grandmother. I looked over Rita’s shoulder, and sure enough there was a file from Woodlawn Cemetery with Grandmother’s name on it and the section where she was buried.