Angel's Revenge Page 11

  When you scream

  LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!

  The crowd laughed hard, but Tamika subtly shifted in her chair because his words had killed her softly, singing her life with his words.

  Monte winked, then walked away.

  “Don’t lie, you were feelin’ that one,” Nina said, nudging her friend once again with her elbow.

  “At least it rhymed,” Tamika replied, trying to brush it off.

  Next, it was time for Nina to fulfill her end of the deal.

  Brick City was the club, formerly known as Zanzibar, the infamous Newark nightclub that made Tony Humphrey and Chef Pettibone famous.

  Nina hated clubs, but Tamika wouldn’t let her back out.

  The spot was unusually packed for a Thursday, which only made it worse for Nina. She hated the loud, blaring music, the bumping and touching people did to make their way through the crowd, and the way men thought every woman was an easy fuck for the night.

  Now it was Nina with an attitude while Tamika was amped.

  “Hell, yeah! Now this is what I’m talkin’ about. Look at these niggas going up in there. Girrrrrrl, hurry up and park!” Tamika urged.

  Nina maneuvered through the tight parking lot full of luxury automobiles equipped with so many amenities it made her BMW look like a Hyundai.

  “Girl, how are we going to get in? Look at that line!” Nina remarked, referring to the line of people that went around the corner of the building. “It’s too cold to be standing out here.”

  “Please! You think I’m about to stand out in Jack Frost? I don’t think so,” she said, snapping her fingers and making an S in the air.

  “Well, how we getting in then?” Nina asked, her eyes bulging.

  “It’s called Cavalli, Roberto Cavalli. Honey, with this dress I’m wearing… it’s like a VIP pass. My ass is a pass,” she said, laughing to herself as she looked in the rearview mirror and applied some lipstick. “Shit, I rhyme better than them fake-ass Def Poetry Slam niggas you had me up there listening to. I shoulda been up there on the stage. Maybe that’s what I need to do.”

  “You need to get some help,” Nina said, finally finding a parking space.

  Nearing the entrance, Nina looked at all the people on line and frowned. Why was everybody dressed like it was 1987? Everyone was dressed in Dapper Dan, Gucci, Fendi, and MCM velour suits mingled with beef and broccoli Tims, Guess jean suits with leather pockets, Adidas sneakers, and Kangols. One nigga even had an 8 ball jacket on. Where the hell did he find that,Nina wanted to know. The outfits were accessorized with dookie ropes, door-knocker earrings, and Cazel frames. They wore sheepskins, shearlings, and bombers instead of leathers and furs. Nina and Tamika couldn’t believe their eyes.

  “Damn, Mika. Where the hell you bring me?” Nina asked.

  Tamika looked at herself. Suddenly, her dress had lost all its flair. But dress or no dress, she was still a brown-skinned stallion, thick like Luke dancers.

  She led Nina to the door where two huge bouncers stood.

  “What’s goin’ on, y’all?” Tamika questioned.

  “It’s a private welcome home for Angel,” he informed her.

  “Well, if it’s private, why are all these people standing on line?” Nina wanted to know.

  “Just that. They’re standing on line,” he replied with a chuckle. “But how can I turn away such lovely ladies?” he flirted.

  He was obviously referring to Tamika, because Nina’s was a simple beauty. He removed the velvet rope and ushered the two of them in, sparking curses from the haters on the line.

  Once inside, Nina looked at all the banners that read, “Welcome home, Angel!”

  “Who the hell is Angel?”

  Tamika shrugged and grabbed two glasses of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray. “Damn if I know. But drinks is on her tonight,” she chimed and handed Nina a glass.

  The theme was definitely the eighties and Biz Markee was deejayin’ it up in the proper fashion, spinning all the joints from back in the day. Nina had to admit it was fun, hearing all the hip-hop classics she hadn’t heard since high school. She even danced a few times, doing the wop, the Biz Mark, and, of course, the cabbage patch.

  Angel and Goldilocks were moving in and out of the crowd, mingling, greeting old faces, and being introduced to new ones. Angel had on a pink suede Adidas suit with pink shell toes and bamboo earrings while Goldilocks had on Jordache jeans, a silk shirt, and a pair of stilettos.

  Angel had thrown the party for herself, but the festivities had a double meaning. She wanted a full view of all the players who moved New Jersey. Everyone had shown up except Roll. She had no idea he wasn’t coming, so she continued to wait patiently. In the meantime, she let go a little bit and fed into the nostalgia, wildin’ out on the dance floor, a bottle of Remy XO in one hand and a bottle of Cristal in the other.

  Until she saw her. She looked through the crowd of happy partying faces and spotted Nina.

  Nina noticed Angel staring at her and knew the face from somewhere, she just couldn’t remember where. Angel knew exactly who Nina was because she couldn’t stand her.

  Why you so on this bitch all of a sudden, Angel asked after pulling Dutch to the side.

  What, you my mother now? You thinkin’ wit’ my dick? he replied, trademark smile making Angel’s blood boil.

  Somebody need to. You don’t know this bitch. She could be anybody, fuckin’ Feds, fuckin’ anybody! Remember Simone, don’t you? Angel asked, warning him to be cautious.

  How can I forget? Dutch said, looking down at the dragon chain dangling around his neck. Then he walked away.

  • • •

  From then on, Angel hated Nina, and she was glad when they finally broke up and Dutch stopped seeing her.

  She probably here lookin’ for another Dutch to suck off, Angel figured before turning back to Goldilocks.

  Nina saw the Puerto Rican girl grillin’ her.

  She’s probably drunk or gay, thought Nina, who was ready to go home.

  “Mika, we gotta go,” Nina said, hoping Tamika was ready.

  She sucked her teeth.

  “Come on, Nina, chill out. The party’s just startin’. Shit, it’s getting hot in here, take off all my clothes,” Tamika sang with the music.

  “Well, you can stay butt-naked if you want, but my black ass is ’bout to be out. I’m goin’ home,” Nina said, dead serious.

  “And how I’m ’posed to get home?”

  “Backseat of my Jeep,” Nina joked, rapping the hook of LL’s classic.

  “I got yo’ backseat, bitch.”

  “You ready?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  They made their way through the parking lot pimps, and were nearing the car when a red Bentley Continental GT pulled up with a Maybach following its lead. Niggas turned their heads twice at the cars as they brushed through the streets.

  Tamika gasped with lust.

  “See? Just when we leavin’,” she pouted, wishing she didn’t have to leave the party so early.

  But something else caught Nina’s eye. She could’ve sworn the fat man driving the Bentley wore the dragon chain Dutch used to wear. It was a quick glance, but the image of the coiled serpent stuck in her brain. Nina stretched her neck to see, but the car passed and the driver was no longer in sight.

  She shook it off, thinking her mind was playing tricks on her again. She figured wrong. The dragon was draped over Roll’s fat, sweaty neck. Nitti had delivered it to him after he murdered Young World. Roll wasn’t wearing the chain out of respect. He was wearing it out of disrespect. He was arrogantly letting niggas know he was behind Young World’s demise. He had the chain, and if anybody didn’t like it, too fucking bad.

  Roll, Nitti, and the two guys in the Maybach made their way to the entrance. They weren’t dressed in the eighties fashion because they hadn’t come to party. They had come to make a statement. And the dragon did exactly that, bouncing off Roll’s fat belly as he approached the entrance
. The two bouncers instantly removed the velvet rope and admitted him and his crew.

  When Roll reached the floor, all eyes fell first on him, then on the dragon. People whispered as he passed, openly greeting him or moving aside to let him pass by. When Angel finally spotted him, her blood began to boil upon seeing the dragon gleaming against his sweater. It was the dragon she should be wearing. Who the hell do this fat muhfucker think he is? she asked herself, taking a look as she unconsciously flipped the razor over in her mouth. But she controlled her emotions. It’s just a matter of time, papi, she told herself. Roll looked at her and smirked. She was heated and wearing her emotions on her sleeve. That’s the problem with most broads, Roll thought. They didn’t need to be in the game because they were too emotional.

  Angel fought hard, trying not to let him see her emotions, but it just didn’t work. Roll knew Angel was treacherous, but her return could benefit his team if she played fair. If she didn’t, curtains. For Roll, it was that simple.

  Angel held out her hand and shook Roll’s.

  “What’s the deal, Roll? Long time no see.” Angel smiled.

  “Ain’t nothing,” Roll replied, referring to Angel’s and Goldilocks’s outfits. “I woulda dressed for the occasion, but ah… I ain’t come to party.”

  Time was money to Roll, and he didn’t waste either.

  “Duke wanted me to holla at you. Now that World is gone, he don’t want no beef, and he hoped you and I could squash it,” she finished, trying to keep her eyes off the dragon.

  Roll rubbed his chain. “Well, where Duke at?”

  “He chillin’.”

  “Chillin’?” Roll echoed.

  “Let’s go somewhere and talk. Follow me,” Angel said as she and Goldilocks turned to walk away.

  Roll looked at Nitti. They were strapped, and Roll felt shit was legit, so they followed Angel to a storage room in the back of the club. It was empty except for a six-foot-long meat locker. The sounds of the music bounced around the hollow room as Angel faced Roll.

  “If Duke was here, he’d want you to know he didn’t want no problems. He inherited World’s territory but hopefully not his beef. He wants you to forget the past.”

  Roll looked at Nitti, amused.

  “Forget the past, huh? What’s in it for me?”

  “A merger. World’s spots with yours. You keep your connect and 30 percent of the profit,” Angel proposed.

  Roll momentarily avoided answering, thinking of the 30 percent she had offered.

  “Where is Duke, anyway? He shook or somethin’? He lettin’ bitches speak for him now?”

  Goldilocks tensed but Angel laughed. “I told you, yo,” she began, then opened the meat locker. “Duke’s chillin’.”

  Duke was really chilling. He lay on a bed of chipped ice, wearing Angel’s trademark, a slit throat. His blood tinged the ice pink around his head. Roll’s eyes widened momentarily, then relaxed to normal. It was unexpected, but not a surprise.

  “Duke ordered the hit on you, Roll, not Young World. World ain’t know shit about it. He was in Atlanta when Duke put that lame shit down. He was movin’ on you and World because he was the only one who could’ve benefited from a war.”

  Roll nodded. “Regardless, ma. World had it comin’. If it was his doin’, he got what he deserved, and if he didn’t, then he couldn’t control his people. Either way, it’s still on World,” Roll replied, and Angel acknowledged his point.

  “Well, they both gone now. So now what?”

  “I’m sayin’, Duke gone but what about this shit I’m hearin’ about him fuckin’ with some spaghetti heads in Hoboken? They chillin’ too?”

  Angel closed the meat locker and leaned against it. “A bunch of fuckin’ nobodies. They ain’t even in the mob. They wish they was down with the mob. Duke was their meal ticket, and they were his middlemen. The mob was charging Duke for protection. And now that Duke’s gone, they’ll go back to jackin’ airport trunks.”

  Roll was impressed. Angel was still on top of her game. She was beautiful, but she wasn’t to be fucked with. The deal was sweet, almost too sweet.

  “So what you sayin’, ma?”

  “I think we’d make better friends than enemies.” Angel smiled wickedly.

  Mmm-hmm. Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer, Roll thought to himself, then looked down and glanced at his watch.

  “I think me and you should hang out sometime. Get to know one another,” Roll suggested. His tone said he was interested but not yet convinced.

  “Time is money, papi.”

  “Then we’ll spend some of both,” Roll responded as he and his people turned for the door.

  “Roll,” Angel called out. He turned around at the door. “I like your chain.”

  Roll chuckled and left with his entourage.

  “Fat muthafucka,” Angel hissed to herself.

  RAHMAN

  CHAPTER SIX

  Daddy!” the three tiny voices cried in unison.

  Rahman kneeled to receive his three children, Ali, six, Aminah, five, and Anisa, three, as they ran to embrace their father. They smothered him with a collective hug, then he scooped them up in his big arms.

  He was free.

  He stood with the ominous structure of the federal courthouse in downtown Newark behind him. Rahman had won his appeal and was walking away a free man. He didn’t want his family in the courthouse and opted instead for them to await the decision outside.

  “Mr. Rahman Muhammad, you are free to go,” the judge stated. It was a dream come true. Night after night he had dreamed those very words. Yet to hear the judge actually speak them brought tears to his eyes.

  Free.

  Rahman stepped down the courthouse steps like a slave unsure of his emancipation. For three years he had been told when to eat, sleep, get up, wash his ass, and move. To have his rights restored was truly a divine blessing. He vowed never to forget his ordeal and all he had endured.

  Rahman smothered his babies with tears and kisses, “As-Salaamu Alaikum!”

  “Alaikum As-Salaamu!” his children cried.

  “Welcome home, Abu!” Ali told him, happy to have his daddy back.

  Rahman looked up at his beautiful wife standing by their forest-green Escalade. Ayesha was dressed in a flowing powder-blue dress that covered her to the ankles. Her kemar was the same blue, and she wore a veil that covered her face but showed her eyes. The veil wasn’t necessary in Islam, but she had worn the veil for three years because her husband was imprisoned and away from her and their family. It was her own vigil and her way of representing him. Now that he was home, she stripped it away to embrace him with her smile.

  He put the children down and pulled Ayesha to him.

  “You know we’re not suppose to be out here in public like this,” she said, wanting to hold him in her arms on the spot but knowing they should wait to be in private before hugging and kissing.

  “Ayesha, after these past three years, you can’t ask me to wait,” he said, holding her close and hugging her.

  “You are my peace,” she whispered in his ear while rubbing her face on his.

  Ayesha had maintained a perfect Muslim household. For Rahman’s entire incarceration, she religiously made the journey, first to Lewisburg then to Atlanta, twice a month, flying with her brother and her children. She endured the nasty attitude of racist COs, the violation of her privacy by female COs, and the harassment of the federal prison system to bring her man all her love each time. Not just for him, but for herself as well. Rahman was truly her peace, and after dealing with the trials and tribulations of day-to-day life, she needed her man’s strength and warmth. To have him again in her arms was almost too much to bear. So great was the miracle, so much all at once, all she could do was cry tears of happiness, relief, and most of all love.

  “Don’t cry, ma. It’s over. We never gon’ be apart. I’m here, and I’ll never leave you again,” he said, kissing her face all over.

  “What’s wrong with
Ummi, Abu?” Aminah, the curious one, questioned. Rahman smiled, kissed Ayesha on the forehead, and said, “Ummi’s fine, Minah. She’s just happy daddy’s home.”

  Rahman went to the masjid first, as most Muslims do, or should do, when returning home from a journey. He prayed his return prayer and when he finished, he got up to a rousing chorus of Takbir and Allah Akbar. The other Muslims who attended his masjid knew he was on his way home, but to actually see him made them excited. He had been in touch with many of them while locked away. He had helped a lot of families and the masjid by building a children’s school and paying for roofing and plumbing repairs.

  “All praise is due to Allah! My man’s home!” Salahudeen shouted as he hugged Rahman. Salahudeen was an ex-kickboxer. He used to travel in the same circles with Akbar’s people and would serve as Rahman’s right hand.

  Salahudeen was followed by Hanif and Mustafa, both reformed gangsters now in the independent oil fragrance business. They all greeted Rahman.

  “See how Ock do us? Don’t even tell nobody he out so a brother could be prepared,” Hanif commented.

  “A Muslim is always prepared,” noted Rahman.

  “No doubt, no doubt! This is true,” Hanif agreed. “But are you prepared to put this thing of ours in motion?”

  “Insha Allah,” Rahman said to Mustafa.

  “Aiight, dig. Let’s go up to my spot. I already talked to…” Salahudeen began to explain, because he was always about business.

  Rahman laughed.

  “Whoa, Ock. Slow your roll. I ain’t been home yet! My family’s in the car waiting for me.”

  “My bad, my bad. Your wife does have rights over you,” Salahudeen said.

  “Three years’ worth of rights,” Hanif joked.

  “Exactly! You might not see me for another three years, either, messin’ with Ayesha.”

  The brothers laughed together knowing what it was like to finally be home from a prison stay.

  “Just gimme a week,” Rahman told them. They all agreed and dispersed.

  On his way out the door, Rahman spotted Hakim coming in. Hakim was an older brother with salt-and-pepper hair. He was also Young World’s father. Rahman felt apprehensive as the man approached him, but he had no intention of avoiding him.