Carmine didn't immediately recognize Risquee when he saw her waiting for him outside the shop. She wasn't wearing her street clothes. She was dressed in blue denim dungarees, white sneakers and a white T-shirt; her hair was tied back and she was carrying a rucksack. Maybe she was splitting town as soon as he gave her the 50 Gs he had in his trunk. He hoped so.
He wasn't going to kill her. Sure, he'd considered it as a cheaper option, but, when it came down to it, he couldn't see himself doing it. Murder wasn't him.
He parked three blocks down from the store. He wasn't gonna give her the money here. He was gonna walk up to her, take her for a drive, sweet talk her like he'd done the first time he'd seen her; he'd apologize from the bottom of his heart for leavin' her in jail and betrayin' her and then try and get a guarantee from her that she wouldn't say nothin' to his mother. He'd make her see sense, see his way. He knew he could. Plus he even had another 25 Gs in the glove compartment as a token of his appreciation. No way could that bitch resist the combination of green and his smooth charms. They never could. Everyone had their price.
It was dark in the road, with the only light coming from the few passing cars that were around and the one street lamp that hadn't got shot out by kids.
Carmine started walking up slowly, getting his words straight.
'Hey, baby,' he'd say. 'Sorry I kept you waitin'. Traffic was a bit-' No, not 'bitch'; couldn't use no pimpspeak. 'Traffic was hell.' That's what he'd say. 'Traffic was hell.'
'Hey, baby,' a man's voice behind her made Risquee turn around. It wasn't Carmine.
She couldn't quite make him out. He was close by, walking up to her from the right side of the street.
'You waitin' on someone, suga?' the man asked, voice all deep, comin' from inside his stomach like he was imitating Barry White.
'You talkin' to me, mistah?'
'Sure am. Ain't no one else out here on this night.' The man got closer. He had a kind of bounce in his voice, like he was finding shit funny.
'Zzamatta-o-fak I am waitin' on someone-suga,' she said, putting plenty of boot in her tone, so he knew she wasn't interested. 'An' I don't need no company while I'm doin' it.'
He was close enough to see now. Tall and slim, short-sleeved black shirt and loose slacks, a hint of gold in his mouth, gold chain, shiny gators, aftershave-damn, if it wasn't Ole fuckin' Spice! Her pops used to put that shit on his dick after he'd been fuckin' around, so's her moms wouldn't smell another pussy on him. Another no-good dumbass.
'Whooooh! Ain't you the feisty one, huh?' The man laughed.
There was something off about him, the way he was standing real close to her.
'Yeah, I'm feisty as fuck, you mess wit' me,' she snarled. 'An' you a inch from catchin' that shit! Now, I'm a waitin' on someone and it ain't yo' ass, so why don't you take a long walk outta mah face, OK?'
'Oh, I'm sorry, mam-I do apologize,' he said with exaggerated politeness, but then turned pure nasty, 'but I thought you was some cheap ho' lookin' to make a quick five.'
'Oh, I'm sorry, sah,' Risquee snapped back sarcastically. 'I remine you o' yo' momma? Or is it yo' daddy like to dress up in women panties?'
He hit her in the mouth. She felt metal in the punch. Brass knuckles.
She staggered back into the shop door. She was dazed, head spinning, blood pouring down her throat and out of her mouth.
She felt the man reach through the fog and grab her arm. He started dragging her up the street, in the direction he'd come.
Her rucksack was gone.
Carmine saw it all. At first he'd thought the brother was a john or some guy out tryin' his luck, but then it occurred to him that only trouble or an idiot walked these streets at night, and, right at the instant he hit her, Carmine realized the man was someone Sam had sent.
Fuck that bitch, had been his first and only thought as he'd quickly turned around and started walking back to his car, more relieved that Risquee was really being dealt with for good, than he was mad at Sam for disobeying him. Hell, Sam had only wanted to look after his best interests anyway, so-
Behind him, he heard a scream-a man's scream.
He turned around to see what had happened, but couldn't see shit 'cause it was too far away.
The man was yellin', 'You bitch! You bitch! You fuckin' daid!'
Then, behind him, an engine started and, as he turned back around, headlights came on full beam and blinded him.
Only her mouth hurt. Her head cleared in seconds.
Ole Spice was dragging her up the road to where his car was parked and the passenger door was open.
That fuckin' piece-of-shit-pussy-cocksucker-lowlife Kahmyne had set her the fuck up! She shoulda known. She juss didn't think he had the nutsacks to get her smoked.
She could smell those cheap shit aftershave fumes comin' offa Ole Spice, and stale sweat too. Lazy nigga probably didn't shower regularly.
He had her by her left arm.
She was right handed.
She reached into her pocket and took out the switchblade she kept there, in case of bad tricks. It had a six-inch razor-sharp stainless-steel blade.
Ole Spice stopped when he heard it pop open.
Dumbass…Dinn think to frisk me, didja? But who's complainin', fukka?
She swung quick and hard and stuck him in the gut. The blade pierced his flesh and ruptured soft tissue. He screamed. She dragged the blade down her like she was pulling on a lever.
He screeched in an unmanly way, reminded her of a little girl getting spooked on a ghost train.
His warm blood pissed out all over her hand and splashed on the ground.
She pulled out the knife; he fell heavily to his knees.
'You fuckin' bitch!' he said, quietly, in astonishment, 'you fuckin' stabbed me!'
'No shit, fukka!' she yelled and kicked him in the face. He fell back with a grunt.
Risquee ran up the street, fast as her legs could carry her. She had a great pair of pins on her, sprinter's legs, or so she'd been told. Amount of runnin' away she'd had to do all her life had developed 'em juss right.
She heard Ole Spice yellin' his ass off. Then he shot at her. Pop-pop-pop. She ran faster.
Two cars were coming up the road.
Pop-pop-pop again.
She heard glass breaking and the first car suddenly swerved sharply and skidded, crashing into Ole Spice's ride.
She ran even faster, just kept on going, faster and faster, oblivious to her busted-up mouth, and the sounds of more gunfire.
Carmine's ride was stolen right from under his nose. He'd left the top down and the keys in. Didn't think he was going to be gone for more than a few seconds. Little fuckers had probaby been watchin' him from the minute he stopped in the street. They'd jumped in when his back was turned and reversed so fast the tyres had squealed. Then they'd spun around and torn off down the street, as hell had broken loose behind them.
First some shots, then a car had swerved off the road and smashed slap-bang-boom into the hitman's ride. Then there'd been more shots-automatic fire, coming from another car-rat-tat-tat-tat-tattatat-loud-sounded like an assault rifle. Bullets had smashed into the vehicles and started ricocheting everywhere.
Who was shooting at who and why, Carmine didn't know or care because he'd started running the opposite way, running for what was left of his dear, precious, sad-ass life.