Push Comes To Shove Part 17

Jewels climbed from behind the steering wheel and stepped into the excitement and energy of the Flats district's nightlife. From forty yards away, she could hear people enjoying themselves and laughing it up inside the comedy club when the door swung open. She looked at the open sky and pondered on the stars' beauty.

Trouble c.o.c.ked back and crashed the b.u.t.t of his gun against Jewels' skull. "You ain't so tough now, is you, b.i.t.c.h?"

The words never registered; Jewels was unconscious before she slammed into the asphalt. Her key ring slid a few feet away.

Dirty retrieved the keys.

In less than a minute, Dirty had searched the Escalade. "It's not here."

"Kiss my...f.u.c.k!" Trouble kicked a dent into a Hyundai, then cast his annoyed gaze on Jewels. He began to search her. "Whatever this b.i.t.c.h is made of, it's heavy and solid. Help me turn her over."

"Like she got a hundred grand on her."

"We can tongue-wrestle later; help me turn this hoe over."

They turned Jewels onto her back as the BlackBerry in her pocket began to ring.

Trouble lifted her shirt and saw the money belt strapped around her waist. "Pay day."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n, now that's what I call a six-pack." Dirty pointed to her defined abs. "Her s.h.i.t look better than them body-builders in the magazines."

Trouble removed the money belt. "Muscle can't help her now. f.u.c.k this b.i.t.c.h." He kicked her in the ear as hard as he had kicked the Hyundai, then walked away.

Jewels's BlackBerry was begging to be answered.

Dirty froze in his tracks. "Where you going? The ride is this way." He pointed.

Trouble never broke his stride. "We came to get paid, right?"

"We got it, let's roll out."

"Nah, you got it f.u.c.ked up. It's still some money waiting for us on the inside. You ain't p.u.s.s.y, is you, chump?"

"Watch your mouth."

"Let's go get it, then." Trouble turned in the direction of the comedy club.

GP grabbed Kitchie. "What did he give you?"

"You're hurting my arm." Her attempt to break free was useless.

"I asked you a question."

"A few dollars; that's all."

"What he giving you money for? Huh?" He shook her one good time.

"He was just looking out." Kitchie saw the devil in GP's eyes.

"You're giving it back. Give it to me."

"I'm not. We need this money. I said you're hurting me. Now let me go, GP!" She s.n.a.t.c.hed away from him and went inside the building.

GP turned toward Desmond. "Uh, let me holler at you, main man."

Desmond leaned against a Dumpster under a street lamp as GP approached.

"You know my wife from somewhere?" He connected a solid fist to Desmond's jaw. "Stay the h.e.l.l away from her."

Desmond countered with a two-punch combination, which sent GP to the gla.s.s-ridden pavement. "Don't come down here with that fake gangster s.h.i.t, you clown-a.s.s chump." He flexed his lower jaw, working the pain out. "I don't want your girl; and if you wasn't putting your business in the street, I wouldn't be in it."

GP threw a hand in front of his eyes to block the glare of the street lamp. He balanced himself on a knee.

Desmond yanked out a .9mm. "Fool, stay down. I didn't tell you to get up." He clicked the safety. "Don't force my hand. I ain't that big on violence, but I'll f.u.c.k you up if you push me."

The mechanical sound of the safety echoed in GP's ear. It scared the s.h.i.t out of him.

"I respect the fact that you're trying to do the right thing. Being broke is hard. I admire honest motherf.u.c.kers like you. I wish I didn't have to make my living in these streets." He spat a mouthful of blood into the Dumpster. "You don't know nothing about waking up every morning, thinking today is the day I'll be murdered or thrown in jail, or that maybe I'll have to kill a stupid motherf.u.c.ker like you. Maybe I was out of line for giving your woman money toward your hardship. So what! What you gonna do about it? Your broke a.s.s need all the help you can get."

A car engine started.

"My business ain't-"

"Shut up. You need to get your seeds. I wore them boots before. If it's ever a next time, I'll make it my business to put the money in your hand. And don't be one of them proud motherf.u.c.kers. You need something, ask. I'm always out here." Desmond stuffed the gun in his waistband and reached out a hand. "Get up. Don't you think you've been down long enough?"

Hector put his foot on the gas pedal and eased out of the lot.

A security guard was searching patrons at the Improv's entrance.

Dirty could feel the .40 caliber's heft in his Evisu jeans. "We'll never get by dude. f.u.c.k them numbers. We came off; let's roll out."

"Stop crying and come on." Trouble rushed over to the guard. He was breathing hard as if he'd run a marathon.

"Twenty-five a head with identification," an awkward-built guard said as he inspected the duo. "If you don't have IDs, you two look like you can afford seventy-five a pop."

"Man, you trying to rob us and you got a dude in the parking lot having a heart attack." Trouble acted as if he couldn't catch his breath as he poked a finger toward the lot.

The guard's eyes bulged. "You left him there...alone?"

"You d.a.m.n right. I got two felonies. I can't wear a murder rap."

The guard stepped from behind the velvet rope. "Where is he?"

Dirty pointed. "Stretched out on the ground beside a blue Escalade. Hurry up before the dude die."

The guard sprinted toward the lot in search of an Escalade.

Dirty and Trouble went inside the club, armed.

CHAPTER 12.

Steve Harvey was on stage, showing his a.s.s. He was having himself a good time acting a fool. The crowd responded with gut-busting laughter.

Sticky Fingers and an a.s.sociate sat in private loft seats taking advantage of the bird's-eye-view. Sticky Fingers appeared to be in his mid-forties with thinning hair and sunken cheeks, compliments of his strict vegetarian diet. He wore a designer shirt with two b.u.t.tons unfastened at the collar, which showed off his gray chest hairs and the darkness of his rough skin. He shut the cell phone's power off. "She's not answering. Give her a few more minutes. Jewels will be here. She's thirsty."

A soot-colored man with wire-rimmed gla.s.ses and a bald head sat beside him at the table. "I've given you more time than I was willing. You're washed up, Sticky. You don't have that...that winning drive anymore. It's like you've lowered your player standards. You'll deal with anybody to turn a buck. I can no longer vouch for you."

"Fats, relax and enjoy the show. My friend is stand up; she'll be here."

"That was the same Parker Brothers you threw at me last month." Fats stood to leave. "My business doesn't thrive on practice runs. This is the second time I find myself rehearsing with you. Lose my number, immediately."

The door to the loft was opened.

"Pump your brakes and park your a.s.s back in that chair." Dirty steadied his gun on Fats. "Stay and enjoy the party, old-timer."

Sticky Fingers shifted his sight between the two strangers.

"The Legendary Sticky Fingers." Trouble seated himself directly behind the stunned men. "Jewels told me that I would find you here. She also said that one of you two players would have some numbers that I would be interested in." He looked at Sticky, then pointed at Fats. "I think that would be you."

Dirty waited with his weight against the door, preventing anyone else from entering.

"Listen here, youngster, you're stepping on the wrong set of toes." Sticky wondered why Jewels had foolishly crossed him. "You don't have any idea of how this is going to escalate beyond a simple robbery. Do you know-"

"I don't give a f.u.c.k who either one of you b.i.t.c.hes is." Trouble had a hard look on his face. "Punk a.s.s, suck my d.i.c.k. You the middle man. Open your mouth again, and I'll shove a barrel in it. Jewels told me that you'd throw around a few subtle threats."

Fats looked at Sticky. "Out of all people to set up, you pick me. You're right, these guys here don't know, but you...you know there's going to be repercussions." He switched his attention on Trouble. "Your partner over there is carrying a forty-caliber. That thing will sound like a nuke going off in here. The only way you'll leave this building is with a police escort, and I'll have you murdered before they set your bond. You have to shoot me, which you're not." He finished his rum and c.o.ke. "I'm not giving you a motherf.u.c.king thing, young jitterbug."

Trouble laughed. "You have a valid point about busting a gun in this small room, but you're gonna give me what I came for regardless of security." With swiftness, he produced a b.u.t.terfly knife and drove it through Fat's left shoulder.

"Please, Mr. Reynolds, please let him out. He's afraid of the dark." Secret kicked and scratched as Mr. Reynolds dragged her toward a coffin next to the one Junior was locked in. "Why do you hate us so much?" She could hear Junior's pounding. "Why, Mr. Reynolds? What have we done?"

He lifted the struggling young girl with ease and forced her into the coffin. "I hate all of you little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. If it wasn't for your good-for-nothing father, I wouldn't still be selling these d.a.m.n things." He banged his meaty fist against the coffin. "If he hadn't stolen my money, I wouldn't still be babysitting a bunch of worthless kids, either. d.a.m.n you all to h.e.l.l."

The knife entered his shoulder with ease. Fats screamed out in pain as the enormous crowd roared in laughter.

"Shh!" Trouble held a finger to his lips, then stuffed a wad of napkins in Fats's pie hole. "No screaming, gangster."

"Bite down on that," Dirty said. "While you give them numbers up."

Nothing.

Sticky Fingers was still thinking about his next encounter with Jewels.

Trouble whispered in Fats's ear. "Are you really gonna make me stick you again?"

Fats spat out the napkins and leaned slightly to the left, favoring the injured shoulder. "My inside pocket...the right one." Sweat dripped from his temple.

Trouble examined the combination of the ten sets of numbers before putting the slip of paper in his pocket. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you ancient cats." He stood and s.n.a.t.c.hed the knife out of Fats' shoulder.

Fats gritted his teeth in pain.

Trouble wiped the blade clean on Sticky's silk shirt. "Jewels told me to tell you thanks for the hook-up. Oh, yeah, and that cut you was trying to get now belongs to me."

Secret looked up at Mr. Reynolds from the confines of her padded box. "Take it out on me. Please, Mr. Reynolds, just let my brother out. He's afraid of the dark."

"He'll get used to it. Your father did." He slammed the coffin's lid shut and locked it.

"My mother will be here in the morning. She'll-"

"She'll be lucky if I let her visit. Now shut your mouth and go to sleep."

Darkness.

Secret heard the dock's door close. "Junior, calm down and listen."

Nothing but crying and more pounding.

"Junior, you little punk. I know you hear me."

Silence.

"Answer me, Junior."

"Huh?" He turned on his side in the complete darkness.

"Stop working yourself up and chill. Remember when we used to play hide-and-seek?"

"Yeah." He sniffled as his chest rose and fell.

"You used to hide from me and Carinne in the clothes hamper for-"

Mr. Reynolds banged on both coffins. "Shut the h.e.l.l up and go to sleep. Don't make me say it again."

Junior lost his cool again.

Jewels was adjusting the medical bed when her first visitor entered her hospital room. "Who the h.e.l.l swole your eye? Kitchie must have finally got tired of your a.s.s."

GP touched the tender knot under his eye. "Don't worry about it. What happened?"

"Don't even trip." She pulled him close and whispered, "Sticky Fingers is a dead man walking. He had me set up."

"They get it all?" He perched himself on her bed.