“Okay, baby. Don’t get all crazy though, there’s still people out front.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, bitch! Go upstairs!”
I thought about rushing him. I knew I could take him physically, but with the gun in his hand it was too big of a risk.
“I said some smart-ass remark when I walked past them, and they got all pissed off so they tried scaring me. But it didn’t work.”
“Hmm. Yeah. You don’t look like you scare easy.”
“I don’t.”
“Is that Paisan pizza?” he asked, putting the gun back in his pants. “That’s some good-ass pizza, yo. Probably cold by now, though.” He surveyed my apartment, like he was figuring out where to put his shit from Ikea. “You got this place lookin’ a lot better than the last mofo who was up in here. That guy was a fuckin’ slob.”
He made his way to the door, keeping an eye on me and his finger on the trigger of his gun. He stopped short of it and said, “Yo, I know you got a job and shit, but I’ma put it out there anyway. You ever want to make some real money, I mean real money, you come talk to me. I could always use someone like you.”
“What do you mean someone like me?”
“You’re a hard-ass dude, bro. I’m sure motherfuckers think twice about messin’ with your ass. Plus, you seem like you pretty smart, quiet, clean. Anyways, you know where I’m at. You ain’t even gotta worry about fuckin’ up your parole either, since I ain’t got no felonies or anything like that, you feel me?”
He finally opened the door, and just as he was about to exit he turned to stare me down again. “Two more things. One: don’t let me hear you been talkin’ to the cops again, I don’t give a fuck what the reason. And two: next time Teena goes out to smoke back there, pretend you don’t see her. Have a nice night, Red.”
7.
Fucking Teena. She must have told him something. This vexed me plenty, sending my mind places I try really hard to keep it from going. Were they toying with me? Did he know Teena and I fucked? Was he the one behind our little afternoon delight? Whatever the hell game was going on, I decided I wasn’t playing.
Turns out it’s still pretty easy to get a gun in Berkeley. Everyone I used to know is either dead or doing time, so I was lucky enough to have an acquaintance on the inside who told me about a spot I should visit if anything came up.
A bar called the Missouri. All I had to do was drop my buddy’s name to the doorman, and the process would be underway. I decided not having any money wasn’t going to deter me.
The Missouri is nestled right on the corner of San Pablo and Parker, close enough for me to walk to, check out, and still get to work on time.
It was the kind of place a guy like me could get into some seriously regrettable shit.
The fella at the front door was clad in black jeans, boots, a black bomber jacket, and black baseball cap. He even wore black gloves and shades, which seemed like overkill, but hey, I guess everybody has their part to play, right?
I walked straight up to him and didn’t waste any time. “Hey, I’m a friend of Shorty Lee. He told me you could help a brother out.”
He gave me a once-over, and took a look around. I gave him my best poker face. “You want Eddie. He’s here tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling relieved and a little pissed. “Can I give you my number and—”
“Fuck outa here with that shit, man,” he interrupted, sucking his teeth. “This ain’t no motherfucking dating service. Bring your ass back here tomorrow and talk to Eddie.”
I nodded in agreement and left. I didn’t want to hurt my chances of getting a weapon. I knew like I know we breathe air that I needed it.
I went to work and did my best not to think about killing KJ.
8.
I woke the next morning to persistent tapping on my kitchen window. I sat up in bed and saw Teena.
“I tried your door but you didn’t hear me. Open up and let me in. I have to talk to you.”
“Your boyfriend with you?”
“You ain’t funny,” she said. “Get up, I’m coming around. It’s important.”
“I bet,” I mumbled.
With some reluctance, not too much, I admit, I got up and opened the door. Even half asleep I noticed Teena’s areolas threatening to break through her tank top. I was about to get back in bed but Teena grabbed my arm, pulled me to her, and kissed me, pressing up against my morning wood and making me wince. It was damn near impossible for me to push her away. Damn near.
“Teena. What the fuck?”
“What? No more Miss Teena?” she said, feigning hurt and sounding like a cross between a cat woman and a goddamned demon.
Suddenly my head was burning, thoughts about being played causing a fire whirl inside of me. I could feel my blood boil. I wanted to grab her by the throat and squeeze. I took hold of her hair and kissed her instead, and then we fucked.
Afterward, lying in silence, I heard a noise coming from the back of the apartment complex. When I looked up, I saw the silhouette of a man moving by the window.
“We really need to talk,” I said softly, as I stroked Teena’s face with the back of my hand, pushing away hair from her closed eyes. I wanted her to know that I wasn’t angry with her, that I knew she was with KJ out of necessity and survival and circumstances beyond her control, and that I would figure something out so we could be together and—
The knock on the door startled us. Teena immediately stood up and scrambled for her clothes. I jumped up off the bed, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed a steak knife, the only knife I owned.
“Open up, Red, it’s Greg.”
Greg?
“Uh, now’s not really a good time for a house call, Greg. Can you come back later?”
“Sorry, Red, I can’t do that. I’ve got other appointments today and I can’t alter my schedule.”
I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember a text message or phone call about a scheduled visit from my PO, but I’d been preoccupied. My first thought was that I’d missed it somehow. But there was something in his voice that turned my gut.
I looked over at Teena and she was pale. Her bugged-out eyes pleading with me not to open the door.
“Red? C’mon now, I’m sure whoever’s in there will understand. A urinalysis is part of your parole agreement, buddy. Now be a good sport and open the door so I can do my job.”
I always found the phrase against my better judgment oxymoronic. How much better can your judgment be if you’re going against it?
“Okay, Greg, give me a minute,” I said.
“Don’t let that motherfucker in here, Red,” she whispered, trembling.
“Don’t worry. I won’t let him see you.”
“No. You don’t fucking get it. I know that voice, Red. I fucking know that voice.”
Just then I heard my door open.
“Fuck!” said Teena. She dashed into the bathroom and hopped up on my toilet, trying to get the tiny window open.
I turned back toward the front door and got hit with the butt of a gun on my skull.
I dropped, barely conscious. Greg stood over me. KJ was right behind him.
“You just couldn’t do it, huh, Red? Just couldn’t keep your hands out of the cookie jar?”
Greg looked inside the bathroom. I wanted to say something, but couldn’t. “And you. You had to go and fuck this whole thing up.”
“Yo, Greg, is this really necessary, man? Doing her, I mean?” asked KJ.
Instead of answering KJ’s question, Greg raised his gun, pointed it at Teena, and then I heard the distinct sound of a bullet traveling through a silencer.